III.

The large group left a week later after Jon, Sansa, and Arya's arrival, consisting of Jon, Arya, Rickard, his castellan - a very, very young, and mutton-chopped Rodrik Cassel - as well as a few other familiar faces from the Stark children's future timeline.

Before they left, however, Rickard had introduced Jon and Arya as Flint cousins from his mother's side, and Sansa visiting her mother's home from House Royce in the Vale. While the servants and long-time staff were suspicious, Rickard's genial affection toward the three children was not faked, and it was enough for them.

Jon and Arya spent their time with their grandfather or the training yard, baffling the men-at-arms with Jon's deadly, forceful practice engagements or Arya's serpentine water dance. Sansa, on the other hand, saw the lack of a female touch in Winterfell and slipped right back into her role of Lady of Winterfell -- or, even, Queen -- which had Rickard initially looking at her in bafflement, which quickly gave way to calculating. On the other hand, the staff was delighted and Rickard found himself with far more free time than he normally had, and spent time with Jon and Arya practicing his swordwork. Just in case.

Sansa saw them off, standing on the steps just outside of Winterfell's great hall. The look in her eyes was far too dark and feral to be called amusement, despite the lightness to her voice when she said, "Have fun in King's Landing, Jon."

Jon rolled his eyes in reply, already having received her hug. Arya was already bouncing in her saddle, eager to be on the road.

The group, all on horseback, thundered out of Winterfell's main gates, although Sansa's look lingered in Rickard's mind. There was clearly more to the story his grandchildren had given him, and he found himself uneasily wondering if he made too hasty his vow, spilled with blood, and witnessed by the heart tree in the Godswood.

He knew that they wanted to go North, to the Wall, to prepare for the Long Night, but-- Rickard did his best to avoid it, but he nervously bit his lower lip. Maybe I have given them

something else they had been denied in the future .

He cut a glance at Jon, on one side to him. The young man was staring forward, a frown on his solemn face but his eyes were taking everything in even as thoughts washed over his face, too briefly and quickly to be read. The young man was a schemer, and there was something he was

thinking of or planning.

On the young man's other side, furthest from Rickard, rode Arya, looking for all that she was having the time of her life, hands off the reins at times, and performing tricks by guiding her horse with only her thighs and knees. Her face was split into a wide, expressive grin even as her loose hair blew behind them at the clip they had set. She looked like Lyanna.

While the uneasy feeling did not leave Rickard, he shook his head to dismiss his worries. They are Starks. They know what is coming, after all. I have nothing to fear .

The large contingent of Northerners met a confused Eddard Stark, a visibly fretting Jon Arryn, and a retinue of men from the Eyrie at the Crossroads' Inn while it was pouring rain.

"I fucking hate this place," muttered Arya, but loud enough to be heard by Jon and Rickard, the latter who sent her a glare.

Rickard turned back to Ned, beckoning his middle son forward. "Ned - you are to return to Winterfell immediately."

"Father, I understand, but--" his gray eyes glanced at Jon and Arya, both who shared very similar features to his, confusion clearly writ on his face. "Who are they?"

"Kin of yours," answered Rickard sharply, neither lying nor telling the truth. "Please, Eddard. Now is not the time. You must return to Winterfell immediately."

Ned's brow furrowed and he bit his lip, nodding solemnly.

"A lady will be there, waiting for you," continued Rickard, ignoring Ned's widening eyes and then talking over him, "Another kin. Redheaded. Her name is Lady Sansa -- you must follow any instructions she gives you as though they are coming from me."

Ned was completely, utterly, confused, but -- Brandon was stuck in King's Landing. Lyanna was missing. He had seen the letter Aerys sent to Lord Arryn and knew what was at stake for the Stark family. He could be dutiful.

"Yes, father."

Rickard nodded. "Good man."

"Lord Stark, surely you know this is folly--" began Jon Arryn, his lips quivering the tiniest in worry. The man was of an age to Rickard, if not slightly older and already going grey at the temples where it shot through his fair blond hair.

"He'll be fine," interrupted Jon suddenly, moving his horse to maneuver between his grandfather and his father's foster-father. "I'll make sure of it."

