20.The Worth of a King

The Ironborn had run rampant along the Western shores for over a year. Fair Castle had fallen, Lannisport had been sacked, the Westerlands’ fleet lay at the bottom of the Sunseat Sea, and even Kayce and Feastfires barely weathered the Ironmen’s swift raids.

While the Hightower and Redwyne Fleets were mustering their might to repel the Ironmen and free Fair Isle, Prince Aemond had decided to address the root of the issue, thinking all other enemies cowed and bested. He rested at Banefort for one night before beginning his campaign.

The Scouring of the Iron Islands was a brutal affair. Unlike the Riverlands, the Iron Islands were small and rocky, and their mines and caves provided plenty of hiding places from the dragon. Yet the caves and mines were not endless, and they were meant for the lowest of the thralls.

Vhagar flew over the Iron Islands, burning each village and town it saw, setting shipyards and harbours on fire. No ships were spared, no quarter was offered, no mercy was given. Thralls, Ironborn—it didn’t matter to Aemond. If he saw it, he would burn it until it was ash or slag. Or perhaps it was the previous experience in the Riverlands that saw Prince Aemond act with ruthless efficiency.

“The Iron Islands should have been cleared of this wretched filth long ago,” he had claimed. “And now, it falls to me to cleanse it with fire, and I shall not be cowed by the presence of some hostages.”

It was said that Aemond flew over at the crack of dawn each day, spent it ‘gifting the Ironmen the dragon’s price’, and only returned to Banefort late in the evening. Not even their holy places were spared, as Aemond melted Naga’s bones and Old Wyk.

The castles had been the easiest targets of all, and the prince did not hesitate to melt them down. And unlike the Riverlords, the reaver strongholds were far fewer in number, less impressive in size and masonry.

Some of the Ironborn down the coast decided to turn back home and defend their lands and keeps, but were ambushed by the advancing Redwyne fleet, only for the survivors to be burned down with their ships as soon as Prince Aemond spotted them.

Pyke, Harlaw, Saltcliffe, and Orkmont saw everything higher than a hut torched, and all of their castles had been melted and burned by Vhagar’s fury. The remaining thralls were quick to rebel, as their surviving masters had nowhere to hide.

Even the Red Kraken and his Iron Fleet at Fair Island were killed after a series of fierce battles over the sea, and the Reachmen’s fleet proceeded to the Iron Islands with orders to ‘retrieve every single soul enslaved by the vile pirates’. In truth, they just went to cull the Iron Islands.

It was said that nine out of ten souls perished on those islands, though not solely by dragonfire, but the coming winter and the infighting that followed…

Excerpt from ‘When Dragons Danced’ by Archmaester Abelon

Jon Stark

His armour was still splattered with blood as he walked past the bronze and oaken heavy doors and into the Throne Room. His eyes paused for a heartbeat, finding no soul save for a score of Royce and Hardy soldiers, who had subdued the guards earlier.

The Throne Room was a large, cavernous hall, with high-arched windows of coloured glass and marble flooring softened by a crimson carpet that led to the Iron Throne. The largest hall in the realm, save the Hall of a Thousand Hearths in Harrenhal. It was cold and lifeless compared to his cosy house over at Dragonstone.

Unlike the rest of the Red Keep, it was untouched by the fighting. There were no signs of struggle here, no bloodstains or corpses or broken shields and shattered blades.

It was at the far end. The Iron Throne. A terrible, asymmetrical monstrosity that loomed over the chamber from above, all jagged metal and spikes, reforged in the fires of Balerion from the broken swords of the surrendered enemies or wrenched from the hands of the dying. There was no velvet, no tapering, no sign of comfort, only dark metal—even the stairs. It was said that the Iron Throne itself would cut those unworthy to sit on it.

This was it. The royal symbol of power since the Conqueror folded the kingdoms into one realm. Every acknowledged king from Aegon to Stannis had sat on this throne. And now, it was Jon’s turn.

It towered over him like a terrible giant of blackened steel, but Jon felt more excited than cowed. No man was meant to sit easily on the throne, and the sharp blades had been said to have taken the life of Maegor.

It was as if the world quieted down and nothing else mattered while he climbed up those metal stairs.

Did he have any right to sit on this throne?

He had the blood of kings in his veins, running hot and true. The blood of the Conqueror himself, mixed with the ancient kings of winter.

Yet Aerys had never been king here. Aerys had never been born.

It didn’t matter. His claim was made by sword and dragon, and now was not the time to falter.

