Epilogue-The Sundering

The Hound, they called him. Not a knight, never a knight, despite bearing a white cloak once. A deserter, an oathbreaker, and a dangerous beast of a man who had sent too many to the Stranger before their time.

When he washed near the Quiet Isle, I was tempted, oh so very tempted, to leave the rot in his wounds to spread and let the fever take its course. Or simply let him drift down the Bay of Crabs, where the bay’s namesakes would feast on his flesh and return him to the Stranger’s embrace.

By all rights, I should have done that, or at least, let the King’s men know and judge him for his worldly crimes. But there were too many kings in the land at the time, and I… fell into indecision.

But then, I remembered my teachings. The Father’s mercy and forgiveness shine upon the most errant of children, and a lowly man like me had no right to mete out judgment onto others, so I fished the man out.

Even after cutting out the rot and binding his wounds, it seemed that the Stranger was dead set upon claiming this soul, but Elder Brother did not give up on his attempts to heal the sinful man. He never did, after being saved himself, not after washing down following the Battle of the Trident.

The efforts bore fruit, and Sandor Clegane awoke alive, albeit with one leg turned lame.

Still, the Seven proved their wisdom again; no soul was beyond redemption, even one as troubled as the Hound. The man cowled his face and took a vow of silence, laid down his bloodstained sword and picked up a spade, finding peace as a nameless gravedigger here in the Quiet Isle, where he spent the rest of his life in quiet repentance…

Excerpt from ‘Confessions of Septon Meribald’.

312 AC

The Citadel, Oldtown

Into the depths of the Citadel, the Conclave had convened in a large, ornate chamber.

The Archmaesters, all nineteen of them, garbed in their official attire—masks and rods made of matching metals that symbolised their mastery in a subject, along with the classical grey robes all maesters wore. But theirs were of finer make, woven from Myrish silk or rare Norvoshi wool. Glyphs, inscriptions, runes, or scrolls embroidered with golden threads across more than one garment, and the gathering looked more like a meeting of merchants and lords instead of scholars. From behind a crescent table of pale elm, they faced a rather tall, dark-haired young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties and wore a worn-travel cloak.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the archmaester wearing a copper mask.

“So, what can you tell us of the Winterspring Academy, Maester Dorwald?”

The Citadel had made more than a few attempts to worm its way into the ranks of the Northern Pretenders over the past two years, yet none had borne fruit—save for the man standing before them now. He alone had slipped in.

By royal order, the King of Winter had forbidden sending ravens south of the Neck without royal permission. He had somehow managed to find out each soul who had broken it, no matter how far. The first to be caught was the acolyte of Widow’s Watch, who was dragged to Winterfell to receive a fierce caning and sent to the Wall to take the black. Ever since, all ravens trained to fly to the South had been sequestered by the crown and held in Winterfell under Maester Wolkan’s strict eye.

It was as if a veil had blocked the North, shielding it from the sight of the Citadel and the rest of the kingdoms. What little news that trickled south came not from maesters, but from Essosi merchants with a fondness for tales and only after a pint of dark beer. Most archmaesters dismissed such baser things like chatter as beneath their notice.

The new northern place of learning and scholarly pursuits was shrouded in even greater secrecy. Even the younger man before them couldn’t successfully contact them from the Northern Academy.

“First,” Dorwald began, “the head of the Academy is none other than the King himself and—”

“Is this some sort of jest?” the silver-masked Archmaester scoffed. “What does a man grown with a sword in hand know about running a place of knowledge?!”

“The crown has finally gotten to his head, it seems. It wouldn’t be the first time a king has allowed ideas of grandeur to addle his wits. But isn’t this good for us?” drawled another archmaester, but his hands that had tightly gripped the golden rod betrayed his unease. “Let him squander his coin and time on this folly. Once he sees the error of his ways, he’ll have to return begging for our forgiveness!”

“Fool!” spat Perestan, archmaester of history, his heavy hand striking the table in indignation. “Have you already forgotten Braavos and the House of Black and White? Tyrosh? Pentos? The world has not. The Breaker is no man to cross lightly and suffers no slights or threats.”

Perestan was a man of thick neck and short temper, his greying hair always cropped short. There were rumours that he had been a knight’s squire once, and that he still practised his swordskills.

“Let us not leap to judgment,” spoke the man behind the electrum mask. “Swordplay does not make one witless, and neither does sorcery. Trade, law, and order have reached heights unseen in the realm in the last two hundred years.”

“That speaks of the old merman’s skills more than anything else,” the archmaester of sums and numbers countered dryly. “Still, a wise king always surrounds himself with wiser counsel. For all we know, Jon Stark might merely serve as a figurehead to ensure he sees all rising up close. You have grown too short-tempered, Lustrum. Prudence eludes you even in your old age. Let us hear young Dorwald’s account on the matter before leaping to further conclusions.”

