Epilogue04-A Crown of Roses

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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*

'While Wyman Manderly was said to be the King's right hand, the Queen would be his left. It was unusual for a monarch to entrust his wife with any of the duties of ruling, especially one like the Demon of Winterfell. But this daring move paid off. Shireen Stark was just and fair like her father before, but unlike Stannis, she made many a friend and was beloved by smallfolk and nobles alike. Many would speculate how the last Baratheon managed to gain so much popularity in the North. Some would say it was her generosity; some would say that she abandoned the Seven in favour of the Old Gods. But according to Rogar Wull, it was when the Winter Queen flew to support the Northern army at Westwatch and refused to flee when the situation became dire. The bards made many a song about Shireen Stark, but to this day, 'The Brave Queen' and 'The Dragonwolf and the Stag' remain the most popular.'

Excerpt from 'The True Good Queen' by Mullin of the Shadowtower

*

Shireen Stark

Shireen had indeed missed her moonblood, but it had been delayed before, so she thought nothing of it. Maester Wolkan cautioned that it was too early to tell if the pregnancy would take, but Jon and her good-sisters seemed confident that she had twin daughters on the way. Hopefully, her morning sickness would be just as light this time as it was while carrying Rickon. Gods forbid she was even half as miserable and nauseous as Cella was. For moons, the new Lady of Last Hearth had spent half her day puking her guts out and feeling queasy and could not stand the smell of half the foods on the great table.

In his completely odd yet endearing fashion, Jon welcomed the idea of daughters with unbridled joy, unlike many a lord would. Winterfell had never felt more at home than at that moment. Shireen remembered how both of her parents wished for a son because she had not been enough.

Haunted by the memory of the cold, dreary halls of Dragonstone, Shireen never really thought she'd find warmth, let alone love, in her own marriage. When she was a young child, family was about cold and distant duty. Her father was often in King's Landing, and Shireen would see him once a year if she was lucky. And even then, he was distant and never lingered for long. While her mother lived with her on Dragonstone, Selyse never truly took any interest in her, as Shireen was only a daughter, after all. Was it bad that she felt closer to Ser Davos, poor Patchface, and Maester Cressen?

Her husband did not whore and drink around, nor did he treat her like a simple broodmare either. The Queen knew her duty well, but having respect, warmth, and understanding made her feel blessed.

At the start, she thought herself in love with Jon Stark, but looking back on it now, it was little more than childish infatuation. Their marriage was never even half as cold as one of her parents, but it had taken some time for love to truly blossom. It took her two years to get to know the true Jon Stark and not the persona he presented to the world.

Some would say he was a brutal madman with a taste for blood and violence, Maegor the Cruel come again.

Some would say Jon Stark was a fine and generous king, fair and just in equal measure.

Some would say her husband did not truly care for ruling.

Some would say he was a god, come down to walk amongst mortals once again.

The truth was, all of that was just a facade.

Jon Stark cared only for family. Oh, he took his little joys in swinging a sword, playing with magic, and flying with Winter, but beyond that, family was the most important to him. For his family, he would turn into the cruellest of demons that would make Maegor look like a septon. For his family, he would overcome his distaste for his kingly duties, and fulfil them, albeit oft reluctantly. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his family. That thought should have probably scared her senseless, and it definitely would if she was not part of that family. Instead, it made Shireen feel blessed.

After all, who would dare provoke someone who would burn into ashes tens of thousands of souls without batting an eye? Someone who would fearlessly fight myths and legends and come out victorious?

Shireen Stark loved her husband dearly, and that was why she was only mildly annoyed when Jon had decided to shirk his duties and seclude himself in his workroom instead of hosting the final, most important day of the tourney. The tourney that he had called. A King could do whatever he wanted, true, and her husband oft decided to do that and avoid the tedium of a large part of his lesser royal duties, especially those seeped in pageantry and courtesy. His quest to delegate as many things as possible to others was rather amusing, and she did not mind aiding him in his duties. It felt rather fulfilling, and the Queen served at the desires of the King, after all.

She just wished he was here now...

