27-Writing Home

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognizable characters, plots, and settings are exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

*

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

*

If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for early access chapters(a week before discord) for all my works.

*

Jon Stark

He looked at his worn out squire in front of him. Since he started running in full plate armour two days ago, Torrhen was even more tired. Still, he heard no complaint from the boy. As soon as his squire left an opening, Jon struck out with his blunted tourney sword, whacking him on the side. Torrhen tried to skewer him with his axe, but he simply dodged while turning and pushed his tired squire, making him fall to the ground.

"Never lower your guard, no matter how tired you are unless you intend to bait your enemy," Jon advised as he effortlessly helped him up. "And be careful not to overextend your attacks. If your opponent takes you down to the ground, he could pin you and stab you through the gaps of your armour. Enough training for today, you can barely hold your axe. Go get some food. From now on you're allowed in the kitchens at any time. And make sure you put some meat in your belly before you come to me on the morrow."

After dismissing his squire, he went to the carpenter to pick up his order. If Jon had a proper wand in his hand, he would be even more dangerous with his magic.

He was now intimately familiar with the way to the godswood and his feet easily led him to the ancient grove as he dived into the memories of his previous life. Wandlore was not an exact science by a long shot, but more akin to an art. He had spent some time looking into wandlore, but it had been more out of idle curiosity than anything else. As the owner of the Elder Wand, he felt no need to care about wandcrafting or the creation of other foci too much. It was not like he would find or craft a superior magical focus to the Death Stick.

Though, now, he mildly regretted his lack of interest in that particular field. According to his memories, wands had four distinct characteristics that determined their performance and compatibility with a wizard. Wand wood, length, flexibility, and core. The wood was self-explanatory, and different types of trees had an affinity towards different types of magics or personalities. It was similar for the cores. The length however was a more interesting subject. According to some, it possibly correlated with the height of the wizard, but a famous Russian wandmaker at the end of the twenty-first century had put forward the theory that the length was related to the power/control ratio that the wand could provide to the caster.

Longer wands allowed for stronger magic, but at the cost of control. And reversely, the shorter the wand, the weaker the spells, but the stronger the control. According to Ollivander, the flexibility largely depended both on the caster and the wand's willingness to change and adapt. But not all trees or magical creatures were equal, making the crafting of a custom wand even harder.

Nor was he truly sure if the wand woods had to be processed in some peculiar manner to be used in wandcrafting. And his biggest problem was – the lack of magical proper materials for a core. The only remotely magical creatures within a five-hundred-mile radius were his dragons and Ghost. And he couldn't exactly get a dragon heartstring without killing them.

Jon was not really sure how magical your average direwolf was. Ghost always felt special, even more so after he had undergone the trio of rituals. Mayhaps he could get a tail hair from Ghost, but he did not think that such a core would be conducive to the use of fire magic.

Jon strode through the godswood, looking for a suitable location. After a few minutes, his eyes were drawn towards a nearby large stone that had a flat and even surface. He removed the snow covering it with a sweep of his hand and unfurled the rather large leather skin bundle on top of it.

Various polished wooden sticks ranging between nine and thirteen inches made from all sorts of trees from oak to weirwood lay before him. He took out two dark blue scales and a few pieces of obsidian from his pouch and placed them down on the leather. Jon had managed to pull off two of Winter's loose scales much to the dragon's displeasure. And with the dragonglass having properties of fire and earth elements it was technically possible to use it for a core.

For a short moment, he was stumped. How was he supposed to get the core inside the wandwood? Should he split it in two, create a cavity to place the core and glue it through some sort of adhesive? Or maybe drill a hole where he would place the core and seal it up afterwards?

He had time so he decided to do both, but first, he had to take a wood drill from the carpenter. An hour later, two wands with the same length and flexibility laid ready, in front of him. Both were made of yew and had a sliver of dragonglass for a core. Time to figure out which method was superior.

Jon gingerly picked up the one that was split before and glued it together completely. With a wave of his hand, he channelled his magic through the wand but it exploded with a bang.

