Arthur

'No. No, my prince, I cannot do that.' Two sets of violet eyes met, and Arthur prayed that his plea would be met. No such luck.

'Arthur, please. I do not want you to feel forced by your oaths you swore to the gods, but I ask you as both a friend and as a brother—stand by me on this. Please. She will not be harmed, I swear to you.'

Arthur should have said no—Rhaegar's plan was ridiculous and could only lead to misery, and he had no qualms about telling the prince that should it come to it.

'My prince…Rhaegar…please, think about what you mean to do. You already have a wife, and two children. Even then, your brother could succeed you. Please, consider what you mean to do.' The Sword of the Morning's voice remained steady, but his gaze was bordering on desperate.

'A wife who is barren, and two young dragons who are useless without their third head. I love Viserys, but he has too much of our father within him to help in the wars to come. No. Arthur, I beseech you. Help me with this, and I will never ask such a thing of you again.'

Rhaegar could've ordered the immediate slaughter of half-a-dozen babes in their mothers' arms; the second he gave Arthur that bittersweet smile that set his heart alight, Arthur knew there'd only be one answer.

'Yes, my prince.'

The sad smile was replaced with one of joy, and Rhaegar clapped him on the shoulder. 'Thank you, my friend. Ser Oswell is outside—you'll leave at once. Just wait and see. Soon, the dragon will have three heads.'

And then he woke. He was not breathless or drenched in sweat, as he might be when he dreamt of the screams or the tower, but the looming scape of Harrenhal and the knowledge of what he'd agreed to was enough to put him on edge. It was early, Arthur could see, with the sun barely beginning to peek over the horizon. Good. The others would be abed for a while yet, and he'd be able to push the dark thoughts from his mind the only way he knew how—swinging a bloody great sword at heaps of burlap and hay.

After he'd got dressed, he was able to force out a sentence or so of butchered Low Valyrian, enquiring to a servant as to where he might find some sort of training yard, receiving nothing in return apart from an incredulous stare and a hesitant point in the direction of the stairs he'd just spent a good ten minutes descending.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

The sun was almost completely risen by the time he found what he assumed to be the training room—large and spacious with high stone walls, with racks of weapons against one and dummies against the other, as well as a dozen-or-so archery targets.

'I thought I'd find you here.'

Arthur whirled around at the voice, his fists raised until he saw who'd spoken.

'Forgive me if I'm mistaken,' the old knight said, smiling ever so slightly, 'but I always thought you were up and training before sunrise. It would seem your standards are slipping, Arthur.'

'And I thought you had more brown hair than white, and knees that didn't creak as you moved,' Arthur shot back. 'It would appear we were both mistaken.'

With that, they both burst into laughter and pulled each other into a hug, not letting go for what must have been minutes, laughing all the while. Eventually they broke off, with Barristan looking him up and down.

'Gods, it's a miracle. I still scarcely believe it,' Barristan said before gesturing to the racks of swords. 'I trust you still know how to use one of these? I haven't had a decent fight in years with anyone other than the kingslayer, and even he was starting to get a bit predictable.'

Arthur briefly thought of the ice demon that had almost killed him and picked up a blunted blade. 'Just try and keep up, old man.'

Barristan was the first to strike, a swift stab toward the torso that Arthur swatted away with ease, to which he responded similarly. Back and forth they went, their swords slowly gaining speed as the patterns of defence and attack slowly began to fade as the melee began to take them around the room.

'The Stark boy mentioned other Kingsguard, the day before last,' Brarristan asked as if he and Arthur were simply strolling down the street rather than engaging in combat. 'I don't suppose Lewyn returned? The stingy bastard owned me twenty gold dragons.'

'Just those at the Tower—myself, Oswell, and Gerold.' Arthur stepped back for a moment, allowing Barristan's sword to pass harmlessly by his stomach before stepping forward once more to press his advantage.

'Really? It'll be good to see those two again. Does Gerold still have a stick up his arse?' Barristan asked.

'Well, uh…' As he hesitated, Barristan was able to knock the sword out of Arthur's hand although seemed admittedly disappointed as he did so.

