Uprising

by litwater44

A blue rose, surrounded by fire and ash. Rhaegar Targaryen's triumph at the Trident was bittersweet, shrouded in the mystery of Lyanna Stark's death and her stillborn child. Years later, the bastard of Winterfell returns to Westeros astride a fierce black dragon whose flames will reignite the whispers of war.

33. Dancing with The Ghosts

Jon

Jon knelt in the soft earth beneath the Heart Tree of Harrenhal, the blood-red leaves shivering in the wind as if they could feel the weight of his guilt. Blackfyre lay in front of him, the ancient blade's whispers refusing to fade even hours after the battle. He'd wiped it clean himself, scrubbing every inch of steel until not a trace of red remained, but it still smelled of blood, still thrummed with the taste of fear, the memory of the lives it had cut short today.

He could still feel it—the warmth of the blood spraying across his face, sticky and hot as he fought through the gates. Blackfyre had sung in his hands, a relentless chorus of steel against steel, and Jon had felt…alive. Each clash, each scream, each strike that brought him closer to Aegon's forces had been like a drug, and he'd reveled in it. Even now, hours later, he could feel the exhilaration pulsing through his veins. And that, more than anything, left a hollowness in his chest.

He closed his eyes, scenes flashing behind his eyelids. The Redwyne twins—brothers who had come into the world together, lived together, fought together. And now, they had died together, slain by his own hand. He could still see the shock in their eyes, the way they had looked to each other one last time before Blackfyre had finished its work. Did they deserve to die like that? Did I have to make it so cruel?

Then, the Darry brothers. They'd fought valiantly to hold him back, but fear had painted their faces in the final moments. He'd cut them down, Blackfyre cleaving through flesh and bone with ease, and their blood had painted the grass beneath him as he pushed through the courtyard.

Ghost had been a shadow on the battlefield, a specter of death with fur as white as snow and a maw drenched in red. He had set the direwolf upon Lord Massey, whose desperate shouts had pierced the air before Ghost silenced him, his throat torn open. Ser Parmen Crane, Ser Ronnet Waters, and had tried to rally, but Ghost tore through them as if they were nothing, their bodies left mangled and forgotten on the blood-soaked ground.

Ser Ryon Allyrion—Jon could still hear the echoes of his screams. Perros Blackmont—he remembered his desperate cries. Lord Fowler's heir—the sickening sound of blood gurgling in his throat haunted him. Ser Arron Qorgyle—Jon could see, even now, the light fading from his eyes.

He remembered the way he'd ended Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell, knights who were supposed to be paragons of chivalry, legends of the Kingsguard. Lewyn had fought bravely, desperately even, but Jon had cut him down like an animal. The man's gasp of pain still echoed in his mind, haunting him. Was that chivalry? Was that justice? And Quentyn—young, proud Quentyn. He'd barely had a chance to breathe before Jon had split his face with a single, unfeeling stroke.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to rid himself of the haunting images. But they only came faster, sharper—the hate in Elia's eyes as she cradled Lewyn's head, the grief in Arianne's as she realized her brother was gone forever, the betrayal in Rhaenys's tear-streaked face as she pleaded for her family. Did I go too far? The question twisted in his chest, a blade sharper than Blackfyre.

And Lord Stark—what would he say? Jon could almost hear his voice, calm, stern, so certain in his honor. Ned Stark would look at him and see a stranger, a monster who wore the face of the boy he'd raised. Jon could see the disappointment in his eyes, the same disappointment he'd imagined before, but now it cut deeper because Jon knew, in that moment of battle, he had enjoyed it. The killing. The blood. The raw, unchained power of it.

"I did it for Bran...I did it for Sansa," Jon whispered, but Lord Stark would have none of it.

The faces came faster, too fast to stop now. Olly, the Blackfyre pretender, falling to his sword. The sellswords he'd burned at King's Landing, their screams ringing out as their flesh melted under dragonfire. He saw their faces, one by one, twisted in agony, and he felt their pain like a brand searing into his soul.

He opened his eyes, feeling them burn with unshed tears as he looked at Blackfyre, gleaming dully in the pale moonlight. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hilt, but he could feel it still thrumming with that dark power, whispering for more blood, more death. He pulled his hand away.

"What is honor to a monster?" he whispered, his voice raw and broken. The words fell into the quiet night, swallowed by the Heart Tree as if the ancient gods themselves refused to answer him.

He stayed there, his head bowed before the weirwood, waiting for a sign, an answer, something to tell him this was all worth it—that there was a purpose to the bloodshed, a reason for the carnage, that he was meant to overthrow Aegon. But all he heard was silence, and the heavy, unending beat of his heart.

"They deserved it," Jon snarled. "Why didn't I just kill them all?" But no one answered.

Jon was still kneeling in the dirt when he heard the soft steps behind him, the gentle rustle of a gown that could only belong to someone who didn't belong in the chaos of battle. He raised his head, and when he looked up, there she was: Myrcella, her emerald eyes watching him as they always had. But all Jon could see was the piercing green of Jaime's eyes staring back at him, a reminder of the bitter price he had paid to seize power.

He thought of the Kingslayer and the Mountain, their smirking faces etched into his memory. Jaime had laughed as he cut through men, while Gregor Clegane had taken savage delight in hacking soldiers apart, his men jeering as they drove their knives into the backs of fallen foes. Men who Lord Stark would have condemned without hesitation, men Jon had allied with.

His chest tightened, and a rush of nausea came over him. He stumbled, the weight of his sorrow and guilt pulling him down. He barely managed to throw his arms out in time to keep himself from falling face-first into the ground, bracing himself against the dirt. Then, he felt it—a soft hand resting on his back, warm and gentle, yet somehow dangerous. Myrcella's hand.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "You've won. Aegon is beaten."

Jon looked up at her, his gaze trailing from her delicate, golden curls to her emerald eyes that seemed to hold a hundred secrets. Her face was so close to his, their heads nearly touching. He couldn't bring himself to look away, nor could he ignore how the moonlight caught on her hair. "I didn't intend to kill this many," he murmured, the confession slipping out like a secret he hadn't meant to share. "I wanted the lords to support me over Aegon. I didn't want their blood."

Myrcella's hand pressed softly against his back, and she whispered, "Jon… this was always inevitable. You should finish it—kill Aegon and the queen. You have them locked in the cells. What's stopping you? What stopped you from killing them on the spot in the great hall?"

Jon's gaze drifted to the ground, his grip tightening around Blackfyre as he whispered, "To ascend the throne this way… To kill them without trial. It wouldn't be honorable. The lords would whisper about it for the rest of my days." He felt the shame wash over him—his alliance with Jaime, with the Mountain, with men his father would have denounced as traitors. And yet, here he was, needing their bloody work to claim victory. Jon had seen the looks of contempt thrown at Jaime, even from Jon's own allies.

"Honor?" Myrcella's voice turned cold, a touch of scorn in her tone. "Aegon has to die, Jon. He doesn't need a trial. He's a threat to you, to your future… and to mine."

Jon could hear the hatred woven into her words, the simmering resentment she bore for Aegon. He didn't respond, but when she reached up and placed her hand at the nape of his neck, he felt his resolve shake. Her fingers were soft, treacherously tender, sending a jolt through him that he could neither welcome nor ignore.

"I used to sing for Tommen," Myrcella whispered, her voice softening. "When he was upset, or frightened. I could sing for you too, Jon… if you'd let me."

Jon didn't answer.

Myrcella began to hum softly.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts," she sang, her voice drifting into the night.

"The ones she had lost and the ones she had found,
And the ones who had loved her the most..."

Jon's head sank lower as Myrcella's soft voice began to weave through the words of Jenny of Oldstones, wrapping around him like a balm, pulling him from the mire of blood and guilt. Her voice was so gentle, so delicate, it was as if she were holding his very soul in her hands, trying to piece it back together, whisper by whisper.

"The ones who'd been gone for so very long, "Myrcella continued, her fingers brushing his neck, steadying him as he trembled.

"And she never wanted to leave..."

Myrcella

Myrcella's voice softened, the last lines of Jenny of Oldstones haunting her own heart even as she tried to soothe Jon's. She thought of her own family, of Tommen's gentle smile and Cersei's fierce love. The ache grew heavy in her throat, but she kept it down, kept her voice steady, focusing instead on Jon—the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his violet eyes catching in the faint starlight, flecked with grey.

Her fingers grazed his hair, and she could feel his breath steadying under her touch, as if her presence alone could draw him back from the darkness. As she finished the verse, her voice trembled, and she broke off, suddenly self-conscious. "I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sung that." She turned her face away, brushing a stray tear she hadn't meant to let him see.

"You didn't want to hear me sing…"

Before she could retreat, Jon's hand reached out, his fingers circling her wrist with a gentleness that surprised her.

"Continue."

Jon

The room was quiet, the air heavy and still as Jon gazed over the lifeless forms of Oswell Whent and Lewyn Martell. Their bodies lay sprawled and bloodied, marked with the fatal blows Jon himself had delivered. At his side, Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Barristan Selmy stood in rigid silence, their stares heavy. Jon could feel the weight of their eyes on him, assessing, perhaps disapproving—he had slain two of their own, men they had once called brothers.

