The Price of Triumph

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

13th Day of the 9th Moon, 300 AC

Ser Barristan Selmy, the Blackfyre camp near the Golden Bridge

There were no lines of friends and foes pushing in an attempt to envelop or flank one another and gain the upper hand. There were no honourable duels or any semblance of order, just pure chaos. Men who were allies, comrades in arms at sunrise, were now slaughtering each other with no rhyme or reason. Merely groups of chaotic warriors, knights, men-at-arms and auxiliaries led by lords, heirs, or captains. Some used this chance to settle old grievances, but most lent themselves to unadulterated violence, while a few tried to get away or fend off any attackers.

What didn't help was the men who shouted, "FOR AEGON!" and attacked those who dropped the red three-headed dragon or those who chanted, "TOMMEN, TOMMEN!" and were fighting side by side against Martells, Santagars, Gargalens and others.

The sounds of death and battle, of steel meeting steel, flesh being eviscerated, and men dying, echoed in his ears, making his insides churn. The smell of sweat, voided bowels, and blood struck him with full force amidst the crisp air.

But Barristan was ready, for a kingsguard was always ready to draw his blade and fight in any battle. Even the onset of old age and the winter chill could not diminish the countless hours he had spent polishing his skills and body. 

Elegance sprung into action, slicing and piercing through coifs and ringmail, sinking into flesh and sinew. A warrior of the Golden Company fell, then a Martell man-at-arms, then a Dalt Knight, then a sergeant sellsword as he carved his way towards Aegon. Dodge, riposte, parry, thrust–it was easy to get into the rhythm of death. Pink ripples glistened with crimson as the dragonsteel blade was steaming hot with lifeblood. 

Up near the wooden hall, Barristan could see that his King–no, his former squire handled himself well, with Ser Mildred Ashford, Rolly Duckfield, and two tiger cloaks fighting by his side. 

Seeing his rampage, some went out of his way or dropped their swords, and just as Barristan thought he could reach Aegon within a minute, an angry yell echoed, "Cole and Mudd, stop Barristan at once!" 

Another enemy ran at him; Ser Barristan deflected the coming sword and struck Elegance into the man's exposed knee pit, severing the limb with a tug.

More men came in groups of twos and trees, some from the side, some from the front. Those in half-plate and without shields quickly fell to his sword, but Ser Barristan was quickly faced by the hulking form of Serjant Lorimass Mudd. Lorimass Mudd never made a claim to knighthood; unlike his many fellow sellswords, he was a proud killer skilled in his trade and clad from head to toe in lobstered plate. Strong like a bull, swift like a shadowcat, fighting him was a challenge. Worse, he had grown skilled in wielding the dragonsteel greatsword he had looted from the sacking of Volantis.

Ser Barristan's wrist rattled as he parried a heavy swing aimed at his neck, both dragonsteel blades emitting a high-pitched keening wail when they clashed. He jerked out of the way of the next one and lashed out at Mudd's exposed side, the small spot under the armpit where the breastplate didn't cover. 

He swore under his breath as Elegance sliced through the leather straps and the ringmail but was stopped by the padding–his muscles had been too stiff to push all the way.

Fighting a brute was challenging but possible, but the problem was the other pikemen who converged at his location, poking at him with their spears whilst hiding behind their shields. Ser Barristan was now forced on the back foot, moving further away from Aegon as he retreated to avoid an encirclement.

Just as things were looking grim, Maelor's roar echoed nearby.

"HELP THE WHITE CLOAK!" Some of the tiger cloaks rushed to his aid and engaged some of the Golden Company's spearmen, but neither side had the advantage.

But it brought him enough time to deal with Mudd. Just as the old knight was gaining the upper hand, Dick Cole joined his ally, and Ser Barristan had to deal with his dragonsteel poleaxe too. The men were good, younger where he was old, had vigour and experience to match his skill, and weren't afraid to leverage the advantage of reach. It still wasn't enough to defeat the old knight.

Valyrian Steel met Valyrian Steel, his bones rattling with each exchange as the shrill sound of the clash lingered in the air. Ser Barristan could feel his lungs burning from exertion, his throat raw at the chilly air he gulped with each breath as he danced for his life.

His gaze wandered towards Aegon, who was now cornered by Jon Connington and his sellsword cronies. Duckfield and the tiger cloaks had fallen, and only Ser Mildred Ashford still stood by his side.

"You can't afford to be distracted, old man!" Mudd grunted angrily as Ser Barristan barely jerked out of the way of a heavy swing that would have either taken his head off or snapped his spine. 

Damn it, at this rate, he would die. He was ready to die any day, at any time, but this one felt particularly bitter. Was he going to finish his life in such an empty, meaningless manner? Would the Defiance of Duskendale forever remain his greatest deed?

Suddenly, a shadow appeared above them before a rain of arrows peppered the men of the Golden Company, taking down a few unlucky fools without helmets or full armour and slowing down the rest.

"TOMMEN!"

An icy javelin–no, a sword of frost impaled one of the serjeants about to surround Aegon in the back, bifurcating the man before the icy blade impaled another's foot into the ground. A deep, primal sound of a warhorn echoed above the battle, threatening to swallow all the commotion, followed by the howling of wolves from each side.

"WINTERFELL!"

Jon Snow tore through the chaos, charging into the clustered foes nearly as fast as a galloping horse, and by his side, a gargantuan beast of white, all fur and claws and teeth led five horse-sized wolves and many smaller ones.

A veritable giant clad in so much armour he looked like a wall of steel, wielding a dragonsteel poleaxe, was leading another prong of the charge. There was a madman with twin axes on his tabard swinging a curved arakh while laughing with abandon, and many more warriors, over half of which wielding dragonsteel followed the charge of Rhaegar's son. Barristan could see the flood of banners and coat of arms, and not just Northmen like Umber and Manderly and Karstark and their mountain clansmen. A Royce, a Bracken, a Blackwood, a Lannister, a Tarly, Ambrose, Cave, Hunter, Redfort, Frey, Vance, Piper, Lefford, Kayce, Marbrand, Mallister, Brune, and many more. 