While her good-sisters sat to her left, Shireen still missed her ladies-in-waiting. Alys had married Harwin Mazin, Lord Mazin's eldest son, and was too heavily pregnant to come and visit. Myrcella was weakened by a fever and was in no condition to travel to Winterfell either. Mayhaps it was time to look for new ones, as the Lord Hand strongly advised?

Shireen shook her head, sighed inwardly, and focused on the tourney grounds below. More than half a hundred warriors, all clad in steel, leather, or chain, were looking at her expectantly. And this was only the first half. With more than a hundred contestants, they had to split the fighting into two preliminary rounds. She nodded to the game-master, Hallen, who announced the beginning of the first round.

The tourney ground was immediately filled with the chaotic sounds of steel, wood, and flesh clashing.

"I thought you wanted to participate in the melee, Arya?" Sansa prodded from the side.

"And fight against lugs like Torrhen and Edwyle?" The younger princess returned with a snort.

Arya had mellowed out significantly in the last two years, and Shireen still remembered the hellion of a girl with a sharp tongue that had arrived in Winterfell all those years ago. She had even decided to train under her granduncle in the yard in hopes of becoming a knight. But the more time she had spent training with the Blackfish, and more probably Torrhen Flint, the more she had blossomed into the role of a maiden instead.

Gone was the brash princess with a sharp tongue, dressed like a boy. Arya had indeed turned into a capable warrior, but it seemed that the sword no longer held her interest as much. Her good sister still disdained the finer womanly arts and loved riding and hawking, but that was it. She had discarded the boyish clothes and her grey steel cuirass in favour of a grey riding gown that showed off her curves perfectly. However, Shireen suspected that there were still a couple of daggers underneath. Arya had a smaller bosom than her sister but moved with the graceful agility of a shadowcat. Her steely eyes and sharp face made for a lovely combination, together with her long hair woven in a single large braid.

To be honest, Shireen always thought that of her good-sisters, Sansa might be the one that would marry. But it seemed that after being twice widowed, she had decided that married life was not for her. Despite all the suitors and offers of marriage, she had accepted none. A few of the more aggressive ones had to be handled by her husband, who had no patience for fools. True to his word, Jon had done something unprecedented – he had given his sisters full reign over their marital prospects.

The Queen shook her head and focused on the fighting below. A competitor bearing the colours of House Overton was laid low as Torrhen bashed his oaken shield into his helmet. The Flint Clan's heir, clad in chain and brigandine, ax and shield in hand, was cleaving his way through the other contestants like an angry bull. After all, that time spent in the yard, Jon had managed to turn his squire into a monster.

"Or maybe she expects her betrothed to place the victor's laurel upon her head?" Shireen needled and smiled when Arya's face flushed like a ripe apple.

Her good-sister didn't deny it, though.

At the arena, Rickard Liddle finally managed to stall Torrhen's rampage and matched the Flint heir blow for blow with his greatsword.

"Do you have a date for the wedding, Princess?" Wyman Manderly asked from the right side.

The Hand was the only one in the royal box outside of the royal family and Jyanna right now.

"No, Torrhen just asked for my hand in marriage, and I agreed," Arya replied and anxiously pulled on her braid. "He was supposed to ask for Jon's blessing after the Tourney."

"Don't worry," Shireen threw her good-sister a reassuring smile. "Jon will not object to the union, although he will definitely make your betrothed sweat a little."

The tension bled away from the princess' shoulders, and she finally settled on her chair.

"It seems that our captain of the guard intends to crown his little dornish wife instead," Sansa noted.

"I still can't believe he married Sarella," Arya groused. "The snake could be spying on us for the Dornish!"

At that moment, only four contestants remained standing, and Hallen proclaimed the round over.

"His Grace has found a way to weed out all spies in Winterfell. The only ones that are allowed here are those in an official capacity, such as envoy Lucion Lannister," Manderly nodded towards the lion knight, who was one of the last men standing, along with Torrhen, Rickard, and Willem Slate, the second son of Lord Slate. "Although Sarella Liddle is not really a spy, I believe."

A few men quickly ran down to the clearing to remove the fallen weapons and the handful of knocked-out fighters.

