Epilogue Finale

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

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'The Sundering was a pivotal point for the North. The Lands Beyond the Wall had begun to thaw after the Battle of Westwatch by the Bridge, even more so after the Wall was shattered. The Lands of Always Winter retreated even further north, and greenery could be seen along the formerly named Frozen Shore.

In the following ten years, House Stark had doubled the territory under their rule, with more seemingly to come as the lands in the far North seemed endless. The newly formed channel allowed a second route to reach the western coast of Westeros without sailing around Dorne, attracting many a seafarer along the way. Coupled with the Builder's expanding road network and the unprecedentedly generous city and town charters, the North flourished.

The Breaker's Straits - the narrowest part of the newly named Northern Channel was one of the most lucrative places in Westeros. The southernmost tip of the North quickly transformed into a budding town now called Southshore, which later grew into a heavily fortified harbour city.

Many call Jon Stark the Third a cruel tyrant or a brutal savage, but in the North, he'd be forever remembered as the second coming of the Builder. His fateful trip to Valyria allowed him to gleam into the forgotten depths of the arcane, mastering the power to mould fused stone itself. With the aid of the Northern Fury, Jon Stark spent much of his rule expanding upon the already-done road networks. Similar to the famed dragonroads of the Freehold, the Winter Roads of the North stretched to every domain of House Stark's kingdom. The highways were broad enough for six wagons to travel abreast without trouble and were elevated more than a foot above the ground to allow snowmelt and rain to run off its shoulders. They never seemed to freeze, even in the coldest winters, and were unaffected by time, weather, or traffic.

From the Valley of Thenn to the Breaker's Straits, from Widow's Watch to Sea Dragon Point, the winter roads stretched to every corner, close and distant, of the North, with the heart of the enormous network being Winterfell and the surrounding city of Wintertown.

The Winter Roads were acknowledged as the tenth wonder made by the hands of man.

But it seemed that Jon Stark had acquired a taste for grandness; the roads were not the only place where he used his sorcery to shine.

The Builder created a summer palace for House Stark at the southern crest of Sea Dragon Point to serve as a luxurious residence for the royal family while being a formidable, if small, castle in its own right.

All the fortifications of Winterfell were pulled down and remade anew - expanded, grander, sturdier, and infinitely more imposing. Unlike the rest of the fused dragonstone that was as black as coal, the one in both seats of House Stark was made from pale stone that seemed to repel dirt and dust.

Yet, the crowning achievement of the Builder is, without a doubt, the Dragon Spire that resided within the walls of Winterfell. Like a white spear piercing through the heavens, the magnificent structure could be seen from afar and is said to be taller than Casterly Rock. Little is known about the eleventh wonder besides that dragons slumber there. Everything about the Spire is shrouded in secrecy, although according to the rumours, only the northern king and his heir can enter-'

Excerpt from 'The Grand Northern Expansion' by Scholar Artos

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Samwell Flowers/Aemon Steelsong, Storrold's Point 321 AC/8 AS

"Why," he swallowed heavily, "why hide it from me?"

Aunt Val looked at him with pity and regret shimmering in her greyish eyes. The grey sneaking into her honeyed locks suddenly made her look like a tired old crone.

"Everything was to protect you. The war-"

It was too much, too damn much, and he couldn't bear to look at his aunt anymore. The chamber felt suffocating, and he couldn't stay any longer.

Before Sam, no, not Sam Flowers. It was Aemon now.

Aemon Steelsong.

The kind, sweet Grandma Melessa wasn't his grandmother anymore. Nor was the jolly Aunt Talla his aunt…

His legs already carried him through the blurry hallway into the open, pushing a few blurry figures away, and he dashed away. There was no direction; he just wanted to get away. He didn't care about the wedding feast; he didn't care about propriety.

After all, a bastard would not be missed, not truly. Nobody would bat an eye at his poor manners, either.

He ran and ran as time lost meaning. His eyes stung, his lungs were on fire, and every breath was a struggle; his legs felt like lead, but he kept moving.

In hindsight, running blindly into the forest during the night was not the brightest idea, not with tears clouding his vision - his foot caught a root, and Aemon's face soon met the ground in a very painful manner.

Rolling around the forest was not a pleasant experience, but the dirt and leaves softened his fall.

With a pained groan, he managed to lift his sleeve and wipe his eyes. The clear night sky greeted him, peeking above the canopy - an endless expanse of twinkling stars strewn into every direction.

Everything hurt; his muscles, lungs, back, feet and side were probably bruised or broken from the fall and the rocks and roots his body had met during his tumble, but he didn't care.

Ah, his insistence on going and meeting his father did not pay out…

All those refusals and excuses to let him go and meet him now made all too much sense. That was why they denied his desire to join the Northern Expedition Force…

No, Grand Scholar Samwell was not his father, which was not the problem, not really. Mance Rayder being his sire was not the issue either - Aemon hadn't met any of them. They… didn't really matter.

But, everything, everything felt like a lie, his time spent in Horn Hill, the smiles, the care, the warmth…

"If I were any slower, Dain would have skewered you," a quiet yet powerful voice tore through the night.

Aemon twisted his neck, wincing as his body pulsed with pain.

The pair of majestic purple eyes above him made him pale.

"Your Grace-"

"There's no need for courtesies right now," the king dismissively waved his hand. Aemon gaped as his body was flooded by warmth, and all of his pain was soothed. "Now, tell me what had you running like that. You almost ran over Ragnur Thenn, and If I didn't stop my royalguard, they would have killed you."

Aemon gulped. The infamous direwolf sigil sat proudly upon the otherwise plain black silken doublet, and his mantle was similarly austere yet regal. Yet he had seen many noblemen dress far more opulently, their clothes lined with gems and gold or silver. Yet none could rival the king in bearing; Jon Stark did not look out of place in the forest; the wild surroundings made him look even more regal, and his attire was without a single blemish. The Breaker's imposing presence was like a mountain; even with that friendly smile on his face, it was not someone you could deny or ignore.

This was the man who had shattered Westeros in two as if it were a piece of rotten wood. What was he doing here, in the far North?!

It took a few seconds for Aemon to realise that he probably came to attend the wedding of Lord Jeor of New Barrow, a new young lord who was ennobled for his contribution to the Northern Expedition. Heat crept up in Aemon's cheeks; running into the king was a terrible faux pass - he could see how the royalguard thought he might have been attacking His Grace.

Aemon stood up and bowed, "I apologise for-"

"Answer the question," Jon Stark's voice was icy. "Your liege commands it!"

