Epilogue02-The Stormlords' Plight

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

Editor: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

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 in all my works ahead of discord.

*

'There are many theories about King Jon Stark III's mother. Some outrageous claims propose that Jon Stark was the fruit of a sordid affair between Queen Rhaella Targaryen and Eddard Stark, but there's little proof. The Breaker himself claims not to know who his mother was, as Lord Eddard Stark passed away before he could tell him. Another popular theory is that his mother is Ashara Dayne. While this theory looks plausible since Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne danced during the Tourney of Harrenhal, it falls short as the Dayne beauty had given birth to a stillborn girl towards the end of the rebellion.

The difficulty of pinpointing Jon Stark's mother is only further increased by the fact that he was first seen in Winterfell and that by the time he ascended to the Winter Throne, most of Westeros had already been badly ravaged by war. According to Archmaester Perestan, the Northern Dragon's mother is one of the many unnamed dragonseeds left after the Targaryen rule. While no bastards were acknowledged after Daemon Blackfyre, House Targaryen continued siring them, and most continued to procreate. Aerys himself was rumoured to have many a mistress-'

Excerpt from 'The Northern Dragon' by Maester Yandel

*

308 AC

Lord Ralph Buckler, The North

The green hills rolled all the way to the cloudy horizon as a few birds chirped from the nearby trees. To the east, a shepherd could be seen calmly ushering a large herd of cows. Their retinue passed another cart dragged by a mule.

"Everything looks so... calm," Ser Alyn Estermont noted as his blue eyes shone with amazement. "Do you think the Queen will aid us?"

"All of us here bled for her father," Lord Robert Fell grunted as he looked around warily. His cousin had died for Stannis in the North.

Ralph couldn't truly fault his caution. The Crownlands and the Stormlands had become very dangerous to travel around since the last winter had ended. Many a knight had turned to banditry, and even some of the smaller lords had followed. And that was without mentioning the hungry smallfolk or the Essosi pirates. A band of such brigands had slain the new Lord Rosby.

"That means little," Ser Robin Massey cautioned as he ran a hand through his pale hair. "From what I heard, after King Stannis was defeated, his daughter had to flee in the northern snows alone until Jon Stark found her."

"None of the Lords swore fealty to her, she owes us nothing," Ralph agreed with a sigh. "Aegon had us by the balls, and none expected Shireen Baratheon to survive the North, let alone marry the king here."

And Strickland would still have them by the balls as well if more than half the hostages hadn't died from the winter cold or the spring sickness.

"Bah, if the tales of dragons are true, surely it would be no effort?" Lord Fell exclaimed. "We'd gift him two kingdoms on a platter!"

"If you wanted a dragon so badly, you could have tried taming the green monster of Harrenhal, and you could become king instead," Alyn Estermont countered with a snort.

"I'm not mad enough to try," Lord Robert Fell barked out a laughter. "Last I heard, some poor sods from Lys got roasted."

"What does a Stark care for the south?" the Massey knight added with a sigh. "And it would be far from a gift. He'd still have to fight Strickland and the Tyorshi."

Ralph had to admit that Ser Robin had a point. The Starks seemed to suffer a loss when they lingered south.

"If a third of the tales are true, I doubt they would give him much of a fight," the Lord of Felwood snorted, and their group fell into thoughtful silence again as they were moving north.

Ralph couldn't help but marvel at another sheep herd. It reminded him of the distant, peaceful days that were scarcely a long-forgotten memory. A time before everyone with enough swords to their name decided to place a crown atop their head.

"Are those Blackwood banners?" The Estermont knight exclaimed, and they all turned around to see where the younger man was pointing at.

The scarlet field, black ravens, and white tree were unmistakable. Half a dozen horsemen were riding down the path in their direction.

"Aye, that's Blackwood, alright," Massey confirmed.

"I wonder what they are doing in the North," Lord Fell muttered curiously.

"I doubted they would stay in the Riverlands with Bracken in charge," Ralph offered. "And the Blackwoods still worship the Old Gods, just like most of the North."