Jon Arryn's face pulled down into a harsh frown as he glanced over Jon's form, light eyes flickering back to Rickard. "Lord Stark, I am not sure--"

"It'll be fine, Jon," began Rickard, although he sounded tired. "Please," he stressed further. "Please. Just... trust me." His eyes flickered to his grandchildren. "Trust us."

Jon Arryn sighed, but then stepped back.

Ned Stark travelled back north, toward the Neck, with the contingent of Northmen that joined

Rickard south. Jon Arryn retreated to the mountainous Eyrie, and Arya gave a jaunty wave as she turned and moved her horse toward the Saltpans.

"Have fun!" she shouted, calling loudly before cantering off. Rickard glanced at Jon. "Do I want to know?"

Jon shook his head. "You really don't."

Jon had been to King's Landing, once before in his previous life, with Daenerys and her court, trying to persuade Cersei to bring the Lannister armies north to help bolster Winterfell's diminished numbers so that the Night's King wouldn't destroy them. That hadn't gone well, and looking around with barely concealed disgust, Jon was beginning to think that the plan was as good as King's Landing smelled.

They - his grandfather and he, the only two from the Northern retinue that went south past the Inn - were surrounded on all sides by gold cloaked members of the City Watch, silently being escorted through the dead streets and toward the Red Keep. There was an eeriness to the city, usually so full of life, and it was enough that it made Rickard shift nervously on top of his horse.

The stables were empty save a groomsman, who took their horses with a pale face. The City Watch men slowly dwindled in number, still and silent centennials bookending Jon and Rickard, moving down empty corridors until they approached the throne room, four guards standing outside of it.

The throne room was full, though, if not silent.

"Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North," announced a nervous guard, his voice cracking halfway through. He cringed, bowed to Aerys who sat shrouded in shadow on his iron throne, and then hastily backed through the open door, leaving Rickard to make his way across the marble flooring.

His boots were loud thuds as he kept a steady pace; Jon's steps behind him were quieter, but just as firm. The weight of the eyes of the court on him kept Rickard's back straight and his eyes forward, on the King.

Aerys himself was lounging on the throne, bits of dark splotches popping up on his thighs and arms as he shifted and the sharp points of the throne's swords bit into his skin. His face was a shallow grey colour, his white-blond hair lank and greasy, and his cheeks hollowed. His clothes were ill- fitting and his eyes were far too large for his sunken face, but they were bright, alight with an inner fire of some kind of paranoia.

The man's purple eyes flicked over to the figure hovering behind Rickard. "Who's this? I asked for you to come alone. Or are you here to say you've replaced your eldest and heir with a bastard?"

He began laughing, which turned into loud hacks.

"This is my squire," said Rickard, remembering Sansa's words: Keep calm. Jon will fight for you. Just ensure that whatever challenge Aerys places before you is one that Jon will accept. He will ensure that you and Brandon walk out of King's Landing, alive and unharmed. Trust us. Trust him .

"Your squire, mmm," the man mocked, rolling his eyes. Rickard's jaw tightened. "Where is my son?"

"Standing beside you," chortled the King, but then, seeing Rickard's stern frown, he leaned forward and sneered, "In the dungeons, where he should be for coming to my castle, my throne, demanding for my son and heir to be brought to justice!"

"After your son took my daughter!" retorted Rickard loudly.

The crowd shifted and someone bit back a cry - or a sob of terror.

Aerys's eyes narrowed. Then, coolly, he said, "Your whore of a daughter should be so lucky to have the attention of a dragon."

Rickard's hands clenched so tightly his leather gloves creaked and he could hear his teeth grind together. "Have you no honour?"

"Why do I need honour when I have a crown?" The king's eyes drifted lazily away, peering into the shadows as though only he could spot what lingered there.

"Damnit, Aerys!" barked Rickard, swallowing words that would have him challenge the king. Sansa, he reminded himself, Remember Sansa's plan . "The Targaryen kings of old understood honour and sacrifice. Let us determine single combat for the safe release of my son, his companions, and my squire and I when this is done."

Aerys eyes fixated on the man with a sharp move. "So confident." Rickard kept quiet.

