Epilogue-Of Guilt and Family

Dozens of battles and countless skirmishes, big and small, were fought between the Lord of Highgarden and the Westerlands-Riverlands alliance.

None were decisive, but casualties began to pile up as the year progressed. The lands of House Crane and Rowan were quickly drained and put to the torch many a time, with the smallfolk killed, scattered or dispossessed. Warbands from both sides continued their incursions deeper, setting the Northmarch and the southern Riverlands and Westerlands ablaze.

Lord Garlan Tyrell, Ser Tytan Brax, and Lord Patrek Mallister proved cautious commanders in their own right, and a year and seven battles later, there was no victor in sight nor any decisive battle, only loss and destruction on both sides.

At the beginning of the fifth moon of 309 AC, both sides met once more at the shores of a tributary of the Lesser Mander. Yet neither wanted to risk a crossing through the small ford and assault the fortified position of their foe, resulting only in a sparse few skirmishes. On the seventh day, they were still too wary to commit to a full assault when it began to rain. It rained for seven days and seven nights before the river overflowed and flooded the surroundings.

A large portion of their hosts were drowned in the great rush of water, and the losses were heavy for both sides. Garlan Tyrell and Patrek Mallister barely got away, but Ser Tytan Brax of the kingsguard was not as lucky.

It was said that the foolish, senseless war had angered the Seven themselves, thus punishing both sides. Indeed, after the flood, both sides were too weak and disorganised to offer further battle, let alone advance, and they had nothing to show for it; neither Highgarden nor the Alliance could continue waging war.

A begrudging truce was agreed upon, but the animosity and ambition were far from gone.

Garlan Tyrell reached out to the newly crowned Lord Edric Durrandon for an alliance, citing the danger a royal Baratheon claimant posed to him, albeit one sitting in Casterly Rock.

Yet, King Tommen was quick to react. He publicly renounced his Baratheon name and all their claims, taking up the royal lineage of his mother, Lannister. That seemed to placate the Rising Storm, and he stayed out of the ongoing feud, content to consolidate his lands ravaged for years by sellswords and pirates. Thus, the last vestiges of the Targaryen influence and Houses related to the Freehold by name or blood were now reduced to a footnote in history.

Garlan Tyrell did not sit idle during the truce either, and he was quick to stamp out any dissent from his bannermen, subduing the unruly Florents and the wavering Merryweather, who were far more depleted from the ongoing war than House Tyrell. After a year of negotiation, he finally received the open support of his uncle, Lord Baelor Hightower. A year into the truce, Garlan Tyrell crowned himself King of the Reach with no opposition amongst his bannermen.

The smithies of the Reach, Westerlands, and Riverlands continued working day and night; men were trained, armours were polished, and swords were forged and sharpened.

Short of three years into the ceasefire, banners were called again, and King Garlan rekindled the war, intent on regaining the lands of Houses Rowan and Crane…

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

Jaime Lannister, late 309 AC

The things I do for love…

He woke up with a start, swimming in a cold sweat, heart thundering like a war drum. It took him a few shuddering breaths to soothe his frayed nerves. His sleep had never been easy since the War of the Five Kings, and the passage of time only made matters worse.

Slowly roasted alive in a bronze dragon, wailing in agony in front of Pentos to hear! Not only that, but the brutal punishment seemed to have taken root in Essos, now reserved for the vilest of traitors.

An enormous fortified manse blasted by fiendish lightning, leaving but a crater behind.

With a single gesture, an enormous hall was squeezed into pieces as if crushed by a massive invisible hand shaped into a wolf’s head.

Two powerful and fruitful Braavosi lines of great wealth and renown. Cursed and extinguished within three months!

Those words rang in his drowsy mind as clearly as the sept’s bell at noon.

Jaime Lannister knew well enough the risk of tugging the wolf’s tail; memories of a purple inferno engulfing an enormous army were still vivid in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Aegon’s army being drowned by the fiendish fire, and the acrid smell of burnt fat and charred meat would fill his nose even now.