His hand that held the wand was completely covered by heavy lacerations and his face and neck by smaller cuts. Some of his finger bones were even cracked by the volatility of the explosion. His clothes were torn, signed, and quickly began soaking with blood. With a scowl, he took out the wooden shrapnels stuck in his flesh and healed himself, before taking out a spare set of clothes and his spell-forged armour.

Thankfully nothing he wore was of any importance, just a simple linen tunic and woollen breeches with some direwolf embroidery. After changing his ruined clothing Jon took his time to put on all of his armour. If stray wooden shrapnel with enough strength had hit him in the eye, even he would have been a goner. If nothing else, that would have made for a very ridiculous death.

He carefully picked up the second wand and channelled his magic. Purple flames were quickly conjured around him, and for a moment it looked like the wand worked. It had required a bit less mental focus and less magic to achieve the same result compared to wandless casting. But the wand heated up quickly and after a few heartbeats, it combusted into flame in his hand, leaving nought but ash. He knew this would not be an easy endeavour, but he still felt a tinge of disappointment deep inside.

So, drilling a thin hole and placing the core inside before sealing the opening worked better. But dragonglass alone seemed to make for a poor core. Not that he had much choice. A whole scale could scarcely fit for a core within the wand, so he had to either grind it to dust or slice it up.

Jon sighed and started drilling one of the weirwood sticks this time. Yew did not feel too responsive in his hand. Getting a workable wand was going to be even harder than he expected.

"Your Grace!" Alyn Woolfield shouted from a few dozen yards, making him stop and turn sharply. The boy was covered in sweat and was panting heavily. "The Lord Hand sent me to tell you that something urgent has come up!"

Thankfully Wyman's page did not see him doing any magic. Not that playing with a bunch of sticks in the middle of the godswood while wearing full armour as if he was ready to go to battle did look any less suspicious. Mayhaps he had to make himself a personal workroom where he could safely practise and experiment without being disturbed.

"I will come in a few minutes, Alyn," Jon took off his helmet and said evenly. "Where is Lord Manderly now?"

"In the Council Chamber, Your Grace," the young page replied after somewhat regaining his breath.

He quickly dismissed the boy who left but not before throwing Jon a final, curious look. He wrapped up everything and deposited it in his bearskin pouch.

Jon headed to the council chamber, wondering what would require his urgent assistance. As he arrived, he saw the Lord Hand sitting on one of the chairs, together with a jittery Jonelle Cerwyn, the Lady of Castle Cerwyn. She was rather plump and homely, and Jon remembered that she refused to send any men to both him and House Bolton, despite her seat being near Winterfell. For some reason, the lady's face froze in fear as she looked at him.

"My king, Lady Cerwyn received a raven from Casterly Rock last night," Lord Manderly said sombrely and handed him over a scroll.

Jon accepted it in his armoured glove, unfurled it carefully, and started reading.

'Lady Cerwyn,

It has come to the crown's attention that Lord Commander Jon Snow has deserted his post in the Night's Watch. Not only has he usurped Winterfell, extinguished the ancient and noble line of House Bolton, and rebelled against the crown...'

He couldn't help but snort for a moment.

'...But is also harbouring the kingslayer and outlaw Sansa Stark within his halls. The crown will reward whoever brings in their heads with three hundred thousand golden dragons, a large keep and a highborn bride. All lords and ladies who pay homage to Jon Snow will be attainted by the crown.

-Queen Regent Cersei Lannister,

In the name of

King Tommen Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm'

They finally found out that he has Winterfell and even dared to put a bounty on his sister's head. Did the stupid bitch think she is out of his reach?

For a short moment, the flames within the chamber blazed intensely with a purple tint.

***

Myrcella

She opened her eyes groggily, staring at the blurry ceiling, tiredly rubbed her eyes, blinked a few times, until the room finally came into focus. It took her a few moments to remember that she was in Winterfell again. She stood up but quickly winced, as her head pulsed from the sudden movement. Did she drink too much ale yesterday? She vaguely remembered drinking cup after cup in celebration.