Jon ascended the steps and sat on the Iron Throne.

It felt as uncomfortable as it looked, even though the sharp edges of the armrests only tickled his skin. The exhilaration and joy of success he expected never came, but the burden on his shoulders remained. There was never meant to be joy in rulership, only duty. Since he was king now, he would take the royal mantle and all it entailed with all the grace and dignity he could muster.

Below him, everyone looked… smaller, almost distant.

Ser Alfred was already by the base of the Iron Throne, already having found a pristine white cloak to replace his brown from the White Sword Tower, though his blood-splattered armour remained the unassuming dark grey of plain steel. With him came Jon’s personal ‘battle guard’ of clawmen, all knights and champions of Crackclaw Point known for their battle prowess—including the young Ser Lyonel Bentley, who had fought with ruthless ferocity as if he had something to prove.

Harrold and Clayton were there too, dutifully bringing Jon his dragonbone crown. Jon accepted it with a curt nod and placed it on his brow. It felt heavier than before.

His squires had performed well enough during the fighting, and he could see eagerness in their eyes—they hoped to be knighted now, but it was too early. They had displayed valour and good service, yes, but it was not matched with sufficient martial skill and strength.

Rhaena was the next to arrive, her hair a windswept mess, and her pale face a mixture of disbelief and numbness as she walked to the Iron Throne. With her was an escort of Velaryon knights who had met her at the godswood, where now Vermithor and Silverwing rested. Shaggy and his three hounds looked utterly out of place in the Throne Room as they obediently padded after his wife.

She paused before the steps, uncertain what to do.

Only the king and, in his absence, the Hand could sit here, never the queen, regent, or a princess. The Conqueror’s sister-wives had been the sole exception. Them and Rhaenyra, who had wanted to rule in her own name.

“Harrold, find a seat for the queen.” Jon motioned to the throne’s left as he smiled at his wife.

Rhaena turned to him, wide-eyed with amazement. Even Viserys had not let Alicent anywhere near the Throne—she had to stand with the rest of the courtiers. Letting Rhaena sit on the Throne was not a problem in the future. But for now, he needed to claim every scrap of authority he could.

It wasn’t long before more of his men streamed into the great hall, all fresh from battle. First was the old Sea Snake, limping along with his cane, then it was the clawmen and Lord Celtigar, who were quick to bend their knee before arranging themselves between the pillars.

“The gates are ours, Your Grace.”

“We have control of the Dragonpit and the Dragonkeepers, Your Grace.”

“Aegon’s master of coin and master of laws have been apprehended, Your Grace.”

Three men were dragged before the Iron Throne.

The first was an old man with a somewhat haughty bearing and a heavy jewelled chain hanging from his neck. Grand Maester Orwyle.

Jason Bar Emmon was a pale, spindly man in his forties, who blinked at Jon with half-disbelief, half fear.

Ser Tyland Lannister was a mess. What must have once been the face of a dashing knight now lay in ruin. One eye had gone milky white, his face was covered by marks and burns, and his ears had been cut out. Rhaena all but gasped at the sight, and she was far from the only one. The man had not yet been broken, for his remaining green eye was still sharp and defiant.

“You have no right to sit on that throne,” the Lannister knight rasped out. “Aegon is king.”

The men made to strike him, but Jon raised his hand, halting them.

“A king who fled from his own city and throne,” said Corlys, voice laced with disdain. “A king who hid like a rabbit while his younger brothers fought for his throne. A king who is now dead.”

“Impossible!”

Jon was begrudgingly impressed. Ser Tyland Lannister was gelded, broken, crippled, forever a ruin of a man, but he still held his vows to a worthless worm such as Aegon the Elder. Such men were rare, and such loyalty rarer.

“I have all the right to sit on the throne of swords,” Jon declared, his gaze sweeping out through the hall and then settling on his wife. “I have the strength of arms to claim it. I have the men willing to follow me to fight for it. I have another right next to me.” He motioned to Rhaena, who stood prouder. “I have two more rights in the godswood, hewn out of scales, flesh, and fire. The same rights that the Conqueror used to forge this very throne.”

“JON KING!” Ser Bennard Cave roared, hefting a greatsword in the air.

“DRAGONRIDER!”

“DRAGONSLAYER!”

The echo was almost deafening, and even the crippled lion was shaken. Lord Bar Emmon merely looked resigned, while Grandmaester Orwyle was quick to bow his head like a man who was eager to change his cloak.