'What? Spit it out, man.'

'He died. Again. Beyond the wall.' Arthur took a breath and looked his friend in the eye before continuing. 'He was killed by one of those-one of those creatures. An other.'

'They're real?'

'They are.'

'Gods.' Barristan let his sword fall to the ground with a clatter. 'I shouldn't believe you, and yet somehow I do. And Oswell?'

'Fine, last I heard, although he went to King's Landing, so I can't say for sure how much longer he will be.'

'I suppose that's something,' Barristan responded. 'If you hadn't stopped, I think you would've had me just there.'

'Bollocks.'

'It's the truth, old friend. I'm not the man I used to be, and I'd imagine that with Dawn you'd be near impossible to best.'

'I-'

Before Arthur could respond, the door opened and an unsullied stepped through. 'The queen respectfully requests your presence in her chambers,' he said in heavily accented common tongue.

Barristan waved him away. 'Tell her we'll be there in a—'

'Not you.' The unsullied's voice was cold and flat as iron, and his eyes began to bore into Arthur's. 'His.'

'You knew my brother, did you not?'

After they'd got over the pleasantries and she'd directed him to a seat, the question he'd been dreading came immediately. No man, living or dead—with Rhaegar himself falling snugly in-between—twisted his stomach in such a way that the brother in question did, and Arthur knew he'd have to tread carefully. The queen clearly had more of her mother within her than her father, but he'd still rather not take the risk of waking the dragon.

'I did, your grace. Well, do, I suppose, since Rhaegar returned with the rest of us. Both of them, in fact, although I was seldom assigned to Prince Viserys' detail.'

Her violet eyes shone for a moment before seeming to dim slightly. 'When more Targaryens were mentioned the other day, I'd hoped my brother might've been among them. But, well…' She trailed off, and for a moment the regal queen disappeared, replaced by a scared young girl, alone in the world. 'Did he not wish to see me?'

Fuck. What would be the best way to tell her he's at the wall for abducting and raping a noblewoman, all the while plunging the country into war? Slowly, or all at once?

'He wished for nothing more than to see you, your grace,' Arthur began diplomatically, 'but his…duty at the wall prevented him from doing so. Should you choose to aid us in the North, I have no doubt that you'll see him.' Whether he'd be the man she'd always hoped him to be was unlikely, but stranger things had happened.

'Would you tell me about him, ser? Barristan was able to tell me about my mother, but always said that you were closer to Rhaegar.'

'Of course. Rhaegar… he was a great man, your grace. Strong, intelligent, kind—whether a lord or a peasant, all were judged equally in his eyes. He was a decent husband, a loving father, and likely the best friend I ever had. He could've—should've, in fact—been the greatest king in generations, but…'

'The rebellion,' Daenerys cut in, her eyes darkening.

Arthur shook his head. 'It might've been the rebellion that killed him the first time around, but he'd started to slip away long before that—he was obsessed with prophecies and riddles, and when he swung his sword he was never doing so for himself, not truly. He was still good man and a loyal friend when he was there, but…he seldom was anymore. Connington will tell you the same, even if he was never as close as we were—by the tourney at Harrenhal, his motives were not his own, more often than not. At the end, I'm not sure how well I—or any of us, really—knew him.'

Daenerys nodded and remained silent for a moment. 'And Lyanna Stark…the stories…were they true?'

Shit.

'Well, your grace it's—'

'Yes or no, Ser.'

'Yes. In essence, I suppose they are.'

'Leave me, Ser Arthur.' Her tone was clipped, and he knew better than to say anything else. He was halfway out the door when she called to him again. 'Why did you help him? Did you not know it was wrong?'

'Of course I knew, your grace. But I…' His words trailed off as he remembered how Rhaegar would touch his shoulder and smile at him in that way that made his heart beat like a battle drum. Arthur shook himself out of his musings and looked back to the queen. 'I'd sworn an oath, your grace. That's all.'