"I… was raised in Horn Hill-" The words were slow to escape his stiff mouth, but as the minutes dragged on, the small spring turned into the raging river, and angry words flew out of Aemon's tongue like arrows from a bow.

In the end, he felt somewhat lighter, as if a weight had gone off his shoulders when he finished his tale.

"Was I living a lie?"

The king's impassive face twisted, and… he guffawed. The booming laughter echoed through the forest, and it felt as if spears were stabbing into Aemon's gut-

"I'm not laughing at you, boy," Jon Stark wheezed between his chortles. "Just at the situation. I forgot what it was to be young and plagued by simple silliness like that."

"There's nothing simple! My kin is not my kin…" The young man trailed desperately. "What do I do now?"

"Do you love Lady Melessa and her daughter?"

The warm blue eyes of Talla and Melessa were stuck in his mind. Even after his fostering, Aemon visited Horn Hill at least twice a year if he could help it, and he was always welcomed kindly and with joy. But it was a fucking lie.

"I… do," he decided. "But I'm not of their blood. Just a stranger, an impostor!"

"Go back to Horn Hill," the king's voice softened. "Be the greater man. Tell them the truth."

"But what," the words choked in his throat, "what if they kick me out?! They would be within their right!"

"Indeed," Jon Stark shrugged. "Maybe they would. Maybe they won't - sometimes kinship is more than just blood. But the only way to know is to go there and lay the truth out for them - you took no part in this deception, so spare yourself the torment. A man with your skill in the blade won't lack a roof over his head in the North. Should the Tarlys turn you away, come to Winterfell."

The words were like a ray of sunshine in a cloudy sky. Yes, he had to go back and try and make things clear, no matter what. He owed House Tarly at least this much! Besides, serving directly under House Stark was one of the most prestigious positions one could get in the North. If he proved himself good enough, he could even join the royalguard.

"I am grateful for the advice, Your Grace," Aemon bowed deeply. "But… why, why would my Aunt hide this?!"

"Did you run out before hearing her reasoning?" The young man could only nod and rub the back of his neck sheepishly under the king's dry gaze. "Well, I suppose I can tell you. I was there the day you were born-"

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'The eighth year after the Sundering was one of the hottest in recorded history, and combined with the lack of rain, made for a devastating drought. The Black Drought was the cause of the third and longest ceasefire in the Fifty-Year War; it struck almost the whole of Southern Westeros and resulted in brutal fires and famine in many places in every kingdom. Many smaller rivers and lakes ran dry while the larger ones shrank.

This spurned the Dornish to finally look northwards and begin raiding the Marches again.

Lord Balon Blackmont, also known as the Black Vulture, was the most daring of the brigands and terrorised the smallfolk for moons. He even managed to slay Lord Corlon Peake and his sons, who attempted to fight off the incursion, and most of the Peake Lands were looted by the Black Vulture. Lyle Peake, Corlon's brother, turtled up in Starpike and refused to leave the formidable fortress, giving the Vulture free reign upon the lands.

The Blackmont Lord decided against wasting his time in sieging Starpike and, after having his fill of pillaging and burning the Peake lands, turned his sights onto Tarly.

Harlon Hunt, the consort of Lady Talla Tarly, was also slain in the battle of Pennyhill, but the Dornish brigands fared no better. Samwell Flowers, who had just returned from his fostering up North with a Valyrian Steel sword rumoured to be a gift from the Breaker himself, rallied the remaining Tarly forces and managed to make his way to Balon Blackmont and lop off his head. The Dornish troops were routed, chased down and-'

Excerpt from 'History of the Marches' by Maester Donnel

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Shireen Stark, Winterfell, 331 AC/18 AS

Her bare feet ambled over the warm white marble flooring as she made her way to the mirror - the cold could find no purchase within Winterfell, even though the hot water from the hot springs no longer ran through the walls. The pale fused stone simply did not cool beyond a certain point. The king's chambers were still cosy, but they had changed - there were no more rafters above, and the tall, flat ceiling was lined with varnished ironwood. On the walls lined with goldenheart were mounted all sorts of trophies - skins and furs of dangerous beasts Jon had slain or masterfully made spell-forged arms that he had crafted. Every piece of furniture was tapered in royal blue velvet, intricately carved from red cherry, varnished, and lined with bronze and silver.

That's beside the velvet cot for Ghost in the corner, where he lazily napped without care, curled into an enormous silky white furball.

One of the walls, covered by a black velvet curtain, facing their balcony was made entirely out of transparent glass - a marvel her husband had made. Even the new glassblowers that had settled in Wintertown, easily rivalling those of Myr in skill, couldn't make something like this. Not only was the glass unbreakable, but it was only transparent from the inside - if you tried to take a look from the outside, you'd only see unending darkness. Not that anyone could ever reach the balcony from the outside - at the very top of the new Great Keep, it was more than three hundred and fifty feet above the ground, and all the walls of the holdfast were as smooth as silk and unbreakable, impossible to climb even for the most daring of souls. However, because of the pristine snow-like colour of the fused stone, many had begun calling it the White Keep instead.

Being so high would have been uncomfortable without the royal bath on the same floor, which was faceted entirely with porcelain and silver. Each tile was of the finest make and worth its weight in gold, and together, they depicted two elaborate mosaics - one portraying their wedding and the other - the legendary Battle of Westwatch.

A clever system of pipes not only delivered hot and cold water straight next to the royal bedroom but also allowed for it to drain, along with the waste from the marble-lined privy. Similar, albeit somewhat lesser, luxury was only available for the royal residents of the White Keep and the finest apartments in the new Guest House.

Although judging by the happiness of the visiting lords, such amenities would be established in their seats, no matter the cost.

The influx of craftsmen and artisans from Jon's deal with Volantis and New Ghis made the North flourish like never before. That's besides the king's peace, attracting even more from the four corners of the world. Smithing, woodworking, sculpting, glassmaking, tailoring, masonry, and many others boomed at unprecedented rates. The North's appeal to traders and wanderers had increased more than tenfold in the last twenty years.

Coupled with the milder weather, the Winterspring Academy, and the Winter Roads, many called this the Golden Age of the North. It was a flattering name, but not untrue.

Shireen's gaze wandered towards the intricate ring atop her index finger. Pitch black dragonbone and pale gold that Jon called platinum intertwined seamlessly, crowned by a blue diamond, with the heartstring of the gargantuan horror that had inflicted Winter with his scars as a core made for a rather inconspicuous focus, allowing the Queen to use sorcery with greater ease. From the same materials, Jon finally made a wand that managed to efficiently channel his prowess without breaking.

