VI.

Jon remained with Rickard and Brandon long enough for Rhealla and Elia to show them to a room off the great hall of the throne room, and then promptly did an about-turn, stalking quickly away from everyone despite Rickard's frantic calls of "Jon! Jon, please!" behind him.

He took a few lefts, a few rights, and at least two staircases in opposite directions and ended up somewhere he had never been before – although, the last time he had been in King's Landing, he had only seen about four rooms in total and was escorted everywhere by the remains of the City Watch. He was a Stark in King's Landing, and he had left the only protection he had.

Jon cringed.

A look around him had Jon realizing he was leaning against a smooth wall on the second floor of a covered walkway. Opposite him were curved arches along the balustrade with decorative columns between each opening. There were tiny dragons crawling down the columns, subtly proclaiming the heritage of those who inhabited the Red Keep.

He had never felt so out of place – what had Rhaella been thinking, to proclaim him of all people, King of the Seven Kingdoms? He could barely manage the Night's Watch from killing one another and they killed him! He tried to do good things and ended up with a fire immunity –

Jon paused. Well, that wasn't so bad, he supposed. It could've been a lot worse than a fire immunity; like, never returning to the living, to begin with...

"I'm not getting out of this," he muttered, pressing a hand to his head. There was no way Rhaella was going to let him go – he was family, distant as it was to her, anyway despite Jon and Rickard knowing the truth – and he had beat Aerys' champion three times over in front of the entire court. The Lords and Ladies of Westeros were probably already gossiping, and Pycelle had probably already sent a raven to Casterly Rock.

Jon's head snapped back and hit the smooth, pale red stone. He groaned. Just what he needed... Tywin Lannister!

Despondently, he looked around the empty hall. Was it too late for him to fuck off and find passage to the Summer Isles? Yi Ti? Life would probably be quieter...

But –

The Long Night. The Others. The Free Folk beyond the Wall. They were coming, and no one would survive without proper guidance. Without the right people – person – leading them. As nice as it would be, to find some quiet corner of Planetos and live out the rest of his life (and didn't I deserve it? a tiny voice cried in Jon's mind, haven't I done enough – given enough to these people?), running away wasn't him.

"I'm not craven," muttered Jon, stepping away from the wall. "I'm not."

He looked around the nodded once to himself, tugging on his borrowed toga. The fabric of the golden cloak stretched a bit and settled a bit better over his shoulder.

Jon purposefully began retracing his steps, as best as he could until he came across the first servant he saw in several minutes. "Uh, pardon me—"

The servant turned and squeaked in alarm upon seeing him. They dropped the bundled of clothing they had in their arms and fell sharply to their knees, head bowed low as they began mumbling, "Your Grace, I didn't see you there, I am so sorry Your Grace, please forgive me, Your Grace, I am your humble servant, Your Grace—"

"Can you breathe?" asked Jon, amused. The servant froze. "... Your Grace?"

"That was quite the response," replied Jon. He leaned down and helped the young woman to her feet. She trembled under his hand. He began to pick up the clothing on the ground, and the girl squeaked again.

"Your Grace, you mustn't—" she then clamped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide. Jon looked up from the floor, curiously. "Surely you need help?"

"Your Grace?"

"Jon, if you don't mind," corrected Jon with a small smile. He stood and passed the bundle, now all collected, to the maid who took the fabric automatically, despite staring at the tall Northerner with comically large eyes.

"Your Grace King Jon," began the girl, her voice a bare whisper.

"Um, well," Jon reached back and scratched at his neck, fighting a blush, "I suppose I'll take that. Listen, I'm a bit lost and trying to find my—" He paused, clearing his throat. "Erm, my kin? Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark?"

The girl bobbed into a curtsey and nodded frantically at the same time. "Of course, Your Grace King Jon, Your Highness."

Jon stared at the girl and waited.

She stared back.

Finally, he asked, "So... where are they?"

She squeaked again and blurted, "Two floors down, third door on the left, Your Grace King Jon Your Highness."