“I am not a cruel man,” Jon said. “No man can begrudge your leal service to your liege, but he is now dead. You can choose to serve me in turn as you served him, or remain my guests until the war is resolved. There is no need to answer now. Take your time and think about it.”

Jon was not some bandit trying to corner his prey. He would not trust the men who served his enemy, but there was no need to be needlessly cruel or heavy-handed. Not when there were no slights involved.

With a wave of his hand, the three men were dragged away to be confined to one of the many towers of the Red Keep.

Last to come was Lord Royce, dragging out a gaggle of men who looked pale and gaunt—prisoners from the Black Cells who had not seen the light of day for weeks, most Valemen save for two Manderly knights and their small retinue. It seemed that the rest of the captured Black lords had been quick to bend their knees after Rhaenyra’s death and had long left the city.

The bulk of the surrendered Valemen host was spread across the dungeons in the city below and would be freed in short order, if they had not been freed already.

There was not a single lord amongst them—at most, some landed knights. For all their talk of loyalty, valour, honour, and chivalry, the Lords of the Vale feared facing a dragon as much as any other man did.

“You are now free men,” Jon graciously allowed. “You can choose to serve me or return home—once you’ve sworn an oath not to bear arms against me and mine, of course.”

He was generous, but not foolish enough to let them leave without paying obeisance. They might not have bent their knee to Aegon or Aemond, but that did not mean that Jon could win their loyalty quickly. He was not Rhaenyra’s heir, but a self-styled pretender, after all.

They all bent their knees and murmured their vows; some looked eager, others unhappy, while the rest were resigned. But the oaths were given and witnessed, and it was enough for Jon—none of these knights would wield arms against him. Medrick and Torrhen Manderly were quick and eager to swear solemn vows of fealty instead, and promised to back him with the whole might of White Harbour.

Those two could be used, Jon mused. The elder brother was tall and handsome—nothing like the Manderlys of his time, while the younger one was soft and had a look like one who was corpulent and had lost too much weight in a short while; a stark contrast that almost had him laugh out loud.

“Lord Commander Alfred,” Jon spoke then. “Have any men proven themselves worthy of the white this day?”

“Ser Lyonel Bentley and Ser Androw Hardy,” the knight replied without hesitation.

The two men in question were eager to step forward. Their valour could be seen by all—their armour was battered, their cloaks torn and splattered with bloodshed. Where Ser Lyonel was young and graceful, Ser Androw was scarred and burly, moving with harsh precision.

Both were some of the finest warriors Jon had seen.

“Are you two willing to don the white and be my sword and shield until the day you die?”

“Yes,” both said, falling on one knee before the Iron Throne. “We are willing, Your Grace.”

Jon smiled. “Good. Swear your vows, then.”

He had two more white cloaks, then. Three, once his Hand offered the services of his newly freed cousin, Ser Willem Royce, a skilled knight and the wielder of Lamentation, a Valyrian steel blade.

And so, Jon had four kingsguard, two of whom wielded dragonsteel. Ser Willem’s character and loyalty had yet to be tested, but Jon knew Lord Royce would not have recommended the man if he were lacking.

The next one brought forward was Alicent. Slender and graceful even in her forties and after giving birth to four children, Jon could see why she had caught Viserys’s fancy. Her eyes were rimmed with red—she had been crying. Perhaps she regretted surrendering Maegor’s Holdfast, but the royal citadel had only a score of protectors left, and the queen dowager had known it was impossible to keep it.

But her tongue was no less sharp for it, and her spine was ramrod straight as she stood before the Iron Throne.

“I did not expect that a new bastard would step forth while the old ones have been done away with,” she drawled, chin raised proudly. “A kinslayer at that, too.”

Jon tilted his head, confused. He had slain no kin of his own—not today, not ever. But a mother’s grief and anger went hand in hand, and he had killed her youngest son today.

If she had not been angry, Jon would have thought her a heartless creature.

“A bastard no more by your late husband’s hand,” Jon reminded coolly.

“His worst mistake, no doubt.”

His lips almost curled with amusement.

“I can let you stay here at the cost of your insolent tongue,” Jon said. “Or you can take vows with the Silent Sisters at White Harbour, where you will not trouble anyone else with your vitriolic prattle.”

Alicent only laughed.

“Not even sparing your father’s wife?” Her smile remained, but it was a cold, cruel thing. “I have more dignity than to bow my head to some upjumped bastard. I wonder which wild wolf bitch did Viserys beget you on to turn so cruelly against your kin?”

Viserys?

Jon blinked.

Did they think he was Viserys’s son?