"It would not be easy to send any messages all the way to Sunspear from here," Sansa clarified at Arya's confused expression. "Rella stayed because she loves Rickard, not to spy on us. And she genuinely likes it here, I believe. Her sons and daughters will be of the North."

"Fine," the younger princess grudgingly conceded.

The herald began the tedious introduction of all the contestants in the second round.

"Wait, what is a Belmore doing here?" Sansa exclaimed in surprise as a red-haired, tall, yet wiry knight with a purple padded coat of arms with six silver bells emblazoned at the centre stepped on the arena grounds.

"Do not underestimate His Grace's appeal. Even barring that, this is the first time in living memory that there is a tourney in Winterfell, let alone a grand one," The Lord Hand explained jovially. "If Winterfell was not so far away, the number of contestants would be double, if not triple, what we have already.

"Still, shouldn't the Vale nobility gather around the Gates of the Moon for Arryn's own feast and tourney?" Shireen asked.

"This must be Loryn Belmore's youngest son, Desmond," Manderly thoughtfully added as he rubbed his meaty chin. "Loryn spurned the marriage his lordly brother had arranged for a merchant's daughter, and he was exiled from Strongsong. He now lives in Gulltown with his wife's family while his sons travel around as hedge knights."

The lengthy introductions were finally over, and the fighting officially began.

Unlike the previous round, this one started bloodily. Brandon Norrey smashed the head of Jon Burley with a hefty warhammer, making the latter fall like a sack of rocks, most probably dead with his helmet eerily dented. Thoren Wells dug his axe into Torgen Waterman's throat, and Edwyle Umber began swinging his heavy greatsword with nearly inhuman speed as if it were a light cane, dropping more than one contestant down on the ground bloodied, if not dead.

"That's the reason I didn't want to fight in the melee," Arya explained with a grimace as Jorah Woods had his head cleaved in two by Rogar Dustin after he lost his helm, splattering crimson all over his armour.

Shireen had seen many deaths, especially at the legendary Battle near Westwatch, but this felt... unnecessarily bloody.

"This is even more brutal than the Tourney of the Hand," Sansa voiced her thoughts impassively but did not deign to look away. Her good-sister might look like a beautiful flower, but it seems that she did not shy away from bloodshed.

"Men live by the sword and die by the sword. For many, it's preferable to the alternative, especially here in the North." Wyman Manderly commented as Alyn Estermont wisely yielded to Belmore after getting disarmed. "And most northern houses are not rich enough to afford to clad each and every one of their members fully in steel, so it would be easier for someone to die in a tourney. A proper, fully fitted suit of plate would take a few moons to forge, and in that time, a skilled blacksmith and apprentices could make more than a dozen brigandines instead. Some prefer to wear just a breastplate, which is relatively easy to make on its own and rely on arming doublets with mail for further protection of their limbs."

A mystery knight, little over six feet tall, clad in a simple grey brigandine with a visored barbute helmet with no distinctive colours, was also smashing through his opponents with a monstrous halberd. But it looked like he knew how to show restraint, as his opponents only ended up with heavily bruised bodies and egos.

They silently watched as more contestants fell, and the second round was slowly yet brutally concluding. In the end, only the mystery knight, Edwyle Umber, the Belmore knight, and Sigorn Thenn remained.

More than a dozen bodies were carried out as the arena was cleared for the final round. Some looked merely knocked out, but a good part of them was dead.

"Who do you think will win?" Sansa idly asked as the herald announced the final eight contestants; The men in question quickly took their places in a different part of the arena.

"The mystery knight," Shireen offered as the man in question was systematically yet brutally dismantling the overwhelmed Lucion Lannister. Truthfully, for years, the Lannister envoy had spent almost all his free time fighting in the yard, and he had become quite adept with the sword. A few heartbeats later, the lion knight's shield was nought but splinters and the Westerman quickly yielded as his sword was easily knocked out of his hand.

"He's good, but I don't think he can best Torrhen or Edwyle," Arya added as the young Lord Umber laid Willem Slate on the ground, and Torrhen quickly defeated the Dustin.

