Epilogue-Of Sorrow and Joy

With the advent of the fourth century after Aegon’s Conquest, men started moulding magic and metal once more. But unlike the elusive practices of the Freehold, where the guilds of spell-weavers and smiths worked together, this undertaking was started by a single man—Jon Stark the Third of His Name, the Lord of the North and King of Winter.

While many decry him for his vile sorcery, cruel deeds and unnatural strength, I find his foray into metalworking far more interesting a topic. Even the greatest naysayers cannot deny that Jon Stark achieved great things, the greatest of which lies in his mastery of spell-forged metal. To me, the creation of an alloy by a man with no experience in smithing is a fascinating subject because he succeeded. By all accounts, the first batch of Northern bronze armaments was made in the 303rd year after Aegon’s Conquest. A full suit of heavy plate armour specially fitted for Jon Stark, a ringmail, and his infamous bastard sword that had taken thousands of lives, Grief.

It wasn’t until many years later, when more Northern bronze armaments were gifted out, that the properties of said weapons could be examined, observed, and noted down.

Northern bronze is considered not to be inferior in any way to Valyrian Steel. It was just as light and durable; weapons forged from it will never dull, break, or corrode under the passage of time. However, its physical characteristics are distinctively different from Valyrian Steel, lacking the rippled patterns that indicate the mixing and folding of different sorts of iron, mixed together in a crucible. Instead, Northern bronze is a shade of bronze so dark it was nearly indistinguishable from black. It will glow softly in the darkness and sometimes could be said to drink in light. Some might even claim that Northern bronze repels mundane things, like dust and blood, though this is likely due to the metal’s smoothness. Alas, the process of forging remains a complete mystery, but it is certain that magick is heavily involved. I might not have evidence, but I believe Dragonfire also plays a role, considering Jon Stark’s command over dragons.

Unlike the lost ways to make the timeless steel of the Freehold, the Sorcerer King of the North is still very much alive and can craft weapons made from Northern bronze. Even the three grandmaster smiths of Qohor have failed to reshape his work. No matter the price offered, the Northern Dragon never agreed to forge weapons for gold, making his creations no less valuable than Valyrian steel. However, a few ornaments crafted from Northern bronze did manage to make their way south of the Neck and across the Narrow Sea. Aside from Grief, fourteen more weapons of Northern bronze were handed out to the Stark bannermen.

According to the tale, they were given as a reward for leal service and a grand show of valour during the bloody Battle of Westwatch. And being the owner of one was an utmost honour and brought unmatched prestige to the wielder and his House.

I believe the King of Winter forged far more armaments than this—including jewellery—only to keep them for his personal collection, but we’ll never know. With Grief, fifteen weapons of Northern bronze are now known in the North.

Grief, also known as the Bloodletter or the Beheader amongst the smallfolk, a title gained for the sheer number of heads taken by its sharp edge.

Dame Brienne of Tarth, the shieldmaiden of Princess Sansa Stark and the first woman knight in this age, was rewarded with the longsword she later named Oathkeeper.

Lyra Mormont received an axe, a warhammer, and a longsword. The new Lady of Bear Isle gifted the longsword to her sister, Lyanna Mormont, the Lady of the newly dubbed Bearfort. Some Northern lords objected, but the King pointed out that not only did those three weapons have less metal than the one Edwyle Umber received, but that the Mormonts still let him keep Longclaw in his possession.

Lord Edwyle Umber received a monstrous greatsword with a blade only half an inch shorter than the newly reforged Ice.

House Wull, Magnar, and Crowl each received a greataxe, and the champions who wielded those were said to be able to split a boulder in two with a single strike.

House Stane, Flint of the Mountains, and Liddle received longswords.

The Norreys and Burleys received a deadly bearded axe each, and the new clan Shieldbreaker, started by the wildling chieftain Soren, was awarded…

Excerpt from ‘On Spell-Forging’ by Maester Ulthior

308 AC, Braavos

Sealord Tormo Fregar

Noho Dimittis slammed his fist on the ebony table. “The Sunset Kingdoms still refuse to pay their debt to the Iron Bank!”

Dimittis was a man who lived and breathed for gold. The clinking of coin was the finest music to his ears, and there was no joy greater than seeing gold pass through his fingers; his skills in balancing ledgers, commerce, and trade were unmatched. His devotion to the pursuit of wealth was one of the reasons why the Iron Bank’s council had put him in charge of collecting debts. He would get a small cut of each debt collected, too, making him all the more eager when pursuing his duties.

