XII.

Jon had never met Tywin Lannister in their past life. Arya had, as had Sansa, and both had very interesting observations to share.

"He's cunning and conniving and rules his family with an iron fist," said Sansa.

"He's resourceful. Has a blind spot for his family, though. Loves them despite things he considers faults, but I think that has more to do with raising the Lannister name," explained Arya. "He sees the Lannister family as a whole, rather than an individual. So, when one fucks up, it fucks them all up and he can't have that."

Sansa hummed thoughtfully and agreed. "Probably why he pushed Tyrion so hard, to be honest..."

Arya nodded. "But he can also be very narrowminded. And he'll only see what he wants to see – there was more than enough proof about Cersei and Jaime in our past—"

Sansa snorted. "Tyrion told me that he thought their own mother knew before her death, due to things he gleaned from Genna and Kevan, and she tried to separate them; let's not even mention the number of servants who went missing—"

"But it would deviate from the Lannister family image he created after Castamere, so Tywin dismissed it from his mind," finished Arya, blithely ignoring Sansa's muttering.

So, Jon had learned that Tywin preferred controlling the Lannister family name over individuals, probably knew what Jaime and Cersei had gotten up to or was wilfully avoiding any proof to claim ignorance. He was devious, canny, able to consider his enemies, allies, and those in between and plan and execute his goals with a precision that rivalled most. He was also cruel and unafraid of killing if necessary but preferred to keep his hands clean while throwing others to the wolves.

So to speak, anyway.

For this wolf, Jon realized that he needed Tywin. He needed him as a friend, or at least if he considered the man an enemy, close enough to keep an eye on him. This was a man Aerys had shunted aside for perceived slights and jealousies, and Jon could not afford to do the same, whatever his personal feelings were toward the man (and they were something to behold: there was a burning rage and deep desire to run Tywin through with his sword or dismember him or cut his hamstrings and let Ghost go after him – all in response for the Red Wedding and the other slights the Lannisters had done to his family during the war—).

Tywin had journeyed to King's Landing with Cersei, Tyrion, and several of his other family members (Kevan and his brood; Genna minus her Frey husband but with her children; and Gerion while Tygett held Casterly Rock in his name) soon after Jon had formally won against Aerys several times and had been in the Red Keep for Jon's coronation. He had tried to schedule a private moment with Jon several times, but (fortunately? unfortunately?) Rhaella had kept Jon busy so he

had been unable to meet many of the Lords and Ladies who journeyed to King's Landing beyond taking their oaths of fealty after the coronation.

Jon could no longer put it off, and asked Sansa for help before she left with Oberyn and Elia. "Sometimes, politics isn't politics," she explained, holding up a red tunic and then a Stark grey one.

"Sometimes, politics is impression. Sometimes, impression is perceived as power."

As her last act, Sansa had set the scene for him to meet with Tywin – the first of the Lord Paramounts other than his grandfather – and then wished him luck. Chelsted, as his Hand, was sent to act as an intermediary, and Tywin responded back that he would be happy to meet at Jon's convenience (a lie, but Jon figured).

A meeting was set for the next morning, early enough that most would still be asleep, but not too early that it would appear rude. Jon would already be awake, regardless; he spent many of his mornings at dawn with Barristan and Lewyn in the training courtyards and then went to the Small Council following a quick bath, to begin with laws and amendments, or a census of those in the Keep, or what trades deals the crown had. That was put aside for the day to meet with Tywin.

Tywin appeared exactly as the Sept's bells rang for eight and was announced directly by Barristan, who opened the door for the keen-eyed man. Tywin stepped through and then, Jon was pleased to see, paused – even if it was only for a moment. The man's green eyes darted all over the room, taking in everything in a glance: Jon's black tunic and trousers, devoid of any family alliances and marking him more a member of the Night's Watch than anything; Ghost, all white, lounging in a sunspot by the balcony; the informal sitting room, with a breakfast spread on a sideboard; and despite the mild spring air, a fire blazed in the hearth.

