Jon

Jon's quarters are enlarged to be more fitting of his status.

"You are the king," Sansa stresses. "I am not suggesting you fit yourself out in jewel encrusted silks," she tells him when he automatically protests. "Nor am I proposing you hold yourself aloof and distant from your subjects. Or that you cease to work alongside your men. I know better than to advise anything of the like. But a leader must be set apart from his people – not just by his actions," she says, holding up a hand to forestall the argument she can see forming by the stubborn look in his eyes, "but also in more obvious ways."

"I know that you know this, Jon. Your position as Lord Commander at the Wall afforded you larger quarters and a steward to serve you," she reminds him. "And as king you must be made to be seen as other. Apart. The people must hold you in high esteem. Your actions already set the tone, but you cannot be seen as ordinary. They must know you to be special. As having a claim to the throne that is preordained and sanctioned by the gods."

He suspects she is right. He has come to learn – often the hard way – that she often is. But what she doesn't understand, and what he isn't eloquent enough to put into words, is that he has no foundation for what she seemingly expects of him. For all that he may be the trueborn son of a prince and the rightful heir to the throne, he was raised a bastard. A bastard from a noble family, it is true – with all the advantages that afforded him over others who were baseborn – and yet he had been taught at an early age that his very existence was sinful and a stain on Ned Stark's otherwise flawless honor. Whispered taunts of 'bastard' from many who served at Winterfell, as well as sneering jibes from Theon and Lady Stark's coldness towards him had been steady reminders that his status was lacking to that of his siblings. A handful of months of knowing the truth of who his parents really were – and of what that made him now – struggled to stand up against a lifetime of being told otherwise.

Jon's youthful aspirations had been to be a brother of the Night's Watch and to join his uncle in a spartan life at the Wall. To rise high within the ranks of the brotherhood. To acquit himself with honor in all things. Everything he knows of leadership has been learned from necessity; from time and again being thrust into a role where someone had to step forward and take control. He knows how to lead on the battlefield. He has no earthly idea of how to rule from atop a throne.

He is comfortable in the company of his family and in the familiarity of working amongst his men. But he is made uneasy at the thought of elevating himself so high above all others for no reason beyond the fact that he now knows himself to be the son of a man he never met.

Yet Sansa, with velvet-gloved insistence, will have her way, and although he remains in residence within the Northern encampment, his tent is enlarged and bit-by-bit, small comforts make their way within. An extra fur – thick and soft – is piled atop the somewhat threadbare one he had taken from Winterfell to the Wall all those years ago. A pair of chairs – their velvet cushions darkened by the soot and ash of dragonfire – but still comfortable, flank a large bronze brazier in one corner. Ornate rugs cover the hard-packed dirt floor and hang on the walls of the tent, providing both warmth and a sense of subtle grandeur. A long table – its polished surface slight scarred but serviceable – is wrestled into his quarters – like everything else, scavenged from the Red Keep at Sansa's direction until she is satisfied that his surroundings are sufficient to greet those who might seek an audience with him. It is a far cry from luxurious, but more comfortable and imposing than anything he has known as his own outside of his life at Winterfell, and each night when he lowers his aching body into the soft cradle of the feather mattress atop his narrow bed, he cannot help the contented sigh that escapes his lips.

He sits at the table breaking the morning fast with Arya, Sansa and the others who have come to informally comprise his small council. The meal includes the delightful surprise of a dollop of honey stirred into each bowl of porridge, a cask of which has been gifted to the king from a minor lord whose estate sits on a far corner of the Reach and who is not subtle in his desire to expand his position and territory within that region.

There is little discussion to be had as everyone applies themselves to their meal. Arya, Davos and Tyrion make quick work of it, eagerly downing the honey-sweetened gruel while Sansa takes ladylike bites, savoring each spoonful. A rare, barely-there smile curls Grey Worm's lips as he slowly consumes his meal and Ser Brienne devotes herself to her breakfast with silent pleasure.

Though the porridge cools, Jon lingers over his bowl taking measured bites, for the sweet is a rare treat to one whose meals in recent years could have been best described as merely edible. He has instructed the cook to include the sweet in the morning's breakfast for the entire camp.

Arya scrapes her spoon against the bottom of her bowl in a futile effort to gather one last taste as Sansa takes a delicate, final lick of her spoon before setting her own bowl to the side.

"That was lovely," she sighs. "We can only hope that more of the nobility will feel similarly inclined to curry your favor, Your Grace." She grins to see Jon roll his eyes in response.

"Indeed." Tyrion discreetly runs a finger along the inside of his bowl. "Let us not yet reveal that Highgarden has already been promised away while we can yet reap the limited spoils of the lords who aspire to that seat of power."

"Promised away, my lord?" Jon asks with a raised brow. "By whom?" he asks.

"Why... by myself," Tyrion replies hesitantly, shooting a discomfited glance around the table as the others stare at him in stunned surprise.

"And might we ask who might be the intended recipient of your generous gift?" Sansa asks.

Tyrion rises from the table to splash a measure of ale into his cup. "Ser Bronn," he mumbles, his words muffled by the goblet at his mouth.

"Pardon?" Brienne asks. "Did you say Ser Bronn? Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"

Jon sees Davos flinch at the mention of the battle in which his son had died before his attention is caught again by Sansa.