"Right, thank you..." Jon hesitated, looking down at the girl, waiting for her name. She looked at him like a rabbit caught in a wolf's sight. He sighed, giving her a tiny, dismissive wave.

The servant bobbed another curtsey and then practically fled from him, her skirts kicking up behind her even as her shoes slapped hard on the floor. Jon waited until she disappeared down the corridor and then turned at the junction, leaving him alone.

There was still lingering doubt in Jon's mind – why wouldn't there be? – that surely, someone, anyone, could do a better job as a king. He wasn't raised to be one – he was a bastard, a Commander, but... king? Rickard would know someone better; he was just a displaced traveller, keen on the Long Night, not King's Landing...

When he stepped into the room he had fled, Rickard took three long steps and then tightly embraced him. "Gods boy, you scared the life from me – don't do that!"

Shocked, Jon's arms automatically rose to pat his grandfather on the back. He hadn't realized he had scared the man badly – he was shaking.

Rickard drew back. "I've nearly lost one child here, don't make it any more!"

Jon winced. "Sorry."

He looked around the room; they were in a sitting room of some sort, a receiving room with chairs and loungers and breezy, open windows. Several doors were open, leading to bedrooms, one which was occupied by Brandon. Maester Pycelle hovered over his uncle, nodding and humming and hawing.

Jon wanted to gut the man, the spineless rat. He settled for glaring at him until Rhaella spoke up, catching his attention.

"So, you've returned."

Looking like poise and grace, with her back straight and perched at the end of her chair, Rhaella looked at Jon with indigo eyes from the rim of the teacup. Elia sat kitty-corner to her on a lounge couch with Rhaenys next to her, but her cup was on the long table before them, along with a tray of pastries, tortes, cakes, and other nibbles. Rhaenys was attempting to mimic her mother and grandmother but the crumbs around her mouth and on her dress, as well as the gleam in her eyes as she looked eagerly at the cakes, spoke differently.

"Aye," replied Jon, awkward and stiff. His eyes darted around the room.

"Are you done with your pity party?" continued Rhaella, a pale eyebrow twitching up.

Jon's eyes snapped toward her and then narrowed on the queen. A fire burned in his stomach and he found his anger rising. He gave a tiny, shallow bow, and his tone was edging toward insolent when he said, "My apologies, Your Grace. However, I do believe you are mistaken; I cannot be king."

Rhaella's own eyes narrowed. Vaguely, Jon saw Rickard's bewildered expression as he looked between the two. Even Elia looked like she was holding her breath, eyes wide.

"I decreed it, boy," said Rhaella, slowly, carefully. "You are the king."

Jon's eyes narrowed further. "I abdicate."

Rickard's eyebrows shot upward. "Jon—"

"Abdicate?" echoed Rhaella, snorting. "To my cousins' son? Robert Baratheon?"

Jon paused. Unlike those in the room, Jon knew what Robert Baratheon would be like as a king: loud, ruinous, a wastrel and drunk. A warmonger and a whoremonger. He would be well-liked, beloved by (most) of the kingdom, but he wouldn't lead them to victory or make the decisions

needed to survive the Long Night.

Mentally, Jon ran through the names of the others who might become king if he abdicated; Robert

could not sit on the throne.

Stannis? A good man, but harsh and unyielding in his outlook. He wouldn't win any friends and while he would do his duty to protect the realm – far better than anyone else, Jon thought – he wouldn't unite them. He was out.

Renly? He was four. He'd be a puppet and while well-liked, easily swayed by a pretty face and honeyed words. No, he was no king.

How far would they have to trace the line? To Maekar? Further back? Sideways to a Martell?

... there really wasn't anyone else. The thought must have appeared, easily read, on his face, because Rhaella softened her voice when she said, "You've won by trial by combat, thrice over!"

Jon opened his mouth to speak – although he was unsure what he would say – but Rhaella ran over him.

"The kingdom is yours, take it. No one is crying for Aerys," she finished, with a heavy scoff. "Certainly not me."

