XIV.

Harrenhal was never quiet. Even in the middle of the night, furnaces burned and fire crackled, the ringing of hammers against steel and the rasp of a saw against wood was constantly in concert with one another, just as it never fully darkened in certain areas of the sprawling castle.

During the day, it was even busier, with people rushing around in addition to the tradespeople continuing their work – but now against the backdrop of clanging steel, shouted orders, and the thunder of hooves as horses and riders were trained in manoeuvres.

Jon rode under the repaired barbican portcullis into the large grounds between the outer and inner walls. This was where the infamous tourney of Harrenhal had taken place, the expansive land adjacent to the God's Eye able to host and raise the pavilions for the jousts and melees as well as host the numerous tents drawn to the event.

As his horse plodded against compact dirt, it kept at an easy trot with Edwyn beside him on his left and the Blackfish on his other side, peering consideringly around at the organized chaos that was several blacksmiths, tanners, carpenters, and other trades as they toiled away. Both Ghost and Honour were along with their companion's horses, Ghost nearly the same size as the horse and Honour at least half that. Behind them, Barristan and Ser Ethan Glover rode as his kingsguard, along with Ser Hector and Ser Tytos, leaving the Silveraxe, Corbray, and Lewyn behind to guard Cersei and the children.

"How much has been repaired?" asked Jon to the Blackfish as they finally reach the soot-stained gatehouse at the inner wall and under another repaired portcullis. Above, three flags were proudly displayed: the Targaryen three-headed dragon; the Whent bats; and a new design, a silver shield and helm against a black backdrop. The guards stationed outside dipped their heads as they rode past in acknowledgement.

"Not much, compared to the sprawling size that is Harrenhal," answered the Blackfish gruffly. "But a decent amount given how many men are trained here before receiving their marching orders. We've repaired one of the keeps, the stables, and repurposed a few other buildings as a

servant's kitchen and bathhouse. The men have been working on the parapets recently, getting the ones near the keep and used buildings in working order."

As they entered the first of many baileys – this was known as the low bailey – they were greeted by several men in an assortment of armour, weapon, ages and colour, standing in line to greet the king and Blackfish.

Not quite coordinated, but with an attempt made, the men genuflected, their heads bowed as Jon dismounted, walking with the Blackfish. One of the men glanced up to see how far they were and said, clearly, "Your Grace. Harrenhal is yours; we bid you welcome."

"Rise, Ser Vardis," said Jon, recognizing the man from the dossier the Blackfish had given him before they left King's Landing. "I thank you for your hospitality and am eager to see the men you deem ready to move to their new placements."

"The men are looking forward to it," Vardis Egen replied and stood, the men with him also doing so. He was a stocky man with a plain, square face and silver shot through his blondish hair, in his house's colours.

"Your Grace," began the Blackfish, moving down the line as he introduced each man, a captain from each kingdom under his purview to train second, third, fourth sons; peasants looking for something other than sowing the fields; or bastard children born in Flea Bottom looking to claw their way out.

Ser Robert Brax – a knight in his mid-twenties from the Westerlands, with dirty brown hair and pockmarks on his face but an easy grin.

Sigurd Harlaw – the younger son of Rodrik "The Reader" Harlaw from the Iron Islands; a nervous- looking younger man, lean and still growing into his gangly arms but bearing two swords at either hip.

Ser Bryan Fossoway – a Reach knight, confident with an arrogant tilt to his blunt chin, and far too good looking for the dreary Harrenhal.

Todd Blackmyre – the smallest of them all, a slight, short crannogman from the Neck and dressed in a patchwork of brown and green layered trousers and tunics. He was also the lightest armed, in just leathers, but instead of a sword had a bow slung over his back as his preferred weapon.

Ser Alesander Staedmon – a lean, black-haired knight from the Stormlands who shared Robert Baratheon's blue eyes but not his hair, as his was thin with a terrible combover to hide a growing bald patch of muddy brown.

Ser Robin Ryger – a big, bald, and ageing barrel-chested knight from the Riverlands with a stern expression that pulled his lips into a permanent scowl.

And finally, Ser Myles Manwoody – a Stony Dornishman with pale blond hair, green eyes and freckled all over. He was tall, pale, and solemn-faced for a relatively young knight.