Jon Snow–no, Rhaegar's son was at the tip of the army, like a storm of steel and death, moving with deadly grace as he carved his way to Aegon. He seemed to possess a giant's strength, beheading an armoured serjeant with a single cleave of his blade, yanking shields away with a pull of his gauntleted fist, and poking through visors and exposed sides faster than a viper. His wolves moved in eerie tandem with him, some tugging away shields with their maws, chomping on armoured limbs or throats to create further openings.

It wasn't before long that Jon made his way to Aegon, the old knight could now focus on his fight. 

The pressure on Barristan only reduced further as the Mad Lance threw himself at Lorimass Mudd with eager fervour.

Sparks flew as the two of them clashed, and the old knight focused on serjeant Cole. Within a handful of heartbeats, the dragonsteel poleaxe was deflected for a suitable opening, and Elegance sank into the man's knee pit. Ser Barristan followed up, grabbing the middle of the edge with his left hand, guiding the tip into the thin gap between the fallen man's gorget, and pushed.

Wheezing for breath, he looked towards Aegon, who was now fighting alongside Jon Snow.

The two fought seamlessly; under Barristan's disbelieving gaze, Aegon was barely keeping up with Rhaegar's son's inhuman pace. But with each passing heartbeat, his movements flowed easier like a raging current, and the men of the Golden Company fell in droves. The only thing stopping them was the stubborn Jon Connington and a band of knights.

"Damn, the Blackfyre sure can fight," Damon Dustin's breathless voice was dripping with admiration. "Didn't expect him to keep up with the White Huntsman. Makes my blood boil with excitement."

"LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!" A savage roar tore from Jon Snow after he killed the other Cole brother–so loud and fierce that men couldn't help but falter at the authority of the command.

Many of the Stormlords tossed down their swords and surrendered to Tommen's forces, while others warily disengaged from their enemies, unwilling to disarm before their foes did.

The sound of horsemen echoed from afar, and the Young Wolf swept into the camp from the undefended bridge side, trampling through Dornishmen and sellswords and Stormlords that had yet to surrender in his path, leading the wedge of muscle and steel towards the pockets of stubborn resistance.

Without a proper line of pikes and shields, none could resist a cavalry charge, and within ten minutes, the fighting mostly died down, giving Ser Barristan a chance to drag his weary body towards Aegon.

He found his former squire weeping in the snow over Jon Connington's fallen body; the Griffin lord's bloodstained helmet was discarded in the crimson snow, revealing a mangled eye, a result of a blade through the visor.

"He wouldn't stop fighting," Aegon's words came out raw and bitter. "He was so convinced I was bewitched, no matter what I said. The man who raised me… who taught me everything. Why? Why did he choose a fucking lie OVER ME?!"

Maelor, the Northmen, and some of the Riverlords looked on either dispassionately, with sympathy, or with mild gloating.

Jon Snow awkwardly stood guard next to the mourning man, his scarred face gazing with pleading at Ser Barristan.

The old knight sighed, kneeling in the snow by Aegon's side.

"Raising Rhaegar's son was his life, and his vengeance was his sole purpose," Ser Barristan said, words feeling hollow on his tongue. "And today we tried to steal both away, everything that kept a jaded man like Jon Connington going–no wonder he thought it some foul trickery."

"To the point he was willing to fight me for it?" The hoarse whisper broke his heart as much as the disappointment and grief warring in Aegon's eyes. "Even after all those years together, I was not his first choice, only the Iron Throne and Rhaegar. He refused to surrender even when the tide was against him, and for what? For what?!"

Aegon fiercely glared at Blackfyre's bloodstained edge as if he found the dragonsteel blade offensive. "I should loathe and hate him for it, Ser Barristan, I should. I shouldn't care, even though I drove Blackfyre's tip through his eye when he refused to back down. I should feel glad another false ally is vanquished, yet my heart is heavy with grief."

"Steel yourself, Aegon," Maelor urged. "The time for mourning will come, but other, far more urgent matters require your attention. The Martell men tried to kill my sister in the chaos and failed, of course-"

"QUENTYN!"

Arianne's shriek sent chills down Ser Barristan's skin.

The bloodstained warriors watched on like statues as Arianne's petite, fur-wrapped figure stormed to Maelor, stabbing an angry finger at his breastplate.

"You did this–you killed my brother, you damn slaving fuck-"

"And your brother refused to surrender and lay down his arms as was offered by Regent Stark," Ser Daven Lannister's steely voice interrupted her as he rode in atop his warhorse, his gilded longsword wet with blood. "You will be lucky if the treasonous line of Nymeros Martell avoids attainment, and you lot keep your sorry lives."

The Princess's angry glare did not deter the lion knight, who unceremoniously signalled to a few of his men to tie up Arianne Martell.

"I am a Princess of Dorne, you can't–" A rag was shoved into her mouth, yet the woman struggled mightily as she was dragged, kicking and grunting back to her tent. It was an unseemly sight, and even Aegon cringed as his wife was taken away but made no move to interfere. 

"I can see why some people are wary of political marriages now," Jon Snow patted his shoulder.

"She never made any attempts to make it work beyond the pleasures of the flesh," Aegon responded, his voice strangled. "I wonder what will happen to a marriage made under false pretences?"

***

27th Day of the 9th Moon, 300 AC (14 days later)

Jon Snow, King's Landing

A sennight is how long it took to deal with the aftermath and choose which Lords and Houses were to be punished and how to deal with the Golden Company, the remnants of Aegon's disarmed forces and other contentious elements. All the sellswords that had not supported Aegon in the infamous 'Battle of the Bloody Deceit', as they now called it, were beheaded by Jon, Robb, and Ned as a dire warning to any other sellsword companies thinking they could involve themselves in the affairs of the Iron Throne. The Black would have been the proper alternative, but these men were no longer exiles who had lost a war but generations of Essosi, bolstered by the occasional brigand, outlaw, and hedge knight from Westeros. It was a gruesome work to chop off hundreds of heads, but Jon, Robb, and their Father were resolved to see it through. 