"Lord Lannister, welcome," greeted Jon with a friendly smile on his face. "Have you yet broken your fast?"

"I have, Your Grace," replied Tywin, stepping further into the room.

"Would you mind if I ate? I have yet to, this morning, and I've been up since the fifth bell."

Tywin inclined his head and took a seat in one of the chairs Jon offered, watching him as he carefully selected a few items that were mostly bite-sized or only required a fork's tines to pierce. His hands would not be greasy or dirty when dealing with Tywin. There was a kettle hanging on a hook over the fire, boiling water for tea, and Jon took delight in Tywin's minute widening of his eyes when he reached directly into the fire and withdrew the kettle, pouring the hot water into his cup. The hot kettle did not burn his hand.

Give him a reminder of who you are, Sansa had said. Show him you're a Targaryen, despite looking like a Stark. Remind him who he's meeting with.

"I apologize for the delay of receiving you, Lord Lannister," began Jon, settling his plate of food and tea at a side table, getting comfortable in his own chair. "I've been reviewing the previous king's outstanding issues and trying to purge those before establishing new laws, in case there was precedence or conflict."

"I understand," replied Tywin. "And certainly, an understandable decision in reviewing Aerys' more... distasteful decisions."

Jon grinned. "You are much more polite and diplomatic than I was, Lord Lannister. I think I called his previous laws a disgusting collection of fuckery." He absently stirred his tea. "I am told you

wished to speak to me for some time, now?"

Tywin inclined his head. "I am under the impression that Lord Chelsted is your Hand." "He is."

"A rather new appointment, was it?"

"Well, not mine," began Jon, slowly, as if he were forced to think or consider what Tywin was saying – right now, the Lion of the West was being very transparent in what he was getting at. "He had been Aerys' Hand, briefly, but spoke out against the man burning King's Landing. Was imprisoned for it, and I'm sure he'd have been killed if I hadn't appeared when I did. He's the only Hand we had, um, on hand."

Tywin's face was stony. Jon internally sighed. No humour, this one.

"To be fair, he's..." Jon shrugged. "Well, he's a twitchy little fellow. Not that I can blame him, but

his stay in the dungeons certainly didn't help and he has a hard time looking me in the eye."

"Oh?" Tywin leaned forward the tiniest amount. "Will he remain in his position long, then, do you think? Or will he take his leave to recover away from King's Landing?"

"Oh, that man deserves a trip to a Lyseni pleasure house or a permanent residence there," laughed Jon.

Triumph was in Tywin's eyes. "Have you someone else in mind, then, Your Grace? For the Hand's position?"

"I have a few," hedged Jon carefully. "In fact, Lord Lannister, I was hoping you'd join the Small Council."

Tywin leaned back in his seat. "Of course, Your Grace. It would be an honour."

Keep him on his toes. Keep him off balance. A Tywin Lannister who can't anticipate or plan what's to come is the best to control because he'll take longer to respond, Sansa's voice nattered at Jon's psyche. The longer he takes to respond, the more time you have to create an appropriate response.

"I was hoping you'd be my Master of Coin, Lord Lannister," enthused Jon, widening his eyes and leaning forward eagerly. "After all, the legendary Lannister gold must be quite something to manage! If there is anyone better suited for understanding and helping King's Landing and my new regime manage its coins, it would be someone who understands the burdens of it."

Disappointment and ire flashed in Tywin's cold eyes – too quick for Jon to see if he wasn't looking for it. The man gnashed his teeth together for a moment, a frown pulling at his lips before he corrected his expression. "Master of Coin, Your Grace?"

Jon nodded. "I have a vacancy for it."

Inwardly, Jon was squirming with pleasure at the man's confusion and annoyance. Reel Lannister in with talk about the position he wanted most – the Hand of the King – then tell him it's not available and offer something else on the Small Council as recompense – and then make him feel important so that he has to take it.

"You see, my Lord, I need a representative to go to Braavos. And who better by the Great Lion,

himself?" asked Jon, overtly playing up his enthusiasm for the man despite the churning dislike in his belly. And Sansa had previously said he couldn't play the game when he had gone to Dragonstone! "Your reputation precedes you even in the Free Cities, my Lord, and a man who understands coin, understands the art of the deal, well – how could I possibly pass that up?"

