Hello! It's Mel again, and for the first time in a year, I'm stepping away from HP and going to attempt a GOT fic, which I admit, probably won't be very good, as I'm horrible at writing canonically and I plan to use this fic as an outlet for stress, and mainly fill it with harmless angst and mostly fluff, for when I'm feeling down. I'm going to warn everyone from now, I'll probably mix names up, or Houses or miss some intricate detail from the books, so don't read if you hate that stuff. We can all admit that George R.R Martin is a very detailed writer with a lot of characters, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I could never compete! Anyways, I'll try my best, but do keep in mind this isn't a serious or fast paced story, just some fluff with bits of angst to keep things interesting. Oh, a few things you should make note off if you do decide to read my little story:

- None of the settings, characters or names belong to me, all rights go to George R.R Martin or HBO.

- This is a canon deviation, so most of what happens in ASOIAF (and probably the game of thrones series too) happens in my fic as well. Also, since I haven't read Dance of Dragon's yet, none of the events which happen in that book occur in this fic, instead I will use season 5 of game of thrones for that period of time, so basically everything which happened in Game of Thrones season 5 happens in this fic, but not necessarily everything which happens in Dance of Dragons since I haven't read it yet. If I have changed anything, I will let you know during the story.

- Jon Snow was legitimised by Stannis and decided to rule Winterfell, in order to save Arya from Ramsay Bolton, and Sansa—who Melisandra told him(falsely)—was being imprisoned by the Iron born. He was well accepeted by the Northern and ruled as Lord of Winterfell until Danearys found him and named him kin (I'm using the theory that Jon's parents are Lyanna and Rhagear). When Stannis died, Jon called his bannermen to fight with Daenerys and they both won the Iron Throne. The fic picks up at this part.

- Every thing else should be explained.

- Even though I have read the books, I'll probably be following the TV series since they're easier to remember. If you find it confusing, please feel free to PM or review, try to be polite though.

- Margeary Tyrell x Jon Snow

I'm actually quite anxious about posting this, so I'd like to enforce one last time that this fic probably isn't canon, it's based mostly on the television series, and I admit my memory of season five is blurry, the only thing I think I change is giving Margeary older brothers from the books.

Chapter One

Jon

It had been three moons, and Jon still wasn't used to the warm weather of the South; even though Tyrion had told him numerous times that winter was coming, so this wasn't even King's Landing at its warmest. The thought made Jon weary; though admittedly, most things made Jon weary. It had started with his father's—well, the man he'd called father all his years—head being mounted on a spike, and ended with being lied to by almost everyone. Not everyone, he corrected himself, Tyrion hasn't lied to me. Yet.

It had surprised Jon, how pleasurable Tyrion's company had been the past weeks. The Imp's wicked sense of humour, and disregard for social restraints made him a breath of fresh air compared to scheming likes of Littlefinger, or the simpering of Mace Tyrell who'd sailed to the castle in order to free his children. Yes, Jon concluded, Tyrion was the best out of all of them.

Sometimes, Jon longed for his brothers at the Wall, for his friend Sam, even the wildling girl, Gilly, though his apparent sympathy for wildings had almost cost him his life. Most of the time, though, he longed for Winterfell, for the few short months he'd been the Lord of his home, thanks to the legitimisation from Stannis. May his soul rest in peace, Jon thought. He hadn't liked Stannis, and he certainly hadn't liked his companion, the Red Woman, but when the man had met his end in battle, Jon was shocked to find that he was sad. He did give my home, after all, and he was an honourable man. Well, until he met Melisandre. She lied to me, told me Sansa was being tortured by the Iron Born and Arya by the Boltons. I'd watch her burn seven more times. Jon's heart had grown considerably cold since his days at Winterfell with Robb and Arya and Bran and the others. Watching Danaerys' dragons reign holy hell upon the Others and all her other foes—our other foes, Jon corrected, had made him different. Older. Wiser, Tyrion would say. Your experiences are what make you a great king, Tyrion had also told him.

King, Jon scoffed in his head. I was the Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Snow. With Lady Stark around, Jon had never hoped to even be given his father's last name, let alone become Lord of Winterfell, and being King of Westeros? The thought had never once passed the boy's mind. Yet, there he was, roaming about his castle, with hundreds of servants at his beck and call, and an entire kingdom to rule. Fix, first, then rule. The thought tired him.

It's her fault, Jon snarled, Daenerys. His aunt. Ever since she had flown on the back of Drogon to Winterfell, told him or his true parents and named him kin, everything seemed to go bad. Stannis died, and Jon was then forced to leave his comfortable position of Lord of Winterfell, leave his home and the people he'd known since birth, to follow his new Queen to the South, with all his father's bannermen to fight her battle for the throne. He couldn't possibly abandon his own blood? And if he didn't fight with her, Cersei or someone worse would've sat the Iron Throne and most certainly made life terrible for him and the other Northerners. Most of his Men remained loyal and respectful, despite the news that he was no Stark, but a Targaryen—No, I am a Stark, my mother was Lyanna Stark, Lord Eddard's own sister—but he received mockery and jests once he reached King's Landing, for having three different names. Daenerys had cut the tongues of those who dare mock the Prince in her presence, but Jon soon told her to stop. She would win no love by cutting the tongues of her subjects for mocking something even he occasionally found ironic.

"You're my nephew," she said. "The prince. I will not have you mocked in mine own court."

