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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

By 309 AC, nobody had seen the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles for nearly five years. None of the ships sent to investigate had returned either.

-Unnamed Lyseni Chronicler

Late 308 AC, Winterfell

Jon Stark

The distant clap of thunder echoed from the opened shutter, and Jon Stark felt his body and magic tingle.

It was time.

He closed the shutter, sat down on the tiled floor in the centre of the runic circle meant to aid him, and closed his eyes. The minutes passed as he delved deeper and deeper into his mind until he could enter his inner world. It was a vast forest filled with moss-covered stones, enormous ancient trees, and chirping streams. The ambience reminded him of Winterfell's Godswood in its raw and primordial form, but it lacked any signs of life.

After four years of daily labour, it was brimming with magic. Once there, Jon closed his eyes, sat down, and meditated again, trying to connect with his inner beast.

While becoming an Animagus was usually done with a potion, Jon had found out it was but a crutch to make the process easier and safer. Shamans and druids of old did not use it to connect to their inner animal, and even if Jon wanted to use it, most key materials simply did not exist on Planetos. Without it, it was very hard for a wizard to enter their inner world on their own, let alone connect with their inner animal or keep even a small semblance of their mind in the process.

But it was not impossible.

Magical animagi were considered nought but a legend because while wizards and witches could do wonders with the powers under their command, their bodies were simply not magical enough unless they reached a very high level of power. Another issue was the lack of magic in both the inner world and the mind. A barren inner world would never produce a magical animal. Back on Earth, it had taken him many years to unveil every nook and cranny of the process, let alone achieve the monstrous requirements in power and control of mind and magic. But now Jon Stark already had the advantages of the gathered knowledge, along with even more experience and a powerful nexus.

As he fell deeper and deeper into meditation in another attempt, the second heartbeat finally appeared. It was as powerful as a drum, and fiery pain quickly enveloped every nook and cranny of Jon's body.

Despite being prepared, Jon ended up writhing on the ground in agony.

Since the mind had to be open for the transformation, he had foregone all of his mental protections, and even with his tolerance to pain, it was too much.

The process was slow and torturous, and he could feel his body shifting.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and he opened his eyes, finding himself in a stone room. Jon blinked, everything was sharp and bright, and the closed space felt uncomfortable. Desire to soar through the sky bubbled within his chest.

He shook his head and snapped his mental defences back into place, taking back control of both his mind and body and turning to the mirror.

A swan-sized bird with a razor-sharp, pitch-black beak and talons, and plumage with merging indigo, obsidian and dark blue stared with two violet eyes at him.

He had succeeded, at last!

Jon Stark's Animagus form was a particularly vicious-looking phoenix. He could feel nearly boundless strength in his small frame and his connection to fire bubbling beneath, willing to be unleashed, together with his desire to soar through the skies. With a flap, he flew over to the alcove where the rune-covered shutter lay, pushed the clasp open with his beak and leapt into freedom.

He wheeled above Winterfell and Wintertown, although calling it a 'town' was no longer apt. As spring had come, a good part of the people had decided to stay, and even more had begun to flock in. The protection of three dragons and the ironclad order provided by House Stark had rapidly increased the population of the now budding city, which began to spread into the surrounding fields.

The phoenix seemed faster than a thunderbird, or at least his current form was. Jon could probably compete with a firebolt at maximum speed and was even more manoeuvrable than one! Not even a minute later, he was already streaking above the Wolfswood, filled with exhilaration, before tucking his wings and diving sharply towards a small lake. Half a heartbeat before he crashed, he spread his wings, spun, and glided above the water as his talons ploughed through the water.

He gracefully landed on a rock on the shore. With a little pressure, his talons easily sank into the stone, and if Jon had to wager a guess, his beak could easily do a similar feat.

With a simple thought, he flamed back inside his work-room. It was nearly effortless compared to the clunky and costly apparition. Turning back to his human form was a slow and painful process, but with his mind a sturdy fortress, it was nothing Jon couldn't handle. He'd have to practice quite a lot to make it faster and easier.

