Epilogue01-Three Years Later

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

Editor: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

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*

'The winter of year 304 After Aegon's Conquest was the coldest in recorded history. It was said that even in Dorne, stone would crack open from the chill. It lasted two and a half years. The snow in the Riverlands reached thirty feet tall. From Starfall to Sunspear, everything was covered in white; many Dornishmen saw snow for the first time in their life.

With House Targaryen vanished into the pages of history, it seemed that King Tommen would have no problem unifying the lands South of the Neck for a brief moment. But alas, the Lannisters had made little friends and many enemies, and when spring came, none of the High Lords had bent the knee.

Meanwhile, in the Iron Isles, Baelor Bloodsmile relentlessly continued dismantling the Ironborn slowly but surely. Every keep was pulled down stone by stone, craftsmen sent back to the Reach, and forests cut down or burned. Any who resisted were hanged. The Ironborn never managed to recover, and their days of reaving forever remained in the pages of history.

It is said that during those two years, a third of the smallfolk perished in the cold. At the end of 306 AC, warmth finally began to return to Westeros. Despite the devastating winter, the kingdoms did not remain peaceful. The following spring was known as the 'Red Spring'...'

Excerpt from 'The Red Spring' by Archmaester Perestan

*

Tommen Baratheon, 307 AC, Casterly Rock

"I yield," Tommen admitted at the blunted blade pointed at his neck. Mustering his weary muscles, he stood back up and picked up his sword and shield. "Again!"

"You're getting tired, Your Grace. Any more, and it would do more harm than good," Marlon Greenfield, the youngest addition to his kingsguard, bluntly advised.

Tommen's eyes moved towards his wife, Queen Floris Rowan, watching from the side, and his desire for victory was set aflame again.

"One last bout. I still got some fight left in me."

The young knight bowed his head in acknowledgement, stepped back and took a fighting stance.

Tommen mirrored him while trying to regulate his erratic breathing.

The knight moved, and he was soon upon him like a storm of steel. Tommen decided to dodge and deflect Greenfield's strikes and wait for an opening. Soon, his lungs were on fire, and sweat had begun dripping from his brow from the exertion.

But Tommen quickly realised that the knight across him had greater endurance, and he'd be the first to falter. He had to do something while he still had the strength to keep moving.

He feinted a lunge for Marlon's head with his blade, and the knight predictably tried to meet it with his shield and partially blocked his vision. Tommen twisted his wrist and managed to wheel his slash towards his foe's shin at the last second, striking with full force.

Greenfield grunted with pain and lowered his guard, but the young king decisively slammed his shield into the knight's face, knocking him to the ground.

Jubilation filled Tommen's heart at his success. While he could win against almost all the squires now, this was the first knight he was able to best.

"Well fought, Your Grace," uncle Jaime nodded from the side, a rare smile blooming on his usually stoic face. "But I'll have to remind you that we have a Small Council meeting in half an hour."

"I'll be there, uncle," Tommen confirmed and headed towards his chambers, followed by Lyle Crakehall, who had been assigned as his personal kingsguard.

"Brax, it seems that our newest brother is in sore need of harsher training-" Jaime's voice fizzled out as they left the yard.

Tommen remembered his uncle three years ago. He could scarcely win a bout with his left hand; some had even called him a useless cripple behind his back. But Jaime Lannister, undeterred by the winter chill, had religiously spent hours and hours in the training yard every day, getting beaten and bruised, until he slowly started winning. Now, none could best his uncle, no matter how hard they tried.

He returned to his chambers and had a servant draw him a hot bath to cleanse all the sweat and grime from him. The steaming water helped soothe his tired muscles. As his page was quickly helping him don his doublet, Lady Prowl quietly peddled over and mewled softly, causing the little Gerold Marbrand to jump and squeal in fright.

Crakehall pushed the door open, axe drawn but calmed dawn when he saw the lioness who hissed at him warningly.

"Your Grace, must you insist on keeping… Lady Prowl in your quarters?" The tall kingsguard sighed as he strapped his weapon back to his belt.

"Yes, Ser." Tommen started scratching the lioness' soft underneck, and she closed her eyes and mewled in pleasure. "There's no need for a cage, she is harmless. Lady Prowl has never hurt anybody."