Magic was both… challenging and wonderful. Her talent had turned rather average; her magical endurance was, in fact, quite pitiful. To this day, Shireen was mostly good at healing, basic things like household spells and lightning out of sheer stubbornness more than anything else.

The Queen shook her head and turned back her attention to the clear, smooth surface - another marvel her husband had made. Taller than her, its silvery surface provided a perfect reflection without a single distortion.

A pair of sky-blue eyes gazed at the reflection of the enormous mirror - Shireen had barely changed, although her silky raven locks now reached the level of her knees, woven in an elaborate northern braid. Without magic, it would have been quite the challenge to take care of her hair, handmaidens or not. However, that didn't stop the northern ladies from trying to emulate her style - both the long hair and the complex braids.

Indeed, her husband's words proved true - she had barely aged. A black silken gown, lined with intricate details of red gold and dark silver, trimmed with pale lace, hugged her willowy yet buxom body that had remained almost the same despite giving birth to seventeen children. In fact, when Shireen stood next to Argella and Lyarra, some had confused her for their sister, not mother. The court had begun gossiping at some point, but none had dared to inquire to her face.

As always, Jon had turned correct - even their children were affected to a large degree. A moon shy of four and twenty, Rickon still looked like eight and ten.

Another figure stepped behind her, and a strong pair of hands pulled her into a hug. Jon looked no different than the day he wed her - bar the streak of white hair on the right that stood out like snow, but it only made him look more dashing than anything else. It was earned during the Sundering itself.

A mortal coil is not meant to control, let alone channel, such vast amounts of primordial power.

Those words had deeply chilled her then, but he was hale, hearty, and not exactly mortal…

"Edwyle tried to claim Bloodfyre yesterday," the words were whispered in her ear, making her neck tingle pleasantly.

She would have pushed him to the bed right there if they hadn't made love the whole morning. Their desire to get another daughter had resulted in fifteen sons instead, and after seventeen children, Shireen had given up on the notion altogether. Not that they stopped their pleasurable tumbling in bed, but the possibility of getting pregnant was sealed by magic. She had tried moon tea, but that simply didn't do anything to prevent Jon's seed from quickening, so the Queen was forced to look to magical solutions.

Her mind returned to Bloodfyre - claiming the red dragon was a fool's errand because while amiable enough, she had grown too fat to fly for more than scarcely a minute and barely managed to lounge around atop Winterfell's roofs and ramparts lazily. A little bit more, and Bloodfyre would be greater in thickness than length…

No matter which one of Shireen's children attempted to become Bloodfyre's rider, they were met with indifference. In fact, Shireen had bore witness to one of the attempts, and it amused her to no end - Rickon heroically climbing atop Bloodfyre's neck, only for the red dragon to continue sleeping soundly, no matter how her son had urged, blustered, or shouted. Winterfell was rebuilt partly because many of the structures could no longer bear the rotund scaly frame of Bloodfyre; in fact, the Guest House's roof had collapsed just like that…

"Well, you did refuse to give any of our children dragon eggs," Shireen pointed out with a cough.

"It's for the best," Jon sighed. She eyed her husband with appreciation; he was garbed in a simple black silken doublet with white wolf heads stitched around the collar, but the fabric could barely hide the robust figure underneath.

It had been a contentious topic at first, but Jon would not budge to their children's whims. Initially, it had stemmed from Jon's refusal to grant toddlers dragon eggs, but as they grew, he was just as reluctant. As Argerlla and Lyarra were going to marry outside the family, gifting them a dragon was unwise. After years of mulling, Jon and Shireen decided that spreading the dragons amongst his many sons would be just as thoughtless in the long run. The fresh, living dragon eggs were in the Dragon Spire itself, where only Shireen and Jon could enter for now. Though their decision was met with much protest from their children, they could only accept it in the end - even Rickon did not have a hatchling.

Shireen turned to face her husband and fondly ran her hand through his prickly stubble. "But sorcery can be just as powerful as dragons are."

"Indeed, but only Rickon was taught everything and has a wand," a soft smile found its way to Jon's face. "The rest of our children are far weaker with magic than our eldest and know little more than the basics."

Unsaid was that if someone managed to force his way into the Spire uninvited, they'd be powerful enough to make themselves a problem without a newborn dragon. Once Rickon took up the crown, he would be the one to bear the burden and make his own choices and shoulder their consequences, be it what to do with the dragon eggs resting in the Spire or the Grimoire that held all the arcane knowledge Jon had gathered, both resting safely in a magically-protected vault.

Shireen sauntered towards the balcony, bypassing the opened glass door. The rails, made of spell-forged bronze, reached the height of her chest and were inscribed with intricate shapes and symbols. That was beside the two pale stone gargoyles in the front corners - a shaggy direwolf and a curled drakeling of similar size.

Gone were the double curtain walls separated by a moat. The new fortifications of Winterfell reached just shy of three hundred feet, and beyond them, one could see the orderly yet colourful slate and clay-tiled roofs and the cobbled streets and squares peeking in between. Most importantly, there was no stench. The late and lamented Wyman Manderly's planning had paid off - the master masons had done a stellar job of building a clever sewage drain system that displaced the waste outside the city walls into a faraway field where it was turned into fertiliser. Coupled with strict sanitation laws and a budding new godswood open for the public for the city, Wintertown was the cleanest city in the whole world of its size.

Aside from the castle's untouched godswood, the rest of Winterfell was also transformed - all the buildings had been remade in a more elegant style, hewn out of marble or fused stone. Most of the yards and pathways were paved with sturdy dark-gold cobblestone tiles that a clever Essosi mason had invented with various types of clay.

A fierce pride swelled in Shireen's heart, for she had played a heavy role in all of this.

"Enjoying the view?" Jon moved to her right, a roguish smile resting upon his lips.

"It is so magnificent I can't get enough of it," she softly admitted as she leaned into him. A strong arm pulled her into a half hug. "So, do you think you'll have another challenger for Sansa's hand?"

And by the gods, wasn't that an odd surprise?

Jon's decree and brutality had stilted suitors quite quickly, but to Shireen's chagrin, plenty of her sons lusted after their aunt. Even though she was technically a cousin once removed, the red-haired daughter of Eddard Stark was still a great beauty. Even though she was over forty, one could mistake her for a woman no older than thirty instead, courtesy of that suicidal leap into Jon's resurrection ritual. The Queen had been furious when Artos had challenged Jon over Sansa's hand, and while her husband did not go easy on their son, Artos was not crippled, only bloodied and bruised. At least her son had the wits to issue his foolish challenge behind closed doors.