What were they celebrating again? Her mind still felt jumbled as she tried to recall the events of the previous day while donning her thick woollen gown. Thankfully the walls of the Great Keep were warm and she felt little of the cold sting of winter inside. She stood in front of her leaded glass mirror and fought her tangled hair with the bristle brush until she finally managed to look presentable. As much as she could look presentable with bags under her eyes anyway. Gods, she was not touching a drink ever again.

Myrcella headed towards Shireen's chambers to join her friend… when it struck her full force. The haze from her memories finally lifted and she remembered. Shireen flew away on a purple dragon. The next day her friend was announced as the future Queen in the North and the subsequent celebration she organised in Shireen's chamber because the maester restricted her to bed rest for a few more days.

The Conqueror had only managed to make the North kneel because he had three dragons and Torrhen had been unwilling to see his lands and keeps burning. Myrcella did not doubt that Jon Stark would not be kneeling to anyone, ever. If he desired, he could probably conquer the south with his dragons. And he was a tried and tested battle commander and a warrior. With Shireen Baratheon for a wife, he would not meet much resistance.

Would there be war when spring came? Or maybe even during the winter itself. There had also been all these strange rumours about foul things stirring north of the Wall and Myrcella wanted to dismiss them as simple tales and ramblings but simply couldn't. All the Lords and Ladies that she saw yesterday were quite grim. Whatever the king had told them during the Grand Northern Council had rankled them deeply. And, as much as she wanted to believe that the tales were just hearsay and magic was long gone, the flying monsters capable of spewing molten fire were more than enough to change her mind.

Thankfully, whatever was north of the Wall couldn't be scarier than Jon Stark. Myrcella had seen both the Mountain and the Hound, and neither felt as dangerous as the king. And his dark blue dragon, which was aptly named Winter, was bigger and more savage-looking than his siblings. But Myrcella had a plan for the dragons. It mainly involved staying as far away as possible from a certain purple menace.

She had arrived, only to see that the guards in front of Shireen's chamber had increased. Now, there were six of them, all burlier and bigger than yesterday. Half a dozen pairs of cold eyes scrutinised her carefully as she approached the door but wordlessly allowed her entry. Myrcella was still not sure why the king had so easily allowed her to visit her friend. She was well aware that she was, in fact, a hostage. Maybe the king was not so bad after all?

"Good morning, Cella!" Shireen chirped from her bed. She had already sat up on the bed, her shoulders covered with a woollen cloak. Gods, how was she so fresh? Did her friend not drink last night?

"I drank only a single cup," the future Queen said with a smile. Myrcella blinked. Had she spoken out loud? "Yes, you did. The Maester forbade me to drink any more than that."

"Do you know how to deal with the hangover?" Myrcella coughed as her cheeks reddened.

Her friend nodded and rang the bell to call on her new personal servant. A young, yet plump, woman with brown hair and soft eyes entered quickly.

"Merya, bring us some water, ham, cheese, and salmon, please."

"Yer Grace," the woman bowed and quickly left the room.

"I didn't think you liked fish much?" Myrcella asked curiously.

"I don't like it too much but salmon is tasty. And it helps with the hangover," her friend replied with a knowing smile.

Warmth filled her chest as she looked at her black-haired cousin and she gently embraced her.

"I have no Maiden Cloak," Shireen muttered in her ear. "House Baratheon's family cloaks were on Dragonstone and King's landing, so I will have to make one myself. Would you help me?"

"Yes!" Myrcella exclaimed and finally pulled out of the hug. Making the Maiden Cloak was a great honour. And she was rather practised in embroidering both the black stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of House Lannister. "Will you be using your father's ... sigil or- "

"No, I will have nothing to do with the Lord of the Light!" her companion's blue eyes hardened and her face became stern. "House Baratheon's sigil was the black crowned stag on a golden field for centuries, and the Durrandons used it for millennia before them. It will do for me too!"

