47-The Aftermath

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF or HP.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

AN: Well, this has been a wild fucking ride. I could have done some things better, but hindsight is always twenty/twenty, and I learned a ton from my mistakes and improved a ton in the process(or at least I hope so). This is not the epilogue, however, just the Aftermath. Truth be told, there are so many plotlines in ASOIAF, and just doing twenty years later in 5-6k words where gazillion things happened in the meantime is not something I managed to do despite my best efforts.

So I have taken a different approach to the standard epilogue; I got 4 more parts of it written, and after they are posted, Shrouded Destiny(Every Sunday) and Convergence of Fates(Every fourth Thursday) will be posted regularly instead. But, even after those 4 parts of the epilogue, I seemed to have more things to write, so those will come out slowly (with no schedule whatsoever) when I get inspiration/time to delve deeper into what I've built in 'The Dragonwolf'.

That aside, I want to thank everyone for their support, encouragement, and constructive criticism. Those who just whined and tossed insults in the comments for no rhyme or reason can go fck off for all I care, though.

Also, if you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name to read ahead of discord in all my works.

*

'None of the Lords in Aegon's army survived the Second Field of Fire, and only those men-at-arms and knights on his camp's edge managed to run away and flee into the snowy hills. Nobody could say how many of them survived the harsh onset of the winter for long enough to return to their homes. Dorne sent fifteen thousand spears to aid Aegon, and a few hundred barely managed to return, half frozen and nearly starved to death. While some witnesses argued that the King of Winter used fire sorcery to decimate the Targaryen army, at the time, maesters generally agreed that any fires were the work of Winter, the Northern Fury, who was already approaching a size similar to that of Seasmoke before his death.'

Excerpt from 'The last of the Forty' by Archmaester Perestan

*

Patrek Mallister, Seaguard, 17th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

He uneasily shuffled in his bed and opened his eyes with a groan. The wooden ceiling looked oddly blurry. Everything felt hot and numb at the same time, and his throat felt as dry as the desert sands of Dorne.

"Ah, you're finally awake, My Lord," an aged voice exclaimed. Patrek struggled to get up, but his body was too heavy, and his side ached heavily, despite the numbness. "You have a terrible fever, Lord Mallister. Your wound had started to fester."

What wound? He didn't remember getting any wounds. Suddenly, the memories came rushing. He was hunting for Wendel Frey when they got ambushed while setting camp one night. It seemed that Patrek had grown careless after the long string of successful raids. Yet they defeated the attackers after a bloody fight, but the ambush took its toll on his already tired forces, and he got skewered on the side, as he only had time to hastily put on his arming doublet and chainmail.

"Where?" Patrek managed to rasp out, and he felt a stab of pain in his throat. Everything started to get blurrier.

"We're in Seaguard, My Lord. I've cut out the festered part of the wound, but your fever is not-"

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a horse and eagle fighting across a river.

*

Jon Stark

A soft, sad hum woke him up. His body felt stiff and sore and stabs of pain travelled through his right leg as if it had gone through a meat grinder. Which it did, according to his memory.

His magic felt sluggish, which was only normal since he drew onto everything he had, and then some more. Doing so was very dangerous; extreme magical exhaustion took a long time to recuperate and left the wizard extremely frail and vulnerable.

Yet, despite all of this, he still felt light and... unfettered?

It was an odd thing, but something had changed.

Jon carefully channelled magic into his right leg in an attempt to heal it, but it only reduced the feeling of soreness and pain. Higher levels of healing usually involved potions to which he had no access, but hopefully, his leg would make a full recovery with time.

He finally opened his eyes and looked to the side. Shireen Stark sat forlornly on a small wooden chair with an enormous white furball curled in her feet.

"Why so sad?"

His wife turned sharply and threw herself at him.

"I was so worried when you didn't wake up for so long," she whispered, voice rich with feeling, as her face was buried into his chest.

"How long was I out?"