For good or ill, the presence of the higher-ranking members of the Iron Bank in the Sealord’s Palace never boded well. But the Sealord could not turn them away, no matter how much he wished. In Braavos, none could ignore the Iron Bank, the behemoth where all the interests in the city intertwined, even the Sealord. Especially the Sealord.

“Don’t act like a barbarian, Noho,” the First Sword warned with a steely voice, and the irritated man grudgingly sat down with the other keyholders.

Gods, half a dozen, young and old, wise and foolish, were here, in his private audience chamber.

How bothersome. Couldn’t the damned bankers solve their problems without coming to him?!

Alas, Tormo Fregar was not merely the Sealord but a keyholder now that his uncle had died from the winter chill. On days like these, he regretted ever putting his name forward for the Sealord Chair.

“Why come to me now?” Tormo eased himself into the gilded chair, preparing for a long and tiresome meeting. His ears would be as numb as his arse by the end of this, he suspected. “It’s been some years since this has been a problem.”

“We’ve exhausted all avenues of negotiation,” Dimittis admitted with a cough. “All our attempts are now ignored by the masters of coin or the Hands of the numerous kings.”

Tormo decided to humour them before lifting his silver cup and sipping from the red wine. “Very well, how large is the debt?”

Tycho Nestoris took out a scroll, and his dark eyes glided over its contents.

“2,568,531 golden dragons, Sealord,” he spoke up after a few moments. “And there’s the compound interest growing due to the debasement of currency.”

“And what reasons do they cite in their refusal to pay?”

“That the Iron Throne made the debt, and we should seek our due from the king sitting on that very throne,” Dimittis squeezed out through gritted teeth.

“So why can’t we get our due from the Iron Throne?” Entorio Zalyne spoke up.

The audience chamber quieted, as all of them looked at the young Zalyne. It had to be his elder brother who had sent him here unprepared. Probably to make a fool out of himself.

“Because, young Zalyne, the Iron Throne is amid a cursed ruin, and no soul has stepped in the jade ruins and lived for half a decade,” Luco Prestayn drawled sardonically. “Which you would have known if you didn’t spend all your time between the legs of that courtesan of yours.”

Entorio’s face reddened, and his hand reached for the bravo’s hilt on his belt.

“Don’t bicker in my palace,” Tormo said harshly, glaring at the young Entorio. “If you want to draw steel, do it outside. No blood shall be spilt in these halls, you hotheaded fools.”

The younger man’s hand slackened, but his expression remained stormy.

“We’ve identified two possible heirs to the Iron Throne, Tommen Baratheon and Shireen Baratheon,” Noho Dimittis continued, sounding all too troubled. “But both refuse to pay it off.”

“Did not Tommen officially dissolve Westeros into the previous Seven Kingdoms?” Prestayn added, stroking his goatee.

“He indeed did and has crowned himself King of the Rock. Shireen Baratheon married the Northern Sorcerer-King.” Bessaro Reyaan was the one to explain from behind his flask. The old keyholder loved his Tyroshi pear juice and drank from nothing else but his own flask lest he get poisoned like his brother.

“So, you have no plans to recoup the losses?” Tormo asked, voice laden with suspicion.

“They have no… foes we could work with. Jon Stark executed all who opposed his House, and Tommen is very cautious and rules undisputed in the Westerlands. The other important sunset lords outside of Harry Strickland refuse our assistance against the Lion King,” Noho Dimittis recounted with a scowl. “We have no leverage over them, aside from threats of the Faceless Men. But employing the House of Black and White would only make us lose more and more gold for a dubious return.”

“And let’s not forget that should we push Tommen, he has enough gold to start his own bank and lend from the Wall to Sunspear,” Prestayan added darkly.

“I told you we shouldn’t have lent to the Westerosi king without collateral,” Antoryo Florel muttered loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him. “I told you all, and did you listen?”

“Well, I couldn’t have known that King’s Landing would become a cursed land worse than the Sorrows and the Ruins of the Freehold, could I?”

Before they could start to bicker, Tormo cleared his throat loudly and asked, “Didn’t the Iron Bank support Shireen Baratheon’s father’s bid for the throne?”