The serving girl arrived with a tray filled to the brim with food and placed it on Shireen's bed, before leaving. Just as they were about to eat, something big and white stirred at the edge of her vision. She watched with terrified fascination as the king's direwolf stretched and quietly trotted to them, making her freeze completely.

"Oh, you have nothing to be afraid of, Cella," her friend's soft voice didn't do much to assuage her fears. The direwolf carefully started inspecting the food with his big snout. She vaguely remembered that he had done the same thing yesterday. "His Grace said that Ghost should check my food. If there is anything wrong with it, he would immediately sense it. And, gods, Cella, don't be a baby. You have nothing to fear from Ghost, come, give me your hand!"

Fighting the urge to flee screaming she gingerly stretched out her hand. Shireen carefully guided her palm to the white direwolf who had just sat down next to the bed. He carefully sniffed her hand for a moment, before deciding to lay his head on the covers. The future queen pulled her hand again and dragged her palm across the white fur. Gods, it was smoother than silk!

Shireen had started rubbing Ghost's neck with two hands and the direwolf's ruby eyes were closed and his tail was wagging happily. Suddenly, the big wolf did not seem so scary anymore and Myrcella hesitantly joined in.

After a few minutes, Ghost decided that he had enough and quietly retreated, curling near the fireplace.

"Shouldn't we send the servant to fetch some food for him too?" she proposed quietly.

"I tried giving him some venison before, but I think he doesn't like being fed. His Grace said he goes out hunting during the night. No door in Winterfell is barred for him," Shireen explained and forked an appetising piece of salmon.

Myrcella also began eating and the room fell into silence. The fish had a rich buttery taste and she wondered why she didn't try to sample it back in King's Landing. After finishing a sizable piece, she watched with fascination as the future queen of the North devoured almost twice as much food as her. It was not the first time Shireen had done this, yet her friend's waist stayed as thin as ever.

The door opened and a guard wearing a House Stark livery entered.

"Princess Myrcella, His Grace has requested your presence," the man said.

She shared a look of surprise with Shireen. Why would the king call for her?

"Best not to keep the king waiting," she said and stood up.

The guardsman quickly escorted her up to the King's Solar.

She froze as soon as she entered - inside was Jon Stark, clad in pitch-black plate, bar helm and gloves. A white snarling direwolf head adorned the breastplate. Despite the martial attire, he was carefully penning something on a piece of parchment.

"You called for me, Your Grace?" She tried speaking as softly as possible, but her voice cracked towards the end.

"Yes. Sit, Princess," he raised his face and violet eyes met green. "Do you miss your mother?"

Myrcella blinked uncertainly. She did not expect that question at all. Did she miss Cersei? Maybe a little. Truthfully, she missed her little brother way more than her mother. After all, Cersei never really spent any time with her or Tommen over her precious golden boy. She had little desire to go back south only to be shipped off to a distant place to marry a stranger again. It might have been cold here, but she was free to do whatever she wanted.

"Not truly, Your Grace," she finally answered plainly. The king looked at her with interest and she could swear that a corner of his lips twitched for a moment.

"An interesting letter arrived from your mother," he carefully unfurled a scroll and handed it over to her. "Read it."

Myrcella's eyes went over the contents of the parchment and her blood ran cold.

"What...is to happen to me now?" she asked timidly.

Damn her foolish mother. The King did not look ruffled about the bounty on his head at all. But she did not doubt that if anything happened to Princess Sansa, the only way Myrcella would be ever going back south is in pieces.

"We hold Guest Right sacred in the North," Jon Stark explained evenly and she let out a small sigh of relief. "But I think you should write a letter to your mother, telling her of your stay here in Winterfell. It is possible that your family does not even know you're alive, and now it would be prudent to inform them. In case they do not recognise your handwriting, a small golden lock of your hair would be attached as proof."