"It's been four days. Maester Mullin said that your body was pushed to the limit and would take at least half a moon to recover," Shireen muttered as she gazed at his face with wonder.

"Well, it appears I am made of sterner stuff than normal men," he jested softly, but that did not lift her mood.

"Your torso was covered almost completely in purple bruises, and your leg was even worse," she muttered with worry and fidgeted.

"I'm fine now, there's no need to fret," Jon assured her with a smile. "Unless you want to inspect for yourself?"

Shireen's cheeks reddened, and she buried her face in his covers again.

He freed his right hand from underneath the furs, grabbed his pouch from the small, crude wooden stand next to his bed, and retrieved his latest wand from within. Thirteen inches, Ironwood and dragon heartstring, hastily made after wasting too much of Viserion's heart.

The previous three wands had burned out. One at the Kingsmoot, another one at Golden Tooth, and the last one at Westwatch. They barely channelled powerful spells like Protego Diabolica or Fiendfire for a handful of moments before expiring. This one, however, was far more durable. Still, It was still cracked in many places, and there were a few charred fissures along its length, but it held together, despite all of the magic cast with it in the dream world. He groaned; if only he had paid wandcrafting more attention… his blind reliance on the Elder Wand did come to bite him back in the ass after all.

Shireen was curiously looking with her bright blue eyes as he grasped the stick and giggled as he waved it.

His sluggish magic was slow to obey, but after a few moments, he could feel the spell slowly forming. The ambient magic in the air still felt volatile and battered at his spell, but it felt less aggressive compared to before. The lingering will that had pressed on his magic seemed to be absent now.

Shireen gaped in wonder when a small winter rose slowly formed at the tip of the nearly broken stick. Jon started laughing happily and tucked the blue flower in her hair.

*

Winterfell, 25th Day of the 11th Moon

Arianne Martell

She waited in front of the King's Solar with trepidation.

The last fortnight in wait of Jon Stark had been stressful and full of worry. It snowed less and less, but it was still cold, and her prospects of leaving Winterfell anytime soon were not good. The rumours about some legendary enemy to the North that Nym had heard did not help to calm her down one bit. She had even considered trying to mount the red drake, but it was always either in places too high to reach or guarded by a dozen men-at-arms. Seven Hells, it took her a while, but Arianne noticed that at least one guardsman was trailing after her and her cousins when they went outside. Gods, she felt as if she was imprisoned in a massive cage made out of grey stone and snow and was slowly going mad.

Truthfully, nobody stopped any of them from moving around or about, but they were always under watch, and Arianne felt vulnerable and cornered. She could do nothing as the red-haired Northern Princess had turned out to be far more cunning and cautious than she would have thought.

To her great relief, the King had arrived yesterday on his monstrous dragon, accompanied by a battered smaller, purple drake with a young maiden on top. Her mind did not want to even think what had wounded the young dragon so, but the tales of the Northern Queen had turned real enough, and-

"His Grace will see you now," the burly guard grunted and broke Arianne out of her thoughts.

She slowly walked past the open door with trepidation and carefully looked inside. Jon Stark was sitting behind his desk. Gods, his long hair looked so soft and curly, and the piercing purple eyes looked incredibly alluring. The scar across his eye only made his rugged face even more comely. Arianne realised she was ogling the King and quickly gathered her bearing. A young maiden sat on a smaller chair to Jon Stark's left. She had long black hair, clear blue eyes, a large, misshapen scar on her left cheek, and a bronze crown atop her head. The girl, no the stern-faced Queen, was truly a Baratheon and not an imposter as Nymeria had speculated before. Arianne's gaze wandered to the fireplace, where an enormous white direwolf had curled lazily. This one seemed even bigger and more dangerous than the grey beast the younger Princess had...

"Sit," the King ordered impassively, and Arianne found herself complying. His stern face betrayed no emotion, and she felt like she was a small girl facing her father after sneaking away from her minder. "You came all the way to Winterfell to speak with me."

