57 Epilogue09-Guilt and Family

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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'Dozens of battles and scores of skirmishes, big and small, were fought between the Lord of Highgarden and the Westerlands-Riverlands alliance.

None were decisive, but casualties began to pile up as the year progressed. The lands of House Crane and Rowan were quickly drained and put to the torch many a time, with smallfolk killed, scattered or fleeing. Yet, warbands from either side continued their incursions deeper, setting the northern parts of the Reach and the southern Riverlands and Westerlands on fire.

Garlan Tyrell, Tytan Brax, and Patrek Mallister turned out formidable commanders in their own right, and a year later, there was no victor in sight, only heavy losses from each side.

At the beginning of the fifth moon of 309 AC, both sides met once more at the shores of a tributary of Lesser Mander. Yet, neither wanted to force a risky crossing through the small ford. But while they were gripped by indecision, it began to rain. It rained seven days and seven nights - before the river overflowed and flooded the surroundings.

A large portion of the armies were drowned, and the losses were heavy for both sides. Garlan Tyrell and Patrek Mallister barely got away, but Tytos Brax of the kingsguard was not as lucky.

It was said that the foolish, senseless war had angered the Seven themselves, thus punishing both sides. And indeed, after the flood, the losses were devastating on both sides, and they had nothing to show for it; neither Highgarden nor the Alliance could continue waging war.

A begrudging truce was agreed to, but the animosity was far from gone.

Garlan Tyrell reached out to the newly crowned Edric Durrandon for an alliance, citing the danger a royal Baratheon claimant posed to him, albeit in Casterly Rock.

Yet, King Tommen was quick to react - he publicly renounced his Baratheon name and all their claims taking up the royal lineage of his mother - Lannister. That seemed to placate the Rising Storm, and he stayed out of the ongoing feud, content to consolidate his lands. Thus, the last vestiges of the Targaryen influence and Houses related to the Freehold by name or blood - were now history.

Garlan Tyrell did not sit idle during the truce either, and he was quick to stamp out any dissent from his bannermen, which were far more depleted from the ongoing war than House Tyrell. A year into the truce, 310 AC, he seamlessly crowned himself King of the Reach with seemingly no opposition.

The smithies of the Reach, Westerlands, and Riverlands continued working day and night; men were trained, armours were polished, and weapons were sharpened.

Short of three years into the ceasefire, banners were called again, and King Garlan rekindled the war, intent to regain the lands of Houses Rowan and Crane -'

-Excerpt from 'The Fifty-Year War' by Maester Gledyn

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Jaime Lannister late 309 AC

The things I do for love…

He woke up with a start, swimming in a cold sweat, heart thundering like a war drum. It took him a few shuddering breaths to take himself back under control. His sleep had never been easy since the War of the Five Kings, even less so now.

Slowly roasted alive in a bronze dragon, wailing in agony in front of Pentos to hear! Not only that, but the brutal punishment seemed to have taken root in Essos, now saved for the vilest of traitors.

Enormous fortified building blasted by fiendish lightning, leaving but a crater behind!

With a single gesture, an enormous manse was squeezed into pieces as if crushed by a massive invisible hand shaped into a fist.

Two powerful and fruitful braavosi lines of great wealth and renown, cursed and extinguished within three months!

Those words rang in his drowsy mind as clear as the sept's bell at noon.

Jaime Lannister knew well enough that Jon Stark was not to be messed with; memories of a purple inferno engulfing an enormous army were still fresh in his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could still see Aegon's army being drowned by the fiendish fire, and the acrid smell of burnt fat and charred meat would tease his nose even now.

Tommen's council was slow to believe the rumours coming from Essos, but Jaime had little doubt they were all true. The notion that a single individual could hold so much power based purely on his capabilities, not because of his position or birthright, was terrifying. Even more so when he used it with no qualms once his kin was threatened.

Gone was the sullen young boy of summer, unsure of his future or lot in life, and the terrifying King of Winter had taken his place. Even six years ago, without the dragon, Jon Stark carried a terrifying presence and a heavy gaze that pressed on you like an enormous mountain.

Yet, he had also recognised a tinge of honour, a trace of Eddard Stark underneath in his supposedly bastard son. The Northern King had proved a man of his word, but if his kin was threatened, his wroth proved more terrifying than any could bear.

