48.Aftermath

None of the Lords in Aegon’s army survived the Second Field of Fire, and only the fortunate men-at-arms and knights at the outer encampment managed to flee into the snowy hills. None could say how many of them survived the harsh onset of winter long enough to return home.

According to the local scribes, Dorne sent fifteen thousand spears to aid Aegon, and a few hundred barely managed to return, half frozen and nearly starved to death. While some witnesses argued that the King of Winter used fire sorcery to decimate the Targaryen host, at the time, maesters generally agreed that any fires were the work of Winter, the dragon they started calling the Northern Fury, the ferocious beast already approaching a size similar to that of Seasmoke before his death.

Excerpt from ‘The Last of the Forty’ by Archmaester Perestan

Patrek Mallister, Seaguard, 7th Day of the 12th Moon, 303 AC

He shuffled uneasily in his bed and opened his eyes with a groan. The wooden ceiling was blurry. His body felt hot and numb at the same time, and his throat felt as dry as the desert sands of Dorne.

“You’re finally awake, my lord!” an aged voice exclaimed. Patrek struggled to get up, but his limbs were too heavy, and his side ached heavily. “You have a terrible fever, Lord Patrek. Your wound has started to fester.”

What wound? He didn’t remember getting any wounds. Suddenly, the memories came rushing. He was hunting for Wendel Frey when they got ambushed while setting camp one night. Carelessness. It could have been prevented with more scouting, but he had grown drunk on success. They defeated the attackers after a bloody fight, but the ambush took its toll on his already tired warband, and he got skewered on the side—the battle had reached him before he could don his breastplate.

“Where?” Patrek managed to rasp out, and he felt a stab of pain in his throat. Everything started to get blurrier.

“We’re in Seaguard. I’ve cut out the festering part of the wound, but your fever is not—”

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a horse and eagle fighting across a river.

17th Day of the 12th Moon, 303 AC

The Northern Queen

The battle had been hardy and desperate, and the victory as bitter as it was unexpected.

Shireen was unharmed. This was surprising, considering that barely thirteen hundred men survived out of nearly ten thousand. She had never seen so many corpses at once, even if most of them were reduced to unrecognisable piles of charred bones. Bones made it impossible to distinguish friends from foes, so casualties had to be counted by those who were missing.

And by the gods, it was a grim count, taking the toll that took the next four days. Greatjon Umber, Hugo Wull, Maege Mormont, Jorelle Mormont, Morna Whitemask, Stane, Knott, Burley, Harclay—almost all of the Northern chieftains and lords had been slain to the last, fighting at the front along with their men. The spearwives that had vowed to defend her had all perished. All those battle-hardened lords and the she-bears of House Mormont that had advised and struggled together with her were no more.

The wildlings were just as decimated; only the Night’s Watch that had held the palisade rampart had the fewest dead. Yet their losses were no less dire. Only two hundred had survived, a mere third of what the Lord Commander had led in Westwatch.

The survivors were all tired and skittish after so many days of darkness, fighting, and despair, many sleeping for a full day after the battle. The mood was still solemn, as if the survivors expected the eerie, permeating cold to return with the White Walkers, but it didn’t. The endless grey shroud of clouds had dwindled, the skies grew sunny, and the weather turned warm—or as warm as a winter day could be.

And Shireen was now in command of it all. Organising everything, cleaning the thick quilt of charred bones, redistributing food, taking stock of supplies, sending scouts, and keeping the peace between the remaining wildlings, Northmen, and black brothers. It helped that Ghost, now one-eyed, stayed beside her through it all, his looming presence a rather direct embodiment of her husband’s authority. Thankfully, Rogar Wull, the new chieftain of Stonegate now that his father had perished, helped her keep order. But even with that help, Shireen herself was on the verge of collapse, exhaustion having seeped into her very marrow.

Her husband had yet to wake.

In the wooden hall cobbled during the dark days and long, cold nights, Jon Stark slumbered, unaffected by all that happened around him. Shireen still remembered when he turned into a statue of frost after the demise of the Night King and the malevolent presence that coalesced in the air. So terrible it was that neither Shireen nor anyone else could even approach Jon. “The Great Other!” Melisandre of Asshai would have claimed if she had been there.

This time, Shireen did not dismissively scoff at the thought. She remembered that frigid presence that made the Night King and the White Walkers feel small, like a child compared to a dragon grown. Such terror could belong to no mortal being. And somehow, her husband had laid low that elusive, invisible foe. Somehow, Jon Stark had slain a god. The others didn’t feel it, but Shireen knew it to be true, the same way she knew the sky was blue.

For all that her royal husband had shattered the army of the dead and turned a grievous defeat into victory, he still lay bedridden, yet to wake after a fortnight. Winter’s gargantuan form was curled around the wooden hall’s entrance like a wall of scales and muscle, barring anyone from entering on pain of fire and death. Anyone but Shireen and one Maester Mullin, who examined the king and said no disease was ailing him, only exhaustion and bruises to his leg and body, and Jon would wake once he was rested enough.

With no servants allowed through, Shireen was the one to clean and feed him drops of honeyed milk. It was a servant’s duty, an acolyte’s task, to do such menial matters, but she did them without complaint. The memory of the Night King’s cold blue eyes was still fresh in her mind, as was Jon’s descent from the skies as he slaughtered his way through the White Walkers and matched their terrible master blow for blow.