Nearly a painful minute later, Jon turned again into a phoenix and flew to where the First Tower used to be. The area and the adjacent courtyard had been cleared for the dragons to rest since Stormstrider and Winter had become too big for their haunts in the Godswood.

As he flew over the wall surrounding the newly dubbed dragon-yard, he noticed that Bloodfyre was lazily sprawled on one of the surrounding ramparts without a single care for the world. Unlike his clutchmates, the crimson dragon had not grown too much, quite possibly because he was not only too lazy to fly but too lazy to eat much, let alone hunt.

Dragons could easily go for half a moon without food, especially if they didn't spend a lot of time skyborne, as the ambient magic was plentiful in Winterfell. Which was godsent because now Stormstrider and Winter could eat as much as a thousand men in meat for a day. Winterfell would struggle to meet that increasing demand despite all the new large herds of cattle that were specially bred to feed the dragons. Eating that much once every three or four days was far more manageable.

Jon now fully understood why the Valyrians had chosen Dragonstone as their outpost in Westeros. Not only was it a volcanic isle, but the vast sea provided a nearly endless source of large prey for the dragons that they could hunt on their own. King's Landing was also nestled at the shores of Blackwater Bay, quite possibly with a similar purpose in mind.

He circled above the yard and quickly spotted his pregnant wife, surrounded by her sworn shield and ladies-in-waiting near Stormstrider and dived down.

Alchemist's Folly, also known as the Jade Ruins, formerly King's Landing. Nobody alive knows how, why, or when the wildfire spread through the capital, but it was fast and sudden, and on the morrow, half a million souls were lost in the green inferno. It was said that the fires burned for days, and once they died down, the deadly jade fog spread through the charred ruins, unmovable by wind, snow, or rain. Only the residents of the Red Keep managed to escape through secret tunnels running beneath Aegon's hill.

Years later, the Jade Fog still does not disperse, and any who enter it encounter quick but gruesome death as flesh melts off their bones in mere minutes, and the bones themselves crumble to dust not a day later. There's no explanation for the phenomena other than magic, and the cursed ruins are avoided from afar.

There are many theories as to what started the wildfire, but only two are considered.

The Mad King was famed for his love of the alchemical substance, and some speculate that he had ordered caches of wildfire to be deposited around the city. But Yandel argues that they would have been found after twenty years.

Archmaester Perestan, however, considers the words of Queen Cersei Lannisters to be true. Aegon VI had no chance of conquering the capital with the Golden Company alone and had slowly plotted with the alchemist guild to dislodge House Baratheon of King's Landing with the use of wildfire. But the substance was too volatile, things got out of hand, and the capital burned.

Excerpt from 'The Sundering' by Maester Armen

Shireen Stark

Stormstrider huffed at her expectantly. Thankfully, his growth had slowed down considerably, and according to old records, he was about the size of Sunfyre. Winter was a behemoth as usual, already exceeding the recorded size of Silverwing, and Shireen had little doubt that, in due time, he would grow larger than the Black Dread.

The Queen was mildly annoyed. She usually prided herself on her self-control, but the pregnancy had made her mercurial, and the smallest things were enough to earn her displeasure or change her mood.

She had come all the way here with the desire to go on a short flight, but by the time she had arrived here, her desire had all but evaporated, and she was feeling queasy. It seemed that carrying twins was not as easy as carrying one child.

"Sorry, boy," Shireen apologised as she rubbed the enormous purple snout. "It seems that we won't be flying together anytime soon."

The dragon puffed a plume of smoke in displeasure and slumped on the ground in disappointment, eliciting a wan smile from Shireen, and a few chuckles from her ladies-in-waiting, that were watching at the side. Her retinue had grown considerably since the arrival of her new noble handmaids four days ago.

Jyanna was standing nearby, shadowing her like usual. Then there were the black and white adolescent direwolves the size of a large pony that would not let her out of her sight and followed her almost everywhere. Her new ladies-in-waiting were also accompanying her, and Shireen regretted a little for summoning new ones out of boredom. Not that there was anything wrong with them, but they were sometimes too much.