"Let's wait for them," Alyn Estermont proposed. "Mayhaps they can tell us more about the King and the Queen than Lady Cerwyn."

The Lady in question had hosted them for a single night in Castle Cerwyn but refused to speak about Jon Stark or Shireen Baratheon.

They agreed to wait and stilled their horses, and the Blackwood horsemen quickly approached. He recognised two of them.

"Lord Tytos Blackwood!" Ralph greeted his old acquaintance with a slight smile. "Didn't expect to meet you here of all places."

"Hail, Lord Buckler," The old Blackwood Lord nodded in return. His hair had turned almost entirely grey; only an errant black strand fought off the advancement of old age. "I am a Lord of the North now."

"How did that happen?" Robin Massey inquired.

"I took my whole household and fled for the North the moment Aegon proclaimed Bracken Lord Paramount," Tytos explained with a sigh. "King Jon Stark granted me the Stony Shore and a generous amount of coin to build a proper keep."

Ralph couldn't help but gasp in surprise; the Stony Shore was almost a third the size of the Stormlands!

"Mighty generous of him," Lord Fell suspiciously grunted.

"Aye, it was very generous indeed," the Blackwood Lord agreed proudly. "House Blackwood was the last to dip the direwolf banner in the Riverlands, and His Grace deemed us worthy of a reward. But enough about me, are you going to join Winterfell's tourney?"

"I thought the northerners didn't host tourneys?" Estermont asked curiously.

"Not a traditional tourney," Lord Tytos shrugged. "There's no joust."

"What's a tourney without a joust!?"

Ralph could barely hold his mirth at Alyn Estermon's outrage.

"There's archery," Lord Fell scoffed, but Lord Blackwood continued unperturbed. "And other things, I suppose. You'll see for yourself soon enough. If not for the tourney, what are you Stormlords doing here?"

"We're here to request aid from the King," Ralph admitted after a short silence. "Half the Stormlands is under the yoke of Strickland and his Golden company, and Essosi pirates ravage the Crownlands unopposed."

"Didn't the Golden Company burn outside of the Golden Tooth?" Tytos asked.

"Harry Strickland had a good garrison in Storm's End and managed to rally the fleeing remnants," Ralph explained. "He handed out a few smaller lordships to his captains and has won the marcher Lord's allegiance by helping them beat away a Vulture King, and has now almost fully subjugated the southern Stormlands."

"Tyroshi pirates have sacked Driftmark and have taken over Maidenpool and Dragonstone, and Stonedance was attacked twice, albeit unsuccessfully," Robin Massey added with a grimace. "After Stannis took the whole fleet North, and our strength was wasted at the Field of Fire, pirates, reavers, and slavers come and go with impunity in the Crownlands."

"Do you think the King would be amenable to helping us?"

Lord Blackwood straightened up and carefully measured them with his dark eyes.

"I can't speak in the name of His Grace, but-"

A roar so loud Ralph felt his bones vibrate interrupted Tytos, and all the horses shuffled uneasily. From the North, an enormous dark monster tore through the cloudy sky. Its shadow blotted out the sun peaking between the white clouds.

The dragon wheeled around the sky, the sound of its wings beating like an enormous drum. Thankfully it finally turned towards the Wolfswood to the west and disappeared into the horizon.

"Fuck," Lord Fell swore, face pale.

"There truly is a dragon," Estermont coughed, and Ralph could see the knight's hand tremble on his reins. The Lord of Bronzegate was not any better; he could feel his heart thunder painfully as cold shivers ran down his spine.

"This must be as large as the Black Dread," Robin Massey also looked shaken.

"Nay, not as large as Balerion," Blackwood amended calmly. "I've seen the skulls in the Red Keep while the Dragons still ruled, and Winter is less than half the size of the Black Dread, at least for now."

"Balerion lived nearly two centuries," Ralph coughed in surprise. "And how old is this one? Five years?"

