Epilogue-A Fruitful Journey

When word spread through the North that the Good Queen’s dear cousin, Edric Storm, was in need of swords and good men to wield them, many greybeards, second and third sons, both noble and common, flocked to his banner. In addition to the overly generous northern ‘gift’ of arms and armour, Edric Storm’s forces quickly swelled.

Within three moons, it was estimated that three thousand Northern warriors landed in Duskendale, swiftly joining Edric’s men who had just defeated a small host.

The war for the Stormlands lasted over half a year, but most of it consisted of skirmishes and ambushes, where the Golden Company chased, while the Sons of the Storm tried to avoid a direct clash that would pit them against a foe of greater strength. Eventually, King Harry Strickland besieged Bronzegate, forcing Edric Storm to meet him in battle.

The Battle of Bronzegate, also named the Battle of the Bloody Hill, was one of the most brutal battles recorded since the Seven Kingdoms were unmade. On both sides, the total casualties exceeded half. It was said that the ground went red with the blood of the slain and couldn’t be washed off for months by the fierce rain.

Strickland outnumbered Edric Storm by nearly four thousand men, yet still lost after a bitter and bloody struggle.

It was said that the battle began at dawn and lasted all day, ending only at sunset.

Despite being outnumbered, the Northmen, led by Artos Snow, an Umber Bastard, relentlessly fought to the death without retreating, eventually breaking the enemy’s left flank, where the bulk of the Golden Company’s elite were. Edric Storm led the centre himself and was said to have slain half a hundred men at the thick of the fighting before making his way to Strickland and caving his head in with a single strike of his warhammer. It was said that nothing could stop the son of the Demon, and he was like a force of nature on the field, earning him the moniker ‘The Raging Storm’.

Lord Robert Fell routed Strickland’s cavalry after hours of brutal struggle in the nearby fields. With no cavalry left to halt his advance, he wheeled around and crashed into the Golden Company’s right flank from behind, pinning them for the slaughter.

With their leader fallen, the left flank collapsing, and the right flank shattered, the Golden Company and the lords sworn to Strickland knew the day was lost and attempted to flee, but were ruthlessly hunted down by Edric’s remaining horse.

No mercy was shown, no quarter was given to the loathed Golden Company, all killed to the last. The lords who bent the knee to Edric Storm were spared in a grand show of generosity, and the Rising Storm magnanimously promised to spare their Houses should those who fought for Strickland take the Black or go into self-exile, never to be allowed to return to Westeros. The garrison at Storm’s End surrendered when promised a safe passage to Essos. A moon later, Edric crowned himself Storm King and retook the name Durrandon…

Excerpt from ‘The Rising Storm’ by Archmaester Perestan

Early 309 AC, Winterfell

Shireen Stark

Arya laughed. It wasn’t the giggle or the titter noble maidens loved to do but a burst of full-blown laughter, and by the gods, her good sister laughed so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shireen tried to hold it in but found herself chuckling as well.

Rickon, the perpetrator, was sitting proudly on the ground, giggling and happily waving a wooden toy halberd.

“It’s not funny!” Sansa insisted, looking like she was about to cry.

Shireen took another look at Sansa’s bright purple hair and barely managed to rein in her laughter. It didn’t help that all the direwolves curiously inspected the unusual-coloured locks, blinking their big golden eyes at the formerly red-haired princess with surprise.

“Fine, fine,” she relented, “But you have to admit it’s amusing.”

“Very,” her eldest good-sister deadpanned, making Arya laugh even harder. “Just get the mirror.”

It took Shireen half a minute to sift through the contents of the oaken chest and find the mirror in question. “There you go.”

The now-purple-haired princess looked at her own reflection in the mirror for a few moments before frowning. Arya finally managed to calm down and curiously joined them, even if the corner of her lips kept twitching.

“How does it work?”

“Well, you’re supposed to say his name,” Shireen explained. “Or so Jon told me.”

“You have not used it just yet?”

“It’s only been three days, and he did say not to contact him unless it was a matter of great urgency.”

Magic was so handy, letting her speak to her husband no matter the distance. It was also a sign of trust that such a powerful magic tool was handed solely to her, so Shireen had no intent to abuse it.

“Jon?” Sansa uttered hesitantly. The mirror in her hand vibrated, and the image rippled, showing Jon’s face amidst a grassy hill.

“Nice hair, sister,” her husband greeted with a cheeky smile.

Her good sisters were staring at the mirror in amazement. Shireen would be gawking just like them if her husband had not shown her how to use it before.

“Jon, is that really you?” muttered Arya after gathering her bearings.

“Yes.” He rubbed his brow. “I assume you called me because Rickon turned Sansa’s hair purple.”

Sansa nodded, and Shireen could see tears pooling in her eyes. “Please change it back, Jon!”

“Hold on a moment.” A moment later, his reflection was gone, replaced by their own.