…Was that why so many knees were not only quick but eager to bend?

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to refute it loud and clear. Yet… yet… he was sitting on the Iron Throne. His own sire had been a crown prince. The truth would hurt him here.

Let them believe their own lies, even if it would brand him a kinslayer for killing young Daeron.

Jon swallowed inwardly.

Instead, he said, “My mother’s name was Lyanna, and she was no bitch. And I see you had no problems turning your own sons against their own kin. Take her tongue and send her off to the Silent Sisters.”

“Do what you will, bastard,” she allowed, and then her voice turned harsh. “Don’t think you’ve won—my son will avenge me. Aemond will make you rue the day you were born.”

“Perhaps he would, if he were not too blind in his bloodlust to see his brothers are dead,” Jon scoffed. “Too busy killing reavers, burning boats, and melting their dreary castles.”

Not that he would ever complain. The fewer Ironborn, the better. Even more so if they all went into the embrace of their Drowned God.

Jon merely watched as Alicent was dragged away, as she cursed and spewed poison and vitriol that would make a sailor blush. They might call him cruel or harsh for this, but Jon did not care. He might not have known Lyanna Stark in his life, or her story, but insulting the king’s mother in public was not a slight he could be seen forgiving.

The next half an hour was spent on pageantry and courtesies as Jon went through what was left of Aegon’s court.

“Some can be convinced to turn to your cause, Your Grace,” Corlys suggested. “It would cement your place here.”

“Better not,” Lord Royce objected, his grey beard bristling. “Those who were too loyal to Aegon the Elder and his brothers are too dangerous to use. Those willing to turn their cloaks after Rhaenyra’s demise or even before it are worse—these men lack honour and should never be trusted.”

The Sea Snake’s face darkened at the backhanded insult, but he said nothing. Everyone knew he had turned his cloak, and the only reason he had kept his head was because of his fleet and gold.

Jon was inclined to agree with his Hand. With old courts came old loyalties, and Stannis had only sat in King’s Landing with a peace of mind because he had discarded the old and taken in the new.

All the courtiers were sent to the Wall or offered the block. Jon promised to behead them himself, but that seemed to terrify them further.

Cravens.

Next came the guild masters. Fourteen of them—alchemists, cheesemakers, smiths, jewellers, dyers, bakers, brewers, tailors, and more, eager to bend the knee and make grand promises of loyalty and cooperation.

“They’re here to plead with you to lower the taxes and strike down the war tolls,” Corlys explained.

“The treasury is empty,” Lord Royce objected.

He would have been tempted if he had not remembered the gaunt, scared faces across every street. Flighty smallfolk so thin he could count their ribs with a glance. Jon did not claim a crown to enjoy riches and wealth, but to do better than Aegon.

“Do away with it,” Jon said, waving his hand. “There’s no need to try to squeeze blood from stone. War has already choked these royal subjects. Any further and they might freeze to death this winter if they don’t starve first.”

“What about the gold—”

“A quarter of the royal treasury should be in Hightower for safekeeping,” Jon explained, remembering his history lessons. “Another quarter in the Iron Bank, and the last quarter in Casterly Rock. Whatever needs rebuilding will be rebuilt with it.”

“That’s highly specific knowledge, Your Grace,” Corlys said cautiously. “Ser Tyland Lannister was tortured for half a year, yet he did not speak a whisper of it.”

Many perked up, doubtlessly thinking that he had some secret spymaster under his employ.

Ah, if only. Jon might have been inclined to try to recruit Mysaria, but she had been killed by Larys’s men the day Rhaenyra had been killed.

“It came to me in a dream,” Jon lied blandly. He couldn’t exactly tell them he had read it in a book, could he?

“A seer?” Someone said in the crowd.

“A dreamer!”

“No, this is a sign from the gods!”

Lord Royce cleared his throat loudly, and the commotion quickly quieted.

“How certain of this are you, Your Grace?” he asked delicately. “Dreams are no reliable source of knowledge.”

“We will know once the war ends,” Jon waved it away. “These are all problems for later.”

Gold could be squeezed from his enemies. The Reach and the Westerlands were prosperous because they were wealthy. Why would he fleece his own subjects when he could shear his enemies for all they were worth?

Until that moment came, he would use the Velaryon wealth. The old fox had no choice but to support him to the hilt, regardless, and Jon would use him for all he was worth. Whether it was to show his loyalty or earn Baela and Rhaena’s forgiveness, it did not matter.

But there were other, more urgent matters to attend to.

