Epilogue06-A Fruitful Journey

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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'When word spread through the North that the Good Queen's cousin, Edric Storm, was in need of swords, many greybeards, second and third sons, both noble and common, flocked to his banner. In addition to the overly generous northern 'gift' of arms and armour, Edric Storm's forces became formidable.

The Battle of Bronzegate, also named the Battle of the Bloody Hill, was one of the most brutal battles recorded. On both sides, the total casualties exceeded half. It was said that the ground went red with the blood of the slain and couldn't be washed off for months by the fierce rain.

Strickland outnumbered Edric Storm by nearly four thousand men yet lost after a bitter and bloody struggle.

Despite being outnumbered, the Northmen, led by Artos Snow, an Umber Bastard, relentlessly fought to the death without retreating, eventually breaking the enemy's left flank, where the Golden Company had concentrated most of its elite. Edric Storm led the centre himself and was said to have slain half a hundred men at the thick of the fighting before making his way to Strickland and caving his head in with a single strike of his warhammer. It was said that nothing could stop the son of the Demon, and he was like a force of nature on the field, earning him the moniker 'The Raging Storm'.

Lord Robert Fell managed to defeat Strickland's cavalry after a bloody battle.

With their leader fallen and the left flank collapsing, the Golden Company and the lords sworn to Strickland were routed and attempted to flee but were brutally hunted down by Edric's remaining horse. The Essosi and sellswords were cut down, and the lords who bent the knee to Edric Storm were spared. The garrison at Storm's End surrendered in exchange for passage to Essos. A moon later, Edric crowned himself Storm King and retook the name Durrandon…'

Excerpt from 'The Rising Storm' by Archmaester Perestan

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Shireen Stark

Arya laughed, and she laughed so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shireen tried to hold it in but found herself chuckling as well.

Rickon, the perpetrator, was sitting proudly on the ground and giggling madly while happily waving a wooden toy sword.

"It's not funny!" Sansa insisted, looking like she was about to cry.

Shireen took another look at Sansa's bright purple hair and barely managed to stop herself from joining Arya in her outburst. It didn't help that all the direwolves curiously inspected the unusual-coloured locks.

"Fine, fine," she relented, "But you have to admit it's amusing."

"Very," her eldest good-sister deadpanned, making Arya laugh even harder. "Just get the mirror."

It took Shireen half a minute to sift through the contents of the oaken chest and find the mirror in question.

"There you go," she handed it to Sansa.

The now-purple-haired princess looked at her own reflection in the mirror for a few moments before frowning. Arya finally managed to calm down and curiously joined them.

"How does it work?"

"Well, you're supposed to say his name," the Queen explained.

Magic was so handy, letting her speak to her husband regardless of distance.

"Jon," Sansa uttered hesitantly, and the mirror in her hand softly vibrated, and the image rippled, showing Jon's face amidst a grassy hill.

"Nice hair, sister," her husband greeted cheekily.

Her good-sisters were staring at the mirror in amazement. Shireen would be gawking just like them if she had not seen and used this before for the last few days.

"Jon, is that really you?" Arya eventually gathered her bearings and asked.

"Yes," he rubbed his brow. "I assume you called me because Rickon turned Sansa's hair purple."

Sansa nodded, and Shireen could see tears pooling in her eyes. "Please change it back, Jon!"

"Hold on a moment." A moment later, his reflection was gone, replaced by their own.

A flash of purple blinded Shireen, and when she opened her eyes, Jon was sitting right next to them. The Queen and her good-sisters stood there, stunned and not exactly believing their eyes. Even Rickon had paused and was looking with confusion at his newly arrived father.

Jon waved his wooden stick, and Sansa's hair regained its fiery colour.

"Wait, if you can travel a long distance in an instant, why are you flying with Winter to Oldtown?" Arya finally returned from her stupor.

"Arriving with a dragon makes you look more formidable and harder to ignore. And I can only teleport to places I've been before," Jon explained. "The further the distance, the harder it is. But keep the fact that I can do it a secret."

Sansa inspected a lock of blood-red hair and beamed before enveloping Jon in a short but tight hug.

"Jon, is this normal?" Shireen hesitantly asked, looking at her confused son.

"Well, yes," he confirmed with a slight grimace as he ran a hand through his dark hair. "That's his magic beginning to show. It will be like that until he learns to control it."