"Alas," sighed the king, "Many of the companions who foolishly came with your son are dead. I'm afraid that bit of the bargain must be struck."

"Dead." Rickard exhaled sharply. "Then, I amend my challenge of combat to such: not just the safe release of all alive Northmen, my son, squire, and I included -- but also the utter removal of your line from the throne."

This time, the crowd burst into whispers. Aerys surged to his feet in anger, hands catching on the edges of his seat and stripping the flesh on his palms as he did so. He paid no attention to the blood dribbling down his wrists, although from beside the throne, Rickard could see that one of his Kingsguard - Jaime Lannister - glanced at him once, swallowed, and then forced his eyes forward onto Rickard and Jon... although there was something vacant to him.

"You dare!" seethed the king, spitting. "You dare !"

"For the crimes you have inflicted on this kingdom! For those who have died wrongly! For those whose lives have been ruined by you and your spawn!" cried Rickard, loudly, over the building clamor in the throne room.

From somewhere, near the dark, recessed corners of the throne room, Aerys's Hand materialized, muttering low, hurried words to the king, but the Targaryen was incensed, roughly brushing off Wisdom Rossart.

"Single combat, Stark? You want single combat on those terms?" spat Aerys. "Name your champion!"

Rickard did not turn to face his grandson but gestured toward him. "I name my squire, Jon, as champion."

Aerys stared at the younger man, long and hard, almost uncomprehendingly. Somewhere, someone stifled a laugh.

"Him?" Aerys glanced at Stark, all bluster from his sails gone as he threw his head back and laughed. Jaime Lannister, just behind him, cringed and then hid it quickly. Still laughing, the king sputtered, "V-very well! V-very well, Stark! So be it, on those exact terms. Your safety, your squire, your son, and all other Northmen in the city -- guaranteed and the stepping down of my line should your squire win against my champion."

Rickard's jaw flexed and he nodded. "Yes. Those terms."

"Shall we do this now?" the king asked, moving slowly to sit back on his throne, even as Rossart moved to his elbow and Jaime Lannister moved to the other side of the throne.

Rickard glanced at Jon, who shrugged. He had nothing else going on, after all. Sansa's plan made no difference now or later. He knew what was coming.

The Stark turned back to the king and nodded.

"Let's begin this once your son is brought up from the dungeons, then, Stark." Aerys's eyes

gleamed when he purred, "As for my champion? My champion is to be fire. "

Rickard was nearly aside himself in a panic, although Jon could see he was hiding it well. But the man was hovering over him, even as Jon calmly removed much of his armour, letting it carelessly fall to a pile at his feet. There was some kind of perverse pleasure in watching the nearest lord -- by his sigil, a Florent -- cringe every time Jon loudly dropped a piece.

"Jon," whispered Rickard harshly, his back to the king so Aerys could not see his wide eyes or the tense pull to his cheeks, "Jon, I know what Sansa said, but you cannot win this--"

"It'll be fine," reminded Jon, for what felt like the hundredth time. Honestly. Did no one trust Sansa? Besides, Jon knew what he was capable of. It was kind of insulting -- did his grandfather not trust him?

Jon continued, "Sansa planned for this. We know what we're doing. Don't worry."

" Jon--! " hissed Rickard, but then Brandon was brought, hauled, into the throne room. Jon's uncle was dirty, his clothing torn and smeared with not just dirt and blood, but piss and shit with bits of straw clinging to places on his legs and back. There was a partially healed cut near his temple and a dazed look to him that Jon didn't like, but could not rectify at the moment.

Rickard took an aborted half-step to his son, but Aerys ordered the Stark heir to be positioned well to the pyre that had been constructed in the middle of the throne room. All members of the court were to be present, to watch the historical moment, Aerys had decried, so the room was filled to the brim with bodies pressing tightly together as they tried to keep far from the pyre itself, creating a visible ring around it.

Even Rhaella, Elia, and the Princess Rheanys and Prince Aegon were present, nearer to the throne and guarded by Jaime Lannister and several City Watch guards.

"Ready, boy?" sneered Aerys, as two members of the City Watch approached.