Lyle Crakehall groaned and sagged in defeat.

Tommen wondered why everyone kept proposing to cage his well-behaved companion as he scratched her neck. The Starks had no problem with their direwolves, and, by all accounts, Lady Prowl was scarcely a third the size of the infamous Ghost. Sighing, he tore himself from his favourite kitten and headed towards the council chambers.

It seemed he was the last to arrive, as everyone else was already seated around the table. Tommen took his seat at the head of the table and nodded at Daven, who had remained as his Hand.

"I shall begin," Daven coughed heavily and ran a hand through his beard, which looked more like a lion's mane than anything else. "All the Lords Paramount still refuse to bend the knee. Dorne has declared itself a sovereign principality once more, and Harrold Arryn has crowned himself king of the Mountain and the Vale. Only a handful of smaller lords have tentatively responded so far."

A sigh tore out of Tommen's mouth. He missed the simple days when ruling was just stamping all the documents with his personal seal.

"Who?" he asked.

"A few lesser lords from Massey's hook and the Crownlands willing to swear fealty in return for protection against pirates from the stepstones, Your Grace," the Hand listed with a scowl. "The only one of import is Lord Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden. He is willing to bend the knee if we protect him from Jonos Bracken."

"I thought the newly proclaimed 'King' Bracken was busy warring with Mallister?" his uncle Jaime curiously inquired and signalled to the cupbearer to fill his chalice with wine.

"Not anymore. Old Bracken has agreed to wed his eldest daughter to the Red Eagle after the third indecisive battle," Phillip Plum supplied helpfully. "With the strongest Houses of the Riverlands united, they now look to subjugate the rest that stood aside."

"A pity most of our hostages died by the winter chill," Lord Crane wheezed out. Half of Casterly Rock's household had died to the chill, and while the Master of Laws survived, his health was not as before. "Or we could have mayhaps used them and Edmure Tully to exert greater control on the Riverlands."

The only hostages that survived were Roslin Frey and Hoster Blackwood; the latter had been returned to the Blackwoods as they had returned from their millennia-long exile back to the North. Roslin Frey was a shell of her former self after the loss of her House and, subsequently, husband and child.

"Send her to the Silent Sisters, I say. None would dare wed a Frey, let alone the one whose marriage turned into the Red Wedding. And old Hoster barely controlled his own bannermen before the War of the Five Kings, his floppy fish of a son could not have rallied anyone of importance after marrying a Frey wife," Daven dismissed with a snort.

"And only Piper responded? What about the Vances?" Tommen turned to his master of whispers.

"Bracken managed to keep Vance of Atranta in the fold by giving him a sizeable chunk of the former Tully lands after taking the rest for himself. The Vance of Wayfarer Rest wed one of Jonos' many daughters to his heir," Lord Philip Plumm supplied. "And, well… Lord Tywin burned over half of the Riverlands in the war. And every Riverlord lost people to your grandfather or the Freys, and it is no secret that Walder Frey only dared to break the laws of hospitality because of assurances from Lord Tywin. House Lannister is only a little better liked than the Freys there…."

"And do we know how many swords Bracken can call under his name now?" his uncle queried.

"Eleven thousand at the very least and eighteen thousand at most," the master of whispers recounted thoughtfully. "The Riverlands was hit the hardest during the winter, but Bracken had managed to rally some of Aegon's fleeing army to his cause. But Harrenhal seems to stay empty as the Green Scourge has taken it up as his roost and burns any who attempt to claim it."

"We can only field twenty-three thousand men right now," Jaime grimaced. "Almost all of Jonos' forces are veterans of the last wars. Any fight in the Riverlands will not be easy."

Tommen looked around at the now silent table. Most of the faces were hardened, weathered, or simply weary.

"Daven, pen a reply to Lord Piper. If he swears fealty to Casterly Rock in perpetuity, we shall aid him against Lord Jonos. If Bracken wants to fight over a Lord that has not sworn him fealty, I shall oblige him," he grinned and turned to the master of whispers. "Lord Plum, tell us how the other kingdoms are faring."