“Yes, we did,” Tycho Nestoris confirmed with a twitch of his lips. “But Shireen’s husband paid off her father’s debt of seventy-eight thousand golden dragons, and the Night’s Watch managed to clear their own debt last year. King Jon Stark wants nothing to do with the other kingdoms and refuses to be associated with them or the Iron Throne. Anything Winterfell has borrowed from the Iron Bank has long been promptly returned.”

“So why come to me, the Sealord? I can no more make the Iron Throne pay the gold back than you can.”

“We cannot let such a debt remain unpaid! The Iron Bank must have its due,” Dimittis insisted with his grating voice. “We want to restrict Braavosi trade with the North and the Westerlands and bar all lending to the sunset nobles until one of them—”

“I cannot do that,” Tormo said flatly. “It will hurt Braavos far more than it would hurt the Westerosi. Let’s put aside how little their kings care about merchants. Braavos gets more than a third of its lumber, salt, and furs from the North, and I have no desire to provoke the monster that sits on the Winter Throne.”

Dimittis waved his hand dismissively. “Bah, just hearsay exaggerated beyond belief. Everyone knows that dragons grow slowly, and magic is weak. He probably has a drake, that much is true, but it’d be decades before it’s a threat.”

“Good thing that I have visited Winterfell in person, and I can confirm that neither is Jon Stark’s magic weak nor are his dragons small,” Tycho countered with a smug smile as his rival scowled. “The Northern King is fair and just but has no patience for threats, as the Targaryens found out.”

Of course, words would not make Dimittis give up so easily.

“Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice firm and unmoving. “All the magic in the world didn’t save the Freehold when they angered the gods. Even the Northern King must eat and sleep, and he can’t push us lest he and his whole line end at the hands of the House of Black and White.”

“What if the Faceless Men fail, you fool?!”

“They never fail—”

“So they say! Have you even checked the price of the Many-Faced-God? No two gifts ever cost the same!”

“If all the keyholders and the magisters united, no price would be a hurdle—”

“Let’s say you somehow succeed.”

“He can’t,” Florel said. “I asked the House of White and Black yesterday, they said the price for killing the Winter King is a million tons of pure gold.”

“Is there even so much gold in the world?”

“No, there isn’t,” was the cool reply. “It’s quite clear that the Kindly One just gave a price that can not be achieved, to preserve the dignity of the Faceless Men. After all, they do claim they can kill anyone in the world.”

Tycho looked at Dimittis with gloating. “Even if you somehow kill the Northern king, can you even recoup the lost gold?!”

“Pah, we can’t just stay back and do nothing. If we take a loss here, it will come out of our own pockets, and nobody will ever take us seriously—”

“CEASE THIS FOOLISH BICKERING!” Everyone stilled at Tormo’s outburst.

“There’s no need to search for enemies when there are none, especially with the Pentoshi finally raising their heads again after a century.” He paused, his harsh glare studying each one of his visitors. “As a senior keyholder and the Sealord of Braavos, I advise the bank to stop lending large sums without proper collateral and cut our losses here. We’d better write the debt of the Iron Throne off instead of sinking more and more gold without seeing a single coin in return. I can negotiate the formal forgiveness of the debt for lower customs and tolls for our merchants in the North and the Westerlands for a decade or two that would make up a part of the loss, but further gain is unlikely, and higher demands might achieve the opposite effect.”

Tycho was the first to agree. “That is quite the sound solution. We must save our strength to deal with these arrogant Pentoshi, not waste it on meaningless squabbles.”

While Braavos was reluctant to cut its losses with the Iron Throne, the Tyroshi cartels did not dally. All the coin lent to the Iron Throne was recouped by force. With the blessing of the Archon of Tyrosh, their sellsails took control of the Gullet and the Bay of Crabs and started burning, looting, plundering, and enslaving everything along the coast of Blackwater Bay. Houses Velaryon and Celtigar were extinguished, with their women and daughters sold as prized bed-slaves in Lys. The Crownlands Houses had nobody to unite behind and were severely weakened after losing their finest with Aegon.

But that did not end Tyrosh’s ambition. Instead of the traditional squabbling for the Disputed Lands, it turns its gaze northward. The Archon left Myr and Lys to their bloody dispute and struck the Braavosi fleet from behind while they were sieging Pentos. The new, unexpected alliance—

Excerpt from ‘The Decade of Blood’ by Archmaester Perestan

Near the Gates of the Moon.