“Well, His Grace seemed fairly experienced in handling the affairs of the Academy,” the maester answered, his expression flat. “He somehow always knows if men speak truths or lies, and any arising issue was brought before him and resolved swiftly and fairly. While the organisation and management of classes were a mess at the start, he patiently untangled every problem, and it all runs smoothly now. Languages, terminology, units of measurement were standardised, conflicting ideas were tried, tested, and compared, with all the merits and demerits explored in great detail.”

A hush fell across the Conclave. Even the most derisive among them grew still.

“Can that thief even care properly for the tomes he took?” someone muttered bitterly.

“You call it theft, yet we agreed to it!”

All eyes fell on Ebrose, who shuffled uneasily behind his silver mask. He did not offer any rebuttal, nor did he bow his head, but merely straightened his spine.

“Regardless, the question stands,” barked another. “Continue, Dorwald.”

“The novices copy older works twice a week, but the observation is not as strict as it is here,” Dorwald replied. “Yet none of the texts show wear or tear. The pages remain whole, the ink unfaded. I’ve heard others suggest that there is magic at play there. That His Grace himself enchanted the library to preserve the books against age and decay.”

“That’s cheating!” someone cried indignantly.

“Is it?” came a snort from Perestan. “If we had such power, we’d do the same. Better to preserve knowledge than lose it to mould and mice.”

“Perhaps we ought to renew the study of the higher mysteries…”

“And who would teach it?” snarked a spindly archmaester with a brass mask. “Not even bones remain after Marwyn’s demise outside of the Golden Tooth, and no other maester delved half as deep in sorcery as he did. And what little arcane tomes we had preserved are in the hands of Stark.”

“Then we must look eastward.”

“East? To those charlatans?”

“It is clear that many whom we previously considered… quacks do possess a measure of power.”

“But to deal with the Asshai by Shadow? The Seven know what vile magicks they practice there!”

“Asshai is far from the only place—”

“Enough.” Perestan struck the table once more. The silence that followed was swift and complete. “We are not a bunch of squabbling children here, but men of higher learning.”

Vaellyn gave him a grateful nod before clearing his throat. “Indeed. Let us not sidetrack. Let us speak of the Academy’s organisation. You paid silver to enter, did you not?”

“Twenty stags,” Dorwald nodded. “All novices must pay that much to learn for a year. Though the truly gifted are given bread and board. Many make coin as scribes or bookkeepers in the meantime.”

“And how are the gifted sorted from the rest?”

“Examinations every few moons, testing your ability to learn, reason, and comprehend. Those who excel are rewarded—they are exempt from scribely duties, are given choicer meals at the Academy’s cookhouse for free, and have better rooms.”

“Hmm.” Archmaester Ryam rubbed his beard, then his eyes lit up. “An interesting system of rewarding merit and hard work. And what of the curriculum? What is the quality of the teaching?”

“Not unlike ours. Though their early teachings focus on the practical—sums, trade, and governance. Household management, stewardship, and governance are merged into a new subject called ‘administration’. A novice may study what he wills.”

The Archmaesters watched on like hawks as the man continued to report with increasing enthusiasm, “Each subject has its own schedule. Different scholars teach introductory, advanced, and proficient classes. After being acknowledged as proficient in a subject, you can be considered an adept. Adepts can leave the academy and enter the services of the royal court, lords, or even wealthier merchants. Though merchants in the North rarely call themselves such these days, preferring the terms burgher, burgess, or just citizen, depending on the region and—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure the Northmen are feeling special with how they rename their smallfolk,” an Archmaester wearing a platinum mask interrupted. “But what about those scholars that you mentioned?”

“Adepts can continue their studies further at their own pace and attend lectures of scholars and grand scholars, and to become a true scholar, you must become a master in at least one subject and have proficiency in two more.”

“Does the king teach sorcery?” Nymos, the Archmaester of Warcraft, spoke for the first time.

“No, and every arcane practitioner who comes, be it master or neophyte, fails to grab his interest.”

“How many novices were there when you left?”

“Near to a thousand, though I cannot say for certain.”

The Conclave continued asking more questions, big and small, for the next hour, and the maester answered patiently.

.

.

.

“I still can’t believe women are allowed to study there. What does a wife and a mother need higher knowledge of rocks and landscapes, or trade for? This is folly. This is an outrage!”

“But, as Maester Dorwald pointed out, few of them show any interest in anything besides healing and medicine and even fewer stay long enough to learn anything of substance. It’s been over two years since the Academy opened, and no woman has reached the rank of a scholar!”

“That means little. Most of their current scholars are learned men from the four corners of the world. And one scholar of theirs is inferior to a proper Maester!”

“Not in the subject they have mastered,” another pointed out.

“In truth, Jon Stark has fashioned a second Citadel in all but name, tailored to the needs of his kingdom,” Perestan said, looking at his notes with a scrunched brow. “There are foreign practices from Essos and novelties, for certain, but there is nothing damning that we have seen.”

“Aside from the women,” someone murmured hoarsely.

