PART IV: Checkmate

The Tower of the Hand

301 AC - Two Moons Later

The pale winter sun had risen above Blackwater Bay, signaling that it was past dawn.

Jon Stark had been watching it as best as he could for some time now. He'd woken up earlier that morning to train with both Starag and Robb. Then he went back to his new chambers in the Red Keep to wash and get a few warm mugs of coffee so as to prepare for the big day ahead of him. And much to his relief, he had a few minutes on his schedule to look out upon the city below him, and the great yawning stretch of ocean beyond it.

How many other Hands before him had stood on this very same stone balcony which he now occupied? His father? Jon Arryn? Tywin Lannister?

It was unlikely that he'd been alone in that. Other men had to have had the same thoughts before him. Other Hands likely paced the length of the balcony in reflection, contemplating decisions that would shape the future of an entire continent.

Jon sneered at the rising sun and reached for the smoking pipe inside his coat pocket. He plucked it into his mouth, and after procuring the accompanying box of matches, lit the tobacco inside the briar-wood bowl. Then he shook out the flame and tossed it carelessly out into the city below.

King's Landing had healed as well as it could have in the last two moons. Though the King's Gate was still being repaired, and the harbor practically having been blown to smithereens, progress was still being made. The people were allowed back into their homes outside of the walls after the dead had been burned. The Faith of the Seven was satisfied with the new sept being built near the Iron Gate, though they had yet to give it a name. Apparently, however, they were carrying the remaining stones from Baelor's Sept and using them as the foundation for their replacement.

The grain shipments from Highgarden had arrived only five weeks prior, much to the shared relief of the people. Garlan was originally supposed to arrive with them, but he had to ride ahead so as to aid Jon in the Siege of King's Landing, or the 'Black Siege' as it was often being called by the common folk, as word had already gotten out about Aegon being another Blackfyre Pretender attempting to usurp the Iron Throne.

Varys, along with the rest of the major conspirators, had been summarily executed by Jon's own hand. Seventeen prisoners had been taken from Dragonstone, and another nine were collected from Aegon's forces. Red Priests, Sellsword commanders, Crownlands lordlings. All of them had been given fair trials.

Of the twenty-six arrested, twenty-one of them had chosen the Wall. Lord Celtigar opted to keep his head rather than part with it. Harry Strickland, the Captain-General of the Golden Company had also been among those sent North. Somehow the man had survived the massacre outside the King's Gate and had surrendered immediately. There were also several Red Priests who had seemingly lost faith in their religion and resigned themselves to servitude at the Wall. Jon accepted their decision and had them shipped off to Eastwatch the next day.

Varys, Benerro, and Monford Velaryon, however, had chosen to die by the sword. So too had Bloodbeard, the captain in charge of the Company of the Cat, another sellsword company from Essos. Then there was the commander of the Brave Companions, Vargo Hoat, who Jaime had personally battled at the Dragon Gate. He too had chosen execution rather than life at the Wall.

The Red Woman, Melisandre, Jon decided to give to the Silent Sisters. She had been completely unresponsive, and Jon could not condemn her to death, even if he wanted to. He supposed that her having lost faith, to know that she had betrayed Stannis Baratheon, only for Aegon to fail in his invasion, was the ultimate punishment in itself.

Jon supposed it must've been something of a novelty for the people of King's Landing to see the Hand of the King both pass the sentence and swing the sword in the same stroke. They were not accustomed to their rulers abiding by the old ways, yet it hadn't seemed to have bothered them. In fact, he knew that these people, and various other lords who had come to King's Landing, developed a keen respect for House Stark. And for him.

The Hour of the Wolf had come again. Yet unlike Cregan Stark, who had resigned as Hand of the King after six days, Jon was still holding office. And for the lords present and men who he'd pardoned, it was something to fear. And, perhaps, even to admire.