"I fail to see why I am needed for Braavos beyond these purported skills my reputation states I have," groused Tywin, although his mannerisms were still polite and respectful.

Jon eyed the man and let some of the game drop from him. "I need money, Lord Lannister. And for that to happen, I need a competitive and lower interest rate with the Iron Bank than what Aerys had negotiated with the last representative."

Something in Tywin's expression change, as though he had realized Jon had played him. The man's jaw worked, the muscles shifting, and he ground out, "What for, Your Grace?"

Jon settled back in his seat. "For many reasons, but the first and foremost is people. I need men—"

"Are you planning a war, Your Grace?" interrupted Tywin with poor manners, a drawl to his voice as though he thought the new king was an idiot.

"Not yet," replied Jon evenly, "But one will happen, and I want to be prepared with enough men and steel. And for that, I want the Company of the Rose."

Tywin hesitated. "The – Company of the Rose, your Grace?"

Oh, look, I confused him again. He thought I was going to ask for the Golden Company, I'm sure, given the rumours of my Blackfyre heritage, thought Jon gleefully. "I need you to purchase the Company outright and return them to the North. If you get an opportunity to speak to the commander of the Golden Company, I certainly wouldn't be opposed to it. I'd love to know what their upcoming plans or contracts are."

Tywin narrowed his eyes.

Blithely, Jon continued, putting on the air of a distracted, absent-minded king as he picked at his breakfast, not looking at the Lannister. "I'm hoping that your brother Gerion would be amendable of leading the expedition, given his experience. Furthermore, your son Jaime could go with you – it's been so long since you last saw him, has it not? You could use the year or so to reacquaint yourselves. My sister – that is, my younger, as Sansa is in Dorne – Arya will join to ensure my wishes and orders are executed properly."

Tywin stared at Jon, and he looked up from his rolled pastry. "What do you think, my Lord? After a year or so in the Free City, you return to King's Landing, in which during that time, Lord Chelsted is convinced to peacefully retire and – oh, look, there's a free spot open on the Small Council again."

"You are trying to bribe me," said Tywin eventually, staring at Jon like he was the strangest creature he had ever seen.

"It's only a bribe if one party feels like they're under duress to take what is offered," replied Jon smartly, "Otherwise it's a pleasurable agreement between two men who are both getting what they want out of the arrangement."

"A negotiation?" queried Tywin carefully. Jon inclined his head. "Should you wish."

Craftily, Tywin steepled his hands before his face as he surveyed the new king with new eyes. "I feel as though you are getting much from this – I do your bidding in Braavos as your Master of Coins, I bring the Company of the Rose to the North, I miss out on at least a year of my home and people—"

"You're getting two Small Council positions, including one that is the second most powerful position on the continent," retorted Jon sharply, "And your son has not yet sworn any oaths to me."

Tywin froze. "Jaime is not on the kingsguard?"

"He thinks he still is and continues to perform his duties – but neither Ser Barristan nor I have outright told him to swear his oaths to me or reminded him that he has yet to do so," answered Jon. "Take him and my sister along and when he returns to Westeros, he can take up the role of your heir. He'd be formally released from the kingsguard even though the rest of us already know his duty is done."

That seemed to break Tywin's mind, so Jon leaned forward even further, across the space between the two men and caught Tywin's green eyes, holding them as he spoke fervently, "Let me explain something to you: I'm going to need more money, Lord Tywin. I will create a legacy that will eclipse that of our Age of Heroes and mark our names down in history in ways no one else has."

Something in what Jon resonated with Tywin as he stirred himself.

"Marry my daughter and I'll leave at dawn tomorrow," retorted Tywin.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Now you're getting the better deal and I am the King, Lord Lannister." The two eyed one another a bit longer, Tywin not wishing to budge.