Presetan ignored him and continued. “It wouldn’t have been a problem, in truth, but now our relation to the North is severed, and with the royal ban of maesters, this Winterspring Academy has time to take root, grow, and expand further unopposed.”

“Yet none of their adepts or scholars is to serve south of the Neck,” Vaellyn murmured, tugging on his wizened beard. “This Northern Academy is focused solely on serving House Stark, their bannermen, and the North. While an irritant, they do not threaten us directly.”

Before the discussion could continue, Dorwald bowed low before the Conclave and loudly cleared his throat. “Archmaesters,” he said, voice neither servile nor overbearing. “Have you further questions for me?”

The gathered masters stirred, uneasy at the boldness of his tone. None answered at once.

“You overstep, young Dorwald.” Ebrose was the one to speak, his words stern. “Has the cold of the North made you so insolent as to forget your standing? A fresh maester like you has much to learn before speaking out of turn before the Conclave!”

“Perhaps it’s time I cease to be a maester, then.”

Dorwald reached to his collar, unclasped his maester’s chain, and threw it across the marble tiles. The links rang hollow as they struck the stone, and even the old archmaesters were stunned.

“You dare?” Ryam all but roared, rising to his feet, face red with fury. “You dare cast aside your links like a hedge wizard tossing aside his staff?!”

“I have no need of them.” Dorwald’s voice was quiet but firm. “Farewell, archmaesters.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” snapped another as the man made for the door.

Dorwald turned, facing the Conclave one final time. His eyes no longer held deference, only conviction. “Back to the North. To marry the woman I love.”

“M-maesters are sworn to celibacy!” Ebrose sputtered. “You are bound by oath! You shall be sent to the Wall for this!”

Dorwald gestured to the discarded chain. “I am a maester no longer. The Northern Academy binds no man to celibacy. His Grace himself has absolved me of those rotten old vows.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the hall, head raised high.

The sounds of his steps slowly dwindled as the archmaesters stared after him, stunned to silence. A few glanced at the guards at the chamber doors, but no order left their tongues.

None wished to be the one to provoke the wrath of the Northern Dragon. Not even here, in the heart of the Citadel.

The Northern Lords could request adepts or scholars to take a vow of celibacy upon entering their service, but that was mainly done for the position of the physician, if at all. Sending their own retainers or sponsoring children of loyal servants to learn skills in ravenry, administration, or rocks, roadpaving, and masonry became commonplace. Many Northern Keeps had at least one scholar, along with multiple adepts serving in various positions instead of a single maester.

Similar to maesters, to receive a scholar or an adept in your service, you had to pay a certain sum or give patronage to the Academy, though the more learned the man in question, the higher the cost. The rest of the coin required to run the Academy was sponsored by House Stark.

It became a tradition for most vaunted smiths to send their apprentices to the Winterspring Academy to attain mastery in the study of metals and forging. Many villages, big or small, pooled their coin together to send someone to learn healing.

The Northern Academy became a fresh, nearly endless source of administrators for all the budding towns and cities under construction in the North, and for subsequent reforms by the Northern crown, allowing the king to rule his domain with greater efficiency.

But not all scholars were eager to leave the Academy—

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

Jon Stark, Volantis

The tall man garbed in a yellow silk toga bowed deeply.

“It’s an honour, Your Resplendency!” The words were spoken in the Common Tongue with a very slight accent, but Jon’s eye couldn’t help but twitch at the title. “I am Maelon of the Maegyrs.”

Maelon had courage in spades, if nothing else. Unlike many others, he had weathered Winter’s draconic gaze without cowering, and he approached, albeit cautiously. In contrast, the scores of curious citizens and skittish slaves looked ready to flee at Winter’s slightest movement. The hundreds of tiger cloaks that stood guard at the edges of the enormous plaza were no better.

At a glance, it was plain to see that the Maegyrs were the blood of Old Valyria. As pale as any Northman, platinum curls that would make a maiden green with envy spilling over his shoulders, and lavender eyes so pale they looked blue, the man in front of him how Jon had imagined a Valyrian look like a child. Magic sang from his belt—he had a dragonsteel sword, sheathed in a jewelled scabbard of golden heart, and the pommel was no less ornate.

“Greetings, Maelon Maegyr,” Jon responded politely in High Valyrian.

Maelon’s gait was proud but full of vigour and strength, a telltale sign of a warrior, and it made Jon respect him more.

“The great and most noble dragon may rest in the square,” said the Volantene man. “The tiger cloaks shall see none dare disturb him. An elephant and half a dozen heads of cattle shall be brought for his sustenance.”

With a gesture, half a dozen slaves appeared, bearing a gilded palanquin hung with crimson veils.

“I’ve no need for a litter,” said Jon Stark, waving the offer aside with the faintest frown.

“Then perhaps you would like a destrier of the finest Volantene stock? Or a war chariot, if it please Your Resplendency?”