Worse, it seemed he wasn't the only one who liked Aunt Sansa like that. It made Shireen want to tear her hair out just by thinking about it.

"I hope not," Jon grimaced, "I am at least thankful that none of our sons fancied Argella or Lyarra. Honestly, I'm tired of those challenges. As long as it's not Rickon if they want to bed the aunt that raised them, they can go and try and court her instead."

While most of their sons were wild and mischievous, courtesy and gallantry had been drilled into their very bones, and they would never try anything untoward or underhanded.

"I say you should let the challenges stand," Shireen sighed. "I have never seen Edwyle, Artos, James, and Lyonel train with such dogged fervour."

While not as quick or strong as their father, all of their sons were far above normal men physically. At least those who bothered to apply themselves; Torrhen, Brandon, and Jonnel had all joined the Winterspring Academy, intent on becoming scholars. They didn't lack martial skills; it simply wasn't their focus.

"Mayhaps they might defeat me with pure skill and technique soon," Jon rubbed his brow. "They've certainly come far - this year, they managed to defeat everyone in our annual tourney, including the Umbers and the Royal Guard."

"Everyone but Rickon and you," she giggled. To this day, out of twenty-three tourneys, Shireen had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of the whole North, all twenty-three times.

All of their sons participated in the games, though some avoided the melee in favour of the other categories like archery, boulder tossing, or wrestling. Though, to be fair, most of the Stark Princes had few duties and oft spent their days in the training yard, sparring with each other and the royalguard. And by her husband's words, most of their sons had greater talent at arms than he did. Still, aptitude and relentless effort were not yet enough.

Shireen tried to be impartial regarding their children, but in the end, she would grudgingly admit that she favoured her eldest. He was the apple in her eyes, squiring for Torrhen Flint in his youth, then personally trained by Jon, who squeezed every single drop of potential, both physical and magical, from their firstborn.

"I'm glad he is not interested in Sansa; he could already beat me in pure skill alone," the king laughed joyfully and sat down in one of the elegant chairs lounging on the balcony, pulling her into his lap. "The only reason I still win some of our spars is speed, experience, and strength, and even then, I have to work hard for it."

Shireen closed her eyes and enjoyed her husband's warm embrace for a few heartbeats. The slow yet mighty sound of flapping wings heralded the shadow that blotted out the sun as Winter's gargantuan form lazily circled above Winterfell and Wintertown, as he loved to do every day. Jon's dragon guarded its territory almost as jealously as his rider if the rumours were to be believed.

Her blue eyes stared at the heavens as the black and blue titan ploughed through the cloudy sky.

"If Winter grows any bigger, he might not fit in his lair in the Spire," Shireen observed. "Even the Black Dread was not as huge."

Though most of the floors of the dragon tower had been magically expanded, the space inside still wasn't infinite.

"Indeed, he surpassed the last recorded size of Balerion three years ago," Jon chuckled. "But Winter stopped growing last year, at least in size."

Her husband's dragon had always been a behemoth; in comparison, Stormstrider had barely reached Silverwing's recorded wingspan during the Dance.

"I thought dragons never stopped growing?"

Though, if they did stop, she'd be very grateful. The three dragons ate ten heads of cattle daily on average, Winter devouring more than half of those. If not for House Stark's immense prosperity, that would have seriously strained their coffers in the long run, as the amount of food they devoured slowly increased every year.

"Well, I'm not sure," Jon shrugged nonchalantly. "The maesters who had penned the treatises on dragons didn't have many specimens to base them off. And it was merely based on observation rather than understanding and knowledge. As you know, no books survived the Doom, so not much is actually known about dragons. Although it was for the best, feeding Winter had become quite costly in the last few years. While it seems he will not grow bigger, his fire continues becoming hotter, his scales and spikes - harder, and he somehow manages to fly faster than before."

This would mean that Winter would grow even more terrifying in the future, the Northern Fury indeed.

They leisurely spent more time on the balcony until it was time for the family breakfast. Ghost darted outside, probably headed for the vast freedom of the Wolfswood.

Two of the royalguard were waiting outside the king's chamber - Alaric Snow and Bernard Bolle. Clad in silvery steel lined with bronze, they were like a pair of silent shadows that trailed after the royal couple.

All members of the royalguard had to pass Jon's muster in loyalty and skill, making them some of the most dangerous men in the North. After her husband and sons, that was. There had been talk of expanding the royalguard to more than thirteen, but in the end, it had been deemed unnecessary; each of the royal children had a direwolf companion, and Jon had settled on adding a personal sworn sword on top.

Old age had caught up to Jyanna Snow, Shireen's sworn sword, three years ago - the shieldmaiden had grown grey and became weaker and slower with every passing moon, so the Queen allowed her to retire in a gifted manse in Wintertown.

Shireen's mind drifted off as they descended the marble-lined spiralling staircase. The tiring time sitting in the royal council had thankfully long passed, but other issues had hungrily gobbled up her time. No matter how much Jon and Shireen tried to delegate and create positions to smoothen the running of Winterfell and the kingdom, they remained busy.

Jon to attend the weekly council meeting and wrangle with the ever-growing courtiers and petitioners over issues small and big, and Shireen would first spend some time with her youngest sons and some of her ladies-in-waiting, organise the royal household, the education of her children, and if the remaining time permitted - visit the orphanages of Wintertown.

As the royal couple made their way towards the dining chambers, they were waylaid one floor before they reached their destination.

Rickon Stark, a head taller than his father, flanked by the enormous Shadow on the right and the burly Svennar Thenn of the royalguard on the left. Not only was her eldest's direwolf slightly bigger than Ghost, but the coal-like shaggy fur and the savage green eyes made him a fearsome sight, just as imposing as his master. Yet, Shireen knew that he would melt when you scratched on a certain spot under his chin.

"Father, Mother, may I have a moment of your time before we break our fast?" There was a note of weight in Rickon's tone. Her eldest had inherited the best of Jon and Shireen - a sharp, long masculine face with high cheekbones and delicate eyebrows framed by long raven locks. His burly frame threatened to spill from underneath an intricate silver-lined padded surcoat that mirrored his father's sigil but in black-on-grey. Tall and dashing, as muscled as his father, if not more, courteous with an easy smile resting on his lip, he made many a maiden swoon after him.