In that silence, Jon forced himself to speak. "Did you tell them of the King's will, Ser Arthur? That they were to guard Rhaegar until his last breath?"

Arthur's face was unreadable, but his tone was cold. "I told all the Kingsguard of Rhaegar's last command. We swore to stay in the King's presence until his last breath. But Lewyn and Oswell chose a different path. They decided Aegon's cause was stronger and betrayed the king's final will."

Jon clenched his fists. They spat on Rhaegar's wishes, betrayed their oath, and told Aegon and the Queen. Just so they could side against me. He knew of Lewyn's obvious loyalty to his family. Oswell's betrayal ran deeper. Jon remembered the anger in the man's eyes after it was announced Jon would take Harrenhal from Lady Whent, and wondered how he could have prevented such resentment.

Barristan broke the silence, his voice low and disapproving. "They have broken their sacred code, and not for any benefit to the Kingsguard." Arthur and Gerold nodded solemnly in agreement, but Jon noticed how their eyes lingered on the brutal, final cuts he'd inflicted on Lewyn and Oswell.

Am I the first king to brutalize his own Kingsguard like this? Jon wondered, his heart heavy. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "We're down to three Kingsguard," he said quietly, the realization hitting him with fresh intensity.

He saw a flicker of tension on their faces. Barristan looked up at him, his words cautious. "Jaime Lannister was declared a traitor to the crown by Rhaegar himself."

Jon studied their expressions and could read the hesitation, the disdain. They think I mean to bring Jaime back to the Kingsguard, he realized, seeing a hint of derision in their eyes.

Arthur glanced at Gerold. "May I speak to the King alone?"

Gerold nodded, gesturing for Barristan to follow him out. The door closed softly, leaving Jon and Arthur alone in the tense silence.

Arthur turned, his gaze steely, a rare disappointment flickering in his eyes. "You killed them like dogs, Your Grace."

Jon's expression hardened. "I did."

"I heard you struck Lewyn down from behind, tore through his spine so all could see. And then you took his head. They may have betrayed their oaths, but they were once Kingsguard. Even traitors deserve a clean death. You made them suffer."

Jon said nothing, his silence a shield.

Arthur's voice grew sharper. "Jaime Lannister is not worthy to wear the white cloak."

"I know. I never intended to bring him back."

Arthur held his gaze, suspicion lingering. "And yet you allied with the Kingslayer."

The accusation stung, but Jon met Arthur's gaze steadily. "I had no choice. Aegon's forces outnumbered mine, and Tywin's loyalty was valuable. Cannibal was… beyond my reach."

Arthur digested this in silence, the flicker of unease softening his rigid stance. "All the more reason to follow honor now, Your Grace. Even with Jaime's aid, even with Cannibal lost to you—honor must come before all, especially to the lords who think you have usurped your brother's crown unlawfully with the Kingslayer and his monsters."

My reputation is a fragile thing, Jon knew. The lords who stayed neutral whisper that I am my predecessor reborn who snatched the Throne away from the rightful prince.

A bitter smile crossed his face. "I need support from the West, yet Jaime's actions can never be forgiven. I can't kill him, nor can I pardon him. What would you have me do?"

"There will come a time when you must choose between what is right and what is easy," Rhaegar had once told him.

Arthur lowered his head solemnly. "Do what is right—for the realm, my king."

Jon

Jon stood in the great hall of Harrenhal, the flickering light from torches casting somber shadows over the silent gathering. Before him, stretched on a stone slab, lay the body of Jon Arryn, his face ashen and still, his armor dented and blood-stained from the final battle he had fought. Jon's gaze lingered on the lifeless form of the man who had once fostered Eddard Stark, who had been one of the first to raise his banners against the Mad King, and who had sacrificed much in the name of duty and loyalty. A pang of sorrow filled his chest, heavy and bitter, as he thought of all that had been lost. To make matters worse, Harry had suffered a blow from the shadows and is currently in the castle's infirmary.

The lords of the Vale stood in a circle around the body, their faces a mix of sorrow, exhaustion, and shock. All except one—Lyn Corbray, whose expression was cold and unsympathetic. Jon's gaze hardened as he noticed Corbray's indifference, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain his anger.

"Why weren't you there to protect your liege lord, Ser Lyn?" Jon's voice rang out, harsh and edged with a note of accusation.

Lyn Corbray shrugged, his lips curving in a slight smirk as he regarded Jon with an almost careless air. "I can't be everywhere at once, my prince."

Before Jon could retort, Arthur Dayne, who had stood silently at his side, stepped forward. His hand rested on Dawn that was sheathed on his back, as he corrected Corbray with a quiet but firm voice. "King, not prince."

The room fell silent as Arthur's words echoed, the weight of them settling heavily over the gathered lords. Corbray's smirk faded, and his eyes flickered briefly to Arthur before settling back on Jon with a hint of defiance.

Yohn Royce, his face weary and lined, stepped forward, his voice thick with sorrow as he looked down at Jon Arryn. "Lord Arryn led the charge against the Dornish contingent bravely," Royce said. "He fought to the very end, even when the odds were against him. He deserved better."

Jon looked to Royce, a man who had known and respected Arryn for many years. He gave a nod, his voice low as he replied, "He deserved men who would stand with him until the end."

The quiet accusation lingered in the air, and several of the Vale lords shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances.

"House Grafton and House Templeton did not stand with us when it counted," Lyn Corbay said with a smile, ignoring his elder brother's glare.

The assembled lords turned, their eyes falling on the representatives of Houses Grafton and Templeton. The two men, usually bold in voice, now appeared visibly unsettled under the scrutiny. They exchanged brief, uneasy glances before the Lord of House Grafton cleared his throat, finally speaking up, his voice tinged with regret.

"We...didn't know where we belonged in this," he admitted, avoiding Jon's gaze. "This matter between the Targaryens left us in doubt. We thought it best to remain apart from it."

The Lord of House Templeton nodded in agreement, shame flickering in his eyes as he looked down. "Yes. We hoped neutrality would protect us all."

Their words hung in the air, reverberating with the tension of unspoken accusations and silent judgments. The choice to stand aside was not one easily forgiven—not here, with Jon Arryn's lifeless form bearing witness to what neutrality had cost them.

Jon entered Bran's tent, the air thick with grief. By Bran's cot stood Catelyn, her fingers wrapped around Bran's frail hand with a grip so fierce Jon feared she might crush it. Robb stood on the other side, his face set in hardened sorrow. Arya's cheeks glistened with silent tears, and Rickon clung to her, his small body shaking. At the foot of the cot, Summer lay watchful, his gaze unwavering and protective over his fallen master. The rest of the wolves prowled by the entrance of the tent, blood still on their nozzles.

Arthur Dayne entered behind Jon, a silent presence of strength, and Ghost moved to Jon's side, his crimson eyes scanning the room with quiet understanding. Gerold and Barristan stood post outside.

Sansa was on another cot, sleeping fitfully, Edmure and Blackfish watching over her with frowns.

Jon moved forward, his heart clenching as he took in Bran's thin, pale form, his face almost unrecognizable beneath the veil of illness. Bran's breath was so faint Jon almost wondered if he was only dreaming him alive. Gently, he laid a hand on Bran's forehead, the once-warm skin now cool under his touch.

He forced a small smile, his voice barely above a whisper. "You were always so surefooted in Winterfell, Bran. Even when everyone thought you'd fall, you would scamper up those walls like a squirrel. I used to watch, half-amused, half-terrified."

He paused, swallowing the rising lump in his throat. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry for letting this happen. For not stopping them. For not being there when you needed me most. I...I did this because I thought it was right. Honor compelled me. I killed for you Bran. I will not let this injustice stand."

He leaned down, brushing his lips softly against Bran's forehead, a silent promise echoing in his mind.

From the shadows, Catelyn's voice, cracked and heavy with pain, broke the silence. "Not enough," she whispered.

Jon looked up to meet her gaze, her eyes hard and filled with an almost terrifying resolve. "It wasn't enough," she said, her voice barely steady, each word sharpened by grief. "If you loved him, if you honor him, then you will kill them all. Every last one."

Her grip tightened on Bran's fragile hand, her knuckles white as she stared at Jon, her expression one of a mother transformed by loss, no longer just pleading but demanding. Jon met her gaze, feeling the weight of her demand settle heavily upon him. The others remained silent, their faces etched with despair, waiting for Jon's answer.

Bran

Bran felt the wind rush around him, cold and biting, as he tumbled through the sky, hurtling toward the stones far below. He was high above Harrenhal's towers, the massive fortress shrinking beneath him as he plummeted, his heart pounding with terror. The clouds swirled around him, thick and dark, as if swallowing him whole.

From somewhere behind him, he heard the three-eyed raven's voice, clear and insistent, echoing through the howling wind."You left me with no choice. You must open your third eye, Bran."

The raven's words made him shudder, and he tried to twist in the air, to reach for something, anything, to stop his fall. But there was nothing—just an endless descent, a void beneath him, the ground racing up to meet him.

"I don't want to!" Bran cried, fear clogging his throat. "Why did I fall? Why did you leave me no choice?"

