58 Epilogue10-The Sundering

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 Hound, they called him. A dangerous beast of a man that had sent too many to the Stranger before their time.

When he washed near the Quiet Isle, I was tempted, oh so very tempted to leave the rot in his wounds to spread and let the fever take its course. Or to simply let him drift down the Bay of Crabs, where the fishes and seabirds would feast on his flesh.

But Father's mercy and forgiveness shine upon the most errant of children, and I fished the man out.

Even after cutting out the rot and binding his wounds, it seemed that the Stranger was dead set upon claiming this soul, but Elder Brother did not give up on his attempts to heal the sinful man. He never did, after being saved himself, not after washing down following the Battle of the Trident.

The efforts bore fruit, and Sandor Clegane awoke alive, albeit with one leg gone bad.

Still, the Seven proved their wisdom again; no soul was beyond redemption, even one as troubled as the Hound. The man cowled his face and took a vow of silence, laid down his sword and picked up a spade, finding peace as a nameless gravedigger here in the Quiet Isle, where he spent the rest of his life -

Excerpt from 'Confessions of Septon Meribald'.

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312 AC

The Citadel, Oldtown

Into the depths of the Citadel, the Conclave had convened in a large ornate chamber.

The archmaesters, all nineteen of them, garbed in their official attire - matching masks and rods made of various metals, along with the classical grey robes all maesters wore, albeit made of finer fabrics. Arranged behind a crescent white table, they faced a rather tall, dark-haired young man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

Eventually, the silence was broken by the archmaester wearing a copper mask.

"So, what can you tell us of the Winterspring Academy, Maester Dorwald?"

The Citadel had made various attempts to infiltrate the Northern Academy in the last two years, yet none but the man in front of them had been successful in the previous few years. Almost everything from the North was covered by a veil of secrecy, and any former contacts or connections went silent. The new northern institution of learning was shrouded in even greater secrecy. Even the younger man before them couldn't successfully contact them from the Northern Academy.

All they had was vague rumours and hearsay, things that learned men never really took too seriously.

"Well," Dorwald coughed, "the head of the institute is the King himself."

"Is this some sort of jest?" The silver-masked archmaester grumbled. "What does a man grown with a sword in hand know about running a place of knowledge?!"

"The crown has finally gotten to his head, it seems. It wouldn't be the first time a king has gotten ideas of grandeur. But isn't this good for us?" Another archmaester with a golden rod retorted. "If his project fails, he'll have to return begging for our forgiveness!"

"Fool! Who knows what the Breaker will do if he visits this time? Pentos, Tyrosh, and Braavos learned the folly of provoking the Starks!" Perestan, the archmaester of history, slammed his hand on the weirwood table. Despite his greying hair, he was a tall, burly man with an assertive bearing.

"There's no need to rush to conclusions," the man with an electrum mask cautioned. "Being proficient in sword and sorcery does not mean the king would lack wits or his skills with a quill. By all accounts, the North is thriving like never before under him."

"That speaks of the old merman's skills more than anything else," the archmaester of sums and numbers counter dryly. "But let us hear young Dorwald's account before making up our mind."

"Well, His Grace seemed fairly experienced in handling the matters of the Academy," the maester coughed, rubbing the back of his neck for some reason. "Any arising issue was brought before him and resolved swiftly and fairly. While things started a bit confusing, everything quickly became orderly. Languages, terminology, units of measurement were standardised, conflicting ideas were tried, tested, and compared, with all the merits and demerits explored in detail."

That seemed to quiet down the room for a few moments.

"Can that thief even keep all the stolen books and scrolls in good condition?" Someone grumbled.

"Well, is it really theft when we had allowed it?" Ebrose shuffled uneasily behind his silver mask at the biting words as everyone gazed at him. Still, though, he lifted his chin, he might have been the one to give the accursed permission, but the whole Conclave had agreed to it beforehand!

"Regardless, the question stands!"