Gerion

The punch hit his arm without warning and he was jolted out of his daydream, turning around to see the eldest Targaryen at his side. She said nothing but moved to sit beside him, passing a goblet as she did so.

'Isn't it a bit early to be drinking?' he asked.

Visenya simply shook her head.

'I don't know why I said it like that,' he continued. 'Allow me to rephrase. It is definitely too early to be drinking. So, um…why?'

'Ever since my siblings have been reunited, they've been at it like bloody newlyweds. Day and night, if they're together, they're fucking.' She took a deep sip and looked at him. 'It can't be too early to drink if I was never asleep.'

'Fair enough.'

They sat in companionable silence, her glugging and him sipping, looking down from the balcony over the city. They were far above the ground, Gerion could see, but not so high as they had been—the people were tangible beings going about their day rather than the specks they'd been from the top of the pyramid, and their shout were real words as opposed to the general hubbub.

'Was it always like that?' he asked at last, putting the goblet down and looking at her.

'Like what?'

'I mean, the history books said that Aegon married you out of duty and Rhaenys out of desire. Was it always the two of them, and then…well, you?'

'In the bedchamber? Yes, I suppose so. Something about shagging my brother always seemed a bit off, so for the most part I left that to Rhaenys. There were exceptions, of course—I did my duty, but no more than that. But other than that?' Visenya shook her head and looked wistfully at him. 'I thought the world of both of them and gladly would've fought by their sides for eternity. But then Meraxes was shot down and Rhae died, and, well…Aegon was never the same after that.'

'You know, the history books say that it was you who soured the relationship with your brother.' Gerion asked.

Visenya snorted derisively. 'I'm a woman who didn't obey her brother's every command and who openly criticised the Citadel. Of course they do.' She paused for a moment. 'Were you ever married? You know, before you left?'

'Ha! No, it never seemed quite right for me—Sure, for Tywin and Kev and Tygett, it allowed them to do their duty for the house, and I daresay it made them all happy for a while. And of course Genna didn't have a choice and was shipped off to the Freys the second she was able. No, married life never quite seemed like my kind of thing.'

'What about your daughter? Joy, was it? Wouldn't her life be…well, better if she were trueborn?'

'I suppose it would, provided her mother was a noblewoman.'

'She wasn't?' Visenya's face was one of scandalised shock and it was all Gerion could do to stop himself laughing.

'Briony was a washerwoman in Lannisport and couldn't think of anything worse than being a noble—not that Tywin would've allowed it anyhow. No, it's better for all of us for Joy to remain as she is. Not to mention,' he continued after placing the goblet down, 'that being untethered gives me freedom to partake in other…pastimes.' He shot her a wink and was immediately punched on the arm again, albeit this time far harder. 'Ow, fuck.'

'Gods, you little letch,' she said, her scowl ruined ever so slightly by the clear effort she was having to make to fight the corners of her lips forming a smile. She opened her mouth to speak again, at which point footsteps could be heard behind them. They turned to see an unsullied approaching.

'Ser. Your grace. Your attendance has been requested by the queen. Now.' With that, he marched back out, and Gerion turned back to Visenya.

'I suppose we'd better continue this conversation later, your grace,' he said, offering her his hand.

She did not take it. 'If you want to keep your cock, you'll never mention it again, ser.'

'Are you saying you want my cock, my queen?' Gerion just about stopped himself from smiling as Visenya's face turned a furious crimson.

'What? No, I—no, now, listen here, I…'

Her protests continued until they reached Daenerys' solar, all the while he remained silent.

Gods. It really is too easy.

Young Griff

'I accept your proposal.' His aunt's voice was strong and clear, but Griff didn't feel any relief. Sure, the dragons would be a major boon in his journey to the throne, but with the added cost of another opponent. 'Within a moon's turn my men and I will be ready to mobilise, at which point we will set sail for Sunspear. Varys has been gathering allies in Westeros, and on my landing the campaign will begin. Do I have your support?' Daenerys' tone was neutral, but as she looked around the room her eyes met Griff's and he knew what she was really asking.