It was bloody work, but Jon felt numb at killing long ago. Only nine hundred sellswords who had initially expressed their desire to leave with Aegon were spared.

Dealing with the rest of the aftermath was even slower with the snowy weather and the fierce blizzard that had sprung out ten days prior. Unlike the North, it didn't snow nearly as much, merely to a grown man's height. But this much snowfall had seen many rooftops buckle and collapse, even some in the Red Keep, for the builders here never designed with the threat of tons of snow in mind.

Not even the five-year winter after the Dance heralded that much snow in such a short time.

Today was finally the second day the skies cleared, allowing the official ceremonies to proceed. The first day had been spent shovelling snow off the streets. 

The Great Sept of Baelor was grand, and its marble steps widened towards the base, overlooking King's Landing's central square–a perfect place for the king to hold speeches in sight of the noblemen and the smallfolk.

The air was flush with snow, and the carpet of white over the city thickened, bringing a familiar yet welcome chill. 

"I, Aegon of the line of Blackfyre, henceforth renounce all claims, forgotten or otherwise, from me and my line upon the Iron Throne and any other lands within Westeros." The silver-haired man was kneeling on the snowy steps before Tommen's childish form, the infamous Sword of Kings placed before the young king's feet in a sign of submission. Everyone watched with rapt attention - every single lord and knight who raised for Tommen's claim and lived to tell the tale was here, watching as history was written before their eyes. "Let all those who raise banners in the name of Blackfyre or Targaryen know that me and mine will have no part in it."

It was quite the sight, especially with the seven white cloaks standing vigil in a semicircle behind Tommen like pale shadows. 

Even the Stormlords and most Dornish lords who bent the knee to the Iron Throne were in attendance. If a Lord was missing, their heirs or spares were here. A crowd of smallfolk had clustered in the snowy streets and around the defended platform where the nobility was situated, and a few children had climbed the snow mounds to get a better view of the event. In every direction, a big street or a small alley was packed to the brim, for the smallfolk, soldiers, and merchants had all done their best to come here to see the end of the devastating war that had torn through the kingdoms. 

A crowd far bigger than the population in Wintertown in winter, yet they said this was merely a fleeting remnant of the half a million souls that inhabited the now-nearly empty city. It would have boggled Jon's mind if he had not seen that human hive of filth and flesh called Oldtown. But it was for the better, according to the Southerners–the empty city did not stink nearly as much. Even now, the smell was unpleasant, and Jon struggled to imagine how worse it had been in its heyday. 

"And I, Tommen Baratheon, accept your vows. Arise, Ser Aegon," Tommen urged. Despite his childish voice, Cersei's son had a solemn feeling of dignity that his mother and even Robert Baratheon lacked. "You will henceforth be barred from holding any office or lands within my Realm to prevent the support and gathering of ambitious schemers around your person. Let it be known that you and your line will no longer be considered outlaws to be struck down on sight with no repercussions within the Seven Kingdoms and enjoy all rights and privileges afforded to knights. Yet I must inquire–what are your plans henceforth?"

This was merely a formality for pomp and the crowd; the decisions had been made and agreed upon the previous week.

"Seek to make my fortune in Essos," Aegon proclaimed loudly, giving a subtle nod to the boy-king that barely reached his chest. "Far away from ambitious men and women who will seek to push me into one mess or another for their own ends."

Aegon had decided to keep the name Blackfyre over Mopatis; after all, a legitimised offshoot of the Last of the Forty was far more prestigious than the name of a Lysene craftsman. 

"Good," Tommen smiled eagerly. "You can leave with Our royal blessings and take Blackfyre with you–it is your legacy to wield, not mine."

A few faces in the crowd were full of disapproval, but they dared not voice it, not here. 

That had been a point of contention. Many, like Ser Kevan Lannister and Lord Edmure Tully, had expressed disagreement about letting the Sword of Kings back into a Blackfyre's hands. "What king would I be if I lusted after the Valyrian Steel sword of another when I have one of my own already?" Tommen's firm response as he proudly showed off Brightroar had silenced them both at that council. 

Bowing gratefully, Aegon kissed Tommen's royal sceptre, strapped Blackfyre's sheathe to his belt, and joined his paramour, Talisa Maegyr and her brother at the very edge of the platform. But it seemed that a boy of eleven possessed greater foresight than the old mules, for the crowd erupted with cheers.

"Tommen!"

"Tommen King!"

"Tommen the Generous!"

"Tommen the Merciful!"

Jon spied his father and brother; both looked on stonily. Not out of dislike but a feeling of bitter irony. When faced with the bitter truth that challenged everything he knew, Aegon accepted and took the right yet hard path. Yet they, House Stark, had chosen the easy road to avoid war and further bloodshed and destruction.

To avoid tearing the realm and the family apart, they had made the easy choice. They had made it with a heavy heart, but such deceptions rankled at honest men like Eddard Stark. It made his insides twist each time they killed a man in the name of Tommen, each time he had decided to push forth an attainder or mete out justice in the king's name. No doubt he was inwardly cursing Cersei and her perfidy while at it.

And it ate away at his father silently, for he wouldn't risk speaking of it here so deep into the South lest a stray ear caught it. The truth was damning to the point of ruin, and the three of them had agreed after that day in the tent never to speak of it again.

It was all Jon despised about the South in the quest to gather support for the coming Long Night and against the Others. But he couldn't deny the effectiveness of the unions that now bound House Stark, even those made in deception. It didn't deny the power the Iron Throne could command.

The Watch at full strength united behind a single respected and experienced commander with ten thousand men at its beck and call, was a sight to behold. The red priests, the eager pyromancers, and the wealth of dragonglass ready for struggle were invaluable to turning the tide against the Others and their undead thralls. A well-oiled war machine that crushed the dark, cold fiends of olde stirring with ruthless resolve.