Stark banners were hung in Jaehaerys' Square, at every street corner, tower, or each of the six main gates of the city. They were even more prominent in the Red Keep, as the red and gold lion of House Lannister had been stripped away. The gray direwolf was everywhere, especially now that Robb had made the journey down from the North along with their mother, Arya, and Bran.

The common folk were content with how things were looking up. They felt comfortable with how quickly he'd dealt out justice, and they couldn't seem to stop singing praises to the Starks, the Tyrells for their generosity, and even the Mormonts for Starag's intervention against the dragon.

Everything moved so quickly… Jon thought to himself. And I haven't had time to digest it all.

Jon allowed himself an exhausted huff. He released a fresh plume of smoke from between his lips and moved his eyes out to the sea.

Would it snow later today? The gray clouds seemed to say so. Perhaps a thick snowfall, like in the North. Not necessarily a blizzard, but something more… peaceful perhaps.

It was then that two slender arms wrapped themselves around his waist. He felt a shorter body press up against his back and cling to him. Plump lips had kissed his bare neck tenderly, and then the pointed chin planted itself on his right shoulder and tried to dig into the lean muscle to no avail.

"Good morning, my love," Margaery whispered from behind him.

Immediately, Jon's dark thoughts about the past few weeks disappeared from his mind. His worries for the future had gone as well. "Morning, love."

"What were you thinking about just then?"

"Nothing," Jon lied. He disconnected her hands from around his waist and wrapped his arm around her, feeling the slight swell of her midsection where she was carrying his child brush against his side. "Just thought about something Arthur told me once."

Margaery smirked knowingly. "Doesn't sound like nothing."

Jon nearly rolled his eyes at her cheekiness but smiled back at Margaery nonetheless. "You're getting to be terribly impudent, Lady Tyrell."

"Perhaps it's because a certain northern barbarian has yet to marry me. I'd like to be called Lady Stark if you don't mind."

He grinned unapologetically and cornered her against the stone railing of the balcony. Even with the winter morning chill setting in, he could hear her heartbeat pulse faster and faster, her breath growing hot as he drew closer to her. "Soon enough, Margaery, everyone will be calling you Lady Stark." He whispered, before kissing her supple neck.

Margaery couldn't hold back the girlish, husky giggle. "Damn it, Jon. I just put this dress on…" She said as she embraced him, though her frustration had quickly given out. "Hmmmm…" She sighed as her lover began to explore her again.

Before long, they'd both gone back inside. Jon pinched Margaery's behind just as he shut the doors to the balcony. Perhaps it would be good for them to 'sleep in' for a while longer…

And perhaps, just this once, the rest of the world could wait.

It was mid-morning by the time Jon had begun making his way back to the Tower of the Hand.

About three dozen more lords and ladies hailing from the North, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands had arrived during the night and were to be officially greeted. It was a formality, of course, as every Lord or Lady Paramount had already arrived in the capital in the last several weeks alone. Yet it was a formality that Jon was to carry out, as per his position as Hand of the King.

He knew there were some among them who might've doubted his ability, because of his age. But they'd been reminded of his accomplishments by those who had already been inside the city, and from the people and nobles who praised him when he was not around. Their expectations of the brash young barbarian from the North had been quickly squashed, and replaced with the image of the cool and calculating northerner, who played the courtly game with expertise and ruthlessness. A young man who had already beheaded five men in front of the entire realm, no less.

Jon didn't mind the dissenters. They would quickly be weeded out. Even then they'd be reluctant to raise their voices. They were alone, and lone wolves, even in the South, never lasted long.

It mattered not to Jon. What did matter was how he would circumvent the more ambitious types.

There was no obvious heir who could really assume the mantle of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Every true-blooded Baratheon had bitten the dust in the last three moons alone. There was only the thirteen-year-old Edric Storm who could take up the title of Lord Baratheon, and perhaps even of King. But Edric was a boy, and a bastard besides. His claim, albeit the strongest out of House Baratheon, was weak.

