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Chapter Text

The throne room had been destroyed, the Iron Throne unaffected amongst the burnt debris and falling snow. A smoky haze blurred out the gutted buildings below, the quiet after the destruction unsettling.

“Forgive him…”

Jon stood in the audience chamber facing the throne, Tyrion’s words replaying in his head.

“...she grows more powerful...”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You can forgive all of them, make them see they made a mistake. Make them understand.”

She hesitated.

“Please, Dany.”

“We can’t hide behind small mercies. The world we need won’t be built by men loyal to the world we have.”

“The world we need is a world of mercy, it has to be.”

“And it will be.” She walked closer to him, placing her hand on his chest. “It’s not easy to see something that’s never been before. A good world.”

“...more sure that she is good…”

“How do you know? How do you know it’ll be good?”

“Because I know what is good. And so do you…”

“I don’t.” Jon struggled to understand, to find the Dany he knew and loved, even now.

“You do.” She drew him closer, gathering him close with her arm around his shoulder. “You’ve always known.”

“What about everyone else? All the other people who think they know what’s good?”

“They don’t get to choose…” His heart ached, she was lost, gone, nowhere to be found.

“...more sure that she is right…”

Jon cradled her face with his left hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb, longing for his past, for the woman he once loved to return.

“Be with me. Build the new world with me. This is our reason. It has been from the beginning, since you were a little boy with a bastard’s name and I was a little girl who couldn’t count to 20. We do it together… We break the wheel, together.”

He had no options left, it was up to him, only him. Again. Jon readied himself to do what needed to be done. The end, for both of them.

“You are my Queen, now and always.” Jon folded his right hand around the handle of his dagger, gliding it half-way from its sheath.

Dany’s smile was wide-eyed and child-like, her shoulders dropped as she exhaled a long breath and leaned back, leaving both hands on his chest.

“This, this is what was meant to be. This is my dream. I’m so glad that you’re here this time, we can go through together.” She seemed desperate, unsure. Jon paused, grasping her arm, trying to understand.

“Dany?”

He cupped her face again, and she leaned into it, sighing. He felt a tremor run through her body, and let the dagger fall back into its sheath. For now.

“In my vision, when I was in the House of the Undying, this” - she waved her hand toward the throne - “this is what I saw! This, the throne room, with ash falling - this is snow, though.” She brushed the flakes off of Jon’s chest. “It doesn’t matter, last time it was raining.” She smiled softly at him again, happy.

“I don’t...” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Dany...”

She pulled back further and gazed into his face, frustrated.

“I saw this throne room, just like this, and I walked through it, my children were calling me, then I saw you - not you, like this, but I was at the Wall, and the gate opened for me, and I went through. You, you are my way out. With you here, you can guide me. Before, I’d make it through the Wall, but I’d get lost on the other side...”

“Dany, you’re trembling - are you all right?” Jon noticed the clamminess of her skin, the heat underneath his hand. “I’m here, I won’t let you get lost…”

Dany sighed again, letting her hand trail down his arm. “I’m just tired, I've not been sleeping well. I've been having these, these dreams... This dream, over and over again. Tyrion says it's to be expected with all the stress of the war.” She looked back into his face, even as he closely examined hers.

She tilted her head, her eyes filling with tears as she whispered, “Do you think you can ever see me as your Dany again? Not just your Queen?”

Jon’s heart beat harder in his chest as he pushed back at the confusion. New questions were forming, fragile doubts and suspicions.

He smiled weakly as tears filled his eyes as well, pulling her close to him again. There was time, he would make time. He was her protector, too...

“I’m so sorry, Dany. All my life I've listened to what smart people have told me was the right thing to do. They're not always right, are they?”

Dany smiled, gasping, her eyelids half-closed.

He wrapped her in both arms, breathed in her scent again - sweat and smoke, and the sweet fragrance that was only Dany, but there was something else there, under it all, a bit bitter, a bit - not right… “I want it to be the way it was, I want to be with you.” He shook his head raggedly back and forth. “Gods, I’ve been a fool.”

All his doubts suddenly poured out. “I just needed time... I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you needed me. But Dany I have always loved you, you are everything I've ever wanted, so much more, and you loved me just as I am.” He whispered to her slowly. “Everything has changed now. Dany, do you still want me? To be with me? Even though I’ve failed you, time and time again?”

Jon was startled when Dany laughed, reaching around him and holding him tight. “Now I know for sure this is a dream, to have everything I've ever wanted, to have my throne and to have you… Don’t wake me, Jon, not if this isn’t true.”

Jon looked deeply into her eyes again; they were bright, too bright, then he kissed her, lightly, tasting that bitterness on her lips, on her skin, and again on her breath, her pale lips chapped and cracked...

Dany laid her head on his chest, “Everything has been against us Jon, can’t we just have peace, together?”

Jon brushed his fingers through her hair, chuckling as his fingers tangled in her braids.

“Aye, Dany, we will have peace, together. We can, so we will.”

Jon knew what must be done now. Shame filled him as the full realization dawned on him. He looked around the empty remains of the throne room.

“Dany, where are your guards?” She smiled and chuckled, stroking his beard.

“Your hair is too long, you need a bath before you kiss me again…”

He grabbed her more urgently, gently squeezing her arms and pulling her up and away so he could look into her face.

“Dany, Dany listen to me.” She looked at him bewildered, fear and anger mingling, starting to struggle, to push him away.

“What are you doing, you’re scaring me!”

“Dany, you’re right. Everything has been against us. But not just everything, but every one. Dany, I think you’ve been poisoned. I can smell it on you, I can taste it on you.”

Dany listened, then tried again to pull away. “No, Varys is gone, I took care of him.”

“Which means it's someone else, Dany, someone else is poisoning you. We have to get you away until we find out who.”

Dany stopped struggling, hesitating.

“You weren’t supposed to have figured it out…” Suddenly there was an Unsullied guard standing next to him, mumbling to himself.

Jon kept his hold on his Queen. “Red Flea, where are her other guards. The Queen needs to be protected, at all times.”

Red Flea nodded, “I’ll stay here and protect the Queen…”

Jon recalled what he had heard. “Figured what out?”

“And you can go find help…” Red Flea stepped toward the Queen, grasping his spear protectively.

“Red Flea, Ser Davos is on his way here, go find him and tell him someone has poisoned the Queen, we need a Maester, somewhere to take her -- and tell them to stop killing the Lannister soldiers,” Jon turned back to Dany, “We will need them to keep the peace in King’s Landing.” Dany pursed her lips tightly, but nodded to Red Flea.

Red Flea stood rigid. “I’m truly sorry, Jon, we wanted to save you, we love you, you’re family, but the Dragons must die, once and for all.”

Dany tried to pull her hand from Jon’s grip. “What is she talking about?” She turned to Red Flea. “Arya, what are you talking about?”

Arya? Arya! Jon stood stunned.

“Well, that is truly amazing! Somehow this poison sees through the Many Faced God’s magic.” Red Flea dropped his spear and pulled a dagger from his armor, lunging between Jon and Dany, knocking the Queen to the ground. “Perhaps this makes it easier.”

Red Flea loomed over Dany’s prostrate form.

“Is this how you want to end it all, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Nothing? Stand to your feet!”

Dany burst out laughing, sweat on her brow, leaning on her elbow among the snow-covered broken bricks of the Red Keep. “I don’t want to end it at all - at least not yet!”

“Very well then, have it your way...” Red Flea stepped forward toward the Queen, lunging downward, dagger thrusting even before the red drops in the snow at his feet caught his attention.

Jon knocked the blade from the Unsullied’s loosening fingers, then pulled his dagger from the side of Red Flea’s throat even as he fell to his knees mere inches from Daenerys’s feet.

“Arya, you should know, all armor has a weakness.”

Jon moved between them, blocking a second attack. Red Flea looked up at him with realization as he raised a hand to his throat, then reached for Jon to pull himself up, managing only to grasp his hand.

“I knew I’d lost you, little sister, when you told me Sansa was the smartest person you’d ever met. Then today … you know a killer when you see one?!” Jon choked. “I’m so, so sorry that it came to this, but you’ve made your choice, and now I’ve made mine.” He jerked his hand away from the dying Unsullied’s grip and stood back, watching as the body slumped in on itself, crouched on the marble floor.

Jon whirled as he heard muffled footsteps mounting the steps and approaching what was left of the Great Hall.

“Come, Dany, please trust me. We have to get you help, there must be an antidote.”

He stepped across the blood-drenched body, wiping his dagger on Red Flea’s back, sheathing it and reaching for her hand.

“Jon, don't worry. I’ll be waking soon. Come sit with me on the throne, like before.”

“No, please, Dany, listen to me. This is not a dream, it's not like before.” He crouched next to her, stroking her arm. “Let me take care of you, then we’ll be together and break the wheel, just like you wanted.”

“Yes, break the wheel, everywhere, everyone free, happy and they love me and will never betray me...” She was somber and quiet, reclining in the snow, wincing as Jon pulled her to a sitting position.

“She tried to run from me, but I think I got her this time.”

“Who? Arya?”

Dany shouted, “NO! Cersei, that traitorous bitch, she’s on my throne!”

Jon blanched. “Dany, look behind you, it’s right there, your throne…”

He reached for her again as she turned to look but was interrupted by a welcome and familiar voice.

“Jon, what is going on here? You were going to wait for me!” Ser Davos Seaworth ran to join them, slipping in the snow and ash, scowling at the pool of blood on the ground and the Queen grappling with Jon.

“I’m sorry Davos, I needed to talk to her alone.”

“What... then... What has happened here?” Davos asked.

“It’s Arya, she’s dead. I killed her.”

Davos was stricken. “Your sister?”

“There’s - a lot more going on, I should have told you. I suspect Tyrion was keeping us apart, he made sure you were always off doing something else when I sought your counsel - I apologize for letting that happen.”

Davos nodded, then ran to the Queen as Jon helped her to her feet. “Your Grace, are you all right?”

“Ser Davos, what are you doing here, what are all of you doing here, you’re ruining everything!”

Grey Worm and a band of Unsullied ran into the throne room, pulling Jon from Dany’s grip and forcing him to his knees.

“You kill Red Flea?”

Jon shouted so that all would pay attention, “The Queen has been poisoned, she has acted out one of her dreams, she is waiting to wake up.” He turned to Grey Worm. “We need to get the healers, we need to find the antidote.”

Grey Worm looked shocked, looking to his shaken Queen. “My Queen, is this true?”

Daenerys nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked toward Jon, still kneeling on the ground. “Jon you’re going to stay with me this time, right?” She swayed on her feet, and her face turned vacant as Davos held her elbow, steadying her as she leaned against him.

Grey Worm huffed furiously, glaring at the pool of drying blood under Red Flea’s body. He grabbed Jon’s hair to pull his face up.

“Why you kill?”

“It’s not Red Flea, it's Arya, my sister. She’s an assassin, a Faceless Man. She killed Red Flea, took his face. She was sent to kill Dany in case their plan to use me failed.”

Grey Worm snapped Jon’s head down, then pushed the Unsullied’s body over with his foot, silently enraged when the helmet and Red Flea’s blood-stained face fell away and Arya’s expressionless face was exposed, still and white, eyes open skyward, blood staining her lips and nose.

Jon stared, breathing heavily, then turned away. “We have to catch everyone involved, and we need to stop the killing now…”

Davos nodded, then turned to Grey Worm, “Find a Maester, a healer, and quarters where the Queen can be treated and safe.”

He turned to Jon, “We can let this play out, let them think they’ve succeeded, that you’ve killed the Queen, that Drogon came and took her body away…”

Jon nodded in agreement. “Grey Worm, for our Queen, will you help us uncover her traitors?”

Grey Worm stifled his anger, “My Queen, is this what you command? Do you say to help Jon Snow?”

Dany looked at each one of them, slowly, trying to regain her regal demeanor even as confusion and fear flitted behind her eyes.

“Yes, Torgo Nudho, help them.” She paused, trembling. “I’m tired, I want to lie down. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Grey Worm ordered Jon to be freed, and he rose swiftly to stand in front of her, softly caressing her face.

“Dany, everything is going to be alright…”

She tried to smile, hopeful, as Jon took her hand. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “One way or another, we will get through this. Right now, I choose you. For now and always.” He kissed her as she leaned into him, weak. He pulled her into his arms and lifted her, carrying her as Grey Worm led them into the depths of the lifeless castle, surrounded by Unsullied as the snow fell silent on the thousand cold blades of the Iron Throne.

Chapter Text

She remembered the last time she was in King’s Landing.

The fear. The weakness. The smell of shit.

Hostage Queen. Joffrey’s plaything.

Little Dove.

Not this time.

Sansa Stark smoothed her gloved hands over her northern cloak, Stark gray with white fur trim, too hot for this weather. She would leave it in the carriage when she entered the Dragonpit.

Most of the fires had been extinguished, though she heard there were some stubborn pockets of wildfire below the Red Keep by the White Sword Tower and near the Dragon’s Gate, making it impassable. The dust and ash had settled and the temperatures had warmed considerably since that day, the snow melting by the next morning and a warm ocean breeze doing the rest.

They had all heard the rumors, even in the North, which, as all rumors do, had taken on a life of their own. The Dragon Queen had gone mad and had burned down King’s Landing until not a brick stood standing. Cersei and Jaime Lannister were both dead, killing one another as they fought over a boat that would take them to safety, their bodies found floating in Blackwater Bay. Tyrion Lannister thrown in a cell for treason against his Queen, and the Dragon Queen herself, dead by her lover’s blade. It was said her dragon came and took her body. Perhaps to honor his mother, perhaps to eat her.

Then the summons had come, an invitation to attend a Council to determine the succession of the Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa had extended her invitation to several of her bannermen. Lord Glover, of course, would be loyal to the new House Stark, and Lord Cerwyn, who was a steadfast Northman to his last breath. She had invited Lord Manderly, but he had responded that their fleet was beset with sea monsters, and their port was closed until they had been dealt with. She was not sure what she was supposed to make of this, but Bran was not concerned, so she was content with this simple contingent of Northerners to accompany her as they brought this ugly matter to a close.

She had not heard from Arya in quite some time, but she had told her to expect that. Her sister had plans, once she was done with the Queen. She had started a new list, and was going to start work on it right away. Brienne would seek her out if she didn’t attend the Council as hoped. She had hoped for a show of solidarity, all the Starks in one accord, though Bran was confident it wouldn’t be necessary. And Arya was Arya, she did as she pleased.

Her carriage passed through the broken shards of gateway and into the entrance of the Dragonpit, a pathway created by Unsullied soldiers standing tall and quiet, spears pointed skyward, two dozen or so Dothraki horsemen prowling around the outer edge of the arena. Several other Houses had already arrived; House Arryn, House Martell, House Royce. Sansa smiled to herself, Lord Royce had been a good friend to her father and a stalwart supporter of House Stark, and to her personally. He would be a valuable ally in the coming hours.

The carriage stopped among a dusty cloud of foul grit that drifted through the half-opened curtains. She waited for it to settle before reaching for the door latch, her hand dropping as Ser Brienne approached and nodded, the door opening wide under her hand.

“I trust you fared well, My Lady?”

Sansa chuckled lightly, “It has been only a few hours since we left our camp, Brienne. Miraculously I have survived travel once again!” She gave her one of her true smiles, returned by the tall armored blonde. They had been through so much together, devotion flowed both ways.

Ser Brienne extended her hand to assist her from the carriage, and she noticed the enclosed cart carrying her brother pulled up not far from hers, accompanied both by Stark household guards and those of Lord Cerwyn and Lord Glover, Northern banners flooding her heart with pride and anticipation. She was surprised when her eyes filled with tears, though she dared not let them fall, there was so much at stake. Instead, she watched as Bran’s guards released the latches that fastened the finely crafted ramp, satisfied when his new guardian Podrick Payne carefully rolled him from the cart, tipping his wheeled chair back, smiling when Ser Brienne ran to provide extra guidance at the bottom.

Bran was - Sansa’s eyes searched his face from afar - unmoved.

Sansa removed her cloak and tossed it into her carriage where it landed on a chest of finery she suspected she would need in the coming weeks. Several of her guards would stay with her carriage, the rest of her wardrobe remained with the household goods on the other wagons.

Sansa pulled her Tully red hair across her shoulder as she once again waited for the dust to settle, then joined her brother, nodding in his general direction, having finally resigned herself to the absence of decorum or even personality in their interactions.

“Good morning, Bran, good morning, Podrick.”

From there it was a brief walk to the center of the pit, the raised stage, the same one used for the council between Queen Cersei and the Dragon Queen. Sansa quietly huffed to herself. They had both failed, and their names and legacies would disappear into the very dust that coated this obsolete waste of valuable land.

Sansa ascended the stairs to the covered seating area, pausing to gauge the best placement for herself and her brother. She had thought to leave a seat for Arya, but if she had planned on joining House Stark for the council she would have made an appearance by now, at least if she was coming as Arya Stark. She glanced around the platform, hoping for a nod of recognition or signal of some kind. Instead, she found herself directed to chairs in the center under long tawny awnings by a servant who mumbled something about the best protection from the sun for the Northern visitors. Sansa glanced at the bright cloudless sky, smiled graciously and took her seat, the chair next to her removed and her brother wheeled into position. She glanced at him and was surprised to see him nod in response to Brienne’s greeting as she seated herself on her other side. Podrick stood behind Bran’s chair, while several Northern guards took their places behind them, flanked farther back by at least a dozen Unsullied. Sansa briefly wondered if they were expecting some kind of uprising, if there was any danger, but Bran had been confident this morning that there was nothing to be concerned about.

Many chairs waited to be filled, and another servant came by with cool watered wine. She took off her gloves to receive the cup and drank sparingly. Sweet, familiar, perhaps Arbor Gold, one of the few luxuries she truly missed in the North. She chuckled to herself as she thought of Tyrion, poor Tyrion, all this time without his beloved wine.

Lords Cerwyn and Glover approached the platform together, guards holding their House banners high, nodding to her as they took seats at the far end of the line of chairs. There had been only brief interactions with her bannermen during the journey from Winterfell, all of the same mind to get this over with and return to rebuild the North. Families and farmland waited for attention, and whether winter was coming or not, the North itself yielded to no southron authority.

Lord Edmure Tully approached her, smiling, regaling her of his young son’s antics and the difficulty of ruling untrustworthy smallfolk. Dust clouds rose again, and Sansa became aware of small groups of noblemen trailing from the cluster of carriages, heads together and tongues wagging, the chatter ceasing as they ascended the steps. Each took a seat, some trading back and forth, and she wondered why no one thought to assign seating according to importance.

Sansa prodded her uncle with small talk, keeping him present, giving her the opportunity to gauge the newcomers without being noticed. She didn’t know them all, but there didn’t seem to be any worth knowing. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ser Davos Seaworth approach, then smile at Ser Brienne, taking the empty seat next to her. Disappointed, she had leaned forward to greet him, when the booming voice of a sea captain breached the peaceful calm of the gathering.

Yara Greyjoy. She had called herself Queen Yara. For a while.

“So we all meet at last. What a glorious day for a glorious end to this shithole of a kingdom. May the Drowned God spit you back onto dry land, where your bones turn to dust and are blown away to be wiped from the bungholes of your betters!”

Ser Davos guffawed mightily, smiling brightly and nodding at the roughly dressed Lady of the Iron Islands.

Lady Greyjoy appeared out of place, angry and huffing, arms crossed and legs outstretched as she took the last empty seat. She had pledged to her Queen and had won her Crown, only for it to be lost at the moment of victory. Her brother Theon sacrificed himself for Bran, and she had lost her crown and country to Jon. Sansa sympathized, reminded of Theon’s trust and support. He had been a true friend.

There was a long moment of waiting, and she thought of Jon, and considered the options they had discussed as recently as that morning. Bran had been watching it all - wherever Jon went, Bran had at least a glimpse of what was going on. The Stark blood, he said. Until recently the distance between them had been too great, and there was that poisonous dragon blood mixed in. The last he saw was the Dragon Queen in Jon’s arms, and Jon filled with despair, then a dagger, and a pool of blood on the ground before the Iron Throne. Unsullied surrounding him, Jon now somewhere in the Red Keep, or at least close by, perhaps in a cell below their feet.

Soon they will have rid the world of the only House to ever think they were above everyone else - the House that bows to neither gods nor men. Sansa smiled; laid out before her was the proof that the dragons were no gods, but were every bit as vulnerable as anyone else. She briefly felt pity for Jon, he was at the mercy of his mixed blood, the wolf and the dragon, the good and the bad, but they could not afford to be merciful to him. Every dragon must die if a truly good kingdom was to rise.

Sansa glanced at each of the guards in the Dragonpit, wondering if one of them was Arya. She had told her the name of the Unsullied that she’d impersonate, but she hadn’t really been paying attention, and now she’d lost track of her sister altogether. There were some standing behind her, and one or two looked out of place. Perhaps she was somewhere else, someone else altogether. She would worry about her later. She tapped her coat pocket, comforted, the final designs for her crown folded neatly inside.

Finally Grey Worm and his Unsullied escorted Tyrion to stand before the Council. He looked to be in terrible shape: chained, unkept, dishevelled, sober. Grey Worm was threatening, but Tyrion did what he does best, and soon controlled the proceedings. He was passionate and persuasive, and everyone was ready to vote and be done with it. In the end, Tyrion quietly approached Bran.

“Brandon Stark. If we choose you, will you wear the crown? Will you lead the seven kingdoms to the best of your abilities? From this day, until your last day?”

She held her breath, waiting for Bran’s response.

“Why do you think I came all this way?” He had a very slight smile on his face, out of place for him.

Tyrion glanced at her briefly, a fleeting question on his face, she shook her head almost imperceptibly. That wasn’t the answer he was supposed to give, but it would do.

“To Brandon of House Stark, I say Aye.”

Tyrion started the voting, each member agreeing, even, surprisingly, Yara Greyjoy, who would no doubt have to be dealt with later. So be it. Brienne would become Bran’s Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Arya would be Lord Commander of her Queensguard. Her unique talents would come in quite handy.

Ser Davos was to vote next. She held her breath. It had surprised her that Davos had never raised an objection to the way Jon had been treated, that according to her inquiries to his guards he had never even tried to visit him in his captivity.

“Apologies, I’m here on other business.”

She wanted to ask what business, but the vote had come to her. Sansa breathed deeply, calming her nerves, this was it. She turned to fully face Bran, back straight and head held high, making her first impressions to all as the soon-to-be Queen in the North.

“I love you, little brother, I always will, you’ll be a good king. But tens of thousands of Northmen fell in the Great War, defending all of Westeros. And those who’ve survived have seen too much and fought too hard ever to kneel again.”

She turned again to face Tyrion, speaking so all could hear.

“The North will remain an independent kingdom, as it was for thousands of years.”

There, she’d done it. All Bran had to do now was to agree, but even as he nodded in agreement she noticed he was looking not at her but over her shoulder. She turned to follow his gaze; there was Davos, sitting quietly, gaze straight ahead, a slight smile on his weathered face. She wasn’t sure why he had come, she assumed it would be to argue over Jon’s sentence. Bran quickly named Tyrion his Hand, and his shackles were removed even as he asked for a cup of wine. He started to sip, then guzzle, wiping his mouth with his grimy sleeve, tapping the side of the cup and pausing to savor the feeling with closed eyes before clearing his throat to speak.

Instead Davos stood and paused, tugging on his tunic and glancing at Grey Worm, who nodded slightly and said something to the Unsullied at his side, who quickly ran from the Dragonpit. Sansa clasped her hands together and placed them gently in her lap, even as her breath caught in her throat.

“Well, if you don’t mind, now that all of you Lords and Ladies have had your say, on behalf of the citizens of King’s Landing, and all of the smallfolk of Westeros, I would like an answer to that last question, why DID you come all this way, Brandon Stark? Shouldn’t one of you be in Winterfell?”

He walked confidently to the center of the gathering and stood next to Tyrion, Grey Worm backing up to make way for him. Tyrion sidled away from him, his tangled hair flopping in the increasing breeze, his shuffling feet scratching on the wooden platform. He glanced up, and she watched as Tyrion blanched when he met Davos’s cold smile.

“Well, if you’re not willing to answer your own question, I do have a few of my own. First, I wonder what it says of a King that the first person he appoints to his new reign is the man that led to the downfall of his predecessor… Lord Hand, you not only failed your Queen as an advisor time and time again, but you betrayed your Queen, you killed your father and your former lover by your own hand, there’s a price on your head and a block with your name on it for the murder of your nephew and sovereign, and yet this new boy King wants you as his Hand? You seem an odd person to garner trust, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion flushed, “I accept that King Bran is giving me an opportunity to make up for my mistakes…”

“Hmm, yet you were unable to extend that same mercy to others…”

Davos nodded toward the Stark siblings. “King Bran of House Stark, these others may not be curious about who they have just voted in as their new king, but those that will have to live under your rule have a right to know more about you. While in Winterfell, you said you couldn't be Lord of Winterfell because you are the - ‘Three-Eyed Raven?’ You can't be a Lord, but here you are a King. Forgive me, Your Grace, but what exactly is a Three-Eyed Raven?” Davos had walked slowly toward Bran Stark, halting when Samwell Tarly leaned forward in his chair.

“Oh, why, the Three-Eyed Raven is a mystical creature created by the Children of the Forest to hold the memories of all men throughout time, to enforce the good and overcome the evil.”

Davos smiled, glancing at all the blank faces staring back at him, several smirking at Samwell. “Well, I guess that clears things right up! Thank you, Lord Tarly.”

Sam stood this time, flinging his hand toward King Bran. “Ser Davos, you know as well as anyone here how important Bran was to the fight against the Night King! Bran Stark was the very embodiment of everything our enemy was seeking to destroy, the only thing standing between good and evil, the only person able to end the Long Night…”

Davos leaned back on his heels a bit, stroking his chin, considering. “Well I never quite understood all that, perhaps our new King can explain it. If Bran was so vitally important, to end the Long Night, to the future of humanity, why leave him essentially unprotected in the Godswood of Winterfell? Why not put him on the back of a dragon and fly him right out of there, use him to lead the Night King all over the North, give us more time to prepare, time to shrink their numbers. Seems like a complete waste of the most powerful force for good, if that’s what he truly is.”

Yohn Royce leaned forward, “Yes, I had wondered something similar… Bran Stark was supposed to be the focal point of the war, the central figure of the Night King’s hatred, so we put him in the midst of our battlements?” He turned to Bran after quickly glancing at Sansa. “Perhaps you can explain it now; what was the Night King, and why was he after you?”

Sansa cringed as she heard Damon Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark, lean toward Lord Rylan Oakheart and ask if he knew what they were talking about. Oakheart shrugged, but they were all clearly paying close attention to the conversation. She thought to interrupt, instead seeking the gaze of her cousin, Robyn Aaryn, pleading.

He squinted at her, shrugging, then nodded, clearing his throat. “Hm, Lord Royce, I’m sure these are all good questions that will make for wonderful conversation over dinner this evening…”

Davos turned and asked, “Lord Tyrion, earlier you asked this council, ‘Who has a better story than Bran the Broken, the boy who fell from a high tower and lived. He knew he’d never walk again, so he learned to fly.’ ”

He turned back around. “King Bran, did you truly learn how to fly? Could you please demonstrate this for us now…”

Tyrion interrupted, frustrated at the question, waving his hand toward the King, flinging the dregs of his wine across the platform where it landed with splats in the dust. “It’s clearly a metaphor, Ser Davos. Our King can see into the past, and the present all over the world, and sometimes into the future...”

Davos looked shocked as he stared into the face of the new King. “Is this true? You can see into the future?”

Bran met his gaze but remained silent, tilting his head to the side, his eerie smile reappearing.

“Well, that would be something. Please, tell me, King ‘Bran the Broken…’ ”

Sansa felt Tyrion flinch, they should have picked a better name.

“...did you foresee that Queen Daenerys would use her dragon to burn down King’s Landing in her effort to remove Cersei from her throne?”

Davos turned to stand beside Tyrion, his audience enthralled, motionless.

“House Stark had sworn allegiance to the Queen when the King in the North, Jon Snow, bent the knee to her, which made you her subjects. At any time, did you know, or see, or whatever it is that you do, that Euron Greyjoy’s fleet would successfully ambush the Queen’s fleet returning to Dragonstone? Did you see that she would lose her most faithful friend and advisor, Missendei of Naath, and one of her dragons, miraculously shot out of the sky by not one, not two, but three scorpion bolts, launched off ships bobbing in the sea far below? Should you not have warned her, done everything possible to prevent this harm from coming to your Queen?”

Davos angrily approached the stoic boy king, hand sweeping toward him, pleading with the other council members.

“Is this not treason? At the very least, the greatest betrayal, not only to your Queen, but to your liege lord and to the people of King’s Landing? The people you now want to rule. Could you have prevented these deaths? Could you have saved them all?”

A ragged inhale startled them all as Grey Worm struggled, his face contorting, finally regaining his bearing as his eyes glistened.

Davos paused, glancing at Lord Cerwyn, nodding to himself.

“Or perhaps what we are being told of your great gifts is not true at all, that you don’t really have a great story, that you are really just a crippled boy with a wild imagination who happens to be a gifted storyteller, though your silence here and now is astounding.”

Davos turned toward Sam, “Or perhaps we all just want to believe in something, to make sense of it all even when it doesn’t make any sense, and create our own story so we can say we took part in something special…”

There was a silence in the Dragonpit, the echoes of shifting horses and buzzing flies caught against the salty breeze. Sansa looked around, hoping someone, anyone would break this line of questioning… but they were avoiding her gaze, all except Brienne, who merely looked at her quietly, one hand on her knee, the other on the hilt of her sword.

Sansa took a deep breath and shifted in her seat, regaining attention. “Ser Davos, none of this matters. The Council has voted, Bran is the King of the Six Kingdoms, the North is inde…”

Davos waved her words away and walked in front of the council members, catching the eye of each, shrugging as he questioned.

“It seems there are secrets to our new King. Perhaps we should discuss the other secrets as well? Is anyone interested? Shall I continue, or are you ready to put your future in the hands of a - what did you call him Samwell Tarly - a mythical creature with the power over good and evil?”

Sam tried to correct him, but Tyrion cleared his throat to interrupt, as did Sansa, “There are no secrets here, Ser Davos. Whatever you are trying to do, whatever tricks you think will help Jon, will not…” She realized her slip too late, but tried to recover, “There is much work that needs to be done, we should be discussing how resources should be allocated…”

Prince Nymor Martell huffed and struck his hands to his thighs, standing suddenly.

“Please, Ser Davos, I for one have traveled a long way. And though this little discussion has been amusing, it seems you have more to say. Please, tell us your little secrets, so we all can go home…” He sat again, landing heavily, even as others nodded their heads and held out their cups to be filled once again by the mumbling servant.

Davos nodded briefly looking over Sansa’s shoulder at the guards behind her, then turned to face Tyrion. “Yes, then, let us discuss Varys’s ravens.”

Sansa’s breath caught as she saw fear cross Tyrion’s face. Davos saw it too and glanced back at Sansa as he brushed his hand across his stubbled hair.

“Lord Varys served Queen Daenerys as Master of Whisperers, just as he had served King Joffrey, King Robert and King Aerys before her. While in her service, he had learned a vital piece of information, buried in time, which could be devastating to her reign if it was ever shared inappropriately. Varys sought to share it, to use it against her, and for that, he was executed by his Queen. But not before he had spread this secret, far and wide, throughout Westeros, perhaps beyond, sending ravens to quite a few selected Houses. I believe even several of you received these ravens...”

“Ha! I knew you were going to bring this up!” Edmure Tully nearly shouted, jumping from his seat. “I was starting to believe you were an honest man, Ser Davos, but now it’s clear what you intend to do. Shame on you, Ser, shame on you for even calling yourself a Knight.”

Brienne ignored Tully’s outburst, much to Sansa’s chagrin. “We didn’t all receive a raven, Ser Davos. What secret are you talking about?” Brienne startled when she saw Sansa’s glare and dropped her gaze, paused, then lifted her eyes to return the stare until Sansa in turn dropped her gaze.

Lord Rylan Oakheart raised his hand holding a small scrolled message. “I received one of those ravens from Varys. I brought it with me, that’s really why I came… I meant to ask about it, but, I guess, everything happened so fast…” He stood to hand it to Ser Davos but Sansa rushed from her seat to grab it from his hand, desperation shadowing her face.

Lord Wylde stood up, glaring at Sansa as she bristled at her fellow council members. “I received one as well, Varys claimed that - Jon Snow - is the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, not the Dragon Queen.” A mixture of laughter and gasps rippled across the platform. Cautiously she glanced at Bran as she retook her seat, and she marveled that the faintest of smirks could be found gracing his lips.

“Ser Davos, are you saying this is true? It can’t be, Ned Stark…” Lord Robett Glover hesitated, Sansa could see the churning behind his eyes. This must be stopped.

Davos waited while the idea was absorbed. “This is the question we are faced with... Is it true that Jon Snow is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne? We all have a right to know before you announce your decision to the public, there will certainly be questions why he was not even considered to sit on his family’s throne…”

“Hah!” Edmure Tully sat back in his chair, arms across his chest, glaring at him. “This is what you call a secret, when everyone knows that Jon Snow is Ned Stark's oath-breaking bastard, he killed his lover and Queen, and…”

Davos began his questioning. “Lady Sansa Bolton, or Lannister, or whichever you are today, what secret did Bran tell you under the Heart Tree in the Winterfell Godswood about Jon’s true lineage, after you made a sacred oath to keep his secret…”

Sansa had gulped what was left of the watered wine and was fidgeting with the cup, rolling it in her trembling fingers. She looked to Tyrion, who looked away, then to Sam, who simply looked back with a placid smile. She was on her own, again. The others had failed to intervene and now it was all on her shoulders to get them out of this. Tyrion was useless, they never should have relied on him, it would take many more cups of wine for him to regain the drive and tenacity that was needed now. How would Cersei have handled this? She would have had someone else do her dirty work. That was for later, Sansa needed something now. What about Littlefinger, what would he have done? She recalled one of his first lessons: “We’re all liars here.” It’s how the game is played. Accuse, distract, mislead.

“Ser Davos, what my family says beneath the Heart Tree is between us, our family, and the Old Gods, of course.”

“So, are you denying that you shared that family secret with Lord Tyrion?”

Sansa squared her shoulders, “Are you questioning my honor Ser Davos? Accusing me of breaking a sacred oath?”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything, my Lady, merely trying to get to the truth of the matter… but you seem to be having trouble denying that you broke that oath, which can only lead us to conclude that you did indeed break it. Since you won’t share what the oath was about, we might also conclude that what Varys wrote in his ravens is true, that Jon Snow, born Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Thank you Lady Sansa for your confirmation.”

Sansa was furious, her hands gripped tightly into fists as she stood, the wine cup thrown to the ground, rolling back toward the Unsullied guards.

“You’ve twisted my words, Ser Davos. I confirm no such thing.”

“Which words did I twist, Lady Bolton? That you swore a sacred oath and broke it almost immediately, or that Jon Snow is the trueborn son of your Aunt Lyanna Stark and the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Which of these is untrue?”

Sansa thought about storming off the stage, but that would only do more damage. Instead she regained her composure and her seat, calmly accepting a new wine cup. “Ser Davos, I am a Stark, how dare you question my honor!”

Davos tilted his head sympathetically. “Forgive me, my Lady, I’m merely giving you an opportunity to demonstrate your honor.”

Ser Davos snapped his fingers and took a step toward Sansa. “Oh, and please forgive me, my Lady, but may I inquire, that since you have declared the North to be independent once again, though I’m not sure what authority you have to do so, since, unless I am mistaken, the King in the North still lives, and your brother King Bran has agreed to that independence, do you also take that unknown authority to declare yourself to be Queen in the North?”

Sansa paused as if considering, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes on her, then nodded solemnly, tilting her chin up just a bit more. “Jon gave up his Crown to the Dragon Queen when he bent the knee, he is no longer King in the North. The matter of Jon’s fate has not been discussed, but yes, someone must be unencumbered by accusations to assume the responsibility of leadership in the North.” She had not planned on making that announcement herself, it was to be brought up by her bannermen in a more convenient, private setting. But she could not turn from it now. She felt Lord Cerwyn’s eyes on her, a hidden anger pulling his face taut.

“Then I’ll be sure to address you as such in the future, Your Grace,” said Davos with a bow and a waved hand. “Though I would point out that King Jon bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, not to Cersei, not to Bran, certainly not to you. With the death of the Queen, does he not regain his Crown as King in the North?”

Another swell of discussion ran through the group, and a shuffling among the Northern guards, strained voices between Glover and Cerwyn. The Unsullied standing behind the council members took a tighter grip on their spears as the wind pulled at the fine garments of the assembled nobles.

Davos turned to face Lord Tyrion, frustrated and tense, his stare flicking between Brandon Stark and the fresh cup of wine in his hands.

“Lord Tyrion, did Sansa Stark at any time tell you about Jon’s lineage, that there was another Targaryen to choose from, to put on the Iron Throne? It was well known she despised Queen Daenerys, so it would make perfect sense that she would want it known that there was a rival for her throne. Tell us, yes or no, did Sansa Stark tell you that Jon Snow was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Tyrion stood silently watching Bran, then he cleared his throat and made to speak.

Davos prompted, “Did you believe her?”

Sansa was outwardly seething, eyes darting, looking for rescue. She breathed in sharply when Yara Greyjoy leaped to her feet.

“I withdraw my vote. The Iron Islands will be an independent kingdom, just as we were before the Dragons came. And I’m not asking for permission.” Her voice was strong and steady, irreproachable. She sat down when no one immediately challenged her, smug and defiant.

Curious glances passed between the remaining Lords, unnerving Sansa as she placed her hand on Bran’s arm, squeezing for a reaction. Bran glanced at her, then turned back as Davos continued.

“Lord Hand, it’s a very simple question…”

Tyrion was no longer trying to hide his consternation, glaring at both Sansa and Bran, his gaze finally landing on Sam. No one came to his aid.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ser Davos, who knows what was in Varys’s head, other than to betray his Queen.”

Yohn Royce spoke up, “Yes, Ser Davos, we all know you are loyal to your King, but this is going a bit far…”

Davos nodded confidently. “Just trying to get to the truth, that’s what we all want, isn’t it? These decisions will have consequences, don’t you agree?”

Lord Glover stood and took a step forward. “Tyrion Lannister, if you have information, you owe it to us, to the North, to all of Westeros to share it here and now! I demand you answer these questions…”

Tyrion shook his head, “You have no right to make demands on me, Lord Glover. If you have demands, make them on the Starks. Ser Da-”

“By refusing to deny, is it fair to say that the new Hand of the King confirms that he was told by Sansa Stark that Jon Snow is in fact the heir to the Throne?”

Davos continued as several nods were caught in his sight, “Sam Tarly, oath breaker and craven, former friend of Jon Snow, Varys wrote that there was evidence found in Grand Maester Maynard's diary of an annulment between Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia. Do you know anything about this?”

Murmurs once again rippled through the council. Sansa’s glare fell on Sam, as Tyrion’s eyes turned to slits. Others turned their full attention to the round man, shifting in their seats and quieting to hear. Sam dropped his gaze but managed to stutter out, “I’ve read so many things, it all blurs together.” He shrugged his shoulders and clasped his hands over his belly, avoiding Davos’s gaze.

“So, you are saying here that you didn’t approach your best friend Jon Snow in the crypts of Winterfell and tell him of his true heritage, who his mother, who his father really is? Or, being such a good friend, did you lie to him? What did you hope to accomplish?”

Sam exploded, resentment layering his words. “Queen Daenerys murdered my family. I hated my father, but she had no right! Jon would make a better King, he would be just, he’s the rightful…”

“SAM!” Sansa gasped his name, “this is neither the time nor the place…”

Sam halted when he realized what he had said and gathered his thoughts, though it was almost a full minute before he spoke.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Davos prompted Sam, eyes flitting between Bran’s and the wide round eyes of the man who spoke too much. “Samwell Tarly, did you lie to Jon then, or are you lying to us here and now?”

“I’m not lying!” Sam looked offended, and once the torrent started, it all came spilling out. “Bran told me that Jon was the rightful heir, that he ‘saw’ Rhaegar and Lyanna marry, and that Jon needed to know that he was never a bastard, but the heir to the Iron Throne. Grand Maester Maynard’s diary only confirmed the annulment.”

Sansa flinched when she heard her cousin Robyn’s voice, “What is this all about? Somebody please explain!” He turned to Yohn Royce, “My Lord, what is going on?”

Prince Martell stood calmly. “Dorne will be an independent Kingdom!” He waited until all eyes were on him. “We do not know this man, this boy, we will not bow to him…” he simply stated and re-took his seat.

Tyrion shuffled toward Davos, pulling the hair away from his face, garnering attention. “All of these questions have been asked and answered! There is no need to bring them back up now. We need to be a united kingdom to re-build, to defend ourselves against other enemies, to prepare for winter, we can’t be bickering…”

Ser Davos leaned over Tyrion to look him in the eyes. “When, Lord Tyrion, when were these questions discussed? And with whom did you discuss them?” Tyrion’s face fell as he stepped back.

Davos straightened himself, turned and waited until all eyes were on him. “It appears to me that there are only three other people here, besides yourself, that do not want answers to these questions: Samwell Tarly, Sansa Bolton, and Brandon Stark. Why is that, Lord Tyrion?” Tyrion’s face flushed as his eyes raised behind his unkempt hair. “I’d ask King Bran the Broken, but he seems incapable of speaking for himself!”

All eyes fell on Bran, who simply stated, “These things are part of history, and have been discussed throughout time. That they are being brought up again is of no concern.”

“Well it’s good to know you are still here with us and not off in the past, the future, or somewhere else, wherever it is that you go…”

Davos approached Bran, looking down upon him, but spoke loud and clear. “And they may be of no concern to the four of you because you benefit the most from them remaining secret...”

Bran returned to his vacant stare.

“But for the rest of us, don’t we want to go forward knowing all there is to know? Aren’t we owed that?”

Sansa recoiled at the insistence of the response.

Davos approached the Northern bannermen. “I realize that it has been a long meeting, these seats are hard, and the tidal winds seem to be rising. So one final question.”

Tyrion clapped his hands together and barked out his orders. “No more questions, Ser Davos, as you say, it is time to end this meeting. Commander Grey Worm, please see to the safety of our guests as we leave to make plans to rebuild from this devastating attack.” Tyrion turned when he saw no movement from the Unsullied, “Commander if you please...”

Grey Worm glared down at the former Hand of the Queen. “I do not serve you, you are traitor to my Queen. I do not protect - you.”

Sansa saw Tyrion’s face fall as Davos nodded slowly at the Unsullied commander and turned to speak, nodding to each as he questioned. “Lord Royce, Lord Cerwyn, during the Battle for Winterfell, did it never strike you as odd that Jon Snow was riding one of the Dragon Queen’s dragons?”

Robyn Aaryn turned quickly to Sansa, “What is he talking about? Only Targaryens can ride dragons on their own! House Aaryn knows this quite well…”

“Yes, now that I think about it, I do seem to recall he was riding the green dragon! Even before the Battle of Winterfell!” Royce turned to look questioningly at Sansa. “My Lady, I mean, Your Grace, or …” He rubbed his forehead, “This is all, quite... a Targaryen?”

“At Winterfell? When did this happen? He’s a bastard, maybe his mother had dragon blood…” Glover looked at Sansa suspiciously. “Did you find out who his mother was, Your Grace? What do you say to all of this?”

Brienne turned to Sansa and asked cautiously, “Your Grace, we all saw Jon Snow ride a dragon at Winterfell. Please just settle this, is Jon Snow the trueborn son of the Crown Prince or is he not?”

Sansa leaned back in her chair, trying to project a calm confidence. “I asked Jon and the Mad Queen about this very question, and she said she commanded the dragon to let him ride him, that it was necessary.”

Tyrion smiled broadly and gestured toward Davos. “See! A simple explanation.”

Prince Martell scoffed. “No answer at all! Our family knows the history of the dragon lords. Only someone with dragon blood can ride a dragon alone, and only if the dragon agrees. Once a rider bonds with a dragon, that bond is for life. If Jon Snow rode a dragon, it is his dragon, and it is proof that he has at least some dragon blood.”

Gendry Baratheon had remained quiet throughout, hesitating to bring attention to himself. “I was there. I saw it. Jon was flying on Rhaegal during the battle, they were fighting separately, the green dragon was listening to his commands…”

A loud grunt drew everyone’s attention. “It doesn’t matter! Jon Snow murdered his Queen, he must be executed!” Yara Greyjoy held her cup out for more wine and was quickly rewarded.

Sansa rebutted, “Jon has done a service to the Realm. He will be exiled. It's what he would want, he never wanted to be a King!”

Yohn Royce leaned forward and bellowed, “So, Your Grace, you’ve actually talked to Jon Snow about this, about his being King? Why? Because he has a true claim? That he is who they say he is? Bring us Jon Snow! Let us ask him our...”

Sansa stiffened. “...no, I mean, I talked to him about his being King in the North…”

“Hmph. He seemed to be doing a fine job as King for someone who didn’t want it,” Royce waved his hand at her. “But this does start to explain why you constantly undermined him while he was away…” He sat back down, leaving Sansa shaken. “Prisoner or no, we should hear from Jon Snow.”

Grey Worm was unmoved. “No.”

Silence fell once again, broken by Samwell Tarly standing to address his new King.

“I know what will help everyone see... King Bran, tell them, tell them that you saw all of this happen long ago, that you saw the dragon flying over King’s Landing, that you saw yourself in the Throne Room, with all of us, everyone here at this council, standing with you. Tell them.”

Sansa felt her heart stop, but Bran nodded slowly, his voice carrying surprisingly far. “This is my destiny. This is what I saw.”

Everyone watched as Davos turned to stand before Bran.

“Mythical creature indeed…”

The overhead canopies whipped in the wind, shaking the support beams, spilling dust and grit onto the people below. Several stood to brush the debris out of their hair and off their garments.

Davos took several deep breaths. “Apparently the gods, whatever gods you have on your side, support your destiny. The weather has turned, winter winds blow through King’s Landing. Bran the Broken has been declared King, and Lady Sansa has declared the North independent, and has declared herself it’s Queen.” His shoulders dropped, his voice resigned. “We can discuss the rest of this later.”

A shocked stillness fell as his words sank in. Lord Royce again leaned forward to speak, raising his arm to garner attention.

“Here now, Ser Davos, you were saying that there are questions, that Jon Sn--.”

“Yet you’ve all voted, Lord Royce. Bran the Broken is your King, Tyrion Lannister is his Hand, everything else can be straightened out later. Truly the realm needs stability, a leader, and that needs to happen right away. Agreed?”

Tyrion looked up, startled at Davos’s last statement, followed by everyone looking to Bran for his approval. Brandon Stark laid his hands on either arm of his chair, and said, nothing, though anticipation seemed to momentarily fill his vacant eyes.

Tyrion took a deep breath, unsettled by the sudden lack of opposition. “Very well, then, we can move forward. We will schedule a coronation as soon as…”

“No, no, as you say, for the good of the realm, you should name Bran the Broken King publicly, today, now,” Davos chided Tyrion. “We can all head over to the Red Keep, there are many people who have been working there, they have been gathering there to hear what you have to say, to name who will lead Westeros. There are even ramps leading right up to the Throne Room, what with all the construction going on.” He stopped and glanced at the sky, feathery clouds skimming overhead as fierce winds blew in from the bay. “The wind will continue to rise with the tide, it would be wise for us all to leave here now. The citizens of King’s Landing know of this council and will want to hear your decisions immediately and from you directly. It's the perfect time and place.”

Tyrion smiled. “It seems, Ser Davos, that suddenly we are in full agreement. There is no time like the present. Your Grace, it is time to make yourself known to your people.”

Tyrion hesitated as everyone remained seated, then walked toward his new King, waving Podrick to begin wheeling Bran the Broken toward the narrow ramp along the stairway.

Sansa placed her empty cup on the ground and stood from her seat, attempting to maintain her regal demeanor in the face of her confusion and the rising wind. She felt the Unsullied push forward, crowding her Northern guards, unsettling her more. Somehow they reminded her of Arya, nameless, faceless, unidentifiable except for the occasional scar or distinguishing mark, the blinding white of a bandage or a limp during their coordinated march. She pushed thoughts of her sister out of her mind once again. She felt trapped, even as Brienne accompanied her toward the stairs, prompting the others to rise and follow. Sansa could feel Brienne’s discomfort, she would have to reinforce her loyalty, remind her of her oath. Or take other measures if necessary. She sighed.

Sansa waited at the bottom of the stairs for her brother and former husband. The temperature had dropped with the wind, she should have brought her cloak.

“Davos is planning something,” Sansa said under her breath, covering her nose as she got her first experience of Tyrion up close. “What if we offer him a position on the Small Council, Master of Ships, or Coin, whichever he’d like.”

Tyrion huffed. “We might as well throw in HighGarden while we’re at it. What is he doing here, anyway? I thought Arya...”

“Tyrion!” Sansa hushed harshly, then walked away from him, preventing any more discussion. But she had wondered the same.

As they walked to the carriages, Sansa noticed a group of Unsullied break away, accompanied by Dothraki horsemen. They were heading down a side street, for a moment...

“Sansa!”

Tyrion shot her an annoyed glance as he rolled his eyes and jerked his head to the side, which she acknowledged as Sam sidled up to him, smiling and giddy. Things had turned for the better, yet she felt she was missing something, something important. She shook her head and smoothed her skirt. No, Bran wasn’t concerned, he’d have said something. Everything was as it should be. Davos had tried to interfere, but in the end, none had stood against Bran’s crowning. The rest was a mere formality. They would win the Game of Thrones, then the real game would begin.

Sansa watched as Podrick wheeled Bran toward his cart as others took seats in carriages or on horseback, escorted by House guards and Unsullied once again. Bran wouldn’t need a true crown right away, or even to actually sit on the Iron Throne. That would be awkward, and she admitted Bran was already awkward enough on his own.

She waited as Brienne opened the carriage door and extended her hand to help her enter. There was a thin sheen of dust over the contents of the carriage, just enough to have to brush away before sitting down. Never again. She would never have to put up with this filth again.

“Yes, Ser Brienne?” She noticed Brienne had not closed the door but stood standing, watching her, tall and imposing in her well-fitted armor.

Brienne hesitated, then took a short, sharp breath, “Your Grace, if Jon Snow…”

“Ser Brienne, it will all be explained later. Rest assured, everything has been taken care of. We will talk later, after King Bran has been presented to his people.”

Brienne hesitated, her hand hanging on the handle, before bowing and stepping back and closing the door. “Of course, Your Grace.” Sansa smiled warmly at her and noticed the new hesitancy in the smile that was returned.

Sansa leaned back on the hard bench and tugged to close the curtains, wondering how long of a ride it would be to the Red Keep, when she noticed several groups of men, her Northern bannermen in one group, Prince Martell, Yara Greyjoy, other Lords in the other, whispering and gesturing, glancing at King Bran as he was wheeled into his cart, and then in her direction, though she leaned into the shadows so she couldn’t be seen, quieting her breathing to overhear, catching snatches of conversation, enough to confuse and anger her.

She was focused on her own bannermen, their support would be crucial, when Ser Davos himself walked past her carriage, pausing as his name was called out, both groups rushing to speak to him. She overheard Lord Royce, the others leaning in to listen, “Ser Davos, you know more than you’re saying, we need to do something, this can’t go forward like this...”

Sansa gripped her gloved hands into fists as she noticed Cerwyn and Glover, Brienne and others gathered around. Davos clasped his hands behind his back and answered angrily. “I believe you all have voted for a magical boy who thinks he can fly and his murderous treasonous Hand. I’m sure your people will be proud of your decision…” Lord Royce recoiled before Davos continued, “My apologies, Lord Royce, this has been… let me assure you, all of you, the kingdom is in good hands.”

“I don’t understand how you can say that,” Yohn Royce nodded, continuing when Davos remained silent, “but you seem to be a good man, Ser Davos. I will trust you, for now…”

Sansa watched as the group dispersed, except for Lord Cerwyn. “Ser Davos, have you talked with our King? Is he all right, has he been treated well?” Davos dropped his eyes, nodding. Cley Cerwyn leaned in closer, whispering, his words still carrying above the rising wind. “Ser Davos, we heard what you said in there. We know that the King trusts you. If you can, tell him, tell him that House Cerwyn, me and my house have come to bring him home, the thousands of Northmen outside these gates will back me up, we are waiting, ready. All he has to do is say the word. Jon Snow is still our King.”

Davos crossed his hands in front of him as he listened, “Thank you, Lord Cerwyn. I will... relay your message.” Cerwyn nodded, “Seek out any of the Northern soldiers, Ser Davos, they will know how to find me.” Cerwyn joined his guards and walked toward his waiting horse.

Davos tilted his head as he watched him leave, then smiled, a pained smile, straightening as he noticed Sansa listening from behind the curtains of her carriage, catching her eye. He stepped closer to the window, smiled and bowed his head, “Your Grace.”

Sansa nodded her head in return, then shuddered as Davos walked away.

Sansa felt her heart pounding in her chest. What had she missed, right under her nose? Shouldn’t Bran have seen this? Was he keeping secrets from her?

She leaned back into the shadows, wondering what Davos was up to, where her sister had escaped to, and why she felt such dread welling up, filling her throat with bile.

The carriage jolted forward.

Chapter Text

They gathered near the grand staircase of the Red Keep, the very steps where the Mad Queen had threatened the conquest and overthrow of every House, great and small, throughout Westeros and the known world.

The steps were cleared now, not fully repaired, but passable, and from the bottom of the steps where the council was gathering they could see and hear work being done within the depths of the Red Keep, including the Throne Room itself.

Sansa exited her carriage and glanced around her, noting that the debris had been removed, houses razed, and even some rebuilding had been started. The fragrance of herbed soup and fresh bread wafted through the street, and she suddenly wondered who had been directing the work, who had arranged for the Council, called all the Lords, THESE particular Lords and Ladies. Certainly not Tyrion, he had been in captivity, she had visited him there herself. Bran was not interested and had only arrived the day before. So, Davos? Grey Worm? Grey Worm, by the gods, she would banish both the Unsullied and the Dothraki from ever entering the North. And the Wildlings, they would pay for their treachery against her family.

Davos stood to the side with his hands clasped behind his back even as Lord Royce and Cley Cerwyn tried to strike up further conversation. Sansa avoided his glance, doing her best to appear queenly as the last of the council gathered, several congratulating her and bowing and your gracing.

This is what she was born for. All of this was hers by right. House Stark was hers, the North was hers, all seven kingdoms were hers. She paused, letting the anticipation well up within her. She deserved it, she had earned it with all she had survived. After Bran failed as King, Tyrion would suggest the only other successful monarch on the continent as his replacement, and she would return to sit the Iron Throne as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Everything that the dragon bitch thought she deserved would be hers.

Including Jon. Not that they would ever see each other again, once he was exiled. Just knowing that she had deprived the silver-haired whore of his love was satisfaction enough. That he wallowed and perished in his guilt and shame was merely fitting.

Lord Royce interrupted her spiteful reverie, “Lady Sansa, I…”

Tyrion had hastened to join, “It’s ‘Queen’ Sansa now, Lord Royce.”

Sansa nodded her thanks, as Lord Royce leveled a fierce gaze her way. “I suspect, My Lady, that the Lords of the North will have something to say about that...”

Prince Martell brushed past, and Lord Royce joined him as he began the journey up the staircase, “Prince Martell, a moment if you don’t mind…” Sansa watched as the two joined in emphatic conversation a step away, then noticed Ser Davos again looking her way. She smiled serenely, refusing to let him see her annoyance, finally interrupted when her brother’s cart pulled to a stop in the middle of the cobbled road. The last to arrive. Again the ramp was lowered, again Podrick and Ser Brienne backed King Bran off his cart. She nodded to Tyrion, “we’ll have to do something about that… cart...”

Tyrion nodded. “We’ll have the best craftsman submit plans for our new King’s Carriage.” He lowered his voice, “I’ve mentioned our offer to Ser Davos…”

“...and…”

“He hasn’t outright refused, but I think a bit of prodding may help with any misplaced loyalty he may be holding onto…”

Perhaps that was why he seemed to be hovering. For a better offer. She could comply, offer Highgarden, at least for now. She again thought of Arya, frowning, if she wanted to take part in their family’s triumph, she should have come forward as herself. Sansa nodded toward Davos, pulling the edge of her cloak to the side as she approached her former King’s former Hand.

“Ser Davos, how does that work, which of them would have had the stronger claim, if it's true that Jon Snow is really the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen?”

He was speaking with Lord Glover of all people, and she heard Samwell Tarly’s voice rise as she made her way through the growing crowd.

Sam answered confidently, “Why, Jon would have the stronger claim, of course! He is the trueborn son of the Crown Prince!”

Sansa glared at him, struggling to keep from grinding her teeth. Samwell Tarly was insufferable.

“We seem to be getting far off track, Lord Tarly. We have a King, we don’t need to look elsewhere…” She smiled and nodded toward Ser Davos, offended when he didn’t respond.

“By the gods, all this time, the honorable Ned Stark was lying to us all…”, “He deceived his best friend, his King, the entire realm, and hid a Dragon under his own roof…” “That may explain what happened here…” She couldn’t identify the voices, but her breath caught when she saw her very own uncle listening from the fringes of Davos’s audience.

Davos raised an eyebrow, patiently encouraging. “They would have worked it out between themselves, a just woman and an honorable man ruling Westeros. Given the chance, it is amazing what can be achieved when there are dragons involved, both the human kind and those magical winged creatures.”

Sansa readied herself to interrupt when Ser Brienne appeared at her side.

“Your Grace, King Bran would like a word…”

“Good, I need a word with him as well…” They would deal with Ser Davos later, one way or another. She searched the growing crowd for the new King’s Hand, found him glancing her way and tipped her head in the direction Brienne had taken. Bran turned slightly toward her as she approached.

“Sansa, what are we doing here?” Sansa gasped, startled and confused.

“Bran, we’re at the Red Keep, we’re going to take you to your throne, present you to your people.” She leaned close to him, “You will need to say a few words, about the future of Westeros, about rebuilding King’s Landing, what your vision is for the future…”

Bran’s eerie smile returned for a moment, though he said, nothing.

“We’re almost ready...” Sansa smoothed the wrinkles from his tunic, then brushed the hair from his face, smoothing it with a gloved hand.

“Brother…”

He stared at her for a moment, silent and unfocused, then, “Sansa!” His voice was harsh, almost fearful. “What are we doing here?”

“Bran, I just told you…” Sansa leaned back in confusion, then looked at him closely. “Bran?” She reached to touch his face.

Bran’s emotionless gaze returned. “Yes, I’m ready now.” He shifted in his chair and dropped his hands into his lap.

Sansa paused, considering, then slowly shook her head and smiled as she squeezed his arm.

“Let’s go make you King…”

She stood and turned, nodding at Podrick, straightening her skirt as she lifted it to take the first step toward her destiny, raising her gaze to what remained of her former prison. Sansa would suggest to Bran to paint the whole thing white, or any color other than red. The goal was to wipe the Dragon's legacy off the face of history after all. Its capital could not be marked by the centerpiece of that legacy.

There were several long ramps up the staircase for carts and hauling debris out of the gutted castle. She motioned to Podrick to bring Bran’s chair to the middle of the ramp, taking a deep breath herself, smiling to those around her to acknowledge the significance of the moment.

Podrick began pushing the chair up the ramp, though it quickly became apparent he was not up to the task. Ser Brienne quickly approached and turned the chair, handily pulling the King up backwards alongside Unsullied and a few dozen citizens of King’s Landing lining the stairway who turned and followed as the King’s entourage passed.

Ser Davos followed to the side, joined by Grey Worm, still answering questions, though the topic had fortunately turned to more productive matters.

“The Throne Room and living quarters were cleared out first, as much as possible. The Small Council Chamber is ready to be used... the Royal Chambers were badly damaged, so other quarters can be made ready and used temporarily. The Tower of the Hand was also badly damaged, though the living quarters are usable. The Black Cells and the lower dungeons and most of the quarters beneath the Red Keep were not nearly as damaged as at first thought, though obviously they are not of the highest priority. Several ships have delivered food and supplies and healers, we’re...”

Tyrion had shifted over to walk closer to Sansa, distracting her as she strained to listen to Davos’s accounting. Tyrion struggled to keep up with his King as he was wheeled backward, and soon Sansa saw Tyrion’s face turn ashen as he gulped and paused before taking the next step.

“Tyrion, are you alright? Can I get…”

Tyrion hurried to catch up, even as he continued to watch his King, and when Sansa turned, she saw the reason for his concern. She couldn’t exactly call it emotion, no, it was more a series of flickers crossing her brother’s face, from anticipation to fear to curiosity to alarm then back to indifference. Finally realization of... something... fell over his face, followed by a kind of peace, perhaps a satisfaction that she had never seen before, finally the stiffness returning with his usual apathy.

Sansa dropped her gaze to Tyrion, his frown reflecting growing concern as he caught up to her and leaned in to speak. Sansa refused his conversation; this was not the time to discuss or question the well-being of their King. Wheels were set in motion, and she was confident they would be able to take advantage of whatever was going on in Bran’s unusual head. She turned forward with confidence, assured by the current vacant stare on her brother’s face, even as the niggling memory of the recent doubts, fear and confusion refused to stay buried.

She reminded herself of where she was, where they were. Bran would be King, he’d seen it himself, back in Winterfell, perhaps even before. This was his vision, this was his destiny. This was her destiny. She just had to watch it play out...

Brienne pulled the chair upright on the middle landing, resting before tackling the remaining stairs. From this height, the capital city and the destruction that had occurred became evident. Sansa gazed at the blackness, the bleakness of what she had remembered as a glorious city, few fond memories merging with the tragic. It was overwhelming, the sights and smells confusing as she struggled to find familiar landmarks. She closed her eyes, refusing to think until she heard a muffled gasp, and startled as she saw tears fill Bran’s eyes. “Bran, are you alright?”

Bran continued gazing over the city, over the growing crowd, his slight smile briefly returning. Somehow Sansa felt calmed, breathing deeply as she bent to comb Bran’s hair with her fingers and adjust the furs covering his legs one final time. She straightened and patted her pocket as they continued their ascent.

Finally they gathered again at the top of the staircase, flowing into what was left of the Great Hall, where the Unsullied stood guard against the heavy ironwood doors, surprisingly intact, that led into the Throne Room itself. Wind gusted and whistled through the open space, tugging at Sansa’s cloak and blowing wayward red hair into her bright blue eyes. Davos continued to answer questions as he stood resolute at the doors, preventing anyone from entering. Quiet chattering filled the space as the Great Council awaited the arrival of a heaving Samwell Tarly and the King’s Hand to join them.

Samwell Tarly bent over, his hands on his knees, holding onto the King’s chair for balance. As he raised himself, he glanced out over the steps, smiling giddily when he saw the waving hand of a woman holding a child at the bottom of the steps.

“Gilly! Return to camp and I’ll send for you when we have everything settled!” Sam’s breathless shriek drew everyone’s attention, though Sansa noticed Tarly was oblivious of the attention he drew to himself. ‘The more people you love, the weaker you are.’ Cersei was right. Love made you weak, Samwell Tarly was proof of that.

The Throne Room was just through those doors. Sansa took a deep breath, straightening her clothes, preparing herself for this dreamed-of moment.

Davos nodded toward Grey Worm, and the doors opened, scraping against the floor. Sansa savored each moment, observed and nodded toward Bran, Tyrion, heard the murmurings of those behind her.

Scaffolds of differing sizes and heights filled the open spaces in the Throne Room itself, detracting from the majesty of its former glory. Davos took the lead, followed by Grey Worm, walking slowly to accommodate the King’s pace and that of his Hand and others still joining. Unsullied made a pathway through the doors, leading into the less-obstructed center walkway of the audience chamber.

Podrick retrieved his duty and wheeled in the new King, the pounding, sawing and other work slowly stilled, men and women gently laying down their tools and either coming to stand and watch the procession or leave the chamber altogether. Dozens more entered behind, rushing forward to form an uneven pathway toward the front of the audience chamber. Even more filed in from all sides and hurried through the construction and on either side as the new King and the Council reverently entered. Sansa Stark raised her head high as she entered, stoic and majestic, knowing her chair-bound brother could not be seen by most in the room.

Edmure Tully approached his niece, smiling and gracious, waving and bowing to his nephew, encouraging them both forward. Sansa nodded in return, inwardly despising his attempt to garner favor in such an unimaginative way.

The floor was in a mixed state of repair, forcing the select group of just over a dozen to walk shoulder to shoulder behind the wheeled King. Sansa felt a wave of heaviness fall, the weight of victory, savoring the significance of the moment.

At last. She had returned to the Red Keep. In Triumph.

The Throne Room, or what was left of it. Memories rose, harsh and insistent, and she panicked for a moment, her heart racing, before reminding herself why she was there. Rage and bitterness flitted over her face before she schooled her demeanor; she would never be at anyone’s mercy, never, ever again.

Temporary walls of planks and rope had been erected atop the remaining structure, braced and protected against the ever-changing weather. The supporting columns had been destroyed, or damaged beyond repair, now replaced with a labyrinth of tethered braces and tensioned rope. Rubble had been cleared, and Sansa noticed several work tables covered in rolled parchment and tools, a long tarp spread across the end of the chamber marking the protected work zone.

Sansa took a deep breath and looked up. The vaulted ceiling had been destroyed by dragon fire, though braced timbers for a replacement roof were already in place. Beyond, the sun was shining between gust-torn clouds, and there was a familiar cool salt breeze whistling through the vacant window openings, mixed with sawdust and the smell of burnt oil. The space was filled with ingenious scaffolds and walkways, frighteningly high up, and she again wondered who was in charge of this endeavor. She would consider bestowing a special honor, a lordship perhaps, as King Bran would be able to begin his reign all the more quickly because of the work that had been done. She again suspected Davos; yes, he deserved special... recognition. Ruling HighGarden would keep him out of the way. Perhaps they would not have to dispose of him after all…

She walked next to her brother, the King, weaving between low-hanging tarps that fell from scaffolds throughout the room, muffling the noise of reconstruction but leaving the newcomers lost and disoriented. Wheelbarrows and stacked beams obstructed their way, she had to keep a close eye on Davos’s back as he led them forward.

The Onion Knight finally halted as the new King approached the end of the work area, cleared of debris and construction materials, waiting for all to gather. Sansa stopped and stood at the last hanging tarp between them and the Iron Throne, so close they could see the outline of the monstrosity faintly through the heavy sailcloth. She gazed down at her brother as she placed a hand on his shoulder, amazed and heartened at seeing anticipation and wonder on his normally blank face. There was even a faint ruddiness to his cheeks. It suddenly occurred to her that none of them had eaten since before sunrise.

Ser Davos Seaworth stood looking down at the Broken King, waiting for all movement and chattering to cease before nodding at three burly men grouped at the furthest edge of the heavy tarp, hands suddenly pulling quickly on the heavy twisted rope. Surprise filled Sansa; instead of the linen being pulled back as others had been, it was lifted straight up, on squeaking pulleys, revealing the restored grandeur of the coveted throne in a singular event. Sansa shielded her eyes at the fine fluttering dust and sudden brightness.

Sunlight streamed through the broken ceiling, filtering through the hanging fabric to cast a soft haze between deeper shadows. Sansa waited for her eyes to adjust to the expansive space around the throne, satisfied as she noticed the hundreds of people gathered, highborn and commoners and laborers pressed together, all turned now to acknowledge the new monarch and his court on either side of the stairs leading to the throne itself.

Stairs. That would be a problem. Had no one anticipated that? Perhaps Davos could arrange...

To her side she heard Tyrion let out a long groan, followed by loud murmurs from others on the council, even a huff of laughter from Lady Greyjoy, a whimpering grunt from Samwell Tarly.

She looked at them all - right, then left - saw that they were all looking forward, so she too looked forward, and paled.

The steps to the Iron Throne were just as she had remembered them, dark and worn smooth. The Throne itself was as daunting as well, Aegon’s enemies’ swords melted by dragonfire into a conqueror’s seat, threatening and imposing.

But nothing was more imposing than the small silver-haired woman calmly seated on that throne, hands resting folded in her lap, regal, watching, waiting.

Sansa felt a trembling in her hands, a buzzing in her head. Her vision blurred as blood drained from her face. She shook her head, distracted as someone behind her - was it Gendry - laughed wholeheartedly, joined by Yara and even Lord Royce, gods be good. Others were murmuring and shuffling, then someone tapped her on the shoulder, whispering harshly into her ear. She pushed them away as she struggled to regain her senses.

“No! No! This isn’t right!” Sansa couldn’t keep it in. This was not possible, not after all she’d been through. Even as she struggled to speak, banners unfurled behind and to the sides of the throne, Stark and Targaryen, a red and black dragon emblazoned window suddenly uncovered behind the throne itself. Grey Worm ascended two steps and turned to face the audience as Unsullied took positions along the bottom of the dais facing the crowd.

Sansa jerked at her Uncle’s outburst.

“What is the meaning of this! Onion Knight! How many lies must we put up with?”

-----

Tyrion waited for the shock to fade. He tried to swallow, vainly, then closed his eyes and bent his head, overwhelmed at how utterly fucked he found himself. How could this have happened? She was dead, killed by Jon Snow; his plan, his words, yes, but Jon Snow’s blade. Yes, she was dead, she must be.

He looked up slowly, hope against hope that the chair would be empty; but, no, there she was. His Queen. Alive and ruling. Without him.

Tyrion cringed, resisting the truth before him. Drogon had taken her body. That's what he’d been told, wasn’t it? Who told him that, someone had, or had he imagined it. He hadn’t seen her dead body, and had only been told about the bloody pool left in the snow that day. He remembered he had cried, locked in the dank storage room doubling as his cell. Cried for his Queen, what could have been, cried for Westeros, cried for himself. Cried even for Jon Snow, the naive, stupid fool.

His vision blurred again as things started to fall into place. He had spent so much time planning for moving forward, none on confirming the present. He waited for the blood to return to his head before considering possible options. Why had Bran not seen this? A terrible thought rose up through the rush of fear. What if he HAD seen it? Bran…

He raised his head as there was movement on the dais, then almost stumbled when Jon Snow himself approached from the back of the chamber to stand next to the Throne, a bandage on his left hand, accompanied by a strikingly beautiful woman, familiar somehow, clothed in long red garments, who bowed her head to the Queen and then walked to stand on the opposite side of the throne. There she joined two figures, one he recognized as the High Septon, who had been unseated by the High Sparrow and his sister, the other wore the chains of the Grand Maester.

The dead Queen looked up and smiled at her killer, “It seems we had to start without you, my King.”

Her killer returned the smile, raising his bandaged left hand. “It was worth it, my Queen, and thankfully I’ve made it for the important part.”

Davos deliberately walked to the bottom of the stairs and fell to one knee, bowing his head as he smiled.

“My King, My Queen…”

The Queen’s voice rose clearly over the crowd. “Rise, Ser Davos, thank you for this great service you have done today, for your many services to this realm and to us personally.”

Tyrion struggled to breathe as he raised his eyes to watch the gray-bearded man rise and bow again, then ascend the steps and take his place at Jon’s right, clearing his throat for attention, then happily crowing,

“You stand in the presence of King Aegon Reborn, Sixth of His Name, of House Stark and House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, of House Targaryen, Protectors of the Seven Kingdoms, King and Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Long May They Reign!”

Tyrion was struck silent, glancing at those around him. Sansa was shaking, rage, confusion, even fear crossing her face as the gathered crowd echoed, “Long May They Reign” and, as one, knelt solemnly to the floor. He was filled with dismay when he turned to see that most of those surrounding him were also kneeling, some shocked and uncertain, but several smiling widely, smirking directly at him.

Even Edmure Tully, who had been so supportive just moments before, bowed his head and gingerly knelt, leaving his niece standing alone next to her chair-bound brother. Tyrion felt Sam struggle to kneel beside him, landing loudly on all fours, then pushing himself to his knees. Tyrion felt himself being watched and looked up to find that satisfied, queenly gaze fixed on his face. Tyrion felt the blood once again rush from his head. Stilled for a moment as panic flooded his heart, at last he held his breath and joined the others on his knee, the cold stone floor sending a jolt through his body. He had not drunk near enough wine to make any sense of this… and he realized with certainty that he would likely never taste that wonder again...

The silence continued, and he was alarmed when he looked up. All eyes were on Sansa Stark. She looked pale and stricken, shaking like a leaf. She took a stiff half-step forward, her gleaming red hair shimmering in the sunlight, her glare bouncing between her once-defeated foes. She held their gaze and made to take another step, prompting several Unsullied forward.

A young voice rang out, clear and rare. “Your Graces, please forgive me for not kneeling, and accept my recognition of your claim to the Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.” Bran was actually smiling, his face pulling on muscles he had rarely used. He happily drummed his fingers on his chair. “I should have seen this coming, it's so rare that I am surprised.”

Queen Daenerys nodded coldly, accepting the usurper’s fealty.

Sansa turned to look over her shoulder, to her right, then her left, when she caught Tyrion’s gaze. Pity welled within him; this would not go well for her, she was not well-suited to accepting defeat.

Besides the Unsullied standing close behind, Sansa alone remained standing. Confusion and anger swept across her face, her mouth a firm line, her nostrils flaring. Tyrion watched as she struggled, though in the end she realized there were no words that would overcome the silent waiting. Defiantly Sansa gathered her skirts and knelt before her Queen, breath ragged, eyes closed against the sudden tears threatening to fall.

Tyrion turned his gaze to his Queen, to whom he had devoted so much of his life and energy, and whom he had betrayed and ruined and now feared. She was still watching Sansa kneeling before her, raw anger just below the surface of her royal mask. A strangled breath from the bearded man beside her caught his attention. Grief, anger, pain and pity swept across Jon Snow’s face as he, too, attempted to maintain some semblance of stoic demeanor as he surveyed the kneeling traitors. Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, nodded to Davos.

“You may rise!”

Ser Davos's voice rang out, and there was a flurry of movement as all came to their feet, Gendry Baratheon excitedly calling out again, raising a fist triumphantly in the air. “Long May They Reign!” which again echoed through the chamber, followed by a smattering of both joyous cheering and hesitant clapping.

Sansa stood rigidly, breathing heavily. Slowly she raised her gaze, settling on her great enemy and now her acknowledged Queen. Tyrion sighed; the Dragon Queen was a beauty, even after all they had done to her, regal in a long-sleeved ink-black gown, sparkling with beads and fringed edges, revealing the deep red lining whenever she moved her feet or her hands. Hesitantly he looked toward Jon Snow, bastard turned King, equally regal in embroidered black and gray, with edges of red lining his coat and cuffs. He looked like a stranger without his quilted gambeson and Northern armor. He was holding his bandaged hand gingerly, and Tyrion wondered what else was going on that he was not aware of… that perhaps he could take advantage of… with the presence of so many Unsullied, Dothraki, perhaps their rule was not that secure, and he could...

“Citizens of King’s Landing, of Westeros. Welcome to the beginning of a new day, the restoration of House Targaryen, and the return of a time of peace for the Seven Kingdoms.”

Her voice was strong and clear and confident, as he had heard it time and time again. Commanding. Inspiring. Regret began to raise its voice in his head...

“And to those joining us from the ‘Great Council,’ welcome to you as well. In case you haven’t figured it out already, I have survived your attempts to poison me, drive me mad and murder me.”

There was a gasp from the crowd, from his companions.

Tyrion had survived this long by keeping his wits about him, and he sought to do so now. He noticed that there were two scribes recording every word. Why? There were hundreds, if not a couple thousand people in the room, far more than had followed them up the steps. They had been deliberately gathered. Why? There was a plan at play, a strategy, a game; even if this was the end of him, by the gods, he would play it, turn it to his advantage if at all possible. Suddenly his eyes fell on a familiar face in the crowd, returning his gaze. As Ser Bronn of the Blackwater nodded toward him, Tyrion's eyebrows rose and his thoughts started to form his own strategy. He turned from Bronn; best not to draw attention, but he found he had a new... hope?

“To the citizens of King’s Landing, I extend my sincerest apologies and ask for forgiveness for what occurred the day I regained King’s Landing for House Targaryen. I regret with everything I am and have my actions of that day, and will live with the horror that I caused for the citizens of this city for the rest of my life. I pledge to spend the rest of my reign and my life making it up to the people of King’s Landing, and I pledge to rebuild this city, this realm and House Targaryen. We will begin by making the trials of the accused public...

“For those who know me well, they know that what happened was the complete opposite of what I intended. From the outset I determined I would not be Queen of the Ashes.” She paused before continuing, looking defiantly at Tyrion as she spoke his words.

“I could have attacked King’s Landing the moment I set foot in Westeros, with three full grown dragons, two large armies of skilled and highly trained warriors, powerful Westerosi Allies, and what I believed at the time to be wise and experienced advisors.

“The more I learned about Cersei, the more I learned that she would not give up her throne easily. I don’t blame her for that, she paid a heavy price for usurping the throne, yet it was not hers, or her dead children’s or her dead husband’s, Robert Baratheon.

“Eventually I realized that since Cersei had already lost everything, there was nothing in King’s Landing that she valued, and that she was willing to sacrifice everything that remained, she would destroy it all, destroy you all, rather than see Westeros returned to its rightful House.

“I realized all these things at the time, but I failed to fully take into account what was occurring within my own Council of Advisors.

“While planning strategy on Dragonstone, the King in the North approached me with the news of a great threat, known in legends and children’s stories, unfortunately based in reality. This threat was not only endangering the North, but all of Westeros, and beyond, to every kingdom and continent in the known world, and perhaps beyond.

“Being convinced of this great threat, the King in the North, Jon Snow, and I joined forces to defend all of Westeros from the Night King and the Army of the Dead.”

The Queen paused as a roll of murmurs and sniggers swept through the southron audience.

“This story is for another day. However, taking on this great enemy meant I would have to delay taking King’s Landing until after destroying the Night King. My arrangement with the North was that I would join them in this Great War, but when the time came, the Northern Army would join me in defeating Cersei and restoring the Iron Throne to House Targaryen.

“We all gathered in Winterfell to prepare for this great battle. It was there that a conspiracy was formed. Not that there wasn’t already dissension in my ranks, but an equal dissatisfaction was found in House Stark. Together, a plan was made to poison me, which would either kill me outright or cause me to act out of my greatest fear and anger, in such distress that I would behave erratically, deserving of the name, “The Mad King’s Daughter.” At the same time, the truly astounding news had just come to light that Jon Snow, rather than being the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, was in truth the trueborn son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, giving him a claim to the throne, and making him what some believe to be the Rightful Heir of the Iron Throne, and by blood my nephew. The plan then was to convince the King in the North that to save his family and all of Westeros, his duty was to end my reign and my life, and then the conspirators would place Aegon Targaryen on the throne.

“As you can see, things did not work out as these conspirators had planned.

“I have tasked Grand Maester Lesser with forming a tribunal to hear the charges and take witness testimony to fully investigate the actions of the accused. The details of what is discovered will be presented by his tribunal, with final oversight by King Aegon and myself before being recorded and released. Grand Maester Lesser…” Queen Daenerys gestured to the side, and the Grand Maester stepped forward, nodding as he looked out over the collected citizenry.

“For those of you I have not yet met, I am Grand Maester Lesser, and I have been sent by the Citadel to serve the new King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and through them the citizens of King’s Landing and Westeros.”

He nodded toward the throne, then nodded to accept the smattering of applause.

“High Septon, as a representative of the Seven, can you testify to the truth of any of what our Queen has just said.”

The High Septon, injured as he was held in the Black Cells under the Red Keep, slowly walked forward with the use of a cane, his right foot heavily bandaged.

“After a thorough investigation, the High Council of the Most Devout accept the joint rule of King Aegon, Sixth of His Name, of House Stark and House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name, of House Targaryen, according to and abiding by the Light of the Seven. Furthermore, finding no legal restriction, either in Westerosi law or the precepts of the Seven, the High Council of the Most Devout sanctified and ordained the marriage between King Aegon and Queen Daenerys, and they were therefore duly wed by myself in the Light of the Seven.”

Chattering erupted throughout the Hall, swelling as a flustered Lord Royce approached the throne, eyes glancing between King and Queen.

“Married? Your Grace?!”

Jon had been silent, listening and observing as events unfolded before him. Now he sidled closer to the Throne and gently, shyly laid his bandaged hand on his Queen’s shoulder, which she reached up to grasp.

“Aye, we were wed, Lord Royce. When possible, we will wed again before the Old Gods in front of the Heart Tree in Winterfell. And anywhere that it is necessary, or wherever the Queen desires. This was not unexpected, our union had been a matter of discussion for some time. Aye, the ceremony did seem a bit rushed on the surface…” He glanced with a soft smile at the seated Queen, “but for the peace of the realm, to be able to focus on rebuilding, and… for… other reasons… we decided to combine not only our claims, but our lives and our futures as well. We were wed in a brief ceremony as early as the Most Devout permitted. And for that we are humbly grateful to the assistance provided by his High Holiness the High Septon and the High Council of the Starry Sept.” Jon nodded toward the High Septon, who smiled and returned the gesture.

Royce gaped before replying, angling toward the crowd. “Well, I’d say I was surprised but this day has been nothing but surprises. I admit it was often a topic of discussion in Winterfell, a wedding would have settled a lot of the infighting, but now that it's done, well, Seven Blessings to you both, and to the Realm, Your Grace, Your Grace!” Royce smiled broadly and bowed and retreated to stand with his companions as clapping and shouts of “Seven Blessings” rose on the stiffening breeze.

Tyrion hunched away as even Samwell Tarly joined in behind him, clapping in his ear. “Well done, Jon!” The man seemed to be oblivious to what was happening; Tyrion looked forward to seeing his face when reality set in.

Jon’s blush reached past his beard as he hesitantly leaned over the throne’s arm to gently kiss his seated bride, the Queen cupping the side of his face as he whispered in her ear before gently meeting her lips. She laughed, letting her royal mask drop momentarily, “Ah, don’t cut yourself!” heard by those close by as she released him and turned back to face the audience. Tyrion could hear sighs and endearments throughout the chamber, the warm response such a simple, genuine gesture could make. He contemplated how to build on it, then he remembered: This was no longer his Duty, his Role, his Queen.

In his head, the roar of regret grew louder.

The High Septon bowed his head toward the King and Queen, then hobbled to his former position.

Grand Maester Lesser paused and nodded to a young boy who ran up the stairs and handed him a thin stack of parchment. The Grand Maester cleared his throat and began to read.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister, kinslayer, traitor and former Hand to the Queen, step forward.”

Tyrion’s head snapped up, shaken from reflection. He struggled to focus as he walked the few steps to stand before the throne, suddenly embarrassed at his stinking and dishevelled state.

He was closer to her now, to them, and he watched their faces as the charges were read. She looked well, not like someone who had been poisoned in a conspiracy, perhaps that could be used in his defense. She must have felt his eyes on her as he suddenly noticed the cold stare directed towards him. He shifted his eyes away to watch his new King. Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen. King of Everything. He wondered if he would have time to figure out what had happened before they burnt him to a crisp, even though with the ashes still being cleared, perhaps they would just lop off his head.

“The Crown charges you with Treason and Conspiracy. Details of the charges will include poisoning your Queen to drive her mad, and conspiracy to assassinate your Queen, including inciting Jon Snow to commit regicide, in order to place the crown on a usurper’s head.”

There was a sharp shift in the mood of the occupants of the room as it became clear the weight of what had transpired that fateful day and was transpiring even before their very eyes and ears.

“Samwell Tarly, former Lord of Horn Hill, formerly of the Night’s Watch, former acolyte of The Citadel, and once friend of the King, step forward.”

Tyrion had found it hard to believe that Jon was ever friends with this weak-willed malcontent. Samwell Tarly slouched forward to stand next to him, shrugging into him and nearly knocking him over, tears already streaming as he clutched his hands around his middle, tugging at his tunic.

“The Crown charges you with Treason and Conspiracy. Details of the charges will include conspiracy to assassinate your Queen for personal reasons, and in order to install Jon Snow as King in her place, as admitted publicly this very day.”

Tyrion tried to shift away as Tarly tried to start a defense but was hushed by the Grand Maester.

“Lady Sansa Bolton, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, step forward.”

Tyrion angled himself to watch his former wife as she fought to keep her mouth shut, ready to argue, to vindicate herself. She hesitated, then gathered herself and her skirts and stepped forward, far to the side of where he and Tarly were standing. Tyrion smiled to himself at her attempt to distance herself from her fellow accused.

“The Crown charges you with Treason and Conspiracy. Details of the charges will include conspiracy to assassinate your Queen and to usurp the Northern Crown from your cousin, the King in the North, as admitted publicly this very day.”

Sansa raised her head to speak, but was interrupted as one of the scribes asked for time to catch up. The Grand Maester remained patient, reviewing his parchments, as the anticipation in the audience grew. Finally the scribe nodded, and Grand Maester Lesser continued.

“Bran Stark of …

“Wait, wait, I didn’t get a chance to speak!” Sansa spoke vehemently, glaring at the Grand Maester even as her chin quivered.

“Lady Bolton, have no fear. You will have plenty of time to plead your case. The entire realm is looking forward to hearing what you have to say for yourself.”

Tyrion sighed as Sansa breathed in to argue anyway, only ceasing when he caught her eye and shook his head for her to stop. She flustered, but was silent as she turned back toward the throne, head held high.

The Grand Maester cleared his throat.

“Bran Stark of Winterfell, son of Lord Eddard Stark, the Three-Eyed Raven, come forward.”

Tyrion held his breath as Podrick Payne dutifully wheeled Bran forward before stepping back into the clutch of councilors. Bran Stark sat motionless, even relaxed, untroubled. Tyrion had once thought that he inspired confidence and hope; now, somehow not until now, questions and doubts tumbled through his thoughts. This was going to be his King... Why?

“The Crown charges you with Treason and Conspiracy. Details of the charges will include conspiracy to assassinate your Queen and usurp her Crown, then subverting the Rightful Heir according to your own words as admitted publicly this very day.”

Bran Stark drew a long breath, as if to speak, before looking directly at the woman on the throne and the man standing beside it. A fleeting wistfulness flitted across his eyes, quickly returning to his stoic gaze straight ahead.

The Grand Maester paused, gazing slowly at each of the accused, then motioned to the boy and returned the parchments, the boy handing them to one of the scribes.

“Your Graces, citizens of King’s Landing, let it be known that I myself witnessed the so-called Grand Council, disguised as an Unsullied soldier, though not very well by all opinions, including my own.” The Grand Maester smiled, then looked over the councilors and the group of Unsullied standing at their backs.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably as his knees became painful after the long walk up the steps and now from standing for so long. He understood what was going on of course; even in his captivity, he had heard of the uprisings among the smallfolk, the lack of food, the fear, the disease spreading through the city. Any ruler would seek to focus that anger on specific people, away from their new Queen, to find a way to justify or at least explain the actions of House Targaryen. It was the plan he himself was going to propose to Bran the Broken when he was made King. He never imagined Lord Tyrion Lannister, the Last Lannister, would be the focus of that blame. He wondered when he had stopped being the clever one?

“Lord Wintyn Manderly, please step forward.”

An Unsullied guard squeezed through the councilors, removing his helmet as he approached the throne to reveal a pale middle-aged bearded man. A Manderly, in Unsullied armor? A ripple of realization swept through the chamber, fear and concern gracing the faces of the accused, councilors and the audience slowly appreciating the wisdom of planting witnesses at the council itself.

Grand Maester Lesser formally addressed his witness.

“Lord Manderly, were you in attendance at the Great Council this morning, in which a ‘new monarch’ was supposed to be selected?”

Manderly nodded gravely, “Yes, Grand Maester, I was there. I was standing behind the Stark family, listening to every word, just as you observed the events from the side of Commander Grey Worm.”

Tyrion’s heart seized within him as he struggled to remember everything that was said. He knew he was doomed, deserved his fate, but dared not resist any opportunity to find a way to live.

“And as you stood watch at the Great Council, travelled with the conspirators, on their way to the Red Keep and into this very room, even as we stand here today, did you have the opportunity to listen to the conversations between those who stand accused?”

Manderly turned to gaze at the four conspirators, then raised his eyes to the councilors standing behind. He turned forward and nodded. “Yes, Grand Maester I did, I’ve heard every word.”

Grand Maester Lesser nodded briefly. “Based on everything you have heard and seen today, do you have any doubts or challenges to any of the charges that have been made public here today?”

Manderly took a deep breath and shook his head. “No, Grand Maester, the actions and statements of the accused are consistent with the charges brought against them, though I suspect the list and variety of charges will grow over the next days and weeks.”

“Thank you, Lord Manderly.” Wintyn Manderly grasped his spear and his Unsullied helmet and, instead of retaking his place behind the councilors, he turned to stand next to one of the scribes.

Grand Maester Lesser soberly waited for the full attention of the crowd.

“Be it known, that no further evidence is needed than the very words and actions of the accused already presented and known to the Grand Maester and the Small Council, to conclude that the Crown is fully justified in finding each of these conspirators guilty of treason, and worthy of death.”

There was an intake of breath among the audience, many nodding of heads and murmurs of “traitors,” “death” and “Lannister.”

Tyrion felt his heart pound as he mumbled to himself. “Well, there it is then.” He felt dazed, and wished he had drunk more wine when he had the chance. He did not like having to deal with such - realities - without the buffer of imbibed spirits.

His co-conspirators had remained quiet, no doubt in shock as he himself was.

Samwell Tarly broke the silence, panicked shrieks sending shivers down his spine as he shouted, “What?! Wait, no!!” toward the Grand Maester.

Tarly lumbered quickly toward Bran and waved toward the crowd. “Bran, you’re the Three Eyed Raven! Tell them what you saw! Tell them…”

Sansa’s harsh rebuke followed. “Stop talking, Tarly, you’ve already said too much!”

Tyrion could tell Sansa had already started to plan, to scheme.

Sam looked disappointed when Bran merely said, “You will be good rulers, you were meant to rule together.”

Frustrated, Tyrion could take it no longer. “Bran, please, what are you talking about?” Tyrion could feel every eye on him. This was probably not the thing to do right now, but he had to know...

“You’ve said you know the past, the present, and sometimes the future... OUR future… You’ve said that they would destroy the realm; that the world, not just Westeros, would go up in flames! If either one of them, if any Targaryen wound up on the Iron Throne again, you said that there would be war for a thousand years!!! That’s why we did this! And now you say they will be good rulers? That they were MEANT to rule together??? Which is it, Bran the Knower of All Things???”

Tyrion was angry now, fists tight, barely containing himself as he watched his chosen King closely. Bran remained unmoved, uncaring, and Tyrion fell back a step as realization struck fully.

“Bran, no! You... you lied?! You made it up?! Why?” Tyrion felt his heart clench again as the anger fell into confusion.

Samwell Tarly rose to his defense, “Tyrion, you know that his visions are open to interpretation! Bran can’t be expected to be right every single time!”

Sansa joined in then, again trying to silence Sam, and Tyrion’s shoulders drooped. Before turning, he noticed Brienne and Pod, ashen-faced, stricken and slump-shouldered, other council members behind him trying to follow what was being said. Tyrion finally turned to face the throne, and his fate. Nothing mattered anymore, the gloating and feeding on the doomed had begun.

Those close to him watched him coldly, and he realized he had become what he himself despised, a blind fool, trusting in something, someone, just because he wanted it to be true, a lesson he had taught to his Queen but clearly had not learned well himself.

Tyrion watched as his King and Queen merely looked at each other, the Grand Maester and scribes listening closely to the bickering. Suddenly he noticed Davos’s smile. He used to smile like that. Tyrion shook his head. Well played, Ser Knight.

Suddenly there were growing gasps as people rushed away from the entryway. A tall man with red hair and beard and an albino direwolf with one ripped ear cautiously entered the audience chamber. Suddenly the huge beast broke into a run and raced toward the dais, little more than a flash of white to those watching. Several Unsullied took positions before the throne with spears raised, then stood down as Grey Worm waved them off, watching as the legendary creature skidded to land his full weight against his packmate, who had dropped to one knee to receive his greeting, Longclaw clanging against the stone floor.

“Ghost!”

Tyrion watched the reunion with his own sense of awe; dancing red eyes, pink tongue, sharp white teeth and flying fur little more than a blur if you weren’t familiar with the stunning creature to begin with. The audience watched enraptured, fascinated and a bit frightened, until reminders of the Stark sigil were whispered through the hall.

“A true Stark!”