Jon was reminded then of the pesky Volantene pride, where all ground was considered filthy, and the most noble and the proudest of them were always carried around, for they considered the very act of walking demeaning. A worthless display of pride that only made them weak and foolish. He gave a quiet sigh, letting no effort to mask his disdain.

“A chariot, then,” he said at last. Jon had never ridden a chariot, and horses were ruined for him now that he had mastered a dragon.

Winter, acknowledging the previous words, sprawled down on the open square like a mountain of muscle and scales, curling together without a care in the world. There was nothing to fear—nothing here could harm him. The great dragon had grown—Jon reckoned his size neared Balerion during the Conquest.

The tiger cloaks went into motion. Eventually, two of them soon returned with a wide chariot wrought of gold and onyx, drawn by four tall steeds of good stock. Even their manes were meticulously braided, dotted with rubies. A useless display of vanity and wealth.

Without a care, Jon leapt onto the chariot. Maelor Maegyr joined him, dismissing the guards and taking the reins himself.

The chariot rolled through the cobbled avenues with a rattle of wheels, up a broad road hemmed in by soldiers and slaves. It was the only sound, as if the whole city had grown quiet, even though Jon could see countless faces. On either side, the crowd had been driven back. Many bore the tattoos on their faces, yet were clothed and fed. Slaves. Their silence was a mark of trained obedience rather than awe or respect. Some were scared, whether of Winter or those accursed fiends, he could not tell.

Everything looked pristine, a subtle display of power in a city of this size. Yet Jon knew better. From above, he had spied the squalor beyond the East Gate, where the forgotten huddled in hovels and filth. He had seen the slums in the northern district where the poorest eked out a miserable living.

The main streets of a city like Volantis, like the one they were traversing, were all claimed by the rich and powerful, those second only to the Old Blood who lived behind the Black Walls.

“Your armour, Your Grace—if I may speak plainly—it is a marvel,” Maegyr offered with an admiring glance. “Even the Qohorik grandsmiths cannot temper blackened steel to such a dark colour that can drink in the sunlight, nor etch so finely such heraldry or runes. The white direwolf head snarls at me as if it is alive from your breastplate.”

“It is the culmination of my skills,” Jon said quietly.

In the last half a decade, he had honed his skills in metalworking and spellforging and had made a new set of armour for himself. The one he now wore was no longer plain and rushed, but a masterpiece he had spent countless hours working on, truly fit for a king. Every single piece of armour, from the straps to the inner sides of the tassets, had been meticulously inscribed with geometric patterns and intricate Northern heraldry. Even the chainmail underneath was of a finer maker, with each ring as small as two millimetres in diameter and crafted with extreme care. The arming doublet underneath was no less exquisite with its Torrentine cotton, the finest Lyseni silk, and Norvoshi wool, though it was Shireen and Sansa’s slender hands that had sown it; he had only done the enchantments.

“The king can not wear plain armour as if he were some simple hedge knight,” his wife had told him, and she had the right of it.

For her cheek, Shireen now had a regal set of spell-forged bronze plate of her own, of intricate make that was fit for a queen. Unbreakable just like his own, though hers was enchanted to be even lighter, no heavier than a winter cloak.

In truth, this armour was no better or worse than his previous one—at least where protection was concerned—but he had included some conveniences. With magic rampant, Jon had done a clever enchantment on his royal sigil. With a single thought, all the armour could be equipped on his body or pulled back into the ring.

Some had slipped that his armour was also light—the full set, including the arming doublet and the ringmail, weighed no more than a stone and just as unbreakable as Valyrian steel. Since then, it was the envy of the realm, and if Jon had been a common smith, the queue in front of his workshop would have stretched on for miles.

Any warrior would look at it with longing, even though the sacrificial method of enchanting had given the metal a sinister feeling. Even Maelon looked at it as if it were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—it might as well have been.

“Is it truly…” Maelon swallowed, as if struggling to find the words to express himself.

“Forged by sorcery, yes,” Jon finished for him. “Many of my own lords had begged me for a set, to the point that even their wives and daughters were offered. Some are willing to settle on a single piece, or perhaps a shield, but my answer remains unchained—this is an honour only allowed to the royal family. Even arms are not for sale, and only those who distinguish themselves in my realm could ever be granted the honour of wielding one.”

“What of jewellery, then?” Maegyr’s tone turned sly. “For trinkets, perhaps? Circlets, brooches, rings, bracelets, and the like? A hundred times their weight in gold and ten times their weight in precious gems per piece.”

Jon allowed himself the flicker of a smile. “That may be discussed.”

Especially since baubles would not be reforged to anything worthwhile—without the specific enchantment, they would never have the lightness or the sharpness that distinguished Valyrian steel swords from normal weapons.

“Very good, Your Resplendency.” The Volantene dipped his head, though he failed to hide the gleam of triumph in his purple eyes. “If the heat here proves too stifling, I can have lighter garments brought. The finest silks in the city.”

“I’ve grown used to my own garb,” Jon replied coldly.

