A welcoming in King's Landing had never been so cold. Southerners were not like Northerners, and usually took delight in faking smiles for their guests. No one faked a smile this time. Lord Estermont, protector of the realm, had been waiting in his Red Keep, not even granting them with his presence. When the party arrived in the old Dragonpit, with their northern captor in her golden cage, followed by the King in the North mounting Rhaeghal, and his small gathering of fighters, only half a dozen of southern soldiers had been there to welcome them.

"His grace has given orders.", one of them spoke. On his armor was a golden stag.

"The lady Arya shall be escorted to the Maidenvault under tight surveillance. His grace had the kindness of bestowing Jon Snow and his men the Guest House, where they shall rest for three days until the trial."

The party stayed dead quiet, and the guard who had talked looked at Jon straight in his eyes, a smirk shadowing on his lips.

"Choose your champions wisely, Lady Stark.", he addressed to Arya, emphasizing on the name Stark as if it was meant to be an insult. She felt her blood boil up, but remained calm and repressed the urge to lay a hand on the slight curve of her stomach.

All will be well, small one

The idea that she would soon hold a child of her own had been strange at first. A few days after she and Jaqen had discovered the existence of that small one she was cradling in her womb, a strange and sudden fear had taken over her. She had strolled in her golden cage during the last days of her travel, finding no rest, only walking back and forth, breathing hard. It made no sense, she knew it. Had she not wanted children, she would not have so eagerly jumped in the Lorathi's bed, or she would have prepared herself some tansy tea after each of their highs together. But it was nothing to imagine having children and actually feeling one grow in her.

But she had not had much time to grow accustomed to that strange and new feeling. Soon they had reached King's Landing, and she had been faced with more imminent problems, including the potential death of the father of this child, along with her brother's, and the Hound's, and all the people who were here fighting for her freedom. She had felt selfish for half a second. They were all here risking their lives and the fate of their people and family, for the sake of little her. Of course they were also fighting for little Rhaenna to eventually retake her throne, but what did a babe care about that twisted seat of steel?

But then she had thought that they were also fighting for this soon to be born child. Who knows what might have happened to him should she have been sent off to be Queen with no trial? She could not allow anyone to hurt him, should they discover his parentage if she ever married that black-crowned bastard. And even if his parentage was never discovered, she already felt like he was like her. He would not like growing up in a palace, be a slave to his fate. Maybe he would have liked to be a prince, marry the fairest maiden in the kingdom and rule over that miserable piece of land. But she rather let him choose his way, just like she had been somewhat able to choose for herself.

As they had passed the gates of this city she hated, with it's beige walls and it's smell of piss and hunger, there was only one thing that mattered to her: keep them all safe. Including the one she was nurturing in her belly, even if her mind didn't manage to make sense out of this sudden love she felt towards a child not even born yet.

Two little nights in the Maidenvault had been more than enough already. Unlike before, when she was Gendry's betrothed, the servant girls were not so eager to gush with her. Maybe they learned the lesson since last time, she had thought at first. But all of their faces were different, and despite her incredible memory for features, there was not one she could recognize. They brushed her hair and served her dinner and changed her sheets, without a shadow of a smile or a sparkle of life in their eyes. Arya had wondered if the harsh winter had been doing that to them, sucking out the warmth and the joy. But the winter in King's landing was too sweet for that. Maybe it was just a solemn time in King's Landing. After the death of so many monarchs, the people probably felt tired and hopeless.

Arya was wrapped up in a gray dress and a furry cloak, too expensive to be comfortable yet too simple to be called beautiful, and large enough to hide her swollen shape.

The morning of the trial was quiet. She had had no appetite, despite the fact that she was eating for two. She had been taken to the old Dragonpit in a wooden wheelhouse, with black curtains to hide her from the swarming and freezing population of King's Landing on her way.

Guards escorted her to sit in a pavilion, next to Lord Estermont and that young bastard ought to be her betrothed. Or not. She took her seat next to them without a word, not even a respectful bow of her head. The only thing she wanted to do was spit at them and flee this place on Rhaegal's back, along with Jaqen and Jon and the Hound and all of the northerners who had been crazy enough to come to this place.