Her precious hair?! She couldn't help but sigh. Myrcella was safe inside Winterfell, but that did not mean much. She could always be sent outside the fortress, where she would no longer be protected by guest rights. Freezing to death in the cold was not something that she even wanted to think about. She recognised the request for what it was – a politely worded order.

"I would love to write to my Lady Mother, Your Grace," she tried to sound enthusiastic, but the words felt bitter on her tongue.

Myrcella just hoped that Cersei would care more about her living daughter than her dead son.

***

Varys

It seemed that a furious storm had quickly changed Westeros while he was gone. The destruction of King's Landing had played to their benefit, but now, without the Iron Throne… the Seven Kingdoms had not been so fractured since before the Conquest. The Ironborn were crushing all the naval strength of the Reach with ease. Robert Arryn was finally dead, but the Vale was still turtling up behind the Bloody Gate. Not to mention all the weird rumours coming from the North. Both Barrowton and White Harbour were rather clean and orderly so it was hard for a child orphan to survive in the cold streets alone. All the little birds that he sent there scarcely lasted more than a few moons, so he had long ago stopped trying to keep an eye on the North. After all, it was the most secluded of the kingdoms and he thought that nothing truly important ever happened there. But now, Varys was forced to rely on hearsay and rumours from merchants. Sadly, all of them seemed more ridiculous than the previous ones.

Stories of wildlings, giants, grumpkins, snarks and even dragons were rife. One particular fur trader had landed in Duskendale, explaining how the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch disbanded the ancient order and allied with the grumpkins and snarks to conquer the North. He also had an army of vicious giants that pulverised all of his enemies into meatpaste. Or how Jon Snow was killed in a mutiny, but when they tried to burn his corpse, he turned into a dragon and flew away. Or how the bastard was the second coming of the Hungry Wolf, beheading everyone who opposed him and lining their heads on a spike on Winterfell's walls.

What irked him the most was that the most accurate news came from Cersei Lannister. Her stupid bounty on Jon Snow and Sansa Stark's heads said far more of the situation in the North than he had managed to gather before.

But it did not matter anymore. Neither the North nor the Vale could stand against the dragons. If nothing went wrong today, House Targaryen would unite and reign over the Seven Kingdoms once more.

All of his planning culminated at this moment. His sister's son, Aegon, the union of two fallen dragon lines. Blackfyre through his mother, and Targaryen through his father. Illyrio Mopatis, whose father was one of the many bastards Aerion Brightflame fathered in Lys. And Saera Blackfyre, the hidden daughter of Maelys Blackfyre. Aegon had the blood of the dragon, the sharp mind, and the education and knowledge to be the perfect king. If only Varys knew how Daenerys would test his nephew so he could warn him.

But it was doubtful if he would even listen. After all, only Varys and Illyrio Mopatis knew the true parentage of Aegon. Even his nephew thought himself the child of Rhaegar and Elia, and it was for the best. His nephew had a strong sense of righteousness, and Varys was not sure what he'd do if he found out that he was, in fact, not the one. The knowledge of his true parentage could never be allowed to spread. After all, if enough people believed that he was the son of Elia, it would slowly become the truth.

Daenerys had never been truly predictable. From the very start, whatever plans were made for her got side-tracked badly. He only hoped that her father's madness had not truly taken root in the girl. To this moment, Varys was not sure if the dragon queen's coin had landed on greatness or madness. Her campaign in Slaver's Bay illustrated her desire to be a good and righteous monarch, yet her methods were naive and ineffective. Hundreds of thousands died because of her, and the Ghiscari cities that she left in her wake were only a pale shadow of their former self, filled with hunger, plague, death, and ruin.

"So, Lord Varys, how do you think this meeting will go?" Tyrion asked him quietly as the retinue was walking towards a large hill where the negotiations would happen. Surprisingly, the dwarf was still fully sober. Though there was little doubt that he would resume drinking copious amounts of wine after the meeting. For some reason, Tyrion had been quite reticent after the news of his brother's defeat by Aegon. Varys

"Hopefully as any other meeting between an aunt and a nephew," he replied cautiously.