Sansa huffed and straightened her sigil-embroidered cloak. He knew this was a sore spot for her, but what she had always strived for, recognition based on her name, that of a trueborn Stark, this audience gave to her bastard brother turned trueborn cousin without his even asking.

“Sorry King Crow, I couldn’t keep him on the ship any longer!”

Tormund took his time making his way through the chamber, letting everyone get a good look at him. Tyrion had never seen Tormund without layers of furs, yet here he was in nothing more than britches and an elkskin vest. Gods, he was still huge. He had even trimmed his beard and pulled back his hair, no doubt uncomfortable in the warmer clime.

“You’ll probably be getting another visitor or two soon, if you know what I mean…” He winked and Jon nodded and stood, watching as Ghost abandoned his old friend to check on his new friend, pushing into the Queen’s face and trying to climb into her lap, wiggling his massive body uncontrollably as the Queen herself giggled. Laughter filled the chamber, a surprising sound of relieved tension, chuckles slowly fading as they all watched as the Queen ran her fingers through the thick fur, scratching behind his ears and under his chin, until the King intervened, relegating the white beast to the feet of the Queen. She smiled, a true smile, as the King rolled his eyes as the great protector turned his belly to the Queen for rubs. “Later, my sweet.”

“It's alright, Tormund, thank you for taking care of him.”

Tormund now stood in front of the dais, watched by wary Unsullied, though he was familiar to many of them. He leaned forward, “I’m sweating like a rabbit over a fire… how can anyone live in this…”

Jon shrugged, “Actually I’m told it's quite cold for King’s Landing. I’m told I’ll get used to the heat, but so far...”

Tormund nodded to Dany, “So this is the chair everyone’s been fighting about?”

The Queen replaced her regal mask and smiled, nodding.

“Not sure what the fuss is about, all those swords could have been put to better use during the Long Night, but you southerners…”

Tormund turned to notice all eyes on him, until he spotted the figure he was looking for, head and shoulders above the crowd, Ser Brienne standing amongst the Councilors. He nodded her way, ignoring her scowl, then found a place to stand to the side where he could watch the proceedings from a good angle.

Grand Maester Lesser returned to his purpose. “As I was saying, be it known that, however… well... because of the events of that terrible day, and the nature of the explanation of those events, the realm deserves a greater accounting in order to have full confidence in the Targaryen rule. Therefore there will be a public trial for each of the accused in which their actions and statements will be judged, in order to not only confirm the guilt, or innocence, of the accused, but to exonerate the offended parties, which are in this case, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, King Aegon of House Stark and House Targaryen, also known as Jon Snow, once-believed to be the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, and, finally, the people of Westeros and citizens of King’s Landing, whose lives and livelihoods, and future and well-being have been directly affected by the traitorous actions of the accused. At the end of this process, there will be sufficient evidence to support the rightful claim of Queen Daenerys Targaryen to the Iron Throne, unencumbered by accusations of Madness or Tyranny.

“The accused will be held in custody until their trials, and details of these and future proceedings will be made public in a timely manner.”

Grand Maester bowed toward the King and Queen and returned to stand next to Kinvara.

Tyrion squirmed as Queen Daenerys gazed sternly at the councilors behind him.

“The rest of you that voted for Bran to rule as King, although I don’t understand your reasoning, I cannot hold it against you, though I suspect you will never be able to explain such an unwise choice to your bannermen and families. Unless evidence comes forward to the contrary, you will not be charged for your poor judgment.”

Tyrion could hear the huff of breath being released, and the excited murmurs behind him rising.

“Tyrion Lannister, Samwell Tarly, Bran Stark, Sansa Bolton. For the benefit of those who are just learning of the treachery of these once-trusted family members and advisors, my former Hand, Tyrion Lannister, as part of the conspiracy, you poisoned me daily over many weeks, and you were willing to sacrifice thousands of innocent lives in order to provoke me, and frame me for war crimes and the destruction of King’s Landing, convincing Jon Snow to murder me. And if that didn’t work, for whatever reason, Arya Stark would assassinate me and blame Jon Snow, his own family sending him into exile to keep him from his lawful birthright as heir to the Iron Throne.”

Apparently Sansa had decided on ignorance as her first attempt to save her beautiful neck.

“We’ve done nothing wrong, Your Grace, if we had known you were alive we wouldn’t have chosen…”

The Queen interrupted, “Ah, so because you failed in your attempt to kill me, to usurp my crown, my nephew’s birthright… because you failed you think you’ve done nothing wrong...?”

Smiling, the Queen suddenly paused and glanced up, then into the face of her King standing beside her who returned her smile, then into the faces of those in the crowd. There was a distant rushing sound, growing louder to all within the audience chamber, fear rising as the recognizable rush of wings, dragon’s wings filled the air. All looked up, through the remains of the vaulted roof, craning necks turning to confirm what was suspected… Suddenly two large dragons soared across the open space above their heads, black and green scales glittering in the sea air, roaring just as they passed, townsfolk running to hide, many to the broken walls to watch as dragons flew again, peacefully this time, over King’s Landing.

“Rhaegal? How is that possible?” Tyrion gasped with eyebrows raised.

Queen Daenerys answered, “Targaryens bond with their dragons, Tyrion, you know this.” She extended her hand toward her husband, who took it in his and held it gently as she spoke. “Apparently whatever magic raised my husband after his murder at Castle Black was transferred to his dragon through that bond. After the ambush, Rhaegal’s body washed into a cave in Blackwater Bay, where he was discovered not long ago. With the help of Kinvara,” the Queen nodded toward her in gratitude, returned by the beautiful woman Tyrion now recalled, “the High Priestess of the Lord of Light, a great deal of King’s blood and the magic he gained now growing within him, it appears that, in time, both Rhaegal and the King will fully recover.”

Sansa stepped closer to her brother, “Bran, you said Rhaegal was dead, that Drogon would return to Essos if something happened to the Dragon Queen, you said the dragon had taken her body back to… How did you not know this, that there are still dragons - two dragons! - here in Westeros, how did you not see?”

Sam stepped between them, “Bran was right, Your Grace! Rhaegal ‘was’ dead! Bran can’t be expected to see everything! Things change, right, Your Grace? And those were just rumors about Drogon, he never said he actually saw it…”

Bran did not respond, and Tyrion sought his memory for an explanation, replaying their conversations in his mind.

Jon chuckled and shook his head before descending the steps to look into the faces of those he once trusted, several Unsullied closing around him protectively. Tyrion yielded before his glare, as did Sam, dropping his eyes and his chin, but Sansa glared back, defiant.

“Your Grace…” Jon huffed as he stood close to her, watching her fight against the panic that was welling up behind her defiant eyes.

“You will be judged individually for your actions and your words. Our great challenge will be to determine to what extent ‘Bran the Broken’,” chuckles could be heard throughout the throne room as Jon paused, “how much he was actually able to influence those around him, if he was actually able to force anyone to act against their own will.”

Sansa’s face grew red as she struggled to contain herself, finally impatiently demanding, “Jon, where’s Arya?”

Lord Yohn Royce interrupted with a smirk, “He’s ‘King Aegon,’ now, Lady Bolton.”

Jon smiled sadly and nodded as Sansa stifled a rebuke.

Tyrion watched as a darkness stole over the young King’s face, the small smile falling into a controlled coldness. How had they underestimated this man so completely…

“Do you have her in your black cells, or did your Queen burn her to a crisp as she’s done to half of King’s Landing?”

“She’s dead, Sansa.” His voice was quiet, deliberate, his eyes black as pitch. “You sent your own sister to kill the Queen. She failed. You…”

Sansa leaned toward him, arm outstretched and pointing toward the regal figure on the throne. “ ‘She’ killed Arya! She killed her, you say you loved Arya but you let her kill our sister!” Tyrion wasn’t sure if the tears were real, but he knew she was in grave danger as the Unsullied guards readied to strike.

Tyrion watched as Jon restrained his next words, letting them hang for the audience to hear every one of them. “No, Sansa, you killed Arya. You and Tyrion and Sam and Bran. My hand held the blade, but you are the ones who killed her.”

Sansa lowered her hand, shocked at his rebuttal, words failing her for once. Tyrion heard a quiet gasp from Gendry Baratheon behind him, the other Northerners shifting and murmuring as a sadness fell over the crowd.

Jon stepped back, easing the tension, then approached Bran, Unsullied keeping pace, wary.

“Bran Stark, when did all this start? Was this your idea?”

Sansa inhaled sharply and leaned over to grasp her brother’s shoulders, whispering harshly into his face. “Bran, you don’t have to say anything - it's best you don’t, please, don’t say anything…”

For once Bran responded, “Sansa, it is a simple question that we can answer. It was a good plan, it almost worked. We can try again at another time…”

Jon glanced at the Grand Maester who nodded, then returned to look at Bran, one of the scribes shifting closer.

“Was it my idea? I don’t really have ideas as you might think. Things happen and we make the most of opportunities when we can…”

“Opportunities for what, what do you want?” Jon asked slowly, stepping closer, frowning as he tried to understand.

“I want - everything. To see, I want to know, everything. I couldn’t in the North, I was limited. The past is easy, it’s just laying there, on the surface. But to see the present, and to catch the glimpses of what hasn’t yet happened, ah, this is difficult. But here, where it is happening, in King’s Landing, I have access to everything happening, throughout all the lives of Westeros... I’ve been looking to Essos as well... I would have convinced Arya to explore the West. It's a shame you killed her, she was quite useful to me. Her past had already destroyed her, made her needy for a purpose. I planned to give her that purpose, send her exploring, and then see everything through her, perhaps even have conquered Essos through her, though I don’t think she would have survived very long. She’s not as skilled an assassin as she thought she was, as others thought…” Bran smiled slowly, inhumanly. “There is so much to see, to know…” He paused to look slowly at Sansa, then back to Jon. “Turning my kin was easy, we’re all connected by blood... making them see what we wanted them to see, do what we needed them to do...”

“Like what, Bran, what did you want them to see?” Silence filled the chamber, every ear straining to hear what the usurper had to say, some scoffing, some questioning, all at least entertained.

“History is written by the victors, Jon, and the story of civilization is the story of war, and violence and death and betrayal. I wanted them to believe that I would write a different story, but to do so I would need to be in control of everything. I wasn’t ready, it was too much at once, we’ve always known that. It all was my own fault, I was impatient. But I’m patient, now, we will have another chance... always another chance.” Bran’s gaze turned vacant.

Tyrion slowly shook his head, breathing heavily as Jon stepped back to let him speak.

“Bran, what are you saying? You said you would build a better world, that the Targaryens were all mad, that they would … What have you done, what have you made us do…???”

Bran calmly replied, “It was necessary.”

Jon startled, reminded of that day in the throne room. “Necessary for who, for what?”

Bran said, nothing.

Grand Maester Lesser descended the steps and approached the accused, “Lord Stark, when did you start planning?”

“We started planning in Winterfell…”

“Bran, STOP!!!” Sansa shrieked, startling the crowd, two Unsullied guards stepping between her, her brother and her King.

“Sansa, be still or you will be removed from this chamber, by force if necessary.” Jon’s voice was quiet, but there was a menace beneath the calm.

“Bran, continue. You started planning in Winterfell… when?” Jon nodded toward the stilled figure in the chair.

“We started planning in Winterfell, almost from the start I could see the opportunity. Varys and Tyrion and Sansa and Arya and Samwell, they all were fearful, impatient, envious. They wanted to put Jon on the throne, reveal who he was, though he had asked them not to. They thought he would be a good king. He is a Stark, but he didn’t know he was also a Dragon, then, so I could still control him, influence him at least. But Sansa was afraid that at some point he would figure out what had been done to his Queen, and for all his goodness, he is a violent man.”

Bran looked up at Jon, waiting for a disagreement that never came.

“We all knew he truly loved her, so they decided to eliminate him altogether, convince him to kill the Queen, that she was a threat to the world, that she was not who he thought her to be. Then after he had killed her, if he survived Drogon, survived the Unsullied, they planned to either have him executed or exiled. But he figured it out too soon, that she had been poisoned... he’s not as naive as they thought.”

Jon struggled to control his outrage, “From the very beginning, even before the Long Night? You plotted to kill Daenerys, your Queen -- even as she fought for the North you plotted to destroy her!”

Sansa shouted out, “I was going to pardon you, Jon, you could live at Winterfell, with me and Arya, we could be a family again!!!”

Jon clenched his fist as he turned to his former sister. “Families look out for one another, Sansa, they don’t use them. You’ve used me, you’ve used Arya - did you see what she had become!” He took a step toward her and quieted his voice. “You wanted ‘your’ birthright, but were willing to do anything to keep me from mine…”

“You said you never wanted to be King!”

“Whatever I said or didn’t say, you didn’t have the right to make those decisions for me, to take that choice from me. I know my duty, I will be a good king, just as Daenerys will be a good queen. But you, my dear cousin, you will be nothing.” He relaxed his fist and took a breath, then another, until he could calmly look into Sansa's eyes, “Do not expect any mercy from me now…”

Bran suddenly raised his head. “Mercy… Family… I remember these things. I tried to be kind to my family, to be merciful.” He perked up a bit and gazed at Jon, then nodded to Sansa.

“Mercy… Sansa... I didn’t tell you about the babe... I didn’t want you to know you’d be a kinslayer. That was the kind thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Sansa dropped her gaze to her brother, questioning.

“Besides, that could have changed your mind, perhaps Arya’s mind more likely, and I couldn’t risk that…”

The Queen placed her hand briefly on her stomach, then gripped the arms of her throne, her face frozen.

Jon lunged at Bran, grabbing his chair, whispering harshly. “You knew, yet you plotted to kill my child?!”

Bran was unmoved. “The dragons must die out, Jon. If we are to change the history of mankind, the Targaryens must end.”

“But that is a lie, just a story you told to get others to do your bidding, isn’t it Bran?” Tyrion watched as Jon struggled to control his temper. “You told them that you would bring peace, as King?”

Bran whispered, shaking his head, “No. No, that would not serve our purpose at all.”

Tyrion covered his face with his hands, grunting in anguish before challenging Bran once again. “You said, you said you wanted peace, peace for all people -- to bring peace the dragons had to die!”

“I told you what you needed to hear, what made you happy.”

Tyrion felt the betrayal rock him to his core. “Everything you told us, led us to believe...”

Bran nodded confidently. “I have learned that the less I say, the more others hear what they want to hear.”

“You lied to us, to everyone, over and over -- let all those people die, burnt, the children, gods, all of the suffering...! For what, Bran? Why?”

Bran sat motionless in his chair, watching Tyrion, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Jon backed toward the dais as Tyrion stepped closer to his formerly chosen King. “Brandon Stark, you’re insane!”

Bran met his gaze and tilted his head, nodding slightly. “I've wondered that myself, perhaps it is so.”

“By the gods, what have I done, what an end...” He looked to the face of his Queen, unable, unwilling to hide his grief. “Please, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how this happened…”

“And yet, it did. If it had been up to you, Tyrion Lannister, I’d be dead right now, and Brandon Stark would be King, and your good friend Jon Snow would either be dead or exiled. It seems an odd choice that you made, Lord Hand, that you, all of you, waited until now to ask these questions of your chosen, broken king…”

Tyrion let out a strangled gasp, struggling to regain his composure. He turned to Sansa, to Sam, both watching him sweep his arm toward the boy in the chair before him. “All along, we’ve been following a madman!” His voice echoed off the cold stone floor and into the crowd, mixing with the hushed silence, but for the strained breathing of Samwell Tarly.

Bran drifted away, staring into the distance.

Jon glanced at the Grand Maester who nodded once then sorrowfully shook his head. The King of the Seven Kingdoms took the first two steps up the dais.

“Commander Grey Worm, take the accused to their cells. Make sure they cannot speak with one another, and that no messages are sent between them, or to or from anyone without our approval. We will give them time to prepare their defenses, but they will not be allowed to coordinate with one another.”

The crowd tensed, murmuring, as a dozen Unsullied came forward, carrying shackles and chains, and knelt at the feet of the accused, spears readied to discourage resistance.

Tyrion braced himself, cringing as the iron was latched, distracting himself by watching as Sansa stood horrified as the shackles were fastened around Bran’s ankles and wrists.

“Jon, you can’t be serious! Think about what you’re doing!”

She lunged backwards when one of the Unsullied lifted her skirt to fasten the irons. “Jon! Stop this now!” She tried to kick the guard kneeling in front of her, another Unsullied grabbing her from behind by her waist, lifting her from the floor. Another soldier stepped in front with his spear pointed toward her face, even as she struggled and glared at her cousin. A small smile flitted across his lips, his eyes remaining black and cold. Finally the deed was done, and she hefted the chains in front of her, utter disbelief chasing the rage from her face.

“Sansa, just as you who followed Bran, I’ve believed what I’ve been told all my life, that I ‘AM’ nothing, that I ‘KNOW’ nothing. We are all learning that what we’ve been told, what we believed was a lie, and now we see the proof of who and what we truly are. You, dear cousin, you are not a Stark. You have no honor and you do not serve those who have trusted you. Instead you are a selfish schemer; you are Littlefinger, you are Cersei. Welcome back to the Red Keep, Your Grace. I hope your new accommodations are to your liking.”

Jon nodded, and dozens of Unsullied formed a ring around the quartet. Tyrion turned as they were escorted toward the Great Hall, through the gathered crowd and drapes of sailcloth, a shuffling muttering Samwell Tarly bringing up the rear.

Sansa whispered for all to hear, “Don’t say anything, anyone! If we all say nothing…”

Tyrion frowned as he shook his head, “My Lady, it’s far, far too late for that…”

Podrick offered to push Bran’s chair but was refused by the Unsullied. The clanging of chains blended into the murmurs of the crowd, “Traitor,” “Lannister,” “Stark” mixed in with whispers of “poison,” “dragon,” and “Targaryen.”

Tyrion glanced back over his shoulder, shuffling valiantly to avoid the tips of the spears of the guards, straining for a glimpse of his Queen. Just there, there she was, watching him. Seated on her throne, the epitome of his purpose, blocked now by disdainful faces and the closing ironwood doors. The conspirators were separated, taken in four different directions, and he was led down familiar long steps, into the darkness. He let his mind collapse and let the darkness overwhelm, his failure complete.

-----

Jon quietly watched as the last of the Unsullied escorts left the hall, aware of the uncertainty within the people. He took the last steps to the top of the dais, next to his Queen, then turned and spoke again.

“Our council will meet later tonight, but for now we are finished here. Ser Davos Seaworth has been appointed as Hand to the Crown, additional positions will be filled in the coming days and weeks. Our coronation will be the next full moon, followed by the trials for these traitors.

“The security of this kingdom and the safety and well-being of its citizens will be ensured, as will be the continuing effort to care for the injured and the rebuilding of the city. If you have any immediate concerns, continue to bring them to Ser Davos, or to those he has appointed.

“We, Queen Daenerys and myself, we know we must regain your trust, and we will do whatever is necessary to do so, now and throughout our reign. What has been said and done here today will be copied and distributed throughout the kingdom, as will records of what happens during the upcoming trials.”

Jon paused and dropped his eyes, then continued. “This is not the way we wanted to start our reign…” He looked toward his Queen, smiling gently. “Yet we will build a new world, all of us, together.” He turned to stand by her side, nodding to her as she waited for the silence to settle.

“To commemorate this day, a day of exposing betrayal and starting on a new path, wine and sweets have been added to the evening meal throughout King’s Landing. Please join King Jon and myself in looking forward to the return of a peaceful and prosperous Westeros.” She bowed her head regally, and the crowd began to move to leave, thanks and your graces on their lips.

Ser Davos stepped toward what remained of the Great Council. “Those invited to the council, please remain. Lord Glover, you as well, if you would.”

Brienne and Podrick glanced at one another, then bowed and turned to leave until halted by the voice of the Queen.

“Ser Brienne, Podrick Payne, you are also invited to stay, although we understand if you do not wish to.”

Brienne paused and again glanced at Podrick, who shrugged his shoulders and turned back around to join the councilors. Brienne paused several moments more, then turned to stand with Podrick, head held high.

“We will hear what you have to say, Your ... Graces.”

Jon again descended the steps and approached the remaining Great Council members, Grey Worm and Ser Davos by his side.

“We realize that this has been an incredibly long day, we will not keep you much longer. Those of you that received invitations to attend the Council were sent them with specific intent. Others of you have proven loyalty and character that may be of benefit to us and to rebuilding the Realm. You are all invited to meet with us later this evening, after the evening meal, where the Queen and I will briefly lay out our general plans and our needs, and discuss the positions that will need to be filled; on our Small Council, as Personal Advisors, for the Tribunal and for the Rebuilding Council. Of course, no one is under any obligation, but we would like the opportunity to answer any questions you have before you return home. Until then...” Jon turned to glance at Davos...

“We have rooms prepared here in the Keep and in other buildings within King’s Landing where you can refresh yourselves. However, if you’d rather return to your own camps, we will send a messenger to bring you to the meeting tonight...” Davos waved over several pages as Jon returned to his Queen’s side and watched as the visitors bowed to their sovereigns and were escorted through the Great Hall and toward their waiting rooms or through the ironwood doors and into the hazed sunlight.

Jon smiled somberly as he watched the Unsullied clear the last of the audience from the room, motioning for Tormund to join him.

“Well, that went well, I suppose…” Her voice was strained and shallow now that the chamber had emptied. Ghost stood slowly, sliding on the polished stone, bracing his great head on the lap of his pack mate. Dany ran her fingers along his face, between his knowing red eyes, humming as his eyelids drooped.

Jon chuckled at the sight. “Yes, I think all in all…” He smiled at her cautiously, “Are you all right? Considering…”

She nodded, “I will be, I think…” She raised her voice. “What say you, Lord Hand, a successful first day?”

Davos approached up the steps, “Yes, Your Grace, I do believe we have a successful start to your reign, under the circumstances.”

Dany’s smile faded as she returned to attend to Ghost’s demands. Jon looked around the chamber, confirming that they were alone now with their most trusted counselors.

“Lord Manderly, did you learn anything?”

Wintyn Manderly ascended the steps and approached the throne. “No, Your Grace, we still don’t know what kind of poison was used, or how it was administered.” His eyes fell to the Queen, who failed to hide her disappointment.

Jon nodded solemnly, tugging at the unyielding high collar of his ornate fitted coat. He heard a chuckle and his smile returned.

“You’ll get used to it, or you can have it adjusted, though I will say you look very handsome in this, very ‘kingly’, and I was getting oh so tired of that faded gambeson…” His smile widened, and he leaned in to touch his lips to the crown of her head.

Grand Maester Lesser cleared his throat. “We have the time now to find the answers to those questions, they are the most important ones, we all agree. If we can’t identify the poison, how it was given, there will always be lingering doubt…” Lesser bowed slightly toward his queen. “Rest assured, we’ll do everything we can, Your Grace, to put this all behind us as soon as possible.”

“Thank you Grand Maester, thank you all.” She sighed, leaning back. “Thank you all for your help, for all you’ve done. I am in your debt.”

Jon nodded as well. “Yes, thank you all. Ser Davos has things well in hand for this evening, and we will all meet again after the evening meal…?”

Davos happily clasped his hands together and smiled at the Queen, “Right, then, we need to get you settled in your new rooms, let you rest Your Grace.”

Jon nodded in agreement, then ducked his head toward his wife.

“Give us just a moment…”

Davos smiled, “Of course, Your Grace.” Bowing again, Davos waved for Tormund to join him, then followed the smallest of councils out through the back of the chambers, pausing with Grey Worm to provide a semblance of privacy.

Jon knelt in front of the Queen, shoving his shoulder against the great white direwolf, taking her hands as he noticed the tears collecting in his wife’s violet eyes.

“Dany, love, what is it?”

She grimaced and shook her head, causing tears to splatter and cascade down the front of her gown. He waited as she regained her composure.

“Are these happy tears?”

She looked away, closing her eyes. “I’ve dreamed of this for so long… this… this isn’t the way it was supposed to be…”

Jon stroked her hands, feeling the chill in her skin. “I’m so sorry, Dany. This isn’t fair… It’s not right what they’ve done…”

He cupped her face in his hand and turned her to face him.

“There’s nothing we can do now but go forward… we’ll finish with the past, be done with it… we’ll bring justice when and where we can, then build something new, something better…”

Dany sniffled, then stroked his face in turn. “I’m trying to be strong. Really I am…”

“I know you are, but you don’t have to be, not always, not when we’re alone.” She huffed with a smile and rolled her eyes at him as he glanced around the chambers, knowing there were guards stationed at every entrance.

He shrugged, chuckling, then leaned forward, holding her knees, stroking her face. “Take a breath. Now, close your eyes. Now, just for a moment, put aside all the bad things that have happened.” Jon rolled her small hands into his, clasping them together.

“Now, think about all the good things you’ve ever wanted to do, once you were seated on the Iron Throne. Picture the future, the peace, the freedom, the new things you will bring to the people, here and back in Essos. Are you picturing those things, Dany, can you see them now?”

Dany took a deep breath, pulling her hands away, then grasped his hands in her own, shaking.

“I see glimpses, Jon, only shadows through all the fire and the ash and the screaming and the smell, gods Jon the smell is still so strong…” she gasped, holding onto his forearm, pulling him closer. He reached to stroke her face, wiping the tears with a thumb across her cheek as she struggled to slow her tears, her forehead falling to his shoulder. He let his hand fall, grasping her shoulder. He waited, silent, listening for her breathing to steady. Slowly she pulled back, her gaze finding his, a sad smile gracing her tear-stained face.

“Do you want some time here, to be alone?”

Dany softly touched the arms of the Iron Throne, the swords of Aegon’s enemies, then gazed out over what remained of the audience chamber, the Targaryen and Stark banners swaying haphazardly in the eddys of the afternoon breeze, finally turning to Jon with a slight, tired smile.

“No, it's not going anywhere. And I’m sure I’ll get tired of it all soon enough.” She tried to smile, but he noticed the darkness under her eyes, the red flush in her pale face.

“I'd like to rest, my King. Take your Queen to bed.”

Dany raised her arms to him as Jon returned her smile and carefully lifted her from the throne, cradling her to his chest, kissing her gently on her braided crown. She sighed as she closed her eyes and laid her head on his tear-stained shoulder. Jon shifted her in his arms as his eyes wandered over the iron chair and the still blood-stained marble at the foot of the dais, remembering the last time he had been in the throne room with this woman in his arms, just like this. That strange, familiar combination of rage and sorrow flickered deep inside; Jon laid it aside, letting it be swallowed up by the needs of his duty.

“As my Queen commands,” he whispered, more to himself than the slight figure resting quietly in his arms.

The King turned and carried the Queen through the archway beyond the throne, following Ser Davos and Grey Worm into the bowels of the Red Keep, surrounded by the Unsullied and Northern guards.

Tormund returned to fetch Ghost, ruffling his fur as he coaxed him to follow, taking a moment to view the Iron Throne up-close, shrugging and rushing to catch up, Ghost’s tail flailing as he scrabbled on the hard stone floor, the clicking of his nails resounding through the chamber.

Eventually craftsmen re-entered the chamber, picked up their tools and returned to their tasks while in the distance, screeching and roars echoed through the shell of a city as dragons called out to one another over King’s Landing for the first time in over a hundred years.

Chapter Text

She played with the curls at the back of his neck as he carried her through the Red Keep toward their new quarters. He must have cut his hair, at least a little bit. The summer heat annoyed him so. Winter was coming, but until it hit full force, the afternoons remained quite warm. He’d said he will adjust to it. She didn’t know him well, when all was said and done, but he did seem to be determined once he set his mind to something. Dany laid her head into Jon’s neck, breathing in his scent. Calming, familiar.

She remembered on Dragonstone when Tyrion had hinted, or had he come right out and said it, that the King in the North was in love with her. She had panicked, had said the first thing that came to her mind, that Jon Snow was too little for her. What a silly thing to say; she had wondered that she was so flustered at Tyrion’s words. She had never liked discussing matters of her heart with her Hand, not at all. But now she wondered if she had been hiding her feelings from herself even then, and if that was when Tyrion’s discontent had started, or had taken root, or had … when whatever it was had started. Had Tyrion feared that if she had someone other than him, he would be less… necessary. Less exclusive. Less indispensable. His ideas more readily questioned, more often challenged. Or had his intent always been to betray her, to save his family. Or could it have been pure jealousy. She hoped to find out, though by now it didn’t matter.

She sighed and nestled closer into his shoulder. She had been drawn to the King in the North from the moment she’d seen him. And she liked being in his arms.

She was not supposed to give in to her emotions, let them influence her. She was Queen, her life revolved around her name, her throne, her legacy.

Her legacy.

Mad Queen.

She sighed as they came to a long hallway beside a courtyard. The acrid stench still permeated the air, the fabrics, the very stone. The rubble had been removed, and she could see a colorful map of Westeros painted to fill the entire courtyard floor.

This was Cersei’s version of Aegon’s Painted Table. This is where the Usurper Queen would have stood, planning, strategizing. Failing.

Jon must have sensed her interest and paused to let her look, halting the small procession. Suddenly Dany remembered his bandaged hand, lost now within the skirt of her gown as he carried her from the throne room. Kinvara had said that a good deal of blood from his rider would be necessary to return Rhaegal to the world of the living, and Jon had been diligently donating whenever called upon.

“Jon, put me down. You shouldn’t be carrying me…” His dark eyes sparkled as he frowned. He looked older up close, she supposed she did too.

“Do you want someone else to carry you?”

She couldn’t tell if he was serious, but she slapped him gently on his chest and repeated. “Put me down. I can walk the rest of the way.”

He held her for a moment longer, seeming to deliberate, then gave her a lop-sided smile and gently placed her on her feet. It took her a minute to gain her balance, but she was feeling better every day, stronger at least. The healers had said it would probably take some time for the effects of the poison to fade completely, but they couldn't say how quickly that would happen since they didn’t know what she had been given; from the beginning, neither the Maesters nor any of the healers were able to identify the poison, and therefore they were unable to treat her. So, little could be done, other than bedrest and good food, a calm environment. She had laughed, soft and bitter.

She’d sent to Meereen for the High Priestess Kinvara, her outgoing raven passing Kinvara’s ship that arrived in Blackwater Bay the following day, loaded with food and supplies and healers and a letter from the Commander of the Second Sons, Daario Naharis, a letter she had read quickly and tossed to the side. She had been sure Kinvara would be able to figure out what kind of poison she had been given, and how it had been given to her, but the High Priestess of R’hllor insisted that her fires told her nothing, other than that she would survive the poison, and that House Targaryen would be restored to the Throne.

Those involved in the ruse had all rehearsed precisely what they would say to the people, before the Great Council and after. How they would explain the presence of the King in the North among the people, chalking everything up to mere rumors. He was supposed to have killed the Queen, murdered her in the throne room, then thrown into a cell by Grey Worm, though many asked why he hadn’t been killed on the spot; that was the Unsullied way, was it not? But his presence became assumed; the Northern Army was among the people, helping and protecting, as was his Hand... the eyes play tricks, of course their King would appear to be on the field with his men. Later they learned that some had come up with their own rumors, that the King in the North had been permitted to serve the people in exchange for his life to appease the Dragon Queen’s armies, that he had agreed to not seek the throne, and would return to the North after the Great Council had named another. There were other rumors of course, there was not much else for people to do other than gossip. They let the rumors flow, managed them, steered them toward the future. All while emphasizing the truth about Queen Cersei and her bastard children, usurpers all, her death and betrayal of her people, the wildfire under the city, and that the people had been merely hostages. Finally that the people deserved better.

Then when the truth was revealed, of course they would rally around their new King, gloat at having recognized him among them when he was needed the most.

Once the traitors had condemned themselves at the Great Council, they had immediately begun to spread the truth of what had truly happened that day to the people, in the healing camps, among those working in the city, even as the truth was being revealed before the Iron Throne. Finally answering the questions, explaining the Queen’s behavior, she had been poisoned for weeks, little by little, by those closest to her. She was betrayed, but lived. She hadn’t known what she was doing and regretted it with her whole being. She almost died from the poison, was still recovering, but looked forward to being with her people soon. It would be a hard road back, to regain trust, to rebuild, but there was a plan that seemed to be working, and surprisingly and to her great relief, she was not on her own.

The Queen stepped out onto the map of Westeros, large cracks running through the continent, breaking it, dividing it. Other places the top layer of paint had been knocked off by falling debris, leaving great patches of deep red stone underneath. Pools of blood. Suddenly she felt her stomach roil and she swayed, reaching out as her husband came to her side to steady her.

“It really is a broken mess, isn’t it?” She would have cried, but she didn’t have the energy.

“We’ll fix it all, Dany. In a sense, this is a perfect time to make changes. People are open to it, their lives have already been turned upside down. We can improve things for them …”

She turned and laughed gently at him, sliding her fingers across his trimmed beard. “When did you become such a positive fellow?”

He laughed, stifling a yawn.

“I’ve been hanging around you, Dany, sometimes I feel like anything’s possible, we can do so much good…”

She gripped his hand, out of gratitude and weakness, and leaned harder on his arm.

“Do you need to sit down?”

Davos drew a chair from the corner, held it as the Queen slowly lowered herself to the seat and settled, then started to laugh shallow gulps of air as she gazed bitterly at her kingdom.

“Here I am on my throne over all of Westeros,” she dropped her head into her hands and struggled to compose herself, grateful for the confused patience of those around her.

From nowhere a steward appeared with a tray; drink, sweetened berry juice instead of wine, and some bits of food; cheese, fresh bread with cranberry spread, grapes and sliced pear. Her stomach rumbled.

Another chair was pulled forward for Jon, he sat in it and watched her eat, his dark fathomless eyes concerned and calm. How she needed his steadiness, now more than ever.

The weariness and pain were rising as she ate. She would probably sleep through the night, abandoning her duties once again, leaving so much of the responsibility to Jon. He had risen to the duty, to his destiny, at least as she’d seen it. He may not have ever wanted it, but he was good at it. People were naturally drawn to him, loved him, even more so than herself. And he had good instincts, saw things at ground-level, what was needed to finish a task. She sighed again, a common habit of late. In Essos, some had loved her for what she had done, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains. Now, here in Westeros, she was loved, at least followed, for the power she held; they lusted after it, wanted to control it, and her. But Jon, he had no name, no power… she recalled him entering her throne room on Dragonstone, she was immediately intrigued. He didn’t have that usual puffed-up arrogance that she had come to associate with those in power. Without him having said a word, she wanted to know more. He didn’t have to do a thing and people trusted him, wanted to follow him, highborn and lowborn alike. She had once wondered if it was because he was a man; but no, that was demeaning to both him and the people. It was because Jon was just, Jon. They would have a successful, prosperous reign, if they could get along. She glanced at him now, questioning, she could feel him watching her still. For all of his calm, he was just as stubborn as she was.

The rumbling in her belly had died down, and she took a moment to glance around the courtyard as she gathered her strength. It was a beautiful, ordinary day. If you looked up.

A stirring came from behind, and Dany could hear the clicking of Ghost’s nails as he made his way to her side. She couldn’t believe the relief she felt at his company, she’d been disappointed when Jon had left him behind in Winterfell. She wondered if he knew she was carrying his brother, or sister, no, probably brother inside her.

A babe.

It still overwhelmed her. A child, now, inside her. She hadn’t believed it, thought it was part of her nightmares, when the Dothraki healer Norri had told her she was pregnant. By the look on her face she must have frightened her; she grasped her hand quickly and tried to comfort her. She doesn’t recall exactly what came next, except that Jon was suddenly there, kneeling by her side, his calloused hand gently caressing her face. She wished she had seen his expression when he found out he would be a father. Was he happy about it? There was so much confusion, her memories, her mind, stolen from her. Her greatest fear and greatest hope had been realized; she had burnt down King’s Landing and she was having Jon’s child.

They hadn’t talked about it much since then; she was told the babe was still living, but there was no movement, few assurances, and deep inside she dare not hope, she could not bear another loss. The curse, the poison, this child should not live. But for now, for Jon, and for the small chance of a future, she would be hopeful, outwardly at least.

She rested her hand on her belly. If she let herself consider the changes in her body, she could feel the bump, not so little, and could sense a presence within. But then the fear would rise, and she couldn’t afford to fear, she had to be strong. So she pushed the thoughts and the fears aside, until another time, until the nightmares came, the normal kind now, of dragonfire and screams and dead burnt bodies. Her fears and guilt threatened to consume her…

Daenerys noticed a messenger, wearing their new colors and sigil, enter and cross to Ser Davos, who nodded and bent to whisper into Jon’s ear, his mask of duty slipping over his Stark features as he nodded and raised his brow as he placed his hand gently on her arm.

“I’m needed in the Throne Room. I will be accepting the oath of Ser Callith Redfort, you met him two days ago, to be our Lord Commander of the Crownsguard, and see what they’ve come up with for the King’s and Queen’s guards as we discussed.”

She nodded that she remembered; she remembered everything that she was awake for, she just couldn’t always tell if everything she remembered was real or not.

Now that they were publicly taking the throne, all the little details of their reign had to be officially put in place. She would have liked to have been there, to be a part of everything, to accept fealty from their sworn protectors, but she was learning to trust the decisions of her - her husband, her king - it was difficult, neither was used to working with an equal, but they had determined to rebuild together.

Jon stood to leave and nodded toward Davos to stay with the Queen. She felt his hand squeeze her arm and turned to gaze into his calm tired eyes. He really was quite a beautiful man, a fitting King. He smiled at her scrutiny, she dropped her eyes and shooed him away, watching his retreating form as the room emptied of all but her guards, Merik, the High Steward, who apparently was quite pleased with the new Royal Quarters, Ser Davos and finally Ghost, presently resting comfortably along The Wall. All others had left with Jon, the King, to carry out the duties of running the realm. She fought the frustration and the bubble of jealousy that threatened just under the surface of her calm even as she waved for Davos to take the King’s seat.

“As soon as you’re settled in, we will begin holding all of our meetings in the solar across from your rooms at a time to accommodate your schedule.”

She scoffed, she never liked being condescended to. “He’s far too thoughtful, he thinks I’m feeling left out…” He was right, she did feel left out, but she didn’t like being treated like a child.

Davos leaned toward his Queen, “Your Grace, King Jon knows you’ve been thinking about how you want your reign to be set up for years, and that this is all quite new to him. He’s merely being practical -- ‘you’ are the greatest resource for starting your reign off right, and as you know he’s not one for squandering resources.”

Tears filled her eyes and she dropped her head into her hands once again, discouraged as she assumed the worst of Jon first, despite how often she had sworn she would do better. She had lost track of herself, where faith in herself ended and where the poison began.

She accepted the linen silently tucked into her hand, waiting for her breathing to steady, then smiled a watery smile at their Hand. Somehow Davos seemed to always know what she needed to hear. She wondered what her dead advisors would say, Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, Missendei. Would they have told her to leave, leave this mess to Jon and return to Meereen, to Essos where she was revered? Her thoughts landed on Tyrion, how important it was to be ready to rule from day one, all of their conversations, planning her Small Council, her priorities, her alliances. The hurt at his betrayal was still raw, but she had determined to be patient.

“Ser Davos, help me to my rooms, I will need to rest to recover from all my wearisome crying.”

She reached out her hand as he stood to help her stand, letting her hang on his arm as she took slow but steady steps down the hall and toward a newly-hung door, fitted with stained glass of the Stark and Targaryen sigils. She paused to notice the fine details, direwolf and dragon, then smiled approvingly at the High Steward, who let his pent-up breath escape quietly before bowing in relief. She felt herself suddenly calm; this was real. She was really here, in King’s Landing, in the Red Keep, in her own quarters. Their quarters, of course, but, hers, someplace to build...

There were guards nearby, two Unsullied and two Northerners, ready as the doors opened to the royal rooms. She paused again as she entered, savoring each moment. Yes, she could feel something change. A new beginning. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin as she passed through the entry, between the fire and ice.

She had thought she would have felt it earlier that day, when she had finally sat on the Iron Throne, but that had been a rather mixed experience. It was the longest she had walked since that terrible day, the longest out of bed, and she had had to stop and rest twice coming up the steps from their hideout in the servant’s quarters. She was light-headed and anxious by the time she sat waiting in what was left of the Small Council chamber behind the audience chamber, waiting for word from the ‘Great Council’ as to whether their plan had worked.

It had all come to this moment. Would the traitors expose themselves, admit what they had done? She hated that she couldn’t be there, to look into their eyes, to see them squirm under Davos’s questioning. Jon had wanted to be there as well, disguised of course, to hear for himself, but cooler heads, Lord Manderly to be precise, had pointed out that Jon’s later testimony would be considered biased, and it would be better to avoid the risk of him losing his temper at a most inopportune time. Better to let Davos be able to say and do whatever was necessary, and not have to worry about raising the ire of his King in the course of pointing out how he and his Queen had been wronged. He had reluctantly agreed; Kinvara needed more of his blood anyway, so he went with her to continue to strengthen Rhaegal, sure to be back before the Council adjourned.

Only he wasn’t there, yet, and she waited alone, outwardly poised and regal, inwardly nauseous and distressed.

Then the word had come. An Unsullied had come directly from Grey Worm; they had betrayed each other, betrayed themselves out of their own mouths.

It was done.

Dany took a deep breath, then another, letting her lungs fill with cool salt-tinged air drifting through the unrepaired wall at the rear of the chamber.

Could it be? She had wished Jon was there, Missendei, Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan.

She missed Tyrion, he would have been happy for her. Her breath caught in her throat at her confusion. No. Traitor.

It was time.

She stood as Unsullied guards approached, paused to catch her breath again and smooth her regal gown, then calmly joined them to enter the Throne Room, as queen.

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

One foot, then the next. Head high, back straight. Don’t look, don’t think. Not yet.

She would have liked to have taken the time to savor every moment, but she didn’t know how much time she had, how quickly the conspirators would make their way to the Throne Room, to find out all of their plans had been uncovered. That she lived.

She remembered the pounding and murmuring echoing through the archway, the calls and sharp cracks of falling roof tiles splattering on the tarp-covered marble tiles, muffled by the linen sails draped over scaffolds throughout the open space. Then the slow-building silence as she confidently stepped into the chamber, the rolling hush as her presence became known, whispered among the craftsmen and their apprentices. She focused on her goal, ignoring the shocked gasps and wide-eyed stares. They had been told she was dead, killed at the hand of the King in the North. Yet here she was ascending to the Iron Throne. She remembered how overwhelmed and confused she felt, but also how satisfied. Perhaps it was better that she was alone to sit the throne this day, the Dragon Queen, arising from the ashes. Reborn.

She noticed the High Septon on the far side of the dais, clothed in his finest regalia, and nodded to acknowledge his presence. The others would likely be arriving soon.

She walked quickly to the center of the first step of the dais, turned and looked upward, Unsullied close behind and filling the dais as she gazed at last upon her family’s once-lost legacy. The Iron Throne.

It was hideous. Powerful. Unyielding.

Yes, her family’s legacy.

Lifting the skirt of her gown, she ascended the steps and approached the throne, Unsullied walking beside her in case she stumbled. She had been here before, twice before, plus the many times in her dreams. Once, in her vision in the House of the Undying, diverted from taking her seat by the call of her stolen children. Then, not too long ago at all, her vision had been interrupted by the presence of the King in the North. But not this time.

She hesitated before being seated, reaching out her hand and lightly touching the pommel of the sword nearest her, letting her fingers linger, then firmly grasped the worn metal fully in her hand. A brief smile floated across her lips as she let her eyes quickly rove across the thousand swords.

Yes, this time it was real.

She let her regal mask fall back into place as she turned, took a step back and lowered herself onto the cold and unyielding seat of her throne.

There. It was done. She had done it. She remembered waiting for the satisfaction, the glory of her victory.

But it never came.

She took a calming breath, silently nodding at the slow shuffling of the workers as they approached. A make-shift door creaked open to the side, and more people began to drift inside, lords and towns folk Davos had selected from each corner of the city, Northern and Unsullied guards guiding them, surprised gasps and murmuring as they passed the throne, down the sides of the gallery. Eyes wide, fearful, watchful.

She nodded gently as the High Septon hobbled forward, “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Long May She Reign!” as the Unsullied and Northern guards knelt before her, heads bowed, followed quickly by the gathered audience of lords and townsfolk.

She nodded again toward the High Septon, a personally unimpressive man, but fully entrenched in the roles and rote of the court and willing to fill in for the Grand Maester as he attended to his own special duties.

“You may rise.” He waited for quiet, then, “You have been invited here to bear witness to the restoration of the Targaryen reign, and the revelation of treachery and foul betrayal. Work will continue as before, all else will be silent.” The scrapes and purple bruises on the face of the elderly white-haired man gave his direction an especially solemn weight as he sternly gazed at the crowds before bowing to his Queen and returning to his position to the side of the Throne.

Now, to wait.

Dany let her hands fall into her lap and tried to maintain the butterflies in her belly. Thoughts of those she had lost on her journey to this moment threatened to invade, but she still had the strength to hold them for a more opportune time. Instead she turned her thoughts to Viserys’s history lessons, however inaccurate they may have been.

Aegon the Conqueror, Aerys the Mad King, the father she’d never met, the Baratheon usurpers - Robert, Joffrey, Tommen and Cersei, or should they be called Lannisters? No matter, they were gone now, and she would write their history.

Queen Cersei. There were times she admired the woman. With no righteous claim to the throne, she had managed to force her way to the most powerful position in the realm.

In the end, though, she had made stupid mistakes. She should have fled King’s Landing, secretly, returning if her forces were successful. She could have taken any amount of loot, she had plenty of time and opportunity while the dragons were busy in the North. Later, she should have kept Missendei alive, used her as a hostage, it would have been Cersei’s best weapon against her, against her dragons. But instead…

Panic welled up within her as the memories of her dreams flowed like a raging river across her thoughts. Cersei running after her, wild-eyed and bloodthirsty, chasing her, taking what was hers. Killing her friends, her family, with daggers, swords, a crossbow; Lannister soldiers swarming like spiders, throwing webs at Drogon, trying to bring him to earth; a pack of lions chasing her through the streets of King’s Landing, pouncing on her from behind, holding her down, ripping her belly, feasting on her child, her screams, the pain, the blood, the smell of death… She’d replayed these dreams so often, she realized now she must have suspected she was with child. Was that why she was chasing Cersei? Revenge for killing her miracle? She felt the thrill of flying over the Red Queen as she darted through the streets, people screaming and fleeing from her wake as they were crushed and scattered under the hooves of her charging white horse. She’d lose sight of her from atop Drogon, his rage and desperation pushing him ever onward, at first blinded by the swathes of red and green flame, then a glimpse of white several streets over, Cersei seeking to escape the Dragon’s wrath. But she could not, would not escape her wrath. Drogon roared, drowning out the ringing of the bells and the crumbling of the tall towers.

The bells!

To arms!

She’d been waiting for the Mad Queen to be brought out to her, to surrender the city, instead they were ringing the bells to defend the city.

Let it be fear!

Her mind had struggled to separate dream from reality. At times she thought Tyrion had said to wait for the bells, that if she heard them ringing the city had surrendered.

But bells never meant surrender, she knew it must be part of her dream. They had always been ringing, rousing the city, calling every soldier and citizen to defend their city and their Usurper Queen.

It was still confusing to her, even after hearing it retold again and again. It must have been a dream. She had wondered if Bran was influencing even Cersei, even then...

Suddenly she was back in the Throne Room, before the throne, her vision replaying, again and again, ash and snow falling. Then Jon came to her, eyes full of despair and confusion, reaching out, guiding her. She felt the pain in her hands and feet bring her to her knees.

Arya, a flash of blade, red and silence. Rushing feet and raised voices. She struggled to stay awake, longing for help.

Finally she’d felt his arms around her, under her. Rest, help, hope. She had missed him so. She remembered the pain and confusion, the struggle to breathe, and the comfort of home. Her eyes closed, then startled with disbelief when she was told she was with child. More dreams, fear, Cersei. Then Jon. She saw the shock on his face as he gripped her hands, felt his lips on her mouth. The taste of salt and Jon and the smell of smoke…

She stumbled to keep her balance as Ghost pushed his nose under her arm, rousing her from her memories to regain her bearings. They were waiting for her. In front of her, another set of doors, solid and engraved, another set of guards, Northern and Unsullied. To her right, an arched opening, bright sky and bird song beckoning. She felt Ghost lean against her, then start through the passageway. Dany nodded to Davos as she transferred her confidence from his arm to Ghost’s strong shoulders. Another of Jon’s company who seemed to know just what she needed.

The small garden was open and welcoming, neatly kept stone pathways meandering through shrub hedges dressed with pots and hanging plants, high red walls carrying vines and trickling water that filled small pools of crafted shrubs and tall flowers, few in bloom, it was winter after all, but still full of promise. There was a new sapling planted where another larger tree had been removed, white barked and red-leaved. A weirwood. She smiled as she let her fingers trace the smooth surface, imagining one day the gnarls and sweeping branches that would protect the pond and her family. She felt tears well, she wept so easily these days...

Several stone benches were tucked under the trees, the path leading to an open patio holding an iron table and chairs, the weirwood and a birdbath its main view when seated. An open glass-paned window and shutters behind the patio, a lattice arbor above, double doors to the right. Davos extended his arm to guide her to the garden entrance to the Royal Quarters, two closed heavy doors, simple, arched and painted deep red; on either side, the usual guard, but also a sapling lemon tree, planted to catch the summer sun. She paused to catch her breath and noticed Davos watching her through her shimmering vision.

“King Jon picked this location for the sake of the lemon trees, but it's also the most private, and close by there is a rocky open area suitable as a perch for the dragons, with access through the other end of your quarters, and this garden should always be cool enough for Ghost, except for the deepest summer afternoons.”

She leaned heavily onto Davos, overwhelmed and conflicted. Jon had remembered, had been listening. He already possessed everything she had to give him, everything most men would want, yet he cared for her, was kind to her, pleased her. She couldn’t help but be suspicious, it was how she had stayed alive, but she also believed he had no ulterior motives. He was a Stark, Jon Snow, and though he was quickly adapting to the subterfuge and politics of the royal court, he remained the transparent and loyal young man she had first been intrigued by in the throne room of Dragonstone.

As the doors opened inward Ghost hesitated, and Dany shooed him back into the garden, telling him to go explore, to re-join her when he was ready. The garden was not big enough for a nearly-grown direwolf, but it was cool and quiet, and Dany smiled again as the huge beast stretched and plopped on the stone patio, settling for a nap rather than exploring his new domain as the doors closed behind him.

She waited for her eyes to adjust, the yellow sunlight sending bright angled shafts of light through the windows onto richly colored carpets as Davos provided details of her new rooms, the location of the quarters -- set back from the oceanside to protect the garden from the heaviest storms, but close enough to catch the tidal breezes during the hottest portion of the day; there were several entrances to the quarters, to and from separate sleeping, wardrobe and bathing rooms, and had been thoroughly secured. They had been deemed suitable to use as permanent quarters, though other options could be considered as repairs to the Red Keep were completed.

She felt it now, somehow it was in this room that she felt the victory, the sense of accomplishment. This is what she had wanted, had been fighting for. Safety, comfort. Home. She placed her hand on her belly, hope growing a bit more, and pushed away the uncertainty that lay between herself and her husband. There would be time, for them, for those difficult conversations that they had only barely attempted in the face of the immediate and overwhelming needs of the kingdom. Later.

For now she let her eyes take in each corner of these quarters, not just a bedroom but living quarters, fitted with a desk, dining table, expansive bed and a seating area by the stone hearth. There were tapestries and banners hung on the walls, Targaryen and Stark, marking it ‘their’ room, a subtle reminder of duty. She would consider taking them down, but for now she smiled and nodded appreciatively at the High Steward, who stood near the door, observing. She had thought the room would be heavy and dark, like her rooms on Dragonstone, but this room was comforting and inviting - still regal, fit for a queen, and a king, but a place of rest and healing and starting anew.

Dany could feel tears welling. Again. She wondered if all the tears she had never cried throughout her life were now making their presence known. Was that a good thing? She was not an emotional person, or had at least thought so.

Davos waved her toward a stuffed chair, “Lady Kinvara will be here in a moment, she’s seeing to a proper meal for you.”

Dany nodded gratefully, then fully looked at Davos, smiling weakly. She had quickly learned to trust him, perhaps more than she had ever trusted Tyrion. Perhaps she had suspected something earlier. Jon had proposed having one Hand for them both, a mediator of sorts, and a single small council, there would be less arguing that way. Then they could each have as many advisors as they needed. There had never been a reign such as they would create. So they could do what they pleased, and change it as many times as necessary until they got it right.

Davos had stepped back as she settled into the chair, but she reached out to him, grasping his arm.

“Ser Davos, I cannot thank you enough. You and Lord Merik have done a wonderful job. Please thank all who have worked to make me feel at home here.” Davos smiled and nodded at Merik to approach.

“My Queen, I am at your service. Your husband the King gave specific instructions, to make it welcoming for you and easy to make changes if you wished, which we can discuss at your convenience.”

The High Steward bowed and glanced briefly at Ser Davos, who nodded.

“However there is one room he specifically asked to be kept unfinished.”

The Queen tilted her head and watched as he walked briskly across the room to place his hand gently on a closed inner door.

“The nursery, Your Grace, ready to be finished when you choose…”

Her smile faded. She could tell he was nervous, apparently everyone knew it was an uncertain situation. She nodded her thanks, and after exchanging glances with Ser Davos he bowed deeply before his Queen and left the room.

“Ser Davos, I cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done for us, for me.” He had seen her through some very dark times. When Jon wouldn’t let her think about what she had done, couldn’t stand to see her in so much pain, Davos let her be distraught, angry, hurt, everything she needed to be. He let her blame herself, accept her responsibility, her role in that terrible day, yet challenged her to rise above it and move forward to rebuild. Not to deny what happened, to ignore it, or to insist nothing was amiss. It didn’t have to be one or the other. As the poison had left her system she recalled the many foolish things she had said and done over the past many moons, to her people, her friends, to Jon. She looked back at being jealous of Jon and felt foolish, remembering when she’d told him, ‘Far more people in Westeros love you than love me. I don’t have love here. I only have fear,’ as if those were the only two choices. Such foolishness. She wanted her reign to be based on respect and loyalty, for her legacy to be one of effectiveness and security, hope and peace, not on how loved or feared she was…

She startled as Davos rose to answer the gentle knock at the double inner doors, nodding as he announced the red priestess and her Unsullied commander. Both doors swung open, and she sighed happily as her familiar companions entered her new domain for the first time. Several handmaidens followed, carrying trays of food, fragrant and enticing. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the fragrance from the trays wafted across her senses and Vitti, her Dothraki handmaid, placed several dishes on the small table by the window, chilled fruit and apple butter on one dish, fresh warm bread and slices of roast boar with gravy on another, with crisped greens and roasted vegetables on a third. Her stomach rumbled again as Kinvara gestured for her to stand as they helped her remove her heavy ceremonial gown; she felt the weight removed from her in many ways. She slipped into a fine, pale lilac silk robe, tying it loosely over her shift, replacing leather boots with soft slippers, and took her seat at the small dining table, suddenly exhausted.

There was a scratching at the outer door, and Dany smiled as she nodded to let Ghost in even as she began her meal, smiling at the direwolf as he made himself at home, laying on cool stone in the corner after shoving his snout under the table to poke her in the belly. Between bites she asked that they open the double doors that led to the garden and the mist-filtered light streamed in, filling the room with an afternoon glow. Dany took note of all the colors in the rooms and the fresh flowers in vessels in various corners, and watched the shadows of the birds flitting in the garden beyond. She sighed and felt a bit of hope, and comfort.

“Ser Davos, I suspect I may not be up to the meeting this evening…” She gestured toward a nearby chair. “Please come and sit with me, it’s been a busy few days... what is happening in the realm?”

Davos returned her smile as he pulled the chair close to her as she ate ravenously.

“It's good to see your appetite returning, Your Grace.”

Dany nodded as she slathered apple butter on the fresh bread and trailed it through the gravy, leaning over her plate to catch the dripping juices.

“I’m famished all the time now, I guess that’s a good thing… I don’t think I realized how nervous I was about being ‘alive’ in public, I suppose it went better than expected? What would you say?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Davos tilted his head as he thought...

“Davos, we’ve been through this, ‘Dany’ when we’re alone, or if you’re uncomfortable with that, ‘Daenerys’.”

Davos smiled and nodded, “Apologies, Daenerys…”

She relished a bite of boar followed by a chunk of fresh bread loaded with tart crushed cranberries, then she smiled at being able to enjoy a meal out of bed, her first since… “Go on, Ser Davos, would you like some? There seems to be enough for a hundred of me.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, I’ve been eating with the King, as you suggested.”

Dany smiled as she ate, “He’s eating better then?”

Davos raised his eyebrows, “Yes, better, though he still grumbles about what a waste of time it is…”

They both laughed. Dany leaned back in her seat and placed her hand on the swell of her belly, closing her eyes and longing for a sign that all was well.

“And tonight you will go again to the feeding stations… Grey Worm, you will go with them, make sure nothing happens to the King…”

Grey Worm scowled as he nodded, clearly not happy.

Davos stifled a smirk, it was clear they didn’t get along, and that Grey Worm didn’t like protecting the King, scowling when she had admonished his attitude earlier. Things had not improved, and although Dany had noticed she kept silent. Jon wanted to address this himself and had said he would talk to Grey Worm, so she had decided to let that happen in good time. Her council, their council had been making plans for the Unsullied and Dothraki that had survived, options to return to Essos, to their families or to serve her there, or to remain and become part of the future of Westeros. And though she valued Grey Worm beyond measure, she could tell he was not happy here, would not be happy serving with Jon as King, perhaps anyone as King. Not without Missendei. She now wondered if she had surrounded herself with people who were loyal to her only because of who she was as a person, or out of gratitude for what she had accomplished, rather than what she would be as a Queen. She had been wondering a great many things lately.

“Ser Davos, will you take someone with you, from what is left of the Great Council?” He looked her in the eye, then both laughed again. Truly, who did this handful of people think they were, deciding such a thing for the whole of Westeros...

Davos shook his head. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it, who do you suggest…?”

“Someone who needs to see Jon as King, he’s so good with people, Lord Tully perhaps, Prince Martell? Or invite them all so no one feels slighted.”

“That would end up to be quite the following...”

“He is the King of the Seven Kingdoms, he will need to get used to ‘quite the following’.” Davos smiled and nodded in agreement.

The Queen took a sip of juice and shifted in her chair as she leaned forward. “And the soldiers, what’s left of the City Watch, the Golden Company, the Lannister army? Have they all pledged fealty?”

“A good number of them have been vetted and have joined ranks, Your Grace. King Jon directed them to remove or strike through their sigils, the Lannister lion, now they are helping restore order, helping to bury the dead.” She remembered that most of the Lannister soldiers had dropped their armor and fled when they realized that Grey Worm was executing even those who had laid down their arms. But when Jon had called for them, discreetly of course, and had given his word that no harm would come to them, they had rallied around him, trusted him, and had taken a chance on a fellow soldier.

“And the Greyjoy fleet, how many ships did I fail to sink?” She smirked at the thought of Drogon blowing ‘The Silence’ out from under the King of the Iron Islands. She had wondered if the poison had affected her memory, she couldn’t believe she would have forgotten about his armada, had let down her guard at the worst possible time, and Rhaegal had paid the price. Relief flooded her heart as she recalled the rising hope when Jon had told her he might be restored, and now to have him on the mend...

Yet she knew she couldn’t trust her memory. Another confidence stolen from her. Or was she just blaming all of her mistakes on the poison, or on Bran… another question to consider in the dark...

“Eight seaworthy vessels, Your Grace. There are several we are still hoping to salvage, but it will take time. Many of Euron’s Ironborn have pledged fealty and are working to make repairs. Perhaps when you speak with Lady Yara...”

Dany nodded as she scraped together another bite of gravy and greens, “Go on...”

“We’ve finally cleared the passageway to Grand Maester Qyburn’s workshop, we’ve been told that he was working with what was left of your father’s pyromancers, studying the wildfire. Hopefully there are answers in his rooms, the pyromancers’ rooms are buried much deeper under rubble. For now King Jon is working with the Maesters, and the Citadel has sent their own pyromancers, looking for ways to secure the wildfire that still remains under the city... Not all of it caught fire, we’ve been trying to identify the locations of the remaining stashes under the city, three so far…”

Daenerys was alarmed. “But Jon, he will …” she shook her head as she sipped juice to clear her throat. She would have to talk to him again, people needed him, he couldn’t just go around throwing himself in front of danger any more.

“He’s agreed to let others take any risks, Your Grace, that’s the best we can do, it is who and what he is…” Her heart was still racing, but it eased a bit as she lifted her eyes to find Davos smiling at her knowingly.

“And the dead…” She leaned back in her chair, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Davos, how many people did I kill? How many children, how many families did I wipe out?” She closed her eyes, the grief and guilt suddenly upon her.

“We still don't have those numbers, Your Grace, but it will be in the tens of thousands, perhaps 200,000 wounded and many of those will also perish. We can’t always tell between death by dragon fire or wildfire, or the sword and chaos that followed…” Davos shifted briefly and waited for his Queen’s attention. “A significant number of your forces, of the Unsullied and the Dothraki were also killed in the fires. The Dothraki had ridden deep into the city, to secure the farthest gates and the Lannister strongholds according to plan and were caught between the wildfire and the dragon fire. They sustained heavy casualties. Not all of the missing have been accounted for, though their bodies are often easier to distinguish from citizens of King’s Landing, so the number will likely grow...”

Dany gasped and closed her eyes. “Horses… I suspect I saw the horses and was chasing Cersei again… I know it shouldn't but it makes me feel better -- that I was so lost I couldn't tell people I loved from those I didn't know…”

Davos waited to regain her attention and continued.

“The Northern Army suffered fewer casualties, we were on foot, and we stayed close to Jon. It seems we were never in a direct line of fire from Drogon, and Jon withdrew the Northern Army when the wildfire caches started going off, we dragged as many civilians with us as we could. He had tried to convince Grey Worm to withdraw to outside the gates, but the Unsullied pushed forward, they seemed to be following Drogon...”

Daenerys struggled to retain her queenly demeanor. “I will have to speak with Annakko, this will likely add to their desire to return home. I had hoped they would serve me in the Bay of Dragons, but perhaps that will not be possible either.”

“Daenerys, I don’t believe they are holding you responsible, they have seen before what a dragon can do…”

“And the people, of King’s Landing, of Westeros? What is happening in the Reach, the uprisings…?”

“We tried to find members of those Houses here in King’s Landing to send word home, but as we had suspected the highborn had long ago fled the city.”

She remembered what Davos had told her earlier, what Tyrion should have reminded her but never had, that those who could leave had done so before the conflict began. Those who had loyalty, to one House or another, to Lannister, to Targaryen, had taken refuge close by, content to wait out the storm from a distance and swoop in to take advantage of whatever situation presented itself. The only ones left behind didn’t care who sat on the Iron Throne, they only cared about feeding their families, improving their lot in life. Guilt or innocence did not apply to the small folk, they were merely interested in their own survival, daily walking that thin line, a future in the hands of their so-called betters.

“We’ve sent messengers with the main points of what happened today to every House, the same message that’s been spread throughout the city, including the invitation to the Coronation and a call to come to King’s Landing to pledge fealty to the new King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Dany pushed the plate of fruit toward the Onion Knight, nodding as he slid a mango chunk into his mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the cool ripe sweetness.

“Thank you Davos, and when will your family arrive? Have you heard back from them? I’m looking forward to meeting them…”

“We decided it would be safest to wait to send the raven, until after you had taken the throne and the conspiracy had been exposed. We could have had quite a different outcome; the Northern Army was ready to take the city to free the King in the North, and the Unsullied and Dothraki would no doubt have sought to avenge their fallen Queen…”

Dany shook her head, “Then this was the best outcome for all…” She again placed her hand briefly on her belly as she leaned back, allowing for a fresh plate of gravy and boar and bread to be placed in front of her. She felt as though she’d eaten the entire boar herself, yet was still ravenous… she hoped that meant something good...

“You must have been a good father, a good husband…”

The former smuggler shook his head. “I would hardly say that Your... Daenerys. I have a good-daughter and 2 grandchildren that I’ve never even met, and a wife I can only hope will forgive me… she’s had to manage everything herself for so many years…” Dany watched as his eyes grew soft. “King Stannis…” Davos bowed his head as Dany winced at the phrase, “Apologies Your Grace… our station in life rose greatly when he knighted me and gave me my own House. But I’ve only visited there twice, visited my own home… She, Marya, she said she understood, but she didn’t like it, not by any…” He bowed his head again, “Sometimes I wonder what it was like reading my letters of the loss of our sons…”

Daenerys paused as she let her gaze drop. “I’m curious, Ser Hand, why ‘King Stannis’ did not let you bring your family, at least your wife with you, it was many years, on Dragonstone, across Westeros…”

“He felt it was a distraction, Your Grace, it was the Red Woman that finally convinced him to bring his wife and daughter toward the end. She had other purposes, of course…” His voice dropped, husky and bitter.

Dany paused her meal and quietly waited, “Tell me, Ser Davos, I’ve heard rumors…”

“Your Grace, it is not fit conversation for such a day as this, I will only say Stannis was a good man, but even good men can lose their way…”

She let those words sink in; she had wondered how Davos had been so easily accepting of the horrible things she had done, perhaps this was part of the answer.

Davos shook off his melancholy and reached for another piece of mango. “Now King Jon, as soon as we took back Winterfell, we began to speak of bringing my family to join me there. Jon saw family as a strength, a comfort, and had said that he was with his family, I should be with mine… but we decided it would be safer for them to stay put, travel was dangerous at that time, and with the threat of the Dead… she wrote that she understood, I’m not sure if she thought it was just a story I was using as an excuse… I’m sure we will have quite a time catching up…” Dany chuckled as his eyebrows raised with the roll of his eyes.

“It's good to hear Jon was generous, is generous. There are still so many things I don’t know about my husband…” She paused. “Even saying that word has become unexpectedly… thought-provoking…” She smiled to herself, letting the events of the day settle into the back of her thoughts. “How is he, Davos, he puts on a brave front for me, but he’s always exhausted, pushing himself… we don’t really talk much…”

Davos leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of the chair. “He’s doing well, Daenerys, as are you. He is doing what must be done. There will be a time for everything else, soon…” He paused as tears escaped her eyes once again, sighing as the elder reached and placed his hand gently on hers, waiting for a rebuff that never came.

“I feel sometimes like he’s a complete stranger, like I don’t know him at all, like I never knew him…” Her eyes glazed over as she looked vacantly across the room. “I just… I don’t know what comes next...”

Davos withdrew his hand and nodded with a chuckle. “As much as you may be shocked by this, Your Grace, you can’t control the pace at which you heal, at which your relationship with Jon heals. You’ve both been through a lot, so much, at such a young age. You’ll need to be patient with each other, and let go of what you had in the past. You can’t go back, not really. You’re both different people now, you’ll create a different relationship. Love changes, over time, that’s normal. Not better, not worse, not necessarily. What’s important is to remember to change ‘toward’ each other, and not ‘away’ from each other...”

Daenerys caught his gaze. “And you think he loves me? After all of this, what I’ve done, the way we’ve treated each other?”

Davos paused thoughtfully, “Your Grace, it is not for myself, or for others to say, but even from the beginning, when you first met, those around you both noticed your attraction to each other. Then on the ship to White Harbor, well, Your Grace, you were not as discrete as you may have thought…” His eyes twinkled with his smile as Dany felt her cheeks flush.

“If I may…”

Dany smirked. “Go ahead Ser Davos, advise me on this matter…”

“From what I know of you both, neither of you have been a part of what a good family should be; you, orphaned and always on the run; Jon, well, it’s true he lived with the Starks, but we see the evidence that he was never considered part of that family. So you are starting to build without plans, you’ll have to work harder… but a family is what you have now…” Davos lowered his gaze as Dany dropped her hand to her belly. “Love, marriage, family, these are all things that have to be worked at, built on. Not just feelings, attraction, but having things in common that you both believe in, a future…” Davos leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. “You are both clever, resourceful, stubborn young people, both born with a destiny written over your heads…” Daenerys smirked again. “If you decide you want to have more, more than just a marriage formed to save a kingdom, buried under the rubble of past mistakes and misunderstandings, I have no doubt you are both able to overcome whatever obstacles the Seven Kingdoms throw your way, if that’s what you choose…”

Daenerys sat still, quietly absorbing the encouragement and the challenge. She knew she was being impatient, always feeling left out and behind, always trying to catch up. But she had only recently realized that she had damaged her relationship with Jon for just that reason; she shouldn’t be surprised that he had lost trust in her when she could not be patient, and instead had pushed him away. He wasn’t ready, for so many things, and she insisted he make decisions anyway, decisions that always benefitted her. Her face fell as she began to see how badly she had handled Jon’s secret, his family, his people and his kingdom, seeing only how they interfered with her goals. She suspected she couldn’t blame all of it on the poison.

Daenerys dropped her head as she gathered her hands in her lap. “Thank you Ser Davos. That helps…” She grasped her empty cup of watered juice, rolling it in her fingers, smiling gently as it was quickly re-filled, the handmaid curtseying as she wiped the dew off the outside of the silver pitcher.

The Queen continued, swallowing a yawn as she took a deep breath and changed her focus. “Well we’ve already discussed our goals for the meeting this evening, perhaps it's better that I'm not there, you all can talk about me behind my back, as if the whole of Westeros isn’t already doing so, even Essos.”

“It can’t be helped, Daenerys... we move forward…”

Dany pushed back her plate, looking past Davos and into the garden. “We still don’t know, though…” She paused to search his face, “What if we never find out?”

Davos straightened in his seat with confidence. “Still, we move forward, Your Grace. You, both, overcome any remaining fear or anger or even hatred by doing right by the people of Westeros, lords and small folk alike. We all acknowledge the grief, we mourn, then we rebuild. The people will follow you; they want to rebuild, if you give them the vision and the tools and the materials, they will move forward with you…”

“And you’re confident we’re doing the right thing, taking the throne, after all this, together? We could always just leave, Jon has said…” Dany smiled and tilted her head, “Davos, how would you like to be King of the Seven Kingdoms?” They both laughed heartily, Davos vigorously shaking his head.

“No, the two of you were born to rule. You’ve both proven you don’t need a crown or a throne to lead the people, to change your world, to do good for the people. You should take the throne because it will make it easier to do good, together.”

Assured, Dany let her shoulders relax. “I'm glad you and Jon crossed paths at Castle Black, even under those difficult circumstances…”

Davos smiled again and nodded.

“You still haven’t told me your version of what happened that day... Jon’s told me what he remembers, what I’ve been able to force out of him, but obviously you…” she paused to stifle a yawn and leaned back in her chair heavily as the servants removed the dishes from the table, Kinvara replacing the finished meal with a cup of herbed tea, signalling to the Queen the end of her day.

Davos stood politely, “That will be a story for another day, Daenerys.” He called for Ghost, then nodded to Kinvara as he readied to leave, “Have a good rest, my Queen, I’ve no doubt you will soon be longing for the days when you could spend time simply enjoying the weather…”

She laughed, “I know you’re right, I just…” She paused as her handmaid gathered her silver hair over the back of the chair and pulled the simple braids apart, letting her hair cascade down her back. As she had recovered, she had asked for a sharp blade, or scissors, anything so she could cut off her hair to mark her great defeat. Jon had talked her out of it, several times she’d been told, and over time she had opted for simply foregoing braids altogether, other than what was necessary for practicality’s sake. She sighed as her hair was brushed out, feeling the stress of the day melt under the peace of the room and the tea. Kinvara helped her to her feet and toward the bed as two others turned back the colorful bedclothes.

Dany felt Davos turn to leave, “Tell Jon the room is beautiful... you’ve done such a wonderful job, Ser Davos... remind him to wake me when he comes in, though he never does…”

Davos chuckled softly, holding the doors open for the ever-growing direwolf, “I’ll let him know, Your Grace, have a good evening…” Davos grabbed a fistful of white fur and pulled the wolf into the hall, “Come along ya lazy oaf, we’ll stop by the kitchen and see what you can scare up for your supper…”

Dany nodded to return Davos’s practiced bow as he retreated through the inner door followed by Grey Worm, pausing to listen to his conversation with the white wolf continuing down the hall, his voice fading into murmurs, “How many times have you already eaten today you lumbering monster, its a wonder you made it up the steps, you’ve gotten so…”

She had hoped Ghost would stay with her, but he had come south for Jon, not for her. No one for her... She took a seat on the edge of the bed to rest. She could feel herself getting stronger, but the dizziness and loneliness and weakness was still frustrating.

Kinvara helped her remove her robe and slippers and then into bed as Dany smirked at her, “These are hardly the duties of the High Priestess of the Lord of Light…”

The beautiful woman nodded and smiled, “I am here to serve the Chosen, Your Grace. Tomorrow we will introduce you to your new Westerosi handmaidens and make clear the duties of your Dothraki helpers as well…”

The Queen pulled the embroidered coverlet under her chin as she snuggled into the fine fabrics. “My Lady, thank you for taking such good care of me…”

“Good evening, my Queen, and congratulations on retaking your throne for your House, long may you reign…” She bowed slightly and smiled mysteriously as she held the doors open for the handmaidens, then turned and left, guards closing the doors behind her.

Daenerys let her gaze flit over the splashes of color throughout the room, glints of blue and red and gold and green in the still bright sunlight. She considered having the garden doors fully closed, but she knew there were guards outside, she could hear the occasional shuffle of feet or rub of leather, and she enjoyed the fresh sea air and the distant squawking of sea birds. She knew from experience she would be asleep soon, Kinvara’s tea providing a dreamless, restful sleep, brief as it would likely be before the nightmares returned.

It was a beautiful room, fit for a queen.

She swept her hands over the fine fabrics of the coverlet draped across her bed, over her belly, pausing on the slight mound visible under the thin fabrics.

“We move forward.”

She didn’t like feeling so helpless, had been whining about it for quite some time, infuriated at times with the patience of those around her. Until Davos had just the other day solemnly cleared his throat mid-complaint and glared at her.

“Your Grace, it's up to each of us to make the most of the time we have…”

Her gaping mouth had snapped shut. “But Ser Davos, I am doing nothing but wasting time, locked in this room, waiting for time to pass…”

His gaze had softened then. “Your Grace, you are healing… that is your main purpose right now, and anything that interferes with that healing is of lesser importance. Healing, and being a mother to your child. You alone can do these important tasks. Everything else is being taken care of, or will wait for you.”

Just as then tears came to her eyes, and alone in her room she let them fall.

She thought of Missendei, yet again. Sweet, strong Missendei. Lost to her so abruptly, so horrifically. Her heart hurt, pounding; she sought something else to think of.

Ser Davos, of House Seaworth. She knew there was more to his story, Jon had told her about him, but at that time they were engaged in... other activities, and she was barely listening, instead focused on his hands and his warmth. She had never felt such comfort just from being held. Another subject she needed to think of at a later time, when she was strong…

Back to Ser Davos...

She was increasingly grateful for him, for his wisdom and his authoritative presence. It was clear why Jon relied on him, trusted him, even why the usurper Stannis Baratheon had relied on him before Jon. The experience both of travel and age, a perspective neither she nor Jon had on their own.

She yawned deeply, memories drifting of when she first took a chance to get to know him. She didn’t even remember how long ago it was, how many days - after - but she had felt smothered, locked in that room, deep in the farthest wing of the castle, some place no one would stumble upon. Jon slept there, not with her, in her bed, but in the same room, would sometimes wake her with his own violent nightmares. They hadn’t talked much, about where they stood with each other, only that they would go through this together. Unlike her he had choices, he could have returned North, taken his forces and his freedom and left, returned to his life as King in the North, no one would have kept him from re-claiming his crown if he had wished to. Or he could have taken the Iron Throne. They both knew he was entitled to it. She had lost her claim, had betrayed not Cersei’s people, but her own; and Jon, he was the right person at the right time to rebuild Westeros. Yet he had neither returned North or taken the throne for himself. No, he had returned to her side, time and time again.

She had lingered on death’s threshold, or so she had been told. It was several days - after - before she had any memories at all. Memories of Jon, caring for her, making her eat, helping her remember, holding her through the pain and disappointment and crush of emotions, assuring her everything would be fine. She knew they wouldn’t be, but Jon had given her hope, a strength that she had held onto through the darkest despair.

She had lost all sense of time, and it was always near pitch in her room, even with the candles lit, the shutters tightly closed and locked. Eventually the pain and confusion had started to wane, and the truth of what had happened, what she had done... she needed to see it for herself. Jon had refused to show her, to take her to a window even. She had relented, for his sake, so distressed when she had tried to insist. She knew it was bad, that it would be unbearable, she could see it on his face when unguarded. But if she was to rule, if she was to build something new, she would first have to rebuild trust, that she could be trusted and that would need to be based on the truth.

She had thought of asking Grey Worm, but he, like Jon, wished only to protect her from - everything. So she had sent for Ser Davos, no doubt startling both him and his King. She had asked him for a special favor, which he eventually embraced, perhaps seeing the wisdom in it. Secret from Jon, at least at first, though she suspected Davos had told him enough to keep from deceiving his sovereign.

Davos had met her at dusk the next day and had helped her to a small upper room with a balcony overlooking the still-burning King’s Landing. Grey Worm had objected; he had become outwardly jealous of all things Northern, so she invited him to accompany her and the three of them, with her guards and her handmaid Vitti, made the long trek up the tower steps.

She had leaned on Davos’s arm the whole way, gasping as she breathed in the putrid air, stopping many times, sometimes every few steps, Grey Worm insisting that she return to her sickroom. But she pushed forward, more determined with each step, Davos lending his strength, even an occasional encouragement.

“The next door, Your Grace.” By then she was incredibly weary and in pain, having turned down the concoctions that would ease the incessant sharp prickles so she could be clear-headed and sure of her steps.

Grey Worm entered first, to find Northern guards keeping watch over the empty room. More candles were lit to fill the small room, and she blinked often, the air stagnant and heavy and hazed. She grasped Davos’s arm tighter, ignoring Grey Worm’s scowl, then nodded she was ready to enter.

Slowly she stepped through the room, toward the small balcony, bracing herself as the sounds and the wreckage of the once-brilliant city slowly hit her senses.

Darkness had begun to settle overhead, but her view downward was awash with shimmering light, the heavy haze hanging over the city fed by the colored smoke rising from the puddles of green and red glow here and there throughout the sprawling ruin below.

She had been correct, it was unbearable, the reality far worse than her nightmares.

From this height, details folded into one another, but she was used to picking them out from great heights and was able to distinguish between the different landmarks of King’s Landing; the ruins of the Sept of Baelor, the ruins of the Dragon Pit, viewed from the ruins of the Red Keep. She had memorized the layout of the streets for the assault, had directed to protect the markets and the guilds, the Street of Steel, of Looms, of Flour, but Cersei had ridden her white horse through the densely populated heart of the city, and Drogon’s flames had followed her.

The Queen leaned against the stone rail, brushing ash and red dust into the dark abyss beneath her as she forced herself to take it all in.

The city was once colorful and active, red tiled roofs among cobbled streets and green shuttered stucco homes, laundry and linens hanging on lines in the residential areas of the city and in the marketplace. Blues and greens and reds and yellows, against a backdrop of a sea of human faces, all looking up.

Now a colorless sludge of black and gray and dirty brown, indistinguishable charred buildings and mounds of rubble visible through the patchy air. Here and there were cleared spaces for large fires, people huddled around, winter is coming after all, some were laying down curled around each other, others had hands outstretched to the fire, all quiet and still, voices a backdrop of muffled hum, the only motion a few soldiers on horseback roaming through the few cleared streets.

The dead were being quickly removed from the city as they were uncovered from the debris, the injured taken to healing stations both within and without the city walls, what was left of them. But there were sections of the city that were devoid of light, devoid of life, and others still engulfed in flame, some red, most a brilliant green.

As the sun dipped farther behind the haze, an eerie crackling silence settled over the city, broken by wailing, commands from soldiers and an occasional shout of either joy or pain as the clearing of another mound of rubble had revealed hidden truths.

Suddenly a deep roar broke the silence over the city, followed by a moving shadow and shrieks of fear and pain by the people below.

Drogon!

She had not been able to reach out to him before, had been too weak and too deeply hidden beneath the castle, but he must have sensed her presence and sought her out unbidden.

She reached out to him then, assuring him as he flew past her balcony, calming his distress and anger, instead directing him to return to Dragonstone and to be at peace, that everything would be fine. He had resisted, lonely and confused, but she had forced herself to be hopeful and at peace, for him. He could feel his disappointment and resignation, and watched as he swooped low over the city, sharp cries of panic and running figures below, finally snapping his wings once to carry him away, out over Blackwater Bay and toward his familiar perch on Dragonstone.

Cheering erupted in the city far below. Daenerys felt her heart clench, then was distracted as Davos pulled a chair forward for her, pillows and blanket and footstool, so she could rest and put up her painful feet, even had juice and other food waiting for her just in case. He knew what she needed, not so much for her comfort, but so that she could see. See everything, see what dragons can do. Viserys had told her some of the stories, and she had read of them, their power, their fire. But she had only paid attention to their great majesty and the thrill of conquering, and had paid little attention to the tales of the destruction left behind in their wake, if there had been any tales told. There was little majesty in suffering, death and burnt flesh.

She had used her dragons as weapons before, of course. Against her enemies. But these were not soldiers, these were her people. The people she desired to rule. She would be asking for their allegiance, their trust. And this was how they would begin. Ashes, destruction, betrayal and flames.

She took in and memorized the smell, the sluggish movement, the sunset, the colors. This was her reality, her truth. She would need to remember.

Suddenly the wind picked up, blowing wispy ash between the mounds, and the flutter of fabric caught her eye, sprinkled along the cleared thoroughfares, banners fluttering on poles marking the bonfires. Gray with white, sparkling against the muck. Stark banners, bastard banners, her eye catching them hanging out of windows, carried on patrols by Northern soldiers slowly approaching hesitant townsfolk, posted at street intersections. Her breath caught again as she peered harder into the mist, searching. But she knew the truth. It was not House Targaryen that ruled this city now, it was House Stark. She closed her eyes, his promises sounding in the back of her mind as the doubt surged. There was a plan in place, a strategy. Then they would rule together... or she would be betrayed yet again…

The gusts from below reached her balcony, set so high above the city, bringing the dank smell of decay and burnt flesh. She could taste the bitterness in the air and wondered if the grit she felt in the back of her throat was what remained of a person, a mother, a child. She let herself feel the horror, wanted to feel it, embrace it, relish in it. She let it sink in, what she had done. So she could go forward. She sat straighter, fist clenched on the top of the stone wall. She would not be like her ancestors, needing the threat of this destruction to rule. She would rule from strength, the strength of doing the right thing, for all her people. She remembered feeling the excitement return.

“Thank you, Ser Davos.” She turned to look at him calmly and took a deep breath. “Shall we begin?”

She woke with a start at the quiet click of the door latching. Someone checking in on her.

She could not have been asleep for long, an hour or two, the sun still shone through the window though not as strongly. She rolled to her side, her hand stretching across the mound of her belly as her eyes fell on the banners on the wall. Stark and Targaryen.

Since that night on the balcony, somehow he had understood, and every day since then Davos had come to her, kept her informed of the details, of her realm, of her city, of her people, of her nephew. By the gods, Jon Snow. King.

Husband.

When he had told her the truth of his heritage, she remembered thinking of the absurdity of it. Now it made perfect sense.

She wondered if he was lost to her now. If they were lost to one another, overwhelmed by duty, by the realm, by their mistakes. She stretched out her hand across the coverlet and pillow. There was far too much bed for just one person. She missed him. He had smiled when she told him early that morning, his eyebrows rising, the furrows in his forehead deeper each day. “It means you’re getting stronger…” He leaned over and gently kissed her on her forehead, stroking her hair. Then he had left her behind in her servant’s quarters. And she still missed him. She wondered if he had any feelings left for her at all.

She sighed. Later.

Daenerys shifted to sit up in bed and gather her thoughts when a shooting pain shot through her body, from head to toe and back again, settling in the back of her head. She gasped lightly; ordinarily a pain like that would have caused her to cry out. But pain was part of her life now; easing, yes, but constant and intrusive. What else could she think about, something cheerful.

Her sons.

Drogon. Excited at the return of his brother, grieving over the loss of the other. Sharing her regret over her actions, anger over their separation. He was settling in well in their nest across the bay, hunting at sea. She could sense his calm, a calm he pushed toward his mother.

Rhaegal.

She smiled with joy, her child would not only live, but was able to fly. She could sense his presence, though it was different than before. Not surprising. She wondered that the bond was still there at all. He had died. Was dead. Now he’s not. Like his rider. What kind of magic was this, this destiny. She had once asked Jon what it was like, dying, being dead, but she had seen the pain and fear and - shame? - that flitted behind his eyes and quickly changed the subject. Was that the right thing to do? She didn’t think there was proper protocol when discussing this particular subject.

Later.

Tyrion.

Meereen. She had said good-bye to her unloved lover. Tyrion had gloated, assuring her Daario was not the only, not the last to love her. At the time she had wondered if she was capable of love, of giving it. If anyone would want it... Or was love merely a weapon, a tool, a means to an end.

“You’re in the Great Game now, and the Great Game is terrifying…”

She had named him her Hand, and he had knelt. Perhaps that was all it was to him, all along. A game of strategy. Who would end up on top. Did he ever think she would make a good Queen? Or was this merely revenge, against a family and a city and a kingdom for all the wrongs, real and imagined that he had experienced at their hands?

She had done what he advised, what he had told her to do -- why did she ever trust him? He was so confident, and he knew Westeros, and she had limited choices. He had advised her right into his trap. Yet, here she was. He, they, had almost succeeded. Except for Jon.

It was petty, but she wanted to gloat. For once, Tyrion had been outwitted. Or he had outwitted himself, the details were yet to be discovered. Either way, she would live, and he would die. Horribly, painfully, slowly. She wanted him to know she would enjoy watching him die for his betrayals, to remind him of his failures. But she also wanted to ask why… There would be an opportunity to speak with him later no doubt, before his end. But she wanted to ask him now, when he was newly found out, while he was most vulnerable…

She was fully awake now, achy and hungry, relieved when she noticed the new tray of fruit and cheese and fresh juice. Slowly she slipped on her robe and slippers, then sat on the edge of the bench to nibble, she didn’t want to get too comfortable. She’d need to get dressed to visit Tyrion, and that meant calling for someone to help her, too weak yet to dress herself, and right now she was enjoying the peace and quiet, but for the occasional echo of voice or gull or labor through the windows. She’d need help finding him too, and getting there, and things became complicated quickly just so she could glare at him in victory.

Later.

Instead she decided to explore her new rooms. This central room was comfortable, beautiful, practical to be sure, but clearly re-purposed. Some of the door placements didn’t make sense, but she’d get used to them, she supposed. She sipped the chilled juice and let her eye wander, noticing the stack of rolled parchments on the desk. Curious, she stood and wrapped her robe more tightly around her waist and slid on her slippers, flattening her palm on her belly, noticing the colorful rug as she rounded the large bed toward the desk. The scrolls were unopened and addressed to her. ‘Queen Daenerys Stormborn’ or ‘Daenerys Targaryen’ or sometimes just ‘The Queen.’ She ran her hand across the unbroken seals bearing familiar sigils, selected and opened the top one, bearing the seal of House Baratheon.

She smiled, running her finger across the title she had bestowed on the young bastard. One of her very first acts as monarch in Westeros, she would support him in any way possible, she wanted him to succeed.

Yet she shook her head. He had fallen in love with Arya Stark, asked for her hand and was promptly rejected. Now she is dead. Were condolences in order? Though in a sense he could heal now, move forward, with the realm, and perhaps love again.

She supposed that was how life was… you love, you lose. You go on.

She needed to appoint her own Hand, or a steward or someone to take care of these kinds of things. She and Jon had appointed Ser Davos as their Hand, Hand to the Crown, but had decided they would both have an individual Hand; to the King, Lord Wintyn Manderly, and to the Queen...

She had no one. It would have been Tyrion… but now she had no one.

At least she didn’t start to cry again.

After a brief search she found the doors that led to the privy and bath, grateful for the basin of cool water. She washed her face herself for the first time since that day, then sat on the bench to catch her breath.

The next set of doors was off to the side a bit, she could tell they had been newly fitted into the arched entry. They opened into a large room with a row of windows set high on the wall, light spilling over the sparse furnishings, tables, a bed and a seating area, and a small but ornate hearth at the far end.

Light danced off the figure in the corner, startling her until she realized its source. Even from across the room, it was an impressive set of armor, red and black and gray, bearing the three headed dragon and the white bastard direwolf. She approached it slowly in the dimness, her hand reaching out to stroke the chain mail and plate, her fingers lingering over the detailed chest plates, etched with both dragon scales and direwolf fur. She imagined him wearing it, and missed him more, feeling a forgotten, pleasant surge deep within. She took a deep breath and moved on, her slippers scuffing the polished marble floor.

Against the wall a large wardrobe and a writing desk set up under the middle window holding a box of scrolls and several unfurled parchments, no doubt similar messages as hers, and a plain wooden box. At first she thought he might have been sleeping here, but things were rather haphazardly stacked in the room, muddy boots by the hearth where he had clearly exchanged them after his visit with Rhaegal this morning, and clothing and his satchel tossed on the end of the bed. Stewards probably moved his things here this morning. Was that why he was late to the throne room, he couldn’t find his boots? She smiled to herself. He’d never needed much room, had mentioned so on many occasions, though now that he was King of the Seven Kingdoms he’d have to get used to a more expansive wardrobe.

There was a faded, garish tapestry on the wall, out of place with the simplicity of the room. As she looked more closely she could see raised marks in the plaster underneath, and she pulled the tapestry aside to see the outline of a painted-over lion, superimposed over two dancing dragons etched into the plaster, encircling and roaring.

She wondered what these rooms had been used for before.

Daenerys startled and gasped as a tall boy burst through a second set of doors, apparently leading off a main hallway. The boy startled as well, nearly tripping as his eyes adjusted to the dim light within.

“Your Grace…” He bowed enthusiastically, the habit ingrained.

Dany noticed the lad was wearing her husband’s sigil on his tunic, the dragon and the direwolf. “Yes, it’s all right, can I help you?”

The boy startled again and she stifled a grin.

“The King sent me, Your Grace, Ser Davos convinced King Jon to wear the Northern Crown when he goes out in public. He wanted him to wear it all the time, to get used to wearing a crown, but they compromised and for now he’ll wear it when he goes outside the Red Keep.” For some reason the young lad was grinning wide, with a sparkle in his eye.

The Queen nodded. “And you are…”

The smile dropped from his face and he bowed again, slowly this time.

“Pardon, Your Grace. I’m the King’s Steward.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “My name is Kevan Lannister, Your Grace.” He took a half-step back at her gasp, then stiffened his spine. “My father is third cousin to Lord Tyrion Lannister, Your Grace, I think that makes us fourth cousins… but I serve your House now - House Targaryen, House Stark. I have sworn to this House now, Your Grace.” He bowed again, his confidence returning.

The Queen nodded, bracing against the return of her headache. “Why, ‘Steward Lannister,’ why do you now serve my House?”

She waited, as straight and regal as she could muster. She softened her gaze as sorrow and pain flitted behind his green eyes.

“When I was younger, I spent a good deal of time with my mother’s family in the Riverlands, Your Grace. It became a home to me, it was a beautiful place, and the people were kind and good and worked hard. My mother called me home when the war of the Five Kings broke out. Soon after, word came that my mother’s family were all slaughtered by the Mountain, Your Grace.” He paused, lost in his memories, his breath shallow and pained. “Even Little Margo, I was there when she was born, she was just a babe, and the animals, all the sheep and cattle and geese and horses, and then they set the fields on fire and salted all the waterways. They were my family, my friends, and they were all killed to send a message. They had done nothing wrong, Your Grace, they were just living their lives.” He paused and she could see his eyes glisten. “That’s what the Lannisters are known for. Treachery and brutality. I don’t want that for my legacy, Your Grace. I want to use power for good, to leave a better world, better for everyone, that’s what he says, King Jon, what he says you are going to do -- that’s right, isn’t it, Your Grace?”

She smiled and nodded, “yes, a better world…” He smiled in return, then saw the wooden box on the desk and rushed to it, unlatching it to peer inside.

“I wasn’t aware King Jon had a Northern Crown…” She felt her unease rise again.