It made all those years of desperate fighting against the inevitable from his former life laughable. Human ingenuity and preparation were scary things, and the willingness of men to find new ways to destroy their foes. Many dismissed the Others as a mere trifle, but Jon knew otherwise. All of the success against the Cold Ones achieved here was built on countless deaths and years of desperate fighting that none would ever know. Only Jon knew the terrible foe they could have become given enough time and corpses. He knew the bitter struggle and the unending darkness that could have been.

He knew the coming cold that could have been so fierce that it would have seen the very seas freeze and even stones crack open. The true chill of winter, unlike this pleasant cold the Southrons were shivering about. Words would forever fail to describe the struggle, the darkness, and the despair that Jon endured, and the possibility would forever remain a children's tale in the minds of many. He knew of the realm shattered to a dozen pieces that bitterly warred against each other to the last, creating new grievances that only gave further momentum to the raging conflict. Even his father, brother, and Lady Stark failed to grasp the true depth of the terror that consumed his old life.

Jon knew the alternative, so he could swallow a lie. For the unity of House Stark and the realm, he could swallow it. He would support it with all of his might for the mere chance, for the mere dream of peace and warmth.

The tragedy was avoided with the assistance of the Iron Throne. Yet by securing that assistance, House Stark had entered the Game of Thrones, rushing to the very centre of the struggle, even more intertwined in the senselessly bloody succession of the Iron Throne than they would otherwise have been.

And House Stark had won, coming on top of Renly's Rebellion after two years of bitter and bloody strife, religious uprisings, and worse. But Jon knew the victory would forever feel hollow in Eddard Stark's mind. After all, was it truly a victory if they couldn't enjoy it with their heads held high? Was it a victory if it made them feel so defeated?

At least Robb was no longer torn after his mother's reassurances. Being married to a beauty like Myrcella certainly made accepting the whole thing easier.

But it didn't change that the war was now won, and they had to win the peace. For the first time since Robert Baratheon's reign, all the lords from the Wall to the sands of Dorne were sworn to a single man. All but one. Aegon's army was promptly disbanded, but Doran Martell still had seven thousand spears mustering along the Greenblood and moving towards the Red Mountain's passes. If he decided to be obstinate and continue struggling despite his daughter being a hostage, the war could last for a year more.

Doubtlessly, Prince Martell might exploit the exhaustion to get better peace terms for himself despite the fact that nearly all of the Dornish Lords had bent the knee to the Iron Throne. House Martell ought to be on their last leg right now, but it wouldn't be the first time they had miraculously managed to recover despite worse odds. History had shown that Dorne itself was a kingdom to be cautiously approached by the Iron Throne; a wrong move would turn the region into a thorny problem for the crown.

Many other issues were to be considered, too–the fate of Highgarden, Oldtown, Pyke and the Iron Islands, the Reach as a whole, and even the Stormlands. Many other castles, big and small, had lost their lords, be it to the sword, treason, or plague. The countless warriors, knights, and Houses who had made hefty contributions during the war would need to be rewarded. Joffrey's decreed rewards for killing Tyrells, Greyjoys, Hightowers, and Oakhearts were another sensitive issue, especially since if they properly went with it all, Robb would be a lord of scores of castles, being rewarded by the gold coming from Casterly Rock–his son's own coffers. With three Greyjoys and two Hightowers under his own belt, Jon would rake up plenty of lordships and lands. But there was only so much land and castles House Stark could gobble up, for they had not fought alone.

In the end, Jon didn't mind–a single good castle with well-off lands in a strategic position was superior to troublesome lordships with rebellious smallfolk, unwilling vassals, and angry neighbours.

Where House Stark could afford to choose something else that wouldn't make them seem overly grasping and greedy, others who had fulfilled bounties had to be rewarded per Joffrey's decree.

With Aegon out of the way, the ceremony continued, where the newly elected High Septon, an old wrinkled man with wizened white hair and a sharp gaze from the Vale, crowned Tommen. After coming down the Highroad with the disgruntled Valemen joining Lord Tully's side, he had seen the worst of the war, and it showed. The realm was tired of war, everyone–whether knight or vagrant, lord or septon. Words of reassurance, peace, reconciliation and knitting the realm back together were spoken by the Hand, Ser Kevan Lannister, the High Septon, Eddard Stark, and even Lord Edmure Tully, the only surviving highlord aside from his father. 

Even then, it took nearly an hour to finish all of the ceremonies and pomp–including a symbolic pledge of devotion between Tommen and Shireen to officially announce their future marriage. Her scarred, grey-flaked face was as he remembered, even if the kind expression from his memories was replaced by a stony facade that reminded him of Stannis. 

At least this royal couple wouldn't have such a disastrous marriage, judging by how her stormy blue eyes only softened while glancing at the golden-haired boy, who seemed to have taken a shine to her presence. 

With the ceremonies ending, his Father, Tommen, and the noble procession hastily made their way towards the Red Keep to get away from the cold, accompanied by the High Septon and Melisandre, where a feast would be held. The smallfolk crowd started dispersing to escape the cold while the bolder ones trailed in their wake, leaving the Great Sept of Baelor and the square nearly empty.

Jon was in no rush to join them. Instead, he enjoyed the pleasant chill and watched as Ghost happily rolled into the pile of shovelled snow to the side of the platform where the nobility had been seated.

The crunching of snow heralded two men's presence.

"You sure have grown," Howland Reed spoke softly. Aegon Blackfyre awkwardly stood nearby, towering a whole head over the crannoglord.

"Lord Reed," Jon dipped his head with respect. "I scarcely saw you around."

"Your Lord Father is still wroth with me over certain matters," the small lord said, sighing. "He no longer seeks my counsel as he did before, but I can't fault him for it. I know I have erred, but I know not where, but perhaps it is for the better. Ruling a kingdom requires knights and lords of cunning and skill I do not possess. Besides, the crannogmen belong in the Neck, and I have generously gained from this war without suffering grievous losses as many others did." He patted the short dragonsteel trident strapped to his belt.

"The war has been hard on my lord father," Jon offered, squeezing the crannoglord's shoulder. "I know you to be a wise and loyal man, and you will always be welcome in mine own halls, Lord Reed."