"Something like that," the new Northern Lord agreed. "But from what I've seen, the bigger it gets, the slower it grows."

"Does Shireen Baratheon have a dragon too?" the Massey knight carefully inquired.

"Aye, Her Grace is the rider of Stromstrider. And you better address the Queen with respect, Ser!"

The knight sputtered an apology under the stern gaze of Lord Blackwood.

Ralph could now believe all the tales about the second Field of Fire, no matter how fantastical. But that only begged more and more questions; namely, why hadn't Stark conquered the Seven Kingdoms just as Aegon had done three centuries ago? A dragonrider with Shireen Baratheon as a wife was all the claim he would ever need!

"Lord Tytos, what can you tell us of the King?" Ralph carefully urged, "We've heard all sorts of weird tales."

The Blackwood Lord hummed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked northward.

"His Grace is a person you don't want to provoke," Tytos slowly started as if he was tasting the words in his mouth. "But as long as you keep to the law, you've nothing to fear with him; he is fair and just."

*

'Since the Conquest, the Red Faith has attempted many a time to gain a foothold in Westeros. Yet, despite House Targaryen's love for fire and blood, the priests of the Lord of the Light found little purchase for nearly three hundred years. The Demon of the Trident proved little different, as the man worshipped only wine and whores. Yet things began to change with the King's brother.

Melisandre of Asshai, also known as the Red Witch, was a priestess of R'hllor. While she shadowed King Stannis Baratheon, many rumours spread about her sorcerous ways that supposedly aided the King of the Narrow Sea, he was still defeated on the battlefield by blood and steel. She, however, found no purchase in the Northern Court with her religion of fire. The last time she was seen was in 303 AC travelling through the devastated Riverlands and preaching of her Red God to the smallfolk. While she mysteriously disappeared afterwards, her previous actions in Westeros could be felt for many years.

King Jonos Bracken ruthlessly crushed the fledging faith of the Lord of Light in the Riverlands, but most of the population of Dragonstone was converted to the worship of R'hllor. Not only did the Archon of Tyrosh continue holding the ancestral seat of the vanquished Targaryens, but he sent an official chapter of the Red God to build a red temple there-'

Excerpt from 'treatise on the Red Faith in Westeros' by Maester Yadrack

*

Blackwood did not bother to mention that the tourney was not a standard one by a long shot. While it did not have the traditional joust, there were many odd competitions that looked surprisingly… interesting. Even smallfolk could sign up if they had the coin.

"Bah, who would ever compete in slinging," Robert Fell whinged, as half a dozen northern clansmen below competed in stone-slinging, trying to hit a target seventy-five paces.

"You do know that one of these can crack a head open or knock you out even if you have a helmet, right?" Ralph asked with a snort as he watched one of the stones splinter the wooden target.

While it was not a great spectacle, he could appreciate the deadly simplicity of the men below.

"Stark probably takes some of the most skilled men here in his employ," Robin Massey spoke up thoughtfully.

"How big is the reward anyway?" Alyn Estermont grunted out with a scowl. The knight still wasn't happy about the absence of the joust.

"The lowest is fifty dragons for the winner and fifteen for the runner-up," Ralph provided. "It goes up to two hundred for fisticuffs and archery for first place and sixty for second. And the melee's prize is by far the biggest. Seven thousand dragons for the winner and two thousand for the runner-up."

Lord Fell whistled. Ralph could only recall only one person who had been so generous with the victor's purse at tourneys.

"I'm gonna sign up for the melee," Estermont decided, his earlier indignation completely forgotten.

"Are you sure, Estermont?" Fell asked. "Last time there was a great tourney in the North, eighteen men died in the melee, and nearly twice as many were maimed."

"Really?"

"Yes, the tourney of Last Hearth in year 170 after the conquest," the Lord of Felwood smirked, and the Estermont knight paled.