"You've always had a choice," the raven croaked."But if you do not open your third eye, you will fall. You will be blind, lost, forever falling."

As he spun, the clouds opened briefly, and from his terrible vantage high above the world, Bran could see across the land—the rugged cliffs and misty valleys of the Vale, the shining hills and shimmering rivers of the Westerlands. Farther still, his vision stretched until he could see to the eastern horizon. There, dark and faint, lay the jagged ruins of an ancient, twisted city.

It was a place that seemed to pulse with dark energy, as if it were alive. Shadows writhed and slithered over broken towers and crumbling temples, and the air around it was thick, tainted, a poison seeping into the world. The sight of it made Bran gasp.

The raven's voice came again, laced with urgency."Yes, Bran. That is the place where it all began. Old Valyria."

Bran felt his heartbeat quicken, fear replaced by a strange curiosity. "What is it?" he whispered.

"The birthplace of dragons, of ancient power…and of what is to come."The raven's voice was grave, the weight of countless years pressing down on Bran."If you want to understand, if you want to see, you must open your third eye."

The words filled his mind as he plummeted, Old Valyria growing clearer, closer, as if he were falling directly toward it instead of Harrenhal's hard, merciless stones. He felt something in him begin to shift, an eye within his mind, a force stirring in him that he had long ignored.

With a shuddering breath, Bran tried to open it, reaching for that dark, hidden part of himself as he plunged toward the shadows of Valyria.

Jon

Jon entered the infirmary alongside Robb, his silent, imposing guards—Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Barristan Selmy—shadowing his every step. Ghost and Grey Wind padded alongside them, low growls rumbling from their throats as they took in the overwhelming scene.

Despite the infirmary's massive size, it was packed with the injured, lying on makeshift beds or sprawled on the floor where they could find space. Cries of pain and fevered moans filled the air, intermingling with the stench of sweat, blood, and death. It was a place of suffering, where some would recover and many more would not.

Jon's gaze swept over the wounded, noting Obara Sand among them, lying pale with her arm crudely bandaged but obviously gone—Grey Wind's doing, he recalled grimly.

Nearby, Harry Hardyng lay with his chest steadily rising and falling, his face peaceful in sleep. The Greatjon was propped against the wall, snoring in a haze of milk of the poppy. And then, at the far end of the hall, Jon's eyes landed on Willas Tyrell, a bandage wrapped around his head, looking worn but alert.

Robb noticed Jon's glance and spoke bitterly. "You'll see no Freys and no Brackens here," he muttered. "They didn't answer Edmure's call. Funny how the Freys hound me for marriage proposals for Sansa, yet they couldn't even raise a sword for her."

Jon nodded. "Will Edmure punish them?"

Robb's face darkened. "Edmure might strip some land from the Brackens, but the Freys? Hard to say. He's tangled up with them...sleeping with one of their women."

Jon let out a sigh and they moved forward to Willas Tyrell's cot. Willas looked up, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile. "Seeing you here means you're the king now, doesn't it?"

Jon nodded, his expression unreadable.

Willas shifted slightly, a shadow of concern in his eyes. "And Sansa? Is she...?"

Jon's voice was cool. "I rescued her from a kidnapping your family helped arrange."

A heavy frown marred Willas's face as he shook his head, protesting, "We had nothing to do with it. Truly, Your Grace."

Jon held his silence, his expression cold. After a moment, Willas's face grew anxious. "What...what happened to them? My family?"

"They're captives," Jon said flatly.

Willas's mouth tightened in apprehension, his voice edged with disbelief. "You put my grandmother—and my pregnant sister—in the cells?"

"Margaery and Olenna are in quarters fitting their stations. But the rest of your family's retainers and cousins are in the cells awaiting my judgment."

Willas nodded, though his face was clouded with worry. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jon went on, his tone carrying a finality that brooked no argument.

"Not only did you disobey my order by allowing Sansa near danger, but the Tyrells raised arms against me. Your family will stand trial alongside Aegon, and your paramountcy over the Reach will be at an end."

Willas's face fell, the weight of the words settling over him, but Jon didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out of the infirmary, his cloak sweeping behind him, his guards falling into step at his sides. The cries and whispers of the wounded faded behind him as he left, a king with no time for hesitation, no patience left for those who had betrayed him.

Jon and Robb stepped into the chamber where Domeric Bolton awaited them, his expression reserved, though his gaze sharpened as they entered. Grey Wind and Ghost flanked their masters, casting wary glances at Domeric, who inclined his head respectfully, hands folded behind his back.

Without preamble, Robb rounded on him, his voice taut with anger. "Domeric, why did the Dustins and the Ryswells not join the fight?"

Domeric kept his expression steady, meeting Robb's gaze evenly. "Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Lady Dustin... they were reluctant to fight without King Rhaegar's direct command," he replied, choosing his words carefully.

Robb's fists clenched, and his voice rose with frustration. "Direct command? They abandoned Sansa and Bran to their captors—my sister and my brother were at stake!" He shook his head in frustration, muttering, "I'll have words with my father about their inaction."

Domeric gave a nod, respectful but unreadable.

Jon, who had been watching Domeric intently, broke his silence, his tone lower but just as serious. "I sent you out hours ago to get word on Cannibal. What's his status?"

Domeric's gaze flickered. "We haven't yet located the dragon. But we believe he's on foot." He hesitated, then added, "Locke is still tracking him—Cannibal was last seen moving west."

Jon closed his eyes briefly, reaching out through the warg link he shared with Cannibal, but found it murky and unclear, like a veil lay between his thoughts and the beast's. He drew in a slow breath, pushing down the mounting unease.

Something is very wrong. He is unresponsive to me...And he only hunts on foot when he catches the scent of prey. Have I not been feeding him enough? Has he abandoned me?

Jon wanted to take Ghost and ride out himself, but he had no time for it. Not here. Not now.

The dungeons of Harrenhal were dark and damp, a place heavy with the stench of despair. Every cell Jon passed seemed to bleed bitterness, each glance through the iron bars filled with contempt and hatred for him. The torches on the walls cast flickering shadows that danced across the grim faces of his enemies. Arthur, Barristan, and Gerold moved silently behind him, their watchful presence a constant reminder of the weight of the crown he now bore.

He halted by one of the cells where Lord Darry sat, shoulders hunched, hands clenched tightly around the bars as he glared at Jon with unmasked loathing. Grief shadowed his features, his loss etched deep into his face. Jon met his gaze, unflinching, before moving on.

Some of the Crownland lords were here and refused to meet Jon's gaze.

In the next cell, Jon saw Garlan Tyrell and his cousins huddled together. Garlan stepped forward, desperation breaking through his otherwise stoic demeanor. "What happened to my sister?" he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't ask for this. None of us did."

Jon held his gaze, his face impassive. "Neither did I." Without another word, he turned away, leaving Garlan's despair behind him as he continued down the row of cells.

The Dornishmen were next, their hate palpable as they spat at his feet. Whispers followed him as he passed, muttered insults and accusations of "usurper" filling the air. He felt their hatred as a weight on his back, though he let none of it show.

His gaze fell on Arianne, cradling her grief amongst her Sand Snake cousins. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him, her face filled with both sorrow and anger. "How could you, Jon?" she choked out. "My uncle, my brother, my cousin… You've taken everything."

"Obara is alive," Jon replied. "She's lost an arm, but she lives."

Arianne turned away, her voice barely a whisper. "To her, that is a fate worse than death." She looked back at him, her eyes blazing. "If only you had claimed me as yours, none of this would have happened." Her words struck deep, and Jon saw the turmoil, the mixture of grief and fury in her expression. But he offered no response, only a nod, and moved on.

He entered another cell, finding himself face-to-face with Elia. She looked up, bitterness seething in her eyes as she stared at him. "The son of Lyanna Stark approaches," she said coldly, "and my worst fears have come true. You've stolen Aegon's throne."

Jon met her gaze without flinching. Elia sneered. "Tell me, you don't have a hold on Oberyn, do you?" Her tone held a vicious edge, a mocking undertone.

Jon's mind flickered back to reports from the battle, of Oberyn vanishing into the chaos without a trace. Elia's laugh was sharp, unhinged. "You can feel his spear's point, can't you? Watch your back, Maegor, for the Red Viper's poison is deadliest when it's unexpected. You will always be in danger."

Jon's voice was calm, cold. "I am the danger. And the wolves can sniff out serpents better than you think." He held her gaze a moment longer, then walked out, leaving her curses behind him.

Finally, Jon reached Aegon's cell. His half-brother was bound but sat upright, a sneer painted across his face. "Where is my dragon?"

"Somewhere," Jon said, voice low and even. "Chained. Unable to burn anyone else."

"What will you do with me, then?" Aegon's voice was laced with derision. "Will you kill me as Maegor killed his elder brother? Right here in these cells?"

Jon's eyes narrowed. "I have more honor than you, Aegon. You will stand trial with your mother and your wife." His voice turned to ice. "And don't be confused. You will lose your head for what you did to Sansa… and to Bran. I am just playing nice."