A flash of purple blinded Shireen, and when she opened her eyes, Jon was sitting right next to them. The Queen and her good-sisters stood there, stunned and not exactly believing their eyes. Even Rickon paused and looked in confusion at his newly arrived father.

Jon waved that wooden stick he called a wand, and Sansa’s hair regained its dark crimson colour.

“Wait!” Arya instantly besieged her brother. “If you can travel a long distance in an instant, why fly with Winter to Oldtown?”

“Arriving with a dragon makes you look more formidable and harder to ignore,” he said patiently. “And I can only travel in such a manner to places I’ve been before. The further the distance, the harder it is to pull off. But keep the fact that I can do it a secret.”

Sansa inspected a lock of blood-red hair and beamed before enveloping Jon in a tight hug.

“Jon, is this normal?” Shireen hesitantly asked, looking at her confused son.

“Well, yes,” he confirmed with a slight grimace as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s his magic beginning to show. It will be like that until he learns to control it.”

“Can you do something about it?”

“Probably, but it will take me some time,” said Jon, throwing a glance at his firstborn. “Once I’m done with Hightower and Horn Hill, I’ll see what can be done.”

Arya kneeled and started making funny faces at Rickon, who giggled happily while trying to grab onto her hair.

A knock echoed from the door behind them as Shireen worriedly rubbed her swollen belly. Within a blink, Jon became the purple-plumed bird and gently perched on her shoulder.

“What is it, Jyanna?” A hint of annoyance leaked through the Queen’s voice.

“Your Grace, an urgent letter arrived from White Harbour!” Her sword shield’s words echoed through the door.

“Can’t it wait?”

“I dare not make an assumption. The Hand says it’s a grave matter.” Jyanna’s worried voice made her insides twist and churn uncomfortably. “He’s waiting at the council chambers.”

A soft trill echoed from her shoulder and chased away her anxiousness. A sigh escaped Shireen’s mouth; everything had been going too smoothly for quite some time.

“Enter then!”

The door opened, and her shieldmaiden, face grim, marched into the room and handed over a small scroll, while eyeing the phoenix on her shoulder cautiously. Yet the Queen did not worry that her sworn shield would tattle any secrets; Jyanna had proven trustworthy many times. Even Rickon caught the seriousness of the situation as he stopped playing and studied the armoured woman with wary eyes.

Shireen unfurled the roll of parchment with trepidation and felt faint as her blue eyes scanned its contents.

“What is it?” Sansa asked curiously.

“Our messenger to Lord Sunderland was killed, and his ship burned. Ser Wylis Manderly says only a severed head was returned…” The Queen handed the parchment to the pale redhead.

‘Call the banners,’ Jon’s voice echoed in her head as he stared at the scroll with those gorgeous purple orbs. ‘But only from the eastern coast and the fleet. The Sistermen will rue this foolishness.’

It was a tad weird when he did that, but she had gotten used to it. According to him, it was one of the functions of her new pendant.

‘What about your visit to Hightower and Horn Hill?’

‘My journey in the Reach will take no more than three, perhaps four days to complete, and I’ll head back immediately. I will return long before the fleet is fully mustered.’

The phoenix leapt towards the open shutter and dove outside before any of them could react.

Shireen steeled herself and headed towards the council chambers, followed by three direwolves.

Sealord Tormo Fregar attempted to negotiate after the city’s reserve lumber was spent, but his foes were dead set on the destruction of Braavos. After two moons of preparation, hiring more sellsails and sellswords from every corner of Essos, the Tyrosh-Pentos alliance’s attempt to assault the city by the sea was met with a colossal failure.

The Titan of Braavos and the Arsenal behind it proved its defensive mettle, costing the invaders hundreds of ships. The battle, now called ‘the Titan’s Wrath’, lasted three days and three nights, and was the bloodiest naval engagement in recorded history.

The exact casualties were unclear to this day, but it was said that at least half a thousand ships and thirty thousand mariners perished in the fighting. The waters of the Great Lagoon turned red, and the fish feasted for moons on the sheer number of corpses. Charred debris, swords, and armour could still be fished out of the lagoon to this day.

After the attack through the sea proved impossible, the Pentosh-Tyrosh alliance turned their attempts to the Braavosi hilly coastlands, intending to invade through land. Braavos lost many holdings during the first moon, but every inch of soil was bought with dozens of lives. While the Braavosi were outnumbered, their soldiers boasted greater discipline and were better equipped than the sellsword companies. Many of the citizens of the bastard daughter of Valyria were eager to defend their home and answered the call to arms—

Excerpt from ‘The Decade of Blood’ by Archmaester Perestan

Jon Stark, the Reach

A large circular curtain wall encompassed the maze of stone, slate, and wood, split in twain by the mouth of the Honeywine River.

The monstrous lighthouse, which could rival a skyscraper, stood vigilant in the very heart of the delta, perched atop a rocky island. But it was the complex of buildings and arches and bridges spanning a few smaller interconnected islands that drew his gaze. The Citadel.

