VIII.

Rhaella's help in planning Jon's coronation was invaluable, although Jon often wondered why the Queen was throwing herself so forcefully into Jon's kingship. She was the one who decreed Jon as the king; she was the one who happily allowed her sons and grandchildren to be deposed; she was the one throwing her name and weight behind Jon's legitimacy for the crown, despite not knowing his true surname or House allegiances.

Anyone with half a brain could tell that while he looked Stark, he was fireproof like the Targaryen dragons of old, from Valyria. But where did he come from? Who were his parents? Why had he been hidden for so long?

There was talk at court, from those familiar with the Targaryen family histories, of the Pact of Ice and Fire. Jon hadn't heard it, but Arya had during her snooping: that Jon must be from Rhaenyra's line. Was he kin to Jacaerys Velaryon and Sara Snow, given his Stark colours? Was he an unacknowledged child of Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince himself? Or perhaps he was from Aegon IV's line – a bastard Blackfyre like Daemon? Perhaps he was from Daemon's line – a bastard for a bastard; after all, no one found his body. He had numerous children and any of them could have borne a bastard in the North.

No one could come to an agreement, so the rumours flew hard and fast.

"It's a good thing," Sansa soothed when Jon went to her, days before his coronation. "How?" he cried.

"Whichever way it comes about, the entire court is in agreement that you're a descendant from a pure Targaryen line," explained Sansa. "Whether it's Rhaenyra and Daemon, or Jacaerys and Sara, or Aegon IV and his many mistresses – it shows you come from the same line that Aerys, Rhaella, and Rhaegar come from... just... distantly, potentially sideways. Since the split was around the Dance, it could even be argued that your family line had a better claim."

Jon rolled his eyes. "I hate how people are hung up on a godsdamn throne."

"It's a symbol," sighed Sansa, "Just like your ability to walk through fire. Like our direwolves. If you had a dragon—"

Jon groaned. "Let's not, San."

Sansa shut her mouth, but there was a gleam in her eyes that made Jon wary – was she planning on

finding him a dragon egg? That would be so extra. And just like Sansa. Damn her.

The look in his sister-cousin's eyes was enough to keep Jon on edge for the next several days, and it fed into his nerves as he waited in an antechamber off the main hall in the Sept of Baelor, just hours before his coronation.

Rickard, Brandon, Ned, and Lyanna were not with him, as Rickard was trying to corral and keep his children from running off, especially with Brandon's improved health meant he was taking longer and longer walks around King's Landing. Of course, the two elder siblings were stuck to Lyanna's side so that she wouldn't try to escape and find Rhaegar.

Instead, Jon was joined by Arya and Sansa. Arya was lounging in a chair, legs thrown over the side as she absently tapped the flat end of a dagger against her thigh. Sansa hovered around Jon in front of a polished glass, where she was straightening his clothes and cloak buttons.

"I don't think I can do this," muttered Jon, sweating. "Is there a basin nearby? Gods, I think I'm going to vomit."

Arya rolled her eyes. "It's a bit late now to back out."

"You'll be fine," said Sansa instead. She tugged on the tunic. "Think about what you'll accomplish as the king. How you can use your power."

Jon and Arya shared an amused look. "Of course, it's Sansa who thinks of power."

The redhead sniffed. "You have no appreciation for the finer manipulations in the game." "For shame," joked Jon, trying to settle his stomach.

"Don't worry," added Arya from where she sat, "We'll be here to make sure the power of being king doesn't go to your head, Jon." She sent him a toothy grin. "No succumbing to the Targaryen madness."

"Well, now I'm worried about it," he muttered. "Thanks."

Sansa caught Arya's teasing glint and asked, innocently, "Are you going to take a Targaryen name

during your coronation, Jon? You never said."

"What?" Jon sputtered, looking at Sansa and then Arya when she spoke up.

"Yes – what about Aegon, Jon?"

Jon sent Arya a dirty look. "There's already one of those, that would be confusing."