Lord Reed dipped his head. "My thanks, Lord Steelsong. It would certainly be interesting to set foot in the Dreadfort. The last time one of my kinsmen was there, they lost their hide–quite literally."

"I might have taken the Bolton lands, but I have no desire to live in the Flayed Man's dreary castle," Jon said, grimacing. "Once the weather starts warming, I'll explore every corner of my domain to find a more suitable place for a seat and build something I can call my own. A new beginning for a newly forged House. Having a town and a harbour chapter certainly helps, too."

"The place certainly needs it," Howland said, chuckling. "I knew you since you were a swaddling babe, you know? You were a fussy little thing, but you rarely cried. Perhaps I will visit you in the North. But for now, I think I'm going to enjoy a pint of ale somewhere warm. I'll leave you two to it."

"I didn't even hear the man, and he was standing behind me," confided Aegon after coming over. The Blackfyre then pulled his thick fur cloak closer. "Aren't you cold with this thin garb?"

"This is nothing but the warm kiss of winter," Jon said with a snort. "The chill you can find on the other side of the Wall is far worse, and the cold the Others command can not be warded off by thick fur or heavy wool, no matter how many layers you wear."

"So you've truly fought them. I thought it was just some distant tale–some of my lords even claimed the Others were merely another tribe of wildlings."

Jon shook his head ruefully. "If only. Things would certainly have been far simpler. I fought the Others, aye, and they are defeated but not vanquished. Somewhere, deep in the Lands of Always Winter, they lurk and wait, biding their times until the realms of men forget of their existence. My uncle, Lord Commander Benjen Stark, has grand plans to deal with them. Plans that require decades to lay the groundwork and push into the extreme north and destroy them for good. I will be right by his side, of course, and so will be my brother and father. My only fear is that their legendary dwelling, the Heart of Winter, is so cold that it would freeze the living."

"If someone can do it, it's House Stark," Aegon offered, his voice melancholic. "Renly's Rebellion certainly proved your mettle for the whole realm to see. Not going to enjoy the feast and celebrate your victory?"

"It's not like they'll finish within an hour or two," Jon said with a chuckle. "It will be half a miracle if the merriment winds down before the hour of the ghosts. It has not escaped my notice that you linger here instead of joining your paramour and her brother?"

"I don't want to get entangled with the Westerosi lords any further," he responded wryly. "Especially since I know what a disaster it can turn into."

But Aegon still sought out another House Targaryen bastard like himself. Jon could see the parallel between the two of them, raised under a false identity, although he was the lucky one and got a Father who did it out of love for family, not ambition and revenge.

And where the world had chosen to put Aegon to the test, he had pushed through it all dauntlessly to the admiration of many. However, where Robb and Eddard Stark did not want to speak to the young Blackfyre because his righteous decision was a bitter reminder of their complicit agreement with Cersei's deception, Jon had no such qualms. That Aegon was charismatic and easy to talk to helped, of course.

"Understandable," Jon agreed. "The gods know I can barely stand half the Southron lords–and these are the better ones that survived the war, humbled by plague, personal loss, and thousands of corpses."

Aegon was then ambushed by the excited Ghost, who licked his face clean.

"He would almost look like a happy pup if not for his size." The disgruntled Blackfyre finally managed to fight off the offending tongue as Ghost laid before them like a small hill of muscle and fur, panting. "I thought I'd see the rest of the shaggy pack and that infamous hrakkar the young king was raising at the ceremony."

"Some of the ladies were quite frightened of the beasts, so they're sequestered in the Red Keep's godswood," Jon explained. "That and to suppress the rumours of sorcery and bewitchment."

"But you have no such qualms," Aegon observed as he wiped the wolf drool from his face with his sleeve. 

Jon laughed.

"My reputation could hardly be worse in the South: bloodsinger, sorcerer, skulltaker, bastard, wolf-tamer, skinwalker. I have no need to please the Lords of the Realm nor the Faith. Wagging tongues is something I've long been used to as a bastard." 

"I did notice some of the Northmen treat you with caution."

"Contrary to popular belief, magic is not well-liked in the North either, even if the lords are slightly more tolerant. That's not the problem nearly as much as the Stark bannermen are unsure how to treat me–whether as a sorcerer, a son of Lord Stark, a skilled warrior, or a future lord of the North."

"Well, I hear you're going to be the new Lord Bolton." Aegon rubbed his chin. "A quite ominous choice of lordship and title, which might explain their caution."

Jon let out a groan.

"Not Bolton, damn it, even if the Leech Lord's demise somehow enhanced his reputation beyond anything he could have achieved while alive. It was Lady Stark's scheme to counter the rising Karstark and Manderly influence on the eastern coast. As I confided to Lord Reed, I am getting the Bolton lands, but I want neither his dreadful name nor his cursed castle, which I will do my utmost to tear the Dreadfort down stone by stone. Ideally, I'll find a place with a nice hot spring to enjoy a good soak and maybe even keep my castle warm during winter, like Winterfell. As for the name… Steelsong seems fitting."

"Jon Steelsong," Aegon uttered slowly, tasting the words. "Sounds worse than Jon Snow, to be honest."

"I suppose," Jon offered with a chuckle. "I will probably never get used to it after being addressed as Snow all my life. But it is more fitting than everything else I tried to think of."

"Didn't they offer you the Stark name?"

"They did, and I nearly accepted…until I recalled how the Karstarks got their name."

Aegon looked confused before Jon explained, causing him to roar with laughter.

"I will admit, House Jostark does sound memorable."

The two of them shared a chuckle, but the amusement quickly disappeared. 

"Truth be told, I wanted it badly when I was young…" his voice lowered to a whisper, "but we both know I'm not quite a Stark. Half a wolf, but the wrong half. I'll definitely acknowledge the House that raised me with my sigil. A new beginning doesn't sound as bad to me, and Steelsong seemed right. It's how the wildlings call those children born amid battle. Calla, my firstborn, came kicking and screaming while I was struggling tooth and nail against the Others in the night. And I myself was born the day Ser Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower and Oswell Whent perished."