The Giant of Last Heart attacked Arya's betrothed while the mystery knight patiently waited for the outcome of the fight between Thenn and Belmore.

Torrhen seemed to have forgone his previous small axe and shield in favour of a great axe; greatsword and ax clashed with such strength that it produced a jarring sound.

"I am willing to put my coin on the mystery knight, too," Manderly hummed as he pulled on his greying whiskers.

Neither of the princesses rose to his challenge, and they silently focused on the arena. Sigorn Thenn was knocked out on the ground, and Belmore barely resisted the mystery fighter's poleaxe. In a few heartbeats, the valeman was laid low, and the unknown warrior patiently waited for a victor to be decided in the other duel.

Her husband's squire and the Umber exchanged savage blows. It was an odd sight, the boulder-like clansman clashing against the tall giant who towered nearly a head and a half above him. Only a few glancing strikes managed to bounce off their armour, and they seemed equally matched for two minutes. But with a fierce cry, Edwyle's greatsword managed to break the shaft of Torrhen's axe, and it seemed like the Lord of Last Hearth would win. But the clansman managed to smack away the greatsword's next strike with his gauntlet and tackled his foe to the ground. A ferocious struggle ensued, but a minute later, Torrhen stood up while Edwyle Umber lay on the ground, passed out and nose bloodied.

The crowd roared with recognition at the display, and the young man lifted Umber's blunted greatsword and turned to face his final foe.

"The mystery knight might seem strong, but it seems that your betrothed scarcely looks winded," Sansa thoughtfully said.

"Only a monster can survive Jon's training," Arya said, smugness leaking through her voice.

"That might be true," Manderly acknowledged with a wry smile. "Yet the world is vast, and you never know which harsh corner of the land begot another fighter of legend. Duncan the Tall was born a street urchin from Fleabottom, but his tale and deeds are known in every corner of Westeros."

It seemed that the Lord of White Harbour was correct, as Torrhen attempted to overwhelm his foe with quick yet brutal strikes, but the mystery knight gave no ground. In fact, a few heartbeats later, the young clansman found himself on the defensive as the halberd tore through the wind. The nameless contestant was just as quick as Torrhen and a tad fiercer.

"It seems that Arya will not be crowned today," Sansa observed.

"The fight is not decided just yet," Arya immediately objected.

At that moment, the greatsword was knocked out of Torrhen's hands, and he once again lunged to tackle his foe. But the mystery knight simply sidestepped, and the butt of his halberd smacked the clansman's helmet, knocking him out.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the winner raised his hefty halberd towards the skies.

"I wonder who he will crown as his Queen of Love and Beauty," Sansa hummed thoughtfully.

Shouts and yells urging the man to reveal his face began to quickly gain in strength.

The visored barbute helmet was discarded with a flourish, and the world became silent for a heartbeat. A pair of mischievous purple eyes gazed at Shireen, making her heart flutter, and a crown of winter roses, blue like ice, sailed through the air from his hand and landed atop her head.

*

'With his surprise attack, Shagga the Falconslayer struck a heavy blow on the Vale nobility, yet none were willing to bend the knee to a wildling. Alas, half of the strongest Houses were left in the hands of babes and widows who had no taste for war, and some main lines, like the Hunters, were extinguished, leaving the cadet branches to squabble for the Lordship, uncaring of the happenings outside their lands. From the other half, Grafton and Corbray proclaimed themselves kings, while the young Robert Royce, Bronze Yohn's grandnephew, ascended as the Lord of Runestone and seemingly decided to ignore the squabbling would-be-kings and called his banners with the intent to dislodge the treacherous wildlings from the Gates of the Moon. Yohn Royce and his heirs died at the Crimson Feast, and his daughters were defiled by the savage wildlings, never to be seen again.

While the Vale had conserved all of its forces by sitting out from the War of the Five Kings and the Dragon's Folly, it had also failed to make any worthwhile alliances.

Jon Redfort, the new lord of the Redfort, was thirsty for blood and vengeance for his brothers and father, swiftly joined forces with Robert Royce…'

Excerpt from 'The Vale Divided' by Maester Yandel.