Lastly, there was a quite impressive dome-shaped building with a wide marble plaza in front of it. This could only be the Starry Sept with its gilded roof, marble walls, and enormous arched windows. From above, the people across the streets and squares looked like ants in a stone hive.

Oldtown looked impressive for a medieval city, and the Hightower was a wonder of its age, not merely as a marvel of ancient architecture. The enormous lighthouse was brimming with magic, serving as an odd mix of conduit and focus. Impressive, but useless in practice, as using such a thing would be so strenuous on the mind that even Jon’s sturdy psyche would be strained, let alone someone ordinary. All in all, the Northern King was not particularly awed; for someone who had the memories of humanity’s heights and lows, this looked average at best. But the average wasn’t necessarily that bad; with progress, man’s ability to destroy grew beyond all reason, more than enough to snuff out all life, including themselves, as he had borne witness to in his previous life.

Jon shook his head and wheeled Winter, circling above the city and inspecting its layout once more before slowly heading for the plaza in front of the Starry Sept, giving the crowd time to disperse—or flee, crying in terror.

His choice of landing had nought to do with politics or religion but practicality: none of the other squares was comfortably large enough to fit Winter. The dragon landed with a thud, and Jon hopped on the cobbled ground and looked around the now-abandoned square. A few braver people were peeking at him from the corners and small alleys with eyes full of fear, but he paid them no heed.

A letter had been sent a moon ago, announcing his intention to visit, yet Jon was unsure if the raven had managed to arrive. After all, the distance from Oldtown to Winterfell was easily twenty-five hundred miles. Or perhaps the Hightowers were not prepared for him showing up so early. Either way, it mattered little; the King of the North was not easily turned away, even less so a dragon rider.

“Mercy, mercy, Your Grace!”

Jon spun around to see a gaunt, tall figure stumble down the steps from the Starry Sept.

It was an old, wizened man wearing a plain white robe, and a rough crystal crown sat atop his brow. This could be only the High Septon, even though he looked nothing like the plump, decadent priest that Jon imagined. The Faith of the Seven and their stunt with the Faith Militant had made the lords mistrustful, paranoid even. Casterly Rock and Highgarden had quickly shattered the newly resurging martial order after the Inferno of King’s Landing, and the rest of the clergy had been suppressed in various ways.

The once mighty Faith had fallen; none of the kings had shown any interest in the election of the High Septon, allowing the Most Devout to elect him as per tradition. The most damning was that the head of the Faith was here instead of in one of the many royal courts.

With the Vale, Stormlands, and Riverlands in chaos and the Lord of the Light worshippers amassing from Essos, the Faith of the Seven was at its weakest, facing its greatest challenge yet. And here was the High Septon himself, kneeling at Jon’s feet and begging for mercy.

The Northern King could feel the priest’s plea was genuine; any fear inside him was for the city and the Sept, not for himself. He had come ready to die.

Nobody else dared approach, including the city watch, who gathered at the end of the square while eyeing the enormous form of Winter with caution.

Lord Hightower could have expected his arrival, but it appeared he neglected to inform the leader of the Faith, speaking volumes about the dwindling influence of the Andal religion.

“I come in peace,” Jon said, lifting the old man to his feet effortlessly.

He cared little for the Southern religion, but a tinge of admiration dwelled in him for this old priest who was the bravest soul in this whole city. With such a man in charge, it was not impossible for the Faith to reverse their misfortune.

“Thank the Seven,” the High Septon muttered and bowed his head again. “Many blessings to you, King Stark.”

Not that the gods could do anything to stop Jon if he decided to lay waste to the city. But he was curious if the old priest would still be grateful after Winter remained in the square for the rest of the day, scaring away any visitors from the Sept.

At that moment, it seemed the city watch had finally gathered their courage as a small retinue of mounted knights approached. The horses began neighing with fear as they approached the dragon, stamping around stubbornly and refusing to continue, and the riders had to dismount to proceed.

At the helm stood a man wearing a padded surcoat depicting the Tyrell golden rose. A cousin to the main line, perhaps?

The hilt of his sword was gilded, with an amethyst embedded in the crossguard, and Jon could feel the blade inside the sheath thrum with magic as only Valyrian steel would. Curious. The Tyrells of Highgarden did not have a dragonsteel blade, but this knight did. But Jon shook his head, wholly uninterested in the little power plays of southern houses.

The Tyrell knight bowed deeply and spoke with a strained voice, “Lord Baelor Hightower invites His Grace to the Hightower.”

The self-proclaimed King of the Mountain, Shagga the Falconslayer, was famous for his cunning. When the impressive host of the ‘lowlanders’ approached, he decided to hide behind the sturdy walls of the Gate of the Moon instead of meeting them in open battle, as many of his chieftains proposed.