"Each man, a captain here at Harrenhal, has earned their position and helped me train noodle- armed boys into soldiers," guffawed the Blackfish with a gleam in his eyes. "Unless they are the son of a Lord, they won't be knights without earning it proper-like, but the lads are a good sort, tough and dedicated, Your Grace. They're taught chivalry and weaponry by some of the best in the realm."

"Gentlemen," greeted Jon when the Blackfish finished, gesturing to the boy who trailed with him

down the line. "My son, the crown prince Edwyn Targaryen." "My Prince," the men repeated in a murmur.

Jon, uncomfortable with the attention but well used to it, pressed his lips together in an awkward quirk of lips – not quite a smile or a grimace. "Shall we continue? I wish to see the changes the money the Iron Bank loaned me has brought."

Edwyn handled the tour well, eyes agog at the soldiers broken into training groups across several usable baileys, where they practiced their swordplay in mock melees or the larger bailey that had been transformed into a jousting ring where they trained a calvary. Others practiced archery, and a few, a small number, were involved in hand-to-hand combat techniques.

Eventually, the Blackfish showed Jon and his son, as well as the kingsguard, to their rooms in a separate tower near the larger keep (used as barracks). The rooms were nice, away from the noise despite the background hum of it, and well-furnished with items from Lady Whent's collection.

"The Arms' Tower, as the lads call it," explained the Blackfish. "It's where I reside, as well as our maester and any guests. Lady Whent has her own keep elsewhere in one of the outer wall towers, and er, Oswell remains with her there. He doesn't enter the inner wall at all."

"Does he ever show?" asked Barristan curiously, his feelings still complicated toward his old brother who had joined Rhaegar and then left him.

The Blackfish shook his head. "Self-exile, as far as I heard it."

"I'll drop in on Lady Whent later," said Jon, thinking out loud, "And perhaps I'll see him then. In the meantime, the presentation of the men will be tomorrow, midday?"

"Yes, Your Grace," agreed the Blackfish. "Between now and then, feel free to walk around and speak to the lads, should you wish. They won't mind the interruption – right now they're just keeping busy before they learn their placements after the presentation and before the feast."

The Blackfish left, and Jon moved to the desk in the solar, Ghost sniffing at a rug before flopping on it and yawning. There were a few final changes he wanted to be made for his speech and time to practice.

"Father, can I look around?" Edwyn asked, staring up at Jon imploringly. "Please?"

"Take Honour with you, of course," replied Jon. "And any of the two kingsguard who wish to go with you."

"I'll take him, Your Grace," offered Ethan, and Hector nodded.

"Bring him back before the evening bell for dinner, Ser Ethan, Ser Hector," instructed Jon, rolling his shoulders back and cracking them. "And Ser Barristan, please don't let me forget to eat, either."

The Lord Commander suppressed a smile. "I shall endeavour not to, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Father!" Edwyn launched forward and hugged Jon around the middle, and then just as quickly rushed out with Honour on his heels and an exasperated Ethan and Hector already plodding quickly along after him, Ethan shouting for him to slow down.

Jon shook his head as he went to the desk. At least one of them was going to have fun...

Jon's speech and the presentation of the men had gone well, with them showing off the skills they learned over the course of three years under the Blackfish's, and his captain's, tutelage. They were better prepared than the first cohort the Blackfish had been given six years earlier – a paltry number of men that had gone through initial training under Alliser Thorne with the City Watch before being moved to the Blackfish's purview. Yet, those men had earned their merits with their placements across Westeros, where they were sent for another year of specialized training in either Dorne, the North, the Westerlands, or Driftmark and the Wall as support for the Night's Watch.

These new soldiers would do the same, bolstering the sailors and fleet at Driftmark, or the calvary in the Westerlands, or to the Wall alongside the Company of the Rose in the North, or to become pikemen in Dorne. A select few were returning to King's Landing with Jon to join the City Watch.

The party made good time, stopping at Sow's Horn after a hard first day and a half ride south on the King's Road; Ghost and Honour remained outside the castle in the nearby woods. The Lord of Sow's Horn greeted them alongside their castellan, Lord Harrald Hogg and his brother Roger Hogg. Roger was a tall, imposing man, with an impressive set of greying muttonchops on his cheeks, while his brother, the Lord, was leaner and had bushy eyebrows as opposed to facial hair. With them was a scowling man, with muddy brown hair and a belligerent glint in his eyes. Lord Hogg did not introduce the man, instead showing Jon, his son, and the kingsguard to rooms to freshen up and stay for the night before continuing to Hayford Castle.