Shagga

Shagga, son of Dolf, knew that he was not the smartest man. He was not the prettiest man either. But pretty men like Conn, son of Coratt, died easily. Shagga was not smart, and he was not pretty, but he was strong. And Shagga knew how to watch and learn. The time spent with Tyrion, the cunning son of Tywin, was invaluable, not only because they could arm and clad themselves in and with steel now, but because he saw how the lowlanders fight and how they think.

It had taken him some time, but he learned a lot. It did help that he had managed to steal away three younger smiths from the plains around the City of Whores to work for him. The promise of safety, women, and a position of honour in his tribe was enough to convince them.

The winter was harsh and took many weaker men and women with it, but the strong survived. The strong always survived.

It had taken him nearly the whole spring and then some to beat the other clans and bring them under his rule. No longer would they gather in foolish and slow councils; now, only the strongest voice would be heard. And only one could be the strongest. The voice of Shagga, son of Dolf, the King of the Mountains!

With the lowlander steel and the strength of the clans unified, they finally had a chance!

Timett, son of Timett, walked to the rock where Shagga was resting. Shagga might not be very smart, but he was at least not stupid enough to burn out his eye, like Timett. Having two eyes was always better than one in a fight!

“They have gathered,” his right-hand man said.

Shagga stood up, grabbed his shiny axes of black steel, and swaggered down towards the clearing where the warchiefs were gathered.

Everyone quieted down as soon as he stepped in, bringing a small smile to his face. Good, if he knew they would listen so easily, he would have beaten them long ago!

“Brothers and sisters!” he roared, and they raised their weapons and cheered. “Long ago, the lowlanders chased us away from our homes! But the time to take back what is ours has finally come. Today, we take back the Vale!”

The clearing erupted with fervent cries, but he could see a few hesitate.

“We don’t have the numbers to beat all the lowlanders,” said Hogal, son of Hogen, chieftain of the Sons of the Tree, and the other leaders grew silent. “And their stone castles are too hard to take!”

Shagga considered beating him up for questioning his decision so openly, but decided otherwise, as he could see the doubt in the eyes of the older warriors.

The chieftain was right to doubt, but they didn’t see what he saw or know what he knew.

“Aye, we don’t have the numbers,” Shagga agreed, much to the surprise of the chieftains. “But we’re less and less with every winter, while the lowlanders are as numerous as always. In a few winters, only a handful of us will be left, and then it will be too late to strike!”

“And you say now is a better time to strike?” another murmured suspiciously.

“Their young falcon king and his soft lordlings have gathered to feast and drink in one place now; should we cut them all down, the rest would not be able to rally together and fight us!”

“And how would you know of this, Shagga, son of Dolf?” asked Rolo, son of Ralo, warchief of the Redsmiths, face thick with suspicion.

“I sent one of me boys in the lowlands to study our foe and spy on them,” Shagga reluctantly admitted, and he finally grew angry and waved his axes as a warning. “Enough of this foolish chatter; you’ll all follow my lead lest you want a taste of my axe.”

“Bah—”

Faldan, son of Faldor’s head, rolled off, and the corpse crumbled on the grass, spraying blood everywhere.

Shagga smiled fiercely, glancing at the remaining warriors as he wiped the blood off his axe on Faldan’s tattered tunic.

That should teach those fools to finally shut up and listen!

The doubt was mostly gone from their faces now, replaced with interest, anger, and some fear. Faladar, the other son of Faldor, charged at Shagga, but Shagga buried his left axe in his gut, slicing his belly open.

As the second Milk Snake warchief died, Shagga stepped over his corpse, raised his head, blood and guts still dripping from his axe and looked at the rest of them. They all nodded, offering no rebuff, or lowered their eyes. Good. Shagga could work with that.

“Anyone else?” he roared with a wide grin as he hefted his bloodied axes around. He grabbed a pointy stick nearby and drew crude lines on the ground, trying to depict the Gates of the Moon and the land around it. “Now, Timett will take three hundred men and cut off their retreat, and Rolo will take the Redsmiths and the Milksnakes to—”

The Crimson Feast heralded the end of House Arryn, the last of the Ancient Andal Kings.

With Harrold Arryn slain along with most of his guests, the Gates of the Moon fell. It is said that the savages surged like a raging river from the steep mountain paths, taking the celebrating Vale Nobility unaware.

They even managed to take down the Gates of the Moon, as most of the guards were also given wine and ale for the occasion. The grand feast for the birth of the daughter of the Last Falcon turned into the ugliest of butcheries, second only to the Red Wedding and the Stranger’s Feast. Only the highborn women and the female servants were spared, if only to be despoiled at the hands of the savages, passed like common whores from man to man. A handful of craftsmen managed to keep their heads as well, after promising to forge steel for wildlings.