Lord Robert Royce and Michael Redfort stormed the Gates of the Moon thrice. Despite their heavy losses, they broke the defending savages the third time. The Bronze Lord led the decisive attack himself and was said to have personally killed ‘scores of savages’ along with Shagga the Falconslayer himself.

By next dawn, the wildlings were now fully broken, and there was no surrender.

Every fighter, be it man or woman, old or young, was put to the sword. The children were not spared either; the Valemen had not forgotten the Crimson Feast, nor had they forgiven. After this unrestrained slaughter, the mountain clans of the Vale were no more. A scant few scattered stragglers survived, only to dwindle into oblivion in the following years.

However, Robert Royce’s valour was not without a cost. The Bronze Lord had been in the thick of the battle and had suffered heavy injuries, and was soon bedridden with a heavy fever. Maester Landon did his best to treat him, but the Lord of Runestone’s condition was slow to improve and so dire that some claimed that the Stranger had taken the Lord already.

While his victory had heavily depleted the Royce forces, the news of his great victory attracted many a knight or minor lordling who deemed neither Corbray nor Grafton’s royal claims worthy of support, for they were cowards unwilling to fight the wildlings.

Eventually, a moon later, Robert Royce’s fever broke, and he woke up once more, finding himself proclaimed king of the Mountain and the Vale and thus beginning the War of the Three Crowns.

Excerpt from ‘The Vale Divided’ by Maester Yandel

Baelor Hightower was a hardy, joyless man, but a generous host. Guest right had been eagerly offered, and his hospitality was without deception.

After a day with the man, Jon found the nickname ‘Bloodsmile’ quite apt; there was an aura of restrained slaughter around the man, doubtlessly a result of his campaign in the Iron Islands. Despite his fair face, when the Hightower Lord smiled, there was no joy to him, only coldness and a hint of ruthlessness and savagery. Thankfully, no lingering tension was left once Jon had voiced the reason for his visit. The raven had never arrived, probably lost to a hungry bird of prey or a lucky wildcat.

The Northern King had to wrangle himself away and decline invitations for a feast, a hunt, a ball, and a maid of his choosing to warm his bed, whether of noble birth or the serving variety. Surprisingly, no betrothals or fosterings were mentioned, meaning Lord Baelor followed the time-tested Hightower tradition since the Dance—staying away from royal politics. Not only that, but he had withheld his participation in the war that the Reach had started. Even now, his royal cousin Garlan was leading a campaign against the united forces of the Riverlands and the Westerlands.

Of course, Jon did not leave the Hightower without some gifts and a measure of knowledge. Baelor had utterly and completely decimated the Ironborn down to the roots of their culture for good. While he did not intend to rule the Iron Islands, he was exploiting the five biggest iron mines, keeping his ventures protected by wooden forts. Of course, iron was an essential resource for any kingdom, so the Lord of the Hightower knew he could not hold onto them indefinitely, but even a decade of mining would see him profit greatly.

And then came his true purpose—an offer to jointly develop the Iron Islands. Ambitious.

“I have no interest in involving the North in the extraction of ores in the Iron Islands,” Jon declined the generous offer. “Or anything in the Iron Islands, for that matter. Of course, merchants and private prospects from the North will be quite interested in the purchase of iron ore and ingots. But do not mistake this for anything more than an arrangement of convenience. It is not binding outside of the Iron Islands, and I have no intent to fight or send my subjects to die over those dreary, god-forsaken rocks they call the Iron Islands.”

“Understandable.” Hightower inclined his head. “My house has paid a steep price to learn the value of neutrality, but even then, it came from a position of defeat. I expected a man riding a dragon to be more… ambitious.”

“That’s the trouble with greed,” Jon said, the ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. “Men dress it up in finer words. Ambition, legacy, destiny, they call it, but in the end, it’s the same hunger. It devours everything if you let it. Once you get a good taste, there is never enough to sate it. Only two things ever check greed: a greater hunger—or blood and steel, as you taught the Ironborn well enough. As for me… I find living well is ambition enough. Contentment is no small prize.”

Baelor laughed. This time, it reached his eyes. “You are not as I expected, Your Grace. Such deep contemplations were not what I expected from someone so young.”

“Rumours can rarely measure up to the real thing,” Jon snorted. “Tell me. Can you name a single dragonlord crowned king who met a good end?”

“The Conciliator,” the lord replied after a moment.

“Aye, Jaehaerys,” Jon allowed, though his tone turned dry. “If you’d call a long, lonely death in a cold bed after burying most of his children a ‘good end.’ More than half of his children hated him. I bet he lived to regret many things—chief among them placing the realm before his kin.”

He swept out a hand. “Aegon the Conqueror dreamt of a realm knit together, seven kingdoms made one. His descendants paid dearly for that dream. Blood and madness, brother and cousins at the opposite ends of a sword or a dragon. Nephews and Uncles clashing for a crown. Yet before Aegon, the dragonlords of Dragonstone lived long, if somehow quiet lives, away from scheming councillors and grasping kinsmen. No Iron Throne and no realm to bleed for.”