"The Crownlands coast is infested by slavers and pirates regularly raid, Your Grace. The young Lord Monterys Velaryon is dead, and Driftmark has been sacked. Claw Isle has also been sacked, and all the members of House Celtigar have been sold to slavery," the old Lord pulled on his greying moustache as the other council members began swearing. "Baelor Hightower has finally finished his crusade on the Iron Isles. The reavers will be a thing of the past now."

"Should've pulled them out root and stem long ago," Sebaston Farman, his master of ships, grunted, eliciting a wave of sombre agreements around the table. Sadly, the naval power of the Westerlands was a meagre score of warships and a handful of cogs. "And do we know what Baelor is doing now?"

"The Lord of the Hightower has returned to Oldtown and seems content to sit in his city for now," Lord Plumm thoughtfully responded as he fiddled with a small sealed scroll in his hand. "Willas Tyrell has succumbed to a vicious winter chill, just like his grandmother. The only Tyrell from the main line left is Garlan, who seems to be sitting back and watching his neighbours for now. Although there are rumours of a new Vulture King invading the Marshes."

"Didn't the Dornish get hit hard by the winter?" the master of Laws rasped out.

"Not as hard as the rest of us, it seems," Jaime muttered, taking a small sip of his wine. "What of the Citadel? Are they still trying to sell us Gormon Tyrell for a Grand Maester?"

"Yes," Devan confirmed with a sigh. "Supposedly, that's who the conclave chose. If Maester Creylen still lived, we could have mayhaps appointed him as Grand Maester."

"Why not appoint the new one instead, what was his name, Lados?" the master of ships curiously asked.

"Ladon," his uncle corrected with a sigh. "He's too young and inexperienced, and we have no idea where his loyalties lie yet."

"Have we no contacts in the Citadel?"

"No, Your Grace."

Tommen groaned inwardly. He now understood why his father had preferred hunting and feasting over dealing with troublesome matters big and small.

"Send someone loyal to Oldtown to scout a suitable maester with no relations to House Tyrell, Lord Hand," he decided after a minute of thinking, and Daven quickly started scribbling down on his parchment. "If the Conclave does not want to provide us with a trusty Archmaster, we'll recruit one ourselves. Lord Plumm, what about the Stormlands and the Vale?"

"Harry Strickland and the remnants of the Golden Company have Storm's End and Harvest Hall in an iron grip. He has taken the young Lady of Haystack Hall, Ellyne Errol, as his bride and crushed the alliance of Connington, Fell, Caron, and Morrigen at Blacktree Ridge."

"Isn't Ellyne Errol ten name-days old?!" Farman cried in outrage, and Tommen felt bile rising up his throat.

"She is," Jaime wearily confirmed. "Although it is not a surprise for an Esossi sellsword. None of them has a shred of decency. What about the other Stormlander houses? Why did they not fight?"

"Strickland still holds the hostages Aegon took in Storm's End. Unlike ours, most of his lived," Plumm explained and downed a cup of wine in one go.

"Can't we assist the Stormlords somehow?"Tommen hopefully asked. "They should easily rally to me as a Baratheon," for some reason, his uncle looked at him with a hint of sadness and took a generous gulp of wine, "with the Stormlands on our side, pulling in the rest of the Kingdoms would be far easier."

"From Casterly Rock to Storm's end is nearly fifteen hundred miles, Your Grace," Crane wheezed. "If we send our army there, our supply lines will be easy pickings for Jonos Bracken and Garlan Tyrell. Not to mention that the Westerlands will be undefended. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do in the Stormlands for now."

Tommen sighed in defeat.

"There's little hope to get Dorne back into the fold," he grimly acknowledged. "But what made Arryn declare himself King?"

"I've no idea, Your Grace," Plumm delicately began, "but I can make a good guess. Your uncle Tyrion convinced the mountain clansmen to follow him, and they fought in the Battle of the Green Fork and at Blackwater for House Lannister. In return, your grandfather supplied them with steel arms and armour, and they looted plenty more after the Battle on the Green Fork. Now the wildlings are no longer a thorn in the Valemen's side but a legitimate threat. Last but not least, they have no desire to be ruled by a king sitting in Casterly Rock."