Tommen’s council was slow to believe the rumours coming from Essos, but Jaime had little doubt they were all true. The notion that a single individual could wield so much raw and direct power, not the sort gained by position or birthright, was terrifying. Even more so when he used it with no qualms once his kin was threatened.

Gone was the sullen young boy of summer, unsure of his future or lot in life, and the terrifying King of Winter had taken his place. Even six years ago, without the dragon, Jon Stark had an oppressive presence and a heavy gaze that pressed on you like an enormous mountain.

Yet, there was honour there, a trace of Eddard Stark underneath the ice. The Northern King had proved merciful and a man of his word… so long as his kin was not threatened.

Jaime had heard the tales of the prospering North—the king upheld his law and peace with an iron fist, judging even the lowest pauper to the highest lord alike. The smallfolk prospered, merchants thrived, while unsavoury lords, bandits, outlaws, thieves, and pirates met a swift and brutal end. The closer one looked, the clearer it became that Jon Stark was ruthless, but neither mad nor cruel for it.

The things I do for love…

His own words and deeds haunted his nights, reminding the Kingslayer he had every reason to fear Stark’s wrath. Nobody alive knew who crippled the long-missing and most certainly now-dead Brandon Stark. That secret had never left Jaime’s lips, and not one living soul knew now that Cersei was dead.

But it did not change the truth—his hand had done the deed, his hand had pushed Brandon Stark off the tower that night. The Kingslayer wouldn’t put it past Jon Stark to somehow find out.

Yet, the years passed and passed, and no dragon flew over Casterly Rock ever again, and Jaime’s sleep slowly grew better. Until the whispers of the attempted assassination of the Northern Queen and the so-called Flight of Destruction arrived, any rest during the night became scarce.

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath, somewhat calming his erratic heart. Groaning, he stood up and headed towards the polished silver mirror on the wall. It was the sole ornament in his bare room beside the bed, the cloak hanger, and the small garment rack. He was greeted by a tired, haggard face with heavy purple bags beneath his eyes. His flowing golden hair was a thing of the past, now replaced by dull grey curls.

Two and forty was his age, yet the man in front of the mirror looked nearing sixty, if not past them…

It took him a dozen deep, slow breaths to centre himself and clear his sluggish mind, yet the worry remained.

With a sigh, Jaime Lannister discarded his damp night garments, changed into clean training attire, and attached his gilded hand to its stump before heading to the practice grounds. In the end, the only thing that managed to bring any real peace to his mind was the song of swords and steel.

Someone had to keep the other Kingsguard sharp; Tommen needed true protectors, not the twisted, nearly useless order picked for petty favours more than anything else under Robert.

For a short moment, the Flight of Destruction made the Tyrosh-Pentos alliance teeter on the brink of failure. Yet, once both sides were assured that Breaker’s fury was quelled as soon as he took his vengeance on the perpetrators and acted no further, the war resumed with full force. With the House of Black and White vanquished, Pentos and Tyrosh quickly consolidated their standing power openly, without fear of assassination or sabotage.

The envoys sent to Norvos, Ibb, and Lorath returned empty-handed. The fighting continued for a year, with the neighbouring Free Cities watching like vultures upon the brutal clash across the Narrow Sea, Old Andalos, and the Braavosi Hills.

A year later, Tyroshi envoys finally managed to secure the help of four middling Khals, barely pooling together fifteen thousand screamers.

Yet now we know that as they passed the Valyrian Roads through Norvos, the bearded priests made their own deal with the Dothraki.

When the Khals arrived on the battlefield, they split up and attacked both sides from the rear, shattering both armies and hunting down their remnants.

Yet, it was a costly victory—only one of the Khals survived, and the supposed Norvoshi reinforcements murdered him and his remaining riders half a moon later. Since the Crimson Spring had started, the Bearded Priests had been slowly building their forces and now moved with great daring.

By 311 AC, Norvos had gobbled up a large part of Old Andalos and the Braavosi coastline; Lorath had secured naval supremacy and its own chunk of the coastline for the first time in centuries.