The blonde lad approached her with the opened box. “Lord Cerwyn sent it over not long ago, Your Grace. Apparently he had brought it with him, in case it was necessary…” His cheeks flushed and his eyes dropped sheepishly. “King Jon sent it directly to his rooms, I don’t think he even opened it…”

Daenerys reached for the box and brushed her fingers over the iron and bronze of the fierce crown of the King of Winter. They had been working on designs for their new crowns, but he would wear one first. She was torn, between the recurring jealousy and envy, and the irony of Jon Snow bearing multiple crowns after swearing how many times that he didn’t want even one…

“Pardon me, Your Grace, he’s waiting...”

She nodded and stepped back, closing the lid to the box. Kevan Lannister bowed and backed out the door, closing it behind him. She sat for a moment on the edge of the bed to catch her breath; gods she had only walked a few steps. Her eyes circled the room again. Jon with a crown. All of Jon’s efforts had been for others, his people, for her. She suddenly thought of what could make him happy, what she could do for him. She was taking him away from his family, his people, his winter… she hadn’t really thought about it until now, gods she was truly a terrible person. But, she wanted him to be happy, to be truly himself. The thought struck her: she wanted Jon to be happy. Is that what love is? She pushed herself off the bed and left the King’s quarters to continue her exploration.

There was another door, to a dressing room, a wardrobe and boxes and a comfortable chair, with several round windows above. She could see a rising moon faint against the last rays of the day’s bright sunshine.

A dressing table, her silver brush and hand mirror, hair clips and ties, several jars of ointments and creams and oils, a small engraved silver box and her three-headed dragon pin, polished and waiting.

Her personal things, from Dragonstone.

The maesters, no doubt, and Kinvara, others had gone through her belongings in search of the poison, without success. So they had been brought to her here in the Red Keep. She sighed to herself, bristling at the notion that strangers had gone through her personal belongings, yet glad that they had been restored to her. She shook her head and re-arranged the items in front of her. Yes, this was starting to feel like home.

She gingerly sat on the cushioned bench and let her fingers linger over the pin, three silver dragon heads, again considering her lost son, pushing away the sadness, the loss, until her eyes returned to the silver box, a gift from Missendei. The tears welled, she brushed them away, but they returned. It was a small box with a hinged lid; the top engraving was small, but meaningful -- “Mhysa” -- Mother. Her warm brown eyes had glinted when she had gifted her the box, already filled with the boiled-honey cream. Had she known? Suspected? The jar of fragrant cream was a gift from sweet Gilly, what the wildlings, the Free Folk used to ward off the damage of the bitter Northern cold, the box small enough that she could carry it everywhere, even atop Drogon. Now it was all she had left of her one true friend… guilt and regret rose again, she hastily replaced the silver box and stood to look for a new distraction.

There were cupboards along the wall, wardrobes, she opened each and let her hand glance across the fabrics, silk and leather and fur and wool. A history of her travels, of her life, colorful and varied for such a short life.

Yet here she was.

She opened the last wardrobe and startled as the strong smell of smoke filled her senses. It was almost empty, but for her black leather coat, brushed and clean, but still carrying the effects of that day. The tunic and trousers, boots, scarf and gloves, cleaned and ready and waiting. She gasped as her fingers grasped the coat sleeve and pulled it into the light. This was real, forever a part of who she was. The memories and the pain surged, her heart racing, but she would go forward now, only forward. She stood tall and calmed herself, then stepped back, gently shutting the doors. She would have them all burnt tomorrow.

Through another door and back into the bedroom, seeking the single door tucked on the far side of the room.

The nursery.

She hesitated, stopping herself from once again stroking her belly, then raised her head and opened the door.

It was dark inside, only a bit of light filtered in under a separate door, and the light behind her did little more than cast her shadow inward. But inside she could see the silhouette of a cradle on the far wall, and a chair and a domed wooden chest. And a soft-looking rug on the floor by the hearth.

Waiting.

She shut the door quickly.

Later.

As she turned she put her hand in the pocket of her robe, surprised to find Missendei’s silver box. She must have accidentally taken it with her. Tears welled up again, regret overwhelming her sensibilities. She should have left her on Dragonstone. She was not a fighter, she was her friend and advisor. She had no place in battle. Despair threatened to overtake her heart, she knew Missendei would not have left her side, to stay behind, safe and protected. Daenerys deliberately returned the silver box to her dressing table as she pushed back at the guilt and anger, feeling her inner strength slowly return. The ink was dry, the past could not be changed. But she could make sure her friend’s death was not in vain.

She smiled to herself as she huffed, lowered herself to the bench, the room spinning before her eyes.

She was beginning to feel like herself, emotionally at least, her strong self. Her Dragon self.

She finished the juice and a small meal, thinking of the many encouraging conversations she had had with Missendei, and Jorah and Ser Barristan. She hoped they would be proud of her.

Tyrion. Once again she thought of getting dressed and finding him and gloating. Once again thought better of it, her duty was to heal and be strong for her babe.

The Iron Throne. She would rule, she was sure of it now. She felt her fire surge, the familiar determination that she had relied on for oh so many years, through oh so many difficult and tragic times. But she was here, now. And she was Queen. The Dragon Queen. Her satisfaction grew as she recalled that very morning, taking her rightful place on her family’s throne. The Unsullied, the Northmen, the people of King’s Landing kneeling before her.

Then the Usurpers entered, and her patience strained. The tarp raised, and finally their faces, Sansa, Tyrion, Sam and Bran. She had struggled to keep from laughing at them, or at least smirking as the initial shock wore off and they were able to make sense of what they were seeing, even as Stark and Targaryen banners unfurled before them. She had watched the realization quickly settle over Tyrion’s face. He was the most clever after all. From anticipation, to confusion, to wonder, to fear. Delicious fear. He should be afraid, she’s had a lot of time to consider ways to reward his… service. Bran, then wide-eyed Tarly. Sansa was the last to see, too busy planning to see the reality in front of her. But when she had finally seen, seen the Rightful Queen on the Iron Throne, seen that all of her scheming and manipulating was for nothing, her rage and incredulity were invigorating.

They had all knelt. When it came time to fight, they had all knelt instead.

Daenerys stiffened as the pain returned with the ferocity of her winged sons. She’d need to make it to her bed before the pain took her strength. She paused though; she had hoped to be awake when Jon returned to change before the evening meeting. Would she be able to hear him in his room? Would he come to check on her? She wanted to hear what had happened, what was being said by the people… she wanted to be awake to see him, talk to him, be with him...

They would need to start soon, the talking, the being with each other…

The shock of the pain had waned, and she slowly stood to make her way back to her bedside. She wondered if she would dream any good dreams now as she slipped under the covers, dusk finally seeping through the windows, darkness creeping over the room but for the light from the new fire in the hearth.

Somehow she had faded into a deep sleep, but then awakened when the doors to the garden were closed with a soft rub. The pain had eased, her strength leaving with it. The windows were still open, she could tell it was fully dark outside, though she could hear - music? - not rousing, but not exactly mournful either. They must be serving dinner, and the wine. She smiled to herself. She wondered what Jon was doing right this minute, what she would be doing if only… she thought again of Missendei, her friend, then her thoughts turned to those who had betrayed her, to Varys, to Tyrion. What was he doing, thinking right now? She sat up in bed, noticing that the candles were lit and once again a tray of fruit and bread and juice had been left for her. “They truly want to fatten me up,” she chuckled to herself. She donned her robe and made her way to the chair by the fire in the small hearth, swathed in a soft embroidered blanket, stroking her belly as she nibbled on chunked pear and berries, “Come on, little one, be strong, be a dragon...and a wolf.”

The window to the garden was still open, and she could hear the distant chant of the ocean, carrying the occasional echo of bird call and chatter and crackle of fire. She leaned back in the chair, felt her breathing steady. Davos was right, she should enjoy this peace and quiet, it may be the last once she is out and about her royal duties.

She had hoped to be publicly involved that evening, but for certain she would meet the people tomorrow, even if it was just for a walk outside the Keep.

She needed to be with her people in their misery.

She needed to see, to look into their eyes. She wanted to see them, let them be angry with her, let them see her grief, her regret, so they could accept the truth, mourn, and move forward. They deserved the opportunity to hate her in person. So they could all start healing, to start accepting what had happened.

For once, she had to look back and relive the horrors...

Suddenly she was face to face with the loneliness she had been avoiding. The room was large and life-less and dimly lit, the fire crackling and steady at the same time. This was her home now. She wished Ghost hadn’t left, or Davos or even Grey Worm; as much as he was absorbed with his own grieving, they could wallow in that grief together. But she was alone, and could only wish for Jon to come to her. She smiled bitterly to herself, wishing she could just summon him, and he would have to obey. But he was doing his duty, and she was doing hers, and for now those duties rarely intertwined.

Laughter. Was that laughter she heard? The music had quieted, and she heard chattering and yes, laughter. Then there was quiet, and someone speaking, low and forceful. Jon. She couldn’t make out the words, but his tone was light but commanding. She’d wondered how he managed that, it made him easy to listen to. He’d come so far… the voices changed again, and there was a swell, laughter and chanting.

“King Jon!”

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. How many times had he said he never wanted it, the crown, to be king. But like it or not he’d been born to it, and was good at it. The voices faded into indistinguishable murmuring, soon overwhelmed by crickets in the garden and the far rush of the sea. She closed her eyes, wondering if her husband would visit her that night. She smiled to herself, for once feeling at peace; what will be, will be. It could all be good. For now she nodded, she had done what she set out to do. She had restored the throne to her family and avenged their deaths. One way or another, it was not the end of her House.

She settled more deeply in her chair, resigned to falling asleep where she sat by the embrace of the flames. Fire and Blood. Drogon and Rhaegal. King and Queen. Jon and Dany. She smiled again at where her thoughts inevitably took her. Winter is coming. Her eyelids fell and she sighed when she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her shoulders, then another, and another in her back and then nausea, unsettling deep inside. Dropping her hand to her belly, she knew what was happening and gasped for air, crying out, the tears flowing as she pulled the blanket back...

Chapter Text

It was a short walk back into the Throne Room, so Jon Snow had little time to do anything but listen to the long list of duties that awaited him as he took on his public role as southron King for the first time, discretely raising his eyebrow at Tormund’s wry grin. Lord Wintyn Manderly was concise and thorough, Davos had trained him well, and he also seemed to be a likable fellow, at least so far. Time would tell how his new Hand would fare.

Jon noticed that the work was back in full swing by the clanging and shouts ringing through the halls. His presence caused hardly a ripple as he waved for them to continue, though once the formalities had begun, the work slowly faltered, the craftsmen gathering or simply pausing to listen. Ser Callith Redfort, of House Redfort, Vassals of House Arryn of The Vale was waiting as he entered, Grand Maester Lesser and the High Septon both confidently taking their places next to the Iron Throne as they saw him approach.

Jon paused briefly before ascending the steps to the Iron Throne, then inauspiciously took his seat, Longclaw clanging against the steel, ready to proceed with the ceremony. It was probably best that this was a rushed event, a new King sitting the Iron Throne, Jon Snow sitting the Iron Throne; he’d think about its significance later.

He understood the importance of following protocol, honoring the past even as they were planning to change the future. Ser Callith, now wearing the black and gray cloak of the Targaryen Stark sigil, removed his helm and knelt. The words were few, and Jon nodded as his first official duty was to accept the fealty of the handful of personal guards that had been vetted and approved. There was only one remaining Queensguard from Cersei’s reign, Ser Arys Oakheart; he had been wounded protecting his Queen and was recovering in his family’s home in the Reach. Jon had yet to decide if he would fit into their reign, his connection to his home region would be beneficial in a number of ways, but the uprisings were taking their toll on the stability of the region and though Jon had reached out to him, his messenger had not returned. He wasn’t sure what to make of that, whether to send another messenger, a raven or assume that he had his answer.

He and Dany had agreed to start with a combined Crownsguard, charged with the safety of the royal family within the Red Keep, and within the Crownsguard, separate King’s and Queen’s guards, led by Northmen and Unsullied, for the frequent times the King and Queen would be about separate duties in the Seven Kingdoms. At least for now. Jon let a small smile escape his new royal mask as he thought of his familiar guards, who had accompanied him even from the far North to come to serve in this seemingly foreign land. He had spoken with them at length, over ale and venison, had released them to serve the North in the North, but to a man they had asked to serve him, Jon Snow, King in the North, even in the South. He had appointed Harkon Hornwood, loyal to him since the Battle of the Bastards, to be his Lord Commander of the King’s Guard; everyone seemed to be pleased with that, judging by the table-pounding and ale horns heaved to meet across the table. He had offered him a knighthood, a tradition of the conquering Andals, but Harkon was afraid he’d be reviled back home.

“I’m your Commander, I serve you and the Queen. I don’t need some foreign title to do that.”

He felt much safer, more at home, having Northmen as part of his inner circle. He was confident Dany felt the same about her Unsullied. Jon had hoped this literal changing of the guard would help Grey Worm mourn and move forward, difficult as it would be, accepting his role as Lord Commander of the Queen’s Guard, but living in the Red Keep was a constant reminder of the loss of his love, and so far there had been little indication that the Unsullied leader would be accepting the divided rule anytime soon. Jon understood, but his disrespect toward him was setting a bad example, one which could not be ignored.

“Your Grace…” Jon recognized the thin man as he approached, but he couldn’t remember his name. Jon waved him forward as he extended a pair of rolled parchments, tied with black, red, gray, and white twined ribbons. Ah, yes, he remembered now. Joven Tarner, commissioned by High Steward Merik. And these would be the final versions of the crowns and hopefully the new thrones as well. He was tempted to give them directly to Lord Manderly to deliver to the Queen, but this man had worked hard on these designs, had no doubt spent many hours incorporating their changes, wanting them just right, so he rose to stand next to the master craftsman, nodding to Manderly for his assistance as he unrolled the first large scroll.

The rendering itself was a work of art, no doubt it would later be bound into a book of some kind to commemorate their reign, for better or for worse.

But the crowns themselves… perfect.

Simple beaded circlets with seven alternating rising spires. Similar in overall design, but composed of different metals, white gold for the Queen, the King’s, etched steel. Both were encircled with dragonglass and rubies, representing House Targaryen; Jon’s also had lumps of uncut coal and shaded white diamond for House Stark, muted next to the glimmering red and black gems.

Jon had imagined the crown on her head since they had first begun considering combining their claim. The circlet would rest gently within her shining silver braids, a backdrop for the sparks of the faceted red and black like dragon’s eyes among the clouds. He sighed, smiling at the balding gentleman standing nearly on tip-toe one step below and marveled at the gap-toothed grin he was given in return. He returned the scroll to the craftsman in exchange for the other and eagerly unrolled it.

Two thrones, equal in overall height and configuration, but each clearly distinct. His was stark white, carved from weirwood recently delivered by ship from beyond the Wall. The precise flow and stance of the piece would be determined by the tangle of the wood itself, with profiles of the wolf and dragon, fierce but controlled, rising above and turned inward toward each other at the top, nestled among both weirwood leaves, wolf’s fur and dragon scales, standing guard over four intertwined rings on the back, representing the unity of the four limitless directions of the continent, reminding the seated of both their origin and never-ending responsibility. This back was echoed on the chair of the Queen, on a throne of darkest dragon-scorched ancient ironwood found on Dragonstone, currently on its way to the capital. Likewise, the strength and flow of the timber would determine the precise outline of the chair, with profiles of two dragons turned inward on top rising above on either side, breathing flames along the top to blend with a third dragon sprawled across the top center, resting but ready, flames and leather wings and dragon scales cascading down along each side of the ebony chair.

There was both simplicity and symbolism in the designs, unifying yet reflective of the distinct character of the King and Queen, setting the tone for the new realm being formed, the hope for a peaceful and prosperous future. Jon had marveled at how quickly they had been designed, even more so that they were promised to be completed for their Coronation, though he would not insist on that. Jon returned this scroll to the designer and was pleased when he extended a smaller scroll, wrapped several times ‘round with thin leather cord.

“This is the other… the items we discussed, Your Grace.” He bowed low as he watched the King unroll the heavier parchment. Jon turned it so that none could see but himself and Tarner. Jon struggled to contain his smile, but the reaction was enough to bring Tarner himself to a great grin.

“I’ll send for you once I’ve had a chance to review this… proposal. Thank you for all your diligence and care that you’ve obviously put into these pieces.”

Tarner again bowed, quite pleased with himself, as King Jon returned to be seated on the Iron Throne.

“Meet with Ser Davos, to arrange to meet with the Queen at her convenience for the final approval.”

Tarner nodded as he backed down the steps, even as he nodded to his Hand Wintyn Manderly. “Your Grace, your presence on the throne has spread quickly, it would be prudent to hold your next appointments here, in the throne room, so people can see that someone is actually in charge of things until it's time to visit the food stations.”

“Very well, how long will it take to bring them here?”

“They’ve come on their own, Your Grace, hoping…” Manderly’s hand waved toward the small crowd of eager faces huddled in a safe corner just in front of the tarp. Jon noticed the variety of people come to see him, not just those he’d already been meeting with but there were some town’s folk as well; a dirty, elderly man on crutches stood out, and a younger woman, a granddaughter perhaps, holding a fussing babe, and a small boy clinging to his mother’s skirts. He was tempted to hear them first, but then everyone would bring a fussing child to get to the front of the line. Jon instead simply nodded to his Hand and waved to Tormund to come closer. He had sent for Tormund the first week, to bring Ghost and supplies, but mainly to be a representative of the Free Folk. He knew he wouldn’t have much time to talk to his friend, his partner in the True North, before he would have to return home; things were changing, for better and for worse all over the continent, and Tormund would be needed on the far side of the Wall soon. Though the Wall itself remained standing, in whatever form, it would no longer hold its inhabitants hostage to the cold or the magic, and Jon wanted Tormund to be exposed to as many ideas and opportunities as could be fit in in such a short period of time.

First was an update on the underground caches of wildfire and the efforts to contain it, since it had become clear they did not yet have a way to extinguish it. Davos had sent hand-picked men to clear the way to Qyburn’s laboratory, a painstaking task in which two of the men were injured, disappointing when nothing relevant was found, at least so far. Jon had wanted to go himself, he felt he should be out front, as a leader, but Davos had talked him out of it, that it was too dangerous. Even that morning he had wanted to change his mind – he could, too, he was King after all – but in the end, he decided against it; he would have to learn to trust, learn to show that he had confidence in those assigned to these dangerous tasks, learn to allow others take the risks on his behalf. It just felt strange; he had always been the expendable one.

Next he met with the Rebuilding Council, publicly charging the Merchant Guild Master Erryn Blakken and Lord Gyles Rosby with rebuilding and improving when possible. They had been meeting privately for some time, but Jon wanted it to be known publicly that the Rebuilding Council was working on orders from the King, and they’d be expanding the Council with additional citizens from the various boroughs of King’s Landing.

Lord Gyles Rosby. Several families of high-born lords had fled north to House Rosby from the Red Keep, even as the small folk were fighting to get in, apparently deciding that Cersei’s cause was lost. Their ties to her were loose anyway; their House was in the Crownlands, they were loyal to the Crown, no matter whose head it rested upon. His House could be made a strong ally, though he didn’t know as much as he would like about Rosby’s presence in the capital at this time.

“Lord Rosby, Master Blakken, report to me personally at least once a day for the foreseeable future, we don’t want things going unaddressed.” They nodded solemnly; Jon had wanted them to report twice a day, but that would likely keep them from getting much done.

“Your Grace…” Jon paused at Wintyn’s interruption, “You have many claims on your time, perhaps they can report to someone else.” Jon nodded as he listened, balancing the need to be firm in his decisions with giving those advising him the assurance they were heard.

“The people need to know that their concerns are being taken directly to the King, and to the Queen when she is able, that they are important to the Crown. That is of utmost importance to me.”

Wintyn nodded thoughtfully as Jon watched the two men descend the steps then waved his Hand to him, “Should they be given some kind of guard, garments to signify their connection to the Crown? I want the people to be reminded who is behind the rebuilding.”

“I’ll make those arrangements, Your Grace.”

Jon smiled with a new satisfaction, it was nice to be able to get things done just by ordering them to be done.

“What’s next? Have we any news from the Reach?” With both the Tyrells and the Tarlys essentially wiped out, as well as the Lannisters, several regions had spiraled into chaos. Casterly Rock was quickly re-established to a kind of peace, enough of the remaining lords of that land understood very well what had happened in the capital and had rallied to maintain the strength of their kingdom. But the authority in the Reach, the source of much of the food and textiles and men in Westeros, had been taken and lost several times since that day. Jon had tried to deal with them long-distance, but by the time he had come up with a proposal, power had already changed hands. Someone – Harkon Hornwood, a Northerner of all people – had suggested he make a visit on his dragon to put an end to the infighting. He was considering the idea. Dany was in agreement, though of course, she wanted to go herself, but he didn’t want to terrorize them; they had already seen what Daenerys Stormborn on a dragon could do when she had used Drogon to destroy the Tyrell loot stolen by Jaime Lannister. He cringed whenever he thought of it, such a waste. It would have been better to capture the loot than destroy it. Yet it remained a good idea, a viable option when Rhaegal was strong enough, possibly within days. The bloodshed had to stop. Winter is coming.

“No word yet, Your Grace, though several lords have recently arrived in the capital and have requested an audience with you and may have some new information. I believe Ser Davos will speak to you about this in the morning.”

Jon nodded as he glanced over to the corner, looking for the elderly gentlemen and his family. They were gone.

“They were travelers, Your Grace, searching for family here in King’s Landing. I’ve sent one of my own men to take them to the sorting tents outside the gates to get them started on their search, he will make sure they are fed as well. I hope that is satisfactory.”

Jon nodded with a glint in his eye; “Of course, thank you Lord Wintyn. Well done.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable and not used to sitting still for so long.

“What’s next?” What followed was a steady stream of lords and oh-so-important men, and two ladies, all on the most urgent of business. Most of it involving money. They would need to prioritize appointing a Master of Coin.

Finally a younger man, from the farmland perhaps, dressed in layers of clothes, not shabby, just well-worn. He carried a sack with him, thrown over his shoulder. Jon noticed the guards drew closer as the bearded man approached and threw down the sack, drawing back as he was approached by Northmen. Jon nodded and waved them away, and the man unwrapped his burden, revealing the blackened remains of the head of a bull, eye sockets hollow, horns broken and laid on top of the charcoaled skull.

Jon leaned back, saddened as the man spread out the bones. He had hoped he would be able to prevent this, but he’d seen Drogon across the bay bringing carcasses of large animals to Rhaegal, who was just now becoming strong enough to hunt on his own. Still...

“I’m sorry for your loss…” Jon waited for the man to speak his name.

“Mazeo, Your Grace, this is – was – Brueno, all I have left of him, the dragon took the rest. He was my best bull, young, he was set to take over for Simeo, my old bull, when he dies. He’s getting up there in years, Your Grace, I wouldn’t have minded as much as he’d taken ‘im, but left me Brueno, Your Grace, I just sold off my other bulls to market, to feed them poor folks in the city, now…” he waved his hand over the remains, his head hanging.

“I’m very sorry, Mazeo, I know how attached we can get, to our animals, they are family, and I realize how this will affect your future. Of course, we will replace him as best we can, perhaps even from the bulls you sent to market here.” Jon nodded at Manderly, who nodded in return. “But tell me, Mazeo, how many head of cattle do you have, and do you raise other animals? We will need to purchase a fair amount over the years to keep the dragons fed, keep them from foraging among the populated areas. We will put your name at the top of the list, when it's time to set up contracts… I know it won’t replace Brueno, but it's the best that can be done to replace your future.”

Mazeo’s eyes gleamed, with relief and perhaps a bit of excitement. Jon leaned back again, satisfied as Manderly approached him to hand him off to one of his men.

Jon shifted and yawned, struggling to hide it, grimacing a bit as Tormund turned his head to avoid outright laughing at him. Perhaps he would sleep better tonight, now that things were out in the open. His thoughts drifted to his wife, his beautiful Dany. Just that morning she had said that she missed him. It had confused him at first; no one had ever missed him before, and there had been such distance between them. Had she forgotten, forgiven, expected him to? They had agreed to go forward together, but he had been raised in the real world. Words are wind, and Daenerys Targaryen had never been good at sharing.

Voices raised through the doors in the back, a breeze rippling through the hanging sailcloth, a beautiful dance of light and fabric sweeping above the shattered columns and cratered tile. People continued to stream in, only to be ushered out or into the care of an appointed steward. He had wondered why the audience chamber was so big, such a waste of space; he supposed he now knew the answer.

When he had first visited this room what seemed like a lifetime ago, when he first stood in this room alone at night, he had felt like he had snuck in, if that was even possible. It was all his, theirs now, wasn’t it? His family, both families, and how many others, slaughtered for this, his throne, his inheritance, if things had been different. He remembered the anger and bitterness as he had gazed at the spiked silhouette in the darkness, the sharp blades glinting in the torchlight, all the blood and misery and back-stabbing… He supposed in a sense it was a beautiful thing, the meaning, the power behind it. A thousand swords of Aegon’s enemies. His however-many name-saked great grandfather’s enemies.

His family’s enemies, his enemies now. Melted by dragonfire…

Right there, below him, below where his mad grandfather had sat delighted as he watched Jon’s other grandfather die screaming in agony, his uncle strangling himself to death to save him.

And there, right there, his uncle, or father, he hadn’t settled that yet in his heart, whether to be angry or grateful. Regardless, Ned Stark had been betrayed by those he trusted. Perhaps some of the lords and ladies, others that were there that day, could they be standing in his very presence, right now? His eyes began to rove over the faces watching his. What were they thinking, were they already plotting? He’d have to be less trusting. But more than that, he’d have to be ready.

His eyes narrowed as he stifled a gasp.

The merchant took a knee too close to that spot; he didn’t know it, you had to look for it, but it was right there. His little sister, his favorite kin. His Arya, gone by his own hand. He felt his breathing waver, and worked to stiffen his royal mask, the way he’d seen Dany do it, time and again, struggling and failing to push down the regret and sadness that would likely haunt him the rest of his days… he had failed her, his family, himself…

No.

He pushed those thoughts away, quietly and deliberately. Whether it was Bran the Broken planting despair in his heart or his own bastard broodiness, he couldn’t afford to wallow any longer.

Kinvara was getting in his head instead. “Remember who you are, now. Be a Dragon, a Wolf, a King, whatever is called for.” She’d repeated it, over and over again in the caves. He hoped Rhaegal was fully recovered now, and wouldn’t need any more of his blood, even if it was so that he wouldn’t have to sit through another speech from the High Priestess. Not that he wasn’t grateful, he was. But he didn’t trust her, he never would.

The afternoon sun shone directly through the dragons on the rear stained glass window, casting his House emblem on the hanging sailcloth.

What would his fathers have thought of him?

Dragons. Targaryen. King of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon rubbed his chest, at the scar over his heart, a habit he had started as he stopped wearing his armor. He’d never realized how many ‘unkingly’ habits he had until Davos began gently pointing them out, that and learning to speak slowly, sometimes repeating his words several times to overcome his Northern burr. Dany was good at this; he needed a lot of practice. He nodded to himself. There would be time for this, or it would not be necessary. Time would tell. He felt Rhaegal’s anxious tug and sent assurance; the healing dragon must have felt him thinking about him. He would visit later, spend some time with the resurrected dragon alone. The bond was already much stronger than it had been before, before he knew who he was, before they shared both magic and blood. Of the most outlandish titles he had ever considered for himself, Dragonrider had never… he suddenly remembered his games with Robb; Jon had always been a Targaryen, he was not allowed to be a Stark. What would Robb think about their games now, what did Arya think, she loved dragons so. Jon again felt his heart race. Before he killed her. Regret and pity swept through his thoughts; poor Arya, what she must have gone through to become what she had become… it was his fault, he should have found a way to save her, as well as Daenerys, but at the time he had believed she was a skilled assassin, that there was only one chance to save Dany. Yet, he should have…

“Your Grace.” Davos bowed as he took his place by the King’s side, Grey Worm stopping a pace behind and avoiding his gaze.

Jon nodded briefly, working to clear his thoughts. “How is the Queen, is she settled? Does she like the room, the gardens?”

Davos smiled and nodded, “Yes, she seems quite pleased with both. Ghost as well, I think they will both feel quite comfortable there, and safe.”

Jon nodded again, smiling briefly, his sadness lingering as he noticed the grim frown on Grey Worm’s face. He rose from the throne and all within his eyesight stood to attention.

“Are we ready to go, Ser Davos?” He was filled with nervous energy, was looking forward to walking through King’s Landing since they wouldn’t let him spend a couple of hours in the training yard.

‘Yes, Your Grace, we’ll visit all four food stations following the food carts. There will be early crowds I expect, the public announcements we worked on yesterday were posted during the reading of the charges this morning, and of course, the people have heard about the wine and the sweets.” They both chuckled as they started to descend the dais steps, followed by Tormund and his guards.

“Where is Ghost, he should come, he seems to be a good distraction. Are the dragons still flying over the city?”

“No, Your Grace, they’ve found a cliff across the bay. Rhaegal is resting and eating from the waters there, Drogon is keeping watch over him and his mother, and you, now, I suspect.” Jon looked at him sideways, “It seems he’s adopted you, if you look at how he’s been behaving.” Before Rhaegal had healed enough to fly, the huge black dragon had taken to visiting the city, finding Jon and swooping low whenever he left the Keep. The people had been terrified, so Jon had been hinting that Drogon was under his control and they had nothing to fear. He hated to mislead, but for now it was necessary.

There was a stirring among the people as Ghost ambled in, apparently satiated going by the dark red staining the fur around his maw. He seemed sluggish as he looked up the stairs of the dais, apparently deciding it was too much work as he plopped instead on the cool floor at the base of the stairs with a long groan, rolling to his back as if for a belly rub. Laughter and relief rolled through the audience chamber. Jon chuffed and smiled at him, poking him with the toe of his boot as he passed by.

“Come on you lazy oaf!”

Ghost failed to move, only groaning again with a flick of his tail, gazing back and forth between those who might feed him. Jon noticed the cautious smile on the face of his Lord Commander; he was especially looking forward to seeing how Ghost would act toward those sworn to protect his family; would he consider them pack or competition? Ser Callith had calmly descended the steps just ahead and to the side of his charge, eyes not on the great white wolf but roving and attentive on other corners of the room, the other newly-appointed guards taking their place around him.

Ghost suddenly flipped right side up, shaking vigorously, sending strands of glinting white into the shafts of hazed sunlight, then coming to stand at the right hand of his kin, just within petting distance. Jon fisted the soft fur, staring thankfully into red eyes as Ghost turned his head to greet this new role, gently stroking his forehead and ragged ear. It was good to have him by his side once again.

Curtsies and bows preceded him as he nodded and smiled, following his guards through a cleared path toward the shell of the Great Hall. He was surprised at how quickly he was getting used to this, grateful now for the procedures and protocols of his office, he might have gotten lost otherwise. He had started to get a handle on the layout of the Red Keep, but was still most familiar with a certain servants’ wing. Fortunately, now he was directed here, invited there, instructed to follow his Lord Commander as he paused, waiting for his Northern Kingsguard to fold into the Crownsguard. He hoped that there were few enough of each that together their presence would not be intimidating, he wanted to comfort the people, not frighten them.

Ser Davos paused at the outer doorway, the heavy doors slightly ajar, a wry smile on his face. Voices wafted through the cracked doors, excited and bold. Jon’s nerves flicked swiftly, reminding him of pausing on the edge of battle, that strange blend of confidence and fear and bloodlust. He shifted to feel the weight of Longclaw on his hip, resisting the desire to draw it to the ready. If they were successful, there would be few times his sword would be wielded against flesh and blood ever again. There would be other battles, of the mind and of the will; a different kind of war and training and victory, but violence nonetheless. Somehow that gave him peace. He shook his head as if he was alone; what kind of man was he, that the idea of violence gave him peace.

Scraping footsteps echoed from the dark hall behind them, followed by the rushing breath of Jon’s young Lannister steward. He had hoped it couldn’t be found but resigned himself when he saw the box the lad held. Kevan bowed to Jon hurriedly and passed the box to Ser Davos, who quickly opened the box and observed the contents, finally smirking and raising his eyes to observe the King’s eyeroll.

“Best we try it out of sight of the crowds, Your Grace, make sure it fits over all that hair of yours.”

Davos was outright grinning now, and Jon couldn’t help but return his humor by running his hand back and forth through the wild curls that assured the people that it was indeed Jon Snow under all the fancy trappings. He had freshly bathed and trimmed his hair and beard that morning before going public with his Queen; she had laughed as she brushed a smudge from his face earlier as they had had their last meal in their servant’s quarters in the bowels of the Keep. Finally, he stood straight and readied himself as Davos raised the Northern crown from its seat. Jon took a moment to admire the workmanship, metals blended, sword-like spires encircling, deciding to reflect more fully alone in his chambers later that night. He quickly grasped the metal ring from Davos and placed it on his own head, testing its weight and balance, inwardly terrified, causing Davos to chuckle once again.

“You’ll get used to it soon enough, Your Grace… stand still and let’s have a look…” Davos took a step back as if to inspect his sovereign, but instead, Jon wheeled from the small crowd and headed toward the door, guards rushing before him, feeling the press of the rim of the heavy crown on his brow.

Jon reached for the door only to find it swing open before him as he approached, the bright sunlight briefly blinding him, the sights and smells of what was left of King’s Landing laid out before him as he paced toward the edge of the top step, what seemed like all of what was left of the citizenry, highborn and smallfolk alike, filling the steps below.

His Kingsguard had wanted to leave through a side gate, for security, but Jon thought it was important to be very public about who was in charge, dispel any confusion about what had happened that day, at the Great Council, and later in the Throne Room. Enemies were already plotting, and he had no intention of encouraging them by hiding.

It was still a surprise though when it dawned on him that this could be seen as a momentous occasion, a new King in Westeros, and that he probably should have glimpsed between the cracked doors before passing through them. He raised a slightly shaking hand in greeting, the swell of the shouts only increasing.

The cacophony was – confused and deafening; the crowd was – churning and jubilant. He let them surge, startled and overwhelmed, then waved them down. Breathing deeply Jon calmed himself, his hand resting in the bristled fur of his wolf, not quite sure why they were here, why they were cheering, what they expected from him. He smiled confidently, at least as best as he could muster, and slowly the crowd stilled, waiting.

Though he had not prepared anything to say, he spoke from the heart, as always, and the people responded in kind, their eyes reflecting the hope and encouragement they were given. It was a short speech, practical, this is where we are, this is what must be done. The truth was refreshing, and many took a knee as he descended the steps, smiling at him as he passed. Some reached out to touch him, Ghost dissuading them even before his guards could intervene. Jon pushed his unease into the corners of his mind, his heart wanting to enjoy the recognition and confidence, his history giving him no reason to. Grey Worm pushed his way before his path, scowling and dark, apparently annoyed at the reverence and respect Jon had garnered from the crowd. And perhaps that he was no longer the lead commander, and had to let the King’s guard and the White Cloaks, scrounged together to reform the City Watch, take the lead in his protection.

His protection. It would be quite some time before he would grow used to that. That he was something to be protected, that he was valued by others, that he was more than a bastard sent to the Wall to be forgotten and die alone in the cold. Gods be good, what was he to do with these thoughts?

Movement caught his eye far across the horizon, two dark specks flicking back and forth, slowly getting bigger. He felt them on his mind, Rhaegal’s tug tinged with pain and effort, both longing for company. They reminded him of Ghost; once experiencing the indescribable bond, the curiosity and comfort was like a hunger seeking fulfillment. He sent them both a plea to be patient, now was not a good time, with the assurance that he would visit with them tonight, soon with their mother, and they acknowledged and accepted, in that knowing of the bond. He watched as they changed course, Drogon leading, larger even from this distance, Rhaegal behind and below, not struggling, but not as strong as his healthy brother. They soon became mere spots as they headed farther out to sea, to hunt and to stretch their wings against the harsh salt wind. Jon again relished his bond with his dragon, knowing how it would sustain and give meaning in the years to come, wherever they ended up. He ruffled Ghost’s fur in assurance as the red eyes sought his own; was he sensing the bond as well? Was he bonding with the dragons, or just picking up on his own emotions, happier ones for once?

They had reached the middle platform, halfway down the steps, and he stopped to take the measure of the state of his kingdom, brutal memories hitting him full force as the singed, tattered cloaks of the survivors whisked in the afternoon wind.

Jon Snow had quickly become numb to the violence he had seen and inflicted in his short life; it was necessary to survive, to be a good leader, so much needed to be done. He had experienced war and death and carnage before, but then… nothing could have prepared him for what had happened that day.

Like many around him, he had slept little the night before, questioning strategies, deliberating options, considering possible outcomes. Dwelling on his future, and his past. His scars were bothering him, more than usual, and he had been rubbing them often enough that Davos had mentioned it. The dark nothing, death. Davos had tried to encourage him, but there had been so little between them lately, a nod or a brief update. He regretted not confiding in him, about his secret, about his fears. But there never seemed to be enough time. So he had tossed and turned most of the night, then awakened to what he considered his last day. He would either have a future of loneliness and regret, or he would be dead.

The dawn was clear, with enough clouds to keep from being blinded watching for his Queen and her dragon. They were in position outside the gates, facing the Golden Company, mere mortals after all; well equipped, well trained, but bone and flesh and blood when met with a sharp blade.

He had been disappointed when he’d heard they had left the elephants in Essos; he had really wanted to see elephants.

There was none of the camaraderie Jon had experienced before previous battles, instead an obvious coldness between the Northmen and the Queen’s soldiers, as awkward and discordant as the relations between the two leaders themselves.

Then, the waiting, until...

They never saw her coming. The flames had burst through from behind the gates, exposing the tactical foolery of the vaunted sellswords. From there it was nearly a slaughter, the resistance from the Lannister army and other armed defenders of the city nearly non-existent. They pushed through the city until they encountered the bulk of the Lannister forces. What they were doing there, in a deep civilian area he had never figured out. They should have been defending their Queen at the gates to the Red Keep, yet here they were even as the bells rang, the uneven clanging echoing against the cobbled streets. Everything had gone to seven hells from there. He hadn’t seen it, very few had, but was told later that the Dragon Queen had heard the bells and had paused, seemingly basking in her victory. Then, inexplicably, the massive dragon had flung himself from his perch and begun his reign of terror, the small fleck of silver clinging tightly to his back.

Dragonfire, alive and spreading, the bright bursts of red and orange; then green welling up, beautiful, ethereal. The people running, down this street, then back again as a swell of green fury overwhelmed the sun, careening then into the oncoming soldiers, shrieks of surprise and terror. Cersei had been stoking that fear for many moons, calling for the smallfolk of Westeros to hide behind her walls, like a mother hen calling her chicks under feathered wings. Yet it was not for protection, but as a bargaining chip. Or perhaps purely as a means of revenge; Tyrion had often spoken of how his sister despised the people she ruled, and often repeated one of their families several mottos, “The lion doesn’t concern herself with the opinions of the sheep.” It had become clear that the people were meant to dissuade an attack from the Dragon Queen. Or perhaps from the beginning, the Mad Queen Cersei had determined to burn them all. No doubt she had planned on surviving, she had wanted to live, but she had not counted on Bran's intervention; he, or whatever he was now, had successfully fooled them all.

Clanging swords, burning flesh, nameless faceless people screaming, consumed in an instant, women, children, soldiers of every loyalty, burnt to ash or burnt wishing for death, red muscle and black sloughing skin, choking gasps and shrieks of despair, ash-covered hollows of bodies huddled against the fiery onslaught, the terror frozen on children’s faces before…

He closed his eyes against the memories.

Since then Jon had been avoiding sleep, the nightmares hounding even his waking hours, to the point Davos nearly forced him to drink that foul-tasting tincture. He was almost grateful, he wanted to sleep, to forget, he really did, until he discovered that though he slept deeply, the nightmares were even more vivid, and he would wake bathed in sweat, his nerves more frayed. He’d refused it the next time, choosing instead to work himself to exhaustion, then laying wherever he could to rest for just long enough to get up and start again.

Everyone had heard of the explosion of the Great Sept of Baelor, the wildfire obliterating Cersei’s enemies. On Dragonstone, the Queen’s Small Council had discussed the possibility that she’d use it again, she was ruthless and vindictive, Tyrion reminding his Queen and everyone that the Mad King had caches stored throughout the city and they could easily still be there. So to avoid setting it off, Dany herself had decided to stay away from the city proper, to blow out the gates to let her armies in, then focus on the scorpions, support her troops as necessary, then wait for Cersei to be brought out to her, striking the Red Keep itself only if necessary.

So the shock had been real enough when she’d attacked the city proper, shock and disbelief, his heart heavy with doubt as he watched events unfold later: her speech to her armies, Tyrion casting down his pin, being taken to the cells. Then Arya… He understood now, why she was there, but at the time, it had all seemed so curious, though only for a moment. When he finally met with Tyrion in his captivity, his arguments seemed to make sense. They didn’t later, after, once he had time to think, time to wonder why he hadn’t sought out Davos, but at the time, he remembered telling himself it was necessary.

Dany…

He had watched her atop Drogon, magnificent in all his gruesome glory. He could feel the rage and anger emanating from the dragon, reflecting his rider. He remembered walking up the steps, these very steps, passing Drogon standing guard before his legacy, finally approaching the throne room itself, what was left of it, ash and snow covering every surface, her silhouette faint in front of the blackened, ash-covered swords.

Her eyes were wide, her words sharp and evasive. Had she seen? Seen what she had done, and not cared? Or had she seen and accepted it, had decided that it was necessary, even when she had repeated, over and over, that she did not want to be Queen of the ashes? His heart had died within him, again, and he had resigned himself, she would be gone, and there would be nothing for him after… then they were close, she was in his arms, and he could taste her breath, and he knew, and his heartbeat again, the relief flooding his very being. She was not lost to him, that after all that had happened she was still Dany, they could work things out… she was so pale, and thin, and afraid. Why was she afraid now? He would protect her, he told her so… even against his kin.

Arya.

After, walking the halls of the castle, ash and shrieks and commands, until finally a place for her to rest. Safety, and the healers came, and the news he had never thought to hear.

Father.

He found himself by her side, the tears, the confusion, her small hands clinging, until he was again hastened out. He kissed her, he remembered the taste of her dry lips, bitter and salty. He willed her to be well, she had to be.

He turned to his duty, disciplining his troops, cajoling hers, Dothraki who wanted to pillage and loot, Northmen who wanted revenge for the deaths of so many Starks, of their countrymen. He filled his days and most of his nights, helping the people, returning to her side when he could. They’d removed two of the beds, left one for him, added a chair and some pillows, nicer linens, fresh fruit and wine, but when he was there all he could do was wait for her to wake. Her color began to return, but for days she was silent and unmoving despite the constant noise outside her window, so he tried to engage her in any way possible, to bring her back, embracing, cajoling, telling her stories of their child, what was to come, making up names, the sillier the better… until finally her eyelids fluttered, and he was again shooed away. But later, she wanted to see him, she reached out for him, and he held her as she wept. There was so much to be said, to be understood. He’d told her the secret was out, Varys’s ravens, but they would manage it all, together. He assured her, she would recover to sit on the throne, it's all she’d ever wanted; and the babe, there was hope, for now, and there would be time, for them, later.

At first, as she got stronger, he would try to sleep in her room, to keep her company, but he would wake screaming, and he couldn’t do that to her. She would sometimes ask about them, the nightmares, but he couldn’t tell her. Someday perhaps he would, but not now, not for years to come.

Sometimes she would wake from her own nightmares and fight with him as he tried to comfort her, raving, hitting him and pushing him away, ranting to kill Cersei, screaming to protect her baby, reminding herself within her nightmare of what had happened, the tears setting in until exhaustion took over. Luckily she didn’t remember when she woke up the next day. At least she said she didn’t remember.

It was the second day after the attack, perhaps the third, when Davos had come to him, searched him out and sat him down, a raven’s scroll in his hand.

“It’s signed by Varys; is this why the Queen had him executed?”

Jon felt the anguish rise in his gut, “He was trying to poison her, Davos… his little birds… but, yes, that’s why… I’m sorry, I should have told you, from the beginning, but I’d promised her… ”

“It’s true then?”

Jon had hesitated, his eyes darting around the room, “Not here, there are little birds everywhere,” nodding toward the scroll.

They had searched for privacy; finding none in the Keep, or in the city, they had taken to horse and rode for the outer camps, purposing a review of the supplies and care being given, Davos insisting on increasing his guards despite Jon’s protests.

“Whatever the truth is, this story is out there. This raven was brought to me by a messenger from House Fossoway, sent to Queen Cersei for an explanation, apparently they didn’t know what to do with it.”

Jon had been riding quietly, lost in his own thoughts, realizing that once his people knew, once Davos knew, everything would change, again. He was already entirely exhausted in body and mind, and he found himself caring less than he had expected.

Jon nodded and extended his hand toward Davos, catching his questioning gaze and soft smile as he passed him the small scroll.

“To the people of Westeros…” Jon felt Davos watching him intently as his eyes ran briefly over the curled parchment, “...not the only Targaryen left. Rhaegar and Lyanna... their son lives still, hidden by Eddard Stark... he is the true heir to the Iron Throne..."

It was all there; he wondered how many messages had been sent, believed. It didn’t matter now. He nodded and dropped his eyes, breathing heavily. He could sense Davos shift in his saddle as he turned to him.

“Your Grace…”

The words struck him like a slap and he reined his horse to a stop, halting the procession. This was not what he had ever wanted, not what he had fought for. He had never wanted to be anything, to be a threat to anyone’s title or position, only to deserve being named a Stark, a true Stark. A right to a name, to exist.

And to protect his people. He sighed as he shook his head.

Perhaps that was his missing piece.

Since that day he had realized the blindness he had been hiding behind. As a bastard, he knew he would never be able to do good based on his position in the world, he had none. So instead of the power of a name, of a birthright, he would earn it on his own, he would bring honor to his family, do good for the realm. But deep inside, covered in the shame and wounds of his birth, he had resented it as well. Because he wanted it; he was just a grasping bastard after all. He wanted the power. The authority, the ability to get things done, to protect his people, to protect the realms of men. He’d seen it, he’d seen everything, always, part of being a bastard after all, learning to observe, be several steps ahead, a Watcher on the Wall. To see everything, to be quiet, be patient, wait, be ready. But the time had come to sound the warning, to prepare, to fight, and no one had listened. Those with the power had done nothing, instead fighting for their own glory, their own gain, their own advantage.

It was all a game to them.

Even Dany.

“When you bend the knee…”

All she ever wanted was his crown, the crown that wasn’t his to give.

He understood, though. Why should she have believed his tale without proof, words of an over-reaching oath-breaking once-dead bastard.

Tyrion had believed in her, back then, Varys too. Until they didn’t. But they didn’t know she was being poisoned, or did they? He’d asked Dany if she knew who it was, she’d said Varys, but he was dead. What if he had plans already set in motion that proceeded after his death? They couldn’t take that chance, they would have to move forward assuming it was someone else, eliminate every possibility.

“You never asked…”

Davos had been patient, giving Jon the time he had needed, to decide.

“Asked what?”

Davos had reined his horse closer, away from the wind carrying his words.

“I served Stannis Baratheon for over twenty years. After King Robert’s death, I did everything I could to put Stannis on the throne. Not because I thought I would benefit, even though I would, not even because he was the rightful heir, even though he was. But because I thought he would be a good King, good for his people, good for all of Westeros. He was harsh, he was unyielding sometimes, but he would have brought peace to the kingdoms. Then the Red Woman… well you know about that. But that’s why, and I would have told you, but you never asked.”

Jon avoided his gaze, kneed his horse to continue toward the camp, when Davos reached out to stop him.

“I often wondered why you never asked, asked why I sought her out, why I asked the Red Woman to bring you back… it wasn’t for you, she said so herself, that if I wanted to help you, to let you be… but it wasn’t for you,” Jon glanced at him as he shook his head somberly. He had always wondered, why, but had been raised that bastards were not allowed to question anything or anyone. “It was because I saw something in you, Stannis had seen it too, and the Red Woman, and that Queen in there, and all those that follow you, even those who despise you. You’re a good man, Jon Snow, I think even you know that, but there are other good men out there, good men that wish something could be done about the evil in the world, that someone would do something. Being a good man isn’t enough. But you, you’ve proven you’ll do something about it. You’ve proven you’re what’s needed to bring peace to Westeros, you’ve proven you’ll be a good King, whether it was for just the North or for all Seven Kingdoms or for the entire bloody world. No one needs to wonder what you’ll do.”

Jon shook his head, disbelieving as he continued to stare straight ahead, Varys’s words on the beach echoing in his memory. He wondered what people could possibly see in him that they wanted to make him King. Davos straightened in his saddle.

“Now the Queen is in dire straits, but she’s lasted this long, and I believe good things for her, she’ll survive, and your child as well. But the people are following you, now, and the story is already being whispered among the people. Bits of it at least, here and there for now. There are so many unanswered questions, but they will be for later. Now you have a choice. Either way you will end up King, but you can choose how you get there. Choose it, or it will be forced upon you, perhaps at her expense. And I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“What are you saying, Davos? Daenerys is the Queen.”

“Look around you, Jon, do you think the people will support Daenerys Targaryen as Queen, without you? Varys’s ravens have spread throughout the kingdoms, perhaps beyond, but your secret was bound to come out some time. Even without the name, the birthright, the people see you – you Jon Snow – taking care of them, see you coming to their aid, protecting them, taking the lead. They have faith in you.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to be King.”

“Come now, you know better than that. Even now schemes are hatching throughout the kingdoms, plots to take the throne, from her, from you… and not for the good of the people. But you, Jon, you have the blood of two great lines of Kings. Take the throne, embrace your birthright, and you can protect the people, protect the Queen, your child. You alone can unite the country, as much as it can be or ever was united. If you don’t, there will be another war, or two or three. There are already uprisings and calls for independence; only a strong leader with the support of the smallfolk and the House name, in your case, two Great House names, to give the lords a reason to keep their peace, only a strong King will keep Westeros from falling into chaos, and who knows how many would die. You can be that King if you choose to be. Think about it Jon, you know I’m right.”

Davos had left him alone for the rest of that day, for once welcoming his brooding, as they met with those running the healing camp, equally swelling and emptying, injured uncovered as rubble was removed, the dead being taken home for burial or outside the walls for burning.

Close to nightfall they had left and made the short ride back to the gated wall still in silence. Jon had observed the glowing ruins from the small rise, his mind considering plans to rebuild, to expand or divide, the walls, the city itself, to strengthen old alliances and create new out of old enemies, to trade and create. So many ideas, possibilities, so much work to do. He wondered if Dany was awake yet as the gates opened for his company.

Even as Jon considered the choices before him, it was then that he’d decided to prepare for every possibility, the best and the worst. He’d never want to be a burden to anyone, to his family back in Winterfell – gods what were they thinking now, they would have received word of him killing his Queen – but especially Daenerys herself. She’d been through so much, had fought so hard, would lose so much.

The crowd of people lining the road as they passed through the gate had pressed in, reaching out, calling for help, for food, for assurance, and he gave it, nodding and answering questions, directing and comforting.

Jon had turned briefly to Davos to get his attention, “We’ll have to do it soon, then, but not interfere with our plan to expose the traitor… send a raven to the Citadel, for a Grand Maester we can rely on, and talk to the High Septon, find out if the rumors are true, why he was in the black cells, explain the situation… the Iron Bank, if they could send a representative, we’ll have to have contacts in Essos… and when it's time, Ser Davos, I’ll tell the Queen myself, no one else, understood?”

He caught a glimpse of the broad smile on the face of his soon-to-be-Hand-again and rode slowly along the street, doing his best to listen as he pressed through to the Red Keep.

Ash and grit rolled under the worn leather of his boot as Ghost shoved his nose under his arm, leaning against his hip and nearly pushing him off balance as the crowd lining the steps chattered cheerfully.

And now here he stood with a fucking crown on his head…

He smiled and waved at the people, his people, and continued down the steps, blindly following his guards.

The chaos of the first days, the constant ash, smoke, screams and sparks had slowly morphed into a bland grayness, broken by outbreaks of angry citizens storming the Red Keep, attempting to enter, to whatever end, but thrown back into the darkness and the stench of death and disease, slowly lessening as the sick were tended to outside the walls and the dead were uncovered and returned to their families or burnt in mass graves. Several times a day prayers were said over the unidentified or unidentifiable before their corpses were set on fire. Less often, now; Jon cringed at that measure of progress.

Mingled among the survivors were clear-faced lords and ladies of the realm, their pristine finery marking them as likely having fled the capital before the attack. He was comforted that they had decided it was safe enough to return, yet angry that the highborn always seemed to avoid the hardships the lowborn could not.

Finally they had reached the bottom of the steps, his guards clearing a path toward the food station near what was left of the marketplace. Rebuilding was organized and fully underway throughout the city, following the priorities established both by present need and future growth. At first much of the surviving population had been relocated outside the city walls, those fit to work being brought in daily to focus on select projects, now many were settling into their old neighborhoods, or choosing a better one. He continued to be grateful for Davos’s involvement; though Daenerys had assigned Tyrion the task of organizing the response after she took the throne, Davos had gone through that same process when he had served Stannis as his Hand and was far more familiar with all aspects of the city’s small folk.

Ser Davos reviewed the route they would take, where the food stations were set up for that day, what parts of the city they would avoid for safety’s sake. Jon asked about the encampments outside the city, were they getting on well? The people came in for their meals, it had been decided that it was safer to have fewer, more controlled places of food distribution, though the food was directly delivered to the healing tents and the encampment for the separated or orphaned children, located in one place so if someone was missing someone, they only had to look in one place.

They moved the stations regularly, always near the gates, to accommodate the clearing of rubble and rebuilding, the locations marked by Stark banners, Targaryen now as well, but Jon had gained a good sense of the layout of the city from his previous visits outside the Keep. He had thought he had been inconspicuous, at one point wearing Unsullied armor as a disguise, which only garnered derision from Grey Worm and fear from the people, but Davos, his own guards and even Grey Worm had assured him everyone had recognized him as a Stark and was fully aware of his identity and his leadership. Later they had wondered why no one at the Great Council had any notion of the involvement of the King in the North in the recovery going on in King's Landing.

It wasn’t a long walk to the first meal station, they wanted the people to feel welcome near the Red Keep, and since most of the displaced citizens came for their meals here, they needed a big space to accommodate them all. He’d walked this way before, not openly as himself though, and he found it quite different to be able to look people in the eye as he passed by.

Jon often walked now with his hands clasped behind his back to keep from nervously fisting his right hand, stretching the scarred flesh of his sword hand. Another new habit to overcome the old. He didn’t mind, not really, though he wondered at times what and who he would be when this was all said and done. He had given up trying to keep up with all the changes happening in his life; the brooding had lessened, perhaps being exhausted had something to do with that.

All knelt when he arrived at the serving tables, canopies overhead to protect the food from the elements and the swirling dust kicked up in clouds as the food carts rolled in behind the tables. Stark and Targaryen banners waved in the light breeze; he smiled to see them here, marking where the people could find help. He waved at them to rise, “We’re all in this together, we will rebuild together…”, he then squeezed behind the serving tables to see what they were serving, how they were serving it, thanking all the hands who were so diligently serving their fellow citizens.

Many people brought their own plates and bowls and cups for the wine, but many had lost everything, and they were served out of hastily made fired clay bowls, tens of thousands of them, stamped with the seals of both Houses on opposite sides of the dishes. Jon was concerned that this would tip their hand to the conspirators, but the people had created their own explanations – that Dany and Jon were always going to rule together and hadn’t told anyone in their closest circles, that they had kept this and many other secrets. At the same time, the rumor spread that both the King in the North and the Dragon Queen were separately vying for the throne, had determined to kill one another, and that both were equally deceitful, treacherous. That theory was quickly shot down, the people responding warmly to Jon’s care for the people and the public support of his wife and his Queen. Even on this walk, gifts for the babe were being pressed into his hand; Jon found himself awed that people who had suffered so much could still be happy and giving for the sake of an unborn child.

Though he knew that word had gotten out that the King was visiting the stations, Jon was still surprised to find Lords Cerwyn and Glover waiting at the first station, bowing to his nod as they raised an eyebrow and grinned at the crown he was wearing. Davos had mentioned that the Queen suggested he invite others from the Great Council to join him, but he wanted to be able to connect to the people with as little distraction as possible. He probably shouldn’t have brought Tormund then… he was a stabilizing force for him, though, reminding him of how simple things could be, how he could make them simple. When he’d arrived days ago, fresh off the ship Jon had told him about his heritage, about Dany, about the babe. Tormund had congratulated him and patted him on the back, then asked where he wanted the wool to be stored.

There were several rows of tables and a combined set of guards keeping order, from the City Watch to the Northmen to the Unsullied, people giving the latter a wide berth as they began to form into lines. Jon noticed the wide variety of ages and outlooks, children being carried on backs, clothes all covered in soot and ash, but more colorful than at first, a good gauge of how things were progressing, more and more color back into the lives of the people. More color returning to the faces, more smiling, even a laugh here and there. Jon felt relieved to be well received, wishing Dany could be there.

They had earlier agreed she wouldn’t be strong enough to leave the Keep, let alone walk among the people; he didn’t want her to be vulnerable and invite wrath when she was weak and could lash out in return. There would be time enough for that, to let the people vent their anger, but for now they decided to let Jon make the connection between the Crown and the people, then embrace their new Queen at their formal coronation. Hopefully, with the birth of a healthy heir to give the people something to celebrate, all would be willing to put the past in the past and focus on building a prosperous future.

“Your Grace.” The dark-haired girl curtseyed awkwardly as Jon approached her serving station, the Stark sigil emblazoned on her stained apron brushing the swept cobbled road under their feet. He nodded and smiled and waved to the covered iron cauldron.

“What are we serving today, Mayda?” She blushed and tittered, “Beef stew with carrots and potatoes, Your Grace, with mixed grain bread. The new shipments of grain arrived yesterday morning, so we’re using all the old batches of oats and barley before they go bad.”

Jon nodded approvingly. “Well done, Mayda – well done to you all!” His voice carried to the far tables, and smiles broke out even as they waited for the approval to proceed to serve. “The Realm owes you all a great debt, you are serving your people well.” Bows and curtsies and grateful smiles followed, heads bobbing up and down along the line, almost musical.

Mayda quickly offered a bowl of the fragrant but watery stew to the King, dipping out of the steaming pot. Grey Worm rushed forward and tried to take it from him, but Davos intervened and Jon nodded to them both, confident that he was safe, that there was no way his enemies would know his actions this precisely, would be able to poison him so brazenly. Grey Worm still protested, so Jon offered the bowl to Grey Worm to taste it first if he chose to do so, then was gratified when the soldier sniffed it once and took a quick taste, then passed it back to his grinning King.

Jon tore off a chunk of the fresh bread and dipped into the stew and relished it, “This is really good, or maybe I'm just hungrier than I thought!”

He heard laughter ripple among those close by as he took another bite, Davos joining in, nodding to Grey Worm to do so as well. They were offered sweets as well, and a cup of wine.

“Oh my, I could stay here all night,” Jon smiled at the people, they smiled in return, pleased that their young King would eat with them. Several of the children approached Ghost, tentatively at first, but as the oldest gently ran his hand over the white wolf’s shoulder without harm, several others joined in, and soon Jon could see the apprehension melt from the great wolf’s body even as he remained on guard, leaning against his side as Jon comforted him. A young girl approached Ghost with something in her hand, a piece of apple perhaps, which Ghost sniffed and dutifully ignored.

“Just don’t feed him any more, he’s eaten so much already today he can hardly move!” Another wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. Jon decided he would have to set a guard on Ghost, he didn’t want anyone poisoning or harming him when he’s out among the people. After that night he would offer anything he eats to Ghost first to check for poison, knowing that he would be able to sniff out anything dangerous as well as tell the mood of the one giving it. He had no plans for leaving this life in such an imprudent manner, and they had all agreed that it was the early days of reestablishing the Targaryen reign that they would be the most vulnerable, both from within and without. He reminded himself to ask Davos about the pirates even now raiding the coastal cities and of any progress making alliances across the Narrow Sea.

Jon’s mind wandered to an early suggestion, taking Rhaegal to the Reach, wherever was needed to enforce the peace and establish dominance. He would be able to plan better later, after he spent some time with not only his own mount but with Drogon as well. The dragons were bonding with each other in a new way, from what Jon had observed at least, and he didn’t want to interfere in any way that he might regret later.

For now he was glad for his spymaster, an unofficial Master of Whispers. He had seen him earlier in the crowd, listening, watching, he seemed to blend in well. He had decided on a second spymaster, Jaenys Lowthar, to gather what was left of Qyburn’s little birds. She was a kind young woman, a handmaid to Margery Tyrell for her brief stint as Queen, who had proven herself clever and loyal to the Targaryens, and able to keep a secret, helping care for both himself and his Queen under the most extraordinary of circumstances. Her ties to the Reach and loyalty to the Tyrells could prove useful; she had reached out on his behalf to several of an age that remained in the Reach that she believed could be trusted to bring peace to the realm, though responses had as yet been non-committal. Jon looked forward to seeing how Ghost responded to her, he remained an excellent judge of character.

Jon nodded to the young Septon assigned to this quarter of the city, and a blessing was pronounced over the food, the people, and over the King. Jon quietly glanced at the blonde-headed fellow, who quickly added a blessing over the Queen and a prayer for her quick recovery and that of the heir. Jon would look into this later; was this an oversight because she was not present, or was there true hesitation to support the new Queen amongst the Faithful. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he was becoming paranoid, before stepping out from behind the tables as the townsfolk lined up for their evening meal. Jon marveled at the orderliness of the process, then wondered if it was because of his presence, noticing more than a few glances and smiles and nods directed his way.

Davos approached him, readying him to leave for the next station, when a voice rang out from the middle of the crowd, “Your Grace, is it true what they say, Your Grace, that your real name is Aegon, that your father for true was Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Jon ducked his head, quickly sorting his options, settling on blunt honesty.

“Yes, yes it appears that it is true.”

A young woman, just to his side, called out, “And that you ride a dragon, Your Grace, the green one? The dead one?”

Laughter rolled through the crowd, he saw smiles even on the servers as they ladled the stew into bowls.

“He ain’t dead no more!!!” The earlier voice exclaimed, cutting across the chattering voices.

Jon’s hand went to his scar, then dropped, deciding to give full answers. He suspected he would always be uncomfortable speaking of himself, but he was relieved that they were focusing on him rather than on Dany and what had happened here.

“Yes, I ride the green dragon. His name is Rhaegal, he was named after my father.” He had never claimed him as his own, to be his rider, and it was a strange feeling to speak so publicly about the identity of his father. For so long he had believed lies, or believed nothing, he supposed it would take time to be able to embrace the truth.

Jon introduced those with him, Ser Davos, proudly wearing his Hand pin, Grey Worm, his commanders, even the two Northern Lords, encouraging any questions to be directed to them, who to get answers from, even who doesn’t know what they’re talking about, which sparked a chuckle from his audience.

He fell back on the little speech they’d worked on, which would be discussed in depth later that night, “The first things we are working on are safety, food, care for the wounded and rebuilding. We’re going to make some changes as we rebuild. I think we’ll rebuild better than before, the sewer will surely be better.” A ripple of soft laughter met his words; Jon continued to be amazed that just about anything light-hearted he said was met with laughter and acceptance; either the people were desperate for something to be happy about or even the smallest lightness from him came off as humor, he knew that he was known to be melancholy and brooding, so the people probably had very low expectations to begin with. Though it was helpful now, he knew his lack of cheerfulness was something he would have to continue to work on over time.

“Well I’d love to stay and talk with each of you, but the food is hot and the wine is cold, and I would not want to interfere with your evening meal. We all have another full day tomorrow. May peace and prosperity reign in King’s Landing once again, by the blessings of the gods, the Old and the New.” Jon raised his hand as he turned to leave. Murmurs of seven blessings and long may he reign rose and faded into the brush of shuffling feet as the citizens of King’s Landing lined up for their evening meal.

Northern guards formed a corridor for Jon and his companions to pass through toward their next destination. The next station was located near the edge of the city, and they had decided it was faster, safer to travel there by horse. His Northern bannermen and Tormund waved off joining him further, opting instead for a full meal of venison and ale before the meeting that night. Jon nodded, wishing he could join them.

Jon had spent many days in this part of the city, removing rubble, helping with the injured; it had been hard hit both by the wildfire and by Drogon. They crossed a main cross street, and Jon’s eye again fell on the bloodstained cobbles throughout the square. A shiver ran down his spine; this was where the Lannister soldiers had waited to defend the city, finally surrendering with the dragonfire at their back. And this is where all seven hells had broken loose, ending in the execution of so many surrendered soldiers. He had tried to interfere, to stop Grey Worm and his soldiers; he regretted not having the words to get through to the Unsullied Commander that there was no need, no reason. But he was following orders, orders he wanted to follow, orders that sated his need for revenge. Jon had seen that day what grief could do, both in the Commander of the Queen’s forces and in the Queen herself. How much did Bran do, and how much was simply unbridled rage.

He solemnly rode through the square and remembered the kneeling Lannister soldier with the brown hair and resigned fear in his gaze. They had locked eyes for a moment, fathomless and questioning as Grey Worm raked his blade across the exposed throat, hot blood spraying across his comrades and onto the ash-covered street. Those eyes still questioned him, challenging him late into his dreams. Did he have a wife, children waiting for him? Missing him, searching for him even now? His parents? His family?

So many lost, so many questions, so few answers. Later he had passed piles of Lannister armor and uniforms, swords and daggers, some bloodied or burnt. He had told Dany of his plans to return the Lannister soldiers to duty. He had explained that it was just a profession, they will serve you loyally, they did what they were ordered to do, they had sworn an oath to serve; they were swearing their oaths to them now.

“If we had planned better, we would have had the time to convince them to switch sides and turn on Cersei, but…”

At that point Daenerys had gone from angry to distressed, “I was chasing Cersei in my dreams by then… Her soldiers were spiders, Jon, climbing the walls, chasing me, trying to destroy…”

“When you’re strong enough, you will stand before them and they will pledge their loyalty, and they will no longer be Lannister soldiers, they will be our soldiers.”

He could see she was struggling, knew that the desire to utterly destroy all of her enemies was not just a consequence of the poison.

“You accepted a Lannister as your Hand for so long. Yes, he betrayed you, and those wanting to remain will have to prove their loyalty, but there are many that will serve you gladly. You gave the Tarly soldiers a chance, give these men a chance as well. They know King’s Landing, they know the people, and we will need Westerosi soldiers to train the Northerners, the Unsullied, whoever remains, in the ways of the South.” She had dropped her arguments at the time; hopefully by the time she encountered them they would be wearing their new armor and she wouldn’t even notice. When Jon had informed Grey Worm that he was to accept them as fellow soldiers to the Crown, to be willing to learn from them as well as keep an eye on them, it had earned him yet another scowl of condescension from his wife’s most ardent supporter.

When it came time to actually assemble the former deserters, he was relieved that many of the forces had responded to his coaxing, his offers that there would be peace and a place, a need for them under the Stark and Targaryen banners.

But he was also learning that he and Dany had a chasm between them which was widening as she recovered. He would talk to Davos, he was to be their intermediary, and he would have his hands full, but he didn’t want to push him into a hasty retirement.

They stopped suddenly at the next cross street, his guards and Grey Worm encircling him protectively as shouts echoed down an alley, more shouts as former Lannister soldiers echoed an all clear, reporting to Davos that there was a dispute over a loose pig. Jon somehow took comfort, a fight between neighbors, a sign of things getting back to normal.

Finally they crossed what he had come to call the Street of Ash and Bones, the first house blackened and hollowed out. He remembered being close by when the dragonfire hit it, exploding it from within, those huddled inside obliterated instantaneously, mercifully ignorant. The long line of once graceful arches had been brought to dust and rubble; thankfully the human remains had been removed along this main thoroughfare, though the memories had not faded, certainly not at night. The smoke, the death, the fire – this was the stuff of his nightmares, where he spent many a night haunted and chased by the bloody, gruesome, relentless corpses of men, women, children and soldiers, suffocating as they piled on his back as he had tried to run, ripping at his clothes, his hair, his face, plucking out his tongue, his eyes, only to turn to ash as they accidentally protected him from that searing blaze, the endless rage of the dread black monster. The screams, of agony and pain, disbelief and horror as a mother watched her young daughter perish, consumed in red and orange flame, only to be lost herself, more slowly perhaps, her dress catching fire, then her hair, then her fingers and face, her arms flailing to put out the flames, her husband, her father, reaching to pull her inside, up the stairs as the building exploded from within, casting her burning head, shoulder and arm into his arms, brown eyes frozen open in terror.

Jon shook himself, reminding himself he was awake now, that the dreams weren’t real, yet cringing at the bitter ash taste in his mouth, the unmistakable odor of burnt flesh in his nostrils.

The buildings along the street had collapsed, much of the rubble removed, sorted for reuse. Rebuilding, starting anew. Yet Jon awoke many a night with Drogon staring down at him, that fearsome glow growing in the back of his cavernous maw, as he had first witnessed up close on the beach at Varys’s execution. Now nightly in his dreams.

Slowly they approached the second station, a large crowd of solemn faces bobbing over a gray sea of still-ashen cloaks and singed leather boots, packs of what remained of belongings slung on their backs for safekeeping. The people here weren’t as welcoming; there were few smiles, fewer hands of welcome, though the presence of the direwolf again thawed scowls into curious smiles. Jon did see a few Stark banners hanging over window sills, the banners of the true House and his bastard banners, a few being waved by frail adults, a couple of the children wearing them like capes. Earlier he had ordered that they now travel with both the Stark and Targaryen banners; Jon saw Grey Worm scowl – there were no Targaryen banners here.

Serving of the evening meal had already begun; people were milling about, shoveling the stew into their mouths with the crusty bread. A young woman noticed their arrival, then stared at him, almost dropping her meal, shaking until she shook her head and dropped to a knee, bowing her head with her eyes to the ground. Jon rode his horse forward between his guards as others took a knee, the eerie quiet unsettling, only a murmur of your graces bubbling up here and there among the crowd as he dismounted and waved his hand.

“Please, rise – please continue serving, I don’t want to interrupt your meal.”

He caught the eye of one of the servers, a young lad with red hair and freckles who was handing out bread at the end of the line and smiled, nodding.

“Harthur, it’s good to see you again… how is your mother faring today, better?”

The boy bobbed his head nervously, “Y-ye-yes, Your Grace, she’s to get back to work tomorrow.” He smiled as he tore off a hefty chunk from the loaf and handed it to the King, Davos holding a freshly-dipped bowl of stew, both of them waiting for an objection from Grey Worm that never came.

Ghost again hovered at Jon’s side, overwhelmed by all the new sights and sounds, nervous as several hands stretched out to him. Jon watched closely as he ate with the people, noticing a bit of the tension ease from the crowd as his furry white friend settled on his haunches with his tongue lolling.

Satisfied, Jon took stock of the crowd; there were not as many children in this part of the city, here at the tables at least, and fewer happy people, many more burned and wounded, bandaged and with canes or crutches, several with their hair and eyebrows singed off. He wondered if they had been getting good care, if they should be up and about, but there had been rumors that no one who went into the healing tent came out alive. A lie of course, but after what they had survived, many preferred to be treated by their barber than a stranger with a foreign accent. He’d had to double the soldier’s presence here to keep the peace, the anger was raw and deep, so he took every opportunity to earn their trust, one person at a time if need be.

His gaze fell on a pretty young woman holding a young brown-haired boy, both wearing threadbare clothing, the boy missing his left shoe.

“Have you not been given clothes, my lady?” he turned to Davos with an eyebrow raised.

“They’ve been passed out, Your Grace, but sometimes they sell them instead, for more food.” Davos shrugged as Jon gazed at him quizzically.

“Are they not getting enough to eat? Do we…” Jon searched for words as Davos offered, “It seems, Your Grace, that they don’t believe they will receive food tomorrow. It’s hard to sleep at night not knowing where your next meal is coming from.”

Realization filled Jon’s eyes. “Can we send them home with something, then, so they can start preparing their own meals… grain, salted meat, more fruit and vegetables…”

Davos nodded in agreement, “We’ll see what can be done, Your Grace. We’ll set up more cooking fires, more cauldrons…” Jon nodded and turned to the woman.

“Would that be helpful, my lady?”

“And water, ser, people getting sick pretty bad.” Jon again turned toward his Hand.

“We’ve been providing water barrels here.” Jon turned to see two large barrels on a wagon, leather skins and clay jugs resting underneath, iron spigots ready and waiting and unused.

“Are they full?”

“Yes, Your Grace, folks are just afraid they’ve been poisoned, so they collect rainwater off the tarps on their roofs, with the ash and the – everything falls in the water, and – we’ve told them not to drink it, but…” Davos had a distressed look on his face.

Jon turned to the woman and her son and gestured toward the wagon. “My lady, would you drink with me?”

Davos sucked in his breath and quickly interrupted, “Your Grace, just a moment, please…” Jon nodded and watched as Davos ran to the two City Guards assigned to the barrels, the woman and her son and many others now observing intently. The two guards ran to take two cups from the public tables and made a display of filling their cups to the brim, then ceremoniously clacked them together high in the air, “The Dragon King!” They turned to the crowd and downed the water, letting some spill over their faces to show they were full. Murmurs broke out as Davos took two more cups, filled them and ran toward Jon, extending a cup to him.

“The Dragon King!” Davos raised his cup high to his King as some of the people joined in this time, raising their bread or their hands, some bowing or even kneeling. “Long may he reign!” Davos downed his water, also spilling it on his face, then smiled widely as he wiped his beard on his sleeve, holding the cup high as he tipped the cup upside down to show it was empty.

Suddenly all eyes were on Jon. He too raised the cup high for all to see, then drank it swiftly. It was hot, stale and had a faint ale aftertaste, probably from the barrels. But it was water, nothing more.

Jon nodded to the woman, tipping his eyes and his head toward the barrel. Her eyes squinted at him confused, the boy in her arms wiggling to the ground.

“My lady, would you care for some water to take home?” He again tipped his head toward the barrels, relieved when her eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace, that would be wonderful, thank you.” Jon watched as the woman and her son walked to the water wagon as one of the guards filled a leather skin and draped it across her shoulder. She turned toward the King and curtsied as several others gathered around the water wagon, discussing the skins and jugs at first, then finally filling them with the water and heaving them in their packs or draping them across their shoulders. A line soon formed.

“I want everyone to be a part of the rebuilding, to re-take control of their own lives as soon as possible. We, myself and Queen Daenerys, we plan to do things differently, to…”

“Is that why she burned down King’s Landing, Your Grace?” The lone voice carried over the crowd, his guards stood ready to find the culprit that would interrupt the King.

The crowd grew silent as Jon ignored his soldiers, instead, he sought to capture their gaze, one by one, not with anger or defensiveness, but with confidence and understanding. As he waited, faces turned to him filled with anger and challenge, questions thrown at him, accusations; Jon could feel his guards tense and ready, hands on their weapons.

Jon waved to pause his soldiers. “You’ve all heard what happened this morning at the Great Council. What we had suspected turned out to be true, I can tell you of a truth about why this happened, what happened to your Queen.”

Jon paused, glancing around, his eyes landing on a bench pushed under one of the serving tables. He leaned to Davos, gathering his thoughts as the bench was placed in front of the crowd, a hand to help him stand on it to speak.

“The Queen, Queen Daenerys was not herself that day. We now know that she had been poisoned for quite some time before taking King’s Landing. Though she cannot be held responsible for her actions that day, she has been distraught and unforgiving of herself, she deeply regrets the terrible things that she did, and is looking forward to being strong enough to speak to you directly.”

Some of the anger softened, eyes dropping as some to the side returned to the lines at the serving tables. Jon pressed forward.

“We ask for a chance to prove that our plans for the people of Westeros will be good for everyone; we ask for time and a chance to show we are honorable people.” He hated that he could so easily use the Stark legacy that he had shied away from for his entire life, even without actually carrying the name, but it was something that made a connection with the common folk, and he wanted them on their side.

He waited, letting his words sink in, seeing the doubt and anger war on their faces. He let the war rage, it was better to let them fight it out within them than with weapons of the poor, there had been enough blood shed quelling the uprisings of the past weeks; the quiet of the past few days, as the time of the Great Council drew near, gave hope that things would become more settled as permanent decisions could be made.

The mood of the crowd seemed to shift, not to acceptance or hope, merely apathy. He was satisfied with that, for now.

“Your Grace, where is the Queen? We’ve not seen her since that day.” The old woman seemed to want to go on, but drew closer to Jon as he stepped off the bench, her arm outstretched to grasp his arm as Jon shook his head to his guard. The day he couldn’t defend himself against an old woman...

“I served them, the Dragons, in the kitchens of the Red Keep.” She halted, looking sternly into his eyes, at his face. “Yes, I can see it. You may be a Stark, but you have the Dragon look about you too.” She squeezed his arm, he wasn’t sure if it was meant as a warning or comfort or motherly habit, but it reminded him to seek out others that had served the Targaryen family, they may have stories, memories, that neither he nor Dany had ever heard.

“Yah, Your Grace, where is the Queen, she should be out here seeing what she’s done.”

Jon could tell the man was trying to provoke his anger; he would not permit it.

“The Queen is recovering from the effects of the poison, she wanted to be with me today, but the events of this morning were too much for her.”

“My King, is it true you married the Dragon Queen, your aunt, that the Queen is with child?”

Jon considered the best way to speak the truth.

“Yes, our marriage was always a reasonable option, uniting the North and the South, and we had grown quite close, working together on Dragonstone and in the Great War in the North.”

A ripple of laughter followed as someone chuckled in the back, “ ‘Close’ is it, is that what they call it in the North, Your Grace?”

Jon could feel his face redden, smiling shyly, but did not respond. He felt Davos watching him, then felt him approach from the side,

“Your Grace, we will need to travel more quickly to visit the other stations before the meeting tonight.”

Jon nodded as he bid the people a peaceful evening, nodding to the waves from the people as he mounted his horse.

They soon passed through the outer gates and into the sparse countryside, backed by steep terraced slopes on several sides. Looking back, he remembered his first impressions of King’s Landing, that the fortified sea wall protected the city from naval attack, that the city would be difficult to siege by land due to its location within the terrain, and safely moving large numbers of men to carry out the siege would be nearly impossible, even under cover of darkness.

Yet nothing could protect the Red Keep or the city proper against the wings and flames of a dragon.

Jon glanced out to sea, winged flecks again catching his attention.

Drogon and Rhaegal, though they were indistinguishable from this distance. He was sure they were calling to one another, reveling in their reunion rather than hunting for food. Jon let the constant pull gain his attention and joined their joy and relief, lightening his glower if only temporarily. The relief mirrored the pain he had experienced weeks before, when Rhaegal was falling, helpless, shot from the sky by an unseen enemy. There was a tear in his very soul, ripping, knowing his dragon was somewhere, beyond his help, in pain, dying. He should have been riding him. He’d told Tormund that it was to let the dragon heal, but they, she, hadn’t wanted Jon to be seen riding a dragon any more than was necessary. So Rhaegal was riderless at the worst possible time. He should have insisted, another regret, people think he’s strong, but he’s…

It was unsettling, at first, the pull. It was insistent, emotional in an intensity that had surprised him. He had hoped to find books in the Keep, about the bond between Targaryens and their dragons, but everything had been destroyed or at least removed and hidden away. Perhaps Grand Maester Lesser would know something. The Citadel had disclaimed Qyburn as Grand Maester under Cersei, but had stationed Maester Corrad in a keep nearby, to step in if and when it was time to install a true Grand Maester under whoever took the throne next. When it became clear that House Targaryen was re-taking the Iron Throne, the Citadel had quickly sent Maester Lesser, who had previously served the Targaryen family, even his father Rhaegar, as a young man, now to serve two young Targaryen monarchs.

There was so much to do right now, but Lesser had been hopeful they would have a chance to talk soon. Jon was unsure; it seemed odd that the only person he could truly talk to about the dragons, both the winged and human kind, might be a complete stranger. He wanted to talk to Dany, about everything but especially about his heritage, but she was consumed in her grief, and trying to share it would only remind her that he was a Targaryen, too. That she was not the Last Dragon.

They topped a small rise and he reined in his horse, knowing to brace himself before dismounting, knowing what awaited him.

The lines of large tents opened toward one another, a wide channel between row upon row of tents filled with the sick, injured and dying. The food wagons had been hauled behind the cook tent, and though there was a sparse crowd waiting with bowls and cups, most of the food was prepared and delivered individually to the bedridden.

As he approached the healing camp, he realized it was much later than he had planned. Several of the healers smiled at him as he was escorted through the guarded entrance. Though many had been looking forward to seeing him, knowing he would come, he was asked to make his visit short. He told Davos to schedule another trip here earlier in the day, to visit with those already asleep… perhaps the Queen would be up to it as well.

Ghost had enjoyed the chance to stretch his legs and had been running about, scaring the horses – they’d have to get used to it – and chuffing at all of the new sights and smells. As they entered the camp, Jon noticed a marked change in the great wolf, his awareness of the situation quieting him even as he constantly sniffed the air, his lips pulling back at the smells of herbs and disease and burnt flesh that hugged the air between the tents.

Slowly a crowd gathered, larger than he had expected, probably due to the presence of a pony-sized white wolf. They began walking through the tents, slowly, nodding at each bow, greeting as many as he could. Some glanced at his crown and bowed again, most far more interested in his companion, some even reaching out to glance across his pristine fur. He had wondered if Ghost would acclimate, to the people and the clime, and had decided to at least give it a try. Seeing the people’s reaction to Ghost, their softening, their distraction, he hoped even more that Ghost could find himself at home here.

His mind seemed to ponder the mundane walking among the injured; the difference between telling the truth and being mercifully misleading. He decided it depended on the situation, there were some that didn’t want to know, if they would live, if their family was alive, if there was a life to return to. And some enjoyed the deception, that their family and friends were rebuilding their lives, too busy to visit their sister or friend in a tent outside the city.

At the end of one of the last tents that he had been led through, Ghost approached a shirtless old man, stitched wounds exposed, hair singed and ear missing, sitting on the edge of a makeshift cot, his eyes fixed on Ghost’s red eyes. Ghost approached and sat quietly in front of him but for a quiet whine, perhaps commiserating over their shared deformity. The old man reached for him with his remaining arm, having lost the other in his collapsed home. Ghost raised his head and let him lean into his shoulder as the man held onto him, fisting his fur as he wept. Jon struggled to keep from joining him as a crowd formed, trying to think of something to say or do, yet knew that no words or actions could restore his former life. He had learned the best he could do at times like these was to listen to those who spoke, and mourn with those who mourned.

Davos waved him toward the open flap at the rear of the tent and Jon followed him into the light dusk, pausing, waiting, finally calling for Ghost to join him. The meal had been served earlier, the sweets would be served as he left. The injured had not been told about the wine; not all would be able to drink it, so it was decided all in the camp would go without for now, including the healers and those in charge.

Jon’s attention went to the hands waving at the back of the camp, and he recognized the trio of administrators awaiting his arrival. He had spent a good deal of time here, with these people from King’s Landing to Essos to North of The Wall, now all under white-bleached tents hoping to see another day. Or praying that they wouldn’t. The Citadel had been generous and was continuing to send help, of healing maesters and supplies, and guidance for dealing with the unique maladies experienced by the displaced and traumatized. Supplies continued to arrive from Essos, from Braavos to Volantis, based on a promise to contract for later resources. The Iron Bank had sent a representative who had taken pity on the situation and approved emergency lending. He had wanted to meet and discuss terms in depth when he caught up with Jon one night early on right here among the casualties, but had lasted mere moments before he fled due to the sounds, sights and smells of the results of a city on fire.

They were getting farther behind. Jon nodded toward the horses and his troop left speedily, cantering toward what had become known as The Waiting Camp, set up farther along and on the other side of this main road.

They had called it the Orphan’s Camp at first, but there were many adults here as well, not badly injured, but without family and not able to care for themselves. Davos had wanted to divide the children from the adults, to make it easier for families to find each other, but Jon had thought it would be good for both that the children and adults stay together. He would leave it to the Healing Council being formed, hopefully tonight, to decide how to move forward from there. As far as he knew, less than 40 children had been reunited with their families, separated during the attack on King’s Landing or the confusion that followed.

The wine and sweets were being served as they approached the camp as darkness settled over the colorful scattered tents, some leaning among trees, some pitched away from the main group. There was a large campfire on the side of the hill where it seemed the bulk of the Waiting were holding some kind of gathering.

Jon was soon noticed by the camp managers, but he waved aside any recognition, wanting instead to listen to whatever it was that had the young children’s faces at rapt attention. An ancient man, frail and stooped, sat on the end of a stump, the glow of the fire flickering off his light blue eyes and white beard, his tongue flicking to the side as he mimicked different voices, a mouse, a hawk, a wolf. Ghost too watched as the old man’s hands added features to each character in his story, whiskers, ears, wings, carrying his audience deeper into his created world. Jon had never heard this story; he reminded himself to ask Davos if he had heard it. The night was falling harder as Jon leaned against an oak tree, its orange leaves scattered under his feet, mixed in with dry brown grass. It was quite soothing, the voice, the breathing, the breeze, the crackling fire. Jon felt himself dozing, then glanced up to find he’d been caught by Davos, who nodded toward those gathered and winked at him; perhaps he’d had a good idea after all. The winking thing, he still hadn’t mastered that though.

Jon let his eyes wander over the crowd, disappointed that there were still so many children unclaimed. The infants were asleep by now, back in the tents, but those old enough huddled together, more for comfort than for warmth. Their eyes had aged, even over the weeks Jon had been visiting, their childhood stolen from them. Jon thought of his own child, an innocent babe not yet born, and how he hungered to protect it. He hadn’t even met the child, yet would kill to protect him. Surely others felt the same way about their children, only wanting what was best for them, for their future. Willing to do whatever was necessary, even serve the Usurper Queen to provide for a better life for their family.

Jon’s eyes scoured the ring of children, seeking the boy with the freckles and curly black hair. The first time he’d seen him, the lad had thrown himself around his knees and had started to cry. He’d sat with him quite a while to calm him down, explain that he wasn’t his father, who he figured must have looked like him, dark hair and beard perhaps. Last he’d seen the boy, he was wearing baggy trousers and bright red suspenders, and boots that were too big for him. He’d sent his steward, Kevan if he recalled, to see if more clothes could be scrounged up for the children, especially for the black-haired boy. Until now he hadn’t had to seek him out; the boy should have found him by now, and he grew worried. He lingered a moment longer, tempted to hear more of the story, but he was distracted by the absence of the boy who had called him Papa.

Jon backed into the shadows of the trees to avoid attracting attention, his guards, and even Davos and Ghost following suit as the King waited for someone tending the children to find him. Finally she came, Lady Delorah, from a House in the Crownlands if he recalled correctly, curtseying before waving him away from the fire and toward the water wagons. The wine was still being served, there were no sweets left, but she held up a cup before the cask’s spigot and raised an eyebrow, smiling sweetly as he nodded and accepted the wine. He didn’t particularly like wine, could have used a good mug of ale, but he nodded his appreciation as he sipped at the warm watered treat.

“The boy, the one with the red suspenders…”

She nodded and smiled softly as she leaned against the table, edging closer to his side, arms crossed over her chest. She was a pretty young lady, she had a kind voice and she seemed kind to the children, and they seemed to like her too.

“He left us today. His family, his father’s father and an uncle came and took him home, to somewhere in the Riverlands. His father had been a wheelwright here in King’s Landing, a fifth son who had to make his own way. The boy’s name was Garlend, his father’s father's name as well. The family had been in King’s Landing for several days, but didn’t find any trace of the boy’s parents, or his three sisters. I told them we would send a raven if they turned up anywhere.”

Jon nodded, happy for the boy. It was as good an ending as any of them would likely get.

With a final glance toward the campfire, Jon called softly to Ghost and then mounted to return to the Keep, the red and green glow meeting the reds and purples of the fading sunset over the jumbled silhouette of the city.

Ghost’s white fur and red eyes stood out against the deep moving shadows, occasionally spooking one of the horses as he’d huff at a smell or pounce at movement, causing the men to curse at him, seemingly an intentional part of his game. It was quite dark by the time they made it back to the Red Keep, and the temperature was dropping quickly. Jon wished he had brought his cloak as they passed through the heavy gates, closed securely behind them. A few townsfolk holding torches had gathered to greet him as he rode by calling ‘King Jon’; he’d almost forgotten he was wearing that crown now, but he merely waved briefly as he hurried to return to his rooms, hoping to spend some time with Dany. She had planned on spending the rest of that day with him as they toured the city once the usurpers were challenged, once she had claimed her throne, but she just wasn’t up to it. Understandable, of course. He hoped she would approve of the decisions he was making.

The people would have finished their evening meal by now; they were serving earlier as winter approached, so they could eat during daylight, to avoid using up the firewood unnecessarily. The streets were quiet as they passed between the piles of rubble, Ghost almost glowing among the firelight and ash. The curfew went into effect at full darkness, several bells throughout the city marking the hour, doubled guards roaming the streets to protect the people; he wanted them to feel secure enough to get a good night’s sleep.

He wished he could do the same.

He heard the crowd before he saw it, jumbled voices murmuring, broken by an occasional laugh or outcry, coming from a mass of mixed humanity milling across from the bottom of the steps to the crumbled facade of the Great Hall, straining and wary of the White Cloaks standing, weapons ready, shoulder to shoulder facing the crowd.

Jon wondered what had happened; another uprising in the Reach, in Dorne perhaps. Pirates had been spotted close to Dragonstone, had they ventured into Blackwater Bay? Surely a messenger would have found him with the news…

His brow furrowed as he caught Davos watching him, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he rode beside him. They paused at the outer edge of the gathering before one of his Northmen dismounted and took the reins of his horse, leading him through a passage carved out by his guards toward the cleared crossroads. The cacophony increased, reverberating off the stone walls, an audible blur of noise and banging and shouts. Clearly the wine had been served, and enjoyed.

The people turned as he approached, their voices rising and falling as the kneeling began, falling back through the crowd like a wave. That damn crown…

He pulled his horse from the guard and kneed his destrier up the steps, halting the black stallion on the middle platform. The people had gone silent, a few eyes peeping up to see what the King was doing, waiting. He let the silence, the stillness linger for a moment, broken by the clanging of the steel on steel of his guards' armor as they rushed to fill the platform, below and behind their charge. He was King now, would often be the center of attention, he would have to learn to use it to his advantage. He would probably have to start wearing his armor as well. Ghost and his guards could only do so much.

The city was a dark blob behind them as the people continued to kneel, the torches held by some of the citizens casting long flickering shadows that faded into the dark of night. He took a deep breath.

“Rise!”

As one, the crowd stood quickly, some leaping to their feet, the chant following in one breath.

“King – Jon – King – Jon – King – Jon – ”

His horse – he had renamed him Balerion – was fractious under his heels; he calmed himself and let the ease settle into the stallion, into the crowd as well. He raised his hand, searching his memory to find the right words.

He’d never been good with words.

Surprisingly the people silenced, their faces turned up, expectant.

His people. Their King. He nodded to himself.

He greeted the people in a clear voice, echoes returning off the mounds of rubble. He wondered how many in the crowd had also been on these steps this morning. The people who still lived in the city proper were getting bored and restless; they had made good headway to prevent another uprising, but more would need to be done to keep the peace during the rebuilding. He would have to offer a reason for peace; peace couldn’t be forced on people, not a lasting peace at least.

He started to throw out ideas to keep them busy and amused; everything from small weekly competitions, even cooking contests, to awards for the most work done within a certain amount of time and the best plans and strategies for improving people’s lives. Tours of the Red Keep followed, much to the chagrin of his guards, and of course, regular tourneys held outside the Walls. His ideas started to get outlandish, who could hold their breath the longest, who could toss a wagon wheel the farthest, who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest; he was relieved when the people laughed, no doubt the wine easing the tension. The wind had picked up, blowing ash and smoke and salt air, and Jon was glad for the crown keeping his hair from blowing into his eyes.

He turned somber then, “This is not what I was expecting when traveling south to remove the Usurper Queen from her throne. The brazen ambition of House Lannister have led to the deaths of many in my family, both in House Stark and in House Targaryen.”

There was a brief shift in attention as Jon noticed his guards stationing themselves along the sides of the stairs carrying banners, and was relieved to see that banners of not only House Stark but of House Targaryen were being passed among the crowd and set out along both sides of the steps to the entrance of the Great Hall.

