Epilogue-From the Ashes

By 309 AC, nobody had seen the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles for nearly five years. None of the ships sent to investigate had returned either, and rumours from the East claimed the waterways of Asshai had become impassable…

-Unnamed Lyseni Chronicler

Late 308 AC, Winterfell

Jon Stark

Stormclouds blotted out the sky, and just as he predicted, it soon came. The distant clap of thunder echoed from the open shutter, and Jon Stark felt his body and magic tingle.

It was time.

With a wave of his hand, the shutter sealed itself shut. The king sat on the tiled floor in the centre of the runic circle meant to aid him, and closed his eyes.

The minutes passed as he delved deeper and deeper into his mind until he could enter his inner world. It was a vast forest filled with moss-covered stones, enormous ancient trees, and chirping streams. The ambience reminded him of Winterfell’s godswood in its raw and primordial form, but it lacked any signs of life.

But the air was thick with magic, almost to the point where Jon could taste it on his tongue. It had taken four years of practice to achieve it.

An inner world was a reflection of your inner self, a mirror of your mind. To find and enter it, you had to be at peace with what you were. Jon looked at the godswood and found it to his taste. It was not good or evil, merely… there. In truth, he had lived for too long; two lives and hundreds of years had made him numb and detached from most things. He had seen the highs and the lows humanity could achieve.

With sufficient time, even the most vicious tempers would mellow, and all the feelings would blur as the heart hardened.

He had long seen through the tragedy of life.

The world wasn’t good or bad, and neither were people. Those were all… words, labels put on things in relation to oneself or a concept. It was all done with ulterior motivation, regardless of whether one would admit it or not. The world simply was. It was humans who attached meaning to it in their hubris and assumed it gave them power.

Humans were odd creatures; they craved meaning like a thirsty man in the desert would crave a sip of water. Once they struggled out of the muck of survival, they craved some grand goal or purpose. Religions, ideologies, gods, and concepts such as progress, justice, freedom, stability, and equality were often paraded as the ultimate virtues of men and as goals to strive for.

But he had seen beyond the arrogance of men. He had seen where it led and how it ended.

Meaning was something found by oneself, not given by others.

Despite all those insights, Jon was no different. His purpose was no different than most smallfolk toiling in the fields of his kingdom—family and survival. But unlike the smallfolk, he could see further and had knowledge of these matters, if from another world. He knew how kingdoms and empires could rise and fall, greatness would fade with time, and dynasties could fall into ruin. Some would claim that rise and fall, life and death, were merely the natural cycle of things, and they wouldn’t be wrong.

It took a handful of minutes to fully attune himself to the inner world and cleanse his mind of anything that could sway his mood. Jon closed his eyes, sat down, and meditated again, trying to connect with his inner beast.

The most common method to become an Animagus, a shapeshifter, was a lengthy ritual that could last anywhere from a month to years, facilitated by a potion. It was certainly the safest and least demanding way to achieve it, but not the only one. Alas, even if Jon wanted to use the traditional way, he lacked the ingredients. The three common materials were no problem, but Mandrake did not exist in this world, at least not to the knowledge available to him here. No other plant came close to its properties either.

Thankfully, he knew of the other methods.

Shamans and druids of old did not use the ritualistic potion to connect to their inner beast. Without the potion and thunderstorm acting as a catalyst, it was very hard for a wizard to enter their inner world on their own, let alone connect with their inner animal or keep even a semblance of their mind in the process.

It was merely hard, not impossible.

He could have done the process years ago, but hadn’t. Jon’s goal was beyond gaining the ability to shift into a common beast. While handy in certain situations, it was underneath his dignity as a wizard when he could take on a form more befitting of his prowess and experience—a magical creature.

Magical Animagi were considered legends by most. While wizards and witches could do wonders with the powers under their command, their flesh lacked the magic. It was not only the flesh lacking in magic but the mind. In his previous life, he had found a way around it after spending half a century: compressing magic into his flesh and flooding his inner world.

It was simple to say and hard to do. Magic, body, and mind, not one could be lacking in the slightest.

Today, Jon had fulfilled the requirements to his satisfaction. Now came the greatest test—the ritual itself.