Shireen had been so close to death. Not once or twice, the whole battle felt like one gigantic icy hand had coiled around her neck, about to snap it at any moment. Her body still shivered at the memory of the fall or the crystalline swords stabbing and slashing at her body. At least Stormstrider was recovering well. After hobbling his way to the Wall, the purple drake was in good health after being fed—the wounded wing was healing very quickly, and the terrible gashes to his sides had already closed, small pinkish scales forming over them.

After the battle, things changed in an elusive way. There was something in the air. Something new, as if a veil Shireen never knew existed, had been ripped asunder. Even the world itself felt more vibrant somehow. More alive. But she didn’t care about that and focused on her duties.

Time trickled slowly, and with each following day that Jon remained asleep, the more anxious Shireen grew. The clean-up after the battle was done, and the remaining men had started growing idle, but what little remained of the army couldn’t be dispersed without her husband’s say-so. They started whispering that the king had perished from his wounds—but none dared claim it to her face. At that moment, the young queen realised no amount of words would persuade them otherwise.

All she could do was wait, take care of Jon’s infirm body, and pray.

Seventeen days after the Battle for the Dawn, her husband stirred awake. She felt the change in the air first, and a jolt ran down her spine. Then, his eyes fluttered open, slowly at first, revealing two amethyst orbs filled with power.

“Don’t look so sad,” he whispered, voice raspy.

Shireen flung herself at him. A pair of surprisingly strong hands for someone infirm embraced her, and her tension melted away.

“I grew worried when you didn’t wake for over half a moon,” she muttered, trying not to sob. “Maester Mullin said he didn’t know when you’ll wake—or if you’ll wake at all.”

“I am made of sterner stuff than most,” Jon chortled.

“…Your body was all bruised, and your right leg looked like it had been chewed out and spat.”

“I’m well now, and there’s no need to fret.” Her husband threw her a smile that made her insides flutter. “Unless you like to inspect for yourself?”

Shireen only buried her face deeper into the covers. She had gotten a good look already while cleaning his body, but it only made her more curious. Not that she would ever admit it aloud.

One of Jon’s hands did something; the air stirred with a pleasant, flowery scent, and she felt something being tucked into her hair. Reluctantly, she peeled herself away from his embrace, only to blink in confusion as Jon slid a blue flower into her hand and offered her another. A winter rose. Notoriously fragile, requiring just the right amount of hot and cold, growing only twice a year in Winterfell’s glass garden.

It shouldn’t have been possible, for there was no vegetation left nearby, let alone flowers.

Shireen carefully grasped the thorny stalk—it felt real between her fingers, soft and fragile. And the soft, pleasant scent pleasantly tickled her nostrils.

“How?”

“Magic,” he said with a lopsided smile.

An involuntary giggle escaped as she beheld the blue rose, and when Jon tucked it in her hair, Shireen finally felt everything was right in the world.

1st Day of the 13th Moon, 303 AC

Arianne Martell

She waited in front of the king’s solar with trepidation. The letter arriving from Sunspear informing her of her father’s ailing health had been a wake-up call. All desire to stay around, prod the stiff Northmen, and have fun was quickly forgotten.

Sarella had warned her, of course. Her cousin always saw more than she let on and spoke less than she knew. She had offered no smug words, no gloating, but the look in her eyes had said enough.

The long weeks spent in the frozen North had become a torment, one in which the tools of torture were winding hallways of granite and wood, fields of snow, and chilly air that bit at any bare piece of skin. Rumours about epic battles of legend at the Wall had many besides themselves in worry, only adding to Arianne’s agitation.

It snowed less, but without sun to melt it off, the quilt of white covering the land only thickened—it was more than sixteen feet of snow now. The roads were buried in snow, the rivers frozen solid, and there was no leaving unless one could fly. Her mind moved to the red drake. Bloodfyre, they called it.

It lazily lounged atop the Great Keep battlements in the distance, swaying its crimson tail with the wind like a giant, scaled pendulum.

Gods, Arianne was tempted to try to mount the dragon. She had the blood, as much as Shireen Baratheon did. But her own brother had failed before, and the princess was wary. Failure would mean death, or worse, disfiguration. She had heard of some Slate maiden trying to claim Bloodfyre, only to be crippled with a swipe of a tail, unable to walk half a year later.

Arianne gave up the notion soon enough. It helped that the dragon always slept out of her reach, and in the rare cases Bloodfyre was somewhere lower, its sleeping form was surrounded by a ring of stern-faced men-at-arms. She suspected that approaching the dragon would see her dead faster than the beast could stir awake.

Then, there were the guardsmen assigned to ‘protect’ her and her cousins, shadowing their every step and watching their every move. Arianne did not doubt that these lauded escorts would indeed protect her if the need arose, but they were spies first and foremost.

She could do nothing as the red-haired Northern Princess had turned out to be far more cunning and cautious than she would have thought. Any requests to meet Sansa Stark had been met with soft-spoken rebuttals.

“Princess Sansa is busy today.”

“Princess Sansa is tired after the small council meeting.”

“Princess Sansa does not feel well today.”

Arianne sneered at the memory. Looking at the wolf princess, would think Sansa Stark was a flower in a vase, ready to wilt at the first gust of wind.

A pretty, harmless facade hiding a sharp mind.

This was the first time she had been ignored so terribly, and it rankled her fiercely.

To her great relief, the King had arrived yesterday on his monstrous dragon, accompanied by a scarred, smaller, purple dragon with a young maiden on top. Her mind did not want even to think what had wounded the young dragon so, but the tales of the Northern Queen had turned real enough, and—

“His Grace will see you now,” the burly guard grunted.