"Can you do something about it?"

"Probably, but it will take me some time," Jon said. "Once I'm done with Hightower and Horn Hill, I'll see what can be done."

Arya kneeled and started making funny faces at Rickon, who giggled happily while trying to grab onto her hair.

A knock echoed from the door behind them as Shireen worriedly rubbed her swollen belly. Within a blink, Jon became the purple-plumed bird and gently perched on her shoulder.

"What is it, Jyanna?" A hint of annoyance leaked through the Queen's voice.

"Your Grace, an urgent letter arrived from White Harbour!" Her sword shield's words echoed through the door.

"Can't it wait?"

"The Hand says it's a grave matter," Jyanna's worried voice made her insides twist and churn uncomfortably. "He's waiting at the council chambers."

A soft trill echoed from her shoulder and chased away her anxiousness. A sigh escaped Shireen's mouth; everything had been going too smoothly for quite some time.

"Enter then!"

The door opened, and her shieldmaiden, face grim, entered the room and deposited a small scroll into her hands while eyeing the phoenix on her shoulder cautiously. Yet the Queen did not worry that her sworn shield would tattle any secrets; Jyanna had proven trustworthy many times. Even Rickon caught the seriousness of the situation as he stopped playing around and warily gazed at the armoured woman.

Shireen unfurled the roll of parchment with trepidation and felt faint as her blue eyes scanned its contents.

"What is it?" Sansa asked curiously.

"Our messenger to Lord Sunderland was killed, and his ship burned. Ser Wylis Manderly says only a severed head was returned…" The Queen handed the parchment to the paling redhead.

'Call the banners,' Jon's voice echoed in her head as he stared at the scroll with those gorgeous purple orbs. 'But only from the eastern coast and the fleet. The Sistermen will rue this foolishness.'

It was a tad weird when he did that, but she had gotten used to it. According to him, it was one of the functions of her new pendant.

'What about your visit to Hightower and Horn Hill?'

'My goals in the Reach will take no more than three days to complete, and I'll head back immediately. It will take time for the fleet and the men to muster anyway.'

The phoenix leapt towards the open shutter and dived outside before any of them could react.

Shireen steeled herself and headed towards the council chambers, followed by three direwolves.

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'Sealord Tormo Fregar attempted to negotiate after the city's reserve lumber was spent, but his foes were dead set on the destruction of Braavos. After two moons of preparation, hiring more sellsails and sellswords from every corner of Essos, the Tyrosh-Pentos alliance's attempt to assault the city by the sea was met with a colossal failure.

The Titan of Braavos and the Arsenal behind proved its defensive mettle, costing hundreds of ships to the invaders. The battle, now called 'the Titan's Wrath', lasted three days and was the bloodiest naval engagement in recorded history.

The exact casualties were unclear to this day, but it was said that at least half a thousand ships and tens of thousands of men perished in the fighting. The waters of the lagoon went red and were filled with corpses and charred debris for moons.

After the attack through the sea proved impossible, the Pentos-Tyrosh alliance turned their attempts on the Braavosi coastlands, intending to invade through land. Braavos lost a lot of holdings during the first moon, but every inch of soil was bought with dozen of lives. The Braavosi seemed outnumbered, but their army was far more disciplined and better equipped than the sellsword companies. Many of the citizens of the bastard daughter of Valyria were eager to defend their home and enlisted in the muster.

Sealord Tormo Fregar, however, had proved cunning: he recruited heavily the eager young bravos the moment the Pentos-Tyrosh alliance came to light. By the time the invasion of the Braavosi lands became a fact-'

Excerpt from 'The Decade of Blood' by Archmaester Perestan

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Jon Snow, the Reach

A large circular curtain wall encompassed the maze of stone, slate and wood, split in between by the mouth of the Honeywine River. The monstrous lighthouse stood vigilant in the middle of the delta atop a rocky island. Another notable place was the elaborate complex of buildings, arches and bridges spanning a few smaller interconnected islands, the Citadel. And lastly was the quite impressive dome-shaped building with a wide marble plaza in front of it. This could only be the Starry Sept with its gilded roof, marble walls and enormous arched windows. From above, the people across the streets and squares looked akin to ants in a hive of stone.