The scowling man made himself known during the feast that evening, outpacing the older knights in their drinks, quickly turning his face red and raising his voice over the noise the musicians made as he tried speaking to an increasingly distraught Lord Hogg.

"—just sayin', Hal, it's not right," he slurred, glaring at Jon several seats down from him, on Lord Hogg's right side at the high table in a position of honour.

"Myles—" Roger Hogg tried to shush the man.

"He doesn't even look like a dragon! Doesn't look like the true king!"

Harrald Hogg leaned around his wife and hissed, "Shut your mouth, Mooton, for the God's sake!"

At Jon's elbow, Edwyn frowned and leaned forward to peer down the table. He turned back to his father and whispered, "Who's that?"

"Myles Mooton," replied Jon, watching the man carefully from the corner of his eye as he tried to look unaffected, cutting into his meal. "He squired for Rhaegar Targaryen."

Edwyn's eyes went wide. "Lord Viserys' older brother? The exiled prince?"

Jon nodded, tersely. Behind him, Ethan – who along with Barristan decided to be Jon and Edwyn's guards during the meal – inched forward. Jon could hear his armour shifting and the creak of leather around his hilt. Without looking, Jon knew the Northman was glaring at Mooton.

"Who does he think he is, Rog? Sittin' there in a place of honour. Ha! It should be Rhaegar," the man's voice trailed off into morose melancholy. "It should've been Rhaegar..."

"You're drunk, Myles." Roger sighed and scraped his chair back when he stood, hauling the teary- eyed man to his unsteady feet. "My apologies, Your Grace, Prince Edwyn. I'll take Mooton here to sober up and his bed."

"Thank you, Ser Roger," replied Jon, inclining his head in thanks as well.

Harrald, his face beet-red, turned partially to Jon and wrung his hands. "My King – I am – appalled by Lord Mooton's words – I am truly sorry – I had no idea – truly, Your Grace, none at all—"

"It's fine, Lord Hogg," said Jon, trying to wave the man off.

Ethan snorted, and Jon turned enough to shoot the man a glare over his shoulder.

"Your Grace..." Hogg trailed off miserably, almost in tears as his hand-wringing intensified. His face went from red to white. "Please, Your Grace – I am your loyal servant – Mooton is a friend, but not a close one, not anymore—"

Jon frowned. "Lord Hogg, do you think I will judge you poorly for the company you keep?"

The Lord of Sow's Horn swallowed thickly. "I... I am unsure, Your Grace. The previous king—"

Jon violently pushed down on the fury he felt that rose, hot and fast. He found himself almost drawing his lips back in a snarl, and only visibly struggled for a moment to contain himself. He took a deep breath and then said calmly, but very, very firmly, "I am not Aerys, Lord Hogg."

"I – I know, Your Grace, truly, I do—"

"Then do not presume that I would act as slighted as that man would have been," snapped Jon with a bit more heat than he intended. "For I am not him, and I like to think that my actions and policies these past ten years have shown that."

Abashed, and now white-faced, Hogg looked at the tabletop. "I... yes, Your Grace."

The remnants of the last morsel Jon had on his tongue now tasted like ash. No longer hungry, he forced a smile on his face and said, "I find my appetite has left me, Lord Hogg. There is much on my mind and I find myself needing to retire."

"Oh, of course, Your Grace—"

Jon stood, glancing at Barristan and Ethan. "Ser Barristan, would you accompany me? Ser Ethan, remain with Edwyn should he wish to stay."

The two kingsguard nodded, but Edwyn jumped to his feet and said, "I'll join you, Father," and trotted after him, leaving a much-subdued hall behind.

The two were quiet as they left the hall, moving down the short hallway until the winding stairs to climb the tower keep they had been shown to; after a few moments, Edwyn asked, "Why would Lord Mooton say those things?"

Jon grimaced. "He was drunk, Ed."

"You always say that a drunken man's loose tongue loosens his true thoughts," argued Edwyn, eyes narrowed. He lowered his chin and set a challenging stare against his father, looking eerily like Jon did when he was angrily brooding.

"Aye... I do," Jon finally replied, grimacing, and looking forward down the hall instead of at his son.

When he failed to add anything else, Edwyn channelled his younger siblings and drawled, "Soooooo?" in a voice that was ridiculously like Cersei's when she and Tyrion were baiting one another.