As he fell deeper and deeper into meditation in another attempt, the second heartbeat finally appeared. Then came the hard part: voluntarily harmonising his mind, body, and soul with his inner beast.

Ba-dump.

The circlet on his head grew warm as it began to pulse.

Ba-dump.

The echo thundered in his ears, and fiery pain quickly enveloped every nook and cranny of Jon’s body.

Ba-dump.

Despite being prepared, Jon ended up writhing on the ground in agony.

Ba-dump!

Since the mind had to be open for the transformation, he had foregone all of his mental protections, and even with his tolerance to pain, it was too much.

Ba-dump…

It felt like an eternity had passed until the pain subsided. Jon’s eyes fluttered open, finding himself in a stone room. Jon blinked. Everything was sharp and bright, and the closed space felt uncomfortable. His body felt nostalgically light yet foreign at the same time. Desire to soar through the sky bubbled within his chest.

He shook his head and snapped his mental defences back into place, regaining control of his mind and body and turning to the mirror.

A swan-sized bird with a razor-sharp, pitch-black beak and plumage with merging indigo, obsidian and dark blue colours stared with two violet eyes at him. It was a phoenix, and a vicious-looking one at that.

He had succeeded, at last!

There was no surprise in his mind; he had already suspected that outcome from his ridiculous talent with fire. He could feel nearly boundless strength in his small frame and his connection to flames bubbling beneath. He could feel the cooking fire flickering in the kitchens, the lit hearth in the servants’ quarters on the ground floor, the burning coals in the smithy, down to the small petals of flame in Wintertown.

It was beckoned for him, willing to be unleashed to his command. But the desire to soar through the skies was stronger.

With a strike of his wings, he flew over to the alcove where the rune-covered shutter lay, pushed the clasp open with his beak and leapt into freedom.

He wheeled above Winterfell and Wintertown, although calling it a ‘town’ was no longer apt. As spring had come, a good part of the people had decided to stay, and even more had begun to flock in. The protection of three dragons and the ironclad order provided by House Stark had rapidly increased the population of the now-budding city, which began to spread into the surrounding fields.

Wind streaked at his face, but it only felt pleasant as he soared through the sky. The phoenix was faster than a thunderbird, or at least his current form was. Jon could probably compete with a Firebolt in speed and was even more manoeuvrable than one!

Not even a minute later, he was already streaking above the wolfswood, filled with exhilaration at the caress of the gale. With a sharp cry, he folded his wings and dove like an arrow towards a small lake.

The dark waters of the lake rushed up to meet him.

Just a breath before he crashed, his wings unfurled with a snap, and he wheeled, skimming low over the lake’s mirrored surface. His talons kissed the water, carving thin white scars across the water as he flew.

He gracefully landed on a rock on the shore, talons sinking into the stone as if it were butter. With only a little more force, his claws might well have shattered it outright. His beak was no less dangerous, he wagered.

With but a thought, he vanished from the lake’s shore in a burst of flame, reappearing within the dim stillness of his workroom. It was cleaner, simpler magic than the crude and costly Apparition. Then came the hard part—turning back into a human.

The change came slowly, and it came painfully.

Bones bent, thickened, and elongated, skin sloughed and reformed, feathers rippled into skin. And by the gods, it hurt. But Jon had suffered worse than this. The first transformation was always the most painful. With time and repetition, the process would become seamless, as natural as breathing.

Jon let out a slow breath, letting tension leave his body. All the hurdles were bypassed. With his return to human form, his self was intact, and the ritual was officially complete. He was now an Animagus.

A grin settled on his lips. The feeling of exhilaration, of success, almost made him feel like a child again. Then, he closed his eyes again and found the inner ball of fire again.

Then, his body twisted and stretched, turning into a phoenix again.

Alchemist’s Folly, also known as the Jade Ruins, formerly King’s Landing.

Nobody alive knows how, why, or when the wildfire spread through the heart and soul of the Seven Kingdoms, but it was fast and sudden. By the second day, half a million souls were devoured in the green inferno. It was said that the bright green fires burned for days and could be seen all the way from Duskendale at night. Once they died down, the deadly jade fog spread through the charred ruins, unmovable by wind, snow, or rain, clinging to the Conqueror‘s City like a vile leech. Half a million souls called the city home… and scarcely a handful survived.