The clansmen won, but not without cost—their losses were said to have been in the hundreds of men, a good part of their total strength. For a long time, Knights of the Vale had slowly whittled off the savages that had fled into the mountain, and they had not been a true threat for centuries. Shagga, self-proclaimed King of the Mountain, had scarcely enough men to hold the Gates of the Moon, and he lost a quarter of them taking over the Bloody Gate.

The butchery angered the Vale Lords greatly, as there was not a single one who had not lost kin or kith at the Crimson Feast. Yet, the problem remained: the only one left with Arryn blood and the name was a girl of two name days in Gulltown, the last of the Gulltown Arryns. Few would rally behind a babe, even fewer behind one that could not yet talk, and only fools would back one with a merchant mother.

The newly ascended Lord Gyles Grafton married the babe, trying to claim the title of King of the Mountain and Vale, but few answered his call. With the death of his brother and nephew, the previously spurned Lyn Corbray was now the Lord of Heart’s Home and also declared himself king—

Excerpt from ‘The Vale Divided’ by Maester Yandel.

Shireen Stark

She shuffled beneath the furs and clutched the warm limb she used as a pillow tighter to her chest. A faint flush still lingered on her cheeks from the memory of last night. Perhaps, with the gods’ favour, a new babe would take root within her womb. Another boy, she prayed.

How strange it seemed now, to recall the cold warnings her mother once gave—Selyse’s grim talk of pain and duty, as if a marriage bed were a place of torment and nothing more. Shireen could only scoff at such memories. For all her mother’s iron piety and joyless warnings, she had known nothing of the warmth a husband could bring. Jon was no brute, no cold lord claiming his rights. He was gentle and attentive when he chose to be, and fierce when he wanted. In his arms, Shireen found joys that she never thought possible.

She was a mother now, and to a boy no less. At the sight of little, chubby and wrinkly Rickon wailing his lungs out, her fears had melted away. Shireen had not failed her husband as Selyse had failed her father. The burden of heirship would not fall on a small, hapless girl now. Her son was strong and hearty, even more than most babes could boast to be, and she thanked the gods each day for it. Rickon would grow to be a prince of the North, and one day, its king.

But one was not enough. Shireen wanted to give Jon as many sons as he would ever desire, even though her husband did not mind daughters.

Childbirth had gone better than she had feared. The pain had lasted for what felt like forever, and there were moments she feared she might not return from it. Yet despite the struggle of the birthing bed, there had been something sacred in bringing forth life. Rickon’s first cry, the feel of soft skin against her breast, Jon’s awe-struck gaze as he beheld the babe in her arms… nothing else could compare in the world. Not even the feeling of the wind in her hair as she soared through the sky atop Stormstrider.

Even now, she could scarcely believe it. She, Shireen Baratheon, once a girl many thought would never live to see adulthood, a little thing many didn’t dare even look upon, let alone approach with her cursed cheek, was now a mother. She had brought life into the world. She and her husband.

Some days, it felt like a dream.

She loved Rickon fiercely—he was the joy of her day, the light in the night sky. Despite, or maybe because of it, Shireen found it harder to forgive her own parents. Reason dictated that if her child had been born a girl, Shireen might not have loved it as much. But such thoughts shamed her. Regardless, she could not forgive Selyse and Stannis Baratheon, nor could they make amends from whatever hell both had fallen.

If anything, Shireen tried not to think of her parents. She had already gotten more than she had ever hoped to dream and then some. Some might call it divine grace, but she knew it was sheer luck, a tinge of foolish daring, and her mindfulness of duty. Being the queen in the North was not all songs and sunshine—nothing ever was in the North—but it was enough for Shireen.

Her other fear, the fear that her dashing husband would take a mistress or fall to the temptation of some pretty maiden, had long since melted away. She was not blind. Jon, now a powerful king, was also handsome and dashing as the finest of knights, and such things called to women like moths to flame. But he had not strayed, not even once—even the Lyseni envoy last year that some called so beautiful she could be a goddess did not receive a second glance from him. And Shireen loved him even more for it. That was why she kept to her wifely and queenly duties with a devotion that could rival the most pious of septas.