Jon blinked. Well, if she puts it that way... then Jon paused, alarm spreading across his face. Oh fuck. I think I killed Daenerys.

"I never wanted to be king," he muttered, anguished. He ran a hand through his curls and swallowed thickly.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned partially to see his grandfather peering at him, a grimace on his face. "The best men never do. And yet they're the ones who will lead us best. And... won't this help? With your goals?"

"Goals?" asked Rhaella, tilting her head as she gazed between the two men. Jon ignored her, ignored Elia's curious dark eyes, fixating on his grandfather's grey. They were lighter in colour than Jon's, but they held compassion and paternal care that Jon had missed as the years went on and Ned Stark's death passed further and further into the past. He missed having the guidance Ned gave him; the guidance Jeor gave as Lord Commander; hell, even Mance and Davos were father- figures of a sort. But having Rickard Stark look at him like that – it was like he could take on the world and succeed without trying.

Jon turned on his heel toward Rhaella and scowled at her. "I'll take the damn crown. But I'm melting down the chair."

Rhaella's lips turned upward into a smirk. "Very well, Your Grace." She set her cup down. "Now, what's this about goals?"

There was much to do before a coronation, and Rhaella seemed to relish organizing it, being free from the yoke of Aerys and his reign. Jon left her to it, spending much of his time with Rickard and Brandon, who was still recuperating from his stay in the dungeons, suffering from malnourishment, torture, and the trauma involved in his arrest, as well as seeing his companions die.

Jon regretted that – he had hoped that Aerys had not killed those who travelled with Brandon, but

the same thing happened: only Ethan Glover survived. Ethan was situated in one of the other rooms adjacent to the suite Brandon was in, as secure as they could make the Red Keep with only four Northmen, and only two of those on their feet. They needed more protection.

It wasn't that Jon thought someone would try to kill him: firstly, Targaryen heritage. No one knew which side of the coin Jon's mental stability would fall on, so most people kept out of his way. Second, Targaryen heritage: Jon was fireproof (if by luck, but no one needed to know that). Sure, someone could try to assassinate him with a blade, or poison, but he already proved himself to be death-defying, so why would someone bother? And thirdly, Jon had beat Gerold Hightower in single combat. That definitely counted for something.

But other than Hightower and Jaime, where had the other Kingsguard been? He was sure no one told Jaime Lannister anything, so Jon went to the next best source: Elia Martell.

"I've been meaning to speak to you," he began, stepping cautiously into the suite. Jaime Lannister stood guard outside of Elia's room, particularly when she was with Rhaenys and Aegon. But he had stepped aside when Jon stepped up to the royal chambers. Both Rhaella and Elia had suggested giving the royal chambers up, but Jon did not want to disrupt their lives further, and Rhaenys and Aegon needed familiarity. He wasn't going to change that.

Elia blinked up at him from where she sat near a fire, a blanket wrapped around her legs. "Of course, Your Grace."

She struggled to get up and curtsey, but Jon stepped into the room and shook his head. "Please, don't. Let's just... let us speak."

Warily, Elia nodded.

Jon sat on the free seat opposite her with a sigh.

"What can I help you with, Your Grace?" asked the Princess cautiously.

Jon took a moment to study her: she was near his age, if not a little older, with long, thick black hair. She was skinny, with her collarbones protruding and skin stretched thinly across her shoulders. Despite the darkness of her eyes and skin tone, and the slight dark bruising under her eyes, Elia Martell was a very pretty woman. Her waif-like appearance did not diminish the intelligence in her eyes nor the inner strength she bore in handling the changes to her life in King's Landing with Rhaella's pronouncement.

"I wanted to ask you what you are planning on doing, going forward," began Jon slowly, watching Elia carefully. She blinked. "I want to make something clear, Princess: you are not my hostage. You are not a prisoner, nor are your children."

Something shifted in Elia's face, from wariness to bewilderment, to cautious hope.