Only the residents of Maegor’s Holdfast managed to escape through secret tunnels running beneath Aegon’s High Hill before the fog had spread.

Decades later, the Jade Fog still has yet to disperse, and all who brave it meet a quick but gruesome death as flesh melted off their bones in mere moments, and the bones themselves crumble to dust not an hour later. There’s no explanation for this sinister occurrence other than sorcery; even the bravest fools avoid the cursed ruins from afar.

There are many theories as to what started the wildfire, but only two are given consideration by scholars.

The Mad King was famed for his love of the alchemical substance, and some speculate that he had ordered caches of wildfire to be deposited around the city. But Yandel argues that they would have been found after twenty years.

Archmaester Perestan, however, considers the words of Queen Cersei Lannister to be true. Aegon VI—whom some call the Last Dragon—had no chance of conquering the capital with the Golden Company alone. He suspects collusion with the infamous Alchemist Guild that had long enjoyed royal patronage by the House of the Dragon to dislodge House Baratheon of King’s Landing with wildfire. But the substance was too volatile, things got out of hand, and the capital burned…

Excerpt from ‘The Sundering’ by Maester Armen

Shireen Stark

Stormstrider let out a low, rumbling huff, smoke curling from his nostrils as he lowered his head to nudge her shoulder insistently. Shireen ran a gloved hand along the smooth scales of his snout, frowning thoughtfully.

His growth had slowed, to her relief. By the reckonings of long-dead dragonkeepers and scraps of Valyrian lore, he was near the size Arrax had reached at his peak, though Stormstrider was yet a third of that dragon’s age. The bigger the dragons grew, the more they would eat, and now, there were four herds of cattle around Winterfell, all meant for the dragons to eat. Soon enough, the three scaly gluttons would devour enough food for a thousand mouths a day.

While not significant, the cost would slowly pile up over time.

Winter had grown monstrous in comparison. He neared Silverwing by size, and in time, Shireen had little doubt he would rival Balerion the Black Dread himself—if not eclipse him.

The Queen of the North closed her eyes, drawing a long breath that steamed in the chill morning air. Her patience wore thin these days. She usually prided herself on her self-control, but the babe growing in her belly had made her mercurial. Now, the smallest things were enough to earn her displeasure or shift her mood for the worse. Yet a queen could not afford to lash out when her temper frayed, not when loyal servants and wary lords watched her every word. So she kept her silence, even when the urge to snap clawed at her throat.

Shireen had to resort to things that soothed her nerves and calmed her mind, like strolling in her garden. Or flying with Stormstrider.

She had come all the way here with the desire to go on a short flight, but by the time she arrived, the desire had all but evaporated, and she was feeling queasy. It seemed that carrying two babes was not as easy as carrying one.

“Sorry, boy,” Shireen apologised as she rubbed the enormous purple snout, pushing down the surge of nausea. “It seems that we won’t be flying together anytime soon.”

The dragon puffed a plume of smoke in displeasure and slumped on the ground in disappointment, eliciting a wan smile from Shireen and a few chuckles from her ladies-in-waiting. Her retinue had grown considerably since the arrival of her new noble handmaids four days ago.

Jyanna was standing nearby, shadowing her as usual.

Then there was the pair of black and white adolescent direwolves the size of large ponies that would not let her out of their sight and followed her almost everywhere. Her new ladies-in-waiting also accompanied her, and Shireen felt a pang of regret for having given in to Lord Manderly’s persuasion. Not that there was anything wrong with her handmaids, but their presence felt… overwhelming at times.

Serena Umber, a dark-haired maiden, was the youngest sister of Edwyle Umber and towered over Shireen by nearly a head, a mean feat considering Shireen was over six feet. If not for the ample bosom, one could easily mistake the Umber Maiden for a burly man with her muscled frame, broad shoulders, and square face.