Edric Storm, or Baratheon, according to the recent events, had the face of a babe, and he was shivering in his garments. The high lords had made sure to have him cleaned up and dressed up in fancy clothes, but somehow he still looked like every orphan child in this desperately huge city, with mud on their faces and innocence in their eyes.

He looked lost, and threw her an awkward look as she arrived. Truly, Arya had not known if she should throw him a cold glance or an empathic smile. He looked as confused and unwilling to take the throne as she did.

It looked like all the people of King's Landing had been packed up and squeezed together to fill all the seats of the crumbly Dragonpit. Arya could not recall ever seeing so many people. The last time she had seen such a crowd eager for blood and death had been for her father's execution.

She thought back about that day. The sun had been shining bright, and the warmth had been sticky and stifling. And she had been a little girl, passing off as a boy, hiding behind Baelor's statue.

Ten years ago, it had been. And now she was in King's Landing again, yet this time, the trial was about her fate. The sky was white and raw, and everyone looked like the ghost of themselves.

They waited, for what felt like forever, but really it was less than an hour. A chair had never felt so uncomfortable, and the trial had not started yet that Arya already felt pain in her back. She did not find the will to blame the babe in her belly, but she did notice how her body had already begun to change to make room for him. She found it strange, in a way, she thought as her eyes were fixated on the empty pit before her, waiting for the champions to stroll in and the trial to begin.

There is a child growing in me, she marveled inside.

My child, and Jaqen's, she thought about his face again, about that sly grin that infuriated her and his riddles that seemed like they would forever draw her to him. She was afraid, for the world that they would welcome this child in, for all that a babe cost. Would her current life be done once she'd hold that child in her arms? She was already giving up her body for him, but she figured she probably wouldn't be able to train for quite some time either, and this whole idea of parenting and raising an infant scared her to death, because she had no idea how it was supposed to be done. Yet the thought that Jaqen would be there along the way appeased her, and she was not so afraid anymore.

Had she thought about being pregnant with this man's baby a few years from now, she would have probably burst into laughing. Truly, who could have expected it? Had he? He seemed like he always played his tricks on her, but had he planned this all along? Surely not, how could he have? The reasonable Arya intervened inside. So why did he always seem so sure when his eyes were on her?

All will be well, she told herself. She was sure too, when it came to this man. She was sure it would be alright, because he would be there.

The crowd's cheers interrupted her internal dialogue. Lord Estermont stood, a raised a hand to hush his people.

"The fate of our Kingdoms will be decided on this afternoon.", he began. He was old and gray, but his voice was surprisingly strong.

"On my right sits Edric Baratheon, lawful heir to the throne. On my left sits lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. Both have seven champions fighting for them. Should lord Edric's champions win the fight, the North and the South shall become allies through a marriage, and the northern kingdom shall retrieve is right place, as a ward of the South."

He looked at Arya, and for a brief instant, she believed she saw a flicker of a mischievous grin on his face. A weird feeling took hold of her guts. Fear. All will be well, she convinced herself once more. She frowned and held his gaze.

"Should lady Arya's champions win, the North shall keep it's independence, and remain a Kingdom of it's own. And we shall name the Dragon Queen's daughter as heir to the Iron throne."

The crowed was surprinsingly silent. Arya expected them to boo or cheer at their King's words, but no one dared a sound. Maybe they didn't know who they should cheer or boo for. The Protector of the Realm seemed undisturbed by this lack of reaction. He raised both his hands to invite everyone to clap, and a delighted expression sat on his face that the young northerner hated.

"And now, we shall present the champions. The lady has the honors.", he said, smiling to Arya. A smile so fake it made the girl want to punch him hard.

Arya stood, and looked down at the sandy pit. A few seconds later, Jon strode in in a heavy chainmail and sturdy armor, his Valyrian sword at his belt, ready to be unsheathed anytime. A guard next to her yelled the names of her champions as they entered.