Oldtown looked impressive for a medieval city, and the Hightower was a wonder of its age. The enormous lighthouse was brimming with magic, serving as an odd mixture of a conduit and a focus. Impressive, but useless in practice, as using such a thing would be so strainful on the mind that even Jon's sturdy psyche would be strained heavily, let alone someone normal. All in all, the Northern King was not particularly awed; for someone who had the memories of the heights and lows humanity could reach, this looked shabby. But shabby wasn't necessarily that bad; with progress, man's ability to destroy increased drastically, more than enough to snuff out all life, including themselves, as Harry Potter had bore witness to himself.

Jon shook his head and wheeled Winter, circling around the city and inspecting its layout once more before slowly heading for the plaza in front of the Sept, giving the crowd time to disperse, albeit with yells and cries of terror. Tales and rumours of dragons had probably reached every corner of Westeros, but how many would believe without seeing for themselves was a completely different matter. After all, people had the tendency to oft close their eyes until facts smacked them across their faces.

His choice of landing had nought to do with politics or religion but practicality: none of the other squares was comfortably large enough for his dragon. Winter landed with a soft thud, and Jon hopped on the cobbled ground and looked around the now abandoned square. A few braver people were peeking at him from the corners and small alleys, but he ignored them.

A letter had been sent a moon ago, announcing his intention to visit, yet Jon was unsure if the raven had managed to arrive. After all, the distance from Oldtown to Winterfell was nearly 2500 miles, if not more. Or mayhaps the Hightowers were not prepared for him showing up so early? Either way, it mattered little; the King of the North was not easily turned away, even less so a dragon rider.

"Mercy, mercy, Your Grace!" Jon spun around to see a gaunt, tall figure stumble down the steps from the Starry Sept.

It was an old, wizened man wearing a plain white robe, and a rough crystal crown sat atop his brow. This could be only the High Septon. Jon cared little about the Southron religion; their stunt with the Faith Militant had made the lords cautious of them, and Cersei and the Tyrells had quickly shattered the newly resurging martial order after the Inferno of King's Landing.

With the Vale, Stormlands, and Riverlands in chaos and the Lord of the Light worshippers amassing from Essos, the Faith of the Seven was faring worse than ever. And here was the High Septon himself, kneeling at Jon's feet and begging for mercy.

And the Northern King could feel the priest was genuine; any fear inside him was for the city and the Sept, not for himself. He had come ready to die.

The old man was brave, and his resolve was ironclad, if nothing else. Nobody else dared approach, including the city watch, who gathered at the end of the square while eyeing the enormous form of Winter with caution.

Although Lord Hightower could have expected his arrival and decided not to inform the spiritual leader of the Faith, speaking volumes about the decline of the andal religion. Or, well, the raven could have been lost. It mattered little in the end; any speculation like this would be confirmed easily enough.

"I come in peace," Jon said, lifting the old man to his feet effortlessly.

He cared little for the Southern religion, but a tinge of admiration dwelled in him for the priest's will. With such a man in charge, it was not impossible for the Faith to get out of its dire straits.

"Thank the Seven," the High Septon muttered and bowed his head again. Not that the gods could do anything to stop Jon if he decided to lay waste to the city. But he was curious if the old priest would still be grateful after Winter remained in the square for the rest of the day, scaring away any visitors from the Sept.

At that moment, it seemed the city watch had finally gathered their courage as a small retinue of mounted knights approached. The horses began neighing with fear as they approached the dragon, refusing to continue, and the riders had to dismount to proceed further.

At the helm stood a man wearing a padded surcoat depicting the Tyrell golden rose. A cousin to the mainline, perhaps?

The hilt of his sword was gilded, with an amethyst embedded in the crossguard, and Jon could feel the blade inside the sheathe thrum softly with magic as only Valyrian Steel would. After perusing his memory, he remembered Moryn Tyrell was supposedly the Commander of the Old Town's City Watch. Jon had memorised the member of every House of import in Westeros during the last few years, which had proven a tedious task, even with the help of Occlumency.

The Tyrell knight dismounted, bowed deeply and spoke up with a strained voice, "Lord Baelor Hightower invites his Grace to the Hightower."

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'The self-proclaimed King of the Mountain, Shagga the Falconslayer, was quite cunning for a wildling. When the impressive host of the 'lowlanders' approached, he decided to hide behind the walls instead of meeting them in open battle, as many of his chieftains proposed.

