55 Epilogue07-Not a Toy for Toddlers

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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'A year passed, and the Yronwood Rebellion showed no signs of abating. Arianne's consort, Brandon Tallhart, proved an able leader of men, and neither side managed to win a decisive victory.

House Martell had planted its roots deep and would not be easily dislodged, even with Doran Martell's numerous errors and shows of weakness.

Yet, Gwyneth Yronwood proved the key to success. With Trystane Martell rebuffing the offer to take Lord Yronwood's daughter for a wife, Anders Yronwood had one more card to play. Instead of looking to pull one more House away from Martell in Dorne, he gazed northward at the Rising Storm, who had just smashed his foes and united the Stormlands under his crown.

Secret messengers were exchanged, and three moons later, Gwyneth Yronwood became the Storm Queen, and Edric Durrandon entered Dorne with six thousand hardened veterans to aid his good-brother.

The Rising Storm proved his valour on the battlefield once more, and at the Battle of the Scourge, he decisively smashed the Martell forces despite being outnumbered while most of Anders Yronwood's armies were still sieging Tor.

With Brandon Tallhart captured, Prince Trystane attempted to rally the remaining Martell forces but was quickly defeated.

That was the tipping point, and House Martell was decisively crushed. Quickly enough, they were bent, bowed, and broken, and all their dwindling allies were quick to abandon them. Many argued about the complete destruction of the line of Nymeros Martell, but neither Lord Yronwood nor the Storm King dared to do the deed since the Winter Queen herself had made the marriage arrangement of the former Princess of Dorne. Instead, House Martell was demoted to a knightly House, sworn to their new overlord Lord Drinkwater, who had been awarded Lemonwood as his seat for services to House Yrownood.

Thus, House Martell was allowed to keep Sunspear - but no more, not even a single inch of land further than its walls. The former princely House would never recover from this blow and would slowly sink into obscurity.

And so ended the Yronwood Rebellion. By the seventh moon of 309 AC, Anders Yronwood crowned himself High King of Dorne-'

Excerpt from 'The Blood on the Sand' by Archmaester Yandel

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Artos the Scribe, Redcliff Castle, Sweetsister, 309 AC

When his father had sent him to Oldtown, it was not because he had a mind for his sums and letters but to expand his horizons and learn more of the world. After five years of study, he was to return home and inherit his father's trade. Artos never expected to end up here, not as a scribe of the Breaker himself.

An apt nickname for someone who was said to have broken the power of the House of the Dragons and the Seven Kingdoms back into pieces.

When the Conclave offered His Grace to take a pick of the finest Maesters the Citadel had to offer, Jon Stark had picked him instead. Artos, a lowly acolyte and a simple merchant's son from Barrowton. And Artos had been picked only because he was passing by when the Conclave attempted to corner His Grace.

And probably because he hailed from the North.

The grimaces of the usually composed and haughty Archmaesters were an amusing memory he would fondly cherish for a lifetime. None of them dared to even protest under the Breaker's steely gaze.

But, as a scribe, he expected to… sit on some desk and, well, write.

Not witness this slaughter. Artos was never one for blood, and the smell of shit and piss didn't help, so he heaved over and emptied his belly of whatever little was left from his breakfast. He was not the only one; the young Roderick Dustin also lost his meal.

As the heads of every Sunderland were placed on spikes atop the front gate, His Grace Jon Stark watched impassively as his orders were carried out. Every living soul in Redcliff Castle, the seat of House Sunderland, was being put to the sword. Stableboys, scullery maids, servants, crones, babies, surrendered men-at-arms, even the Maester. Pleas of mercy fell on deaf ears, and the courtyard was filled with wails and cries of pain.

After the Sunderland fleet and their pirate allies had been defeated, Jon Stark himself had been first over the walls with Ice in hand, and soon after, the castle had fallen. The king's black armour was painted red with blood; according to the other men-at-arms, none could say that they killed even half as many foes as he did during the attack.

"Roderick."

"Yes, Your Grace?" The king's young squire walked over nervously.

The Dustin boy was barely a boy of two and ten with dark, auburn hair, hazel eyes and quite tall and wiry for his age. In the last few days, Roderick had shown himself smart with a mild temper and an easy smile, but no joy was to be found on his face right now. Artos knew many of the Northern Lords attempted to squire their sons and heirs to the King after Torrhen Flint, and in the end, Lord Dustin's grandson had won the honour.