Arianne slowly walked past the open door with trepidation and carefully looked inside. Jon Stark was sitting behind his desk. Gods, his long hair looked so soft framing that handsome face, and his piercing purple eyes were like two gems she could stare at forever. The scar across his eye only gave his comely face a rugged charm. Arianne realised she was ogling the King and quickly gathered her bearing, giving a well-practised curtsy.

Then, her eyes flicked to the king’s side, where a young maiden stood.

She had long black hair, clear blue eyes, a large, misshapen scar on her left cheek, and a bronze crown atop her head, looking every inch how Arianne imagined a Baratheon would. Even the ears were prominent, like those of a Florent. The girl, no, the stern-faced Queen, was truly Stannis’s daughter and not an impostor as Nymeria had speculated before. Arianne’s gaze wandered to the fireplace, where an enormous white direwolf lay lazily curled. This one seemed even bigger and more dangerous than the grey beast the younger Princess had…

“Sit,” the King said. It was not a request. Arianne obeyed, easing herself into a painted chair, her heart leaping in her throat. Jon Stark’s stern face betrayed no emotion, making her feel like a small girl facing her father after sneaking away from her minder. “You came all the way to Winterfell to speak with me. So speak.”

Her throat felt dry now, and she found herself swallowing heavily.

“I have a request to make, Your Grace,” Arianne began slowly as she tried to gauge the Northern King, but his face was as expressive as a block of ice. She would have better luck trying to get the measure of the snow snarks the children built in the yards outside.

“Speak frankly, then,” Stark said, sighing as if listening to Arianne was an irksome chore.

She had to suppress the pang of irritation that reared its ugly head in her belly. The Northern King held all the power here.

“I ask only that you take me to White Harbour on dragonback,” she said, trying to sound composed.

The Northman did not move. “And why would I do that?”

Arianne opened her mouth to offer an excuse, but found none. None that would be convincing.

“My father is of ill health,” she confessed at last, voice thickening with emotion. “He’s dying, and I must return to Sunspear.”

“Doran Martell means nothing to me,” Jon Stark said flatly. “Dorne even less so. I know not what whim brought you here, and I care not. As a guest, you’re free to leave.”

“That is not what Princess Sansa claimed,” Arianne replied, though she instantly regretted it.

Jon’s mouth twitched. Was it amusement or something else?

“My sister has known too many liars and betrayers to suffer new ones lightly. She errs on the side of caution, considering House Martell had supported Aegon and Daenerys.”

“But they are dead,” she said softly. “Dorne has no more reason to be your enemy, nor is there some great enmity between us. I must return swiftly, Your Grace. I know the struggles of winter travel, but those are struggles dragonriders do not suffer from.”

“Quite,” Jon agreed. “But what will you offer in return?”

‘Anything,’ she thought. But what did she have that he would want? She had no coin, no army. Her looks had swayed many men, but Jon Stark was not most men. His eyes had not once dropped below her face. And his wife sat beside him, cold and still as a statue, always observing with her scarred face unreadable.

“I… would owe you a favour,” Arianne offered carefully.

“A favour,” the King repeated, voice dry. “Words are wind, Princess. And the wind from Dorne seldom reaches this far North.”

Her pride warred with her desperation. “Then… anything. I am willing to pay any price. Name it, and I’ll do everything I can to fulfil it!”

“You are either very brave or very foolish.”

‘No,’ Arianne wanted to say. ‘I’m merely very desperate.’

It was not that she missed her father. She did. But with her missing and Trystane Martell a boy, the lords might just ignore her and make him the next Prince of Dorne long before the damned Northern snows ever melted.

Jon’s brow rose slightly, and he glanced toward his Queen. “I’ll let my queen decide, then.”

Shireen Stark showed no reaction, but her harsh blue eyes stabbed at Arianne like two daggers. Jon Stark was a vicious man—any man would subconsciously treat beautiful women better, but most women treated their betters with envy and no mercy.

After a pause that felt like a full turn of the moon, Shireen spoke softly, “You are unmarried, are you not?”

Arianne felt a chill pass through her that had nought to do with the weather. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The harsh, nearly innocent face of Shireen Baratheon hid a devil—the young queen had directly gone for the kill. Arianne’s greatest tool as the next Princess of Dorne would be her hand in marriage, and the ugly little thing before her had not hesitated at all to strike it down.

“That’s great.” Shireen Baratheon clapped her hands in delight. “The next princess of Dorne cannot be left without a consort. My Husband will fly you to White Harbour after you marry Brandon Tallhart. You will also be required to foster your heir in the North, where we will also find him a proper Northern match.”

It was a blow, direct and ruthless, delivered without an ounce of shame or hesitation. A match that tied her to a minor Northern house. Her future heir was to be raised amongst the wolves in the cold. Even now, Shireen’s smile felt polite, almost innocent.

Arianne opened her mouth, then closed it. Refusal might see her powerless for life or worse.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word tasting like ash on her tongue.

Shireen smiled, sweet and sharp. “Then we have an accord.”

And Jon Stark said nothing, but Arianne thought his eyes looked almost sorry. Almost.

12th Day of the 13th Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

She bit into the lemon cake, and for a moment, just a moment, all was well. The sweet tang and sharp bitterness danced across her tongue. Sansa closed her eyes and let the taste carry her away. How long had it been since she had truly enjoyed something so simple? Not since she was a girl and laughter, song, and dreams of gallant knights filled her days. Not since Robert Baratheon rode into Winterfell with his great black beard and laughter like rolling thunder, pulling House Stark into that viper’s den called King’s Landing. Not since everything had begun to fall apart.