Aegon scoffed, a twisted smile on his lips. "Is your greed for my throne so consuming that you would blame your sister's fate on me? And Bran's clumsiness?" His voice dropped into a sneer. "Wolves prowl, not climb, you dolt."

Jon's face remained impassive, though his voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "Be careful, Aegon. A prince facing a tragedy before his trial is not uncommon."

Aegon chuckled, cold and humorless. "You think you've won, don't you? But you're not even close. You can't see what's coming. But I do."

Jon's voice was low and final. "You're right. I haven't won. Not until your head rolls to my feet."

Aegon laughed, but it was strained, almost manic. "This trial is a farce. The only thing I'm guilty of is having you as my brother."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "And of poisoning the king."

Aegon's eyes flashed with rage. "I would never poison my own father! If anyone poisoned him, it was probably you." His voice was venomous.

"Did it hurt, Aegon, to know that Rhaegar, who was more of a father to you than to me, chose me as his heir? Is that why you killed him?"

"Did you turn to witchcraft, Maegor? Did you use some magic to turn his heart?"

Jon scoffed. "Witchcraft… yes, that's the answer, isn't it?"

Aegon smirked, a gleam of malice in his eyes. "Much like you tried with Rhaenys, but it won't work. She was mine long before she was yours."

Jon's jaw clenched, his fists tightening, but he kept his voice calm. Aegon leaned forward, taunting him. "Yes, you may have bedded Rhaenys, but remember, Maegor… you were second. You'll always be second to me. Rhaenys—she's shockingly beautiful, isn't she? Especially in those moments, when the heat is on her when her voice reaches that pitch-"

Jon closed his eyes, fighting the fire that threatened to consume him. He forced a cold smile, one that sent a flicker of unease across Aegon's face. "Just like Daenerys was yours," Jon said quietly, "but now, she's mine." He let that settle, enjoying the slight blanch on Aegon's face.

"Oh, I heard all about how Rhaegar denied you her hand," Jon continued, his voice like ice. "Yet he granted her to me freely. Who's second best now?"

Aegon's face twisted in fury, his chains rattling as he fought against them, spitting a curse. "Fuck you! You will burn in the hells, and I will enjoy it!" he snarled. "You will die, I swear it!"

Jon simply nodded, his expression unreadable as he looked down at the fallen prince. Without another word, he turned and left the cell, his footsteps echoing down the hall as Aegon's curses faded behind him. He retired for the night.

Jon's dreams were filled with fire and shadow, the kind of darkness that felt alive, that moved and breathed like the monsters lurking at its heart. In his mind's eye, he stood within the ruins of Old Valyria, where twisted spires and broken towers clawed toward an angry red sky. Shadows slithered in every direction, and he could feel them watching him, waiting. Some were ancient creatures, scales gleaming like molten metal, their eyes hungry and feral. Others were spectral, faces distorted with rage and sorrow. He couldn't see them fully, but he felt their breath—hot, rancid, ghostly—all reaching for him, pressing in from the smoking sea beyond.

The ground beneath him began to shake, and the shadows twisted into the shapes of dragons, their wings beating against the ash-choked air. He turned to run, but the sea itself surged with a monstrous force, waves foaming, hissing like acid as they reached hungrily for him. Just as he thought he'd be swallowed whole, the earth trembled violently, and in the distance, a volcano erupted with a thunderous roar. A great plume of fire and smoke shot into the sky, sending rivers of molten rock spilling out like blood. Ash fell in waves, thick and suffocating, blackening the sky until it felt as though all of creation was buried under it.

Jon struggled to breathe, choking as the ash filled his lungs, his vision blurring into darkness—

He awoke with a gasp, his skin slick with sweat, the remnants of the nightmare still clawing at his mind. His breath came fast, uneven, as he tried to calm the rapid beat of his heart. The moonlight poured through the window, casting a silvery glow over the room. Beside him, Daenerys lay curled against him, her skin warm and bare. Her silver hair shone in the moonlight, falling across her face in soft waves, her expression peaceful and content.

Jon took a steadying breath, trying not to wake her, but the weight of the dream lingered too heavily for him to close his eyes again. The image of Valyria's twisted, haunted ruins felt branded into his mind, its dark magic coiling around his thoughts.

Carefully, he slipped out of bed, the cool air of the room a relief against his heated skin. He crossed to the window, staring out into the still night. The quiet around him was a stark contrast to the horrors he'd seen in his sleep. But no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the vision of those dark things, lurking in shadows and smoke, remained.

For a long moment, he just stood there, feeling the weight of the dream. It was as if Old Valyria were calling to him, pulling him toward its forgotten horrors, its mysteries buried under ash and ruin. He had escaped the hell hole, but he couldn't shake the sense that somehow, its fate was bound to his own.

Jon entered Rhaenys's chambers, the quiet creak of the door making her look up from her glass of wine. She was seated at a table, an empty flagon beside her, her eyes red from crying. She offered him a sad smile, lifting her glass slightly.

"I thought I'd have to finish the wine alone," she murmured, extending the bottle to him.

Jon declined with a slight shake of his head. "You're still awake."

Rhaenys sighed, her gaze distant. "It's hard to sleep when my family is imprisoned below, and I can't leave these rooms myself. I may as well be a prisoner too."

"You're not a prisoner," Jon replied.

She rose from her chair, her dark eyes never leaving his, a soft intensity in her gaze as she approached him. "Most brides-to-be wouldn't be kept like this. Not against their will."

Jon's face remained still. "What bride?"

Rhaenys searched his face, her voice quiet but pained. "Father said you were to marry me."

Jon let out a mirthless laugh. "Did you truly think that could happen now?"

A flash of hurt crossed her face. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, as if the words pained her. "Do you not want to marry me?"

He held her gaze, a storm of emotion in his chest, but he didn't let himself look away. "I can't trust you, Rhaenys. Not with your family fighting against me, and not when you were with Aegon first, before I even had a chance."

Her eyes shimmered with fresh tears. "So…that's what Myrcella told you," she said, her voice breaking slightly. But she did not deny it.

Guilt pulled at him, a reminder of Rhaegar's wishes unfulfilled. But he straightened, steadying himself. "I can't marry you," he said softly, almost regretfully, before turning to leave.

As he reached the door, her voice broke the silence, and he stopped in his tracks. "Do you not want a family?"

He turned back, frowning. "I have my own brother on trial. What family is there to be had?"

Slowly, Rhaenys crossed the distance between them and took his hand, guiding it gently to rest on her stomach. Jon felt his breath catch, his mind reeling as he grasped her meaning. A heavy silence fell over them.

"There's family waiting to be brought forth," she whispered, her voice barely holding as she looked up at him.

Jon tried to find words, but nothing came. After a long moment, he finally managed, "How…how did you know?"

"I've been sick for weeks," she murmured, her hands holding his. "The maester said…there's a bulge now. I wanted to tell you, but you've been…distant from me."

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of her words settling in. "I'll be…a father," he thought, the realization slowly piercing through the chaos within him.

Rhaenys's voice pulled him back. "Do you still not want to be with me?" She was crying now, her voice raw and pleading.

Unable to speak, Jon reached out, drawing her close by her waist, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. He cupped her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs across her cheeks as he steadied himself.

"Family, before anything else," he said quietly.

Her eyes brightened as she gave him a fragile smile. She closed the distance and wrapped him in a tender hug.

Outside the looming, blackened walls of Harrenhal, dawn cast a thin, misty light over Rhaegar's funeral pyre as the flames took hold, climbing up with hungry fingers around the king's body. The scent of burning wood filled the air, crackling and popping, and the warmth of the fire seemed at odds with the chill in Jon's chest. Beside him, Daenerys and Rhaella stood with tears streaming down their faces. Rhaella, in her grief, whispered over and over, "My sweet little boy." Her face was drawn and pale, her gaze never straying from the fire. Jon heard Arthur's quiet, shuddering breath as he squeezed his eyes shut, struggling against the emotions he rarely showed.

Jon's own gaze flickered up to the castle, where he saw Rhaenys watching from her window, distant yet solemn, her expression unreadable. She was kept apart from them, a reminder of the loyalty torn between family and duty, just as his own heart felt torn now. Around Jon, his loyal friends—Beric, Thoros, Pyp, Grenn, Sam, Satin, and Halder—stood silent, their presence steady and comforting even in their shared sorrow. Across the flames, he caught Melisandre's gaze, the priestess's red eyes watching him intently.

Jon's thoughts drifted back to his first meeting with Rhaegar. He remembered the way Rhaegar had looked at him, with an intensity that Jon could only now recognize as love. He recalled the anger of Dorne, Rhaegar's insistence that Jon was his son, and the quiet patience with which he had shared memories of Lyanna, attempting to bridge the distance of years. He could still see the warmth in Rhaegar's eyes on his deathbed, how pride and affection had shone there even as his life slipped away.

As the flames began to consume Rhaegar's body, Jon closed his eyes, feeling a weight settle over him. I never truly got to know you, he thought, a pang of sorrow tightening his chest. He stood there, still as the pyre burned down, even as everyone else drifted back toward the castle. Only when the last of the flames had flickered to embers did he finally move, feeling the emptiness of loss settle over him.