Braavos was devastated. The war effort had taken a heavy toll on the city’s wealth, population, and resources. In 312 AC, just as Braavos seemed as if it would manage to recover, grey death struck the city, killing more than two-thirds of the remaining population. Lorath and Lys opened banks of their own, and the Iron Bank quickly began to buckle under their combined pressure. With the House of Black and White and its terrifying Faceless Men gone, the Bastard Daughter of Valyria would never recover to its former glory.

Tyrosh had its fair share of trouble. After the Archon stepped down, a new election was held, but the candidate backed by the most powerful magister lost.

Angered, Magister Arvaad Marinar attempted a coup, intent on usurping the elected Archon and the Conclave and crowning himself King of Tyrosh. He barely succeeded, but it took nearly two months of struggle, and the city’s forces were spent in the fighting and the following purges. Lys took advantage, gathered its men and fleet, and sacked the weakened Tyrosh, looting the city for all it was worth, killing the newly crowned king and the remaining magisters.

Pentos managed to hold onto most of its lands but was devastated; its internal problems had reached a boiling point under the war tax. The ban on slavery was farcically enforced and could not satisfy the many indentured servants who were slaves in all but name. With the strain of war and the looming famine, citizen and servant uprisings became surprisingly common…

Excerpt from ‘The Decade of Blood’ by Archmaester Perestan

312 AC

Shireen Stark

Her eyes fluttered as she woke. As always, her sleep was perfect—soft and neither too warm nor too cool.

“Mornin’,” she greeted drowsily.

Jon’s hands gently cupped her cheeks, and his thumb softly circled over the scars on her left cheek, where the Greyscale used to mark her.

“Good morning.” Jon’s voice was low, almost tender. It was a tone Shireen knew intimately well, one he saved only for her. She smiled, warmed by it.

“You know,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her face, “I think I could remove the scarring now, should you wish.”

Shireen remembered her childhood, the looks of pity, caution, and thinly veiled disgust.

Not only had she considered herself cursed, but she had known she was ugly, uglier than any other girl her age. Yet, just when she had accepted her lot in life, her curse was removed. But it was not the only thing that was gone; sure, the Florent ears remained, but growing out of her childish body had been more than generous to her. The jut in her jaw was so slight you had to look hard to see its traces. Her hair was long and silky to the touch, and her face was sharp and symmetrical, besides the scarring, with regal, high cheekbones.

That was not all—she was tall, slightly taller than her beloved husband, with long legs, wide, generous hips, a narrow waist, and a buxom chest.

No, she was not beautiful in the way songs sang of beauty. But neither was she the creature of pity she had once believed herself to be. She turned heads now, more often than she liked, and Jon’s gaze had never turned away, not once. Her husband, the king, loved her as she was, even scarred. And that was enough.

“I’d rather keep it,” she said with a quiet laugh. “It’s part of me. A token of where I came from and what I’ve been through. And a reminder of the man who saved me.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t take away from your beauty.” Jon kissed her marred cheek.

“Indeed, I do have to match my husband now, don’t I?” She ran her hands through his heavily scarred torso. “I don’t see you doing away with any of yours.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed and stretched lazily.

She watched him for a while with lidded eyes. “Jon, how do you feel about having more children?”

Jon ran a hand through her hair, giving her a quizzical look. “I thought you decided against having more after the triplets.”

Shireen winced inwardly; there had been no heat in those words, only exhaustion and pain after the long and arduous labour.

“Well, birthing three at once isn’t easy, but it was worth it. I was delirious with pain, but having Edwyn, Artos, and Steffon has been a joy.”

One of the triplets would have been named Eddard, but Arya had already taken the name for her own firstborn a month earlier, so Shireen had chosen another similar enough name to avoid confusion.

“Mhm, that’s why all the children see more of their Aunt Sansa and Astrid than us.”

“We have our duty,” Shireen pointed out softly. “Besides, it wouldn’t do them good to turn out spoiled.”

“Aye,” he agreed, making her snort.