Shireen shared a short but concerned look with her husband; despite his mischievous childhood, Rickon had grown into a responsible man and wouldn't ask on a whim. Much to her chagrin, at thirteen, her eldest had managed to sneak into the Northern Mountains while squiring for Torrhen and slay an enormous snow bear with a knife on his lonesome. Thankfully, Rickon had quickly grown out of his mischief under the ardent training of his father.

"Fine," Jon agreed, "but better be quick; it wouldn't do to keep the rest of our kin waiting too long."

They quickly entered one of the empty chambers to the side, and the three royalguards stood vigil outside the door.

Rickon straightened up and eyed them uneasily as the door closed.

"I want to travel."

"You just returned from your royal progress only three moons ago," Shireen pointed out. Their son had gathered a large retinue and managed to visit every lord of the North, big and small, in the last two years.

"Yes, but the North is all I've seen," their son sighed. "It is great, but I want to see the rest of Westeros before I'm chained by my duties."

The Queen scrutinised her son, making him fidget. Jon's piercing gaze pinned Rickon as the seconds slowly dragged on with heavy silence.

"A substitute for the master of laws could be found again," the king rubbed his beard. "But both of your sisters are getting married in eight moons, and you promised to become Hand so I could finally let Lord Roderick Dustin return home and rule his seat in person."

Argella was to wed Jon Manderly, the Heir of White Harbour, and Lyarra - the young Lord Rogar Reed. Shireen had been reluctant to marry off her twin stars of the North, as the court called them, but at two and twenty, it was already considered late for a maiden to marry. In hindsight, they had been growing restless of late. In fact, it had been Argella who had brought up the topic of marriage, followed by her twin sister, and neither the Queen nor her husband had any reason to reject the union to old, leal, and respected houses. Besides, House Stark's power was undisputed, and none could ever dream of pressuring them to form marriage alliances.

"I'll definitely be back by then," Rickon promised solemnly.

"I suppose I can allow it," her husband's words brought a blinding smile to their son's face. "But don't be late, lest I'm forced to drag you back here myself."

Shireen was not worried about Rickon's safety; very few would dare to risk her husband's fierce wroth even in the South, and even if they were foolish enough to try - the Prince of Winter was almost as dangerous as his father, both with sword and magic. That's besides the retinue that would travel with him.

The rest of the kingdoms were now peaceful - the disputes over the Vale crown had ended ten years ago, and even the war between the rose, the lion, and the eagle had petered down to nothing more than a handful of skirmishes with another attempt at a peace treaty on the horizon. No, the Queen did not worry much about her son's safety. But his surprising shyness when dealing with beautiful maidens was another thing. The gods knew that Shireen had wished none of her children turned to debauchery like drinking, wenching, and whoring, but to her chagrin, the gods seemed to have answered those prayers far too well with her eldest.

"And don't forget you've yet to choose a bride," Shireen reminded chidingly, making her son wince with reddened cheeks. "We've allowed you to take your pick of the northern maidens, but that does not mean you have to continue dallying."

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'Princess Arya Stark had four children with Torrhen Flint - two sons, Eddard and Jon, and two daughters - Catelyn and Serena.

In 20 AS, Prince James Stark scandalously married his aunt, Princess Sansa Stark, who was a good three decades his senior. Various rumours had swirled through the northern court about how a few of the Princes lusted after the king's eldest sister. Supposedly, Prince James not only managed to defeat his father, the Breaker, in a duel behind closed doors but to win his aunt's affections after another six moons. Any attempts to pry off details from the royal family were met with failure as all those who had been present for the duel turned out notoriously tight-lipped about the affair.

Despite nearing fifty, Sansa Stark did give birth to two healthy daughters-'

Excerpt from the 'Geneology of House Stark'

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Rickon Stark, the Riverlands, 331 AC/ 18 AS

His face twisted into a grimace at the thought of his future marriage. The memory of Aunt Arya's brutal explanation of being wary of women after Lynera Knott had tried to sneak into his bed in Breakstone Hill was fresh on his mind.

Sordid tales of bastardry, infidelity, intrigue and plots made his head spin and made him wary of any ladies approaching him. Aunt Sansa did teach him how to look at the hints and cues, and with the aid of magic, Rickon realised that there were few trustworthy maidens, if any.

How could he trust women when they didn't even see the forest for the trees? He could feel that the northern maidens only saw the Crown Prince and the Breaker's heir, not Rickon Stark. All the lords and chieftains subtly and not-so-subtly pushing their daughters and nieces onto him during his progress helped even less.

Rickon wanted a genuine, happy marriage like what his parents had, but alas, he couldn't trust the northern maidens.

Harpies in disguise, the lot of them!

He squashed that line of thought - if it came to it, he'd pick a betrothed that was easy on the eyes, if nothing else.

Being able to read behind the fake veneer of courtesy turned out to be a double-edged knife. It was nothing as crude as mind-reading, but Rickon had mastered the ability to sense the intent of the people around him when he reached adulthood.

That's besides the rigorous training and numerous duties that he had been burdened with by his father. Rickon couldn't help but envy his brothers' carefree lives - it was rarely a day when he did not go to sleep feeling tired.

But he understood - as the eldest son of Jon Stark, he could only be the best. And being the best required relentless dedication and numerous sacrifices - every scrap of free time was more precious than Valyrian Steel to him. His Royal Father and Torrhen Flint were demons who would squeeze you out for everything you were worth and then some more.

Truth be told, Rickon could swallow a marriage alliance and try to grow closer to his spouse, but House Stark needed no marriage alliances - his parents allowed him to pick his bride as long as she belonged to the nobility. The North didn't lack for pretty or wild damsels, but Rickon simply didn't trust them.

He shook his head and focused on the dirt road ahead. Pitiful, small, uneven, covered with dried weeds and packed dirt- the track was no better than the mountain trails in the Frostfangs.

Rickon snorted - this was considered one of the finest roads of the South? There was no crushed gravel, let alone basic paving. It made sense, though; the South was poor, and the art of stone melding was something only his Father knew and passed down to him and penned into the family grimoire, which sat securely in the deepest vault of the Spire. Even if it was widespread, Rickon doubted any would have the power to use it on their lonesome but his father and him.

That did not make the difference less jarring.

It didn't help that the northern side of the Riverlands had suffered greatly - just like the Neck, it had risen up, and with the source of the Green Fork sitting on the other side of the Channel, the land had turned hilly, dry, and barren. Even the surrounding forest and shrubbery were thinning, and most had gone half-rotten or dry from the severe lack of water. Even smallfolk were sparse - this was their second day in the Riverlands, and they had not met more than a handful of impoverished peasants who were making their way southward towards the lusher parts of the Riverlands. Abandoned hamlets and villages were a common sight.