"I would offer you one of these three choices," continued Jon, leaning the tiniest bit forward. "You can stay, here in King's Landing. You have the most experience with court life, and there's a part of me that doesn't want Queen Rhaella determining my life from how many courses my coronation feast should have, to what colour my small clothes are."

Elia stifled a laugh, looking away for a moment.

Jon grinned. "Your other option is to return to Dorne. And if you have no wish to return to Sunspear or the Water Gardens, then Braavos. Or Myr. Or Qarth, or Yi Ti, or whatever else you wish."

Elia's eyes were glistening, but she blinked the tears away. Her hands folded delicately in her lap when she sat a bit straighter and asked, "Upon what conditions, Your Grace?"

Smart woman, thought Jon with a tight-lipped smile. "As per Lord Stark's conditions, Rhaegar's children will not inherit the throne. Rhaenys and Aegon may keep their titles as Princess and Prince, but of Dorne, Princess. The title dies then with them. But they are as free as you are – I will not ask for them to remain as hostages or to foster them when they are older, so long as you make these terms and conditions clear."

The tears did fall this time, and Elia's hands trembled when she brought them up to press against her mouth.

Jon reached forward and gently took one of her hands in his, cradling it. He made sure to look her directly in the eyes when he murmured, "You have suffered enough, Princess."

Elia bowed her head, her body trembling. She was speaking, and it took Jon a few moments to hear the gasps. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

He gave her time to compose herself, delicately resting her hand in his so that she could take it from him at any time. The control was hers, and Jon waited until she was ready to speak again.

"I think I shall remain in King's Landing for a bit longer, Your Grace," she sniffled, despite the beaming smile on her face. "But then I will return to Dorne, to my brothers."

"Of course," replied Jon. "I welcome your presence here. And... your help?" Elia smirked. "Of course."

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Elia could stand up to Rhaella and tell her that red washed him out...

"Ah, Princess, one last thing," Jon said later before he left her suite. Elia looked at him, curious.

"Where can I find the remaining Kingsguard? Your uncle and Barristan Selmy and Jonothor Darry?"

Jon didn't need to go looking for them: they found him. Embarrassingly so.

Jon had an earlier meeting with Rhaella and the High Septon regarding his coronation and its procedure, with the High Septon asking about Jon's history with the Faith. Jon stuttered his way through it, barely remembering things he picked up from Sansa in his youth. When the Septon had asked about how religious views, Jon took grim pleasure in regaling him with how he was raised in the North, was a heathen who worshipped trees, danced naked on the full moon to honour his gods, and practised blood sacrifices to the Weirwood trees. Only two of those three were anywhere near true to Jon's recollection of Northern worship, but Jon wasn't going to tell the High Septon which. It left the man pale and sweating and Rhaella glowering at him when he finally escaped to Rickard's suite.

Brandon was asleep but looking better; Ethan was walking around the suite with some help, and Rickard was spending his time corresponding with Winterfell, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully when

he wasn't listening to Jon's complaints.

Seeing the man busy, Jon went to his next source of entertainment: Rhaenys and Aegon, who both took to him after he offered Elia her options. And that was where the three remaining Kingsguard found him: on his knees, with Rhaenys on his back, tight hands fisting his black hair and screaming, "Forward, wolfie!" while Aegon clapped and shrieked gleefully from Elia's lap.

The men burst into the room, Lewyn Martell and Barristan Selmy with their swords drawn with wide, frantic eyes. Jaime was behind them, half-hidden by the door, loudly telling Jonothor Darry that everything "was fine, could they just calm down—"

Eyes wide, Jon met the two Kingsguard. Selmy was confused, his sword lowering as his eyes swept over the scene: Jon and Rhaenys playing on a rug before Elia with Aegon on her lap; the discarded dolls and building blocks that both children used; the two sets of teacups and pastries on trays.

Lewyn, on the other hand, had already sheathed his sword, fighting a smile on his face when he caught Jon's eyes again. Jon stood, catching Rhaenys as she slid, giggling, down his back to a piggyback position instead. Her arms draped around his neck.