“Don’t ‘aye‘ me, Jon! You’re the one who tends to indulge them; Sansa is surprisingly strict.”

“Fine, fine,” the king gave a faux cough. “Though there needs to be some joy in their lives, not only duty.”

“In moderation.” She ran her hand over the prickly stubble covering his jaw. Shireen did not tire of doing this after nine years of marriage and did not think she would tire after ninety more. “You still didn’t answer my question, though. Would you want more children?”

“As much as you’re willing to give.” A broad smile adorned his face, the same smile that made her heart flutter.

“Well, that’s good since I’m pregnant again,” she said with a soft hum. It had been two moons since she had her moonblood. “Wolkan confirmed it yesterday.”

The words earned her a warm, gentle hug from her husband and a searing kiss that could melt the Wall.

“That calls for a celebration!”

Her husband’s enthusiasm was contagious, and even she smiled. Still, that did not stop her from voicing her objection. “Come now, you should know that it’s proper to wait before the birth for any such festivities.”

Contrary to any expectations and much to Wolkan’s surprise, there had been no problems whatsoever in her previous pregnancies or deliveries, pain and discomfort notwithstanding.

“At least a private feast for kin and kith, then,” Jon relented. “It’d be good to see Arya and Torrhen again.”

Not that it would stop him from hosting the annual tourney celebrating Rickon’s name day. The tourney had become a tradition for the realm, pulling nearly all of the North’s nobility into Winterfell to celebrate, fight, and feast.

Shireen let out a quiet sigh. “Did you not get tired of smacking people in the ring and crowning me the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of the whole North every year?”

“Never. They need to get better if they want to win!”

She couldn’t help but laugh merrily at his vehement reply and the roguish smile that accompanied it. As much as she would never voice it, Shireen did love it when the crown of winter roses landed atop her head. The envy in the eyes of all those harlots hungrily eyeing her husband made it all the sweeter.

The queen draped herself over her husband like a blanket, enjoying the skinship. “The matters of the academy still troubling you?”

“Not as much.” His grimace said otherwise. “Everything is running smoothly, the curriculum is set, and almost all the details are hammered out. Now I just have to pick a worthy person to take the position of High Scholar.”

The just-named office would be the head and face of the Academy, a man to be elected by the king from the three choices raised by the Grand Scholars.

After the royal summons for learned men and the wealth of books spirited away from Oldtown, the Academy did not lack scholars from the four corners of the world and those who desired to study in its halls. Hundreds of young Northerners had joined the Academy in the last year, and many men from the South and Essos flocked in droves, eager for knowledge or to rub shoulders with scholars and nobles. The Northern Academy admitted everyone who could pay the fee. Noble or crofter, boys or girls, it didn’t matter. So long as the tuition was paid, they could learn.

Those who did well could enjoy a yearly scholarship. It was a novel concept in which the crown waived the tutoring of those who excelled.

Jon also managed to enchant the library hall with some sort of magic that would better preserve books and scrolls, reducing wear, tear, and decay. The vast library stolen from the Citadel alone attracted many aspiring scholars or seekers of knowledge.

“And who are the candidates?”

“Alyn of White Harbour, Tian of Jinqi, and Solal of the Summer Isles.”

“Do you think you can trust… outsiders with such an important task?” She asked, twisting her neck to take a good look at his purple eyes; gods, she could get lost in his gaze.

“Maybe in a decade or two, once they have grown roots in the North and their heart and loyalty lie here for true,” Jon said with a chuckle. “I am withholding my choice, so they all work harder. I shall hand the reins over to Alyn in a few moons.”

“A pity Wolkan still refuses to join the Academy.”

“Indeed, I’d rest easy with a loyal man like him in charge. But he’s growing old and doesn’t have the drive or the strength to run a whole order.” Jon shook his head. “I barely managed to convince him to hold lessons on healing and medicine once a sennight.”

While the Maesters had received a heavy blow, their roots ran deep and were already on the road to recovery.