“Quite insightful,” Baelor chortled. “Though not quite how the maesters had inked it down.”

“I’m well aware many expect me to be the Conqueror reborn,” Jon murmured, shaking his head. “But I would not repeat Aegon’s folly. I’ve no wish to rule over those who would curse my name the moment I turned my back. Let the lords of the south squabble and scheme. The North is wide enough for a Stark, and would hold the King’s Peace with pride.”

“Admirable. A man who knows when to stop.” Baelor raised a cup of wine in salute. “But Your Grace, even if you lack the ambition, your sons or grandsons might not. They might feel the North is too small for them, and set their sights south of the Neck instead.”

“Then, that would be their burden,” Jon said. “All I intend to do is leave the North better than I’ve found it.”

He left a thoughtful Baelor behind and took a horse to the Citadel.

There was no time to dally for Jon anyway; as he climbed the stone steps, his thoughts drifted to House Sunderland and their foolish boldness to murder his messenger. Such colossal stupidity required the harshest of responses. It would be easy to get Winter and glass the rocks the sistermen called home. It would be simple, and Jon and Winter now had the power for it. But it would be too quick, too easy a punishment.

No, this time, the North itself would bare its fangs for the world to see.

Two green sphinxes on the side flanked the entrance to the Citadel. Just below the arch stood a man garbed in a silken grey robe, holding a golden rod of the same make as the mask that covered his face. A few sandy strands in his hair were futilely struggling against the onset of grey, and his posture was a bit hunched. According to Wolkan’s description, this would be Ryam, the archmaester of sums and numbers, and the current Seneschal. Jon couldn’t help but notice that his chain had noticeably fewer links than Maester Aemon’s, and his already low opinion of the Citadel fell even further.

“Your Grace,” the man greeted evenly with a light bow, but Jon could detect a hint of arrogance in his tone. “It’s been quite some time since such a grand royal presence has graced our halls. How can the Citadel help the Northern King?”

Although his words were polite, the archmaester seemed to harbour a distaste for him, one borne out of some misplaced sense of confidence and superiority. It was well hidden, but Jon caught it anyway.

“I’m here just to visit a friend and see the grandest library in the known world, Archmaester Ryam,” Jon said, and the scholar’s eyes lit up.

“Indeed, there are plenty of tomes that can only be found in our vaults.” The man’s pride was unmistakable. “If I might be so bold as to ask, what would be the name of your friend, Your Grace?”

“Samwell Tarly.”

“Ah, the running watchman!”

“The running watchman?” Jon echoed, unable to hide his curiosity.

“Supposedly, that’s what his fellow acolytes called him, and it stuck.” Ryam clicked his tongue. “The lad forged thirty-four links in record time now and could have become a maester nearly thrice over. Yet he keeps delaying as if he wanted to run away from his return to the Night’s Watch by studying, thus the moniker.”

“Worry not, archmaester. Sam Tarly will return to his sworn duties soon enough.”

Archmaester Ryam nodded, and the Northern King followed the man as he led him inside the Scribe’s Heart.

It was a small plaza bereft of people. Supposedly, the acolytes opened stands offering their services here, but he saw none of that. There seemed to be a handful of scholars here to take a peek at him, more than anything else. Jon was still clad in his full armour beside the helmet, which had been replaced by his crown. A long mantle of black and white silk bearing his personal sigil, woven by the experienced hand of Sansa, fluttered behind him, and he looked each inch the warrior-king.

He strode forward until they reached a statue of the Young Dragon, sitting atop a horse and pointing his sword towards Dorne, splitting the path.

“There are concerning rumours of a… Northern Citadel being planned in Wintertown,” the Archmaester coughed as they reached a particularly long stone bridge. Passing acolytes and maesters threw them curious glances, but none dared approach. “Such matters worry the Conclave greatly, Your Grace.”

“Ah, the Northern Academy, you mean? Merely a whim my wife came up with.”

“I must caution you, Your Grace.” Ryam tugged on his long, wizened beard with frustration. “Investing much effort and coin in such an endeavour is a fool’s errand; many others have tried and failed. No other scholarly order can compete with our wealth of knowledge, teaching methods, and experience. There’s a reason why the Citadel is still the foremost place of learning and teaching in the Seven Kingdoms after millennia. Your wife is on one extravagant fool’s errand with such bold matters.”

Wyman’s words proved correct—the maesters were indeed wary.

“Your concern is appreciated, archmaester.” Jon snorted inwardly. “But I can afford to spend some coin to indulge my beloved wife, regardless of failure or success.”

“Indeed, the North should be the wealthiest kingdom in Westeros right now,” Ryam murmured to himself before speaking up. “I can put forth a request in front of the Conclave to open a new chapter of our illustrious order in Winterfell should you desire, Your Grace.”