"Nearly," replied Jon, his voice even and dry enough that the guards stopped in their approach, hesitant. Jon finished by pulling his shirt off. He then lifted one leg and yanked his boot off, and

then hopped to do the same to the other, until he was only in his trousers. He turned to his grandfather, thrusting the clothing garments into his arms. "Hold onto these for me, please."

"Jon," said Rickard, pained.

"I'm going to need new trousers after this," muttered Jon, turning to the guards, and ignoring his grandfather's bewildered face.

One guard approached with arms up, ready to tie Jon's hands together with rope. Jon sighed and held his own out, letting the confused guards tie his hands together and then lead him to the pyre, where they pushed his back against the large stake and then tied his bound hands to a single chain protruding from the top to keep him in place.

Aerys watched him suspiciously from his place on the throne. Rossart stepped forward, a hanging lamp in one hand.

The first of the two gold cloaks stepped back, but the second lingered for a moment.

"Are you sure you are well?" the man muttered. Jon caught his eyes, and the man gestured at his head. "You know - up there?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Perfectly fine. Let's get this over with."

The gold cloak stepped back, shaking his head the tiniest as he rejoined his fellow city watch member, and Rossart stepped forward, the lamp tilted.

"Light it!" screamed Aerys, suddenly. "Light him on fire! Let me feel the wrath of a dragon!"

Jon glanced at him tiredly, and called, "Remember, you swore. Safe passage for all Northmen, and the Targaryen line ending with Rhaegar and Viserys on the throne."

Aerys ignored him - or didn't hear him - but nodded at Rossart, who tipped the lantern. Fire licked down, flakes falling from the ashes, and collected at Jon's feet. Then, Rossart tossed the entire lantern in and the familiar whoosh of fire meeting oxygen erupted, swirling in bright orange and yellow around Jon.

He coughed against the smoke, leaning back and resting his head against the wooden stake. He lazily rolled his head enough to see Rickard, jaw clenched, at Brandon's side. He was kneeling next to his eldest son, holding the young man in his arms. Jon was shocked to realize Brandon was his age -- in his mind, in the stories, he always imagined Uncle Brandon tall, strong, a mix between Benjen's looks and Ned's Lordly stature, with the exuberance of Robb and Arya.

But he was little more than a scared, terrorized boy, whose eyes were wide and caught on Jon's form.

At least it's not wildfyre, Jon thought with the tiniest of sighs, that would not have been fun . Smoke swirled up, beginning to stain the tall ceiling as it attempted to find exits through the open

doors and the tall windows to the throne room.

The flames licked up and around his bare feet, the heat of the flames tickling his calves and then thighs as they raced up and up and up. Had he been anyone else, Jon would've been screaming in agony. Spying Aerys's eager eyes through the flickering flames, Jon indulged him a bit, mocking out a few cries. "Ooo! Oooh! Aaaahh! It hurts, it hurts."

He grimaced when he saw Jaime Lannister's disbelieving stare. He had always been told he was a poor liar...

There's nothing to it, he thought, feeling the rope binding his hands disintegrate as the heat around him intensified -- although nothing more than the tiniest tickle or feeling of a warm blanket keeping him comforted on the coldest of nights. If there was one thing Mellisandre's God was good for, was his resurrection meant he was a bit different, half-living and half-dead, with magic and powers that were unique to both his Stark and Targaryen lineage.

Of course, Daenerys' rebirth was far more dramatic and Jon was kind of bummed he was resurrected after a mutiny versus sacrificing a witch who killed her unborn child because that story was definitely better to tell around a campfire, but the end result was the same: the ability to walk through fire unharmed with the Targaryen magics, and a strengthened bond between him and Ghost -- when they were still in the future -- and his warging abilities.

Murmurs were beginning to be heard over the crackling of the flame. Jon had left it long enough, deciding to move things along. He didn't want to stay in King's Landing any longer than he had to, and it was already several hours longer than Sansa planned.

Jon opened his mouth and croaked from the flames. He cleared it and tried again, this time calling loudly over the fire, "Are we done with this yet?"

The murmurs went silent.

Jon continued, "Hello? I'm tired of this. It's been long enough -- I've proven fire cannot harm me."