"Well, novices have to copy some older texts at least twice a sennight, but nowhere at the rate it was done in the Citadel," Dorwald explained. "Yet, all the tomes seem to stay in sublime condition regardless. It's unexplainable, but I've heard rumours that His Grace himself enchanted the library to preserve everything against damage and decay."

"That's… cheating!"

"Bah, you say that as if we wouldn't do the same if we could," another archmaester snorted dismissively at the petulant outrage.

"Mayhaps we should put more focus on the study of the higher mysteries again."

"And how do you want to do that? There are no practitioners of the arcane here after Marwyn perished together with the House of the Dragon, and any tomes that would have been used to learn are now out of reach in Winterfell."

"We can always look to the east."

"East?! And deal with those Essosi charlatans?!"

"We should well know that not all are charlatans by now."

"But to deal with those dark and queer places like Asshai by the Shadow? The Seven know what vile magicks they practice there!"

"Asshai is far from the only place-"

"Stop squabbling like little children," Perestan slammed his fist on the table again, and the arguing halted.

"This is not the reason why we convened. What can you tell us about the organisation, young Dorwald?" Vaellyn, the man with a bronze mask, asked.

"I had to pay twenty silver stags to enrol as a novice, just like everyone else," the man said. "Although there's plenty of opportunity for learned men to earn some coin by offering their knowledge and services as scribes, accountants, and the such. Food and lodging are provided by the Academy for any exceptional novices."

"And how do they separate the good from the bad?"

"There are exams of sorts every few months, testing your ability to learn and comprehend. Those who do better are rewarded."

"I suppose that could work," Archmaester Ryam muttered loud enough for everyone to hear him. "And what of the quality of their teachings?"

"Err, there's not much difference in the subjects from the Citadel, although theirs seem to be more focused on the practical aspect at the beginning and things like the study of sums, household management and trade is called administration. Novices can pick any topic they desire to study. Each subject has its own schedule, with a handful of scholars giving lectures to classes on different proficiencies. Once you gain proficiency and a certain level of knowledge in a subject matter, you can be elevated to an adept. Adepts can leave the Academy and officially enter the services of the royal administrations, lords, or even wealthier Northern merchants."

"What about those scholars that you mentioned?"

"Adepts can continue their studies further at their own pace and attend lectures of scholars and grand scholars, and to become a scholar, you must become a master in at least one subject and have proficiency in two more."

"Does the king teach sorcery?" Nymos, the archmaester of warcraft, spoke for the first time.

"No, and every arcane practitioner that comes, be it master or neophyte, fails to grab his interest."

"How many novices were there when you left?"

"Shy of a thousand, though I can't really be sure," Dorwald coughed.

The Conclave continued asking more questions, big and small, for the next one hour, and the maester answered patiently.

.

.

.

"I still can't believe women are allowed to study there. What does a wife and a mother need higher knowledge of rocks and landscapes or trade for? This is an outrage!"

"But, as Maester Dorwald pointed out, few of them show any interest in anything besides healing and medicine and even fewer stay long enough to learn anything of substance. It's been over two years since the Academy opened, and no woman has reached the rank of a scholar!"

"That means little; most of their current scholars are learned men from the corners of the world; very few have ascended to a level of mastery from novice for less than five years even here!"

"So Jon Stark has created what is essentially a second Citadel, albeit slightly different and influenced by foreign practices, but still tailored closely to the needs of his kingdom," Archmaester Perestan summarised, rubbing his brow tiredly. "And now that our relations with the North are severed, they have time to take root, grow, and expand further."

"But neither their adepts nor scholars seem to be available for nobility south of the Neck."

"Archmaesters," Dorwald bowed politely, grabbing their attention. "Do you have any more questions for me?"

The nineteen glanced at each other uneasily at the man's suddenly daring words, but all the questions they could think of had already been answered.

"Young Dorwald," Ebrose coughed unhappily, "It seems your time in the North has made you insolent. You have much to learn before you can speak out of turn in these sacred chambers!"