An empty platitude; judging by the man’s words, he himself did not believe the request would pass. Jon never particularly cared about the education project, but the maesters had made a poor showing so far. Luwin, Aemon, and Wolkan seemed to be the exception, not the rule. With their monopoly on teaching and the subtle attempts to insert themselves in the higher echelons of his kingdom, Jon finally began to understand why the maesters were often called grey rats.

“There’s no need to go to such lengths,” Jon said at last. “It’s just a flight of fancy, so don’t think too much of it.”

Surprisingly, the archmaester looked rather convinced and bowed in acceptance, worry on his face abating, quite possibly because women were dismissed as mercurial creatures, not as suited for pursuing the intellectual. Or perhaps because Jon had just painted himself like another lovestruck monarch.

It had been quite a while since Jon had seen such impudence. Or was it blind confidence? But regardless of pet projects, Shireen was stubborn, and once she set her mind on something, little could truly stop her. And he did love his wife.

“The office of Northern Grand Maester remains empty, Your Grace.” Ryam coughed out as a reminder. “Your Lord Hand—Wyman Manderly keeps refusing to acknowledge the Conclave’s appointment.”

That meddling, arrogant twat!

Before, he was content to watch his wife’s plan play out, only preventing overt interference from outside forces. Now, Jon would do everything in his power to make ‘the flight of fancy’ succeed. The Maesters had their own interests and agenda, and it was not too difficult to insert a maester to spy or exert influence on certain places. Not that they could do much, but they did have the potential to be nuisances.

To think that the North needed the Citadel and allowed these grey rats any leverage would have been so utterly infuriating if Jon had not been baffled instead. But then, he remembered the arrogance of Academia, both magical and Muggle. Given enough time, it could grow boundlessly.

He would sever such overreaching influences from the North for good. Grouchy old men at the other end of the continent would find no purchase in his kingdom.

The Citadel might be formidable, but Jon possessed the memories of a whole world’s worth of scholarly orders and different methods of education and learning, albeit not in great detail.

“The Conclave’s concern is warming,” Jon lied with a straight face. Let them underestimate the North until it’s too late. “But alas, the office of Grandmaester is an idea the Conqueror cooked up. The North has never had a Grand Maester, and the passage of centuries has shown that the House of the Dragon failed, so there is little reason to emulate them.”

“Ah, you make a fair point, Your Grace,” the archmaester agreed quickly. “Well, it seems that we have finally arrived. Behold—the biggest library in the known world!”

Jon now stood in front of a grand marble building. Well, grand for this world; crowned by a gilded dome and hewn out of white marble. It looked imposing enough, and its colourful glass windows were masterfully crafted. The entrance arch was painted with motifs of runes, glyphs, and quills. Valyrian, First Men, even Yi Ti-ish, and a few others that Jon didn’t recognise at first glance.

“Thank you for the tour, archmaester.”

“It was a pleasure, Your Grace, although I’m afraid I cannot accompany you further.” The man bowed his head regretfully and waved over an absent-minded young man garbed in a plain brown robe. “This is Galyn, a promising young acolyte. He can lead you to Tarly and show you around the library.”

The archmaester almost dashed away, seemingly in a hurry.

The acolyte led him inside the marble building, trying to chatter about inane topics, but a cold glance quickly silenced him. Polished marble dominated the hallways and galleries, and the walls were lined with statues of robed men with long chains hanging from their necks, likely former archmaesters of renown. Rows of elaborately carved columns, reminiscent of the slender Corinthian style of Ancient Greece, supported the upper ceiling.

After a few minutes, Jon finally arrived at a large chamber filled with rows and rows of high book-filled shelves, slightly larger than the Hogwarts library but less filled. High-arched windows of coloured glass adorned the walls—a luxury that allowed light inside without the risk of fire from lamps or candles. The air was heavy with the characteristic scent of dust, ink, and parchment.

“Tarly is usually at the fifth row by the scribe tables,” Galyn timidly pointed and quickly excused himself.

Jon ignored the shelves filled with dusty books and a few acolytes and maesters toiling around leather-bound tomes or rolls of parchments and headed straight towards the given direction. He earned a few surprised glances, possibly because of his attire—armoured-clad men were not a common sight inside the Citadel, nor was the direwolf sigil on his mantle. The oddest thing was probably how neither his armour nor his bronze boots made much of a sound, but that fact was drowned out in the quiet clamour of the library.

And there was Sam, his round body standing out like a sore thumb amongst a sea of thin scholars, the only one in the library garbed in a black robe.

His friend was hunched over a large oaken table, with half a dozen books haphazardly strewn before him while he was reading another tome and scribbling something on a roll of parchment. While he did not seem to have lost even a pound of fat, his hair had taken a hit—the dark locks were quickly receding, and if the trend continued like this, Sam Tarly would be fully bald in a handful of years. Looking at the long chain filled with metals of different kinds that had only two fewer than Maester Wolkan, the black brother was still following his orders, albeit in his own cowardly way.