The accursed ice Jon had conjured melted after nearly a year. With the aid of southern houses, their copies of most of the essential books in the library were sent to the Citadel, where scribes and acolytes worked day and night to replenish the Citadel’s repository. For all their effort, the library of the Citadel was a shadow of what it once was. Despite their arrogance, the archmaesters knew their craft and could teach their subjects well. Their order was still unrivalled south of the Neck, yet their influence had been completely uprooted here in the North, and that was enough.

“What will you do after you’re done with the Academy?”

The North was peaceful nowadays. Jon quickly resolved any rising squabbles between his bannermen, and most were busy with construction. Towns, roads and cities all required gold and workhands. The other houses might have taken to the construction of the paved roads slowly, but House Stark had no such problem with the aid of the giants. Jon’s visit to Essos might have been for vengeance, but the value of all the loot from the catspaw guild and banker families exceeded ten million golden wolves. In addition to the income provided by tributes, customs, and tariffs, they wouldn’t lack for coin anytime soon.

“I might make a trip to Volantis.”

“They still request aid with that… wraith problem?” Shireen idly twirled a strand of silky black hair with her finger.

“Aye, and I’d rather see the situation myself lest it get out of hand. They still struggle after recruiting those warlocks and sorcerers from Asshai. I planned to visit Valyria sometime soon anyway.”

Dark tales of the Doom and all the men who dared to brave the ruins of the Freehold yet perished, never to be seen again, were quick to appear in her mind.

“Jon….”

“I know, be careful and all that. Besides, I can escape within a heartbeat.” He kissed her forehead as if she were still a child, making her pout. “Did you know that when phoenixes are killed, they burst into embers, only to be reborn from the ashes?”

“Oh…” Her mind felt numb at the revelation. Did that mean her husband was… immortal?

She looked at Jon’s face—truthfully, it had remained the same in the last six years; the only difference was the style of his hair and the closely trimmed stubble that she loved so much. Would she grow grey and old alone while he remained at the peak of his youth? Would he eventually leave her for a younger—

“Stop,” his gentle voice rang out as if reading her thoughts. “It’s written all over your face, and I’m shite at mind reading, Shireen. Ever since you turned nineteen, you have barely aged a day yourself. It’s hard to spot, but I can tell.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely!” His reply was adamant, and she could see no trace of deception in his face. Shireen believed him, for her husband never lied to her.

“How… how’s that possible?”

“Well.” Jon hesitated for half a minute. “It can be many things, but this is likely the result of me dabbling with magic, not the ability to turn into a phoenix, which only makes me harder to kill. I’m, well, more since my resurrection, and now, so are you after laying with me and bearing my children. I don’t think we’re immortal in the true sense of the world, but let’s just say we won’t be dying anytime soon.”

“How long are we going to live?”

“Hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Just don’t let that make you think you can survive a fall from Stormstrider. Immortal, perhaps, but definitely not invincible. Even I am not certain about the reborn from ashes part.”

Oddly enough, Shireen did not feel any different, aside from some surprise and not a small amount of confusion.

There was a tinge of unease and wariness for the first time as the pair of amethysts gazed upon her. Shireen could understand her husband’s apprehension and even felt angry for a heartbeat. But that anger went away as quickly as it came; she rarely asked about magic, and Jon had always been truthful and honest about it. Her husband’s reluctance to brag and penchant for silence and secrecy was a part of him that she had accepted long ago. After all, he had proven again and again his love and trust for her, and she did not have any reason to doubt it.

Yet now, certain things would have to change, even if the prospect of spending a long time with Jon was far from daunting.

She crept up and kissed him warmly, making his eyes crinkle in relief. Still, there was a tinge of unhappiness inside her, so she moved to his ear and gently bit it before whispering: “Is that why you’re so set on passing the crown to Rickon as soon as he’s ready?”

“Can you imagine centuries of rulership?”

She found herself grimacing. “…It would probably drive me mad. Will our children be the same?”

“Long-lived? Definitely, but possibly not as long-lived as we are. Magic should let them live over a hundred and fifty without much hassle. As for more… only time can tell.”