A small lemon tree had survived in the glass gardens, stubborn enough to cling to life even after the sack of Winterfell, or she wouldn’t taste a lemon cake until spring.

But it was not the taste of her favourite cake that made her happy. Sansa felt light, unburdened, freer than she had in years.

Her brother was here now, alive and victorious. The south had been bent or broken, the threat beyond the Wall burned to cinders, and the North held strong. Yet the Great Game still went on, if slower and quieter than before.

With the old players dead and struck down, new ones had risen to the task, and they were cautious and quiet. Her brother’s presence had frightened them all, and now, they all observed the North, watching for some change. But Sansa knew the quiet would not stay forever. Arianne Martell was already wedded, bedded, and it’s been ten days since she had taken a ship south from White Harbour.

The marriage had come as swiftly as it was sudden, like a thunder from a clear sky. Stranger still was that it had been arranged not by Jon, but by Shireen. Sweet Shireen, with her gentle voice and quiet smile. But Sansa had learned long ago that gentle things could still cut deep.

It didn’t matter.

The rest of the Dornish delegation stayed in Winterfell, much to her chagrin. Truth be told, Sansa preferred that they were all gone.

The bench creaked beside her as Arya dropped onto it, hair slick with sweat and face ruddy from the training yard. She dragged a platter of roast chicken across the table and tore into it with her fingers, manners forgotten in the face of hunger.

“How was training?” Sansa asked, setting down her cup.

Arya groaned and shook her head. “Torrhen bested me. Again.”

“Jon’s squire?” Sansa raised a brow. “Isn’t he younger than you?”

“Aye, younger. And thicker, almost like a bull. And a full head taller,” Arya scowled, but her glower melted into a grin. “But you’ll never guess what he told me.”

Sansa took another bite of cake and waited, already half-smiling. Her sister’s gossip was always cruder, picked from the mouths of guardsmen and squires rather than ladies and noble daughters, but no less interesting for it.

“Well?” she prompted, seeing her sister was lost in the chicken.

“Nymeria Sand,” Arya began with relish, “and her golden-haired sister—they bedded one of the guardsmen. At the same time. Gods, can you believe it?”

Sansa coughed, trying not to laugh. She turned back to her plate, feigning interest in the cake. ‘Dornish morals,’ she thought sourly, ‘or perhaps the lack of.’ Perhaps the songs had never exaggerated.

Among Arianne’s kin, only Sarella kept to herself, buried in books and scrolls in the maester’s tower, from first light to moonrise.

Truth be told, Sansa had heard some other… tales about the Sand Snakes from Mrycella and Alys, no less sordid. It was entertaining, to say the least, to see how deep the Dornish depravity could go, how shameless beautiful women could act.

Playing around was fine, and while distasteful, Sansa could accept it. They were neither kin nor her allies for her to care.

Still, none of them would dare misstep. Not now. Not with Jon back.

The silver-haired heads of those who last angered her brother were still on display before the Great Hall, for all of Winterfell to see. Even if someone harboured dissatisfaction or harboured ambitions, they kept them buried deep down in their hearts at the sight of two dragons slain, and the glory of the Freehold had been snuffed just like that.

Sansa’s gaze settled on the wall behind the winter throne. Two draconic heads were forever frozen there, one twisted in a pained snarl, and the other charred and miserable with its eyesocked empty, both mounted like hunting trophies.

Jon Stark had no enemies, now. She knew what had happened in the Golden Tooth, and her brother no longer needed an army to conquer or a dragon. He alone was enough with the godly powers of sorcery. The Seven Kingdoms were ripe for the taking, should he show the ambition for it. It would not be the first time the seven kingdoms bent their knees to a dragonlord.

Sansa had asked him once, in the privacy of his solar as the snow fell thick beyond the narrow glass, whether he would press further. Whether he would take the South as Aegon had done centuries past.

“I could,” Jon had said, his voice distant. “I could fold the realm back together with fire and steel. I could turn all those who oppose me to ash, and set my dragon in Oldtown and have even the Faith bend the knee. I could make those southron lords kiss my feet and pledge their swords to my name.”

Then, he scoffed. “And for what? For my pride and vanity? For a new Iron Throne? For lords who spat at House Stark and hold different gods? For those ruined kingdoms that are all unprepared for winter? Aye, the Targaryens ruled the realm for nearly three hundred years, and what did it bring them? Nought but ruin. Let the South keep its war-torn kingdoms. Let them keep their broken castles and ruined lands.”

“And Shireen?” she had asked. “She is a Baratheon—the last trueborn child of the line of Orys. She has the claim, and she has the name.”

“Aye. And let it stay a claim.” He had looked at her then, gaze not so different from Ned Stark’s, but with eyes set in purple. “Shireen is a Stark, now. And for the Starks, Winterfell and the North are enough, and even now our lands want for more men and lords.”

“What of the Lannisters?” Arya pressed, face fierce. “You let them off too easily.”

“Those who have wronged House Stark are dead.” His voice was edged with ice. “The rest is not for you to decide, Arya. Further mindless destruction would not serve House Stark, though it is true House Lannister has yet to pay their debts to us. I have given the rest of that proud lot a way out, and if they take them, let the matter be forgotten. If not…”

He said nothing further, nor did he need to. Some threats need not be voiced.

She had found peace in those words, strange though it was. The boy who once sat sullen at the corners was gone, and a king had taken his place. Even Arya, though reluctant, nodded.

Regardless of his decision, Sansa could feel the steel in his words. Jon Stark would not waver.