Serena Umber, a dark-haired maiden, was the youngest sister of Edwyle Umber and towered over Shireen by nearly a head, despite that Shireen was nearly as tall as her husband. If not for the ample bosom, one could easily mistake the Umber Lady for a burly man with her muscled frame and strength.

Aranna Fenn, the green-eyed daughter of one of the smaller Crannoglords sworn to the Reeds, was the complete opposite of Serena. She had a short, slim frame with a nearly flat chest, quick on her feet, and had a profound love for daggers and throwing knives.

Then there was the red-haired Lena Harclay, who was almost as wild as the younger Arya and loved hawking.

All three of them were a bit younger than Shireen. While they preferred to wear riding gowns, knew their courtesies and were easy to get along with, there was enough steel hidden on their bodies to compete with a well-armed knight. And the Queen suspected they were quite proficient in its use. Some days it felt that instead of a single sworn shield, Shireen had six.

It did not help that the court had quickly caught up on this, and yesterday, Shireen had heard talks amongst the noble ladies about mastering at least a single weapon, be it a sword, dagger, or bow. Truth be told, most of the northern ladies were quite similar to their southern counterparts, and only those at the more secluded Houses or more dangerous locations ever gravitated towards any training in arms. The whole thing with the latest happenings in court seemed like just another silly trend, but it irritated her a little.

Shireen shook her head with exasperation, gently rubbed her now round belly, and shifted her gaze to her companions. Mayhaps it was time to get to know them better.

"How are you ladies finding Winterfell?"

"The Godswood is grand, Your Grace," Serena Umber simply stated.

"No need for courtesies when it's just us," Shireen reminded.

"I never thought a stone keep could be so warm, and there are so many people in the town," Lena said with amazement. "Wintertown feels like a human anthill."

"There's more steel in the smith's square than I've seen in my entire life," Aranna added with sparkling eyes. "One of the forge masters is all the way from Yi Ti."

"How did he end up all the way here?" Shireen wondered out loud.

"He barely speaks the common tongue, but from what I managed to gather, he was exiled from his homeland," the crannoglady explained. "House Stark's protection is more valuable than gold, and smiths from the four corners of the world flocked to Winterfell at the mere rumour of the Northern Bronze that could rival Valyrian Steel."

"Let's go to Wintertown," Shireen decided. "I want to see those foreign smiths-"


Jyanna's shout startled her, and at that moment, something gently landed on Shireen's right shoulder, making her freeze, and everything became chaotic.

Serena had grabbed her ax, a pair of knives appeared in Aranna's hands, Lena held a dirk, Jyanna had drawn her sword, and Stormstrider roused from the ground and released a sigh reverberating roar.

"Don't move," the Queen ordered, and her ladies-in-waiting and sworn shield stilled in their tracks.

Shireen would have been worried, but neither had her pendant activated nor did the direwolves look threatened; in fact, their tails happily wagged. Stormstrider threw her an inquisitive look before returning to his slumber in disinterest. She carefully craned her neck, only to see a majestic bird with dark lilac and blue plumage and mischievous purple eyes. She knew those eyes.

At that moment, it opened its beak and trilled. It was a magical, calming sound that seemed to bleed the remaining tension out of the air.

The bird hopped to the ground and suddenly turned into a storm of purple fire and fog, eliciting a few gasps.

When the maelstrom dispersed, her husband sat there with a crooked smile, dressed in a grey tunic and black leggings.

Under Shireen's stunned gaze, he walked over to the two unnamed direwolves, scratched them behind the ears, then turned to her and pulled her into a searing kiss.

By the time she managed to gather her bearings, Shireen's cheeks were aflame. When Jon finally released her, her knees felt weak, and she would have fallen to the ground if he did not hold her into an embrace with his left arm.

"Ladies, please excuse us," Jon turned to her entourage, all of them who had their mouths open and eyes wide like saucers. Serena Umber had even dropped her axe on the ground. "Go now, no harm will come to my wife while I'm here. And remember, you saw nothing."