"Soooo," drawled Jon in response, mimicking Edwyn; his son giggled. "So, some people believe that I should not be king."

Edwyn gasped. "But you're the rightful king—" "Am I?"

Edwyn stopped, and behind him following at a respectful distance, Barristan and Ethan did as well. Ethan's face showed his concern, but Barristan had mastered a carefully blank face in his years of service under Aerys.

"Father... you're the king," began Edwyn, confused. Jon turned on his heel, facing his son. "No one else should be."

Jon stepped toward Edwyn and knelt, one knee on the floor. "How did I become king, Ed?"

Edwyn blinked. "I – uh – you... were crowned by the previous queen, auntie Rhae—um, I mean, Lady Rhaella."

"And what does that mean? Why would Rhaella crown me?"

Edwyn's face scrunched up. "Because she's family and you were next in line for the throne. That's how it works."

When Jon didn't say anything, Edwyn glanced at Ethan and Barristan for confirmation; Ethan grimaced, and Barristan slowly shook his head. Edwyn's head whipped back to his father, eyes wide and mouth open. "Are we – is auntie Rhaella not our family?"

In a perfect world, I'd tell you that she's your grandmother, thought Jon, his shoulders slumping. But in this world, I can't. The most you have is calling her 'aunt' when she's so much more.

"She is not."

Edwyn reeled back. "You're – you weren't next in line?" Jon slowly shook his head. "I was not."

"But—"

"Rhaegar was," continued Jon, quietly, carefully. "He is Rhaella's son. He and Viserys were Targaryen princes, but their father made a wager with Lord Stark and I presented myself as Rickard's champion in the fight."

"You won by conquest?" gaped Edwyn.

"I did," confirmed Jon. His knee was starting to ache – when did he get so old? "Thrice over. I beat

Aerys' champion of fire first—"

"Fire cannot harm a dragon," interrupted Edwyn with a contemplative murmur.

Jon inclined his head. "Just so. And when he began screaming about Blackfyres and usurpers, I fought a bladed duel against his champion, Ser Gerold Hightower, and won. And when that still did not enough for Aerys, fate intervened, and he died on my sword."

"You killed the king?" Edwyn whispered, horrified at the idea of his father a kingslayer. Thank the Gods he doesn't realize I'm an accidental kinslayer, thought Jon, although I'll gladly take being

cursed by the Gods if it means being rid of Aerys Targaryen.

"Accidentally," defended Jon with a cringe. "He fell on my sword. I certainly didn't seek his death."

Ethan snorted and then mumbled, "Apologies, Your Grace," when Jon glared at him, but he did continue with a shrug, "but I won't apologize for being glad the Mad King is dead, given he had me in his dungeon at the time."

Eyes wide, Edwyn looked between the three men in the abandoned corridor toward their rooms. "Maester Marwyn, Septa Ferrera, they... they never taught us this."

"No, I imagine they wish to keep things, er, clean," replied Jon, slowly standing, and hearing his knee crack as he did so. "So that you don't look at me with disappointment."

Startled Edwyn blurted, "Never!"

Jon huffed a tiny laugh. "I'm glad to know that. But the truth is, there are those out there – like Myles Mooton – who believe that Rhaegar should be king and not I."

They began walking again, slowly.

Eventually, Edwyn said, "But... we're Targaryens too, Father. Aren't we?" Finally, a truth I can give. "Aye... we are."

They came to a stop outside Edwyn's rooms, with Hector standing by the door, watching them in confusion as they approached. Ser Tytos stood just further down, by Jon's door, watching curiously as well.

"But, Ed, what you need to remember," began Jon, stopping and placing his hands on his son's shoulders, "Is that we're not just Targaryens. We have Stark blood in our veins, as well. And you have Lannister blood. We are more than just one bloodline."

Edwyn's brows furrowed as he thought.

"We are more than our name," finished Jon. "We are our deeds and actions; we are how we treat others around us. That determines true worth and true kingliness, in my mind, at least. Now." He let his hands drop, nodding at Hector to open the door. "Sleep well, Edwyn."

Leaving the boy with much to think on, Edwyn nodded and muttered, "Goodnight, Father," and entered the room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

"Well said, Your Grace," murmured Barristan, behind him.

Tiredly, Jon rubbed at his forehead. "Pretty words, but words are wind, Ser Barristan. Words are wind, and we are but kings or fools... and sometimes, I wonder which I am."