Then there was the issue of Tywin Lannister. Two weeks after the Siege of King's Landing, the Lord of Casterly Rock had awoken from his inertia, after having been unconscious for over a moon since the explosion at Baelor's Sept. His leg would never heal, and he'd need a cane to walk for the rest of his life. Would he press the 'claim' of Myrcella and Tommen? Likely. Or then again, perhaps not.

Lord Mace, Jon's soon-to-be good father, had arrived with his wife, and mother. Willas had stayed in Highgarden to watch over the Reach. Jon allowed them to stay in Maegor's Holdfast, of course. He wanted to keep his friends and family close. And he knew that no matter what happened, they'd back him up.

And then, finally, there was the Dornish party. For the first time in years, Doran Martell had made the voyage from Sunspear to King's Landing. He too had brought with him shipments of fruit and food from Dorne. The people of King's Landing were more surprised than ever when Dornish soldiers had started handing out food to the poor and the needy. Jon was originally going to offer Doran a room inside Maegor's Holdfast, but he realized it would've been in poor taste: the man's sister and nephew had been killed in those same halls, and Rhaenys might've died there too. Instead, he offered Doran a manse by the foot of Aegon's Hill. The Prince of Dorne had gladly accepted.

Everyone save the Ironborn was assembled. Then again, Balon Greyjoy had not asked Jon for an invitation, and the likelihood that he would, was slim to none. The Greyjoys hated the Starks and the North. Now that it seemed like the Starks were in charge of the Seven Kingdoms themselves, the Ironborn would continue to wallow in their self-pity on the blasted rocks they called islands. Let them, thought Jon to himself.

Two other new arrivals to the capital had been Robert Arryn, the Lord Paramount of the Vale, and his sister, Sansa Arryn, who had assumed ladyship of the Riverlands after the death of her aunt. Jon had met with them both several times, and they had long since given up attempts to cajole him so they could take both Myrcella and Tommen into custody for being the products of incest, and so they had leverage over Tywin Lannister.

"Please, Lord Stark, surely you understand that-"

"No." Jon had said coldly. He disliked Robert Arryn ever since Starag had told him about the way he'd been detained at the Eyrie. "Myrcella and Tommen are only children. And both are without parents it seems. No, I will not give them to you. They are my guests here in the Red Keep, and I intend to keep it that way."

Robert Arryn's aquiline nose had briefly flared in frustration. He opened his mouth to say something, but likely thought better of it. He sat back in his seat and massaged his temples.

His sister, Lady Sansa, who was perhaps one of the prettiest girls Jon had ever seen south of the Neck, had laid a gentle hand on her brother's forearm so as to calm him. She was practically the spitting image of her mother, Lady Catelyn. High cheekbones, deep blue eyes, thick soft auburn hair which burned bright like the sun. Though she did share the same Arryn nose and thin lips as her brother.

She looked pleadingly at Jon. It was the kind of look women would use when they tried to get their way, and he swore that for only a moment, she had batted her eyelashes at him.

"Lord Stark…" She began slowly. "I understand these last few moons have been difficult for you. You lost your Lord Father, just as we have. Surely you can see that we both have been injured by this conflict? Our sires were comrades, as close as father and son. Shouldn't we be close as well? As the best of siblings should be? Could you do us this one kindness? To give us power over those who have wronged us?"

Jon frowned, and he knew instantly that that was not the reaction Lady Sansa had been expecting. Perhaps she'd thought he'd bow and prostrate before her like so many other smitten knights. "Lady Sansa," He began gently, but firmly. "The Lannisters were not responsible for the death of your father. He was poisoned by the Spider, who I have already put to the sword. Perhaps your claims regarding the questionable heritage of both Myrcella and Tommen are true, but until you both produce undeniable evidence of such, that is all they are: claims. And besides," Jon spared Robert Arryn a harsh glance. "Your brother has not made the best impression on me thus far. I do not intend to let him treat two harmless children the same way he treated Lord Mormont."