*

Lys

Lord Ralph Buckler

"Are you sure the boy is here?" Robin Massey asked impatiently as they walked through the sunny cobbled streets. The roads were littered with palms and tangerine trees. It was too damn hot, yet it would not be wise to discard his arming doublet in a dangerous location like this.

"Yes, my cousin was sent here with a few of Stannis' men to protect King Robert's son from the Red Witch," Estermont explained.

"That might be true, but it's been six years, and we would have wasted moons to come all the way here in vain if they moved elsewhere unless you've kept in touch," Ralph Buckler observed. Alyn's silence was all the answer he needed.

The Lord of Bronzegate looked at the people crowding the streets, and his eyes drank the view with relish for a few moments. Instead of the drab grey and brown you would encounter in most corners of Westeros, everyone was dressed in bright colours. The women were lightly dressed in this heat, sun-kissed yet pale skin out on display, Valyrian silver-gold hair, and purple eyes.

Yet those were only but a third of all the people. The others were dressed in darker, plainer clothing and had tattoos on their bare shoulders, heralding their status as slaves. A shackle for the workers, a naked dancing maiden for the whores, and a sword for the warriors. Many of the city guards seemed to bear the brand too, and he couldn't help but wonder why didn't they simply raise up and strike down their chains.

Peddlers littered the streets, trying to sell many exotic fruits, more than half of which Ralph had never seen before. Some of them looked quite appetising, but looking at the branded man loading a cart, his stomach churned unpleasantly, and he quickly scrapped the idea.

"We can always go to Highgarden," the Massey knight shrugged.

"And go beg for help from that flowery steward?!" Robert Fell's face reddened dangerously, and a thick vein near his temple throbbed angrily. "Edric Storm might be baseborn, but he is of two noble and ancient lineages, and King Robert's blood runs thick through his veins! He was also raised in Storm's End!"

"Regardless of your feud with the Tyrells, even if the boy agrees to help us, we will still lack swords to fight Strickland," Massey countered with a grunt. "And there's no guarantee he can make the belligerent Lords stop squabbling and unite against the Golden Company. Seven hells, for all we know, the boy might have gone soft; this city is full of slaves, whores, and merchants. Coming here was a mistake."

"It doesn't mean that the Tyrells would help us either," Ralph pointed out as they neared the destination. "Lord Garlan could easily refuse us; he has nothing to gain from aiding the Stormlands. The Reach is already one of the biggest kingdoms, yet none of their neighbours holds any love for them. The moment the roses try expanding further, Dorne, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands will all pounce on him."

They approached the small manse. It was made out of varnished elm with reddish ceramic tiles on the roof, sitting upon a whitewashed sandstone foundation.

"Bah, Yronwood has rebelled in Dorne, and the horse and the lion are at each other's throats," Robin Massey waved his concern away.

"Yet his strongest supporters are but a shadow of what they once were. His Hightower uncle refuses to leave Oldtown, the Redwynes are but an empty husk after the reavers broke the Arbour, and Fossoway lost most of its strength in King's Landing," The Lord of Bronzegate curtly countered. "And the little lion poached two of his strongest bannermen, yet Garlan did nothing but wait. For all the squabbling between the Riverlands and the Westerlands, most of it has been a few bloody skirmishes with scarcely half a dozen men dead."

Ralph thanked the seven when the knight of Stonedance was finally silenced. His preference for the flowery Reachmen made him wonder if the man was a sword-swallower.

The oaken door was guarded by a tall, bulky man with skin like charcoal with a completely naked torso, who towered over them. The man lacked only a little to compete with the Mountain in height.

"Why you here?" The dark giant asked in broken Valyrian.

"We are seeking master Gaemond Malaerys," Ralph replied while thanking the Crone that his father had the foresight to force him to learn High Valyrian.

"Only one enter."

Ralph nodded and turned to his companions.

"Only one is allowed inside to meet with this information peddler."

"Let me go," Alyn suddenly urged.

"Can you even speak Valyrian, Estermont?" Robert Fell mocked from the side.

"Aye," the knight of Greenstone nodded eagerly. "My mother was from Tyrosh and taught me."

"Why didn't you say anything about knowing the language?" Ralph sighed.