Ralph couldn't help but look at the royal box where the King and the Queen were supposed to stand. Sadly, he could at most see their faces from his position unless they stood up. And that was all they managed to catch a glimpse of. The Northern Royals seemed to prefer to avoid parading their presence.

It was already the third day since they arrived in Winterfell, and their request for an audience was still hanging uncertainly since the Northern Court was suspended for the duration of the tourney.

A short, stout man with a thick beard won the slinging, and the games of the day finished with a spear-throwing contest clinched by a young man wearing Mazin heraldry, with a Crowl coming second.

Just as they were going to return to their lodgings at the Smoking Log, a young man stopped them. His tabard depicted a grey stone on a green hill, the Flints of the Mountain if Ralph remembered correctly, but that was hardly the most eye-catching detail. No, while the young man was about six feet tall, his shoulders were twice as wide as those of a normal man, and his arms and legs were bulging with muscle, reminding the Lord of Bronzegate of tree trunks. If anyone could have contested in strength with the Mountain That Rode, it would be the man in front of him.

"King Stark shall see you now, Sers," the young man's voice rumbled as he beckoned to follow them. His sharp face was cleanshaven, yet his hair was a long, dark shaggy mane.

They silently trailed after the Flint, who moved with surprisingly quiet steps for a man of his stature.

The entrance to the royal box was guarded by two burly guardsmen clad in direwolf livery with chain and grey doublets peaking underneath. While slightly taller than the clansman leading the way, they looked like twigs he could snap at any time, compared to his broad frame.

"Your arms," one of the guardsmen in question stiffly pointed to a small wooden stand on the side.

With a bit of grumbling from Robert Fell, they left all their weapons behind, including the apparently hidden dagger in Estermont's boot that was found in the search afterwards.

After a short climb on the wooden steps, Ralph and the rest finally found themselves face-to-face with the Northern King, whose wooden throne turned their way.

Bronze crown, black silken doublet, with a single white direwolf on the collar for ornament. While he was not as tall or as broad as some of the other Northmen, the King's purple gaze weighted upon the Lord of Bronzegate like a crushing mountain.

Remembering his etiquette, he quickly bent the knee, followed by Massey, Estermont, and Fell.

"Rise up."

Jon Stark's voice was bored, but his face was impassive, and Ralph was not sure what to make of the man who managed to scream danger by simply lazily sitting on a wooden throne. He could, however, finally take a quick look around. On the King's left stood a maiden with a crown of her own that could only be Shireen Baratheon, albeit far prettier than he imagined a daughter of Stannis and Selyse Baratheon would be. But there was no mistake there; she had the bright-blue eyes and the coal-like hair of the line of Durrandon, and the larger ears of the Florents peaked from underneath her long hair. Only the supposed greyscale was missing, replaced by a silvery scar on her cheek that did not seem to mar her beauty. The rumours of the Northern Sorcerer-King magicks suddenly gained a lot more credence in Ralph's mind. On the right was a plump greying old man who could only be the Lord of White Harbour, Wyman Manderly, with the golden trident emblazoned on his pale blue velvet doublet. His position and the bronze pin on his breast suggested that this man was the Hand.

The Flint clansmen had taken position behind the King, and a heavily scarred woman, clad in grey steel, stood behind the Queen.

Then, a white beast, taller than a man, stirred from the shadows in the corner and lazily stretched, eliciting a fearful gasp from the Lord of Bronzegate. But he was far from the only one, as he looked around to see all his companions looking as pale as milk, hands reaching for weapons that were no longer there.

"You have nothing to fear from Ghost, my lords," the Queen spoke in a melodic voice as the monster calmly trotted over and sat by her side. She ran a hand through the white fur of the direwolf, who was looking down on the Stormlanders from a single red eye.

How none of the Northerners were perturbed by the presence of a beast that looked like it could rip limbs off as easily as a dog would kill a rat was a mystery to him.

"Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate, Lord Robert Fell of Felwood, Ser Robin Massey of Stonedance, and Ser Alyn Estermont of Greenstone," the plump old Hand listed with surprising accuracy. "Well, I'm curious to know what brought you all here to Winterfell. Bring your petition forward, my lords."