Out of the lingering smoke, Melisandre approached, gliding silently toward him. "A shame," she said softly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "For his fire in life was meant to burn brighter than it did."

Jon kept his gaze on the ashes. "Some say he had no fire at all," he murmured.

Melisandre's gaze was unwavering. "His fire died when he lost you," she said. "When you returned to him, it was rekindled, but too late to save him."

Jon's jaw clenched, the simmering anger rising to the surface. "I'll make them pay," he whispered.

Melisandre's voice took on a fervent edge. "Then give the traitors to the flames, as R'hllor demands sacrifices."

Jon's expression hardened. "I will not tie men up and burn them alive."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of curiosity within. "And what makes that so different from the foes you burn from dragonback?"

"It's different," he said coldly. "My enemies have the chance to fight back."

She tilted her head, watching him as though he were an intriguing puzzle. "Even now, you show mercy, when the situation demands more. You still hold back."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I can feel it within you, Maegor. Let it be free."

"Let me be free," the voice whispered.

His patience snapped, his voice biting. "There is nothing to be freed."

An eerie smile touched her lips. She looked deep into his eyes, a strange light dancing in her own. "I've seen betrayal in the flames. Spiders spinning their webs. Snakes slithering in the grass. Sharp daggers in the dark. Poisoned kisses." Her voice lowered. "Beware the shadows, my king."

Jon gave her a small, humorless smile. "I've lived in the shadows my whole life," he said, his voice steady. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving her in the dying embers of the pyre.

The Godswood was cloaked in early morning shadows as Jon entered, the lingering chill of the night yet to fade. Myrcella stood by the heart tree, her golden hair catching slivers of dawn light filtering through the leaves, an ethereal figure against the somber scene. The silence between them felt heavy, charged with the weight of the choices Jon would soon make.

"You are to hold trial soon," Myrcella said, her tone edged with disapproval, though she held his gaze steadily.

Jon nodded.

She looked him over carefully, as though searching for an answer he hadn't spoken. "You mean to put my uncle on trial as well?"

Jon considered her question, choosing his words with care. "Jaime will not die."

The tension in her shoulders released, and a small smile softened her face. "And what is to become of Aegon and the queen?"

"Aegon and the queen will die," Jon replied, his tone hard and unyielding. "Arianne Martell is to be banished or else join the Silent Sisters. Doran Martell will also answer for their actions. House Martell will never rule again."

Myrcella raised a brow, her tone almost idle. "And yet you say nothing of Rhaenys."

Jon remained silent, his face unreadable.

A slight frown creased her brow. "You don't still intend to marry her, do you?"

"I do."

"Why?" Shock and a hint of pain flickered in her eyes. "You're the king now. You know a marriage with Rhaenys is dangerous; you can't trust her."

She doesn't understand, Jon thought, and memories flooded his mind—himself at Winterfell, seated at the lower tables, cast aside by handmaidens and servants, whispered about by lords, coldly regarded by Lady Stark. His own isolation, a shadow that followed him everywhere. Rhaenys will soon be the mother of his child. She'll never understand.

He blinked, returning to the present, and found Myrcella standing close, so close that his heart skipped a beat. Her green eyes searched his, glimmering with quiet intensity.

"Why can't you see Rhaenys is no good for you?" she said softly.

"Who would be better for me, then—you?" he challenged.

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her. Her emerald eyes, so close now, stunned him with their beauty, the intensity in them stirring something deep within.

"I would be better for you," she murmured. "I can advise you. I can protect you. I bring Tywin Lannister and the gold of Casterly Rock to your side. What does Rhaenys offer besides a dagger in the back?"

"Is that it?" Jon asked, his gaze dropping to her heart-shaped lips, marveling at how anyone in the castle could speak ill of her when she looked so beautiful, so sincere.

Myrcella paused, choosing her next words with the utmost care. "My mind says I can care for you," she whispered, her eyes softening. "And my heart… my heart already beats for you."

Jon stared at her face which was seemingly carved from all the gold of Casterly Rock and found only genuine warmth.

Their lips met, slow and full of longing, a fierce but unhurried passion building between them. Jon's hands found her waist, drawing her closer, the world fading until there was nothing but her warmth, her breath mingling with his.

It felt so right.

But then, Rhaegar's final words echoed in his mind. With a pang, he pulled away, his heart twisting. "I can't," he said, his voice barely more than a strained whisper. "I can't take you as my wife."

Hurt flickered across Myrcella's face. She cupped his cheek, her touch tender, pleading. "Why not? Do you insist on spending the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?"

"I have to honor this," he breathed, struggling to keep his resolve. "I'm sorry, Myrcella."

He gently pushed her hand away, his heart sinking. He walked away.

The great hall of the Red Keep pulsed with anticipation, every inch filled with lords and ladies eager for blood, justice, or both. Jon strode in, his gaze unyielding as he surveyed the sea of faces turned toward him—familiar allies and calculating opportunists alike. Ghost padded silently beside him, a spectral reminder of his Northern roots, while Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Barristan Selmy flanked him as shadows.

Eyes turned toward him: the Freys, the Brackens, the Florents, the Oakhearts, the Graftons, the Templetons, the Velaryons, and Darklyns—houses of shifting loyalties, each weighing the winds of power. Jon could feel their silent scrutiny, their judgment, as if they were awaiting a misstep.

At the front, Aegon stood with the queen, surrounded by Tyrells and allies. Scornful, resentful eyes darted between Jon and the figure of Jaime Lannister, who stood with a practiced calm beside Myrcella, Kevan, and the Lannister contingent. The Kingslayer's easy smile was as out of place as if he were attending a feast, not standing trial for treason.

Jon approached the dais and faced the crowd. His voice, cold and unyielding, filled the hall.

Jon stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered lords, knights, and smallfolk. He raised his voice so that all could hear, calm yet unyielding, each word weighed with purpose.

"King Rhaegar, entrusted me with his final vision for Westeros—a realm united, not by conquest or bloodlust, but by justice and peace," Jon began, his voice carrying an authority that made even his enemies pause. "In his last days, he spoke of a future where every man, noble or common, might find a place of dignity. A future I am here to realize, not out of ambition, but out of duty."

A murmur ran through the crowd, some surprised by the calm confidence of his words, others nodding in solemn agreement.

Jon turned to Samwell, who stood at his side with a scroll clutched in trembling hands. "Sam, read it."

Sam took a step forward, clearing his throat as he unrolled the parchment, his face pale but determined. "This…this is King Rhaegar's final decree," he announced, his voice rising to fill the hall. "In his own hand, he has written, 'Upon my death, Maegor of House Targaryen shall ascend the Iron Throne without contest, to carry forth my vision for a united Westeros. By my will and the authority vested in me as king, I name him my rightful heir.'"

As Sam's words echoed through the hall, whispers spread like wildfire among the gathered crowd, a mix of disbelief, shock, and hushed agreement.

Aegon's face twisted, his expression shifting between fury and denial. His hands clenched at his sides, eyes blazing as he looked upon Jon with open defiance, as though the very words Sam had read were a betrayal of all he believed in.

"Prince Aegon, Queen Elia, and the Tyrells stand trial today for crimes against the realm: disturbing the peace, attempting to murder me, the abduction of my sister Sansa, pushing Bran Stark, and the poisoning of King Rhaegar."

Lady Olenna's lips curled into a scornful smile. "And yet here we stand, judged by 'Maegor reborn'—while the Kingslayer himself, pleased as a lion fattened on venison, watches on." She shot a glance at Jaime, rousing murmurs of agreement from several lords.

A ripple of approval swept the hall. Jon felt judgmental eyes flick to Jaime, and he knew he couldn't ignore Olenna's jab. He gestured for Jaime to step forward. "Ser Jaime."

Jaime sauntered forward with his usual ease, bowing slightly, the epitome of arrogance.

"Did you lie with your sister, Cersei?" Jon's voice cut through the whispers. A direct question, to which the hall held its breath.

Jaime shrugged. "No. That's Aegon's and the queen's lie. And one I'm sure has served them well."

Jon's frown deepened as the crowd murmured, suspicion flowing between lords like ripples on water. He caught Aegon's scoff and Myrcella's half-satisfied glance.

"Did you strangle Edric Baratheon?" Jon's voice was cold steel, his eyes unflinching.

Jaime's smile faltered only slightly. "Yes." The admission struck the hall like a blow, and voices rose, calls of outrage and disgust rippling through the lords. The Kingsguard stirred uneasily, looking to one another with tense expressions.

Jon's gaze hardened. "A man taught me that honor defines a king's strength, and without honor, there's only chaos."

Jaime's lip curled. "Ned Stark, you mean? Isn't it his 'honor' we're speaking of?" His words dripped with disdain.

A few snickered. Jon's hands tightened at his sides. "And the law does not spare even the Kingslayer."

"Edd...fetch me a block."

A shocked gasp spread through the hall, and the guards moved as ordered, hauling Jaime down by his shoulders. Myrcella looked on, her face pale, and Olenna stared with silent judgment. Jaime's bravado melted, his face twisting in shock and betrayal.

"What are you doing?" His voice cracked, desperation edging into his words. "I fought for you—I saved you. You think Tywin will let this go?"