"So this is it?" Tommen tiredly ran a hand through his hair and looked at the eyes of each one of the council members. "The realm is gone, splintered back into pieces. Aegon's work is undone. There's nothing we can do to bring a Lord Paramount to our side? Nor can we force their knees to bend by strength of arms? Not even the weakest Riverlords that were the most devastated in the last seven years?"

The silence was deafening. All of them were uneasily looking around, but none dared to speak out; the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Mayhaps it is for the best," he muttered quietly. "I've no need for rebellious subjects that only plot and scheme. King Tommen of the Rock has a nice ring to it."

"Your Gra-"

"Enough, I have decided, Lord Commander," Tommen interrupted his uncle's objection. The rest of the room was stunned, with the exception of Lord Crane, who was looking at him with approval. "I've no taste for senseless war. Was not the last one more than enough? And look where it brought us! If every Lord Paramount wants to be their own ruler, let them! Daven, ink it down. From this day forth, I, King Tommen Baratheon, renounce my claim to the rest of the realm and name myself King of the Rock."

"But, Your Grace-"

He raised his hand and stared at the audacious Lord Farman, who swallowed his words as Daven's furiously scribbling was the only thing that could be heard in the room.

"Ser Lyle."

"Yes, Your Grace?" The Strongboar came over from his post at the door.

"Did I not say I had decided not a minute earlier?"

"Aye, Your Grace, you did!"

"Escort Lord Farman out," the Lord of Fair Isle wanted to protest, but the hulking figure of Lyle Crakehall loomed over threateningly, and he quickly swallowed his words. "His services as a Master of Ships are no longer needed. I've no need of a councilman who cannot even listen. He will stay in the guest quarters until his heir comes to foster here, in Casterly Rock."

As Sebaston Farman was led out of the room, Tommen waved over the cupbearer, and his goblet was filled with Arbor Gold. Half a minute later, Daven finally finished his roll of parchment. Mayhaps it was time to get his Hand a scribe?

"To whom do you want to send it, Your Grace?"

"Send this to every Lord Paramount or self-proclaimed king in Westeros." He took a large gulp of Arbor Gold and twirled the sweet nectar in his mouth for a few heartbeats before swallowing. Gods, he felt so much lighter, as if he was carrying a set of heavy, thick plate until now, and it was suddenly gone! Tommen suddenly wondered how Myrcella was doing and looked at Lord Plumm. "Any news from the North or my sister?"

"Queen Shireen Stark has given birth to a healthy baby boy, Rickon Stark, Your Grace."

"Lord Crane, pick a suitable gift and send it to Winterfell in my name," he quickly decided, and the master of laws bobbed his wisened head in agreement. "Has there been a word from my sister?"

"There seems to be a rumour that Princess Myrcella is betrothed-"

Uncle Jaime choked on his wine and started coughing violently. Tommen himself barely managed to rein his surprise in.

"Why am I hearing about this only now?!"

The Lord Commander finally managed to calm down, and his green eyes bore at the Master of Whispers.

"Err, Your Grace, this is only a rumour, and it arrived this morning. Nothing has been confirmed yet…." Plumm nervously cracked his fingers, coughed, and continued. "As I was saying, the Princess is said to be betrothed to Lord Edwyle Umber."

"The Giant of Last Hearth?! How did that happen?"

"The Umber Lord fostered in Winterfell after his father died fighting those wildlings at Westwatch, and he reached the age of majority last moon or so. It's near impossible to get any spies in the heart of the North, but from what I've gathered so far, the Princess and the young Lord slowly got close together. The rumour is that the Queen has officially arranged a formal match between them," the master of whispers finished and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow.

"Mayhaps we should send Lucien back to Winterfell to stay there permanently as an envoy," Tommen hummed thoughtfully.

"What can you tell us about this Lord Edwyle Umber?" his uncle cautiously queried.

"Not much," Plumm grimaced. "He's the second son of Jon Umber and is said to be larger than his father even…."

Tommen sighed inwardly. He knew that his sister was well treated in Winterfell and could only hope her husband would continue doing so. There could have been far worse matches for Myrcella, and he long knew that when she was declared a ward of House Stark, they would marry her off in the North. A pity it would not be wise to attend such an event himself.