Robert Arryn had the decency to blush out of embarrassment. No doubt he'd heard as much from his own mother, as Lady Catelyn knew Starag rather well. "Lord Mormont-"

"Lord Mormont," Jon interrupted the Lord of the Vale as he sat forward sharply in his seat. "Could've slain you as easily with his right hand as he would take a piss with his left. Let me remind you, Lord Arryn, that had you not unjustly detained Lord Mormont you would not be having this conversation with me. You would instead be speaking with my Lord Father, who might still be alive were it not for your meddling. My Father might've been more lenient with you, as he was fostered in the Vale, but I do not share his sympathies. And I suspect your own Lady Mother told you as much before you came here, hadn't she?"

Robert Arryn was unresponsive, having sat back in his seat and decidedly kept silent. Sansa Arryn on the other hand, had realized what sort of man she was dealing with and had dipped her head in confirmation.

"As I suspected," Jon said. "She likely told you to not blame the Lannister children as well. She has a good heart, your mother. I suggest you heed her advice before you get the idea to come to me again." He stood up from his seat out of polite respect, and to silently tell them that the audience was over. "That will be all."

Both siblings had risen from their seats, with Robert Arryn giving a forced bow, and his sister giving a polite curtsy before they left his office.

That had been precisely one hour ago. And ever since the doors had shut behind Robert and Sansa Arryn, Jon had instantly known that even if no evidence was produced regarding the Lannister children's illegitimacy, the Lords of the Vale and the Riverlands would not accept Tommen as their king. Robert Arryn might've been stupid, but he wasn't a coward. He wouldn't just roll over and let the Lannisters take the throne once more. Even still, Jon himself actually shared their suspicions about the Lannister children. A much more in-depth investigation would need to take place first. Regardless, there was just enough doubt cast by House Arryn's claims to potentially even remove Myrcella and Tommen as candidates.

After his meeting with the Arryns, he'd gone to greet more of the new arrivals and see to any business within the city that required his attention. Then, he made his way back into the main keep. On his way to his office, he stopped by the kitchens and asked the kindly women inside to send up yet another pot of fresh coffee to his office. They had obliged, and the younger girls among them had bowed their heads as they curtsied, so as to hide their blushes.

The halls of the Red Keep were bright with fresh sunshine. The marbled floors and walls reminded Jon of the days when his father was still alive. Of a much simpler time when he was practically two heads shorter and weighed half as much as he currently did. When he would walk behind Starag as together they would gallivant around the Queen's Ballroom charming dinner guests and avoiding royalty like the plague.

I danced with Margaery that night, hadn't I? Yes, I did. Our first dance together. Jon smiled at the memory, and a sort of warm feeling of gratefulness came over him. He felt more energetic all of a sudden, and his inner dread at having to command a council of over three hundred lords and ladies from all over Westeros had temporarily disappeared.

He was about to make the next right turn in the hall towards the base of the Hand's Tower when-

"You promised!"

Jon had instinctively darted his head around, detecting the familiar voice of his mother perhaps twenty feet away to his left. He looked down the left hall and saw both Starag and his mother facing each other, the latter staring daggers at the former.

Jon felt his breath catch in his throat. He wanted to say something, but-

"You promised you'd bring Eddard back to me! You promised me, Starag!" His mother's voice was shrill and unstable. As if she were simultaneously trying to hold herself back from crying, and trying to keep her voice down.

"I-"

*Slap!*

"I don't want your apologies!" His mother cried. "I want my husband! You said you'd keep him safe and now he's gone!"

"Ashara," Starag gently palmed the red handprint on his left cheek. "None of us could've predicted what happened…"

"Don't you dare…" Jon's mother had growled. "Don't you dare. First, you take my brother away from me, and now you let my husband die. Who's next? Robb? Jon? Arya? Why not the whole bloody lot of my children?!"

Even from twenty feet away, Jon could feel the pain that radiated in Starag's only good eye. His uncle was still sore about Arthur's death. Still had nightmares about their expedition to Valyria.