Aranna Fenn, the green-eyed daughter of one of the lesser Crannoglords sworn to the Reeds, was the complete opposite of Serena. She had a short, slim body with a nearly flat chest, was quick on her feet, and had both a profound love for daggers and throwing knives and the skill to wield them.

Then there was the red-haired Lena Harclay, who loved hawking and was almost as wild as Arya had been in her childhood. Almost.

All three of them were a bit younger than Shireen. While they preferred to wear leather and ringmail to silk, they knew their courtesies and were easy to get along with. Today, they wore gowns—not of the frilly type ladies were supposed to love, but riding dresses with leather, soft linen, and cotton. Shireen was not fooled, though. Underneath the folds of the dresses hid enough steel to compete with a well-armed knight.

Some days, it felt that instead of a single sworn shield, Shireen had four. Six, if she counted the two furballs that shadowed her every movement.

It did not help that the court had quickly caught up on the latest royal ‘fashion’, and yesterday, Shireen had heard talks amongst the noble ladies about mastering at least a single weapon, be it a sword, dagger, or bow. Truth be told, most of the Northern noblewomen were quite similar to their Southern counterparts, and only those at the more secluded Houses or more precarious locations ever gravitated towards martial pursuits.

It irritated her, though Shireen was not sure why. But then again, many things irritated the queen these days.

Shireen shook her head with exasperation, gently rubbed her now round belly, and shifted her gaze to her companions. “How are you ladies finding Winterfell?”

“The godswood is grand, Your Grace,” Serena Umber said, smiling. “It’s not only bigger than Last Hearth, but it somehow feels… alive.”

“No need for courtesies when it’s just us,” Shireen reminded softly. If her husband demanded familiarity with his closest confidantes, she ought to do the same. “And how about you, Lena?”

“I never thought a stone keep could be so warm, and there are so many people in the town,” The Harclay maiden said, eyes blazing with amazement. “Wintertown feels like a human anthill.”

“There’s more steel in the smith’s square than I’ve seen in my entire life,” Aranna added happily. “One of the forge masters is all the way from Yi Ti and does things in an entirely different way. They say he can draw iron dust from river sand and turn it into steel that is almost as good as the one the royal smith boasts.”

“How did he end up all the way here?” Shireen wondered out loud.

“He was exiled from his homeland,” the Fenn maiden explained. “According to the rumours, that is. But I wouldn’t be surprised. House Stark’s protection is more valuable than gold, and smiths and craftsmen from the four corners of the world flocked to Winterfell at the mere rumour of the Northern bronze that could rival Valyrian steel.”

“Let’s go to Wintertown,” Shireen decided. “I want to see those foreign smiths—”

“WATCH OUT!”

Jyanna’s shout startled her, and at that moment, something gently landed on Shireen’s right shoulder, making her freeze, and everything became chaotic.

Serena had already taken out an axe from somewhere, a pair of knives appeared in Aranna’s hands, Lena held a sharp dirk, Jyanna had drawn her sword, and Stormstrider roused from the ground and released a guttural roar that shook the courtyard, and no doubt echoed all the way to Wintertown.

“Don’t move,” the Queen ordered, and her ladies-in-waiting and sworn shield stilled in their tracks.

Shireen would have been worried, but neither had her pendant activated, nor did the direwolves look threatened; in fact, their tails happily wagged. After blinking warily, Stormstrider tilted his enormous head before huffing, returning to his slumber in disinterest. Shireen carefully craned her neck, only to see a majestic bird with dark lilac and blue plumage and mischievous purple eyes.

She knew those eyes. And there was a dark pattern above the bird’s eyes that suspiciously looked like the crown her husband wore everywhere.

At that moment, it opened its beak and trilled. It was a magical, calming sound that seemed to bleed the remaining tension out of the air. The bird hopped to the ground and suddenly turned into a storm of purple fire and fog, eliciting a few gasps.

When the maelstrom dispersed, her husband sat there with a crooked smile, dressed in a grey tunic and black leggings.

Under Shireen’s stunned gaze, he walked over to the two unnamed direwolves, scratched them behind the ears, then turned to her and pulled her into a searing kiss.