"I could have flown Winter and melted this damned castle in a day, yet I mobilised the Northern fleet instead and stormed the keep on foot with the army. Why?"

"Well," Roderick Dustin paused for a moment and looked around with a wince at the bloodbath. "The royal messenger's murder could not remain unpunished."

"Indeed, but I could have still ended House Sunderland within a day, yet I did not."

The young squire hesitated again before a sigh tore out from his mouth, "I don't know, Your Grace."

"Do not be afraid to admit your lack of knowledge. It's the first step to learning, after all," the King slowly explained. "Loran Sunderland, the harbourmaster here, thought he knew better than his lordly nephew, executed my messenger, and now a line from the Age of Heroes has been extinguished for his folly."

"If Lord Triston Sunderland wasn't at fault, why the slaughter?" The Dustin boy with a grimace. "Couldn't he have just handed over Loran Sunderland for his crimes?"

"He could have, but he did not, and I'd have never accepted him," Jon Stark had steel in his voice. "It shows Lord Sunderland's inability to keep his family in line - which means his word doesn't hold sway and can't be trusted. The problem is, what Loren did was probably with the tacit understanding of his lordly nephew, if not his direct order. Regardless, nobody else would dare to touch a single hair of my messengers after this."

"Yet, you could have spared those who surrendered and the servants," there was a tinge of defiance in Roderick's youthful voice.

"Lord Sunderland could have surrendered, but when he saw no dragon, he decided to try his chances in battle. I don't like this any more than you do," the king nodded with a sigh. "But this sets an example. An ugly one, but an example and a warning that none would dare ignore. Now, even if some Lords decide to defy House Stark in the future at their peril, their bannermen, servants, and retinue might not agree to follow such folly, knowing that they too would not be spared the consequences."

"And burning the keep wouldn't send the same message as taking it by storm and slaying the inhabitants," Roderick Dustin added.

"Indeed, it's far more personal. The first would show that House Stark was strong. But everyone knows House Stark is strong. No, with this move, I showed the North is more than the dragonriders - the fleet and the brave men who could fight and win. I am not without mercy - the thought of washing the Three Sisters with blood has passed my mind more than once."

Understanding began to dawn in the young squire's eyes. "And what shall be done about the Tyroshi pirates? They attacked Northern merchants and fought against us. And Lords Borrell, Longthrope, and Torrent might not have participated in the fighting, but they did not send any hostages either."

"I'll deal with the Lords as they arrive, and a note will be sent to the Archon of Tyrosh. If he cannot reign in his own forces, I shall do it for him. Artos," the King turned to him, forcing the young scribe to scramble around his effects for an empty roll of parchment, his quill, and ink. "Write my words down-"

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'There are many speculations to this day, but none can say for certain why Loran Sunderland, the uncle of Lord Tristan Sunderland and the mayor of the nearby port, had decided to slay the Northern Messenger. Yet, retaliation had been quick and brutal- less than two moons later, House Sunderland had been extinguished, man, woman, child; young and old, servants, even their dogs weren't spared. None dared lay a finger upon messengers carrying the direwolf livery ever since.

After Sunderland's Folly, the Three Sisters became a part of the North. Houses Borrell, Longthrope, and Torrent were quick to surrender and swear fealty to House Stark. Jon Stark let them choose - marry into the North and foster all their children with Northern Houses for five generations or exile, and all chose the former. Redcliff Castle, the seat of House Sunderland, was pulled apart stone by stone, and Icewatch was built on a nearby rocky hill instead. King Jon Stark decreed that Icewatch would be ruled by a steward appointed by the Northern Crown, a position that was not hereditary, just like the Protector of the Moat.'

Excerpt from 'The Grand Northern Expansion' by Scholar Artos

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Jon Stark, Winterfell

Sure enough, he was now the father of twin girls - one Argella Stark, lilac eyes and black hair, and one Lyarra Stark - silver-gold hair and grey eyes. Jon just prayed that they took after their mother; he had no desire to deal with a smaller version of Arya, who had thankfully mellowed out even further after her marriage to Torrhen.

His daughters were born twenty days ago, but today it had become official - ravens and criers were sent out, shouting for the whole North to hear that it had two more Princesses.

It was a tradition to wait before an announcement - it was not rare for babes to die before their first year, but Jon held little fear. Yes, accidents happened, but the amount of benign magic woven in the birthing rooms and on Shireen's jewellery would make even a goblin green with envy.