"Then perhaps Aemon?" asked Sansa, hiding a grin when she ducked her head to fiddle with Jon's cuff.

Jon rolled his eyes. "I'd keep looking for the Maester at the Wall."

"Daerion? Daemon?" prodded Arya, sitting up and swinging her legs down so her feet were on the floor.

"Do I look like a Daemon?" asked an aghast Jon, pointing at himself.

Sansa grinned. "You are technically a Blackfyre to these people..."

"Jaehaerys? Another good king?" suggested Arya. "It starts with a 'J', too... Easier to remember

when spelling it with all those 'ae's. You just need to remember it's double here." Jon glared. "Fuck you, Arya."

This caused Arya to laugh loudly, rocking back in her seat. "Ooo, that's definitely your Targaryen side coming out now, Jon! No thanks, I'm not interested in fucking my brother."

Jon ground his teeth in annoyance, turning away from his little sister to look at his reflection in the glass.

"But really," asked Sansa in a serious tone, her blue eyes focused on him. "Are you going to proclaim yourself as a Targaryen?"

Jon shrugged. "I still haven't really decided... I am a Targaryen, we know that. But I'm also a Stark. And to some people out there, I'm a Blackfyre. I really don't think my surname should matter."

"I don't think it does," replied Arya loyally. "Rhaella's already moved heaven and earth for Jon to be on the throne – Gods know she's ready to be done with it since it brought her nothing but pain and she's seeing this as an escape – and no one has really protested against Jon's crowning."

"Well..." Sansa trailed off, looking apologetically at Jon.

He groaned. "You don't have to say it – I know –"

Eye gleaming with the interest in gossip she hadn't heard, Arya leaned forward. "Oh, do tell!"

"Jon Connington has loudly proclaimed his loyalty – his, erm, undying loyalty, that is – to Prince Rhaegar," answered Sansa, biting her lip when her eyes glanced at Jon.

Arya frowned. "Isn't Connington... well, there were rumours –"

"Aye," rumbled Jon, reaching up to awkwardly rub at the bridge of his nose. "That's the one you're thinking of."

"Oh." Arya paused, and then let out an exaggerated, "Ooooooh – him!"

Nothing else further was said, despite the toothy grin and wiggling eyebrows Arya kept sending to Jon, who did his best to ignore her as Sansa resumed her fussing. A few minutes later, a Septon ducked his head into the room with a wide-eyed look and stuttered, "We're ready, Your Grace."

"Very well," replied Jon. The Septon ducked back out, and Jon took the moment to turn to his sisters for one last look before everything changed.

He held out his arms and asked, "How do I look?"

Arya and Sansa exchanged a look. Then Sansa turned back to him and said, in a teary, wobbly voice, "Like Jon Snow."

Feeling a lump in his throat, Jon cleared his throat and tried to answer, but his own voice was a bit thick. "Good."

The coronation feast began tersely, with the court and nobles alike careful at how loud they laughed, how long their eyes lingered on Jon, sitting at the head table with Rhaella on one side and Sansa on the other.

Was this how his reign would be remembered? wondered Jon with a mental grimace. Brandon, several seats down on his right (Sansa, Arya, Rickard, then Brandon, with Lyanna and then Ned – despite the order, Lyanna needed to be bracketed to be kept track of, to the girl's utter annoyance), must have caught something on Jon's face when he leaned forward to speak to Ethan Glover, who had come up to the head table. Somehow, his uncle had known what was going through Jon's mind and decided to do something about it. His chair made a loud scraping noise as he pushed it back, and it caught everyone's attention. Once all eyes were on him, Jon witnessed his uncle in his element, the gregarious charmer that Ned briefly spoke of.

"Ladies, gentlemen, good sers, and our beautiful Princesses," he began grandly, sweeping his nearly full goblet of wine around as he gestured to each as he spoke. He then looked at Jon, and mocked, "Oh, and our new King, I suppose. Him, too."

There were some nervous titters, and Jon groaned loudly, making sure to exaggerate his eye roll so that it was caught by those watching.