"Jon, wolf speak!" demanded Rhaenys, throwing her weight back and catching Jon around the neck and making him choke.

"Wolf speak?" echoed Lewyn, this time definitely not fighting a grin.

"Uncle Lew! Jon speaks wolf!" agreed Rhaenys. "Right, Jon? Speak wolf?" She then lowered her

voice as much as she could to mimic his Northern burr. "Ayeeee."

Jon looked away from Lewyn and Selmy, who had also sheathed his sword; to Jonothor who was staring at Jon; to Jaime, who was grinning, and finally to Elia who was busily stirring her tea in forceful circles and ignoring him.

"Jon," whined Rhaenys.

Miserably, Jon did as the Princess demanded in his most deadpan voice. "Woof."

Rhaenys responded to this with a peal of shrill laughter. Wincing at the loud noise in his ear, Jon hurriedly walked to the couch and dumped the still laughing Rhaenys on the cushions next to her mother and then turned back to the Kingsguard, tugging at his tunic, and clearing his throat.

This was not how he wanted his first impression with these men to go. "Sers—"

"So. This is the new Blackfyre king," began Jonothor instead, interrupting him. The man stepped forward and loomed over Jon – who, despite being tall, was still several inches shorter than the knight. Annoyed, Jon stood still, eyes on the man as he circled.

There was derision in his voice when Darry asked, "Why should I serve such a man?"

"No one is asking you to," replied Jon, trying to keep his voice even despite the flicker of anger and flames building in his chest.

"You think you're better than any Targaryen king, boy?" continued Darry, a sneer on his voice.

"I'm infinitely better than the one that was just on the throne," snapped Jon, eyes narrowing at the knight. "I don't burn people alive."

Darry stopped, keeping to Jon's left. "No, you slay kings. I should call you kingslayer."

Jon struggled to keep the laugh from bubbling out of his mouth and kept his eyes on Darry instead of looking at Jaime like he wanted. "I didn't plan to kill Aerys, nor did I want to. Although I do understand if you find it hard to believe that the king tripped onto my sword."

"And Gerold Hightower? What happened to my Commander?" demanded Darry.

Jon's annoyance fled to regret. "He demanded satisfaction, Ser. He did not yield, despite being given the opportunity. I regret his death, deeply, but I made it clean and quick."

Darry hummed, a thoughtful if not unbelieving noise, but leaned back.

At Jon's right, Barristan Selmy stared at him, his face like granite. There was nothing warm in those eyes. "Why should I serve you over my King's son? My Prince?"

"I am not stopping you." Selmy blinked in shock.

Seeing it, Jon continued. "If you wish to serve Rhaegar, please, go ahead. I do not want to inherit unwilling guards. Queen Rhaella proclaimed me King because I won by right of combat, thrice over. Because Aerys tried to burn me alive and I did not, Sers. Because, for the release and survival of Lord Rickard Stark and his son, Aerys was asked to step down from the throne and did not honour the vow."

He levelled each of the men with a hard stare. "It is for those reasons I was proclaimed King. But I will not have disloyal and disgruntled Kingsguards guarding my back. So, go find Rhaegar, Ser Selmy. I have no quarrel with you should you do so. Nor do I quarrel with Rhaegar – unless he wants the throne." He gave the men a sharp, wolfish smile. It wasn't nice. "If he wants it, he'll learn just how sharp my teeth are."

"And the Queen and Princess?" asked Lewyn, speaking up for the first time.

Jon turned to face the older man. "Free to go wherever they wish. They are no hostages of mine." Lewyn turned to his niece for confirmation.

"'Tis true, uncle," Elia said softly, bouncing a now cooing Aegon on her knee. "His Grace has offered me to stay, to return to Dorne, or wherever else I wish. I am no hostage and I believe him. Nor are my children to be his hostages or wards when they are older."

There was a terse silence as the knights looked at Jon, at Elia, and then at one another. Finally, Lewyn nodded and said, "Good enough for me! I shall stay."