While Jon was not experienced in dealing with childbirth and the such, he had plenty of magic to spare and was not afraid to use it. Sure, he lacked knowledge of medical spells, but with a heavy hand of brute intent and a veritable sea of magic - there was little that scared him. Thus, just like with Rickon, he had been present during the birth, much to Wolkan and the midwife's chagrin.

A sigh tore from his lips as he walked towards the council chamber.

Ruling a kingdom was such a tedious business, even after delegating and cutting down as many trivialities as possible. Yet it was not something that could be completely done away with or skipped. Left alone - problems would fester, and small issues would become big.

Hopefully, Rickon would grow up soon enough. Once his boy was a man grown with a good head on his shoulders, he would become Hand. Hopefully, his firstborn would prove himself and gain experience, and Jon wouldn't hesitate to pass the crown to him for a moment.

But for now, he was content to play the devil and clear the way of any trouble for his children.

He shook his head, entered the chamber, and gazed at the council, who had just assembled. The birth had taken a toll on his wife, so she was still resting under strict orders.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," Wyman Manderly beamed and raised a wine-filled goblet in a toast before emptying it in one go.

Locke and Glover echoed the Hand's words and joined the toast as Jon joined them at the head of the table.

"The gods smile upon the North; Bloodfyre clutched three eggs as well," the Lord of Deepwood Motte inclined his head. "Will the old tradition of placing eggs in the newborn's cribs be followed?"

"A dragon is not a toy to be given to toddlers," Jon snorted.

He had failed to find any way to bind the dragons to the male line of House Stark, so he had settled for a different solution for now - namely, hand an egg only to his heir and only his heir when he came of age. His daughters or any other sons that would follow wouldn't see dragons and won't be forced to wed each other. The king knew that was not an ideal solution in the long run, but it was the best he had for now.

"Won't the eggs… petrify with time?" Manderly asked.

"They will, but I have ways to preserve them, so fret not," he waved dismissively. "Dragons are all well and good, but House Stark has stood strong for eight thousand years without them."

And it was true; he would slowly expand the power of his House further, making it a formidable power even without dragonriders. Rickon inheriting his talent in wizardry was a far bigger boon than a dragon could ever be.

"How fares the war in the Narrow Sea?" Jon looked at his spymaster. "Will our trading lanes be cleared, or shall this squabble continue plaguing the northern ships?"

He signalled Roderick Dustin, who also acted as his cupbearer, to fill his tankard with his favourite dark ale.

"Well, Braavos is still blockaded, but the Duarchy has given up on taking the city by Sea. Braavosi forces are slowly being pushed back to the city on land, but the foot of the Duarchy is taking heavy losses," Edwyle grabbed a small scroll from his cloak and quickly scanned it. "Pentoshi envoys are being sent to Norvos, probably to convince the Theocracy to join their alliance against Braavos."

"The bearded priests care little for the happenings on the western coast of Essos," Wyman snorted. "They would have to offer more than generous terms to agree to move the Theocracy."

"There are also rumours of Braavosi messengers sent to Lorath and Ibb, requesting aid against the Duarchy with generous concessions," the spymaster shuffled uneasily, "though I'm unable to confirm them."

"If three more Free Cities are pulled into this conflict, almost all the trade through the Narrow Sea will be completely paralysed with the resurgence of pirates in the Stepstones," the Hand's voice was grim. "The loss of revenue in customs and tariffs will be disastrous, and the Northern fleet is not a match for either side."

"House Stark shall remain neutral," Jon said after half a minute of thoughtful silence. "House Dustin, Glover, and Blackwood will receive a limited city charter at the cost of building and maintaining fifteen war galleys for House Stark each. Smaller houses along the western coast and the mountain clansmen will receive town charters and be required to maintain three war galleys."

His squire's eyes goggled, and Glover coughed and pinched himself.

"You mean to pull trade through the west instead?" Manderly's blue eyes gleamed sharply. "With the Ironborn vanquished, the sea routes towards the Westerlands, Reach and Riverlands are wide open."

"Aye, so we will not be dependent on a peaceful Narrow Sea for our trade lanes."

"That might skewer the balance of power in the North greatly," the fat old lord cautioned.