Since Robb had died a guest in that accursed wedding, he had stopped trusting courtesies and empty promises, no matter how pleasing to the ear. Jon took great care to stay protected ever since the betrayal in Castle Black, regardless of location. Even in court, even in the heart of Winterfell, he either enchanted his garments or wore the arming doublet.

“You are a Maegyr,” the northern king noted, remembering his late brother’s wife. “Any kinship to one Talisa Maegyr?”

“My sister.” Maelon’s words were laced with sorrow. “She was the jewel of our family, the pride of House Maegyr. When she fled, my father’s heart shattered. When word came of her cruel murder… it drove both him and my mother into Vhagar’s embrace.”

It took Jon a moment to place the reference. Maelon was not speaking of Visenya’s mount, but the god of the dead and the underworld in the Valyrian pantheon.

“Houses Frey and Bolton earned the wrath of both gods and men,” Jon said tightly. “Their line is ended, pulled out root and stem to the last. Your sister’s spirit should rest easy.”

“Alas, no amount of blood spilt will bring Talisa or my parents back,” said Maelon, voice hollow. “My father would have sent our fleet and ten thousand tiger cloaks to aid King Robb, but the cowardly Elephants dreaded war almost as much as they dreaded Daenerys later. Striking down the Mother of Dragons and her consort has made your name quite popular from Volantis all the way to New Ghist, and will open many a door for you, Your Resplendency.”

Jon said nothing. Even now, the thought of Daenerys brought him only sorrow and regret. Foolish girl. And it was for the better that Maegyr had not involved himself in the War of the Five Kings—ten thousand slave soldiers would have harmed Robb’s cause more than they would have aided him.

The black walls loomed ahead, and the broad street ended with an enormous arched gate made from ebony.

Beyond, a gauntlet of portcullises and murder holes greeted them. Jon counted three dozen ways to die before entering the inner city through yet another thick gate.

In the inner city, everything changed. The air was cleaner; the foul stench of fish, mud, and sweat that had accompanied him earlier was replaced by the aroma of fresh fruit and flowers. The streets here were paved with blue marble; the buildings themselves were taller and grander, with domes of silver and gold and facades of imperial jade.

Exotic trees shaded each street, along with an immaculate hedge of golden roses. Gilded temples and extravagant palaces could be seen further inside, each grander than the last. It was like a paradise in the flesh… if one could ignore the misery in the city below.

The tiger cloaks inside wore finer plate, not inferior to what most Westerosi knights bore, some engraved with Valyrian runes, others bearing religious marks Jon did not know, and their helmets were fiercer, fashioned like a snarling tiger. Even the slaves here were draped in silks and silvery cotton, their faces content and happy, and carried themselves with pride that would rival most knights.

“Tell me of these wraiths,” Jon finally said as the chariot slowed at the gates of a grand palace.

“They crept up from Sothoryos like a plague.” Maelon sighed, looking troubled. “The red priests claim they are children of some old demon who had built Yeen itself. By the time we realised these dark wraiths were a threat, the pirates in the Basilisk Isles were all dead or mad with fear. Those who survived look like they had aged a decade, and still shiver even under the noon sun.”

Jon’s brows knitted together. That sounded similar to the dementors, but not quite. Still, Jon had ample memories and an arsenal for dealing with all sorts of dangerous magical creatures, so he had little to fear.

“Has anyone lived to give me further details?”

“Yes.” The Volantene’s face turned grim. “They’re terrible things resembling a human draped in shadows, flying through the air without wings. They say the wraiths come only at night. Red priests and warlocks could do nothing but halt their advance—we have tried. Only the aeromancers, shadowbinders, and firemages from Asshai can vanquish them, but with much struggle.”

“What of Valyrian steel?”

“It hurts them, but their cloak of shadows is hard to pierce,” was the heavy reply. “It’s that and the speed that makes them hard to kill. They’re all as fast as a shadowcat and strong as an ox, and move in groups. Just last year alone, we’ve lost hundreds of cogs to these fiends!”

“Fret not,” Jon assured. “I can deal with them if an agreement is reached.”

For four days and four nights, the Great Dragon of the Sunset negotiated with the triarchs and the Ghiscari envoy. The lauded Breaker was a proud, rich ruler and could not be bought by earthly things like honours, women, or gold.

His demands were heavy, but the wraiths made sea trade almost impossible and were slowly encroaching on New Ghis and Volantis, backing the Daughter of Valyria and the heir of the Ghiscari Empire into a corner.

On the fifth day, an accord was reached—Jon Stark promised to vanquish the black wraiths and destroy their source.

Volantis and New Ghis agreed to free any artisan or craftsman and their families who wished to move to the North as freedmen, regardless of who owned them before. In the end, ten thousand skilled pairs of hands, from smiths, masons, and carpenters to tanners, seamstresses, weavers, and shipwrights, along with fifty thousand of their kin, chose to go North.