With a shake of his head - he focused on his companions - Lucas Blackwood, Svenar Thenn, and Denys Dustin. With much effort, Rickon had managed to keep the news of his journey under wraps and had ultimately decided to travel light. They wore no distinctive coat of arms upon their persons, and they looked like a group of hedge knights, albeit wealthy ones - their arms were of the finest quality, but that could be chalked off to the prosperity of the North.

And such was the plan - if any asked, he was Ser Rickon Snow of the Red Antlers coming south to test his mettle against the Andals with his small retinue. He had even mastered the glamour to change his hair and eye colour - now they were both ordinary brown. Much to the direwolf's chagrin, even Shadow was glamoured to look like an enormous black hound as he sulkily trailed after their party from the side. There was also a letter penned by his father as proof of their supposed royal task to the Isle of Faces that would hopefully deflect any overly curious lords or knights. Knighthood was not common in the North, but it was not that rare either. There were the knights that came with the Manderlys and still swore to the Seven, but they were few.

The barrow knights placed their oaths before their ancestors as they kept vigil for a night above their barrows. The last kind was a new thing, one of the many changes after the Sundering - the emerging winter knights, also called Thegns by the smallfolk, that gave their vows to the Heart Trees in the eyes of the Old Gods. There was some difference in the knightly orders - but the core remained the same - fealty for one's liege, to serve in defence of your people and the such, although there was quite some variation in the wording of the vows.

"Ser, is it true that you squired to the Blackfish?" It was the excited voice of Lucas Blackwood, a tall, wiry boy of five and ten and Rickon's new squire.

Despite his broad back and stout figure, the boy was absolutely useless in a fight with a melee weapon, but if you placed a bow into his hands, the Blackwood heir could nail you in the eye without fail from a hundred and fifty paces.

"That I did," Denys hummed. The barrow knight was almost two heads shorter than Rickon, and many would call him an amiable man. But that was only because they had never seen Denys with a morningstar or lance. "The old curmudgeon was a menace until the very end, but a beast with a sword and one of the finest instructors I've had the pleasure to study under."

Brynden Tully, who had trained at arms almost the entirety of the Stark Household for a whole generation, had turned into one of the knights of legend and respect in the North even before his death in the second winter after the Sundering.

"And he left a handful of Snows for the Princesses to raise," Svenar Thenn chortled. "They say the old Blackfish was responsible for a quarter of all the whorehouse earnings in Wintertown until his death."

A cousin of the Thenn Chieftain, the royalguard had been one of the first winter knights and was one of the most dangerous men in the North with his bearded ax. Like all the others in his clan, he had black First Men runes covering the right side of his face, which made for a fearsome sight, together with his fiery beard and locks woven in war braids. Yet, Svenar was one of the jolliest royalguard - a smile was ever plastered on his face and a jest resting upon his tongue.

"Your Gr-"

"Ser Snow or Rickon here," the crown prince reminded. Just trying to imagine the amount of lickspittles and pageantry he would suffer if news of his presence here made him feel dizzy.

"Yo-" his squire coughed under his rankled gaze, "Ser, if I might be so bold to ask, do we have any destination in mind?"

"Maybe," Rickon deflected. "For now, there is no rush. And by the gods, Lucas, don't speak like you have a spear up your arse."

His squire nodded sheepishly, and they continued onwards.

"Hey, Thenn, did you hear about Lady Dacey?" Denys idly asked.

"Was I supposed to hear something?" Svenar scratched his beard.

"Well, according to my sister, she got knocked up by a passing bard-"

Rickon tuned away the incoming wave of scandalous hearsay and gazed into the cloudy sky with longing. Greyhoof, his steed, was smart enough to follow the road and the lead of the others, so he eventually closed his eyes and enjoyed the pleasant breeze caressing his neck. Shadow would tug on his mind if there was any danger or trouble. The direwolf would sense it far before any of them could - Rickon had no worries. Now, he had the one thing he had longed for.

Freedom.

There were no expectations here, no responsibilities, no silly pageantry, petitions, or politicking, just the road before them, the wind in their hair, and the swords upon their hip. Though the arming sword was a simple sidearm - the crown prince preferred the halberd that his father had gifted him upon his eighteenth name day. Rickon slowly lost track of time as he drifted deep into his thoughts.

Eventually, a low rumbling forced him to open his weary eyes. The conversation had died off, and the sun was crawling towards the west - it was already late afternoon, and the crown prince must have napped for hours. Rickon suppressed a drowsy yawn and looked around.

"The Green Fork," Denys noted.

And he was correct - they soon arrived at a wide, deep riverbed - at least a hundred feet wide and more than ten feet deep at places. Yet it was little more than stones, all round and smoothened by the relentless flow of water that was gone with the Sundering. Weeds peeked shyly between the rocks, and the dull rumbling of water could be heard underneath - but it was weak.

The Green Fork was but a shadow of its former glory, at least here - according to merchants, it fared better towards the trident as numerous small rivers and creaks from the Mountains of the Moon flowed into it on the way.

They followed the riverbed south, and just as the sun began to set, a fortress appeared in the distance.

It was an ugly thing - a bridge and two towers that threw a twisted shadow under the sunset.

The Crossing.

Rickon could feel the magic pulse and twist all the way from here with the faint scent of death, rust, and decay - it was indeed a cursed place. Abandoned for nearly two decades, the battlements already looked dilapidated under the onslaught of the sun, wind, and rain.

It stood there like a foul reminder of the biggest fall of House Stark.

Visiting it had not been his plan, but now that he was already here, Rickon could not ignore it. A desire to crush the accursed seat of House Frey swelled within his breast. Rickon took a deep breath and decisively suppressed all the turmoil raging like an angry dragon inside him.

No, the Twins could remain. Rickon could smash it with laughable ease now if he wanted to, but it would expose his presence here for all to see, and his travel as a nameless hedge knight would be cut short before it even began. The Crossing could remain standing for another seven moons.

Much to his chagrin, his father had always denied him not only a hatchling but the magical knowledge to soar freely through the sky.

"Where exactly are we headed, Ser Rickon?" Svenar's amused voice brought him back from his rumination.

"I've heard Fairmarket is a good place to visit, and we'll see from there."

Rickon had six moons to take his joyous fill of freedom and feast his eyes on all the sights the South had to offer. Once the time to attend Argella and Lyarra's weddings approached, the crown prince would claim the Green Scourge as his mount and fly back home, but not before blasting the thrice-damned Crossing into oblivion.