She turned her gaze to him now, lying beside her in the quiet of their shared chamber. The faint rise and fall of his muscled chest beneath would never fail to mesmerise her. In sleep, he looked gentler without that cold royal mask he always wore, free of the burdens kings must bear. Yet even asleep, there was something dangerous to Jon.

Shireen reached out, trailing a finger from his collarbone down his chest, slowing down to trace each scar she encountered. And the scars were many.

The touch stirred him awake, and when Shireen looked up, she found his eyes upon her—those dark amethysts that always made her insides flutter.

“Good mornin’,” Jon whispered, voice still sluggish from slumber, and before Shireen could offer any greeting in return, he had drawn her into a kiss that stole the breath from her chest.

For a moment, she melted as her mind came to a halt. His kisses always did that, and Shireen suspected he was using magic to make it feel so good. Still, she did not mind and gave him a bright smile once they parted.

The ember of desire was rekindled. The urge to crawl atop her lord husband and continue where the night had left them grew stronger, but the ache between her legs made her quickly reconsider. Jon could go on for hours without flagging, a gift she adored and sometimes cursed. For now, the ache was the pleasant sort that she did not mind after a long round of lovemaking. But another hour in his arms, she would struggle to walk for a sennight.

With a reluctant sigh, she rose from the bed and rang the bell. The handmaids soon rushed in, eagerly dressing her into the silver-rimmed gown of the softest Norvoshi wool she had chosen yesterday. Today was the final day of the tourney—the first tourney her husband had called in his reign, and the first tourney a Lord of Winterfell had called in centuries—and as queen and a host, she could never miss it.

With a wave of her hand, the handmaids were dismissed, and they retreated as swiftly as they had come.

Her husband never summoned servants, preferring to care for his own garments. Not even his page would be allowed to dress him in anything other than armour.

“What a fine morning.” Shireen took a seat by the carved chair near the window. There, she had a clear view of Jon as he stretched, corded muscles in full display. Gods, her husband was a fine thing to look upon—lean as a shadowcat, and twice as muscled. “Let us break our fast with Sansa and Arya.”

“Aye,” he replied, fastening the clasps of a black silken doublet trimmed with silver—a disappointment to her eyes, though it suited him well. “But first, we visit little Rickon.”

It had taken no small effort on her part and Sansa’s to ensure Jon’s wardrobe was worthy of a king. Left to his own devices, her husband would have worn a huntsman’s roughspun tunic to court. Jon could never refuse his wife’s or sister’s handiwork, so whichever garment he reached for in his dresser would be fit for a king.

With little delay, the royal pair left the king’s apartments, shadowed by Lady Jyanna and followed by a brace of Winterfell’s hardiest guards—Jeor and Big Tom, both seasoned warriors from the hills. But no guard stood taller than the magic bound to their son’s nursery. The ironwood door was carved with queer runes that Shireen had never seen, no matter which book she consulted. Nothing with ill intent could ever hope to pass through it, Jon had claimed. She had not pressed him further; his word was enough.

The room itself was also protected in various other ways, but her husband’s explanation had gone over Shireen’s head.

Inside, the wetnurse Astrid—a stout widow from a nearby village whose husband and brothers had died for Robb Stark in the War of the Five Kings— was crooning softly to the little prince. She had come to Winterfell begging for food for her children in the thick of winter, and Shireen had given her a place inside the castle; her boy now worked in the stables, and her girl was a scullery maid in the kitchens.

The moment they entered, her son paused, turned to the door and happily crawled to her feet. Rickon then beamed a wide, toothy smile at her and gurgled happily, and Shireen could swear his eyes shone. He had inherited her pitch-black hair, and the Northern Queen had little doubt that once her son grew up, he would steal the heart of many a maiden.

“Has he behaved?” Shireen asked.

“Aye, yer Grace,” said Astrid with a broad grin. “Though he’s not shy about lettin’ us know when he’s displeased.”

Jon laughed boisterously as Shireen nestled her son closer. At the hearth, Ghost stirred, the great white direwolf rousing from slumber with a soundless chuff. Since the boy’s birth, the beast had never strayed far from his side.

Ghost padded over and nudged her gently. Shireen held Rickon out toward him, and the babe reached with eager hands to tangle his fingers in the direwolf’s fur. Ghost tolerated it with patient stillness.

“He’ll be breaking hearts by the time he’s four and ten,” Jon said proudly, as Rickon squirmed in her arms.

She chuckled and set him down on the Myrish rug, where he promptly resumed his crawling, twice as enthusiastic. The boy had no patience for stillness, and if not for Ghost’s vigilance, he would likely vanish into the nearest shadow.