But that was not all. New Ghis and Volantis reluctantly agreed to enshrine in law the chance of all slaves to purchase their freedom through six to ten years of hard labour or other means agreed upon by their masters, subsequently freeing more slaves than Daenerys Targaryen with her follies ever did, and without shedding a single drop of blood for it—

Excerpt from ‘Magic Resurgent’ by imperial scholar Mardan zo Azdaq

Jon Stark, Yeen

He could feel the evil lingering in the air. It was fleeting, but the presence of dark magic was unmistakable, far deeper than any of his dabbling in blood, soul, and sacrifice ever produced.

The night had gathered once more, the moon and stars shrouded by the thick, ominous clouds, drowning the surroundings in darkness. Shades began to gather at the corner of his visions, but the moment he turned to look, there was nothing. The thick silence was damning, with the same eeriness as the quiet that came after the wails of agony of a dying man halted.

The humid wind was heavy with the stench of rot and decay; the wraiths were not dementors nor amortal, but no less dangerous for it. They seemed to feed not on souls but life and magic itself, and were raised by some twisted, dark sorcery turning tormented souls into corporeal, half-shadowy abominations. Beneath their cloak of shadows lay a half-human, half-demonic soul.

Their forms were hardy and solidified by the resentment, and hitting them felt no different than striking a large, solid lump of the finest castle-forged steel, and he had to use almost his full strength if he wanted to slay them with a single blow. Thankfully, enchanted flames worked well enough against them, as did heavenly lightning.

Yet, for all their vileness, the wraiths were dreadfully quiet, both in their unlife and death. All the fighting was done in silence, making the whole thing even more unnerving than it already was.

It had taken him nearly a month to cleanse the Summer Sea of the fiends from Naath all the way to the eastern coast of Sothoryos. Another moon to go through the Basilisk Isles and, subsequently, Zamettar, the abandoned Ghiscari colony on the delta of Lower Zamoyos.

Now, only Yeen, the source of the wraiths, was left. On the river’s confluence, the eerie city lay amid the thick jungle.

Yeen was a dead, ugly thing, for not even a single stalk of grass grew inside its boundaries. The buildings were hewn out of the same oily black stones the Seastone Chair was made of, if far bigger. Each block was the size of a grown mammoth, cut with laser precision and polished to a mirror finish. The edges were still razor-sharp as the day they had been moulded, bereft of cracks despite the passage of the millennia. Pavements, roofs, buildings, sculptures, obelisks, and even fountains were hewn out of enormous dark blocks, which seemed to both radiate wrongness and devour life.

The architecture itself was queer, with slim columns supporting the facades of the many buildings, the paved squares filled with eyeless, mouthless statues of half-beasts and half-men. The style of structures reminded Jon of a twisted mix between civilisations unseen in this world—Indian and Aztec. The magic surrounding him pulsed with a vile, malignant stench. Winter slowly descended in a wide circle, expecting foes, yet there were none.

The ruined city… looked empty.

His senses tingled, and Jon shot out his hand, grasping a wraith by the neck as it tried to sneak up upon him. With a mighty cleave, the dragonlord put all of his strength into swinging Grief, tearing through the cloak of shadows and the fiend underneath. Only foul black dust remained between his fingers, blown away by the breeze to ribbons. That was the beginning of the battle—the surrounding air began to churn with the wraiths, which surged towards him like a tide of darkness.

Steel was not enough to deal with this foe, Jon knew. With a thought, his wand leapt into his left arm.

He did not try to cast the Patronus Charm—it merely slowed demonic things, and did nothing to harm or repel them.

Winter’s furious roar shook the world; the smell of ozone became unbearable, and a moment later, a storm of purple lightning arched from his ironwood wand, blasting through the surrounding wraiths, showering him and the enormous dragon with foul black dust.

Rings of purple fire expanded violently, setting the hundreds of shadows on fire. The wand grew piping hot in his hand as he poured more power into, until it ignited and turned to ash.

Jon swallowed his sigh. But the very presence of the shadowy fiends enraged Winter. His dragon opened his maw, releasing a sea of angry black flame streaked with blue, drowning the fiends in a fiery hell.

Even the powerful cursed flames were slow to consume the wraiths.

The Northern King leapt off the saddle and onto the cursed pavement, his sword returning to its sheath.

Instead, dark lightning flickered around his left hand as he swatted away all approaching fiends like errant flies, the arcing electricity stunning them. A wave of his right hand kept sending waves of ethereal moonlight that cleaved through swathes of fiends before fizzling out.

With Jon on the ground, most of the fiends rushed him, leaving Winter alone in the sky, giving him room to bathe them in his dragonflame as the black city of Yeen began to burn. The night brightened as the dark flame spread through the oily black stone, flickering blue at the edges, while toxic green fumes choked the air.

Yet, no matter how many Jon and Winter destroyed, no matter how many shadows they burned, more and more fiends surged out from the accursed depths of the dark city.

.

.

.