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'Shireen Stark - also known as the Good Queen or the Spring Queen, was one of the most beloved rulers in history. At four and ten, she flew on Stormstrider northwards, preventing the Northern Forces at Westwatch from being routed by the relentless onslaught of the wights and their icy masters. The unexpected valour forever earned her the love of the northern lords.

Yet, her justice and generosity won her the love of the smallfolk. Her love for the Builder was legendary - according to an old yet persistent rumour, her kind heart kept his harshness at bay.

Yet her greatest feat was as a mother - she had born the Breaker fifteen sons and two daughters in ten years. None could deny that the Spring Queen was blessed by the gods; some even went to call her the Mother reborn.

Born in 307 AC, Rickon the Great, known as the Winter Prince in his youth, led the North into an even grander era of peace and prosperity than his father.

Argella and Lyarra Stark, the twin darlings of the North, were born in 309 AC. Many a lord lusted after their hands, some even from distant kingdoms, but the Breaker did not entertain any of their suitors. Known for their unrivalled beauty, they married into Houses Manderly and Reed, respectively.

In 311 AC, Shireen gave birth to triplets - Edwyle Stark, the Merchant Prince, who had a mind for sums and trade and later became one of the world's richest and most powerful merchants. Artos Stark joined the royalguard and rose to become the lord commander, while Steffon Stark found his calling in the Winterspring Academy and became a Grand Scholar of the Arcane, later to join the royal council as a master of whispers.

The Queen gave birth to twins in the year of the Sundering. Robb Stark would rise to the position of Winterfell's Master of Arms while his brother, James, managed to marry his Aunt, Princess Sansa Stark. That became an enormous scandal and almost began a divide within House Stark. Eventually, the Breaker sent away his son to become a Castellan at the Dragon's Rest - the summer palace built upon Sea Dragon Point.

Shireen Stark was already pregnant again the following year - in 314 AC, three more Princes joined the royal family. Lyonel Stark later proved himself as Lord Commander of Wintertown's City Watch, his brothers, Brandon and Torrhen, became scholars, and Torrhen would later become his eldest brother's Hand, also known as the Golden Hand by the smallfolk. Brandon, on the other hand, would be known as the drunken sage - the Prince had an incredibly sharp wit but was rarely sober and could oft be seen in the embrace of a whore, much to his parents' chagrin.

In 316 AC, the Queen gave birth to triplets again. Sirius, Aemon, and Cregan were inseparable, restless and had a relentless streak of mischief. Also known as the wandering wolves, they all turned into ardent explorers, or as they liked to call themselves - adventurers.

317 AC was the last time Shireen Stark gave birth - again to triplets. Borys Stark joined the royalguard, Beron - the Northern Expedition, and Jonnel Stark became the governor of Southshore-'

Excerpt from the 'Geneology of House Stark'

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Jocelyn Durrandon, near the God's Eye late 18 AS

"I thought we'd be going to the Reach, Elyn?" Dyana asked while worriedly tugging on her chestnut braids.

Her handmaiden, barely six and ten, was a sweet and leal girl hailing from a cadet branch of House Morrigen. But she was skittish and had a terrible sense of direction.

"No, my father would find me there," the princess shook her head. "I only gushed about the Reach and Oldtown to mislead my father - both Lord Bloodsmile and King Garlan would turn me back to my father in a heartbeat."

"But… these are wild, dangerous lands," Dyana worriedly gestured at the surrounding wilderness - a dense forest of trees dotted with shrubbery. They had seen a wild herd of shaggy horses and aurochs from afar yesterday. "The Green Scourge is said to kill any who trespass."

"That's not true; I've heard from my royal father that the dragon only goes after larger groups of men. Any group bigger than half a dozen would be relentlessly hunted. No search parties would dare come this way."

And it was just them and their mares - Sara and Jeyne. The horses did have quite some trouble navigating through the greenery, but there were still goat trails that they stayed upon. Jocelyn had managed to cleverly run away during a rainy hunt in the kingswood - if the Seven were smiling upon her, her royal father would still be searching the royal forest.

But Jocelyn knew not to harbour any hopes or rely on luck - Edric Durrandon was known as the rising Storm for a reason, and even at over forty name days, he was as relentless as his moniker. Unless her father saw her corpse, he'd continue looking for her, no matter what. After Jocelyn's mother had passed away, the smiles had died in her family. Gone was the kind, jovial father, and the cold, stern king had taken his place.

Life on the run was a harsh thing, but Jocelyn was always a free spirit and oft went hawking or riding and wasn't a stranger to forests, hills, and rivers. By her estimate, they travelled more than five hundred miles - a gruelling endeavour that left her tighs and bottom feeling rubbed raw from riding, but it was preferable to the alternative. Sleeping under the starry sky for the first time had been a harrowing experience, but it wasn't too bad once you got used to it. The morning stiffness would fade after some stretching, and there was no stuffy pageantry or the annoyance of the endless doves of tittering ladies.

The journey was not without hiccups, but there were little dangers - she had her coin pouch to tide them through, and the few who dared to resort to brigandry in the Stormlands were quickly hunted down.

"And where do we go next?" Dyana whined worriedly.

Jocelyn almost regretted taking her handmaiden with her. But despite the incessant whinging and worrying, Dyanna was leal, and her knowledge of herbs, cooking, and the such was mighty helpful. Her mother was rumoured to be a woods witch, while her father was nothing more than a wandering, impoverished knight from an old lineage, albeit a cadet branch.

"We'll make our way to Saltpans from here and then to White Harbour, Southshore or Gulltown," the princess admitted. "I'd rather be a no-name seamstress in some city than marry that fat old slob Lysaro Rogare."

Just the thought of marrying some slavering whoremonger, First Magister of Lys or not, infuriated and disgusted her to no end. It was supposed to be a secret, but she had overheard a council meeting by mistake - her hand was to be used as a bargaining chip for an alliance with Lys against Myrish, who had just taken control of the Stepstones and the whole of the Disputed Lands bar for a few coastal settlements.

Jocelyn always knew she was going to be sold off for a marriage alliance somewhere; she had thought it acceptable - but it was to be some young lord or heir near Storm's End, not across the sea to a fat old man who peddled flesh for a living and helped her father in his childhood!

Crone above, Jocelyn had almost given up a few times, but in the end, it had been worth it - the feeling of freedom and having your fate within your grasp, not to the whims of others.

As soon as the late afternoon approached, they began looking for a place to camp for the night. They settled in a small clearing and tied their mares to a young elm nearby.