"I know it's not customary for the family to speak at such a momentous occasion, but I feel it only right to toast our new King," the eldest Stark continued. Dutifully, everyone in the grand hall raised their own drinks for the toast. "Especially, as you know, I was a guest of our previous king. The accommodations have greatly improved."

Arya, in the process of eating, choked loudly on her food.

"I would like to take the time to now speak of my cousin, who you all know now as King Jon the First," said Brandon. He added, with a cheeky grin and wink, "Given the temperament of King Aerys, at least we know Jon's moniker will never be 'Jon the Worst.'"

Someone in the hall gave a startled, but loud laugh at that, and then promptly slammed their hand over their mouth to stop the loud noise.

Rickard stared at Brandon in horror.

Brandon turned to Jon. "Could you imagine, cousin? Bard's all over would be singing: 'Our king's known as Jon the First / He'll never be known as Jon the Worst / That title goes to Aerys, who's now a ghost / A pox on that fiery king of Westeros!'"

Jon didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Beside him, Sansa was staring out at the crowd, desperately pretending Brandon didn't exist as she daintily cut her meat into equal size morsels. On his other side, Rhaella's mouth had curled up into a tiny smirk, but when Jon glanced at her, she quickly wiped it from her face and stared down at her plate.

"Since our good King Jon the First is such an amazing, wonderful man, I'm sure he wouldn't mind embarrassing him with some stories of us growing up."

The crowd seemed eager to learn more about their mysterious new king, some people already calling out support or cries of encouragement – not that Brandon needed it. Since Jon made no move to stop his uncle, Brandon seemed to also take that encouragement held his hands out to quiet the crowd.

"Yes, yes, I am sure you are all eager for these stories," he soothed. "Like that time King Jon held

off twenty Wildlings at once to rescue the fair lady Maege Mormont—"

Ned looked like he was going to be sick, and Elia, on Rhaella's side, was watching Brandon with fascination, hanging onto his every word. Viserys, next to Elia, had a wide-eyed look to him at the head table. The six-year-old kept moving his violet eyes between Brandon's lofty tale to Jon's long-suffering face, as though he was wondering when Jon would leap to his feet and call for the Kingsguard to arrest Brandon or for a pyre to be built.

Of course, behind Jon, not that he could see, Lewyn and Jaime were struggling to keep straight faces. Only Barristan seemed to manage.

"—Our virginal King bravely fought off the advances of the Lyseni women in the pleasure house, for he only wished for a place to hide—"

"—The brave, daring, King Jon had merely his brains and a rock in which to fight off the mighty creatures of Sothoryos. His curious quest to Gogossos may have spelled his doom, but NAY! Our king is too smart, too strong, to be taken down by strange, otherworldly creatures—"

"—Escaped from Gogossos to Valyria, finding dragon eggs but having no wish to disturb his powerful ancestors and their final resting place—"

"—Learned the magics of our world from the shadowbinders in Asshai, barely escaping the priests and the priestesses with their terrible blood magic—"

"—Eaten by a whale in the Ibbenese Sea, only to burst through its belly, covered in blood and guts. But did he keep the spoils of his hunt? No, our king gave the whale oil and blubber to the Ibbenese for free, wishing nothing from them except passage on their ships back to Westeros..."

Brandon's tale, over the top and beyond ludicrous, went on for the better part of an hour. By the time he was done, Jon's face was red, and he had slouched so far down only his forehead was showing over the table's edge. Arya was howling with laughter, tears running down her cheeks as she slapped at the tabletop, along with a good portion of the crowd, while the rest of the women were staring at Jon longingly, especially if they were unmarried.

"He's doing you a favour," murmured Rhaella, mirth in her voice.

"I'll kill him," swore Jon instead, barely moving his mouth - he clearly hoped that if he didn't move, if he was as still as a rock, people would forget he was at the head table.

Rhaella looked down at Jon, nearly on the floor under the table and hidden by the long bolts of cloth. "Really? What a shame. I had hoped he would elaborate for me further on your being born in a cabbage patch on the full moon during a snowstorm..."