Jon looked around, sword in hand, gasping for breath, yet no more wraiths followed. The minutes ticked painfully, but only deafening silence met him; they had done it.

Winter’s titanic form, heaving heavily, slumped onto the glassy ground, shaking the world and cracking the surrounding brittle surface like an enormous cobweb. With a weary sigh, Jon sagged onto his side as a puppet with its strings cut. The stench of rot, death, and decay was gone, replaced with smoke and ash.

Grey ash was all he could see in every direction, dotted with smouldering slag and shards of soot-covered glass; the harsh jungle was hidden by a curtain of thick smoke.

It was finally over. After three days and three nights of fighting, Jon had emerged victorious. The endless tide of shadowy fiends had not slowed even after he had turned Yeen into a molten pool of lava. He had flung out magic until his powers ran dry, and then fought until even lifting his blade felt like a chore.

His last drops of power were used to stymie the fire that had gotten out of control and threatened to devour the surrounding jungle.

His armour had held up well to the brutal test, and all his limbs were intact. The spell-forged bronze was as pristine as the day he had forged it, neither soot nor ash sticking to the metal. Jon could feel his body swimming in sweat and grime, pulsing with purplish bruises from head to toe, and he was too drained to heal himself again.

Mind, magic, body, all were fully spent, but he was victorious. The endless tide of fiends had finally met its end, and he somehow knew there were no more. Jon Stark was not satisfied. The feeling of victory was hollow.

The evil entity that had controlled them had survived. Despite Jon’s exhaustion, the cunning thing had retreated deep into the Dream instead of fighting. A place where Jon could not follow. Without the accursed Yeen to gather powers in the physical world, it would be hard-pressed to reappear in the following millennia, and it could perhaps fade without a physical anchor to reality.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

The cloudy sky rumbled, and droplets began to patter as Jon closed his eyes to take a well-deserved break; he just hoped his journey to Valyria would prove easier.

Jon Stark is the only man known to return alive from the smouldering ruins of the Freehold, and unlike Princess Aerea Targaryen, he was not mortally wounded. Still, witnesses say his powerful form had grown haggard, with large black circles beneath his eyes. Just like the Black Dread, Winter returned from the Doom with trophies to show for his feat, three long and brutal jagged scars marring his scales, two across his back and one at his side. Although some claim that those were caused by the black wraiths of Yeen.

It was said that the King of Winter spent more than a year traversing the lands shattered by the Doom, acquiring the innumerable treasures of the Freehold and long-forgotten arcane secrets…

Excerpt from ‘The Life of Jon Stark III—Breaker and Builder’ by Grand Scholar Edwyn

313 AC, the Wall

Eddison Tollett

The wildlings were too few to be a problem anymore. No White Walkers were left to plague the Watch, and no quarrelsome kings-to-be dared to set foot in the North with Jon and his dragons sitting in Winterfell. Fewer and fewer recruits came each year after the Battle of Westwatch, be it because of the many deaths in the cruel winter or the fact that he had pulled out the wandering crows to prevent them from perishing in the tumultuous south.

But then, after winter ended, more and more men-at-arms and defeated nobles had streamed in from the southern wars. Proud or fierce, none of the southerners dared to make any trouble here in the North, be it lords or knights, hailing from the Twins to Sunspear. Not even the most arrogant and unreasonable highborn wanted to draw Jon’s legendary ire.

With the new Northern recruit, it had almost stemmed the order’s decline. The total strength of the Night’s Watch had swelled to just shy of eighteen hundred, but the growth had all but halted.

In the last two years, they had lost about seventy men to accidents, disease, and old age, and only forty new recruits had joined. The decline had returned, albeit slower, and it seemed unlikely to go away. Edd had seen it before. He had lived it.

The Night’s Watch was like a dying old man barely clinging to life, and the 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was content with that.

There were enough spears to man Eastwatch, Long Barrow, Castle Black, Deep Lake, Grey Guard, and the Shadow Tower. Rangings were sent North once every moon to see if there was any trouble. Despite his nightmares, there were no dead things, no White Walkers, no Night Kings or cold blue eyes glowing in the dark.

All they found were wild beasts lurking in the endless expanse of the haunted forest, but that didn’t stop everyone from burning anyone who died, regardless of the cause. Even the lands beyond the Wall had thawed somewhat, and there was no snow until the very northernmost end of the haunted forest for the first time in memory—even a wildling like old Leathers was surprised.

Once Edd had accepted that there was nothing more he could do for the Watch, his remaining worries melted away. Old Hother and the finally returned Sam Tarly took up most of the mundane duties. All he had to do was train with the sword, look important, and approve reasonable-sounding requests from the other Commanders. Edd could even find some time each day for his favourite exercise, stare blankly at the wall in his solar in quiet, without being disturbed.

Everything had been dull, monotonous, uninteresting, and peaceful, just as Edd preferred.

Alas, the Seven Kingdoms seemed to have forgotten the Watch and the Wall, but Jon Stark had not.