"You cannot be serious," she exclaims as she leans across the table toward her former husband. "By what authority did you make so rash a decision?"

"As Hand, I had full right –"

"You are no longer Hand to anyone," Arya reminds him in a low growl, drawing a wounded look from the last Lannister.

"His name is familiar," Jon says, raising a hand to ward off an argument between the two.

"You met him in King's Landing," Tyrion responds, shifting his attention away from Arya's baleful expression. "He greeted us after we walked up from the docks and was our escort to the dragonpit."

Jon has a vague memory of a man with weather-beaten skin, oily hair and a foul-mouthed brand of humor with whom Tyrion had traded good-natured insults.

"Cersei's man, then," is all he says in response.

"He is a sellsword, your grace." Brienne's lips curl in a sneer of disgust.

"His loyalties are... flexible," Tyrion concedes. "But he has saved my life and my brother's on more than one occasion."

"Why don't you just explain how you came to make such a promise to this man," Jon suggests.

And so Tyrion describes Bronn's late night visit at Winterfell, the calm manner in which the sellsword explained that Cersei had sent him to kill her brothers, the threatening thud of the crossbow bolt embedding itself into the beam behind Jamie's head and his own promise to double Cersei's offer of Riverrun by gifting Bronn with Highgarden.

"In truth, I did not believe any of us would live to see the sun rise again," Tyrion admits. "I didn't think control of Highgarden would matter."

"You have always been very clever in your ability to turn matters to your own advantage," Jon concedes. "I applaud your skill at surviving by any means necessary, Lord Tyrion. But surely you cannot believe that I would support naming this man as the Lord Paramount of the Reach? That, I would be willing to put control over the most fertile lands in all of Westeros into the hands of a man whom you describe as having ever-shifting loyalties."

Tyrion shakes his head and sinks back into his chair. "No," he murmurs. "I can see you would not." Looking up, he lets out a soft sigh. "But, your Grace, I would be surprised if he has not already taken up residence at Highgarden."

"Then he will have to leave," Jon says flatly. "Immediately."

"Perhaps after you have him evicted, you will consider assigning me a personal bodyguard," Tyrion mutters softly even as he acquiesces to Jon's demands.

"The Tyrell line is extinct," Sansa says slowly. "But there are lesser lords in the Reach whose lands were left relatively unscathed in the wars."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "And all those lords'll be vying for positions of power and seeking the favor of the last dragon," he rumbles.

"The truth is that there are a number of houses made extinct in the wars," Sansa continues. "Highgarden is just one castle that has been left empty and vulnerable."

"Mostly in the North," Arya murmurs and Jon thinks of Houses Mormont, Karstark and Umber and of the heads of those houses – children, all brave beyond their years and cut down when they should still have been in the schoolroom.

"We should come up with a list of names," Davos begins.

Jon nods toward his Hand. "You and Lord Tyrion should begin to compile such a list," he says. His eyes rove over the others seated around the table.

"The Lady Sansa has a good mind for the politics of the realm and she knows well the North and its people." He stares at her intently, sees the pleased smile that twists one corner of her mouth. "If you are willing, I would have you work with Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion on this matter."

She demurely inclines her head to one side in agreement, but he can see that her mind is already racing with possibilities.

"Sansa." Jon leans back in his chair and trains his gaze on his cousin. "I trust you know my mind on this," he says. "I would keep the castles and control of their lands with family relations, no matter how distant, if you think them capable and worthy of stewardship."

"I know what it is you would want," she assures him with a decisive nod.

"If you cannot come to agreement on satisfactory relatives, or if none such live, then we will look to gift those who have served us well," he says before turning his gaze toward Tyrion.

"My lord, you will pen a message to this Ser Bronn. Inform him that he shall not have Highgarden, nor shall he have Riverrun which rightfully belongs to House Tully." He sees Sansa's shoulders sag with relief and a fierce smile curve Arya's lips. "If he has already taken possession of Highgarden, you will make it known that he must vacate immediately. Impress upon him that I am in little good humor these days and I will not tolerate retaliation against you or any member of my small council. It is in his own best interest to vacate willingly. I have enough to deal with here, but if I must remove him from the castle on the tip of my sword, I will do so."

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion says as he bows his head obediently.

"Tell him that if he proves loyal to me, to my cause, and to my people, then I might consider gifting him a title along with a small keep and land. Bring the note to me when you are finished and I will sign it so that he might know it comes from me directly."

He pushes away from the table and straps Longclaw around his waist as the others scramble to their feet.

"Arya and Grey Worm, you are with me. We will continue this discussion tonight over the evening meal," he says before striding off to begin his day.

TBC

A/N: It's been a long time between updates. I can honestly say that not a week has gone by that I haven't given it some thought. And I've scribbled ideas and bits and pieces of dialogue but inspiration to pull it all together into an actual chapter for posting has been elusive. My office is rife with rumor that we might be shutting down temporarily like so much of the rest of the world. I'm not looking forward to endlessly long hours trapped inside - but we all have to do our part to get this pandemic under control and one bright spot for me would be time to write in between the occasional work-from-home assignments that might come my way. In the meantime, I hope you're all being good to yourselves while taking care of your families and friends. Be safe. Be well.