Robert Royce and Jon Redfort stormed the Gates of the Moon thrice. Despite their heavy losses, they broke the defending savages the third time. The Bronze Lord led the decisive attack himself and was said to have personally killed 'scores of savages' along with Shagga the Falconslayer himself. The wildlings were now fully broken, and there was no surrender. Every fighter, be it man or woman, old or young, was put to the sword. The children were not spared either; the Valemen's fury from the Crimson Feast was still fresh. After this unrestrained slaughter, the mountain clans of the Vale were no more. A scant few scattered remains survived, only to dwindle into oblivion in the following years.

However, Robert Royce's valour was not without a cost: the Bronze Lord sustained heavy injuries and was soon bedridden with a heavy fever. Maester Landon did his best to treat him, but the Lord of Runestone's condition was so dire that some claimed that the Stranger had taken the Lord already.

While his victory had heavily depleted his forces, the news of his success attracted many a knight or minor lordling that deemed neither Corbray nor Grafton worthy of support.

Eventually, a moon later, Robert Royce's fever broke, and he woke up once more, finding himself proclaimed king of the Mountain and the Vale and thus beginning the War of the Three Crowns.'

Excerpt from 'The Vale Divided' by Maester Yandel

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Baelor Hightower was a hardy man but a generous host. The nickname 'Bloodsmile' was quite apt; Jon could feel the aura of restrained slaughter around the man. Despite his fair face, when the Hightower Lord smiled, there was no joy, only coldness and a hint of ruthlessness and savagery. Thankfully, any lingering tension was gone once Jon made his reason for visit known. The raven had never arrived, probably lost to a hungry bird of prey or a lucky wildcat.

The Northern King had to wrangle himself away and decline invitations for a feast, a hunt, a ball and a maid of his choosing to warm his bed, whether of noble birth or of the serving variety. Surprisingly, no betrothals or fosterings were mentioned, meaning that Lord Baelor followed the time-tested Hightower tradition since the Dance - staying away from royal politics. Not only that, but he had withheld his participation in the war his cousin Garlan was fighting against the united forces of the Riverlands and the Westerlands.

There was no time to dally for Jon anyway; as he climbed the stone steps, his thoughts drifted to House Sunderland and their foolish boldness to murder his messenger. Such colossal stupidity required the harshest of responses. For a short moment, he contemplated flying over with Winter and raining down fire and destruction upon them. But it was too simple, too easy, a punishment. No, this time, the North itself would bare his fangs for the world to see.

Two green sphinxes on the side flanked the large oaken gate. Just below the arch stood a man wearing a gold rod and a mask garbed in a silken grey robe. A few sandy strands in his hair were futilely struggling against the onset of grey, and his posture was a bit hunched. By Wolkan's description, this would be Ryam, the Archmaeaster of sums and numbers and the current Senechal. Jon couldn't help but notice that his chain had noticeably fewer links than Maester Aemon's.

"Your Grace," the man greeted evenly with a light bow, but Jon could detect a hint of arrogance in his tone. "It's been quite some time since a royal presence has graced our halls. How can the Citadel help the Northern King?"

The archmaester seemed to harbour a distaste for him, one borne out of some misplaced sense of confidence and superiority. It was well hidden, but he caught it anyway.

"I'm here just to visit a friend and see the grandest library in the known world, Archmaester Ryam," Jon said, and the scholar's eyes lit up.

"Indeed, there are plenty of tomes that can only be found in our vaults," the man's pride was unmistakable. "If I might be so bold to ask, what would be the name of your friend, Your Grace?"

"Samwell Tarly."

"Ah, the running watchman!"

"The running watchman?" Jon echoed, unable to hide his curiosity.

"Supposedly, that's what his fellow acolytes called him, and it stuck," Ryam shrugged with a snort. "The lad forged thirty-four links in record time now and could have become a maester nearly thrice over. Yet he keeps delaying as if he wanted to run away from his return to the Night's Watch by studying, thus the monicker."

"Worry not, archmaester. Sam Tarly will return back to his sworn duties soon enough."