Jon sat in a chair across from his friend, who was still absorbed in the most riveting task of writing. A few curious acolytes skulked nearby between the shelves and the columns, but he melded his magic and killing intent and blasted it at them, making them scurry away like rats. His sharp nose caught an unpleasant scent and twitched; the cravens had soiled themselves.

“Armen, I told you I shan’t visit the Quill and the Tankard again before forging my next link,” Sam grunted without looking up.

“I’m glad to see you’re well, Sam,” the Northern king said evenly.

The black-robed acolyte whipped his head up, and his eyes widened with recognition, which was quickly replaced with guilt and not a small measure of fear.

“Jon—”

“No need.” He raised his hand, and Sam gulped heavily as beads of sweat quickly started running down his meaty chin. “I have not come here to hear excuses or platitudes.”

Sam swallowed whatever he wanted to say and nodded tightly, fear flashing through his eyes.

“Regardless of everything,” Jon continued, “you have not broken my orders, so I can forgive you. But judging by the number of links, you have grown complacent here. You have a moon to finish your work here before sailing up to the Wall. Lord Hightower promised me to provide a ship for your journey personally.”

Sam stiffly nodded, but then his face twisted with apprehension. “What about little Sam?” Then, he hastily added, “Your Grace!”

“What about him? The boy’s none of your concern.”

“My mother thinks him her grandson,” the fat acolyte declared with a surprising amount of courage. But then, he quickly grimaced and looked away, not daring to hold his gaze. “I just—I just don’t want to break her heart….”

Jon paused for a moment. He had indeed ordered Sam to get Aemon Steelsong to safety using any means necessary. As far as cover stories went, this was one of the better ones.

“Do you know what happened to Gilly?”

“The chill took her last winter,” Sam supplied, looking ready to cry. “After all the wars and winter, Talla and little Sam are all my mother has left. I simply couldn’t—” he choked, unable to finish.

The fat man’s heart was definitely in the right place, although he was acting a tad too foolishly. While childhood as a bastard was not the most pleasant existence, it provided a multitude of opportunities, especially if the boy was valued, and the so-called Sam Flowers definitely seemed heavily favoured. Still, it was far better than the son of a deserter of the Night’s Watch and a defeated King Beyond the Wall.

“Fine.” Jon sighed. “Fret not. I won’t tear him away from his loving grandmother.”

“What about Val, then? Didn’t you promise her to see her nephew?”

“Oh, she’ll definitely see the boy. Melessa Tarly won’t be bold enough to decline my offer to foster Sam Flowers in the North with his aunt, especially when I fly there to make it in person.”

Since Gilly was dead, passing Val as her sister was no problem. And since Val had married Harrion Karstark, she was no longer a simple wildling, but a Lady of the North. And gods, wasn’t that a surprise, a lord wedding a spearwife. However, after seeing Val in person, people nodded their heads in understanding, for the reason was quite clear: beauty. While Val was respected, no swords or spears came with that match, so Karhold did not gain any boons for it. Not only that, but it weakened Karstark’s ability to forge alliances in the future, as some of the lords would have qualms about wedding their children to a half-wildling, even if they bore the name of Karstark.

“That’s great.” Sam sighed, relief softening his round face as he gave his belly an idle pat. “What of his parentage?”

“That shall be Val’s burden to bear, not mine, nor yours,” Jon replied. “She is his aunt by blood and his rightful guardian. It will be her decision how the boy’s future will be shaped.”

Sam nodded, though uneasily, and made no further effort to press the matter. He knew when to let words lie.

Jon’s tone shifted to something warmer and more friendly. “Now, tell me truly, Sam. How did you fare in Oldtown? How has the Citadel treated you?”

“It’s dreadfully dull, Your Grace.” Sam gave him a sheepish smile. “But I’ve endured worse. At least Archmaester Vaellyn’s lectures on ancient tongues are quite engaging….”

They spoke idly for a time. Jon listened more than he spoke, asking questions that gave him a clearer picture of the Citadel’s inner workings. When half an hour had passed, and the king had a grasp of the situation, he left his friend to his books and scrolls.

Craven or not, the fat man had a gift. He had nearly finished his thirty-fifth link, and once he was done, he had promised to return to the Wall.

Jon lingered in the library, running his fingers along the spines of old tomes. A few caught his eye, rare books that could not be found in the North, though hardly exceptional. The truly valuable works, he knew, were sealed behind heavy iron doors in the vaults beneath the Citadel. Those doors only opened with the full agreement of the Conclave, something the northern king suspected he would not be able to achieve.

Jon knew how those things went.

They would not deny him outright, perhaps. But they would delay him, offering empty platitudes, maybe even pretending that one member or another was sick and unable to attend the vote. It was impossible to gain entry unless he offered sufficient terms.

Jon scoffed.

As if he wanted to bargain with these overproud rats.