By the time she managed to gather her bearings, Shireen’s cheeks were aflame. When Jon finally released her, her knees felt weak, and she would have fallen to the ground if he had not held her in a half-embrace.

“Ladies, please excuse us.” Jon turned to her entourage, all with their mouths open and eyes wide like saucers. Serena Umber had even dropped her axe on the ground. “Go on now. No harm will come to my wife while I’m here. And remember—not a word. You saw nothing.”

At his urging, they hesitantly made their way out of the dragon yard, leaving Shireen alone with her husband.

“My king, I did not know you could sing or turn into a bird,” she prodded with a lilt in her tone.

“It’s a recent development.” He chuckled fondly, his fingers gently combing her hair just the way she liked. “And my singing talent came with the transformation. I would probably deafen you if I tried to sing now.”

“Is this something that can be learned?” Shireen murmured, still feeling half-dazed.

“Not easily,” was the wry reply. “It requires a deep mastery of magic.”

Shireen nodded. She had long given up on understanding magic, but she trusted Jon. There was not a single doubt in her mind that he knew what he was doing, no matter how wondrous, so she had given up on asking for explanations.

“Care to escort me to Wintertown on a walk, my king?”

“With pleasure, my queen.” His face bloomed into a wide smile, and he hooked his hand under her elbow, and the last vestiges of Shireen’s irritation melted away.

The loss of the Braavosi fleet turned disastrous for the Secret City. Ships were quickly replaced by the Arsenal, but the loss of seasoned sailors and experienced captains was far harder to address.

Utterly unprepared for a war against the alliance of Pentos and Tyrosh, Braavos suffered defeat after defeat. The Pentoshi had learned a great deal from their loss a century earlier. Their Prince had remained hidden, nobody knowing his face, name, or voice, and commanded from the shadows. Some even claimed the Prince of Pentos did not exist, and the magisters had united in a leaderless council. Regardless, the Braavosi no longer had the option to send Faceless Men to butcher the enemy leadership until one favourable to them came into power.

Tyrosh had taken precautions much the same; the new Archon always wore a golden mask, and nobody knew the face beneath. He was supposedly assassinated seven times but always kept re-appearing alive and well the next day. People were in awe of the sorcery, but it’s far more likely that he also ruled from the shadows while employing body doubles with the same mask to act in his name in public—

Excerpt from ‘The Decade of Blood’ by Archmaester Perestan

Three Moons Later

“Generous gifts from the Triarchs of Volantis, the first magister of Lys, and the Prince of Pentos have arrived, Your Grace,” Lord Manderly recounted.

Ever since winter had ended, word of the dragons had spread far and wide, and while not many had put much stock in it, some had decided to send envoys bearing gifts, both to seek favour and to confirm the rumours for themselves. In the typical manner of the Magisters and Merchant-Princes of Essos, who had more wealth than sense, the gifts were indecently luxurious and ludicrously exorbitant more often than not.

“Again from Pentos?” Jon asked with a tinge of interest.

“Yes, Your Grace, they probably hope the North would not involve itself in the war against Braavos. Your dragon alone can tilt the scales of victory to whoever you favour, so this is a tribute.”

“They need not worry.” Her husband covered his yawn with a hand. “The affairs of Essos are not of House Stark’s interest, so long as they don’t attack the Northern ships. I suppose there are more requests for aid?

“Yes, Princess Arianne still asks for assistance, even though Eddara Tallhart did send a hundred and fifty men to honour the marriage alliance,” Manderly explained with barely contained mirth. Lord Glover shook his head from the side, but dark amusement was dancing in his eyes. “Houses Pryor and Waynwood are subtly inquiring if House Stark could intervene in the Vale and aid them in pacifying the war.”

Jon scoffed.

“Let me guess—they want to help their Houses, not the infant Arryn babe, doubtlessly promising some form of alliance or another? Pah, if they want to rule the Vale, they should fight for it themselves.”

The old Merman shuffled through his stack of parchments before continuing.

“Jonos Bracken and many other riverlords still humbly request you deal with Daenerys’ final dragon from Harrenhal by any means necessary while offering nothing in return. But the last one is interesting. A request for assistance from Edric Storm in retaking the Stormlands.”