Nobody alive knew who crippled the long-missing and most certainly now-dead Bran Stark. That secret had never left Jaime's lips.

But it did not change the facts - it was he who had done the deed. The Kingslayer wouldn't put it past Jon Stark to somehow find out.

Yet, the years passed and passed, and no dragon flew over Casterly Rock ever again, and Jaime's sleep slowly grew better. Until the whispers of the attempted assassination of the Northern Queen and the so-called Flight of Destruction arrived, any rest during the night became scarce.

Jaime Lannister took a deep breath, somewhat calming his erratic heart, stood up and headed towards the polished silver mirror on the wall. It was the sole ornament in his bare room beside the bed, cloak hanger, and the small clothes rack. He was greeted by a tired, weathered face with heavy purple bags beneath his eyes. His flowing golden hair was a thing of the past - he had always cut it short now, and only a few errant strands were still barely resisting the brutal onset of time.

Two and forty - that was his age, yet the man in front of the mirror looked nearing sixty, if not past them…

It took him a dozen deep, slow breaths to centre himself and clear his sluggish mind, yet the worry remained.

With a sigh, Jaime Lannister discarded his damp nightclothes, changed into a clean training attire, and attached his gilded hand before heading to the training grounds. In the end, the only thing that managed to bring any real peace to his mind was the song of swords and steel.

Besides, someone had to keep the other Kingsguard sharp; Tommen needed true protectors, not the twisted, nearly useless order picked for politics more than anything else under Robert.

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'For a short moment, the Flight of Destruction made the Tyrosh-Pentos alliance teeter on the brink of failure. Yet, the Breaker's fury seemed to be quelled, and the war resumed with full force. With the House of Black and White vanquished, Pentos and Tyrosh quickly consolidated their standing power out in the open without fear of assassination or sabotage.

The envoys sent to Norvos, Ibb, and Lorath returned empty-handed.

So, the fighting continued for a year more, with the neighbouring Free Cities watching like vultures upon the brutal war.

A year later, Tyroshi envoys finally managed to acquire the help of four middling Khals, barely pooling fifteen thousand riders together.

Yet it seemed that as they passed the Valyrian Roads through Norvos, the bearded priests made their own deal with the Dothraki.

When the Khals arrived, they split up and attacked both sides of the ongoing battle from the back, shattering both armies and hunting down their remnants.

Yet, it was a costly victory - only one of the Khals survived, and the supposed Norvoshi reinforcements murdered him and his remaining riders. The Bearded Priests had been slowly building their own forces for the last four years.

By 311 AC, Norvos managed to gobble up a large part of Old Andalos and the Braavosi coastline; Lorath had managed to secure naval supremacy and its own chunk of the coastline.

Braavos was devastated - the war effort had taken a toll on the city's wealth, population, and resources. In 312 AC, just as Braavos seemed as if it would manage to recover, a terrible plague visited the city, killing more than half of the remaining population. Lorath and Lys launched banks of their own, and the Iron Bank quickly began to buckle under their combined pressure. With the House of Black and White and its terrifying Faceless Men gone, the Bastard Daughter of Valyria would never recover back to its former glory.

Tyrosh had its fair share of trouble - as the term of the Archon was running out, Magister Arvaad Marinar attempted a coup, intent on usurping the power of the city and crowning himself King of Tyrosh. He barely succeeded, but it took nearly two months of struggle, and the city's forces were spent in the fighting and the following purges. Lys took advantage, gathered its men and fleet, and sacked Tyrosh, looting the city for all it was worth, killing the newly crowned king and the remaining magisters.

Pentos managed to hold onto most of its lands but was devastated; its internal problems were about to begin. Citizen and servant uprisings became surprisingly common-'

Excerpt from 'The Decade of Blood' by Archmaester Perestan

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312 AC

Shireen Stark

Her eyes fluttered as she woke. As always, the sleep was, well, perfect - it was soft and neither too warm nor too cool.

"Mornin'," she greeted drowsily.

Jon's hands gently cupped her cheeks, and his thumb softly circled over the scars on her left cheek, where the Greyscale used to mark her.

"Good morning. You know, I'm quite confident in my ability to remove the scarring now, should you want to."