At his urging, they hesitantly made their way out of the dragon-yard, leaving Shireen alone with her husband.

"My king, I did not know you could sing nor turn into a bird," she prodded with a lilt in her tone.

"It's a recent development," he chuckled fondly. "And my singing talent came with the transformation. I would probably deafen you if I tried to sing now."

Shireen had long given up on understanding magic, but she trusted Jon. There was not a single doubt in her mind that he knew what he was doing, no matter how wondrous, so she had given up on asking for explanations.

"Care to escort me to Wintertown, my king?"

"Certainly, my queen," His face bloomed into a wide smile, and he hooked his hand under her elbow.

The loss of the Braavosi fleet turned disastrous for the Secret City. Utterly unprepared for a war against the united Pentos and Tyrosh, they suffered defeat after defeat. The Pentoshi had learned a great deal from their loss a century early. Their Prince had remained hidden, nobody knowing his face, name, or voice, and commanded from the shadows. The Braavosi no longer had the option to send faceless man after faceless man to butcher the enemy leadership until one favourable to them came into power. Tyrosh had taken precautions much the same; the new Archon had always worn a golden mask, and nobody knew the face beneath. He was supposedly assassinated seven times but always kept re-appearing alive and well the next day. People were in awe of the sorcery, but it's far more likely that he also ruled from the shadows while employing body doubles with the same mask to act in his name in public-

Excerpt from 'The Decade of Blood' by Archmaester Perestan

"Generous gifts from the Triarchs of Volantis, the first magister of Lys, and the Prince of Pentos have arrived, Your Grace," Lord Manderly recounted.

Ever since winter had ended, the word of dragons had spread far and wide, and while not many had believed, some had decided to send envoys bearing gifts, both to seek favour and to see for themselves. Many of the said gifts were quite opulent and expensive.

"Again from Pentos?" Jon asked with a tinge of interest.

"Yes, Your Grace, they probably hope that the North would not involve itself in the war against Braavos," the old Hand explained.

"They need not worry," her husband covered his yawn with a hand. "I suppose there are more requests for aid?

"Yes, Princess Arianne still asks for aid, despite the fact that Eddara Tallhart did send a hundred and fifty men to honour the marriage alliance," Manderly explained with barely contained mirth. "Houses Pryor and Waynwood are subtly inquiring if House Stark could intervene in the Vale and aid them in pacifying the war."

Jon scoffed.

"If they want to rule the Vale, they should fight for it themselves," he waved dismissively.

"Jonos Bracken and many other riverlords still humbly request you remove Daenerys' final dragon from Harrenhal by any means necessary while offering absolutely nothing in return," Manderly rubbed his meaty chins thoughtfully. "But the last one is interesting. A request for assistance from Edric Storm in retaking the Stormlands."

The name instantly grabbed her attention. She had forgotten about her cousin! He was one of the few who treated her well and was willing to play with her on Dragonstone.

"Who exactly is Edric Storm, and how is he interesting?" Her husband asked languidly.

"He's Robert Baratheon's bastard son by Delena Florent," Shireen explained and leaned over to whisper in her husband's ear. "My cousin was one of the few to be kind to me on Dragonstone."

Annoyance flashed through Jon's purple eyes, and he sighed.

"Tell him that the Northern Kingdom will not involve itself in the war," he said, and Shireen felt a tinge of disappointment, but she understood. If they helped Edric, just because of the familial connection, their children would be beset by marriage offers and temptations from every side in an attempt to pull them into Southern politics again. "We will, however, send him enough armour and arms to arm fifteen hundred men as a gift. As usual, the Northern Lords and Heirs are forbidden to fight in the South unless directly bound by marriage. Moreover, Edric Storm would be allowed to recruit volunteers in the North freely, should he provide them with remuneration, with the condition that should he prove victorious, he shall not take the name Baratheon."

Shireen beamed at her husband as his lips twitched. Jon could be incredibly cunning when he wanted. He avoided involving the North yet still provided a lot of help.