"Calla," Aegon hummed, thoughtfully tilting his head. "Quite ironic a choice, considering it was the name of Daemon Blackfyre's eldest daughter."

"A complete coincidence, I assure you." Jon insisted with a straight face, even as Aegon gazed at him for a long moment until he shrugged. "Speaking of children and families, what will you do with your wife and pregnant paramour?"

The silver-haired man sighed. "Arianne Martell… a marriage of convenience and necessity, not love. I have never met a more vain, proud, and wilful woman in my life. Sultry where Talisa is demure, aggressive and stubborn instead of kind and understanding. And she always demanded one thing or another, pestering me for the smallest woe and trying to whisper in my ear for every decision. Alas, now that her brother has perished and I no longer aspire to a crown, things have not changed for the better. And the High Septon ruled that the consummated union was valid in the eyes of the Seven."

"If you ask for an annulment, it shouldn't be hard to get one from the High Septon for you," Jon observed. "The Crown and House Stark will back you, and House Martell is hardly in any position to contest it, especially when it would benefit them."

"I could," Aegon agreed, and then his face turned vicious. "But that would be too kind to Arianne. Annulling the union would see her free to remarry or scheme again."

"What about Talisa Maegyr–your child will be born a bastard."

"Perhaps in Westeros. In Essos, nothing stops me from taking a second under the eyes of most gods, and many priests would be happy to officiate no matter which temple I stop at for such a ceremony."

"I see," Jon rubbed his face. "But I understand–House Martell have always been cunning vipers that are difficult to deal with. Even now, they're the last ones left; they certainly know how to survive. If Doran Martell is wise, he will bow out of this war and accept whatever terms the crown gives him."

Aegon scoffed. "Doran Martell will do nothing but wait and see how the dice fall. Do not fear the man who has lost the respect of all of his bannermen. He's grown old and feeble, ill with gout and overcautious, but House Martell has not yet ended. Trystane, his youngest son, has been in Sunspear since Ser Manfrey Martell died to the chill, and he is quite bright and promising."

"I don't fear the Martells but the trouble they can stir. But there are ways to deal with it–there's a reason why the Dornish lords are Tommen's guests until further notice." Jon shook his head in exasperation. "That lot are all smiles and subservience, but I can feel they're as quarrelsome as the Northmen and Reachmen underneath, ready to claw their eyes out at the first chance. Peace is almost here, yet the scheming, politicking, and wrangling for influence has just begun anew. I can see all lords and courtiers trying to vie for the king's time and attention." 

"Lord Stark has everything in hand," Aegon said as the two of them finally headed towards Aegon's hill. "Though knitting the Realm together while navigating all the demands, feuds, grievances, contributions between the lords, the Faiths, and the crown is going to be quite the struggle."

"My father is tired," Jon admitted. "He's tired of the South, petty games, and plotting. He'll do what he must and return to Winterfell, and the rest will be on Tommen's shoulders. We have some ideas on preventing such conflicts in the future, of course, but the changes are too drastic and need far more contemplation and discussion before they could be implemented."

He prayed that Eddard Stark found the strength to soldier through the changes despite the deception that obviously ate away at him. He prayed that his father would swallow the grievances and finish moulding Tommen into the king the realm needed.

"I can see the many problems that might arise," the silver-haired man agreed. "But as the absolute winners of Renly's Rebellion, House Stark has the power to dictate peace terms."

"It may seem that way, but many are not quite happy with it," Jon scoffed. "The religious tension between the Old Gods and the New will be remembered for generations. The Faith Militant and the Rose Septon and Hightower were smashed, but the opened wounds would take decades to heal. Lords might smile to my father's face, only to whisper behind his back and try to influence the king or the queen instead when he's busy dealing with matters of the realm."

"I have seen Shireen and Tommen for merely three days, but even I know that trying to wear down Stannis' daughter and Cersei's son with sweet words is a futile endeavour," Aegon chuckled.

"Perhaps not quickly," Jon sighed. "But Shireen and Tommen are still young and vulnerable to honeyed words and wagging tongues."

"I, for once, am glad I stepped away from this mess," Aegon patted his shoulder. "My squire didn't even come to see me before he ran away, just like Ser Russel Rogers. Of my former kingsguard, Ser Mildred Ashford has already vowed to take the Black to wash away the dishonour from the Ashford name; Rolly's left hand is too mangled to fight properly, and he has decided to become a smith in King's Landing. Ser Barristan feels too ashamed to show his face in the city but has agreed to follow me, and the rest died. All trifling woes, compared to the viper's nest that is a royal court. It's a better peace than I'd hoped for."

"And how does peace feel to our adventurous Blackfyre?" Jon ribbed, but his tone turned testy at the end.

His face grew solemn, and Aegon gazed at his gloved hands. "It feels daunting. Before, I had a purpose, yet now I feel like driftwood swaying aimlessly in the sea. Perhaps I'll turn to the Far East and see everything the wide world has to offer. Or maybe… Volantis. It's turned into an even bigger mess since I left. I wanted to break slavery, but the freedmen and merchants have returned to it while squabbling for power with one another. Everything I did seems as senseless as it was bloody, only making things worse."

"You can't say that," Jon said fiercely. "The things we do, they matter. They might not turn out as you want them to be, but you're making a change. The fact that things look dreadful now does not mean they would be any better if you had never made a move."

"You think so?" Aegon whispered, his voice tinged with hope.

Memories of darkness and endless tides of corpses flashed before his eyes. 

"I know so. Your only fault in Volantis was that you used that as a campaign to gain experience, funds, and resources, not to stay and rule over the place. It wasn't your goal to rule or make peace there, only to wage war on the side you supported. The fact that they were ambitious and inept to hold onto peace and victory is their failing, not yours."

They finally neared the Red Keep's bronze gate. Four guards stood by the entrance, three Baratheon and one redcloak, eyeing the two warriors warily.

"You have given me much food for thought," Aegon said, reaching out with an open hand. Jon clasped it and gave it a firm shake. "I think I shall return to my quarters. Thank you–and enjoy the feast."