'No you bloody well don't,' Jon replied sharply, slamming his fist down on the table. 'You've seen the proof of a trueborn heir right here, and even if that were not the case, Rhaegar still has an heir in Westeros. You're the second-born daughter of a dead king. By what rights would we follow you?'

'She's the legitimate heir, Jon,' Arthur said. 'Rhaegar died before Aerys did, and Viserys was the king's heir when he died. I assume Viserys named you his heir, your grace?' Daenerys nodded. 'It seems simple enough—Daenerys is the heir to the Iron Throne, before Aegon or Jon Snow.'

'That's horseshit!' Jon shouted. 'He's the first son of the first son of the king—the throne should be his.' At this, Griff slowly nodded, but he was the only one.

'Peace,' Aegon cut in. 'There is no clear-cut line of succession, but you are both dragons. The throne is not the birth right of either of you, but of both of you.' At their confused looks, he sighed. 'When I took the throne, I was not the sole leader, but the figurehead—by my side I had my sisters, I had Orys, I had all manner of capable advisors. They helped conquer, and they ruled the kingdoms as much as I ever did, but I am known as the conqueror, and that is how I shall always be remembered. Do you wish to rule because you feel it is right, or because you feel it is your right?'

The silence after he finished seemed to ring on as they all thought about what he said.

'I promised your father I'd see you on the throne, boy, and I'll be damned if I don't!' Jon shouted.

'And Rhaegar promised me that Lyanna Stark would be unharmed, Connington,' Arthur shot back. 'It would appear to me that oaths regarding Rhaegar Targaryen aren't quite as true as you might've thought.' He sighed. 'The fact is, right now it doesn't matter who takes the throne—we just need to be ready in time for winter.'

'Again with that poppycock about the long night!' Jon said venomously. 'Honestly, Arthur, I wouldn't have thought you'd believe such tales—'

'I saw them myself, you—'

'Enough!' At her roar, everyone around the table fell silent and looked at Daenerys. 'Tell me, nephew. What allies have you garnered in Westeros? What deals have been made, which marriage contracts have been viewed and approved, which houses ready themselves for your arrival so they might aid your campaign?'

'Well, none, but—'

'Exactly.' She stopped for a moment and smiled at him. Every instinct in his body told him it was genuine, and for the first time he felt as though he was seeing his aunt, rather than just another enemy in his way. 'All my life, I thought that myself and Viserys were the last of the dragons. To find out that I wasn't was a rare joy, and I am truly jubilant that we are together at last. You are kin, and will always have a place at my side. But please, think for a moment. The world thinks you dead, and there would always be whispers that you were a pretender and your safety would never be assured. The throne will be mine, but should you side with me, you'd be prince of Dragonstone—my heir, Griff. Is that acceptable?'

Strangely enough, it was. After all Jon's training, all of his father's legacy and the knowledge of what'd happened to his mother and sister hanging over his head, his right to the throne had always been viewed with trepidation—he was all but alone in the world and when he reached that pinnacle of power there'd be nowhere to go but down. And now a solution had been presented to him, one in which he wouldn't have to feign neutrality to keep the peace.

One in which he could take down all the Gregor Cleganes and Amory Lorches of the world, protect all the mothers and sisters and little black cats, and no-one could stop him.

'Of course it's not,' Jon spat back. 'Boy, tell—'

'Peace, Jon,' Griff said. 'She's right. I will not stand against family, and she has a far better chance at putting the dragons back on the throne, not to mention a stronger claim. My queen,' he continued, dropping to one knee, to the astounded stares of all those gathered. 'My sword is yours.'

'Thank you, Aegon.' He could see tears in her eyes as her voice wavered slightly, but she cleared her throat. 'If that is all—'

'One more thing, your grace,' Robb interrupted. 'You mentioned his allies—or rather, lack thereof—and said that Varys had been gathering more for you in Westeros. Might I ask who you had in mind?'