As they were setting down their bedrolls, Jocelyn wondered if her siblings would miss her.

Robert probably wouldn't - the crown prince had a spear up his arse and harped all day about duty this and duty that. On the other hand, Davos would definitely mourn her, but he'd approve of her flight if he was sober. Cassandra, her petty cow of a sister, would hate her for escaping from her betrothed while she married the handsome young Dondarrion heir.

Jeyne and Sara began to whine nervously, and Jocelyn looked around warily. Did they sense some wolves or-

"Look what we 'ave here, Arle," a craggy voice made Jocelyn whip her head and stiffen.

A tall, gaunt man stood next to their horses. Garbed in battered, rusty ringmail, the dark-haired man gazed at her with a lusty smile on his blotchy face, and his dark beady eyes reminded Jocelyn of a pig.

"Ah, two delicious birds," it was another man's voice. "Young, soft, and supple, just as I like 'em!"

Three more men emerged from the other ends of the clearing, surrounding Jocelyn and her handmaid.

Dyana whimpered pitifully, and the princess gulped as she felt naked under their greedy gazes. All she had was a measly dagger; all of the brigands had either hauberks or some padded leather armour, along with bludgeons, spears, and an arming sword on their hips.

Ice ran through her veins, her heart thundered like a drum, and her insides twisted into a painful knot.

"Look at her; this one's got teeth," a mocking voice from the side made Jocelyn realise that she had her dagger in her grasp, trying to place it between her and the outlaws. It felt too small, too flimsy...

"It has been too long since we've had a warm cunny to ourselves, let alone two," a third man, stout and wormy, chortled happily.

It was useless. Their struggles and pleas seemed to only excite the brigands more. The dagger was nothing more than a toothpick smacked out of her arms.

Jocelyn never felt as much weakness and despair as her dress was torn apart - no matter how she resisted, she could not fight off the wiry hands of her assailants that pressed down onto her like a mountain. Her hands were bound, and a dirty rag was stuffed into her mouth to halt her cries for help. Jocelyn desperately looked around - but no help was arriving. They were in the middle of the wilderness, away from any knights or men at arms…

"Yes, yes, keep struggling, little dove," the gaunt brigand was already excitedly unbuckling his worn leather belt.

Jocelyn felt numb and detached at the prospect of being subjected to the coming indignity, and she didn't notice that the forest had gone deathly quiet.

In the next heartbeat, everything exploded. A titanic axe, no, halberd, tore through the air. The princess watched with morbid fascination as the head of the vile outlaw flew into the air, spraying warm blood everywhere, including all over her. A bone-chilling growl followed by yells and cries, and the bandits were dead before she could blink.

Suddenly, her hands were no longer tied, and the disgusting, filthy rag was gently removed from her mouth. The princess numbly wiped away the stinging blood from her eyes.

The clearing had gone crimson - red coloured the surrounding grass and stones, and Dyana was bawling her eyes out. Jocelyn's mind still couldn't process the sight before her. A gigantic black hound, the size of a cave bear, was greedily crunching upon a torn hand; the ringmail, leather, and rusty iron were like straw under the hungry maw of the enormous barghest. The lowlife that had hovered over Dyana had a pair of arrows sticking out from his eyes and another from his groin. In front of her was the giant, looming over seven feet tall and clad in pitch-black plate.

Even the steel could not hide the mountain of rugged muscle that threatened to spill out. The titanic poleaxe in his grasp was the oddest weapon Jocelyn had ever seen. Not only was it enormous yet fitting in the man's grasp, but the shaft was made out of some dark bone littered with intricate runic script, and the wicked head was forged from… bronze?

The visored barbute helmet was then removed, and Jocelyn could only stare dumbly. Underneath was not an ugly giant but a rugged young man with a wild mane, laughing eyes, and a kind smile. Warrior above, he was almost a head taller than her father and looked thrice as strong!

With a flourish, he removed his dark cloak from his shoulders and gently placed it over her torn gown.

At that moment, a tall, older boy, mayhaps a squire, approached and tried calming down the hysterical Dyana.

"I apologise for getting you splashed with blood, my lady," the knight's voice was as soft as silk as he bowed, and the regret within was genuine.

Jocelyn stared and stared at her saviour, unsure if she was dreaming. Her heart kept racing like a doe in the woods, but the terror was gone. All that escaped from her lips was a tongue-tied "Oh."

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'When Jocelyn Durrandon had escaped to avoid being married to an old Lyseni Magister, the Storm King was wroth.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of men, were sent to look for the errant princess and Edric Durrandon himself took part.

In the end, the Rising Storm found her in the presence of some nameless hedge knight from the North near the Saltpans. Thinking that he had despoiled his daughter and ruined his alliance with Lys to oppose the rising Myr-Pentos Duarchy, the king ordered Rickon Snow flogged and gelded despite his daughter's protests.

Rickon Snow, however, denied the accusations and demanded a trial by combat. Edric Durrandon craftily agreed to hold a trial of the Seven, as the northern Hedge knight only had three companions with him, one not even a man-grown. After all, how could a small group of nameless wandering knights defeat the king, his heir, a demon with a greatsword, and five of the royal stormguards, chosen amongst the finest warriors in the Stormlands?

Yet, Rickon Snow accepted the royal terms and, on his lonesome, defeated all seven of his foes with ease, one after another, without killing or maiming even one of them.

Before the situation could escalate any further, the Green Scourge flew over and made everyone freeze or flee in terror, but surprisingly, Rhaegal was content to only watch with interest.

The hedge knight then asked Princess Jocelyn for her hand in marriage. She accepted, and any protests that the Storm King had were quelled when Rickon mounted the Green Scourge-'

Excerpt from 'The Life of Rickon the Great' by Grand Scholar Joer

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'The Breaker was not happy with his son's choice of bride, but he accepted it begrudgingly. Still, a triple wedding was held, where the crown prince and his twin sisters were all wed in one grand ceremony in Winterfell.

The same year, 331 AC or 18 AS, the Winter Prince ascended to the position of Hand, relieving Lord Roderick Dustin of the office.

Aside from a few scandals within the royal family, the rest of Jon Stark's reign passed peacefully and prosperously.

Twenty-eight years after the Sundering, however, the Builder did something unprecedented. He passed the crown to his heir, Rickon Stark, and retired from the public eye together with his wife. The last time either of them or their dragons were seen was in 30 AS in Southshore, but many rumours -'

Excerpt from 'The Life of Jon Stark III - Breaker and Builder' by Grand Scholar Edwyn