For a heartbeat, the wizard in Jon was tempted to break in and peruse the tomes for himself. But he held himself back—the Citadel had never been known for its strength in sorcery. At most, their dearly-guarded stash was filled with queer curiosities or things they feared and did not understand.

As he made to leave the library, his path was blocked.

Archmaester Ryam had returned, and he was not alone.

Six others flanked him, all of his ilk. Each wore identical grey Myrish silk robes that seemed to be their official garb, and their stride and posture screamed arrogance. Each man held a sceptre of a different metal with a mask to match. Behind them trailed nearly two dozen of maesters, but they looked far less imposing despite their numbers.

The one in the silver mask stepped forward, bowing lightly.

“Your Grace.” Silver was the metal for healing, Jon knew. This was Ebrose, Wolkan’s rival, and the archmaester of Healing. Jon could count the seven silver links proudly displayed in the middle of the chain, signifying his status. “Winterfell has remained without a true maester. The replacement has been paid for, yet never filled—an error we mean to correct.”

Jon arched a brow. “You are mistaken, Archmaester. Winterfell has a maester. I have high praise for Wolkan’s services.”

The silver masked man’s reply was curt. “Maester Wolkan is sworn to the Dreadfort, not Winterfell. Lords may rise and fall, but maesters serve the keep, not the House. It was never Lord Bolton’s place to move him. By our long, lawful tradition, the post remains vacant.”

Jon blinked. It took him a moment to realise the man was serious. The arrogance amused him more than it angered him. In the end, Ebrose was merely an old man lost in his own self-importance, just a slightly larger ant that could be squashed at any time.

“I thank you for the reminder,” Jon said, forcing his face to shift in a genuine smile—a feat impossible without his mastery in Occlumency. “I shall choose a replacement before I depart.”

“There is no need for delay,” Ebrose pressed. He gestured to the robed men behind him. “We have assembled the Citadel’s finest. Each man here is a maester worthy of serving a king.”

Jon took a closer look at the grey rats cluttered behind the archmaesters. None dared meet his gaze. Most of them were old or gave him a sleazy, untrustworthy feeling. Spies and scum, no doubt having climbed this far by virtue of some connection or shady dealing instead of true skill. Only three of them had more links than Sam did.

“I am grateful,” he replied, his tone still mild, surrendering none of the disdain he felt. “But such matters should not be rushed. A maester is not a cloak one throws over his shoulders on a cold day.”

The archmaester inclined his head, thin lips twitching with forced civility. “A fair point, Your Grace. Caution is prudent in important matters. The Conclave also wishes to support your queen’s… educational endeavours. In honour of her dedication to knowledge, we have agreed to let you take back some tomes from the library at your discretion.”

That pricked his interest, but his face remained unreadable.

“How many?”

“As many as Your Grace may carry on his person,” Ebrose replied with mock humility, though his pride bled through his words regardless.

Jon smiled. His patience had paid off.

“Truly generous,” he said, giving them a genuine, warm smile. “I confess, I am awestruck by your generosity.”

He stepped forward and grasped the old man’s hand in both of his, shaking it firmly.

Ebrose blinked in surprise at the gesture, while the other archmaesters watched with open unease,

But it was too late to turn back, as their promise was already given.

There were many rumours about Jon Stark’s dragons and magic, and while the dragon’s existence was confirmed and acknowledged, mentions of his sorcery were promptly dismissed by the Conclave for a long time. There were many stories of what happened, but after extensive research, I believe the truth of the matter is as follows:

When Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, the King of Winter and Lord Protector of the North, came to the Citadel to visit Samwell of House Tarly, who would later become the fourth Grand Scholar of the North. The Conclave had decided to mock the Northern King for the Good Queen’s intent to establish an institution of learning in Wintertown. That was not all; an attempt was made to discredit and dislodge Maester Wolkan, who had served House Stark loyally since Winterfell was retaken and was held with respect amongst the Northern court. The thinly veiled insults were met with a smile, but the King of Winter was not so easily mocked.

Archmaester Ebrose’s legendary ‘take as much as you can carry’ resulted in the first crisis of the Citadel. On the morrow, not a single book was left in the library or the locked vaults considered impenetrable; Jon Stark had somehow taken every last tome and scroll and gotten away with them, none the wiser. Later calculations showed that the King of Winter somehow left with at least hundreds of tonnes of knowledge.

That was not all; before leaving, the Demon of Winterfell had left a gift. Every single isle the Citadel stretched across was frozen in a ring of ice, somehow chilling each building belonging to the maesters and no others. The warm summer sun did nothing to thaw the unnatural phenomena, and any other attempts to break it away were met with failure. However, word had it that the residents of Old Town greatly appreciated the pleasant breeze it created, which dispelled the worst of the summer heat. Even Baelor Hightower could be seen—

Excerpt from ‘The Rise of the Winterspring Academy’ by Mullin of the Shadowtower