"That's why it will be a limited city charter - stone walls no taller than twenty feet or thicker than seven," Jon took a generous gulp of ale, "Strong enough to resist pirates and naval attacks, but nothing more, while the towns will be allowed to use only plaster and wood for their fortifications."

The king was not afraid to shuffle the power structure of the North - the Houses along the western coast were simply too weak. This would give them the much-desired leg up and shore up the defences of the western coast. And it wouldn't be quick too - even with a limited city charter, building up the city would take manpower, time, and coin, let alone a harbour and a shipyard. A greater part of a decade of harsh labour and planning would have to pass for Glover, Blackwood, and Dustin to even near their projects to completion and double that to begin seeing the fruits of their labour.

And well, House Stark wouldn't be affected negatively - Wintertown's walls were planned to be sixty feet high and twenty feet thick. The cost was high, and the construction time only lengthened further, but Jon had gold and time to spare and was not afraid to use it. Worst case, he would fork out three spellforged weapons and sell them at an auction.

With work always available around Winterfell, even more people flocked to Wintertown. Could Dustin, Blackwood, or Glover compete with the royal coffers? Or with the legendary protection offered by House Stark, bolstered further by the presence of three dragons?

White Harbour and House Manderly would have the worst end of this arrangement, and as long as the war in the Narrow Sea was raging, they would be on the back foot. Yet, war was costly, and Jon knew that sooner or later, it would die out one way or another.

"Quite generous, Your Grace," Manderly coughed, "but other Houses might insist on similar honours."

"I'll allow every noble House of the North sworn directly to me a town charter - at the condition that they make a wide, well-paved road to Winterfell and keep it in good condition," Jon snorted. "That also applies to the already granted city and town charters. Of course, House Stark shall aid in the construction of the roads but not their upkeep."

"That might solve the issue, but roads are an ambitious and costly project," the Hand took another sip of wine. "The royal coffers are already strained with the construction of Northern Academy and Winter Town. Fully restoring Moat Cailin has cost a hefty coin as well. As it is, the treasury cannot bear the cost of paving roads along a third of the North, let alone all of it."

"It will be a slow process," Jon hummed, "There are plenty of opulent gifts that were sent to House Stark and simply gather dust in the vaults. They can be sold. Besides, even if the coffers lack coin, I have other means of procuring wealth if needs must. While those roads will be useful for trade - they are meant to increase the army's marching and mustering speed."

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'The most stubborn wildlings that had refused the generous offer of the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch remained Beyond the Wall and were never seen or heard from again.

After the legendary battle near Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, the Night's Watch was in a deplorable state. The fierce winter that followed did not help much either. It was only until the Bloody Spring began did new lifeblood begin to tickle in the ancient Order. The decline might have been stemmed, but restoring the previous glory of the Night's Watch was still far from sight.

By Grand Scholar Samwell's estimate, less than seven thousand wildlings survived the winter of 303-306 AC, considered the coldest one in recorded history.

Yet the weather after 306 AC turned rather mellow - each season was about as long as the previous one, and while some scholars thought it was a coincidence, by 325 AC, the trend continued with only small deviations. Mostly women and children remained from the wildlings, and they settled down at the now lush lands of the Gift, picking up ploughs and looking after sheep and cattle. Only a handful of the most stubborn ones ventured North of the Wall to continue their nomadic ways.

After officially being acknowledged by the King for their aid against House Bolton, clans Giantsbane, Thenn, and Shieldbreaker were quick to pick up the ways of the North - every generation, their heirs would foster at their neighbouring lords or clans, making easy connections. While never particularly large, together, they had enough influence to be an impressive force under the direwolf banner.

By 309 AC, fewer than two hundred giants were left, roaming aimlessly around the Gift with their mammoths. The Northern King offered them a generous plot of land to call their own - and in return, they would not be obliged to pay yearly dues or provide military service but aid House Stark's efforts in construction across the North.

And thus, the wildlings were no more -'

Excerpt from 'On Wildlings and the Watch', by Grand Scholar Jeor

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"Does the Conclave still demand their books back?" Jon snorted.

"Yes, Your Grace," Manderly coughed, trying to cover his laughter.

Nearly four moons now, and threats, demands, pleas, requests came from the Citadel, and he had ignored them all. They had vowed not to send a single maester North until the books were returned and had attempted to recall the current maesters lest they wanted to face censure and lose their chains. The Citadel was little more than a toothless lion - not a single Northern maester dared return.