Jon Snow!, he called, and the not a single soul in the crowd made a sound as he entered and stood before the pavilion.

She gritted her teeth when the southern soldier did not call him King Jon. He was perhaps not his King, but he was a King nonetheless.

Lady Brienne of Tarth!

The woman Knight towered over her brother, and wore similar garments. She had a Valyrian steel sword too, yet hers looked way lighter and delicate. Arya knew her sword had been forged out of Ice, Eddard Stark's sword. It was poetic, in a way, that her father's sword would be used to defend her freedom, even if it was not her father wielding it.

Tormund Giantsbane!

Someone must have insisted for him to wear an armor as well, and apparently he had only agreed to wear a few bits of steel that would serve to shield some parts of his body, but it looked awfully funny on him. Arya hoped it would not make him too uncomfortable.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater!

No one had been brave enough to convince the knight to put on an armor too.

Jorah Mormont!

The bear knight had voiced out his intent to die for the dragon queen's heir before, so here he stood too, his shining armor contrasting with the dark expression on his old face.

Uh wait, ser-uh Sandor Clegane!

The Hound entered next to him, unable to be bothered by the formalities of entering one champion at the time. The Hound had never had time for such masquerades, surely he wanted to be back at Winterfell too, and squeeze his own redhead in his arms tight.

Jaqen H- uh Jaqen Heyguard!, the southerner called, and Arya rolled her eyes at ow he pronouced the Lorathi's name. She waited to see the man stride in. She had not seen him since their arrival at King's Landing.

And at last, in was Jaqen's turn to enter the Dragon pit. He looked calm yet tense. Arya was not able to pinpoint how exactly his expression was unlike the usual, but she felt it. He understood the stakes of all of this. He wore bits of armor too, carefully picked to not restrain any single move. He had chosen and essosi weapon to fight, with a curved blade, and a cutthroat at his hips. The cutthroat that Bran had offered her. She had insisted that he take it with him. This way, she would also somehow be part of this fight, despite the fact that she would just sit here and watch them all fight and die inside every second of this insanity.

He held up his bronze eyes, and his red and white hair caught the few rays of the sun, making it glow like a crown of ice and fire.

All will be well, she wised he could hear her. She put her gloved hand on her lower belly delicately, a move that did not go unnoticed by the man. A corner of his mouth lifted up ever so slightly, only for her to see.

The southern champions entered too, one by one, and Arya did not bother to remember their names. She analyzed the way they moved, the way they carried their weapons, and what weapons they carried. The first two ones looked way too young to fight properly. Good. They'll make short work of these two. The third and fourth to enter wete slightly larger, and had chosen spears to fight. A terrible choice, she thought, a corner of her mouth lifting up. Maybe this would go as planned, and she would be back at Winterfell tomorrow. The fifth and sixth soldiers strode in wit absolutely no eagerness in their eyes. Mercenaries, she thought, eyes drifting to Lord Estermont, hope rising in her like a ray of summer invading winter. She looked at the old man in his fancy cloak of ermine and gold. A cocky smile was on his face, but a cockier was on Arya's. He's not hoping to win with these fighters, is he? Does he know who he's fighting against? Jon is the best swordsman in Westeros, the others are trained knights, and Bronn and Jaqen have a sneaky way to fight that westerosi can't even keep up with.

Feeling her gaze on him, Lord Estermont turned his head, and seeing her grin, bowed is head, and hold up a cup of wine. And as the last southern champion was announced, the young woman lost her arrogance.

Ser Gregor Clegane!

She turned her head to look at the pit, and make sure it was not a joke.

But it was not. There it stood, this huge beast of rotten flesh and unbendable steel, two swords heavier than her at his belt, and a huge flail in his hands.

The sight was like a punch in her chest.

All would not be well.

Her heart beat faster, and had the chair not been there she might have sunk into the ground.

"This is a trial to death! One side wins once there is no more fighters on the other!", the yelling guard clarified.

All eyes turned to Lord Estermont, who rose his gloved hand, as a sign to start the fight.

