Tyrion

Awakened by the sounds of the camp stirring to life, Tyrion rolls out of his furs with a groan and staggers to his feet. Poking his fingers through the flap of his tent, he peers outside and notes the sun has just barely begun to clear the horizon. Groaning again, he places both hands on the small of his back, stretches and remembers the last time he was part of an army encampment. The Lannisters, he thinks, even traveled to war with more style and thought to comfort than these rough men of the North.

Cleaning himself up as best he can, he follows a growing crowd toward the cook tent. Accepting a bowl of steaming porridge, he turns to seek out the king. He sees the Stark standard flapping in the breeze and finds his quarry seated beneath it.

"Your Grace." He inclines his head respectfully. "Might I join you?"

Jon waves a spoon toward an empty camp stool and Tyrion sits, nodding greetings to the others who flank the young king. Spooning up a mouthful of his breakfast, Tyrion works hard not to spit it back out. Lumpy and tasteless, the best that can be said for it is that it is warm and will keep a body from starvation.

"Not what you're used to, Lord Tyrion?" Davos asks with a sly grin.

"No, indeed." Tyrion scoops up another spoonful and forces it down as he watches Jon methodically shovel the unappetizing gruel into his mouth. "But needs must." He uses the tip of his spoon to draw patterns into the cooling mess.

"It tastes worse when it gets cold, if you can believe it, milord," Jon tells him. "Best to get it down while it's still warm."

Tyrion nods and forces another spoonful past his lips. The camp is relatively quiet, its occupants taking their cue from their solemn leader. Contrary to his verbose nature, Tyrion follows suit and studies Jon from across the small distance that separates them. He had been released from his makeshift prison the day prior by Jon himself and it had taken no more than a single glance at the desolate look in the Northern man's eyes for him to know that their queen was gone. Tyrion had silently followed the younger man from his cell to the Northern camp where he had sequestered himself in the tent assigned to him, tears of grief and remorse stifled in the musty fur he had wrapped around himself. He prides himself on being skilled with words and yet there are none which can relieve the younger man of the guilt which yokes him, though by all rights, Tyrion – who had known the queen and her fiery nature longer and better – should bear the greater portion of the burden for not having intervened sooner.

Tyrion sees the worried looks Arya and Davos slant toward Jon. The younger man is teetering on the edge and Tyrion knows the other two fear that the littlest thing could irrevocably break him. Jon needs a purpose. Something to put his back up against. Something he can control. And Tyrion, who pushed the grisly task of ending Daenerys' reign of fire into Jon's hands, thinks he knows where to start.

"Your Grace," he begins only to be cut short by the other man's exasperated sigh.

"It's Jon," the younger man says. "Jon."

"Your Grace, it is not seemly that I should address you so familiarly when you are the rightful heir..."

"Why?" Jon leans forward, dangling his empty bowl between his knees. "Just because it turns out that Rhaegar was my father and not Ned Stark?"

"Yes." Tyrion says. "For that is how it works."

"The Targaryens were deposed by Robert Baratheon and their reign ended."

"And yet you were fighting t'put Daenerys onto the throne." Davos murmurs, meeting Jon's wounded look solemnly.

"Because, I... because..."

"Because you believed she would be a better ruler than my sister," Tyrion says sympathetically. "Because you believed she would be a just and good queen. But also because you believed her name gave her a rightful claim to the throne."

Jon slumps, one hand kneading the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

"And do you truly believe the people of the Seven Kingdoms will welcome one Targaryen on the throne just days after another incinerated the citizens of King's Landing from the back of a dragon?" he asks. "They would be mad to do so."

"You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar, who was beloved of the people. You were raised by Eddard Stark, believed by most everyone in the Seven Kingdoms to be a man who was just and good and honorable above all things," Tyrion points out. "You have proven yourself time and again to be Ned Stark in every way that counts. And you are already the king elected by the lords of the North. For all of those reasons, yes. I believe the people would accept you as their rightful king."

"I gave up my crown when I bent the knee," Jon argues weakly.

"To a queen who no longer lives." Arya lays a hand on her brother's forearm and squeezes to take the sting out of her words. "I am of the North and you are my king."

Davos stretches out one arm and gestures widely at the encampment. "The men who follow you are men of the North. Your officers are sons of the Northern lords who chose you as their king. Some of them are destined to one day be the heads of their houses but they followed you south because you are their king."

"And will they still feel the same when they learn that I am not the son of Ned Stark?"

"Do you really believe the rumors haven't already started t'circulate through the camp?" Davos counters with an incredulous look. "But they're still here."

"Your Grace... Jon." Tyrion rises from his seat and moves to stand before the other man. "When you released me from my cell you told me that we had a lot of work to do and bade me follow you. And I did. Because, whether you like it or not, you are a man that other men wish to follow." He moves even closer so that his face is level with Jon's. "You told me you wanted to help the people of King's Landing. But the truth is that you can only do so from a position of strength."

"Daenerys said much the same thing to me when she came back to Dragonstone after burning the Tarlys." Jon scrapes his hand through his hair, loosening it from its knot and stares accusingly at Tyrion. "Is that still advice you would counsel me to take?"

"I would." Tyrion draws in a deep breath and stands tall. "You are not Daenerys. I do not have the same concerns about you as I did her."

"Because my coin landed on the right side?" Jon sneers and stares at the dirt between his feet.

"No. Because you do not want the throne."

