Jon Snow stood uncomfortably before the Iron Throne, a golden crown weighing uncomfortably on his brow. So much it had taken of him to get here, so far beyond his wildest dreams. He was, perhaps, the only person in all the world who never desired this throne, this power, and somehow he received it anyway.

After all, he was not truly Jon Snow. He wasn't even a Snow, anymore than he was Jon. He was the unfortunate child of Lyanna Stark and Rheagar Targaryen, a child of the North and the South, blood of the First Men and the blood of Valyria, a watcher on the wall and a king—apparently.

Most days Jon had trouble believing it himself.

Warm wind tickled the nape of his neck, and he glanced over his shoulder to find Ghost waiting patiently behind him. The wolf was now the size of a horse, and he looked terribly out of place in the empty throne room.

We both belong in the North, my friend.

He did not reach out to pat the wolf or touch him in any way—he hadn't since he was a puppy, all legs and big ears. After six months it started to feel inappropriate, his wolf no longer needing the contact, and too wild to appreciate the touch of men.

It didn't matter anyway. Jon felt sometimes that he and Ghost didn't even need words, let alone physical contact. Sometimes it was as if they shared thoughts. Jon wondered if that was the wolf's blood in him or the dragon fire.

Winter is Coming. Fire and Blood.

Had two philosophies ever been so different? One warned of death, the other promised it. One a prophecy, the other a history. Which House was a son of both to follow?

Jon preferred the winter by nature. If he didn't he never would have gone to the Watch. But it was slow thing, something patient which thickened the blood and numbed the mind—and Jon had always had too much heat for the Watch. In a brotherhood spanning eight-thousand years, the fire in Jon's blood demanded change which would not happen from within. The Brotherhood was too corrupt to change without help. With Sam leading though, and working with Jon from the inside…perhaps it was not too much to hope for.

And anyway, fire did not promise an end from Winter—merely the melting of snow.

The irony of that idea was not lost on Jon, and he smirked a little in response. Targaryen blood freed him from the surname Snow, and ripped him from all he'd ever thought to want.

He wondered what Robb would think. He wondered what his father—Ned would think. Hell, he wondered what his father and mother would think.

His mother, at least, must have loved him. She would not have given him to Ned if she didn't love him. She could have just left him with a Sept or told Ned to put him in an orphanage. Ned must have loved him too—or he would have kept him as a ward, like Theon, or maybe raised him as a lesser child.

Thank every old god there was Ned had given him the education he had. Jon was going to need it, before long.

Ghost surprised him by snuffling his nose in Jon's hair. He'd tied it back—cleaner. Less unruly.

He felt like a pauper trying to fit into a nobleman's clothes.

Certainly his blood could not be the most worthy in the world? There must be someone else, some Baratheon or Lannister cousin who'd been reaching for the throne since their cribs. Someone who wasn't Jon, who'd only ever wished to shed the name Snow and earn himself something better.

The gods certainly had a sense of humor.

His wish was granted—and the price was too high.

He didn't want to be King. He didn't want the Iron Throne. He wanted to be home in Winterfell, guarding Bran as he grew to be the new Lord Stark, and mourning his losses before the old Heart Tree. He'd only wanted honor—and now had more power than he knew what to do with.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? It was a position without limit, a seat where whims decided fates. Tommen proved too weak despite his kindness, Joffery was a monster, Robert loved his vices more than his own life—none of which involved ruling a kingdom—and possibly worst of all in a long line of horribly unfit leaders was the Mad King himself.

Jon's grandfather.

Funny how these things worked out.

He wondered if Maester Aemon knew. The old man always saw so much—more than he should have been able to. What were bloodlines when one could see hearts?

He cast his gaze to the throne once more, eyeing it distastefully.

The damn thing didn't even look remotely comfortable.

Maybe he could get rid of it? Build a new one out of some less ridiculous medium?

Somehow he didn't see that going over very well with the power-grubbers.

Ghost padded up to the thing and sniffed, giving a low whine and an almost mournful look to Jon.

He knew what the beast was getting at.

"It probably smells of blood, doesn't it?" He took a step forward, approaching the seat as Ghost curled around the back. "It doesn't matter if it was shed away from here, if it's never seen a drop on a single blade. All those decisions—they're what forged the swords into the throne. Not fire but blood." And that was why he could never get rid of it. The damn thing was responsible for too much.

"How metaphorical of you, your grace."

Jon spun, hand reaching for Longclaw's hilt before he clapped eyes on his intruder.

Tyrion Lannister gave a sarcastic wave, eyebrows raised. Jon rolled his eyes in return. Tyrion was a manipulative little man, but he was usually pretty clear about his intentions if one managed to not cross him.

"Jumpy, I see."

Jon gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Can't be too careful."

Tyrion's eyes grew serious and hard. "You're right."

Jon smiled. "Good thing I have a very capable Hand then."

"Yes, quite," Tyrion replied smugly. Jon got the feeling he might be enjoying this a bit too much. Might be enjoying power too much.

Jon turned his attention to the throne once more. So many decisions, one felled sword and severed neck at a time.