“Be assured, Queen Daenerys wished to be with you today, to speak her own heart; gods be good, she will be able to be out and about soon. Instead, she fights for the life of our child, threatened by the same treachery that ruined both of our Houses. She has much to say, but for today, tonight, it is just you and me.”

A slight hum of agreement passed through the crowd.

“It is often in the seemingly small decisions that our future is built. I ask you now, each of you, to make a small decision, to join me, your King, to join your Queen in building a new future, from this day forward. What is at your hand to do, do it. Whether it is to put your hand to labor, or to the care of your own family or your neighbor. Whatever is needed, do it. We will do the same. Whatever is needed, we will do it.”

They were listening, intently, their faces jumping eerily in the flickering torchlight, even as Jon struggled to put his thoughts into words.

“We do not forget the past, we do not forget those we’ve lost, but we will heal the wounds, the wounds we have inflicted on ourselves and each other over these past generations. We will heal the misunderstandings, we will heal the mistakes, highborn and commoner alike. With the help of the Old Gods and the New, we will do this together.”

He could sense the crowd’s emotions rise with his own, heads bobbing, a smattering of clapping among those closest to him.

“There will be struggles and setbacks but we will make progress, this I can promise to you, as a Stark, as a Targaryen, and as your King.”

The clapping spread, fists pumping in the air as House banners flicked over their heads. Jon noticed that to the side of the steps next to Davos, one of the scribes from earlier that day had set up his desk and had begun writing. He was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead turned his focus back to his people. He raised his voice to carry over the rising din.

“We do not yet know what the future looks like or how long it will take to get there, but I see peace on the horizon. So tonight I ask you to Stand with me, Work with me, Rebuild with me. And together we will create a future that is better for everyone!”

He raised his hand and waved, sending them home for the night as a cheer rang out, followed by calls of his name, and long may he reign. Jon smiled, though he knew it wasn’t for him, that the people just wanted, needed a reason to be hopeful. If things went sideways, this same crowd would just as gladly see him meet the same end as his father. But for tonight…

Jon gathered the reins of his lathered horse, irritated and stomping on the platform, and started his descent down the steps. Quickly his guards met up with him, encouraged him to go up the steps instead. Best to end the night safely, he supposed as he let Belarion be led slowly to the top of the steps where he dismounted and walked to the edge of the top platform, joined by an impatient Ghost. Pausing he took in the city, smoke still rising from the shining green glow of wildfire. So far to go, but off to a good start, each new day an improvement over the last, each day more hopeful than that day, slowly fading into memory, when the Dragon Queen had stood in this exact spot and recited her poisoned speech.

For now, he was content. He waved one last time as Davos joined him, smiling and nodding to him, clapping with those around him as they left the outer darkness for the calmness of the echoing Red Keep.

He followed his guards through the Great Hall and into the Audience Chamber, darkened though work was still being done. He nodded to those he passed, the faces were becoming familiar, he would try to spend time with them, thank them on the morrow. For now, though, he was looking forward to speaking with his Queen in her new quarters, hoping they would suit her, after she changed whatever needed changing, of course.

He thought back to the reaction of the crowd and his heart raced. It was a heady feeling, being admired, known. He could see why people would only want more, prayed that he would never be one to let it drive his actions, glad for once that he’d learned to expect betrayal.

He picked up his pace as he strode towards his new quarters, to change for the evening meeting and spend time with his wife – he was not sure he would ever get used to that word – when he noticed the retreating figures of Norri, the Queen’s Dothraki healer, and several handmaidens leaving the hallway that led to the Queen’s rooms and crossing the courtyard in front of him.

They must have come from the Queen’s quarters, there was no other…

He felt his heart pound and his palms sweat as he began to brace himself; there was no reason, no good reason for them to be visiting the Queen at this hour.

He broke into a run, then slowed as the glass doors were opened for him, nearly colliding with Kinvara, who held the doors open for him to enter, nodding her head in recognition but avoiding his gaze.

He tried to calm himself; perhaps she had urgent instructions for them, or something had come up that she needed to be aware of right away. He felt his mouth go dry as he approached the doors to her quarters, briefly knocking, then quietly slipping into the unfamiliar room.

It was moonlit dark, and he could barely make out a small silhouette mounded on the massive bed. Jon waited for his breathing to calm and his eyes to adjust. Slowly he was able to make out a soft sobbing audible above his own heartbeat, and he peered toward her still form, curled on her side, facing away from the doors. She must have heard him come in, or sensed it, and his heart raced again as she reached out her hand toward him, her fingers wiggling to get his attention, though she kept her back toward him.

Jon rushed around to her side, dreading what he would find, kneeling next to the bed, taking her hand as he waited for her eyes to open. It was quiet, so quiet, except for her quick breathing, little hiccups as she tried to speak. He stroked her hair, patient, as she struggled to gather her words; it was then that he noticed the glistening of tears on her swollen face, where the drops had fallen across her cheeks and even into her ears.

“Dany... love… what…?”

He felt her eyes on him as she squeezed his hand, still sniffling softly, then took his hand and pulled it under the thin linen sheets she lay under. Jon started to stroke over her stomach, it had comforted her before, but she stopped his hand, pulling up the shift she was wearing. Slowly she again placed his hand on her belly, flat against the hard roundness, guiding it and pressing it gently, until… there.

His eyes flew open as she smiled broadly, gasping, the white of her teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Dany!”

He pressed again, felt the push under his palm, the rise and ridge against it, then moved his hand to follow it across and away.

“Dany, is that…?”

He dragged his eyes from where his hand waited, surprised at the fear and joy warring on her face. Fear was winning, and the sobbing grew as she released his hand and grabbed his arm, pulling him closer as his heart dropped again.

“Dany, this is a good thing, isn’t it?”

Her breaths were coming in great heaves as she pulled herself up to lean against the pillows, eyes wild and red in the flickering firelight. She reached out then, reaching for his face, surprising him; he started to pull back before realizing what he was doing. In turn, he leaned forward, kissing her forehead, her skin hot and damp under his lips.

“Talk to me, Dany, is there something wrong, with you, with the baby?”

The tears started again, with great gulps of breath. She shook her head, spilling her silver hair across her shoulders and the fresh white bed linens.

She started to speak, but could not, instead swallowing her words as her face morphed into fear and confusion. Jon’s gaze quickly found the pitcher and cups on the table across the room, and he offered the cool juice, holding it for her so it wouldn’t spill. She sipped, trying to smile, then sipped again.

“Better?”

She nodded, managing a small smile, then reached to touch his face, stroking his beard lightly.

“This is a good thing, though, our baby is moving…” He placed his hand on her belly through the bedclothes, Dany placed her hand on top, gripping his hand tightly.

“What if…” Her face fell again into grief and fear, her skin pale and gray.

“Dany, tell me what you’re thinking… tell me what I can do…”

“Jon, can you…” Tears welled again as she grabbed his arm to pull him closer. “What if this isn’t real?” She heaved a great breath, struggling to speak. “What if this is all a dream? My dreams, of Cersei, they were so real… I couldn’t bear it if this is just a dream…”

He nodded in understanding then and pulled her to his chest, engulfing her, assuring her.

“This is real, my Dany, it's not a dream…” He held her tight to his chest, her fists clutching his arms, rocking her slowly as her heaving sobs filled the dark corners of the room. Slowly she tired, relaxing slowly in his embrace. He leaned to lay her back on the pillows when suddenly her gaze fixed on his face with a frenzied fury.

She pushed him away from the embrace, then grabbed the front of his tunic, “Take this off, now!”

He didn’t understand her harsh insistence, but started to comply, apparently not fast enough; her small hands pushed his away and she soon had the front of his new finery unlaced, his tunic pulled aside. Her eyes wide, he slowly realized what she was doing and froze, unsure and unsettled. She swallowed again, then slowly reached and touched the curved scar, unhealed and grotesque, her fingers tracing from top to bottom, then back up again. She let out a breath, some of the tension easing then looked into his eyes. Moments passed, until the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms ungraciously shifted to kneel on her bed, bending her head until her ear rested on his chest, just over the scar. He hesitated, afraid to startle her or interfere, awkward and uncertain as he let her hold him still; awed as she closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, slowing until it matched his own, a small smile starting to creep across her lips as she listened to the thump of his heart. Tears formed in his own eyes, falling onto her hair and across her face to mingle with her own.

Her deep breaths turned to shaky laughter, bouncing off his chest.

“I’m so afraid, and I’m so tired of being afraid… I can’t lose you, I can’t lose my baby...”

He stroked her hair down her back, “Don’t be afraid… you don’t have to be afraid anymore… I’m here, with you, always.”

She wept again, childlike, “You promise me this isn’t a dream?”

“Yes, Dany, I promise this isn’t a dream,” he pulled back, lifting her face so he could look into her red-streaked eyes. “My Dany, I’ve never stopped loving you, I’m so sorry I made you doubt.”

A tired smile again found its way to her lips. “I love you too, I never stopped…”

He took her hand and kissed it, “You're not dreaming Dany - I am yours, you are mine, and this…” he placed his hand on her belly, “this is our family; no matter what happens, we will build our future together.”

He sighed with relief as she huffed through her smile, finding her glistening eyes now shining with relief and joy. Oh, how he had longed to see those things back in her eyes.

She nodded, her tears flowing anew.

“Yes, our babe…”

He kissed her, sweetly and long, tasting the salt of her tears, feeling the warmth of her crying.

Tears of joy.

At last…

Chapter Text

Davos sighed, tugging on his new quilted black waistcoat, adjusting his Hand pin for the hundredth time. It had always seemed that so much of his duty as Hand was standing outside of closed doors, waiting.

There were muffled voices inside, lowered at first but now rising. Grey Worm frowned, avoiding his gaze, as the voices rose again, clearly excited this time, finally turning to near silence.

Eventually the door opened, and the King of the Seven Kingdoms stepped out, freshly washed and changed. Davos would have thought he was distraught if it weren’t for the silly grin on his face as he held the door open for his wolf.

“The baby moved, it kicked her Davos. I felt it – I... It’s the first time…” He struggled to maintain his composure, then bobbed his head slowly and waved to proceed to the meeting.

“Congratulations, Your Grace, that is great news. The best news.”

“You have… yes, it is the best news… she seems…”

Grey Worm suddenly stepped in front of the King, halting the procession.

“Queen better now. You go home...”

Davos felt his heart race. There had been tension between the two since they had met, but the animus had never been so direct. Davos opened his mouth to chastise the Unsullied Commander for his rudeness, when -

“Thank you for your council, Commander. I believe I have guests waiting in the Throne Room…”

Davos ducked his head as they walked along the hall; this was not Jon’s usual tact, he usually liked to meet things head on...

“So Ser Davos, what do we have waiting in the throne room this evening? Have we heard from the silent Houses?”

They had sent the tradesmen home for the night; they had been working around the clock and they welcomed a reprieve. Holding the meeting before the Iron Throne, with all the new banners waving, would give the weight of the new King’s authority without him having to sit on it. At this point he had only his Northern crown, but he and Daenerys had been recognized by both the High Septon and the Grand Maester, and at least some of the citizenry had sworn fealty earlier that day. For the sake of the people he wanted to make sure there was no question as to who was in charge. They had discussed the danger of this transition time; productive activity was essential, for the people and those tempted to take the throne for themselves.

“We’ve received word from other Houses of plans to come to the capital in the coming weeks, Your Grace, but for now everyone from the Great Council returned for this meeting, even Prince Martell. Of course they would each like a private audience over the next few days, but there seems to be acceptance of the path forward and curiosity about your – um – personal story.”

Jon raised an eyebrow as he brushed his fingers through his trimmed beard. He was still fidgety, understandable of course, and continued to improve; Davos tried to choose his battles wisely, the young King had a lot to learn of the ways of the court, at least he acknowledged it was better to conform to most of the expectations and achieve his goals and leave the little things for later. Davos had only known him as a protector, a defender, a warrior against all odds; he was looking forward to seeing what he could do now that a victory of sorts had been achieved.

“Very well. Also, I will need to spend some time with Rhaegal tonight. You won’t have to come with me – it will be a good test for those who will serve as my King's guard – they will have to get used to the dragons – I don’t want this meeting to go on all night…”

Davos smiled and nodded, “Yes, Your Grace, we’ll stick to the plan.”

Though only a relative few individuals had been invited, the room seemed over-crowded; many of those invited to the ‘Great Council’ had brought advisors, bannermen and their own guards, crowded against the hanging tarps that created the meeting space before the Iron Throne, waving gently in the night air, mimicked by the colorful House standards held by various stewards and guards stationed behind the leaders of the realm.

Ser Callith led them into the Throne Room through the back hall, and all rose from their seats as Jon entered, bowing and your gracing as he passed to stand at the head of the several tables laid out with food and wine; not much, Davos didn’t want them there all night, but he didn’t want anyone hungry either. Hunger made people cranky, and he wanted this first meeting to go smoothly. He had pulled up benches behind and before the long tables, after the Northern fashion, and the familiarity seemed to put the King at ease for this first important meeting as he waved them to be seated.

“Welcome, thank you for coming, the Queen is unable to join us, though she sends her appreciation and has every intention to meet with as many as possible privately in the next coming days…” Jon looked specifically at Yara Greyjoy, then again introduced Grand Maester Lesser, the High Septon, Ser Davos and Lord Manderly, also his new Lord Commander of the Crownsguard, Ser Callith Redfort, his Northern King’s Commander Harkon Hornwood and the Queen’s Commander Grey Worm.

Jon was well prepared, and appeared confident and calm as he laid out the purpose of the meeting – broadly, to share the vision for the realm, to restore peace, safety and prosperity to all citizens, and specifically, to present the needs, temporary and more permanent, to fill key positions in the governance of the Realm.

This was a time of transition, and they meant to take advantage of it. Things were going to be done differently, if for no other reason than to accommodate a dual monarchy, but ambitious improvements were envisioned as well. Neither the King nor the Queen had been raised to govern a monarchy, and they both had ideas of their own on changes that needed to be made to best serve the people.

The Crown’s Small Council, such as it was, had been meeting most recently in the Queen’s chambers, the small bedroom in the servant’s hall, since she was not able to be awake for any length of time, seemingly on the mend. Davos had always admired her, what she had accomplished in her young life, but since Winterfell they had not had much contact, though now he knew they had been deliberately kept apart. Apparently he had been isolated from both leaders, a perceived threat to the conspirators. He smiled to himself, even though he wondered why he hadn’t seen through their efforts.

Now he found the Queen to be quite intuitive and insightful, forward-thinking. His own confidence in their reign had grown as he watched them work together, well, argue. Fortunately even in those public settings, it had been evident that they were fiercely drawn to each other, evident also were the wounds and walls of past and recent events. Time, and common goals, would pull them together, keep them together, he would see to that, keep them on track, keep them coming back to each other. They were almost opposites in many ways, each being tempered, and annoyed, by the other. It was often humorous to watch, as they shared the one strong trait that infuriated the other so thoroughly. They were both, well, stubborn.

The King laid out their plan in broad, sweeping strokes, 5 years, 10 years, within a generation, by the end of the next. This was not a time to get into too much detail, merely plant seeds and spark interest, that their reign was not just about who would be sitting on a chair, but laying out the way forward for a peaceful future for all of the Kingdoms, each with their unique history and fortune. Davos searched each face, looking for that interest. There was rapt attention on many faces, for most the first time hearing Jon speak, his intelligence, passion and dry, self-deprecating wit apparently surprising many. They had known him as the Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, then the surprising choice for King in the North. Now King of the Seven Kingdoms. From Ned Stark’s bastard to Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son. At least most were open to allowing their first impressions of his leadership to be positive.

A quiet but irritated grunt drew his attention, Davos’s gaze landing on the tall scowling figure seated at a table near the front, the fine blue and red silks of House Tully shimmering in the slight breeze. No, Edmure Tully had no interest in their plans. There would be trouble there, no doubt. They may have to adjust their plans for the Riverlands, at least for now.

In particular Davos watched Podrick Payne. All had agreed that Davos would need someone he could trust that could quickly step into a squire’s type of role. Of course they would have to come up with another name for the position, the Hand to the Hand had been humorously tossed about. But Podrick Payne had successfully served in similar roles to other leaders, knew his way around King’s Landing and had known or at least met many of the key players of the game, and there was general agreement he would be a good fit. If he was not committed elsewhere.

As Jon began discussing the plans already in place for the care of the people of King’s Landing, who would be needed for the Rebuilding Council, Davos noticed Grey Worm scowling at him and at all those attending the meeting, a prickly presence within the friendly atmosphere, whispering and smirking to one of his fellow Unsullied, who glanced around and smirked in return. Davos leaned his back against the wall, he was getting too old for this, and this had been going on for too long.

To prepare for the assault, Tyrion had drawn out rough plans of the Red Keep, for all of King’s Landing, as best as he could recall. So when their little band of conspirators had left the Throne Room that day, ash and snow drifting along the floor even in the lower levels of the castle, distant screams splitting the silence even as Drogon’s roar rattled the remaining structures in the city, Grey Worm had led them surely to the servant’s wing, both Unsullied and Northern guards clearing the way before them. Once they turned and entered a long narrow hall, the Unsullied had started kicking in the doors, empty, the castle for the most part deserted. Jon carried his Queen tenderly that day, speaking softly to her all the while, keeping her awake if not alert. Once they decided on a safe room with a bed, four beds in fact, Grey Worm had sent for a Dothraki healer, and Davos for a Northern healer to come immediately, reminding them all not to tell who it was for. The healers were already busy in King’s Landing tending to the wounded, so they hadn’t had far to go to fetch them.

Once the door had been opened, Davos had moved to enter, but Grey Worm had stretched his arm across the entrance and nodded at his men to search, thoroughly, then nodded curtly to Davos, who entered and nodded for Jon to enter with Daenerys. Davos pulled one of the beds toward the center of the room, away from both the door and the broken-shuttered window, and did what he could to straighten the worn blankets for the Queen. He waited as his King murmured into her ear before placing her gently on the bed, kneeling beside her as she reached out to hold his arm, squirming in pain.

There was a flurry of activity in the hall, Grey Worm nodding, and several healers, evident by their bloody clothing and cloth bags of herbs and bandages across their chests and tied on their belts, had rushed into the room, only to stop to behold the sight before them; the Dragon Queen herself, pale and weak and barely able to breathe.

“Norri…” The Queen met the gaze of one of the Dothraki healers, and the stillness was quickly broken, orders given for fresh water and a brazier brought to heat water. Jon brushed her stray hairs out of her face; she was in distress, pale and gasping for breath as Jon held her tight, motioning to Davos for pillows and blankets to be brought to raise her head and shoulders in the bed.

“I’m here, Dany, everything’s going to be alright.”

She held his hand, “Jon…” She lifted her hand to stroke his face but she was too weak, and her hand dropped to hang over the side of the thin mattress.

“Out! Out!”

Merina Snow, the Northern healer who Davos recalled seeing encamped with the Northern army since leaving Winterfell, waved her hands wildly at them, and he and Grey Worm hurriedly left to stand outside the door, watching as Jon gently stroked the Queen’s face, brushing under her hazed eyes before kissing her again on the forehead.

“Do what they say, Dany, everything will be alright…” She nodded slightly and closed her eyes, rolling her head to turn away as she gasped thinly. Jon stood and grasped the arm of the scolding healer. “She’s been poisoned, we don’t know more, do whatever you have to do to save her, whatever you need…”

The healer’s eyes widened and she nodded, then shoved him out the door as he looked over their shoulders at the small unmoving body on the rough narrow bed. Jon heaved a sigh, leaning his hand against the closed door.

Once the door was shut, they all stood in the hallway, letting recent events form their plan forward. Jon turned to Grey Worm, “Keep watch here, tell no one she lives. If anyone asks, tell them Drogon took her body to the east, toward Volantis.”

Grey Worm had nodded, but as Davos started to recite the plans he had already put in place, Grey Worm again interrupted, wanting to raise the banners, the Targaryen banners.

“Not yet, we will raise no banners. We will let our enemies think they’ve won, then we’ll see who comes to claim their prize…”

“Who do this? Who put poison…” Grey Worm was insistent, though he must have known that none of them had that answer.

“The Queen has many enemies, but this was someone close to her… We know Varys was poisoning her, and Tyrion just betrayed her…”

Grey Worm turned angrily to Jon, “And you… you betray my Queen!”

Jon stepped toward Grey Worm, finally pushed past the line. “I am right here – If I wanted to harm the Queen to take the throne, I would have taken it!”

Davos rubbed his eyes as he remembered being on the verge of an all-out battle breaking out between the Unsullied and the Northern soldiers right there in the hall of the servant’s quarters. He had finally stepped between Jon and the Unsullied Commander.

“No one is betraying anyone here, we’re all on the same side, we all want what’s best for the Queen and for Westeros… Commander, Queen Daenerys has ordered you to help us, help keep her safe, find out who’s poisoning her, am I right? So will you do as your Queen commands? Or will you betray her too?”

That had seemed to catch him, calm him down, at least there were no more outbursts that night. Not that Davos blamed him, he had lost so much, and without his Queen, he had no direction, no duty to fulfill. And without that, he imagined he would be, the Unsullied would be rather lost...

Jon was ready, “We stall, we don’t give out any details. Commander, you and Davos take the lead, the positions where people see you, I and the Northern guards will stay in the background, though you will all follow Ser Davos’s instructions, unless it pertains to his, or my safety. We continue what Ser Davos started earlier, and we reach out for more help, more supplies…”

Davos had rehearsed the taking of King’s Landing, planned for it multiple times serving as Hand of the King for Stannis Baratheon. Under Queen Daenerys, that duty had fallen to her Hand; with Tyrion locked away, Davos had set in motion those strategies that he knew could be accomplished with the resources at hand while he tracked down what actions the last Lannister had set in motion before the battle began.

“We take care of the people, send for supplies, North – Manderly, he is trustworthy. What about across the Narrow Sea, from Meereen?”

Grey Worm nodded, “Daario Naharis will send help, he will come if Queen need him.”

Jon cringed, the last person he wanted to reach out to, but he would have access to resources they would need.

The Northern healer flung open the door, startling them all.

“You need to go away, the Queen needs quiet, and some food, she has not eaten, she is very thin, especially for someone in her condition…”

Davos remembered the anxious look on Jon Snow’s face, would remember it for the rest of his days, how it slowly changed and morphed, from concern to apprehension to utter shock.

“What do you mean ‘in her condition?’ ”

Merina Snow looked at each of them, her gaze finally landing on Jon’s face, her smile growing slowly, a twinkle in her eye.

“The Queen is with child,” she smiled broadly, “She says she did not know, but she is many moons along, and the signs are unmistakable.”

Jon started to lose his balance, Davos reached for his arm, leaning him against the wall as he smiled broadly and patted him on his shoulder.

“Congratulations, Jon! You’re going to be a father!”

Grey Worm was angry, “No, no mother, witch say curse on her.”

The stout healer became angry then, a practiced boldness, hands on hips as she stared up into Grey Worm’s face and pressed forward until he was backed into his own soldiers.

“Are you telling me my eyes deceive me? That my hands and ears lie to me?”

Grey Worm had squirmed, seemingly shocked by her boldness toward the renowned warrior.

She stepped back and turned to Jon. “I don’t know what you all are talking about, but the Queen is quite pregnant, would you be the father, my King?”

Davos had almost laughed then as Jon stared blankly for a moment, then straightened himself, gulped once and nodded uncertainly.

“Come!” Merina Snow grabbed him by the hand and led him through the door as both Davos and Grey Worm squeezed into the entrance to the dim room.

Davos had fought to keep from gasping at the sight before him; the Queen lay pale as death but for her bright red cheeks, barely breathing, struggling to keep her hollowed eyes open, her slight figure barely noticeable under the layers of quilts. It was clear she had been crying, that she was in pain and confused, and scared; she flinched as the door opened, and Jon had rushed to kneel by her side. Davos felt Grey Worm seethe beside him as Jon kissed her palm, then her forehead, finally touching his lips to hers, cautiously, waiting for some kind of a reaction.

The Queen was glassy eyed and still, her hands limp. She had been disrobed to her small clothes and was propped up slightly on pillows, but one of the healers was replacing a chamber pot next to the bed that she had apparently retched into, he wondered whether from the pregnancy or the poison.

Norri had caught his eye and cocked her head; Davos slowly approached the kneeling Northerner and spoke softly, “Jon, she needs to rest now, tell her to rest, that everything is being taken care of, that you’ll be back later, but now she needs to rest…”

Instead Jon leaned in closer as Dany tried to whisper to him,

“Jon, they say…”

She lifted a weak hand to her belly, gasping lightly as Jon put his hand on top of hers, and suddenly he must have felt it, the slight swell of her belly, undeniable and round under their joined hands. Jon gaped at their hands together, awkward but hopeful.

“Dany…”

“Jon, they say I'm with child, but it can’t be true, I can’t have children…”

Davos took a step back and shook his head at the Dothraki healer as she attempted to interrupt, the room falling silent.

Jon smiled at the Queen, breathing deeply. “Remember what I told you, at the Dragon Pit? She lied to you, Dany, another revenge…” He brushed the hair off her forehead and let his thumb brush the tears away.

She tried to smile, “Or maybe the curse has been broken, maybe you, we… Are you happy about it?”

Jon smiled and kissed her gently, “Of course I'm happy about it – the rest doesn’t matter now, does it? You will get better and we will have a child…” She gasped, or perhaps sobbed, her breathing labored.

Jon caught her fading gaze, “Dany, do you know how you were being poisoned, what it was? Do you have any idea what kind of poison it could be?”

Dany frowned for a moment, then shook her head, “Send to Meereen, for Kinvara, she’ll know what poison, in the flames…”

Her voice trailed to silence as her eyelids fluttered, Davos jerked as a servant brushed by him with a pitcher and gave it to Merina, who poured it into a cup and sprinkled some powder then swirled the cup several times.

“My Queen, drink this now, this will help with the pain, and will help you sleep.” She handed the cup to Jon, who brought the cup to her pale lips, encouraging sip after sip until she had downed it all, eyelids drooping, soon followed by the sound of steady but shallow breathing. Jon had looked over his shoulder at him then, determined and angry, and they soon left the Dragon Queen to her caregivers and returned to tending to the wounded city.

Davos had hoped this wonderful news would have brought them all together, a certain and undeniable joining of the North and the South, Dany’s people and Jon’s, and for many who knew about it it did. Since that day Davos had seen many Dothraki and even Unsullied not only follow Jon’s orders without question, but show him loyalty and even an offhanded fondness, protecting him and supporting him in personal ways, offering food and water and helpfulness that had not been shown before. Those Northerners that knew of the Queen’s – disposition – sent well wishes to the Queen as well. Jon had ordered both Unsullied and Northern guards outside her door, and the Unsullied were at first confused when bundles of flowers and fresh greens tied with ribbons – a Northern tradition of good luck and health for the child – were passed to them on a regular basis. But the rift between Jon and the Unsullied Commander himself had seemed to only grow deeper and fracture more.

Tempers had been running high that day, and in the days since Grey Worm should have settled it within himself how things had changed, whom he would serve, but glancing at him once again glaring in the corner he was clearly not pleased with whatever Jon was saying.

“Ser Davos, there is a visitor, he insists on seeing the Queen…”

His thoughts were interrupted by Merik, the High Steward, who, with the majority of the household staff stationed in the Red Keep, had managed to survive the past weeks of conflict unscathed by hunkering down in secret rooms deep beneath the castle.

Davos nodded as he caught Jon’s eye to see that he was watching the exchange.

“And does this visitor have a name?”

“Yes, Ser Davos, he says he’s a good friend of the Queen, Commander Daario Naharis, newly arrived from Meereen.” Davos stiffened, and he knew Jon would have picked up on his tense reaction. He nodded again at the steward and waved to take him to the late night visitor.

They passed discreetly into the remains of the Great Hall, voices rising in the still night the closer they got. Few candles had been lit, this part of the castle was not yet widely used, but he could see the anger and frustration on the face of a bronzed, bearded swordsman, the assumed Daario Naharis, leader of the sellsword company The Second Sons, accompanied by four of his soldiers and a troop of the combined royal guards, weapons drawn and ready. What was surprising was that standing next to him in the foyer, calm and gently smiling, was Lady Kinvara, patiently waiting for the sellsword’s vocal tirade to wear itself out.

“Either she is alive or she isn’t! I want to see Daenerys! I want to see for myself that she is not being tricked, held captive, deceived by these slippery Andals... I should have never let her leave me behind.”

Davos smiled and chuckled.

“Ser, if you knew the Queen at all, you would certainly know that no one ‘lets’ her do anything, she does what she chooses.”

Daario suddenly took notice of the gray-bearded fellow, looking him up and down as he flicked his thumb toward him and turned to ask the Red Priestess, “Who is this? I’ve come to see the Queen...”

Kinvara smiled gently. “Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to the Crown, may I present Daario Naharis, Commander of the Second Sons and Regent of Meereen, serving on behalf of the Queen of Meereen, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

Davos smiled at the man despite his reservations, “Welcome to King’s Landing, Commander Naharis. We welcome your help, though as you can see…”

“Hand to the … ? What is this? Where is Tyrion? He is the Queen’s Hand – who are you?” Daario’s temper flared as he turned to the Red Priestess. “Lady Kinvara, what has happened here? I demand to see the Queen!”

Davos’s eyebrows rose slightly as he jutted his chin and smiled softly.

“You are welcome here, Commander, but your demands are misplaced. The Queen is not available for visitors, and Tyrion Lannister has been imprisoned, charged with conspiracy and treason. The King is meeting with…”

“King?!? Kinvara, what has happened? She has already taken a husband?”

Davos let a smile creep into his eyes; it would be good to settle this quickly.

“King Jon of House Stark, born Aegon of House Targaryen and Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen have married and are co-rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. King Jon retains his Crown as King in the North, as Queen Daenerys remains Queen of Meereen. I’m sure you have many…”

Daario shut his jaw with a snap and suddenly turned to the Unsullied guards behind him, speaking with them rapidly in Valyrian, clearly not happy with the answers he was getting to his questions.

Kinvara retained her soft smile, “Ser Davos, the Unsullied assure Commander Naharis that they serve the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms by their own choice, and that the Queen is being well taken care of.”

Daario watched the exchange, then turned back to the guard with another series of questions, annoyed when the Unsullied looked to Ser Davos and Kinvara for direction.

Kinvara paused and waved toward Ser Davos. “Daario Naharis, your position here is not the same as in Meereen. You will be treated as a guest, and I’m sure Ser Davos will provide well for someone of your position, and of course your men, but you do not demand here, you do not have a place here. You were not invited here…”

Daario was taken aback, silent as he apparently considered escalating the issue or abiding by the offer of good treatment. Glancing once more toward his own soldiers, he eased his grimace and bowed his head toward Davos, ready to concede.

“Ser Davos, when will I be able to meet with the Queen?”

The tension dropped in the Hall as both Davos and Kinvara nodded gently.

“We will take you to your rooms for the night and will notify the Queen of your arrival in the morning. It will be up to her to arrange for a meeting with you, if she so chooses, and we will inform you as soon as she decides.” Davos turned to the steward and whispered instructions as Daario fidgeted, surveying the damaged structure overhead.

“Dragonfire…”

Daario suddenly turned and walked to the outer entrance and stood at the top of the grand staircase, two dozen of his men stationed at the top of the stairs, the destruction still evident among the rebuilding reflected in the many blazing fires, muted silhouettes of crowds of people huddled nearby for warmth.

Davos and Kinvara joined him outside just in time to hear him whisper to himself, “Daenerys the Dragon Queen… a Conqueror after all…”

Daario shrugged, “I was going to ask what happened, but I suppose it's not necessary…”

Davos started to answer when Daario raised his hand, “I know, the Queen will explain, if she chooses.” Daario then turned back to Kinvara, “This King, Aegon of House Targaryen was it? I thought Queen Daenerys was the Last Dragon?”

Kinvara waved her hand toward him as Davos answered, “It’s complicated, I’m sure the Queen would rather explain it all in person.”

Daario nodded again and followed the steward as he was waved back inside the Great Hall and up what was left of the wide staircase.

Davos paused to gaze out over what remained of his home city. True, it was starting to recover, to rebuild, but it would never be the same. The notion that it could be better was enticing to him though, to ensure that no one grew up with fresh raw sewage running by their front door had given him a clear personal goal, even if he didn’t know how to fulfill it on his own. And that the phrase “bowl of brown” would be unknown to later generations… he scratched at his ragged beard as he caught Kinvara silently watching him. His thoughts returned to the problems at hand.

“My lady, what do you know about his being here? Is he here to make trouble?”

Kinvara smiled slightly, hands clasped before her. “I have seen many things in the fire, things that I can’t explain. Things that…” She shook her head, her confidence briefly dropping before she turned to face the Hand of the Crown.

“Ser Davos, when I left Meereen I told Daario Naharis that the Queen would live to sit on her throne, but that my assistance was required in King’s Landing. He wanted to come, of course he wanted to come, to be with her, but also to be a part of her dream coming true, he had been with her through a great deal of its unfolding. I reminded him of her wishes, that he stay to protect the Bay of Dragons, to ensure her presence be remembered.”

Her eyes and voice dropped as she stepped forward, and Davos had to steady himself against his desire to step away from the famed Red Priestess.

“Word has reached Meereen, all of Essos of the Queen’s death; the Masters are seeking to return, uprisings have begun, former slaves are no match for the weapons of wealth. So, now Commander Daario Naharis is here, and Meereen is once again in flames…”

Davos nodded sadly in understanding even as he heard her words with suspicion. Queen Daenerys had been concerned early on what effect the news of her death would have on her previous efforts. He had planned on speaking to her more personally about her plans for the Bay of Dragons, and many things, just out of curiosity. But now, he was confident she would feel responsible, as would Jon no doubt, and the peace of that region would be added to the list of duties that fell on the shoulders of his young sovereigns. He glanced again at the red woman, cringing inwardly at the sly smile adorning her beautiful face. He resigned to himself that he would be spending more time with her than he was comfortable with. He would remain cautious; the influence of the Lord of Light had led to the downfall of his previous King, and the gruesome death of his beloved Shireen, and already the conversations between Jon and this woman had left him uneasy. Jon was not Stannis, though, and the priestess could prove valuable.

“My lady, I’m not sure if I’ve thanked you for your help, and I know the King and Queen are…”

“I know you don’t trust me, Ser Davos, but we are all right where we’re supposed to be. Not the way I saw in the flames, but the outcome is the same…” Kinvara’s quiet words raised more questions in his mind, more doubt.

“My lady, what…”

“Good night, Ser Davos. I have work to do, as do you.” She nodded and let her smile drop briefly as she looked out over the darkened city, the flickering green on the banners of House Stark and House Targaryen even more clear as the dark night had fallen.

“For the night is dark, and full of terrors, Lord Hand.”

Her words, heard a thousand times, sent a chill through his body, a fear of the unknown or perhaps just dread of what was known. She turned to him and smiled that smile before silently entering the Great Hall and disappearing down a barely lit hallway.

A muffled shout from the dull city ruins startled Davos, causing his heart to race and a slight sheen of sweat to gather on his forehead. He shook himself to focus on the tasks at hand, leaving the mysteries of the priestess for another day.

As the heavy doors were opened slightly for his entrance back into the audience chamber, Davos was relieved to hear that the topic had turned to the events of that morning and the well-being of the Queen.

Grand Maester Lesser had stepped in to answer the questions of the Queen’s health, and the circumstances of her poisoning, and her pregnancy. Davos happened to return just as he was explaining how close she had come to death; she had been unresponsive for days, barely breathing, until finally the poison seemed to have worked its way out of her system, and over time they were able to see how much damage was done.

“As you saw earlier, the Queen is of sound mind and is getting stronger day by day. She is expected to recover completely. She takes part in the Small Council meetings, in her quarters for her convenience, and is fully involved in the planning and decision-making of the Realm.”

Grand Maester Lesser paused to let his words sink in, and Davos was heartened at the nodding and acceptance of the Queen’s current condition and involvement. The Grand Maester glanced at the King as he continued, “Of course, the Queen’s recovery and the health of the heir is of utmost concern, and every measure is being taken to ensure her return to good health as soon as possible…”

Grand Maester Lesser nodded toward the King and stepped back, glancing sideways toward Davos, who nodded in return. Things were going well.

Jon paused before speaking. The room was quiet, the eating and drinking of earlier had ceased, and there was only a rare scraping of bench or boot against stone heard in the ethereal chamber. Davos could see the gravity of his earlier words fall heavy on his friend’s shoulders, an acknowledgement of responsibility and duty. Even without a crown, Jon, Aegon, had appeared every bit a King, in demeanor and bearing if not in stature. Now that he wore the Northern crown, there was no doubt in the room that he embodied the heritage of both the Kings of Winter and the Dragonriders.

“When the Targaryens first conquered Westeros, the original benefit of the rule of the Dragons was to stop the wars and infighting that had been constant throughout all of Westeros for hundreds if not thousands of years.

“But as so often happens, power corrupts, and we, Queen Daenerys and myself, the Last Dragons recognize, and have seen the terrible power of the dragons themselves, and we commit to developing better ways of ensuring stability throughout the kingdoms, using the dragons as force only as a last resort in keeping the peace of this realm and protecting our people.

“We will need strong leadership here in the capital as well as in each of the kingdoms, and among the small folk, in order to achieve the goals that have been laid out before you.

“We look forward to meeting with you individually over the coming days. Ser Davos or Lord Manderly can provide assistance in anything else you may need as long as you are in the capital.”

Davos had made his way to stand beside King Jon to dismiss the meeting when Yara Greyjoy rose to her feet and cleared her throat, her deliberate words directed to Jon alone.

“Your Grace, Queen Daenerys has promised independence for the Iron Islands, and I intend to claim that independence. Do you recognize the promise made by your Queen?”

All eyes had turned to Jon when a startle ran through the crowd as the new Prince of Dorne stood quickly to his feet, knuckles banging on the table top, his guards striding quickly to his side.

“Dorne’s alliance with the Dragons has been broken, we are an independent nation fr…”

Jon took a sudden step toward the Prince, silencing his next words as his voice cut through the rising tension.

“Prince Martell, be careful of the next words to come from your mouth. We do not treat rebellion lightly here…”

The bronzed Prince stood quite still, apparently following the King’s direction to ponder his next words carefully.

“Your Grace, I’m merely asking to address the outdated alliance made between your ancestors and mine. I meant no disrespect…” Prince Nymor bowed his head politely as his eyes soberly remained fixed on Jon, the strain remaining though the issue remained unaddressed.

Yara knocked her knee against the nearby table, the cups and goblets swaying and clattering. “Do you honor the promise of your Queen?”

Jon paused and took a deep breath, eyes on Martell, eventually shifting his gaze to Greyjoy’s table.

“Lady Yara, I was not present when that promise was made, and I do not want to misrepresent the Queen’s intentions in any way, though she has told me of your agreement. You will meet with her as soon as she chooses.”

Murmuring broke out soon after; it was getting late and people were getting crotchety, and Davos was reminded of the King’s wishes to visit his dragon that night, even as late as it was.

“There has been much turmoil over the recent years,” Jon’s voice had dropped, and the wagging tongues had stilled to hear what he was saying. “You are all likely needed in your home kingdoms to recover from the conflicts and prepare for winter. If you must leave before meeting with one of us, I ask you to consider the future of Westeros and the future of your people as you return home, and if agreeable, assign someone you trust to return to King’s Landing on your behalf to attend regular councils for the future of the realm.”

Jon pardoned himself as he leaned back against the head table, wincing as he protected and held up his bandaged hand where a sizable blood stain had formed.

“Apparently King’s blood is quite valuable these days…” The heaviness eased with the smatter of laughter.

Additional questions arose, still general in nature, and were answered or deflected by the King. Finally Prince Martell rose, respectfully this time, “Your Grace, my people sent me specifically to inquire of the fate of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, the vile creature who killed Elia Martell and her two beautiful babies…” He stopped for a moment as his brows furrowed, giving him a surprisingly intense expression. “Perhaps that makes us related, somehow, Your Grace. But I would like to return to my homeland with news that our people can put this behind us now. Can you tell me, Aegon Targaryen, can you confirm that the Mountain rides no longer, that my family, your family have been avenged?” There was both a boldness and sorrow in his voice; Davos was again reminded of the betrayal of that terrible day and its subsequent ripple effects. He would remind himself often as decisions were made, guiding his young charges toward healing the wounds outright, rather than merely hoping they go away with time.

“Prince Martell, I grieve with Dorne. Even before knowing of our relations, whatever they may be, however consequential, the North, all of Westeros, grieved with Dorne over the murder of such innocents. For this, I can tell you that Gregor Clegane died at the hand of your countryman Prince Oberyn Martell. And your country can rest; Elia Martell, and her children, my half-sister Rhaenys and half-brother Aegon have been avenged.”

“But Your Grace, he didn’t die then, at the hands of Prince Oberyn, we’ve all heard of the monster that served Cersei…”

Jon nodded, “Monster. That is what he was, what he had become. He was a walking corpse, only able to fulfill his master’s commands. We are just learning what Cersei’s Grand Maester had done to him, but it was – Qyburn created a monster out of the dead body of Gregor Clegane…”

Jon pushed himself away from the table and approached Martell’s table, breathing deeply.

“Prince Martell, that monster – yet lives. Or exists, or something, whatever undead monsters feel and think and … I had planned on gifting his remains to you privately, as fellow-mourners, but his actions greatly affected all of Westeros. The body of Gregor Clegane, his living remains have been put in a crate for you to take back with you to Dorne. Do with it what you will…”

Jon had begun fisting his scarred hand again, anger seething at the thought of the children’s deaths, their mother forced to see what had become of her babes before she herself was raped and brutally killed. All because of his own parent’s mistakes. And yet here he stood. Davos watched as he shook himself before being overcome, pushing the grief and anger down as he had learned to do as a bastard child.

The room was silent, the shocked look on the face of the Prince, on the face of all those in the Martell contingency reflected the shared grief and disgust of all those in the room.

Davos watched as each face morphed through the shock and wonder; many had seen what Gregor Clegane had become, they had also heard of the manner of his death. That he had lived… well, he had not really been living, so… He caught the King’s eye, silently questioning if this was a good time to end the meeting, but was met with a brief shake of the head and a nod toward a young newcomer to King’s Landing who stood tentatively.

“Lord Darrok Wylde, Your Grace, son of Lord Erock Wylde, Head of House Wylde, vassal of what once was House Rain, sworn to House Baratheon, Your Grace. My father sent me, to the Great Council, to appeal to the King, whoever he may be…” He paused briefly and looked around. “House Baratheon has been decimated, Your Grace. King Robert… to learn that he left no heir, then Renly murdered in his own tent, and Stannis, killed in the North, trying to retake your home, to free the North, Your Grace. And now we’re told we must swear allegiance to a bastard?” His youthful voice rose to a high pitch with emotion. “We once served the Targaryens, then swore fealty to House Baratheon. Now, if the only liege lord you offer is a bastard, we too will declare independence…” He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, glancing around the room, his eyes first falling on the solemn Lord Gendry Baratheon, finally returning to rest on the face of his new King.

Davos eyed both Jon and Gendry as emotions played across their faces; anxiety and defensiveness over the younger, patience and resolve on the King’s.

“I understand your concerns, Lord Wylde, those of House Baratheon and the Stormlands. Yet we do not hold the sins of the parents against their children. Gendry Baratheon…”

Jon paused to nod toward him, waving for Gendry to stand and join him.

“Gendry Baratheon has aided my family on more than one occasion, my Lord, protecting my little sister Arya as she fled from the capital, the Lannisters hot on her trail. For that alone he has earned my undying gratitude. Later he led the great effort to equip my army to defend the living against the army of the dead at the Great Battle of Winterfell, and fought bravely and truly through that Long Night. For his service to House Stark and the Realm, Queen Daenerys legitimized him and named him Lord of Storm’s End. Ser Davos Seaworth,” Jon bent his head toward him but continued, “can testify of the certainty of his heritage; when Joffrey Baratheon took the throne and learned of his father’s many bastards, and knowing of the uncertainty of his own claim, the usurper slaughtered as many bastards as he could get his hands on. Fortunately Gendry had left the capital already, yet was sought by name throughout the countryside. He crossed paths with a Red Priestess, Lady Melisandre, who also recognized his relation to King Robert and brought him to King Stannis, to use him in a ritual to bring Stannis to the throne. They meant to burn him alive, Lord Wylde, because he was King Robert’s son.

Jon took a step toward the listening Lord. “He will need a lot of help, Lord Wylde, but he is of good character, strong and willing to learn. He will make a good leader for the Stormlands, and has the full support of the Crown. So if your only complaint is that his mother and father were not married, well, it seems a man’s character and deeds should be more important than which side of the sheets he was conceived on.”

Jon stood calmly before him as all eyes waited for a response. After staring at Gendry as Jon spoke, eyeing him up and down, Lord Wylde at last let out a great breath and nodded, his shoulders releasing their tension.

“Aye, Your Grace, if he has the backing of the Crown, we’ll accept him as our Liege.”

Gendry reached out to shake the new Lord’s hand, but was startled when Lord Wylde looked him fiercely in the eye and slowly drew his sword, the Northern guards readying their own, until the Lord struck the sword tip to the ground and dropped to one knee before Gendry instead.

“We’ll arrange for a proper ceremony when you arrive, but it's best to accept my public pledge now, it will be harder for my fellow Stormlanders to put up a fight. I want peace for my people, my Lord, we have all been at war far too long…”

Gendry’s face reddened and he looked to Jon, then Ser Davos for guidance.

“I’m sure there’s more to it, lad, but for now, just say you accept…”

Gendry thought for a moment, “I accept your pledge, Lord Wylde, and I also publicly pledge to do my best to bring honor to House Baratheon and to protect and provide for the Stormlands. You may rise, my Lord.”

Darrok Wylde rose to his feet, sheathing his sword, then grasped the outstretched hand of his new liege. “I will say you look like your father, my Lord. That will certainly help, as long as you don’t drink like him and … well, you know what I mean…” Gendry laughed, heartily joined by cheers and thumping of feet and fists.

Davos felt his heart leap, a sense of peace filling him as he saw his greatest hopes play out before him. Gendry’s position was secured, he was safe, and the Stormlands would be loyal to the Crown. And everyone had a chance to see how their new King handled conflict, not with commands and threats, but persuasion and an appeal to what was right.

Once again it seemed to Davos a good time to end the meeting, only to be interrupted by another young Lord with questions.

“Your Grace, we’ve not met, I’ve not met many of those sitting here. But I am Lord Damon Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark and head of House Marbrand. Forgive me, I mean no offense, but I am confused by your presence, Your Grace. I received one of these…” He pulled a raven’s scroll from his tunic and held it for all to see, “Then I received word that the Mad Queen had burned down King’s Landing and had been murdered by her lover, followed by a summons to the capital, to select the next King of the Seven Kingdoms. Pardon my confusion, Your Grace, but who are you?”

Murmurs broke out and he waved them down, “Yes, yes, I know you go by Jon Snow, everyone knows of Ned Stark’s son, the Bastard of Winterfell, but he rose to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. If I understand my oaths correctly, the Night’s Watch is for life, is it not? How is it that you’re here now? How is it that you are claiming to be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? And the other strange stories, what was said in this room earlier today, “King Aegon Reborn.” What does that mean? Please, I’m not trying to cause problems, Your Grace. I’m just confused by all that has happened, and I’ve asked, but no one will speak to me but in riddles and tall tales…”

Jon again leaned against the high table, reaching behind him to take a long drink of ale as Lord Marbrand laid out his quandary. Jon considered pushing him off to a private meeting, but relented: he was asking these men and women to trust him, to trust him with their families’ futures, to lead others on his behalf, they would have to be able to vouch for him, for his trustworthiness.

“I can only tell you what I’ve come to learn, you can be certain that I have questions of my own, but here’s what has brought us to this day…”

Jon quickly recounted the important events of his life, confirming what was known, correcting that which was myth; the strange tale of his magical brother Bran, the Night King and the army of the dead, briefly detailing the events of his time with the Free Folk, of Hardhome and the magic of the Far North. Finally how he learned of his heritage, the truth told to his sisters beneath the sacred weirwood, then how that truth quickly spread and spiraled out of control. Sansa’s betrayal, Varys’s ravens. He recounted his own experience that day, the plan, the battle, his encounter with his Queen and his sister in the throne room, how the entrapment was devised and executed.

“I have no idea what was in their mind, Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I can only assume we’re missing something, that they had never intended their union to lead to a revolt, to Robert’s Rebellion…”

Rylan Oakheart was incredulous, his voice rising as he stood to face the King.

“So you are saying that Robert lied to everyone? About Rhaegar kidnapping Lyanna Stark, raping her, causing her death, and that the honorable Ned Stark knew, yet let that lie be spread…”

Davos held his breath as Jon hesitated; Oakheart was one of the last remaining leaders of a major House in the Reach and had been silent up till now. His homeland was in turmoil, yet he had come when called to the Council. That he had also received one of Varys’s ravens… was he here to support the next King, or to consider rebellion and usurping the throne for himself?

“My Lord, I don’t know where that story came from, it could be that Robert himself spread it to cover for his desire for revenge, or it could have been told to him to get him to act, but we know there have always been those with treacherous motivations, there always will be. I only know that it wasn’t true, that Rhaegar and Lyanna were married by the Seven, that my parents chose one another. Someday I hope to learn more, but that may not be while I am among the living.”

Oakheart shook his head and opened his mouth to question further when Marbrand took another step forward and cut over him.

“Your Grace, if I may be so bold, as you speak of being among the living, there are stories, wild tales to be sure, but perhaps now would be a good time to explain to us, those you have asked for allegiance, the truth of how you managed to leave the Night’s Watch without being beheaded as a deserter?”

Jon was suddenly nervous, obviously so. It was a known story, whispered disbelievingly throughout the Kingdoms; Ned Stark’s bastard, Lord Commander, mutiny, resurrection, execution, oath-breaker. Davos had seen the lingering glances, the whispers that had followed Jon ever since the day he’d stepped out through that door... Dead, now living. The Free Folk thought he was a god, others thought he was a liar.

The candles had burned low, wicks untrimmed, dancing shadows glancing across the undulating tarps, a sudden chill sea wind sweeping through the chamber as the leaders of Westeros eagerly waited for his account.

“It was late at night, I was at my desk reading ravens, we had sent letters throughout the Kingdom, asking for help; coin, men, food, supplies. We were down to 50 men after the attack of the Free Folk and the Army of the Dead. 50 men to guard the Wall, meant to be held by thousands. No one would help, not even a response from King Tommen. My steward, Olly, just a young boy came running in, told me that one of the wildlings we’d let through the Wall had seen my Uncle Benjen not too long ago, that he was alive, and he could tell me where to find him. He said he was waiting in the courtyard and he led me to him, into the cold black night, I nearly broke my neck racing down the steps. I saw a gathering of brothers in the corner; I thought they were huddled around a fire, talking to the wildling. They all had their backs to me, I should have known something wasn’t right…”

Davos stepped closer to hear as his voice dropped; he’d never heard this part of the story, ashamed now that he’d never talked more to Jon about what had happened that day, about the depth of the betrayal.

“They parted as I approached, no one spoke at all. I expected to see someone waiting there, but there was only a board nailed to the post, ‘Traitor’ painted on it. I didn’t understand – I thought they understood, didn’t like it, but they had at least understood. I turned to ask, to hear what they had to say, but they had crowded in on me, Aliser Thorne stepped toward me, stretched out his arm. I was staring into his face, his eyes filled with contempt, I saw his lips move as he sneered at me. ‘For the Watch.’ I felt the shock, the hot pain and of what he’d done, the blade going almost through me, I felt it slide out. I pushed away from him, but another brother came forward…”

Ghost had found him as he’d started his story, leaning against him now, his body wrapped around him protectively.

“I’d left Longclaw in my office, had no other weapon on me, couldn’t…” He’d dropped his left hand to the wolf’s head pommel, his right fisted in white fur, sweat forming on his brow. Davos watched the expressions change in his audience, from disbelief to horror to embarrassment, some even sitting down or leaning away, into the shadows, regretting that the question had even come up, that the story was even being told.

“Finally, Olly, the boy, my personal steward, he came forward, I was already on the ground, on my knees, I still tried to get up, looking for something to pull myself up... But he looked me in the eye and stabbed me in the heart, and he killed me. I was dying, I knew it, the cold and the pain and struggling to breathe and the panic welling, then just waiting for it to end, the cold and pain and fear, then the darkness crowding in.”

Jon paused, his eyes glazed over as the memories flooded his senses, absently rubbing the jagged scar over his heart.

“Everyone asks what it was like, being dead. It was nothing. Just, nothing.”

Jon pushed himself away from the table to stand before them, suddenly pulling at his doublet, unfastening the top buttons and at his tunic to tug the fabric below the red crescent gash. A gasp rolled through the crowd as all eyes gawked at the remains of that fatal wound, those closest to him gaping comically, silence falling again as understanding and acceptance mingled in the room.

Magic.

Jon pulled his garments back into place, his gaze dropping to the marble floor as he hurriedly rebuttoned the buttons, fumbling, then rolled his shoulders, re-settling into his new finery, his eyes hooded as he re-focused on the faces of his audience.

“Next thing I was laying naked on a cold table, my lungs burning, breaths filling like a newborn babe. I could feel the scars every time I took a breath; the pain wasn’t there like before, but I could feel the pull on the inside, when I breathed, when I moved. I’m not sure how the magic works, I feel the scars inside and out to this day. The next day, I executed those that murdered me. My last act as Lord Commander, as a Night’s Watchman, a Black Brother.” He chuffed bitterly. “Brothers…”

He let his gaze wander over the intense gazes, some avoiding his look, some awkward expressions. “I gave everything for the Watch, Lord Marbrand. I fulfilled my duty, my oath. I died for the Watch, for what I believed in, what I still believe in. I wasn’t seeking a way out, but I could never trust them again, never lead them, never serve with them. My watch ended when my sworn brothers shoved their cold blades into their Lord Commander.”

Jon let the tension and awkwardness ease from his chest.

“That very day my lost sister Sansa rode through the gates of Castle Black, the first family member I’d seen since I left Winterfell all those years before. She convinced me to try to rally the North, around her, the last known Stark. And we did, at least enough of them. With the loyalty of the Free Folk, what was left of the Northern forces and the Vale we took back Winterfell. To be ready to face the threat from beyond the Wall, and from the Usurper Queen to the South, the Lords of the North named me King. I never sought any of this, I swore not to seek a wife, children, a crown. And I never have sought them, I do not seek anything for myself. But I did swear, I do swear to protect the realms of men, and will continue to do so to the best of my ability to my last breath, whenever that may be…”

The weight of the silence lingered, finally broken by a soft clear voice.

“If anyone wants to challenge what he said they can speak to my face, I was there, Davos as well, while King Crow was… dead, I saw what happened.”

Tormund walked to stand by Jon, towering above him, his blue eyes tinged with both sorrow and anger.

“This man was my enemy, then he saved my people, as many as he could. That’s why he was killed, for saving people that weren’t even his. Now my people think he’s a god, he cheated death and gathered all of Westeros to battle the army of the dead. Without him, there would be no chair, no lines on a piece of skin to fight over. Jon Snow will always be King Beyond the Wall, no matter what other crown he wears…”

Tormund nodded to the questioning eyes and stepped back into the darkness.

Davos could see the weariness settling over his King, and finally asked for one last question.

“There will be more time tomorrow, and in the days and weeks to come, we’ve accomplished a great deal this day, set Westeros on the right path, for the…”

Quietly Lord Edmure Tully stood and cleared his throat for attention.

“I have a question…”

He hesitated, conflicting emotions apparent on this face.

“…Your Grace…”

Jon nodded, “Go on.”

Edmure Tully straightened, “If this is true, all this…” He waved his hand to take in both the throne and the chamber they stood in. “You’re saying that Lord Eddard Stark lied to his wife, my sister Catlyn all this time, that he let her believe he had been unfaithful… let her hate you… If you are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, if you can ride a dragon, why would he send you to the Wall? Why would he live this lie, shame himself, his family…”

Jon let the question hang in the growing gloom.

“Lord Edmure, I’ve wondered these very things ever since learning the truth. I don’t know why Ned Stark did what he did; I know now that my very existence was a threat to his best friend, and his King, Robert Baratheon; later, if Robert had found out that the Starks were harboring a Targaryen, rightful heir or not, well, Ned Stark knew how much the King hated the Targaryens, and the consequences would be devastating to the family he loved. I suspect he let me go to the Wall – I had always thought it was my idea, but only my Uncle Benjen had tried to get me to reconsider – I suspect he was making sure his true family – the Starks – would never be in danger from the King because of the promise he made to his sister Lyanna on her deathbed. As a Brother, I would take an oath to never wear a crown, to never bear a child, another Targaryen in the world. I would never be a threat to what really mattered to him, even if I myself was condemned to a useless life among traitors, thieves and rapers. I was seeking to bring honor to my family, he was distancing himself from mine.”

He paused and stroked the great white head at his side.

“The last thing my ‘Father’ said to me when he was heading South and I was heading North… I’d asked him again about my mother, if she was alive, if she knew about me, where I was going. He didn’t answer, he only said the next time we see each other he’d tell me about her. I don’t think he was ever going to tell me, I sometimes wonder if he ever planned on seeing me again, or if he was going to lie about who my mother was, or tell me the truth, that he had tricked me into swearing away my true heritage, taking away my life, my choice, to make life easier for himself…”

He shook himself from his memories.

“But I loved him, and I loved the Starks. Even your sister, Lord Edmure, I saw that she loved her family, I saw what a mother’s love was supposed to be. Yes, she hated me, she despised me, made sure Sansa followed her example. But she taught me many things as well, not just what it was to be a bastard, but to never trust anyone, to never expect a good life. I don’t blame her, it wasn’t her fault, that she bore that shame. That’s why I had decided to tell Sansa and Arya; I made them swear to keep it secret, meeting them under the Heart Tree in Winterfell’s godswood. I wanted them to know that their father had been faithful all along, that they could be proud of who he was, the example he set. They both swore to keep my secret; but that oath meant little to Sansa, instead of the truth of her father’s honor, she saw an opportunity to undermine her perceived enemy and soon both Varys and Tyrion knew my secret, now the whole kingdom.”

Bitterness had crept in, and Jon stopped the next words he meant to say, pausing to gather his emotions instead.

“What will you do with Sansa, she’s my niece, she’s my kin – after all she’s been through… she has no one left, surely there is mercy for your kin…”

All eyes were on him now, “I believe you were there at the Great Council, Lord Tully. Out of her own mouth she revealed her plans to take my crown through whatever means necessary, including murdering her Queen and my unborn child. If that is not enough, I will leave it up to those conducting the questioning, but I would be open to providing you with any and all details that are discovered regarding her actions. I love my sister, my cousin, still. But she has committed treason, and she will not escape justice just because she’s kin.”

Tully dropped his fist on the table, temper flaring.

“Is that why you killed your sister Arya, ‘Your Grace?’ Justice?”

Murmurs erupted, scolding as Jon’s face dropped, his face suddenly pale even in the waning light.

“Lord Tully, I appreciate your concern for your kin, for Sansa, I share that concern, but justice cannot be withheld simply because she is kin and born the child of a Lord.”

Jon’s hand sifted through his direwolf’s rough coat.

“As for Arya, I would welcome the opportunity to speak with you about my dear little sister, my closest family, what she had gone through, what she had become. I took her life as she was reaching to take the life of the Queen; though I regret it, that this is what she had become, I know I had no choice, and I would make the same choice again.”

Davos felt his heart clench as Tully’s eyes glistened. He had lost so much, they all had. To be faced with losing another…

Yohn Royce stood and interrupted gently, “Lord Tully, your niece… Lady Sansa is not … sometimes we ignore what’s right in front of us… there are things, painful things, things that will be coming to light…”

He paused and looked at Jon, “Things that will be painful for us all…”

He saw Brienne softly flinch at that, her gaze dropping to the floor. Davos determined to seek her out later; she would, of course, know things related to the recent events, and they would have to find a way to free her from her pledge of service to the Stark women.

Davos returned Jon’s nod, then stepped to the middle of the gathering clasping his hands behind his back.

“You are welcome to stay and discuss among yourselves, it's been a good night, a good day, and tomorrow will soon be with us. Seven blessings to you all…”

Jon had made his way to the back of the audience chamber; Davos managed to avoid becoming entangled as he joined his King in the shell of the Great Hall. As Jon waited for his guards to ready their horses, Davos filled him in on his conversation with their visitor, Daario Naharis, and his conversation with Kinvara, what she said she had seen in the flames.

Jon removed his crown and handed it to Davos, then shook his head tiredly, releasing the yawn he had been stifling through the meeting.

“I’ll tell the Queen tonight, or in the morning, I’m not going to wake her up for this – she needs her rest, it's been a long day, and I’d rather end it on our good news…”

Davos nodded and turned to go as Ser Callith let them know they were ready to leave at his pleasure. He had drifted into the shadow of the broken archway as he heard Jon’s calm voice.

“Commander Grey Worm, a moment of your time.”

Grey Worm stiffened as he stopped and turned around, the other guards making their way through the entry doors.

Jon stood there as well, facing Grey Worm and pulling his gloves on before clasping his hands behind his back, waiting.

Moments passed, until Grey Worm came to stand in front of him, dark eyes belligerent but tinged with uncertainty.

Jon continued to stand toe to toe with the Unsullied leader, waiting.

Eventually Grey Worm bowed his head, “My King.”

Jon nodded and let his hands fall to his sides.

“Commander, it's been clear for quite some time that we don’t like each other. At first I wanted to make friends with you, since you are so important to the Queen, but I don’t think that is likely to happen, at least in the foreseeable future. I’ve been tempted to challenge you to single combat, to somehow prove myself worthy of your respect, with swords, or spears, one on one, but one or both of us could get seriously injured, even killed, and that would not serve our Queen, and in this case I don’t think it would settle anything between us. So listen to me, clearly. I am your King. Your Queen chose me, married me, loves me. I will be the father to her children, the heirs to our dynasty, whatever that may be. To continue to despise me, to challenge me, to undermine me is not to question me, but to question the judgment of your Queen. To continue to hate me, to speak behind my back, to resist my authority, is to find yourself returning to Essos. Have a good evening, Commander. You are dismissed.”

Grey Worm had remained silent, stiffening at the King’s words. At the end, Davos could tell he was struggling to keep silent, finally choosing to merely nod and bow slightly, turn and leave the Hall.

Davos smiled as he reminded himself to trust his King. Time and time again, the young man had risen to fill the need, despite discomfort and hardship. He would not be swayed by the trappings of power. Even when he arrived earlier this evening, there he was, Jon Snow, sitting on the Iron Throne, unaffected as he ruled, as if it was just a chair, uncomfortable and ugly. A role he was born to.

Davos smiled to himself, content. Through all the shit that it took to get here, all would be well.

-----

The cold evening air made the stars sparkle all the more, living things caught in a black molten sea. Swirling drifts of dark clouds obscured the moonlight, turning the shadows on and off on the ground, keeping the horses ready to shy at any perceived danger.

They were waiting for him, anxious.

The Dragonrider had sent his usual companions on other missions, Ghost to see to his new pack, Daenerys and his unborn child, and Davos to see to himself, probably his first chance to catch his breath, and make ready for his family’s arrival in the capital. This was a time for privacy, stolen time, for the unknown to be made known.

Everything had changed. What had been Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, had been burnt to embers with the onslaught against the capital city; whether it was by choice or not, he had accepted his name, his legacy, his family.

His dragon.

He raised his hand to halt his guards, smiling slightly at their shadowed wariness. The long slope they had stopped on was treeless, no doubt long cleared for firewood for the city. Two great mounds moved on the crest of the hill, slowly snaking toward him.

Before they left the steps of the Red Keep, he had asked his new guards if they’d ever seen a dragon, up close. Their expressions gave their answers; these were seasoned fighting men, but facing a dragon had become naught but legend. Yet they would have to get used to this, their horses as well. His eyes trailed back down the road to the impressive walls of King’s Landing, the heavy gates closed tight for the evening. From here he could make out campfires in all corners of the city, glowing red and orange, as well as the two deep wells of bright green. They had decided to let them burn themselves out, consuming what remained of the wildfire under the city. The damage was done. Yet he could still make out, here and there, a hint of music, a laugh, a song. People were resilient. They would rebuild. Remember, always; but move forward.

The clouds rolled away from the moonglow and Jon startled at how silently the dragons had crept toward him, his mount striking at the ground, pawing with impatience to attack or leave. He had not spent much time in the saddle these last few weeks; he patted the black stallion’s neck as he dismounted, handing the reins to his Commander and assured them all they would have a good run the next day, to remind him, before it got too hot. White teeth glimmered in the pitch black, as several chuckled and nodded. They didn’t know him well, his kind of humor, his habits. He hoped they would become well acquainted and hopefully he would find one or two he could have confidence in. Time would tell.

Moonlight shimmered along the silhouettes of the dragons; Jon walked to meet him as Rhaegal pushed ahead of his bigger brother. Even in the deep dark, the red and black gashes on the dragon’s neck and chest shone against the deep emerald green of the hard scales, the bronze frills shimmying with every movement of the great head. Amber eyes blinked, a soft stream of hot breath hit Jon full in the face. Once it would have been disconcerting, now it was as welcoming as any embrace.

Jon took off his gloves and folded them into his belt. He extended his hand toward his dragon, unsurprised when the resurrected beast shoved his snout forcefully against his palm, clicking and uttering guttural sounds Jon had never imagined coming from such a large fearsome creature. Jon found himself humming as well, matching the purr rumbling under his hand. Slowly the dragon’s anxiety lessened under the slow strokes of his rider’s hand.

Jon let his hand pause on each scar, his other hand going to his own chest. The bond was different than before; not just stronger, different, deeper, layered. Perhaps it was the shared blood, or the shared magic, but he felt Rhaegal’s presence at all times, felt his thoughts, his emotions; they were connected. Dany had described her bond with Drogon, the instinct and bond and how she guided him in battle with Valyrian commands. But Jon had never needed to speak to Rhaegal, the dragon just knew what he wanted, somehow, what he was thinking. Perhaps it was the Stark blood, a lingering magic that had linked him and his direwolf. And now … he sighed as he let his hand rest on the great head … perhaps this was another thing she’d resent him for…

Jon leaned his head against the mythical beast, the terrifying memories suddenly pouring through and mingling with his own. One moment, winging through the skies over the poison sea, the next – pain and panic and he was falling through the air, his wings tattered and flailing. Jon felt that panic, tried to comfort him, but his own memories morphed into shared reality; while telling his story earlier, he had let memories of that night surface and expand. Now, sharing memories with his resurrected brother, the emotions of that night returned ten-fold; unending terror, the icy shock, the searing pain. Jon pulled back confused as Rhaegal suddenly raised his huge head, radiant heat swelling under the rippling emerald scales, followed by a roaring bellow, bright black and gold flames streaming up into the starlit night. Jon closed his eyes, seeking his mount, assuring him, confiding in him that all was well, they had survived. More pain, somehow more real… recent pain, physical pain. Ah, he could almost feel it himself – the first time he’d released his flames since his return … he’d been afraid … that the flames were gone, his treasure, his gift, his protection of his rider … but they remained, and Jon smiled and stroked Rhaegal’s side as he returned to rest next to him, the great head shaking in relief.

Suddenly a black mountain loomed over him and he felt the presence of Drogon’s being intruding, internally pushing, prodding.

“It’s all right, we’re all going to be alright…”

Drogon snaked his great neck to peer at him suspiciously, white and yellow and green reflecting in his perceptive eyes; a huff of searing air and a slow blink and the great head retreated back into the darkness.

Jon leaned against Rhaegal once again, letting the bond re-form and expand, and slowly sank to the ground, coming to rest against the dragon’s chest. He stroked him there as he felt the dragon’s sorrow, for all the fear, the loss, the pain he’d experienced, and he mourned with him, those same feelings rising to the surface in him.

The grief overwhelmed as he touched him now, not just for the pain and the death and the coming back, but for everything, for Rhaegal, for himself, for the people, for Arya. For Dany and … the babe. He had pushed it back, down, the realization that he would have killed his own child. That Bran had known about the babe and wanted it dead… Finally it was all too much; anguished sobs racked his body, tears welling and spilling, finally released in the privacy of darkness, among trusted friends.

The sudden comfort surprised him; Rhaegal, and Drogon offering their understanding. Minutes passed, and he let the grief subside, exhausted. He wondered if they truly understood, if they could read his mind, know his thoughts. He laughed wryly to himself; it didn’t matter, it was the most comfort he had ever experienced in his life, and he was grateful.

Jon closed his eyes and sat in the darkness, leaning against his dragon, warm and safe.

Magic.

He didn’t believe in R’hollor, didn’t understand it or want to. Fire god. Human sacrifice. He must be happy now.

If they had succeeded, Dany would be dead, his child, by his hand. He would be dead, either by Drogon’s flames or Grey Worm’s spear. They would have won.

They...

His family, those he had trusted and had considered friends. They had all used him once again. That’s what they thought of him, disposable, good enough to use for their purposes but not good enough to protect or defend. The people of King’s Landing, they were disposable too. Did they have any regrets? Take any responsibility for what happened here?

Looking back, he remembered the subtle glances in Winterfell, between Sansa and Tyrion, the final nod as they rode through the gates. The surprising hug from Sansa – perhaps it was her good-bye, sending him to his death. But Arya, how much had Bran influenced her? She was so strange to him, a different person. Broken but a strange strength there as well. He could understand the desire for vengeance, but the lives she’d taken… He had taken many himself, and had grieved them all. Was changed by each of them, yes, driven to avoid killing when possible because of that grief. But Arya, she had seemed to enjoy the fear she caused just by her presence. He remembered thinking that she would heal, recover, return to being his beloved sister. Now she’d never get that chance.

Instead of death he was thrown in a cell, as far as the outside world was concerned. But he’d heard not a word from them, from Sansa, or Arya or Bran, not a raven, not a messenger. He should have been suspicious sooner; he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

His thoughts returned to the tasks at hand, what lay before them all, reminding himself and the winged protectors of the realm they would all get through this; winter is coming, but it is always followed by spring. A new beginning would come, Rhaegel would heal, Jon’s heart would heal, his precious Dany would heal, the people would heal… he laughed at himself, for all his gloominess, it appeared he was deep down a hopeful man.

Jon stood and stepped back, looked Rhaegal deeply in his golden eye and sent him and his protective brother back to their nest on a cliff overlooking Blackwater Bay.

“Your mother will come to visit you soon, all is well…”

Rhaegal chuffed, his breath stirring dust and brittle leaves into the chilling air. He dropped his shoulder, pounding his wing into the ground before him. Jon braced his hand on his shoulder but told him no, not tonight, but soon, and stepped back as the dragon craned his neck to look him over once again.

He reminded them to keep away from the city, from all people, to continue feeding from the sea, away from the ships. He promised to find them places where they could hunt without distraction, they won’t have much to do here, they could -

Rhaegal tugged at his thoughts again, suddenly seeking assurance. Jon understood the confusion, he had been there. He again leaned against him, stroking his broad cheek.

“Yes, you’re alive, this is real. It does get easier, over time – not always, it never goes away. But life will be enjoyed, though the death never truly leaves…”

Rhaegal blinked his huge eye, and Jon could feel the tumble of emotions sorting to make sense of his sudden re-emergence from darkness. Jon let his relief and joy flood into his dragon’s being, encouraging and hopeful, the bond strengthening more each time they were together. Not just because he was a Targaryen – it still felt strange even thinking that – but because they had both been embraced by the finality of death and had returned, the same yet changed. He felt extremely protective over the great beast, but knew he’d never be able to protect him from the memories and nightmares as he wished to. At that moment the deep black shadows moved again, and Drogon loomed head and shoulders over them both. He understood; they were a pack. So much was said through emotions, like Ghost, but different. He’d considered talking to Dany about the bond, but she only knew what she herself experienced and what her lying brother had told her. An on-going conversation, no doubt.

Distant voices echoed up the slope, mingled with the soft metallic rub of bit and armor, the occasional restless hoof striking stone. He must have lost track of time, he’d gotten used to being awake long into the night. That would likely change, too, a new routine, a new life. He stood and pushed himself away from the relaxing dragon, patting his side again, then began the trek to return to his waiting guard, spread now across the hillside for his protection. The dark dragons took wing, almost unseen as clouds interrupted the moonlight, stirring ash and snow and brittle leaves, frightening both horses and men. He quickly mounted and they began the short canter back to the Red Keep.

So he would continue his search for books, histories. Maybe he’d write one. Maybe not just about the bond, but… by the looks on their faces during the meeting his story needed further explanation. He knew there were tales being told, even a song or two, about him, the Starks, about the North, beyond the Wall. The stories about King’s Landing had begun as well, still unfolding, but that didn’t stop people’s imaginations and boredom. Maybe it would be a good idea to get it all down in writing, there would be a good reason to talk to others, who might be able to fill in the missing pieces.

For once he was anxious to enter the Red Keep, for once hopeful of the new life that awaited him. Dany, waiting for him, awake or asleep, it didn't matter. And a babe. He had a family, someone to be with, as hard as it would be to rebuild what they had, they would do it together.

He was tempted to enter through the Great Hall, but he didn’t want to be accosted if there were some lingering after their meeting. So he was escorted to the familiar lower gate into the keep; it had become to feel like home, closest to the servant’s quarters. But his guards led him right instead of left, and soon he found himself outside the new royal quarters, the ensconced candles burning low, but tended quickly before him by weary servants as he passed through the cavernous passage. It was late; he doubted she would be awake, and as usual he would sleep elsewhere, the doors to his quarters farther down the hall. But he wanted to see her, how she was doing, to see her sleeping comfortably in a bed and room more suited to her station.

So he paused at her doors, Unsullied standing on either side, spears ready and faces expressionless. He leaned and knocked softly, not wanting to awaken her if she slept, but not wanting to intrude on her privacy either. There was no answer, no sound of movement, no rustling of fabric or scrape of chair. He entered silently, finding the room lit only by a recently tended fire. He waited for his eyes to adjust, trying to remember where the bed was, the table and chairs – it wouldn’t do to wake her with cursing over knocking a knee on unseen furniture.

Gradually he could make out the outline of the bed, moonlight streaming through the uncovered window to the new garden. He looked again; it was empty. Undisturbed. He thought again, it was late, wasn’t it? The moon was high, she should have been sleeping for quite some time. He took another step into the room, searching the corners for movement, approached the seating area, expecting to see her asleep in the stuffed chair. But found nothing, no Dany.

Movement caught his eye, his heart rushing at the brilliant white and glowing red of his silent wolf. He’d come through the door of his new quarters; Jon whispered his name and approached him, surprised when the direwolf returned the way he had come even as he had extended his hand to stroke his head.

In the darkness he could make out that the door to his chambers was wide open, though he placed his hand on the frame as he entered the moon lit room, again needing time for his eyes to adjust. This fire had been recently banked as well, the flames lending a comforting glow across the sparsely furnished room, landing on the standing figure in the corner. Perplexed Jon shook his head and took a step forward, chuckling as he recognized the dragon and direwolf emblazoned on his never-worn armor.

Ghost leaned against him, pushing under his arm.

“You can come next time, if you want to…” Ghost chuffed in response and meandered toward the bed, Jon’s gaze falling to the sleeping figure curled under the covers. Gods she was beautiful; always beautiful, but the joyful expression she had on her face, the calmness and contentedness made her ethereal, otherworldly in the shaft of hazy moonlight falling across her face. Happy. She shifted under the covers, her hand sliding across the empty pillow beside her. She must have heard him come in even as she slept.

He let out a breathless whisper. “My Dany…”

He stood watching her sleep, curled on her side, her pale skin shimmering, glowing silver hair twisted under her shoulder. He wondered what their future held, where would they be in a year, in five?

A scraping metallic sound near the fireplace startled him; Ghost had apparently found the tray of food, wisely covered this time. He watched to see if she stirred, but her breathing was even and light. She had been slow to heal, but seemed to be recovering quickly now.

Jon realized he was hungry, and helped himself to the fresh fruit, cheese and meat rolls as he found his trunk and changed into a nightshirt for bed, watchful to keep his wolf from finishing the plate. He was used to sleeping fully clothed – little need to undress for the very few hours of sleep he would get – but it was time to adjust this habit as well.

He leaned to stoke the fire, placing a smaller log to last the night, what was left of it.

“We’ve been waiting for you, my King…”

He smiled, turning to find his almost-lost Queen sitting up comfortably in his bed, blurry eyed but smiling, her hand palming her belly.

She shifted and reached for him, both laughing when the white wolf bounded onto the bed, flailing his great tail like the sail of a ship trying to catch the slightest of breezes.

“Ah, Ghost, you have had your time with her all day, give me at least a chance to speak with my Queen, will you?”

The great maw yawned open as if in answer, followed by a chuff as Jon pulled the protesting beast to the floor, nails clicking on the marble floor as he made his way to the corner farthest from the flames.

“I’m sorry I woke you…” He sat on the edge of the bed, grasping her extended hand.

“I’m glad you did, I’ve been waiting for you.” She wiggled farther to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers between them, patting the empty space. Jon rose and blew out the solitary candle on the side table, then awkwardly slid in next to his wife. Husband and wife, yet so much remained unspoken. She turned toward him as he settled, eyes drooping.

“Dany, is there something wrong with your new bed? This one is much smaller… wouldn’t you be more comfortable –”

“I didn’t want to miss you again…” She sought his gaze and held it. “We have to start somewhere, finding our way back…”

He nodded and reached for her, caressing her arm, then her cheek as a contented smile lingered over her lips. He leaned over and kissed those lips, bracing himself on his elbow as she returned the kiss, her hands stroking up his arms to his shoulders, tugging.

“Hold me, husband…”

Jon leaned back, pulling her toward him, her head resting under his chin.

“Everything’s going to be alright…” He felt her sigh, her arms grasping his shoulders as she pressed into his chest. She nodded.

“I’m beginning to think that may be true…” He could hear the smile in her voice as he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her on the top of her silver head, sighing with her as he breathed in her unique scent. They lay quietly for several moments, sporadic crackles from the fireplace interrupting the silence.

“How did the meeting go – I wish I could have been there…” He had expected her to fall back asleep, but apparently she had only awakened more.

“Long, you know how meetings are…” He laughed lightly, she joined in. “I wish you could have been there, it was… they all came, Dany, they all want to be a part, I think. Seeing all the leaders of Westeros, waiting, lordly faces and banners flying…” He recounted the few decisions that were made, the high points and the low, questions and rifts, of Gendry and Tully and Yara and Martell, of new allegiances and hints of failing pledges.

“We’ll have work to do, but we’ve made progress,” Dany hummed and nodded, pulling herself closer, her hand sliding in between the lacings of his shirt. “Grey Worm?”

“I spoke to him, it’s taken care of.”

“I hope you weren’t too hard on him…”

Jon shook his head, “The last thing he wants from me is sympathy, he would take it as an insult… At least now he knows what his choices are. He needs a new purpose, I’m honestly not sure if he will stay or want to return to Meereen…”

“I’ll give him some time to decide. I want him happy, as happy as he can be…” Dany curled her leg around his, “And… what else?”

Jon chuckled at her persistence, “We had a late visitor, your Commander of the Second Sons, Daario Naharis and some of his men arrived during the meeting…”

Dany startled and sat up at that, “What? He came here? Kinvara said she told him that I was alive, that he was to keep the peace in Meereen!”

“Davos and Kinvara met with him, apparently Kinvara told Davos that she had visions of Meereen in flames…” He yawned as he waited for a response. He had found his letter, and had read it; her former lover pledged his undying fealty and love regardless of what perfumed lord she was forced to marry to secure her throne. At one point he was going to ask her about it, but they had little time to talk, and far more important issues to discuss than a man from her past far across the sea. At least he had thought so at the time.

“I know she’s not to be trusted, but she’s been helpful, and it would make sense that Meereen – they would have heard I had been killed, that I was no longer going to return to keep the peace if the Masters…” Jon watched as pain and regret filled her eyes as she considered the chaos that could be occurring even as peace was taking root in Westeros.

“Davos told him you would send for him at your convenience…” Daenerys released a breath and nodded as she settled back, laying her head on his chest.

“He told him about me, about us…”

Jon could feel her smile, “Are you jealous, husband?”

Jon tightened his grip on her, “No, not jealous. There just seems to be some confusion as to his place in your life, leaving Meereen, not following your instructions…”

“I will talk with him, make sure everything is clear. Or do you want to be there, to make sure there is no – confusion?” He could tell she was taunting him; under other circumstances it could be enjoyable to play along, but it had been a long night and he was drained.

“He is your Commander, as long as he behaves himself he is welcome here…”

Dany sighed quietly, “And, what else…”

Jon pulled her closer, “That’s it, everything else can keep until tomorrow…” The stillness grew, a groan from the dreaming direwolf breaking the silence.

“Jon, I should remind you that you are King, and that one of the main pastimes of the servant girls is to gossip about their attractive young liege…” She tilted her head to look into his scowling face.

“What would they have to gossip about?” His thoughts ran through the day, what could he have done to cause a flood of rumors? His heart dropped as her eyes grew soft and cautious, “What else happened at the meeting tonight?” Her hand moved over his heart, landing on the crescent scar.

He had tried to put it behind him, it's why he had shown them in the first place, so he’d never have to talk about it again. It was… Jon drew a long breath, “There were questions about what happened at Castle Black, about betraying my oath – I tried to explain to them – I ended up – I showed them my scars…”

He was surprised that she startled, her breath catching, perhaps he should have brushed it away; if she knew about it, why was she bringing it up now? Was she angry? Embarrassed?

“Jon, you didn’t have to do that…” She reached for his face, brushing the errant curls from his forehead before smoothing the furrows between his brows. “You never have to defend or explain what happened to you, I hope you know that…”

Jon nodded and grasped her hand, kissing her palm. “I needed to put it to rest, I hope I did that… Tormund will be in King’s Landing for a while, when I left he was telling his version of what happened, I guess we’ll find out tomorrow…”

She paused and searched his face, his eyes, then finally nodded and smiled as he tried to stifle another yawn. “Yes, we’ll find out tomorrow, well, later this morning…”

Jon settled deeper under the covers. “Sleep well, then, it was a good day today, rest, get strong… dream good dreams…”

“And you will do the same? You’ll stay here, with me?” she whispered, a hint of anxiety returning as she clutched his side.

He nodded reassuringly. “Aye, I will do the same… I’m not going anywhere…”

She let out a sigh as he pulled her closer, her breathing deepening. “The first day of our reign, my King…”

“Long may we reign, my Queen…” He kissed the top of her head and smoothed his hand along her arm, straightening the covers she had already thrown off.

He felt sleep creeping in, but would have sworn he heard her whisper, perhaps to herself before he faded, “Long may we reign…”

He startled as the last log cracked and splintered, throwing embers onto the stone hearth, soon followed by deep darkness swallowing his thoughts, his body gradually relaxing into exhaustion.

-----

Tyrion had no idea how long he had been standing there, just inside the heavy locked door, rocking slightly back and forth as realization set in.

When he had been held in this room previously, he had never really noticed it. He knew he wouldn’t be there for long, so he spent his time in his head, scheduling, filling posts, arranging marriages, relishing in his own glory.

He cringed to himself and tried to breathe.

But now, now he noticed the boxes of linens, the worn chest that he had never opened, the odd pieces of tableware, several candleholders, more earthenware lined haphazardly on top of the narrow table in the corner. A rolled rug, Myrish by the bright colors and fringe, leaned in the corner – not a good way to store such an excellent example of Myrish workmanship, pulling and stretching the weave, denting the edge where it hit the floor unevenly. Such a shame. People had no regard for the finer things any more.

At least the room was familiar; he had noticed the window before, if only to hear what was going on outside.

He took a steady step, now that the shackles had been removed, and noticed the shaft of late afternoon sun strike the large cobbled stone under his feet. Dark red. Lion red. Dragon red. Blood red.

He was doomed. He would not be able to talk his way out of this one, as if he wanted to.

He stepped into the shaft of light, letting it blind him for a moment. He swayed again with weariness and resignation. He felt his mind pulled, rolling through memories, comforting, calling.

Shae. If there was an afterlife, would she want to see him? Would his dead father even let him see her? He had killed them both. They had betrayed him, both of them, and he had killed them. Gods, would he be as despised in the hereafter as he had been in the here and now? What would his mother think of how her murderous son had lived his life… how it had ended.

Hopefully Jon Snow was right. Eternal nothingness sounded better than being surrounded by his family and friends, all of whom hated him now. Or should hate him.

Tyrion Lannister. The Last Lannister. He had done more than any other to bring an end to his own House.

He had killed his mother coming out of her. That old mixture of regret and anger surged; this death, this death of them all, had not been his fault. When he was young he had agreed with them all, he should have never been born. But then he had found a reason to live – wine, women, the finer things. But now he again agreed, he should have never been born.

He had murdered his father, though he deserved it a thousand times over. He should have done it sooner; rage briefly swelled, but was tamped down by the memory of the light leaving his father’s eyes. For all the hate, he had loved him too.

He had guided the hand, been The Hand, to the weapon that killed his brother and sister. Cersei, with child, and Jaime, the only person who had truly loved him, and whom he had destroyed.

He nodded to himself. It was only fitting that his be the hand that ended House Lannister, once and for all.

He looked around the room again, methodically, then walked the perimeter, touching each item, waiting for inspiration. He came to the unopened chest, grunting as he pushed back the linen-wrapped wool blanket lying atop it. There was no lock, so no valuables inside. He unlatched it, excited in his focus, and heaved open the domed lid.

Nothing. It was empty.

He let his eyes adjust to the light, or the lack of it, then leaned over the edge. Nothing. He could just reach the bottom of the trunk, and he brushed his hand over the flat boards, into each corner, along each edge. Nothing. Not even dust.

Nothing.

Why store a rug on top of an empty trunk? It would only make sense to place it inside, wouldn’t it? To protect it, from light and dust and moths? He shook his head. The blanket had been plopped out of sight, and that was the end of it, no one would ever know, and if it had been damaged, a new one would be purchased, no harm done. Wasteful. Sometimes people refused to do the most sensible thing, the most reasonable thing, and did what was the most convenient, if they could get away with it.

Nothing.

Tyrion breathed a deep sigh. There was something freeing about knowing you were going to die…

It would be a spectacle, no doubt. He remembered walking the streets of King’s Landing with Bronn, Ser Bronn now – he had seen him just now in the crowd in the throne room; a fleeting hope rose, abruptly snuffed out – the stories that were being told about him then, before he’d truly deserved derision. ‘Demon Monkey,’ ‘The Imp,’ ‘Puppeteer.’ Never ‘savior of King’s Landing,’ he had wondered if Joffrey had even known what he had done for the city, not that he would have cared. And now it would all fall on his head.

He could hear the taunts in his head as he was dragged through the jeering crowds. All the anger, the rage – they were smarter than he had given them credit for, Jon and Daenerys, the King and Queen – oh, by all seven hells! All the hatred for what the Dragon Queen had done would be directed at him…

Or perhaps they would put him on a cart so everyone could see the dwarf in all his ugliness, chained in a cage, naked and shaved, scourged and covered in filth.

They’d all be laughing at him, and he’d never have a chance to explain. They wouldn’t understand anyway; wouldn’t want to. Why had he fought his Queen so, about sparing their lives, none of them deserved to draw breath. He had fought for them, and they were throwing filth at him. Father was right, he should have bashed his head in when he was born.

Tyrion eventually found rolled draperies once hung in a lesser room within the Red Keep. In fact, they were what he had been sleeping on as he waited for his great plan to play out. He unrolled them and found that deep in their folds were the thick twisted ropes that held the curtains open, letting light into whatever dreary room they had once hung in. He held the twisted cords in his hands, old but strong, then pulled them and tested the knotted ends.

He glanced around the darkening room. Time was passing quickly, and though the new King and Queen had promised trials as part of their little plan, to exonerate Herself, to elevate Himself, either could just as easily decide to end it all that night.

There were footsteps outside his door. And the clank of chains. A flick of torchlight briefly shone under the door as several quiet men passed by, pausing at his door but then moving along.

Were they coming for him next?

He didn’t want to die. But he was going to. Soon.

His eyes searched the walls. There, high enough, several sconces on each wall. He closed and dragged the empty trunk to the narrow table that waited under the farthest iron sconce.

He had seen enough beheadings to know they were often gruesome to behold. The blade did not always come down cleanly, the victims often screamed, gurgled, eyes alight with pain and horror.

Tyrion started to sweep the contents of the top of the table to the floor, then realized that might make enough noise to draw attention. So slowly, piece by piece, he removed the orphaned items to the far corner, until the table was cleared. He eyed the distance between the sconce and the table top. It would have to do, but he might need both cords to accomplish the job.

The smell of burning flesh suddenly filled his senses, strong and close. Varys. He had turned in his best friend, who had saved him time and again, in many ways, and he had betrayed him, knowing he would take their secret with him to the grave. Varys, the only one of them who had a good heart, a true heart, who wanted what was best for the Realm. Jon Snow on the throne. As he insisted on this outcome, they had begun making plans behind his back. Bran had insisted that the Dragons must die, all of the dragons. Jon Snow could not be on the throne.

Regret roared in his heart, his memory, suddenly overwhelmed by Varys’s shriek of agony as Drogon’s flames engulfed him. There was something about a body being consumed by dragonfire just a few feet away that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. He cringed as he relived that memory, noticing finally that it was no longer Varys’s crumpled figure in his mind’s eye, turning to ash, but the shrunken body of a dwarf.

No. He would not let that happen.

He threw the cords atop the table, then scrabbled up the trunk, finally to the table top, balancing himself quietly as he reached for the sconce. Inches out of reach, even on tip toe. He took one of the cords and flung it, three times behind the iron arm until it slid over the arm where it entered the solid stone. It would have to do. He tied a knot securely, then pulled the cord taut. He had never made a noose before; logic told him there was no need to be fancy about it, just tie it tight around his neck and push the table over.

A single cord was just a bit too short, so he struggled to tie the two thick cords together. Finally he was ready. He tied the cord around his neck, double checking the knots, jerking on the sconce to test if it would hold his weight.

Focus. Anticipation. Revenge. A final fuck you to all who had wronged him, to all he had wronged. He would steal his death, his execution from the victors. He would win.

Tyrion Lannister braced his hands against the wall, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, imagined opening the finest Arbor Gold and tipped the table over.

-----

Regin Reynhold waved the last cart through the closing gate and followed the line of wagons and carts into the darkened shadows and down the worn road into the willow grove by what was usually a fly-infested swamp. The past weeks though there had been ever-widening, long rows of glowing embers along the edge of the swamp, stoked as the bodies were dumped. At first families had tried to claim their loved-ones' remains, but that quickly became a futile effort. What the red or green flames did not obliterate, the rot of death soon transformed. Some had come to collect valuables from the deceased – jewelry, coin – but were soon turned away by the stench and the gruesome sight itself. Thousands had been buried, hundreds recovered and returned to their Houses. Which left tens of thousands to be put to the torch. For weeks the fires had been burning, a steady orange glow cast on the outer stone walls of King’s Landing. A pretty sight if you cared to consider.

Felker waited for him at the bottom of the hill, bald head shimmering in the moonlight, watching as teams of volunteers gracelessly tossed one bloated body after the other onto the burning mounds of sodden ash. It had rained the night before, and some of the remains had failed to burn. Regin watched as several men pulled the mounds apart with iron hooks they had scrounged from the ships in the bay and the remains of the butcher’s market, shoveling fresh embers into the furrows of former friends and enemies. They had become expert at their task; it was bound to happen. The arms no longer belonged to a wife welcoming home her husband from a long day at work, a daughter reaching for her brother’s hand; the legs were no longer carrying soldiers into battle, the red and gold, black and red, gray and blue all muted death-gray and muscle-pink now; Unsullied, Dothraki, Lannister, Northern armor useless against the green and orange flames.

Regin had long lost his sense of horror, and his sense of smell. He’d become numb even to the faces, didn’t even see them as they were thrown on the pyre, those that still had faces that is, and hair. The hair went up first. He’d stopped seeing the faces until he had seen hers. The innkeeper’s wife. He had seen her that day from the top of the wall, scurrying through the alley, shooing neighbors into their homes, tugging wanderers into her inn. Thinking they could hide. She had been neither burned nor crushed, bloated but recognizable, her red and blue dress unmarred. But for the gaping hole in her chest, a spear most likely, it was round, rather than the slicing gash from a sword or long blade. She had died almost instantly; there was little red around the wound. Inelda. That was her name. He couldn’t remember if he liked her, couldn’t remember the sound of her voice or the name of the daughter that usually served him his dinner. No matter. She was gone. They had thrown her body on the last cart first, now she was there to greet him, one last time. He glanced at her quickly, marking the memory, he would dwell on it later, much later, years later, over a cup of wine as he told his grandchildren the tale of the Battle for King’s Landing.