Jon could sympathize. There were nights when he woke up screaming after seeing the mad, excitable glare within Euron Greyjoy's summer blue eye as he twisted his blade deep into Jon's leg.

Jon looked back to the pair of his mother and Starag. Their voices grew somewhat quieter. Too quiet for him to hear. But he saw his mother beat her fists against the chest of the immovable titan that was Starag. She might as well have been pounding against a stone.

After a few moments, her fury gave way to grief. She broke down and began crying. The only thing his uncle could do was to wrap his arms around her and hold her. And, fortunately, Jon's mother had accepted his embrace and wept against Starag's chest.

Jon sighed. At the very least, she was getting the chance to vent. Perhaps she might even forgive Starag soon enough.

His uncle had finally noticed him standing at the opposite end of the hall. Starag shook his head, more or less telling him to leave them be for the meantime. Jon nodded in kind and went on his way down the right split in the hall.

As he went, the more his prior, cheerier mood had diminished, and the more he seemed to hear his mother weeping.

By the time he'd ascended up to the top of the long spiral staircase inside the Tower of the Hand, Jon had immediately noticed the visitor who had been waiting for him.

Olenna Tyrell seemed to soak up the space around her. Even as small as she was when placed next to the two towering Stark men-at-arms standing outside the door to Jon's office, she still, somehow, gave off a very powerful presence, one that told everybody within her immediate vicinity that she simply did not care.

The old woman stood as proud as she could, what with the cane that she depended on to even walk. Jon wondered if she herself had climbed the stairs of the tower, or if somebody had actually carried her the whole way up. She wore a thick green and gold morning dress, and her white hair had been tied back to her head in a tight bun. Gaunt, spotted fingers clutched the birchwood cane with one hand, while the other had been placed at her hip. As Jon approached, he could even smell her unique scent of sour breath and rosewater.

The Queen of Thorns had noticed Jon immediately as he ascended the very last step. She gave him a wry, albeit toothless smile. Jon felt inclined to smile back, though he wasn't sure what for. It wasn't as if he conversed with the old woman every chance he got, and had always maintained an easy politeness around her when he had been dining with his good family.

Why was she here? Why had she come to see him of all people? The Queen of Thorns was noticeably closer to Starag, at least in the sense that they'd trade barbs with one another, which Jon supposed, could be seen as a sort of friendship. And why in the Seven Hells was she so… nice?

She'll probably ask about the wedding. Will want to know the details, the logistics. Might even offer to fund the feast itself. Yes, that must've been it. The Old Flower likely wanted to hear it for herself. After all, Margaery was with his child. Making sure her granddaughter was named Margaery Stark would be a priority.

"Lady Olenna," Jon greeted easily. He stopped just in front of her and let both Ghost and Lya inspect the old woman. "I wasn't expecting you…"

"Hmph!" The Queen of Thorns huffed as she received the two curious direwolves. Where most would shy away from the prospect of even going near one of the beasts, Olenna Tyrell hadn't cared one bit. She reached a hand out to Ghost, who was nearer to her, and pet him gently on the head. "As blunt as your father was. Straight to the point. Good."

Jon couldn't help but smile at the sight of the fearless old woman. "Thank you," He said, then nodding to the two Stark men-at-arms standing on either side of the twin doors to his office. "Would you like to come inside to talk? I'm having fresh coffee brought up."

"I'm fine, thank you. I won't be staying long." She said, closing the distance between them and looping her free arm in his own. Jon didn't comment on it, though, and simply pressed open the doors to his office.

The walk to his desk was slower than usual, as the Old Flower needed to use her cane. But Jon was patient. He led her to the most comfortable seat across from his own and pulled it out for her. She thanked him and sat down.

When Jon was seated, he shuffled away some of the loose papers he'd been dealing with before he went down to the main keep to stretch his legs and order another pot of coffee. The fresh silence had begun to ferment and quickly bloomed into tension between him and the old woman.

"So, Lady Olenna, what can I help you with?" He asked. "If this is about the wedding, I assure you that as soon as this Great Council is dealt with, and a suitable successor ascends to the throne, she and I will be wed before the Old Gods and the New."