Jon met his gaze, his voice as cold as steel. "This isn't about mercy, or fairness. It's about justice."

With a swift stroke, Blackfyre descended, severing Jaime's sword hand. A horrified silence fell over the room as Jaime screamed, clutching the stump. "Maybe don't strangle little boys next time." Jon turned to the crowd, Blackfyre gleaming in his hand. "Jaime Lannister will remain a prisoner of the Crown."

"Let this be a reminder—no crime will go unpunished under my reign."

For the first time, Olenna was silent. Jon saw the way Mya Stone looked at him in a new light. He saw the begrudging respect in the lords' eyes. Yohn Royce nodded, approval etched on his face.

The trial resumed, tension thickening as each witness stepped forward. Lords and ladies gasped as men described how Aegon's men had attacked Jon in the melee. I doubt they actually saw anything. Well, who doesn't want the king's favor? Each witness dug Aegon into a deeper hole. Jon eagerly gripped Blackfyre.

Then Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stepped forward. "Despite Jon's warning, Willas Tyrell took Sansa out on a 'ride,' nearly leading her to her death. Her direwolf was slain as a result." Fury rippled through the room, nobles voicing their outrage, calling for justice.

Robb Stark stepped forward, his words firm. "Ser Mandon Moore, the queen's sworn man, tried to kill Jon. And the abduction of Sansa was a scheme of Aegon and the Tyrells to murder Maegor, no more."

Lords clamored in anger, but Aegon sneered, his voice carrying through the din. "Lies to steal my throne!"

Jon's voice cut through the clamor. "This is not the first betrayal."

He called Ashara Dayne forward, and she dragged a captive forward—a filthy, bruised man. He sneered as he spoke. "The queen paid me to attack Lady Rhaenys and Lady Arianne. They used Lady Ashara as bait for Ser Arthur."

The hall was aghast, Elia pale with shock, lords demanding blood for such betrayal. Jon raised his hand, demanding silence, preparing for his final blow.

"For the most heinous crime—poisoning King Rhaegar. I bring forth another witness. Jon Connington, step forward."

The hall grew deathly quiet when Jon Connington failed to appear. Beric Dondarrion approached Jon, his voice a murmur. "Your Grace…Connington took his life in his cell."

Jon felt a surge of rage twist in his chest, his hands curling into fists. He managed to nod, though his voice was barely controlled. Just then, Aegon's mocking voice rang out. "What a coincidence, Maegor." He raised his voice. "This trial is nothing but a ploy to claim my throne! I demand a trial by combat!"

All eyes fell on Jon. He can the momentum shift. The respect and support he had gathered vanished to the wind.

DAMN IT.

He stepped forward, Blackfyre in hand, and spoke, voice cold as death.

"I accept. I will be your opponent. I will show you no mercy."

The hall exploded, lords shouting over each other as Jon and Aegon locked eyes, two claims and one sword hanging in the balance.

The weight of judgment hangs thick, yet unresolved, until an old lord, his voice trembling with age and authority, steps forward.

"It is a grievous sin," he says, his voice solemn, carrying across the hall. "For a brother to slay his own kin. This is not the way of Westeros, not even by trial."

Another lord rises beside him, adding, "Kinslaying is not allowed. The gods curse such deeds. How can we condone this?"

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd, and Jon feels the eyes of every lord and lady upon him. The tension is palpable, the discontent simmering just below the surface.

Jon raises a hand, commanding silence, his gaze steady as he meets the eyes of each lord. "Aegon has wronged the realm and stands accused of crimes for which he must answer. But I understand the weight of kinslaying. I hold Aegon to be my kin, but I also believe that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

A hush falls over the hall. Jon's gaze shifts, resting momentarily on the lords who spoke. "The trial by combat shall be held in the Godswood," he continues, his voice unwavering. "Where I may seek forgiveness from the gods."

The chamber was dimly lit, shadows pooling around the walls, leaving only a patch of faint light falling on Jaime, who sat alone on a stone bench, staring at his bandaged stump. Jon closed the door softly behind him, watching as Jaime's shoulders slumped, defeated. He had always carried himself with arrogance and strength, yet now he looked almost…broken.

Jon took a few steps forward, the silence stretching thick between them. Jaime didn't look up. He simply continued to stare at his stump, the rough wrappings stained with traces of blood seeping through. Finally, in a voice low and hoarse, Jaime spoke.

"Why did you do this to me?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief and a touch of despair. "I protected you when no one else would. When they were scheming against you… I was the one keeping watch. And now this?"

Jon let the words sink in before he replied. "I know what you did, Jaime. And that is what made me consider not taking your head."

Jaime let out a bitter laugh, his face twisting with pain. "This… this is worse than death. To be alive, to live without my hand—the hand that bore a sword for as long as I can remember." He clenched his jaw, his gaze distant, as though he could already feel the weight of his blade missing from his hip.

Jon's gaze hardened. "Do you think Edric Baratheon would feel the same? That this is worse than death?"

Jaime looked up sharply, his eyes flashing with something Jon couldn't quite place—regret, perhaps, or guilt buried too deep to rise fully. His voice softened as he said, "I… I didn't want to kill Edric. How could I? He was just a boy." Jaime swallowed, and for the first time, Jon saw the vulnerability beneath his armor of arrogance. "But he killed Joffrey, Jon. Cersei's boy."

Jon said nothing, letting Jaime's words fill the heavy silence.

"And Cersei…" Jaime's voice faltered, his eyes dropping to the floor. "Cersei pushed me to it. She wanted revenge. She knew that…that I couldn't say no to her, not for anything. She… she made me believe that I had to do it."

Jaime's hands clenched, and he looked up, the pain in his eyes raw and unguarded. "I see it now," he said, voice cracking. "They lied. They framed Edric for Joffrey's murder. I killed an innocent boy, and for what? For a lie."

Jon's face remained impassive, but his words were laden with disappointment. "Rhaegar had hopes for you, Jaime. Arthur too." He searched Jaime's face, the sorrow etched into his features. "You've disappointed them both. Whatever the man was they once saw in you, I don't see it."

Jaime's eyes fell, and for a moment, he looked utterly defeated, the proud Kingslayer stripped of his confidence, his honor a shadow of what it had once been.

It was later that Jon and Robb sat in silence, alone in the dimly lit chamber. Rhaegar's crown lay on the table between them, untouched since Rhaegar's passing—a haunting relic of the fallen king, gleaming faintly in the flickering candlelight. Jon's gaze drifted over it, his mind clouded with thoughts of the recent battle, the weight of judgment in the trial, and the blood on his hands after taking Jaime's. He held the silence, swallowed by his own doubts, until he finally spoke, his voice low and unsure.

"Robb," Jon began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Am I doing the right thing?"

Robb looked at him thoughtfully, studying his face in the shadows before answering with a quiet question of his own.

"How do you feel, Jon?"

Jon closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head. "I don't know. I've taken Rhaegar's throne… for the greater good, or so I tell myself. But I did it because…" He trailed off, his voice catching. "Because I wanted the power. I wanted the strength to set things right. Does that make me a monster?"

Robb didn't respond immediately. He just watched Jon, his eyes soft but solemn, allowing Jon the space to continue.

"I've killed so many, Robb. I've seen the way they look at me in the hall—they fear me." Jon's voice was laced with bitterness. "Not love. How could they love me? I've killed their sons, their brothers. But… a part of me enjoyed it." He looked down, ashamed. "I wanted revenge for Bran and Sansa. And I took it, felt it as keenly as the sword in my hand. If I had Cannibal, everyone would have burned."

His gaze returned to the crown, the weight of his guilt pressing down. "I wish Lord Stark were here," he murmured, his voice heavy with longing. "He would remind me that the world is worth saving, that there's still honor to be held."

Robb's hand settled on Jon's shoulder, grounding him.

"You're not Lord Stark, Jon. And I think he'd be proud of you for that." Robb's voice was steady, strong. "Because you're trying, even when people like Aegon and the Queen only abuse their power. You're trying to do right, even if it costs you everything."

Jon swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Robb's words. He turned to look at his brother, shadows dancing across Robb's face, but his blue eyes were bright and sure.

"I'm proud of you, Jon," Robb continued, a soft, steady assurance in his tone. "You've defended our family—even gone against your own blood to do it."

Jon shook his head, the weariness in him pressing down like armor he couldn't shed. "Aegon is not my brother," he said firmly, the pain mingling with conviction. "You are. Bran and Rickon—they are my family."

A faint, warm smile crossed Robb's face, and his blue eyes held a glimmer of mischief and warmth, the look Jon remembered from years ago in Winterfell. "Lord Stark always had a saying. When we were children playing at war. Do you remember it?"

Jon's lips twitched into a faint smile, the words coming back to him as easily as breath. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he recited, a trace of fondness in his voice.

With a quiet reverence, Robb reached for Rhaegar's crown. He held it in his hands, glancing down at the weighty circlet before he lifted it, carefully placing it on Jon's head. The metal was cold and heavy, a burden and a symbol both. But in that moment, Jon felt his brother's acceptance, his faith.