Arya's eyes were glued to the pit. And the butchery began.

The clang of the weapons rose the thrill in her. She forgot about the crowd watching too, she forgot about Lord Estermont's eyes on her, and the lost gaze of Edric Baratheon. Her heart was in her throat, and she stared for so long she forgot to breathe sometimes.

Jon moved swiftly, waving his sword here and there. He did not want to kill these boys, she could see it in his eyes. He knocked them to the ground, once then twice then thrice. Bronn was against the mercenaries, and Lady Brienne along with the red Wildling and Jorah Mormont took care of the larger soldiers and their spears. They had trouble to move with their long weapons, and soon enough they ate the dirt of the pit.

That left Sandor and Jaqen against that bloody Mountain.

She had prayed that he do not choose to fight against him when she had seen the beast stride in, but somehow part of her knew she was going to see them fight anyway. She squeezed the side of her seat.

The Mountain had trouble keeping up with his speed, and the Hound acted as a distraction to keep the blows from the Lorathi.

Don't do anything stupid, she threatened the man in her thoughts.

Or I'll find you in the deepest of the Seven Hells and make it even worse for you

The flail spun and her heart stopped. Had that stupid Lorathi stood an inch further on the right, his pretty face would be no more.

She was surprised when she felt tears well up in her eyes. No tears of sadness, tears of fear.

Please, she begged to all the Gods she knew, even the Red God whom she had betrayed more than once.

Don't take him away, please

And it was all she could do. Pray and watch.

The Hound plunged forward and missed the flank of his brother. He was boiling with rage, and roared after he stumbled. Jaqen played it sneaky, only poking the Mountain here and look on his face was strange. He was both determined and calm.

This is not a game, she hoped he could hear her.

Please, don't play

Unconsciously, her hands found her belly again, and for a second she swore she felt something move in her guts. Her breath was short, as if she were fighting along them. Yet her battle was in her mind.

A cold sound of steel rang, and the crowd cheered. Arya looked away from the fight between the three men to see Jorah Mormont knocked to the ground, spear piercing through his throat. The chocking sounds of the assembly were a tangle of horror and sick admiration. Brienne screamed and wielded her Valyrian sword towards the man who just killed the Bear Knight. Three moves and he was strangling in his own blood. The Lady Knight did not get the time to clean her steel, the other spear holder was after her. Tormund stopped him before he could slash across her face.

Another thud and this time it was Jaqen who hit the ground. She stood up, surprising the crowd like a struck of lightning, but she didn't even see the surprise on their faces.

The Mountain towered over the Lorathi, his movements slow and brutal. He knocked the flail towards him, the spikes pierced the mud. He missed twice. The third time he slashed through his left arm, and Arya squealed in fear, seeing crimson taint his sleeve. She never heard Jaqen cry however, as close as she was to the pit. She could almost smell the blood of the spear-men and the large soldiers stirring her insides, making her want to puke.

Jaqen sprung to his feet before he was hit again. The Hound balanced his heavy sword and rang the head of his undead brother under his golden helmet. The thing fell to the ground, and his ugly face was revealed, tearing a horrified gasp from the crowd.

His skin was a dirty blue, mingled with an awful blood-red that invaded the white of his eyes. He looked like a rotten pig, and his lips were gray and sealed. The crowd fell silent, and the tension weighed on all the eyebrows.

The Mountain grunted and took heavy steps towards both his enemies. On one side his younger brother did his best to dodge the strikes, wielding his sword with difficulty in hopes to touch him. On the other, the Lorathi danced, eagerness in his eyes, determined to end this nonsense. A little voice whispered in Arya's ear that he was thinking of their son.

The Hound stood behind his huge brother now, Jaqen in front. And before the beast had a chance to plunge forward and crush the redhead under him, a dagger pierced under his chin. He reached his monstrous hands to grab the sly man's neck, but a sword slashed through his skull.

Only when his limp body hit the ground in a loud thud did Arya allow herself to breathe.

The crowd stayed dead silent.