Tyrion cleared his throat. "It's time, my lord."

Jon hummed. "I suppose it is."

But he made no move to go.

"Do you still like cripples, bastards and broken things, Lord Tyrion?"

Two steps, close together and padded by the echo. "I do. But you're not any of those things anymore."

Jon gave him a wry smile. "Oh I wouldn't be so sure of that. I was raised a bastard. I'll always be one of those. And I'm not sure what being unbroken even is anymore." He turned to Tyrion now, away from his throne and his wolf. "I am about to execute your sister. Are you telling me you're okay with it?"

The look on Tyrion's face soured. "Cersei and I…there is no love between us. Only hate." Jon quirked a brow. "…No, I'm not okay with it. But it is the right thing to do for your reign, so I support the decision." Tyron took a curious step forward. "You killed your own sister—or cousin, rather, for much the same crime, as I recall."

He thought of hair like fire and a sweet pale face and felt a flash of pain yank somewhere deep in his gut. "I did what I had to," he whispered.

"The people chose you, my lord. They chose you as king. I'd say it is your duty to do this, whether I agree with it or not—it's your own judgment that matters."

Jon quirked an eyebrow. "Isn't it your job to advise me?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Advise? Yes. But unless you want to be another in a long line of puppets, I suggest you use that pretty head of yours and make your own decisions."

Jon smiled wryly. Tyrion was a good choice as hand—he'd always speak his mind, which was a relief considering all the simpering fools the capital attracted.

He missed the hard men at the wall. They were much easier to work with. Their intentions clearer. They didn't resort to trickery or sycophantism to get what they wanted. They just went after it. He didn't always like them, and most of them certainly didn't like him, but he respected them.

"By the laws of this kingdom, Cersei Lannister must be executed."

Tyrion said nothing but he fingered Longclaw's hilt, for a moment, wondering at how he'd gone from being a bastard of the North to King of the Andals and the Seven Kingdoms.

"Let's get on with it then."

He turned away from Tyrion and his throne, and moved to the door.

It was a terribly bright day for an execution.

Jon stepped up on the dias alone, the Kingsguard circling below. The people before him were peasants, the people behind nobleman. Their faces were raised in a sort of guarded expression, careful and unsure, but hopeful all the same.

They'd chosen him, yes, but Jon was fairly certain they were still waiting for another shoe to drop.

To be fair, so was Jon.

He made a motion to the captain of the Kingsguard. The other man nodded and walked off.

The sun beat down, and Jon's black hair burned in it, the metal of the crown growing hot from the heat.

It was comforting, in a way. The sun and the cloudless sky and the wind off the sea.

Cersei was dragged before him, fighting the guards each step of the way.

"Get off me. Get off me you pissants of men! I'll shit on your bones and strangle you in your sleep!"

Jon had to hand it to her—Cersei was tenacious. It was unfortunate she'd paired that with her cunning to destroy his family.

Arya stood to the side of the dias. She'd grown harder, so much harder. The absolute hatred he could see in her eyes promised something more than heated emotion. There was a coldness there too that promised death. A dispassion that said she'd dealt it before.

Finally, the Lioness of the Lannisters struggled up the steps. Her eyes lighted on Jon and his crown and she burned him.

"You are hereby accused of conspiring against the Crown, crimes against the Royal Family and affiliated parties. This is considered treason. We have proof, and witnesses. There are almost two decades' worth of sins hanging around your neck. You will be executed. Would you say anything?"

Her jaw set. "I hope you fall prey to madness. Then all your honor would be wasted in the fires of your mind."

Jon did not react outwardly. "Kneel."

She had to be pushed into position, but she did kneel. Her shorn hair dark with grease.

He'd never executed a woman before. Never even killed one.

He wasn't sure if it was because it was Cersei or because execution felt the same no matter what, but it didn't feel all that different from executing men.

Thoroughly unpleasant. Disgusting. Shameful.

Necessary.

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," he whispered. He lined the blade up carefully, aiming for the vertebrae at the end of her hairline. It would be quick, nearly painless.

The fight hadn't gone from Cersei yet, but she'd begun to shake all over, and her whispers washed over him.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, it was never supposed to be like this. I was supposed to get everything, be everything!"

She repeated it over and over again, and part of Jon wanted to let her continue, to wait her out until she quieted and made her peace. But Cersei was not a woman capable of finding peace, and death would nearly be a mercy to her.

He reared back and swung, and the Game spun on and on and on.

For the record, I really hope the series ends the way it began-with an execution. I picked Cersei because she's the last of the emotionally wounded from Robert's Rebellion, and by executing her you come full circle.

The Sansa thing: I haven't read the books, but at the end of season 6 Sansa seems to have gotten a taste for power-for the game, so to speak. Plus, I wouldn't be surprised if she's the Stark Martin turns evil. For one she's been through a lot of terrible shit-enough to warp most anyone. And I've been waiting for Martin to turn a Stark since the series began. I always thought it would be Sansa, despite liking her.

Just speculation. But it's kind of what I hope the end of the series will be. I wrote it because I thought of the last line and I liked it so much I wanted to write a piece around it. Reviews are appreciated!