“I want every secret passage in the Red Keep sealed with stone and brick and mortar,” Jon commanded. “Find all of them. I will not have rats scurry around my keep uninvited and harm my family.”

Dismissing the rat catchers as Otto Hightower had done was not enough; he had to plug the ratholes, too.

“It will be done, Your Grace.”

The rest of the impromptu court passed quickly.

Just as Jon was ready to dismiss it all, a band of Velaryon knights came, dragging two figures.

One was a warrior in simple armour and an unassuming travelling cloak with an eye bruised and lips burst and swollen. The other was a short girl with an expressionless face.

Rhaena gasped.

“Jaehaera!”

“Aegon’s daughter?” Jon asked, frowning. He could feel the girl’s presence with his mind.

His demure wife, however, was glaring at the little thing with undisguised hatred, as if Jaehaera had been the one to kill her father.

“The very same,” the Sea Snake said, face impassive. “Alicent had her summoned back the moment Rhaenyra died, but I didn’t think she had arrived.”

“We caught them trying to ferry her out by a fisherman’s boat across the Blackwater Rush,” one of the knights reported, thumping his breastplate.

“They must have sneaked out through some secret tunnel when you sieged Maegor’s Holdfast,” Rhaena offered harshly. “That’s Ser Willis Fell, a knight of my late uncle’s kingsguard.”

“He took eight men down before we could capture him,” the Velaryon knight said, looking half pissed, half impressed. “A tough warrior.”

“I want her head,” Rhaena said darkly, words dripping with venom.

Jon almost jerked away, surprised by the sheer hatred oozing from his wife. But then… the House of the Dragon loved deeply, and hated fiercely. And it seemed that even his own wife was no exception.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She did not hesitate even for a heartbeat. “Aemond took my younger brother’s head. Little Egg was just… a boy. An innocent boy. And the kinslayer lopped his head without blinking twice—a son for a son was what he said. And now I will have his niece’s head for it.”

Ser Willis Fell struggled, trying to escape his restraints, but it was in vain.

Jon could feel every gaze in the Throne Room set on him, awaiting his decision with bated breath. None dared to say a word. There was no sympathy for Alicent’s line here, no compassion for a child of Hightower blood.

He stood up, drawing Blackfyre from his sheath and walked down the Iron Throne, stopping before Jaehaera. Aegon’s daughter did not flinch. It was not fearlessness or misplaced boldness. There was no emotion on her face, and her eyes looked hollow, just simple… sweetness.

Jon closed his eyes for a heartbeat. It could be easy to swing the sword and lop off the child’s head.

But would it be right?

“Rhaena, to me,” Jon summoned.

His wife hesitated for a moment before joining his side.

“If you want this girl dead, do it yourself,” he said, words harsh and jagged like shards of broken glass. “If you dare to demand Jaehaera’s head, the least courtesy you could do is to look into her eyes and hear her last words.”

Jon offered Blackfyre’s hilt to Rhaena. Her hands raised to grip it, but her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t squeeze the hilt.

“I…” her voice hitched in her throat. Rhaena’s eyes flicked to Jaehaera, who looked so small before the two of them.

“Didn’t you want her head just now?” Jon asked coolly. “Here, take it yourself.”

Anger and sorrow and self-loathing warred on his wife’s face. Then, her purple eyes started swimming with tears as she jerked away from Blackfyre’s hilt as if it were a poisonous viper ready to lunge.

Jon swept out his cloak and pulled Rhaena for half an embrace to his side as he returned Blackfyre to its scabbard.

“We should send her to the Faith with the Queen Dowager,” Corlys proposed quietly. “Becoming a septa or a silent sister is a good fate for one like her.”

Jon ignored him and looked at the girl.

“You have a dragon, do you not?”

“Yes,” she said obediently. Her voice was quiet and sweet. “His name is Morghul, and he’s pretty and slender.”

No, she was not emotionless. Her emotions were not gone, they were just… far away. Jon could feel it. A skinchanger, just like him, but not quite.

“Why would I give the Faith a dragon-riding princess, Lord Corlys?” he asked patiently.

The old lord blinked owlishly at him, as if not expecting the question. But age had not dulled the old fox’s wits.

“The dragon is young and harmless, chained away in the Dragonpit, so it would never matter.”

It was certainly a solution, Jon mused. But… he looked at the young girl before him and felt pity. They wanted to end her life before it had even begun. He could certainly do it.