They uneasily looked at him, and Ralph took a step forward, as they had already agreed he would be the speaker as the older and more experienced Lord.

"Your Grace," his throat felt as dry as the Dornish desert now, but he turned to the Queen and kneeled again. "Many Stormlanders fought and bled for your father! And now, Storm's End is held by an Essosi sellsword who mocks us and our traditions, and the Crownlands chafe under pirates and slavers. We humbly request aid from the North."

"Rise, Lord of Bronzegate," Shireen Baratheon's icy voice matched her now cold face. Gone was the calm, serene maiden, and a Queen hewed of ice and winter had taken her place. "Many a man swore fealty to my Lord Father. Yet when he decided to sacrifice me to the red god, none said a word of protest but a young squire!"

Gods, would Stannis truly be so crazy to try and burn his daughter alive?! He swore inwardly as he heard his companion shuffle uneasily behind him. The white direwolf bared his teeth, and its fiendish red eye made Ralph wish to turn around and run away. But he gritted his teeth and held his ground.

"King Stannis was under the thrall of that Essosi woman, Your Grace. She had a way of charming people with her sweet foreign whispers!" the Lord of Bronzegate attempted to quietly placate the Queen, who placed a hand behind the direwolf's ear and scratched, making the feral beast suddenly turn into a harmless overgrown dog instead.

"It is true that Melisandre of Asshai had a way with words and burned many before me," Shireen Baratheon conceded, and her face softened slightly. "Yet, when I escaped into the Northern wilderness, it was not the Stormlords or the Crownlords that looked for me. It was not my father's men at the Wall, sworn to House Baratheon. No, it was an old onion knight and the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I might have been born a Baratheon, but I'm a Stark of Winterfell now."

Ralph swallowed down his protest; he could recognise the look of a stubborn Baratheon from a mile away. He had seen this in Renly, Robert, and Stannis many times. Once the stags made up their minds, there was no changing it, and it seemed that the doe was no different. A pity that the easiest way to the King's ear was blocked. Typically, the Queen or the King's mistress held the royal ear, but alas. The Lord of Bronzegate looked at Jon Stark, who continued having an unreadable expression, and the thoughtful Lord of White Harbour.

"And why should His Grace aid you?" Manderly finally broke the heavy silence.

"Well," Ralph coughed as he tried to find the best way to phrase his idea. "We, amongst other Lords from the Crownlands and Stormlands, are ready to pay obeisance to His Grace."

"Why not ask help from Tommen Baratheon?" the Hand countered slyly. "Were you not sworn to him after Joffrey?"

"That boy is not a Baratheon," Estermont loudly protested, drawing the attention of everyone.

The Knight of Greenstone quickly shrunk back and bowed his head.

"Apologies for Ser Alyn's outburst, Your Graces," Ralph quickly added after throwing a warning glance at Alyn while inwardly cursing the younger knight for his stupidity.

"That may or might not be so, but you still swore fealty to Joffrey, then Tommen, then Aegon, regardless of their legitimacy," Manderly calmly pointed out, making the Lord of Bronzegate wince. "With Aegon now gone, Tommen would be your liege."

"Yet Tommen crowned himself King of the Rock and the West and let the Kingdoms splinter," he countered. "We're not sworn to anyone now. And even if we wanted the Lion's help, he's still at odds with King Bracken over the Pipers of Pinkmaiden, and Tyrell watches his northern borders like a hungry hawk."

The plump lord was just about to speak up when Jon Stark, who was sitting as still as a statute, finally stirred. He grabbed the greatsword that was resting on his right and unsheathed it. The steel was pitch black, with dark blue ripples adorning the length of the broad blade, and Ralph could swear there was a soft glow to it. But the most striking aspect was that the sword was taller than Ralph.

"Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark," the King's voice was even, not even a hint of emotion leaked through now. "Few Houses in Westeros can claim to be as ancient as House Stark. Yet when Tywin Lannister decided to steal our ancestral sword for his own, nobody raised a word in protest. Nobody cared when the North was torn and ravaged by vain fools, foolish pirates, and greedy traitors. In fact, many celebrated when House Stark was considered gone, cast into the pages of history."

The sword was sheathed back in its enormous scabbard and returned to the right arm of the wooden throne, laying next to a smaller blade.

"King Stannis still came to aid the North," the Lord of Bronzegate pointed out quietly.

"Aye, that is true. And I've taken care of his daughter in return and crowned her as my Queen," the woman in question smiled and grabbed her husband's hand. "When the Wall desperately needed help, would Stannis have sailed North if he did not intend to regain his strength here? A dream of having the largest kingdom on a platter, with a hundred thousand wildlings boosting his strength? Come now, Stannis was not a fool, and neither am I."

The King of Winter seemed to be an astute man, so Ralph decided to shed all pretences.

"We still humbly beseech for your aid, Your Grace."

"People suffer all the way from here to Asshai by the Shadow to the Sunset Sea," Jon Stark sighed, and the Lord of Bronzegate couldn't help but feel uneasy under the scrutiny of the piercing purple eyes. "Many would love my help and would pay dearly to earn it. I've had requests for aid from Dorne to Tolos. Yet if I were to answer only a third of them, I would spend my whole life with a sword at hand, flying from one battlefield to another and dealing with lickspittle and backstabbers who dare not face me on the field. You come here out of pride! Too proud to kneel to Strickland, who could defeat the pirates and slavers with the Stormlands united at his back. Mayhaps he's an Essosi sellsword, but House Strickland was a noble House from around the Kingswood before its exile. So far, he's been a better king than Joffrey the Illborn, to whom you were sworn before. Nay, as Tommen said, the realm is shattered, and only the broken kingdoms remain. I will not meddle in the South, and this is final. You're welcome to stay at Winterfell for as much as you wish, but expect no aid from the North."

They were quickly ushered out of the royal box and ended up at the now-empty stands with their returned arms.

"Don't get too discouraged," the Lord of Felwood snorted. "We expected this already!"

"What do we do now?" Estermont groaned and ran a hand through his brown hair. "I'm not going to bend the knee to fucking Harry Strickland. The man is an Essosi copper counter!"

"We can always fight!" Robert proposed with a bloodthirsty smile as he fiddled with his axe's handle.

"In case you forgot, we came here for aid because he outnumbers us four to one now and knows how to lead and fight, copper counter or not," Ralph counted wryly. "Your brother already died after hastily joining Connington, Caron, and Morrigen on the field. And we can't exactly fight the pirates either, as they have ships, and we don't."

The Lord of the Felwood sagged at the reminder of his brother's demise.

"The Northern King is right, though. We could always bow our heads and bend our knees to Strickland, no matter how distasteful. But we have one more option," Massey slowly offered as Alyn was about to erupt in outrage.

"What is it?"

"Garlan Tyrell has half a hundred thousand swords-"

"Like the Reachmen would be much better!" the knight from Greenstone roared. "Once you invite the thorny rose, there will be no getting rid of it!"

"Calm down, Alyn," Ralph placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder with a sigh. "Unless you have better options for us?"

*

'For a hundred years, it seemed that Pentos would stay weak and in the shadow of the bastard daughter of Valyria. The Bravoosi had clipped the wings of Pentos, making many consider it the weakest Free City of them all, despite its high walls and immense wealth. With harsh restrictions on the Pentosh fleet, sellswords, and army, anyone could come and go from the city as they wished. Many Dothraki Khals loved to visit, extracting an easy tribute from the city's magisters. But a century later, the Titan's gaze to the south had grown lax. In 308 AC, Pentos began rebuilding its army and fleet openly, causing Braavos to send a warning. Once it was ignored, a punitive fleet followed in its wake-'

Excerpt from 'The Decade of Blood' by Archmaester Perestan