"I'll formally return Jaime to you as heir and marry Cersei, but you leave on this mission the morning following the wedding," offered Jon instead, his voice hard, "And there will be no promise that the Hand's position will be available when you return."

Tywin's teeth ground together. Two offers: Jaime and the Hand's position upon returning to Westeros; or Jaime as his heir and Cersei as the queen, but no Hand position after negotiating with the Iron Bank and two sellsword companies.

What do you want more, Tywin? wondered Jon, watching as the man thought on the two offers. Do you desire the power as Hand, or do you want that Lannister legacy you've so cultivated on the throne to rule through your grandchildren?

"I accept, Your Grace," the man finally said, just as the Sept's bells tolled half-ten. They had been speaking for longer than Jon thought. "Jaime is my heir, Cersei your queen, and I will represent the crown as Master of Coins in Braavos."

It was a hollow victory – he, Sansa, and Arya knew it could come down to this, so they figured out ahead of time what they would budge on and what they wouldn't – but it was a victory, nonetheless. Tywin had admitted that he preferred operating through others to achieve his goal than himself, and he was more interested in that Lannister name than anything else.

"Very well, Lord Lannister," agreed Jon, standing from his seat.

Tywin copied him, a gleam in his eyes. They shook on it, and then Tywin, his facial features as sharp and dangerous as his family's sigil, all but purred, "Shall we discuss the wedding arrangements and how soon you can take Cersei to wife?"

When Jon imagined his wedding, he always thought it would be on a cold, crisp winter's evening, with his family around him in support while he met his bride at the heart tree in the Godswood at Winterfell, saying the ancient words of his ancestors.

Instead, he said his vows in the Sept of Baelor, in front of thousands.

It wasn't terrible – he was used to the Sept now, after his own coronation, but it didn't feel... right. It felt like a pair of trousers that fit you, but ill, pinching or tucking when you least expect it. But still serviceable and could be worn.

The feast afterward was boisterous and festive, with Targaryen colours of black and red edged with Stark grey and silver, alongside the Lannister red and gold of his new bride. A young, seventeen- year-old Cersei was just – if not more – beautiful than her older self that Jon had seen those years ago at Winterfell, and later, at King's Landing despite the trials she experienced. Of course, knowing some of her personality already was enough to make Jon squirm, except now he was married to the young woman.

He still wanted to say his vows before a heart tree, like Sansa and Oberyn had – at the one in King's Landing garden, growing freakishly tall and strong – but would wait until Cersei was a bit more settled.

He also knew he was no Silver Prince, and that Cersei was put out at missing the chance to marry the beautiful Rhaegar Targaryen. However, he had caught her sneaking him glances throughout their feast... so maybe he still had a chance against his father in the looks department.

As the night wore on, Cersei began to fidget. Jon leaned over, capturing one of her hands in his and placed his mouth near her ear. "Don't worry, I've made sure there's no bedding ceremony. I wouldn't want you to experience that humiliation."

Cersei sent Jon a startled look that quickly morphed into relief. Upon realizing what she had given away, she stiffened and placed a haughty mask back on. "I wasn't thinking of it, Your Grace."

Jon snorted. "Of course not."

She glared at him, and Jon turned away to hide his smile, picking up his drink to sip at it. He didn't let go of her hand. Later, he tugged on it, causing her to turn to him. "Everyone is well into their cups – let's get out of here."

A bit wide-eyed, Cersei glanced around the massive hall and saw Jon spoke the truth: almost everyone was enjoying themselves, either by dancing, drinking, or, like her father, making contacts that had deteriorated when Aerys had been king. She glanced at Jaime and saw him next to Lewyn Martell and Addam Marbrand, speaking to them. He must have felt her eyes on him because he glanced at her, caught her eyes, and smiled.

"Very well, Your Grace." Cersei stood, smoothing her golden dress as she did so.

Jon leaned over to whisper to Arya, on his other side. She nodded, a quick dart of grey eyes at him and Cersei, and then returned to face the crowd. Jon turned to his bride and held a hand for her to take. "Shall we?"