"Rhaella!" whined Jon.

"Oh, get up, Jon, he's done," muttered Sansa, aimlessly kicking out with her slippered foot and

catching Jon on the chin. "Ow! Sansa!"

Despite that, he dutifully listened to Rhaella and Sansa and sat back properly in his seat, glancing over at Brandon who finished with a bow. He turned to Jon, a grin on his face and a warm flush, holding his goblet aloft.

"To our good King Jon, the First of his name!" cried Brandon jovially.

"To King Jon!" the crowd in the hall shouted back, toasting him.

Jon raised his goblet in return, standing to address his uncle. With a very dry look, he began, "Yes, thank you for that... highly elaborate and detailed – as well as fictitious – account of my life, Lord Brandon." Jon paused, and for a moment, Brandon looked worried. "I do believe it was twenty-four Wildlings."

The hall laughed, and Brandon's face smoothed in relief, and the two shared a look. Jon then turned back to those who had seen him sworn in as the next King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

"You'll come to learn that I don't make very long, flowery speeches," he continued, "So, with that in mind: eat, drink, and enjoy!"

The crowd cheered their support and Jon sat. For a long moment, he basked in the cheerful setting, the knowledge that they had changed time, had kept people from dying, and Jon was able to save Westeros from a far greater danger.

He just needed everyone else to come aboard, now; and with that, he turned speculative eyes toward his grandfather – who knew they were from the future, who knew who they were, to some degree – and thought it's time.

Jon called Rickard and Brandon to his private rooms in the royal wing the afternoon after the coronation feast. Rickard had some idea what it might be about but kept his face blank. Brandon was still coming off the massive hangover he had but was now walking in a straight line even if he squinted a lot and made sure to take a seat in a shadowy recess of the room, much to Jon and Sansa's amusement.

Ned and Lyanna invited themselves along to the Stark family meeting, despite Jon's wariness at including them in his plans; ultimately, Sansa convinced him that the more people he had backing him in different parts of Westeros, the easier it would be to unite the people.

Jon did his best to make the meeting feel informal, so he had abandoned his desk and instead met the Stark family in a room filled with lounge chaises, armchairs, and futons, to give the appearance of comfort and security over anything fastidious or formal. Despite that, Rickard gave a tiny bow upon entering, which Brandon barely managed to copy without losing his footing; Ned's bow was deeper in respect, and Lyanna gave a tiny sketch of a curtsey that had Sansa's mouth curl. Their direwolves followed behind – it seemed the mother direwolf had taken to Lyanna and was mothering her, physically nudging the girl, or standing between her and the door when Lyanna glanced longingly at it.

Nymeria, Lady, and Ghost all greeted their littermates and the wolves ended up a multicolour pile in a sunbeam near the balcony, with everyone watching them fondly as the father of the pups joined them while the mother sat by the door (with Lewyn on the other side).

"Now that we're all here," began Jon, "We can discuss a serious issue that the North will be facing."

Rickard and Ned sat up straight at that, but the younger was the one who spoke. "What kind of issue? Have you heard of the Wildlings planning a massive attack?"

"It's related." Jon and Sansa shared a look while Arya remained where she was, near Brandon in the shadows of the room. Jon turned back to Rickard and Ned, on the same couch with Lyanna

between them. With a solemn look, Jon said, "Winter is Coming, and we Starks know what that means."

Brandon scoffed from where he was, slouched in his chair. "Winter is always coming."

Jon stared hard at him. "Not this kind of winter."

Slowly, Brandon flushed and eventually darted his eyes away.

"You're... japing. Aren't you?" asked Ned, eyes wide and face pale. "They're not – the Others aren't – they're not real!"

Sansa shook her head. "It's all true. They're real. And slowly amassing their army of the undead, one free folk at a time, with each village they wipe out and then they move on to the next. Slowly, relentlessly."