"Lewyn...?" Darry stared at him.

With eyes on him, Lewyn Martell withdrew his sword and fell to a knee in front of Jon. "By the Faith, I will be to Jon—" Lewyn stopped, soundlessly trying to figure out Jon's surname. Was he a Blackfyre? A Targaryen?

"Targaryen, if you'd like, Ser Lewyn," answered Jon quietly. "My parents were married, and my father was a trueborn Targaryen. Though I do not have a Targaryen first name, so Jon will suffice there for now. Perhaps I'll take a new name upon my coronation."

Selmy's mouth dropped open and Darry stiffened in shock.

"And if that does not please you, you can use 'Stark', for that was my mother's House," finished Jon.

Lewyn nodded, slowly, continuing his oath. "—Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him. This I so swear by the Warrior, the Father, the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, the Smith, and the Stranger, from now and always, I am his shield and sword, from this day forth."

Overcome, Jon rallied himself and cleared his throat. "I... my thanks, Ser Lewyn. Arise, and serve."

Lewyn did so in a smooth move and then moved to his niece, bending to greet and tickle Aegon's chin as the baby created a spit bubble. He deftly ignored the stunned looks on Jonothor Darry and Barristan Selmy's faces as he did so.

Selmy seemed to be wrestling with himself, so Jon left the man to it. But Darry's face was red. He shook his head and spat, "I will not be party to such a mockery of our order. We do not simply trade kings – the kingsguard is for life!"

He stared in disgust at Lewyn, who looked unconcerned. Barristan kept his eyes down and forward, a furrow between his brows. The man glanced at Jaime, but the youngest member of the kingsguard blushed and lowered his head, indicating where he stood.

With a sneer, Darry stalked toward the door and stopped at the threshold. "Selmy, are you coming?"

For a moment, Jon watched as Barristan the Bold wavered, looking at the door and Jonothor Darry, and then back to Lewyn Martell and Jaime Lannister. He was torn – Jon could see it.

"You don't have to stay if you do not wish it," he urged softly, so Barristan heard him. The older knight's clear blue eyes caught his. "You're a good man, Ser Barristan. If your honour dictates that you serve Rhaegar, then you should go. You do have a choice to remain here, as well, should you wish it. I would be honoured to have you be part of the kingsguard."

"I—" Barristan glanced at Darry once more, but the other man saw something in his brother's face and snorted.

"I see how it is," the man huffed. "So be it. You are no brothers of mine."

Barristan's shoulders slumped, the tiniest, as Jonothor Darry swept out of the room with a swirl of his white cloak.

There was silence, as even Rhaenys' giggles had realized that now wasn't the right time for it. Jon stepped up to Selmy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Truly – you should go if this isn't what you want. Now, later – I would understand."

Barristan threw his shoulders back and stood straight, peering at Jon. "No, Your Grace. Ser Jon was right – the Kingsguard is for life and I believe in it. I shall stay, and give my oath now, should you take it."

Jon's face softened and he nodded as Barristan knelt. "Arise, Ser Barristan. I thank you for your service. And, Barristan?"

The older knight looked up at Jon.

"I would name you Lord Commander, should you want it," finished Jon quietly. "I could think of no other better suited."

Barristan blinked rapidly. "Your Grace. I would be honoured." Jon exhaled. One less thing to worry about.

Two months later, Jon thought he was finally getting a hang of ruling Westeros. Rhaella was a godsend, helping Jon handle the court and what he needed to know before his upcoming coronation. Rickard was an administrative genius, helping Jon with his ravens and proclamations, and between the Kingsguard, Elia, and, surprisingly, Brandon Stark, he was able to make connections with the small folk in King's Landing and get a feel for the time and its culture.

It was during one of those meetings, in which Rhaella was reminding him to meet with Aerys' small council and either re-establish or dismantle it, that Lewyn's panicked voice and the sound of his sword and Barristan's reached those inside the suite.

"Stay back! Remove yourselves at once!" shouted Barristan.