"The Targaryens never really did things normally," the dwarf snarked. "I'm still unsure if they'll wed or fight."

And neither was Varys. Which disturbed him greatly, but at this point, he could only sit back and watch as things unfolded. If he was a religious man, he would be praying in his mind, but alas, while religions were only a little better than magic, they seemed to be necessary.

Aside from Tyrion and himself, the queen's retinue included Barristan Selmy, her Hand, Archmaester Marwyn, and Grey Worm, the commander of the unsullied forces, and her four kingsguard – Aggo, Jhoggo, Rakharo, and Strong Belwas.

They walked in silence and after a few minutes, their party arrived on the hill, where a large oaken long table sat underneath a pavilion, where Aegon and his retinue were already waiting. His nephew wore the valyrian steel crown of Aegon the Conqueror. The Dornish had indeed held it as was suspected and they apparently deigned to part with it for Elia's child.

"Lord Selmy," Connington stiffly nodded to the former kingsguard. "I thought that Princess Daenerys would attend?"

"She'll be here any moment, Lord Connington," the old knight replied and leaned on his wooden crutch. While his leg was still limping, Varys had little doubt that Barristan was still the most dangerous man in the pavilion.

Aegon's Hand mumbled something under his nose and both groups fell into awkward silence while waiting.

About four minutes later, Varys saw the dragons arriving. Daenerys had insisted on beginning the meeting with this ...show of power. The beasts heralded their presence with a mighty roar, and soon the giant black dragon landed twenty yards away from the tent, while the other two kept circling in the sky.

"My Lords, Aegon," she greeted and took her place at the front of the table, right next to Barristan.

"His Grace might be your nephew but he is a king, and you might address him as such, princess" Connington spoke gruffly. At this moment, if glares could kill the Stormlord would have been dead.

"And I am a queen, yet you insist on calling me a princess, ser," Daenerys retorted sharply. "I've yet to see any proof beyond the words of the eunuch. Where was Aegon when my brother and I were starving on the streets of the Free Cities? It is quite convenient that a supposed nephew with a better claim than me shows up now when I have an army of my own and dragons."

Connington opened his mouth, looking ready to bite back, but Aegon firmly placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"Aunt, I understand your position, I truly do. But how can I prove to you that I am the son of Elia Martell if you do not believe the person who spirited me away from the Sack of King's Landing?" Saera's son spoke gently with pleading eyes. The genuine feelings on his nephew's face were truly moving, and if he had not known the truth, Varys would think that he's truly the son of Rhaegar and Elia.

A triumphant smile flashed across Daenerys' face.

"Quentyn Martell was savaged by one of my dragons after attempting to tame it despite having Targaryen blood in his veins. If you are truly the blood of the dragon, you should have no such problems. There is no need for these negotiations. Mount one of my dragons and we can wed, uniting our claims. Rhaegal! Viserion!" she called and the green and cream-coloured dragons quickly descended, landing on the other side of the hill, away from Drogon.

Varys cursed inwardly. Being born as a Targaryen guaranteed nothing. There were quite a lot of known members of the House of the Dragon who had problems getting chosen by a dragon and had required a lot of time and effort to tame one. And now, Saera's son was required to do so right away.

"I'll do it, aunt," Aegon happily replied and began walking towards the white dragon, making his heart sink. Varys did not think it possible, but at this moment, Jon Connington's face became even stiffer. He just hoped that his nephew's dragonsblood was strong enough to not end like the Martell boy.

Rhaegal looked completely disinterested, while Viserion roared challengingly towards the approaching Aegon and Varys' heart skipped a beat. His nephew did not stop his slow, but steady approach. The dragon roared again, but not as strongly, and flapped his wings aggressively. As Saera's son neared, the cream-coloured dragon backed away slightly, before leaning downwards, neck to the ground.

Varys' heart soared as he watched Aegon climb on the dragon. Daenerys' melodious laughter was heard as Viserion and his rider took to the skies.