But that was not what a king was about. If he faltered here, because of the danger that some innocent little girl before him posed, would he be any better than Aegon the Elder? Would he be any better than Rhaenyra and Daemon?

His own half-siblings by blood had met a similar grisly end at the hands of Tywin’s brutes. It wasn’t right then, and it would not be right now.

Eddard Stark could have given him to the Green Men or the Watch or the Citadel or even some sept to join the Faith, and they would have raised him easily enough. Nobody would have cared. Nobody would have known—even if they did, they would have approved of it, regardless of whether he was Eddard Stark or Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard.

Jon kneeled before the young girl so his eyes were level with hers.

Somehow, he knew what to do at that moment, just like he had known to eat the Cannibal’s heart.

Jon reached out his hand and tousled her silver-gold hair. ‘Vermithor, help me.’

The dragon’s presence seared through his head as Jon gently pushed into Jaehaera’s mind and found half of it far away. It felt natural, almost easy, like entering a beast that had been broken in by a skinchanger before—she did not resist or even acknowledge his presence.

Then, he and Vermithor pulled the distant half and snapped it back in place before retreating. Jaehaera gasped, then quickly started shaking her head.

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice thick with fright and excitement and confusion. Even her eyes now shone with emotion, and her face no longer looked like a doll. “I… what?”

“I fixed what was broken,” Jon offered, pulling away his hand and ignoring the murmurs of ‘sorcerer king’ that swept through the Throne Room. “Jaehaera. Are you willing to become my foster daughter?”

The girl swallowed, her fearful eyes darting to Rhaena to the side but not daring to move away.

“Your hostage?” she asked at last in a small voice.

She had not forgotten how her life had almost ended earlier.

“No. My foster daughter with all it entails,” Jon said, giving a soft smile to the girl. It worked—she looked only half as frightened. “Your parents are dead. Your father was a king, and I will raise you as any royal princess ought to be raised. I promise you this.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Jaehaera said, curtsying clumsily. “I will be in your care.”

“Go now, stand with Ser Alfred,” Jon urged, and the girl hastily ran to the knight.

“His Grace is merciful!” Lord Royce thundered, laughing loudly. Many others murmured in agreement, and some even looked relieved. A glance at Rhaena told Jon that his wife was not happy—her face was a mixture of… confusion, sorrow, and anger.

He hugged her again and whispered in her ear. “We can’t start our reign by murdering innocent children. We’re not Aegon or Aemond, we must be better.”

Rhaena’s stiff body eased slightly.

Jon turned to the man, tightly wrapped in chains, no longer struggling or looking like a dragon ready to spew fire.

“Ser Willis Fell,” he said. “You have proven yourself a dutiful knight and a loyal man. Swear your sword to me, and you shall regain your freedom and honour.”

The captured knight sighed.

“I have sworn vows to Aegon,” Ser Willis rasped, bowing his head. “I have heard the offer, Your Grace, but masters are not boots to be changed.”

A man of honour, Jon realised. A knight of staunch character who would die before breaking his vows.

But what if he gave him an honourable way out?

“Aegon is dead, and your task should still be to guard Princess Jaehaera, is it not?” Jon inclined his head to his new foster daughter. “You may do it still. I would let you keep your white cloak—but only if you swear to guard her from harm and never attempt to escape. Let all the men here stand witness to my promise—and your word, should you give it.”

The knight faltered, then.

“I…”

“Please, Ser Willis,” Jaehaera pleaded, looking at her protector with watery eyes.

“I’ll do it,” the knight said, shoulders sagging. “I swear it on my name and on my honour. I swear it by the Seven.”

Defeated by a child he was meant to guard. Jon had to stifle his mirth.

His amusement didn’t last long. A veritable mountain of issues awaited his decision, and a whole host of problems, new courtiers had to be picked—events had to be planned, the city’s defences reorganised, and much, much more trouble awaited a new king and a freshly conquered city.

“Your Grace, we took the gates, but a few riders managed to ride out,” Lord Celtigar said, clearing his throat. “Soon enough, the whole realm would know of the city’s fall and your claim.”

“We must arrange the coronation as swiftly as possible,” Royce urged.

“The High Septon in Oldtown won’t agree to anoint His Grace as long as the Kinslayer lives,” Corlys said, voice full of caution. “Impartial as they claim to be to worldly matters, they never go against Hightower.”

The Bronze Giant scoffed. “As if we need those crooked priests to meddle in royal affairs. I’ll crown His Grace myself!”

Jon felt a headache. Commanding the Watch was far simpler than this. Gods, he missed the days of fishing and running his humble farm.