The two were quiet, walking to the royal apartments and Jon's rooms. Ser Barristan, and two new, recently appointed members of the Kingsguard, Ser Hector Oakheart and Ser Tanius "Silveraxe" Fell, followed a distance behind.

Jon's rooms were spacious, with his apartments joining the Queen's with a sitting room between them. He let Cersei dictate which room they would go to, and she boldly walked into Jon's despite the tiny quiver to her lips.

Eyeing her, Jon kept his distance. "We don't have to do anything—"

But the blonde pounced, draping her body heavily against his chest and kissing him, her hands clutching at the curls at his nape. Jon made a muffled noise of surprise, hands extended and out, unsure if they should touch the young woman or not. When he finally drew back enough, he muttered, "Are you sure?" against her lips, skimming them as his mouth formed the words.

"Kiss me," Cersei demanded instead, her green eyes blazing and dark.

Carefully, Jon did so, his hands resting on her waist and not travelling. Consent was good, he remembered, and he let Cersei dictate the terms of the evening; she undressed him first before herself; she pushed him toward the bed; she slid over his body. Jon knew she was no virgin – he was a bit amused to see how she was going to play that off, later – and he certainly wasn't (given the adventurous and strong personalities his two previous lovers were), but she needed to believe that he thought she was.

By the time both were sweat-slicked, sore, and sated, with Cersei resting her golden head on his chest and absently running her hand over his well-formed muscles, Jon found himself thinking, this might actually work, with a pleased, tired smile on his face. He fell asleep to that thought and the soft breaths Cersei made as she slept.

Jon was already up and tugging on his boots when Cersei stirred in the bed, hair very mussed and bleary-eyed. "What time is it?"

"Two bells past dawn. It's early still if you wish to sleep more," answered Jon, leaning down to finish tugging his boots.

Cersei crawled across the bed, sheets falling until she pressed her naked front against Jon's clothed back, winding her arms around his chest. Her breath was hot in his ear when she whispered, "Don't go. It's too early for work."

Jon chuckled, bringing a hand up to twine his fingers with hers. "For everyone else, I suppose that's true – but not for the king. I rule at the leisure of my people."

"You're the king – you make the rules," she protested, biting down on his earlobe. He shivered. "Mmm... and yet, unfortunately, this meeting was scheduled weeks ago."

Cersei sighed, frustrated, and let go, flopping down on the bed behind him. "Fine." She paused, eyeing Jon as he turned on the edge of the bed to face her, eyes tracing her form. "Then at least tell me if my brother is on duty or not, this morning. I will go spend time with him or my father."

Jon paused.

Cersei narrowed her eyes and set up, drawing the sheets to cover her. "What? What is it you're not telling me?"

"Your brother and father are no longer in King's Landing," answered Jon, his face carefully blank but still somewhat hard. It was as though he was waiting for her to argue.

"Why not?" Cersei bit out.

"They left with my sister at dawn," replied Jon carefully, watching her, "on a mission that I gave them several weeks ago."

Cersei was silent for a moment, but Jon could see ire growing in her green eyes. "Why was I not told of this?"

"At the time, it didn't concern you as you were not yet Queen," answered Jon. He glanced at her and then away, using her own words against her. "I'm the king – and I make the rules that tell people where to go and when."

"And where did they go?" drawled Cersei, eyes narrowed and fixated on Jon.

"Braavos, at the moment," he replied, standing from the bed, and presenting his back to her. "I asked your father to meet with the Iron Bank on my behalf. He knows money and how to manage it. Jaime and your uncle Gerion – since it is his ship – joined him, along with my sister to ensure my interests were being carried out."

Cersei was torn between pleased at the king recognizing her father and family's worth, and angry at Jaime being sent away. Jon could see it on her face, the push-and-pull nature of her thoughts.

"They are my family," spat Cersei, eventually, her green eyes narrowed on Jon. "You should have told me!"

Jon raised his eyebrows at her audacity and stared down at her until she began to slowly wilt.

"I had other reasons to send your brother away," revealed Jon quietly, watching as Cersei's face changed from angry, to curious, to fear and panic, only to settle on blank indifference.