"The letter shall be on your desk on the morrow, awaiting your seal," Manderly nodded. "Your Grace, Moat Cailin's restoration will finish within three moons. If I might be so bold to ask, who would hold the keep?"

"Benjen Harclay will become its Castellan for now," Jon declared. The mountain clansman in question was the uncle of the current Harclay chieftain and was one of the few that had survived the Battle near Westwatch.

"Is it wise, Your Grace? He is quite prickly," Glover cautioned.

"Harclay is loyal," Jon waved away his concerns. "And it's because he's prickly and stubborn that I will put him there. If need be, he'll hold the Moat to the last man. Anything else?"

"Winter Town has grown too fast, and my bailiffs cannot keep order on their own anymore without the aid of the Winterfell guardsmen," Glover reported. "There might be a need to form a proper city watch."

"Very well. I want a detailed plan for a City Watch ready within the next sennight. In the meanwhile, ask Ser Tully to organise more patrols." Jon agreed before turning to the old Merman Lord. "And is the expansion of Wintertown going according to plan?"

"We need more masons and builders to keep with the increasing pace of growth," Manderly provided with a cough.

"We are not lacking in coin, hire more from Essos or the South if need be," Jon grunted out. Not lacking in coin was mildly said, under the experienced hand of Wyman Manderly and the peace guaranteed by her husband, the North was prospering more than ever, and their coffers were overflowing with gold. "There must be a spot for an arena, and I want the canals and drains to be a priority. I will not have my seat stink like a privy."

"The next…"The old fat lord wiped a few beads of sweat and shuffled through his parchment stack before picking out one. "There's increased piracy in the Bite, and some merchant ships are being attacked."

"Who would be so bold?" Jon straightened up.

"I suspect that the Sistermen have begun playing corsairs again or are collaborating with pirates," the Hand said after taking a generous gulp of wine from his goblet. "The other option is for the pirates to have made base in some hidden cove around the Fingers or the southern coast of the Bite and aggressively attack our ships."

"Send the fleet, find them, and pull them all out root and stem," her husband waved it away.

"And what if it's the sistermen?"

"The same. The Kings of Winter made a mistake in sparing them and had to fight a thousand years of worthless war for their folly. I shall not leave such a burden on my descendants. In fact, send a summon to the sisterlords to come to Winterfell with their heirs and spares and swear obeisance," Jon's bored eyes sharpened viciously. "We can always use cupbearers and pages."

Shireen had never seen Wyman Manderly so happy before; the old merman lord had a smile so wide it threatened to split his face.

"I shall pen it at once," he cheerfully proclaimed and waved over one of his younger scribes waiting at the wall to bring him a roll of parchment.

The king finally looked to the master of whispers. "Anything of interest happening around the world?"

"Rumours have it that the demons of Mantarys have descended on the demon road and have attacked Volantine settlements," Edwyle recounted, but nobody at the table seemed to be interested. Not only was Volantis just too far away from the North, but it was not very well-liked here either.

"Keep an eye on that development," Jon ordered. "Anything else from the far east?"

"Krazdil mo Hardan has managed to solidify Slaver's Bay, and now New Ghis is looking to expand further inland."

"What about the war at the Narrow Sea?" Glover asked. "It has greatly disrupted our trade."

"Braavos got defeated twice more at sea, but Pentos and Tyrosh are unable to attack the city by sea because of the Titan. The Braavosi aren't out of the war just yet, their arsenal will continue to spew ships until their supplies of processed wood dry up."

At moments like this, Shireen was really glad Jon had decided not to accept any of the numerous requests or generous promises urging him to partake in the various conflicts by 'resolving them'. As she was pondering, the white direwolf sitting on her left placed her large head in Shireen's lap, and the Queen idly began to run her hands through the shaggy fur. She was tempted to name them Black and White, but Arya had convinced her to save the honour of naming the wolves to her twins.