Her throat felt dry now, and she found herself swallowing heavily.

"I have a request to make, Your Grace," Arianne began slowly as she tried to gauge the Northern King, but his face was like a block of ice.

"Dispense with the boring courtesies and get on with it," Jon Stark said with a bored snort.

"I would inquire if it was possible for… Your Grace to fly me to White Harbour on dragonback," Arianne blurted out with far more confidence than she felt.

"And why would I do that?"

"My father, Prince Doran, is dying. I would like to return to Sunspear to witness his final moments," she quietly explained while struggling to keep her composure.

"Doran Martell and Dorne mean nothing to me, Princess. Nothing is keeping you here," Arianne could swear that his lips twitched in amusement, "and as a guest, you're always free to leave. But... if you want me to aid you personally, you must give something in return."

She grimaced inwardly while trying to keep her face impassive. Arianne already suspected that she would have to pay a price, but… she had nothing to offer to Jon Stark. His eyes never wandered below her neck for a second, and even she was not so bold to offer herself when his wife was in the room. But she needed to get back to Sunspear no matter what!

"Anything," she uttered in defeat, and her heart clenched in trepidation.

Surprise briefly flashed in the purple eyes across her.

"You must truly be desperate," he hummed slowly and rubbed his cleanshaven chin thoughtfully. "I don't truly want anything from you, so I think I'll let my Queen decide."

Shireen Stark's blue eyes briefly widened in surprise as Arianne looked at her expectantly. A minute torturously tickled by as the Queen was lost in thought.

"Princess, you are unmarried and in need of a future Prince Consort of Dorne, no?"

Cold shivers crawled across Arianne's skin as the Northern Queen sweetly asked the seemingly innocent question with a kind face. Her future marriage was probably one of the best political tools she had right now. But Arianne already offered them to decide and couldn't truly back on her word. And if she was stuck here in Winterfell for the whole winter, which could last years... she would slowly lose all support in Dorne, and the lords would probably crown Trystane if Arianne was still missing when her father died.

"Yes, Your Grace," she eked out a quiet confirmation.

"That's great," a small smile blossomed on Queen's face. "My Husband will fly you to White Harbour after you marry Brandon Tallhart. You will also be required to foster your heir in Winterfell, where we will also find him a proper northern match."

Arianne stared at Shireen Stark, stunned. Underneath the kind face and sweet voice hid a vicious demon, not less dangerous than the Dragonlord right next to her.

*

The Fifth Day of the Twelfth Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

She took a bite of her lemon cake and closed her eyes in contentment as she savoured the taste. Thankfully, there was a small lemon tree in the glass gardens, or Sansa would have had to wait for spring before tasting her favourite dessert. She felt so… free since Jon and Shireen returned from the Wall. The last time she had felt like this was before Robert Baratheon had arrived.

Her brother had dealt with all the threats to the south and the north, but it looked like the Game continued anyway. It had been ten days since Jon flew Arianne Martell and her newlywed husband to White Harbour. The whole thing happened far too quickly and took her by surprise, even more so when she realised it had all been arranged by her usually kind good-sister. The rest of the Dornish delegation still stayed in Winterfell, much to her chagrin.

Arya, sweaty from yard, plopped on the seat next to her and pulled over a plate of roast chicken.

"How was the training?" Sansa decided to ask before taking another bite from the lemon cake and washing it down with ale. The taste felt too bitter at first, but the more she drank, the better it got.

"Urgh, not too well," her sister groaned and quickly began devouring a chicken leg.

"Why so?"

"Torrhen defeated me again. No matter what I try, I can't win against him," Arya whined quietly.

"Jon's squire? Wasn't he younger than you?"

"He might be younger, but he's thrice as thick and nearly two heads taller," her sister scowled, but a heartbeat later, her face lit up. "You won't believe what he told me, though."

Doubtlessly another piece of gossip from the guardsmen. Sansa's mouth couldn't help but twitch in amusement. While she was privy to some of the rumours from Myrcella and Alys, the ones that circulated amongst the men-at-arms were usually quite different but just as entertaining.