He thought that his explanation would get some sort of reaction out of her. Yet it had done nothing of the sort.

The Queen of Thorns sat across from him, completely unfazed in the least.

"I know. Margaery told me this morning." She said finally.

Jon frowned. "In that case, my lady, what is it that you wanted to see me for?"

It was then that Olenna had leaned forward in her seat, and gave him that toothless smile once again. "Lord Stark, there comes a time in a man's life when he is presented with a choice: he could either sally forth and burn bright like a star, or he will fall to the recesses of those who came before him. Do you understand what I mean?"

No, he didn't. "You'll have to elaborate, my lady." He said.

"Everyone you've gathered here in this city, every single lord and lady and knight and squire, they all know that this whole 'Great Council' is merely a formality, a veil."

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but the Queen of Thorns had beaten him to it. "Oh, of course, there are Lords Paramount, each with a vested interest in who sits on that blasted chair. Of course, they'll get their say, their chance to be heard, and so on. But make no mistake, Lord Stark. There is not a single soul present in the capital that isn't aware of who makes the final decision."

"And who might that be?" Jon asked.

"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you, and as a Stark, that's saying quite a lot." The Queen of Thorns scoffed. "You already know who I'm talking about."

Jon said nothing, but instinctively, he knew that she was right. There was, in the end, only one decision-maker. The only person who truly held power in the capital. The only Commander with the right alliances in place with the other Great Houses, and the armies present to back it up.

It was him.

"There's a fair vote. Plenty of candidates, too." Jon said.

"Please," Olenna laughed. "Are you really that naive?"

He had the decency to blush, albeit mildly. "No." He said.

There had been a few Great Councils in the past. The first had been held in Harrenhal, and not in King's Landing. It had been regarding the line of succession after Jaehaerys I, the Conciliator. At the time, the council had gathered for thirteen days and had discussed fourteen claims, nine of which had been quickly thrown out. Eventually, the claims boiled down between Prince Viserys I Targaryen, and Laenor Velaryon, the great-grandson of Old King Jaehaerys.

Laenor, being the grandson of Jaehaerys' eldest son, technically had the stronger claim. Yet Laenor was a boy of seven and had been born of a female line. While Viserys had been born of a male line, was twenty-four, and he'd already sired a daughter who could ascend to the throne after him.

Ultimately, the lords of Westeros decided to give the crown to Viserys. A popular rumor was that Viserys had won the vote twenty-to-one. Jon knew for a fact that such landslide results were highly unlikely. Even if Viserys was well-liked, and perhaps he even did win on his own, it was far more likely that someone had made the final decision to send him over the edge. Jon didn't know who it might've been, as the matter itself was over two hundred years old. Perhaps it was the Old King Jaehaerys, perhaps not.

Olenna continued. "Who can stand the pressure of the throne? A boy of thirteen? And a bastard, no less? How many in the realm know of Edric Storm, soon-to-be Baratheon? How many have heard his name be chanted by men who would follow him into battle?" She asked. "Who else is there? The Lannister children? You and I both know neither of them will see anything beyond the walls of Casterly Rock from this day forthwith. And the girl, Daenerys? Not a soul here besides you seem to trust her."

She leaned forward in her seat again. This time just a bit further. "Do you really believe the people care about who sits on the throne? Or do you believe they care about how that person affects their lives?"

Jon knew it was the latter immediately. Very rarely did the common folk actually care who made the decisions. As long as their ruler made their lives better, that was all that mattered to them.

"You've done far more for these people than either of these 'claimants', Lord Stark. One might say that your actions are far more deserving than the mere position of the King's Hand."

"The Seven Kingdoms won't follow another Targaryen. Not even me." Said Jon firmly. "Not after what Aegon did. Not after all that's happened. And I refuse to allow others to call my father a liar when all he did was protect one of his own."