“Clear the city streets first and fortify the gates…”

The next day was warm and sunny. With a new day came a new moniker.

“They call you the Warrior’s Hand, Your Grace,” Ser Alfred reported when Jon was breaking his fast.

“Warrior’s Hand?”

“Your magical touch can defeat any affliction and has cured Princess Jaehaera, they say.”

Jon could only sigh in exasperation as he glanced at the empty seat next to himself. Rhaena was still angry with him.

The remaining snow had mostly melted in the godswood, and men were digging out the roots of the great old oak that had served as the heart tree of the godswood. Once they were done, Vermithor carefully swooped over and dropped the heart tree in the dug-out pit. The men then hastily worked with their shovels to cover the roots hanging from the draconic skull.

His wife gracefully strolled over and joined him as he watched the men work.

“Did you have Vermithor carry the sinister thing all the way here?” Rhaena asked, exasperated, as if she had not ignored him since he had taken Jaehaera as his foster daughter.

Did she think he would be cowed by childish sulking?

“Yep,” Jon said with half a smile. “I had him drop it in a small cliffside by the sea, a few leagues from King’s Landing. If the Faith refuses to acknowledge my royal power, they can’t complain if I pay homage to the Old Gods.”

“Some of the lords might be angered,” she pointed out.

“Let them be,” Jon said, shaking his head. “The lords will always find a reason to grumble for this or that. As long as I don’t go after the septs there will be nothing to fear.”

The silence lingered between them. He was comfortable with the quiet, but his wife quickly began to fidget.

“I’m still unhappy with our… foster daughter,” Rhaena said at last, though her words were not as heated as before. “She’s the daughter and niece of murderers and kinslayers. Traitors and Usurpers.”

And your cousin besides. But blood counted little in the House of the Dragon as of late.

“Much like you, then,” Jon said coolly. “Your father sent vile thugs to slither into the Red Keep and threaten his own niece and her children, and even killed one of them before her eyes. War can make monsters out of us all if we let it.”

Rhaena’s eyes flicked to Jaehaera—the girl was laughing without a care in the world as she chased Shaggy and the other hounds around the trees. Ser Willis Fell stood like a white shadow from the side, hovering over the young princess as if she would disappear if he looked away.

“I… I know.” Her voice thickened with guilt and self-loathing. “Seven forgive me, but I know. I know it’s wrong—I know I shouldn’t have asked for her head. But I look at Jaehaera, and I remember how my father died. I remember how my younger brothers died. I think of it, and I feel like the anger and grief would choke me if I don’t let it out. Do you find me… reprehensible?”

She looked vulnerable then, her purple eyes searching his face for a sign of loathing or disgust.

“No.” Jon sighed, leaning in to kiss her brow. “You’re still my queen and wife, and I know better than most that you are not made of stone. If anything, I understand your anger. I understand the need to lash out after losing your kin.”

“How?” she croaked out hoarsely. “You never knew your parents. How can you know…?”

“My father in all but name was beheaded by some ambitious little shit,” Jon offered, closing his eyes. “My eldest cousin—my brother in all but blood—was slain at a wedding, by the hand of his own host at that. His brother was pushed out of a tower and crippled for life from the fall. He had two sisters, and they were lured away from home, and I know they didn’t have a good end. We never found the bodies.”

Rhaena gasped, horrified.

“How? How could someone do something so vile and… get away with it? How come we never knew of them?”

“It’s an old story.” It had yet to happen. Perhaps it would never happen. “Not many tales reach the South, and even then, the North is so large that many in it would not hear of it either.”

The excuse sounded hollow in his ears, but his wife did not notice.

“What of the lords?” she asked. “What of the crown? My Uncle Viserys would have never suffered such a thing!”

Jon gave a bitter laugh. “Such things only happen because Lords and Kings find it convenient to close their eyes to truths they loathe to see. Could your royal stepmother pass off bastards as trueborn if Viserys had not closed his eyes about it? Did it not invite malice?”

“Jace and Joff and Luke were no bastards,” Rhaena said, but it sounded like she tried to convince herself more than anything else.

“Come now, you’re smarter than this. How come the trueborn sons look nothing like the father or the mother, but the Hull bastard looks more Targaryen than they do?” Jon chuckled. “It’s easy to close your eyes when the truth hurts. Did anyone on Dragonstone weep or demand justice when news of Blood and Cheese came, or did they rejoice? Is that not a murder most vile given royal sanction? Yet the coin of vengeance has two sides. This is why nobody spoke out when your brother lost his head. The worse does not wash away the bad.”