"Find out everything about this Lord of Last Hearth," He sharply ordered. "And, if my sister is to be wed, I will provide a most generous dowry worthy of a princess. Council dismissed."

The exhaustion from the earlier sparring finally set in as he slowly walked back to his own chambers, shadowed by Tytan Brax this time. He entered the royal quarters and quickly began undressing, intent on taking a short nap. He froze as he turned towards his bed. Floris Rowan was lying on top of his covers, naked and grinning at him like a hungry cat.

*

'Even the wildlings beyond the Wall and at the Mountains of the Moon know and respect the ancient laws of hospitality.

The Tale of the Rat Cook and what happens to those who break Guest Right was considered old song from times forgotten.

Before the Red Wedding at 299 AC, House Frey had more than a hundred members. By 304 AC, Tywin and Willem Frey, the grandsons of Genna Lannister, were the last living Freys. It did not take long for them to meet an accident at the Watch and die. It was said that none of Walder's Frey progeny met a peaceful end. Ever since then, the name 'Frey' has been synonymous with the vilest of curses and the most unworthy of men…'

Excerpt from 'On the Importance of Guest Right' by Lord Yohn Royce

*

Rogar Wull 308 AC, near Westwatch

"Come, Rodrik, let's pay our respects," Rogar urged his son, who was busy gawking at the vast expanse of hewn stone ahead.

Gone was the broken shore, and all signs of snow and battle had disappeared, replaced by greenery and stone. In between the pathways lay a vast array of trees and bushes; Rogar could recognise apples and plums amongst the trees and half a dozen kinds of berries below them. The sweet scent of fruit teased his nose as half a dozen stewards carefully harvested the garden.

He gave a sign at the men-at-arms to stay with the horses as Rodrik quickly ran over, and they solemnly began to climb the stone steps leading to the monument.

"Can you tell me more about the battle, da?" his boy asked enthusiastically as he squeezed his hand.

Rogar sighed wearily and looked at his eager son.

"Oh, my sweet summer child... Battle? 'Twas no much of a battle," he began grimly. "The Bay froze despite the Queen's efforts-"

"Good Queen Shireen?" Rodrik interrupted him.

"Yes, the Good Queen Shireen," he confirmed, grabbed his son by the ear, and twisted.

"Ow, ow, ow-"

"Don't interrupt me, boy," Rogar warned, finally letting him go a few heartbeats later. "Your mother coddles you too much, methinks, and it seems I need to tan your hide more. It's time to learn some patience and listen for once. Mayhaps I'll send you to old Denys Mallister for a year or two."

"Sorry, father," his son guiltily mumbled.

The boy would benefit from the firm hand of the Old Eagle at the Shadow Tower.

"Where was I? Oh, right. 'Twas so cold that the Bay froze. The cold winds of winter cut through the thickest of furs, and many a man died in their sleep. Ten thousand brave swords had gathered below Westwatch, but we had no chance without the walls. They call it 'The battle of the Dawn' now," he snorted and spat on the stony ground below. "There was no battle that day, my son, only slaughter. The walls facing the Gorge helped us hold them back, but we stood no chance once they could cross the Bay and hit us in the back."

Rogar took his flask of ale from his belt, uncorked it, took a generous swig, and sighed.

"But you won?" His son hopefully looked at him.

"Nay, son. We lost. There was no victory for us, only death and glory. For every breathing man, there were a hundred wights! But even then, we were no match for the Night King and his icy thralls. They took down the Purple Dread from the sky, and great warriors were dying like flies."

He sighed and looked at the marble obelisk. They were almost there. A grand piece of masonry, as the Stark had gathered the best stone carvers to immortalise the sacrifices of that day.

"Didn't you kill a Walker, da?" Rodrik urged him on.

"I might have struck the final blow, but many perished to make it possible, including your Grandfather Hugo. All who managed to slay a Walker earned a weapon made by the Stark himself," Rogar quietly recalled as his hand found the handle of Grief, House Wull's new bronze double-headed great ax. "A miracle bronze that was lighter than normal steel and would never bend, break, or lose edge. But nay, we scarcely killed a dozen of the icy demons. If the Stark had arrived a minute later, there wouldn't have been anyone else left alive..."