With those final words, he turned and entered his own rooms, leaving a rather quiet and solemn kingsguard behind him.

Jon stifled a yawn, waving off Oakheart as he entered his private solar. Before he left, the kingsguard cut him a tiny side-eye, quirking an eyebrow. "Burning the late candle, tonight, Your Grace?"

Jon stifled another yawn. "Only for a bit, Ser Hector," he managed to mumble through. "Then I'll retire."

"Very good, Your Grace."

Jon shut the door behind him, once the kingsguard had cleared the room. Jon spent that time lighting the tapers, including the three on his desk. The windows were shuttered and there was a chill in the room from being unused.

Thinking that if he sat, he'd fall asleep, Jon pushed his chair back and instead stood over the desk, shuffling through correspondence and updates. The graduates from Harrenhal had all departed on their marching orders; another payment had gone to the Iron Bank; the last of the new sewage system in King's Landing – under Tyrion's purview – was complete and they could finally begin working on redeveloping Flea Bottom.

Jon blinked, the words beginning to blur. He drew his eyes away from the letters and saw the flame on one of the candles on his desk flicker and then bend in an invisible breeze. He blinked away, suddenly more awake as the flame returned to its upright position.

There was an awareness, one that came from years of more time with Ghost; an echo of that relationship, of being a warg; something that smelled of familiarity. With his head still bowed and a hand pressing on the letters, he felt his lips curl into a small smile.

"You're late," he called out to the quiet of the room, not looking up. "About seven years, late."

The flames jumped again and this time he looked up, directly to the far corner of the room by the hearth, which had split and was silently closing on well-oiled hinges. I'll have to look into that, he mused to himself as Arya stepped out from the shadows.

She had changed; no longer was she a young woman of nineteen but twenty-nine. Her face had filled out, losing baby fat, and lengthening instead although she still had a sharp Tully chin. Her hair was as dark as his, but curlier, and cut to just brush her shoulders. She wore black trousers tucked into high leather boots, with a grey tunic and thick leather vest that had a woven, grey- thread design. She had a matching sword belt and thin sword, like her Needle, and leather bracers on both forearms. But she was, from the top of her head to the toes of her boots, Arya.

"Sorry," she replied, unrepentantly, stepping into the small pockets of candlelight as she moved toward Jon and the desk. She paused at a side table and plucked an apple from the fruit selection. She buffed it on her clothes and bit into it.

"Are you planning on staying for some time, then?" asked Jon, watching her.

Arya nodded, moving the apple around her mouth to talk with it pressed to one cheek. "We decided it was the right time to return."

"Oh, we decided, is it?"

"Yes, we decided." Arya rolled her eyes, but then paused and looked at the floor and then Jon, and

then the floor again. "We, uh... we also lost the trail."

Jon shrugged. "I expected you to lose the trail about three years ago, to be honest. I never thought you'd be in Essos for this long."

"Well," began Arya thoughtfully, biting into the apple again, "Gerion had itchy feet and wanted to continue sailing, and Jaime thought it might be fun when he realized I wasn't heading back to

King's Landing."

"Oh, I heard all about his decision to remain," said Jon with a sigh, thinking back to his goodfather's rants. He stared hard at his sister. "Lord Tywin expressed very clearly his thoughts regarding his son remaining behind to hunt Rhaegar Targaryen."

Arya grinned, not even trying to hide it.

Jon took a step back and sat in his discarded chair. "So, what has my dear, old, father been up to?"

"First tracked him down to Pentos, after the Iron Bank," reported Arya, hooking her ankle around a chair in front of his desk and dragging it closer. She then sat heavily in it, kicking one leg up over the arm and continuing to take bites from her apple. "He has a manse there, with whatever money he managed to take with him, or he dug up from whatever holes he had. Once he settled, he made friends with someone we're both familiar with."

"Mopatis," groaned Jon, reaching up and rubbing at his temples.

"Mmhmm," agreed Arya. "He introduced Rhaegar to the other Magisters. Rhaegar didn't suffer too much in exile; he was invited to dine with much of the nobility nightly. He wore out his welcome about two years later."

"Any particular reason?"

Arya shook her head. "No, just decided to move on, from what we gleaned."

"And they went where next?"

"Travelling for a bit before deciding on Myr. They were aimless; there's some tension between Connington, Dayne, and Darry," his sister answered, looking at the remaining core of her apple.