It was then that she smiled once more. Yet this time, her grin was not made out of amusement or mockery, but of genuine, grandmotherly warmth.

"And what makes you think that our King must be a Targaryen?"

At that, Jon had fallen silent. He let his gaze fall to his desk as he contemplated what she was trying to tell him. A Stark King… not just ruling over the North, but Westeros itself…

The Old Flower had taken that as her queue. She rose from her seat. "Lord Stark, there are two kinds of men: those who seize opportunities when they are presented with them, and those who forge opportunities for themselves. As far as I can tell, you've always been around the latter. Ever since you were in swaddling clothes." She said kindly. "Admittedly, it is a dream of mine to see my granddaughter as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I do have a horse in this race, Lord Stark. You can be most assured of that."

She held up a hand when he stood from his seat. "I'll show myself out, thank you."

He nodded deferentially and awkwardly sat back in his chair. He might've said some polite courtesy as she went on her way, yet his mind was far too muddled, too busy collecting his thoughts.

When the Queen of Thorns left his office, the doors closing behind her back, Jon had stared down at the center point of his desk, the part where the grain in the dark wood had rounded out to a neatly shaped oval.

Could it be done? He wondered to himself. Possibly.

He had the alliances to prove it. As it stood, he was perhaps one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros. Linked to both House Tyrell and House Martell through blood or marriage. And he was a Stark to top it all off.

Had his House worked off the stigma that Southerners often held for Northern folk? Who was to say they hadn't?

A part of him felt that nervous tension, the fear of throwing his own hat into the ring. It would be easier for him to clean up this whole mess of a succession crisis and simply ride back home to Queenscrown. Stay there with Margaery. Have a horde of children. Focus on his own little slice in the North.

But would the older Jon Stark regret not taking the chance to make some kind of positive difference in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms? Definitely.

Hadn't thousands of people died so he could have this one chance to make everything right? Wasn't that the reason Arthur had died? For his King? For the dream that Jon might one day sit on the Iron Throne?

Hadn't that been the reason his father risked everything to keep him safe? To give him a new name? A new family? What would Eddard Stark say now that Jon was given the chance to make his death mean something?

"You must be better than me."

It was that simple, wasn't it?

Jon Stark stood sharply from his chair. The two direwolves that had taken to following him around had also raised their heads, licking their snouts to attention as their master walked from around the table and began making his way for the twin doors to the Hand's office.

Soon enough, it would be a time for wolves.

Author's Notes:

YEEHAW! And we're back!

Certainly had these plot beats knocking around in my head for some time. Longer than strictly necessary. So, it's really a big relief to just get it out onto the page.

We're pretty much in the endgame now-got a few chapters left and then it's a wrap. Jon aiming to set up the Starks as #1 in Westeros is in full effect. He'll just need a little help on the backend, of course ;)

Up next, Jon puts together his plan to take up the throne with his allies, and the Great Council gathers to elect Robert's successor.

cliffwest: Thank you, my friend ❤

Didn't necessarily want Jon to outright reject his Targaryen heritage, so he took Blackfyre with him. Who knows? It might appear again later down the line.

Luthanor: Cool, so you didn't like the character.

An intelligent, thinking person would have put in more effort into reviewing a story, and would have identified that Starag isn't a Gary Stu based on his numerous surface-level flaws (consummate smoker, drinker, gambler, womanizer) and internal character defects (taking his anger out on others, makes costly mistakes, takes unnecessary risk, makes decisions which result in his loved ones either being hurt and/or killed.)

But hey! A+ Effort on nailing the first chapter. Hope it made you feel better 👍

As for the rest of you, I wish you all an excellent morning (5:31 AM in my country right now.)

Had a few story ideas I was churning around in my head the last few days; namely another Witcher one-shot post Blood and Wine and a potential ASOIAF sequel that would be a wild coming-of-age redemption story taking place in Yi Ti, and focusing solely on Duncan Mormont.

Keep doing your squats, burpees, and push-ups. Cheers :D

See you next time 💪