“Look, in there, there’s another one!”

The fog from the swamp was rising, and between the howling wolves and ravaging ravens, the moonlight, the mist and the perpetually radiating embers, their senses had started playing tricks on them.

At first they had thought that the Maesters had not been thorough, and were sending those yet living to be burnt. But when they were pulled from the pyre, there was a twitch or two, but no heartbeat, sometimes no heart.

This time though they were pointing at the innkeeper’s wife, still on the cart behind him. Regin turned and saw it too. Just a little jolt, her shoulders. Then, nothing, her swollen visage grayed, glazed white eyes gaping open into the starred abyss above.

A voice on the other side of the pit cried out, “Here!” but Regin’s shoulder throbbed, dislocated when he had been knocked off the wall that day only to be buried under its fall, and he didn’t feel like moving any more, so he stood and watched as the body of the innkeeper’s wife was hauled off the wagon and onto a makeshift wheelbarrow, then pushed along the muddy ground to the end of the pit.

They were starting a new burn, on drier ground, soaking the stacked wood along the bottom of the just finished pit with fresh oil scrounged from the stores within the Red Keep to keep the air flowing underneath and the fires burning hot.

He walked with the barrow, he couldn’t say why, just a walk, until her body was heaved into the pit, several more bodies tossed in alongside, to get the new fire going.

She had landed on her side, both arms in front of her, as if she was sleeping embraced by her husband. Had he lived? What of the daughter... A flint was struck at the pit, but failed to light. A shadowed figure came forward with a flaming torch and tossed it into the pit where the oil sheened. It lit with a whoosh and Regin stepped back, the sudden flame and light blinding. The flames settled, and licked at the bodies.

Soon she’d be truly gone, though he would have sworn, there, another twitch. Her dress caught first, then her hair. Her face hadn’t bloated badly, she didn’t seem to react to the heat shimmering around her. Of course not, she was dead, but he found himself watching her burn, waiting, as another voice called out close by. He stared at her face, mouth gaping open. The innkeeper’s wife, he would have sworn her eyes were green, not blue. She was a Lannister, after all.

Chapter Text

Hands, gripping, ripping.
Searing pain, sharp, biting.
Nausea, fear, shame.
It was there, waiting for her, a whisper away.
Familiar. Companion.
Terror.

She had learned to keep it at bay, to tame it, to use its power, its strength to her advantage.
Then she had seen that whore on her throne.
Smug. Arrogant. Victor.
Bile had risen into her throat, burning.
Panic.

Morning.
A new day.
Would she see another?

She wondered what new horrors awaited her.

Sansa Stark rose to sit on the edge of her bed and rubbed her arms with her gloved hands, wincing as she brushed across the cuts and bruises on her wrists and ankles from the heavy chains used the day before. Her throat was dry and sore from screaming. She had raged against her captors as she was dragged up the stairs, trying to scratch and claw and kick, grabbing at every crevice along the wall, any hope, but the shackles were too tight, and all she had managed to do was fall again and again and scrape her elbows and shins and knees; the heathen wouldn’t even give her time to right herself on her own, instead grabbing her roughly under her arms and pulling her up the stairs, ripping her gown as they goaded her onward with the tips of their spears.

They had stopped her on a landing with a large window, gripping her clothes tightly as one of the Unsullied took her cloak from her shoulders, their hands running over the material, searching even as she shrieked defiantly. The Unsullied handed the cloak to another soldier as he spoke that guttural language, followed by an Unsullied grabbing the manacles on her wrists as two others ran their hands over her body, her voice growing still from shock at the violation of her person.

How dare they even touch her! She would see them all hanged!

They let their hands run over her dress, over her arms and bodice and waist, halting at the faint crackling of parchment near her hip. More foreign words were spoken, and though it took several minutes to find the pocket, soon the folded paper was being passed from one to the other, even as Sansa tried to lunge from their grip to grab it back.

Their leader nodded again, and the two soldiers continued their thorough search, pulling the layers of her underskirts to the side, running their hands over her hose-covered legs, their usually impassive gazes tinged with discomfort and confusion. Finally they removed her shackles and pulled off her boots, passing them around for all to search for weapons or parchment or anything a prisoner should not have.

Her shock had turned to rage by then, her face red and swollen, her voice squealing a curse on each of them, knowing full well that they did not understand, nor follow her gods. Their impassivity only enraged her more.

They had replaced her shackles, and once again pushed her up the steep narrow stairs, her barely-covered feet pained by the rough stone and debris under each step. They had passed a short hallway and several doors, each time pushing and pulling her forward, until finally they came to a door with a southern soldier standing in front of it. They all paused as he pulled a large key out of his vest and inserted it into the keyhole of the heavy wooden door, unlatching the door and pulling it open wide, the lantern light spilling a stark jagged path into the blackness.

Sansa again reached out for a handhold, grasping at the walls, fingers scraping, bleeding, grabbing at the Unsullied, the door frame, the air itself.

“No! You can’t do this to me!” Her shrieks turned into sobs as she was forced through the doorway, the soldier and Unsullied accompanying her. Her eyes were blinded by tears as she was grabbed and twisted and pulled, her ankles and wrists relieved of their chains. The relief was quickly overwhelmed by confusion and pain and anguish as she turned in time to watch as her captors quickly left her cell, the iron-framed door clanging into place followed by the grind of the key.

She had lost her balance and had fallen to the ground in the deep black. She raised herself to her elbows, then to her knees, painfully, struggling with her torn skirt and voluminous cloak. She felt her throat close as the bile sought release, the nausea and panic overwhelming any coherent thought. The tears welled again, uncontrolled and spilling and splatting on the ash- and dust-covered floor of the room, deep sobs echoing against the bare stone walls.

Nearly blinded by her tears she struggled to her feet, her hands outstretched before her in the black emptiness. She found the door only by the scraping of feet and the soft clanging of armor in the hallway. And the laughter.

Her fingers found the edges of the door, and the latch. She turned it, twisted it, tugging and pulling and pushing, harder and harder. Locked tight. She screamed again, her throat raw, pounding her fist once as she kicked the door hard, her foot throbbing in her soft boot.

Why was this happening? She didn’t deserve to be treated like this!

Frustration overwhelmed her pain and fear and she began shouting Jon’s name, pounding on the door with her fists and her feet until finally she heard a key in the lock and the sudden bursting through of Unsullied guards, pointing their spears at her as she backed away, hands raised in compliance as she stood in the faint shaft of light from the lantern in the hallway.

A third guard in plate armor entered, and stood glaring in front of her. He was distantly familiar to her, perhaps a former Lannister soldier that had served in the Red Keep during her stay here.

“What do you want?” He was an older soldier, perhaps an officer. She had never learned how to tell the difference.

Sansa straightened to her full height.

“You know who I am! Release me now!” She tried to sound confident as she gave him orders, even as her own ears rang from her screams.

The guard shook his head.

“I know who you are, my lady. You are a prisoner of the Realm. I will not release you unless ordered to do so by the protectors of that Realm.” An insolent smirk accompanied his words.

“Then bring me to them, to Jon, to my brother the King.” She stumbled over her words, trying to think which would convince this soldier to do her bidding.

The guard shook his head.

“No. He will send for you if and when he chooses.”

“You will tell him I want to see him then, he must come to me so I can explain…”

“No.” The guard had looked around the darkened room before turning to leave, nodding at the Unsullied to follow.

“No, you can’t leave me here!” Sansa had tried to follow, grabbing at the arm of the soldier as she pleaded, her voice trembling. He looked at her for a moment, into her eyes, a hint of pity clouding his visage before he grabbed her hand and released it from its grip as the door closed behind him, the lock a cringing echo as the thick blackness again filled the room and her soul.

Sansa silently leaned into the darkness in shock as dread entombed her heart. She listened to her heart beating against her ribs, her breathing filling her ears and the creeping shadows.

Her eyes were swollen by the time they had adjusted to the dim light given off by the waning fire in the small hearth. She stood shakily, sniffling still, pulling the hair from her tear-streaked face as she surveyed her new quarters.

It was not a small room, about the size of her room in the Tower of the Hand. A bed, of good size, unadorned. Linens, pillows, folded blankets on the bench. A chest of drawers with a pitcher and basin. And a candle. Unlit.

She gathered her tattered skirts and hurried to the chest of drawers, breathing anxiously as she pulled out each drawer, searching for something to light the small candle. Finding nothing, she took the candlestick to the flickering flame in the hearth and leaned in, lighting the candle but singing the ends of her hair as well, the smell making her nauseous once again.

Slowly she walked around the room, the candlelight casting undulating, twitching fingers into the dark corners. Sansa’s heart thumped loudly in her throat, even as she scolded herself for childish fears. She had real fears to consider, no time for fairytales of grumpkins and snarks.

Finally she had settled the candlestick back on the chest and sat on the edge of the bed, despair overwhelming her senses as her breathing shallowed, racing as fast as her thoughts could abide.

The wind had whistled above her head, distant voices and crashing waves carrying through a broken stained-glass window. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and let her head drop into her hands, exhausted, drifting into a fitful sleep as she fell back onto the bed. She had no idea how long she had slept, but she was startled awake by voices in the hall, and the sounds of chains and keys.

She leapt up, finding her way to stand against the back wall, waiting for another disaster to befall her. A key grated in the lock and the door swung inward, followed by a Northern guard carrying a tray of food, hot stew and bread, a pitcher of water, a second guard carrying firewood and a blanket, both avoiding her glances and her questions. She was apparently expected to tend to the fire herself.

Emptiness filled the room and her soul as they left, the grating key reminding her she was a prisoner. Jon’s prisoner. Her prisoner. Why did these things always happen to her?! Everyone had failed her again; she was left alone, again. Didn’t they know what she had gone through?

She felt her stomach rumble as she remembered she had not eaten since first light that morning. She pushed aside her troubles and sat at the small table to eat. It occurred to her that the food might be poisoned – that would be so like that whore – but she decided that that silver-haired usurper would want to be there to see her writhe in pain. She was hungry, and she could not afford to be distracted by that hunger.

The room was quiet now, too quiet, but for the scrape of her fork against the plate and the occasional sea bird screaming outside the window. Pushing herself from the table, she found and used the chamber pot behind the door and took a seat on the bed across from the hearth.

Time passed, she had listened to herself breathing, pushing down the panic, fear and anger. Her headache grew as the sun set and the dim colored shadows grew long on the bare floor. Spurts of icy wind swirled into her room, carrying brittle snow with it. She threw another log on the fire, then another, crushing the dying log and spilling embers onto the threshold. She ignored it. The fire did little to warm the room against the coming of winter; she wished she had paid better attention to tending to a fire growing up in the North. Her teeth chattered as Sansa pulled the table under the window, then the chair, then looked for something to stuff into the broken window above her head.

The blankets were too heavy, the pillow too small.

Sansa hung her head as she unfurled her beloved cloak from her shoulders, stroking the soft fur, the embroidered wolf. Tears again stained her cheeks, she stifled the bubbling sobs just as a stiff wind blew through her cell, snuffing the candle.

Alone again in the darkness, Sansa gasped for air around her sorrow as she laid the cloak across the table, then stood on the chair, slowly balancing, then stepped onto the table, bracing her hands against the cold stone wall. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, wiping the tears from her eyes, then leaned down to grasp the cloak, her fingers searching in the dark.

Slowly she pulled it next to her chest, inhaling the familiar fragrance, then bunched it together and reached above her head, finally finding the edge of the window sill with her finger tips.

Snow had gathered there, and as she searched for a grip on the ledge to hold herself steady, a handful of white powder fell on her face, melting on her red swollen cheeks. She gasped as she strained to lift the cloak high above her head, the table wobbling under her, eventually able to shove the fine garment into what was left of the window pane.

It took several tries to adjust it, a sigh leaving her lips as she gave up trying harder, and she quickly dropped to her knees on the table and soon found herself standing back to observe her handiwork. It would do, for now.

The room was darker now, and she quickly re-lit the candle, holding her long hair out of the flame’s reach as she struggled to regain her bearings in the darkness.

She sat again at the table, trying to calm herself enough to think, to manage, to control. She recalled that morning, entering King’s Landing, a victor over all who had done her harm. She relished that feeling, that knowledge. If only…

Yet here she was.

Not in a cell, exactly, but locked away, she would need to...

A faint footfall shifted the slight glow under the door, then was gone.

Her eyes once again tried to focus; on what, she wasn’t sure. The quiet began to haunt her, and without her cloak the chill set in. She rubbed her hands across her arms, then blew into her hands as she stood. The scrape of her boots rang against the walls.

Alone, afraid, abandoned.

A Lady.

One of the logs dropped against the other, sending sparks into the chimney and bright orange figures throughout the room.

Grumps and Snarks.

No, those were just tales Old Nan told the boys to scare them, make them behave.

No, as much as she embraced the Northern name, she was not one of them. She was a southerner, a Tully, educated and refined and preferred above all others. And yet they had picked him over herself, a bastard over a trueborn Stark. Who could blame her for seeking revenge?

Another shadow moved, at least she thought it had. She fell to her knees.

By the Seven!

She had prayed, daily, nightly for years, in a Sept, by her bed, locked in her rooms, fleeing from danger.

She had asked only that the Stark name would be restored, that the Lions and the Stags and the Dragons would forever be banished from the known world, or at least kneel at the foot of the righteous House, and that those that were truly deserving would be rewarded.

To the Father, for justice for her family, for revenge for all she’d gone through.

To the Mother, for peace in her life, for the bountiful blessings she had been promised since a babe.

To the Maiden, with thanks, that her beauty and virtue had been protected.

To the Crone, for guidance and continuing wisdom, reminding her always of her path forward.

To the Warrior, grateful that though her own hands had never been forced to wield a weapon, that she was well protected, as she should be. That she was clever enough to hone and wield her own weapons, achieving victory over her enemies.

To the Smith, for the perseverance to bring this plan to fruition. That her own wisdom and creativity would be appreciated.

To the Stranger, that this terrifying shadow would forever remain far from her door.

She had promised again and again, always, that those she ruled would serve the Seven with devotion and integrity.

Sansa had struggled to understand. Perhaps she had not been specific enough.

She had prayed when she was a child, of course. And when she was younger, traveling with father to King’s Landing, she had prayed for her King and Queen, for her Prince, for protection and kindness and wisdom. That she would have many sons, and that people would love her, for her beauty and wisdom, and admire her for the love and admiration her husband lavished upon her.

But her father had not prayed for wisdom, she was sure of it. Nor Robb, nor her brothers, not even Jon, whose existence she abhorred. He never should have been allowed to live among his betters, he never would have gotten the idea to do what he was doing now. There had been a hope for him once, to appease the Seven, serve the Realm, but his bastard blood had cried out and grasped for that which was not his.

He had sealed his own fate long ago.

But the Starks.

The North had rejected the Seven, and she had paid the price for it. All the terrible things that had happened to her were all because her family worshiped demon gods.

Yet none came to truly save her. Only Brienne. She had listened, obeyed, for she worshiped the Seven she knew. Saved, only to be delivered into the hands of a foreign whore who worshiped – What? Who? What madness controlled those flying devils. Little wonder that the bastard could ride one as well, more proof, if any was needed, of the black soul he bore.

She had loved the North once, though, and wanted to be loved in return, as was her due; so she had prayed in the godswood. Once. Had tried praying to those gods.

That face, blood dripping from the dead, gazing eyes and whispering lips.

Had knelt before it, bowed her head, whispered to the Old Gods –

Oh gods! What if the Seven had heard that prayer!

She had dropped to her knees beside the chair, clasped her hands tightly under her chin and called out, “Please, forgive me! It was so long ago, I didn’t mean it, I was only honoring my father, it's what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it?”

Tears again fell from her eyes, “Please, don’t hold it against me, I was only a child… I have served you since…”

She waited, the stillness gnawing at her mind, her memories. Could this be the reason all of this evil had befallen her?

A warm breeze caressed her cheek as the logs fell in the hearth, sending sparks up the chimney; she sighed, grateful for the sign as she reached for the blanket to throw around her shoulders.

She had remained on her knees, head bowed as she leaned on the chair, waiting, for what seemed like hours, haunted by the quiet.

She must have crawled into the bed at some point, and had cried herself to sleep, dreaming of gentle Lady chasing her through the woods, now red-eyed and angry and snapping at her ankles. Her father visited her often, carrying his head in the crook of his arm, his blood dripping on the floor. Her mother, Robb - she’d been told what had happened, her imagination did the rest, Grey Wind’s bleeding head calling her name in Robb’s comforting voice as his horse was led past her bed. Then the laughter would start; Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay all snickering and pointing down at her.

Then the Dragon Whore, sitting on that blasted ugly throne, her voice violent and vicious, the Iron Throne, the cause of all her misery, yet meant to be hers by right. Jon beside her, that dull look on his simple Northern face. She had been forced to pledge fealty, even now she cringed as she remembered kneeling before that vile creature.

They would all fold together, a cacophony of crunching bone and burnt flesh and pain and flashing images and screams, a rolling bend of the past, the present, and what she imagined was her future.

Her future.

Sometime in the night the cloak had loosened in the broken window, the wind whistling past it waking her. Rising voices had seeped into her room with that wind, raised voices, angry and raucous, and a banging echoing off the bare walls. She had thought to rise and listen more closely, but the cold had crept in with the voices. She pulled the blanket close over her head and pretended she was home, looking forward to the head-bows of respect and a hot breakfast waiting for her in the Great Hall as she held audience with her Lords.

Finally a sliver of dull light had hit the wall high up the fitted stones and she stirred herself, commanding her aching legs to rise and throw another log on the fire to stave off the cold.

She had lost track of where they had taken her, but she was sure it was in one of the East Towers; she recognized the high round windows and the roar of the sea against the weathered stone battlements. The briny air had always made her sick.

Apparently the sun had risen, though most of the light was blocked by her cloak and the colored glass. She turned to search again for more candles. Her head ached, her throat was raw from screaming at her captors, her ears ringing. She shook her head. She had to think, come up with a way out of this, and found it hard to concentrate in such a bleak cold darkness. She sat at her little table with her hands folded in her lap, yet she felt her back stiffen and straightened her shoulders. All was not lost. She was a Stark, a Lady, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. She still had friends loyal to her, at least to her name. She would persevere. Again.

She was relieved that the pain and fear and panic from the day before had faded, replaced now with anger at how she was being treated.

Like a common criminal, captive again in her once-former prison. Even under Cersei’s thumb she had never been treated like this.

How could this have happened? How could Bran have been so wrong?

She was born to be Queen. Mother had promised, Father had planned.

But they were gone, now. Both of them. She had barely hugged her mother goodbye, so anxious to start her new adventure, her bright future as Prince Joffrey’s wife, his Queen. Oh how she missed her mother now, her encouragement, her assurance, her confidence in the Seven that promised nothing but the best for those dedicated to their devotion.

And Father.

The memories of that day had since haunted her sleep.

That final look between them, her panic and disbelief, his confusion, followed by understanding and acceptance.

But they were gone, right when she needed them most. She was abandoned, lost. Captive again in King’s Landing.

This was not how it was meant to be.

Time and time again she fought back the tears, reliving each betrayal, panicky and mournful.

She startled as a faint voice found its way under the door, interrupting her thoughts. She pushed the pain away as she strained to make sense of the jumbled sounds through the heavy door.

Tears welled again as she considered what could happen to her; she dropped her head in her hands, running her fingers through the tangled red strands. She smoothed her gown and gathered the blanket to fold and place at the end of her bed. She would face the day standing, whatever it held for her.

A new day. This was a new day, she would find a way to make this all work in her favor. On her own, as it had always been. She remembered her nightmares, and her panic, then reminded herself that she was not that frightened little girl anymore; what was meant to be hers had been stolen, she would find a way to get it back. She had wasted too much time already, making a scene and squandering her energy. She would need her wits about her, now more than ever.

She startled at the soft voice at her door, followed by a gentle knock.

“My Lady, I have your breakfast, may I enter?”

The voice was comforting and lilting with a distantly familiar accent; she straightened her shoulders, again brushing the stubborn wrinkles from her gown and pulled her long hair forward so it framed her face, giving her a more vulnerable appearance.

“Yes, please come in.” She schooled her features to project the calm she did not feel.

“Seven Blessings to you, Lady Stark…” The young woman stood quietly as the guard opened the door wide enough for the tray of food. Sansa felt her stomach growl.

“Seven Blessings to you as well, welcome.” She forced a calm laugh as she searched for a surface for the tray. Eyeing the faint outline of the small table and chair in the corner, she waved her hand and her visitor smiled as she placed the well-laden tray and began to set out the tableware. The young woman wore fine servant’s clothes, those reserved for service to those in the highest stations in the Keep. Plain-featured, straight dark hair pulled into a tight braid, small framed. She curtsied perfectly and smiled sheepishly; Sansa thought for a moment that she recognized that sheepish smile. “I have been assigned to care for your needs, my lady, and to assist you in preparing for your trial…”

Shock coursed through her being. “Trial?” She forced a laugh. “Surely there will be no trial, there has merely been a misunderstanding between my brother and myself…”

“Brandon Stark is being kept in the dungeon, for now…”

“The dungeon!”

“Yes, it was the easiest for his chair you see…”

“Yes of course, but I was speaking of my brother Jon.”

“Oh, you mean your cousin the King?”

“My cousin… Jon is my brother, he will always be my brother; I’ve asked repeatedly to see him so that we can get this all straightened out, could you help me please?”

“Of course, my lady, how may I be of service?”

Sansa smiled truly, then. “I remember you now, you were one of Queen Margery’s handmaidens when she…” the smile fled her face as she remembered her friend’s fate.

“Yes, my lady, I’m so happy you have remembered, I asked to be given to serve you; you see, the others, well, no one else - they all believe the rumors, of the terrible things you’ve been accused of, but i told them all, that I knew you, what a fine highborn lady you are, daughter of a noble house, the Warden of the North no less and a servant of the Seven; I told them all how terribly you were treated, by King Joffrey and Queen Cersei and others, and yet how kind and honorable you have remained.”

The woman curtsied again, spreading her skirt wide as she bowed her head reverently.

“My name is Jaenys, my lady. I was friends also with your handmaiden Shae, it is so sad, so unnecessary what happened to them both, her and Queen Margery, no doubt everything could have been worked out, if everyone had just explained themselves, trusted one another…”

Sansa saw tears form in her eyes, let them rise in her own, her voice catching.

“I miss them too, both of them were so good to me. I’m glad we have them in common, we can comfort one another over their loss.”

Sansa reached out to run her hand down the young woman’s arm, finally squeezing her hand, her lifeline. Her ties to the Reach and loyalty to the Tyrells could prove useful.

“Thank you, my lady. I am here to serve…”

Sansa stepped back, making room for her new handmaiden to survey her chambers, relieved that her status was being recognized even under the circumstances. She smiled at the young woman’s gasp.

“My lady, the window, it’s broken!”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, yes it is… a minor inconvenience under the circumstances, given what this city has been through…”

“Truly my lady, I will have that taken care of right away.”

Sansa sat at the table, her breakfast in covered dishes, collecting her thoughts as the servant girl spoke through the door, which opened just enough for a conversation to be had, the door thudding closed afterward.

“It will be repaired soon, my lady. I will make sure of it.”

“Thank you, Jaenys,” she sighed as the girl bowed her head, approaching the table to plate the sliced fruit and biscuits. She motioned to the honeyed tea, Sansa shook her head as she gently removed her gloves and took a dainty bite of the buttered biscuit.

“And where are your personal things, my lady? I’ve been told these are your chambers for your time here in the Red Keep, we shall make you feel right at home.” She smiled with a simple determination as she straightened and clasped her hands in front of her. “Is there anything else you would need to be comfortable, Lady Sansa?”

“Get a message to my, to the King that I need to see him, also to my sworn sword, Ser Brienne of Tarth, she’s the tall blonde woman wearing armor…” She thought about asking this girl to fetch her things, but knew she could trust Brienne, and as much as she wanted to be able to trust this girl, she had not yet had a chance to take her full measure. For now, she needed the chest she had left in her carriage, household goods and a change of clothes, and her parchment and ink to send messages to Bran and Tyrion; only Brienne could be trusted to carry out those duties on her behalf.

She startled at the small girl’s gasp. “You’re hurt, Lady Sansa! My goodness, look at those cuts, shall I send for the maester, or may I tend to them myself?”

Sansa smiled disarmingly, “I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone, Jaenys. Would it be easier to call for the maester or to tend to them yourself, or someone else?”

Jaenys returned her smile, “I can start, my lady, and send for the maester as well, if it suits you…”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jaenys knocked again at the door, turning to face Sansa before it opened.

“I would ask the guards for what I need, my lady, hot water and clean linen, but I fear it will be faster to fetch it myself. I will hurry the glazier along as well… is there anything else I can bring for you?”

Sansa smiled again and shook her head, “I look forward to your return, Jaenys.”

The girl bowed her head as she slipped through the doorway, the heavy door shutting solidly behind her. Silence filled the void of her joyful exuberance. Sansa felt the isolation start to creep in, pushed it back as she took great bites of fruit, standing, leaning as she uncovered each of the dishes and sampling mouthfuls before moving on to the next. She was starving.

Finally she poured herself some tea, leaning back in her chair to enjoy the warmth in her hands, the delicate lines of berries and vines decorating the finely crafted cup, the lemon and spice fragrance reminding her of more gracious times. Her eyelids closed and she breathed in.

She was born to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she reminded herself. It was her destiny. Though she would have to be patient, prove herself in the North, in what was left of her father’s home, but in time, she would be Queen of it all.

Bran had seen it, she just had to keep reminding herself of that. He saw – things. Things that came true. He could do things. He knew – things. He loved her, was looking out for her. She could trust him. No doubt he was even now working out a plan to set things right.

She smiled a small smile as she thought of the comeuppance awaiting the foreign whore and the bastard. How would they be punished? Be-headed, banished, perhaps Bran could do what he does and make the dragon burn them both. And Davos too, and Samwell Tarly. Gods if he had kept his mouth shut she wouldn’t be in this limbo. She would find a lingering death for him. Tyrion was necessary to keep around for now, but later…

Her thoughts drifted back; if only Father hadn’t betrayed Robert! She had never untangled that knot; her father had loved Robert, why would he do such a thing! Of course there were rumors, about Jaime and Cersei, the Lannister twins, and that Joffrey was a bastard, had no right to the throne. She felt chills run down her spine, it couldn’t be true! Yes, he was openly cruel, to animals and people alike, he liked to torture, torment, but he was never a bastard. She’d take her own life before marrying a bastard… her children would have been bastards, too… no, her mother, her father never would have let her marry a bastard.

She sighed, maybe it wouldn’t have been that bad; she had been born to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, even if she had had to be married to Joffrey, she would be Queen at least, he certainly was better at least than Ramsey, though Ramsey had more experience tormenting his victims. Perhaps one day Joffrey would have been as devilish.

Her hand brushed over the rough table top; not what she was accustomed to. Certainly she would not have to put up with it for long.

The tea had cooled, so she sipped a bit before adding more, again warming her hands. She hoped that once the window was fixed, the fireplace would be enough to warm the whole room.

What were the people thinking, her people, the highborn: Edmure, Robyn, Royce, even her bannermen Cerwyn and Glover and Manderly – what was a Manderly doing here? She recalled that strange message she had received from the Lord of White Harbor about sea monsters. Could they have been conspiring against her all along?

But the others, surely they could see what was happening, the lies, the bribery. She thought back with shock at seeing the High Septon, injured but supporting the travesty of a marriage between the whore and the bastard, how could he sanction such a thing? He was charged with upholding the Seven, and they were aunt and nephew? She wondered how much they had paid him; perhaps they were blackmailing him. They would likely try something of the same on her as well.

Sansa wondered if someone had gotten to Bran, or to Tyrion. Perhaps they were blaming everything on her to save their own necks. She’d have to be ready, more ready than she was the day before.

She had panicked during the Great Council – she grimaced to herself – that Tyrion was so slow to deflect the accusations made against her. Clearly he is not near as smart as he thought, or perhaps it was the lack of wine. She wondered if he could smell himself…

Perhaps it was all a trick to defend the indefensible, that the Targaryen blood had revealed itself as the Mad Queen had burned down King’s Landing, the incest between aunt and nephew sealing the despicable blood of the dragons. They must be stopped, surely it was clear to all! That was the reason for it all, they had all agreed that the dragons must be eliminated for peace to reign in Westeros.

But how? Her mind began racing, how to end them… surely Bran, or Tyrion had come up with an idea, she had to get word to them that she was with them…

If not, if she was on her own, again, she would come up with her own plans, turn this situation to her advantage, play and win the game of thrones. She had had the best teachers, after all. Baelish, Cersei. Even Margaery. Sansa felt her heart race with dread.

They were all dead now.

Suddenly Sansa heard voices in the hall, both foreign, and common tongue. The clank of chains, something being dragged, or pulled. Then a woman’s voice, and she released the breath she had been holding, smiling as the door opened wide and a flood of people crowded into her little room.

Sansa smiled warmly as Jaenys entered and curtsied, then watched as she began directing the glazier, where to set up the ladder, his supplies. The guards approached her with manacles, but Jaenys scolded them, taunting, “Are you afraid of being overpowered by a little girl?”

Sansa turned her head and smirked, then noticed the dark, concerned expression on her servant’s face as she cleared the dishes from the table and handed them to the steward that had carried in a covered silver bowl and wrapped linens on a tray. He stood back and she quickly motioned him toward the chamber pot, rolling her eyes.

Jaenys pulled the little chair toward the hearth and waved Sansa to sit, then looked up toward the window, “Hey old man, be careful with that, that cloak belongs to a Lady!” The slight man on the ladder nodded without meeting her gaze and began gently tugging on the cloak, breaking off pieces of glass and handing them down to his apprentice until the soggy cloak could be handed down, then taken by Jaenys to be draped across the bed to dry out. Sansa moved to inspect it for damage, but Jaenys motioned her to stay seated.

“It’s likely to get colder before it gets warmer, my lady. Best just sit here by the fire until all the hustle and bustle is over.”

Sansa nodded, studying the face of the young woman. Her brow was furrowed, her lips taut, her hands grasping at one another. Clearly something had happened since she had left earlier. She remembered the day before thinking things were not as peaceful as they seemed, there were so many Unsullied lurking around, their long spears at the ready, and the screamers riding in packs along the thoroughfares.

“You look troubled, is everything well?”

She could tell the question startled her; Jaenys put her finger to her lips, motioning toward the others in the room, the glazier and his assistants and the Unsullied standing watch by the door, a southern soldier at her side. She leaned forward as if to brush ash off her shoulder, whispering, “We’ll speak later, my lady.”

Sansa nodded ever-so-slightly, then busied herself running her fingers through her long hair to wrangle out the knots and tangles, occasionally glancing at the work on the window and the guards stationed both at the door and within her room.

Soon the window was repaired with clear glass panes, not the brightly colored glass of the original. Sansa was relieved as the light shone through, lifting her unease. She sat motionless as the workers and guards filed out through the door, sighing as her handmaiden closed the door behind them. It felt as though she was not being locked in when the door was closed from this side, at least until she heard the grate of the key and the bolt slide.

“My lady, where are you injured?” Jaenys’s voice was soothing as she approached her to tend her wounds. Sansa extended her arms and pulled back her sleeves, revealing scrapes, red welts and bruised skin on each wrist and forearm.

“Oh my lady, these look painful. I’ve brought liniment, do you have other bruises?”

“Yes, on my ankles and … other places…” Jaenys glanced sorrowfully into her eyes as she took Sansa’s hand into her own and began to clean each scrape. She worked in silence, broken by an occasional sigh or murmur of sympathy until her wrists and ankles were soothed. Sansa was not ready to disrobe for her servant yet to examine her other bruises, not knowing who could barge through the door at any time.

She reached out her hand, “Thank you Jaenys, I do so appreciate you taking care of all of this so quickly…”

The young woman took her hand, uncertain, until Sansa used it to pull herself upright to stand and view her quarters in the new light. She brushed her hands over her clothes once again, noticing the wrinkles and smudge marks and tears. Perhaps the dim light was a blessing.

Sansa pulled the chair next to the bed, carefully shifting the still damp cloak as she sat on the edge of the bed and patted the chair.

“Come sit with me, tell me what’s on your mind that has you grimacing so…” She tried to be soft and comforting; it was an effort now.

Jaenys pulled a strand of dark hair behind her ear and cautiously sat straight in the chair, “Forgive me, my lady, I shouldn’t have said anything, it’s not my place to spread rumors, especially to you, with all of your own troubles.” She ducked her head as she waited for a response.

“Nonsense, Jaenys, hearing about others' troubles will only make mine seem smaller. What is it that’s troubling you?”

The young woman hesitated again…

“Speak freely, you’re safe with me.” Jaenys sighed, tears filling her eyes.

“My lady, there was such hope…” she paused to fight back another sigh as Sansa leaned forward to grasp both her hands in her own.

“Please, you can tell me, perhaps I can help…”

“Queen Cersei, the Lannisters, they’re all gone now, and there was such hope that things would be different…” she implored.

Sansa nodded solemnly.

“But everything is so strange, so different. A winter storm has fallen on King’s Landing, my lady, the likes no one’s ever seen, or heard tell of. Winds and roars and ice and snow, some are saying it's a curse, you see, cursed like that demon beast of the King’s, that wild white wolf with the red eyes. Ever since he’s arrived in the capital, strange things have been happening, and all them rumors about the King and the Queen and ice monsters and giants and dead men walking…” she had lowered her voice at the end, a smothered sob wracking her small frame as she dropped her head and fought to catch her breath.

“I understand, I’m sure everyone has been terrified for so long, it's hard to know who is right and who is wrong, to know who to follow…” Jaenys bobbed her head, listening, wiping her eyes.

“I had a direwolf when I was younger…” Sansa folded her hair over her shoulder, dropping her gaze.

Jaenys looked up, surprised.

“Her name was Lady. We all had one, but Lady was the only one that was fit to live with people, the only one that could be trusted. I miss her so…”

“What happened to her, my lady?”

Sansa let her gaze drift into the faint shaft of dust-tinged sunlight landing on the floor in the middle of the room; she straightened, then let her shoulders drop in resignation and sad memories.

“We were on the King’s Road, traveling to King’s Landing, the King had bullied my father into becoming his Hand, with the King and Queen and the Prince and everyone traveling - it was, glorious. And Prince Joffrey - he came to find me, to ask me to go for a walk with him. He wasn’t always - you know - he was kind to me, I felt safe with him. Well we went for a walk by the river, not far, just talking, when all of a sudden my sister Arya attacked the prince; she was angry and jealous, she had always been jealous of me, she always wanted to be a lady, was angry that she was the younger sister, and he was such a handsome prince, she wanted him for herself, she ran at him and knocked him down and then commanded her direwolf to attack him while he was down on the ground, and there was blood all over and I had to send for help, the Prince almost died. And then when we were brought before the King, Arya lied and said it was Lady who had attacked the Prince, even though I had left Lady back at the inn, she wasn’t even there. Father told the King that the only fault was with the direwolf that harmed the Prince, and that he’d end her and the whole thing would be over. I tried to tell him that Arya was lying, but he had always favored her, she always got whatever she wanted. So he killed my direwolf by his own hand, and then he bought me a doll, as if a toy could make up for everything he’d done to me.” Tears streamed down her face, her cheeks raw and red.

“I think I stopped being a Stark that day.”

“Oh I’m so sorry my lady, that was a terrible thing to do… sisters should look out for one another, take care of one another, trust one another…”

Sansa sniffed and patted her hand again, “I’m so sorry, it was such a long time ago…”

“I can only imagine what it was like, to be an outcast in your own family, did your mother not take your side?”

Sansa shook her head, red hair falling across her face. “She had things she needed to tend to in Winterfell, it was just Arya and myself and my father. And he was so busy, there was no one to look out for us, and as you say sisters should look out for one another, but Arya hated me, threatened me, and father encouraged it, he hired a swordfighter to teach her how to fight. I knew she wanted to hurt me, and father did nothing…”

“I’m so sorry, my lady…” she moved closer, “If you don’t mind my asking, were… were you there when…”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, I was there, they made me watch… the last thing my father said was to take care of my sister… no one ever cared about me… look at me now, this is all a misunderstanding and I don’t even have a chance to explain, but Jon never gave me a chance, never talked to me, I’d be walking in the courtyard and he would turn and walk the other way… my mother was always angry, that he looked more like a Stark than I did, Arya too… I never fit in and now I’ll pay the price when I’ve done nothing wrong…”

“All is not lost, my lady, I’m sure you will have a chance to tell your side of things at your trial…”

“If only that were true, so many lies have been told about me and my brother Bran. We were both in Winterfell the whole time, I don’t know how we were supposed to have poisoned the Queen, only Tyrion could have done it.”

Sansa watched as her handmaiden’s head bobbed in agreement, “I’m sure they will take that into account my lady. But there are other things they are saying, about breaking a sacred promise, trying to take your cousin’s crown from him, at least them’s the rumors spreading around…”

Sansa released her grip on the small hands and leaned back with a sad shake of her head. “That’s a long story, and is a family matter. It’s shameful that Jon has decided to spread our family squabbles out for all to see, but he has made it clear that I am not a part of his family…” She let out a faint sob.

Jaenys sat straighter, then inhaled excitedly and stood. “My Lady, I almost forgot! I brought something for you, until your own things are found.”

She dug through the folds of her clothing and apron to find a large pocket, moments later she joyously pulled out a worn hairbrush, wooden with boar hair for bristles. Sansa beamed in return as she stood to take the seat offered her.

“Thank you so much Jaenys, I’m so sorry for taking up so much of your time.”

A peaceful quiet fell on the pair as Sansa closed her eyes, lulled by the gentle stroke of each brush.

“No bother at all, my lady.”

Sansa let her mind drift, to better times when her mother spent hours fussing over her hair, her dress, teaching her how to hold her hands, her smile. Later when Shae, poor Shae, took such good care of her; she had been shocked when Baelish told her that she was Tyrion’s mistress, his whore, though she wasn’t completely sure what that meant for her own position. But Shae had been good to her, she had felt safe with her, protected.

Yet, like so many, Shae was dead. Murdered by her then-husband Tyrion.

She had never thought to ask him about it, about Shae, about why he killed her if he loved her. But he had killed his own father as well; she was glad now that she had never brought it up.

The wind whipped icy snow against the new window glass, startling Sansa from her memories.

She was wasting time, and time was perhaps her most valuable asset.

“Jaenys, do you mind… were you able to get a message to Ser Brienne, about bringing my things to me?”

The brush stilled for a moment, then returned to brushing her fine long locks. “I sent a message, Lady Stark, I’m not sure if it has been delivered or not. There is such chaos in the Keep now, and so many guards, and foreign soldiers…”

Sansa took a deep breath. “Yes, I saw for myself how many soldiers are patrolling King’s Landing, but surely all is under the control of the King and Queen?” Sansa shrugged to hide her disgust at using those words to describe her great enemies.

“People talk, my lady, the Queen, and the babe. She has a temper, that one, her father was the Mad King, some say she has the same madness, that the King has already tired of her antics, and plans on leaving soon to return to the North…”

Sansa gasped, then nodded at the news. “Yes, I suppose Jon would want to return North, with everything in order now, he never wanted to be King, though I do wonder if he will abandon his child, if it is his child…” Sansa had wondered that herself, it gave her peace to be able to speak her suspicions.

“There are many suspicions, and questions, my lady. The uprisings and the pirates off the coast, even coming into the ports themselves! There’s not enough to feed the people, or to treat the sick. They put ‘em in tents to hide them dying, so people don’t see. Then they’re burned with the animals before they can spread more sickness. The Reach has been silent, no one in charge there it seems, so we will all starve this winter, and word is spreading of rebellion among the minor houses, even some of the major houses are questioning the rule of the Dragons.”

“Really? From what I saw, the short time I was out in the streets, people looked fed and clothed and somewhat healthy and there was building going on…”

“Of course, my lady, the King and Queen wanted to make sure those that they had invited to the Council didn’t see what a state the city, the Seven Kingdoms was in. Things might have gone differently if they had…” Sansa turned to look over her shoulder and into Jaenys’s eyes, finding hope and comfort there as her servant nodded with a knowing look and finished the long, single loose braid. She allowed herself a smile as she turned back and began to form a plan in her mind.

“Thank you so much, Jaenys. I do so appreciate your help. Now if you could see to it that Ser Brienne has received my message, bring her to me as soon as possible. I’m sure she is waiting for my call, I have much for her to do.”

Jaenys curtsied as she placed the brush on the table and expertly balanced another log on the fire.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, any task, Lady Stark?”

“You’ve been so much help, I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble.”

“Don’t worry about me, my lady, I know people. If I were to get relieved here I would just return to my family in Highgarden, I’m sure I could find work there, or any other highborn castle.”

“You are so kind, I will let you know if I need anything, for now just keep your eyes and ears open and let me know of the health of the Queen and the babe, and of the King as well.”

They shared a smile as Jaenys curtsied again and turned to leave, suddenly distracted by a folded piece of parchment being slid under the door.

“My lady, there’s a note here,” She handed the note to Sansa who unfolded it and read the first part out loud, scoffing.

King’s Landing ~
A Message from King Jon given on the steps of the Red Keep ~
To the citizens of King’s Landing, and to all of Westeros,

Sansa lowered the parchment. King. Jon.

Her eyes skimmed over the words; yes, they sounded like him. Disjointed. Rambling.

This is not what I was expecting when traveling south to remove the Usurper Queen from her throne. The brazen ambition of House Lannister has led to the deaths of many in my family, both in House Stark and in House Targaryen.

Be assured, Queen Daenerys wished to be with you today, to speak her own heart; gods be good, she will be able to be out and about soon. Instead she fights for the life of our child, threatened by the same treachery that ruined both of our Houses. She has much to say, but for today, tonight, it is just you and me.

It was such a common speech, she could have done so much better. After all, she had written Bran’s speech in her head, gone over it time and time again, had it ready for that moment he was presented to his people. They had agreed that he would say a few words, then she would stand and explain that the trip had wearied him so, and then she would speak for him. Her eyes fell back to the paper.

It is often in the seemingly small decisions that our future is built. I ask you now, each of you, to make a small decision, to join me, your King, to join your Queen in building a new future, from this day forward. What is at your hand to do, do it. Whether it is to put your hand to labor, or to the care of your own family or your neighbor. Whatever is needed, do it. We will do the same. Whatever is needed, we will do it.

Sansa huffed. They needed to be put to work, or sent to their homes, out of the city. If they could not work, why should they expect anyone to take care of them?

We do not forget the past, we do not forget those we’ve lost, but we will heal the wounds, the wounds we have inflicted on ourselves and each other over these past generations. We will heal the misunderstandings, we will heal the mistakes, highborn and commoner alike. With the help of the Old Gods and the New, we will do this together.

She folded it back into quarters and was about to toss it into the fire when she heard her maid servant gasp.

“My lady, there is more. Here, let me read it…” She extended her hand, bowing when she gently grasped the parchment as Sansa, surprised, released her grip.

There will be struggles and setbacks but we will make progress, this I can promise to you, as a Stark, as a Targaryen, and as your King.

We do not yet know what the future looks like or how long it will take to get there, but I see peace on the horizon. So tonight I ask you to Stand with me, Work with me, Rebuild with me. And together we will create a future that is better for everyone!

Hearing the words spoken out loud, Sansa imagined Jon saying them to the townsfolk. Of course, they believed him. The words were like him. Simple. Meaningless. Said to simple people that didn’t know better.

Sansa watched as Jaenys smiled wistfully as she reverently folded the parchment and placed it on the table.

“He must have been a wonderful brother growing up, my lady…”

Sansa froze, shifting to distract from her fisting hands. She reminded herself that Jaenys was merely a servant after all. Best not to trust her too far. Use, but never trust.

Sansa nodded, “Thank you Jaenys, I don’t want to keep you from your errand…”

Jaenys bowed and knocked on the door, promising to get a message to Brienne as she left.

Jon. Bastard King. They loved him.

Sansa felt the fear rise. Her fingers brushed over the folded parchment, the wooden brush. Picking it up she pulled at the errant strands of deep red hair, watching the firelight reflect off the twisted strand. Tully. She grit her teeth and grabbed the brush, throwing it across the room where it split against the wall and clattered to the floor. She thought she heard a snicker in the hall. Then, silence.

Nothing but the wind pelting shards of snow and ice against the new window pane. She could see the snow and sleet collecting on the several panes and along the bottom, blocking out the light.

She dropped heavily into the chair, letting her head fall into her hands as her heart began to race, her breathing shallow, her face flush…

No. She could not lose control of things. Not now. She raised her head, calming her breathing.

Think of something else. Something you can do. Something you have a say over.

Brienne.

Brienne would help her, she would protect her, die for her.

And she would be here soon; she assumed she could have visitors. But what if… it would be just like Jon to prevent her from speaking with anyone. Yet she needed to be ready.

Brienne would bring her chest of personal belongings. She desperately wanted a change of clothes and her ink and parchment. There was so much work to do.

She would send word to Tyrion and Bran; surely they were working on plans to right this great travesty. Perhaps Brienne would have news of those plans. A calming smile came to her lips.

Tyrion.

Strange that she looked to a Lannister to save her now.

His appearance had surprised her; she had imagined he was not being treated well, but he had reeked and looked exhausted. Or perhaps it was merely the lack of wine. He had followed their plan, put forward Bran to be King, stuck to that stupid ‘Story’ ploy, at least until Davos had interrupted. She recalled his expression when Grey Worm had refused his command. If only he had…

That had been a mistake, to trust Tyrion. She had told him about Jon’s heritage, confident he would know how to use this secret. That he knew his Queen well enough to be able to set a trap for her, to poison her, to enrage her. The rest had been his idea; when the time was right, when Bran had failed as King, ‘Better Story’ notwithstanding, when the people rebelled against him, Tyrion would lead the movement to put her on the Iron Throne.

Where she belonged.

Bran. The magic and the mystery that was, is her little brother.

She had sensed that something was wrong, with Bran, with everything; she should have stopped what they were doing, should have just not walked into that Throne Room.

All the doubts that she had stifled so well paraded before her eyes – why had she not listened to them? She wondered now if Bran had been influencing her, putting thoughts in her head, cloaking others in faded memory. The questions that Davos had asked – if they had occurred to him, surely they had occurred to others…

She should have trusted her own instincts.

But Bran would look out for her, he was her brother, even though he was… No, he would take care of her, take care of everything, now that they were so close to putting him on the throne. Surely he had a plan, at the very least would never let harm come to her, he would protect her from Jon, from the foreign whore.

This was all his fault after all, he had to make it right. The plan was based on the future he saw, but how did he not see that Jon had killed Arya, not the Targaryen! How could he not have seen all this?

A terrible thought caught in her throat – Had Bran betrayed them all?

No, he was almost happy, giddy at being surprised in the Throne Room. How could he be excited in the face of such a devastating miscalculation. They were all in agreement, weren’t they, how could he not care?

What if Bran had ferreted out her plans to take the throne from him? Had Tyrion told him, or was this something else he could see. She had never been clear about his powers; didn’t care, really, as long as he used them for her benefit.

Her wrists and shins still ached, the howling wind was setting her on edge. Even in Winterfell, home, she had always hated the storms.

Sansa let her mind wander, just a bit.

She would get Bran settled in as King. They had agreed that Brienne would serve as Lord Commander of his King’s Guard, Ser Podrick would be his personal attendant. Tyrion of course would be his Hand. And Arya would return with her to the North.

Arya, what was left of her strange little dangerous sister. She had grown to fear her, regretted her death, but did not mourn for her. So many questions flooded her mind, but there was no time; she ignored the ragged edges of her memories and instead pictured herself taking her place at the side of the King.

She would call for the Grand Maester, and the High Septon, decide who was worth keeping, who to replace. Call for the servants, assign duties, send ravens North, to every House in Westeros, announcing the new sovereigns.

Arrange for the guards to be purged, keeping only those loyal to the new King, all else hanged or exiled. Perhaps Jon could travel with them to the Wall.

Expel the foreign invaders. Or kill them. She would talk to Bran about the best course of action.

Then a victory banquet, celebrating their new King and his sister, the Queen in the North. No doubt she would have been pressed into that role by the Northern bannermen, Glover pushing for her reign. What a celebration! Finally, victory over Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay, all those who had wronged her and her family.

She would sleep in the Queen’s quarters. She had never asked Bran if he intended to marry, to have children, if he could.

Not that it mattered.

Today she would be putting things in order here in the Red Keep, preparing for her return to the North. She had left a list of priorities in her desk in Winterfell, rewards for those who had supported her, rebuffs for those who had favored Jon.

Jon. She had barely given him a thought; at first, pity, then, annoyance. He was merely an obstacle. She had more important things to think about.

Perhaps that was a mistake. But Jon was a dolt, and the slave Queen didn’t know Westeros, or how the game was played in the Red Keep.

The silence engulfed her, even as the fire began to wane. She laid a small log on the faltering flames, gently this time, and watched as bits of bark caught and singed and glowed before evaporating into ash. She again rubbed her wrists, felt the weight of the chains; she huffed to herself, it should be the weight of a crown.

Davos. Ser Davos Seaworth. The Onion Knight.

He was the key; what was he getting out of this…

She began to pace the room, as much as the space allowed.

Stannis Baratheon had given him a noble House and made him his Hand. Jon, too, had named him Hand. He didn’t know the North, but he knew how power worked, how to turn it to his own benefit. Tyrion had offered him a position on the Small Council, she would offer him Highgarden. The Reach. Quite a prize. What if he wanted more?

Brienne could seek him out, find out what his price was.

She would need more resources.

No matter. She would send a message to the Iron Bank, arrange for a loan. That’s what Cersei would do, had done. She smiled to herself. She was the trueborn Stark after all.

How much should she ask for? What was the price of a crown these days?

She would ask for a million gold dragons. Make it seem like she could of course pay it back. If you asked for a reasonable amount, it would be scrutinized more carefully. The bigger the lie, the more readily accepted.

And if Brienne, or Glover, or even Bran or Tyrion wouldn’t help her, she would buy someone’s help. And leave the others to their fates for failing her.

Sansa nodded to herself and sat on the edge of her bed, running her hand across the white fur of her cloak. Still damp.

Queen in the North.

They had taken the drawings of her crown. Did she have anything else in her pocket? Anything they could use against her? She brushed her doubts aside.

She had named herself Queen at the Great Council. Cerwyn was clearly displeased, stupidly loyal to Jon, but Lord Glover… he had already expressed his support for her over Jon, and he had kept his forces hidden in the Wolfswood rather than commit them to the defense of Winterfell. She would reach out to him, remind him that his loyalties were to House Stark, and ask for his help escaping the Red Keep and retreating to Winterfell.

She didn’t know who to contact in the Northern Army, but if she got a message to the Stark Household Guard, her Guard, they would do that for her.

Yes, she could rally those loyal to House Stark. Perhaps Bran was doing this even now. Perhaps that was why Brienne was so long coming to her aid.

She closed her eyes as the room spun before her, gasping for air as her heart raced. She gripped the cloak in front of her, held it to her face, the fur soft on her skin.

Sansa Stark. Stark of Winterfell. Lady of the North.

Her Lady, innocence slaughtered, for no reason. It should have been wild Nymeria. Arya was the cause of all her pain, then and now. If only she had done what she was supposed to do…

The pain flashed again, the sadness and disappointment. The helplessness.

How could she have known what was to come, who she could trust?

Queen in the North.

Seated in a place of honor, an equal of King Bran.

She closed her eyes and smiled softly and nodded graciously as one Northern Lord after another came before her to pledge fealty.

Wishes of good will, promises of devotion and support, nods of respect.

Of course! Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.

There were those shadows as well, lurking in the back of the Great Hall, behind the soldiers’ helms. The questions. The glint of firelight on sharp polished blades.

Tyrion held up his cup, gleeful and giddy, to toast the new reign, the new beginning. To celebrate the death of the Dragons. A new age of peace.

That hiddenness again, across Bran’s face, a fleeting smirk.

She had brought her finest gown, made with her own hands for this very occasion. Gray with red weirwood leaves embroidered on the sleeves and bodice. She would wear it again at her own coronation when she took the Northern throne. She would fashion a new one, perhaps of brighter colors, for her ascendance to the Iron Throne. But that would come later.

Nausea rose again. Perhaps Arya…

What if Bran knew? What if he had deliberately led them all to this day, exposed them even. What if he had warned the Dragons of their plans.

No, Bran was a Stark, he loved her, wanted independence for the North, wanted her to be Queen. Hadn’t he … no, he had never said so, never mentioned the North, only that he couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell. Yet here he was King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Perhaps Davos had been right, perhaps he was asking good questions, the right questions. Questions Bran didn’t care to answer. What was the Three Eyed Raven, and how could he be King? She had wondered before, why had she not asked him?

The feast was endless, the music and dancing boundless. The wine spilled, the rude remarks stifled. The candles snuffed.

If it all had gone as planned.

Later, when no one was around, she would make her way to the Throne Room, her guards clearing the way. Then she would take her rightful seat, just a taste for now. But soon…

The Dragon Queen - no Queen at all - she would never sit here. The bastard King, no, he would never sit here.

It was hers, always meant to be hers. Destiny proved her truth.

But for now she accepted the fealty from all those once hailing the bastard. She would show him how it was done by those born to it, how to rule, how to reign.

How to wear a crown. She had laughed at it all, behind her hand, behind closed doors. A room full of scared little Lords waving their swords, and that makes you a King?

Never a throne, never a crown. Never the respect; that they would turn on you dear ‘brother’ so quickly was proof of that.

She was still torn between exile and beheading. But even that thought brought back memories, and she had let that be the deciding factor. Exile. Now she hoped that Jon would learn to hate her, envy and jealousy and regret like a cloak around his sagging shoulders. A black cloak of the unnecessary order of the Night’s Watch, worn by all those who were unnecessary, unneeded, useless and forgettable.

Yet before he faded into the nothingness of false history, she wanted him to see, to know her greatness, to embrace the truth of the matter; that she was truly better, she was Stark, she was highborn, she deserved better. Then… She imagined him lost somewhere, forgotten. The name Jon Snow forgotten. The Dragons, forgotten. Only she would remember.

And only her legacy, the Stark legacy would remain.

Chains rattled somewhere, and she felt faint, deflating as the terror lurked outside in the hall, slipping under the door with the faint flicker of candle light, that slight scrape under the bed, grasping at the hem of her dress. She pulled her feet onto the bed.

Was it Bran? She had trusted him, why? Were these his thoughts? Were they her dreams? Maybe this was all a dream, and soon she would wake…

How would she know?

Confusion.

Arya, Jon. Rickon.

Father, Mother, Robb.

So many lost, for what?

Loneliness reached from behind and wrapped its arms around her like a false lover as she felt a brief tinge of guilt, of unworthiness.

She had done, nothing; won, nothing; served, noone. Merely survived, for herself. While others had risked their very lives, for others, for her, for the North and all of humanity. She had simply played the game, scheming, dividing…

Sansa pushed those thoughts aside.

She had charged Maester Wolkan with hiring craftsmen to design a new sigil for her House; perhaps she would tout her Tully roots as well as Stark, combine the North with the south, perhaps add the Riverlands and the Eyrie to the Northern Kingdom, though it wouldn’t matter in the end, they would all be hers. She would convert the Great Hall into a true Throne Room to rival the grandeur of the Red Keep. She wondered if there would be drawings for her to look at when she returned home. She had called for designs for her new royal chamber, the Queen’s chamber; she would knock down the walls between the master’s chambers to make a single grand chamber fit for a Queen, she would not need a nursery, nor a Lord’s chamber…

Marriage. No.

In the end she had decided to force Arya into taking a husband in order to bear her an heir; no one would expect Sansa to, not to share her power, her bed or her heart. Not after all that she had gone through. But Arya had failed her; she would have to reconsider her options, she would need an heir to ensure her legacy.

No, wait… she was wasting time again. Soon Brienne would be there…

She needed to speak with Jon, as soon as possible. He simply needed to be reminded who she was, what they were to each other.

Starks.

“In winter we must protect ourselves, look after one another. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

He would have to be strong to stand up to the little Queen. She had heard, seen what the dragon was capable of, Jon would have to convince her to … what?

No, she would focus on escape first, re-taking her rightful throne after she had gathered her forces. She would take what was hers, no one would deny her her birthright.

She reminded herself of the favor of the Seven, she had been faithful, she would be rewarded.
Treason. Against Jon. Usurping the Northern Crown.

How could any of this be happening?

What had Baelish taught her, Cersei? Know your enemy, then destroy them.

Once she was on the throne, she would remove her enemies, one by one.

Jon would understand, he never wanted to be King. He would get his wish.

Sansa! Focus! She shook her head, her ears straining for any familiar footfall, voice outside her door.

Jon would not hurt her, he loved her. Sansa considered what Jon could do to her, if persuaded by others. He couldn’t execute her, that would make him a kinslayer. But he could have someone else do it. Ser Ilyn Payne, that would be sweet revenge for the Lannisters, though. She wondered if he still lived.

Dragonfire. She could feel the fire engulf her, her clothes, hair evaporating in a fierce whoosh, then nothing but the pain, the searing air melting her lungs as she gathered air to scream. Her skin roasted, bones blackened, only ash left. Tears welled as the sobs threatened once again.

No, Bran would help her, Brienne, or Jon, Tyrion.

She would not be harmed.

Jon loved her, he was too soft, would never have the courage to execute her.

There, she’d admitted it. Execution. That’s the penalty for treason, isn’t it? Had she committed treason? Of course not, she was merely taking back what was rightfully hers after all, it had been promised to her...

Yet no matter how often she said it, tried to convince herself, somehow there was still something missing.

Jon was easy to manipulate, Davos was the real threat, he had proven how dangerous before all of Westeros. Sansa had seen him for what he was, a conniving schemer back when he forced Jon to attack the Boltons before they were ready.

Sansa would explain his treachery, save him from the smuggler, and Jon would protect her.

There were voices again at the door, shuffling footsteps. She waited for the key in the lock, Brienne or Jon or perhaps Jaenys or Davos or Tyrion or anyone. But the voices stopped, nothing happened and she grew angrier and more afraid until the tears came again and her nose ran and she sat on the edge of the bed, folded her hands in her lap, and waited as the darkness seeped ever further into her mind.

Chapter Text

Dany sighed as she stretched against the walls of the deep copper tub.

Three inches of translucent bubbles struggled against the heavy oils and steam wafting off the searing bathwater, the familiar fragrances sinking deep into her bones as she let her head fall back against the linen cushion behind her head. Her new handmaiden, well, handmaid, must have used her personal oils that had been brought from Dragonstone with her other personal goods. Another step toward making this strange place truly home.

“Leretia, but my friends call me Leta, Your Grace.”

“And may I call you Leta, Leretia?”

The older woman smiled as she gently loosened the amethyst pin holding the Queen’s silver hair away from the oiled bath, shaking out the waves before settling on a bench to gently glide the cedar comb through the night’s many tangles.

“Please do, Your Grace.”

Dany let her hands fall to her belly, a small mound not yet breaking the surface of the bathwater. She tried to compare the changes in her body to what she had experienced wth Rhaego, but knew only regret and sadness waited in those memories and turned her thoughts toward more pleasant things.

“Has there been any movement from the King’s rooms, Leta?”

“No, Your Grace,” she answered, smiling, “and the white beast has not moved either. I heard the door close earlier, I suspect Kevan left food for His Grace.”

Dany would have nodded if her hair was not held taut against the edge of the bath. Instead she hummed acknowledgement and let her eyes fall closed, finding herself considering a nap before her day truly began.

A nap. When did she become such a lazy person?

Though she had been up several times during the night.

~

It had been early when Jon had awakened her, holding her close as he fell into a restless sleep. She had turned and watched him breathe, still unbelieving of what had transpired that day. Somewhere she had also dozed off, only to feel the bedclothes pulled and tossed as her husband did the same. She had slipped off the bed to the side as he had cried out, rough commands she had tried to make out over her own loud heartbeat, falling to muttering as sweat broke out on his brow; he called out her name, then whispered it – Dany – finally a tear on his cheek. She brushed it away as she leaned toward him when it was safe, “I’m here, Jon. Rest now…”

She was not surprised. He had had night terrors on the voyage to Winterfell as well, though there had never been any tears. Slowly his breath evened and his restlessness stilled and she returned to his side. Dany had laid her head on his chest, listening to the steady thumping, smiling as he turned toward her in his sleep, his arm curved to embrace her shoulders. Mumbled words interrupted her own fade to sleep, and she pulled back to see if she could make out what he was saying. The fire had burned low, but she could still see the toll the last weeks had taken on him. He had lost weight, his pale skin bearing a gray undertone. He looked older, and ragged, even with his freshly trimmed beard. Still handsome though. He smiled softly in his sleep and brushed a hand across his face; she supposed her breath had tickled his nose. She sighed and settled as the night deepened.

Later she woke as she felt his arms tighten around her once again, gently this time. His roaming hands had mapped her body in his sleep, landing and staying on her mounded stomach, now obvious even under her garments. She had had to make a last minute change that morning to hide the evidence before making her first public appearance. But it was out, now, that she was with child, and she had decided to embrace the babe as a symbol of their new future.

Her hands had rested on her stomach as she thought of her own mother, carrying her during those desperate times; what was she feeling, fearing? Ser Barristan had told her about her mother’s many miscarriages and stillbirths, those fears now becoming her own; can she carry this child to birth? Will it be affected by the poison? By the witch’s curse? What if she lost the babe, would Jon still want to be with her? She sighed as she glanced at him in the moonlight. If she lost it… she felt her heart race, panic settling between her shoulder blades as she tried to steady her breathing. She had to be strong, but the words of Mirri Maz Duur haunted her – ‘a monstrous child, scaled like a lizard, blind, with leather wings like the wings of a bat.’ Was it her child’s life that paid for her own? No, she would protect him, do whatever was necessary. Yet she feared to hope. There were threats all around her, no one she could trust. They were all gone, dead or lost to her. Missendei, Barristan, Jorah. Even Grey Worm was cloaked in despair and anger. Now everyone wanted something from her; Yara, a crown for herself. Daario, she could only imagine what he sought. Jon, a crown? The throne? She had reminded herself he could have taken it at any time, could have let her perish. Was he keeping her alive for the child? Would she be … she imagined herself hiding in the shadows, fearful and alone, waiting for the blades in the dark. Perhaps she should strike first…

A cold wind blew over her skin and she had pulled the covers over the shoulder of her sleeping husband as a soft snore escaped his lips.

Stop it, he means you no harm.

Yet.

She shook her head violently to clear her imaginings, hearing the thin whistling of wind blowing through the half-closed window in her own quarters. Sliding off the bed, she had pulled on her robe, strode to the window and closed it tight, surprised at the force of the gusts outside, even more by the white flakes flicking against the window and the puddle of slush under her bare feet.

She jumped as she felt soft fur under her hand and a forceful muzzle against her belly.

“Winter is here Old Boy… This is your kind of weather, isn’t it Ghost?” He lifted his stark white head in the darkness, his eyes glowing as he huffed as if he understood her.

“Come, let’s see what awaits King’s Landing in the morning.”

She laid her hand on his back as he led her to the doors of the garden, lanterns filling the snow-clad grounds with an eerie flickering strobe. She opened the door wide to let him out, barely getting out of the way as he leapt into his yard, his fur bouncing in the wind like the sea crests of the bay below. She took a small step out, her slippers muffling the crunch of the snow, nodding to the guards on either side, wondering that they had no furs or covering against the cold. The tall fellow to the side had a red nose, though; somehow that had made her feel better, that even the Unsullied weren’t impervious to the cold.

The wind pushed her back, changing her mind about a brief walk through the storm, when she noticed the platforms holding the potted lemon trees were empty. She supposed someone had had the foresight to bring them inside, somewhere. Perhaps in her solar, or the Audience Chamber. She felt a smile break, thinking of her terrifying ancestor’s throne of the swords of a thousand enemies flanked on either side by the tiniest of potted lemon trees.

So it would be a cold snowy day for her first foray out of the Red Keep, perhaps a good day after all to walk among the people, they would be more likely to be huddled under blankets and around their fires for warmth, and less likely to arm themselves to attack the Dragon Queen. At least she had hoped…

~

She gripped the edge of the tub as her eyes flew open, a chilly gust of air and Faln, another new handmaiden, entered with a tray of fresh watered juice and herbed toast to settle her stomach.

“Have you served in the Red Keep before, Leta?” Kinvara had introduced her to her attendants earlier that morning, several more than were necessary to her mind, but she had to admit she enjoyed being treated like a Queen. Again.

“For seven years, in various positions, Your Grace. Most recently I was Queen Cersei’s second maid for a few moons,” she paused, dropping her eyes with a small smile. “She sent me away some time ago, she didn’t seem to like me, my Queen.”

Dany smirked; she would have to ask for more details about ‘Queen Cersei’ later.

She shifted against the back of the tub, careful to not pull her hair out of Leta’s care. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable each day; she was an unusually small woman, she knew that, and she knew there would be special concerns for her carrying a child. Already her breasts were fuller, tender, even painful, and she felt her hunger even more sharply.

“Have you any children, Leta? A husband?”

“Yes, Your Grace, a fine handsome husband and three daughters.” Dany could tell she was smiling as she stroked fragrant oil across her hairline and scalp.

“Are they in King’s Landing? I would love to meet them,” she said.

“I’m sure they would love that, Your Grace, but as happens only my youngest is at home, my middle has a daughter of her own. The oldest married a wheelwright from the Riverlands; he sent her home while the War of the Five Kings raged, but she has not heard from him since. She searched for him for too many moons, Your Grace, has only just come home to start again.”

“I’m so sorry, Leta.” Dany let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. She wondered if there was a way to gather the names of the missing, to rejoin them with their families, beyond what they were doing in King’s Landing.

“Thank you, she is strong. She will begin again.” There was both pride and sadness in her voice; and Dany was struck at what it must be like to be a mother.

She stroked her belly once again, wondering what her future held, what her child’s future would be. And how it was that some women had no trouble bearing children, and yet others… remembering that Davos’s wife Marya had birthed seven living sons, which hardly seemed – no, this was not the time nor the place.

“Tell me, what are the people saying about their new queen?”

“That she is very beautiful, my Queen.”

Dany laughed. “You’ll all find flattery has little effect on me… What else do they say?”

“Many things, but perhaps, my Queen, what would you like them to know, those that serve in the Red Keep?”

Leta had plaited her hair loosely while she finished her bath; Dany let her shoulders fall. If she could trust her, she may truly enjoy the motherly-company.

She closed her eyes as she considered; some of these women had doubtless served her family before, served the Mad King and his troubled sister-wife; served Rhaegar and his troubled Dornish wife. Then served the usurper Robert, Joffrey, Tommen and finally the Mad Usurper Queen Cersei.

“I’d like to start fresh, to be judged for myself. Not just for my House, House Targaryen, but for my own actions, my own mistakes.”

She heard muffled footfalls, felt hot water gently poured and swept through her bath, new bubbles forming, opening her eyes to find Leta nodding with a satisfied glint in her eye.

“Very well, my Queen. I will make it known.” She had a confidence that she found comforting, not just a maturity from years but patience and steadfastness that seemed to imply an instinct for survival.

“And about my, our reign, what do people say about our new reign?”

“Magic. That magic has once again returned to Westeros. Now we wait to see if that is for better or for worse.”

Dany let her shoulders relax and sighed as Leta undid her silver braid, letting it fall in waves behind the tub edge. Magic. Not fire and blood, not dragons. Magic. So be it. She smiled to herself.

“And my husband, the king. What do the people say of him?”

She could hear the smile in the older woman’s voice. “King Jon? He has won their hearts, Your Grace. As you no doubt will as well, given time. The young girls of course adore him, swooning together in their gossip. The older women, and the men of course, well…” she paused as she fingered the oils through the long silver tresses, lifting and gently stroking so that each hair glistened.

The pause stretched on, or had she fallen asleep under Leta’s care…

“... so there is great hope, Your Grace. Great hope for peace, the dragon and the direwolf, Stark and Targaryen. Yes, hope for peace, and a better future as the King said last night, that we all find what is in front of us, to make a choice to make our lives better.”

Dany swirled the oily bubbles through the water with her hand, “When did he say that?”

“On the Grand Staircase, Your Grace. It's a good rallying cry, I think, a strong message the people can all get behind, even those still bitter and wounded… From what I heard, some of what was said was written down and posted this morning, for all the people to read, Your Grace. Would you like me to find a copy for you?”

Dany nodded, “Thank you, yes.” She blinked as she noticed a subtle change in her demeanor, and Dany smiled, her eyes following her handmaid’s gaze over her shoulder to the doorway to find him standing there, hair disheveled and gaze somber, leaning with his arms crossed over the dark gray velvet robe, the great white beast wiggling past to sniff at her shoulder, then lick the oily bubbles, once.

“How long have you been standing there?”

He smiled softly and entered further, nodding at Leta’s hasty curtsy, still holding the queen’s long hair away from the edge of the tub.

“Please don’t let me interrupt, nothing should keep the queen from her bubble bath.”

Dany laughed and tried to splash some bubbles his way, her heart rising as he pulled a footstool toward the tub and took a seat to her side, grasping her hand, smiling as he stroked his thumb over her glistening skin. She twined her fingers into his, waiting for his gaze, smiling when she finally had it, a combination of wariness and longing.

There. No hiding. No distraction. Brief, but this is what she had been looking for, waiting for. It was a start. She knew he was just as fearful as she was, but he would be what she needed. She wanted more, more from him, more for him. She sighed.

“I’d invite you to join me, husband, but I’ve used up all the bubbles.”

He summoned a half-smile; he was still weary, she supposed it would take some time for both of them to find some semblance of a daily routine.

“Another time perhaps, our council is waiting for us, I had not expected to wake so late in the day.”

Dany sighed as Leta toweled her hair, combing and gathering it once again into one long braid. “Sleep was more important, I’m surprised we’ve had this much time to ourselves; my king, enjoy the quiet while you can.”

“I suppose this is what the future holds, meetings and listening and sitting and eating and never seeing the sun and sky again.”

Dany smirked as Jon's eyes glazed, then laughed as she remembered telling him stories of her sore arse in Meereen.

He chuckled as he smiled softly at her, then stood and backed away as a bevy of young women entered the bathing quarters carrying linens and clothes and a tray of fragrant oils. Leta helped Dany to step out of the tub and stand near the hearth as she patted her skin dry with the linen. Dany nodded toward the white velvet robe held out for her over the thinner deep purple. One of the new handmaidens shrieked as Ghost approached to smell her tray; Dany was relieved when she then reached out to let him sniff the back of her hand, followed by a brief lick before he returned to searching the room for anything edible.

She sighed to herself. Seated at her dressing table she let her fingers linger over her possessions: the burnished mirror, her hairbrush, Missendei’s silver gift, imagining the kind looks she once received from her truest friend. The friend she had failed. What would she say to her now? What would any of them say? Jorah, Ser Barristan, even Varys. Her brother, the rightful king. What would Viserys think? Oh, he would be so angry to learn about Jon! All that scheming, the striving, the hardship they had endured, and Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell was in fact the trueborn son of the Crown Prince of Westeros.

Dany let a smile creep over her lips as she imagined his ire. She would have liked to have seen it. She wondered if he knew it now? Was Viserys with their mother, their father, their brother? What would they think of her now? What did she think… She struggled to bring her thoughts back to the present.

Leta opened and examined the texture and fragrance of each of the Queen’s personal balms and oils brought from Dragonstone. Finally she selected the clay jar of boiled honey scented with wildflowers. Dany smiled to herself. The calming scent of cedar and honey and a bit of gilli flower filled her senses as she closed her eyes under her handmaid’s ministrations. The tightness in her muscles had begun to ease, and her face had started to fill in, and there were times she was starting to feel like her old self again.

Dany raised her eyes and managed to catch Jon glance her way, a smile forming as a blush reddened his face before he turned to the tray of food and began eating his way through the fruit and pastry. She noticed one of her new maids watching him as well, and hoped she was merely making note of what the King liked to eat, and not… she shook her head. She would have to settle this in her head soon, perhaps have a talk with him about… about what? He could hardly help his kindness, or his appearance, even as she couldn’t. She looked him up and down; he was not a large man, but he was lean and strong and perfectly proportioned with beautiful eyes and a comely face, and the perfect fit for her uncommonly petite frame. She knew he would not be one to stray, ever; she should feel grateful to have such a handsome husband. Then why was there that twinge of anger lingering?

She took a deep breath. Everything was so new. Everyone else had had a chance to learn, to adjust. She was behind, and she didn’t like being behind. She felt her heart race and her breath catch. Jealousy? Resentment? No, never. What then? She felt a twinge deep in her belly.

Gods what is wrong with me?

“What is this?” He bit a piece of fruit in half and brought the rest to show her, holding it so she could take a bite as well.

“Hmm.” She gave him a soft smile as he watched her finish. “It’s called mango, do you like it?” He had picked up another piece, bringing the tray to her, pushing her to eat as he had during her recovery. She placed her hand on his as she took another bite, and he took a step closer, his eyes darkening as he watched her lips, her tongue, his eyes finding her gaze.

“Aye, I do like it, very much.”

Dany felt her heart flutter as Leta herded her ladies out of the room, giving them a moment alone. Dany was surprised when Jon leaned over her and kissed her good morning, was even more surprised when she found herself pulling away. This was what she’d wanted, and yet… there was too much between them, too much time, too many things unsaid. She held his hand in hers. “We need to talk, to make time to talk.”

Jon nodded, then grinned. “Aye, the dungeons are nearly empty, nobody would bother us down there…”

Dany laughed as Jon reached for more mango, then watched as he took a note from the tray and handed it to Dany.

Daario.

She sighed as she read it, then handed it back to Jon, following his eyes as he read it, the lightheartedness of the morning clouded.

“This is the Captain you left in Meereen, in charge of Dragon’s Bay. Davos and Kinvara met with him last night during the meeting.” He refolded the note and handed it back to her. “I remember you telling me about a former lover, though I don't think you told me you left your empire in the hands of a sellsword…”

Dany unfolded the note and read it again, quickly.

“Not in his hands. I left specific instructions for the council he was to form. Daario was to keep the peace in Dragon’s Bay while a new government was formed.”

She stood and walked to the hearth, frustrated as she stared into the flames. She wanted to throw the note into the fire and watch it burn, watch it all burn; Daario, Meereen, all of her enemies.

“If they believed that my dragons would never return to keep the peace,” she turned to face him. “The masters would be emboldened. And if the council had disbanded, Daario wouldn’t have held out for long, it's not in him to be political, to fight without personal benefit. If word reached there that I had died, killed at the hand of my lover…”

Jon walked toward her and took the note from her hand, folded it and placed it back on the tray.

“He wants you back.”

She shook her head, her voice rising.

“He knew when I left him in Meereen that our time was over. I’m not sure why he’s here! Kinvara told him I was alive, that she’d seen it in her flames.”

She wheeled away from the hearth, from Jon. How had things gotten so complicated? She should know how to handle this, “things must be worse than I thought, we have to get word…”

“To whom? Do you have anyone else there to carry out your orders?”

Dany shook her head.

“The Masters, the Harpys… without the threat of my dragons I never would have been able to free the slaves, I don’t think the freemen are strong enough on their own to resist the Masters’ return. I need to meet with Daario and Kinvara as soon as possible to get a better idea of what’s going on before I can come up with a plan, I can’t let them fall when I can do something to prevent it.”

Jon nodded, then drew them together, running his hand across her belly. He lifted her chin, searching her eyes.

“Together, aye?”

She paused, searching his face. “This is not your fight.”

He smoothed a stray strand of hair back from her face, she leaned into him. “No, this is our fight. We both have a past that must be dealt with; but now we make these decisions together, aye?”

Dany dropped her head as he embraced her, held her. It sounded so pretty, so hopeful, to not be alone, to not be lonely. She nodded against his chest and tried to relax in his arms, her hands gliding up the soft velvet of his robe to his shoulders. How long had it been?

She felt him stiffen and pulled back, startled by the familiar sound of their Hand clearing his throat in the doorway. Jon tried to step back, but she held him in place. Just a moment longer.

“Your Graces, we can dismiss the council for later this afternoon if you wish.”

Dany laughed. She could hear the humor in his voice, but there was sincerity as well.

“Apologies, Ser Davos. We’ll join you in a moment. Please ask Leta to come join me, Jon was just leaving to change,” she pushed herself from his arms as he looked down at his clothing.

“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing now?” He pulled the robe tighter as he waved at himself. “It’s very warm, and soft, except it has white hairs all over it.” His eyes twinkled as he pretended to be serious.

Dany worked hard to retrieve her royal mask as Jon stepped back to make way for her bevy of attendants before turning to lead Ser Davos out of her rooms. She paused as Ghost pushed his way to her side, leaning his shoulder against her as he rested his muzzle across her belly. She rubbed behind his good ear and he leaned harder, nearly knocking her over until he turned to leap between squealing girls in his rush to join his human brother.

Emotions swirled within as she watched her husband return to his quarters, no doubt to eat and discuss the real business of the kingdom with their Hand.

“Your Grace,” Leta smiled and waved a hand toward her dressing rooms, quietly ordering the younger girls to fix a plate for the queen to nibble on as she dressed.

Several gowns awaited her, brushed out and hanging for inspection, some familiar, brought from Dragonstone, but one appeared much newer, and warmer. Her hand rested on her swelling stomach, relieved when Leta assured her that her condition was taken into consideration when the dress was made.

Dany’s eyes glanced over her choices one more time before she raised her chin and nodded toward the new gown, deep red with flecks of silver beading along the shoulders and sleeves and in rivulets down the sides and along the bottom of the gown. She imagined how they would catch the light, drawing attention away from her growing belly. It was a beautiful gown, and she again had mixed feelings. From the day she was born she had been on the run, so much of her life beyond her choosing. Even just the day before she lived in the bowels of the Red Keep, wearing whatever was brought to her, chosen because the clothing would not cause attention. Now she was here, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and someone somewhere had determined she would look the part, even for a Small Council meeting.

Her handmaidens helped her with her undergarments and the structured gown, holding her hair away as the many buttons were fastened down her back. Leta stood facing her, directing, then smiled and nodded as she caught her eye.

She deserved this, this was her destiny.

The dress was heavy, but it made her feel regal, ready. Her first official meeting with her council. She was not sure of the source of her roiling stomach, babe or nerves, but she was determined to ignore it as she had so often in the past. She rolled her shoulders back as Leta unbound and smoothed her hair, bringing several strands to the front, forming a perfect frame for her pale face, relief flooding her as she gazed at the mirror. No one would guess the turmoil inside. Not even…

She had never liked needing someone, especially a man, especially Jon. But then again it wasn’t that she really needed him, he would just be there.

Co-Rulers.

Equals.

Stiffness settled in her shoulders as her chin tilted up.

There had been times through all this, since the King in the North had arrived on Dragonstone, that she had considered Jon as her consort, she would have to marry after all. But never, ever, had she considered to rule as equals.

Yet the people loved him, and she had burned down King’s Landing.

Leta smiled as she handed her a cup of hot cider; Daenerys closed her eyes as the comforting cinnamon and spice filled her senses, the warmth easing the stinging stiffness in her fingers.

She recalled that moment in the Winterfell crypts when she had found out, not only who Jon was, is, but who she was, or more precisely, who she was not.

The Last Dragon.

She was not who she thought she was. Everything she had fought for, gone through, her own safety always at risk. All for nothing.

All because Rhaegar had fathered a son. If Jon had been born a girl, Dany would have welcomed her with open arms, she would have been no threat to her in any way.

But Jon… was it only because he was a man and she a woman? Did she think that? No, she’d been through this a dozen times. Would Viserys have made a good king? Robert? Joffrey? Tommen? Was her own father a good king?

No. Of course not.

Then what was she afraid of? Compared to them, she had been, she would be a far better ruler.

But what if… the thought again crossed her mind that he, that Jon would be a better ruler than her, that the people of Westeros would be loyal to him. That she would never be recognized for her past accomplishments, only punished for her present missteps. She pushed those thoughts away. She couldn’t think that way; all she had fought for, her ruthlessness was necessary, her rulings just. They just didn’t understand, they just preferred a man…

She saw now how poorly she had treated Jon, that he needed time and a comforting shoulder, and all she offered were demands of compliance. Yes, she had a lot at stake, but so did he. They needed to talk this through, put it behind them. They would work this out together now, but then, if only Bran…

Bran?

Had he been there, interfering from the very beginning?

No, there had been no time; her life was at risk, not only her rule. If the secret had gotten out… She was right to silence him, to keep him a bastard, not a threat to anyone.

No, that can’t be right…

She placed the cup on her dressing table and smoothed her dress in front of the mirror just as raised voices filled the air, followed by the stomp of feet. She rushed to the doorway, just in time to see the fluff of a huge white tail knocking parchment and map pieces off the table on the far side of the room. She leaned back, restraining a giggle. Gods, when did she start giggling, had she ever? She placed her hand on her belly, grateful that so much could be blamed on the babe. She took a step to enter the adjacent solar, only to suddenly feel light-headed and nauseous, leaning against the wall for support. Leta rushed to her side, but Daenerys waved her off, placing her finger to her lips to hush her as she pretended this weakness was intentional, that she merely wanted to listen to her husband and their Hand deal with a far-too-large-to-be-indoors direwolf.

Apparently he had not caused too much chaos, and she smiled as Jon scolded Ghost and hastened him out of his quarters. She heard Davos chuckle and the rustle of papers, then waited for the dizziness to pass, only vaguely listening to their conversation of records of goods and supplies that had been delivered and where they were going. She stilled her breathing to listen more closely as Jon spoke in detail about the improvements he wanted to make; the roads, better planning for food, protecting the sea coasts better, never enough time, so much to do.

“And the Reach, if we don’t get a handle on it soon, everything is at risk. More widespread uprisings, less food, for now and for months to come.” She could hear the impatience in his voice.

“Yes, it’s strange that we’ve not heard anything from them, but this storm could be interfering with the messengers and the ravens, perhaps there is a simple explanation.”

Voices fell, and Daenerys could imagine them leaning over the map and parchments, working out a plan, all without her help.

She heard it then, quite the surprising sound. Laughter, as a fist must have landed softly on the table.

“Davos, tell me again… How did I get here? Me? The most I ever wanted was to be named a Stark! Yet here I am wearing a crown.”

She heard Davos chuckle. “It's not surprising really. You come from two lines of kings, Jon, thousands of years of the blood of the First Men and Valyrian dragon riders. If there was ever anyone destined to be a king, it's you. Even without your heritage, you were chosen to be Lord Commander, not because there was no one else, but because there was no one better. You were chosen by the northmen, your kin, to be their king, not because there was no one else, they could have chosen Sansa, or another trueborn from among themselves, but they chose a bastard king. You’re destined to rule not because of your name, but because of what your blood gives you; determination, courage, devotion to your people. You’ve proven yourself already, it's to be expected to want to make the most of your opportunity, to be excited about your plans, even enjoy what you’ve already accomplished.”

“And Daenerys?”

She felt herself stiffen, fear rising into her pounding headache.

Jon’s voice was somber, questioning. “We’re just so different, Davos, we want different things, and here we are together ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Beyond, really…”

Davos laughed, and her tension eased. “Jon, it's just the beginning of your reign. Yes, it’s true you're very different and have different experiences and different goals. But together you will change the direction of the Kingdoms, set a course that will change for the better the lives of every man, woman and child in Westeros, and beyond.” His voice dropped, and she strained to hear what he said, and failed, catching only bits and pieces of the conversation, suddenly aware of the stillness of her handmaidens behind her. What rumors will spread now, of the Queen listening in to the private conversations of her husband.

“...she wants to go out into King’s Landing. She’s agreed we’ll go together, but anytime she’s out in public make sure she has plenty of guards, and that it's safe for the horses, there are thick ice patches … to see the damage, the people close up, after … don’t think I asked you how she reacted, when you took her up the tower, I can’t imagine …”

“She took it all in, she needed … she’s strong, inside where it counts, she will … over time, as long as they feel heard, and safe, and are fed…”

Shuffling feet and the squeak of new leather, and she quickly pushed herself away from the wall just as a shadow passed through the doorway, soft scuffs of new boots as her king arrived to escort her to their new Small Council Chamber, though it was little more than a large adjoining room.

He smiled at her, letting his eyes rest on her face before taking in her new gown and appearance. She felt unsettled. The pounding in her head didn’t help, but she returned his smile as best she could, letting her eyes take in his new appearance as well.

Once again he wore new clothes fitting a king, and she wondered how much of a fight he had put up about wearing them. He had halted in the doorway, self-conscious as she smiled and looked him over, trying to soften her gaze, trying to focus. Her clothes had been brought from Dragonstone; had he brought anything with him from Winterfell, sent for anything? She knew he was a creature of habit, with little need or desire for material goods. Yet there was no doubt in her mind that the seamstresses were fighting over making a new wardrobe for their king. She would have liked to have been there, to make those decisions, to see how he liked them. Instead she was in bed, hidden away, forgotten… she felt her eyes well before she shook her head, a habit she was repeating too often. They were married now, together, intended to spend the rest of their lives together, to live and reign and rule, together, and she was getting aggravated about clothes.

He was looking at her strangely now, waiting, and she pushed her thoughts to the side and reached for his extended arm. “Ready.”

They both laughed softly as Ghost walked under their joined arms, hoping for pets. She wondered if he could sense the tension, he certainly knew how to ease it.

They all stood as they entered the sparsely furnished room. Guards lined the wall, Grey Worm posted at the entry. The table was small, smaller than she had expected, though there were only a handful of advisors here at this historic meeting.

So much to do…

Jon escorted her to the grand chair at the near end of the table, pushing in her chair as she sat, smiling at her as he took his seat at the far end of the table. Davos sat between them, Lord Wintyn Manderly and Lady Kinvara opposite him. Grand Maester Lesser and the High Septon took empty seats once the King and Queen had been seated, finally all waiting for the first words to be spoken.

Dany raised her eyebrow, and Jon nodded toward her with a smile.

“Shall we begin? Ser Davos…”

Looking back, this first gathering was less than impactful. The same crises as the day before, the same needs, the same complaints.

Only the weather had changed.

“Your Graces, the problem is not the snow so much as the sudden drop in temperature,” Davos nodded toward the Maester.

“We were able to provide for those still within the walls of King’s Landing overnight, but with the unrest elsewhere, in the Reach…”

Dany stiffened in her chair, uncomfortable even for this short meeting. She would need extra cushions prepared.

Jon leaned into the conversation. “We can’t wait any longer to find out what is happening beyond these walls. The reliability of the ravens we’re getting is - questionable, and Lady Kinvara assures me nothing more need be done for Rhaegal to speed his recovery. I plan to take him for a brief flight this afternoon, and if he is up to it, travel to Highgarden first thing in the morning.”

“And then?” Dany fought to keep her aggravation in check, but the dragons, they… Rhaegal was her son… She glanced at Kinvara only to see her attention focused on King Jon. How closely had they been working together, to what end? She was grateful to the red priestess, certainly, but they had a connection - of life and death and the Red God - that she could never partake in. As she recovered, she had asked Kinvara what she had seen in the flames, of the throne, of Westeros, and she had been evasive, saying only that House Targaryen would be restored to the Iron Throne. Was she trying to tell her something, prepare her?

“Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with. We’ve heard no word from anyone claiming Lordship of the Reach, or rebellion or war or anything for that matter. Kinvara has seen nothing in her flames but the flames of Meereen. If there is no one in charge there, I will remain until I have settled that problem, at least for now.”

Grand Maester Lesser bent forward to look around the High Septon. “Your Grace, is it wise to put yourself at such risk when the situation is so uncertain?”

“Is there a better time for such a risk, Grand Maester? Highgarden provides the greatest portion of the food of the realm. We all know the chaos that threatens the realm, our new reign, if we cannot feed our people.”

Queen Daenerys rested her hand on the table, sliding her hand along the edge of the bottom of her goblet, feeling the chill of the droplets forming on the outside of the fine ware.

Grand Maester Lesser. The High Septon. Two of the faces that sealed her fate, her future.

~

She had only begun to recover, back in that servant’s room, when they had all crowded in; Jon, Ser Davos and the two austere figures currently sitting at the table beside her.

Yes, she had been gaining strength, day by day, yet could barely raise her head from the fragrant silk pillows. Every fabric in the small quarters reeked of smoke and death; she had wondered if they had made these pillows just for her, to hide that wretched odor. She would not ask, would not put them in the position to confirm their kindness, to ignore the horror.

So she lay there, weak and in pain and often nauseous. Davos would visit her, even Grey Worm, though they would often merely speak with Norri or the Northern healer Merina Snow. She could feel their eyes upon her, eyes filled with pity, or judgment? At the time she didn’t care; if she had perished, she would have accepted her end with joy.

But this time, somehow they had convinced Davos to take the lead in conversing with her, and he quietly explained the details of the situation. The chaos in King’s Landing, her poisoning and the unknown extent of the plot, Varys’s ravens. “It is the best course of action, Your Grace. Combine your claims, through marriage. For the good of the realm, for the good of your unborn child. And with any good fortune, for your good as well.” He had looked solemnly at Jon then, waiting for him to say something. There was a shift on the bed as he sat beside her, taking her hand in his, gazing softly into her eyes.

“I know this isn’t your plan, nor mine, but we have to do the best with the situation that we find ourselves in. The High Septon has agreed to marry us, so that no one will be able to say anything against either of us. Then all those plans that you’ve had, all those dreams, you can have them all.”

Dany remembered her heart beating dully in her chest as she rested her hand on her belly. She knew that Jon Snow was already liked and respected by those in King’s Landing, even as he tried to keep his presence hidden. The rumor that he had killed his Queen was controversial, but so far the people were trusting that he had made the right decision.

“So you would be King, after all of this, after saying how many times that you never wanted a crown?” Her voice strained, barely above a whisper.

Yet the truth was on his face; acceptance, resignation, exhaustion. He didn’t want this, but he would put his all into it; it was the honorable, the right thing to do. Could the same be said of their marriage? Acceptance, resignation, or was there something else. They had been broken, barely talking. Lost. She closed her eyes, unable or unwilling to think about it further. Events were happening without her say, she would have to trust – she would have laughed if she had had the energy. She and Jon hadn’t even talked about any of this, combining their claims, their marriage, their babe. At least not that she could remember.

“If we call a council, the expectation would be that Jon Snow would be selected to be the next King, by Right of Conquest and by heritage. We will have to manage that, keep him unavailable, just as the Dragon Queen is dead. We want the conspirators to feel comfortable coming forward. Perhaps we could announce that he was gravely injured, or that Grey Worm is threatening to execute him on his own for killing his queen, but then we would have to explain why he did not do that immediately when he found Jon standing over her body.”

She couldn’t remember who was talking, the words were flashing by so quickly, and the nausea was returning, the pain in her feet like walking on hot spikes.

“We’re telling them all that Drogon took her body, Grey Worm came upon Jon afterward. We can just keep silent about the rest, as long as we take care of the people, start cleaning up the mess…”

“Let it be known that a Great Council will decide the next ruler, spread it throughout the land, especially here in the Red Keep. We’ll have to act fast, set a date for the council, send the summons, before a rebellion breaks out to gain the empty throne.”

“In the meantime, give our new spymasters everything they need to gather information. We must be able to prove the poisoning, everything about it.”

Jon had held her hand while they spoke, deciding her future for her. Dany sighed as her vision darkened.

She remembered Jon’s face, the growing anger and sadness as it became ever more clear who was behind the conspiracy.

Finally she nodded, and Jon bent and kissed her on her forehead. She must have looked shocked as the High Septon stepped forward with the wedding ribbon.

“There’s no time to waste, Dany, we have to be ready – you and I – in case we need to make our claim known. Hopefully we will control it all, but we can’t take that chance, that someone else can exploit either of our claims against the other.”

She remembered the pain and the weariness and the disappointment at the rush of it all. There had been times in her short life that she had longed for a marriage of love, perhaps of a marriage of love with Jon, yet here she was again, a marriage of necessity. With Jon. She nodded again and hesitantly extended her hand. Jon raised his hand under, gently lifting it, letting her hand rest on his as the High Septon wrapped the band around their wrists.

“Now say the words…”

She remembered nothing else of the ceremony. She wondered if that mattered.