Rogar shivered at the memory and treated himself to another swig of ale. Ominous blue eyes and the field covered in charred bones and slush would forever haunt his dreams.

"What is that?" Rodrik asked as he pointed at the statue vigilantly standing atop the marble obelisk, looking towards the Lands of Always Winter.

"A tribute to the fallen as per northern tradition," he explained, voice maudlin. "Too many died that day."

At that moment, they finally arrived. His curious son finally stilled and, wide-eyed, looked at the imposing memorial covered to the brim with names on every side. Four silent black brothers stood still as statues at every corner and watched like hawks. Rogar, however, stared at the red etchings at the very top.

Lord Hugo Wull

Lord Jon Umber

Lady Maege Mormont

Jorelle Mormont

Lord Jonos Norrey

Cregan Norrey

Jeor Flint

Jon Harclay

Beren Burley

Waldon Burley

Lord Harald Crowl

Lord Dorlaf Stane

Svenarr Stane

Skageir Magnar

Lord Soren Shieldbreaker

Toregg Giantsbane

Chieftain Great Walrus

Chieftainess Morna White Mask

Chieftain Gerrick Kingsblood

Chieftain Devyn Sealskinner

Chieftain Ygon Oldfather

Cotter Pyke

Duncan Liddle

Iron Emmett

Artos...

Rogar sighed wearily and finally took his eyes off the list. None could recognise most of the remains amidst burned bone and half-melted metal. But the Stark had said that all that fought and fell that day deserved to be remembered, and thus this memorial was made atop a mass grave. His father's remains would never see the Wull Crypts. Rogar bowed down and placed a small offering at the base of the white obelisk. Out of ten thousand men, scarcely two thousand survived that day.

"Wull!" a booming voice from the side made him jump.

"Fuckin' Umber," he swore quietly as he tried to get his erratic heart to calm down. The sight of the seven-and-a-half feet tall man with a heavily muscled figure practically rushing his way did not help him one bit. "Edwyle, how fare you?"

"Could be worse." Rogar coughed to hide a wince when an enormous meaty paw his friend called a hand struck his shoulder. "That your sprog?"

The man was even more formidable than his father, the GreatJon, in both body and voice, and he was not even twenty name-days yet.

"Aye," he nodded towards his son, who was trying to disappear into the hewn stone below. "That's my firstborn, Rodrik. I heard the lioness gave you one too?"

"My little Jon was born three moons ago!" Edwyle Umber proudly declared, making even the stoic black brothers guarding the monument wince.

"Gods save us. We're going to drown in blond giants now!" Rogar groaned, and the Lord of Last Heart burst into boisterous laughter. "I hope your boy gets your looks from his ma, lest he becomes an ugly cunt like you!"

Edwyle only laughed harder and louder at his words. It took him a minute to calm down, and then he solemnly placed an offering of his own at the base of the marble obelisk.

"Have you heard, Wull?" Umber inquired carefully after he stood up.

"Heard what?"

"The Stark has announced a Tourney at Winterfell for Prince Rickon's first name-day," Edwyle solemnly declared. "And it's not like those flowery southron Tourneys."

That grabbed Rogar's attention, and he expectantly looked at his friend.

"How so?"

"There's no joust," Umber's grin turned feral. "I heard there was a melee, archery, mounted archery, horse racing, boulder tossing, hand wrestling, fisticuffs, axe-throwing, and more I couldn't remember!"

*

'Three men were brave enough to challenge the Demon of Winterfell for Princess Sansa's hand. Jon Stark was unrivalled with the sword and took a cruel pleasure in chopping people's limbs off. Lucifon of Tyrosh lasted scarcely two heartbeats before he lost his sword arm. The First Sword of Braavos, Gario Alerys, was defeated so quickly that he could not even swing his sword. Only Yue Tanglong from Shaolong Temple, with his Valyrian steel blade, managed to last a meagre thirteen exchanges before he was promptly disarmed. The tyrannical sorcerer-king practised all sorts of unnatural magicks to gain his unholy powers…'

Excerpt from the 'Reign of Jon the Cruel' by Archmaester Gormon