Tyrion

The euphoria after finding the children and their mother alive was short-lived as with each passing day only the dead are pulled from the rubble. The funeral pyres which had burned constantly for days and nights on end are now, mercifully, for the most part, extinguished.

The days have grown shorter as winter has settled in and Tyrion finds himself caught up in the throng of Northern soldiers and Unsullied making their way back to their encampments for the night. He pushes through the crowds in search of the king whom he finds, as always, in the company of Grey Worm. The two men have become inseparable, working themselves to the bone in an effort to assuage the guilt and drown the grief that threatens to consume them both.

"Your Grace." He draws Jon's attention and the younger man heaves the stone in his hands into the back of a wagon waiting to haul away the mountains of debris scattered over the city's streets.

"Tyrion." Dusting his hands off on his jerkin, he moves towards the smaller man.

"I have news, your Grace. If you are soon to be making your way back to camp, perhaps I can accompany you so that we may discuss it in private?"

Jon acquiesces with a nod. He exchanges a few words with Grey Worm, clapping a hand on the other man's shoulder in farewell. Arya, ever present, immediately falls into step at her brother's side and the siblings join Tyrion. The threesome find Davos on their way toward the gates and their progress is made maddeningly slow as Jon is stopped time and again by his men and even once or twice by one of the smallfolk brave enough to approach with a question.

"You're going to have to convince him to set aside a day each week to hear petitions," Tyrion murmurs to Davos. "Else he'll be constantly besieged as he is now."

Arya snorts out a soft laugh.

"It is the traditional manner in which kings have heard their people," Tyrion huffs, affront evident in his tone.

Davos holds up a calming hand. "I think, my Lord Tyrion that you will find our king is not going to do much of anything in the traditional manner of other kings."

Tyrion grunts and nods.

"I see His Grace's shadows have returned," Davos comments idly.

"They showed up a couple of hours ago," Arya responds.

"I beg your pardon," Tyrion interrupts. "But what are you talking about?"

Arya tips her head to the right and Tyrion glances over to see a group of young boys hovering nearby, whispering amongst themselves and jostling one another.

"They started showing up a handful of days ago," Davos says. "They follow Jon wherever he goes."

Tyrion's instinct at hearing the king is being stalked is to show alarm, but he decides if Jon's fiercely protective sister is not concerned, he will not be either. From the corner of his eye, he sees the rough-housing amongst the boys increase and then suddenly, one lad stumbles out of the group, pushed forward by his friends. The boy throws a frightened look back toward the snickering group and then, feigning bravery, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and saunters toward the king's party.

"Is he really the king?" the boy asks, jerking his chin toward Jon who is in earnest conversation with one of his captains and seemingly oblivious of the goings-on around him.

"He is indeed," Tyrion says.

"He don't look much like a king t'me," the youngster says.

"And what does a king look like?" Arya asks with a raised brow.

"My older sister says kings and queens all have golden hair and gold clothes, but their eyes are scary and their smiles are mean!"

Tyrion winces at the frighteningly accurate description of Cersei and Joffrey.

"But him," the boy says, pointing toward Jon. "His face is all scarred and he's got dirt under his fingernails. He don't wear a crown and he ain't scary-looking. He looks kinda sad. Like most everyone else around here."

"Indeed," Tyrion murmurs again.

Jon finishes his conversation and turns toward them. Spotting the young boy standing with the others, he steps towards them.

"My Lord Tyrion," he says as he approaches. "Who is your young friend?"

"I'm afraid I haven't yet had the pleasure of learning his name, Your Grace." He looks into the boy's eyes. "Well, lad?" he prompts.

The child's eyes have widened to a comical degree as he stares up into the king's face. "I'm, uh... I'm..." He draws in a deep breath. "I'm Owen." His eyes narrow for a moment and then, "Do you really have a white wolf?"

"I do," Jon says. "His name is Ghost and his fur is as white as snow."

"Is that..." Owen stretches out a hand toward Jon. "Is that him?" he asks pointing to Longclaw's pommel.

Jon nods and moves his arm back to allow the child a better look. "It is. Would you like to see it?"

Tyrion smiles when the boy sucks in an eager gasp and nods frantically as Jon pulls the sword from its scabbard and lays it across the palms of his hands. The lad tosses a look over his shoulder toward his stunned friends and then tentatively reaches out with one finger to trace the outline of the white wolf's head.

"Where's the real Ghost?" he asks as his finger smooths over the wolf's garnet eye.

"I left him in the North," Jon replies, his lips turning downward for a moment. "The South is too warm for a direwolf."

"Too warm?" the boy exclaims and kicks at the snow near his feet. "It's freezing here and there's snow all over the ground."

"Not compared to the North," Arya says as she moves to lean into her brother's side. "In the North there are snowdrifts taller than most men."

Owen scoffs in disbelief.

"It's getting dark," Jon smiles at the boy. "Do you and your friends have a place to sleep?" he asks. "Enough to eat?"

The boy nods, adulation clear in his expression as he gazes up into the king's kind eyes. "Yessir," he mumbles.

"Then you best be getting along." Jon ruffles the boy's hair and sends him on his way.