The name instantly grabbed Shireen’s attention. She had forgotten about her cousin! He was one of the few who treated her well and was willing to play with her on Dragonstone.

“Who exactly is Edric Storm, and how is he interesting?” Jon murmured, quirking a brow.

“He’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard son by Delena Florent,” Shireen was the one to explain as she leaned over to her husband’s ear. “My cousin was one of the few to be kind to me on Dragonstone.”

Her husband’s eyes darkened, but it was hard to tell what went on in his mind.

“Tell him that the Northern Kingdom will not involve itself in the war,” he said at last.

Shireen felt a tinge of disappointment, but she understood.

If they helped Edric, just because of the familial connection, their children would be beset by marriage offers and temptations from every side in an attempt to pull them into the great game of the south and their petty wars again.

Then, her husband squeezed her hand and spoke again, “We will, however, send him enough armour and arms to arm fifteen hundred men.”

“Arm them how?” Manderly asked cautiously.

“Ringmail, arming doublets, half-helmets, shields, spears, and warhammers.”

“That’s a lot,” Glover said.

“Perhaps it is, but kindness must be repaid,” Jon said, and Shireen’s heart fluttered. “Then, send a royal announcement across the realm. Edric Storm is allowed to recruit volunteers in the North freely, should he provide them with remuneration on the condition that he does not take the name Baratheon should he prove victorious.”

The merman lord hastily scratched something down on his parchment. “I assume Northern lords and heirs are forbidden from enlisting?”

“Of course.”

If it were not a royal council, Shireen would jump her husband and kiss him senseless. Do more, even. She was tempted to do it regardless, but managed to rein in the desire.

Despite his disinterest in most matters, Jon was cunning when he wanted to be. With this, the North and Winterfell would not be in any way involved with Edric Storm, and their neutrality would be upheld. The gift of armour and freedom to recruit was help enough. More help than she could have hoped for, even if Shireen was unsure how effective it would be.

But the gesture was enough.

In the end, Edric was merely her cousin, and they had known each other only for a short while.

Soon, the conversation moved to different matters.

“Your Grace, Moat Cailin’s restoration will finish within three moons. If I might be so bold as to ask, who would hold the keep?”

“Benjen Harclay will become its castellan for now,” Jon declared.

The mountain clansman in question was the uncle of the current Harclay chieftain and was one of the few who had survived the Battle near Westwatch.

“Is it wise, Your Grace? He is quite prickly,” Glover cautioned.

“Harclay is loyal,” Jon waved away his concerns. “And it’s because he’s prickly and stubborn that I will put him in charge. If need be, he’ll hold the Moat to the last man. Anything else?”

“Winter Town has grown too fast.” It was Glover who spoke again, looking even more tired at the words. “My bailiffs cannot keep order on their own anymore without the aid of the Winterfell guardsmen. I do my best to keep the peace, but the sheer number of smallfolk, craftsmen, and merchants in one place has allowed pickpockets, thieves, crooks, and charlatans to sprout up like shrooms after rain. There might be a need to form a proper city watch.”

“Very well,” Jon agreed. “I expect a detailed plan for a City Watch, including its duties, obligations, expenditures, and required numbers, before me within the next sennight. Meanwhile, ask Ser Tully to organise more patrols to pick up the slack.”

Then, he turned to the old Merman Lord. “And is the expansion of Wintertown going according to plan?”

“We need more masons and builders to keep up with the increasing pace of growth,” Manderly said, rubbing his brow.

“We are not lacking in coin. Hire more from Essos or the South if need be,” Jon grunted out. Not lacking in coin was mildly said, under the experienced hand of Wyman Manderly, the peace guaranteed by her husband, and the Lannister’s generous ‘gift’, the North was prospering more than ever, and their coffers were overflowing with gold. “There must be a spot for an arena, and I want the canals and drains to be a priority. I will not have my seat stink like a privy.”

“The next…”The old fat lord wiped a few beads of sweat and shuffled through his parchment stack before picking out one. “Piracy is on the rise in the Bite, and some merchant ships are being attacked.”