After a time, when Rickon began to grow sleepy, they laid him gently in his cradle and left for the royal dining chamber—a quiet place Jon had set aside for their family, away from the noise of the Great Hall. There, breakfast was already being laid out by the eager servants. It was a cosy chamber that would not be out of place in a minor lord’s castle, with a varnished oaken table that could fit a dozen and comfortable chairs, each painted in rich colours.

A tapestry hung on the walls, depicting the Battle of Winterfell in all of its glory in uncanny detail. Shireen could even spot herself and her good sister a-horse on the nearby hills as the battle raged below them. Sansa was already working hard on a new one, set to depict the Battle of Ice and Fire at Westwatch. She sat at the table now, a red-haired beauty in full blood with a regal face to match and a glint in her blue eyes.

In her arms was a shuffling bundle of dark reddish fur and green eyes.

“So Nymeria’s finally given birth,” Jon said as he took his seat at the head of the table.

“She did, just before dawn,” Sansa replied, beaming. “Arya stayed awake half the night to help the kennelmaster bring them into the world.”

“How many?” Shireen asked as she helped herself to bacon, venison pie, and eggs—her appetite large from the night’s exertions.

“Four,” Sansa said, stroking the red pup’s twitchy ears. “Arya will bring the rest soon.”

“Then she’d best hurry,” Jon said with a grin, eyeing the mallard. “Else, I might finish her share myself.”

“Have you named her?” Shireen asked, sipping her ale.

“Yes. Her name shall be Princess,” Sansa declared, lifting the sleepy pup as if presenting her to court.

Jon groaned. “Of course it is.”

“Ghost and Nymeria are nearing ten years, yet neither looks to be growing old and sluggish,” Shireen mused aloud. “How long do direwolves live?”

“Some accounts speak of thirty years,” Jon replied, tearing into the roasted duck. “Ours might last longer.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

He only smiled with that lopsided smile of his. “Magic.”

At that moment, the door creaked open, and a sleepy Arya entered with a bundle of wriggling pups in her arms and Nymeria padding behind her. Then, she dropped a black-furred pup with golden eyes into Jon’s hands.

“This one’s for Rickon,” she muttered. “The other two are bitches.”

The grey direwolf settled onto the floor, and the remaining pups—one black, one white—were gently placed at her belly to nurse.

“My son is too young for a direwolf,” Shireen said hesitantly.

“I’ll help train him,” Arya promised, blinking blearily at her.

“Very well,” the queen allowed, watching the pup in Jon’s arms with curious amusement. “He’ll need a name.”

“Shadow,” Jon said without pause, placing the pup beside his mother before returning to his meal.

Shireen eyed the other two pups as they suckled greedily. “What shall be done with them?”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Jon and Sansa turned to Arya with twin expressions of mischief and suspicion.

“Is there something you want to tell us, sweet sister?” Sansa prodded, eyes narrowing. “I heard a most fascinating rumour. Something about wedding proposals.”

The younger princess mumbled something with a reddened face.

“Could you repeat that? We could not quite hear very well,” Jon pressed, his sharp gaze settling on his sister.

Arya flushed crimson. “I’ve not lain with anyone,” she managed, words tight. “I had my moonblood last week. But Sansa’s right. And… aye, I said yes. I’ll wed Torrhen.”

Jon blinked. So did Sansa. Shireen shook herself from her stupor and grinned.

“Congratulations,” she said warmly. “But what has that to do with the pups?”

The Queen was gazed at by three pairs of eyes—one purple, one blue, and one grey. Then, Nymeria rose, took the remaining two pups gently by the scruff, and laid them in Shireen’s lap.

While House Martell was plotting the return of House Targaryen, Lord Anders Yronwood had been making internal alliances. His wife, Yrelle, was the sister of Lord Qorgyle, and his children and cousins made ties with Houses Dayne, Allyrion, and Blackmont.

After the Second Field of Fire, House Martell’s forces were the most devastated. The following winter saw the Dornish strength weaken further. Not only did Arianne marry an insignificant Tallhart cousin from a branch line, but she let her final brother, Trystane, marry a daughter of a Lyseni magister, spurning Lord Yronwood’s youngest daughter.

In 308 AC, Anders Yronwood rebelled, declaring himself High King of Dorne…

Excerpt from ‘The Blood on the Sand’ by Archmaester Yandel