Rhaena paled like a ghost.

“I… I am a terrible woman,” she hiccuped, her shoulders sagging. “And a worse queen besides.”

“I would have agreed if you had swung Blackfyre,” Jon said softly, squeezing her gloved hand. “But you didn’t. Words of anger are wind, and they come and go just as quickly. Try to give Jaehaera a chance—she’s a lonely, pitiful child who has done nothing wrong but be born. Even her own kin thought her a simpleton of no importance, and hatred has to end somewhere.”

“I’ll try,” Rhaena said, brushing away her tears. “Gods, I’ll try. I’ll do better. It will take me some time, but I’ll be the queen you need.”

Jon gave her a soft smile. “I believe in you.”

“What now, then?”

“Coronation.” Jon groaned, feeling tired just thinking of it. The ceremony on Visenya’s Hill might as well last a bloody day, ‘for the whole city to see’. “And a thousand other problems. We do not have a single kingdom behind us. A raven arrived from Dragonstone, too—Jeyne Arryn has passed the Gullet and will arrive soon enough, and I must be here to receive her.”

“It would be easiest to get Jeyne Arryn to bend the knee if you’re here,” Rhaena agreed hesitantly.

“That might be true,” Jon reluctantly agreed. Then his face darkened. “But I want to fly to the Trident and deal with Denys right away, but everyone’s against it—even Ser Alfred. ‘It’s too risky, Your Grace,’ they say. The city needs to see their king. The nearby nobles must be brought into the fold before we move. I mustn’t fly in blind or alone, lest I get ambushed when the dragon stops for a rest.”

“A king must establish himself, Your Grace,” Ser Alfred added from the side. “If you leave now, the men might think you have fled and lose heart. You need to be seen on the Iron Throne and raise your legitimacy, not lose it.”

Rhaena gave him a wry smile. “They aren’t wrong. You do not have precedent, vows on your side as the Usurper and my late stepmother did, so you can’t afford to look weak or falter even for a moment.”

“Don’t I know it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could split each second in two. But I truly can’t move blindly without knowing where my enemies are. One ambush by a dragon, and I might just be done in.”

“Didn’t you send your pet raven precisely for that?” she asked. “To be your eyes and ears?”

Jon almost jerked away in surprise. “You know?”

“The pelicans.” She slipped her arm under his elbow. “I still remember how they attacked my mute Velaryon cousins that day. I still remember how you fed them eels and cods every now and then, but I’m uncertain if you tamed them or did something… else. You rarely speak High Valyrian, and when you do, it’s atrocious, yet you can command Vermithor with a touch or a thought better than my father ever could.”

“Smart,” Jon said, neither agreeing nor denying. “I see you’ve kept your wits sharp. It’s indeed skinchanging—the way of slipping your mind into bonded beasts. But it’s not half as simple as it sounds, nor is it that easy. The raven is half-tamed at best—it’s rebellious and hard to control at a distance—I have yet to send it to scout.”

Blackfeather cawed unhappily above him. The bird was scatterbrained and still resisted his mind, unless it was for petty mischief.

Shit on Corlys Velaryon? No problem.

Fly around to scout ahead? A storm of unhappy cawing and the thread connecting their minds snapped. When it happened, Jon couldn’t even slip into the raven’s eyes for half a day.

“I wonder how my sister is faring.” Rhaena sighed, worry creeping up her face. “You shouldn’t have let her leave so easily.”

“Would telling her no and tying her to her bed be better?” Jon countered, quirking an eyebrow.

“Probably not,” she conceded, pouting. “I just wish… I just wish Baela could sit still. But her blood boils hot as dragonfire, and she has Father’s temper. I just want her to be well.”

Jon could not offer any words of comfort, so he merely hugged her close and tight. He wanted to tell her that her youngest brother still lived, but the words died on his tongue. He had no idea if the Lyseni had captured Viserys or had killed him in the fighting, and it wouldn’t do to give his wife false hopes.

A part of him felt lost. He knew how to fight, aye. But rule the whole realm?

Mend what was broken after such a cruel war? Achieve peace in the midst of heavy winter?

Could he do it?

Other woes weighed on his mind, too. Far heavier issues he tried hard not to think of. But with the crown placed on his head, he could not keep his eyes closed forever, even if he would not be the one to bear that burden.

How did one fight the cold gods who came with winter itself? How would one halt the mountain-sized comet of fire that would turn the land into a fiery hellscape?