Jon's eyes darted to a discarded plate, and Arya took the hint, depositing it there.

"They met with a few sellsword companies," she continued, leaning back in the seat, "But didn't purchase any contracts. I think they were getting a feel for them. After that, it was Volantis."

Jon blinked. Rhaegar had travelled far. "For how long?"

"Briefly," replied Arya. "Volantis didn't agree with him. He either didn't have the right stuff for the Triarchs or at least didn't impress them."

"You'd think the tiger would've been impressed, with their old Valyarian blood." Jon shook his head.

Arya shrugged. "Well, whatever it was, they left quickly – only were there a few moons' turn. They returned to Myr, but then for some reason went into the Disputed Lands. We tried following, but I lost them."

"Why the Disputed Lands, of all places?" mused aloud Jon.

"I couldn't get a straight answer, nor could Jaime," she replied. "We waited a bit in Myr, but they never returned. That was about six months past, so we decided to give up and return."

"And, of course, you were tracking Rhaegar in between your exploits of freeing slaves from the Dothraki," finished Jon with a smirk. He then mocked with a thoughtful finger to his lips, "Or, was it the tale of the Lady Warrior and the White Knight discovering an old, Rhoynish treasure in the

Sea of Myrth? No–" he lightly slapped his hand on his thigh as he played up a thinking pose. "It was becoming patron gods on the Summer Isles."

Arya – Arya of all people! – blushed, and she slouched in the chair. "It wasn't planned..."

Jon laughed. "I doubted it. I imagine it was your White Knight who discovered some poor innocent woman or child and dragged you along for the adventure? Jaime always did have a bit of a bleeding heart."

"Yes, well..." Arya squirmed. "We helped people where we could."

"And became legends in the meantime," chuckled Jon. "My children adore the stories."

Arya sat up straight. "You've children?"

"Aye, four," he replied, looking at her. "Why?"

"Well..." She looked coy for a moment and then grinned. "Perhaps when you introduce me, you'll also mention their Uncle Jaime and cousins Willam and Josslyn?"

Jon's elbow slipped out from under him, and he barely managed to catch himself on the desk as he stared, open-mouthed, at his little sister. "You married—? And—children?"

Arya looked the tiniest bit discomforted, frowning at Jon's surprise. "Is that so difficult to imagine? I know I was never the most maternal, but it's been ten years—"

"It's not that, Arya, it's not," protested Jon firmly. "I just..." he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the hair tie that kept it off his face and in a bun. "I thought you and... and Gendry... had something...?"

Arya looked away. "That was another time. Just like you and Ygritte, or Daenerys."

"Point made." Jon cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You know, Sansa and I almost thought you'd make some eyes at Robert—"

Arya gagged, grimacing. "Jon. Please. Did you honestly think I'd go from his son to the father? Gendry looked like Robert."

Thinking back on the likeness of the blacksmith he knew and the young Stormlord now married to who was his mother in a previous time, Jon mimicked the gag. Despite being green in the face, he managed to croak out, "I'm glad you're back. And I can meet my niece and nephew. My children will be excited to meet their cousins." He paused. "They are here, are they not?"

Arya nodded. "Jaime took them to visit their grandfather. He's hoping that a secure heir for Casterly Rock will mean Tywin won't be too upset."

"Too right." Jon cringed. "He had been making noises about my second son being named heir."

"So... four children, Jon." There was a dangerous smirk on Arya's face. "I assume it's safe to say that things are working out with queen bitch Cersei?"

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "How are things working out with the no-longer a sisterfucker, Jaime, Arya?"

They stared at each other for a moment before Arya finally pulled back and muttered, "Well played, Jon, well played."

Jon snorted, rolling his eyes. As he stood from his seat, he said, "We'll plan a dinner, tomorrow evening. The entire family."

"Sounds good," replied Arya, standing as well. She began to make her way to the centre of the room, looking back between the hidden passage behind the hearth to the main door.

Jon, eyeing her, and knowing her need for intrigue was warring with her need to be a shit disturber, sighed, and said drolly, "Arya, kindly don't scare my kingsguard too much when you leave."

Permission now to go through the main door, Arya shot a grin over her shoulder at her brother. "Don't stay up too late, Jon. You'll get more wrinkles that way."