But as lonely as the Blackfyre seemed, he had shown great strength of character, martial skill, and honour, which would win him the admiration of many, even after bending the knee–or perhaps because of it.

Should Aegon journey towards Volantis or Slaver's Bay to carve peace for himself, Jon suspected that a good part of the nearly thirty thousand warriors in King's Landing would be eager to join him. His father already planned to form knightly and martial orders that would see many of the veterans looking for more fighting put to good use to represent the Crown's and the North's interests in Pentos and Myr. However, Jon suspected that the Hungry Wolf was partially behind that suggestion.

The Throne Room saw the merriment in full swing as wine, ale, and beer flowed like rivers, and the overgenerous serving of all sorts of royal delicacies was devoured with relish. Jon was guided to one of the seats of honour on the high table between the overproud Ser Daven Lannister and Lord Edmure Tully on one side and Lords Wylis Manderly and Randyll Tarly on the other. The former talked about trade and coin and Cerenna Lannister's pregnancy, while the latter speculated about the fate of Oldtown and the Marches.

Samwell's father wasn't nearly as terrible as he had described and would seamlessly fit in the more martial Northern lords if not for his Faith.

Alas, Jon didn't enjoy the feast at all; despite his horrid reputation, many still tried to approach him, barely giving him the chance to gorge himself on the royal cuisine. A part of him wished to be on the lower tables where Damon Dustin, Jory, and some Valemen were in a heated drinking contest.

His brother and father seemed to be in a similar mood, if for an entirely different reason. Their icy expressions might have fooled the lords and knights, but Jon knew it was merely a facade hiding their inner turmoil. He suspected Eddard Stark would eventually crumble under the pressure of the lie and deception if not for Catelyn's comforting presence by his side. Lady Stark was determined to make this peace last, no matter what, and was already planning marriage alliances between the powerful Houses of various kingdoms to bind the fractured realm together.

There was still tension in the air, intertwined in the merriment of the feast. Much to his chagrin, Jon could see the beginning of new factions before officially establishing peace from Dorne to the Wall. He had played his part, his family was safe, the Others had been crushed, and the foes on the field were bested, yet the damned Game of Thrones continued, and all eyes were aimed at House Stark and him. Jon could feel their gazes, searching for weakness, protection, or ways to extract boons or alliances from him and his. And the thinly veiled fear was like a black cloud, dislike, and caution–his abilities have won him little true friends here.

Oh, how Jon loathed the South in that moment.

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when the maester came with a raven from Sunspear written by the hand of Tyrion Lannister, who had just stormed and sacked the Martell seat, taking Doran and Trystane Martell hostage with a promise to disperse the last Dornish muster along the Greenblood.

The war for the Iron Throne had finally ended; the Long Night was just a mere whisper of what could have been, and his family had not only survived but thrived.

***

With the fall of Sunspear, Renly's Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings were considered concluded. Highlords and many houses that could track their lineage all the way to the Age of Heroes and even earlier fell one after another.

With House Greyjoy extinct and attainted, House Baratheon of Storm's End extinct, House Tyrell of Higharden attainted, House Hightower of Hightower extinct in the male line and attainted, House Martell was the only Great House spared an attainder–a mercy earned at the begging of Nymeria Sand, and a final nod of respect to Oberyn Martell's valiant death Beyond the Wall.

But House Martell was not spared repercussions for the treachery. Prince Doran Martell avoided the block, taking the Black, where he perished within half a year to the winter chill. The young Trystane Martell became the Knight of Sunspear, his House reduced to a knightly house, with nine parts out of ten of its lands granted to their former vassals. With the terrible humiliation during the Raid on the Watergardens, the Burning of Plankytown, and the subsequent Sacking of Sunspear, the Martells had no wealth or prestige to recover. 

The quarrelsome and proud Princess Arianne Martell was declared mad with grief by the High Septon and sent to the same Motherhouse Lysa Tully resided in.

Then, the Seven Kingdoms held their breath, wanting to see if House Stark would threaten the fragile peace to leverage their position to directly sideline the young boy king and rule the Seven Kingdoms in all but name. Many had even called for such a thing, whether out of drunken fervour or personal ambition.

Eight moons of fierce debate and arguing between Eddard Stark, the remaining highlords, and the royal councillors finally saw a drastic reform take shape. The reform forever changed Westeros, setting the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne on a new course.

Dorne itself lost its privilege as a principality, was subject to the laws and taxes of the crown, and was carved into three. House Dayne became the lord paramount of the western portion, the Torrentine Dominion. The Eastern one would be Allyrion, the Lord Paramount of the Greenblood. Lord Stark, learning from the mistakes of the Young Dragon, who had saddled the Dornish with back-breaking taxes to recoup the expenditure of his conquest, did the opposite. The smallfolk in the two newly formed Dominions would not pay any dues to the crown for the next decade to prevent the Dornish lords from urging their populace into a series of revolts. The taxation would then increase year by year to match the rate of the other kingdoms.

The third part of Dorne was the lands along the Boneway–Wyl and Yronwood lordships, who were to enter the Crownlands along with the Stormlands and the entirety of the Reach, giving the crown secure passage into Dorne in case of future unrest and strangling Yronwood's ambitions to rule Dorne in the crib.

Furthermore, the stern Ser Nestor Royce was raised as the new lord of Wyl, creating House Royce of Wyl as a check to the Bloodroyal's power.

Eddard Stark's desire to strengthen the Iron Throne and prevent any two pairs of allied Highlords from threatening the crown saw the rapid expansion of the Crownlands. The Highlords only swallowed such an expansion of royal power because of their own rewards–the North, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands were to become semi-autonomous principalities with many privileges, the Vale being excluded for sitting out most of the war. In effect, it allowed Houses Lannister, Tully, and Stark princely status to dictate all non-martial policies in their lands, create knightly orders, draft legislation, regulate matters of taxation, and grant and rescind titles without royal purview and host their own independent chapters of the Citadel–which was now based in King's Landing.