Jon straightened up.

“Who would be so bold?”

“I suspect that the sistermen have begun playing corsairs again or are collaborating with pirates,” the Hand said after taking a generous gulp of wine from his goblet. “Either that or the pirates have made a base in some hidden cove around the Fingers or the southern coast of the Bite and aggressively attack our ships. With the Vale leaderless and embroiled in an unclear war of succession, they could easily infest the shores unnoticed.”

“Send the fleet, find them, and pull them all out root and stem,” her husband waved it away.

“And what if it’s the sistermen?”

“The same. The Kings of Winter made a mistake in sparing them and had to fight a thousand years of worthless war for their folly. I shall not leave such a burden on my descendants. In fact, send a summons to the sisterlords to come to Winterfell with their heirs, spares, and swear obeisance.” Jon’s bored eyes sharpened. “We can always use cupbearers and pages.”

“This is an attempt to conquer another kingdom’s bannermen by force, Your Grace,” Glover said tightly.

Her husband scoffed. “Nay, this is an attack on the North. A probing for weakness. Even a fool knows that pirates cannot thrive in the Bite without the knowledge and implicit assistance of the Three Sisters. Do I look like a blind fool to you, Lord Glover?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“And this is why I shan’t bother with petty games. If the sistermen come to me and bend the knee, they shall be my respected and honoured bannermen.” Jon’s voice thickened with danger, making pleasant shivers run down Shireen’s spine. “If not… the Iron Islands should be a reminder of how I treat scum like pirates and slavers.”

The queen had never seen Wyman Manderly so joyous before; the old merman lord had a smile so wide it threatened to split his face in half.

“I shall pen it at once,” he solemnly swore and waved over one of his younger scribes waiting at the wall to bring him a new roll of parchment.

The king finally looked to the master of whispers. “Anything of interest happening around the world?”

“Rumours have it that the demons of Mantarys have descended on the demon road and have attacked Volantine settlements.” Nobody at the table seemed to be interested. Not only was Volantis just too far away from the North, but it was not very well-liked here either.

“Keep an eye on that development,” Jon swept out his hand. “Anything else from the Far East?”

“Krazdil mo Hardan has managed to solidify Slaver’s Bay under his rule, and now New Ghis is looking to expand further inland. It’s a rebirth of the Ghiscari Empire in both name and deed.”

“What about the war at the Narrow Sea?” Glover asked. “It has greatly disrupted our trade.”

“Braavos’s fleets were defeated twice more, but Pentos and Tyrosh are unable to attack the city by sea because of the Titan. The Braavosi aren’t out of the war just yet; their arsenal will continue to spew ships until their supplies of processed wood dry up. Of course, ships flying the Northern banners sail unmolested.”

At moments like this, Shireen was really glad Jon had decided not to accept any of the numerous requests or generous promises urging him to partake in the various conflicts by ‘resolving them’.

As she was lost in thought, the white direwolf sitting on her left placed her large head in Shireen’s lap, and the Queen idly began to run her hands through the shaggy fur. She was tempted to name them Black and White, but Arya had convinced her to save the honour of naming the wolves for her children.

The black direwolf attempted to copy his sibling, but Shireen’s lap was only so big. Disappointed, the wolf decided to pull her sibling’s tail instead. Needless to say, the white wolf was not entertained, and soon, the meeting chamber was filled with growls and barks, much to the council’s chagrin.

The commotion instantly died out as Jon picked them both up by the scruff of their necks as if they were still little pups. Yet they were not, and her annoyed husband manhandling two whimpering, guilty-looking direwolves the size of ponies effortlessly elicited a chuckle from her.

Garlan Tyrell was defeated at the Battle of the Red Lake. The battle was said to be a textbook example of the hammer-and-anvil. The Westermen served as the anvil, engaging the Reach forces from the west, led by Tytan Brax of the Kingsguard, while the Rivermen became the hammer, striking from the east under the command of the Red Eagle, Prince Consort Patrek Mallister.

The Lord of Higharden, however, managed to retreat in good order and preserve a good chunk of his forces. His failure to retake the seat of the traitorous House Crane was merely a setback—

Excerpt from ‘The Fifty-Year War’ by Maester Gledyn

A Moon Later.

