Epilogue08-A Terrifying Wrath

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.

Warning: Not for the faint of heart (violence/implied? torture).

**************DW**************

'The Twins, also known as the Crossing, used to be a formidable fortress due to its unique position, and taking it by force would require siege and assault from both sides of the Green Fork.

While relatively young, House Frey, the overlord of the Twins, began to grow arrogant and wealthy from the tolls levied. The peak of House Frey was under Lord Walder Frey, whose tolls were only slightly less than extortion, and he was slow to answer his liege's call to war until a victor was decided.

There are many speculations about what were the motives behind the Red Wedding. Some say the Young Wolf spurning his promise to the grasping Lord Frey was too much, but after the foul deed, House Frey and Bolton were rewarded by Tywin Lannister with far too many honours, like titles and marriages for the numerous members of the Crossing.

However, the notion that all the Starks were gone and the ancient winter kings were extinct soon proved false. Yet the wolves were far from the only ones to lose kin and kith at the Red Wedding. By the end of 303 AC, the numerous House Frey was extinguished. Yet the Crossing remained. Lord Patrek Mallister managed to gobble up a sizeable chunk of the Frey lands, and so did the neighbouring houses, but to a lesser degree. Yet, the Crossing was still a pivotal point, so soon enough, House Nayland managed to take control of the keep.

Yet, their reign was short-lived - six moons later, all the members of the House were taken by the winter chill. Brigands, outlaws and robber knights attempted to hold the Crossing during the fierce winter with little success - at most, they could hold one of the towers amidst their squabbles, never both. Spring came, the remaining outlaws melted away like snow under the sun under the threat of House Mallister, and the Crossing was given to a cadet branch of House Perryn.

Spring proved little better, and by 310 AC, not a single House had managed to hold the Twins for more than six moons. It was said that the Seven themselves were wroth with the sacrilege that was the Red Wedding and cursed the place for eternity-'

Excerpt from 'Cursed Places of the Known World' by Maester Laryn

**************DW**************

Magister Arvaad Marinar, Tyrosh, 309 AC

Arvaad Marinar was tired, and the luxuries inside the Archon's palace did nothing to lift his spirits. Running a war and a city at the same time from the shadows turned out far harder than he ever expected, even with his brother's help. A pity he still needed to corral all those magisters. He hated the magister's council for a reason, but Arvaad was forced to deal with it, as it was the city's backbone. Thankfully, only the richest twelve and the Archon could attend.

None of the merchant princes lacked for influence or coin, so as much as he wanted to do away with them, he couldn't. The moment he started anything too big, like trying to control them directly or seize their wealth and assets, they would all stop squabbling and unite against him.

"Myr has taken more ground and now has control over two-thirds of the Disputed Lands," Magister Zephron Sarrios said.

The son of his unlamented rival was short and plump, just like his father, but lacked the cunning and ruthlessness of his predecessor. Not that Arvaad minded; he had used the boy's desire for grandeur and recognition to pour much of his family fortune and connections into the ever-hungry beast that was war.

When Zaphon Sarrios had died of a burst belly, Arvaad had danced and sung from dawn till dusk. His mood had been so good that even all his slaves got an additional serving of meat that day.

Yet, the young magister's words were the beginning of a storm.

"Lys failed to pull in as many sellswords as Myr. With the fighting around the Demon Road and Braavos, there are few reliable companies left," Garphen, a gaunt and greying old magister, added.

Green eyes flashed with interest behind the golden mask of the Archon.

"We cannot allow Myr to claim the entirety of the Disputed Lands!"

"Well, what do you suggest we do? Abandon our attack on Braavos, and let them recover and dominate the Narrow Sea again?!"

Ah, the squabbling started again. Arvaad put on an impassive face and focused on slowly sampling his favourite pear brandy and only listened with half an ear, letting the voices wash over him; for all their bluster and posturing, the magisters rarely agreed on anything, and it seemed that this meeting would not be any different.

"Our war effort against the Bastard Daughter has been very costly-"

"And it will pay out manifold once we manage to sack the city and loot the Iron Bank-"

"Less so if the bearded priests of Norvos join us-"

"That's assuming we even manage to reach Braavos! We're gaining less and less ground with each day, and at this rate, our armies will reach the city in five years!"