"Write to the Conclave and tell them that the Archmaesters can come and pick up their books themselves, but only as much as they can carry on their person."

He wasn't particularly worried that they would pull any tricks. If they dared show their face here, Jon would give them the most common and unimportant tomes after making them wait months to accept his audience.

"Serves the stuck-up grey rats right," Galbart murmured with a quiet snort, but Jon still heard him.

"It shall be done," his Hand seemed worried as his meaty hand rubbed his troubled brow. "But with this, our relationship with the Citadel has been irrevocably damaged, and we'll have incredible difficulty procuring loyal or capable maesters in the future. It shall take at least another half a year to fully finish the Academy complex, and we're lacking in scholars."

"Some of the buildings are already useable," Jon cracked his fingers. "And tearing our relationship with the Citadel matters little, I shall oversee the Northern Academy myself at the start."

"Your Grace, nobody would dispute your skills in administration or with a blade, but mayhaps it would be more… prudent to appoint a learned man, someone loyal like Maester Wolkan instead?"

He smiled at Manderly's cautious words.

"Fret not, Lord Hand, I will have Wolkan advise me on the matter. My only goal there would be to ensure everything runs smoothly at the start," Jon rubbed his chin and signalled to Artos, who had a roll of parchment and a quill ready. "Let Wolkan's ravens carry my word around Westeros and our ships to every corner of the known world - I, Jon Stark, invite learned men and scholars to join the Northern Academy. Sharp minds and leal service shall be rewarded with riches and honours!"

Artos's furious scribbling was the only sound in the chamber for a while. Ever since his jaunt in the Citadel, plans were slowly brewing in Jon's mind as he was reviewing Harry's memories. He was well aware that he now needed a scholarly order of his own. Truthfully, the thing that took the longest was coming to terms with the inevitability of more work, even if temporary.

Jon really didn't want to bother running what was essentially a school, but if it meant that things would go smoothly from the very beginning, he'd have to do it himself. None of Manderly's outlined plans or Wolkan's ideas differed notably from the Citadel's model of education, which could use some flexibility.

Thankfully, his goals were simple - he needed an order of scholars to replace the maesters in effect and a source of educated minds to bolster his budding administration. Yet he was cautious - blindly expanding the administration beyond the necessary was a monstrous danger that could take a mind of its own, which Harry had clearly seen in both the magical and muggle world.

At that moment, Ghost urgently tugged on his mind.

He peered into his direwolf's mind for a heartbeat and was overwhelmed by blood, shouts, mangled corpses, and fury enveloped his mind. Memories of his previous life, where he lost his family, still stung. It took him a moment to centre himself and calm his raging feelings; his wife and children were fine, evident by all the magic protections he could feel still in place.

"Meeting dismissed!" he hissed and stormed out.

Someone dared to try and kill Shireen and Rickon.

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'For six years, the Breaker dismissed his advisor's urgings to form a kingsguard.

Yet, at 309 AC, things changed.

A new order, the Royal Guard, was formed - thirteen of the North's finest sworn to protect House Stark. It was said that the king himself handpicked the first members. Similar to the Kingsguard - they vowed to serve for life, but the king allowed them the option of marriage after twenty-five years of leal service- provided the woman in question was approved by the King and would live in Winterfell as part of House Stark's retinue.

According to rumours, magic was involved in giving the vows. Each Royal Guard was allowed a weapon made of Northern Bronze, sharp, light, and unbreakable, forged by the king himself. Yet the spellforged arms were bound to the position, not the man.

The drastic shift in attitude resulted from a singular event.

No more than two moons after the birth of the twin princesses, twelve catspaws attempted to kill the Good Queen and Prince Rickon in broad daylight at the Craftsman's Square in Wintertown. Ghost, the King's direwolf, had torn down three assassins, and Shadow, the Prince's direwolf, took down another. Jyanna Snow and the Queen's Ladies-in-Waiting killed three, while the last five were ganged upon by the nearby smallfolk who scrambled to help their queen. Four of them were beaten to death, while the last survived, albeit heavily battered by the time the city watch arrived.

Those who had rushed to protect the Good Queen were generously rewarded with honours and opportunities.

In the end, neither his wife nor heir were harmed, but Jon Stark's wroth was fierce to behold.

The King himself interrogated the final assassin for hours before mounting Winter and flying away-'

Excerpt from 'The Red Spring' by Archmaester Perestan