"Mayhaps," the maester agreed, then after a short moment of hesitation, removed his chain from his neck and tossed it before the weirwood table.

The metals clinked on the marble floor, and all the archmaesters stood there for a painfully long heartbeat, stunned.

"You dare throw away your links?!" Ryam all but roared, angrily brandishing a fist.

"I have no need for them, not anymore," Dorwald took a deep breath. "Farewell, archmaesters."

"Where do you think you're going!?"

That seemed to stop the man in his tracks, and he whirled around, facing the Conclave, face filled with resolve.

"Back North to marry my betrothed!"

"Maesters are sworn to celibacy," Ebrose sputtered in outrage. "We will have you sent to the Wall for this!"

"But I am a maester no longer," the defiant man pointed at the discarded chain, "After all, no vows of celibacy are required from the Northern Scholars. His Grace himself promised to absolve me from such prior oaths!"

Dorwald decisively walked out, leaving the dazed Conclave behind.

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The Northern Lords could request adepts or scholars to take a vow of celibacy upon entering their service, but that was mainly done for the position of the physician, if at all. Sending their own retainers or sponsoring children of loyal servants to learn skills in ravenry, administration, or rocks and landscaping became commonplace, and many Northern Keeps had at least one scholar, along with multiple adepts serving in various positions instead of a single maester.

Similar to maesters, to receive a scholar or an adept in your service, you had to pay a certain sum, though the more learned the man in question, the higher the cost. The rest of the coin required to run the Academy was sponsored by House Stark.

It became a tradition for most vaunted smiths to send their apprentices to the Winterspring Academy to attain mastery in the study of metals and forging. Many villages, big or small, pooled their coin together to send someone to learn skills in healing.

The Northern Academy became a fresh, nearly endless source for administrators for all the budding towns and cities under construction in the North and subsequent reforms made by the Northern crown.

But not all scholars were eager to leave the Academy-

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

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Jon Stark, Volantis

"It's an honour, Your Resplendency," the tall man garbed in a yellow silk toga bowed deeply, and Jon's eye couldn't help but twitch at the title. "I am Maelon Maegyr."

The man had guts; he had not trembled under the vicious gaze of Winter, nor was there any hesitation in his step as he had approached the enormous dragon, unlike the uneasy tiger cloaks and scores of skittish slaves, looking ready to run at the slightest hint the dragon would be angered. The hundreds of tiger cloaks that stood guard at the edges of the enormous plaza were no better.

Jon focused his attention on Maelon Maegyr. Sun-kissed skin, silver hair, lavender eyes so pale they looked blue, the man in front of him was undoubtedly from the Old Blood, especially since he spoke in immaculate High Valyrian. The golden-heart scabbard atop his gilded belt held an ornate hilt from red gold inscribed with Valyrian glyphs with a large topaz embedded in the pommel; Jon could feel the magic typical to Valyrian Steel thrum through the length of the blade.

Yet, the man was not as hedonistic as Jon would have imagined from the Old Blood; the lean and powerful frame and bulging muscles could not be hidden by Maelon's robe nor the scar on his forearm and cheek; the man had seen battle.

"Greetings," Jon responded politely in High Valyrian. "I have decided to graciously accept the invitation of the Triarchs."

"The majestic dragon can rest in the square, and the tiger cloaks shall ensure none disturb him, and servants shall bring him half a dozen heads of cattle for food. I shall lead you to the inner palace, Your Resplendency," the Volantene nodded to a handful of slaves, and they quickly carried a luxurious palanquin over.

"I have no need for a litter," Jon waved his hand dismissively.

"Shall I call for one of the finest destriers to be brought, or perhaps a war chariot?"

At that moment, Jon remembered the pesky Volantene tradition of highborn considering the act of their feet touching the ground demeaning and sighed. Maelor Maegyr seemed uneasy, and the only reason he had approached on foot was that his horse dared not approach Winter.

"A chariot will do," the King of the North decided; he had never ridden in one before, and riding horses would forever be lesser than riding dragons.