Shireen remembered her childhood, the looks of pity, caution, and thinly veiled disgust. Not only had she considered herself cursed, but she had known she was ugly - uglier than any other girls her age. Yet, just when she had accepted her lot in life, her curse was removed. But it was not the only thing that was gone - sure, her ears were still larger than normal, but growing out of her childish body had been more than generous to her - the jut in her jaw was so small you had to look hard to see traces of it, her hair was long, silky to the touch, her face - sharp and symmetrical besides the scarring, with regal, high cheekbones.

That was not all - she was tall, slightly shorter than her beloved husband, with long legs blessed with wide, generous hips, a narrow waist and a buxom chest. Shireen Baratheon could confidently say she might not have become a kingdom-shattering beauty, but she was still definitely not ugly. Not anymore. She easily turned glances now, both men and women and most importantly, she still held Jon's attention.

Mayhaps that change was indeed just growing up - it was far from unheard of for a maiden to turn from an ugly duckling to a gorgeous swan after flowering. Mayhaps it had something to do with that searing, tingling magic that ran through her whole body when the Greyscale was vanquished.

In the end, did it truly matter? Her husband, the king, would have gentle stars or the eyes of a hungry wolf when looking at her, even with the scar, and she loved it.

"I'd rather keep it," Shireen chuckled. "I'm too used to it, and it would feel odd if it was gone. Besides, it's a precious reminder of how things were before and who deigned to help a helpless little maiden in her darkest hour."

"Well, it certainly doesn't take away from your beauty," Jon kissed her marred cheek.

"Well, I do have to match my husband now, don't I?" She ran her hands through his heavily scarred torso. "I don't see you doing away with any of yours."

"Indeed," he agreed and stretched lazily.

"Jon, how do you feel about having more children?" The Queen slowly asked.

"I thought you decided against having more after the triplets," Jon ran a hand through her hair.

Shireen winced inwardly; there had been no heat in those words, only exhaustion and pain after the long and arduous labour.

"Well, birthing three at once isn't easy," she sighed, but it was worth it, each and every one of them - it was pure joy to look upon any of her six children. "I was delirious with pain, but having Edwyle, Artos, and Steffon has been a joy."

One of the triplets was going to be named Eddard, but Arya had already taken the name for her own firstborn a moon earlier, so Shireen had chosen another similar enough northern name to avoid confusion.

"Mhm, that's why all the children see more of their Aunt Sansa and Astrid than either of us."

"We have our duty," Shireen pointed out. "Besides, it wouldn't do them good to turn out spoiled."

"Aye," he agreed, making her snort.

"Don't 'aye' me, Jon! You're the one that tends to indulge them; Sansa is surprisingly strict."

"Fine, fine," the king coughed. "Though, there needs to be some joy in their lives, not only duty."

"In moderation," she ran her hand over the prickly stubble covering his jaw. She did not tire of doing this after nine years of marriage. "You still didn't answer my question, though. Would you want more children?"

"As many as you're willing to give," a broad smile adorned his face.

"Well, that's good since I'm pregnant again," she hummed softly. It was two moons since she had her moonblood. "Wolkan confirmed it yesterday."

The words earned her a warm, gentle hug from her husband and a searing kiss that could melt the Wall.

"That calls for a celebration!"

"Come now, you should know that it's proper to wait before the birth for any such festive," she pointed out.

Although, contrary to any expectations and much to Wolkan's surprise, there had been no problems whatsoever in her previous pregnancies or deliveries. Even the strongest and the healthiest women tend to encounter some trouble or complications sooner or later while carrying, but Shireen experienced none besides the pain.

"At least a private feast for kin and kith, then," Jon relented. "It'd be good to see Arya and Torrhen again."

Not that would stop him from hosting the annual tourney celebrating Rickon's name day.

"Indeed," Shireen sighed. "Did you not get tired of smacking people in the ring and crowning me the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of the whole North every year?"

"Never. They need to get better if they want to win!"

She couldn't help but laugh merrily at his vehement reply and the roguish smile that accompanied it - Shireen did love it when the crown of winter roses landed atop her head.

The Queen draped herself over her husband like a blanket. "So, how's your work in the Academy going?"