Archmaester Ryam nodded, and the Northern King followed the man as he led him inside the Scribe's Heart. It was a small plaza bereft of people. Supposedly the acolytes opened stands offering their service here, but he saw none of that. There seemed to be a handful of scholars here out of curiosity more than anything else. Jon was still clad in his full armour beside the helmet, which was replaced with his crown. A long dark mantle bearing his personal sigil, made by the experienced hand of Sansa, fluttered behind him in the wind.

The path was split by a statue of the Young Dragon, sitting atop a horse and pointing his sword towards Dorne.

"There are concerning rumours of a… Northern Citadel being planned in Wintertown," the Archmaester coughed as they reached a particularly long stone bridge. Passing acolytes and maesters threw them curious glances, but none dared approach.

"Ah, the Northern Academy, you mean? That's the Queen's pet project."

"I must caution you, Your Grace," Ryam tugged on his long wizened beard, "Investing much effort and coin in such an endeavour is a fool's errand; many others have tried and failed. No other scholarly order can compete with our wealth of knowledge, teaching methods, and experience. There's a reason why the Citadel is still the foremost place of learning and teaching after millennia."

Wyman's words proved correct; the Maesters were indeed wary.

"Your concern is appreciated, archmaester," Jon snorted inwardly. "But I can afford to spend some coin to indulge my beloved wife, regardless of failure or success."

"Indeed, the North should be the wealthiest kingdom in Westeros right now," Ryam murmured to himself before speaking up: "I can put forth a request in front of the Conclave to open a new chapter of our illustrious order in Winterfell if you desire, Your Grace."

An empty platitude; judging by the man's words, he himself did not believe the request would pass. Jon never particularly cared about the education project, but the maesters had made a poor showing so far. Luwin, Aemon, and Wolkan seemed to be the exception, not the rule. With their monopoly on teaching and the subtle attempts to insert themselves in the higher northern echelons, Jon finally began to understand why the maesters were oft called 'grey rats'.

"There's no need to go to such lengths," he waved dismissively, "it's just a flight of fancy, so don't think too much of it."

Surprisingly, the archmaester looked rather convinced and bowed in acceptance, worry on his face abating. Quite possibly because women were dismissed as mercurial creatures, and Jon himself seemed like another lovestruck monarch. Though, there was stubbornness in Shireen, and once she set her mind on something, little could truly stop her. And he did love his wife.

"The office of northern Grand Maester remains empty, Your Grace," Ryam coughed. "Lord Hand Wyman Manderly keeps refusing to acknowledge the Conclave's appointment."

That meddling, arrogant twat!

Before, he was content to simply watch his wife's plan play out, only preventing overt interference from outside forces. Now, Jon would do everything in his power to make 'the flight of fancy' succeed. The Maesters had their own interests and agenda, and it was not too difficult to insert a maester to spy or exert influence on certain places. Not that they could do much, but they did have the potential to be annoyingly troublesome.

He would sever such overreaching influences from the North completely. Grouchy old men at the other end of the continent would find no purchase in his kingdom.

The Citadel might be formidable, but Jon possessed the memories of a whole world worth of scholarly orders and different methods of education and learning, albeit not in great detail.

"The Conclave's concern is warming," Jon lied with a straight face. Let them keep underestimating the North until it was too late. "But alas, the office of Grandmaester is an idea the Conqueror cooked up. The North has never had a Grand Maester, and the methods of the Dragons proved… inefficient, so there is little reason to emulate them."

"So it would seem," the archmaester nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, it seems that we have finally arrived. This is the biggest library in the known world!"

Three bridges and two small islands later, Jon now stood in front of a grand marble building. Well, grand for this world; crowned by a gilded dome and hewn out of white marble, it looked pure and imposing, along with its colourful glass windows. The entrance arch was painted with motifs of runes, glyphs, and quills. Valyrian, First Men, even Yi Ti-ish and a few others that Jon didn't recognise at first glance.

"Thank you, archmaester."

"It was a pleasure, Your Grace, although I'm afraid I cannot accompany you any further," the man coughed and waved over an absentminded young man garbed in a plain brown robe. "This is Galyn, a promising young acolyte. He can lead you to Tarly and show you around the library."

The archmaester almost dashed away, seemingly in a hurry. The acolyte led him inside the marble building, trying to chatter about inane topics, but a cold glance quickly shut the young man up. The inside was also lined with polished marble, and the walls were lined with statues of robed men, probably previous Archmaesters. Rows of elaborately carved columns reminiscent of the slender Corinthian style from Ancient Greece supported the upper ceiling.