"Oh, do you?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, annoyance rolling in his stomach. "I may have taken up the Targaryen crown, but I certainly don't condone incest."

Cersei blinked, with her only tell being that her eyes widened the tiniest amount and her nostrils flared.

"You think I don't know everything about you?" Jon rolled his eyes and moved around his bed chambers, collecting a belt, stylus and parchment for his notes, and a few other items as he spoke. "You think I didn't agree to marry you without knowing everything?"

"I don't know what you're speaking about—"

"You and your brother," began Jon, in a conversational tone as he began listing things, keeping an eye on her face as he spoke. "What did my source tell me? Oh yes. You came into the world together and are both of one person in two bodies."

The familiar words made Cersei pale to a milky white as she stared at Jon in shock.

"How old were you, Cersei?" badgered Jon, looming over her from the end of the bed as she clutched at the sheets. "When you started thinking about touching him? Kissing him? Was it when the servants caught you? Or your mother, and she separated you and Jaime into individual rooms for your deviant behaviour?"

"You—" Cersei sputtered through bloodless lips. "But you're a Targaryen! Why is it fine for you but not us?"

Jon scoffed. "I may be a Targaryen, wife, but I certainly don't condone that behaviour. What has inbreeding done for the dragons but bring madness and chaos? What do you think your relationship with your brother would bring about?"

"Jaime is a part of me, anything that came from us would be perfect—"

"A perfect monster," spat Jon, drawing on his memories of Joffrey in Winterfell and then all he heard at the Wall after his actions after his father's beheading for his voice to ring with unwavering truth. "Spoilt, cruel, arrogant. All your worst features in one pretty, blond body."

Cersei struggled with the sheets, tangled in them as she tried to hold her ground in the bed while crawling forward on her knees to argue. A flush spread from her cheeks down her collarbone and then disappeared under the sheet. "You don't know that—"

"I think I know very well what madness looks like," replied Jon softly, dangerously. The two stared at each other.

Eventually, Jon continued, "I sent Jaime away from you so that you could avoid temptation. So that he could learn to survive without you. Your co-dependency was dangerous at best, and ruinous at worst. As Queen, you are to be above all suspicion."

"And yet you could go and fuck any whore you want and be patted on the back and toasted with an ale," bitterly said Cersei, a downturn scowl on her face. "Where is the fairness in that?"

"There isn't," agreed Jon. "But I have also never laid with a whore. I never wanted to, and I never have, and I certainly don't plan on starting when I have a wife in my bed."

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "So, you plan to rape me, under a guise of marital rights."

"I won't touch you unless you want me to," corrected Jon.

"How can I trust your words?" Cersei finally asked, after a lengthy pause. "I do not know you."

"I suppose you'll just have to get to know me, then," replied Jon, rolling his eyes. "I was raised Northern, Cersei. We tend to say our thoughts and be rather straightforward, even to our detriment."

Cersei snorted inelegantly, playing with a thread on the sheets she still had tucked under her armpits. "Where do we go from here?"

Jon pursed his lips. "Wherever you want. I want a Queen who can stand by my side, justly and fairly. That means no more murder—"

"I beg your pardon! How dare you!" Furious, Cersei rose on her knees, her nostrils flaring.

Jon continued as though not interrupted by her fury, "Like that of Melara Hetherspoon or the many servants who angered you in Casterly Rock—"

The colour drained from Cersei's face again, and she swayed, falling back on the bed heavily, mouth dropping open.

"And certainly, I expect my wife to be grounded in reality and not the inane prophecies that a

woods witch by the name of Maggy the Frog sprouts for unsuspecting travellers and fools alike," finished Jon with derision in his voice. "No more bullshit about the valonqar – for all that you seem to hate your youngest brother, you seem to forget that Jaime is a younger brother, as well."

Thank you, Arya and past Tyrion, thought Jon, viciously, almost glaring at Cersei as he laid out every one of her faults between them. The accusations – the truths – hung in the air, heavy and poignant reveals that could ruin not just Cersei's life, but her family's, if the king so wished.