Jon had quickly learned not to argue with Daenerys unless strictly necessary; though most of the time, he convinced himself it was strictly necessary. Still, despite his reluctance to accept his role as Prince Jon, Lord of House Targaryen, and determination to remain a Stark, or a Snow, even, Daenerys had grown quite fond of Jon, and vice versa, though Jon kept her at arms length, for fear of letting himself get too attached and then losing her. It wasn't until the Faith decided that Daenerys wasn't fit to rule Westeros as Queen, and decided it should be left to the people to choose, when the real arguments had come. She had fumed and raged and threatened to unleash her dragons if they refused her, her rightful throne. Jon and Tyrion had both laughed at that, the dragons obeyed Jon as they did Daenerys, and in Rhaegal's case, more. Eventually, Tyrion and Varys were both able to convice her that unleashing three dragons on the land she hoped to rule, wouldn't win the people's favour. So she grudgingly allowed the Faith to conduct a public vote for who should rule them; Jon had would never had guessed he'd be chosen.

"We want the Stark! We want the Stark!"

All the Stark had wanted was Winterfell, his home, Sam as his maester, and Bran, Rickon and Arya found. He didn't want them. However, it seemed he had no choice. Electing Tyrion as his Hand, Jon had accepted the Iron Throne and left the Imp to keep things in order while he grieved and sulked and prayed and avoided his aunt and her Unsullied at all costs. He had naively believed Tyrion would give him a year or two before forcing him to fully start his duties; but after three months passed, the Imp's sellsword friend: Bronn had appeared in Jon's chambers, summoning the new King to a small council meeting.

Jon had hoped he would only have to face Tyrion. He was annoyed to find Daenerys, Varys and Littlefinger rising on his entrance.

"Your Grace," Petry and Varys echoed.

"You summoned me," Jon said to Tyrion, ignoring the other three in the room.

"Well, only at the incessant requests of your dear aunt, Your Grace."

Jon flinched at the formal term falling teasingly from the man's lips. "I had assumed that serving as a Hand to Joffrey would have prepared you enough to handle my twenty year old aunty, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion laughed. "The Mother of Dragons? No, Joffrey was a terror, but he was no preparation for a woman with six thousand Unsullied at her beck and call, along with three full grown fire-breathing beasts."

"Enough of these games," Daenerys snapped. "Jon, we've allowed you to twiddle your thumbs for three moons, already! I demand to know what your plans for the kingdom are, specifically your hostages, now that you have the throne."

I do have the throne now, don't I? I'm King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms…

"I hardly asked for the thing," he retorted.

"But you were given it anyways," Varys said. "I've found that those who don't strive for power or glory, seem to wear it well."

"Aye," Littlefinger chimed in. "Varys speaks truthfully, Your Grace. As does the Mother of Dragons."

"How should I know how to wear this crown when I never wanted it? I am a man of the North, a Stark," he snapped. "I am no King."

"You are a Targaryen—" Daenerys began angrily.

"I wish to speak with Tyrion alone," he interjected.

"Your Grace," Varys and Littlefinger bowed, before leaving.

"I take no orders from—"

"Daenerys," Tyrion murmured. "He won't talk unless you're gone."

"Fine," she growled. "But if Your Grace would be so kind as to pay his aunt a visit, I'll be waiting with Drogon."

Once she had stormed out, her long silver hair swishing behind her, Tyrion sighed and poured himself some wine.

"Would you like a cup?"

"No," Jon was not fond of drinking.

"You could make her Queen instead, if you truly wanted," Tyrion said. "She'd be more than willing to oblige."

Musing quietly over his words, Jon imagined himself leaving the stifling city and returning to the cold, where everything was simple, and he knew what to do. Where he could walk through the woods with Ghost for hours on end, searching for his brothers. Where he didn't have to punish Cersei Lannister or her bastards, or deal with the old Queen Margeary. Where he didn't live in the place his father—his uncle—had ultimately died.

"Robb would've been better at this," Jon replied.

"I disagree," Tryion answered.

"Robb won every battle he fought," Jon quipped.

"Yes. So did Robert."

"Robb was no Robert."

"No, but in my experience I've found that good fighters seldom make good rulers. They're better left on the battlefield."

"But I'm a good fighter, Tyrion," Jon protested. "I wasn't raised to be Lord of Winterfell, like Robb, I was always best with a sword in my hand."

"That's what makes you infinitely better than Robb," Tyrion insisted. "You weren't a pampered little lord, you faced contempt wherever you went, you earned every thing you have. You are a man, Jon, and Robb was a boy."

Jon couldn't help but feel slight warmth at Tyrion's praise; he had never expected to find a friend in the youngest Lannister, especially after Lady Stark's imprisonment of him, but when Daenerys had flown in to claim him, with the noseless little man, he had quickly grown fond of his dry humour and quick wit, and remembered how Tyrion helped him overcome his anger at being known as the Bastard of Winterfell; helped him embrace who he was.

"I fought for the Wall," Jon said. "I lived with the free men, and lay with a free woman . . . Sitting here, all day, sipping wine, seems so mundane. I should be doing something."

"Yes, all those experiences make you all the more better suited for the crown. You were a bastard, alone with rapers and criminals, you earned the trust and respect of Mance Rayder. You will be doing something here, Jon, you can make Westeros better, keep out of the hands of people like my sweet sister. You are one of the people, not one of the lords. And what did I tell you about the people and the lords?"

Jon laughed. "The lords may have the money and castles, but the people have the majority and that's what matters."

"Yes," Tyrion smiled. "Look at Daenerys: she won Yunkai, Mereen and Astapor by winning the people."

"Breaker of Shackles," Jon muttered.

"Yes."

"If I stay, you will remain as my Hand?"

"Well, I'd have to send someone to rule the Rock in my absence . . . Assuming that you see fit to grant me my father's lands and title."

"Who else would I give them to?"

"Just checking, Your Grace."

"Call me that once more, and I'll set Ghost on you."

"Think on what I have said, Jon. Daenerys can wait a few more days."