"Well enough," Jon grimaced. "Everything is running smoothly, the curriculum is set, and almost all the details are hammered out. Now I just have to pick a worthy person to take the position of High Scholar."

The just-named office would supposedly be the head and face of the Academy, a man to be elected by the king from the three choices raised by the Grand Scholars.

After the royal summons for learned men and the wealth of books spirited away from Oldtown, the Academy did not lack for scholars from the four corners of the world and those who desired to study in its halls. Jon had also managed to enchant the library hall, making it harder for books and tomes to tear and decay and reducing the required amount of scribes to copy them too often. Hundreds of young northerners had joined the Academy to study in the last year alone.

"And who are the candidates?"

"Alyn of White Harbour, Tian of Jinqi, and Solal of the Summer Isles."

"Do you think you can trust… foreigners with such an important task?" She asked, twisting her neck to take a good look at his purple eyes; gods, she could get lost in his gaze.

"Maybe in a decade or two," Jon chuckled. "I am withholding my choice, so they all work harder. I shall hand the reins over to Alyn in a few moons."

"A pity Wolkan refuses to officially join the Academy."

"Indeed, I'd rest easy with a loyal man like him in charge. But he's growing old and doesn't have the drive or the strength to run a whole order," Jon shook his head. "I barely managed to convince him to hold lessons on healing and medicine once a sennight."

While the Maesters had received a heavy blow, their roots ran deep and were already on the road to recovery. The accursed ice Jon had conjured finally melted after nearly a year. With the aid of southern houses, their copies of most of the essential books in the library were sent to the Citadel, where scribes and acolytes worked day and night to replenish the Citadel's repository. Despite their arrogance, the Archmaesters knew their craft and could teach their subjects well. The Maesters were still unrivalled south of the Neck, yet their influence had been completely uprooted here in the North.

"Well, either way, we can now ignore the Citadel and their attempts at meddling. What will you do after you're done with the Academy?"

There were little issues in the North nowadays - Jon was quick to resolve any major squabbles between his bannermen, and most were busy with construction - towns, roads and cities - all required a ton of coin and work hands. The other Houses might have taken construction and paving roads slowly, but House Stark had no such problem with the aid of the giants. Jon's visit to Essos might have been for vengeance, but the gold looted from the catspaw guild and banker families exceeded over two million coins, and in addition to the income provided from tributes, customs, and tariffs, they wouldn't lack for wealth anytime soon.

"I might make a trip to Volantis."

"They still request aid with that… wraith problem?" Shireen idly twirled a strand of silky black hair with her finger.

"Aye, and I'd rather see the situation myself lest it gets out of hand. They still struggle after recruiting those warlocks and sorcerers from Asshai. I planned to visit Valyria sometimes soon anyway."

Scary tales of the Doom and all the men who dared to brave the ruins of the Freehold yet perished, never to be seen again, were quick to appear in her mind.

"Jon…."

"I know, be careful and all that. Besides, I can teleport away within a heartbeat," her husband kissed Shireen's forehead, making her pout. "Did you know that when phoenixes are killed, they burst into embers, only to be reborn from the ashes?"

"Oh…" her mind felt numb at the revelation. Did that mean her husband was… immortal?

She looked at Jon's face - truthfully, it had remained the same in the last six years; the only difference was the style of his hair and beard. Would she grow grey and old alone while he remained at the peak of his youth? Would he eventually leave her for a younger-

"Stop," his gentle voice interrupted as if reading her thoughts. "It's written all over your face, and I'm shite at mind reading, Shireen. Ever since you turned nineteen, you have barely aged a day yourself. It's hard to spot, but I can tell."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely," his voice was adamant, and she could see no trace of deception in his face. Shireen believed him.

"How's… how's that possible?"

"Well," Jon hesitated for half a minute. "It can be many things, but this is likely the result of me dabbling with magic, not the ability to turn into a phoenix, which only makes me harder to kill. I'm, well, more since my resurrection, and now, so are you after laying with me and bearing my children. I don't think we're immortal, but we won't be dying anytime soon."

"How long are we going to live?"

"Hundreds of years. Maybe thousands, I can't know for sure."

Oddly enough, Shireen did not feel any different besides some surprise and not a small amount of confusion.