Dany recalled Jon’s little speech at their first public appearance announcing their marriage, snickering to herself at how quickly he was learning to say the right things to the right people. “We were wed in a private ceremony as soon as the Most Devout permitted. And for that we are humbly grateful to the assistance provided by his High Holiness the High Septon.” She wondered if he had been coached, or if his natural instincts were rising to the surface. He was born to be king, after all. A tinge of anger, or was it jealousy coursed through her veins.

Jon would be King. She had dreamed it many times; Cersei on the throne, smiling and smirking, only for Jon to ride in on his black stallion, all of the citizens of King’s Landing bowing and kneeling as he dismounted and approached the Usurper Queen. Even her Queensguard fell back, all acknowledging both his rightful place and the taint of the Lannister Queen. No one had challenged her taking her son’s throne, her husband’s. No one had raised a hand, a question when she had taken the throne and the crown. Had she wanted it all along? Was she not at all upset at the death of her son Tommen, his suicide? All these thoughts had meandered in the dark as they do in dreams, until Jon Snow, or Stark or Targaryen had removed her head from off her shoulders, the thump and bounce as it rolled down and into the squealing crowd, the crown rolling down the aisle.

Her body folded upon itself, blood spurting on the black blades of Aegon’s enemies. How fitting. In her dreams it had all seemed right, even as envy threatened to rage in her heart. Jon sat on the throne, his throne, the Targaryen throne, the rightful king at last.

Was this his plan all along? To let her spend her armies on the war in the North; her presence, her armies and her dragons had not been necessary at the end, Arya Stark had slipped through and killed the Night King on her own.

All lost for nothing.

Had he planned it?

All of her loss, all his gain.

Perhaps he had learned his true heritage long ago, perhaps he had always known. And had taken each step to retake his birthright. And she had fallen for his ruse, fallen for him. She should have known, should have seen. All anyone had ever loved her for was what they could take from her. Her name, her child, her birthright.

She could not have a child, it would not survive. They would not survive, and she would be remembered no more.

He was laughing at her now. She approached the throne, her dead baby in her arms, her dead heart cold and bitter. Jon stood, slowly descending the steps to stand in front of her.

“You are my Queen, now, and always…”

She felt the cold steel of the dagger drive into her heart, his kiss hiding his smirk.

It was over.

The babe fell from her arms, a cold dead bundle on the throne room floor. She could rest now; she saw the red door swing open before her as she caught the fragrance of lemon and the whisper of sea birds in the harbor.

~

‘Your Grace?” She startled at his voice, looked up to find all eyes on her; had she missed something?

“Yes, Ser Davos.”

“I was asking if you’d like to hold an audience today, since the weather isn’t ideal for a ride through King’s Landing as we had planned. We can push back your other meetings until tomorrow, later if necessary.”

She looked up then, noticing all but Jon were avoiding her gaze.

“Why? What is there preventing me from going through with my plans to visit the food stations? The people will be out and about, cold should not hinder their queen from joining them, should it?”

She was relieved to hear strength in her voice, even as she noticed the tremor in her body. She could not start her reign being seen as little more than a weak woman hidden in her rooms. She lifted her chin and was relieved to see the corner of Jon’s mouth curve up as he watched her, nodding, his eyes sparkling.

Davos leaned back in his chair, gaze shifting from his Queen to his King. “Very well, the carriage will be ready when you are, Your Grace, perhaps the sooner the better, let the people see their new monarchs…”

“No!” Louder than she had intended. She took a breath.

“No carriage. I will ride through the streets, on my own, let my people see me for myself, as I am today. Jon has made himself known to them, reached out to them, I will do so as well.”

She held her breath, knowing this was a challenge to their previous conversation about them going out together. But she didn’t want, didn’t need his help, or his permission, and she felt her heart pound waiting for opposition that never came.

Davos bowed his head, “Very well, Your Grace.”

“Ser Davos, if time permits, please accompany me. You know King’s Landing well and I trust you have many stories to tell.” She tried to lighten the mood; she didn’t know why everything felt so heavy, her hands, even her eyelids.

“Of course, Your Grace, I’ll make all the arrangements.”

“And, Tyrion?”

“He’s … taken care of, Your Grace.” Dany nodded; she wasn’t sure how she felt about what had happened; it was all so confusing, right when she needed to focus the most.

“Which brings us to some other matters from last night.”

Dany noticed Jon’s gaze darken as Davos continued.

“After you left, Your Grace, there was quite a bit of … discussion, as we expected…” Davos paused, and Dany noticed both the Grand Maester and High Septon lean back in their chairs; her curiosity piqued, she leaned forward, her weariness abating.

“It was suggested, strongly, that Jon be crowned immediately, for the sake of stability of the realm, and since it seems that getting to the bottom of the conspiracy won’t be as easy as we had hoped, Your Graces…”

Dany had been watching Jon’s face; clearly this was news to him as well as he raised an eyebrow and began hitching his shoulders under his fitted tunic.

“After the Tribunal has rendered their verdict, finding that poison had caused you to behave erratically, my Queen…” Davos bowed his head respectfully toward her, Dany returning his bow with a small nod, “A second coronation would be held for Queen Daenerys, recognizing her as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in her own right.”

Davos as well sat back in his chair, letting the idea hang in the thickening air.

Dany continued to watch her husband, who glanced her way then peered at each member of their council, his gaze avoided studiously.

“And do you recommend we take this course of action, Lord Hand?” Dany was suddenly grateful for the ease with which she could affix her royal demeanor.

“There is merit, Your Grace. It would give us more time to question the accused, and an official Coronation would discourage any usurper's thoughts of trying to take the throne for themselves.”

“Yet it would leave a taint, on my reign, would it not, Lord Hand?” She felt bitterness rise, even as she saw the benefits. Jon’s coronation would firmly re-establish the Targaryen dynasty, even if it was shared with the Stark family name. And again she would be left behind, as she deserved. And Jon had done everything right, he had been through every bit as much tragedy as she had, worked and sacrificed just as much, had every right to be crowned right away, every right to claim…

“No.”

The King had been rather silent for the most part, deferring to their Hand to run the meeting, so the brusque tone of that single word carried an air of finality that startled those sitting at the table.

Dany felt a smile quickly flit across her lips before asking, “Why not, it would make sense.”

“No. It does not make sense. It would divide us, the King and the Queen, and divide the kingdom, and we would spend too much time and effort to re-unify, it would take years, even to return to where we are now.”

Davos nodded and turned to the Queen.

“But we don’t know how long the inquiry will take, if we will ever know for sure.”

“Then we will have our coronation as planned, at the next full moon. We cannot allow our reign to begin based on someone else’s timing, or their worries.”

Dany felt her heart ease as Jon stood and began to pace slowly around the table.

“Davos, would it be fair to say that those most adamant to crown me king right away have the least confidence in the story we’ve put forth, about the conspiracy, about the poisoning?”

Davos frowned, nodding. “Yes, now that you mention it… though once the suggestion was out there, it took on a life of its own.”

“So there are those that think Queen Daenerys burned down King’s Landing, and that I, and you all, are for some reason protecting her. Or perhaps they just don’t like her. Would that be true as well, Ser Davos?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“So we will move forward with the Tribunal, the examination of the witnesses. Whether they have concluded or not, we will have the Coronation on time. Finish the trial, release the results when we have them, even if they are incomplete.”

Davos nodded, “What do I tell those that question what really happened, that she should not be named Queen until … ?”

Dany’s heart raced as she felt Jon halt behind her chair.

“Remind them that if their Queen is deceiving them, so is their King. Why would they want to crown a liar as their King?”

An audible release of breath filled the silence as the boldness, and the rightness of the challenge settled. Dany felt his warmth radiating behind her, tempted to reach for him but letting him direct the conversation as he chose.

“And for those who just want to get on with their lives, giving them a firm date for the Coronation will settle their nerves.”

“Grand Maester, can we move the public Trial forward? Before the Coronation? We’ve said publicly that there is enough evidence to prove a conspiracy and treason.”

“Against you, Your Grace. We do not yet have the answers surrounding Her Grace’s poisoning.”

“Grand Maester, anyone at this table, we have pushed and pulled at this question for weeks now, and will begin the questioning of the conspirators in earnest even this afternoon. Yet can anyone guarantee we will have all the answers we seek? Ever?”

“No, Your Grace. There is no guarantee.”

Jon gazed at Dany, his eyes pitch black.

“We will move forward, together. Do what we have promised, hold a public trial, lay out what we have learned. But we will go forward. The most important thing is what is best for the people, for the safety and stability of the Seven Kingdoms. We will succeed, together. Or we will fail, together. What is important is…”

Jon had reached his own seat, and leaned against the back of it, his hands gripping it tightly.

“Is there anyone at this table who doubts that what we say is true? That Daenerys Stormborn was poisoned, that she was living out her dreams, her nightmares when she attacked King’s Landing, that she was not responsible for her actions? Does anyone have ANY doubts?”

Dany held her breath, tempted to shut her eyes at the wavering she expected to see, to hear.

“No, Your Grace. We have no doubts.”

Jon took in each face, waited for a shake of the head or agreement.

Jon smiled at her as he took his seat, and she felt her eyes well up with tears. “Very well then, that’s all that matters. You are charged with dealing with any questions that are brought to you about this matter firmly, as you see fit; anything that needs to come to us, bring it immediately. We will do our best to learn the truth, but for all of our sakes we cannot allow doubt to divide us.” He leaned back in his seat, letting the tension drain from the room.

Lesser nodded, “we will begin immediately then… and… on a lighter note, the guards found some interesting items as they took the prisoners into custody yesterday. This was of particular interest…” He smiled as he unfolded a well-worn piece of parchment and laid it out for all to see.

Dany’s eyes widened when she was able to make out the detailed drawing on the paper, then smiled as she heard a rare laugh come from her husband.

“From Sansa, I take it? Certainly not a crown fit for Bran.”

The Grand Maester nodded and smiled.

Davos leaned back in his chair. “Well this certainly makes things easy.”

Grand Maester nodded. “It may provide more pressure to learn more about the poison, Your Grace.”

Jon nodded; Dany noticed an increasing resolve behind his eyes.

“If we can, return it to her after the sentencing, better yet, return it to me and I will return it to her.” Jon smirked. “And the arrangements for the Tribunal?”

Lesser straightened a bit in his chair after returning the folded parchment to the leather pouch at his side. “As we agreed, I have been gathering a small group of citizens, a mix of highborn and commoner, the Citizen’s Audience, to sit in on the testimony. They have met once and were instructed as to the place and time of their meetings, they will be housed in the Red Keep for the duration of the Tribunal, so that they will not be influenced or threatened… or lost…”

Dany smiled at the High Septon’s eye roll.

“We’ve included Garweth Chaen, Your Grace, he served wine at the Great Council and should provide a neutral viewpoint and lend credence to our official witnesses’ testimony. They will be allowed to ask questions through a representative that they will choose. We want to make sure the people feel like they are fully involved, so they will be satisfied with the results of this – inquiry.”

Dany watched Jon as a heaviness crept over his shoulders and a somberness settled over each member of the Small Council as the importance and scope of the task became clear.

Kinvara gently laid her hand on the table, “We also had a visitor during the meeting last night, a visitor from Meereen.”

Dany cringed inside, she didn’t want to talk about it yet. “Lady Kinvara, did Captain Naharis give any indication as to what he had hoped to accomplish coming to King’s Landing?”

The Red Priestess smiled sweetly, “He spoke only about your welfare, my Queen. I told him you were safe and protected. Apparently he did not believe me, or…” she waved her hand and tilted her head.

Dany watched Jon’s face, though he gave no indication of his thoughts, then was distracted when Lesser nodded toward the High Septon with a stern look on his face.

The High Septon cleared his throat and stood and announced that he would be retiring from his present position and returning to his home as soon as the Tribunal was over.

“The Coronation will be performed by the new High Septon, most likely Septon Saloman who has just recently arrived in King’s Landing.” He retook his seat, a rather dismayed but accepting expression on his face.

Grand Maester Lesser cleared his throat. “The Starry Sept has sent Septon Saloman to sit on this Tribunal so that our beloved High Septon,” he nodded toward the downcast cleric, “may continue his many duties as he heals.”

Quiet murmurs of thanks and congratulations hummed over the table.

“There will be a scribe taking down all conversations, and at the end of the Tribunal, a summary will be made public after careful review. As agreed, we limited the Tribunal to 7 and narrowed it down to those who were least directly involved here in King’s Landing and in Winterfell, discussing with each privately what will be required of them to sit on the Tribunal.”

Dany could see Jon was uneasy, neither of them liked the idea that their fate was out of their hands.

“And who did we end up with, Grand Maester?”

Lesser pulled out one of the many parchments from his leather folder and began to read.

“From Dorne, Prince Nymor Martell; from the North, Lords Cley Cerwyn and Lord Robett Glover; from the Riverlands, Lord Edmure Tully; from the Stormlands, Lord Darrok Wylde; from the Westerlands, Lord Damon Marbrand; from the Vale, Lord Robin Arryn.”

Daenerys felt her breath catch; they had all sworn fealty to their new reign, yet none had any personal loyalty to her, and only Cerwyn held tested fealty to the King in the North. She clasped her hands tightly together below the edge of the table.

“To begin, we will present testimony from the Great Council, from myself, Ser Davos and Lord Wintyn Manderly regarding both the usurpation of the Northern Crown and the conspiracy to poison the Queen. Though we are leaving ourselves some flexibility as to the order of witnesses. This may depend on any new information we gain, or perhaps on the Tribunal and the Citizen’s Audience’s response to each witness.”

Lesser waited for a nod from his King before proceeding.

“We have also requested testimony from Ser Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne, several of the Northern Lords, at the very least from Lord Glover and Lord Cerwyn, even Commander Grey Worm, and others as may be deemed helpful to get as clear a picture as possible of the conspiracy itself. Lord Royce will be a pivotal witness, as he has known the Starks for his whole life, but is not a Northerner himself.”

Jon clasped his hands in his lap as he leaned back in his chair. “Glover seems to have lost his blind support of Lady Sansa, I’m not sure how she was able to garner it in the first place. Maybe promises were made.”

Davos raised his eyebrows and nodded in return as Lesser scribbled a note to himself.

“Why question Ser Brienne, Grand Maester? Do we suspect she was involved?” Lord Manderly shifted in his seat as he gazed around the table.

“No, not at this time. But she has been a companion, her Sworn Sword as it were, of Lady Sansa Stark for quite some time, and Podrick Payne as well. And they were there at Winterfell as the conspiracy took shape. Ser Brienne has more insight into Arya Stark as well.”

Lesser glanced at the King for a reaction, but his expression remained unmoved.

“But… we are also considering naming Ser Brienne as an advisor to the Tribunal, perhaps Lord Royce and Lord Cerwyn as well, as well as sitting on the actual Tribunal, as they all have greater insight into the recent activities of the Starks and will be able to report back to their respective Houses how this matter was dealt with. Also, the wildling Gilly will be… excuse me, Gilly of the Free Folk will be called to testify of Samuel Tarly, her – companion’s – involvement in the conspiracy.”

Grand Maester Lesser continued, “Ser Davos will represent the Crown in the proceedings, and if he is not able to be present at all interviews, he will be kept informed of any new information, especially as it pertains to the Queen’s poisoning. We’re treading new ground, Your Graces. We may find it better to change things as we proceed, our goal being accuracy and speed.”

The King glanced at the Queen, who nodded somberly as he pushed back his chair and stood.

“Very well. We have had a late start to the day. Is there anything that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“Your Graces, I’ve received many requests for personal audiences, and will schedule them at your convenience.”

Dany cleared her throat and placed a hand gently on the table in front of her. “Thank you, Ser Davos. All of you. I look forward to seeing what we all can do for the realm, together.”

Jon smiled at her, a true smile. And she felt a little lighter. Maybe this would all work out after all…

~

Somehow she found herself yet again in her bed in the middle of the day. Her mind wandered as she waited for sleep, thinking of the day's events, wondering what her missing advisors would say.

Tyrion.

She was torn, confused. He had seemed so confident in his advice, and she had believed him when he supported her claim. He was always so encouraging, was it all a lie? She relied on his knowledge of the Houses of Westeros, of King’s Landing, of his family. His sister, his brother. Had he failed, changed his mind or merely deceived her from the beginning?

When they were given the news about Tyrion, Jon had relayed his fateful conversation with Tyrion about what must be done, about his duty.

“He’d convinced me to kill you, Dany.”

“Who?”

“Tyrion, with maybe some influence from Bran. Convinced me that you were unreachable, that you had gone all Mad Queen,” he chuckled.

“Hmmm. What stopped you?”

“Stopped me?”

“From killing me? What changed your mind?”

Jon had sat on the bed next to her, pulling the linens close into her sides, only for her to pull them away.

“Too hot.” She smiled and smirked.

“Ah, yes, my pregnant dragon with a furnace inside.” They needed to get it all out in the open, she only remembered bits and pieces from that day, all a dream, focused on Cersei on a white horse.

“Well, what stopped you from putting that dagger in my heart.”

“Something, I recognized something familiar, when I got close to you.” Dany tilted her head, her eyebrows rising. He brushed her forehead, gently thumbing the wrinkles between her eyebrows as she tried to relax under his touch.

“I think back at how much effort Bran and Tyrion and the others made to keep us apart. I wonder if being close, physically I mean, that that is what reminded me how much I love you, how much I admire you, how much I can’t live without you, and I think that made me wonder why you were doing things that were so much the opposite of what you ever intended… I’ve never been accused of being the smartest man in the world, certainly not clever like Tyrion or savvy like Davos or an inspiring visionary like you, but I do think I'm a practical man, and there came a moment where I knew I should just – wait. To not make a decision, yet, to give things time. Then I held you again, and that’s when it started to make sense, the smell on your breath, other little things, even if there was only one chance in a thousand that you could be saved, I wanted to take that chance. I didn’t want to lose you again.”

Her mind wandered to the Great Pyramid of Meereen, saying goodbye to Daario Naharis and placing that pin on Tyrion Lannister. He knelt before her, promising his sword though he didn’t actually have one, until she noticed he did have a dagger. He stood, eyes glowing blue, menacing. Lights danced before her, fire engulfing the room, screams from below as she ran to the balcony to see her city again in flames, Drogon hovering over the people, burning them all before his great open maw, silencing them forever. More screams, closer, came from Blackwater Bay, just beyond the Red Keep, Drogon coming toward her now, riderless and wild…

No, not riderless. Impossible, no one can ride a bonded dragon, and yet she recognized his handsome face, his eyes filled with deception and trickery, that sly grin as he headed straight for her, that single word filling her head…

“Dracarys!”

Flames engulfed her; she stood fearless before the dragonfire, until the pain – the sudden, searing, unquenchable pain and stench of burning skin – she raised her hands before her eyes, watching as the skin blistered and fell in chunks off the bones in her hand, leaving only her beloved mother’s ring to testify of her identity. Laughter rang out as she was consumed, even as she in her disbelief attempted to brush off the flames, her clothes melting onto…

Dany sat upright, startled from her dreams as the door to the garden blew open into her quarters, followed by cold wind and dry swirling snow. Her heart tried to beat out of her chest as she peered into the brightness, shifting forms threatening, sharp blades readied, red eyes and sharp teeth, pink tongue panting —

Ghost.

She released her breath, shaky as she nodded to her guards to close the door behind the great beast. She reached out her hand and felt that odd combination of warm breath and cold emanating from his coat. Truly a creature of the North, at home now in the South. Her heart eased as the great direwolf jumped on the bed and plopped down beside her, apparently exhausted from his many adventures of the day. Soft snores soon parted his black lips, and she tried to laugh, to shake off her dream. Yet she remained terrified, stiff and pained. She tried to comfort herself, calming her breathing, gently rubbing her belly, but the fear and anger rose, fear of Jon, anger at her own dependence on him… betrayal and deception, was he showing his true colors now?

After all, her dreams come true… she would need to –

She heard a door click shut and called out, with no reply.

Moments later another knock, and her handmaiden entered with food, adding pillows to support her so she could eat in bed. So warm, so very comfortable with the pillows piled high, but she was also so tired of laying in bed while the world went on without her. She felt the fear rise again, turning to anger this time, what were they thinking, what plans were being made without her, against her?

The tray of food was placed across her lap. Distracted, she ate hurriedly, annoyed when Ghost tried to beg food off her tray.

Enough!

She waved the tray away half-eaten and ordered a message to Ser Davos, that she would be ready to go into King’s Landing soon. She needed to take back her kingdom.

She struggled out of bed, stiff and sore, as she called for riding clothes. She quickly prepared and dressed, pacing as she waited for Davos to come for her.

Ghost jumped off the bed as he entered, startling the handmaiden, then headed to the big bowl of water next to the hearth, lapping loudly and splashing water over the hot stones. Davos bowed and smiled at her as she rushed past him and out the door.

Yet it was not to be.

Winter had come to King’s Landing.

Chapter Text

It was too cold to hear petitions in the audience chamber and far too noisy, so they had set up a makeshift receiving hall in one of the lower kitchens. It remained unused as of yet, but was warm from the ovens in the central kitchens above and had been inspected and determined to be sound. A long line of guards – Unsullied, Dothraki, Northmen and City Watch – lined the winding passageway leading down to the high-windowed room. Once the torches were lit, there was a coziness, a comfort that Daenerys found surprising. Perhaps this would be a good way to hear her first petitions; with warmth and closeness, rather than from the austerity of the distancing Iron Throne. She had changed into something comfortable, yet impressive, at least she’d liked to think so. The black and red gown was heavy and tight, making it difficult to walk through the narrow passageways, but she was concerned about making the right first up-close impression. She determined to do whatever was necessary, even the little things, to make up for the time that had been stolen from her.

The tall wooden chair backed up to the glowing hearth was hardly a suitable throne, yet she hoped her demeanor and bearing would be the focus and not the room or the furniture. She sat back and let her hands rest lightly on the arms of the chair, nodding to their Hand to bring in the first petitioner even as she felt the deep chill from earlier linger in her bones.

She had been out riding not long ago, briefly, quickly, accompanied by Ser Davos and Ghost, her guards carrying her House banners, as the wind continued to gust along the broken streets of King’s Landing. Fine tendrils of snow and dry ash swirled and bounced, kicking up into her horse’s white-striped face, making her fractious and uneasy. Dany had no trouble handling her, that beautiful unnamed dappled gray mare Jon had picked out for her, but she couldn’t afford to be distracted as she met her people face to face among the ruins. She couldn’t afford to appear vulnerable and invite wrath, there would be time enough for that.

The overpowering smell was almost gone, but the ice-encrusted mounds were no longer buildings, but hiding places for her enemies, waiting to ambush her with spears and ballistas.

Even with the thick layer of snow and ice, she could see the devastation, of the burnt city and of the scowling people. Much of the rubble had been cleared, the broken walls removed, leaving the exposed foundations and sturdy walls to be built upon as weather permitted. People, families used to live here, work here, conduct their business here. Now… a sudden wave of gratitude swept over her, gratitude that the snow and gray were covering her great transgressions, though the wind still carried the lingering odor of burnt flesh, burnt stucco, burnt bone.

Dany closed her eyes. She had heard it at first, then they hadn’t ridden much further before she’d seen it for herself.

Wildfire.

Closer than she ever wanted to be, yet several streets away.

The emerald brightness was staggering, mesmerizing. She wanted to get closer, was drawn to it. She’d known it was there, had set it ablaze herself. She reminded herself that it had been the poison, but those memories flitted across the back of her mind, casting shadows and doubt even as she tried to lay her guilt to rest. She remembered Tyrion, ah, Tyrion, under siege in the pyramid of Mereen. “Burn them all.” The Mad King. Her father had gotten his wish. He, they, House Targaryen had burned them all.

The pain of it all. The pain that she had caused, that she still felt. She embraced the reasoning at the time; she was waiting for the people to bring Cersei to her, that's what she had instructed, wasn't it? Why was she so impatient? She didn’t give them a chance. But it wasn’t her, not really, was it? She felt her vision blur with tears, then something else, something… that stirring within and a gentle nudge from without.

She let her mind return and smiled as she felt his tug, strong and almost desperate, and turned toward the Dragon Pit, riding carefully through the abandoned streets and past the crowds huddled around barrels of burning pitch, eyes glazed, worn cloaks and banners flapping in the wind. The gates were opened as she approached, and excitement welled within her.

Drogon.

And Rhaegal.

Both pranced like kittens, purring and grunting, stretching their necks to reach her first.

She dropped off her mare quickly, tossing her reins to the closest guard, slipping off her gloves as she hurried toward her beloved sons.

She grasped at them, stroking, gasping as her hand traced their trilling throats.

They missed her. She felt the comfort, their happiness.

With a glance into Drogon’s huge eye, she paused before her once-dead child, a deep sob escaping her smiling lips as her hand brushed under his blinking amber eye. She could feel the pain, the fear lingering deep within, and she paused before letting her eyes trace the scars left by the jagged once-gaping wounds.

Magic.

They were both restless, as were the horses nearby, the wind shifting to drive icy pellets against warm flesh like tiny shards of glass.

She wanted them to stay, she wanted to linger, to be with them. But it was freezing, especially for desert-born dragons, and they had found caves in the cliffs by the sea. They had found a home without her.

They missed her, no doubt. But they didn’t need her as they once had.

She took several steps back and bid them farewell, Drogon launching himself almost straight up and into the wind, Rhaegal taking several running hops before catching the lift needed beneath his green and bronze wings.

She mounted her mare and turned back into the city, nodding to Davos. Once again the people had taken refuge in what was left of their homes. Even in this, she had failed. She had wanted to be seen, she needed to see, to look into their eyes. She wanted to let them start to express their anger, let them see her grief, her regret, so they could accept the truth, mourn, and move forward. For once, she had to look back, relive the past. She needed to be with her people in their misery, not looking down on them as she had done before.

But it was not to be.

The temperature had dropped again, and the usual sea breeze had turned into another kind of dragon. Instead of blowing fire and destruction, the fierce gusts pelted the city with hail and frozen rain, followed by heavy snow that hid the slick black ice underneath. She wanted to press on, but Davos discouraged her, it was too dangerous, not only for herself but for the horses; they were not used to this weather, this treacherous footing. Her mare had reared at her own disquiet and slipped on the ice, nearly unseating her. Davos finally insisted and she relented and agreed to return, halting a scant few yards from the portico, and dismounted. She ascended the steps to the balcony above, stunned by the force of the storm. She had never experienced anything like this, even during the battle against the Night King in the North. A sudden fear rose, an alarm deep in the back of her mind, then faded. It was just a storm.

They had returned to her quarters in the Red Keep – could she call it home? – soon after. Thankfully Davos had given her time to change into something dry and more appropriate, then led her into the belly of the red castle where warm food and hot tea awaited, the white direwolf close behind. She wondered if his constant presence was at Jon’s direction, or had the furry beast bonded somehow with her unborn child.

Naturally Ghost had waited until she had changed clothes to shake the snow from his coat; she managed to avoid his wet clingy fur by scratching only over his red eyes, smiling as he groaned and lowered himself to the floor at her feet as she wiggled to make herself comfortable in the upholstered armed chair as she nibbled on grapes and cheese.

“Is this normal, Ser Davos? This weather, for King’s Landing?”

“It happens, Your Grace, the snow and the wind, we are so close to the sea…”

She nodded, though she couldn’t recall Viserys ever mentioning it. Perhaps he had never experienced winter in Westeros.

“How long will it last?”

“Oh, Your Grace, would that I could answer that for ya…”

“And Jon, the King, is he still planning on riding Rhaegal, in this storm?”

“He planned on waiting a bit longer to see if the wind let up, if not he will just take him for a short ride, just to see how he’s healing up.”

Queen Daenerys nodded quietly, noticing her own disquiet at having to ask someone else about her own son.

Shuffling footfalls echoed down the narrow stairway, skittering shadows as dull muffled voices bounced off the stone walls.

Davos took his place next to his Queen, straightening his pinned tunic as the City Watchman that had accompanied her guests positioned them to face the makeshift throne.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men!”

They bowed and curtsied, two men and a woman, obviously high born by their garments. The older more portly fellow was winded from the long walk down the stairs. Dany wondered if he would need help returning the way he came.

“Rise, and welcome. What can I do for you today?”

“Your Grace, I am Lord Kalven Sarsfield, of House Crakehall in the Westerlands, and my wife Lady Berlee. And this is my good friend and traveling companion Lord Fiel of House Lydden.” A flurry of curtsies and bows followed. “I must say, personally, that it is just such a wonderful thing to see a true Targaryen on the throne once again, such as it is. You are truly a sight… we have longed for your return, Your Grace. We had expected your brother, Viserys would be the one to return with an army, and yet here you are, a most beautiful queen, not only with one army but with two undefeated armies and even living dragons! So honored,” He leaned forward and smiled widely before dropping his eyes to her belly. “Oh, and congratulations to you and your king for settling your reign so quickly! I've got a hefty wager that it will be a boy - was that a safe bet, Your Grace?” He leaned back and laughed heartily. Daenerys wondered if he had been imbibing a bit too much for this time of day.

“Indeed, my lords, my lady. What can I do for you today?” She smiled and nodded as she relished her royal mask, cherishing her first audience as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Hopefully, the request would be meaningful.

“We request only that you reward loyalty, Your Grace. We understand that Highgarden is without a leal house, and House Sarsfield would be honored to accept the duties of this great responsibility, we have…”

Her heart sank. Dany struggled to hear the words over the buzzing in her head, instead watching his lips move, the vacant smiling of his sallow wife.

The games had begun, so soon, so earnestly. But they couldn’t be helped. She shook her head and tried to recall the petition.

She smiled and nodded. She knew they had been generous in their help, as so many other houses, great and small, had been contacted, compelled. The Reach itself, The Vale, The Crownlands. And they were almost all ready and willing to send supplies, take in refugees, help rebuild the realm…

As long as they were compensated.

Of course. Chaos breeds opportunity. Dany nodded non-committally.

“The Reach is a vital resource for the welfare of the Seven Kingdoms. Careful consideration and time will be given if the time comes that a new house will be needed to take over Highgarden. Of course, we will consider all loyal Houses first. Enjoy your stay in the capital, my lords, my lady.”

“We will, Your Grace. We were planning on staying for your coronation, but it seems the weather has turned and we must return, perhaps - and again, perhaps, we… why, now that I think about it, Trezza, she couldn’t come, my daughter Trezza just gave birth to a precious beautiful girl - Well! What could be better, the house of Highgarden wed to a Dragon! Peace would reign for generations, Your Grace!”

Dany could hardly believe her ears, though she merely smiled and nodded regally.

“It’s a little early to be deciding the fate of my unborn child, but thank you for the sentiment.”

She then remembered the words from Jon’s speech. “Please find something to put your hand to, whatever you can contribute while you are here in King’s Landing, we are all working to…” she paused as they all dropped their eyes, seeming to mutter and squirm away from her words. She watched, and understood. These were high born; they did not put their hand to anything that someone else could do in their stead.

She felt her anger rise, relieved when Ser Davos stepped forward and motioned them away, making way for her next petitioner.

“Tycho Nestoris, Your Grace.”

Dany gave a small smile and nodded. Davos announced this petitioner as if she should know the name. Yes, it was familiar, vaguely. She did know it, almost remembered it…

Two men stepped forward, one far more self-important than the other judging by his bearing and wardrobe.

“I’ve been sent as envoy to the Iron Bank of Braavos, Your Grace. To extend congratulations and cooperation.”

Her eyebrow raised. “Cooperation, my lord?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I’m not a lord, Your Grace. Merely a humble servant of an institution that has partnered with the Targaryens since before Aegon’s Conquest. As soon as we heard that there was a Targaryen on the Iron Throne once again, well… We responded as soon as we heard of your need, and look forward to continuing a long and fruitful relationship with your restored House.”

Dany gripped the arms of her makeshift throne as her back began to spasm. She straightened and laid her hands in her lap, waiting for the cramp to pass.

“Yet it was quite recently that you accepted stolen gold to pay off Lannister debts, only to turn around and lend the Usurper Queen more money to hire the Golden Company, all to prevent this very moment from happening.”

“Merely business, Your Grace. We are not responsible for the methods used to pay debts, we only insist that they be paid.”

Dany flinched as a door somewhere above slammed shut, followed by raucous laughter.

“And what business do you have here today, Tycho Nestoris, on behalf of the Iron Bank of Braavos?”

He nodded politely as the younger man beside him handed him a leather-bound parcel. “We were told you were indisposed, it’s good to see we were told incorrectly. Earlier we had sought out your husband, King Jon, or is it, King Aegon… Your Grace, instead we find ourselves here...”

Safe behind her queenly bearing, she tried to calm her impatience.

“A simple matter, Your Grace.” He nodded to Davos and extended the packet. “I had not expected to see you alive, Ser Davos Seaworth. We had thought you perished with your, um, previous ‘Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms,’ Stannis Baratheon.”

Davos raised an eyebrow as Dany watched the exchange. “A matter of timing, Master Nestoris. I was sent to Castle Black on urgent business, where we were later informed of the rout of Stannis’s troops by the Bolton forces.”

Why had she not heard of this? Davos served Stannis? Is that how he met Jon? She began to shake her head, then halted. She would ask Davos for details later.

“Now you are here, with a Targaryen Queen. I’m sure there is an intriguing tale behind your presence, Ser Davos.”

Davos nodded and opened the packet, lips moving as he read through the brief document. “This is signed by Cersei Lannister, is it not?”

Dany caught the puzzled look on his face, then extended her hand, eyes quickly flicking across the page. She returned the parchment to the waiting Davos, letting her impatience show.

“What does this have to do with House Targaryen, Master Nestoris?”

He laughed briefly, shaking his head as he explained. “The loan was to the Iron Throne, Your Grace. The Crown that now rests with House Targaryen. The Iron Bank expects repayment, according to the agreed upon terms of…”

“Tell me, Master Nestoris, how did you and Ser Davos meet?”

“In Braavos, Your Grace. He accompanied King Stannis Baratheon to seek a loan, to retake the throne as the rightful heir.”

She leaned back in the chair, absently waving her hand.

“And when ‘King’ Stannis Baratheon fell to the Bolton forces, did you approach Roose Bolton to repay Stannis’s debt?”

She stifled a gloat as she watched his face fall. “No, of course not, Stannis was fighting for the throne, we lent him gold because we thought he would be King. He had the best claim, was the most experienced…”

Dany interrupted again, “Yes, he was fighting for the throne. You took sides in that conflict, just as you took sides in the war between the false queen and myself. Stannis lost and you accepted that loss. Yet here you are trying to collect on another bad investment?” She paused to take a small sip of the hot tea on the tray beside her chair. “Truly, I think not…”

Dany could see a hint of a smirk on Davos’s face out of the corner of her eye.

“Cersei was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…”

“And yet the money you accepted in payment for her previous loans were nothing more than spoils of war, the money you lent were also spoils of war. She spent the gold on the Golden Company, on her soldiers, fighting me.” Dany took a breath, a measure of her old confidence returning. “Ser Davos, have we found records of how this loan from the Iron Bank was spent?”

“No, Your Grace, I don’t believe we’ve found those records as of yet.”

Dany nodded thoughtfully. “As a sign of good faith, Master Nestoris, and in appreciation of your quick action to support the citizens of King’s Landing in these difficult times, we will continue to search for any records of how your loan to Cersei Lannister was used, and for every dragon that was spent on behalf of the people of King’s Landing or of Westeros, we will add that to the loan you have extended to us to be repaid with interest.”

“I will forward your proposal to my superiors, Your Grace.” Nestoris began gathering himself to leave, clearly perturbed by the direction the conversation had taken.

“No, you will accept my terms. You were sent as an envoy, I’m sure you have the authority to make these insignificant decisions. Or am I mistaken in your position at the Iron Bank, Master Nestoris?”

Tycho Nestoris for once looked flustered, though the expression passed quickly. He pursed his lips into a sly smile and nodded.

“I suspect Your Grace will have a long and prosperous reign.” He tugged his outer coat around his chest.

“Thank you, Master Nestoris. Ser Davos, please make arrangements for quarters for our guests until we can search for these records.” He nodded as Dany adjusted her position even as Davos turned to speak to the two men before her.

“You’ll join us for our feast tonight, a humble celebration for the first full day of our reign,” Dany said.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Dany nodded in return, relieved when Davos interrupted to wave them toward the stairway, escorted by two Northern guards. She extended her hand to Davos for the parchment, surprised at the wide grin on Davos’s face.

“Well done, Your Grace.” She wasn’t sure how to react; did he think her incapable of a simple conversation? Or was he attempting to curry her favor… She read through the parchment more carefully, then handed it back to their Hand, still wondering what he was doing there. Why was he not with Jon?

“Who’s next, Ser Davos? You’ll find I don’t like to keep petitioners waiting unnecessarily.”

“Lady Delorah, Your Grace, of House Rosby. She’s been quite helpful in organizing the Waiting Camp,” he smiled and nodded at the gentle lady. “Many families have been re-united due to her – timely efforts.”

“You’re quite kind, Ser Davos, I’ve only done my duty to my gods and my King.” Lady Delorah Rosby turned quietly to face the makeshift throne. “And my Queen.”

Dany took a deep breath. The woman was stunning, tall and rosy-cheeked and quite at home at court.

“Thank you for your service, Lady Delorah. What can we do for you in return?”

“Your Grace, I am happy to report that the majority of those that the Crown has been caring for at the Waiting Camp have either been reunited with family or have moved on to start a new future on their own. Those that remain…” She waved her hand elegantly, stepping forward ever so slightly. “I had discussed several suggestions with the King, of where to house them permanently, and he thought it best to present these ideas to you directly.” She bowed her head again, a practiced courtesy.

Dany felt her eyes drawn to this woman, hanging on her melodious voice and her turn of phrase even as an unexpected silence settled among those present, finally broken by an abrupt clearing of the throat of her Hand.

“Very well, what did you have in mind, Lady Delorah?” Dany struggled to focus, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.

“King’s Landing has several orphanages run by devoted Septas, Your Grace. My suggestion is to attend to these repair efforts first, to support the rebuilding and house the children, and then to add similar housing for displaced adults, many of which have lost their families and their livelihoods, and will not be able to contribute to their own care for a variety of reasons. Of course, the goal will always be…”

A disturbance at her feet drew her attention, and Dany allowed a small smile as the great direwolf dragged himself to his feet, slipping on the hard stone floor. Her fingers tingled as she extended her hand toward his head, only to drop it back into her lap as he walked away from her, his lolling tongue gracing the outstretched hand of her current petitioner. She felt her heart thump heavily in her chest.

“Thank you for all of your hard work and valuable insights. Ser Davos, can you see that these recommendations are implemented in a timely manner?” Dany straightened as she attempted to hide the pain in her back.

“Lady Delorah, will you remain in the capital? Do you wish to continue working on this project?”

Again Dany was struck by the easy grace of this woman. “Yes, Your Grace, it is what I have decided to put my hand to do, as little as it is.”

“I assure you, it is not a little thing, and your efforts are very much appreciated.”

“Yes, Your Grace, thank you for listening, and congratulations on your joyous good news, I pray to the Mother that your babe will bring you nothing but happiness, and to your husband King Jon, of course.” Her cheeks had become even more rosy, and Dany felt her anger rise. Your husband King Jon. As if she was hiding something, or knew something she didn’t.

But certainly… there was nothing… she was tired, that’s all, and the babe… and the dragon blood…

She startled as Davos stepped to her side as Lady Delorah was escorted back through the hall toward the stairway.

“Would you care for some refreshment, Your Grace?” Suddenly there was a goblet of watered juice pushed into her hand and a fresh tray of toast and peach jam and rolled sandwiches was held before her face. She felt nauseous.

“No. Who is next, Lord Hand?”

“There is – no one else, Your Grace. A short day, I'm happy to say.”

“Please, I’m fine, Ser Davos, I wouldn’t want to put anyone aside, especially if they have traveled far or have been waiting long.”

“Of course, Your Grace, yet there are no other petitioners awaiting an audience, at the moment. I’m sure once word gets out, and the weather calms down we will all be grateful for days like this…” He smiled softly at her; her irritation grew.

Dany leaned back in her chair, uncomfortable as the baby hit that nerve in her back. She flinched. Just as well. But… three? Just three petitioners, only three? She recalled in the early days in Meereen when she had asked how many were waiting to see her: 212. She had never asked again. What was the point? She had thought there would always be someone wanting something from her. It was part of her duty as queen…

But now, three petitioners. One wants my land, one wants my treasure, and one wants my husband; I can make none of them happy…

“Ser Davos, will the king be holding court anytime soon?”

“No, Your Grace, not since yesterday, he tends to be out and about when he can and talks to the people at hand.”

“That sounds like him, the people love him.” She smiled, but she wondered if she should be more like that. Or should he be more like her? One of them must be doing it wrong, they had to be united… She felt a headache coming on and a tingling in her feet. She sought a familiar distraction.

“Ser Davos, I need to know what is happening in Meereen. Can you bring Captain Naharis and Lady Kinvara to the Small Council meeting room? I have urgent business elsewhere, but I won’t be long.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace.” Davos extended his hand to help her stand, then bowed his head, though she could see the questions in his eyes. Was he spying on her? Reporting back everything she did, everything she said, to Jon?

“My Lord Commander will accompany me.” Grey Worm nodded quickly and replaced his helmet, motioning to several other Unsullied to follow as the Queen and the direwolf left the makeshift audience chamber and ventured into the narrow passages under the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

Roast mutton with rosemary.

Boiled potatoes, no, fried parsnips and parsleyed carrots.

Fresh bread with jam and herbed butter.

Earlier it had been potato cakes with onions and chives, grilled ham and biscuits. Last night, venison with asparagus and custard.

He had gotten used to rising early at the Citadel, but it was apparent that the kitchens in the Red Keep never rested.

Sam turned to the empty dishes on the table, all that remained of his own earlier meal, a small bowl of stew and a heel of oat bread. And a pitcher of water.

Light footsteps and giggles resounded down the hall, passing outside the heavy door to the long narrow quarters he currently called home.

They had left three stacks of wood for the hearth, but he had let the embers die completely. There was no need for a fire so close to the kitchens.

Suddenly there was a jangle of keys and the door opened; two Northern guards, hands on the hilts of their swords approached him and he backed away as several servant girls rushed in to clear his table, avoiding his greetings, his offer to help. Moments later they were gone, another jangle of keys and he was once again alone. He had thought he had recognized one of the guards, that they had traveled from Winterfell together. But he had to admit he really didn’t pay that much attention to those around him.

He had considered approaching them, to send a message to Jon, that it was all a misunderstanding. But the guards had done nothing to hide their disdain earlier that morning before locking him again in the small storage room.

At least he had a window, a table and 50 or so chairs.

He imagined that the room once contained something of great value, to be secured with such a heavy lock. Silver perhaps, for the royal table. But now, he would have laughed under other circumstances as he gazed at the leaning towers of stacked chairs lined up six deep along the far wall, leaving a space of only a few feet for the small table and the empty flour bags he had tried to sleep on the night before.

His stomach rumbled and he unfastened his quilted black tunic, fumbling with the loops that were meant to carry the belt they had taken, the heat again building in the small room. He hesitated, then turned to retake his seat on the deep stone sill, leaning against the steamed window. It was chained almost completely shut, but if he wiped the sweat from the surface he could see out into the courtyard below, a steady stream of wagons and carts of supplies pulling up to a raised dock where waiting men bundled against the cold unloaded the goods, heaving them into the darkness just outside of his vision as shiny sleet glazed every exposed surface.

Suddenly he jerked upright, startled by gusting wind throwing icy pellets against the glass under his cheek. He shrugged and shifted, again trying to figure out where everything had gone so wrong.

After being herded out of the throne room the day before, he had kept his focus on the steps before him, the shackles tight enough to cause him to trip and stumble even before they reached the stone steps, prodded forward by the Unsullied spears, a Northern officer in the lead.

They were fearful creatures, more so that he was never able to tell if they understood what he was saying or not, listening or not. Reporting back or not.

He hadn’t kept track of where they had taken him, though now he wished he knew better where he was being held within the red fortress.

They had forced him inside the narrow room all the while shouting in his face to be still, quit your whining you traitor, and he had complied, humiliated, closing his eyes to their scorn. Fortunately he was used to such treatment.

Then they had searched him, the chains around his wrists biting and heavy, only unlocking them to remove every stitch of clothing but his small clothes, throwing them into a pile in the corner after being turned inside out.

He needed to get word to Gilly.

He rocked back against the stone wall, moaning and closing his eyes.

Gilly, Little Sam. And their babe. His son. Or daughter, it would be nice to have a daughter.

But his little family was lost out there, in King’s Landing. It would be overwhelming under normal circumstances, for a girl like Gilly. But now, she needed to leave the city, before everything… he wondered what she was thinking, what she had heard.

He’d seen her in the crowd, at the bottom of the steps, when everything was still going according to plan.

Why had she entered the city? Had she come to say goodbye? He tried to brush the worry aside.

His mother and sister, they would look out for her. He had sent a raven as they left Winterfell for King’s Landing, assuring them not to worry, that everything was turning out better than expected. He would take care of them, would be the provider his father always wanted him to be. He wished he could have had a chance to prove himself before, but would make up for it now.

He could even return Heartsbane to its home. It was the right thing to do. He’d searched the battlefield for hours, finally learning it had been collected with Ser Jorah’s body and was intended to join him on the pyre. He’d retrieved it when no one was looking.

It wouldn’t mean much to Gilly, but it would smooth things over with his mother and Talla. It was a start at least.

Sam leaned back against the window wall, closing his eyes.

Wildlings, Free Folk. Craster.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

Sweet, stubborn Gilly.

He’d thought she would be more grateful. He’d saved her baby boy’s life after all. Had rescued her from life as a wildling.

Wasn’t that enough?

She’d followed him from the beginning, trusted him.

Why couldn’t she simply trust him now?

He gently rubbed his bruised wrists as he took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance of browning butter and sugar and vanilla. It was deliberate torture, he was certain.

They’d fought again that last morning, her voice shouting over every attempt to calm.

Their arguments had become so loud and commonplace that the Stark guards that traveled with them from Winterfell had started to set up the Tarly tent on the farthest edge of the encampment, away from the Starks and the other Lords that had joined them along the way.

He was grateful, though, it was a better way to avoid the whispers and sneers so often cast their way.

Sam the Slayer and the Wildling Whore.

He had told Lady Sansa about killing the White Walker and the name he was given in derision. He’d thought she would be impressed, or at least sympathetic.

But the name had spread throughout the camp, both names. He wondered why he was always being picked on, why everyone was so like his father.

Even Gilly had changed. He’d used to be able to impress her with his knowledge, being able to read the marks on paper. But she had learned how to read for herself, poor doomed Shireen had taught her, and so she had started to learn for herself, and had started to ask him questions.

And she used to embrace being called a wildling.

“Makes me sound a bit dangerous, doesn’t it?”

But now she knew it didn’t make her sound dangerous. It made her sound dirty, beastly, uncivilized.

Damn those books!

She’d learned what it meant to be high born, and in turn, what it meant to be low born.

What it meant to be rich, what it meant to be poor.

What it meant to be married, what it meant to bear a bastard.

It was the last that bothered her the most.

What could he have done differently? He felt like he loved her, that maybe she loved him too. They had made a baby after all. Why couldn’t she understand what had to be done?

With Jon on the throne, he would bend the rules for him, as he had done so often in the past.

Release him from his vows, restore him to Lord of Horn Hill, now that his father and brother…

Sam clenched his fists as a wave of anger gripped his lungs, strangling his breathing, his heart.

The Dragons must die.

He’d promised Gilly that they would marry, before the babe was born. Perhaps in King’s Landing, but definitely before they made their way to Horn Hill. He wondered that he’d heard nothing from his mother…

At first Gilly had been excited, had been speaking with the other women of Winterfell about the ceremony, about making a special dress, and a cloak.

She’d decided she wanted to be married right away, in the godswood, in front of the Old Gods, then again in a Sept before the New.

She’d decided she didn’t want to be a wildling whore any more. Not even a Free Folk.

Sam had tried to ask Lady Sansa for permission to marry before the Heart Tree. But she’d refused to speak to him. At least, she’d never answered when he asked to speak with her. So he’d asked Maester Wolkan to ask on his behalf.

But they’d received the raven from King’s Landing before they had the chance to wed. She’d said she understood.

He wondered now…

The wind picked up outside, chattering the windows together, straining at the chain wound through the iron pulls on each pane. The cold air felt good against his face.

Over time Gilly had become curious, had started to listen, to make friends.

Even as they prepared for war, she had become enamored with Ser Brienne of Tarth, watching her in the courtyard as she sparred with Podrick Payne. Her armor, her strength, her confidence. For days she was all Gilly would talk about. The tall warrior woman had made her own way in this world, had made a place for herself, despite what others said behind her back.

Later Sam had seen Gilly and Brienne walking together, deep in some conversation, Podrick tagging along behind. He had watched, well heard really, as Little Sam fussed and screeched, surprising everyone when he settled quickly in Brienne’s arms after she’d become frustrated and had scooped him from Gilly’s grip without even a pause in her stride or her story.

He’d wondered what they had to talk about, picking up bits and pieces as they passed by, Gilly asking about being an unclaimed woman in the south, explaining how wildling women learn to fight at an early age. Her last question hung in the air, in his thoughts as he’d tried to sleep that night.

“What’s it like in the south for a bastard?”

Sam wondered if that was when she had stopped seeing him as her savior.

So he’d reminded her of what her life would be as Lady of Horn Hill. The parties, raising the children, running the household. The food, the clothes, the garden… the weather. She’d never be cold again, their children would get the best education, none of them would ever lack. He would provide it all for her.

She’d relaxed and smiled then.

“Thank you, Sam. Thank you for taking care of us.”

He wasn’t sure what exactly he’d said to change her mind, but he was content that she was again in agreement with his plans. That’s all that he cared about, at the time.

But everything had changed, in the blink of an eye, as it had so often as of late.

The first time, well, he’d been flattered when he’d received the note from Lady Sansa to come to her solar. He’d been helping prepare for the Dead, but had dropped everything, hoping she’d agree to let them wed in the godswood, having to ask guards and servants for directions to her room. There were guards outside the room, and he had double-, triple-checked the note to make sure there had been no mistake, relieved when the door swung wide and he was met just inside by Lady Stark herself.

He’d bowed and stuttered, even more surprised to find her siblings, Arya and Bran also seemingly waiting, joined soon by Tyrion Lannister himself.

How could he have known? So much misery, destruction. Deception.

But once the wheel had begun turning, there was no stopping it.

He would have been at peace, with the betrayal and trickery, if only their plans had succeeded.

He hated her almost as much, no, more than his father. He even sometimes wondered if Randyll Tarly had been as evil as he had imagined when he was among the living.

But Daenerys Targaryen, of her wickedness he had no doubt. The Dragons had to end.

How had it all fallen apart?

It was a good plan, a clever plan.

Bran had seen it all unfold, told them as it happened. Fire and blood, dragons and ashes. Daggers and death. He’d assured them all as they prepared for the final moves of their own private game of thrones.

Sam bounced his head against the wall, marking the pulse of blood surging through his aching head.

It was nightfall when the raven had arrived, giving the state of things in King’s Landing, The Dragon Queen dead, Tyrion and Jon imprisoned. Tens of thousands burned alive.

Sam had been horrified at the news, distraught as he’d tried to speak with Sansa and Bran. But they wouldn’t talk to him in private, and would drop their conversation when he tried to join them.

Had Bran seen this? When he saw the dragon flying over King’s Landing, is this what he had seen?

Could he have warned the Queen, warned Jon, prevented it all? All the death?

This was not what he had imagined, not in his wildest dreams.

But once their plan was in motion, he knew he was no longer involved, in whatever their new plans were, had even begun to have suspicions about what purpose he now served.

No bother. What’s done is done. He had enough to look forward to as they planned to leave for King’s Landing. The Mad Queen was dead, at Jon’s own hand. He’d come to see her for what she was, and would be grateful for what they’d done. Perhaps he would tell Jon himself, when the time was right. Though so much was unclear.

Someone had called a Great Council. To decide Jon’s fate, and Lord Tyrion’s. And the fate of the kingdom, to choose a new King.

Of course they were tied together, they would choose Jon, the rightful heir of the Iron Throne.

And he was invited to be a part of it all, taking part in history instead of reading about it.

Would his father be proud?

Probably not.

No matter now. His father and brother were gone.

But he had avenged their murders.

And they’d again assured him they’d put Jon on the throne. He was the rightful heir, would make a dutiful king, a great king. And since no one would be the wiser, he’d be grateful for their support, they’d all have a role in rebuilding the kingdom. Their secret would bind them together, for the good of the realm.

It would be glorious.

But he’d felt something was wrong almost as soon as they left Winterfell. Gilly had become strangely quiet, even as his own excitement grew.

They’d left with the Starks, Sansa and Bran. Earlier he’d asked after Lady Arya, but they didn’t answer, and since it didn’t concern him he didn’t think anything of it.

Soon other Northern houses joined them, clamoring to ride hard to free their king, Cerwyn, Glover, Forrest. Then – House Arryn, House Tully - and their own little wagon was pushed back in the caravan farther and farther until they traveled just ahead of the cook wagon. Still they would join the high lords for meals, when they had them. He would be a high lord soon after all, but they were in a hurry, to save Jon.

That’s what he was told, that’s what he believed.

Until Gilly overheard them talking. She’d been looking for Ser Brienne, was told she was running an errand for Lady Stark, to wait by the fire just by the Stark tent for her to return. The wind had picked up and she was carrying a sleeping child, so she’d stepped toward the tent to lay Little Sam on the bench just outside the tied tent flap.

There were no guards outside the tent, stationed instead around the edge of the clearing. No one to hear, no one to listen to the whispers.

But she had heard – everything.

They were gloating, Bran and Sansa, how easy it was to kill the Dragon Queen, how easy to destroy Jon.

”The Dragons must die.”

She wasn’t sure of the meaning of some of the words, but she had come to him straight away after Ser Brienne had returned and herded her away from the tent, out of hearing.

But she had heard bits and pieces, enough to find it strange.

The North would be independent. Bran would be king of six kingdoms.

She was concerned, had raised questions, but he was sure she had misheard and brushed her aside.

Jon would be king, they’d promised.

Then why wouldn’t they talk to him, why all the secrecy? If everything was going as planned.

At first Sam hadn’t thought much of it, but what if Gilly had heard it right? Jon would not likely mind if Sansa ruled an independent North. But over time, little conversations here and there, and he’d come to realize that it was not Jon that they planned to put on the Iron Throne, but Bran.

Brandon Stark. The Three-Eyed Raven. Who could not be Lord of Winterfell but plotted to be King.

All his plans, for nothing.

From then on, he’d not slept well, not well at all, and now the past few days had crowded out the confidence he had once relied on.

He should have torn up that note.

He should have told Jon, sent him a raven, a message even before he arrived in Winterfell. Told the Maester, told someone who would have…

He should have kept his mouth shut.

He needed to do something now.

He had started asking questions as they traveled the King’s Road, gently at first, pushing harder as he was interrupted as soon as he had begun. Then he himself had heard the veiled conversations between the Starks and Edmure Tully and Robin Arryn, felt the subtle tension between the Starks and the Northern lords.

He should have paid more attention earlier, perhaps this was the real reason his tent had been moved farther away.

At first the other lords had kept to themselves, traveling to King’s Landing for the Great Council. Soon, though, Lords Tully and Arryn spent hours late at night huddled with the siblings in the Stark tent, guarded by Brienne and the Stark guards, posted a distance away, out of hearing.

One night he’d tried to enter, but the guards would not let him through.

Family business, he was told.

Finally, as they could see the Red Keep in the distance, he’d tried to force his way into their tent but was almost struck down by the guards.

He’d almost made it back to his own tent before a messenger caught up to him, called him back, to meet with the Starks face to face.

When he’d entered the tent, he was struck by the heavy silence, the falseness of the warmth of the fire. Bran sat emotionless in his wheeled chair, his legs covered in fur, yet he could see the illusion of non-committal arrogance. How had he not seen this before?

And Lady Sansa Stark, she avoided his gaze, his greeting, continuing to concentrate on the needlework on her lap, a beautiful woolen dress, bordered with winding branches and weirwood leaves.

She only looked up when Bran broke the silence.

“I understand you have questions.”

His voice was smooth and flat, though his eyes held a certain intensity he could not recall.

He needed to know the truth, had been planning his questions, bolstering his courage. He took a deep breath, then pulled a seat close to the siblings, as close as the space allowed.

Then he’d done it. For once he was proud of himself, he’d done the courageous thing. Though he wondered… if he had the chance to do it over…

He’d asked them, had their plans changed? And to his surprise, Bran nodded. And they laid it all out before him, their vision for their new world, for Westeros, perhaps beyond.

The Starks would take their rightful place, take what was owed them, for their honor, for what they had lost.

At first it had made sense, they would be better rulers than most. But then he remembered his own, more personal problem.

”What about Jon?”

“The Dragons must die.”

“Why? Why not Jon on the Iron Throne? He’s the rightful heir, he’d be a good king, he saved us all.”

Sansa had chuffed to herself as she worked. “Bran and Arya saved us all, Jon was lost by then, you know it’s true.” She never looked up from her stitching. Never looked him in the eye.

Sam shook his head and leaned closer to the young man in the chair. “Well I don’t understand then, why did you tell me that the time was right to tell Jon the truth of who he was? Wasn’t that important?”

Sam noticed Sansa startle briefly, perhaps she was unaware.

“We were in your room in Winterfell, I had just arrived to help Jon. You said that Jon was really Jon Sand, he was born in Dorne so would be named as a bastard of Dorne.”

Sam waited, but Bran let his gaze fade into the darkness of the tent. He remembered the panic rising, his throat becoming dry. He had glanced at Sansa, noticing she had stopped her work and was listening, her head still dropped to hide it. He leaned in further.

“Bran, wait, I don’t understand. Did you know? So, you knew that wasn’t true? You lied, why did, wait…” He’d tried to understand, to put the pieces together. But they were always just beyond his reach.

Bran raised his head to meet his gaze. “I'd seen it long ago, that Jon was in truth Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince who was Promised, the one to end the Long Night. The beginning of the end of everything.”

Sam sat back in his seat, watched as surprise quickly flitted across Sansa’s face only to fade into practiced indifference.

Bran nodded gently, seeming to relish in revealing his secrets. “Lyanna told her brother Eddard Stark the name of her child and made him promise to protect him from Robert. She knew she was dying, and that Robert would kill him if he found out.”

Sam was indignant. “You already knew he was trueborn, that he was Prince, no, by then he was already the King, the last Targaryen, he would have…”

“You needed to be the one to figure it out, to be the one to tell him.”

“But why? He…”

Sansa raised her voice. “He's a dragon, Sam. The Dragons must end, they bring only destruction.”

“Why? It’s Jon, he’s a good man, you know he’ll…”

“He can’t sit on the throne, Sam. It was right what you did, what you’ve done.”

Sam froze as the blood drained from his head, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. All this time, it was true, he’d been used to trick, defeat Jon.

All of his plans for nothing.

Bran shifted slightly and peered into the flames. “It was necessary.”

The next thing he recalled was being walked back to his tent by Sansa Stark, her arm through his, holding him close.

“These are dangerous times we are living in Samwell Tarly. It would be a shame if something happened to Gilly, to Little Sam, to your unborn child.”

He’d nearly tripped, she couldn’t be suggesting… she eased her grip, just a bit.

“King Bran will need a new Grand Maester and would like to appoint you to that position.” She paused as Sam struggled to understand. “That’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

Suddenly he had arrived at his own tent, where he paused before entering, still unsure what he had heard. Gilly must have heard him outside, she opened the tent flap and pulled him in, shushing him to not wake Little Sam, asleep in the corner.

“What did you find out, Sam? Is everything all right?”

Sam nodded as he poured himself a cup of wine to give himself time to take it all in, to think of something to say.

“Bran is going to make me his Grand Maester.”

He’d decided to keep the threats to himself. He’d regret that decision soon enough.

“I thought Jon was going to free you from your oaths, make you Lord of Horn Hill when he became King?” She’d stepped back from him as she whispered, he’d tried to approach her but she turned away.

“I wouldn’t be very good as a Lord, it’s why my father banished me to Castle Black. I’m not much of a leader, and I’ve always wanted to be a Maester.”

Gilly had wrapped her arms around herself as she turned, eyes pleading.

“Jon is in prison, he might not even be alive by the time we get there.”

He could tell Gilly was as upset and confused as he was.

“Why did all of this have to happen then? What will happen to us?” She’d waved toward the sleeping child in the corner. Her voice had gone even more quiet; Sam later remembered wishing she had returned to yelling at him.

“Our child will be the heir to Horn Hill, that makes you Lady of Horn Hill!”

“I don’t want it. I never wanted that. I just wanted for us to be a real family, like you promised.”

She dropped her arms as she approached him. Sam could see the quiet anger in her eyes.

“Brienne explained it to me, about what it means to be a bastard. She told me that Jon Snow can’t be a King or be married or have children, and even though he saved the world, he can’t even have his own home.”

Sam bobbed his head. “Yes, technically that’s right. But that’s more because of the oaths he’s taken, and people don’t know who he truly is.”

“She said that all Ned Stark had to do was ask his good friend the King to legitimize Jon, and he’d be a Stark. But he never did it, and instead he sent him far away from the only family he’d ever known.”

Sam watched her quietly. He didn’t understand why she was so concerned about what had happened to Jon.

Gilly rubbed the bump on her belly. “Ned Stark knew Jon was born to be King. It’s said that he was the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet he threw away his kin, his king, and lied to everyone to protect his friend. Is this what honor means in the south? To betray your family, to lie to your friends?”

Realization had struck him like a thunderbolt and he reached out to take her hands.

“That’s not what I’m doing, Gilly. I don’t think I can help Jon anymore. But I will never send you away, you’re my family, I would never…”

“But that’s what you are doing. If you’re Grand Maester, you can’t marry me, you can’t be father to our children. You’ll let our child be a bastard all his life, let me be made fun of, everyone looking down on me all my life!” She wiggled her hands from his grasp. Little Sam had begun fussing in his bed, and he watched as Gilly sat next to him and rubbed his back, cooing as he began to breathe deeply in his sleep.

“It will be alright, Gilly. Perhaps, later, I can ask Bran to…”

“No, Sam, no more. You’ve abandoned us for the last time.” She turned on her son’s bed and quietly opened a wooden chest nestled in the corner. Sam watched her shoulders fall as she removed a small leather pouch from within the rolls of garments, holding it tightly for a moment before rising and handing the pouch to Sam.

Dread fell on Sam as he held the pouch. He knew what was inside, knew what it meant. He tried to return it to her but she pulled away, returning to sit by her sleeping son once again.

Sam opened the pouch and emptied the contents into his hand. She’d kept it safe, his mother’s thimble. He’d give it back to her in the morning, when her anger had abated. After all, she’d returned it to him before.

But this time she’d refused. He’d shut his eyes to her scorn, her derision. He’d seen the same in his father’s eyes.

Maybe there was something wrong with him after all.

He’d argued with himself as he sat by the window.

‘She couldn’t leave him, she didn’t even know where they were, where would she go, who would take care of them?’

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine. Once she learned that a shipload of Wildlings, Free Folk had arrived in King’s Landing, she could join them. Then return North, the True North, back beyond the Wall.

Maybe that was for the best. They’d be safe with her own people.

Muffled shouts from below echoed between the stone walls as barrels were rolled off a heavy wagon and into the keep below. Earlier he had tried to keep track of what kind of goods were being delivered, from where. Not all of the wagons flew banners, so he had given up on that, at least for now.

Sam ran his hands over his tunic, as he had done so many times the night before, hope against hope that there was a scrap of parchment to write on. He could use the charred remains of the fire to write with, anything to send a note, to Gilly, or better yet to Tormund.

Sweat glistened on his forehead, either from the heat of the kitchen hearths or the fear gathering within.

He’d been so sure of his future, for once looking forward to his life. But now?

For weeks he had been imagining himself as Lord Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill. He would make changes, be a good lord, would make a name for himself, would raise a family.

He’d pictured himself seated in the Grand Hall with his family and high lords around him, honoring him, lifting their cups to his wisdom.

He’d be admired, respected. A dream come true. But it could not be.

Instead, he would be Grand Maester, of the Six Kingdoms.

Grand Maester Samwell Tarly.

In service to King Bran of House Stark. The Three-Eyed Raven.

Clearly his help was appreciated, his insights, his knowledge.

He had accepted the new reality. He would benefit, would be able to help others.

He’d arrived at the Great Council ready to begin a new life, a new purpose. Then things had gone wrong, terribly wrong, and he struggled to sift through his memory to discover the root cause.

Tyrion had proposed a new way to rule, to choose the king by council, by this council. And he’d nominated Bran the Broken. To be King. Of the Seven Kingdoms. Or the Six.

And they had voted. He’d been tempted to nominate Jon, as he had nominated him for Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He’d assure Jon of his intent when next they spoke, that he had planned to stand for him. Only he hadn’t. He had voted for Bran.

Even as they made their way to the Red Keep, to introduce the new king, he had decided it would be better if he didn’t see him off. His best friend, exiled to Castle Black.

Sam felt the bitterness of shame and regret rise in his gullet.

He’d had only a few encounters with Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. Once Hand to King Claimant Stannis Baratheon, then Hand to the King in the North. He seemed to know Jon well; he had stood for him.

Sam had been excited when Davos had pushed for Jon to be named king, not that he had anything against Bran, not as king, not then, but Jon was his friend, he’d be a good king, it was why he had agreed to the plan to begin with. Well maybe not the main reason, but he would certainly benefit.

And Sam had been watching Tyrion's face when Davos mentioned Varys’s ravens.

Varys had known. Tyrion had known. Sansa had told them, or had Jon himself?

Either way, others knew, others throughout Westeros.

And the questions, questions he himself had been asking… no, he was running from them, ignoring them. Discounting all doubts. Even as Davos had spoken those questions aloud.

He moaned inwardly as his chin hit his chest. He should have agreed with the old man. Jon should have been chosen from the very beginning. Instead he had defended Bran, relieved to take part, be helpful, to have the answers, to explain. To defend the Three-Eyed Raven.

Though now he wondered again, as he’d sometimes wondered before, why Bran couldn’t defend himself. Explain himself. Why did he need someone else to take up his cause?

Then it was over, and Bran was King. And Sansa was Queen.

And it all made sense then.

Too late.

He’d reminded himself of the veiled threats on the King’s Road, some not so hidden.

And he had relented. Determined to see it through.

They had made their way to the Red Keep. He’d stood by Davos on the steps, even as the Lords barraged him with questions.

He’d tried to make it up to Jon, explained to them all that he had the strongest claim to the throne. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps…

But Davos had turned and walked up the stairs, Northern soldiers and Unsullied shadowing his steps, keeping pace with King Bran the Broken, his Hand and his sister the Queen. He had planted seeds of doubt, watered them, seen them sprout. Then abandoned the promising harvest.

He should have known something was amiss. Should have turned and left, returned to Gilly, returned to Horn Hill.

But they had gathered at the top of the stairs. He trailed behind of course. He was not one of them, though they would have gotten nowhere…

No, don’t even think about that.

No one can ever know.

They had entered the Great Hall, into the Audience Chamber, what was left of it, crowded with onlookers, lords and ladies and small folk and laborers.

And dozens of Unsullied, Northern soldiers, cloaked knights in shining white and gold.

He’d felt his knees waver. There was something dreadfully wrong.

Davos gave the nod, and the tarp had been raised, and there she was.

The Mad Queen, on the Iron Throne.

Alive and well.

Confusion dulled his senses as she looked their way, cold and hateful and arrogant.

No! No! No!

The Dragons must be stopped! Bloodshed for a thousand years!

All for nothing!

They would have to try again.

A groan escaped from Tyrion, followed shortly by a loud gasp from the normally intimidating woman to his side. Grunts of laughter and snorts coming from those behind and to either side. Sam ducked as Edmure Tully shouted out, breaking him out of his stupor.

There she sat, quietly amused at the terror she had caused.

Sam felt his hands and feet go numb.

Then Jon entered. Also alive and well.

For a fleeting moment he had thought that she had killed him, had expected she would have killed him eventually. She was a vile, jealous woman who could not control her murderous tendencies.

Yet there he was, smiling, happier than he’d ever seen him, speaking softly to the Queen. Wearing garments fit for a king.

‘You stand in the presence of King Aegon Reborn, Sixth of His Name, of House Stark and House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, of House Targaryen, Protectors of the Seven Kingdoms, King and Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Long May They Reign!’

He had clambered to the floor, then rose to his knee before the throne, his thoughts jumbled.

What was happening?

He glanced toward Tyrion, his face stricken with panic. And he saw the Queen Claimant’s face, red as her Tully crown. Then he saw Bran, a slight smile seeming to flit quickly across his lips. The words that followed made no sense, still made no sense.

‘Accept my recognition of your claim to the Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.’

He even seemed happy about it.

‘I have survived your attempts to poison me, drive me mad and murder me.’

No, this couldn’t be.

‘Jon Snow, rather than being the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, was in truth the trueborn son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell, giving him a claim to the throne, and making him what some believe to be the Rightful Heir of the Iron Throne, and by blood my nephew.’

It was all out in the open, now. He didn’t know whether to cheer or panic.

‘...the joint rule of King Aegon, Sixth of His Name, of House Stark and House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys, First of Her Name, of House Targaryen, according to and abiding by the Light of the Seven… the marriage between King Aegon and Queen Daenerys, and they were therefore duly wed by myself in the Light of the Seven.’

They’d discussed this possibility in Sansa’s solar, the five of them, concluded it would be the worst possible outcome. One which had to be prevented at all costs.

Yet here it was happening. Why hadn’t Bran seen this?

She had bewitched Jon. He was too gullible and naive, he didn’t see her for what she was, what she had done. He would need to explain to Jon that she had to be stopped.

Yet he could see how happy he looked, how could he not be happy for his friend?

‘The Crown charges you with Treason and Conspiracy to assassinate your Queen for personal reasons...’

He’d said goodbye to Jon in Winterfell, had expected to see him next seated on the Iron Throne, crown on his head. He’d expected clemency, forgiveness, rewards.

Not this…

He’d not really thought about what they had been doing. How could doing the right thing be treason? Bran would explain what he saw, why they had done what they did. And Jon would listen and convince the Mad Queen to spare their lives and send them home.

Sam again felt the blinding panic, choking his breathing. He could explain…

But there was nothing to explain. Bran had lied, manipulated, used them all.

Sam had turned to seek his friend’s gaze; Jon would listen to him. It would all make sense. He just needed to talk to him. They were friends after all.

But he never had the chance.

Everything was a jumble after that. He’d been surprised to see Ghost bolt through the surprised crowd, relieved to see he was followed by Tormund sauntering into the Red Keep.

But the dragons, his mind reeled as he remembered the beat of their wings as they’d soared over the broken roof. Rhaegal, alive! Had Bran missed this too?

Tyrion was accusing; Sansa, outraged. And Sam had done what he had always done, stepped in to defend and explain the indefensible and unexplainable.

‘Where’s Arya?’

He’d wondered that himself. Couldn’t believe what he’d heard next, that she was in King’s Landing to kill the Queen if Jon had failed.

She was a trained assassin, she’d killed the Night King. She could have killed the Dragon Queen at any time. Could have killed Cersei.

His blood chilled.

Wouldn’t that have been a better plan? Send Arya to kill Cersei, put Jon on the throne right then and there?

Why was that not tried first? Before…

Sam winced as he remembered the rage and sorrow in Jon’s voice.

‘Sansa, you killed Arya. You and Tyrion and Sam and Bran. My hand held the blade, but you are the ones who killed her.’

Jon loved Arya, she was his favorite. He loved her, yet he killed his little sister.

For her.

He’d gasped at what came next, remembered the surprise that had rippled through the audience, he’d felt the horror of it.

‘Sansa, I didn’t tell you about the babe... I didn’t want you to know you’d be a kinslayer.’

Shame threatened to engulf him. Who would do such a thing? Kill a child in its mother’s womb? Jon’s child…

Even now Sam couldn’t bear it. Bran knew about Jon’s child, but still led them to plot and plan. His best friend’s child.

He took a deep breath as realization dawned. He had begun to understand now. Jon’s rage, the Dragon Queen’s arrogance.

She’d indeed trapped him, beguiled him. Jon was honorable, naive. He had done his duty.

Yes, that's what had happened.

Sam felt a small smile settle on his lips as he eased back onto the window sill. He understood now. He could put it all behind him now, and focus on what was important.

Gilly. She wouldn’t feel safe, wouldn’t be safe in the Northern camp any longer. He needed to get word to her. He’d send word to Tormund, he could find her, give her a message. He’d have to word it carefully, someone else might read it first. When had he become so paranoid?

Sam could still feel the cold steel pinch the skin on his wrists as the chains were locked shut.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, yawning as the wind blew through the crack between the window panes.

It would all work out in the end. It always did. His stomach rumbled as he clasped his hands across his belly, sighing.

Living death, engulfing darkness.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.

Sharp fingers clawed at his clothes, his face, pulling him under the decayed flesh and protruding bones.

The screams of the dying echoed in his ears.

He wasn’t a fighter, still a coward. But for Gilly…

He had tried to swing his sword, truly he had, then he had tried to run.

But they had surrounded him in the dark, up against the cold stone wall.

Arms outstretched, bony fingers pointing at him, screaming, accusing.

Father. Brother. Mother and sister…

Pointing. Coward!

Ice ran down his spine.

Maester Aemon, Jeor Mormont…

Craven!

Disappointment flamed in their eyes.

Edd, Pyp, Grenn… They came closer, hands reaching for him.

Traitor!

Sam clapped his hands over his ears as the roar of death and hatred overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes, waiting for death, knowing he had failed…

But death didn’t come, and he opened his eyes again, startled as he found himself in the throne room.

Disbelieving. Unable to breathe. Unable to run.

The Dragon Queen on her throne, blood dripping from her fingers, black blood from her open mouth, eyes blue as the dead.

She stood slowly, then descended the hewn stairs, steady steps toward his battered figure. Sam tried to move, to run, even to kneel.

She smiled at him, wickedly, and Sam felt a calm envelop him.

Yes, this was right. The right thing to do.

Her rotting breath folded over his face as she stopped in front of him, gloating, whispering guttural accusations.

Gilly, Sam, Little Sam and his unborn babe. Father, brother, home.

He took a deep breath, nodded to himself and lunged, driving the dagger deep into her dead heart, waiting for her to shatter as all dead things did.

Bright red blood spurted into his eyes, covering his face and her pale skin, her eyes shocked and pained. She pulled the blade from her chest, let it drop to the stone floor as she fell to her knees.

He felt hands grabbing from behind, pulling him down, ripping his skin, dragging his head back. He struggled, finally pulling himself free, ready to gloat over the figure crumpled and moaning on the floor before him.

He reached out, tugged at the shoulder, his breath leaving him as he recognized the bright eyes and crooked smile, twisted now in pain, and the limp brown hair of his beloved. She gripped her belly, panicked and struggling, reaching toward him as he helplessly watched the life leave her eyes. He tried to hold her, to comfort her, but somehow could not reach her, could only stand there, the others crowding in and watching, the chamber still but for the large black bird cawing as it perched on the throne. He gasped as he woke, the pounding on the door mimicking the pounding in his head, garbled words echoing in his ears.

“Samwell Tarly, you have a visitor!”

The key rubbed in the lock as it turned, the door swinging wide into the dark room.

Sam struggled to get to his feet as he rubbed his eyes, sliding off the stone sill as he tried to regain his bearings, shocked when he finally registered the identity of his visitor.

“Grand Maester, it’s so good to see you, I’m so glad you’ve come, I can explain everything…”

“I truly doubt that, Tarly. But I've come to speak with you anyway, by request of the King.”

“King? Oh, Jon, yes, I was hoping to speak to him directly, actually.”

Grand Maester Lesser chuckled softly as he shook his head.

“Perhaps some other time, but first … well, the king wishes to give you the opportunity to confess, to explain your actions, to tell us what happened, to fill in the missing pieces.”

Sam recoiled at the scorn in his visitor’s voice, only then realizing he was not dressed properly for receiving someone of such high position. Sam scurried to retrieve his tunic, nearly tripping, grateful that the Grand Maester waited patiently.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He fastened the tunic and straightened as he turned to face his accuser.

“Truly? Oathbreaker. Thief. Traitor. Murderer.”

The Grand Maester was almost jovial, glancing at the contents of the room before angling the chair next to the little table to be able to observe his subject. He seated himself calmly, placing a folded parchment on the table, tapping it twice.

Sam flinched at the words but determined to defend himself, his eyes briefly hovering over the parchment.

“It’s not what it seems. I can explain, if I could only…”

“By all means, explain.”

“No, I meant to Jon, if I could just talk to Jon.”

The Grand Maester smiled briefly then leaned back in the chair.

“Samwell Tarly. The King has told how you first met, how he protected you, helped you, let you flee with your - woman - to the Citadel when he needed you by his side, because he trusted you. And this is how you repay him for that trust?”

“They… they promised they would put Jon on the throne. He’s the rightful King. I tried to tell them who Jon was at the Great Council, but no one believed me, no one listened.”

“Yet you yourself voted for Bran Stark to be king, knowing what you know.”

“Jon never wanted to be King, I knew he would be happy in the North. I know if I can just talk to him, he’ll understand.”

“So you thought he’d be happy, after he murdered the woman he loved, murdered his unborn child.”

“I didn’t know about that until later, that she was carrying his child.”

“Yet you planned to betray your friend, and your Queen. How is that not treason, how is that not worthy of death?”

Sam searched for something to say, but all his rehearsed explanations deserted him, leaving him mute before his audience.

The Grand Maester drummed his fingers on the table.

“Truly you are a stupid man, Samwell Tarly.”

Sam scowled as his gaze fell to the floor.

“They said… Jon is the rightful king, he should be on the throne.”

“That’s what you were counting on, wasn’t it. That he would be King and would be lenient toward you, save you from yourself?”

Sam rocked from side to side, from one foot to the other. He had the answers, they were just not forming words that he could speak at the moment.

“At the Great Council, you said that Bran had seen a dragon flying over the city, and Bran Stark on the Iron Throne, all of you standing with him. Tell me…”

The senior maester stood and in a few steps was nose to nose with Sam.

“Do you have any remorse for all the tens of thousands that have died, the thousands more that have been injured, the upheaval, disease and chaos you have caused?”

Sam closed his eyes. He felt nauseous.

“Their blood and bodies lie at your feet, Tarly!”

Sam sucked in his breath but refused to look up. He’d been wondering the same, why he didn’t feel more remorse than he did. He’d thought about all the times he’d failed to do his duty and others had paid for his dereliction: he’d failed to send the raven, failed to protect his Lord Commander, failed to tell Jon about the dragonglass. If Jon had been there, at Craster’s Keep, Jeor Mormont would be alive to this very day. But he’d abandoned his brothers, his friends Edd and Grenn, to save Gilly and her babe. He had no answers for himself, so he pushed these thoughts aside as he had done so many times before.

“When did you find out they were going to put Bran on the throne and exile your best friend Jon Snow? What did they promise you?”

Sam heaved a sigh of resignation. There was no reason to hold back at this point, at least about these recent events.

“I was promised that Bran would appoint me to be his Grand Maester.”

He hung his head, fully aware he was in the presence of the current Grand Maester. Yet he was not prepared for the loud guffaw that echoed off the stone walls of his makeshift prison cell.

Grand Maester Lesser stepped back to the small table where he picked up and unfolded the parchment, holding it in the light coming in from the window.

“This letter is from Archmaester Ebrose, recounting your disappointing behavior while a novice among their order. Your lover and child, well, apparently no one believed the child wasn’t yours. His name, ‘Little Sam,’ fairly confirms that, don't you think?”

Sam wanted to answer that yes, if it had turned out well, he had expected recognition, reward. But he knew that was the wrong answer so he kept his mouth shut even as he wrung his hands, sweat oozing under his tunic.

“You stole valuable books and parchments from the Citadel. That offense alone is worth the loss of your hand. Did you know that? Yet you stole those particular books, stole them from the “Restricted” section. Tell me Tarly, what is the penalty for entering the reserve section without permission?”

Sam dropped his head. “Expulsion from the Citadel.”

“Yes, expulsion from the Citadel. Yet you did it anyway. Why do you think those books, those particular books, were kept behind locked gates?”

Sam took a deep breath, he had practiced the defense of his actions on the long road to King’s Landing. “The maesters there, they don’t want people to know what they are hiding. They want to control knowledge, protect their position…” It sounded feeble in the light of day.

Lesser huffed, an amused disgust settling on his features.

“That may indeed be true in some cases. But in this case, Tarly, they were kept protected because the knowledge within was so valuable, it needed to be available when needed.”

Sam looked up quizzically.

“Don’t worry though, we have the books, and the parchments, and the septon’s diary, everything we need, everything you stole, and then some.”

Sam felt his heart race. He had planned to trade them for his freedom.

Lesser re-took his seat and let his eyes rove over the letter again.

“Tell me, Lord Tarly, do you recall a conversation with Archmaester Ebrose, about the Legend of the White Walkers?”

Sam nodded.

“Do you recall what action he planned to take upon hearing your story, your personal experience?”

Sam nodded again.

“Tell me.”

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes as he sought to remember every detail of the conversation.

“He, he promised he would get to the truth of it one way or another. He said he would send a raven to Maester Wolkan, at Winterfell, for more information.”

Grand Maester Lesser nodded. “Yes, precisely. He needed more information, sought it out, and received it. Tarly, are you listening?”

Sam met his gaze and squirmed as sweat gathered on his forehead, over his upper lip.

“Yet even as Archmaester Ebrose had sent the raven to Winterfell, he had gathered certain Maesters to explore further. The Citadel is the memory of the world, after all. Imagine their surprise to find several of the most necessary books to be missing. Of course they knew who had taken them; you left Oldtown just in time. You were to be arrested and imprisoned by the end of that day if they caught you.”

Sam heaved himself a step forward, waving his hand toward the parchment. “But it worked, I helped end the Long Night!”

Lesser leaned back in the chair. “Do you think that justifies your actions, Lord Tarly?”

He wanted to answer yes, but again he knew that was the wrong answer. Sam shook his head.

“This was the second time you should have been expelled. The first time was when you decided to secretly treat a case of grayscale, one of the most devastating and gruesome diseases known to the modern world, potentially causing the spread not only among the Citadel, but all of Oldtown, perhaps the whole region and beyond. No precautions had been taken, it could have easily spread to others. You put them all at great risk, the whole world, because you were sure no one was as smart as you. Did you think that your success would spare you from repercussions?”

Again he wanted to answer yes, but shook his head instead.

Lesser laid the unfolded letter on the table. Sam recognized the fine handwriting of the archmaester, the seal of the Citadel at the bottom.

“The fact that Archmaester Ebrose didn’t remove you from the Citadel right then and there was quite the testament of how highly he thought of you. You seem to be rather proficient at disappointing those who see good in you, Tarly.”

Sam tried to bolster his courage, such as it was, to defend himself. He had saved Jorah after all. The Dragon Queen was appreciative, she’d said so herself. Then he cringed as he remembered that day, hearing praise and thanks only to be followed with such damning treachery. He paused too long.

“So here we are. You’ve made poor choices, time and again. This time however you are a traitor, and are indeed responsible for the lives of tens of thousands. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Sam scowled. What could he say to make him understand, to explain?

“I didn’t know!”

Lesser’s temper flared. “You were a novice, untrained, impetuous, disrespectful. Fully undeserving of trust or confidence. Why would you be included in something so significant as the affairs of the safety of the realm, perhaps of all mankind?”

Sam was stricken. “No, that’s why I was sent there, to the Citadel, to become a Maester to help Jon fight the White Walkers!”

“You wanted to be a maester, yet you had such little confidence in the Citadel itself. You could not consider that there was already a strategy in play. There was enough evidence to imply that the existence of the White Walkers was plausible. Dragons were returned to the living after all, and the rumors of what had happened at Castle Black, at Hardhome, the risk was too great to completely ignore any possibility.

“So Archmaester Ebrose had planned to reach out to King’s Landing, to Queen Cersei, even that scoundrel Qyburn, to inform them of the possibility of this threat, to find a way to confirm these suspicions. It wasn’t thought to be that difficult to find the truth of an army of dead men marching on the Wall. Then to contact every maester of every House, to rally all of Westeros, just as you had suggested. But he couldn’t, because the best resource, the best history, was that book, ‘Legends of the Long Night.’ And because you had taken it, the Citadel wasn’t able to mount that strategy, your strategy. The only account that this - event - could have actually happened before - had been stolen.”

Lesser folded the parchment before him and tucked it into his tunic.

“By you.”

Sam shook his head slowly. He reminded himself he’d done nothing wrong.

“I’ve read it, Tarly. ‘Legends of the Long Night.’ If it had been available to us, it could have prevented so much death, could have prevented the fall of the Wall to begin with.”

Lesser stood and walked to the window.

“Just think of it, Tarly! What if all of Westeros had been fully united to battle the Night King, with the dragons and the armies and the obsidian from Dragonstone?”

Sam’s heart was racing. He didn’t know.

“How many didn’t have to die? At the battle of Winterfell, here in King’s Landing?”

“It wasn’t my fault, I thought what I was doing, nobody… no one else had seen what I had seen. I killed a white walker, a wight, even a Thenn…”

“And you thought you shouldn’t have to convince anyone, earn trust, provide proof. Everyone should just believe you because you killed a creature that doesn’t exist?”

“Yes, no one believed me about anything.”

“And that’s all that mattered to you.” Lesser paused to gather his thoughts, silent as small crystals of ice tinged against the fogged window. Finally he spoke softly.

“This is the difference, Tarly, between a selfish coward and a true hero. Jon Snow, King Aegon now. He didn’t care who got the credit, whether he himself was believed or not. His only concern was to save the North, to save people’s lives. It’s why people follow him, and don’t believe you.”

Sam shrunk back. How many times had he been called a coward; he’d never realized how terrible the truth could be.

“All in all, you have very poor judgment, and your poor decisions have finally caught up with you. But the King has extended this one last chance for you to confess to your most recent misdeeds. He promises some level of leniency, for the sake of the friendship you once shared, though he now sees it for the treachery behind it all.”

Sam straightened. He needed to get a message to Gilly.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Grand Maester Lesser nodded with a slight smile on his face. “Of course, though I would remind you that we have gone through all of your possessions, your letters, notes, everything that you brought with you and everything you left behind in Winterfell.”

Sam flinched. He’d begun to make plans, had put them in writing. He had never imagined… they would not need much more to find him guilty of betraying both the Dragon Whore and Jon Snow.

“And what about this girl, what had you thought to do with her?”

Lesser continued at Sam’s silence.

“The Citadel has been a celibate order for its entire existence. And the oaths you took for the Night’s Watch… do you think they don’t apply to you? Because you were once friends with Jon Snow?”

“No, no! My father is dead, my brother is dead. That makes me Lord of Horn Hill. I’m sending Gilly to live there, with my mother and sister. Jon walked away from his oaths, there’s no reason I can’t walk away as well.”

Sam groaned as the Grand Maester shook his head in derision.

“You’ve taken oaths, Tarly, you cannot be Lord of Horn Hill. And there’s every reason Jon Snow can be released and you can’t. For one, he took those oaths as Jon Snow, not as Aegon Targaryen. And secondly, the Lords of the North themselves released him from those oaths when they not only failed to immediately punish him as a deserter but named him King in the North. Even without abiding by the letter of those oaths, to this day he remains true to their intent. ‘The shield that guards the realms of men.’ It is not necessary to get into the fine details of whether he fulfilled his oath to serve till death. What about you, Lord Tarly? Are there extenuating circumstances that released you from your vows? No. And you, Tarly, you break your vows for your own benefit, you only seek to avoid the consequences of your own unthinking actions.”

Sam rallied, “But Gilly, she can return to Horn Hill, she’s carrying the heir after all!”

“Tarly, has the cold addled your brains? First, you have no heir, you took oaths that you’ve broken, and have taken no oaths toward this girl. The child will be a bastard, unable to inherit. Besides, your sister Talla has married Symun Fossoway, who is now the Lord of Horn Hill. House Tarly is no more.”

The air left his lungs with a gasp. He was shocked, distraught. “What do you mean? House Tarly IS Horn Hill, you can’t have one without the other! What of my mother? She is still a Tarly, is she not?”

“No worries, she’s living with her daughter’s family, awaiting her first grandchild. They all seem to be getting on quite well. Without you.”

“What about Heartsbane? It's been in the Tarly family for 500 years, it belongs to us.”

“Ah, yes. Another theft, you are quite proficient aren’t you, at taking what belongs to better men? We have that as well of course. The King will decide what to do with it. Give it to another House, melt it down, it doesn’t concern you anymore…”

“No… no…” Sam started mumbling to himself as he swayed in ever larger circles, making himself dizzy and nauseous as his worn boots scuffed the stone floor. He’d thought to prove to his father, his family that he was worthy of the name, in his own way. Yet it was gone, lost.

It was all her fault! He would have to make Jon see, he could explain the evil… he had to find a way to undo it all. There had to be a way. He paused in mid-circuit.

“Grand Maester, have there been any messages for me, from my mother, from Gilly?”

The Grand Maester just looked at him with a mix of pity and boredom. “Have you nothing else to say? No intention of taking advantage of this opportunity? As soon as I leave this room, your fate is sealed, Samwell Tarly.”

Sam considered the words, but he couldn't afford to confess. He would do the right thing this once at least. He couldn’t take any more risks, he’d probably said too much already.

Gilly. Yes, she would return North with Tormund. He could meet them there, after the trial, decide where to go together, what to do. She’ll be ready to give birth soon, he should be there, for her. They should be reunited by then.

The key rubbed in the door, and Sam looked up to see that he was alone, that the Grand Maester had left and the door again locked behind him.

Sam lifted his head slowly, waiting for his vision to clear, the ringing in his ears to stop.

His hands felt numb, his feet tingled. He dragged himself to the table and plopped into the ornate chair, placing his hands palm down on the table in front of him.

He lifted his gaze to stare at the wall, waiting.

His stomach rumbled.

Think, Sam, think! You’re the smart one after all!

He had to focus, now that he was alone. What was important? He needed a plan.

He must get word to Gilly to leave King’s Landing now.

Then he needed to talk to Jon, directly, in-person. He would understand, he could make him see.

He’d remind him of their friendship, all he’d accomplished, all he’d done for him.

Yes, Jon would help him, he’d done nothing himself, not really. He couldn’t be blamed for other peoples’ actions. That wouldn’t be fair, and Jon was at his core a fair person.

Yes, he would get word to Jon. He leaned back in the chair, his empty gaze toward the filtered light from the far wall.

Sleet pelted against the window, a sudden gust wafted in, heavy with fresh bread and bitter ash. He suddenly remembered the acrid stench as they had entered the Crownlands days earlier. They could tell what had happened from miles away.

The fresh Northern troops had ridden hard a few days before to meet up with Jon’s forces just outside the gates. The first-hand accounts had filtered through the Northern forces, finally shared between the Northern guards as they had made camp.

The city taken. The ringing bells. Surrender.

The dragon’s fire. Red and orange above, billows of green below.

The great battle. The great victory. The utter destruction.

The dead, the dying, the maimed.

Men, women, children.

Lannister, Unsullied, Dothraki, Northmen.

She’d stood at the top of what was left of the Great Steps. He had walked those stairs just yesterday, standing where she had stood.

He’d known she was evil incarnate, thirsty for war, for ash, for ruin.

Tyrant. She’d promised to break the wheel.

To destroy all of Westeros.

He’d believed that Jon must have seen, understood what needed to be done.

Why they had done what they’d done.

But this…

He’d seen the horror in Gilly’s eyes, and something else; at first, surprise. Then, what, realization?

He only wanted revenge for his father and brother, he didn’t mean for all of this to happen. So many dead, to pay for her villainy.

No one could know.

Sam leaned over the table, head in his hands, struggling to keep back the tears.

He’d take care of Gilly, somehow. And Little Sam, and the babe.

And what would happen to him? There would certainly be some kind of punishment, for appearance sake. Jon was King now, after all, and had a reputation to protect.

Sam closed his eyes as he remembered finding his way among the sacred dead, greeted by his friend. Had it been so long ago? Just a few words, words that had been secret for a lifetime. Why had it fallen on him?

The Stark crypt, flickering light from the torches, reflecting off Jon’s stricken face. He’d turned his world upside down, he’d known it would. Yet Bran had said he needed to know right then. And he’d wanted him to know, for his own reasons.