That was enough.

17th Day of the 13th Moon, 303 AC

The great hall was nearly empty today. The court felt half-empty since Jon had decided to leave all minor matters to Lord Glover and his bailiffs. The onset of winter had seen many return home, and only the most desperate petitioners braved the deep snows to come here.

“Presenting Ser Balon Swann of Tommen Baratheon’s Kinguard!”

The herald’s voice rang out clear across the tables of the Great Hall. Sansa Stark turned her gaze toward the entrance. The name stirred up old memories from her tragic time in King’s Landing. Ser Balon had been one of the few true knights she had known in King’s Landing, a man of courtesy and true chivalry in a city where men were liars and traitors and women vipers. A cruel creature like Joffrey had not deserved a knight so valiant in his service. Still, she had hoped, then and now, that Tommen might grow better than the brother he had replaced.

Sansa snorted; it was hard to do worse than Joffrey.

Heavy footsteps stiffly echoed on the flagstone as snow-crusted boots left a trail of wet snow in their wake. The man who entered was not the dashing Swann knight with enamelled white armour from her memory, but a weary traveller wrapped in a snow-covered fur cloak. The knight pulled his hood down, revealing a frosted beard and a face flushed raw by the cold.

“Come forth, Ser Swann.” Jon’s crisp words echoed across the hall. At his feet, Ghost’s ears perked up, and he opened his lone crimson eye to observe. “Tell us what brings you to Winterfell.”

The knight halted a few steps from the dais, and without a word, he sank to one knee.

“Your Grace,” rasped Ser Balon, voice hoarse from the cold. “I come bearing a message from King Tommen Baratheon… and to return this.”

From beneath his cloak, he drew forth a scroll, tied in white and red silk, and a scabbarded sword—ornate, gilded, encrusted with rubies and unmistakably Lannister. The hilt was twisted gold, the pommel crowned with a lion’s head. The weapon had once been gifted to a boy-king who fancied himself above all others.

Sansa felt her stomach twist. Widow’s Wail, the little monster had named it, looking at her with that gloating smile. She remembered it well—the bright flashes of red steel, the terrible joy in Joffrey’s eyes as he hacked apart a rare book that was to be his wedding gift.

Ser Brynden Tully stepped forward in his black-scaled armour and accepted the items with due formality, bringing them to Jon.

Jon wordlessly inspected the sword, fingers brushing the gaudy scabbard before drawing the blade free. Ripples of red and black emerged, looking almost alive under the lamplight. Then, without a word, Jon drew the plain bronze longsword that rested beside the throne, and with a sudden motion—

TING!

Steel met steel. The sound rang sharp and high through the hall, a cry of metal that lingered like a shriek. Sansa winced at the sound, as did most in the hall. But Jon stood unshaken, his expression unreadable.

“Good,” he murmured, sheathing both blades and placing them by his seat. “It is indeed Valyrian steel.”

Then he picked up the scroll.

Jon broke the seal and passed it to Lord Manderly, who squinted at the script before clearing his throat.

“By decree of His Grace, Tommen Baratheon, First of His Name.
Henceforth, the North is to be recognised as a sovereign kingdom, with Jon Stark, Third of His Name, as its rightful King. Princess Myrcella Baratheon is acknowledged as a ward of House Stark. Ser Meryn Trant has been executed for laying hands upon a noblewoman of the realm. King Tommen offers a gift of five million dragons for your auspicious ascension, to be sent over the next three years once the seas grow peaceful. May peace return between Houses Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister.“

“Witnessed by: Lord Commander Jaime Lannister, Daven Lannister, Hand of the King, and Lord Elard Crane, Master of Laws.“

Whispers rippled through the hall. Five million dragons were no small sum, and far more than even Winterfell could ever muster. It was phrased as a gift, but this was obviously a tribute, a way of seeking reconciliation through coin.

“Is this about Trant’s demise true?” the old merman pressed, his loud voice cutting through the commotion. “Where’s the head?”

Balon Swann merely threw a bag on the floor, and a tarred, ugly head rolled out, its eyes set in terror.

Sansa’s hands clasped before her quivering mouth. Meryn Trant.

Silence reigned for a heartbeat, and then the Great Hall erupted in cheers. Even Sansa rejoiced, if silently. At last. Her final tormentor, the brute who had torn her gown and had struck her before half the court without an ounce of hesitation, was dead. Her sister’s smile was particularly wide and gleeful.

“Rise, Ser Swann,” Jon said when the hall quieted. Bread and salt were brought forth and offered; the ancient rites were observed.

Only after the knight had partaken did he speak again.

“I bear another message, for Princess Myrcella.” Ser Balon’s hardy eyes were set on the maiden in question. She leaned forward. “The outlaw Gerold Dayne has been brought to justice at last. His head now graces a pike at Casterly Rock.”

A murmur of approval rose from the tables. Sansa caught a fleeting smile on Myrcella’s face, though the girl remained reserved. The Swann knight was led to the side to rest and eat, a goblet of mulled wine placed swiftly in his hand.

But Jon had not yet finished.

“Brienne of Tarth,” he said, rising once more. There was something in his voice—a sliver of excitement.

The woman stirred from Sansa’s side like a statue coming to life, rising to her full height and stepping forward to kneel.

“Oathkeeper,” he said simply.

Wordless, Brienne drew the Valyrian steel from her belt and presented it.

Jon took it and laid it beside the other two. Then, he took another sword of dark bronze from behind the throne, much like Grief but not as sinister. This one had a slender blade, shorter—a longsword of similar proportion to Oathkeeper.