"Do tell, and we'll see," she urged.

"Nymeria, the Dornish one, and her sister apparently slept with one of the guardsmen. Together. At the same time," Arya snickered as Sansa felt her cheeks heat up.

She ignored her sister and focused on the lemon cake in front of her.

Gods, Sansa always thought that the rumours about the Dornish… debauchery were exaggerated, but the elder Sand Snakes did live up to them. Of Arianne's cousins, only Sarella did not seem troublesome, as she was busy in the library almost every day from dawn till dusk; the girl could scarcely be seen in the Great Hall once a sennight.

But Sansa doubted any of them would dare to cause any real trouble now that Jon was here. Only a head remained of the last person who provoked her brother, and it was displayed on the facade of the Great Hall for all to see. Her eyes wandered to the draconic trophies mounted on the wall of the great hall.

Her brother could easily conquer the Seven Kingdoms now. All his opponents were dead or destroyed, and those who remained could hardly offer a meaningful resistance, especially after Westwatch or the Golden Tooth. Jon did not even need a Dragon to defeat an army now…

She remembered asking him if he intended to follow in the footsteps of the Conqueror, and the reply relieved her greatly.

"Aye, I can take the South and rule it. But why? For vain pride or ambition? It's too much work. The land is devastated by war, and winter has just begun. Not to mention all the quarrelsome kingdoms I would have to bind together while everyone would try to scheme all over the place. At least here in Winterfell, in the North, everyone has been bound by oaths of fealty to House Stark for thousands of years, and nobody bothers to play the bloody southern games. Sure, the Northern Lords are indeed nobles and still do the political maneuvring expected of them, but even so, they are far more direct. Winters are harsher and longer here, and people cannot afford to quarrel over silly things. Look at all those who sat upon the Iron Throne; scarcely a few met a good end, not to mention most of their siblings, spouses, or children. I don't want that for any of my children. The south is free to deal with its own mess; the Stark of Winterfell rules the North and only the North."

The thin, sullen boy who sulked in a corner was long gone, and a wise, regal King stood in his place. Jon was every inch the ruler of old she had foolishly dreamed of in her childhood fantasies.

*

"Presenting Ser Balon Swann of Tommen Baratheon's Kinguard!"

The herald's cry immediately grabbed Sansa's attention, and she looked at the entrance. Balon Swann was one of the few true knights she had seen during her tragic stay in King's Landing. She thought it a pity when someone so valiant, modest, and true had sworn himself to a monster like Joffrey. Hopefully, Tommen would turn out to be better than his elder brother. She couldn't help but snort; it would require quite a lot of conscious effort to be worse than Joffrey. Sansa remembered the sweet, shy boy that played with cats and wondered how he was faring.

Heavy but stiff footsteps echoed on the slate floor. The man who entered was not the dashing knight with enamelled white armour but a weary traveller wrapped in a snow-covered fur cloak. He left a wet trail of snow in his wake. The knight pulled his hood down, revealing a beard completely covered in ice and frost, adorning a tired, reddened from the cold, face. The man had somehow braved the northern wilderness in the midst of winter to come here.

She looked around, but no other petitioners were waiting around the long tables. The royal court of Winterfell was far smaller than the one in King's Landing and mainly handled lordly disputes and petitions and everything that the Lord Hand and the Justiciar couldn't handle privately. With the roads unpassable for all but the bravest of souls, few came here to bring new issues. There were plenty of small-time disputes between the small folk in Winter Town, but Galbart Glover and his bailiffs handled those well enough.

"Come forth, Ser Swann, and tell us what brings you to Winterfell," Jon's voice echoed in the Great Hall. At his feet, Ghost's ears perked up, and he opened his crimson eye to observe.

The knight slowly approached, leaving snowy footsteps behind him before stopping a few yards from the high platform.