The Stark children turned as one to look at their father, but Rickard sighed and looked down, in confirmation. The lines on his face had deepened, and the grim look on his face lengthened his face. With the stress he experienced the last few months, Rickard Stark looked like he had aged decades; no longer a man of forty-seven. Even his dark hair had far more silver in it.

"They speak the truth, children. Winter is Coming, and we..." Rickard sighed again, mouth pulled tight. "We must prepare."

For once, Lyanna was a wide-eyed girl thinking of something other than herself. "How?" she whispered, reaching out a hand to tightly clasp onto her father's. Rickard calmly placed his other hand on top of theirs, holding tight to his daughter.

"Start planting more crops, for one," began Sansa, who had run the numbers in Jon's absence in their future and ran Winterfell. "Trade more with places that have longer summers and longer crop yields. Increase non-perishable storage. Make a deal with Dragonstone for dragonglass—"

"I've already spoken to Rhaella about it," interrupted Jon calmly. "She's agreed to the trade." "Oh." Sansa paused and blinked. "Good."

"The North is different to everyone else," said Brandon heavily, leaning forward in his chair and holding his head in his hands. "Our bannermen will believe, or, even if they don't, they'll go along with it. But the Southerners?"

"I know," agreed Jon. He looked very serious, kingly. "Which is why we need to convince the other kingdoms that we speak the truth of the matter."

"How would you do that?" asked Ned.

Jon and Rickard shared a glance. The eldest Stark in the room cleared his throat uncomfortably, and as everyone looked at him, he said, "With what I had been planning. Marriage alliances."

"But...! Marriage?" cried Lyanna, ripping her hand from her father's. She stared at him, betrayed.

"Steffon Baratheon and Hoster Tully and I had been planning to ally our houses in marriage because with three Great Houses, plus Ned and Robert's fostering in the Vale, it meant four of the seven kingdoms would have been one power bloc," explained Rickard, and for the first time, all his children with him stared at him, as they had never seen their father before. "It was meant to help consolidate power behind Rhaegar when he, eventually, would call for a Great Council to vote

Aerys off the throne."

"Well, that turned out well!" spat Brandon. He waved a hand at Jon. "All that for nothing since our new king managed just fine without a marriage alliance!"

"Oh, that's cute if you think Jon is getting out from a political marriage," laughed Sansa. Jon made a face. "We're bringing this up because we need to go through with those original terms. The more family that is married into the other kingdoms means the Starks have more control and can create a solid support base."

"With no proof!"

Jon shook his head. "I can get the proof. I know where to find wights and who to speak to, to do that."

Sansa and Arya shot Jon dirty looks. "No running off north of the wall again, Jon," admonished Sansa, even going so far as to wag a finger at him. "You can leave it to Arya. She'll contact the Night's Watch and find Tormund."

"Who's Tormund?" whispered Lyanna to Ned.

"So, despite our cousin on the throne, I'm still going to have to marry that fish?" Brandon's teeth were grinding.

Sansa and Arya shot the young man dirty looks. Jon, rightfully sensing things could go wrong, fast, interrupted. "Yes. Just like Lyanna will still marry Robert – if he still agrees, of course. She did run away with a married man."

Lyanna sneered. "I am already married; I can't marry someone else."

"We can easily say you were married under duress." There was something hard in Sansa's voice when she spoke, quietly and confidently. It drew everyone's attention to her as she stared at Lyanna. "We can also denounce the marriage because Rhaegar was already married, in the eyes of the Seven, and the High Septon hasn't agreed to reinstate polygamy for the Targaryens."

Lyanna's thick swallow was audible in the quiet of the room.

"There are ways around your stupidity, Lyanna," finished Sansa. "And if none of those work, I

plan on throwing coin at enough people until it does."

The only noise in the room was the ambient sounds from beyond, barely breaching the coziness of the inner royal apartments in the Red Keep: some distant shouts or clangs of armour, the background hum of a market crowd, the noises of servants moving around.

"Ignoring that you have issues against Robert Baratheon at this moment," continued Arya blithely, "You're not the only one getting married for the greater good of Westeros."