More silence, but a sputter of something reached his ears.

"Aerys? Anyone? Can I actually fight someone in single combat now? I've clearly defeated fire," he requested.

When no one replied, Jon yanked at his hands, the meagre pieces of rope falling away. He carefully nudged bits of wood from around his feet and stepped through the fire, smoke curling around his form as he emerged from the pyre, untouched by flame -- with his hair but no clothes.

He glanced down, sighed, and plaintively asked, "Does anyone have some spare trousers for me?"

Mouth open, the gold cloak who asked if he was right in his head unbuckled his gold cloak and handed it to Jon, who wrapped it around his waist and up over his shoulder in a toga. It was awkward but preserved his dignity some -- not like this was the first, or going to be the last, time he was naked in front of a large crowd.

"No..."

Jon's eyes snapped toward the king.

"No," sputtered Aerys, eyes wide. "It's not possible -- No! No!"

Jon stared at the man, silently.

" Blackfyre ," hissed Aerys, jabbing a bony and bloody finger at him. "I name you Blackfyre! A pretender to the throne and crown!"

"I'll have you know, my parents were married," began Jon, affronted. "I'm not a bastard and I won't take a bastard name that is not mine, thank you--"

"Lannister!" shrieked Aerys, rising from his throne, "Kill him! Kill the usurper!"

Jaime and Jon eyed each other warily, but the younger of the two -- how strange is that, thought Jon with a little furrow to his brow, that Jaime Lannister is now the younger of us -- and yet I know more about things than he does now. What a change!

Jon backstepped, toward his grandfather. Rickard silently held out his sword -- Longclaw -- and Jon took it, ignoring Brandon's open mouth stare.

"I'd really rather not do this," said Jon quietly as he moved toward Jaime.

The younger man pursed his lips, swallowing a witty retort. His face was pale, and there was something bothering him with Jon's very presence.

But Jon merely took his sword and stood ready, watching Jaime Lannister carefully. It wasn't going to be a fair fight -- in any sense. Jon was older, stronger, and had years more experience than Jaime Lannister did, due to fighting at the Wall, fighting Free Folk, and then in the Long Night against wights and Others. He'd killed an Other; he fought the Night's King, bastards, and soldiers alike.

Now that Jon thought about it, much of his young life was dedicated to fighting something, and wasn't that sad? His lips pursed, and Lannister blinked, something overtaking his face, barely bringing his sword up to clash against Jon's opening salvo, and right from the beginning, he was off-foot, unsure if he was offense or defense, and Jon took advantage.

He knew every move Jaime Lannister could and would make, and within three more flourishes and fancy footwork that was meant to distract, Jaime's gold-hilted sword went crashing and sliding noisily into the crowd.

With his sword tip pointed at the blond's chin, Jon muttered, "I have no desire to kill you. Yield."

Lannister's Adam's apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, looking very much like the seventeen-year-old he was. He stepped back and carefully said, "I yield," so that Jon, Aerys, and those around them could hear.

Jon lowered the sword and loudly pronounced, "According to trial by combat, I have not only bested Aerys Targaryen's champion once but twice . As such, I ask that he honour his vows: release Brandon Stark, and all other Northmen, to return safely to the North and to renounce his claim, and that of his children, of the throne!"

Silence.

It was terse, and heavy, and smothering in a way that the still burning pyre created a smoke-filled room. It was hard to breathe, and some people were already coughing, but no one wanted to miss Aerys' reaction -- and it was spectacular.

The king flew into a rage: his pale, sallow face went red, spit flew from his mouth and landed on his lips and chin, and he screamed himself hoarse as he shrieked the same words over and over, "Blackfyre! Usurper! Abomination! I am king! I am the king! I am the dragon, not you! Kill him! Kill him!"

He pointed at Jaime Lannister, who looked shamefaced and away from the king; the only other member of the Kingsguard in the room, a tall man, with broad shoulders and flyaway dirty blond hair, and a very square jaw, glanced at the younger kingsguard member and sneered.

Jaime blanched, stepping back far enough to near his sword, which he picked up -- but his hands, his entire arm, was shaking.