"Our coffers can scarcely afford two years of war, let alone five-"

"But if we stop now, all the coin wasted will be for nought-"

"What if Lorath and Ibb truly decide to aid Braavos?"

"Sellswords are not enough. We should begin training our own army-"

"Are you mad!? Do you know how costly it is to maintain a well-trained and well-armed force in perpetuity?"

"We can always have a part of them take mercenary contracts to cover part of the cost-"

"What if they are defeated? All the time and coin would be for nought!"

"Customs and tariffs can be raised-"

"Preposterous! Do you want to lose half of our dwindling trade to Myr and Lys?!"

"You forget the most important part. What if our army rebels? We'll be at the mercy of those brutish meatheads! There's no way to truly ensure their loyalty."

"If only the dragon whore hadn't ruined Astrapor and its training facilities…"

"If Myr gains hold over the entirety of the Disputed Lands, it will become too powerful! We should stop this folly with Braavos and crush the Myrish before they consolidate their gains!"

"We've already offended the Braavosi. If we pull out our forces from the conflict, we'll give them a chance to recover and strike back while we fight against Myr!"

"How about we send envoys to one of the bigger Khals? Ten thousand horsemen can be just the right push that we need -"

"What's stopping Braavos from doing the same?!"

"And just how will you convince the Dothraki to aid us anyway? All of them are too busy killing each other or fending the Ghiscari incursions off! That Kazdil mo Hardan is unstoppable!"

Arvaad's head began throbbing from all the squabbling, and he gave a faint sign to the man wearing a golden mask and holding an ornate Valyrian steel sceptre in his right hand.

"Enough!" The Archon slammed the butt of his sceptre on the goldenheart table, and the commotion quickly died off. "Tyrosh's course shall not change for now. Once the envoy from Norvos returns, we shall reconvene again."

The magisters dispersed quickly, the golden-masked man disappeared into the back rooms, and Arvaad entered one of the empty hallways. Empty save for the unsullied guarding the entrance - but he worried not; those unsullied were his, despite wearing the Archon's heraldry.

Soon enough, his half-brother, Breynan, joined him. He looked somewhat average with his olive skin, green eyes, plain face, and an unassuming build. In fact, he looked so ordinary in Tyrosh that you could find a dozen men with his looks on almost every street in the city. Still, his dark blue silk robe was quite distinctive.

"Couldn't you have picked someone else for this game?"

"It's not a game, Breynan," Arvaad sighed. "You get to enjoy the luxuries of being Archon."

He was not even the elected Archon, Arvaad had the middling magister assassinated and replaced the night he won the moot with none the wiser. Though, that was only possible because his brother was one of the popular choices, and the results were not announced before the morning after. Bribing off the three priests who had tallied the votes to keep quiet was simple. Sure, they were discreetly disposed of later to prevent loose ends. It paid to have a hand and ear in every place in the city after all, and there was little suspicion in the end - there had been Archons in the past that veiled their faces and names behind masks, albeit rarely.

"Fat load of good that would do when a faceless man slits my throat," his brother scowled.

"That's why we're using the golden mask and the body doubles," the magister pointed out. "You don't even attend most of the meetings!"

"Yes, but I don't truly get to enjoy any privileges. The body doubles get to feast, drink, and fuck around while I listen to the magisters squabble."

There was no risk of the body doubles usurping the position of Archon - after all, every single unsullied in the palace answered to him, and only him.

"And they get assassinated sooner or later," Arvaad smirked.

"I don't think I can do this much longer, brother. What if I get killed next instead of a body double?"

"It won't be too long," he hummed. "I have swayed three magisters to my side -"

"You mean you found dirt on them."

"Does it matter? They have no choice but to support me," he shrugged.

"That's far from enough to take actual control of the city," his brother snorted.

"I know, but I'm close now. I own almost all of the smithies under different aliases, our dyes are the finest in the world, and I grow richer by the day while the others waste away their coin on ships, men, supplies, and sellswords," Arvaad laughed happily. "Soon, you can step down, and I'll support the most powerful magister for the next Archon. He'll be the one to take the blame for all the problems and trouble."