Cersei's mouth opened and shut, a tiny whine coming from her. She was staring at him, terrified. Jon was reminded, at that moment, that he had just spewed information that could get at a seventeen-year-old girl killed and he was twenty-four and knew better. A tiny rush of sympathy clenched around his heart and warred with practicality to keep hold of his new wife with an iron fist. His shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his curls. "Do you even want to be Queen, Cersei? Did you want to be here or are you only here because your father told you to marry me?"

"I—" her mouth opened and shut, and she struggled to find her words.

"Is it power? Do you enjoy dominating others to make yourself feel better because you had no agency in your life, growing up under your father's rule?" Jon paused. "Or is it all about Jaime? Is the desire of being with him, of conducting a secret relationship behind everyone's backs, made you feel good?"

He waited for her to speak, but she didn't, and he continued, "I want a real marriage, Cersei. I'll only marry the once and I won't stray from you. I don't like the idea of laying with another, and I want a family."

When she still didn't say anything, Jon nodded and turned to leave the room. "Think about it. I'm off to a Small Council meeting... if you'd like... you can join me. I'd like you to be there."

"A council meeting?" Cersei's voice was small when she finally found it.

Jon stopped at the door to their adjoined sitting room. He peered at her from over his shoulder. "Aye..."

"I – just –" Cersei threw the covers off the bed, running around the bed chambers naked as she found her shift. "Wait. Please... wait. I'll... I want to join you. I'll get dressed, quickly."

And she did: twenty minutes later, Jon and Cersei were walking together to the throne room and the meeting room off its main chamber, Ghost trailing them. Neither spoke nor touched one another – the morning confessions leaving them a bit raw – but there was a tentative hope on Jon's face.

"Apologies for the delay," announced Jon as he strode into the room, Cersei on his heels. He went straight for his normal chair – and with Sansa and Oberyn gone, her usual seat at his right side was vacant. He instead guided Cersei to it, pulling the chair out for her and then tucking her in when she primly sat, taking in the others in the room who stared back at her in shock and dismay.

"Your Grace," began Pycelle, eyeing Tywin's daughter. "The Small Council is no place for a lady."

"The governance of the country is too much for a woman to handle, Your Grace," added Chelsted, a grimace on his face.

Varys and Velaryon kept quiet, watching, even as Barristan took his position and seat at the table as well.

Jon sat, staring hard at the Grandmaester and his Hand. His eyes then travelled to the others in the room, ensuring he looked them all in the eyes for a few hard moments to convey his displeasure before he spoke. "She is my queen and is my equal. We rule together. And if we don't understand something, explain it and we will learn together. Because that's what we do here: present a united front."

Pycelle sputtered, but Chelsted nodded and looked at the tabletop. Jon ignored the nervous twitch that came after Jon met his eyes. They would need to work on that, he thought.

"What is the first item on the agenda today?" asked Jon, clearing his throat, and turning to Chelsted.

"An update on the current finances of the crown," the Hand began, in a slightly chastised voice.

As he spoke, Cersei's green eyes constantly flickering toward Jon, despite him listening and nodding as his council provided information on Westeros. She swallowed, trying very hard not to squirm in her seat. He had asked her what she wanted – and something Cersei always wanted was power. As queen, she would have that... but as a woman, she was going to be side-lined from any law-making.

Except... her husband didn't want that – he wanted her at his side. Making laws, learning about ruling their country, together. It didn't matter to him that she was a woman. He was going to give her everything she wanted – power, authority, control – without demanding her body as was his right as king for payment or belittling her and her idea because she was a woman and therefore, lesser, in the eyes of Westerosi society. All he wanted in return was her loyalty. No Jaime in her bed; no prophecies from Maggy. No more terrorizing the servants, despite her right to do so; no more letting fear - hers, both internally and externally - rule her.

I can do that, the words flittered across her mind before she truly thought them. She had made her decision. With that, she settled back in her seat, relaxing, turning her mind to the other men in the room and the issues at hand.