After a few minutes, Jon finally arrived at a large chamber filled with rows and rows of high book-filled shelves, slightly larger than the Hogwarts library but less filled. High narrow coloured glass windows adorned the walls. The air was heavy with the characteristic scent of dust, ink, and parchment.

"Tarly is usually at the fifth row by the scribe tables," Galyn timidly pointed and quickly excused himself.

Jon ignored the shelves filled with dusty books and a few acolytes and maesters toiling around leather-bound tomes or rolls of parchments and headed straight towards the given direction. He earned a few surprised glances, possibly because of his attire - armoured-clad men were not a common sight inside the Citadel, nor was the direwolf sigil on his mantle. The oddest thing was probably how neither his armour nor his bronze boots made much of a sound; the sound of metal scrapping on stone was so soft and quiet you could consider it absent, all due to the enchantment to reduce impact.

And there was Sam - his round body standing out as usual, the only one in the library garbed in a black robe. His friend was hunched over a large oaken table, with half a dozen books haphazardly strewn before him while he was reading another tome and scribbling something on a roll of parchment. While he did not seem to have lost even a pound of fat, his hair had taken a hit - the black locks were quickly receding, and if the trend continued like this, Sam Tarly would be fully bald in a handful of years. Looking at the long chain filled with metals of different kinds that had only two less than Maester Wolkan, the black brother was still following his orders, albeit in his own cowardly way.

Jon sat on a chair across from his friend, who was still absorbed in his writings. A few curious acolytes skulked nearby between the shelves and the columns, but he melded his magic and killing intent and blasted it at them, making them scurry away like rats. His sharp nose caught an unpleasant scent and twitched; the cravens had soiled themselves.

"Armen, I told you I shan't visit the Quill and the Tankard again before forging my next link," Sam groaned without looking up.

"I'm glad to see you're well, Sam," the Northern king greeted.

The black-robed acolyte whipped his head up, and his eyes widened with recognition, which was quickly replaced with guilt and not a small measure of fear.

"Jon-"

"No need," he raised his hand, and Sam gulped heavily as beads of sweat began to form on his brow. "I understand. You have a moon to finish your work here before sailing up to the Wall. Lord Hightower promised me to personally provide a ship for your journey."

Sam nodded in relief, but then his face twisted with apprehension, "What about little Sam?"

"What about him? The boy's none of your concern."

"My mother thinks him her grandson," the fat acolyte swallowed and wiped the sweat off his face with his black sleeve, "I don't want to break her heart…."

Jon paused for a moment. He had indeed ordered Sam to get Aemon Steelsong to safety using any means necessary. As far as cover stories went, this was one of the better ones.

"Do you know what happened to Gilly?"

"The chill took her last winter," Sam supplied, eyes forlorn. "After all the wars and winter, Talla and little Sam are all my mother has left. I simply couldn't-" he choked, unable to finish.

The fat man's heart was definitely in the right place, although he was acting a tad too foolish. While childhood as a bastard was not the most pleasant existence, it provided a multitude of opportunities, especially if the boy was valued, and the so-called Sam Flowers definitely seemed heavily favoured. Still, it was far better than the son of a deserter of the Night's Watch and a defeated King Beyond the Wall.

"Fine," Jon sighed. "Fret not. I won't tear him away from his 'grandmother'."

"What about Val, then? Didn't you promise her to see her nephew?"

"Oh, she'll definitely see the boy. Melessa Tarly won't be bold enough to decline my offer to foster Sam Flowers in the North with his aunt, especially when I fly there to make it in person."

Since Gilly was dead, there was little problem to pass Val as her sister. And since Val had married Harrion Karstark, she was no longer a simple 'wildling'. And boy wasn't that a surprise, a lord wedding a spearwife. Although, after seeing Val in person, people nodded their heads in understanding - the reason why that marriage had happened was quite clear. Jon didn't mind much - while Val was respected, no swords or spears came with that match, so Karhold did not benefit politically. Not only that, but it weakened Karstark's ability to forge alliances in the future, as some of the lords would definitely have qualms about wedding their children to the Karstark progeny now.

"That's great," Sam let out a relieved sigh. "What of his parentage?"