"What if he decides to simply abandon the war with Braavos?"

"Then he'd be forced to ally with Lys against Myr, lest the latter manages to consolidate its grasp on the Disputed Lands," he smirked. "Or be forced to deal with that Northern Dragon or the Storm King."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Breynan sighed. "Our city has provoked a few foes too many methinks."

And the rest of the magisters would be poorer and far more desperate, easily forced to unite behind someone capable of dealing with all the new enemies and problems. Someone like him.

"Fret not, brother mine," Arvaad smiled as he patted his brother's shoulder. "My plans never fail. Everything will be fine!"

With the thousand unsullied and the men he had been training, he would be able to take complete control of Tyrosh, sweeping aside the exhausted magisters and crowning himself king. He already had most of the city watch in his pocket, but together, the remaining merchant princess had too many unsullied, preventing him from making any moves just yet. Still, some were slowly being bought by him or sent to the front lines, reducing the threat piece by piece.

"Fine, let's go home then. Nalya is waiting."

Ah, his brother's favourite daughter, an always smiling, pretty thing from his lamented Lyseni goods-sister. Arvaad could admit that he favoured his niece - he had no daughters, and Nayla was kind and beautiful and reminded him of his mother. A pity the sweet-tongued Lynora, Breynan's wife, had died.

They headed towards one of the hidden tunnels leading further, far away from the palace, only known to the Archon. Ten minutes and three heavy locked doors later, they finally entered a small, unassuming house, no different than any others around it. Outside, an outwardly modest palanquin was waiting for them, with eight slaves to carry it, flanked by four unsullied on each side. The insides were, however, lined with gold and velvet, and as soon as the brothers sat inside, the slaves picked the palanquin up and began moving. Arvaad sighed; it was too hot even inside - the noon summer sun was relentless. Ah, only a dozen minutes and would be back home in his manse, resting under a shade with his slaves, chasing the heat away with a fan.

The outside darkened, and Arvaad thanked the gods for the timely cloud.

Yet, cries and shouts began to echo from the streets, the palanquin stopped, and he pulled the silken curtains in annoyance.

Many were running around, while others were pointing at the sky -

A terrible, horrible roar rocked the world. His bones rattled, his insides twisted, and the world spun, and he found himself gazing at the gilded ceiling of the palanquin.

Dragon!

Was that a dragon?!

Everything hurt, and Arvaad barely managed to hold his breakfast in, yet the noise was gone for some reason. His mind grew sluggish.

Breynon's worried face hovered over him, and his brother opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The magister frowned and watched his half-brother's lips move, yet he could hear no words.

"Speak up, Breynon!"

His half-brother winced and pointed to his ears. It took the rich magister a few moments to realise he was deafened.

**************DW**************

'The Red Jesters, Tyrosh's foremost catspaw guild, had made a grave mistake. Jon Stark entered the Crimson Court, the guild's headquarters, and remained inside for nearly three hours, letting the rest of Tyrosh watch with trepidation as Winter's tremendous form stood guard amidst the ruins of Juggler's Square outside. A few fools dared approach the furious dragon and were roasted into ash by his dark flames. The city even had a few scorpions along its walls, but they were forgotten by the fleeing city watch that hid like rats.

Eventually, the Northern King left the Catspaw guild. None knew what happened during those three hours, but all saw the aftermath. Jon Stark outstretched his hand and slowly gathered it in a fist. At the same time, the building itself was squashed as if an invisible giant was squeezing a child's toy.

Under hundreds of disbelieving eyes, the ruins of the Red Court were forced into the form of a giant colourful wolf-head made of wood and stone, clay and metal. The northern dragonlord then flew away without deigning to utter a single word. As Winter flew out of the city, his enormous spiked tail whipped into the formidable outer walls, smashing through them effortlessly. Just like that, a good chunk of the fortifications were turned into rubble.

The Archon and the Magisters did not have to wonder for long what had attracted the dragonlord's ire - the news of the attempted assassination of the Northern Queen was quick to spread far and wide.

The mismatched wolf statue proved surprisingly sturdy, and any attempts to demolish or chip it away were met with failure.