Sansa nodded in approval inwardly. She knew that her brother was informed of the kingsguard's purpose by raven the moment he landed in Barrowton and was now putting on a show. To her chagrin, Jon scarcely bothered but with the bare minimum of courtly etiquette or playing along with the more tedious aspects of politics.

"King Tommen Baratheon sent me here to deliver these, Your Grace" Ser Balon kneeled, unstrapped a sheathed sword from his belt and a rolled-up scroll, and offered them up. She could see the pleasant approval on the faces of the Northern court at this obvious show of deterrence. Her granduncle, clad in his usual black scale armour, approached slowly, took the two items and gingerly brought them to Jon.

Her brother gazed at the gaudy scabbard with an expressionless face for a few moments. The cherrywood was garishly decorated with gold and looked extremely out of place in the Great Hall. Jon unsheathed the blade, revealing red and black ripples and began inspecting it closely. Sansa vividly remembered Joffrey carving up the nearly priceless 'Lives of the Four Kings' with it.

Suddenly, her brother stood up and unsheathed his bronze sword, which was leaning on the right side of the throne and moved.

TING!

A handful of bright sparks shot out as soon as the blades met, and the high, thin sound produced by the collision lingered in the air for a few seconds more and made her dizzy. Jon looked completely unaffected, unlike most of the court that were covering their ears, and carefully inspected the valyrian steel again.

"Good!" Jon nodded with a small smile and returned to the throne as if nothing had happened. Both swords were returned to their sheathes and rested on the side of his Throne. He unsealed the scroll and handed it to Manderly, who was sitting on his wooden chair to the right.

The Lord Hand carefully unfurled the parchment, and a crease appeared on his brow as his blue eyes darted around the message. He coughed softly and began reading out loud.

"By the decree of Tommen Baratheon, the First of his Name,

Henceforth, the North is acknowledged as a sovereign kingdom and Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, as its rightful King. I officially recognise my royal sister, Princess Myrcella Baratheon, as a ward of House Stark.

Witnessed by:

Lord Commander Jaime Lannister

Daven Lannister, Hand of the King

Lord Elard Crane, Master of Laws"

The whole Great Hall erupted in deafening cheers, and a heartbeat later, Sansa found herself leaping up and joining them.

"Rise, Ser Swann," Jon spoke as soon as the commotion died out and signalled for a servant to bring bread and salt. The man stiffly stood up, and just now, she could see how tired the knight was. It seemed that braving the Northern snows had taken a heavy toll on the brave stormlander.

"I also have a message for Princess Myrcella from His Grace, King Tommen," the southern kingsguard said after accepting the Guest Right. Shireen's blond lady-in-waiting leaned forward in undisguised interest. "The vicious outlaw, Gerold Dayne, has been brought to justice, and his head now sits on a spike in Casterly Rock!"

Grumbles of approval could be heard amongst the court, and a small smile appeared on Myrcella's face. The knight then made his way to one of the tables, and with a signal from Jon, a servant quickly brought him a generous serving of food and ale.

"Brienne of Tarth, come forth," her brother stood up again. Her sworn shield was dazed, but she quickly walked in front of the dais and kneeled. "Hand over Oathkeeper."

The stormlander dazedly stood up, unstrapped the sword from her belt, and silently gave it to Jon. He placed the sword next to Widow's Wail and his bronze blade to his right. What was her brother doing?!

"Kneel!"

The tall woman kneeled once more, and suddenly, a new, different bronze sword appeared in Jon's hand.

"Brienne of House Tarth," the blade touched her right shoulder, "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and the innocent. In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women. Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth."

The court cheered in recognition. Brienne was still kneeling there, dazed, but Jon smirked and effortlessly helped her up.

A most deserved knighthood! Sansa knew that few southern knights would keep a given vow when things got truly hard. A lesser man would have taken the gifted Valyrian Steel and gone home with it. Brienne had stubbornly held her word to her dead mother and continued looking for Sansa and Arya for years, no matter how daunting or hopeless. Without the Tarth heiress, Sansa would have never reached the Wall alive.