"You'll always be part of our pack, Jon," Robb said, his voice thick with emotion. "You'll always be my brother."

Jon felt a lump rise in his throat, the words anchoring him, soothing the turmoil within. He looked up at Robb, and in that unspoken understanding between them, he found a glimmer of peace. No matter the storm he faced, the battles ahead—he was not alone.

Jon and Robb hugged each other tightly, brothers always.

Jon stepped into Rhaenys's chamber, immediately struck by the stillness in the room. Rhaenys sat by the window, her face turned away, but the faint glisten of tears caught the light. Her shoulders trembled as she fought to hold herself together. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned, her eyes wide and full of raw pain.

"How could you?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "How could you try to kill your own brother?"

Jon felt a familiar bitterness rise within him, but he forced himself to stay steady. "Aegon has tried to kill me many times. You know that."

Rhaenys shook her head, desperation etched into every line of her face. She stood up, moving closer to him, her hands clasped together as though in prayer. "Please, Jon. Call it off. Don't do this. Let Aegon have his throne. You don't need it – the lords already respect you." Her voice was trembling, pleading, and he noticed that her hands were, too. "Please."

He exhaled, his heart hardening as he held her gaze. "Aegon will die for what he's done, Rhaenys," he said, his tone unyielding. "There's no peace left to be had."

Her face crumpled as she took a step back, her desperation turning to near-hysteria. "Please, Jon. For me… for all of us. Don't do this. We can find another way. There is always another way..."

Jon's patience cracked. In one swift motion, he seized her arm, pulling her closer. "Peace died when Bran fell," he said fiercely, his eyes locking onto hers, unflinching. "I need you to choose, Rhaenys. Him or me."

Her expression shattered, her face streaked with fresh tears. She shook her head, her voice breaking. "Please, don't make me do this," she choked. "Don't make me do this."

"Choose," he repeated, harsher this time, his grip on her arm tightening. "There is no other way."

Rhaenys stared at him, her tears falling unchecked, her entire being seeming to shatter under the weight of his demand. Her voice, barely a whisper, trembled as she finally spoke. "I choose… the father of my child."

A silence fell between them, thick and suffocating. She looked at him, her eyes still filled with pain and a love she could not deny. "I love you," she whispered softly. Slowly, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his in a soft, lingering kiss. Her lips were sweet, a taste that seemed to hold all the sorrow and tenderness she could not voice.

The Godswood was packed with a sea of faces, from highborn lords to curious smallfolk, the tension in the air thick and unyielding. Among them, Jon spotted clusters of followers bearing the symbol of R'hllor on their chests, standing alongside knights and squires of other houses. The red priestess Melisandre stood beside Daenerys, her followers clustered close around her, casting a quiet, reverent gaze upon the sacred trees. There was a palpable sense of unease; the lords of House Dustin and House Bolton shifted restlessly among their ranks, and the Frey men exchanged anxious glances, bristling at the energy swirling in the crowd. Jon can see Harry Hardyng on a crutch, his face giving Jon silent support.

At the center of it all, Jon knelt before the ancient heart tree, its red leaves whispering secrets in the wind. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, praying to the old gods for forgiveness for the sin he was about to commit, his armored form a dark silhouette before the white bark.

The winds whispered of brothers turned against each other.

The winds whispered of blood.

The winds whispered of Tragedy.

Sir Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, stood close, watching him. A silent, sorrowful weight lingered in Arthur's gaze.

Arthur's voice came hoarsely, barely louder than a murmur.

"To have his two sons fight to the death. This is not what Rhaegar wanted, Jon."

Jon rose to his feet, meeting Arthur's eyes. "They killed Rhaegar," he replied, a flash of determination igniting in his gaze. "And I will not have it any other way. This is what I want."

Arthur's shoulders sagged as he stepped back, his eyes closing in reluctant acceptance as Jon placed his helm on his head. Across the Godswood, Aegon stood, adorned in a dazzling suit of Targaryen armor, glinting in the sparse sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. Jon's own armor—a dark, fearsome suit of black Valyrian steel—put even Aegon's armor to shame, drawing whispers and gasps from the crowd.

The contrast between their armor was striking. Aegon wore gleaming Targaryen armor, polished to perfection, every scale glinting in the muted sunlight. Jon's own armor, forged from the darkest Valyrian steel, seemed to absorb the light, a manifestation of the shadows within him.

Just then, Edric Dayne rushed to Jon's side, his face flushed with emotion. "Win, my king!" he whispered, pressing Blackfyre into Jon's hands. As Jon gripped the sword, a strange weight settled into his hands, the blade feeling oddly heavier than before. Frowning, he looked up, only to see Aegon watching him with a cold, smug smile. Rage bubbled within him, and his hand tightened around Blackfyre's hilt.

Aegon's voice echoed through the stillness, laced with mockery. "Valyrian steel armor, little brother? Not very fair."

Jon's voice was a low, fierce snarl. "Not fair? You putting Sansa's life in danger was not fair. You pushing Bran was not fair. You killing Rhaegar was not fair!" His words rose in volume, each accusation carrying raw emotion, drawing every eye in the Godswood and tightening the tension to a breaking point.

Aegon's smile twisted into a glare, his eyes blazing with hatred as he pointed his sword at Jon. "Not fair?" he spat back. "It's not fair for you to barge into our lives. You should have stayed dead with your mother."

Jon's face contorted with fury, a low growl rumbling from his chest. Without another word, he surged forward, meeting Aegon's blade in a fierce clash. The crowd erupted with gasps and shouts as the two brothers collided, steel sparking as Blackfyre met Aegon's blade. The clash of their swords rang through the Godswood, both fighters moving with deadly precision.

Jon's attack was swift, brutal, every movement a calculated strike meant to bring Aegon to his knees. Aegon barely parried, his sword barely deflecting the force of Jon's blow, sending sparks flying.

Jon didn't give him a moment to recover. He twisted his body, delivering a savage backhanded strike at Aegon's midsection. The blow landed with a sickening crack, but Aegon's armor absorbed most of the impact. Still, the force of the blow drove him back, his footing faltering for a split second. Jon's eyes burned with fury as he pressed the attack, bringing Blackfyre down in a vicious arc aimed at Aegon's shoulder. The strike was so fast that Aegon barely had time to raise his sword in defense, the force of the blow knocking his blade out of line, but not before he deflected it, the sound of steel grinding against steel ringing through the air.

Aegon's face twisted with a mix of frustration and fury. With a roar, he thrust forward, aiming for Jon's chest. Jon sidestepped with expert precision, his footwork flawless as he pivoted on his heel, using Aegon's momentum against him. He swung Blackfyre up in a devastating diagonal strike, aiming for Aegon's unprotected side. The blade sliced through the air, but at the last moment, Aegon managed to twist his body, bringing his sword up just in time to catch Jon's blade on the flat of his sword. The force of the collision sent a jolt up Jon's arm, but he quickly recovered, spinning on his heel to bring Blackfyre down once more.

The clash between them was brutal, the strikes growing faster, more savage, with every blow carrying the weight of betrayal and anger.

Jon's blade sliced the air, a blur of motion as he forced Aegon back, each slash pushing him further and further toward the edge of the clearing. Jon's muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, every strike filled with the rage of a lifetime. His eyes locked onto Aegon, watching him, studying him, waiting for an opening.

But something was wrong.

Jon felt the familiar weight of Blackfyre in his hands, but now it felt… off. He was sweating more than usual, his breathing becoming ragged. His body, normally so accustomed to the heat of battle, felt sluggish, as though the very air around him was thickening, making each movement more difficult. His strikes were slower, more labored, and despite the fury in his heart, his arms felt heavy, as if the weight of the world had been placed upon him.

Aegon, sensing the shift, pressed forward, his attacks growing fiercer. His sword became a blur, each strike coming faster than Jon could react. Aegon's blade came down in a lightning-fast overhead strike, forcing Jon to bring Blackfyre up to block. The impact sent a shock through his entire body, and for a moment, Jon felt his knees buckle. He gritted his teeth and fought to stay on his feet, but Aegon wasn't letting up.

With a snarl, Aegon launched a flurry of rapid strikes, each one aimed at Jon's head, his chest, his arms, forcing Jon to block and parry in rapid succession.

Jon's breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring as Aegon's strikes grew more vicious, more calculated. Every swing of Aegon's sword seemed to carry more power, more speed, as if the very air around them was bending to his will. Jon's arms felt like lead, each parry more difficult than the last. Jon's movements were slowing, his strikes less controlled, his footing faltering.

With a savage growl, Aegon swung his sword in a brutal arc, catching Jon's blade with such force that Blackfyre slipped from his grasp, flying from his hands and landing just out of reach. Jon's heart lurched as the hilt of his sword slipped through his fingers, his body momentarily frozen in shock.

Suddenly, Aegon's blade connected with Jon's helm in a vicious blow that sent him sprawling to the ground. The world spun, his helm knocked loose, and Blackfyre slipped from his grasp, landing just out of reach. Jon's vision darkened, his chest tightening as he struggled to draw breath. He reached for Blackfyre, but his fingers felt heavy, unresponsive. Panic clawed at him as he tried to warg, to reach out to Cannibal—but the bond was murky, his mind clouded by pain. Poison, I've been poisoned, Jon realized in alarm.