“Archmaester Gormon has begun penning a treatise,” said Edwyle Locke, his tone careful. “In it, he likens His Grace to Maegor the Cruel reborn. A vile slander, hidden beneath sophistry.”

An angry growl rose from Galbart Glover. “Outrage,” he spat. “The grey rats insult us again!”

With a clatter, his tankard flew from the table, crashing to the flagstone floor and spilling dark ale across the flagstone.

Shireen’s eyes narrowed. The fool had nearly ruined her gown.

“Control your temper, Galbart,” Manderly chided, voice soft but firm.

The Lord of Deepwood Motte sank back into his seat, though rage still radiated from him. A thick vein pulsed angrily at his temple.

“The sheer gall of them,” he hissed. “They denied Winterfell a maester when it was due, tried to place some flowery fool in our midst, and now they spit upon His Grace from behind their walls in Oldtown!”

“There is little we can do to the Conclave,” Manderly said with a heavy sigh, raising his goblet once more. “Their order is respected and out of our reach. Most importantly, each lord from the Wall to the Arbour relies on maesters, so they are too useful to replace.”

“Aye,” Edwyle agreed. “Squabbling with them is folly. Learned men they might boast to be, but they are all old, stubborn, and set in their ways and would never admit a mistake.”

Shireen was appalled. It was not right. Slandering the king was a punishable offence, and this… Gormon thought he could get away with it because he forged some scholarly links.

No, the problem ran deeper. These maesters were outsiders and tried to use that fact to their greatest benefit.

“Can’t we just make our own Citadel?” Shireen asked curiously. “So we no longer depend on healers and scholars from the South. We can gather knowledge and teach learned men of our own.”

Wyman rubbed at his eyes, as if the very thought wearied him. “Others have tried, Your Grace. The foundations of the maesters run deep. Their libraries are older than most kingdoms, and they have patience and know how to be useful. In time, their rivals always wither, undone by the lack of knowledge or coin. With a deep and storied reputation and millenia of knowledge locked in its vaults, the Citadel always attracts the best and the brightest minds in the realm.”

“And the Citadel has long had the ears of kings and lords,” added Edwyle grimly. “A bad word here, a sharp comment there, and their rivals eventually lose favour.”

“But we have the ear of the only king that matters now,” Shireen said with a smile, glancing at her husband. “The King in the North’s word carries far, and even craftsmen from as far as Yi Ti come seeking his favour. Wintertown grows daily. We have the space, wealth, and the need. Let us raise our own hall of learning—and gather knowledge to serve the kingdom.”

A hush fell over the council chamber. For a heartbeat, Shireen wondered if she had overstepped.

The councillors turned to Jon, as they always did. Even Wolkan said nothing, merely nodding in approval.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes on his Lord Hand. “Your thoughts, Wyman?”

Wyman Manderly leaned forward, folding his hands across his great belly. “It may be done, if done wisely. Such an academy would be of great use to our growing court and realm, as one can never have enough learned men under his command. But it will need careful planning and would drain the royal coffers. We must also firmly bind the loyalty of such order to the North, for the Citadel will not stand idly while its authority is challenged. If we fail, it will not only be a coin lost, but our prestige as well.”

“We won’t fail, then,” Jon said, voice full of steel. “We shall build our own place of learning and knowledge for the North. I want a rough plan outlined for the academy, building, and structure to be discussed by next month. Since I will do it, I will do it right.”

As soon as spring had arrived in 306 AC, Lord Wyman Manderly reopened the royal mint of the North.

The North abandoned the coinage used under the Houses Targaryen and Baratheon and adopted a new one. 

The golden coin was often called “wolf” and featured a direwolf head on one side and the face of King Jon Stark III on the other. The Golden Wolf was one of the few coins of the period with the highest purity of gold, second only to Asshai’s ancient shadow coins. Their silver coinage still bore the image of a crowned stag, but now carried the face of the Good Queen Shireen, while the different copper denominations—

Excerpt from ‘Coinage in the Sunset Lands’ by Aelion of Lorath