While Lyanna remained scowling, and Brandon had turned a sickly green, Jon turned to Sansa, who merely looked resigned.

"San—"

"I know. I knew this was coming." She sighed, bracing herself. "Who were you thinking?"

Jon swallowed. "Elia and I were talking – we both think Oberyn Martell..." he rushed to add: "But

not for a year or so, so you can get to know one another." "Very well."

"And Arya?" asked Rickard, carefully.

Jon and Arya shared a glance, and Jon knew he would have to say something so Sansa didn't think he was playing favourites with his siblings. "We've already spoken. Arya's going to be going on a long-term mission for me. Her... skillset... allows for her to travel, unhindered."

"I have my eye on someone," said Arya simply. "We'll see if it works out."

Jon cringed, not wanting to think about that.

"Benjen?" asked Brandon, bitterly.

"I believe he's interested in joining the Night's Watch?" asked Jon carefully, looking at the Stark siblings.

Rickard's mouth turned into a frown. "If he is, he has not informed me."

"Well, he can do that," offered Jon, "Or he can marry into a house. He has a few more options than the rest of us."

"And... and me?"

Everyone turned to the quiet, trembling voice. Ned sat, spine straight and still despite the pale quality to his face and the way he was breathing a bit quicker.

Jon's eyes narrowed on his father. This was trickier: Jon, Sansa, and Arya had discussed Ned's position numerous times and had failed to come up with a solution. It stemmed from the idea of whether there were any truths to the rumours of him and Ashara Dayne: if there were, marrying Ned into the Dayne house would mean that his concept of honour and family, especially toward the new King's Stark heritage, would translate to him telling them if Arthur was making any moves with Rhaegar.

If the Ashara/Ned rumours were just that and in truth it was Brandon – well, the Reach needed Stark representation and he could marry into a house there. Janna Tyrell was a possibility, Sansa suggested; or Alysanne or Lynesse Hightower. Both families were already tied together through Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower, so it would bring the Reach into the Stark fold, easily (one just had to keep their eyes out for Olenna Tyrell).

The Stark children were all bitter and silent – despite Jon not answering Ned's question – and Rickard was going to go along with whatever they suggested. But Jon, and Sansa and Arya, knew that they needed alliances, ties to all the other kingdoms to unite Westeros against the Others to beat back the Long Night.

"Just how do you know all this anyway?" grumbled Brandon. His eyes were lingering suspiciously on Jon. Unlike Ned, he hadn't questioned the appearance of three new cousins, in the story that Rickard had concocted, and in the wake of Jon saving his life... but it was clear he was beginning to suspect something was up.

Jon looked around the room, a little bit lost in his expression as he tried to beat back the images of his life as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the mutiny, the Great Ranging, and the horror- show that was Hardhome.

"I have seen it. I have lived it."

The words were pulled from Jon. Brandon, chastised, lowered his eyes.

"So... that's it then?" asked Ned, looking around the room after it fell into silence.

"Aye," sighed Rickard. "Plans continue and now we have the King's knowledge of what our true enemy is, and how we can prepare to fight them."

Lyanna and Brandon still looked skeptical, but both seemed more pressed with their upcoming marriages than potentially mythical Others and the undead.

"As my family, I wanted to give you advanced notice," stressed Jon, looking at them all to hold their eyes for a moment. "But from here on out, everything I do – it's for the people of Westeros. I only wish to fight for the living, to give us all a chance. And for that, I need all of you."

"Of course, Your Grace," answered Ned immediately, and Rickard made his own noise of agreement. Lyanna and Brandon mumbled, but it was there.

Jon took it as it was – he knew those two would be the largest pains, but... they'd learn. Eventually... everyone would learn what they were up against, and either join and fight – or not, and would die. There were no other options, not if they wanted to win. And Jon wouldn't let Bran's sacrifice be in vain.

And if it was? Well, he'd find Bloodraven and beg him to send him back – or train him enough to send him back – and he'd do it all over again, until he got it right.

TBC...