"And a personal reward is in order," her brother's voice thundered once again, and he placed the new bronze longsword in Brienne's arms. "Oathkeeper belongs to House Stark, but this blade shall be yours. You will not find it lacking compared to Valyrian Steel!"

*

Tyrion Lannister

The hoarse wails of anguish and pain from the torture room nearby and the slop they delivered to his cell were the only things he could use to measure the passing time in the darkness. When the cries of agony stopped, it meant that the torturer was going to bed, or at least Tyrion assumed so. He wondered if it would be his turn next. After all, the slop itself was not only tasteless but more water than anything else and could probably barely pass for food, even in Fleabottom. Eating it made somehow made him hungrier.

The only thing illuminating the darkness was a flickering torch in the nearby hallway. Ever since he got thrown in the cell, nobody had visited him aside from the old guardsman that brought food. Tyrion closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his stomach kept twisting in hunger and keeping him awake. If he did manage to get some rest, his nightmares were plagued by purple fire and dragons.

At first, he thought they would have him tried and killed, but the more time passed, he thought he might be passed onto the torturer instead. After all, his current victim seemed to be expiring. Whomever they were torturing sounded weaker and weaker with every next slop serving.

Just as Tyrion was wondering if they had custom-made straps for torturing dwarves, the clinking sound of steel on stone echoed from the hallway.

He blearily opened his eyes and winced at the bright light from a torch right in front of his face.

Soon, he found himself dragged away, with no regard for his weak short feet that could not keep up the pace, especially with both hands and feet bound by manacles.

"Where are you taking me?" He asked, barely recognising his scratchy voice but receiving only a stony silence in return. Even if he wanted to struggle, he was too weak to fight against the two Red Cloaks.

His eyes began to hurt as they reached one of the better lit-hallways. Soon, they left Casterly Rock, and he started shivering from the frigid air outside. By the time his eyes got used to the light, he was faced with a wooden platform with two upright oaken beams and a crosspiece… gallows.

"I demand a trial!" he managed to force his dry throat to cry out as they quickly brought a barrel.

"But you've already had a trial, Tyrion Lannister," a wisened voice stated calmly. Tyrion twisted his neck and squinted his eyes to see a tall, wiry old man dressed in an elaborate fur-lined cloak. Beneath the clasp peaked a pale blue surcoat with a golden crane. "You lost your trial by combat, and the gods proclaimed you guilty."

Tyrion got lifted off his feet and placed on top of the wooden barrel, just beneath the crossbeam. He tried to struggle, but the hands of the Red Cloaks were as strong as iron.

"I want to take the Black," he desperately rasped out as the noose was forced around his neck.

"The last time it was offered, you refused," Jaime's frigid voice made him try to turn around, but at that moment, someone kicked the barrel underneath.

His neck felt as if it was on fire as he dangled helplessly in the air. Tyrion tried to breathe, but the noose was getting tighter and tighter the more he struggled. His head began to hurt, and he started feeling dizzy.

After a few moments of painful tousling, his eyes finally found Jaime, a few dozen yards away, who was as still as a state with his golden hand, standing right next to a young but resolute Tommen.

A blissful feeling of numbness began to spread as the edges of his vision began to darken.

*

8th Day of the 4th Moon, 304 AC

Jon Stark

He carefully watched as a circle of three times seven ethereal Others chanted around the Corpse Queen, who was imprisoned on a throne made of ice. A spiralling matrix of stone and ice, densely inscribed with the runes of the First Men, glowed.

The chanting that sounded akin to cracking the ice of a frozen lake slowly intensified as they walked away from the circle, as the prisoner, together with its surroundings, slowly began to fade.

He channelled all of his magic and will into the wand, and the world spun.