"Then why –"

"Daenerys coveted the throne and the power it represented. She believed she was destined to rule. She was willing to do terrible things to claim the throne and its power. I, and all of those who followed her, told ourselves that the ends justified the means. That it was all in service to the eventual greater good that she – and we along with her – would do once she was seated upon the throne. On the other hand, you have always sought to do the right thing for your people, not because you crave power, but for no reason other than in answer to a calling to serve."

"Jon." Tyrion lays one hand on the other man's shoulder and waits until he raises his eyes. "A wise man once asked me if I ever considered that the best ruler might be someone who doesn't want to rule. I made the monstrous mistake of ignoring him at the time but now I know he was right. If you do not step in now, then more war will follow. Power abhors a vacuum and there are plenty of others who will fight to claim an empty throne. And once again, it is the people who will suffer. If you truly want to help them, you will claim your rightful place."

"You know he's right." Arya slides from her stool and crouches on the ground near Jon's feet. "This war between Cersei and Daenerys has pushed the realm into absolute chaos and it will only get worse if there are people trying to grab for the throne." She rises up onto her knees and cups his face between her hands. "You are a Targaryen and that gives you the best claim to the throne." She tightens her hold on him when he tries to flinch away. "But you are also a Stark and that means that you will rule with the best interests of your people in mind."

Jon closes his eyes and nods and if his lashes are damp with unshed tears, none of them speak of it.

"Hell, Jon, you've even managed t'bring the Unsullied to your side," Davos says with a rusty laugh. But how do we go about getting everyone, especially the lords of the kingdoms, to agree to recognize Jon as king?" he asks, giving voice to the most pressing of their immediate concerns.

"I've been thinking about our bloody history." Tyrion pours a small measure of weak ale into a waiting cup and takes his seat again. "About the mistakes we've made." He takes a sip and looks at the others. "What unites people?" he wonders aloud. "Armies? Gold? Flags?" He shakes his head. "No. Stories unite people."

He meets Arya's skeptical gaze and presses on. "There's nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it." He takes a long draught from the cup in his hand and levels his gaze on Jon. "And who has a better story than our king?"

Jon's head snaps up and he peers at Tyrion from behind a tumble of dark curls.

"Your story, Your Grace, is one that will be told for ages to come. A trueborn king. The lost king. The infant heir to the throne, hidden away on a promise demanded by a fierce, young mother – a daughter of the North – clinging to life on her birthing bed. Secreted away to the North by an honorable uncle. Saddled with, but shielded by a bastard's name. Concealed in plain sight for his own protection from those who would murder him in his cradle as they had murdered his siblings. Sent to the wall just barely past boyhood to defend the realms of men where he fought bravely and assumed leadership reluctantly. Who defied thousands of years of animosity between the Night's Watch and the Free Folk so that he might save the people beyond the wall from becoming victims of the Night King. Who was murdered for his convictions and rose again to take back his home and unite all of the North – wildlings and Northmen alike – with one purpose and one purpose only. To drive back and defeat the army of the dead."

Tyrion pauses for breath. Jon's head is lowered, his face hidden behind a waving mass of hair but Arya sits straight-backed, her eyes shining with pride, a child-like delight in the tale he is weaving alight in her eyes.

"A man who never aspired to be king, chosen as such by his own people, who left the safety of his home against the advice of all of his advisors because he believed that brokering an alliance with a foreign queen was his people's best chance at life. You are Jon Snow, the White Wolf of the North, a Stark of Winterfell. Aegon, Sixth of your name of House Targaryen. You command a direwolf and you rode a dragon into battle against the dead. The Night King and his armies are defeated because you never lost sight of your objective. Even when those closest to you questioned your every decision or were blinded by their individual goals, you stayed the course. And after the Night King was defeated – " He pauses again when he sees Jon shoot a quick smile toward his sister "– you brought your army south because honor demanded you keep the vow you had made once your own home had been made secure."

"And when an even greater threat arose in the south," Tyrion leans forward, his voice thick with grief and guilt, "you chose again to be the shield of men, though the personal cost to you was great."

"You make me sound quite the paragon, Lord Tyrion," Jon murmurs gruffly, shaking his head back and forth as if in denial of Tyrion's words. He stares at his boots, unable to make eye contact with any of those sitting near him.

"You are not perfect," Tyrion counters. "You are flawed, as is any man. You've made mistakes. But even you cannot deny that every choice you have made has been in service to others. And that is your story. A truthful tale which needs no embellishment. Who would deny a throne to such a man? Who would think to raise an army against such a man? Yours is a song of ice and fire and that is the story that we will spread throughout the kingdoms. That is the song that will be sung for generations to come."

Author's Notes:

I hated the way the way the build up toward the reveal of who Jon really was just kind of fizzled out at the end. The commentaries suggested that this was the most incendiary knowledge that anyone in the Seven Kingdoms would hear and then pfffft. So this chapter was my way of addressing that to my own satisfaction.

I'll be away for a week beginning on Saturday and since this chapter was completed and edited, I thought I would post one more before I spend the next two nights packing and getting ready to leave for the (hopefully) sunny beach.

I have one more chapter completed (from Davos' point of view) but it is unedited. I'll post that upon my return from vacation. And another chapter that is mostly written, but not completed.

I know some of you are probably wondering "but where is Sansa?" She's on her way, I promise. As soon as the next two chapters are posted. I have tons of scribbled notes on my phone from her POV and from Jon's. None of them are in cohesive format yet. If I have time, I may start organizing them while I'm sitting on the beach.

Many thanks for the comments left. I truly enjoy hearing what you think or have to say about this story.