Jon nudged Winter, who laid down lazily on the square and became as unassuming as he could with his enormous form as they waited. The dragon had grown immensely, and Jon wagered he was nearly the size of the Black Dread at his prime.

Eventually, two tiger cloaks, with their silver ringmail and green stripes tattooed upon their cheeks, rode in a large gilded chariot pulled by four majestic steeds. Though a breed Jon could not recognise, the horses were powerfully built with lofty manes and well-trained, and even though they were uneasy, they approached the still form of the dragon. The northern king dismounted and, with a leap, boarded the chariot. Maelon Maegyr joined him, sent away the tiger cloaks, and took the reins himself.

The Volantene noble proved a skilled chariot rider and led them up a cobbled street wide enough for a dozen riders to ride abreast towards the looming black walls of fused stone. The road was emptied, its sides lined with tiger cloaks, barring the crowd from the intersecting pathways from entering. A single glance confirmed what Jon already knew - most of the people here were slaves, evident by the numerous and colourful tattoos on their faces, although they appeared well-fed and clothed.

"Your armour is majestic," Maelon's voice was rich with admiration. It was understandable - last year, Jon had reforged every piece of plate and painstakingly added intricate details and inscriptions under his wife's insistence - the king could not wear plain armour as if he was some simple hedge knight. "Even the Qohoric masters cannot imbue such a deep black into the metal that seemingly swallows sunlight, nor such detailed a heraldry like the Direwolf or the intricate runes and designs. Is it truly…."

"Forged by sorcery, yes," Jon finished for him. "And no, none of my creations shall leave the North. Armour is reserved solely for House Stark."

He had made a majestic bronze suit of armour for Shireen, no lesser than his in function despite its ceremonial appearance, and she had loved it.

"Do you not feel hot in all that metal," Maelon asked without tearing his eyes from the street. "I can provide you with a suitable change of clothing."

"Thank you for the generous offer, but I'm afraid I'm too used to my attire," Jon declined.

Robb had suffered for his trust in ceremony and customs from foes and strangers, and he would not make the same mistake now or ever. It would be a cold day in hell where Jon went to negotiate without arms and armour. Still, the thought of his red-haired brother sparked another memory within him.

"Any relationship to Talisa Maegyr?"

"My wilful sister," there was sadness and fury mixed in his voice. "She was the best of us, our family's most prized child. Her escape broke my father's heart and sent him and my ailing mother into Vhagar's embrace even quicker when we learned of her ignoble demise."

It took Jon a few moments to remember that the Volantene did not refer to Visenya's dragon but the Valyrian god of death and the underworld.

"Houses Frey and Bolton offended both gods and men with that sacrilege," Jon offered. "Neither are amongst the living any longer."

"Alas, no amount of blood spilt will bring my sister or parents back," Maelon's voice was dim. "Father wanted to join the sunset war and send ten thousand tiger cloaks and our war fleet to the wolf king to support Talisa, but the rest of the Tigers and Elephants were far more concerned with the rising threat of the Dragon Queen and the turmoil in Slaver's Bay than some squabbles in the west. Striking down the Mother of Dragons and her husband has made you quite popular in New Ghis and here, in Volantis."

It was for the better; ten thousand slave soldiers, no matter how great, would not have been a boon to Robb's cause. Although surprising, the revelation that he was well regarded here for vanquishing Daenerys was odd; he would not be shy about using that goodwill.

They arrived at the black walls and were let through an enormous arched gate made from ebony, guarded by two scores of tiger cloaks, all clad in heavy armour. A glance told Jon that the fortification was at least two hundred feet tall and nearly seventy feet wide. Inside the tunnel-like gate were multiple portcullises, even more gates, each thicker than the previous, and a multitude of murder holes littering the ceiling.