Catspaw guilds were quickly banned from the premises of the city proper -'

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

**************DW**************

Jon Stark, Pentos

As the days passed and he flew over the Narrow Sea, his fury had simmered down, but it was not extinguished and instead turned into ice, cold, deadly, and razor-sharp. He had carefully thought about how to deter future attempts on his family, so in the end, he settled for a warning inked in horror, death, and blood. Violence was a language easily understood in every corner of the world.

The Catspaw guild was just a tool, but that mattered little - they also served as an example to the other assassins. It turned out that there were different people; it was not a single faction or party that had decided to attack his family. An odd coincidence had led them to order at the same catspaw guilt, possibly because of its reputation - the unlamented Jester's Court was said to be second only to the Sorrowful men and the House of Black and White.

The masterminds had proven cunning enough; they had used a multitude of middlemen to order the clandestine deed. Good enough to throw most from their trail, but Jon Stark was not most.

He was not afraid to delve into the darkest depths of sorcery to get to the bottom of this foolish audacity. Once even the vilest of magics were used, little could not be achieved if you were willing to pay the price. And Jon was very willing - he'd rather have a thousand innocent die than let a single guilty one get away.

His trusty sword bisected another unsullied guard. The eunuch soldiers were all well armoured - they all had a padded surcoat beneath half-plate. But it was for nought; they were only human, and his sword effortlessly cleaved through bone, flesh, and steel.

Jon didn't even bother using magic; it would be too quick and far less satisfying. Killing someone with your own two hands was far more personal and close, somewhat soothing his seething rage, so he took his sweet time butchering through the Unsullied as he ploughed through the hallways. Truthfully, he could have found Illyrio Mopatis instantly and killed him and only him, but that would be too easy. Everyone remotely associated with the fools who dared order his family's death would perish as a warning.

Ten minutes later, all the unsullied were slain, and Jon headed towards the secret chamber below the manse, where he could see his target hiding.

He kicked the steel-bound door, ripping it from the hinges and swatting away the incoming sword as if it were a fly.

Before Illyrio Mopatis could do anything more, Jon's ironwood wand was already in his left hand.

"Imperio!" The fat magister stilled, and his eyes glazed over as pleasure coursed through Jon's veins. "Tell me, why order a hit on my wife and child?"

It was a tricky thing, forcing someone to give out information with magic. Veritaserum would be the most effective way, but it was unavailable to Jon. His legilimency was crude and clunky at best, and with his power and lack of talent, Jon had far more chance to scramble the man's wits before receiving any answers.

The Imperious Curse, on the other hand, was the least reliable of the three as it was the most easily resisted, yet if you had power and will in spades, it worked well enough.

And Illyrio Mopatis was only superior to Jon in girth, not mind or magic.

The fat magister was easily the size of Wyman, yet there was no hint of the merman's joviality in the Essosi. His violet, beady eyes reminded Jon of a pig even more than his overly plump frame.

"Revenge for my son," the words were monotone, but there was a tinge of anger and reluctance underneath.

The man was struggling, yet it was in vain. Jon suppressed the sweet satisfaction that pulsed within his veins as he Illyrio Mopatis' mind to his bidding.

"And who is your son?"

"Aegon."

That certainly explained some things.

"But why now? Nearly six years have passed since then."

"It took me till late spring until I found out what exactly happened," the greying fat man grunted. "I wanted you dead, but it was too expensive."

"Oh, and what's the price on my head?"

"The Faceless Men quoted a sum larger than all the gold coins in the Free Cities, and the Red Jesters wanted more gold than the whole of Pentos could fork out."

"So you settled on cheaper targets. My wife and son."

"Yes, I had more than enough coin then to order a hit on your wife with the Jesters, but your son was born, and I had to gather more."

Rickon and Shireen were very well protected - he had arranged so many layers of defences, both mundane and magical, to guard them. Jon could daringly say that they were the most protected souls in Planetos. And after becoming a phoenix animagus, he could flame to them in an instant if their lives were in danger. Yet, the attempt, the sheer gall that someone would dare and try to take his family away, was infuriating.

There was the slightest chance - what if the assassination had succeeded?

He shook his head and banished the thoughts - his wife and son were thankfully alive and well right now. No drastic measures needed to be taken, only a little intimidation.