“Kneel,” he said again, and Brienne did so, reverent and still.

“Brienne of House Tarth,” Jon said, as the blade touched her shoulder, “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. Arise, Dame Brienne of Tarth.“

The hall thundered with applause, and even Sansa found herself cheering. Brienne rose, face still dazed, and Jon smiled as he placed the sword into her arms.

“A personal reward for your service,” he said. “Oathkeeper now returns to House Stark, as is right. But this sword shall be yours to wield and use as you see fit, forged by my hand. You will not find it lacking compared to dragonsteel.”

Sansa let go of a breath she did not remember holding. Just now, she had witnessed history in the making—Brienne was the first woman knight since the Conquest. Dame… an old, near-forgotten title, unused for centuries, given only to women who had joined the ranks of chivalry.

It was a title earned with blood and effort, for many a man had earned knighthood for less. Brienne had easily saved her twice after Sansa’s escape from Winterfell. A lesser man would have taken the dragonsteel sword she had been given and turned back on the promise to bring Sansa and her sister home. Yet she had not given up. She had not given up even when Sansa had tried to turn her away.

If the Tarth Maid had faltered just once, Sansa wouldn’t have lived… or would have suffered a fate worse than death.

‘There are no heroes.’

No, Sansa had been wrong. The heroes had always been here; it was she who had been too blind to see them.

?

Tyrion Lannister

There was no day and no night in the depths of Casterly Rock. Only darkness and the wails of men dying and the serving of slop that passed for food hinted at the passing of time. The screams came regularly as the sept’s bells, ragged cries flayed raw by pain and fear, and then silence. Silence was worse. Silence meant the torturer had retired for the day or the victim had expired. Or both.

The slop they brought him each time was more water than broth and thinner than his late father’s patience. It tasted like filth and made him hungrier with every spoonful. Even a Flea Bottom rat might have sniffed at it with disdain. Still, he forced it down. He had no choice.

He had not been visited since they threw him into this hole. No maester, no gaoler with news, not even his nephew. Only the old guard with the milky eye said nothing as he shoved the bowl through the bars.

Not even Jaime. Especially not Jaime.

Once, Tyrion would have cursed him. Now, he could only blame himself. The dungeons gave a man plenty of time for that.

He tried to sleep, but hunger gnawed at him more cruelly than regret. And when sleep came, it came foul and choking, full of purple flame and dragons’ roars. Each awakening saw him more tired than the last.

At first, he thought they meant to try him. A trial to list all his endless sins and betrayals, and then his head would be chopped off by the eager headsmen. The whole realm would have called it justice—none would mourn a treacherous dwarf like himself. But the trial never came. As time passed, he wondered if they had simply forgotten him. Perhaps they wanted Tyrion Lannister to end with a whimper in the darkness, alone and unwanted, just as he had lived.

The screams from the nearby hallway had grown thinner and weaker of late. The poor sod was probably expiring, and soon there would be no screams at all. And then… would it be his turn?

‘Do they have straps small enough for dwarfs?’ he thought bitterly. ‘Or will they make a child’s rack for me, all painted red and gold?’

The clink of keys and the creak of rusty hinges dragged him away from his thoughts.

A torch flared in the dark, and his eyes screamed against the light. Two figures emerged from the brightness—red cloaks, both their faces stony. They did not speak, merely reached for him.

“Where are you taking me?” Tyrion rasped, his voice weak and foreign. It came out like dry, old parchment ready to fall apart at the first touch.

Silence was his answer. Soon, he was hoisted up, dragged out of his cells as his weak, quivering feet stumbled to keep pace.

Up, through narrow halls hewn in the rock, and then into the open air. Cold wind was the first to greet him, cutting through his rags, and he soon began to shiver. Everything around him was bright and white with snow. Tyrion gasped as he saw an inferno of purple and a storm of ash again, fire so bright it seared his eyes.

No, it was not that nightmare.

It was bright, too bright, the daylight alone burned at his weakened eyes, forcing him to squint and blink. It dazed him for a long while, and by the time he had gotten used to the stinging brightness, ahead stood a wooden platform, made from freshly cut timber, with two tall beams and a thick crosspiece. Had they raised a scaffold specifically for him?

Tyrion shivered, and it had nothing to do with the frost that clung to the wood and the noose.

“I demand a trial,” he tried to cry out, but his words came out weak and wheezing. “By the gods, I demand—”

“But you’ve had your trial, Lord Tyrion,” said a dry, crackling voice behind him.

He twisted, squinting. An old man stepped forward, tall and gaunt, with a cloak of fur draped over his narrow shoulders. Beneath it shone the pale blue and gold coat of arms of House Crane.

“You lost it, too,” the man went on. “Trial by combat. The gods judged you guilty of regicide and kinslaying. Joffrey Baratheon’s blood cries out for justice, even without speaking of your newer crimes.”

They lifted him easily as if he were a small child, placing him atop a wooden barrel. The noose came next, a coarse rope looped around his neck and tightened.

“I want to take the Black,” he desperately croaked.

A voice behind him, colder and full of loathing: “Too late. You were offered that once. You spat at it.”

Tyrion turned—or tried to. But the barrel was kicked from beneath him.

The rope bit into his neck, and pain laced through his throat. Fire bloomed down his spine. He thrashed, legs kicking, lungs screaming for air that would not come. His hands struggled against the chains that tied them behind his back, but it was of no use. The clearing swam before his eyes, even the snowfall turned into white smudges, and the faces watching him blurred to pale masks.