Once they passed the final gate, Maelon slowed their pace to a crawl. Behind the black walls, all the buildings were far taller and more luxurious - marble, silver, gold, and exotic trees littered the rich landscape. Lush, colourful gardens, ornate arches, richly decorated gilded temples, and extravagant palaces lined with jade and marble could be seen in every corner.

The tiger cloaks here wore better armour; elaborate half-plate could be seen on every second warrior, and the rest of the slaves were all garbed in expensive silks and cotton.

"Tell me about those black wraiths," Jon broke the silence.

"They crept up from Sothoryos like a plague, and the red priests say they hail from the accursed Yeen," Maegyr sighed. "By the time we realised they were a thing, the pirates in the Basilisk Isles were all dead. Any survivors look like they have aged ten years and say their presence makes you feel uncontrollable horror."

That sounded similar to the dementors, but not quite. Still, Jon had ample memories and an arsenal in dealing with all sorts of magical creatures, so he had little to fear.

"Do you have a description of them?"

"Terrible beings with a human-like stature flying through the air, cloaked by living shadows, appearing only at night," Maelon shuddered. "They bring the stench of death and decay with them. The red priests and warlocks could do nothing but delay the wraiths. Only the aeromancers, shadowbinders, and firemages from Asshai can vanquish them after much struggle. Valyrian steel also seems to harm them, but the shadow fiends are too hard to kill. They always attack in large groups; if you wound one, it will flee. We've lost hundreds of ships to these shadow devils in the last year alone!"

Four days and four nights did The Great Dragonwolf negotiate with the triarchs and the Ghiscari envoy.

The lauded Breaker was a proud, rich ruler and could not be bought by earthly things like honours, women, or gold.

His demands were heavy, but the wraiths made sea trade almost impossible and were slowly encroaching both onto New Ghis and Volantis from the south.

In the end, an agreement was reached - Jon Stark would vanquish the black wraiths.

Volantis and New Ghis agreed to free any artisan or craftsman and their families that wished to move to the North as freedmen, regardless of who owned them before. In the end, ten thousand skilled pairs of hands, from smiths, masons, and carpenters to tanners, seamstresses, weavers, and shipwrights, along with fifty thousand of their kin, chose to go North.

But that was not all; New Ghis and Volantis reluctantly agreed to grant any slave the ability to buy back their freedom through ten years of hard labour and other means agreed upon by their masters, subsequently freeing more slaves peacefully than Daenerys Targaryen with her follies ever did -

Excerpt from 'Magic Resurgent' by imperial scholar Mardan zo Azdaq

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Jon Stark, Yeen

The night had gathered once more, moon and stars veiled by the thick, ominous clouds above, drowning the surroundings in darkness.

The humid wind was heavy with the stench of rot and decay; the wraiths were not dementors nor amortal but weren't far off. They seemed to feed not on souls but life and magic itself and were raised by some twisted, dark sorcery turning tormented souls into corporeal half-shadowy abominations. Beneath their cloak of shadows lay a half-human, half-demonic soul.

They were very resistant to physical attacks as if he was striking a large solid bloc of the finest castle-forged steel, and he had to use almost his full strength if he wanted to slay them with a single strike. Yet, for all their vileness, the wraiths were dreadfully quiet, both in their unlife and death. All the fighting was done in silence, making the whole thing even more unnerving than it already was.

It had taken him nearly a moon to cleanse the sea of the fiends and another moon to go through the Basilisk Isles and, subsequently, Zamettar.

Now, only Yeen, the source of the wraiths, was left. The magic itself pulsed with a vile, malignant stench. Winter slowly descended in a wide circle, expecting foes, yet there were none.

The jungle shied away from the ruins as if they were the antithesis of life itself.

Everything was hewn out of enormous blocks of the oily black stone, which seemed to both radiate wrongness and devour life.

Yet, the ruined city… looked empty.

His senses tingled, and Jon shot out his hand, grasping a wraith by the neck as it tried to sneak up upon him. With a mighty cleave, the dragonlord put all of his strength into the bronze blade, which tore through the cloak of shadows and the fiend underneath, turning it to foul black dust. That seemed to be the beginning of the fight - the surrounding air began to churn with the wraiths, which surged towards him like a tide of darkness.