Jon warily stepped away from the heart tree, feeling tired. He had underestimated his body; his legs had taken a scant three weeks to heal fully. But even in his best condition, diving into the weirwood was incredibly straining. Nearby, Winter was lying lazily in the snow amidst the largest clearing while watching him protectively with his dark, lidded eyes. His familiar had felled a few trees to fit there. Soon, he would have to start planning a lair for Winter.

Jon's body was defenceless while in the weirwood, and he would have never bothered trying this if his familiar was not guarding him.

He had used up both dragon hearts and had only two working wands to show for it. One ironwood and one with yew. Much to his chagrin, the yew wand was a far better match, but still a far cry from what he had with his Holly and Phoenix Feather wand, let alone the Deathstick. Still, as long as he didn't push it too much, the new yew wand would serve him for a long time, hopefully enough for him to find more proper magical cores to experiment with.

Ever since then, he had slowly begun trying to unravel the mysteries of the heart tree out of curiosity and boredom. Once he realised it actually showed the past and not random visions, his efforts intensified. Around five hours were spent in the Godswood every day.

His royal duties were quite lax in the winter, and he had already delegated the less important things. The weirwood was like a pensive, but it only had recorded events that had happened in Westeros. Forcibly pushing his mind inside and looking for memories felt too taxing and took a significant toll on his mind, body, and magic, even with a wand. It was no wonder that his reckless attempt earlier almost melted his mind.

Still, it took Jon three months as time inside flowed too quickly, but he had unearthed quite a lot of interesting information. He also had to be careful about his presence inside the weirwood.

The Great Other he had slain in the dream world was originally the Corpse Bride of the Thirteenth Lord Commander. Her tribe had banished her there for consorting with a human.

She probably slowly broke out of her prison and became more and more powerful as the millennia passed, but she couldn't return to the world for some reason. Strong enough to slowly choke out magic from this part of the world.

He suspected earlier, but now he had a confirmation - the White Walkers were just sentient constructs created with the willing sacrifice of Craster's sons.

The first battle for the Dawn had not heralded the total defeat of the Others; it only pushed them back into the Lands of Always Winter.

That was why the Wall was originally built, to potentially stop a second incursion.

The Wildlings were descendants of the Night's Watch's rangers, and their goal was to exterminate the Others no matter what, while the Black Brothers guarded the Wall. Before the Thirteenth Lord Commander, members of the Watch were allowed to wed, and thus many of the families lived beyond the Wall, and tribes had formed over the centuries. By the time the Others were completely exterminated, the men and women living beyond the Wall had drifted apart from the Night's Watch, whose members were now required to sever ties with their families. Their origins were slowly forgotten as time passed, and enmity began to arise.

Given more time, Jon could definitely find more interesting things from the past. But now that he had his worry about facing Others again assuaged, Jon would spend far less time in the Godswood. It would not do for him to dwell in the past and forget to live.

"Your Grace!" A cry broke him out of his musing, and he looked up to see a tired Torrhen. "An envoy from Highgarden has arrived in court."

For a short moment, Jon was tempted to make the southerner wait, but he didn't have anything better to do now. Might as well see what made another knight brave the northern snows.

He quickly headed towards his quarters and changed into a regal set of clothes instead of the plain tunic he currently wore.

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the Winter Throne.

"Who exactly is the envoy?" Jon whispered to Manderly to his right.

"Garlan Tyrell, Lord Willas' younger brother, Your Grace," was the quiet reply.

"How did he get here? Do we know what he wants?"

"He arrived on a sled pulled by wolfhounds from Barrowton, Your Grace. They moved with little trouble on nearly ten feet of snow," Manderly uttered, sounding quite impressed. "The Reachman was stuck there for moons until he got annoyed enough to throw gold at the craftsmen until they presented him with better means of traversing the snows in winter than bear paws. And while I can't say why he's here, I can make a pretty good guess."

Jon shook his head while suppressing a scowl. Southern politics, no doubt.

"Ser Garlan Tyrell, " he called out, and a charming man in his mid-twenties stepped forth and bent the knee. "What brings you to Winterfell?"