He saw it, then, the glimpse of gold.

Through the haze, he saw him—Jaime, still as a statue, the golden hand gleaming beside a smaller, stiffer boy in Baratheon black and gold.

The pain was distant now, as if it were happening to someone else. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint. ‘I’m dead,’ Tyrion Lannister realised. It was over, for real this time.

Worse, they hanged him like a common brigand, so insignificant that even a crowd would not gather to watch his demise.

The last thought that passed through his mind was not a surge of hot rage. He did not even think of dragons, of wine and teats, or even Shae.

Tysha…

8th Day of the 4th Moon, 304 AC

Jon Stark

He stepped away from the heart tree, his heart and mind heavy with weariness.

Diving inside the weirwood didn’t get easier. The memories within were chaotic and messy, twisting the sense of time, and navigating through it took a heavy toll on his body, mind, and magic. According to Howland Reed, it was the lack of talent, for Jon was essentially brute-forcing his way through something that should have scrambled his wits and cripple his soul.

The memories of the weirwoods were limited, privy only to the things that had happened above their roots, but their roots ran deep, and they ran far in every corner of Westeros. In the last four moons, after toiling for countless hours, he had managed to puzzle a few things together to unveil the identity of the Cold One. Or it would have been more accurate to call her the Corpse Queen, Nysa, the wife of the thirteenth Lord Commander, Jon Stark. The very same wife whose children and husband had been slain by the Northmen and wildlings and had been imprisoned in the dream realm by her inhuman kin for consorting with humans. No wonder she hated everything and everyone. Fate loved its ironies.

The first battle for the Dawn had not heralded the total defeat of the Others; it only pushed them back into the Lands of Always Winter.

That was why the Wall was built: to halt a second incursion. To give time to the First Men and the Children to muster their might and smash down on the Others should they rise again.

The Wildlings were descendants of a more aggressive faction of the Night’s Watch’s rangers, and their goal had been to exterminate the Others no matter what, while the rest of the black brothers guarded the Wall. They had succeeded, too. The Cold Gods had all been hunted down within a few centuries.

The threat they had faced now was not the Others of myth and legend, but the Night Queen and her ice dolls.

History alone unveiled plenty. Before the Thirteenth Lord Commander, members of the Watch were allowed to wed, and thus many families lived beyond the Wall, and tribes had formed over the centuries. By the time the Others were completely exterminated, the men and women living beyond the Wall had drifted apart from the Night’s Watch, whose members were now required to sever ties with their kin. Their origins were slowly forgotten as time passed, and enmity began to arise.

There was so much to unveil in the past. Thousands of years of events, big and small. But Jon was in no hurry to dive into it.

Now that he had his worry about facing the Others again assuaged, Jon was not so eager to brave the heart tree or waste countless hours indulging in useless curiosity. It would not do for him to dwell in the past and forget to live. All of his foes were crushed, and the North was in the swing of winter, so his royal duties consisted of delegating problems to Wyman Manderly and listening to his reports.

Jon twirled the yew wand in his grasp as he trudged through the snowy grove. Much to his chagrin, Drogon’s heartstring had fitted with the yew the best. It was still crude compared to the ones Olivander would make, but it felt like a proper wand, and it made his magic sing. It was ironic that he had succeeded now that he no longer needed it as urgently.

Torrhen’s hurried figure waylaid him halfway through the godswood.

“Your Grace!” A wide smile rested on his face, and his steps were energetic. Perhaps it was time for him to wear a heavier suit of plate. “An envoy from Highgarden has arrived in court.”

For a short moment, Jon was tempted to make the envoy wait, but he didn’t have anything better to do now. Petty power plays were amusing but beneath him.

He quickly headed towards his quarters and changed into a regal set of garments instead of the plain tunic he wore.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the Winter Throne.

“Who exactly is this envoy?” Jon asked Manderly to his right, his words thick with boredom.

“Ser Garlan Tyrell, younger brother to Lord Willas of Highgarden, Your Grace,” came the reply. Wyman Manderly shifted on his heavy seat beside the dais, his many chins jiggling as he folded his gloved hands across his belly. “A most surprising visitor—it had been centuries since a rose came so far North.”

Jon lifted a brow. “A Tyrell?”

“Yes. He came on a sledge drawn by four wolfhounds, Your Grace,” Manderly said, looking impressed. “From Barrowton he came, through twenty feet of snow, they say. Apparently, he grew so weary of waiting that he poured coin upon the smiths and wheelwrights until they contrived a means to carry him through the deep snows. An admirable effort, if a touch extravagant.”

“And why would he come to Winterfell?” Jon murmured, too lazy to consider the roses of Highgarden and their schemes.

Manderly’s mouth twitched, and his pale blue eyes glinted. “I cannot say for certain, but I do suspect he comes with more than pleasantries.”

A part of him was tempted to just send the rose knight away. But hearing him out would not hurt.

Eventually, Jon sighed, nodding at the herald. “Call him forward.”

“Presenting—Ser Garlan of House Tyrell!”

A charming man with a steady gait came forth and took a knee in front of the dias. Dark curls framed a clean-shaven face, the rose of his house stitched in golden thread across his doublet.

Jon scratched his head.

How did they call him again?

Garlan the Grim?

No, it was something else.

“What brings you to Winterfell, ser?” Jon asked plainly.

“Your Grace,” he said. “I come bearing the warmest regards and a gift from my brother, Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, in honour of your coronation as King in the North.”

At a gesture, attendants approached, bearing a pair of stout chests banded in bronze and fitted with iron hinges. They knelt and slid it open.