Jon cleaned the blood off his sword on the magister's velvet doublet and returned it to the sheath. One final question was left. "Do you know who else hired the Red Jesters to kill my family?

"No. I thought I was the only one."

Oh, he already found out who the others were that dared to lay a hand on his family, but it was good to know they didn't work together. With a flick of his wand, Illyrio was stunned, and the Imperious Curse was dropped. The feeling of joy and pleasure receded, and emptiness set in as soon as the Unforgivable was no more.

For a short moment, Jon contemplated simply lopping the magister's head off. But it would be too quick, too clean, and the coin given to that street urchin would go to waste.

No matter how distasteful, Jon would make a spectacle, a warning out of this, for all to see and hear. His stunt in Tyrosh had been too quick, too merciful.

After tying him with magic, Jon Stark grabbed the rotund man, dragging him effortlessly like a sack of rocks towards the outside, bumping him into every stair and every corner.

Winter circled in the skies above Pentos, doubtlessly sending the city into an alarm. The moment Jon stepped out of the courtyard, he was met with a thick crowd; it seemed the urchin had kept his word.

The worried crowd instantly split, making way for him. Everywhere he passed, the men, women, and children followed out of curiosity and fear.

The city watch and the other magisters seemed wise enough not to meddle but observe from a distance, and Jon reached the biggest square at the city's centre unopposed.

Thousands had gathered in the surrounding area, all watching him with fear, trepidation, and… excitement?

Jon steeled himself. A young Harry Potter would baulk at what he was about to do, doubtlessly calling him a dark lord or the such. But the boy had not truly known loss nor the harshness of the world.

With a thought, he awoke the bound magister and charmed his voice.

"Today, Illryio Mopatis will meet his end for daring to send catspaws after House Stark!" His words were spoken in the local Valyrian dialect, and the magic carried them to every corner of the crowd. The fat magister attempted to struggle, but Jon's grip was iron tight.

The crowd quieted, and he found himself under thousands of intense gazes.

He waved his hand, seamlessly withdrawing a large chunk of bronze, nearly three hundred pounds. Under his mastery of fire, the alloy turned molten and was quickly shaped into an enormous dragon. It took another minute to fully cool the statue under the crowd's stunned gazes.

The insides were hollow, and, with a wave, Jon made a large opening, tossed Mopatis inside, and sealed the hole.

He cast a mundane fire beneath the bronze statue, and soon enough, the tortured cries of Illyrio Mopatis followed. Truly, the increasingly anguished shrieks reminded one of a bull, and the crowd soon began to cheer. He spotted a handful of red priests that looked particularly happy.

With a sigh, Jon suppressed his feelings as he slowly roasted a person alive. It felt like an eternity, but it was barely half an hour when the cries finally died out as the air was heavy with the smell of cooked meat and burnt fat.

The word would spread far and wide now - probably more and more exaggerated with every next retelling. Winter slowly descended, and the crowd was quick to disperse. Jon quickly mounted his companion, and the merging of their senses brought him some relief. As usual, vengeance didn't bring him much joy, only emptiness and more fury.

Still, it mattered little. Jon Stark had the stomach to do what needed to be done.

As Winter soared through the skies northwards, he melded all his magic and rage together and flung the most destructive streak of purple lightning he could manage at Illyrio's Manse.

BOOM!

The world shook for a heartbeat, and nothing but ash remained from the ironwood wand in Jon's hand. The luxurious manor fared no better - amidst the thick smoke, he could see a blackened crater filled with charred slag as if a meteor had fallen.

**************DW**************

'The demons of Mantarys were a fearsome foe but one that could be dealt with valour and steel. Despite the difficulty, the tiger cloaks of Volantis and the lock-step legions of New Ghis managed to stymie the hordes surging from the demon road. Khazdil mo Hardan dropped his siege on Lhazosh and made with all haste to Mereen along with his Iron Legions, personally trained by him and easily rivalling the armies of the old Ghiscari empire in ability.

The rising star of New Ghis proved itself once more fifteen miles from the walls of Mereen, crushing the demons and sending their scattered remnants fleeing back to Mantarys. Maelon Maegyr, the general in charge of the tiger cloaks, managed to defeat the spawns surging from the Lands of the Long Summer, albeit not as decisively and with far greater losses.