He’d regretted it for a moment, when he’d seen the confusion in his eyes, trying to make sense of it. Betrayal, anger, pain and disappointment.

Loss. He knew he’d put Jon in a terrible position, that he could never go back to being just Jon Snow. But he needed to know. It was necessary.

He knew he could have been more understanding, comforting even, as his friend so openly struggled.

But Sam could not resist. He hated her, the Dragon Queen, and Jon needed to know it was his by birth. The Iron Throne was his. He had to take it from her, make her pay, make her feel what it was like to have everything taken from her.

But he hadn’t meant for all of this to happen.

And he hadn’t meant to get caught. Bran was supposed to see.

Yet it was all true. He had betrayed those he’d sworn oaths to serve.

The Night’s Watch, the Citadel.

He was a traitor, just like his father, his brother.

Traitor to Jon, to the Queen.

He was a selfish, weak, useless child. Maybe he’d deserved his father’s derision all those years.

No, he was not responsible. For the deaths of all those people, for the destruction of the city. For the end of his family’s House.

The more he thought about what had happened, Bran’s words echoed in his memory.

‘I told you what you needed to hear, what made you happy.’

Bran manipulated him, that’s it. He’d manipulated them all.

Realization brought peace to his heart, embarrassed and surprised that he had ever doubted his own involvement.

He was a good person, after all. Sincere, trustworthy, smart.

He’d never have thought of something like this on his own.

It wasn’t all Bran’s fault though. They were all pushed into it.

If only Jon had seen earlier, what she was like, who she was. That she couldn’t be trusted. But he was young and naive, gullible, easy to sway by a pretty face, pretty words.

Sam had seen right through her from the beginning. Because he’d learned early on how the world works. He’d had it much harder than Jon. Jon was raised a Stark after all, he’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted. And now he was King. He had nothing to complain about, he could afford to be benevolent.

No, Jon couldn’t blame him for simply wanting what he deserved. Jon shouldn’t have put him in this situation. He owed him now, he’d remind him as soon as he saw him face to face.

Grand Maester Samwell Tarly. Yes, he deserved this. He should have explained it better, to this new Grand Maester, but he was caught unaware. He’d lay out his thinking, that he had known what needed to be done, that he couldn’t trust the Citadel, the Maesters with such an important task. They were weak, and self-important. He was perfectly justified to bend the rules, take the books, flee his obligations. He should be hailed a hero, not just some nobody to be cast aside.

Sam rubbed his hand down his face.

No, this Grand Maester, he was not likely to give up his place, admit that it belonged to another.

He’d have to find another way. Lord of Horn Hill. He could make a claim, that Jon had released him from his vows before he left for the Citadel. Jon would go along with it, he had in the past. He had turned his back on his oaths himself, he could hardly expect him to…

Sam tipped the chair back, gripping the edge of the table for balance, wishing he’d had the words when the Grand Maester was present.

First things first, he needed to get out of this room, needed to find out what the others were doing.

Perhaps Gilly could find out for him. She was clever…

No, if they found out she was in King’s Landing, they would ask her what she knew. She could tell them everything. She knew, everything.

Well, not everything, but she knew a lot. As much as he did.

No, he couldn’t risk it. He had to protect her, had to accept whatever punishment came his way.

But Bran, he would have seen this happening, wouldn’t he? No doubt he had some grand scheme in mind all along, a better plan.

Once Jon realized she had tricked him, fooled him into letting her live, putting her on the throne… he could imprison her until she had the child, then take it for his own and take the throne. It wouldn’t matter what happened to the Dragon Queen after that, as long as she didn’t get what she wanted.

She had to pay.

He let the chair drop to the ground, slapping the table with his open palm.

This was all her fault. All of his plans…

Bran knew what he was doing, the right thing. Tyrion may have doubts, even Sansa, but he understood Bran better than anyone.

Bran was magic, he knew this would happen, that everything would be alright. Bran was right, the Dragons had to be destroyed.

Yes, Bran will be a good king. He won’t be swayed by his own ambitions, he won’t be…

Sam felt his stomach turn as his headache bloomed.

Bright flashes whizzed past his vision, slowing to reveal the nightmare he’d had the night he’d learned that he’d been tricked. He’d recited his oaths to the Night’s Watch before the Heart Tree, turning his back on the Seven gods of his father’s House.

His father dead, his brother. House Tarly no more.

Bran’s voice laughing at him. The nightmare darkened as he searched the trees above his head, finally finding the Three-Eyed raven perched above, the voice and demeanor of the Boy Who Could Not Be King.

Everything. Lost.

Was this outcome set in stone, even then?

Sam stood and began to pace slowly between the door and the chained window.

No. Sansa, Tyrion, they would be working on a plan.

He’d lost his naivete’, little by little. He knew they'd been using him, just as he’d…

His heart dropped. Was he to be their scapegoat all along?

But they still needed him, at least his silence. What if?

What if he was unable to defend himself, unable to tell what had happened, there in Sansa Stark’s solar?

What if he was …silenced. Dead.

He stopped by the door, placed his hands against the solid wood and pushed.

It didn’t budge, not a squeak, not a groan.

He was safe here, locked away. He was safe from them.

Yes. He was on his own. He would have to come up with a plan.

To protect Gilly.

-----

Jon Snow was wrong.

There was a hell. Maybe not seven, but at least one.

This one.

True, though, there was, nothing.

No light, no sound.

No time.

But there were chains on his wrists and pain, oh, the pain in his neck.

And the thirst, the fear.

The thready scent of vomit and sweat and the coppery tang of blood.

The disappointment.

Those were very real.

Definitely not nothing.

He slept, and woke to the pain in his head, his back, his wrists.

The air was thick and stifling. He suspected if he could see there would be flecks of ash and grit in the still air, perhaps what was left of the citizens of King’s Landing filtering through the exposed passageways under the Red Keep.

At least it was a quick end for Jaime, he hoped he hadn’t suffered.

Cersei, he supposed he loved her still, though they each wanted the other dead. He was capable of killing his kin after all.

He pulled himself up against the cold stone wall to ease his back, pulling against the bolted chains to gain leverage. He tried to swallow but only gasped against the pain.

Where had things gone wrong, so, so terribly wrong?

Winterfell was massive. He’d been there before, years ago, perhaps it had all started then. Perhaps if he’d never gone to the Wall, never traveled with the Bastard of Winterfell.

King of the Seven Kingdoms.

But he’d never explored, never wandered the halls of Winterfell, until he had sought out his lovely former wife.

Yes, that was when it had all started.

If only he hadn’t knocked on that door.

There were guards at the entrance of the family wing, but for some reason they had let him pass without seeking permission.

Odd, that…

He frowned, eyes unfocused in the darkness.

Yes, he had knocked on that door, felt an urgency to do so.

It was necessary.

He merely wanted to remind her, to convince her that Daenerys would be a good Queen, and there would be food for the North and peace in the Realm.

Why did it have to be now, yes, now…

The door swung open and Arya had stood there, a strange smile creeping over her features. He could see Bran and Sansa, even Samwell Tarly gathered by the fire.

“Tyrion, come, join us, we’ve been waiting for you.”

He had started to form a greeting, but with those words his mouth snapped shut.

Bran. The boy who could fly. The boy with a story.

Daenerys was too powerful, too unpredictable. The people wouldn’t follow her, and there would be generations of bloodshed.

She must be stopped. The Dragons must die.

He wondered if they had known, about Bran, whatever Bran is. What he was capable of.

They didn’t even know that Jon was a Targaryen at that time, that he was the rightful heir.

He wondered, now, why Bran hadn’t told them, or was that a surprise he had kept in reserve.

Yes, that little secret hadn’t become known until it was clear that Jon could temper her impulses, could keep her steady. They could have ruled well together.

Bran couldn’t have that…

He should have seen… could he have prevented this?

Jaime would still be alive, and yes, even Cersei.

Not for long, of course.

Tyrion shook his head, then regretted it as the rope burn on his neck rubbed against the collar of his tunic.

It was the boy’s plan all along.

Fool…

All of them fools…

And Bran didn’t care. Tyrion had seen him for what he was, in the Throne Room. Was it just the day before? He had lost all track of time.

No, Bran wasn’t insane, he was something else, something old and powerful and piercing… the clarity of it was startling. Then it was gone.

His eyelids heavy, he once again succumbed.

There was a scraping sound, a scratching in the void, and he supposed he was awake again.

No wonder they called them the Black Cells.

Yes, it had all started at Winterfell, and would end, where? How?

They would rule well, the Dragons. What would the Realm look like in five years, 10? A generation from now?

No matter. He was no longer a part of the living. He sighed, letting the self-pity engulf him as before.

Bran, yes, they’d have to get to the bottom of that, somehow.

He slept again, awoke, again, to something in the darkness.

A shuffling, and a faint flickering of light behind him, off to the side.

Wheezing.

Not his own this time.

Clacking, shuffling, the brush of silk.

The light grew brighter.

He tried to turn to see, his clanging chains ringing in the darkness.

A huff of laughter.

“Well then. You’re awake.”

He let his head drop back to the cold stone behind him and waited.

He had seen the High Septon earlier in the throne room when he had acknowledged the joint rule of King Aegon and Queen Daenerys.

He sniggered lightly to himself.

And their marriage.

Apparently whatever reservations Jon Snow had had about relations with his aunt were of little concern now.

The clacking of the cane stilled, and he was able to just make out the battered visage and white hair as the old man leaned to gaze over what was left of the Lannister lineage. Slowly straightening, the looming figure glanced into the darkness behind him and nodded once, setting the dim lantern to the side, the flickering light sending eerie shadows into the black as he clacked his way back into the nothingness.

He waited, gaze seeking in the heavy gloom, until two red eyes glowed and a soft growl rolled from the shadows.

Three figures came and stood before him. He strained to shift under their gaze, then sighed and relented. Her hair gleamed in the darkness.

“So good to see you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys lifted the lantern, raising it to one side, then the other, then placed it back on the filth-covered floor, stroking the bristling white fur. Not surprising that the direwolf had attached himself to this woman, she seemed to attract the mythical of every kind.

He swallowed painfully and cleared his throat, the pain jolting through his neck and spine.

“Yes, apparently I can’t do anything right. You should be used to that by now.”

He could see the anger rise in Grey Worm’s eyes, his lips tightening. He supposed he was being blamed for the death of his love. There was something to be said for that guilt, he had made so many, too many mistakes. None of that mattered now, though.

He waited for her to speak, waited for the anger, the loathing, the demeaning. He had it coming, would relish in it.

But she merely stood there with that emotionless mask she so often wore and just looked at him, the glow from the lantern catching the jewels in her gown and in her hair, reflecting off the glowing white coat and onto the iron chains that held him still.

She was beautiful, a beautiful queen. He felt tears well.

She nodded once as she watched his face, and Grey Worm picked up the lantern and held it high. They all turned and followed the High Septon back to the living, the swish of gown and tail his last vision in the dark.

The pain returned and he let the tears spill over. No one would see, no one would know or care.

And he was alone again, with his bitterness, his questions, his loneliness.

And his regret.

Chapter Text

The pierced sun on orange, a golden kraken on black, gold rose on green.

The ships of the former masters, now bearing the three headed dragon, red on deep black.

All totaled one thousand one hundred and twenty three ships of various shapes and sizes.

He’d watched it all from the top of the Great Pyramid in Meereen.

It took them weeks to load, days to make their way out of the harbors, joining up on the Narrow Sea well outside the mouth of the Bay of Dragons.

He’d waited till her ships were across the horizon. Until she’d left. Committed to her destiny. Though there was always a caution, in the back of his mind.

She had dragons. She could return at any moment.

He’d told her before, in no uncertain terms, what he was good at.

Women and fighting. And she had made promises.

Ride with me and you’ll never need another contract. You’ll have gold and castles and lordships of your choosing when I take back the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet she had left him to rule in her stead.

Left him behind. Everything they, he had fought for had sailed away that day.

Let it be so.

He’d taken her quarters for himself. The entire top of the pyramid. He made himself at home, his ladies as well. He’d always visited them in their homes, or the brothels. He’d considered whether they would want to live together, but when given the opportunity to live a life of luxury, far above the stench and threat of the city below, none of them had turned him away.

He’d hired more guards for the pyramid itself, adding to his most loyal Second Sons now that the Unsullied had sailed with their queen. The remainder of his men kept the peace of Meereen, at least until they had grown bored, paid well but wanting something more exciting than guarding a city, eventually breaking off into their own companies and selling their swords elsewhere.

Her instructions had been clear. Establish and maintain ruling councils in each of the major cities of the region: Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen. The riches of Meereen, of the Bay of Dragons were at his disposal to accomplish this task.

He had reached out to the city leaders, former masters, former slaves. Those that had already been put in place, others that came forward.

In the Name of the Queen.

Some understood, agreed, took the lead.

Others saw the opportunity.

He’d done his best, given his options.

But he always had an answer, a response to the threat of rebellion, of the return of the Masters, of the Harpies, of chaos.

Just a word to the Dragon Queen, and she would return to take her vengeance on her enemies.

It had worked well, for awhile.

Then word had come. The Dragon Queen had not been welcomed with open arms. The Great Houses had not flocked to her cause. She had not conquered Westeros, not even King’s Landing.

She had depleted her advantage, waiting on allies, wasting away on Dragonstone.

No doubt the Imp’s strategy. A failed plan. She’d lost both her allies and her opportunity.

If only he’d been there. He’d wondered if she regretted her decision to leave him in Meereen.

Then the word had come that she had lost a dragon. The gold one, Viserion. In the North, beyond the Wall. What was she doing there? There were rumors, strange tales of giants and wildlings and dead men with blue eyes.

And the King in the North.

He’d been surprised, really, that she hadn’t just turned him to ash. Or at the very least taken him hostage to bring the North to heel.

But she’d done neither.

More rumors, stories, until she’d finally attacked King’s Landing. Far later than wisdom would condone.

And she’d lost another dragon. The green one, Rhaegal.

And now, in the Bay of Dragons… the Masters, the Harpies, the conspirators… the fear had lessened. The dragons could be defeated, killed.

He’d received reports… the Master’s craftsmen, master builders… they’d heard of the machines that could sling steel-tipped harpoons through dragon hide. And they’d begun to build, dozens upon dozens, just in case. He’d heard there was a map filled with little more than hundreds of Xs where they would place the finished ballistas. Smaller weapons, scorpions, were being fitted on carts and warships, to be moved place to place as an upcoming battle raged.

It was a good strategy, and he had no defense against it.

Though it was of little concern then, there on the top of the world.

The constant sweltering heat was softened by the cool sea breeze.

Half-naked women, beautiful and sun-kissed at his beck and call.

Food and wine fit for a king.

The view over the city kept his guards alerted.

The power, authority of the Dragon Queen and the riches of Meereen.

It was intoxicating. For awhile.

When word had come of the fate of the Dragon Queen, he’d been shocked. Truly.

Jorah, lost. Missandei, lost.

The Dragon Queen, lost. Killed at the hands of her lover, the King in the North.

And Drogon, the remaining, the last living dragon had taken his mother’s body and flown this way. Or so it was told.

Soon there were uprisings in Dragon’s Bay, riots in Meereen. Some, mourning for the Dragon Queen mixed with rejoicing of the former masters. Others celebrating the Harpies return, rallying as they began to lay siege to the Great Pyramid. He’d ordered what was left of the Second Sons to guard the pyramid itself, but several different factions vied for power and control and most days it was hard to keep track.

The Queen had left no instructions, no guidance for these circumstances.

She’d never accounted for the unthinkable.

No, she was the Dragon Queen. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Last Dragon. The Unburnt.

Betrayed by her lover.

Somehow he felt his guilt lessened. He wouldn’t be the first.

When he’d eventually heard the rumors, that she’d taken up with the King in the North, he’d been hurt, angry. If she was going to take a lover, why had she left him behind? He could understand if they had married for an alliance, but then… the rumors were contradictory, confusing.

Exhausting.

In the end, he simply decided Daenerys Targaryen was much like himself. She had options, and she’d made her own choices for what felt good at the moment. So he’d tried to not take it personally.

Not that it mattered now.

There had been no formal dissolution of the “Governor’s Council of the Bay of Dragons,” they all just stopped coming to the meetings. Several governors reached out to him personally, wanting to try to save what had been built, what they believed in, what she had believed in. Or perhaps only to protect themselves against the inevitable. But he had no answers. This was no longer his fight.

He’d heard they had re-convened elsewhere, fewer and fewer fighting to stem the violence. Until finally they had all abandoned the city.

By then Astapor and Yunkai had sent representatives to seek him out, to find out the truth of what had happened. Would the dragon be heading this way? Was the Queen truly dead? Were the Unsullied, Dothraki, any of her armies returning to Slaver’s Bay?

He’d avoided admitting anything; he’d needed time for his own plans to take shape. So he was surprised when they led him out to the balcony. He’d thought at first they planned on tossing him over, but instead they smiled and laid out their proposal.

Soon the city would join the region in chaos, engulfed in flame and blood. Where some saw destruction, these saw opportunity. He’d have a part to play, it was a simple role really, one that matched his own intent as well. He’d already made his plans to abandon the city to its fate.

He’d wanted to do the right thing, for her, but she had abandoned them all. If it was too much for her, there was no shame in turning his back on her dream. It would be better, in fact, fewer people would die, rather than all out war.

The quarter moon was nearly obscured by heavy clouds, a perfect night to flee to his waiting ships. He had nearly finished packing his belongings, what was left of his Sons barricaded with him inside the pyramid, when it was announced there was a visitor. She refused to wait for sunrise.

Daario muttered under his breath, but stood to greet the First Servant of the Lord of Light, unprepared for the tale she told, what she had seen in the flames.

The Dragon Queen lived.

Targaryens would once again sit the Iron Throne.

He’d seen her magic before, knew of her influence, her power. Her own kind of violence.

If only she had arrived earlier.

She wanted supplies, and ships, and healers to be sent to King’s Landing on the next tide.

He argued that Meereen was a spark away from outright war; he couldn’t be expected to send his own men to gather goods, to load her ships.

But she had made the arrangements herself, and assured him the task would be completed as foretold. She led him to the balcony overlooking the bay to confirm to his own eyes and there they were, dozens of ships, some of his own ships being loaded and prepared to sail.

Even in the deep night crowds had gathered on the docks, men waving swords and staffs, women holding torches and throwing rocks. Daario watched as several of the red priests approached, marveling as the violence faded before them, slowly dispelling and returning to their homes. The ships were readied before dawn.

She must have seen… long ago. To have the supplies ready, the ships available… she could have warned him, told him…

“You were where you needed to be, Captain Naharis.”

Daario cringed, the hair on his arms suddenly standing upright.

He straightened then, soon she would be gone and he could… what could he do? He’d made promises of his own, plans that could not be undone. If the Dragon Queen lived, if she… she was not quick to forgive, not when…

A young priest entered and bowed low. “The tide is turning, and as expected the winds favor the Lord’s Chosen.”

Kinvara nodded graciously, her hands softly clasped before her as she turned to follow the priest from the room.

“No! Wait - please. You are sailing to King’s Landing, are you not?”

Kinvara had turned at his pleas, gazing serenely as he scratched out a hasty letter, just in case what she said was true. “You can give this to her, my lady. She… she needs to know I have done everything I could, to save her city.”

In the days following he’d maneuvered for more time, threatened and cajoled the returning Masters, his eyes trained on the horizon. He wasn’t sure which would be better; that she return to Meereen to restore control, or to send word for him to join her as she ruled across the Narrow Sea.

He had planned for both, but when a return letter never came, and he could no longer resist the new Masters, he joined his men on their few remaining ships and fled the city. Even as they cast off, screams and howls and the clang of steel rang through the streets of Meereen.

He wished he’d had more time, had made a different choice, or even had simply left the day before.

Because yes, the tide had turned.

Now here he stood, gazing over what was left of the capitol city of Westeros from the balcony of his rooms, shaking his head. Built by dragons, destroyed by dragons. Fire and blood. Conquered and ground under the heel of his beautiful queen. She’d no doubt be grateful for his help, to have someone familiar, trustworthy, loyal. Someone who loves her, who knows her, admires what she is capable of.

Daario smirked. He’d told her himself.

‘The Lords of Westeros have no idea what is coming for them.’

But here? No. Who in their right mind would ever want to rule over this cold shell of a city. Even with signs of rebuilding it was a bleak, desolate ruin. He shrugged as he sipped his wine. At least there was a layer of snow to hide the scorch marks.

Snow. He’d heard of it, never thought he’d experience it for himself. And the treacherous ice underneath.

Strange smells filled his nostrils, some from outside, others from the tray waiting inside. He’d inspected the bland dishes carefully but found nothing to his liking. He hoped his men would return with something that would satisfy. He smirked to himself. He had thought to leave his ladies behind, but they were willing, even though for now they had to stay on the ships. They had plenty of opportunity to busy themselves though he knew their patience was wearing thin especially as they had entered cooler seas.

He’d been surprised at how quickly, thoroughly the cold could infect the body; the fire in the hearth was never hot enough, no matter how many logs he tossed on. At least they’d thought to bring warmer clothes as they’d fled.

A knock at the door and Vodos and his soldiers entered, assuring him that the ships in the harbor were secure and well-guarded. He could tell they were nervous, restless.

“How long will we be here?”

“There are other places we can go, to Qarth, Yi-Ti, warm places, even Braavos, we could…”

“This is not what I had in mind when…”

He turned his back on them. They’d been through this. He had to have answers, to know the truth before plans could be made. He’d sent her a note earlier that morning, convinced a young servant girl to take it to the queen herself. But there had not been an answer, and he grew tired of waiting, deciding to stretch his legs after so long at sea.

Daario and his soldiers eventually left his well-appointed guest quarters, unnerved when they were escorted everywhere by Northern guards. They tried venturing down different stairways, into any hallway they came across, both to explore the Dragon Keep and to test the patience of their armed companions. As they descended a back staircase, they found an increase in the number of guards waiting for them, directing them away from the area and toward an exterior door.

The queen’s quarters must have been close. Daario was tempted to ask his men to create a distraction so he could seek her out on his own, but he had yet decided on a plan and didn’t want to unnecessarily narrow his options.

He had admitted it to himself. He missed her, needed to know if she missed him as well. But it would have to be enough for now that she knew he was there, that he remained loyal and devoted to her service.

Bitterness rose in his thoughts, of the last time they’d talked. He’d proclaimed his love for her, and she’d turned him away without a second thought.

So he centered their conversation on the Red Keep itself, comparing it the Great Pyramid of Meereen, the other ancient structures and wonders of the world they had seen, the stories they had heard of the great castle itself, finally on whether it was worth rebuilding at all.

Finally they took to the streets of King’s Landing, to observe, get a feel for the people, what they thought of the Dragon Queen, see what he could learn about this Dragon King. Daario had even thought to see burning wildfire, and the ruins of the Great Sept, see if the tales of its destruction were true, but they didn’t make it that far, instead getting caught in a sauntering stream of small folk crossing the city, notwithstanding the weather and the gray ice and slush underfoot, the tang of sewage and burnt flesh flavoring each breath.

The bitter wind had eased, though the snow still fell in clumped flakes between the broken walls and rubble. Daario raised his eyes to the sun, dimmed by heavy clouds, shading his eyes against the odd blue-tinged glare where streaks of light forced their way through the overcast and onto the heads and shoulders of the murmuring townsfolk.

Vodos quirked a scarred eyebrow at him, he shrugged in reply. Vodos was one of few that he truly trusted, though he didn’t know his true name. He went by Vodos, supposedly something in some language shortened for Lizard Eye, his eye having been damaged in battle when his foe had thrown glowing embers into his face, though judging by his fierceness in battle his vision had not been affected in the least.

For now… until he heard from the queen, he had time to kill. And the bits of phrases he could make out from those rushing by him piqued his interest.

Yes, this could be quite helpful.

“...the Fallen Gate, just up the hill, that’s where he took off from, the kingsguard still…”

“...dead dragon, the green one…”

“Just as long as it ain’t that big black one, he’s done enough…”

He hurried to follow close behind two soldiers in marred red and gold armor, listening intently as the one whispered to the other.

“Never thought I’d live to see the Targaryens back on the throne!”

The other huffed. “No telling what this means, madness or misery or peace or war. The tossing of a coin and all…”

The other nodded as he let his hand fall to the pommel of his sword as he turned to watch the crowd grow to either side.

“Keep your eyes open, this is a dangerous time. We’re not the only ones who have doubts.”

Daario felt himself jostled to the side, falling back to make way for several teenage boys cutting through the crowd. Finally he could see their destination, the so-called Fallen Gate, no doubt freshly named going by the heavy burn scars on the remaining walls. He could imagine what had happened here, the gates blown out by dragon fire to let the Dragon Queen’s troops enter the city. The battle ensuing. The rushing panic of the citizens until all had been subdued.

He’d search out Grey Worm later, get the truth behind all the stories he’d heard. Though it mattered little now.

Suddenly a startled gasp ran through the crowd, a mix of awe and fear, every head turning to look downward toward the seawall. Daario again covered his eyes, searching, finally just making out curling tendrils falling from the clouds, followed by great gusts of cloud twirling and gaping to make way for leather wings slowly beating against the misted air.

The dragons silently dropped from the cloud cover, just outside the wall, eventually gliding uphill toward the empty mound just visible through the broken wall. There a flash of red caught his eye, and Daario turned to nod toward his men to follow. He managed to slip through the crowd to find his way to the side of the fire priestess and her guards, the gray-haired man from the night before - Davos was it? - standing quietly at her side, surrounded by what he guessed were the king’s guards. She nodded and smiled, Ser Davos nodding as well as Daario approached to stand between the two.

“The Prince that was Promised has arrived, Captain Naharis. You are fortunate to witness this moment.”

Daario was startled at the proclamation, ready to argue when his eyes returned to the dragons as they drifted to the ground, aware of the chattering throng halted behind him, shouts of recognition and excitement as the smaller green dragon dropped to earth and folded his wings inward, the great black dragon landing protectively between the crowd and his still-healing brother.

Daario blinked.

He could see from where he stood the numerous jagged scars on Rhaegal’s neck and chest, healed now, thick gray and black blotches. Movement drew his eyes upward as the green dragon dropped his shoulder and wing to the ground. A growling purr rumbled overhead as the dragonrider stroked the great neck before sliding down the wing and to the ground, patting the side of the great beast before repeating the gesture to Drogon, even as the black dragon let out a roar toward the city. He couldn’t tell what the king was saying, for surely this was the dragon king, but he could tell by experience that the dragons were listening to him.

Vodos nudged his shoulder and smirked. Daario let out the breath he had been holding, mesmerized as the red priestess floated toward the king as he removed his gloves, both nodding at their greeting as they were quickly surrounded by guards. The king glanced their way and approached, the red priestess apparently filling his head with what she had seen in the flames.

A roar from the crowd filled the air as the two dragons flicked open their wings in unison, the black pushing off and into the sky, the green taking three lumbering steps before rising smoothly in his brother’s wake.

“It’s hard to compete with a king that rides a dragon.” Daario bristled briefly at his lieutenant’s jape, then grinned with raised eyebrow.

“You forget, I too have ridden a dragon.”

Vodos laughed. “But you have no crown, and this king rides the kind of dragon that truly breathes fire.”

Daario laughed as well even as that bit of bitterness swelled, annoyed that the old man next to him chuffed at the overheard barb.

“Your Grace, this is Daario Naharis, Captain of the Second Sons.”

Daario turned as Kinvara’s voice and waved hand interrupted his thoughts.

“Captain Naharis, Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daario paused, taking in the solemn young man standing confidently before him before bowing gallantly.

“Your Grace, it is my great honor…” He could feel the crowd’s eyes affixed on their encounter.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, Captain Naharis. My wife has mentioned your name, how grateful she is for your service. And I believe the queen received your note just this morning.”

Daario straightened to his full height and smiled. No doubt the king would not have been happy with the contents of said note.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the rumors that have spread throughout Essos have conjured all kinds of dangers for my queen. My devotion to her service has brought me…”

“Very well. Ser Davos…”

“Yes, Your Grace, the Northern Lords are waiting in your solar.” Davos waved for the king’s horse to be brought forward.

Daario stilled himself as the dark-haired king calmly gazed his way, a flash of flame passing behind his resolute calm.

“You will pardon me, Captain. I’m sure we will meet again under more obliging circumstances.” His thick accent was lighter now.

Daario nodded politely, innocently. “Yes, Your Grace, I look forward to speaking with you again, no doubt we have so much in common.”

Daario waited for a response, disappointed when none was apparent. His eyes followed as the king quickly mounted the fractious black stallion, breath misting in the cold, the muscled horse suddenly calm and compliant. His guards quickly surrounded their liege, closing in as he rode toward the waiting crowd, waving in acknowledgement of their curiosity. A cheer rose briefly, then died as quickly as he turned and rode toward the Red Keep. Perhaps this little king was not the perfumed aristocrat he had imagined. He would have to be handled differently.

Daario shivered. When they’d left the castle the wind was gusting but bearable, now it was colder than a master’s heart, more brutal than his whip. Daario pulled his makeshift cloak up around his ears.

“My lady, Captain Naharis, the queen invites you to join her in the Small Council chamber to receive an accounting of the current state of the Bay of Dragons.”

Kinvara smiled politely and nodded to her guards, gathering her skirts in readiness.

“If I had known she wanted to see me, I would have washed up better, been better prepared.”

He’d tried to make it a jape, but his words were ignored altogether as their odd band of guards - sellswords, red priests and northmen - accompanied them through the thinning crowds.

No matter, he was anxious to see her again, to be close to her. He knew how to handle her, his little queen.

“Rhaegal seems quite fit, my lady. His recovery has been faster than expected, I know the king, and queen are grateful for your… prayers.”

Kinvara nodded gently. “It was not I that brought him back, but the Lord of Light. Even then it would not have been possible without his bond with the king.”

Daario could sense the tension between the two even as the old man smiled.

“Of course, my lady. Still, it was quite an accomplishment.”

“The king is committed to flying his dragon to the Reach, then?”

“Yes, my lady. He is still making plans, but it will be sooner rather than later, the needs of the people have been met for now, with your generous assistance of course, but without being able to confirm a coming harvest…”

The lady’s gaze stilled and dropped momentarily before rising to the battered red castle looming ever closer.

Daario strained to catch every word, of the state of this struggling land and its people and of its king. And its queen.

He suddenly remembered the Dragon Queen walking from the flames of the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, and wondered if this Targaryen was “unburnt” as well.

Never know what little bit of information may be most useful.

By the time they’d made it inside the Red Keep, Daario had a hard time feeling his fingers or his toes. He was sure his nose was bright red and rubbed raw from the constant rubbing against his sleeve.

He understood better why his men were so insistent on leaving this place as soon as possible.

Davos paused as they entered the Great Hall, explaining that they would be safe enough under the Crown’s protection, that all other guards were to wait for their charges here.

Daario was not happy as he nodded toward Vodos and his men to comply. The lady Kinvara nodded, apparently used to the routine of the keep.

The old knight waved them through the thick ironwood doors that had stopped him the night before, anticipation rising at the chance to finally see this storied chamber, seat of the most powerful dynasty Westeros had ever seen.

And the Iron Throne that his queen so longed for. Abandoned Meereen for. Abandoned him for.

He had expected grandeur, but what met him was dust and clanging and shouting and tarps flapping under the open sky.

He’d paused to take it all in, shaken from his reverie when his name was called. He hurried forward, the air growing a bit warmer, until he rounded the last set of tarps pulled aside by workmen as they passed through the work area.

He could feel their eyes on him, smirks flitting as he snapped his jaw shut.

There it was. In all its – glory.

Ugly, dangerous, powerful.

Yes, it was a throne, a castle fit for dragons.

Austere, imposing, unyielding.

He felt drawn to it. All the stories, the questions, the intrigue, the power.

A thousand swords, just within a few steps…

“Captain Naharis. The queen is waiting.”

He straightened his shoulders and nodded, stepping quickly to rejoin his escorts. Several turns later and they had apparently arrived.

The Small Council Chamber. Just a room with a door. A table. And guards, lots of guards.

He supposed he shouldn’t have expected much. This was a city recovering from war, from dragonfire. And even at its height, it was never Meereen’s equal.

Daario strolled around the room, noting the sparse furnishings, the lack of royal comforts. He smiled expectantly as the doors opened, surprised but pleased to see Grey Worm entering alone. He needed to speak with him about – everything – before he met with the queen.

“Ser Worm, finally a familiar face. Can you tell me what has happened here? Who is this King Aegon? Is the Queen safe? What are these rumors of poison and madness and…”

Grey Worm stepped closer. “This is Queen’s story, she is safe now, she is protected.”

Daario nodded. “But there have been rumors, those around her, her dragons, dead men beyond the Wall...” He wasn’t quite sure what was most important.

Grey Worm straightened.

“Varys betray our queen, Tyrion betray our queen. They poison my Queen. Brother and sisters betrayed their king. They…”

Daario was awed by the pain crossing the Unsullied’s face. He paused, waiting for the warrior to continue, then lowered his voice and moved closer.

“And Jorah… Missandei?” He was whispering now; he’d seen that they had cared for each other deeply, admired them both for their contentment and devotion to one another. Something he had always found unable to achieve for himself.

Moments passed, Daario waited.

“Jorah the Andal died protecting the queen from dead men, and Missandei – Missandei captured by false queen. The Mountain…”

“Yes, I heard about that. I’m very sorry. She was a special woman, she deserved better than that. You all deserved better.”

Daario could see his words struck their target as bitterness and anger filled the dark eyes of his former fellow soldier.

“And what has happened here? The rumors say the queen went mad, burnt down the city, was killed by her lover? What is the…”

The doors opened beside them, and Daario watched as Davos accepted a message from a young steward and turned to catch Grey Worm’s eye.

“Commander, the King invites you to join him outside the stables. He is sending what remains of the Mountain back to Dorne and thought you might want to be there.”

Grey Worm stiffened, lips thin as he silently considered.

“Queen Daenerys will be safe while you are gone. I’m sure Captain Naharis means her no harm.”

Grey Worm nodded briefly before glancing at Daario.

“Don’t stay on my account, I’m sure we will meet again, Ser Worm.”

Grey Worm rolled his shoulders back before approaching the door, hesitating for a moment before following the king’s steward out of sight.

Daario realized his expression must have revealed his confusion as Davos stepped closer.

“The Mountain is the one who beheaded Missandei. Cersei’s orders of course. There were many who wanted to take revenge on Gregor Clegane, including his brother Sandor. In the end, they perished together. What is left… the former… The false maester called Qyburn was banished from the Citadel, he was experimenting in forbidden areas, including bringing the dead back to life. He seems to have succeeded, in some kind of mad way with the Mountain. As far as we can tell, there is still some kind of life in the little that is left of his body.”

Daario felt a finger of ice shiver down his spine. All those rumors of an army of the dead, perhaps this was the story that sparked that imaginative tale, giving it a life of its own.

People do like their stories, especially in dark times.

Suddenly the doors opened again, and Daario was only slightly disappointed when servants rushed in with a cart of food, chuffing to himself as his empty stomach rumbled in response to the fragrant odors filling the room. He realized he was famished and filled his plate quickly, finding a seat at the end of the table and nearly shoveling the gravied venison and potatoes into his mouth. Bland, but hot and familiar enough to fill his belly. His eyes closed as he began to warm inside. Yes, a banquet fit for a queen. He’d gotten used to this, hadn’t planned on giving it up. He smiled at the servant girl who filled a goblet with what he could only presume to be the finest wine available in Westeros.

He took a sip; too sweet for his liking, but it complimented the venison well. He laughed under his breath at how aware he had become of such things. He’d liked playing King of Dragon’s Bay. Perhaps… his imagination spiraled as he considered his plans as he had so often since sailing from Dragon’s Bay. Each day, as he learned more of what had happened in Westeros, more options presented themselves.

Another servant approached, offering to fill his plate again. Daario nodded and soon faced another plate piled high with hot hearty food. He paused in admiration and thanked the girl, rewarded with a shy smile and blush and curtsy before randomly spearing his fork into the mass of food before him and shoving a too large bite into his mouth.

“Daario Naharis.”

He must have missed the smaller door to the side, but there she was, beautiful and regal, standing motionless just inside the room, glaring at him. He nearly choked as he took a great gulp of wine to wash the bite down, his eyes watering as he quickly stood.

“My Queen, it is good to see you alive and…” He gasped for air and coughed, taking another sip of wine. He watched her face over the rim of the goblet, her eyes roving over his body before resting on the plate of food before him. Yes, it was good to be seen by her as well.

“Captain Naharis, would you like a roast pig prepared just for you, a last meal before I take your head?”

Another man would be intimidated by such threats, but Daario Naharis was not just another man. Instead the anger and rancor he’d been harboring sought an escape.

“Oh, have you given up burning people alive?”

He smiled charmingly even as she flinched.

“Or will you have your nephew do it? I’ve heard he has both a dragon and a Valyrian steel sword. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Her face stilled, was it surprise? She knew he was bold and challenging, these were things she had liked about him. Or so she had said, before. Now? Confusion and weariness passed behind her eyes.

He took a deep breath, reconsidered. Perhaps she had changed more than he had anticipated.

He smiled softly and approached her with head bowed, dropping to one knee before her even as she waved away the guards that sought to stop him.

“My Queen! My Conquering Dragon…”

He took her hand and held it as he gazed up into her face.

“I am so - confused - relieved - to find you here, alive and well…”

He gently kissed her hand, relieved when she relented briefly before pulling her hand from his grasp and glancing at the expressionless face of the Red Priestess.

She straightened and took a step toward the head of the table, ignoring his presence as he rushed to her side. But the old man made it there first, pulling out the chair at the head of the table and waving for the others to be seated as well.

For what she had supposedly gone through, she looked well. Her hair was different, fewer braids, no doubt without Missandei… Her skin was particularly pale, her clothes were Westerosi and covered almost every inch of her skin. His mind drifted back, the many times he had held her, his fingers skimming along her back, twined in that hair. He looked up to find her stern gaze fall on his face once again, amused when she rolled her eyes before taking charge of the meeting.

“Captain Naharis. You will explain yourself. Have you truly disobeyed my orders and abandoned Meereen to the slavemasters?”

Daario reached for his wine and sipped, letting her words hang in the air. He took another sip.

“I was worried, for you, about your plans… there were so many rumors, of things that had gone wrong, of your death. How was I to know it was all a lie. How could I know what was truth? I had to see for myself.”

He had tried to be calm and sincere, believable.

“It’s my understanding that Lady Kinvara told you what she saw in the flames, that I was alive and well and would take back my family’s throne. Did you think she was lying? Why did you abandon your charge?”

“I gave her a letter to give you, to explain what was happening.” He turned to the beautiful priestess, who nodded.

“Yes, I received your letter. It was full of nonsense. I left you with clear instructions…”

“Instructions are one thing, my queen. The power to enforce them, quite another. Without the promise of your return, the threat of dragonfire… I knew how devoted you were to the people of Dragon’s Bay, of the former slaves, that if you possibly could, if you were truly alive you would drop everything you were doing and come to their rescue.”

He watched a grimace cross her pale lips.

“So when I didn’t hear back from you, I assumed the worst, I had no choice but to assume you had died, regardless of what the Lady said. Things change, you know they do… and I knew I couldn’t hold Meereen without you, without the dragons.”

Her head had dropped, just a bit, but enough to know his words were having an effect.

“I didn’t know what was happening here, all the rumors, that you were being held against your will, forced into marriage, betrayed by those you trusted, at least some of which I have found to be true.”

He leaned toward her, imploring.

“If there was any hope for the Bay of Dragons, I knew I had to find you, come to your aid, restore you, rescue you if you needed it. And that you would return to your people in Meereen.”

She calmed a bit at his words, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned back in her seat.

“And what did you leave behind? Kinvara claims to see Meereen in flames; is that how you left the Bay of Dragons? In flames?”

“My queen, what was I to do? You were dead. Everyone believed it, it didn’t matter what I said, what the Red Priestess saw in the flames. I couldn’t keep my men together, to defend the city let alone the region. The Masters were rejoicing, your councils had failed. Your governors fled the cities, knowing what was coming for them. Knowing there was no one to come rescue them… The Masters re-took Astapor, then Yunkai. They were coming for Meereen when we left. For those of us who were left, I had to see for myself, what was the truth of … you, if you were dead or alive or captive or...”

He slowly stood and approached her chair, kneeling beside her, speaking softly as he reached for her even as she held her gaze steady across the table.

“I serve you, my queen, only you. You know that I did everything I could, to keep Meereen from falling. But I could not save it. So here I am, I pledge myself to you. My men are yours, my sword is yours, my life and my heart are still, and always will be yours.”

He reached for her hand, inching closer. He could feel all eyes on him, on her, guards’ hands on their pommels, ready to intervene, waiting for a word.

He whispered. “I hope I can be of service to you now.” Her breaths were shallow, quick. Yes, she understood. He would be forgiven, embraced. In some way.

Queen Daenerys turned as she drew back, looking down on him.

“You forget yourself, Captain Naharis.”

Daario withdrew his hand and stood, undeterred.

Patience.

“Forgive me, Your Grace.” He bowed as he returned to his seat. “I am yours to command.”

He could feel the tension disappear as he smiled gently and folded his hands on the table. He was harmless, nothing to fear, no threat at all. Just a sellsword devoted to his queen, obedient to her command.

She had not changed that much after all. There was work to be done, but all of his plans could be salvaged.

Silence settled over the room for a moment as the queen took a sip from the goblet before her. Daario could see he had affected her; she was avoiding his gaze, struggling to regain her regal posture. He could see the relief in her eyes as the old man discretely moved a parchment in front of her.

She nodded her thanks.

“Captain Naharis. The Lady Kinvara has seen Meereen fall in the flames, but she tells me this has not yet happened. So apparently your departure from, your abandonment of your post was premature. I will not allow Meereen, Dragon’s Bay fall when I can do something about it.”

Daario felt the red woman’s eyes on him from her seat across from his. She was watching him too closely, expressionless as the queen briefly reviewed the parchment before her.

“Captain Naharis. I will not abandon my people. I will not allow slavery to return to the Bay of Dragons. Therefore, you will return to Meereen with all haste. You will carry a signed letter from myself, and will testify that I am alive and well, with two living dragons, and if necessary I will return to restore all that has been brought down. And I will show no mercy.

“You will take with you what remains of your Second Sons as well as any of the Dothraki and Unsullied who wish to return to Meereen or the Great Grass Sea. We will provide as many ships as needed. I have asked Khono to remain with you at least until peace is restored in Meereen.”

Daario knew it was coming, he was prepared. So for now he smiled graciously and bowed his head. “As my queen commands.”

He wondered if Grey Worm knew about this, and which he would choose, to stay or to go, to return to what he knew best or… he had seen that the Unsullied Commander was uneasy, he would have to explore that more fully.

“Most of the Dothraki fighters came with me, and many died fighting for the dawn and for my throne, and will not be returning to their families. Without them, the women and children of the khalasars are unprotected; vulnerable to slavers, infighting and starvation. Understandably, many of those that have survived these great battles want to return to their families. They will be given spoils of war for their victories. Some of the Unsullied likewise want to return to more familiar surroundings, though they will return as free men, free to serve the council of Dragon’s Bay or find whatever way they choose to live their lives once the region is secured. Those that remain in Westeros will either continue to serve me here in King’s Landing or make their homes elsewhere in Westeros, following the customs and laws of their new home.

“You will see that this is done. Ser Davos will make sure you have what you need.”

Daario held his breath. This could either be good or very very bad.

“Your Grace, I will need to explain what happened here, address all of the stories about your death, the dragons and your new ‘king’. There are rumors of Northerners betraying you, yet you married one? I will need to explain why you simply did not…”

“Captain, I do not need to explain myself to you.” Daario realized that this was a sensitive subject when the queen’s temper rose and the room grew silent.

Moments passed as the queen gripped the arms of her chair before tightening her lips and nodding to herself.

“But… for the sake… so that you will have everything you need to quell the rumors, we will write out the history of the events since I arrived in Westeros, and will have any missing pieces filled in by those who have first hand knowledge. This will accompany the letter when you return to Meereen.”

She seemed to expand her intentions.

“In fact, this will be a good explanation to all of Westeros, to put out the truth now, not wait for all the details to be recorded by the maesters. Ser Davos?”

“Agreed, Your Grace. Many of those involved remain in the capital, it would be a good time to record their version of events. We may learn valuable information. I will see that its done.”

Daario watched their exchange. She seemed wary, expectant, yet the old man merely wrote some notes and looked up, awaiting direction.

“You’ve heard the rumors over the Narrow Sea, no doubt heard what has happened here.”

Her voice faded. “Varys, Jorah, Missandei… Tyrion…”

“Yes, Your Grace, please, what happened to Tyrion? He’d always been so clever, you seemed to have so much confidence in him.” He’d wanted to provoke her more, remind her that she had taken the one who betrayed her, left behind the loyal, but he was walking a fine line and he didn’t know which side he wanted to land on yet.

“I’m afraid that confidence was undeserved, and his motives are not yet as clear as I’d like. But his advice led to the loss of many of my allies, the loss of the advantage of my dragons, the loss of so many lives. So much harm could have been prevented…” Her eyes glazed over, apparently lost in memory.

The old man shifted in his seat, and the queen straightened.

“You’ve no doubt learned about the Great Council held yesterday in which a well-planned conspiracy was thwarted and the traitors exposed. The Iron Throne, all of Westeros has now returned to House Targaryen.

“I now reign with my husband, the King in the North…”

Her voice trailed off for a moment, a weariness settling on her features.

“Yes, Jon, he is… it turns out that my brother Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled and then married Lyanna Stark. Rhaegar died at the Trident, killed by Robert Baratheon, apparently the rebellion started because he believed Lyanna Stark had been taken against her will…”

She suddenly turned to Davos, then to Kinvara. “We still don’t know what happened there, do we? It doesn’t seem like my brother, the Crown Prince of Westeros would not have informed someone of his plans, he never would have let it get as far as it did.”

Davos nodded. “There are suspicions, Your Grace, that whoever he trusted with this news used it for their own benefit, perhaps to pay off an old debt or gain a new title. We could…”

“No, it doesn’t matter any more, does it? Jon can ride a dragon and everything else fits enough to be accepted by those that care most about these things, the Citadel, the Most Devout, even if concrete proof hasn’t been found yet.”

She turned her gaze back onto Daario, who startled at the intensity of her gaze.

“So yes, I’ve married Aegon Targaryen, and we rule together. I’m still regaining my strength, but I’ve been assured I will make a full recovery from the poison.”

Daario nodded reassuringly. There was tension there, he was sure of it. Daenerys had never been one to share, the marriage arrangement was no doubt fragile. What would it take to break it altogether?

Though he remembered the anger in her eyes, he would need to keep all of his options open. Perhaps this King in the North doesn’t know her yet, has no idea of her trickery, the ruthlessness she used to get her dragons, how she won Yunkai and subdued the Masters.

Perhaps she was already scheming, plotting a way to rid herself of her competition.

Perhaps he could help. Either of them.

“Ser Davos will assist with any further requests you may have. In the meantime, you are free to roam the castle and King’s Landing, with the proper escort of course.”

Silently the smaller door again opened, and Daario found his hand on his dagger.

“My sweet, have you had enough of chasing the doves in garden? Or do you just want more scritches?”

He’d heard the rumors of a great white direwolf, but had assumed it was an exaggeration. Yet there, right in front of him was this massive beast, pure white but for scars, black nose and red eyes. And a long pink tongue lolling from sharp white teeth, behaving more the pet than the fierce wardog of legend.

She was practically squealing over him, giddy and smiling, holding his head as he licked her face, his tail thumping against the tabletop. Davos smiled, pulling the parchments out of harm’s way.

“And this is Ghost. Don’t let his playfulness put you at ease, he is quite protective of those he loves.”

Daario nodded as he relaxed his grip on the blade. He had no intention of taking the threat of this creature for granted.

Davos leaned over the bouncing direwolf and whispered in her ear, sitting back as she nodded once.

“Captain Naharis, as my Regent in Meereen, you are invited to attend our feast tonight, celebrating the restoration of House Targaryen to its rightful rule over Westeros.”

Daario bowed his head, again struck by the influence of the old man Davos. He deserved more attention.

“Lady Kinvara, will you remain in King’s Landing or return to Essos with Captain Naharis?”

The Red Priestess glanced at Daario.

“I have my own ships, Your Grace, and will follow my Lord’s direction. He tells me I am yet needed here, to serve the Chosen One.”

The queen’s face fell for a moment; of course she meant the Dragon Queen, didn’t she? Another mystery to be solved. Or at the very least, taken advantage of.

“Very well then, if we are done here I have other matters to attend to.”

Daenerys gazed at those at the table, waiting for further inquiry, finally rising and making her way to the door as all others stood as well. Daario quickly joined her at the door, guards ready to strike even as Ghost rose between them with an unmistakable growl and bared teeth.

Daario bowed from the waist, making his intentions clear.

“My Queen, my apologies… I can see you’re disappointed, that I’ve failed you as so many others have. But I can… let me make it up to you.”

Daario searched her face, her eyes for a trace of softening toward him. They had had such a strong bond, surely it could be restored, built-upon.

Daenerys stepped back, her hands twisted in the direwolf’s fur. The door opened behind her, and surprise, irritation flooded her demeanor. Northmen. He’d seen them throughout the Red Keep, in King’s Landing. Even in the harbor.

“Your Grace, we agreed to rotate guard duty to some degree so that all of the most trusted guards – Northern, Unsullied, City Watch, Gold Cloaks – so they would all be familiar with the routine and servants of the Royal quarters, better to know what is going on within the entirety of the Red Keep and not just for their own charge.”

The queen paused to consider, then nodded. “And there will be a time when Jon is guarded by Unsullied?”

Davos nodded, and Daario filed another tidbit of information in the back of his mind that might serve him later as he stood silently watching his pale queen quietly leave the room, back straight, chin high, but a slight falter to her step. Hardly the woman who had walked out of the flames, claiming an army, a throne, and a world for herself.

-----

Soon all of King’s Landing will bow to R’hllor’s greatness.

Piece by piece his plans are unfolding, the flames leading, guiding, revealing.

The flames that purified the unbelievers, burning away all flesh and sin to bring the piercing light of dawn.

A new age, joining Essos and Westeros, perhaps beyond in service to their true god, the only god, the Lord of Light.

So many had struggled, sacrificed and died to see this day.

Blessed be, thanks be R’hllor! That I should see this day, this glorious day. And to play a small part in…

“It really is an ugly throne, don’t you think?”

They had paused in the audience chamber. The sellsword to appraise the obvious, herself to praise the Red God.

Braziers were lit throughout the chamber, even an open pit to warm the craftsman diligently at work. Kinvara approached the flames and raised her hands, palms to the fire, gazing into the depths. She could feel him beside her, curious as he had always been.

Unbelieving.

He had seen so much, the workings of the God of Flame and Shadows, yet remained unconvinced. Unconvicted.

She inhaled the heat of the flames, the gemstones in her necklace pulsating as they absorbed the essence of her god.

All hail R’hllor! Soon you will all see his greatness!

She smiled gently and lowered her hands, turning to leave through the great ironwood doors that led to the Great Hall.

“My lady, I wonder… have you ever seen me in the flames?”

He was mocking her, mocking her god. Mocking his own life. Playing with fire.

She continued through the chamber as he bent to hear her answer. She smiled that knowing smile.

“No, I do not see you in the flames. I have never seen you in the flames, Daario Naharis.” She wasn’t sure if that was the answer he sought or not. No matter, the Red God would have his way.

A single door was opened for them as they walked through the Great Hall and onto the marble entrance of the Red Keep. She heard him gasp as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and neck, bracing for the bitter cold as he joined his guards.

At times she tried to remember what it was like, to feel the cold, or tired, or compassion.

But not now. She was too close, and would not be distracted from her duty. She had everything she could ever want.

The warmth of the love and light of R’hllor.

Her priests joined her silently, bowing, and she turned to gaze out over the burnt city.

“The flames have prepared King’s Landing for R’hllor. The city has been purified, and readied for the sacrifice that will prepare the ground beneath for his temple.”

Her eyes dropped to the people milling about below, catching the towering figure of the red-haired wildling leader strutting through the crowd accompanied by a dozen or so fur-clad companions.

“Kissed by fire. How fitting.”

She nodded toward her guards as they followed her gaze, bowing as several descended the stairs and entered the crowd.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

She watched for another moment, even as the wind again gusted through the streets, townsfolk gasping and starting to hurry home.

Kinvara turned and re-entered the castle, her priests chanting softly, wary and alert.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

-----

He felt ice once again creep up his spine, even before the cold seeped through his clothes.

The Red Priestess had always confounded him. She was beautiful, powerful, clever. Yet for some reason she had chosen a life of isolation, devotion, stubborn mystery.

He joined his guards at the edge of the great stairs as they gazed out over the city.

“Well? Is it her? Does she live?” Daario had wondered if Vodos himself had a secret desire for the Dragon Queen.

“Yes, she lives. And rules, somewhat at least. But there are new players of the game, and new rules. We will consider tonight, revisit our plans if necessary, take advantage where we can.”

Daario told them of of Missandei, of Varys, Tyrion, poor old Jorah. He had survived grayscale, but died fighting dead men.

Daario huffed to himself. Maybe the Targaryen madness was spreading. He remembered what he’d said to the lustful old man as they searched for their lost queen on the Dothraki Sea.

“I hope I grow old, I want to see what the world looks like when she’s done conquering it.”

A sudden burst of green in the lower corner of the city caught their attention, a low gasp of fear wafting on the bitter wind.

This was not at all what he had expected. She was not what he had expected. No longer what he had longed for. Loved.

He smiled broadly as his men crowded around him, pulling their cloaks up the back of their necks.

He nodded to his men. “We make plans tonight.”

Chapter Text

The streets of King’s Landing had turned into a web of uncertainty as the late morning sun struggled to spread its warmth into the battered city. Thick black ice coated some streets, others close to the still-burning wildfire under the streets had turned into an ashen gray mud two feet thick. Most of the time the sky was dull and overcast, frozen shards pelted from wind gusting so hard she had fallen to her knees more than once attempting to travel through the streets. Fortunately a steward had taken pity on her and directed her to the labyrinth of tunnels below the Red Keep, and although she lost her way several times, Brienne was able to carry out her final errands without incurring any broken bones.

It had taken quite some time to gather Lady Stark’s goods; she found the chest of personal belongings in the solar of the Grand Maester, a cheerful man under the circumstances, helpful though. The contents of the chest had been removed and neatly stacked on a central table, the chest itself being carefully examined on a bench under a window. She smiled carefully at the Grand Maester, unsure of her present position. Unsure of anything at the moment.

That was part of the problem. She needed, craved certainty.

“I believe we’re ready to return these to Lady Bolton, Ser Brienne. Would you like to re-pack them or should I?” He was watching her carefully as Brienne paused before nodding. Being distracted was so unlike her and she shook herself to clear her thoughts.

“Yes, I’ll re-pack her things. Thank you for your help. Could you tell me, Grand Maester, where the other Stark goods are being kept?” She began placing her Lady's personal items neatly into the chest.

“I believe they are being held under the stables. I can have someone escort you to make sure they are being well-tended, but I’m afraid they are being kept under guard for now, until this whole matter is settled.”

Brienned nodded, closing and latching the heavy chest. Either the Grand Maester was excellent at folding garments or there were items missing. Not surprising; if poison was suspected, all items were suspect.

She hefted the chest, too heavy to carry across the courtyard to the stables. “Grand Maester, is there perhaps those who could accompany me? Now that it is back in my possession…”

He nodded openly and waved forward a pair of stewards who had clearly been listening.

“Winter has come to King’s Landing, Ser Brienne. Be careful crossing the courtyards, we have had several injuries due to slipping on the ice in just the past two days.” He gave her an odd small smile, and she wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps she was becoming paranoid, she wouldn’t be surprised. She paused to clear her throat.

“Grand Maester, I was wondering if I might stop by later, I find I am in need of wise counsel…”

He nodded, “Of course, Ser Knight.” He had smiled again and nodded and gone about his business.

The Grand Maester had been right about the treacherous footing, but she and her new companions were able to find their way to the lower storage rooms under the stables with little trouble. She wished Pod was with her, but he had received a message from Ser Davos, calling him to present himself in short order. She, too, had received a message from the Crown’s Hand, worded differently, requesting that she present herself to the Queen that afternoon to discuss a position either on her Queens Guard or as trainer for all of their forces. Both the Unsullied and the Dothraki knew and respected her, and … she remembered the mixed emotions, the thrill of the offer and the fear of the unknown. She had sworn to the Stark women, to Catelyn Stark to find and protect her daughters. She had failed to do so, or … her stomach rumbled as a faint nausea rose in her throat.

What would Podrick do? What were they offering him? She smiled as she thought of how far he had come, how far they had all come. And how far some had fallen.

She had seen signs, caught glimpses, of questionable acts, decisions by each of the Starks. She had said, nothing. That was not her place, her role. Yet she would no doubt be questioned by the tribunal, and there were things that should be brought into the light of day for the sake of the peace of the realm. But she had taken an oath, and her quandary weighed heavily on her shoulders. Other matters, other choices as well. She relaxed her shoulders as she reminded herself she would have answers soon.

Until then she glanced over the wagons filled with boxes and wrapped baskets of the Stark household goods. She had packed two of them herself, loading them on the wagon after the Dragon Queen had flown off to re-take her throne, soon followed by her Warden Jon Snow and the Northern Army. Brienne tried to relax her jaw as she remembered the way her questions were brushed aside by Lady Sansa when asked about the travel plans. She had become used to it, being discounted, unheard, which was troubling in itself; at first Lady Sansa had confided in her, at least to a degree. Now she was merely a servant-guard, bound as a slave by that oath, though so often now that oath was used against her. She had often wondered what it would take to invoke the latter part of the oath, that her charge, Sansa Stark, had promised to not ask anything of her that would bring her dishonor. They had walked that fine line together, knowing it was there, both pretending not to notice.

Everything was different now.

Since leaving Winterfell… the news from King’s Landing had been shocking, to her at least. There was a quiet acceptance between the Stark siblings, stolen glances and half-smiles. Pride and determination on her Lady’s face when she extended the raven to her; a call to a Great Council.

Brienne had heard the rumblings among those remaining in Winterfell; Sansa had done nothing to quell them. Secret messengers arriving to speak to her Lady late in the night, shown into her private solar. Quiet meals between the brother and sister by the fire, silenced as she made her presence known.

More whispers. A raven from House Glover. Impatient waiting, an abrupt departure.

Finally the Lord of House Glover arrived having ridden hard to catch up with Sansa within a day of her leaving Winterfell. The ride south was quiet; Brienne had tried several times to inquire to Lady Stark about her brother Jon, her sister Arya, only to be either ignored or rebuffed. She’d felt more alone than ever; Brandon Stark rode in his own cart and Podrick had been tasked with taking care of his needs.

When they had arrived at Moat Cailin, the southernmost boundary of the North, they found House Cerwyn making camp, Cley Cerwyn himself, a few household members and what appeared to be all of his remaining fighting men. Brienne noticed the stiffening of her Lady’s spine and the forced mask of politeness as he extended greetings and a hand as she exited her carriage, Cerwyn’s face a broad relieved smile.

They set up camp as well, Glover and Stark encampments farther up the road, then had gathered for a meeting just after dark.

Brienne had felt Podrick’s eyes fixed on her face as the conversation among the leaders of the North veered into dangerous territory. The guards were dismissed, herself and Podrick as well, though the harsh words and rising emotion could not be hidden behind the fluttering tent walls.

There was a crash of glass and a ringing bang, bringing her hand to her sword and the guards to their feet. Lord Cley Cerwyn stormed through the tent flap, red in the face, pulling on his gloves as he cursed to himself. Robbett Glover soon followed, pleading, cajoling. More whispered arguing had followed until Glover grabbed the younger man’s arm tightly, pulling him closer, a mere breath apart, until Cerwyn jerked his arm free and glared at him, stalking away into the darkness.

She’d suspected that nothing good would come from this.

Apparently a decision had been made, confirmed to Brienne once the Great Council started.

But the secrets had come tumbling out, and so many of the doubts she had kept hidden behind her duty blared their truths in her ears.

Since then, since her Lady had been taken prisoner, Brienne had begun to make her own decisions, for herself for once, and had encouraged Podrick to make his own as well. He was a good lad, he could have a good life, with honorable people.

She began to inventory the contents on the wagons in her head, finally abandoning the endeavor when she had to start over for the third time.

She was wasting time.

Well, then. Delay would not make things easier, and she had her own problems to deal with.

The two stewards accompanying her were gasping for breath as they heaved the chest through the Red Keep, pausing several times to ask directions. Before long she found herself near the top of winding stairs in a narrow secluded tower, quickly removing her weapons only to wait impatiently for the guards to unlock the heavy door. She had spent little time in King’s Landing, had never before today been in the Red Keep itself. She tried to imagine what it was like before it had been nearly destroyed by dragonfire.

She was nervous, more nervous than she had been in a long time though she had rehearsed what she would say time and again that morning.

The door swung inward and she entered the dark room, a single occupant standing in the shadows, her Lady’s relieved smile confirming she had indeed found the last living daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. She stood to the side as the chest was hauled gracelessly into the room, directing it to be placed next to the bed for ease of access then nodded her thanks to the Grand Maester’s stewards. She could see the relief in their eyes when nothing more was asked of them.

The door closed behind them and Brienne heard the key grate in the brass lock.

“Quick, help me move this into the light, we have so much to do and I don’t know how long they will let you stay with me.”

Brienne stood for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit chamber before joining Sansa as she dragged the chest toward the center of the room.

Brienne lifted the latch, then the lid and stood back and watched as Lady Stark knelt to comb through the stacks of clothes and boxes of personal goods. Finally she sat back on her heels, an angry, dismayed look on her face.

“There are things missing, Ser Brienne, the things I most needed…”

Brienne cocked her head as she listened.

“You had charge of the Stark goods, Ser Brienne, how could you let this happen?”

Brienne felt the words cross her cheek as forceful as any slap.

“My Lady, the King…”

“Oh don’t even talk about him in my presence, that hateful bitch either.”

Brienne frowned as Sansa pulled a smaller wooden box from the chest and stood to lay it on the bed, opening it gingerly then shutting it tight.

“My papers, my personal, private papers, who has taken them, Ser Brienne?”

Brienne stood speechless, struggling to keep from clenching her jaw.

“My jewelry, the knife and scabbard that Lord Glover insisted I carry, the messages, the scrolls I had even answered… How am I supposed to get any work done?”

Sansa returned to the chest, removing several items to the table.

“At least I’ll be able to look presentable. Brienne, can you tell me which part of the Red Keep this room is located? I lost track as they dragged me here.”

Brienne startled at being given the opportunity to speak, deciding to merely shake her head in response before clearing her throat to speak.

“My Lady, I cannot stay long, there are…”

Sansa began pulling her garments out of the chest and laying them gently on the bed, shivering as she ran her hands over the fabric, distraught.

“Someone, strangers, those foreign soldiers, perhaps that silver-haired whore herself have touched my things, have taken my private letters, personal letters, they had no right to…”

She paused as she pulled out the last of the contents of the chest. Brienne watched as she tucked her fingernails into a small notch along the bottom, tugging until a narrow slat lifted to reveal a flat empty chamber.

Brienne laced her hands behind her back, watching as her Lady gasped and let out a quiet sob.

“Brienne, do you know who took my things? You will need to get them back for me, all of them… at all costs, do you understand?”

“Please my Lady, do not speak that way. You are in enough trouble as it is.”

Sansa huffed distractedly as she began sorting her belongings. “Trouble? Brienne I trust you, only you, you are sworn to me, I know you will never betray me. Now tell me what has been happening, I’ve heard - things - tell me what you know.”

Brienne straightened and shifted, off-balance without her sword and dagger. “There will be a tribunal, for you and Bran and Samwell and of course Tyrion, there will…”

“Yes, I’ve heard all of that, but what of the rebellions I've heard of, the Queen’s health, the friction between Jon and his bride? And winter… is it true this is the greatest storm King’s Landing has ever seen? What does my Uncle Edmure have to say?”

“Nothing, my Lady. He is attending to the needs of the Riverlands, and a possible position on the Small Council once the basic needs of the people have been met.”

“And Lord Royce, my cousin Robyn?”

Brienne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her stomach fluttering as the heat in the room began to build.

“The same, there are many gains to be made while they are in the capital, I think I overheard…”

Sansa smiled as she turned to her Sworn Sword. “Certainly Lord Glover has reached out to you, there were plans in place that must be adjusted.”

“My Lady, they have all sworn allegiance to King Jon and Queen Daenerys, as I, and you yourself have sworn.”

“They’ve all deserted me, just when I needed them most, but I assure you the North remembers.”

Brienne paused. “My Lady, surely you don’t think…”

“Have you met with Bran or Tyrion, even Sam Tarly?” Her voice was tinged with panic and anxiety, Brienne could recognize the strain behind the calm questions.

Brienne stepped closer as she started to answer, “No, my Lady, I have not been able to meet with any other of the accused. In all honesty, I have not tried to, I have been rather busy… you see…”

“Never mind then, you will deliver these messages and wait for a reply, we must speak with one voice.”

The Lady of Winterfell stood to set up her writing table, then fetched the lit candle from the top of the chest before seating herself, casting the shadows even darker where Brienne stood, her apprehension growing.

“I won’t be long, Brienne, you can have a seat on my bed if you’d like, I suppose you’ve had a wearisome day.”

“My Lady, Lady Sansa, I don’t believe I will be allowed to carry messages back and forth between you all.”

“Oh, Brienne, no one needs to know. You’re resourceful, I’m sure you’ll find someone to help you. Consider my new handmaiden Jaenys, she served Queen Margery for a short time, I knew her… before. She may be helpful to you, or find someone else. Podrick may be of assistance as well.”

Brienne let her hands drop to her sides, a sad gleam in her eye.

“Lady Stark, in truth, I have come to say good bye.”

Sansa continued writing hurriedly, her head dropped close to the parchment, straining in the dim light.

“My Lady, did you hear me, I will not be able to…”

“I heard you, Brienne, but you can wait a moment longer until I am done with this last one,” she lowered her voice as she pulled out a fresh parchment. “I need you to take care of this first, before the others, send it to the Iron Bank, the fastest way possible, I will need more resources, perhaps you should sail to Braavos yourself.”

Brienne paused as she drew in a deep breath, then nodded to herself, turning to leave. She raised her hand to knock on the door, then paused and turned back, letting her hand fall awkwardly.

The room was filled with small sounds, the wind throwing icy shards against the glass pane of the high round window, the sputtering fire in the hearth at her side, sighs and the determined scratching of ink on parchment.

Brienne drew a breath and came to stand across the table from Sansa as she continued to write.

“My Lady, before I go, I have some things to say.”

Sansa read what she had just written, then gave a thoughtful pause before continuing her message.

“Lady Stark, I have had some time to think on some things, and I’m afraid I have let you down, and I would like to apologize to you and to your family.”

Sansa huffed lightly even as she gently breathed on the drying ink.

“How have you let me down, Ser Brienne? And I expect you to serve me for many years to come. I’m sad that Arya has been killed, but we both know she was becoming a problem. We will have freedom now to bring peace to the North and to restore Winterfell and the Stark name to what it once was.”

Brienne pulled a chair forward and seated herself, placing herself eye level with her charge.

“Did you not hear me, my Lady, I am saying good bye.”

“No, you said you wanted to apologize, and I’m saying no apology is necessary.”

Brienne folded her hands on the table in front of her, signaling she would wait to speak, until Sansa finally turned from her parchments and straightened in her chair, her expression a stony mask.

“What is it you have to say, Brienne, though remember my enemies are lurking just outside the door.”

Brienne nodded and laid her hands in her lap, leaning in as she pulled herself closer to the table.

“I’m afraid I will have to take some responsibility for things getting this far, for what happened to all those people… I should have done more, my Lady.”

“Nonsense, Brienne, the daughter of the Mad King showed her true self, that is all that happened here.” Her eyes dulled as she half-listened to Brienne as she continued.

“I’m not sure if I ever told you how I came to be in your mother’s service.”

Sansa shook her head and tilted her chin, suddenly interested.

“It was King Renly’s camp, your mother had come to make an alliance on behalf of the King in the North. She was in the tent, with me, when Stannis’s shadow murdered King Renly right before our eyes. I was so proud to be a member of his King’s Guard, and I was tending him, helping to remove his armor, when a shadow with the face of his brother slipped into the tent and formed a standing man behind him, some kind of blade forming from the smoke. I watched as it pierced his heart, piercing right through him, then turned into nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Brienne, I know you were devoted to Lord Renly.”

Brienne smiled softly and nodded to herself as she remembered, shrugging as she continued.

“Yes, well, that’s when your mother forced me to leave him. I should have stayed, but she said I would not be able to avenge him if I was dead. And she was right, I was able to avenge him, later - though it was at the cost of missing your candle in the tower, my Lady… and I apologize for not being there, for you…”

“It’s alright Brienne, Theon rescued me, and you found us later.”

Brienne nodded, smiling slightly.

“So we fled Renly’s camp, your mother and I. Why she fled I’m not sure, perhaps she thought she would be accused, but she left her own guards and came with me. It was there on the road running from the soldiers that I pledged myself to your mother. She accepted my pledge, and I kept my oath to her to the best of my ability. I kept her counsel, I kept my thoughts to myself. But I made a mistake, I’ve made many mistakes, and I’m afraid you are paying some of the cost of those mistakes.”

“I’m afraid I don't understand Brienne.”

“Your mother loved her family very much, but she let that love blind her to all else so that she couldn’t see the consequences of her actions, if she had just seen, she may have made better choices. And I am afraid, I’m sorry to say that you have been blinded to the consequences of your actions as well.”

Sansa heaved a sigh and broke her gaze as she leaned back in her chair, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

Brienne raised her head, hopeful, determined.

“I know your brother Bran told you that all the troubles in your family were brought about by Lord Baelish, and that is true, but he would not have been able to cause such destruction if it hadn’t been for your mother taking Tyrion Lannister captive, taking him to the Eyrie. What was merely a rivalry became outright war between the Starks and the Lannisters, without Lord Stark even knowing the battle he was in.”

“Brienne, please… I don’t know what you think this will…”

“Later, when your brother Robb had captured Jaime Lannister, he’d escaped, killing both his own cousin and Lord Karstark’s son. Your mother took it upon herself to decide what the best course of action was, to follow Petyr Baelish’s direction to trade Jaime for her daughters. She didn’t know it, but the Lannisters didn’t have Arya, they didn’t know where she was. Baelish had lied you see. But your mother made her own choices, knowing her son, her king would not let her do it, she betrayed him and lost his trust. From what I have heard, right when he needed his mother’s counsel the most, he wouldn’t listen to her and broke his oath to Walder Frey. You see, she thought people, her son, the Northmen would excuse her betrayal because it was due to a mother’s love. Because she was a Tully. Because she was a Stark.”

Brienne waited for a reaction, her voice lowered. “Your mother tasked me with taking Jaime to King’s Landing to trade for you when we were captured by Bolton’s men and taken to Harrenhal. I suspect that is when plans were made, promises between Roose Bolton and the Lannisters, I don’t know whose idea it was, to betray Robb Stark and the North. But I tell you true that none of that would have happened if your mother hadn’t believed she could do what she wanted and would be forgiven for it.”

Sansa gasped, “Brienne stop this now! You can’t mean what you are saying! It was always the Lannisters…”

“So many mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives paid for your mother’s poor choices, putting her family, your family above others. She thought she could call on the loyalty of others, as you are trying to do, yet avoid her own responsibility for the situation to begin with.

“If your mother had been patient, and a true leader of the North, it is likely that none of the horror that came to your House would have happened.” Brienne hesitated, then determined she would speak it all clearly, while she had a captive audience.

“The death of your father, your own captivity, the War of the Five Kings, the burning of the Riverlands, and the death of your brother and your mother’s own death, the near annihilation of the Northern army. Her choices led to Robb losing the Karstarks, half of his army, which in turn led to losing Winterfell to the Boltons. Its why the Karstarks gave your brother Rickon to the Boltons. It led to the Lannisters winning and the Starks losing everything, all of those terrible, tragic things…”

Brienne could see the memories flow behind her Lady’s gaze. Perhaps she was listening, perhaps it wasn’t too late.

“Yes, she did everything for her family. She believed that that was all that mattered, that her family was the only thing that mattered and she didn’t care how anyone else might suffer. She counted on those around her to help her, not because she was doing the right thing, but based on her family name, her House. But what she did was…”

“She did what she was supposed to do. Her House words, Family, Duty, Honor. She followed the words of the Seven, she was a good wife, a good mother, you cannot blame her for…”

“Your mother, the Tully’s, the Starks, the Lannisters, the Targaryens, no one is above reaping the consequences of their own actions. She put her family above all else, and neglected both her duty and her honor. Your mother betrayed those she said she loved… but now, Lady Sansa listen to me please, there may still be hope for you; admit what you have done, beg for mercy, the King still has love for you, I’ve seen it in the pain in his eyes when he speaks of you, he may yet spare your life.”

Sansa’s face had grown still, her practiced mask warring with the anger in her eyes.

“Brienne, I’m afraid you don’t know what you are talking about, and I am not interested in hearing any more of you trying to blame my mother when it was always the Lannisters behind the downfall of my House. Joffrey, Tywin, Cersei, even Jaime betrayed his oath at the end. I have done nothing wrong, and you have sworn to keep my counsel, Lady Brienne, just as I have kept my promise to you.”

Brienne felt her temper rise. “My Lady, you have not kept your promise to me, time and again I have brought dishonor upon myself for your sake. I have kept silent as you lied to your brother Jon at Castle Black about meeting with Littlefinger, how you learned that the Blackfish had retaken Riverrun, I have kept silent when you failed to tell him about the Knights of the Vale, putting his life in danger for no reason and costing the lives of hundreds if not thousands of those you claim to protect. Your own brother Rickon, I’ve wondered, did you want him dead? Then you conspired with Lord Baelish to turn the Northern Lords against your King, to take the crown from him, when you sought to divide the North right when it needed to be unified, to turn against the Dragon Queen.”

Brienne recoiled as her heart stopped, playing those words again in her mind, then took a breath as she struggled to make herself clear to her charge.

“My Lady, what I am trying to say, is that I’m sorry I failed to tell you these things earlier, I should have convinced you, tried to at least, to see things differently. They may have saved you, to learn from your mother’s mistakes, I could have steered you in a less costly direction. Rickon, your sister Arya, even your mother, and here and now all of King’s Landing, could they have been saved if I had been strong enough?”

Sansa returned to her parchments, spreading them out before her.

“I accept your apology, Ser Brienne, but you have always given me wise counsel when I have asked for it. Now we have work to do…”

Brienne slowly pushed back the chair and stood, resigned that she had failed in this, her last and perhaps most important service to her oath to the Starks.

“I have one question for you, my Lady. Did you tell Tyrion Lannister that Jon Snow is the trueborn son of Lady Lyanna Stark and the Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Sansa quietly stood and turned her back, setting about melting the wax for the Stark seal. Brienne watched as she became frantic, emptying the writing desk, not finding the stamp itself. Disappointment, resignation knit her brows for a moment, replaced with a knowing smile as she retook her seat without once meeting her gaze.

“They’ve made you a better offer, haven’t they?”

Brienne was taken aback, confused, then nodded.

“No, not yet, but they have made it clear they will need people they can trust, and I am considering offering my services. Your brother, King Jon, laid out their plans late last night, plans of honor, Lady Sansa, plans for the good of the realm.”

“Bran would have been a good king, Brienne, you would have been there to guide him, as you have been there for every trueborn Stark.”

Brienne’s shoulders drooped.

“King Jon, Lady Sansa, is he not a trueborn Stark?”

Sansa laughed, an odd sound echoing off the stone walls. “He will always be a bastard, Brienne.”

Brienne was saddened, a flash of tears in her eyes as she bowed her head once.

“I’m sorry you think that, my Lady. I take my leave of you now, and I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

“I will have these messages ready for you when you return. See if you can visit Bran, ask him what his plans are, why he didn’t see this happening. We don’t have much time, Brienne, oh, and Tyrion, we need to come up with a plan, leave Tarly out of it, he’s useless.”

Brienne sighed, resigned.

“This one is ready to deliver, quickly, to the Iron Bank. I can find someone else to deliver the rest.”

Sansa extended the letter toward her without looking up, her hand trembling slightly, waiting.

“Of course, my Lady.” She took the folded parchment and placed it in the crook of her armor. She bowed slowly, then turned and left the dark chambers, hearing the key turn in the lock as the door clanged shut, nodding grimly as her weapons were returned.

Bitterness rose as her thoughts turned to her wasted life, her poor choices, her spent honor in the name of duty. But she remembered the King’s speech, that line had struck home as she considered her options now.

It is often in the seemingly small decisions that our future is built.

Yes, seemingly small decisions. She nodded to herself. A new future. She had plans of her own and work to do.

A small smile flit across her lips as the tall blonde knight turned her back on her past and descended the stairs into the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

This, this was why he’d never wanted it.

Other reasons of course, but King for a day and his life was already little more than seemingly endless meetings, stacks of letters to decipher and sign and a long line of those desiring, “Just a moment of your time, Your Grace.”

Hopefully others would be able to take on more of these mundane duties over time, but for now he needed to know the condition of the realm first-hand.

Especially if Rhaegal was strong enough to fly.

He’d known he was willing, anxious even, would have liked to have gone for a circle around the city last night.

But that first flight since his recovery needed to be in daylight, though if he was honest with himself he dreaded what he would see.

Recovery, rebuilding was underway, but much of the city was still languishing under the flames, both the red and orange dragonfire and green wildfire.

Yet even from a distance he could sense Rhaegal reaching out, curious, eager and sometimes anxious as he came to grips with his return to the living.

Jon nodded to himself as he remembered his own disorientation.

Surprisingly he could also sense Drogon, not as strong, but not surprisingly, impatient.

“Your Grace?”

Jon pushed himself away from his desk, glad for the distraction.

“Lord Wintyn, Lord Lannister.”

Jon relished embarrassing the young steward, his blush reflecting both his youth and his golden-haired heritage.

“Your Grace, you intend to take your dragon for a flight this afternoon?” There was a certain - awe - underlying his question.

“Yes, if the weather is better, but then again there doesn’t seem to be any way of predicting if that will be the case.”

“Unfortunately thats true, Your Grace.”

Jon heaved a sigh as he circled the desk to approach his Hand.

“Lord Wintyn, please call me Jon, or Aegon, when we are alone.”

It was a leap for this offer, a sign of trust and confidence, reflected in the pause and the nod of the head.

“Thank you, Jon, or do you prefer Aegon? I hope I live up to your confidence.”

“I’m sure you will, and Jon will be fine. I intend to avoid the other unless necessary.”

Manderly nodded again and smiled respectfully, clearing his throat to speak before Jon interrupted him.

“If you could check the current weather conditions over the city, see if it would be possible to take a short flight right away, it seems the dragons are near enough and are anxious for attention.”

Surprise reflected on both his Hand’s and steward’s faces. At some point he’d have to explain the connection he shared with both the dragons and his direwolf, if he could find a way to put it into words.

Manderly nodded quickly. “Of course, I’ll send for the maesters, they know King’s Landing better than most and should be able to give you a somewhat accurate weather prediction.”

Jon had been surprised at how many maesters actually resided in King’s Landing, all supporting and serving the Crown and the Grand Maester. Not necessarily in that order.

Manderly nodded to Kevan as he left, the lad shifting in his seat near the door, ready to respond to the King’s wishes.

Jon paused, crossing his arms.

He’d have to find something for the lad to do all day, besides relay messages between Manderly and Davos and fetching and delivering. He was a smart fellow and eager, perhaps he should offer to train him later, when he returned to his own training in the courtyard. Maybe even train him to serve with the Unsullied and the Northern Guard, see what he was capable of. It would be good to have eyes and ears of his own within those who protected his family.

Then again, he’d been thinking about gathering all the books in the kingdom, starting with what might be hidden within the Red Keep and Dragonstone, even the Citadel, looking for any books about dragons, how to train, feed, anything. He, they, needed to learn as much as possible about them since there was no one with actual experience besides the two of them. Perhaps that would be a good task for the young Kevan Lannister. Poetic as well. He smiled to himself. He’d never met Tywin Lannister, but thought it would be an affront to all of his dreams to have a member of House Lannister helping to solidify the Dragon’s rule on the Iron Throne.

Kevan leapt from his seat and nearly ran to the doors to the Royal Chambers and returned, bowing briefly to the king as he paused.

“Your Grace, Master Tarner has arrived, he says he has finished the pieces you requested.”

Jon nodded and waited for the doors to open before waving the craftsman into his solar, Kevan politely taking the heavy package as they entered and placing it on the table before the king. He could tell the man was pleased but apprehensive, as he himself had doubts of how the gifts would be received.

He’d never really given gifts, not since he was a child and had made token gifts for his siblings, even his father. But as an adult; after all, what did a bastard have to give?

He untied the leather ties to reveal several more packages inside, reaching for the largest first. It was lighter than expected, raising an eyebrow toward the craftsman.

“I assure you, my King, this will be quite effective should the need arise. We’ve tested it quite thoroughly.”

Jon nodded even as he made plans to test it himself. “May the need never arise, but this appears quite sufficient, Master Tarner. Thank you.”

Tarner nodded, fumbling with his cap as the king reached for the next package. He rolled open the leather covering to reveal an engraved box, long and narrow, the three-headed dragon burnt into the lid, surrounded with all manner of images of Targaryen lore. Jon rested his fingers on the fine work, drawing a deep breath before opening the box.

Black velvet, red cording. Nestled inside, the Targaryen Valyrian steel dagger. Lost in time, suddenly making an appearance on the eve of the Long Night. He knew there was more to the story, hoped he’d someday find out more. But most recently it had been Arya’s dagger, used to slay the Night King, the blade she’d intended to murder her queen with.

Instead it had returned to House Targaryen.

It would be Dany’s dagger now.

He lifted the weapon from its bed, feeling the heft of it, then grasped the black handle, sliding the blade from its scabbard.

The light danced off the swirl of the steel, the edge sharp as anything known, the hilt cleaned and glistening.

A new scabbard.

Gone was the worn reddish-brown leather sheath with the obsequious decoration, replaced now with a fine polished black leather sleeve, silver edged and embellished in red, a dragon in flight, wings outstretched to fill the length, leather ties secured on the back for attaching to a belt.

This blade was never meant for a Wolf; this blade belonged to a Dragon.

Jon returned the blade to its home and smiled thankfully to the craftsman.

“Thank you, I couldn’t have asked for more. I’m sure the Queen will love this. And please, all of you, these are gifts that are meant to be a surprise.”

Nods followed, “Of course, Your Grace.”

He nodded in return and set the box atop the larger package in front of his steward. He hoped this was a good idea, that she would accept it the way it was meant, that she had survived treachery once again, and would build upon what her enemies had tried to steal from her.

He sighed, catching himself before his brooding began.

The third package, a gift from him to her, from Jon to Dany.

A Wedding gift.

He’d thought long and hard, had spent many a night imagining what she would like as a means to find sleep, to escape his own nightmares.

She already had anything she could want, in material things. So it would have to be meaningful. Practical. Beautiful.

Another wooden box, square this time, larger and lighter than the other.

He looked up to find them both leaning over, curious as to the contents and to his reaction.

Gods he hoped this was the right thing… too late to change his mind…

No more delay.

He opened the box, mystified by the contents.

They were what he had asked for, but women’s - Jewelry? Pins? Accessories? - this was as far from his expertise as anything he’d ever considered.

“I took the liberty to meet with the Queen’s handmaid, Your Grace. These were made to her specifications. She’s sure the Queen will appreciate and get good use out of them, and she complimented you on your thoughtfulness.”

Jon felt his face flush, relieved and a bit embarrassed. He folded the lid all the way back, grateful when Tarner revealed the latch that released the lid altogether, turning the lower box into a deep display case.

The case consisted of three compartments of approximately equal size, differing somewhat in configuration, the lining again black velvet, or possibly the deepest blue, each compartment filled with a variety of - things - he could only identify by their decoration.

Dragons, Direwolves, Dragonflies.

Black, silver, red. Enamel, jewels, embellished.

He’d approved the initial ideas, but the results were more than he could have ever imagined; he’d merely asked for ’things she could wear in her hair’.

These gleaming treasures before him; he could envision them now, clasping her braids as she met with her people, taming her long hair as she held their babe, cascading within her silver hair as she wore her crown, regal and inspiring.

Fit for a Queen. A queen of dragons and direwolves.

He wasn’t sure where the dragonflies had come in, but he liked them. A little variety never hurt, did it?

“My friend, you have far exceeded my expectations. Please attend the feast tonight. I will present you to the Queen, and you can accept her thanks personally.”

Tarner startled, his grin wide as he bowed.

“My honor, Your Grace. And may I say my confidence in your reign, the Reign of Dragons, only grows by the day, as I believe many of my fellow tradesmen agree.”

Jon smiled his thanks, requesting his steward to find a place to hide them all in his private quarters, somewhere the queen wouldn’t find them, not that she’d look for them, then nodding for Kevan to escort the excited master out of the keep.

For a moment he was alone. He took his seat and let his gaze fall on the magically grown stack of unopened messages before rubbing his hand through his hair.

This was his life now.

Why would anyone want to be King?

He was tempted to brood, but instead took a deep breath and pulled a heavy bound ledger close only to be gladly interrupted by a brief knock on the door followed by the return of his Hand.

“Your Grace, I’ve consulted with everyone from the maesters to the guards posted on the walls and turrets, and there doesn’t seem to be any way of predicting when, or if the weather will be better or worse in the coming hours or days.”

Jon nodded as Manderly continued.

“However, although it is quite windy and there are high dark clouds rolling in from the sea, it is not snowing or raining at the moment, and there are quite a few crowds of smallfolk and merchants in the streets. Now might be the best time to take that ride, Your Grace, if you are still so inclined.”

Jon nodded again, happy for the reprieve. “Thank you Wintyn, I am so inclined. I will send the dragons to land outside the Fallen Gate, where I met them last night.”

Manderly nodded. “I took the liberty to instruct the mound beyond the Fallen Gate be restricted from public use until future notice, until there is a safe place for the dragons to land within the walls. I’ve taken to referring to it as ‘Dragon’s Mount,’ Your… Jon.”

Jon looked up gratefully.

“And as far as the weather, there is agreement that it is becoming unusually unpredictable, even for a southern winter. Grand Maester Lesser is consulting with the Citadel, regarding the sudden drop in temperatures, darkness falling mid-day, never truly daytime even without the clouds. Perhaps it is the lingering haze, as though the sunlight never truly gets through all the ash and grit suspended in the air, but it seems to be getting worse rather then better as days go by. Sometimes it even depends on where you are within the city, perhaps something to do with the tides and ocean winds, but it seems to be totally unpredictable.”

“Talk to Davos, the ships’ captains, they may have some insight, perhaps they’ve experienced something similar elsewhere outside of Westeros.”

Manderly nodded with a raised eyebrow as Jon closed the ledger and leaned back in his chair, reaching out to the dragons only to be reminded of his first true friend.

He’d been so grateful that Tormund had brought Ghost, even though he rarely had any time with him. He wanted Ghost to get used to the dragons, but for now the great beast was clinging to Daenerys. He’d ask her later if she minded.

“Anything else we need to discuss for the day?”

“I’ve arranged for your meetings with the Northern lords here after your flight, Prince Martell and Lord Baratheon will meet you at the stables afterward.”

Jon frowned for a moment before smiling slightly as he realized he was speaking of Gendry. He’d need to spend some time with the young man, if he could make time. Arya had never explained, well, she’d never talked about what she had gone through.

And now she never could.

His heart clenched, he could feel sweat on his palms, relieved when Manderly chuckled beside him.

“Your Grace, one of the prisoners, Lord Tarly, he has asked for something to read in his captivity.”

Jon pushed aside his brooding and stood.

“Oh, does he now?”

He glanced at several books opened on a side table, slid in a piece of parchment to mark the page, closed it and handed it to his Hand.

“Give him this. And when he’s done with it, give it to Tyrion, then to Sansa.”

Manderly glanced at the cover and smiled.

“‘The Illustrated History of Executions in Westeros and the Free Cities.’ Yes, I’m sure he’s going to enjoy this.”

Jon joined the lightened mood, relieved that Manderly may be worthy of his trust and perhaps someone he could call a friend.

Jon wondered that Kevan hadn’t returned, probably waylaid.

“If there’s nothing else, I don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”

Manderly followed as Jon entered his quarters to change into attire more suitable for dragon riding.

“Your Gr… Jon, if I may, how do you know, how do they know where…?”

Jon nodded as he searched through his belongings for his faded but reliably warm gambeson.

“Yes, it’s hard to explain, but there does seem to be some kind of connection between us, not by words or anything really… real… but I can tell they have been waiting to come, and I have told them where I will meet them, and they are on their way.”

Jon could practically hear Manderly’s eyebrows rise.

“And if I may, Your Grace, I have heard things, about your direwolf, Ghost, and about your brother Bran and… about the magic?”

Jon sighed as Manderly assisted him in removing his embroidered black velvet tunic, carefully laying it out to be brushed by his steward later.

“I don’t understand everything, about the dragons, or Ghost, or the magic, we will have to do some more research, now that there’s time. But, yes, perhaps its because of the return of the White Walkers, or the dragons’ rebirth, but some kind of magic does seem to have returned to the realm, though talking with the Queen it may not have ever left other parts of the world. Perhaps it has something to do with the faith of the Seven.”

Jon hesitated. He knew he’d have to be careful with his wording until he knew how devoted his new Hand was to the Andals’ religion.

Manderly cleared his throat, stifling a grin as Jon drew back from the newly-fashioned chain mail shirt he held in his hands.

“Just because you’re on a dragon doesn’t mean you’re not a target, Your Grace.”

At first frustrated at the reminder, Jon reminded himself to be patient, especially when others were right. It was their job to protect him, and he knew there were those after his crown.

“Thank you for looking out for my safety, Wintyn.”

Jon stood still, outwardly at least, arms outstretched as the silver shirt was tied at the sides.

“Wintyn… would you prefer another name in private, Lord Hand? Less formal if you wish?”

Wintyn blushed.

“Wintyn works well, my family has another name for me, but I don't think it would be suitable here.”

Jon’s eyebrow raised, wondering if he would be trusted enough.

Manderly paused, breathing deeply.

“Tiny, Your Grace. My family calls me Tiny. Apparently my sister started calling me that as a babe, and it does appear I am the smallest of my family, so it stuck, even now when I return home.”

Jon laughed, relieved when Manderly joined in.

“Yes, I can see how that would be something to be kept within the family. Though between us we can admit that in comparison to your kin…”

Wintyn again nodded, “Yes, Your Grace, my kin do seem to take great pride in their mermanly stature.”

Jon smiled, relieved. He’d never learned to speak with highborn, had never been allowed to, thought there was some kind of special language.

Perhaps not.

Or perhaps his poor overtures were tolerated because he was king. He would discuss further with Davos, if he ever saw him again. He’d been in a similar situation himself. He chuckled to himself. Perhaps even Ghost would have some suggestions, he seemed to be getting along better with the Queen than he was.

His gambeson was loose as he strapped Longclaw to his side, opting for his dagger as well. There was always the possibility that Rhaegal would take off for parts unknown, land among enemies, and it would be foolish not to take the least precautions.

Manderly held his familiar cloak open, surprise on his face when Jon shook his head.

“I’ve learned that a cloak is not suitable for riding a dragon; it catches the wind, pulls me back and provides no warmth flapping in the air. Usually the cold is not an issue with the heat of the dragon beneath me.”

Instead he rummaged again through his chest before pulling out his warmest furs, last worn on that mis-guided wight hunt, handing it to Manderly for his assistance in putting it on. He swung his arms back and forth, finding his movement limited, eventually deciding to forego any additional warmth for such a short ride. He’d ask that a lighter jacket, perhaps more fitted, maybe even just a vest be made specifically for dragon riding.

Another new bit of wardrobe, at least this would be a garment of his own choosing.

He shrugged and nodded to Manderly, and soon found himself meandering through the Red Keep towards the almost hidden stairs to the lower stables. He’d agreed to wear the crown whenever he left their private quarters, and was now hampered with returning bows and smiles as he passed visitors and servants and workers around every corner, even bumping into his guards on several occasions. Fortunately his apologies were met with a smile and nod.