There was a tinge of unease and wariness for the first time as the pair of amethysts gazed upon her. Shireen could understand her husband's apprehension and even felt angry for a heartbeat. But that anger went away as quickly as it came; she rarely asked about magic, and Jon had always been truthful and honest about it. Her husband's reluctance to brag and penchant for silence and secrecy was a part of him that she had accepted long ago. After all, he had proven again and again his love and trust for her, and she did not have any reason to doubt it.

Yet now, certain things would have to change. Still, the prospect of spending a long time with Jon was far from daunting.

She crept up and kissed him warmly, making his eyes crinkle in relief. Still, there was a tinge of unhappiness inside her, so she moved to his ear and gently bit it before whispering: "Is that why you're so set on passing the crown to Rickon as soon as he's ready?"

"Can you imagine centuries of rulership?"

"Now that you mention it," she found herself grimacing. "Will our children be the same?"

"Quite possibly, but less so. Only time can tell."

"Gods!" she rubbed her brow tiredly. "What shall you do once you pass the crown?"

"What shall we do? Unless you don't want to accompany me?"

"No way, Jon," she chuckled. "I am yours, and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

"Ah, my lovely dutiful Queen, citing our wedding vows," another sweet kiss that made her insides tingle followed. "To answer your question, we'll do whatever catches our fancy. Everything you wanted to do before but couldn't for one reason or another. Travel around the world, see the sights, relax, and all those things."

"Fine," Shireen agreed. She was honestly happy with everything as long as it was with Jon. "Shouldn't we get dressed and ready for the Court and the weekly Council meeting?"

"Ah, Wyman can deal with these things for once. With Sansa and Astrid watching over the children, we can have the whole day to ourselves," a second kiss, followed by a third and a fourth. "We haven't gone flying together for nearly a moon."

"Fine," Shireen agreed, barely resisting the urge to return her husband's heated advances. "There's one more thing before I forget."

"Oh?" Jon stopped himself and looked expectantly at her.

"A few days ago, when I got angry, something sparked between my fingers," she explained hesitantly.

"Sparked?"

"I'm not sure, actually. It could be just my mind playing tricks on me…"

Jon cupped her face and closed his eyes, scrunching his brow in concentration. She felt her body fill up with heat, making her squirm, but whether it was her burning desire or something else… Half a minute later, he opened his eyes, "Aye, you've somehow awakened your dormant magic. Although all things expected, I'm not that surprised."

"Wait, I am going to be a witch?"

"I can train you how to use magic if you wish. Although it'd require plenty of time and dedication."

"I've always wanted to throw bolts of lightning from my hands," Shireen giggled joyfully. "But this can wait for later," the Queen straddled her husband atop his waist and leaned in for a searing kiss, feeling even more excited yet having no reason to hold it in anymore.

Yet Jon rolled over, and now he was on top in a very compromising position, and she could feel his warm breath upon her neck.

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'During the three-year Truce, King Jonos Bracken gathered brave and skilled men and led them in person, intent on finally dealing with Rhaegal the Green Scourge, the last of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons.

Even half-ruins Harrenhal was a mighty fortress on a strategic position, and its lands rich and fertile, too important to be left unused.

Yet the mighty green dragon was not to be trifled with - it had grown cunning during the last seven years - evidence of the innumerable charred bones belonging to fools attempting to become dragonriders or slay the beast.

None could deny the Green Scourge was smart - any group of men larger than half a dozen in his territory was met with dragonfire on sight, and it was not only that - the mighty dragon had made his nest in the Tower of Ghosts. The top of the ruined tower could only be reached by climbing - the original staircase was half crumbled, half melted into slag under the onslaught of time and Balerion's black flames.

Hundreds, if not thousands, were said to have perished under the Scourge's wroth, yet none were half as well prepared as Jonos Bracken and his retinue.

His plan was to split his men into groups of three and travel separately towards Harrenhal under cover of the night while resting during the day. Then, while the dragon slept in his nest, they would scale the half-melted tower and slay the beast.

Yet, men plan, and the gods laugh - according to Ser Velen Vypern, one of the two survivors, the Green Scourge awoke when they attempted the climb. The dragon quickly flew out and bathed King Jonos and his brave retinue with dragonfire-'

Excerpt from 'The Decade of Blood' by Archmaester Perestan