Yet neither New Ghis nor Volantis was prepared for the black wraiths emerging from the cursed depths of Yeen and the Basilisk Isles-'

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

**************DW**************

Jon Snow

"What brings the Northern Dragon to our humble city?"

The Sealord was a formidable man - steely gait, thin yet agile frame, with the hardened blue eyes of an experienced leader. Tormo Fregar stepped ahead as a thousand well-armed men surrounded Winter, who seemed to pay no more attention to the encirclement than he would to an army of ants.

Jon snorted - he could even spot scorpions approaching from the distance. Maybe they could have harmed him and Winter six years ago when the dragon was still young and Jon's armour was yet to be forged.

"I'm looking for Noho Dimittis and Luco Prestayn," he said.

There was no reason to lie, after all. Jon had the strength to speak the truth for all to hear - whether they liked it or not.

"And what do you want with two of our esteemed magisters?" The Sealord was both cautious and wary.

"Just their heads," the dragonlord shrugged.

Tormo Fregar tensed, and the northern king noticed that many soldiers had their hands on their pommels or crossbows.

"And what have the two keyholders done to earn your… ire?" The Braavosi's voice was measured and forcibly calm, despite stinking of fear.

"Oh, nothing much - they hired catspaws after my wife and son."

Everything stilled; it was so silent that you could easily hear a pin drop. Jon was well aware of what he was asking - the Sealord had to choose between his vows to protect the city and its men against his reluctance to face him in combat in the middle of Braavos. Should Fregar let him go in unopposed, his prestige and power as Sealord would be forever diminished, but if he chose to fight, he risked death and devastation just for the lives of two men.

"Are… are you sure?" Beads of sweat formed on Fregar's brow. "They don't have nearly enough coin to place a contract with the House of Black and White."

"Indeed they don't," Jon agreed amiably, "But they ordered the hit in the Red Court of Tyrosh."

"Do you have any proof? What if they were framed?"

"Oh no, they covered their tracks well enough. Three different intermediaries, but I was able to track them. Quite cunning of them, trying to frame their current enemy for their own misdeeds. I'm impressed, truly." The Northern King began to lose his patience. "I have no quarrel with you or your city, but I care little for what happens to Braavos. Step aside."

Once again, Jon melded his fury, killing intent, and magic, and unleashed all of it in every direction. A few weaker men dropped on the ground like sacks of rocks while the rest recoiled as if struck. He wouldn't hesitate to lay waste to the whole city - but it could eventually backfire on House Stark down the line. That thought alone was enough to stay his hand, at least until other avenues of action were still open.

The suffocating pressure mounted higher and higher, and more and more soldiers buckled under it.

Just as Jon prepared to turn the surroundings into an inferno, Tromo Fregar stepped aside.

**************DW**************

'The lines of Dimittis and Prestayn could be traced to the original twenty-three founders of the Iron Bank. Jon the Cruel put everyone in the Dimittis and Prestayn manors to the sword, not sparing even the women, children, servants, or pets.

Their heads were cut off and mounted on bronze spikes in front of their homes for all to see. All attempts to remove the gruesome warning turned out fraught with difficulty. A few fortunate members of the said houses managed to escape the slaughter but to no avail. Without failure, every single soul associated with the blood or the name of Dimittis and Prestayn met a grisly end at the oddest of circumstances. A fit, strong man at the peak of his vigour would slip on an even ground and crack his head open. An experienced sailor would drown in a shallow pond. After two months, every single member of the two now accursed lines was dead one way or another. The manors themselves fared little better - those who bought them and settled to live there also met a tragic end within a year.

But Jon Stark visited one final place before leaving Braavos - the House of Black and White. Like every other stop in the Flight of Destruction, this left ruins and death in its wake, this time for good. Few loved the bankers of Braavos, and even fewer - the House of Black and White. It was said that the Faceless Men attempted to slay the Northern King the moment he set foot into their temple, calling him 'thief' and 'heretic' -'

Excerpt from 'Cursed Places of the Known World' by Maester Laryn