In the meantime, Aerys continued to shriek, pointing at the gold cloaks in the room to do their duty, but they were all frozen, caught between Jon, Aerys's instructions, and the imposing kingsguard knight that stalked toward Jon.

"Jon!" shouted Rickard, helping Brandon to his feet. Jon barely glanced at him but flicked his eyes in his relative's direction. "Jon, be careful of the Bull!"

Bull? Oh, thought Jon, even as Gerold Hightower stepped forward, his sword ringing as he unsheathed it. There was something cold, almost vacant, in his eyes, peering at Jon from under a heavy brow.

Jon's chin dipped and his breathing evened out, even as he said, "Ser - this is not your fight."

"My duty is to my king," the man replied evenly, his voice low and confident. His sword flashed against the still-burning pyre and fire.

Jon's bare foot slid back, against the cool marble of the throne room floor, and Hightower moved forward, chest forward and making himself a larger target but utilizing his size to intimidate Jon. But for Jon, who fought giants, Hightower was nothing special.

Twisting, Jon weaved back and under the sword's swing, bringing his own sword up to strike against and push the other man's sword away. The two steel swords rang loudly against one another and Hightower grit his teeth. Jon continued, stepping forward and pressing his attack, disengaging his sword and bringing it around for another quick slam, toward Hightower's side.

The man caught the swing and hacked at Jon, who blocked the incoming strikes. Hightower was a good fighter -- strong, capable -- but Jon didn't learn to win by playing fair. He learned to win by winning at all costs.

He allowed Hightower to maneuver him, to chase him around the space people made in front of the throne and around the pyre until the flames were at his back. Jon let Hightower's next strike send him to his knees, feigning exhaustion.

"Jon!" shouted Rickard in a panic.

"For the king," declared Hightower, eyes cold, "Your time has ended, usurper."

He brought his sword up with both hands on the hilt, ready to slam it down and sever Jon's head, but Jon reached back, into the flames, where the wood had turned to ash and gathered a handful.

Jon looked up at Hightower, smiled sadly, and said, "No. It's just beginning."

There was brief confusion in Hightower's face, and Jon flung the ash up, a murky cloud of grey that hit against the man's bare face. Hightower sputtered, eyes shut, and coughing even as he swung his sword wildly.

Jon ducked beneath the swings and slammed into Hightower's middle, launching the man off his feet and then slammed him bodily down to the ground, his sword pressed against this neck. Hightower's sword was far from his reach, and a slam against the man's head with the butt of Jon's sword kept him from moving too much.

The man's dark eyes stared up at Jon, even as they watered and struggled to land on his dark form

hovering above him.

"Yield, Ser Hightower," urged Jon. "I am tired of death, and I do not want to add yours to my already-long list."

The kingsguard sputtered, "My duty-- To my king--"

He's never going to stop , thought Jon. Grimly, he nodded and cleanly dragged his sword against the man's neck, near the artery. He moved out of the way as the blood spurted and gushed out of the incision, pooling underneath Hightower's neck and against the white of his cloak.

His eyes darkened further and his mouth went slack, and Jon reached forward to close the kingsguard's eyes. As he did so, he said, "Rest now, Gerold Hightower. Your fight is over."

Then, still bare except the golden toga around him, now dirtied with ash from the pyre and Hightower's blood and stained from sweat, Jon stood, completely ignoring Jaime Lannister who had not moved forward during the fight.

Aerys's mouth had dropped open, his sputtering dying to a mute kind of horror.

Jon was tired. He did not want to fight - he did not want to kill members of the kingsguard, those

who were legends and strong warriors. They needed them to fight the Long Night.

"I grow weary, Aerys," said Jon instead, staring up at the man. "Renounce your claim."

" Never !" he hissed, stepping forward from the throne, shaking with rage. "I will never give up the throne! I am the dragon!"

Jon's eyes narrowed.

"If I cannot have King's Landing, then no one can! " he screamed. His wild purple eyes landed on Rossart. "Burn them! Burn them all!"

Wisdom Rossart nodded, as though that was a cue of his.