Both the spears-mean laid dead on the ground too. Bronn was finishing off the second mercenary, and when the Hound had gotten his revenge over his brother, he went over to help him.

One of the young southern boys had gotten a strike from Tormund Giantsbane, and was now on the dirt with his eyes and his chest wide open. Jaqen stood a little farther, observing and breathing heavy. He held his arm to restrain the blood from flowing out of him.

Only one left, Arya counted.

One southerner left, and they'd all be free to go home.

They had won.

Only the second southerner boy was left, fighting against Jon. He didn't stand a chance. He was backing away at each of the King's strikes, with fear more than evident on his face. The ther northerners champions didn't join the fight, settling on keeping it somewhat even, even if Jon was the best swordsman in the seven Kingdoms.

Come on, she thought.

One hole well placed, and we're off, she implored her brother.

But Jon kept on with his inoffensive blows. The boy had trouble to counter, but he countered anyway.

He looked like he was training.

Come on Jon

The crowd cheered when the southerner stumbled n his own feet. They cheered. They wanted the Northerners to win, Arya realized.

Jon raised his sword, one move away from ending it all.

The look on his face was odd, and before he could land that finishing blow, his eyes grew sad.


Jon Snow looked the young man in the eyes, and only saw fear.

He lowered Longclaw.

"Enough!", the King in the North yelled.

He took a step back. The man on the ground looked startled, and didn't dare to move first. But when Jon was far enough, he sprang to his feet and ran away.

Jon looked around him, at the men he had took in this folly, and the crowd who had cheered at every of their moves like they were watching a mummer's show.

"I've had enough of fighting!", he shouted, and no one dared to interrupt him.

"I have fought my entire life! To defend my home, my family, all of Westeros. I fought against men and women, I fought against walking dead corpses, I fought against dragons.", he brought his gaze up to the pavilion. He looked at his little sister, who had nothing to do up here. He looked at these old lords, shuffled up in fancy furs and jewelery.

"While you were sitting there, readying your boats for when this city would be taken over by cold and death.", his gaze was accusing, and he tightened his hold on Longclaw.

"What of all of these people? I see men and women, boys and girls, babes and mothers here in the crowd. King's Landing alone has over half a million of inhabitants, what would have happened to all of them had the Night King taken over?"

He turned his shoulders to completely face them now. They looked dumbfounded. They rumbled around, trying to get guards to make him shut up, but the guards refused to answer their calls.

"I may be a bastard, -", he said, closing his eyes. It was not true, but this, he would never tell the people of King's Landing.

"But my people named me their King because I would do anything to protect them."

He took a deep breath in and looked at the sky. The white clouds made him think of Daenera.

"Tell me-", he addressed to the crowd, which had been dead quiet for a while.

"Who do you want to be your ruler?"

He pointed Longclaw towards Lord Estermont.

"Old Lords with nothing to their value as Kings but their wish for power and fame?"

He lowered his weapon, and the lilac eyes of his daughter came to his mind.

"Or the truthful heir to the Iron throne, the daughter of a conqueror who freed millions of slaves across the Narrow See, and united forces to defend all of you?"

When he finished he was out of breath, and the crowd was still silent. Only a gust of wind howled far away, and for a minute, no one dared to speak. He looked around, anxious. He had never seen so many people so quiet.

Finally, a man stood. He was a guard. He removed his helmet and revealed the face of a green boy.

"I shall never fight again for a ruler who would not fight for me.", he said in a shaky voice.

He unlatched the strands that held his armor together, and the yellow and black painted suit collided to the sandy ground with a metallic thud. He looked nervous but sure.

He unsheathed his sword, and brandished it toward the sky.

"Long live King Jon!"

For another second, there was silence.

And another soldier unsheathed his sword and joined the call.

"Long live King Jon!"

Half of the assembly stood up and took part in.

"Long live King Jon!", they called fiercely.

"Long live King Jon! Long live King Jon!", they shouted, more and more voices joining in each time, until the whole of King's Landing was just one loud and united cry.

Long live King Jon