After ten years, his royal friend had come to the Wall again, and Edd could smell the change in the air. It stank of work and restless drudgery. He could already feel the headache forming, doubtlessly, with all the issues that would soon arise.

How did Edd know this was not a routine visit?

Probably because the whole Night’s Watch was summoned to Castle Black, every single ranger, steward, and builder, Jon had given explicit orders to halt all patrols on the Wall, leaving it defenceless. There were scarcely any wildlings and no White Walkers left to fight, so Edd could only comply, even if his own commanders and stewards grumbled about it.

The black brothers were not the only ones summoned—the Northern Lords were all mustering here. Every single one of them, from the crannoglords of the Neck with as few as fifty frog-eaters to their name, to the Karstarks and the Manderlys. It did not seem to be a call-to-arms, for the Stark bannermen were only here with personal retinues. Even five grand scholars from the Northern Academy with their golden medallions were in attendance. Castle Black struggled to hold a thousand men, let alone nearly thrice that number, and numerous tents sprang up in the surroundings like mushrooms after rain, forming a small city under the Wall.

All those important-sounding lords and dignitaries were now crammed into the recently cleaned shieldhall, and Edd stood uncomfortably on Jon’s left, receiving a big part of the intense scrutiny of the whole Northern nobility.

His friend barely looked to have aged a day in the last decade. Each gesture commanded even more attention than before, and his gaze had turned even more imposing, and could make even the Umber Lord quiver in his boots. But there was a new aloofness to him, and his purple eyes looked even more jaded and dispassionate than they did after counting the victims of the Last Battle.

“Many of you might wonder why I have summoned you back to the Wall,” the king began. The words had an odd quality to them as they lingered in the air and his ears, and it seemed that even those at the far end of the hall could hear him with no problem. “From this day forth, I declare that the Night’s Watch shall be reformed into the Northern Expedition Force in direct service to the Northern Crown.”

The hall erupted into clamour, with lords and commanders asking questions one after another while some loudly objected. But for all their eagerness to speak, none could be heard through the jumble of shouts and yells. The king observed impassively for a minute, but the outraged racket was not dying.

“Silence!” A wave of pressure erupted from his friend, and suddenly Edd Tollett struggled to breathe, as if the air had turned to stone. The feeling was gone as soon as it appeared, but none dared speak another word. “Henceforth, the lands of the Gift shall be reclaimed by the Northern Crown, and lands beyond the Wall will be folded into the North. Ask your questions one by one. You!”

Ser Willem Webber straightened, swallowing heavily as everyone looked his way.

“But what about the Wall?” he asked weakly. “Any expansion further north will be stumped by the very Wall we defended!”

“Stumped, stumped,” cawed out the old bird sitting atop Edd’s shoulder. Old Bear’s crotchety raven was still alive, albeit barely.

“You need not worry about the Wall for much longer.”

Jon’s words made even Edd rub his face and groan inwardly.

He just knew straight away from the look on Jon’s face that his calm and peaceful days were over.

Even in 313 AC, many still doubted the stories and rumours of Jon Stark’s sorcerous ways, attributing the unnatural feats to his dragon, Winter. Even after his triumphant return from the Doom, where he acquired forgotten arcane secrets of the Freehold, the scepticism remained. Yet, all those doubts were squashed.

The Breaker wielded the Sword of the Waters, severing the North below the Neck just like the Children used the Hammer of the Waters to shatter the Arm of Dorne. The Sundering, they called it.

That terrible day, the whole of Westeros shook like a ship amidst a raging storm. The tremors could be felt all the way to Sunspear. From just above the Cape of Eagles to the southernmost point of the Bite, the land was suddenly torn apart and sank as if an enormous sword had cleaved through it. That same day, the Wall shattered from the Bay of Seals to the Bay of Ice. Yet, the endless shards of frost that would have undoubtedly caused many a death and flooded the North evaporated into the air before reaching the ground, leaving behind only piles of old crushed stones used by the previous Lord Commander to pave the frozen ramparts.

Giant waves over fifty feet tall swept through the shores of the Bite, the Saltspear, and Ironman’s Bay, reaching as far as Bravos, though by then it had lost much of its strength. Most battered harmlessly over the Flint Cliffs, but the bite, the Iron Isles, and the Three Sisters were flooded, and many fishing villages and their inhabitants were washed away by the onset of water despite their lords’ orders to relocate deeper inland. The same day, the Dragonmont and the Fourteen Flames erupted again, spewing pillars of ash and smoke into the sky. The falling ash reached as far as Duskendale, covering the city in grey.

Many coastal areas were devastated, but the damage to the North was the least despite being the closest.

Any doubts about whether the events were connected or not were squashed when the Northern Crown immediately claimed the Lands Beyond the Wall, launching the freshly reformed Night’s Watch northwards, now called the Northern Expedition Force, backed by the entirety of the Northern nobility…

Excerpt from ‘The Sundering’ by Maester Armen