Winter's furious roar shook the world; the smell of ozone became unbearable, and a moment later, a storm of purple lightning arched from his ironwood wand, blasting through the surrounding wraiths, showering him and the enormous dragon with foul black dust.

Rings of purple fire expanded violently, setting the hundreds of cloaked figures on fire, and nought but ash was left from his last ironwood wand. Winter was enraged, spewing a sea of angry black flame streaked with blue, drowning the fiends into a fiery hell.

Even the powerful cursed flames were slow to consume the wraiths.

Yet, no matter how many Jon and Winter slew, more and more surged out from the accursed depths of the dark city.

.

.

.

Jon looked around, sword in hand, gasping for breath, yet no more wraiths followed. The minutes ticked painfully, but only deafening silence met him; they had done it. With a weary sigh, Jon sagged onto the saddle like a puppet with its strings cut. Winter's titanic form, heaving heavily, slumped onto the glassy ground, making the world shake for a few heartbeats and cracking the surrounding brittle surface like an enormous cobweb. The stench of rot, death, and decay was gone, replaced with smoke and ash.

The landscape was strewn in every direction with smoking ash, smouldering slag, and shards of sooth-covered glass; the harsh jungle was hidden by a curtain of thick smoke.

It was finally over, three days and three nights of fighting, and he had emerged victorious. The endless tide of shadowy fiends had not slowed even after he had turned the ruins into a molten pool of lava.

Even with his formidable reserves, he could not blast large-scale magic constantly, especially without a wand, so he was forced to swing Black Brother while waiting for his magic to regenerate. His last drops of power were used to stymie the fire that had gotten out of control and threatened to devour the surrounding jungle.

His armour had held up well to the brutal test, and all his limbs were intact, but it was covered by soot and ash, which were slowly vanishing, as he had finally found a way to enchant the metal to repel mundane dirt. Jon could feel his body swimming in sweat and grime, pulsing with purplish bruises from head to toe, and he was too tired to heal himself again.

Mind, magic, body, all were fully spent, but he was victorious. The endless tide of fiends had finally met its end, and the fire purged whatever malignant entity lingered, as well as the curse that had resided in the foul black ruins of Yeen. The being in question reminded him of the Corpse Queen in nature, but it was far, far weaker, drawing all of its powers from the oily black stone, which had proved surprisingly hard to destroy.

The cloudy sky rumbled, and droplets began to patter as Jon closed his eyes to take a well-deserved break; he just hoped his journey to Valyria would prove easier.

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Jon Stark is the only known man known to return alive from the smouldering ruins of the Freehold, and unlike Princess Aerea Targaryen, he was not mortally wounded. Still, witnesses say that his powerful form had grown haggard and had large, black circles beneath his eyes. Just like Balerion, Winter returned with trophies to show for his feat, three long and brutal jagged scars marring his pristine scales -two across his back and one at his side. Although some claim that those were caused by the black wraiths of Yeen.

It was said that the King of Winter spent more than a year traversing the lands shattered by the Doom, acquiring the innumerable treasures of the Freehold and long-forgotten arcane secrets -

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

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313 AC the Wall

Eddison Tollett

The wildlings were too few to be a problem anymore; no White Walkers were left, and no quarrelsome kings-to-be dared to set foot in the North with Jon and his dragons sitting in Winterfell. Fewer and fewer recruits came each year after the Battle of Westwatch, be it because of the many deaths in the cruel winter or the fact that he had pulled out the wandering crows to prevent them from perishing in the tumultuous south.

After the kingdoms were splintered, the only recruits the Watch received from the south came from the few nobles and knights who desired to take the black, which could easily be counted on one hand every year.

But then, more and more men-at-arms and defeated nobles streamed in from the southern wars. Proud or fierce, none of the Southerners dared to make any trouble here in the North, be it lords or knights, hailing from the Twins to Sunspear. Not even the most arrogant and unreasonable highborn wanted to draw Jon's legendary ire.