Tyrion searches in his pocket for a coin. "Owen," he calls and flips the coin toward the lad who deftly catches it in one hand, the copper glinting in the waning daylight.

Owen reaches his friends who fall on him as if he was a hero returning from war and Tyrion realizes that Davos is right. Jon is never going to rule like other kings – sitting distant and entitled upon a towering throne. His willingness to use his own hands to help the city recover puts him in stark contrast to the lazy and wasteful Robert Baratheon and his kind eyes and sad smile are a far cry from the glittering malice of the likes of Joffrey and Cersei.

Instead, Tyrion realizes that having been raised a bastard, Jon does not see himself as elevated above his people, and his natural inclination to serve rather than to be served is endearing him to a growing number of the ordinary citizens of Kings Landing.

They have not yet heard back from the lords of the different kingdoms in response to the missives Tyrion sent throughout the realm, but he knows that a king who has the love and loyalty of the masses is a king who has a firm grip on his throne.

They continue unimpeded toward the encampment whereupon arriving, the men split into different directions. Knowing how soldiers behave when they are off duty, Jon has issued strict orders that none of his men are to enter the city after dark. Guards are placed at all gates to discourage anyone from disobeying his order and in response, enterprising business people from the regions near King's Landing have traveled to set up their trades. A small tent city has cropped up near the Northern camp housing makeshift laundries, brothels, taverns and bathhouses. Music and raucous laughter can be heard spilling forth from the taverns and more than one man disappears into the perfumed interiors of the brothels.

Tyrion sees a number of Unsullied sprinkled throughout the Northern camp. They do not partake of the pleasures to be found in the taverns or brothels, but over the weeks of working together, friendships have begun to crop up among some of the Unsullied and their Northern counterparts and he sees some sitting around the many campfires sharing a meal with their Northern brethren. He grins to see the stoic and unchanging expressions on the faces of two Unsullied who stare across the playing cards in their hands toward a couple of Winterfellian soldiers who earnestly try to explain the rules of the game to their newfound comrades.

They arrive at the king's tent and Tyrion settles near the campfire while Jon ducks inside, returning a few moments later in fresh clothes, his cheeks ruddy and beard glistening from the cold water he had used to quickly wash away the worst of the day's grime. The sun has disappeared and Tyrion huddles within his furs, inching his stool closer to the fire, gratefully accepting the bowl of stew that is handed to him by the young man who has been appointed to serve as Jon's squire.

He dips his spoon into the bowl, surprised to find that the meal actually has a somewhat pleasing taste. Thick with barley and gravy, he counts two good sized chunks of venison along with a few potatoes and onions. The king and his party eat quietly, savoring the warmth of the meal after another long and exhausting day.

Jon sops up the last bit of gravy from the bowl with a hunk of bread and pops it into his mouth before setting the bowl on the ground near his feet.

"You had news, my lord?" he asks as Tyrion finishes his own meal. The smaller man nods and slides down from his seat to reach for a pitcher of ale that sits on a nearby table. Hefting the pitcher in one hand he looks towards his companions, pouring a small measure of ale into the waiting tankards and handing them out. He drinks half of his own while he stands there and then tops off his cup before returning to his seat to slowly savor the rest. Ale, like everything else in the camp, is strictly rationed and he knows if he wants more, he will have to take himself and his coin to one of the two tents housing the makeshift taverns.

"As you know, I found Cersei's solar to be in surprisingly good condition," Tyrion says as he settles himself more comfortably within his fur cloak. "Most of the damage to the room was superficial – items that fell from the walls or tables during the siege."

"Aye," Jon grunts impatiently and shoots the other man a look that silently urges him to quickly get to the point.

"I was poking through her desk when I came across a key – rather ornate and tucked away in a hidden compartment in one of the drawers. I've spent the last two days tearing her solar apart, testing the key in every lock I could find and today I struck gold."

He smirks, enjoying the private joke as he elaborates.

"I mean that quite literally," he says. "Secreted behind a rather frighteningly accurate portrait of young Joffrey was a safe built into the wall. And inside the safe..."

"Gold," Davos grunts. "How much?"

"Gold," Tyrion grins. "A fair amount."

"I thought you said that Cersei had used the Tyrell gold to pay off House Lannister's debt to the Iron Bank." Jon interrupts.

"She did. And apparently immediately upon paying off the Lannister debt, she secured a new loan from the Iron Bank to purchase the services of the Golden Company."

"For all the good it did her," Davos snorts softly as he remembers the quick and ruthless decimation of the famed company of sellswords before the gates of Kings Landing.

"Indeed," Tyrion agrees. "It seems that she had the Iron Bank immediately transfer half of the borrowed funds into the Golden Company's account as a down payment and she maintained the balance of the funds in the safe behind Joffrey's portrait."

"She kept all that gold here? In a city she knew would be facing Daenerys and her dragons?" Arya asks incredulously.

"Cersei always believed the Red Keep was invincible," Tyrion says. "She often said there was no place safer than within its walls." He sighs and stares downward, as ever at odds with his emotions when it comes to his sister. He had loathed her, had actively worked toward her defeat and yet he is stunned to find that a part of him mourns her passing. He shakes his head to clear it and raises his gaze back to the others.