Confused, Jon froze for a moment, even as Rossart made to leave; but then Jaime Lannister was in his way and his sword was through the man's body, even as Rossart gurgled, blood dribbling down his chin.

It was like everyone, all the knights, lords, and ladies in the room, realized in one collective moment what Aerys meant, and what Jaime Lannister did; what the King's words meant. There was a swell of noise as people shrieked and cried, and Jon strode forward toward the throne even as Aerys stepped to meet him, glaring down at him from the height of the dais. Jon's sword was ready, pointed up in defense for a blow from above if the King tried anything.

But then something happened -- the king's foot caught in the folds of his black robes, just at the edge of the dais.

It was like the universe held its breath -- and then Aerys, the second of his name, tripped. Time slowed, and Jon watched in disbelief. The universe was rarely so kind, and yet --

Aerys's arms wheeled as he tried to regain his balance. He slipped off the dais, and gravity took over, sending him down toward Jon.

Jon grunted, staggering back on his feet as the weight of the king rested against him, his

grandfather's wide eyes staring at him even as he coughed and blood bubbled up in his mouth. His clawed hands struggled to rise and reached at Jon, barely scrambling against his shoulders, leaving only the faintest trail of marks against his skin.

" Burn... them... " the king's voice was thin and barely a gasp. The purple Targaryen eyes faded into dull indigo.

Jon stepped back, lowering his sword arm, and stared at the body of Aerys Targaryen, who had the misfortune to trip on his own clothing and land on Jon's sword as he stood at the foot of the throne's dais. His grandfather's life's blood, thick and darkly glistening in the firelight, dribbled down the sword toward Jon's hilt.

Perhaps it is fate that one of my grandfathers is supposed to die here, he thought numbly, staring at the king's body. And by saving one, I damned the other .

"Jon?"

Jon turned to face his living grandfather - his Stark grandfather - who was staring at him in shock. Brandon equally stared at him, and as Jon's eyes swept the room, he realized he was the focus of many.

Jon let his sword fall to the floor with a loud clang. "This wasn't the plan, I swear it!"

Rickard closed his eyes and reached his free arm forward, beckoning Jon toward him. "Jon, please," he said, and Jon's feet moved him toward the man, where he presented him with his shirt, boots, and other weapons. But no trousers. Despite that, Jon began to redress and finished by yanking his boots on.

Someone had told the gold cloaks to get water, and they, along with some maids, tossed buckets onto the pyre and extinguished the flames, leaving only the smell of wet wood.

Jon moved to Brandon's free side, gently taking his arm and pulling it over his shoulder to hoist the Stark heir up between him and Rickard. Brandon sent Jon a pained smile of thanks before they began to move. The crowd moved as the three Starks began making their way down the length of the throne room, their pace increasing the further they went from the ugly throne.

As they neared the door, a feminine voice cried, "Halt!"

Jon's shoulders went straight, and Rickard's grinding teeth were loud enough that Jon heard on Brandon's other side.

They turned as one to see Queen Rhaella standing halfway down the throne room, standing alone as she stared at them. She was tall, thin, and might have been beautiful once before years of stress of living with her brother-husband took their toll on her: she was now waifish, her long white-blond hair thin and her cheekbones were painfully jutting from her face.

But there was something in her eyes - purple, the same colour as Aerys' and the other Targaryen's - that Jon couldn't read, but the mulish expression on her face was one he knew well. He had seen it before in mirrors, in Daenerys.

Before Jon could do anything, Rhaella dropped painfully quickly to her knees, the sound a loud crack through the room. He winced; his heart clenching painfully at what she probably felt in doing such an action.

"Jon Blackfyre," she stated loudly in the room so that all could hear, "As witness, I proclaim your

trial by combat - thrice over - to be lawful in the eyes of the Gods. All Northmen are free to leave King's Landing safely without fear of attack. The line of Aerys renounces all claims to the throne."

Oh, good, thought Jon. That went according to plan.

"But I name you, Jon Blackfyre, through successful trial by combat, King of the Andals and the

First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

All goodwill fled Jon as everyone's eyes turned to him, waiting for his response. Eyes wide, he looked around the room and said, very clearly, "Fuck."