A wealth of newly minted coins, stamped with roses, stags, and lions, glittered within, dotted with red rubies and garments that marred the gold like bloodstains. Gasps whispered through the hall like wind over fresh snow.

Jon squinted, his finger channelling a spell with a single motion, and he knew the number of coins before him.

Nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine golden dragons. Twenty thousand without one. The gems ought to be of similar value.

Visually impressive, but otherwise not an overly useful gift. If Jon were petty and close-minded, he would think that the Tyrells implied House Stark was poor and in dire need of coin. After all, there was no feud or any bad blood between them, unlike with Lannister. If anything, this was a far more ordinary gift.

The old merman seemed to think the same.

“A generous gift,” Manderly said, his voice measured, but Jon caught the disdain hidden beneath. “Though I daresay Ser Garlan did not brave the winter snows only to deliver these few chests of gold.”

“You are correct, my lord.” Garlan’s voice was rich and even—the voice of a man who had practised every word before a mirror. “I have come here with another task—to propose an alliance between House Stark and House Tyrell.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the torch flames seemed to still.

Manderly cleared his throat. “An alliance? You speak plainly, Ser. And boldly.”

“I’ve heard the Northmen suffer no lies or long-winded flowery words,” the knight said. “Lord Willas bids me ask for the hand of Princess Sansa Stark in marriage. He means to make her the Lady of Highgarden.”

The words rang through the Great Hall like a bell. The man was brazen, that much Jon could admit.

His gaze flickered to his sister. Sansa was stunned, her face turning as pale as chalk. Then came her fear, as her eyes widened and her knuckles went white as she clutched the arms of her chair. She sought his eyes, as if afraid that he would break his promise.

Jon’s mouth twitched.

The Tyrells sure as hell were ambitious. Her sister was pretty, yes, but a woman twice wed—first to a dwarf and then to a bastard—would be considered damaged goods in the eyes of any lord with self-respect.

“Your lordly brother is a bold man,” Jon spoke at last, half-amused and half-angered. “Too bold for a man who has never led a host in battle or killed a foe in a fight.”

Garlan asked cautiously, “What does killing have to do with marriage, Your Grace?”

“War has taken too much of my kin, and only my sisters remain.” Magic crept into his throat, forcing his voice to echo like a gong. “Both Sansa and Arya are precious to me, the princesses of Winterfell. The darlings of the North. Any who want their hand must prove capable of shielding it from all harm.”

“Highgarden can call upon a hundred thousand swords, Your Grace,” the Tyrell knight stated, voice firm and gaze hardy.

From the corner of his eyes, Jon saw Sansa shaking like a lone leaf in the wind, and it looked like she was about to faint. Ghost sensed his mood, stirred from his nap, and, in the blink of an eye, was already by Sansa’s side, placing his oversized shaggy head in her lap.

He caught her gaze and gave her his kindest and most reassuring smile.

“Sansa, what say you?”

She swallowed once, then twice, and slowly stood to face the Tyrell, her fingers brushing Ghost’s ruff. The whole hall seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her answer.

“You honour me, Ser Garlan,” she said, her voice steady though her hands trembled. “But I must decline. I have no wish to leave Winterfell, nor my brother and sister. This is my home. It always has been. It always will be.”

But Ser Garlan Tyrell was not done. “Your Grace,” he protested, “perhaps the princess speaks in haste. Highgarden is a place of peace, beauty, and plenty. My brother is not a cruel man. Surely—”

“Enough!” Jon rose abruptly, palming Grief’s handle.

With a single motion, the sword was drawn from its sheath. Then, Jon grabbed it in reverse and stabbed.

The sword sank into the stone dais as if it were butter.

“Plenty and beauty?” Jon scoffed. “A hundred thousand or a million swords? Wealth and splendour? Those mean nothing to me.”

The braziers flared up, tongues of purple fire leaping into the air. A wave of gasps echoed through the Great Hall. Next to Sansa, Ghost stood up in his full shaggy glory and bared his teeth menacingly.

Even Ser Garlan flinched, stepping back cautiously, though he did not flee.

“Let all hear me,” Jon declared, his voice rising. “If you seek the hand of a daughter of House Stark, don’t come with flowery words or empty promises. Win her heart—or win her hand in combat. And I care not for champions—if your brother wants Sansa’s hand, he has to come and fight himself.”

The Tyrell knight, to his credit, bowed. “As you say, Your Grace.”

“And who will fight to defend the Princess’ honour, Your Grace?” Rickard Liddle asked eagerly, as if he was ready to fight a hundred rounds right now.

Jon smiled fiercely despite himself. “Who else but their brother?”

As soon as Daario Naharis heard the news of Daenerys’ demise, he declared himself King of Mereen and butchered the council the dragon queen had left behind with his Stormcrows. He was killed by a whore a moon later and thus earned the moniker “The Moon King”.

Meanwhile, Khal Rolo had established himself as the strongest of the newly emerged Khals and led a large Khalasar to Slaver’s Bay. Some scholars argue that he wanted to immortalise his name by taking down the Harpy, but others say he was simply looking for riches and slaves.

After Daenerys’ ruinous campaign in Slaver’s Bay and with the Unsullied all brought away by the Dragon Queen, none could stop the Dothraki Horde. Mereen and Yunkai were sacked with little resistance, but when Rolo attacked Astapor, he was met with two lockstep legions led by Krazdil mo Hardan…

Excerpt from ‘The Rise of New Ghis’ by Maester Yadrack