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The door swung open as he entered. All heads turned towards him and silence fell upon the Great Hall. There he stood, wearing fancy clothes Sansa had made for him. A Son of Ice and Fire, they called him, The Prince Who Was Promised, they called him, The One True King. He indeed looked like one, dressed in a black tunic with the houses he belonged to. Long, red cloak with Targaryen sigil sweeping behind his back. But he didn't feel like a king. Neither as King in the North nor the would-be King of The Seven Kingdoms.
He moved forward slowly, his steps echoing in the silence. The hall was still missing most of it's roof, which collapsed upon Drogon's flames. His chest pained at the thought of Drogon. He could still hear his cries after he tried to wake her up. He wasn't a terrifying beast then, but a child, who just lost his mother. Still, this child tried to kill him and would succeed if not for Rhaegal swooping down to save him. He was smaller, but determined to save his rider. Drogon wounded him heavily in his rage, but ultimately flew away, taking his mother with him. Jon knew Rhaegal was clearly in pain. Stuck between his brother and dead mother and his rider, which also happened to be his mother's murderer. Jon couldn't stand it and, to relief most of his advisors, sent him away as soon as he healed.
His gaze fell upon the people gathered for his coronation as he made another step. He looked at Sam, standing on his left. He offered him a smile, which Jon didn't return. She burned his family. A traitorous voice spoke in Jon's head. They were at battle, both of them were ready to raise their swords and end her life if given a chance.
He took another step and his eyes found Ser Davos, who offered him a slight smile as well. The old knight knew Jon was in pain and tried to offer him his support as Hand. Jon refused, telling him to go back to his home and family. Ser Davos thanked him and promised to stay for his coronation. He wanted you to marry her. To rule together and bring peace to the realm. And you killed her.
Another step. His gaze fell upon his closest family. The Starks stood on his right. Bran offered him a nod, his face emotionless as usual. Arya gave him a sad smile. While she didn't like The Queen, she understood his pain. Sansa offered him a smile as well, a proud smile. His face remained straight. He didn't feel pride. He felt guilt. She warned you. She told you not to trust her. And you did anyway. It's all your fault, you fool.
He reached stairs and looked up. His gaze stopped on The Iron Throne. Somehow, it remained untouched. It was ugly, Jon noticed. The symbol of power stood there, almost laughing at him. It doesn't belong to me he thought, staring at it. It was hers. And I took it from her, even though I swore not to.
He stopped, a few feet from that... thing and hesitated. I don't want it He thought I never have. But here I am anyway. Jon knew he couldn't control his fate. Not after he returned from the dead. And he made peace with it. As if he didn't suffer enough.
He heard a quiet cough and turned his head. He looked down towards Tyrion. The Queen's Hand. And most likely The King's Hand now. Jon didn't have much to say about that and just accepted it, although he couldn't stand his presence. He conviced you to do it, fool. You let this man use you like a marionette. Just like you let Sansa manipulate you. Tyrion's face was straight as he urged him to turn around. Jon obeyed, turning his gaze towards the gathered people. Slowly, he knelt on the cold floor and noticed his hands were shaking. I shouldn't be here. It shouldn't be me.
Jon twitched as he felt something cold and heavy on his head. The silver crown resembled a dragon and a wolf, both animals curling around his head and merging into one. It's wrong. You're crowning the wrong person. Tyrion stepped back and he raised.
"I now proclaim Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth Of His Name, The White Wolf, The Resurrected, The Prince Who Was Promised, King of The Andals and The First Men, Protector of The Seven Kingdoms." Tyrion proclaimed and Jon let out the breath he was holding. These are not my titles. They don't belong to me.
Jon moved back, breathing heavily. He lowered himself and felt the cold metal under him. The Iron Throne didn't belong to him and he was the only person in the hall to realize it. It pained him.
"Long may he reign." Tyrion proclaimed, standing on his right side.
Jon closed his eyes.
"Long may he reign." The hall responded as one.
A single tear ran down his cheek.