The lands of House Crane, Oakheart, and Rowan were annexed into the Westerlands–even though House Rowan was subjected to an attainder for the murder of the Blackfish. Goldengrove became the seat of the newly anointed Lord Daven Lannister as a reward for his valiant deeds in the war. The young Tyrek Lannister was awarded the now empty seat of Rosby for all the members of the House having perished in the war and the Black Plague.

The Iron Islands saw the biggest shift of all after the Drowned Priests and their acolytes were hunted down with extreme prejudice, and all of the reaver lords saw all the old either slain or sent to the Wall and the young fostered out. After the thrall uprisings and the Breaking of the Islands, the tradition of reaving was rooted out for good. The islands themselves were divided into two–Great Wyk, Old Wyk, and Blacktyde, swearing to Winterfell, while the rest were awarded to House Tully. 

Prince Edmure Tully was granted royal permission to annex the lordless and knightless lands. Deddings and Perry, who had joined Renly instead of answering Riverrun's call to arms, were reduced to knightly houses and a majority of their lands were seized by their liege lord, turning House Tully into the undisputed overlord of the Trident by land, population, and strength of arms.

The North saw plenty of change, with the rise of two different branches of House Cassel. Red Wake Walder was enfeoffed and finally accepted Sea Dragon Point and the newly built harbour as his seat. Zolo the Dothraki became the overlord of the Stony Shore, and Morgan Liddle, Rogar Wull, Ben Burley, and Artos Harclay formed many new masterly houses along the reclaimed New Gift, the Neck, and Saltspear's shore.

Lord Dustin was given a complete town charter to rebuild Barrowton, including the right to crenellate and build stone fortifications up to forty feet. Such an expensive project would have seen three generations of poverty or even bankruptcy, but the Mad Lance and the Skullbreaker had looted a ridiculous amount of plunder during the war. House Dustin was further rewarded with the hand of the Flower of Winterfell when Sansa Stark was wedded to the Dustin heir, Ser Roderick Dustin.

Last but not least was the infamous Bastard of Winterfell, granted the Dreadfort and the Bolton lands–though the castle was never put to use. The fortifications were used as a temporary supply base as Lord Steelsong found a hot spring overlooking a hill downstream of the Weeping Water and started building his seat there, along with a harbour down at the mouth of the river, much to Lord Manderly's chagrin. 

The Vale saw no boon from this war aside from those who had joined Queen Shireen on her naval campaign or Lord Edmure Tully against the Reachmen–those knights and second sons were promptly rewarded with honours, riches, and lordships in the Northmarch and along the Cockleswhent River. Ser Jason Melcolm became the new Lord of Griffin's Roost for his contributions, and the lands that came with the seat were restored to their lordly size. While none could dispute Lord Stark's famed honour–his harsh dealing with Waynwood the Fencesitter and her cronies was met with much disgruntlement amongst the Vale's nobility, but it paved the way for Robert Arryn's stable reign.

The ambitious changes and benefits snatched by the new principalities could hardly rival the Crown's expansion in power. Such a drastic increase in the Crownlands was only possible because war, winter, and the Black Plague had seen the Seven Kingdoms completely spent. Thus, the remaining Reachlords, Stormlords, Lord Royce of Wyl and Lord Yronwood of Yronwood became direct vassals of the Iron Throne.

Highgarden, Oldtown, and Storm's End were ultimately bequeathed as property of the Iron Throne in perpetuity. Highgarden became a summer palace, and two of its inner curtain walls were torn down to expand the gardens and fountains. A racing track was built, as well as a monument to Ebrose the Merciful. Storm's End became the seat where the Crown Prince would be taught to rule, while the sacked Oldtown was reduced to a testing ground for royal edicts and reforms. Its governance was inspired by Essosi stewards who ruled on behalf of the magisters. The position would be awarded terms of three years to skilful courtiers in the future.

Of course, to prevent future alienation and division within the realm, the three princes were to participate in the royal council and the rule of the realm, whether directly or through a kinsman, as permanent members of the now-expanded Small Council. Their formal title would be Royal Advisors, answerable only to the King or his Regent, a title of honour and no real importance in peacetime, but having access to the king's ear was never to be underestimated. 

The pushback from the reforms was strangled by the fierce winter that lasted all the way until the end of 302 AC. Despite its relative shortness, the winter of sorrow, as it came to be known, was the harshest in recorded history, seeing another third of Westeros' population perish.

In the warmer moons of 301, the Prince of Winterfell visited the Isle of Faces and Pyke–to cast Euron Greyjoy's bones into the stormy waves of the Sunset Sea before returning to King's Landing. But the brief reprieve from the matters of the realm did not seem to improve Eddard Stark's worsening mood, noted by chroniclers and courtiers alike.

As the year 303 of Aegon's Conquest began, Prince Eddard Stark, who had grown taciturn and withdrawn, resigned from his post of Regent and returned home, leaving Ser Kevan Lannister as Hand. Yet once Eddard Stark left and spring came, the first revolts sprung across Dorne and the Southern Crownlands. Many former knights and men-at-arms turned to banditry, smallfolk becoming brigands and outlaws, all grouped up along the roads and the forests, thinking the Iron Throne had grown weaker during the harsh winter.

The situation looked worse, especially when Kevan Lannister had been taken prisoner by one daring brotherhood of bandits in the Tumbleton Hills, and Ser Arren Smallwood of the kingsguard had been killed. Yet just as Tommen considered calling the banners, the Crownbreaker arrived in King's Landing to take his position as the North's Royal Advisor with a shaggy retinue of thirty direwolves and half a hundred mountain clansmen and wildlings. The infamous sorcerer lord who had taken the name Steelsong and his wildling wife meshed with the royal court like fire and water. But he also thrived in adversity and was quickly promoted to Regent after he ruthlessly smashed the revolts and brigandry, including three robber lords sniffing their hideouts and deceptions from afar and even saving the Hand from imprisonment. 

He ruled the realm with an iron fist and saw the last three years of Tommen's regency through revolts, rampant banditry in the lands where the Lords had been too weakened, the looming Braavosi Crisis and assassination attempts from Faceless Men….

Excerpt from 'The Great Reform' by Archmaester Hoster