"Nobody asked about it," Alyn returned with an infuriating smirk. At that moment, he lamented that the northerners didn't pummel Estermont enough at the tourney at Winterfell.

"Fine, you can go," the Lord of Bronzegate acquiesced. The young knight was a better haggler than he was, and Ralph had no desire to get skinned for his dwindling coin by the essosi merchant.

"Was it wise to let Estermont go?" Massey asked tiredly as the knight in question entered the small manse. "He can be too headstrong at times."

"Aye, that's true, but he knows how to deal with merchants," Ralph explained as he wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and looked around. "Let's move to the shade, the sun is too unforgiving here."

They moved under a nearby palm amidst the rows of trees lining the sides of the paved walkway.

"I hope Alyn actually gets a lead on Edric Storm," Robert's voice rumbled as he sat on a pale rock nestled amidst the roots of the tree. They descended into an uneasy silence as they waited for their companion to come out.

Thankfully, they didn't have to wait long. A quarter of an hour later, the knight of Greenstone rushed out of the oaken door with a wide smile on his face.

"He's here in Lys," he declared.

"Edric Storm?" Massey asked with a sigh.

"Yes, come," Alyn urged as he headed down one of the narrow streets nearby.

"What did the Lyseni tell you?"

"Edric has founded his own sellsword company, the Sons of the Storm," Estermont declared as they traversed the narrow streets. "They have fought against the Myrish in the Disputed Lands for a year and won every battle so far."

"At least he won't be a green boy like Massey feared," Lord Fell laughed boisterously.

"How large is his company?" Robin Massey ignored the jab and looked at the Greenstone Knight.

"Twelve hundred heavy foot and three hundred heavy horse," Estermond supplied.

"That's a lot for a man of barely twenty name-days creating a new company," Ralph couldn't help but whistle.

"Even with them, Strickland will still outnumber us," Massey cautioned as they finally arrived at a wide square.

The crowd was thinner here, and most people had some armour and bore arms. Most of them looked at their retinue with suspicion.

A few heartbeats later, the Estermont knight stopped in front of a walled courtyard. Two burly sun-kissed men with short dark hair, clad in ringmail and padded doublets, stood guard at the thick oaken gate with a spear in hand. Behind the wall, the classical sounds of steel clashing and training grunts and yells could be heard.

"Why here?" The one on the left asked in a broken Common Tongue.

"We're here to see Captain Edric Storm," Ralph explained.

"For contract?"

"Yes, you could say that," Alyn confirmed mirthfully.

The guards opened the gate and let them in.

The inside was a wide courtyard where hundreds of men were rigorously training. But what instantly grabbed their attention was the tall behemoth, easily seven feet tall, fully clad in dark steel with a yellow padded surcoat and an antlered greathelm, almost effortlessly fighting against three knights swinging a large warhammer as if it was light as a feather.

*

'Edric Storm was said to be just like his father but better. Taller, stronger, faster, more charismatic, and even deadlier with a warhammar than the Demon of the Trident in his prime. He had none of Robert Baratheon's penchant for excessive drinking, although he oft enjoyed carnal pursuits. Lords Ralph Buckler and Robert Fell persuaded him to return to Westeros and lay his claim on Storm's End. Harry Strickland, however, had managed to pacify the southern Stormlands and, with bolstered strength, headed north to siege Bronzegate. Plenty of the crownlords and Northern Stormlords flocked to Edric Storm's banner, but their strength had waned greatly in previous wars and harsh winter. Even with the Sons of the Storm, Edric was greatly lacking in numbers compared to Strickland.

The Young Storm was forced to look for allies elsewhere. But at that moment, Garlan Tyrell had finally decided to bring Houses Rowan and Crane to heel and attacked the Westerlands. King Tommen quickly made peace with Jonos Bracken, and they grudgingly united against the larger Reacher force. The Vale and Dorne had both descended into bloody rebellions. It looked like Edric Storm stood alone for a short moment, but his ability to easily make friends, even in his childhood, paid off. Aid came from the most unlikely of places…'

Excerpt from 'The Rising Storm' by Archmaester Perestan