The black direwolf attempted to copy his sibling, but Shireen's lap was only so big. Disappointed, the Blackfur decided to pull her sister's tail instead. Needless to say, Whitefur was not entertained, and soon the meeting chamber was filled with growls and barks, much to the council's chagrin.

The commotion instantly died out as Jon picked them both up by the scruff of their necks as if they were still little pups. Yet they were not, and her annoyed husband manhandling two whimpering, guilty-looking direwolves the sizes of small ponies effortlessly elicited a chuckle from her.

Garlan Tyrell was defeated at the battle of the Red Lake when the Westermen hammered the Reach forces from the west led by Tytan Brax of the Kingsguard and by Rivermen from the east led by the Red Eagle, Patrek Mallister.

The Lord of Higharden, however, managed to retreat in good order and preserve a good chunk of his forces. His failure to retake the seat of the traitorous House Crane was merely a setback-

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

"Archmaester Gormon has begun writing a book slandering his Grace, painting him Maegor come again," Edwyle cautiously provided.

"This is an outrage! Another insult from the grey rats!"

Glover, whose face had become so dangerously red that it bordered on purple, angrily swept his tankard from the table, spilling dark beer everywhere on the ground.

Shireen gave the Lord of Deepwood Motte a very unimpressed glare. The fool almost had her favourite gown ruined.

"Control your temper, Galbart," Manderly chided tiredly.

The Lord of Deepwood Motte sat down, but his fury was not all appeased, and Shireen could see a vein throb on his temple.

"The gall of these curs!" He spat on the ground. "First, they refuse to send a second maester as is due, then they try to dictate the seats of the northern council and appoint some flowery ponce as a grand maester here. And now this!"

"We can't do much against the Citadel and its Conclave," the fat old Lord sighed and downed another goblet of wine.

"Can't we just make our own Citadel?" Shireen asked curiously. "We don't need to depend on scholars and healers from the South."

"It's been tried before, Your Grace," Manderly explained after tiredly rubbing his eyes. "The roots of the maesters run too deep; they have gathered knowledge for thousands of years, and their scholars and healers are simply better than others, rendering their competition obsolete sooner or later. The appeal of the library of the Citadel attracts the best and the brightest as well."

"And the maesters had the ears of Lords and Kings. All it took was a few words to undermine other scholarly orders," Edwyle Locke added.

"But we have the ear of the only king that matters," Shireen countered with a smile as she looked at her husband. "The word of the King of the North reaches far and wide, and even craftsmen from the far lands of Yi Ti seek to come under the protection of House Stark. He only needs to call, and scholars from the four corners of the world will come. Winter Town is expanding, we have plenty of space to build a grand place of learning and a library of our own."

The chamber fell into silence, and the Queen wondered if she had said something extremely foolish.

"This can be done, I believe," Manderly hesitantly said. "I admit it would help our budding administration greatly to have a ready supply of scholars. But an institution such as this requires plenty of planning and a hefty amount of coin, and we must ensure their loyalty to the North. The Citadel may also try to undermine the project in any way possible. If we fail, we might have spent hundreds of thousands of wolves for nothing."

"Do it," Jon ordered. "I want a rough plan outlined for our academy, building and organisation ready by the next meeting, so we can begin to iron out the details."

As soon as spring had arrived in 306 AC, Lord Wyman Manderly re-opened the royal mint of the North. The North abandoned the coinage used under the House Targaryen and Baratheon and adopted a new one. The golden coin was often called wolf and featured a direwolf head on one side and the face of King Jon Stark III on the other. Their silver coinage still bore the image of a stag but now carried the face of the Good Queen Shireen, while the different copper denominations-

Excerpt from 'Coinage in the Sunset Lands' by Aelion of Lorath

Author's Endnote:

I have not forgotten this fic!

Some magic, some fluff, and some politics.

The North is far from stagnating; it just didn't come up in the previous PoVs, because that was not their focus.

Check out my other works if you wish: 'Shrouded Destiny' - an ASOIAF time-travel + AU and 'Convergence of Fates'- HP time-travel + AU.

You can find me on my Discord(dgj93pNeAD).