"I come here in the name of my brother, Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden, to bring a gift for the North's independence." The knight motioned, and two servants carried over a chest and cracked it open in the middle of the Great Hall.

Gems and gold glittered from within the chest, and surprised murmurs could be heard from the northern court.

While it looked visually impressive, the chest was not that big, and experience told Jon that it did not hold more than two dozen gems and less than ten thousand golden dragons.

"That's very generous of Lord Tyrell," Manderly agreed amicably, but Jon could catch the barest sliver of sardonic disdain in his words. "But surely you have not travelled all the way here to present a mere gift to His Grace?"

"You are correct, Lord Manderly," Garlan Tyrell agreed with a smile. "I am also here to propose an alliance between our two Houses."

"An alliance?"

"Yes, Your Grace. My brother wishes to ask for the hand of Princess Sansa Stark in marriage!"

The Great Hall became deathly quiet. While there had been gentle probes or inquiries about marrying his sisters before, Jon had easily deflected them without trouble. Nobody so far had dared to ask so brazenly in open court. He had to admit; it was a good marriage in theory. Higharden was the heart of the Reach, and his sister had been wed to a bastard and a dwarf and was considered 'damaged goods'. But his gaze wandered towards Sansa, who had gone deathly pale.

"Quite bold," Jon conceded as he fought the urge to grab his sword. "But both my sisters are very precious to me. Anyone who wants Arya or Sansa's hands in marriage must prove himself capable of defending them."

"Highgarden can call upon a hundred thousand swords, Your Grace," the knight proudly stated.

From the corner of his eyes, Jon saw Sansa shaking like a lone leaf in the wind, and it looked like she was about to faint. Ghost sensed his mood, stirred from his legs, and, in the blink of an eye, was already near his sister and softly placed his head in her lap.

He caught her gaze and gave her his kindest and most reassuring smile.

"Sansa, what say you?" He asked softly.

She gulped heavily and took a deep shuddering breath. A few heartbeats later, she visibly calmed down, nodded to Jon, stood up, and looked at the waiting Garlan. The entire hall seemed to hold its breath.

"You flatter me with such an offer, Ser Garlan. Yet I shall regretfully have to decline, for I wish to stay with my brother and sister. Winterfell is my home; it has always been and always shall be," Sansa's voice cracked in the end, and she sat back down while petting Ghost's soft neck.

Cheers erupted in the hall, but the knight was not satisfied.

"Please do not be so hasty in taking a decision, Princess! My brother is one of the most powerful Lords in the Seven Kingdoms. There is not a Seat as beautiful and peaceful as Higharden-"

Jon stood up, abruptly drew his sword, and slammed his bronze blade into the slated floor all the way to the hilt.

The silence in the Great Hall was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Lords? Kings? A hundred thousand or a million swords? They mean nothing to me," he snorted disdainfully, and all the braziers in the Great Hall burst out with volatile purple flames. Next to Sansa, Ghost stood up in his full glory and bared his teeth menacingly. "Anyone who wants either of my sisters' hand in marriage must either win their favour or defeat me in Single Combat. Personally."

*

'As soon as Daario Naharis heard the news of Daenerys' demise, he declared himself King of Mereen and butchered the council the dragon queen had left behind with his Stormcrows. He was killed by a whore a moon later and thus earned the moniker "The Moon King".

Meanwhile, Khal Rolo had established himself as the strongest of the newly emerged Khals and led a large Khalasar to Slaver's bay. Some scholars argue that he wanted to immortalise his name by taking down the Harpy, but others say he was simply looking for riches and slaves.

After Daenerys' ruinous campaign in Slaver's bay and with the Unsullied all brought away by the Dragon Queen, none could stop the Dothraki Horde. Mereen and Yunkai were sacked with little resistance, but when Rolo attacked Astrapor, he was met with two lockstep legions led by Krazdil mo Hardan…'

Excerpt from 'The Rise of New Ghis' by Maester Yadrack

*

Picture of Shireen for yall.