Those in the room look up in confusion. Voices drew closer, punctuated by... barks?

"—my father," finished a male voice.

"So, step aside, Sers," added Sansa's voice.

Jon leapt to his feet, even as a wide-eyed Lewyn opened the door. "Your Grace, your sister is here...? Along with Lord Stark's son, Eddard. And..."

He looked back, paling.

But Jon didn't care. "Sansa! You're here!"

Sansa was in Jon's arms, hugging him tightly. "Of course, I am. Now, tell me everything."

Ned was behind her, slightly dishevelled, but smoothing his tunic even as his eyes sought his father and brother, relief on his face at seeing them well.

But before Jon could speak, Jaime shouted in alarm, his own sword ringing as he unsheathed it. "Good Gods what are those beasts?!"

Beasts? thought Jon, turning. There was the sound of soft paws pattering on the flooring, and then Jon dropped to his knees as a ball of warm, white fluff was in his face, a rough tongue rasping against his cheeks with stinky breath. "Ghost!"

It was like they had never gone to the past: the connection between him and Ghost opened in their minds, and it was like everything was suddenly brighter and better. His direwolf was here!

Jon glanced up, seeing Sansa standing beside him, pleased and preening even with her sable wolf beside her, Lady observing her littermates with a calm air.

"Lady?" gapped Jon, glancing between his sister and her wolf. Sansa nodded. "And others."

"Others...?" Jon turned, mouth open.

Ned had a wolf on his heels, one he couldn't seem to be rid of; it was Grey Wind – Jon knew that wolf. But there were others: Shaggydog, Nymeria – and two other, massive adult direwolves that had Rhaella paling milk-white and moving to put the giant table between her and them.

The black, wild beast that was once Rickon's went straight to Brandon, yipping for attention and then, when the eldest Stark gave the wolf some tentative pats on his head, turned to begin chewing on the side of the chair. Brandon snorted.

"Where's Summer?"

"Snowflake," stressed Sansa, with an amused quirk of her lips with the renaming of Bran's old wolf, "remains in Winterfell with Benjen."

"A-are these..." Rickard gulped. "Are these direwolves, Sansa?"

She nodded, even as the male, the father of the litter, prowled to Rickard. The wolf was giant, his eyes nearly level with the Stark. There was a silent staring contest, and then the direwolf huffed and flopped heavily onto his side, tongue lolling.

"And that one is yours," said Sansa primly. "I suggest you name him wisely."

"And the bitch?" asked Brandon eagerly, looking up from where Shaggydog was playfully growling and tugging at a cushion Brandon was using for a toy.

"I'd imagine your sisters since the other grey one is Nymeria and Arya's," said Jon with a laugh. "Gods, Sansa! Where did you find them?"

"The Wolfswood," she replied.

Lewyn snorted, putting his sword away. "Wolves in a Wolfswood, of course."

"Are they dangerous?" asked Barristan, eyeing them.

"Absolutely," replied Jon, even as Sansa said, "They're sweethearts."

The two looked at each other and then went to address Barristan, again.

"They're really docile," said Jon, changing his tune.

"They'll rip your throats out," stated Sansa, causing her to pause and stare at Jon. Jaime Lannister laughed. "Well, will they harm us or the King?"

"Do you plan on harming the King?" asked Brandon, looking up with narrowed eyes. Jaime shook his head.

"Then I think we're all fine," replied Jon with a grin.

If the kingsguard thought that was the only upset that day, they received another a few hours later, during dinner.

Jon wanted his Stark family together, in his private rooms: Rickard, Brandon, Ned, and Sansa with

Barristan inside and Jaime outside the room. They were in the middle of their meal at the table, with Ned and Sansa explaining how things were at Winterfell when from the corner of the room, Arya peeled away from the wall and made her way to a free seat next to Sansa.

Ned, in the middle of speaking, stopped and gaped at her. His eyes darted at the wall, and then Arya, and then back.

Barristan startled and sputtered, "But – what – how--?"