Cannibal! CANNIBAL!

Before he could gather his strength, Aegon loomed over him, a triumphant glint in his eyes. Aegon reached down, grabbed a handful of Jon's hair, and yanked his head back, forcing Jon to look up at him. Leaning in, Aegon whispered, his voice dripping with malice. "You tried to call for Cannibal, didn't you? It won't work, Jon. You've been fooled."

With a cruel smile, Aegon twisted Jon's head, forcing him to look at the Starks standing nearby. Even through his blurred vision, Jon could see their stricken faces, fear and anguish etched into their expressions. Aegon's voice was a dark murmur in his ear. "Creating the Dragonguard was a noble idea on paper, but you made a fatal mistake, Jon—Domeric Bolton was my man all along. And you just so happened to have the man responsible for feeding your dragon."

Jon's heart pounded as Aegon continued, his voice mocking. "Uncle Oberyn studied at the Citadel, and learned all about the poisons that made people call him the Red Viper. How useful it was against Cannibal. Domeric and the bookkeeper have been sending me information about your dragon, and I acted accordingly. Domeric has not been helping you find Cannibal - he's been hunting Cannibal! The Frey's are allied with me – they were tired of being humiliated and shunned by the Starks and the Tullys. They know it is better to stand behind the rightful king."

The crowd began to stir, restless murmurs growing as more Frey men appeared, their faces grim and determined. Jon struggled, pain searing through his veins as he tried to warg once more, desperately clawing for any remaining strength. His chest burned, his vision darkening.

"I knew you were going to win the initial battle. Did you think some of the lords held back from fighting for the sake of neutrality? No, they were waiting. They despise you almost as much as I despise you."

Aegon reached down, ripping the pendant from Jon's neck with a triumphant smirk. "We have the best big sister, don't we?" he sneered, holding the pendant up mockingly before tossing it aside. "But it doesn't matter now. You've lost, Maegor. Goodbye, little brother. May your death benefit all beings..."

With a twisted smile, Aegon planted a cold kiss on Jon's cheek. Raising Blackfyre, he positioned the blade just below Jon's throat, savoring his victory as the crowd held its collective breath.

Myrcella

The air thickened with tension as Aegon loomed over Jon, Blackfyre gleaming in his grasp, pressed with cold finality beneath Jon's throat. Gasps rang out around the Godswood, shock and fear rippling through the crowd like a wave.

"No!" Myrcella's voice was a desperate shout, breaking through the stillness. Her heart hammered in her chest as she saw Aegon's eyes gleam with rage, his grip tightening on the blade.

But before anything more could happen, a blur of white streaked across the courtyard—a monstrous, furious blur—Ghost, Jon's direwolf, barreling into Aegon with a ferocity that had the crowd recoiling in shock.

Chaos erupted in an instant. The stillness shattered as the smallfolk surged forward, their hands raised, some shouting forKing Maegor, the name meant to tear the world asunder. Myrcella's stomach twisted. The symbols of R'hllor blazed on their chests, their voices a cacophony of claims and madness.

"Foul play by the Starks!" one lord called, his voice rising above the fray.

"The gods have chosen! Aegon is innocent! Aegon is the rightful king!"

"Death to Maegor!"

"TRATIORS!"

Swords clanged, chaos turning into something worse—shouting, the clash of metal, the horrible shrieks of dying men—Myrcella's eyes darted across the battlefield in a blur, unsure of where to look or what to focus on. The lords who had lingered in neutrality during the battle for Harrenhal were signaling, and their knights surged forward, adding to the tumult.

A scream echoed through the chaos as Lady Forlorn swung high, gleaming in the sunlight before it found its mark. Lyonel Corbay fell first, his throat slashed, blood gushing from his neck, quickly followed by Harry Hardyng, gasping for his last breaths. Myrcella's eyes burned as she scanned the field, the horrors of battle unfolding before her.

She saw Edmure scream in rage as a bolt plunged into Lady Stark's shoulder.

Then—that—she caught sight of a glint. A pale cloak, shimmering briefly in the chaos, and then a dagger flashing near Robb Stark. The words rang out from a shadowed figure.

"Aegon sends his regards."

Myrcella's breath caught in her throat. She looked back, but her eyes immediately fell on Jon. His trembling form, sprawled across the ground amidst the havoc. She shouted to Jaime, to Arys, and to her captain of guards—her voice hoarse, desperate.

"Retrieve Jon!"

Jaime, his stump wrapped tightly in cloth, moved without hesitation, his eyes locked on her. He knew. He knew. Tyrek and Arys supported Jon between them as they pushed through the throng of bodies, fleeing the battle. Through the godswood, across the courtyards, and toward the stables.

They managed to hoist Jon onto Tyrek's horse, his groans of pain barely heard over the screams behind them. But as they rode out, Myrcella's heart sank. Riders were coming for them—Frey, Bolton, Martell banners flying high in pursuit.

Suddenly, Ghost emerged from the trees, a blur of fur and fury, tearing down riders, protecting Jon in his escape.

There were cries. There was the thud of arrows hitting their mark and Ghost's yelp.

Slowly, the riders lost sight of them.

Then, disaster. Tyrek's horse stumbled over a rock, and both he and Jon were thrown to the ground. Jon screamed—a gut-wrenching, soul-deep scream that tore through Myrcella's chest.

She rushed forward, panic flooding her, and saw Jon's skin flushed with fever, the dark blue veins standing out against his pallor. His eyes, once so vibrant, now glossy and distant.

"He's been poisoned," Myrcella whispered, the truth striking her like a blow to the chest. The trial by combat—it had all been a farce. Rage which Myrcella never known, flowed through her.

Jaime knelt beside her, his voice low, conflicted.

"He will die, Myrcella," he said. Instead of staring at the man who crippled him with hate, there was something heavy in Jaime's eyes.

Her chest tightened, her hands trembling.

"Don't say that," she snapped, her voice breaking with fury, but Jaime only shook his head, his face grim.

Kevan's voice was colder, harder, his words like a death sentence.

"It's true. We must leave him. There's nothing we can do."

"No!" Myrcella shook her head violently, clutching Jon tighter against her chest. "I won't leave him."

Arys's voice joined, softer, pleading.

"Princess...Myrcella, let him go." Joy stared at Jon, face stony. Tyrek watched Jon scream with sadness.

"Never," she whispered, her voice breaking as she pressed her forehead against Jon's, feeling his heat, hearing his shallow breaths.

Jon's moan brought her back to him, his voice a faint whisper, barely audible. "How could you?"

Jon's grip tightened on her arm, weak but desperate, as he whispered, "Robb... Arya... where are they?"

Myrcella could feel the tears prick at her eyes, but she had no answer for him. No answer that would ease his torment.

She grasped Jon's face, her fingers trembling as she tried to keep him grounded, as if by sheer will she could prevent him from slipping away.

"Hold on, Jon," she whispered, her voice breaking with raw emotion.

Jon's eyes fluttered, his breathing erratic. "I can see them… Olly… Khal Drogo… Harry Strickland... all the people I killed. They're waiting for me…"

"Tell them they can't have you," she breathed. "I won't let them."

Another spasm of pain rocked Jon's body, and he screamed—his voice raw and full of agony. Myrcella's heart broke into a thousand pieces, her own tears falling freely.

Not like this. Not like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Jon's eyes locked with hers, his terror plain as day. "Don't leave me. Please don't leave me."

She could barely choke out her response, her voice a soft promise.

"I won't, Jon. I won't leave you."

Jon screamed again, his tears mingling with the blood on his face. "Robb… Arya… the Starks…"

Myrcella swallowed hard, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She remembered their first meeting at Casterly Rock, how she had been drawn to him—the mysterious boy with the purple eyes flecked with grey. How he had been her anchor when she had felt lost. How he had tickled her in the tall green grass, crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty just to see her smile.

She remembered the moonlight, the night they shared their forbidden kiss in the godswood. She had fallen in love with him that night, and now, to see him like this…

With trembling hands, Myrcella began to sing. The words flowed softly, a lullaby of loss and longing.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone Jenny would dance with her ghosts...
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found...
And the ones who had loved her the most..."

Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. She kept singing, the tears falling faster, mingling with the bloodstained earth beneath her.

Jon's dimming eyes focused on her face, every ounce of his attention on her, even as his life slipped away. She could feel the tremors in his body, the fear in his gaze, but he heard her.

She sang the song, her love, her sorrow, her plea for him to hold on just a little longer.

"The ones who'd been gone for so very long...She couldn't remember their names...

They spun her around on the damp old stones...

Spun away all her sorrow and pain..."

Myrcella barely felt the earth shake beneath her, nor did she hear the distant roar.

she could only feel how Jon's body stilled in her arms.

A sob escaping her, Myrcella pressed Jon's head against her chest, her voice cracking as she whispered the last of the song, still holding him, never letting go.

"And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave...

Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave..."

"...High in the halls of the kings who are gone...

Jenny would dance with her Ghosts...

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found...

And the ones...

...Who had loved her the most..."