He glared as she left, self-consciously raising a hand to touch the wrinkles he knew existed at the corner of his eyes, and then looked back down at his correspondence. He sighed. A wave of tiredness washed over him, and he knew there was no way he'd be able to continue his work that evening. He followed behind Arya and opened the door, startling Ser Hector. The man twitched, violently, eyes darting from down the hall to where Arya presumably disappeared down to the solar door.

"I – Your Grace – was that—I mean, your sister—"

"Yes, Ser Hector," said Jon tiredly, "That was Arya. Being Arya."

"Erm, yes, Your Grace," the man replied. "Are... er, is anyone else inside?"

Jon smothered a grin. "No, Ser Hector. In fact, I think it's best I retire now, and you inform Ser Barristan about this situation. He's well versed with Arya appearing in strange places."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Cersei was already in their shared bed chambers – something that had been a happy surprise in their marriage – sitting at her vanity, brushing her long hair out for the evening. She spotted him entering through the expensive Myrrish mirror and whirled in her seat, green eyes wide. "Jon – Your Grace—"

Jon stopped at the entryway, staring at her. She usually said his name, not his title. Warily, he asked, "Cersei...?"

"I – were you – that, my father met with..." she trailed off. Ah, thought Jon. "Arya and Jaime have returned, yes, I know."

She continued to watch Jon, her eyes wider than normal. She swallowed and murmured, "You know?"

"Yes," he grunted, sitting on the edge of the bed, and pulling his boots off. "Arya said Jaime went straight to your father."

"He did," answered Cersei quickly. "He did, he appeared during evening afters when I was with my father and... and Tyrion."

Jon glanced up. Her relationship with Tyrion wasn't as poor as it had deteriorated in his other life, but it was still cold. "Oh?"

"Father was overjoyed to see Jaime, of course," she rushed to add, and at Jon's disbelieving face,

added, "Well, as much as Father can look overjoyed, I suppose... But Tyrion was happy to see him."

"Weren't you?"

Cersei frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. "I was...?" she finally said, pitching her voice into a question as the word trailed.

"Arya also mentioned two children..." Jon watched Cersei carefully if any jealousy or bitterness appeared.

Instead, she lit up. "Oh, yes! Willam and Josslyn. Willam is exactly like Jaime was when he was younger. And Josslyn takes after Arya in looks, although both, I am afraid to say, are all Lannister in their personality."

"What does that mean?" Jon sat up and frowned. "Actually, never mind. We're to have dinner together tomorrow as a family. I suppose I'll find out then."

"All of us? Together?" asked Cersei.

Jon nodded, peering at her. "Will that be a problem?"

"No!" she blurted, rising from her seat, and taking a step forward. Realizing what she had done, Cersei smoothed her hands down her nightgown and said, steadier, "No. Not a problem, my love."

Jon's eyebrows shot up. "My love?" he echoed. "Cee – want to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I—" her eyes darted at him and then away. She fidgeted with her gown and then put her hands at her side in fists, tilting her chin up and stared challengingly at Jon. "Nothing happened, Jon. There. I said it."

"Said what?" he asked, confused. "What didn't happen?"

Cersei's chin dipped down a bit. "I... Jaime and I... we didn't... I didn't..."

"Oh." Jon blinked, and he felt his gut unclench. "Cee – Cersei... I didn't think anything had."

Cersei blinked rapidly, and there was a sheen to her eyes. "I'm not – Jon, I won't—"

"Cee, I know," said Jon, standing from the bed and crossing the room, gathering her in his arms. "It's been ten years. Things have changed. I know you're not."

"I won't," muttered Cersei against his shoulder, clutching at him. The crown, or love. Power, or passion. It was not a hard choice for Cersei to keep, all these years later, not when the crown - Jon - gave her power and passion in ways she had never anticipated. "I won't, Jon."

"I know," he kept repeating until the candles burnt low and out, darkening the room and the evening stretched on. He shushed her gently, rocking a bit. "I know."

Jon felt for Barristan, he really did. It was one thing being the Lord Commander along with his kingsguard and managing his four children – all under ten years of age – but it was clearly another when it involved two royals, their four children, the Master of Coins, Cersei's brother, and then added Jaime, Arya, and their two children. The less said about the three direwolves and one lion, the better (Jon nearly fell over in shock when he saw that Arya's youngest could skinchange into one; Tywin actually smiled when introduced to Josslyn and her tame lion—smiled).