But her left hand crept across her lap, over the arm of the chair, and sought Jon's right hand, resting on his lap. Underneath the table, known only to the two of them, she curled her hand around his and squeezed. In return, Jon flipped her hand, so they were palm-to-palm and then laced their fingers together in a strong, warm grip.

And from the corner of her eye, as they both sat in profile to one another, she saw him smile.

Rhaegar stood on the short, grassy knoll of the Pentoshi manse, a high courtyard garden that looked westward and across the Narrow Sea toward Westeros. The horizon was a stormy grey, with low-lying puffy clouds. The smell of salt and something else hung on the air, and with the dark rolling clouds coming toward them from the horizon, there was a good chance a storm was rolling in.

He had been standing there for some time, eyes unseeing as they stared out toward the land of his birth. Arthur watched him for some time from under the awning of their new residence, before deciding to risk interrupting Rhaegar's brooding. Jonothor remained behind with one hand on the hilt of his sword, a silent sentinel, partially hidden from view. Connington had worked himself up into such a fret about Rhaegar that he had barricaded himself in his rooms.

He walked up behind his prince, his steps carefully placed so Rhaegar could hear him, but the prince did not move. At this angle, Arthur could see Rhaegar's profile: a strong, aquiline nose, a

lean face due to stress, and a slight furrow of his pale eyebrows. His long Targaryen ash-white hair was billowing out behind him as the ocean breeze kicked up, but what stood out was the leather eyepatch covering his violet eye and the thin gauze over the cut that Jon Targaryen had left. Rhaegar had been lucky: the cut, while long (running from his eyebrow and bisecting it, across his eye, and to just under his prominent cheekbone), had not been deep. The other man was aiming to warn – not maim.

Yet, Rhaegar seemed oblivious to his barely healed cut. He was running a long forefinger down the gauze, pressing into his cheek as he did so. Blood welled up underneath the gauze, staining a red line to the fresh cloth. There was a habitual motion to it like it was something Rhaegar had done often since receiving the cut while he thought.

"My Prince?"

He did not move, continuing to stare out across the Narrow Sea, but his mouth was moving, the tiniest of breaths escaping him. He was muttering under his breath, and Arthur could not hear it.

"... Rhaegar?"

His hand stopped its motion and fell to his side in a clenched fist. He turned his head to face Arthur and it took everything Arthur had to not step back in shock from the fire in the one violet eye trained on him.

"He took it from me, Arthur," growled Rhaegar. "He took it from me!" Arthur swallowed. "Who, my Prince?"

"The Blackfyre, Jon," hissed Rhaegar, eye turning back to the Narrow Sea. The hand at his side, clenched tightly, turned white from the strain against the skin and bone. "He's turned them all against me – stole my destiny!"

"Your destiny?" echoed Arthur carefully.

A wordless snarl escaped from Rhaegar's mouth. "He knows! He knows what is coming!" Arthur was terribly confused. "What's coming, Rhaegar?"

The clenched hand at his side flew back to his cut and Rhaegar pressed down, hard, against his cheek. Fresh blood welled up and oozed out from the size of the gauze, dripping down his cheekbone, in imitation of a tear. "I will show them. I will show them all, Arthur."

Arthur's mouth opened but nothing emerged. This was not the Prince he knew – sure, he was brooding and was obsessed with some nonsense prophecy he had found, leading to Lyanna Stark – but... was this the tipping point? Was this where Rhaegar fell into Targaryen madness like so many of his ancestors?

Had he chosen the wrong liege to follow?

Rhaegar was muttering now, his glare fixated on the distant shores of Westeros, on the distant future when he was no longer in exile.

"I will show them. I will one day return. This is the road I will take – that I am the dragon, I am the Promised Prince..."

Arthur was nothing but a silent witness as Rhaegar's violet eye gleamed and his mouth curled as he

made promises to the air. The heaviness of Rhaegar's next words settled on Arthur's shoulders, the weight of them more than a promise – a vow, a declaration, a war cry – and despite the warm air, he shivered.

"I will become Azor Ahai."