“Gods!” She rubbed her brow tiredly. “What shall you do once you pass the crown?”

“What shall we do? Unless you don’t want to accompany me?”

“No way, Jon.” She chuckled as warmth bloomed in her chest again. “I am yours, and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

“Reciting the wedding vows again?” Another sweet kiss, which made her insides tingle, followed. “To answer your question, we’ll do whatever catches our fancy. Everything you wanted to do before but couldn’t because of duty or the burden of your position. Travel around the world, see everything it has to offer, relax, and feast on whatever our hearts desire. And once we grow tired of the world, we can find a distant, quiet place to spend our days without worldly worries.”

“Fine,” Shireen said, feeling somewhat dazed. She was honestly happy with everything as long as it was with Jon. “Shouldn’t we get dressed and ready for the court and the council meeting?”

“Ah, Wyman can deal with these things for once. With Sansa and Astrid watching over the children, we can have the whole day to ourselves.” A second kiss came, followed by a third and a fourth. “We haven’t gone flying together for nearly a moon.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Her reply came out throaty, barely resisting the urge to return her husband’s heated advances. “There’s one more thing before I forget.”

“Oh?” Jon stopped himself, his lips hovering over her neck in the way that drove her mad.

“A few days ago, something odd happened,” she began hesitantly. “I got angry when Stormstrider accidentally stepped on a bed of flowers I was tending to and… something sparked between my fingers.”

“Sparked?”

“I’m not sure, actually. It could be just my mind playing tricks on me…”

Jon cupped her face and closed his eyes, scrunching his brow in concentration. She felt pleasant heat surge into her body from where their skin touched, making her squirm. Half a minute later, he opened his eyes.

“Aye, you’ve somehow awakened your dormant magic. Although all things expected, I’m not that surprised.”

“Wait, I am going to be a witch?”

“I can train you how to use magic if you wish. But at your age, your body and mind are set, and it would require more than twice the effort for half the result.”

“As long as I can learn.” Shireen giggled joyfully. She had always wanted to throw lightning bolts from her hands, like a goddess of the storm. “But this can wait for later. I have more, far more important things to do.”

The queen straddled her husband atop his waist and leaned in for a searing kiss, feeling even more excited. Jon rolled over, and now he was on top in a very compromising position, and she could feel his warm breath ghosting down her neck.

During the Three-Year Truce, King Jonos Bracken gathered brave and skilled men and led them in person, intent on finally dealing with Rhaegal the Green Scourge, the last of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons.

Even half a ruin, Harrenhal was a mighty fortress in a strategic position. Its lands were rich and fertile, the best in the Riverlands and too important to be left unused. But the dragon’s control was nearly absolute; the lands from the Gods Eye to the Bay of Crabs had only one ruler, and any attempts to settle them were met with dragonfire. This cut off the Riverland’s access to the Narrow Sea, severely restricting their trade.

Naturally, many attempted to get rid of the Green Scourge, yet the mighty green dragon was not to be trifled with, nor was a wild dragon so easily slain. The great beast had grown cunning during the last seven years, evident by the innumerable charred bones belonging to fools attempting to become dragonriders or dragonslayers.

Any group of men larger than half a dozen in his territory was met with dragonfire on sight, and it was not only that—the mighty dragon had made his nest in the Tower of Ghosts. The top of the ruined tower could only be reached by climbing the masonry with spikes, since the original staircase was half crumbled, half melted into slag under the onslaught of time and Balerion’s black flames.

Hundreds, if not thousands, were said to have perished under the Scourge’s wroth, yet none were half as prepared as Jonos Bracken and his retinue.

His plan was to split his men into groups of three, travel separately towards Harrenhal under the cover of night, and rest during the day. Then, while the dragon slept in his nest, they would scale the half-melted tower and slay the beast.

Yet, men plan, and the gods laugh. According to Ser Velen Vypern, one of the two survivors, the Green Scourge awoke when they attempted the climb by a raven’s caw of all things. The dragon quickly flew out and drowned King Jonos and his brave retinue with dragonfire—

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