The brightness of this lower level always astounded him, daylight flooding through the open entrance into a vast but well protected courtyard. He was pleasantly surprised to see Belarion standing brushed and tacked and calmly waiting, held by a groomsman with Kevan by his side, smiling and waiting with a flask and a small sack of provisions.

“Just in case, Your Grace.”

Jon smiled and quickly squeezed his shoulder.

“Good thinking, Master Kevan.” Kevan blushed, as he was wont to do, as Jon exchanged his crown for the foodstuffs and tied them to his saddle. Soon he was mounted, and he and his kings guard made their way onto the city streets.

The weather had shifted again, the clouds had thinned and sunlight streamed through, highlighting the ongoing reconstruction along the main thoroughfare. There were crowds of people out and about, some waving when they saw him, some even running to follow as he headed toward the Fallen Gate. He did his best to remain friendly to the townsfolk even as he focused on reaching his destination. His guards kept close to protect their King, horses occasionally bumping into one another as their hooves slipped on the suddenly melting ice covering the cobbled streets.

The dragons were waiting for him, closer to the gate itself than last night. Fortunately their presence lessened the enthusiasm of the crowd, and for the most part the people stayed behind the safety of the crumbling walls.

Jon dismounted quietly, reassuring his horse as he handed the reins to his guard. A short walk up the mount and he was patting Rhaegal’s side, receiving a joyous grunt in return. He could feel Drogon’s eyes on his back, and he quickly stroked his snout before quickly pulling himself up his dragon’s wing and onto his back.

There he sat a moment, memories flooding, sensing similar feelings from the creature beneath him. It was the first time he’d been on Rhaegal outside of the North, first time since the battle with the Night King, first time since his dragon’s death and resurrection. He looked out over the city from this new vantage point; even in sunlight the pall across the city remained.

Rhaegal snorted and Jon smiled, patted his neck and leaned forward, grasping the horns with gloved hands, nodding to his men as he wordlessly gave the dragon his consent to fly.

Rhaegal’s first steps were unsteady compared to what he remembered, but he sent him encouragement and patience until they were suddenly airborne, still-tattered wings thrusting heavily to rise above the countryside. Jon felt the exhilaration of flight, the joy he shared with his mount, even Drogon as he trailed behind. At times Rhaegal fluttered his wings to keep his balance, almost unseating his passenger, only to right himself to prevent his rider from falling. They’d built up a bond, a trust during those first few flights in the North, through the battle of the Long Night, and Jon was relieved to find that the bond was even stronger now.

They rose quickly on the ocean updrafts, circling high above the crowds and broken city below. Jon divided his attention between evaluating the damage within the walls and observing the health of the green dragon beneath him. He was still responsive to his wishes, however he perceived them, and seemed to have enough energy to be enjoying the flight. He’d pay careful attention to his recovery time after this flight before deciding if he was strong enough to travel to the Reach. They would take as many breaks as necessary on that long trek, but he would not risk interfering with his healing if he could help it.

At Jon’s direction Rhaegal circled around the Red Keep, turned and leveled out low over the city, heading back to the most damaged parts of the city, also covered under the most snow and ice and the least populated. He turned over the deserted streets, careful to avoid the heat rising from the remaining wildfire caches. Jon encouraged him as he flew and Rhaegal let out a bellowing roar, sending the people below screaming and scurrying like ants. They’d learn to live with dragons over King’s Landing, it was part of their history after all.

Jon relaxed and let Rhaegal catch the tidal winds, wings outstretched and barely fluttering as they headed back out over the ocean. He smiled as he straightened and leaned back, laughing at the joy he felt from the dragon.

Dragonrider.

His doubts seemed to fade away, his confidence, hopefulness verging on optimism. He seemed to feel the most truly who and what he was on the back of this dragon.

He’d considered before that this is what gave Targaryens such arrogance, such entitlement.

The sheer power, of life and death and speed and force.

Fire and Blood.

This was what Dany had been taught, that Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men.

Because they rode dragons.

He patted Rhaegal’s side, spoke his name, shared his joy.

Would he have to learn to speak Valyrian? Somehow he thought not, though a little wouldn’t hurt, it might be fun to be taught by Daenerys, give her something to torment him with… thoughts of their time on the voyage to White Harbor when he had tried to twist his mouth in decidedly un-Northerly ways, sending her giggling and assuring him his tongue was better used in other ways. He found himself reddening at the memories; they would make new memories soon.

Was he ready? Was she?

Still he wondered if his connection to Rhaegal was different than that between Dany and Drogon. She gave him commands in Valyrian, and he obeyed, for the most part, though he was clearly affected by her moods and emotions as well.

But it was different for him. Because he was a Stark? He had a similar kind of connection with Ghost, and the blood of the First Men flowed through his veins.

Or was it because of the actual blood they now shared?

No, it had been the same in the North; Rhaegal had understood him, what he wanted, where he wanted to be taken.

Rhaegal dropped below the lowering clouds as they flew quietly over Blackwater Bay, low enough to see hands outstretched, pointing in his direction, the surprised faces of sailors on dozens of ships bobbing in the dark water below.

Jon felt icy shards pelt his face, sensed the annoyance of the dragon underneath.

Yes, Targaryens, and yes, Starks were different from other bloodlines, though he suspected others could carry their own kinds of magic. He wanted to know more, to know if carrying both bloodlines could be of help ruling the Seven Kingdoms, beyond being able to burn them to the ground.

Rhaegal. Named after his father. He wondered if at some point he would have time to think about him, learn about him. And Lyanna.

His mother.

Would they be proud of him? Did it matter?

Not today.

So many mistakes, so many failures. He had failed to protect his dragon, his queen.

He failed to protect his Dany, their child; if he hadn’t been so gullible, so naive, they would not have been tempted to use him, betray him.

Jon scoffed at himself. No. Everyone was, everyone is responsible for their own actions.

He thought again of his parents. Somehow they failed to protect each other, the realm. Their babe.

He needed to look deeper into how that had happened; surely Lyanna would have told her family, and Rhaegar would have made arrangements.

All of this must surely have been preventable.

But for now, he had to keep his guard up, be suspicious of people’s motives.

Try to be one step ahead.

Perhaps there was no one he could trust, only Rhaegal and Ghost. Hopefully they would bond as well.

And Dany. So many questions, so many doubts.

He’d been so close to killing her, and their babe.

And he’d rejected her, they’d rejected each other, and they would do it again. The only thing keeping them together was survival. If things ever settled down, no doubt they would hurt each other again and again.

Time to go home.

Jon could feel the dragon’s disappointment when he directed him toward the mound from which they’d departed.

Was this all temporary? Were they just playing at some game?

When she recovered, when she was stronger she’d push him away. She’d done it before. She wouldn’t allow a threat to her reign, would never permit her claim to be challenged or questioned.

He’d already made plans in his head in case he needed to return to Winterfell, would do his best to make it an easy transition for her. He’d never want to make her feel threatened in any way, not after what she’d already been through.

Davos had lived in King’s Landing, he was much more suited, useful here in the south. He’d recommend he stay to advise the queen, if she was amenable, so the Onion Knight would remain here, after. Manderly on the other hand would likely return North with him, and he would take up residence in Winterfell as King in the North.

Or perhaps Dany would offer Wintyn a spot on her Small Council. A proper Council, without divided power, without him.

Grey Worm would be relieved, if not outright happy.

No.

He should give her a chance, make her see the wisdom in their ruling together, the strength of being a family, raising their child together. Yet the fear mounted, the shame, the doubt.

Jon shook his head, listening to the words, Bran’s words or his own broodiness, it didn’t matter. Yet he wondered if the words were truly Bran’s as the Red Priestess claimed, though these have always been his thoughts, bastard thoughts.

He shook his head again, pushed the thoughts away.

No, he’d thought this through, every problem was solvable.

This time, today he’d be strong for Dany, for his child, for the realm. It was true they didn’t trust each other, that would take time to rebuild. But until then he would be what he needed to be, no one would know his doubts, justified or not. His actions would speak for him.

Even if she tried, he wouldn’t let her push him away. She was his, now, they were his, his family. And he was king, with a duty to his throne, his crown, his people.

He felt Rhaegal’s excitement beneath him.

They reached the harbor and suddenly flew into the low clouds sitting over the warmer shoreline, Rhaegal still confidently coasting with only an occasional flap of his wings as they followed the wall upward. They dropped out of the clouds, a rise of voices coming from the crowds within the walls. The Red Keep rose like a specter out of the dull gray debris of the city.

From a distance, he could see a crowd of townsfolk had formed within the fallen gates, a smaller crowd closer to the mound. Earlier there had been scurrying and shrieks of terror as the dragons had descended; he was relieved that curiosity and confidence were growing quickly.

Jon felt Rhaegal slow as Drogon flew before him, circling Dragon’s Mount.

Kinvara’s red cloak stood out among the drab landscape, and he could make out the other figures as they descended.

Davos, his kings guards, and others he recognized but didn’t know.

Foreign clothes, foreign features. Essosi, other.

Daario Naharis. The Second Sons.

He’d thought about what to say to this man, his wife’s former lover. How to act, how to feel.

Glad now that they would meet this way. Briefly, and he arriving on the back of a dragon.

Better even than wearing a crown, seated on a throne.

He supposed he was being petty, and jealous. But Davos had assured him those feelings were also understandable.

At the time he was comforted; what would a bastard know of such things after all.

But he was king now, husband and father. He couldn’t afford… so many things.

Rhaegal flapped his wings hard, almost thrashing as he dropped to the ground with a startling thud. Jon paused to make sure he’d not lost any teeth, glad when only his hips ached as he straightened.

He quickly comforted the tired dragon, stroking his scarred neck as Drogon landed close by and approached with a huff.

Rhaegal dropped his wing and shoulder and Jon lowered himself to the ground, glad he was not wearing a cloak. Somehow getting off was always easier than getting on.

He stroked Drogon’s neck, not without its own scars, comforting both dragons before sending them back to the cliff at the far edge of the bay, assuring them their mother would see them soon. The cold winds were rising, and the dragons quickly departed for their new home, screeching to each other as they crossed over bobbing ships in the harbor.

Jon watched them fly, looking for signs of weakness, Rhaegal slower but steady, then turned to carry on with his day only to be met by Kinvara. As usual she had something to say, something that couldn’t wait, something from the Lord of Light. Perhaps one day he would ask his guards to protect him from her presence. They were getting over their fear of the dragons, though he admitted the Red Priestess elicited an entirely different kind of fear.

“My King, you have done well, all of the pieces have been…”

Jon interrupted as he pulled off his gloves, hesitated before slowly walking toward his gathered men.

“My lady, I, we, of course we are grateful for all you’ve done.”

“It is not I, it is the Lord.”

“Yes of course, but tell me, plainly my lady, what is it that the Lord of Light wants? What do we owe him?”

“My King, I’ve seen it all in the flames, the Lord’s fire burning throughout the world, sweeping away all false gods. I see two figures in the flames, and two dragons.”

Jon cringed as he dropped his eyes. He’d heard all of this before.

“There is only One God, you are His Chosen, the Prince That Was Promised, the Son of Ice and Fire. You have been brought back for a great purpose! The Lord of Light rewards his Chosen, or punishes - which do you choose?”

Realization hit Jon and he chuckled to himself.

“Ah, you want to set up a temple here in King's Landing.”

He could feel the heat emanating from her body, could see the jewel at her throat pulsate as she spoke.

“No, Your Grace, King's Landing shall be the temple, for all of Westeros, one true temple for the one true god. All others will be swept aside.”

Jon huffed.

“If the Lord of Light is truly the only god, he should be able to convince people on his own. He shouldn’t need to be protected from challenge, he should be able to prove that he is the greatest, the one true god even in the face of any other beliefs.”

The beautiful woman reached out to place her hand on his arm.

“He brought you back, isn’t that proof enough?”

Jon paused, unaffected by her touch. “I’ve often wondered, my lady, if it truly was the Lord of Light that brought me back, or any god, or if it was just the magic that has dwelt in the North for thousands of years. Every religion has a tale of what happens when you die; different endings, of course, but they are all wrong. Nothing happens, it is just, nothing. If they are all so wrong about such a major belief, why should I trust any thing else they have to say?”

Kinvara drew back her hand, nodding gently at his questions.

“You will see, Your Grace. But for now you must be wise and attentive. The thing that has stolen the name Brandon Stark is regaining its strength, from all the death and anger and hatred of the people around him. He seeks to influence your thoughts, your actions, but your dragon gives you strength, just as you strengthen him.”

Jon had often wondered to himself how much Bran had influenced him, for how long, in what ways. He’d always credited his discontent to his life station, despite discovering the truth, he still felt he would always be a bastard, weak, envious and scheming. To fight against these beliefs, these feelings, felt traitorous in itself. But he’d been learning to recognize and resist the pressure, whether the weight of shame or Brandon Stark it didn’t matter.

Perhaps some day he’d win that battle.

But for now, he had duties to attend to.

“Of course, my lady. But tell me, have you learned anything new about the poison, anything helpful about Bran, the Three Eyed Raven, anything that will help to weaken his efforts?”

“The Lord has not yet revealed these truths in the flames. Be patient, it is not yet time, my King.”

Jon nodded, grateful that they had arrived to greet his latest guests.

“Your Grace, this is Daario Naharis, Captain of the Second Sons.”

Jon halted and met the sellsword’s aloof gaze and waited, ignoring the slight smirk on Davos’s face.

“Captain Naharis, Aegon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon resisted the temptation to let his hand rest on Longclaw’s pommel, relieved when the sellsword simply followed protocol and bowed.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, Captain Naharis. My wife has mentioned your name, how grateful she is for your service. And I believe the queen received your note just this morning.”

He wanted him to know he’d read the note, that Dany had shared it with him. Though when he thought about it, that wasn’t exactly accurate.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the rumors that have spread throughout Essos have conjured all kinds of dangers for my queen. My devotion to her service has brought me…”

Now was not the time.

“Very well. Ser Davos…”

“Yes, Your Grace, the Northern Lords are waiting in your solar.” Davos waved for the king’s horse to be brought forward.

As much as it pained him, he needed to be a proper host. Dany had made this man responsible for the Bay of Dragons, no need to alienate him now.

“You will pardon me, Captain. I’m sure we will meet again under more obliging circumstances.”

The bronze skinned Essosi nodded with a glint in his eye. “Yes, Your Grace, I look forward to speaking with you again, no doubt we have so much in common.”

Jon caught the insinuation; a younger Jon would have confronted the man, but Aegon the King had too many obligations to be petty or distracted. So he nodded and turned his back on them all, quickly mounting and returning to his duties, briefly waving and smiling at the still-growing crowd within the walls.

He was lost in thought as he returned to his rooms, preparing for this crucial meeting with the Northern Lords. He had nearly finished changing when he noticed the sleeping figure in the large bed visible through the door, perhaps cracked open for Ghost’s easy passage, or perhaps easy access for her handmaidens and stewards.

He opened the door enough to squeeze through, grateful that he had not yet replaced his sword.

Peace. She looked at peace, calm, with a slight blush to her features.

Yes, she was recovering. Getting better, healthier.

No doubt the good news of their child eased her mind, perhaps even more than exposing their enemies and retaking the throne for their family.

The window was open, bird song and distant voices masking his footsteps.

He was tempted to pull the covers over her shoulders but rebuked himself. Yes it was winter, but she was a dragon and barely felt the cold. She shifted in her sleep, her hand lowering the covers as if to confirm his suspicions. Could she sense his presence? He paused before turning to leave, then turned back again.

He leaned over her, listening to her even breathing, watching her eyes shift back and forth under her lids, dreaming.

Good dreams now, he hoped. Dreams for the future.

He wished he knew what she wanted, what she needed.

They would need to talk more, she had said so herself.

He drew the stray hairs from her cheek then pressed his lips lightly to her forehead, relieved when she stirred only slightly, her hand stretching aimlessly across the pillow. He quietly turned to leave, gently closing the door behind him and slowly releasing the latch into its catch.

What was she dreaming about, now that her lover had returned to her?

Shifting footfalls startled him as his young steward bowed and entered his quarters, holding the doors wide as the king left his rooms for his solar across the hall, greeted at the entrance by his Hand, present now as the representative of his House.

They all stood as he entered, even Tormund. Jon had thought to remove his crown for his discussion with the almost dozen northmen but decided they needed to change their view of him, accept him not only as their king but the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Though something seemed off, he waved them to take seats around the table as his steward delivered refreshments to his guests. The boy offered ale, and enthusiastic nods lightened the mood.

Ah, that was it.

Had he ever seen these men, these noble leaders of the North, without layers of fur and northern leathers, even in the Great Hall of Winterfell?

Yet here they sat in thin vests over their tunics. Several had even trimmed their hair, their beards. While southerners shivered in the deepening cold, his kinsmen sloughed off their cloaks.

They seemed smaller, now.

“My lords, we have much to discuss, but first I want to say how grateful I am, for your loyalty, for your willingness to defend me under these dangerous circumstances. You stood by me even when I was forced to keep you in the dark. I am personally in your debt, and will do anything in my power to see to the peace and prosperity of the North. Lord Cerwyn, Lord Glover, I’m grateful you have agreed to take part in the Tribunal, even though it will delay your return home. You will be able to explain to those who have doubts what truly happened here, which will set the North more quickly on its feet. Likewise, I invite each of you to send members of your House to King’s Landing to join our Small Council or other advisory councils, if you desire. Lord Manderly will remain here as my Hand and will represent House Manderly as well.”

He’d rehearsed what he would say to these men, those who had once chosen him to be their king, those who had been willing to shed their blood over his captivity. They were proud men, not prone to outward expressions of emotion, so he left little room for a response other than to acknowledge their murmurs of thanks.

He cleared his throat and nodded to Tormund.

“I’ve included Tormund Giantsbane in our discussions because, well, he has become a true friend to me, one of few I have truly trusted to keep me in line, and I will miss him, as I will miss you all, when you return North.”

Jon paused, he needed the noblemen to accept Tormund as their equal. He nodded to his steward, who placed several scrolls before him.

“As it stands, Tormund leads the Free Folk, and you will all need to learn to work with each other to rebuild, now that the Wall has fallen. The Wall and the Gift, including all of the castles that are still standing, are neutral territory, and it would be beneficial for all if any claims to any of those lands be negotiated and agreed to by all in writing, to be recorded with the Citadel.”

Jon began passing the scrolls to those sitting closest to him, curiosity on their faces.

“We all fought together to not only save our lives but to protect our way of living. These are some – suggestions – to begin your negotiations, with a map of how the land could be divided for everyone’s benefit.”

“The Far North - perhaps there’s a better name? – The Far North is not part of the Seven Kingdoms, and the North has a level of autonomy to govern itself, due to cultural and religious differences that will be honored for all time. The Queen and I have laid out certain restrictions for both the North and Far North that apply to all kingdoms of Westeros for trade and law and peace. As with every other kingdom, the North will choose a representative to advise the Crown here in King’s Landing, as will the Far North if it choose. We will consider any reasonable changes over time.”

Jon leaned back, relieved that all of the focus was on the scrolls being passed around, murmuring and pointing and shrugs slithering around the table, carefully avoiding any specific commitments. He wanted to keep his options open going forward.

“I will always be a Northman, and we will work out the role future Starks will play in the North, while Winterfell remains the capital of the North.”

He took a sip of his ale, the familiar burn comforting. Finally he tapped his fingers on the table to regain their attention.

“The Queen and I have plans we’ve been working on, for changes to the governing structure of the Seven Kingdoms going forward, with the goal of peace and prosperity for every citizen on the continent. And perhaps beyond.”

He leaned back as a spirited conversation followed, about Northern independence, taxes, trade. No doubt they had already been talking among themselves, seemingly had even included Tormund in at least some those conversations, and many of their concerns had already been settled. Those that remained, well, time would tell.

“Likewise, both the Dothraki and the Unsullied have been invited to make their homes in Westeros, as long as they are willing to abide by our laws and respect our cultures, as we will respect theirs, within limits of course.”

Jon knew he was tugging at the limits of what these lords would tolerate, but there would be no better time to welcome those who fought for their freedom so that all would be able to enjoy the benefits of that freedom.

“My lords, we have made much progress during your brief time here. You are welcome to remain as long as you like, but I also expect many of you and your men would naturally want to return home. Again, please accept my gratitude for everything you’ve done. If there’s nothing else for now?”

Jon could read the apprehension on their faces, yet no further concerns were expressed. Jon nodded again to the stewards, and mugs were quickly re-filled.

Jon stood, ale in hand, Manderly following his lead, the others standing as well.

“My lords!” Jon raised his mug high, “To the North, Near and Far!”

Laughter and smiles broke out on anxious faces. “To the North, Near and Far!!!”

Nods and cheers and clanking mugs followed, ale splashing before mugs were thumped solidly on the polished wood table.

Jon stepped back, glancing toward his Hand, who raised an eyebrow in response.

“Gentlemen, if you would follow me, we will make any necessary arrangements.” his voice trailed off and into the hallway as he ushered the northmen out of the king’s solar.

“Your Grace, if I may?” Cley Cerwyn stood in the doorway, unsure but determined.

“Of course, my lord, what is it?”

Cerwyn re-entered the room, partly closing the door behind him, glancing briefly at the everpresent guards within.

“Your Grace, I’d like to ask, well, for the North, I would like to be considered to, the Small Council, or some other…” Jon wasn’t sure why he was nervous, but remembered how much the young lord had been through before being suddenly thrust into the lordship of his House. They were of an age, and both of their families had been almost completely destroyed by the Boltons; he remembered how he himself had felt so hesitant and unworthy of taking such a position when others were much more experienced.

He raised his hand.

“Lord Cerwyn, thank you for your offer, and for all you’ve done, but you are most needed in the North, to relate everything that has happened here and to restore your House. I look forward to meeting with you in the future, as often as necessary, and will surely give a prominent position to whoever you choose to send to represent House Cerwyn.”

Jon walked around the table, trying his best to inspire confidence and loyalty for rebuilding and not just survival.

“Your people need you, and I need you in the North.”

Cerwyn nodded, both deflated and seemingly relieved. “Yes of course, I will do whatever you think is best for the North.”

Jon smiled as well as Cerwyn continued.

“Also, you should know Your Grace, about Ser Davos.”

Jon startled at the sudden change of topic.

“Well, you… he served you well, Your Grace, at the Great Council. I thought you should know.” Cerwyn watched his face, relaxed when Jon inhaled deeply and fisted his scarred hand.

“Thank you, my lord. That is good to hear.”

He clasped the outstretched hand and watched as the young lord retreated to join his fellow northern lords.

Moments later Manderly returned, followed by Kevan Lannister carrying Jon’s cloak. Jon finished off his ale, readying himself for this more difficult meeting.

He’d been dreading it, postponing it as long as possible.

No avoiding it now.

“They’re waiting in the stables, Your Grace.”

He wondered if Wintyn could sense his unease.

“Right then. Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

Once again he was crossing the length of the castle, nodding and smiling and waving to those he passed even as his apprehension grew. He turned onto the wide stone steps to be met by a cool breeze and the Queen’s Lord Commander, his own foul mood reflected in the Unsullied’s eyes.

Together they entered the lower courtyard, dread and grief thick in the air, two small groups huddled in patches of angled dull sunlight.

Jon nodded toward Prince Martell, but approached the new Lord of Storm’s End, his House banner and attendant guards lending authority to the former bastard’s new station. Jon looked him up and down as Gendry nodded solemnly, his face ruddy and apprehensive.

“Lord Gendry…”

Gendry smiled nervously, tugging at the tailored tunic under his new cloak, both bearing the black stag on golden field.

“Lord Wylde has been going over things, getting me ready to return to Storm's End. I don’t think the new clothes will be enough to…”

Jon could see one of the Baratheon guards grin; he hoped it was in support of the boy, he didn’t want to think he was sending him to his death. He’d talk to Davos, perhaps send him with Gendry until he had established a level of loyalty.

Jon tried to smile, then waved him to the far side of the courtyard to stand before a narrow open wagon and a bevy of Silent Sisters gathered, all surrounded by well-armed northern guards.

He’d asked to be kept informed regarding her care, had never taken too much notice of the preparation of bodies before, the dead were simply burned in the Night’s Watch after all. But he’d been relieved at the respectful way his favorite sister’s remains had been cleaned and made ready for his final goodbyes several days ago, laid out in clean familiar garments on a banner of House Stark, her face seeming to reflect the struggle and hope they had once shared as outcasts of House Stark, still not quite at peace.

It had been easier to kill Arya as Red Flea, but once he’d seen her body with her own lifeless face he’d felt the weight of it all, yet he pushed aside the bitterness that filled him with sorrow and regret. He’d wanted to see her again, remember as she once was, not what she had become.

He’d never missed her more.

Now her wrapped body lay in a well-crafted wooden box, the lid to the side, ready to be fitted for the long journey home.

He tensed at the deep groan beside him, hesitantly grasped the young man’s shoulder. Perhaps there would come a time when their stories could be told. He wanted to make sense of things, of what had happened to Arya, and Sansa and even Bran. A fresh wave of guilt and shame flooded his heart; surely if his parents had known what tragedy would follow… he remembered how much Arya had loved the stories about dragons. He had planned on taking her for a ride on Rhaegal, back in Winterfell, with the Queen’s permission of course.

They should have been friends…

But for now, he would share his grief with the only other person who seemed to truly care about her.

Her remains would be returned to Winterfell to be buried in the crypts. He’d sent word for a mason, searched for those who remembered what she looked like, to create a true likeness. She would get her own statue, befitting the Savior of the Long Night, a wolf by her side, her sword Needle in her lap, his gift secured in its own box for her return home.

He intended to be there when she was laid to rest, would invite Gendry to come if he wished.

Her other siblings, however, would not be available.

His eyes welled, and he avoided looking Gendry’s way, sensing he was likewise overcome.

“She wasn’t the same person you knew and loved, that either of us knew and loved. If… she would have hated what she had become, she was always so compassionate, she loved me even when…”

Gendry took a step forward, reached out a hand to grasp the side of the wagon.

Jon could almost hear his thoughts, feel the resignation.

Gendry stepped back again and turned to face him, his expression reflecting the newly practiced mask of a lord.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I will return for your Coronation, but for now, with your leave, I must leave for Storm’s End, there are things that need my attention.”

Jon drew in a deep breath and nodded and watched as the dark-haired blacksmith turned and walked away without a look back, his guards folding in behind him.

Jon stood for a moment, dreading what was to come.

He stepped forward, placed his hand on the side of the box, then on the linen-wrapped form within.

“Good-bye, Arya. You’ll soon be home for good.”

He stood back and nodded to the waiting attendants, watched as the lid was affixed to the box and fastened shut, grateful when Manderly cautiously walked to his side.

He closed the end of the wagon himself, watched as the wagoner took his seat and gathered the reins, readying to leave.

“Wait, just a moment…”

He turned to his own guards, several carrying his banners, gathered one and draped it across the wooden box and tucked it beneath before nodding to the driver. The horses tossed their heads as they leaned into their harnesses, the wagon creaking as it was turned into the bright courtyard and through the opening at the far end, the iron gates clanging shut behind it.

She was gone, even though he knew she would visit him again in his dreams.

His heart hardened, and he turned as king once again to find all eyes on him.

The final loose ends.

Jon watched as several Unsullied joined Grey Worm, one of them handing his commander a black leather pouch. Grey Worm looked up as he and Manderly approached, hesitating before pulling crumpled blue material from the pouch and unfolding it, revealing what was left of Red Flea’s magic face.

“We all look for his body, I tell what I saw, what you say about the magic, but without him, his…”

Jon nodded as the other Unsullied crowded in. “I’m sorry for what happened to Red Flea, he was loyal, and trustworthy and devoted to his queen. I still don’t understand what kind of magic my sister used. But I’m sorry she did what she did.”

Grey Worm returned the face to its pouch.

“We’re still looking for Missendei’s remains, but we’ve been told by several Lannister soldiers that she was thrown into the bay, but… we will continue to look.”

Jon watched as disappointment crossed the Unsullied Commander’s face, surprised when he turned and nodded once.

“Thank you for looking. She is gone. She is at peace. I will never forget.”

Jon felt his heart clench, had marveled at the unlikely love these two former slaves had found.

Hesitant footsteps approached.

“Your Grace, about the Mountain, Gregor Clegane...”

“Prince Nymor, thank you for meeting with me here.”

Jon stifled a squirm as Martell eyed his crown, then motioned to Manderly, who waved over two men carrying a large wooden crate, rope handles on either side. They placed the box before the king and his guests and unbolted the cover before bowing and backing away. He had wondered what to say before revealing the contents, had hoped something would come to him, found that there were no words that could adequately describe what was inside.

He nodded to Manderly, who opened the lid and stepped back. Jon watched as first Prince Martell then Grey Worm leaned over and looked in, their expressions a mix of confusion, disgust and horror at what they saw. He remembered his first reaction when he viewed what was left of Qyburn’s monster and the nausea that followed.

“All of the destruction caused by Tywin Lannister and the Mountain, and now this is all that is left.”

Martell pulled a silk handkerchief to his nose and then stepped back, bumping into Grey Worm as he hastily turned away.

“Prince Martell, we also found the remains of two women in chains beneath the Red Keep. I’ve been told they are, were, Ellaria Sand and her daughter Tyene. The girl had been gone for quite some time, the mother’s throat had been more recently cut. Apparently they had been force feeding her to keep her alive. Their remains have also been prepared for their return to Dorne. They all can be loaded on a wagon at your convenience, or if you choose what is left can be burnt here, or… in any manner of your choosing.”

Martell nodded as he approached the crate a second time, bracing himself for a second look into the crate.

“How do you know it is alive?”

Jon approached the prince and lowered his voice.

“The eye moves, and sometimes it tries to swallow.”

Martell himself swallowed and straightened as he realized that his advisors also leaned to see inside the crate, equally repulsed at the remains inside.

“I think, Your Grace, we will only return home with those who deserve that dignity. I will assure my people that what you have said is true, that Prince Oberyn Martell killed the Mountain, that vengeance for our princess has been fulfilled.”

Jon nodded respectfully, motioning for the crate to be taken from their presence.

“How will you get rid of it, if it already survived fire?”

“I’ve been assured that wildfire will finish what the dragonfire began. As you’ve agreed to remain in King’s Landing for the Tribunal, you can oversee its destruction if you’d like.”

Martell smiled gratefully. “Your Grace, I think Dorne is ready to begin again. Though I will remain to fulfill my obligations, I will send the others home to be given proper consideration due their importance to my family.”

Jon nodded again. “Please send our regards and gratitude to your family, for the provisions they’ve supplied to feed the people of King’s Landing.”

Martell paused, resuming a regal stance.

“It has been, I will let the people of Dorne know that I believe we are in good hands, Your Grace, and on their behalf I wish you and your lovely queen a beautiful child, that perhaps, one day… we may continue our familial alliance, that would be fitting, no?”

Realization dawned on Jon, a scowl crossing his brow.

Martell realized he’d crossed a line. “Merely a suggestion, Your Grace, with well wishes for the health and safety of your growing family. By your leave.”

Jon nodded and Martell bowed and turned, his golden tunic glowing in the gray dust as his entourage followed him from the courtyard.

Manderly cocked an eyebrow as Jon huffed, gazing across the stable yard.

“Lord Commander Grey Worm excused himself, Your Grace, to return to his duties.”

Jon nodded, relieved.

“Very well. What’s next?”

Manderly recounted his obligations, and Jon soon found himself in another corner of the Red Keep.

~

Really, how many suits of armor does a king really need?

His new leather boots squeaked with each step as he made his way up the tower steps. He had passed Jaenys at the lower landing, nodding at her smirking bow. She had a crinkling bundle in her arms, and his mood lightened slightly as his fingers traced over his breastplate.

This was the final set of armor he needed to wear before making the final adjustments. Ceremonial armor. A little ostentatious for his taste, even though it was simple compared to some he had seen. But it was lighter, thinner, more comfortable than his other two suits, one for battle on horseback, one for dragon riding. He had started to explain he had made it this far in his life without plate armor, but the armorer was dedicated to his work, and he didn’t have the will to disappoint him. He drew the line at a suit for jousting, though.

He would not be jousting.

He hoped he had made himself clear.

Jon drew his gloved hand along the glistening black braces, layered etched fur plates on one arm, dragon scales on the other, red peeking underneath, ridged and folded and dangerous and impressive.

The crest of dragon and direwolf, in black and gray and red and white was encrusted with precious stones that shone and glimmered in the flickering lantern light as he paused at the middle landing, his guards shuffling to a stop as he gathered his thoughts. His anger had ebbed and flowed throughout the day, but he felt it rise again as he thought of all the destruction she had caused, seemingly without regret. He considered leaving his weapons before entering her chambers, just in case he lost his temper, then reminded himself he was a king, and kings did not lose their temper. At least they didn’t act on it when they did.

At first he had found it amusing; Grey Worm had struggled to explain the difficulty of searching a high lady’s garment, especially as she flailed and screamed and scratched. Then word had come to him that she was insisting that they meet, to straighten out the misunderstanding.

Misunderstanding.

Jon took a deep breath and finished his ascent, pausing as the guards silently opened the door and entered before him, leaving him standing in the open doorway still and featureless, the light behind him casting writhing figures into the gloomy sparse room.

“Sansa.”

She must have retreated into the shadows in the back of the room when the guards had entered; his guards reached for their weapons when she suddenly rushed toward him, arms outstretched.

“Jon! Oh Jon! Dear brother!”

The guards started to step between them, nodding as Jon waved them back. She leaned forward and hugged him, tears in her eyes, holding on to him even as he placed his hands on her arms and deliberately pushed her away.

“What do you want, Sansa? All I’ve heard is how much trouble you’ve become.”

She took a step back; Jon smiled inwardly as he felt her eyes on his armor, his crown. For once he was glad he’d been talked into wearing it anytime he left their personal quarters.

“There is so much we need to talk about, but first you need to release me from this room. It’s cold and dark and I feel like a criminal, even when Cersei held me captive I was never treated like this, I will need…”

“Is that all you wanted, cousin, to complain?”

Jon quirked an eyebrow and turned to leave.

“No, wait, I need to talk to you, to explain, this is all a terrible misunderstanding, I can explain, it was all…”

Jon let his hands fall to his side, forcing himself to calm in her presence, curious.

“All right, I'm listening.”

She turned and dropped her head, slowly wandering into the shaft of light in the center of the room.

“I don’t think you understand why I did what I did, that everything I did was for the good of the North!”

“Everything you did? You have the blood of thousands on your hands, Sansa. I should have seen what you truly are so long ago, so I bear some of that regret, but I do know now, I do see now.”

“What you see, Jon, is that all I’ve ever done was to protect my family, to return to Winterfell to protect the North, the Stark’s legacy.”

“How, Sansa, how were you planning on protecting the North? By dividing loyalties, by lying to me, getting me killed, getting us all killed, by standing by while Rickon was murdered? All so you could take advantage, because by then there would be no one else?”

Sansa inhaled sharply as she took a half-step back, then clasped her hands and shook her head.

“You don’t understand, I was protecting you, protecting the North, from her.”

“From her? Cersei was never a real threat to the North, Sansa, she was not near as clever as her father.”

“No, not from Cersei, from the Dragon Queen! She wanted the North, she wanted all of Westeros, and she was willing to do whatever was necessary to get it. She was using you from the beginning and you didn’t even see it! It wasn’t your fault, I understand that, but…”

Jon looked at her questioningly and stepped closer, looking into her eyes.

“What do you mean she wanted the North? How do you know what she wanted?”

“She came to me, in the library.”

Sansa raised her skirts to turn from him as she stepped toward the hearth.

“She thought she could fool me like she’d fooled you, like she’d fooled Tyrion. But I’ve been there, Jon, I know how women like her think, I knew what she was willing to do, I could see…”

“Yes, she came to you in the library. She reached out to you, to show you kindness, to befriend you, perhaps more.”

Jon watched her face, her silhouette beautiful and strong and unyielding.

“What did you do, Sansa? What did you say to her?”

“She said she loved you, and we agreed that you loved her. And somehow she thought that that was all that was important. She thought that I wouldn’t be strong enough to disagree, to challenge, but it isn’t enough, it wasn’t, never would be enough.”

Sansa turned to face him and straightened to her full height, drawing in her breath as she approached her brother, her cousin, her King.

“It was as I had suspected all along, Jon. She never loved you, she didn’t want you.”

She stepped close to him, reaching for his hand.

“It was all a ruse to get your crown, to get control of the North. To steal our independence, our freedom, all that our blood had fought for, all we had earned.”

“Our blood? When did you ever bleed for anyone but yourself, Sansa?” He could see the feigned hurt in her eyes.

“I'm sorry about what you went through, I’m sorry that you were hurt so badly, I wish you could have been spared all of that. But what Robb did, what the northern lords, the northern soldiers went through, even the Free Folk, we all sacrificed and died and fought to free you and Arya, to save you. We shed our own blood willingly for the North, for the freedom you hide behind now.”

“We all fight in our own way.”

Sansa gently squeezed his hand and lowered her voice, trying to avoid stumbling over her words.

“I had hoped to achieve a peace without any bloodshed, but she would not be swayed from her goal, and why would she, she had always had everything given to her, she never deserved –”

Jon pulled his hand from her grip and stepped back, the glow from the fire glancing off his features, a fine sheen of sweat forming as he stood by the fire in his armor.

“What did you say to her, Sansa, what did you say when you tried to achieve this peace?”

Sansa gathered her skirts again and retreated to sit gingerly in her chair, gently closing the lid of her writing desk. “I merely asked her intentions, after.”

Jon was dumbstruck. “You asked her?”

“I asked her what her plans were for the North, after the White Walkers were defeated, what she intended.”

Jon lost his breath for a moment, his guards turned to listen as he mumbled to himself…

“Even then!”

Jon let his hand fall onto the direwolf pommel of his sword.

“Sansa, what gave you the right?”

He felt the rage well up, it was becoming far too frequent.

“...by what authority, by whose authority did you speak to your Queen about northern independence, about her plans?”

“She wasn’t my queen! I didn’t choose her!”

“No, Sansa, but I did!”

The anger flared red hot, and for a moment Jon saw fear in her eyes as the room closed in around him, finally stirring when his guard shifted in his armor, a soft squeal tinging against the stone walls.

“But you never saw me that way, as your king, as your liege, as deserving of loyalty. I trusted you with my crown, and you betrayed me with every breath.”

“You threw away your crown!”

“That was my choice! Whether you thought it was a mistake or not did not give you leave to usurp my authority!”

“The northern lords were…”

“They were following you because I told them to. Sansa, do you think they are out there now forming a secret plan to free you and Bran? Let me assure you they are not, now that they know the truth of your actions, of your lies and betrayals.”

Jon’s shoulders fell as he let out his breath, resigned and disappointed.

“But you, you never had any intention of … from the very beginning, you … you came to me for help, pleaded to risk my life, other’s lives, to risk everything so you could get what you wanted, what you thought you deserved.”

Sansa raised her head, “I know what is best for the North. It is my birthright, it falls upon my shoulders as the eldest trueborn Stark.”

Jon shook his head, disgust and pity now warring within.

“No, Sansa, you are not the eldest trueborn Stark. I am the only trueborn Stark, you and Bran and Arya have made sure of that.”

Sansa almost stumbled as she leapt from the edge of the bed.

“Jon, what do you mean? I am the…”

“Sansa, if you think this is going to end well for you, or for Bran or the others, you are sorely mistaken; stripping you both of your legitimacy will be only the first step of your punishment.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Jon huffed, satisfied that he had finally broken her out of her practiced facade.

“Sansa…”

“Mother was right, regardless of your true heritage you are only a bastard, scheming and conniving to take what does not belong to you!”

Sansa reached out to touch his arm, holding him when he flinched and tried to pull away.

“But it doesn’t have to be this way! Jon, you can still do what’s right for your kin, for your true family! Father paid the price, we’ve all sacrificed so much for you! Robert Baratheon would have killed you - slowly, horribly - but instead you had a home, with us, everything you could ask for, while my mother had to live with the shame, risking everything. What better way to repay for that shame than restoring the Stark family name to Winterfell, restoring an independent North, it would make so much sense, first King Robb, then you, then the North’s first Queen. It would be historic, you would be known and honored forever.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper as Jon dropped his eyes to her hand gripping his arm.

“Just think, Jon, so many would respect your forgiveness, they’d see your true heart, that your reign would be one of justice and fairness.”

She stepped closer to him, her hand tracing down his arm, once again taking his hand.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, you know that, my name would be valuable to you, you know its true. We’re the last of the Starks now, we have to protect each other, look out for each other, look out for the North.”

She was whisper close to him now, his eyes locked on her face before his expression hardened, finally shaking free from her grip as he released a deep sigh.

“No. There is no forgiveness for you Sansa, not anymore, not after what you’ve done, what you tried to do.”

She shrank back, her eyes flitting back and forth as she stared into the darkness of her room, grasping in her memories for another lifeline, any vulnerability.

“And Arya, what have you done with Arya, did you truly murder her? Surely you see what she has made you do, what you have become, a kinslayer?”

His anger returned, cold this time.

“Sansa – be silent – now!”

The doorway swung open as several more guards entered. Sansa stood her ground, defiant.

“You did this! You wanted me to kill Danearys, you wanted me to be a kinslayer, and yes, I killed Arya. I’m … I will … I miss her more than you will ever understand, but I would do it again, and again and again and again!”

His gloved fist clenched, the oiled leather rubbing the only sound in the sudden stillness as Jon waited for his breathing to steady.

“She had become No One, killing who she willed, doing anything she decided to do, just as you… you used her, Sansa, you use everyone.”

“Where is she, what have you done with her?”

Jon met her eyes, watching insolence battle her fear.

“Arya wanted to be no one, Sansa, and what better place for her body than the bottom of Blackwater Bay?”

Jon watched with satisfaction as shock flicked over her face.

“And Bran, why did you want him on the throne?”

A cloud settled over her shadowed features; he knew that whatever words came next would be lies.

“I never wanted Bran on the throne. I just had to go along with Tyrion and Sam, they knew what was best, they knew him best. And it made sense at the time. He’s - special, you know he is. He can see things, and for a long time I thought that was what mattered. I see now that was a mistake, all of it a mistake. You, Jon, you should be on the Iron Throne! It is your destiny! It’s what you were born for, just as it has always been my destiny to…”

“So you disavow your chosen king, your brother Bran?”

“Of course! Jon, he lied to us. He told us the dragons needed to die off if there was to be peace in Westeros, in the world. Now I see him for who he is. Jon, he has no sense of honor, of duty, of love or even family.”

Jon searched her face for her deeper motives as she once again took his hand and stepped close.

“We trusted him, you trusted him to prepare us all for the Long Night. You’ve experienced what he’s like, just enough truth to pull you along, hiding his own deceit, his own ambition. It’s what he said at the Great Council, when Tyrion asked if he would serve as king. Did they tell you what he said? ‘Why do you think I came all this way?’! He’d been planning all of this, perhaps this is why he let the Night King and the army of the dead decimate our forces, so there would be no one to stand against him. Can you doubt that this is what he wanted all along?”

Her eyes lingered on his crown, her hand stroked, lingered over the jewels in his armor.

“But you are the Rightful Heir.”

Jon blinked, confused before stifling a groan as she smiled softly.

“Remember what I said, before all of this? Back home in Winterfell?”

Sansa placed her other hand on top of his, theirs, to clasp, hold it gently before slowly whispering.

“When I told you that you were good at ruling, at being king? I knew it then. I can see it now, I can help you now.”

She nodded as she saw the memories return behind his eyes.

“Everything else has just been a mistake, a misunderstanding, but we can make everything right again. You, here on the Iron Throne, the rightful Targaryen King. And I will return North, the Stark in Winterfell, Queen in the North. You can focus on all of the problems here, the uprisings, the starvation, the rebuilding. And I will do the same in the North. We can help each other, a true restoration, hope for all of Westeros, North and South in balance, at peace as it was always meant to be.”

Jon let the silence hang, gave her time to make her intentions clear.

Sansa whispered as she pulled him closer. “You know what I say is true. There is an easy solution to everything, you just need to reach out and take it for yourself.”

Yet there was nothing new. She only wanted a crown for herself, a throne, power. And he was tired, of the tears, the manipulation, the condescension.

The treachery.

He shook his head as he grabbed her hands in his.

“Do you not take any responsibility for what has happened? The tens of thousands dead, the injured, the innocent men, women, little children, the destruction. Have you no regret?”

She pulled back, tearing her hands from his grip, her voice rising.

“I’ve done nothing wrong, Jon. This is what you must understand, they’re all lies. I can prove it to you if you give me a chance. Let me speak to Tyrion, to Bran, they will explain. We can help rebuild, here and in the North, someone the North can trust.”

She flinched at the sound of his laugh.

“You think the North would trust you? That anyone could, would trust you, to cook their dinner, tend to their children, sweep their floors, let alone lead them, defend them, protect them? You have only ever looked out for yourself, no matter the cost. You are not better than me or Dany or Arya, Sansa. You are not better than anyone.”

Sansa struggled then softened and approached him again, trying to reason with him, explain.

“You know as well as I do there are those destined to rule, to lead. And you know that this is what I was raised for, trained for, what I was promised from the beginning. I have always only laid claim to what was promised to me, to what is mine by right.”

Jon shook his head and sighed as his anger began to fade into pity.

“Sansa, I'm sorry this turned out so badly for you, and I'm sorry for what you’ve been through.”

He watched as her eyes welled with tears, genuine or not he no longer knew nor cared.

“But this is no longer a family matter. There is no going back, no undoing what you have done.”

She dropped her mask and anger suddenly rose on her face, her lips tightening before turning into screams of rage as she gathered her skirts and rushed toward him, teeth bared and nails raised as she reached for his face.

Jon stood motionless, silently observing as his guards grabbed her arms and forced her to her knees, gasping breaths as she struggled, still screaming, finally helplessly staring up into his face as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Yes, a fitting way to end the delusions of Lady Sansa Stark Lannister Bolton. Never Queen. Never free.”

Jon took a step forward.

“We will let the Tribunal determine your involvement in the conspiracy to poison your Queen. I have already determined your guilt for usurping my crown, a treachery punishable by death.”

Sansa resisted again as the guards lifted her to her feet, pulling from their grip to stand unsteadily between the deep shadows and glow from the fireplace.

Jon turned to leave, looking more closely at the room, the furnishings.

“Are your chambers sufficient, Lady Bolton?”

She turned and looked around as well, rubbing her wrists, unprepared to answer, finally silent at Jon’s reply.

“I hope you enjoy your time here, it will be the last place you will ever call ‘home.’”

He left, followed by his guards, his stomach roiling.

He had planned on visiting all of the accused at once, to get it over with, but he had become too angry after visiting Sansa; worn out, disappointed and drained, he’d probably kill his ‘good friend’ Sam outright if he visited him now.

So many betrayals, of friends, family. He couldn’t afford to make these mistakes again.

He descended the steep stone steps of the tower to head for his own quarters to prepare for the night’s celebration, fully aware that he’d lost his appetite for any kind of feast.

~

A setback.

That’s all it was.

A mere unexpected circumstance.

That he hadn’t seen coming.

If he had been in the frail boy’s body, his forehead would have furrowed. But he was not there. He was… elsewhere. Unaware, at the moment. Somewhere cold and dark. Thinking.

How…

Why had he not seen it coming?

Perhaps… the boy had been far away, as far as the North is from the South.

His plans had been set in motion, and he had seen the outcome.

He didn’t need to see it happen, watch each step as it was taken. Surely not.

Yet it hadn’t happened. He hadn't seen.

If a god could worry, he worried.

Could he have missed something? Another influence, another power?

Old gods, new gods, fire gods.

The boy’s lips smirked.

There is only one god, and my name is Death.

Yet he couldn’t afford to make another mistake, couldn’t let his anger flare, couldn’t draw more attention to himself. Not a threat, just a harmless, crippled boy. With a good story. By the gods, by himself, what fools.

Merely a setback.

The little Stark would live now.

Jon’s babe. A Stark child.

He could feel the Stark blood becoming stronger.

So, a change of plans.

Let it live, grow strong, become…

His.

This chair-bound creature was inconvenient and weak; but a babe!

Ah, that was enticing, he had used babes before to do his bidding, he knew how to take their minds apart and put them back together to suit his needs.

He felt the roil within – panic, anger – pushed it down.

Already his power over the others was recovering from the defeat in the North and the unplanned transitions afterward. He had gained the ascendancy, and their powers were now his.

And he was growing stronger.

Death would march again on Westeros, winter would come.

He’d need her alive, at least for now. She was within reach, and the babe… he could start on the little mind within and no one would be the wiser.

Madness ran in the family after all.

A cold wind swept through the dungeon cell they had parked the broken boy within, chilling the skin. He could sense the desire for warmth.

Soon enough.

She was sleeping now, the babe’s Stark blood drawing him in.

Dragon Queen.

Yes, the power of dragons, without the knowledge or experience to wield that power.

Soon she would see, they would all see what true power looked like.

For now, she would need to be physically strong, inwardly accepting of his presence.

Fear, and seeds of hope. He would have to manage both to suit his needs.

He felt his stomach grumble, or his body’s. Why was no one bringing food? He had always been waited on before. This never happened to him before, his body was magic, his very being… but there were benefits here.

There were no heart trees in King’s Landing.

Nary a one in the South.

He could breathe, here. If he cared to.

The dark haired boy’s breathing halted, gasped, breathed again.

He reminded himself that the boy’s body was fragile, an unfitting vessel.

Another mistake.

At first he had planned on putting Jon Snow on the throne, taken him as this body failed.

He would have talked the halfling into keeping the boy as an advisor to be close, let it die as the transitions were complete. Then send the empty Starks North in case he needed them again, perhaps sent the foolish one to the seas to broaden his reach.

But now he wouldn’t need them any more, not if he had a throne.

He could take the world, make it his - white and still and empty.

He could rest, then, when it was all his. The old ones were long gone, the new ones a mockery of the old powers. There was no one to stop him now.

His being raced with the possibilities, the others within him whispering.

He was angry that he couldn’t always make out what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. They were under his sway; their power was his now.

To see – to know – the past, the present, those glimpses into the future – cold, dark, still, rest – quiet. Sometimes he felt it, death.

He was not sure why these creatures fought it so; death was welcoming, embracing, unchanging, predictable, orderly.

Beautiful.

For now he’d need to be alert, more flexible.

Patient.

---

The boy mumbled into the darkness, his legs twitching as he shifted in the chair.

Chapter Text

Grand Maester Lesser ran his fingers through his graying hair. He’d begun letting it grow out to account for the colder weather in King’s Landing, but it was now at that unruly length where he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He’d want to, need to look his best for the Tribunal if he was to set the solemn tone for such weighty proceedings.

“No! No! No! Right here, weren’t you listening!”

Lord Merik’s voice had lost any semblance of respect for his surroundings, though he had at least ceased his cursings since noticing his own arrival into the Audience Chamber. He’d sent word to meet with the High Steward before the throne to finalize plans for the feast that night only to find him in the midst of tearing the place apart.

Merik rushed to his side as he retrieved an unfurled scroll from the work table, waving at the details before the Grand Maester’s face.

“I’ve moved forward the removal of this portion of the platform before the Iron Throne, preparing for the expansion of the lower level for the pair of new thrones to be readied for the upcoming Coronation. It had to be done next and this will provide more room for tables for this evening. I assure you, all will be ready for this evening, only a few lingering questions to settle.”

Lesser paused as the hammers sounded, breaking the honed granite into ever smaller fragments. He smirked to himself at the parallel of the conversations he’d witnessed between the two monarchs who would sit those new thrones.

Discussions regarding the preparations for their coronation had begun fairly civil, still residing, at least sleeping in the servants’ quarters in the far wing of the Red Keep, quickly turning contentious, often over the most minute details.

Davos had tried to interject, relenting when Grand Maester Lesser had leaned back in his chair as the squabbling continued. How things were run in the Red Keep under a new monarchy would have been challenging under any circumstances, but neither the King nor Queen had ever lived as such, both being young and raised well below their birthrights. Each had specific notions of how things should be done, often in conflict with one another. Thankfully both Davos and Manderly were able to smooth things over, but Lesser longed for the day when each single decision did not cause a minor war within the Keep itself.

Once he had wondered if all they did was argue, but the growing belly of the Queen attested otherwise.

They had finally agreed on the placement of the new thrones; Retain the Iron Throne as a backdrop to lend authority and history to their reign, their two new thrones side by side just below. And though neither wanted to be on a raised dais, they finally agreed a lower but still raised dais would be necessary for people to see them from the back. They could always leave their thrones to meet with people below, taking into account all of the objections from both the king’s and queen’s guards, too close to the people, too close to danger… all it would take is one dagger…

Lesser strained to follow the High Steward’s status report, making note only of those items that may not be done in time or were questions that needed to be taken to the King and Queen. Fortunately he was able to resolve the latter himself, and the former were of little importance.

That didn’t stop the steward, though. He was quite proud of his work, understandably so, and relished in the attention and opportunity to have attained such a prominent role in the new reign, gladly reviewing every aspect of his plans to any unknowing bystander, even cornering himself once or twice.

Fortunately a steward quietly approached, and Lesser gratefully recused himself as he was called to his meeting in the antechamber.

It was probably a good idea to get this out of the way before the new septon’s first meeting with the king and queen at the feast.

The Starry Sept had sent several other septons with the new High Septon to assist in rebuilding King’s Landing and he found them huddled together chattering, impatiently awaiting his arrival.

Lesser introduced himself, bowing his head to the injured High Septon, who waved his hand to his right.

“This is Septon Saloman, Grand Maester. The Starry Sept has appointed him as my replacement.”

Lesser smiled and nodded, patient as he found himself hastily scrutinized. Saloman could be judged a handsome man, white haired, trimmed beard, squinty light blue eyes and many wrinkles either from worry or scowling, he was not sure which.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Septon Saloman. We are glad you will be able to join us in the tribunal.”

Saloman scowled, grasping his hands in front of him, the ornate red cloak, layered over traveling leathers, shimmering in the dull candlelight.

“Let me be clear right up front, Grand Maester, that if I had arrived sooner, I would have handled this whole affair entirely differently.”

The air shifted in the room, tensions rising among the septon’s companions.

“As it is, I will assist in concluding this matter as quickly as possible so that my efforts can be directed more specifically to restoring the Great Sept to it’s original condition, and of course to attend to the – spiritual – needs of the rulers and citizens of Westeros.”

Lesser nodded graciously, hoping he hid his smirk well. He, too, had had hidden suspicions of what was truly going on in King’s Landing; now he only hoped the new high septon would have an open mind, especially as they would likely need to work together often.

“Of course. For now, I trust you find your temporary quarters acceptable?”

Saloman waved away the query. “They are fine, though I am quite disappointed, I have been told that the King is not present to accept my arrival, and my delegated fealty.”

“No, Septon Saloman, the King and Queen are engaged in pressing matters of the realm, but wanted to be sure you will be attending the feast this evening. They look forward to meeting you informally.”

Saloman huffed. “Feast? Extraordinary! I will need to speak to the King alone then, first thing in the morning. There are…”

“I’m afraid the King will be taking his dragon to Highgarden to see to the food supply for the winter. I believe he plans to leave before dawn.”

Lesser watched as a smirking grin turned the long face into the likeness of the carved trees of the North, drooping and intense.

“His dragon…”

Lesser glanced at the High Septon, who merely shrugged and herded the remaining septons out of the room so that the two could speak freely. As the door closed, Lesser readied his thoughts as he waved his guest toward a table and chairs in the rear of the room, excusing the stewards as they settled into the stuffed chairs before a low table holding trays of refreshments and a large chilled flagon.

Lesser cleared his throat.

“Do you have any questions for me, Septon Saloman?”

The future High Septon leaned forward, almost growling out his words.

“How could you let this happen? The Starry Sept repeatedly rebuffed every attempt to legitimize the Lannister Queen, then we were informed there is yet another Usurper Queen, and a bastard King as well! And that they follow the Red God! What do you expect to be done, Grand Maester? I understand the lack of resolve by my soon to be predecessor, but I would have expected…”

Lesser avoided his gaze and leaned forward as he poured a cup of wine, handing it to the future High Septon before pouring one for himself.

“I’m sure you have questions, Septon Saloman, though I assure you everything has been, and will be, done in good order, approved by both the Citadel and your superiors at the Starry Sept.”

Saloman accepted the fine goblet offered to him. He took a sip, another, then inched closer.

“I am not such a fool as my kinsmen, I was not convinced by the so-called evidence presented to the Most Devout. All this talk of dragons, magic, even these idiotic rumors of the dead walking and poisoned Queens!”

He paused to take a breath, and a sip.

“Nothing but stories that the High Born repeat to fool the people! Let me assure you I have little tolerance for belligerence to the faith, Grand Maester!” His voice did have a certain authoritative resonance; memorable, almost enjoyable.

Lesser smiled and nodded softly before looking the white-bearded Septon in the eye.

“And yet when the Faith Militant was armed by Cersei Lannister, you stood by and did nothing. When the High Sparrow imprisoned the High Septon, who had been appointed and supported by the Most Devout, the leaders of the Seven did nothing to protect him. When the Great Sept of Baelor was destroyed, the Starry Sept did nothing. When Cersei was crowned, without the consent of the Seven, or even being represented, you did nothing. ‘Rebuffed,’ as you say. Hardly a strong stand on behalf of the Faith.”

Lesser leaned back in his chair, relaxed but stern.

“May I suggest you will be kept quite busy restoring the respect of the people toward the authority of the Seven, and though I am confident you will find answers to your questions convincing, you would do best to address the failings of the Faith in the recent past before venturing outside the influence of the Seven to challenge the given lawful succession.”

Lesser poured himself more wine as he waited for a reaction from the broad-shouldered man seated in front of him, letting a smile spread as he noticed the goblet stretched toward him for a refill. He shifted in his seat as he looked again at the new High Septon, relieved to see an open smile on his face as he too relaxed in his chair, twisting the goblet in his hands in front of him.

“Well, now that we have that out of the way, tell me, what do I need to know?”

~

The sun glowed in the sky like a blazing radiant disc, heat glancing off the baked sand, bronzed skin and golden pyramids behind her.

It was always peaceful, at least at first, strolling through the marketplace, tasting of the wine and spiced meat and fresh bread, returning the smiles of those who loved her.

Then the shadow would fall, as it always did, and the people screamed, grabbing their children, their wares, elbowing their way from the open streets.

This time Daario was at her elbow, Grey Worm coming up from behind, the Unsullied clearing the way through the riotous throng.

The crowd’s fear turned to anger; fists raised, weapons brandished, threatening and unfocused.

Until she was seen. Discovered. Recognized, dark eyes blazing hatred and anger.

Shields above her head, Unsullied surrounded her as the rocks and fists and food and goods were thrown, glancing away but terrifying.

“This way!”

Daario led the group toward an alleyway between two manses; she knew these manses, homes of the wealthiest slave masters.

Sanctuary for her now.

Blocked by a stream of terrified Meereenese, even she ducked as Drogon dove low overhead, screeching as he banked to circle and swoop even lower.

She stopped, jerked her arm from Daario’s grip, startled her protectors as she raised her hand to shade her eyes against the sun, the dragon’s shadow a mere speck in the bright sky. She called out to him, tugging, pulling at their bond, harder and harder, more and more frightened as he ignored her calls.

Drogon dropped lower and she could see he had a rider, but she couldn’t see who it was. She placed her hand on her belly, felt the fear in the babe, the knowledge of impending doom, inevitable punishment.

Daario grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the alleyway and toward the Great Pyramid just as Drogon swung out over the bay, setting all of the ships ablaze. She watched over her shoulder as sailors jumped burning into the sea, merchants and dockworkers engulfed in bright flames leaping for cover only to find a quick end as dragonfire engulfed the port.

She was pulled, carried by the Unsullied, separated once by the frenzied crowd only to be once again grabbed and dragged by her captain. She strained to watch her dragon, her son, her child as it hovered over the city, destroying the market, the slave quarters, the manses on the hills, leaving scorched gray bodies in his wake, ash drifting in the beat of his wings.

Daario looked behind him and she nodded as they reached the lower entrance to the pyramid, only to trip and fall, scuffing her knees and losing her sandals. Daario jerked her to her feet, grabbing her tight to carry her inside, their escape blocked as flames roared between their group and the entrance to the pyramid.

Daario turned and watched with her, flames bursting around them, the faces of those on fire, pain and fear as their skin sloughed off their bones.

She turned and she was inside the pyramid, in her quarters at the top, safe and sound and unharmed as the city beneath her burned, the screams a distant echo even as the heat and burnt ash wafted into the air before her. Surrounded by her guards and Kinvara, the ever faithful priestess watching from the shadows, she watched the calamity unfold beneath her. She wanted to turn away, but spied her son approaching, black and menacing, alighting all that moved below as he passed overhead.

She sensed his presence as he approached from behind, watching over her shoulder.

“What is happening? Who is riding Drogon? Why won’t he obey me?”

Daario stopped at her side and sheathed his blade. She could feel the anger and disgust.

“You chose, you chose him over me. You chose him over everyone, over everything. You should have known who he was; you must have known you would wake the dragon at some point.”

Daario backed out of the room, the Unsullied following, leaving her alone and unprotected. She searched the room for her hidden weapon, remembering she had left a dagger in a hidden drawer. Her breath caught when she found her feet frozen to the marble floor.

The great black dragon approached the outer balcony, his rider joyous at her plight, as prey trapped and terrified.

She felt the floor shake as he landed, watched as the dark figure dismounted and approached, Meereen in flames behind him, smoke turning the midday sky black.

She could not see the face but she knew who it was, black eyes and wicked grin as a hand reached to grab her. She ran, wrenching her arm away as she saw the dagger in his hand.

He laughed at her, a sound she had once longed to hear.

“Too late, Queen of Ashes! Did you think you could outrun your crimes?”

She felt the baby stir within, afraid and withering.

She turned and found the door, pushed her shoulder against it until it opened, falling through and to the floor.

She struggled to her knees to find herself in the throne room of the Red Keep.

An eerie silence fell despite the flames all around her, the roof caving in, distant screams and dragon’s roars a mere echo in her ears.

How many times had she been through this, how many times must she atone?

She closed her eyes, waiting for it to be over, dreading what came next, opened them wide when Drogon dropped through the shattered roof, blocking her escape, nodding to his master as he entered through what was left of the ironwood doors to the Great Hall.

Sharp pain sparked through her body, her shoulders jerking as her head filled with stinging needles. Her baby jerked within; she could feel the heart stop, pause, start again only to stop again.

No, not again! She couldn’t bear this, not again!

He pulled his blade and smiled at her, walking toward her slowly, knowing she was trapped.

No where to run.

Her hands dropped to her belly. She felt helpless and alone as he approached, the wolfhead blade raised to strike.

She called for Drogon, a last hope, unheeded. She closed her eyes, waiting, startled when laughter filled the chamber.

Drogo, Rhaego.

Jorah, Missendei.

Ser Barristan Selmy. Viserion.

Shame overwhelmed her.

She’d let them all down, betrayed them in the end.

But she was the blood of the dragon.

Fire and blood.

What could she do?

Nothing. She could do, nothing.

Exhaustion and pain and resignation blurred her sight. She reached to wipe the tears from her eyes as the blade swung across her vision, struggling to breathe as she felt her head drop to the floor.

She waited for the darkness, for the red door, the lemon tree, for … something.

Bird song. Yes, a lemon tree, and there were always birds. Blue and brown and brightly colored.

~

A cool breeze wafted across her face. She brushed the sweat from her forehead, wiping the tears from her face as she pulled herself up to sit against the pillows of her bed before dropping her head into her hands and crying, distraught and terrified, sobs ending only in another attempt at sleep.

Later she woke alone in her bed, stirred by birds chattering in the garden despite the cold snap and still falling snow.

She turned her head as a wave of nausea rose swiftly, then passed, leaving her shaking and sweating, her hands rigid and fisted, fingernails digging into her palms.

She waited for her heart to stop racing, panicked when she heard knocking at her doors, impulsively looking for any available weapon.

No, Jon would not knock at her door.

She breathed in deeply. That was just a dream, he’s…

He loves me, he’s no threat to me.

He must. He never would put up with…

Just for the baby then.

She shook her head. This was doing her no good. She had to decide, to make up her mind.

This wasn’t like her at all.

Jon had been there for her, for them, for the people.

He could be trusted. He would not harm her.

He’d been there for her, with her, day after day, when she’d needed him, always there to comfort her.

She remembered the sorrow in his eyes, how he wiped the tears from her face.

She smiled and settled her shoulders.

Yes, it would be all right.

Yes, my dreams come true. But these are nightmares. They have no meaning, other than guilt and regret.

She leaned back and pulled the covers close to her and wished Jon was there, his presence always calmed her so. She needed him, though she wished…

She could not allow her dreams to haunt her waking hours. She needed to fill her days with other more important things.

Yes, that was the way forward, she had nothing but her nightmares to give her life meaning, she needed other things, other duties…

She closed her eyes, memories of her dreams, nightmares in the dark, the last time she had dreamed… She had lost this babe just like the last one, bat’s wings and grave worms writhing in her mind and on her skin.

She opened her eyes and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed, feet dangling above the colorful rug.

He’d encouraged her, comforted her when she’d wake screaming.

“Shh, you’re safe now, everything will be well. It’s not unexpected that the nightmares would return after your first trip into King’s Landing. They too will pass…”

He’d held her, and she’d sobbed like a tiny child.

Why couldn’t she just believe him, put the past behind her?

Time, she just needed time.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

Why was this happening? Now?

My dreams come true!

Another knock on the door, a mumbled voice.

She pushed herself to her feet and pulled on her robe, Ghost rising with her, quickly wiping her face to hide her nightly terrors.

Daenerys Stormborn.

First of Her Name.

She would rule the Seven Kingdoms, with strength and wisdom.

She would be a good Queen, Wife, Mother.

She could do all of these things, she just needed time…

She took a deep breath, “Come.”

The doors swung open and her mood lightened with the smiling faces of her new attendants as they bustled around her, bringing hot food and water for a bath.

She retreated from the activity, watching their dance of efficiency and practiced care for her well-being.

Had they practiced on other queens? Cersei? Margery?

She returned their smiles, frustrated that she was struggling to be friendly, saddened but unsurprised when she noticed faithful Vitti in the corner nearly in tears amid the organized chaos.

Everything was changing quickly; she wanted to reach out to her, to share the confusion but over the chattering she heard men’s voices, vaguely familiar, Jon’s voice and others in his quarters.

She didn't react when she heard the door to her room shut tight.

Shutting her out.

What was he afraid she’d overhear?

What was he planning, scheming?

Affairs of the Realm? Or was that just an excuse? A misdirection?

She crossed her arms and inched closer to his door, relieved when she went unnoticed.

A strong, confident voice. A woman’s voice.

Familiar, where had she heard that voice before?

She wanted to lean against the door, to catch what was being said, but she…

Leta was there, watching from across the room.

Would she have reported to Jon already? Was she merely a spy?

No, Kinvara chose her. If Jon was betraying her, then Kinvara…

“Your Grace, your bath is ready.”

Dany settled into their new routine, her heart finally easing as she bathed and savored the fresh fruit. Again Ghost tried to join her in her bath, and she managed a smile as Leta cautiously pushed him away.

Another nap, another bath, another meal.

Leta brushed out her hair, gently undoing the knots left by her nap and finally the tension began to seep out of her shoulders.

They discussed what to do with her hair for this special occasion, perhaps a suitable style for her long hair that would combine traditions of many cultures. For now, side braids to keep the hair out of her face and blend into the rest of a single long braid, not too tight.

Dany stood from her bath and Leta helped her into her small clothes and robe, finding her dressmakers waiting in her quarters, several new gowns hanging or laid out on the bed. Leta led her to a chair pulled close to the fire, as if she was an invalid, unable to stand for even a few moments.

She found a parchment on the table beside her and unrolled it, halting as she recalled Leta promising to find a copy of Jon’s speech from the night before. She stiffened as she read it through, starting to throw it into the fire before catching herself, angry and guilty when she noticed Leta watching. She wanted to explain, somehow, grateful when the older woman merely smiled as she stood to her side, waving for each dress to be brought forward for the queen’s inspection.

They’re chattering now, even as she tried to hear what words she could from behind the closed door to her husband’s chambers.

Each of the dresses was lovely, though she noticed none were her House colors.

Black and red. Fire and Blood.

No, shimmering blue and silver and white and pale rose.

Regal all the same.

She looked them all over, running her hand over each one, narrowed it down to two, wondered which would be best to make the first impression on her…

Her what?

Her lords and ladies? Her small council? Her …

His.

They’d discussed it at length, their first impression to their court. He’d convinced her to forego her, their House colors for now; best not to remind their guests of her fiery attack on King’s Landing. Instead she would be the beautiful, regal, soft motherly queen.

And he would be King.

Leta assisted as she tried the final two on, compliments and smiles as the mirror was brought over, dulled sunlight glinting in her reflection.

The first, a soft beckoning grayish blue, the bay at sunrise, a light shimmering velvet with long beaded sleeves and high collar, gathered above the waist and falling either side of her rounded belly. The dress was warm, and comfortable, though tight across the bodice and shoulders. She was assured adjustments could be made in time. Suitable for the long night ahead, though she wondered if it would become too warm by the end of the feast.

Dany brushed the front of the gown, pulling against the slight bump on her belly, finding hope and fear rise. Suddenly her hands slipped into the folds, and Leta smiled.

Dany laughed.

Pockets.

Yes, regal. Formal. Queenly.

The second took longer to change into, the fabric highly embellished, beaded and bejeweled. Silver with gray and gold threading, a soft sheen pillowing to form roses, stars and intricate linking braids, broken by detailed dark gold trim along the open neckline and down the quilted, dark gray velvet band falling freely from her bodice to the floor.

A perfect fit. Perhaps too perfect, too revealing for this first feast.

Leta assured her they could add pockets, make any adjustments for the evening’s festivities as Dany openly admired the gown.

She wanted to ask her opinion, ask her ladies.

She wanted to have a good relationship with them, to know them and be known.

But the trust did not come, yet.

She assured herself she just needed time.

Her eyes sought out her Dothraki handmaid, her connection to her past, to Missendei, only to find her by her dressing table, her hand glancing over her brush, her mirror, lingering on the familiar jars brought from Dragonstone.

Vitti. She’d seek her out tomorrow, to make sure she was happy here. If not…

The chattering stuttered to a halt, and Dany watched as the women stilled and curtsied. She turned to look over her shoulder to find her husband, uncertain as she let her hand follow the tight fit of the bodice, relieved when his eyes followed her movements only to finally find her face, smiling as he walked toward her.

Yes, he loves me, there’s no reason to doubt. She had to choose to believe.

“You seem to have impeccable timing, Your Grace. Do you like what you see?”

Jon stepped close to her and took her hand, kissing her palm.

“You’ll always be the most beautiful woman in any room, Your Grace.”

She smiled as he took her hand, tugging toward his quarters.

“Come, I have something for you…”

Jon nodded toward Leta and escorted Dany into his chambers, Ghost brushing past and nearly knocking her over.

She was surprised to find Kinvara waiting there, wearing that smile. They spent so much time together, what were they talking about? What were they planning?

Gods what was wrong with me?

The High Priestess nodded as she entered, passing Dany to enter her quarters, nodding again as she closed the door behind her, leaving her alone...

With her husband.

Why did this feel so awkward?

Jon smiled at her, squeezing her hand as he pulled her toward a table and chair next to the hearth on the far side of the room.

He seemed happy; tired, of course, as usual, but unfettered by the weights she herself carried.

Why can’t I be like that? Like before…

He pulled her close, kissing her softly before helping her be seated.

“Jon, what are you doing?”

He lifted his hand toward her and she glanced around the room looking for an explanation, surprised when he sheepishly presented her with an engraved wooden box.

She hesitated before accepting it, ready to open it when he abruptly plopped a large book on the table beside her and opened it to a marker.

The book was vaguely familiar, but she was not prepared for what was inside the box.

“This is one of the books Tarly stole from the Citadel. This could have made such a difference, if we had had it before…”

He waved at the illustration on the page, a detailed drawing of a dagger. It was familiar, where had she seen that?

She studied the page briefly, hesitating to open the carved box. She had come to find that gifts were rarely given without strings.

She took a breath and opened the lid, startled by its contents. She looked up to find Jon watching her, hesitation in his eyes. She smiled as she lifted the dagger from its velvet bed, placing the box on the table.

She’d never had a close look at the blade, but she recognized it immediately.

Arya Stark. The Night King.

Arya Stark. Her intended murderer.

Arya Stark. Her sister-by-law.

Jon’s beloved sister.

She turned the sheathed dagger in her hand, the scabbard obviously new, or repaired, the three headed dragon apparently restored to match the image in the book.

“It was meant for a dragon, Dany. I do wonder how it ended up with Baelish, but… perhaps he had something to do with Robert’s Rebellion, we’ll never know.”

“You could ask Bran.”

Jon shrugged as she pulled the blade from its sheath, marveling at the swirled metal of the Valyrian steel as it reflected the undulating flames from the hearth. Her hand shook as she gripped the dagger’s handle, surprised when she seemed to feel a tingling heat radiate through her body.

“Yes I could ask, but we know now that he is a liar, so…”

She replaced the blade in is sheath and closed the box with mixed feelings. Yes, it was the blade meant to be used to kill her, but it was also a family treasure, finally back home, in Targaryen hands. She placed the box on the table, feeling Jon tense as he laid the next gift across her lap.

The package was surprisingly light for its size, and she ran her fingers across the bow, wondering if it was some new garment before pulling at the ribbon holding it closed. The layer fell away, revealing an intricately woven silver material. She raised it from her lap, finally recognizing the garment as chain mail.

She laughed in surprise when Jon pulled aside his own tunic to reveal he was wearing one as well, not nearly as bright silver nor as intricately made.

“We can’t be too careful, especially in such a crowd as we will have tonight.”

She nodded.

He wants to protect me - see he loves me, he’s …

For the baby, but once it’s born…

She started to shake her head, to resist the voices, her voice as Jon retrieved the shirt and placed it on the table. She noticed that Jon was likewise uncertain, expressionless as he watched her face closely.

“I hope it’s going to be comfortable for you, we had talked about it, weeks ago, when…”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” She smiled at him again and he nodded.

She didn’t remember.

“And the dagger? Is that what the pockets are for?”

He laughed. “Not really, your guards would always be able to defend you if someone got that close to you…”

Dany leaned back in the chair, distracted by the sudden tingling in her hands and feet.

“One more.”

She sighed as Jon laid the box in her lap. She ran her hand over the carved lid, startled when Jon pulled up a chair next to hers. She waited for him to sit, curious at his excitement as he leaned toward her.

She released the latch holding the top closed and opened the lid.

It took a moment for her eyes to make out what was inside, so many jewels, figures, colors competing for her attention.

“Here, the lid comes off like this…”

She watched as Jon somehow removed the lid and set it on his own lap.

“For your hair. Leta worked with Master Tarner, to make sure they would work with your braids, the way you like to…”

He paused as her hand lingered over each piece, her breath catching as she became familiar with the designs. She’d never seen anything like them, so intricate, so unique. She began pulling out several pieces and placing them in the velvet-lined cover.

“Oh, they’re lovely, I’ll be sure to thank her, and Master Tarner.”

She could feel him lean in closer, pleased with her reaction to the gifts.

Dragons of all shapes and sizes and colors, soaring and landing and roaring fire.

Direwolves, leaping, running, snarling.

Dragonflies. Pretty, colorful. Playful.

She picked up one of the dragonflies and inspected it. It was beautiful, masterful, and she wanted to love them, enjoy them, but beneath her smile she questioned – was this what she was now, a fragile doll to be protected and decorated?

She looked over all of her gifts and realized she hadn’t thanked him; she must be a terrible person.

“Oh, Jon, they’re beautiful! Thank you, I … no one’s ever… I didn’t get you anything!”

Jon laughed, his eyes sparkling. “You’ve given me everything I could ever want.”

She searched his face as he awkwardly took her hand in his, his voice dropping.

“Dany, you’ve given me everything I could ever have dreamt of, someone to love me, someone to love, a family of my own. I could never ask for more, you’ve made me… Did I ever tell you, when I was trying to talk Benjen into taking me with him back to the Wall, he said, ‘You don’t understand what you’d be giving up.’ He was right, I didn’t understand. I sometimes wonder if that was what Ned Stark planned all along. Sometimes I’ve wondered why he even kept me alive, he could have dropped me off at an orphanage, thrown me into the river, found a family to adopt me – but he didn’t want me to have this, a family, a child… a normal life.”

Dany was struck by the pain in his voice. “He couldn’t have known, I’m sure he did the best he could, he protected me when Robert wanted to kill me…”

Jon nodded. “So maybe it wasn’t that I was a Targaryen, maybe he was ashamed that I was a Stark. He didn’t want it known that Lyanna Stark had Rhaegar Targaryen’s child…”

He dropped his eyes and Dany grabbed his arm.

“We don’t know that, Jon. So many things don’t make sense. We truly don’t even know what Lyanna told him, asked of him, if anything. Perhaps she was already dead when he arrived… we only have Bran’s word for anything, and now that we know how often he lies, how he keeps his own secrets…”

Jon took a deep breath. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it? We move forward…”

Dany squeezed his hand, his hand likewise grasping hers, grateful for the moment of connection, a glimmer of hope that they could return to their once unencumbered love.

Or was he merely reminding her of her role, queen to his king? A pretty dutiful wife to silently obey every whim of her king?

Her breathing stuttered and she pulled her hand from his grip.

“What did these cost? How did you pay for them, surely there are things more important to spend the treasury on?”

Dany heard a buzzing in her ears, vaguely aware of assurances that the gifts were remade from what was found in the treasury, melted down and tooled from what remained, and that the labor was thrown in to be titled to the Craftsman to the Crown or something like that; she wasn’t really listening.

“He’s done splendid work, and we will be generous with future work, if you like them that is.”

Jon sought her eyes, stroking her arm and leaning closer.

“We are starting over, not only the realm, the kingdom, but you and I. I wanted to… to let you know… I’ve never been good with words, so I was hoping…”

He paused, watching, waiting.

Dany nodded, unexpectedly thinking of what might have happened to her mother’s jewels left on Dragonstone, ‘Queen’ Cersei’s, ‘Queen’ Margery’s other belongings, what did they do with them? She would look through the treasury herself, perhaps take Leta, she had no one else… perhaps she could speak to someone new, make connections, allies, eyes and ears… that girl Jon trusted, is using for… yes, that would be… Jaenys was her name, she could perhaps…

She replaced the dragonfly and retrieved the lid from Jon’s lap, closing the box as he stood and reached a hand toward her. She dropped the box on the table and placed her hand in his, both comforted and uncertain as he raised her from her seat.

Jon stepped toward her, watching her face before tipping her head up and smiling at her. She felt tears well up, she wasn’t sure why, confused when he bent to kiss her, embrace her to his chest.

“I want you to be safe, happy. You’ve come so far, we’re on the verge of peace, safety and a home and family of our own, all of your dreams… the red door and lemon tree…”

Dany gathered her strength, struggling to put her concerns, her nightmares to the side. She should be grateful, appreciative, should be… she leaned into his embrace and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his chest.

Despite her best efforts the tears spilled over.

“Jon…?”

“I’m right here, Dany.”

She sighed and let herself be held, comforted as he rocked her side to side, stroking her hair.

Gods, what is wrong with me?

She felt his chest rumble as Jon chuckled when Ghost shoved his nose between them, whether searching for food or attention she wasn’t sure. Dany was grateful for the interruption and gathered herself as Jon smiled and kissed her forehead before releasing her and stepping away.

Dany swayed at the loss, the slight dizziness lingering.

She’d need to settle things, who to trust, if she could trust herself.

But for now…

Jon opened the doors to her rooms and waved in Leta and her handmaids to gather her gifts. Dany took the box with the dagger herself as she re-entered her quarters, wishing she knew how she was to feel.

Another time.

Her quarters were filled with barely patient handmaidens and seamstresses, and she found herself pressed for a decision for that evening’s wardrobe. Final adjustments would be necessary for either gown, especially to accommodate the new chain mail shirt, and she wanted to be both regal and comfortable for the long night ahead, her first night truly meeting with the high lords of Westeros.

She hadn’t had time to think about it much, wished she could ask Jon for his opinion, but he was no doubt being regaled by his own stewards and tailors.

She’d have to make up her own mind.

Weariness overwhelmed her, and the thought of removing the dress, all the buttons, ties… it didn’t really matter which dress she wore, did it?

Her decision made, several seamstresses rushed at her with pins and ribbons and tailor’s chalk, especially marking where new pockets would be added without marring the sleek silhouette of the gown.

Finally they all stepped back and she saw herself in the mirror, thin and disheveled, uncertain when she found Leta’s reflection watching her face. She tried to smile, she wanted to be happy; she had longed, worked, fought for this day, she wanted to enjoy it. But she could see Leta was not fooled and let her smile fade.

She sighed as she was disrobed from the gown and watched as several ladies carried it from her chambers, somehow feeling abandoned as she stood in naught but her small clothes, distracted when her dressing gown was held open for her, then nearly pulled to her dressing table, glancing over her shoulder to shake her head to prevent the door between their royal chambers from being closed.

Apparently they were running late.

Leta began styling her hair loosely, awaiting direction until they decided her familiar braids would suit the occasion, only looser to signal a more comfortable and welcoming sentiment.

Other familiar voices floated through the doorway, and Dany recognized Jon’s Lannister steward, followed by Manderly’s voice joining the tailors’ muttering just as her own handmaidens had been earlier.

She can just see him through the corner of the doorway, bits of conversation around what to do with his hair, a resounding rebuff to his suggestion to just cut it all off.

Dany felt Leta pause, glance at her in the mirror before her.

“Your Grace, do you need anything?” Leta turned and waved to one of the young handmaidens, a tray with juice and fruit quickly placed before her.

No, that’s not what I need. I need…

Dany took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

“Jon, I forgot to ask, how was your ride on Rhaegal? Is he doing well?”

Tired of feeling at everyone’s mercy, she raised her voice as best she could, startling those around her and silencing the voices in her husband’s quarters.

She felt a certain satisfaction when she saw Jon open the door between their chambers wider even as he returned to his tailors. She caught a brief glimpse of his new jacket, regal and bejeweled for the occasion.

“Yes, well, I will leave for Highgarden first thing tomorrow morning…” She could hear the apprehension in his voice; was he expecting her to object?

“Is Rhaegel healed enough?”

Leta finished the final braid and fastened it to fall atop her long loose curls.

“We will stop often, he’s anxious to be doing something, I remember how…”

Dany strained to hear as his voice trailed off. She had realized how deeply Jon had been affected by his death and resurrection, knew she could not compare or compete with the bond between her husband and his dragon.

She remembered when Jon had first told her that Kinvara might be able to raise Rhaegal. She remembered the confusion, the jealousy, even at her beloved son’s expense. But she’d been surprised from the beginning, wondered what had caused her to invite Jon to mount her dragon outside Winterfell’s walls. Did she somehow know? Suspect? How could others have power over her son?

But he’d told her many stories as she lingered between life and death and recovery and health. Some she remembered, others… she wouldn’t know what she had forgotten, would she?

Resentment flared as she recalled his story, his voice tired and lost in memory.

“It was soon after we’d started our own little conspiracy, and I’d started spending time outside the Red Keep, among the people. I’d started to notice Drogon… I was so busy during the day, but at night, when it was quiet that I recognized that other pull, Rhaegal, that there was something still there, to not let him go yet. I’m not sure how to explain it, Dany, but Drogon helped me find him. He sent me pictures is the best way to describe it, more than anything to go find him. So I did, I found him washed up in the caves across the bay, though I didn’t think he was alive. I thought Drogon wanted him burned, or somehow… honored. Then Kinvara, she told me about… Rhaegal’s got my blood in him now, hope that doesn’t interfere with anything.”

He’d laughed, and Dany remembered enjoying the sound as he’d held her hand in the dark. Merely days before, yet it seemed so long ago.

Another familiar voice rose beyond the door, and she could hear the overall tone change as Davos interrupted, no doubt to inform the rightful heir of the crucial affairs of the realm. The voices quieted as she heard Jon and Davos leave his room, the outer door shutting behind.

She wondered if she should ask about it later, or wait and see if she was to be included in the daily workings of the kingdom.

“Do you have a preference, Your Grace?”

Leta had laid out several of the larger jeweled hair clips before her; they were all beautiful, evocative. Her hand landed on the soaring dragon, relieved when she saw Leta’s smile in the mirror, startled when she saw the emotionless visage of the High Priestess behind her. She wondered if she had made the right choice, about the dress, about the jewels, about everything; she always wondered, afraid of making a mistake when the Red Priestess was around, watching from the shadows.

She would have to consider sending her to Dragon’s Bay, in time.

Or sooner.

Dany straightened.

She was Queen. She didn’t make mistakes. She could do as she liked and didn’t need anyone’s approval of her choices.

She hated that she had to remind herself who she was.

No!

She was tempted to shake her head – again – but Leta was placing the dragon jewels among her braids, watching her face for approval, asking her often if they were too tight or uncomfortable.

Yes, too tight, everything is too tight!

“No, they’re fine, just right; they will need to last all night.”

Leta smiled and nodded, the other handmaidens waiting patiently, holding a cloak and slippers and colorful sashes, another changing out the fresh flowers in her rooms.

She took a deep breath, relaxed her shoulders as the Priestess approached.

“Lady Kinvara, I want to thank you again for all you’ve done for Rhaegal, that you have the power to…”

“I did nothing, my Queen. It was the power of the Lord of Light and the blood of his Prince.”

Dany lost her breath for a moment as Leta met her startled gaze in her mirror.

She nodded slightly.

“Of course, but tell me, why could you not use my blood to raise Rheagal. He is my son, I gave him life to begin with, wouldn’t it have been better…”

“Your Grace, the King’s blood is the only blood that could have raised his dragon. They are bonded as dragon and rider, and the power of R'hllor that raised Jon Snow was shared with his dragon through that bond. Your husband’s blood is special, there is none like it. He is the Son of Ice and Fire, his blood is the blood of life. Fire brought the dragons’ to life. Ice – his blood – brought Rhaegal back from the cold darkness of death.”

Kinvara stepped forward, pausing as Leta drew back when Dany nodded at her.

“My Queen, you must settle these things in your heart if you are to rule as R'hllor intends.”

She clasped her hands and lowered her voice.

“Do not let bitterness, jealousy and envy take root in your heart. You will lose everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever desired, you will live with regret for the rest of your life. You have been given a great gift, cherish it, another chance to make the right choices, don’t waste these moments. So few have been as favored as you have been, your reign has just begun, if you choose wisely.”

Pain radiated through her wrists, up her arm as she struggled to respond.

“Of course, High Priestess, I am grateful for the circumstances…” She let her voice fade.

Kinvara closed her eyes and nodded, backing away as Leta resumed her preparations.

Dany found herself confused, her head pounding as Leta again brought a tray of fruit and cheese and watered fruit juice.

Things are going well, I will have everything I’ve ever wanted, there is no reason…

Yet the doubts remained, the pain, the questions. She had no one she could trust, they were dead or scattered, all…

My dreams come true…

She held her breath, waited for her heart to quiet.

Not all dreams are real, some are just… dreams, nightmares. I don’t have to believe them.

Dany nibbled at the cheese and toast, hoping to settle her stomach as Leta finished her hair, placing the gifted jewels to form a sparkling crown around her head. Dany relaxed then, relieved. She determined to enjoy herself at the feast, no matter what happened. She looked like a queen, regal and confident. She must act like one as well, ready and aware of the testing she would no doubt…

Jon’s raised voice, indistinguishable but urgent, carried from his quarters.

She was tempted to join him, or even call him to her rooms.

“Jon, is everything all right?”

Jon’s voice halted, then, “Yes, of course, nothing to worry about, everything is ready.”

She stifled a smirk; he’d have to work harder if he intended to hide things from her.

“Jon, what’s…”

Her words dropped as he entered her rooms, stopping to gaze at her admiringly before sitting next to her on her bench, playfully crowding her along to make room for him before kissing her on her cheek.

Dany warmed to his attention, grateful when Leta stepped away, her handmaidens stifling giggles as her husband stroked her hair. She watched his face as he glanced at the jewels in her hair, then down at the assortment of brushes and clips and pins and jars spread out on the dressing table before her. His eye landed on the silver box, and Dany pulled it toward her to show him, running her fingers across the lid.

“It says, Mhysa, ‘Mother’ in Valyrian. Missendei gave it to me, in Winterfell…”

She opened it and ran her fingers over the silky balm, her memories drifting as the now familiar fragrance filled her senses as she rubbed the ointment into the back of her hands.

Jon leaned into her shoulder.

“I wish Missendei was here, she loved you so, she was such a part of your life, your journey, she should be here.”

Dany turned and placed a hand on his face as he smiled sadly.

“And Ser Jorah…”

Dany huffed. “You miss Ser Jorah?”

He nodded, grasping her hand. “Yes… he betrayed you, let you down, yet you forgave him and chose to trust him again. This has always given me hope, for us, that your heart is so willing…”

Dany squeezed his hand and turned toward him; she would be strong, a good queen, a good wife.

“Jon, you have nothing to hope for! I trust you, now.”

She softened, “We are both so – young – Jon! Think of it, what we’ve both done, what we plan to do! We’ve both made mistakes, though I’ll always have you bested in that area.”

Jon shook his head, “You were not yourself…”

“And you, Jon? No doubt Bran started turning you back into that scared little bastard the minute we docked at White Harbor. That you are again the man I fell in love with; strong, patient, wise… we will do this together, fix whatever needs to be fixed, grow old, together, all of us.”

She wanted to believe her words, but for now the relief she saw in his face was enough.

“We’ve both made so many mistakes, we’re naive, inexperienced, and we listened to the wrong people, we didn’t trust our own judgment, our own destiny. But now, we can, we will do better, together.”

Jon leaned forward, pressing his forehead into hers as they awkwardly embraced, only interrupted as the door to her chambers swung open and her altered gown entered, carried by red-faced seamstresses.

Jon stood, extending his hand to help her rise before retreating a distance as she was helped, first into the chain mail shirt, then into the sparkling satin and velvet gown.

Dany felt the weight of the dress, found her pockets, swished the skirt back and forth before the mirror, amazed as the crystals reflected tiny rainbows against the walls and smiling faces.

Yes, this was the right choice. There could be no doubt who she was, even if she herself often wondered.

“You look – beautiful!”

She smiled and bowed her head toward Jon’s reflection in the mirror.

“Everything – I’ve never seen anything so…”

She turned to find them all gazing at her admiringly.

“Leta, Vitti, all of you, thank you all so much for everything you’ve done for me, for us. This dress, everything, I am so grateful…”

The room resounded with sighs of gratitude and crinkling gowns as curtsies and bows circled the small crowd, quickly melting into festive clapping as the King approached his Queen.

Davos and young Lannister magically appeared behind him, and Dany struggled to be happy as the Northern Crown was fitted upon his head, finally just the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder before their first enthralled audience.

Jon smiled as he leaned into her, then gathered her hand and kissed it, nearly losing his crown, laughter adding to the room’s buoyant mood.

“This is it! Are we ready?”

Dany took a deep breath and nodded quickly, hooking her arm in Jon’s extended elbow, trying to return his smile as he escorted her through her doors and into the filled outer hallway.

The crowd’s murmuring ceased, followed by a wave of approving compliments, even applause from those accompanying them to the feast, laughter as the giant white direwolf pushed through the crowd, sending some scurrying in surprise and fear.

Her face warmed as Jon halted and stood back, holding her hand high as she smiled and bowed her head in thanks, allowing their guards and household courtiers to admire her up close, cheers and applause arising behind them as her handmaidens joined in congratulations.

Dany found Grey Worm’s face, nodding. He quickly turned and stepped before the royal couple to lead them into the feast, only to find another armored guard - this was their – Crownsguard, wasn’t it? - Ser Something Redfort perhaps, she would have to do better remembering names. Yes, his armor held their new combined crest, dragon and wolf, and he nodded at them both as he turned to lead their entourage into the public keep.

She took a deep breath as Jon squeezed her hand on his elbow, his smile nervous but ready as they took their first steps as a true couple, and King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She felt that sharp pain in her head, her hands hot and tingly. But she smiled and nodded, tilting her head high.

She had no idea what to expect for the feast, or even how long she would last, wondering if either of them knew or were ready for this new game of thrones that was about to begin.

She brushed her hand alongside the gown’s new pocket, comforted by the weight of the heavy blade within.

Yes, let the games begin.