The Queen of Thorns

That bolt of lightning had been a blessing from all the gods, and there was nothing anyone could say to change her mind—the night before the queen dowager had meekly submitted to have her trial scheduled for, the heavens hurling striking down the metal spire—and much of the roof—of the Great Sept of Baelor had been inauspicious to say the least. It had massively delayed the trial once more, of course, but there'd been nothing anyone could do—Cersei had been adamant on having her trial there, and the pliable boy king had been unable to refuse her that.

And then had been her spy's discovery—three dozen barrels of wildfire, stashed beneath the sept, ready to ignite at any given moment.

Olenna hadn't been able to do anything about it, of course—there was great risk in neutralising the stuff, and Cersei would've had her head if she'd said anything. So she'd waited and feigned ignorance, and allowed that appalling lion-bitch to think she'd got the better of her. She'd been unsure where she'd go from there was cursing herself for being backed into a corner, when Varys got in touch.

She'd never liked the eunuch—he was flabby and soft, and he had that way of speaking that made her skin crawl. His tidings, however, she liked very much.

So there she was, waiting outside the city gates in an inconspicuous brown wheelhouse, far too dirty for comfort but well enough for safety. Margaery's double had been put in place, and was soundly sleeping in the bed that Tommen refused to share, whilst all the guards at Loras' cell had been bribed or drugged accordingly. Margaery herself had ridden away that morning, slipping through the patrols with three of her father's best men, and so far even Mace hadn't managed to completely bungle the plan, going on a "diplomatic mission" to Horn Hill.

'We're ready, my lady.' The brown-hooded figure of her grandson had been bundled into the wheelhouse, and the guard was now addressing her directly.

'Very good,' she replied. 'And the guard…he knows what he's to do?'

'Yes, my lady. Unrecognisable, we told him.'

'Good. In that case, let us be off.'

The tell-tale rumbling of the wheelhouse began, and for the first time in months she felt like she could breathe properly. Her family would be safe, and if all went to plan they'd be moving up even further in the world.

Still, it was a shame about Margaery's double. The poor thing almost certainly didn't deserve what would happen.

Robbett

It was completely fucked up no matter how you looked at it—the girl would die, he would almost certainly die, and for what? So some puffed up nobles could keep pretending to get their hands dirty. Still, it'd been his own debts that'd got him into this situation in the first place, so he had no-one to blame but himself. At least they'd be gone, and his family would be looked after well enough.

Unrecognisable, they'd said. Very well.

He walked into the queen's chambers as silently as he could—if he was going to kill her, the least he could do it while she was asleep.

Gods, she was young, and the hammer felt like lead in his hands. Surely there was another way?

No. He had a job to do, and he'd be damned sure it was carried out one way or the other.

With that, he raised the hammer, bringing it down on her head.

Then he brought it up, and then down, again.

And again.

And again.

And—

It was dawn when they found him, kneeling in a puddle of blood and brain. She was unrecognisable, alright. Not that he could even recognise himself anymore.

Robbett wept.

A/N: Hello! Another chapter done, which, given my current uni deadlines, could be considered a miracle. Hope you liked it, with the ultimate battle for the throne moving ever closer. Please feel free to follow, favourite, and review, and cheers to all those of you who already have!

I'm also aware that many of you may not be a massive fan of who I've chosen as the best choice to take the iron throne. Feel free to message me about it if you really feel the need, but know it won't change anything.

Hopefully I'll be able to update soon, and cheers again for reading,

-Kinginthenorth1 xox

Kingmanaena: Cheers!

DarthMaine: That'd be considred a spoiler mate, so I'm afraid I can't say.

Moshi: I was referring to the Targaryens (you know, the family that Jon is a part of and who have the best chance at taking the throne), but even then, I don't think it's particularly complex military strategy to think that in battle, having sentient rideable flamethrowersnot having them. That being said, I'm not trying to say that the Targaryens are the saviours people have been waiting for all along, but rather that if everyone can stand together, that'll be the best defence against the Long Night. Obviously I'd prefer you (and everyone) kept reading, but if you wanna leave it, that's completely up to you.

Cali: Glad to hear that you liked my Jon (who I may or may not have been slightly terrified at writing) and enjoyed the chapter. Cheers!