Some recruits came in from the North, but even they were less than before, according to the older accounts in Castle Black. Even the defeated men-at-arms and southern noblemen that wanted to take the black in the south had lessened greatly compared to before the Conquest. The total strength of the Night's Watch had swelled to just shy of eighteen hundred, but it was still slowly dwindling.

The Night's Watch was dying, albeit very slowly, and the 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was content with that.

There were enough to man Eastwatch, Long Barrow, Castle Black, Deep Lake, Grey Guard, and the Shadow Tower. Rangings were sent North once every few moons to see if there was any trouble. There were none other than feral beasts. Seven Hells, even the lands Beyond the Wall had thawed somewhat, being warmer than Edd ever remembered them being.

Once Edd had accepted that there was nothing more he could do for the Watch, his remaining worries melted away. Old Hother and the finally-returned Sam Tarly took up most of the mundane duties. All he had to do was train with the sword, look important, and approve reasonable-sounding requests from the other Commanders. Edd could even find some time each day for his favourite exercise, brood blankly at the wall in his solar in quiet, without being disturbed.

Everything had been dull, monotonous, uninteresting, and peaceful, just as Edd preferred.

Yet, after ten years, Jon had dragged his arse back to the Wall, and Edd could smell the change in the air. It stank of work and restless drudgery.

Probably because the whole Night's Watch was summoned to Castle Black, every single ranger, steward, and builder.

And they were far from the only ones; the Northern Lords were all summoned here. Every single one of them, big or small. There were even five grand scholars from the Northern Academy with their golden medallions here. Castle Black struggled to hold a thousand men, let alone nearly thrice that number and numerous tents had sprung up in the surroundings like mushrooms after a rain.

All those important-sounding lords and dignitaries were now crammed into the recently cleaned Shieldhall, and Edd stood uncomfortably on Jon's left, receiving a big part of the intense gazes of the whole Northern nobility.

His friend barely looked to have aged a day for the last ten years and was even more regal and imposing than Edd remembered in the legendary battle near Westwatch.

"From this day forth, I declare that the Night's Watch shall be reformed into the Northern Expedition Force in direct service to the Northern Crown," the hall erupted into a commotion. The king observed impassively for a minute, but the outraged racket was not dying down. "Silence! From henceforth, the lands of the Gift shall be reclaimed by the Northern Crown, and lands beyond the Wall will be open for the taking."

"But what about the Wall?" Willem Webber, the new Commander of Eastwatch, asked. "Any expansion further North will be stumped by the very Wall we defended!"

"You need not worry about the Wall for much longer," the king's words made Edd rub his brow tiredly and sigh.

He just knew straight away from the look on Jon's face that his easy days were over.

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Even in 313 AC, many doubted the stories and rumours of Jon Stark's sorcerous ways, attributing the unnatural feats to his dragon, Winter. Even after his triumphant return from the Doom, where he acquired forgotten arcane secrets of the Freehold, the scepticism remained. Yet, all those doubts were squashed.

The Breaker wielded the Sword of the Waters, severing the North below the Neck just like the Children used the Hammer of the Waters to shatter the Arm of Dorne, making the whole of Westeros shake like a ship amidst a raging storm. The tremors could be felt all the way to Sunspear. From just above the Cape of Eagles to the southernmost point of the Bite, the land suddenly sunk as if an enormous sword had cleaved through it. That same day, the Wall shattered from the Bay of Seals to the Bay of Ice. Yet, the endless shards of frost that would have undoubtedly caused many a death and flooded the North evaporated into the air almost immediately.

Any doubts about whether the events were connected or not were squashed when the Northern Crown immediately claimed the Lands Beyond the Wall, launching the freshly reformed Night's Watch northwards, now called the Northern Expedition, backed by the entirety of the Northern nobility-

Excerpt from 'The Sundering' by Maester Armen