"In any event, there are stacks of gold coins tucked safely away in her solar. I see no reason why we cannot use it for our own needs now."

"And how will we find the funds to repay the Iron Bank?" Jon asks.

"We need the money, Your Grace," Davos begins. "If we're t'have any hope of getting this city back on its feet..." He locks his gaze on Jon's. "I know you don't like it, but we need the money now. Figuring out how to pay the Iron Bank back is a question for another day."

Jon blows out a long breath and nods in reluctant agreement.

"I'd like to point out a couple of things," Tyrion drawls, pulling the group's attention back to himself. "The first is that it is Cersei's name on the loan document. The debt is hers and died with her."

"Not if we use the money ourselves – "

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but if you would be good enough to hear me out," Tyrion requests, continuing when Jon nods. "The Iron Bank would not necessarily need to know that the gold survived the destruction of the Red Keep..."

Tyrion sees a smile flirting around the corners of Davos' mouth and Arya's eyes widen in appreciation of his words. It is only Jon who is shaking his head in disagreement. Tyrion feels a flash of irritation. He is not used to dealing with a monarch with so rigid a sense of morality. He opens his mouth to further his argument but pauses when Arya speaks first.

"Jon." Hands braced on her knees, the Stark girl leans toward her brother, an earnest expression on her face. "Every day the city's granaries empty a little more. It won't be long before we run out of food and then we're going to have to start buying it from somewhere else," she points out reasonably.

"And we'll need money – not just for food, but for materials and manpower to rebuild the city," Davos chimes in.

"While there is a good deal of money, it won't be enough for all our needs," Tyrion cautions. "But it's a start."

"And won't the Iron Bank be suspicious of where I – a man raised as a bastard with no lands of my own – a man formerly of the Night's Watch – came by enough gold to feed and rebuild a city?" Jon asks.

"Of course, they will suspect," Tyrion murmurs in response. "But they could not possibly prove that the funds came from their loan to Cersei. How could they?"

"I don't like it," Jon stares at his sister. "Father..." he stumbles over his words as he thinks of the man who raised him. "That is, your father would not approve," he says.

"He wouldn't," she agrees. "But Jon, what else can we do?"

Tyrion watches as Jon's head drops forward, his chin resting against his chest as he struggles with the decision.

"Each lie builds on another," Jon says. "Every concession makes it easier to forfeit the truth the next time. Until all truth and honor is compromised beyond recognition."

"Jon," Tyrion leans forward, his face bathed in the light of the fire that separates him from the young monarch. "You cannot rule a kingdom as large and far-flung as this without compromise."

"I will not bargain away my honor." Jon pushes to his feet and Tyrion cranes his head back as the younger man looms over him.

"I will agree not to reach out to the Iron Bank to inform them of your discovery today. But if they come knocking upon our door asking about their money, I will not lie to them – and neither will you on my behalf."

Knowing he will not get a better deal, Tyrion nods in agreement.

"In which case, you best start thinking of a way that we can pay them back if they do come calling." Jon shoots a look at his small group of advisors and stalks off.

"I fear for him." Ignoring the rationing order, Tyrion pours a healthy measure of ale into his empty cup. "He is too good-hearted to be king. Others will take advantage or use his honor against him." He takes a long draught from his cup and looks towards Arya.

"Can you not talk some sense into him?"

"And say what?" she shoots back. "Ask him to be someone other than himself? Someone like Robert Baratheon? Or Cersei? Or Daenerys?" She shakes her head. "No."

"He never wanted to be king in the first place," Davos comments. "Asking him to abandon his honor now is too high a price. Better to set him free and allow him to return home."

"And then what happens to the realm?" Tyrion wonders despairingly.

"Jon Snow is nothing without his honor," Davos says quietly. "It is what makes men want to follow him. It's what makes me want to follow him."

"He's strong," Arya murmurs. "And he has us to protect him."

Tyrion drains his cup and stares into its empty depths.

"I hope we are enough," he whispers. "For the realm cannot take any more upheaval."

TBC

A/N: I'm so grateful for the manner in which this story is being received by you, the readers. And while I have a clear path in mind as to how the story will progress, I am fascinated by and enjoying the various comments and suggestions some of you have made along the way. This was another chapter presenting some of the mundane problems that might crop up in the aftermath of the destruction of Kings Landing but I thought it important enough to include and hopefully not in a dry and dull manner.

Next chapter will be from Sansa's POV.

There are a number of readers who have commented that they have trouble imagining how Jon and Sansa move forward given all that has happened between them. It's a fair observation. I respect it and I can say assuredly that it is something that I considered from the outset and which I am carefully waded through as the characters reconnect in future chapters. My only response is that I do have a plot line in mind and I guess... either I am a capable enough writer to make a reader accept my premise... or I'm not. Of course, I hope you'll all stick around for the ride.

Thanks again to everyone who is reading, commenting, bookmarking or leaving a kudos. I know pretty much every writer says it, but all of that is important from the perspective of putting something creative out into the world and knowing that it's being seen by others. I appreciate your commentary.