Dinner was hectic and loud, filled with squabbles between Leon and Alysanne, with Edwyn trying to mitigate most of it; Willam and Josslyn were both proud and stubborn – clearly, the worst traits in both Jaime and Arya coming to the forefront, there – and Tyrion enjoyed needlessly riling up both Cersei and Jaime thinking he was clever with wolf puns all evening –-

But Jon loved every minute of it. As his children and Jaime and Arya's bonded (Willam and Leon were the same age and had a similar personality, and Josslyn was only a year younger, so a year older than Aly), Jon found himself happily sipping at his wine, reclining in his seat with Cersei on his left, his father-in-law at his right, and Tyrion, Jaime, and Arya making the rest of the seats at their end of the table while the children ran about or scattered around the room playing with Ghost, Honour, Nymeria, and Josslyn's lion, Softpaw.

As the evening wore on, Jon looked at his new brother-in-law over the rim of his drink and said, casually, "You know you're not in the kingsguard anymore."

Tywin's face barely changed, but there was a pleased, relieved glint in his eyes as they moved between his son and son-in-law.

Jaime's face twisted up for a moment before smoothing. "I figured, Your Grace."

Jon rolled his eyes, even as Arya poked his side and muttered, "He's just Jon, seven hells."

"It's Jon," the oldest Stark said, thinking of the working relationship he once had with the man when he was one-handed and ready to face a horde of undead. "At least in private, if you can manage that."

Jaime shot Jon a grin, with a tiny toast of his own Arbour Gold wine. "I think I can... Jon."

"I'm pleased you're taking your kingsguard decloaking so well, Jaime," interjected Tywin in dry

tones. "Given that you are the heir of Casterly Rock, now."

Jaime's face dropped in realization. "Can't you just skip over me and proclaim Will the heir?"

"Oh, he will be," drawled Tywin, a gleam in his eyes. "But you both will need to return to the Rock to meet with our retainers."

Arya patted Jaime, albeit mockingly and not sympathetically, when he grumbled. "Think of all the fun we can have."

That brightened Jaime up, and he sat up straight in his chair, sending a wicked grin to his wife. That concept still boggled Jon's mind, but it wasn't that farfetched – the two were awfully alike (stubborn, proud, loyal, dedicated and probably the best swordfighters he'd known in a long time).

"Your Grace?" called Tytos Marbrand, their kingsguard outside the private royal apartments, as he stuck his head in the room.

"Yes, Ser Tytos?"

Beside him, he saw Tywin give a tiny shudder at the man's unfortunate name, no doubt named for Tywin's father.

"A raven, Your Grace, from Winterfell."

Jon stood, received the letter, and opened it. He read through it quickly.

"What news does your Lord Hand bring, my love?" called Cersei from where she was lounging at the table.

"It's from Sansa," replied Jon.

Arya's entire body swung toward Jon, despite remaining in her seat. "Sansa?! What's she doing in the North? I thought she hadn't left Dorne since her and Oberyn's wedding."

"No, they've been travelling," replied Jon absently, scanning his sister's precise and loopy handwriting. "They were visiting Rickard – er, Lord Stark – with their children."

"The whole brood?" asked a surprised Jaime, leaning back in his seat and stretching an arm out behind Arya's. Jon tried not to stare at how at ease the Lannister man looked next to his sister. "Even the infamous Sand Snakes?"

"All of them," confirmed Jon. "Rickard had mentioned a pressing issue – it's why he's not in King's Landing – but for San and Oberyn to be there, too..." he trailed off, reading her postscript. His mouth dropped open. "Erm..."

"What is it?" asked Tyrion, sensing Jon's mood change.

"It's..." He cleared his throat, deciding to just read it out loud. "Sansa's postscript. She writes, 'Is there any reason why I am bringing more direwolf pups, Jon?' Like direwolves grow in a cabbage patch! You harvest them seasonally!"

Jaime and Arya laughed, loudly, while Cersei sighed, putting down her wine. "More wolves, Jon?"

Slightly disgruntled – because how was his kingsguard going to take it with at least two more direwolf pups taking over the Red Keep and peeing on anything they considered theirs? – Jon ran an aggravated hand through his hair.

"Well," he began, turning back to the Lannisters, "I suppose we'd best open some more rooms in the royal apartments."

Folding the letter back up and thanking Ser Tytos, Jon finished by mumbling to himself, "What a zoo. The Red Keep is going to be an absolute zoo: wolves, lions, snakes, and dragons. What's next – stags? Falcons? Squids?"

TBC...