"That's going to be Val's problem, not mine or yours," Jon snorted.

They chatted for a bit, and half an hour later, Sam returned to his studies, intent on finishing his thirty-fifth link in the next fortnight before officially becoming Maester and sailing North. Jon wandered around the library, inspecting any tome or scroll that caught his fancy - there were some rare ones, although there was nothing exceptional. Supposedly, the more valued ones were locked in the vaults below.

Jon was tempted to break in and see for himself for a short moment but decided against it. At least not for now; he could always flame in later and read at his own leisure.

As he finally left the Library, his way out of the Citadel was barred.

Archmaester Ryam had returned, but not alone. There were six more of his ilk, clad in their official robes, along with their masks and rods, and at least two dozen Maesters behind them.

"Your Grace," the archmaester with a silver mask stepped forward and bowed. Ebrose, Wolkan's rival, and the archmaester of Healing. Jon could count the seven silver links that were proudly on display in the middle of the chain, signifying his status. "Winterfell's position of Maester has been paid for long ago but not requested."

"You must be mistaken, Archmaester Ebrose," Jon raised an eyebrow, "Winterfell is not lacking a maester - I'm quite happy with Wolkan's services."

"Ah, but Wolkan is not Maester Luwin's replacement," the old man's jaw visibly clenched, and the Northern King couldn't help but note the lack of title for Wolkan. "It seems that late Lord Bolton has forgotten that maesters swear service to keeps, not Houses, and Wolkan is sworn to the Dreadfort. A replacement of Luwin must still be sent to Winterfell."

Jon blinked a few times, uncertain if he was imagining things. But no, the gall of the old stooge before him was genuine. It was more amusing than anything - to think that some foolish old man who lost his wits in books wanted to dictate what happened in Winterfell.

"Thank you for the reminder," the Northern king nodded happily, eliciting a few suspicious looks of surprise. "I will take my pick before I leave."

"No need to wait that long," Ebrose coughed and motioned to the robed men behind him. "We have prepared some of the Citadel's finest for your choosing."

Jon threw a quick glance at them and found none to his liking.

"I must thank you for the generosity, but such an important decision cannot be rushed," he lied with a straight face while snorting inwardly.

"Understandable," the silver-masked archmaester bobbed his head and thoughtfully ran his hand through his sparse white beard. "The Conclave has also generously decided to aid the Northern Queen in her endeavours. The Citadel encourages the spread of knowledge and the respect for scholarly pursuits - your Grace is free to pick some tomes from our library to add to her collection."

That picked his interest, but he quickly schooled his face to not give away anything.

"How many?"

"As much as you can personally carry!"

Jon Stark could easily detect the hint of arrogance and mocking from the righteous tone.

"Quite generous of you," he smiled widely, clasped the surprised Ebrose's hand and shook it vigorously.

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'There were many rumours about Jon Stark's dragons and magic, and while the dragon's existence was confirmed and acknowledged, mentions of his sorcery were promptly dismissed by the Conclave for a long time. There were many stories of what happened, but after extensive research, I believe the truth of the matter is as follows:

When Jon Stark, the Third of His Name, the King of Winter and Lord Protector of the North, came to the Citadel to visit Sam Tarly, who would later become the fourth Grand Scholar of the North, the Conclave had decided to mock the Northern King for the Good Queen's intent to establish an institution of learning in Wintertown. That was not all; an attempt was made to discredit and dislodge Maester Wolkan, who had served House Stark loyally since Winterfell was retaken. The thinly veiled insults were met with a smile, but the King of Winter was not so easily mocked.

Archmaester Ebrose's legendary 'take as much as you can carry' resulted in the first crisis of the Citadel. On the morrow, not a single book was left in the library or the locked vaults that were considered impenetrable; Jon Stark had somehow taken every single book and scroll and gotten away with them with none the wiser. Later calculations showed that the King of Winter somehow did away with at least three tones of knowledge. That was not all; before leaving, the Dragonwolf had left a gift - every single isle that the Citadel stretched across was frozen in a ring of ice, somehow chilling the Citadel and only the Citadel. The sun rays did nothing to thaw the unusual phenomena, and any other attempts to break it away were met with failure-'

Excerpt from 'The Rise of the Winterspring Academy' by Mullin of the Shadowtower