Arya ignored them both, as well as Jon and Sansa's grins. She reached for a bread roll and began cutting into it. Nonchalantly, she called, "Well, aren't you joining us?"

"Joining...?" Barristan muttered, looking at the youngest Stark in the room, only to then shout in surprise when Lyanna Stark trudged from the same dark corner, arms crossed and a very sullen look on her face.

"But—" sputtered Ned, eyes locked on Lyanna as she sat next to Brandon. "How – How did you...?"

Arya grinned, teeth sharp, at Ned, and although she addressed the table, her eyes were on Lyanna when she practically sang, "Secret tunnel."

Barristan stiffened, eyes back on the wall. There was a secret tunnel there? Jon could see him thinking of ways to address the clear security issue that the Keep suddenly made clear.

Lyanna sitting seemed to be the signal for Brandon and Ned, though, because questions and accusations rang quick and true from their mouths, their volume increasing until there was nothing but a cacophony of noise in the room, with Arya amidst it all, calmly buttering her roll.

"Where were you?"

"Why did you leave?"

"How could you leave? Without a note?"

"There was a note – I'm not stupid!"

"But running away!! How dare you—"

"Dare I? Am I some wilting southern flower—" "—know how worried we were? What I did for you?" "I never asked you to! I was happy!"

"—the family honour—"

"—Robert—"

"A fucking pox on Robert Baratheon!"

The three Stark siblings rose from the table, lobbying their words like daggers at one another, grey eyes blazing like liquid mercury with flushed cheeks and pulled back lips that mimicked wolf snarls.

Their wolves though, or at least Ned and Brandon's, only popped their heads up to watch the three

with their gestures and words, and then put their heads down again, resting on their paws. Their mother, the large she-wolf, made a large, loud tooth-filled yawned and then absently closed her mouth behind Shaggydog's neck to pull the pup to her for a clean.

Somehow, the three siblings moved from the table to the free space in the sitting area, and then toward the bedroom where Brandon was recovering; Lyanna stormed there first, slamming the door hard behind her.

"Oh, no you don't, Lyanna Stark!" shouted Brandon, crossing the distance quickly despite the gasps he was making, throwing the door open after her and stepping into the room.

Ned quickly followed, wringing his hands behind his siblings.

At the table, Jon, Rickard, and Sansa shared incredulous looks. Arya briefly looked up at the

newly closed door and sighed. "Gosh. Were we ever like that?"

"No," said Jon, just as Sansa said, "Absolutely."

The two eyed one another.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her siblings, across the table from her. "Did she ever sling mud at you when you were wearing your favourite dress in front of father's bannermen?"

Jon paused, then conceded. "Fair point."

Arya rolled her eyes and muttered, "I hate you both."

Jon grinned, reaching out across the table to ruffle Arya's hair – despite their ages – and mocked her, "Aww, not feeling the sibling love, little sister?"

Rickard, who had been sitting there, mortified, that his children would act that way in front of their new king, as well as a kingsguard, slowly came back to awareness when Jon ruffled Arya's hair. Although he had many questions – how did Arya get Lyanna? Where had his daughter been? How did she know? Where did they travel and how safe were they? – they were all immediately shoved to the back of his mind at the sight of Jon's grin.

His eyes were wide, fixated on the young man. He hadn't been sure, but –

The black hair. The curls. The pale face, calling him grandfather and despite him and the youngest girl looking alike – The curve of his lips, the fullness to them; the crinkle in his eyes, how dark they were, not quite grey but perhaps, a shade of indigo?

Lyanna's smiling face looked back at him, and Rickard felt like it was a punch to his gut. The knowledge – the truth – that whatever alternate future these grandchildren of his came from: the truth was Lyanna never returned to Winterfell. That she married Rhaegar Targaryen. That they had a child – a prince – who was now on the throne, regardless.

My grandchildren, thought Rickard, eyes roving over them proudly but with concern. Jon was king now, yes – but the Long Night was approaching, and they would need all the help they could get.

And Rickard swore he'd do whatever it took. {TBC...}