Work Text:
The Next Time I See You
The sun has just dawned on the capital, but the King has already been awake and about in his chambers for an hour. Having finished off the stack of paperwork that remained on his desk when he retired the evening before, he now stands on one of two small balconies which run along both the north and south sides of his large room. He is a solitary figure, looking out toward the North over the teeming metropolis he now reluctantly calls home. It has been three years since the Targaryen Princess laid almost the entire city waste in her attempt to conquer Westeros through dragon fire. He was her nephew, her reluctant lover, and her ultimate downfall. Afterwards, as a confessed kinslayer, he had been fully prepared to face the consequences of his actions, prepared to either die or live in exile for the remainder of his life. Instead in a twist of fate only his once-brother, now cousin, forever Three Eyed Raven, could have foreseen, the nobles had all bent the knee and begged him to take the crown.
The King leaned out over the thick wall of the balcony. Far below him the city was waking up. It was a big day for Kings Landing and no one would be caught lying abed too long on a day such as this. As was his nature, the ruler of Westeros didn’t revel in the progress that had been made in the last three years but saw only what still needed to be accomplished. Much to the dismay of the very Lords that had placed a makeshift crown on his reluctant head, the King had not made repair of the Red Keep a priority. He and many of his closest friends and advisors had slept rough for some time and he saw no reason why that couldn’t continue so long as the citizens he governed also suffered. He had concentrated his earliest efforts on repairing the marketplace and the small homes that had been utterly destroyed when the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and yes, to his everlasting shame, the Northmen, had stormed through the destroyed Gate of the Gods. That effort had taken a full year of blood, sweat and tears. At night when he was too tired and sore to sleep, his close friends had delighted in regaling him with how horrified the nobility were in seeing their new king stripped to the waist and working alongside the common people to remove the rubble so that rebuilding could begin.
After he was generally satisfied with progress in the northernmost part of the city, the King had next approved the pet project of his new Master of Coin, Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tyrion was adamant that the stink and filth that permeated the slums of Flea Bottom could be eradicated if the residents just had access to clean water. The King had made that a priority, not only because he agreed with his clever treasurer as to the good it would do, but also because his loyal Hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, native born to Flea Bottom, had been brought to grateful tears when the King told him of the plan.
This last year had seen the King finally turn his attention to his own quarters in the Red Keep. It was a massive undertaking and when in the middle of one particular back-breaking day, he had been approached by some of the minor lords regarding when they might expect to receive their own private quarters inside the castle, the tenuous control on his temper had finally snapped. He stood, scarred chest gleaming from his exertions, breeches dusty and sweat stained, and called for his sword. When his aide, Satin Flowers, had handed him his sword belt, Satin's face wearing a barely concealed smirk, the King had strapped it on, and then drawn Long Claw from the scabbard. "If you want to sleep in comfort, you will need to work for it, my Lords," he had growled, his anger making his Northern brogue more pronounced than usual.
When the targets of his wrath had responded with mystified looks, he had pushed axes and shovels into their hands and suggested that they had a choice: either get to work immediately or walk with him to the training yard and enjoy an energetic sparring session with their monarch. The numbers in the building crew working on restoration of the King’s palace had literally doubled in one day.
The merchants and small folk of the city loved and revered their new King. While the sycophants and courtiers milling around the Keep like pesky rodents were astonished, the common folk were not at all surprised when the King announced, three years after accepting the crown, that his formal coronation would finally be held and not, as tradition dictated, in the confines of the Throne Room, but rather in the open air and spaciousness of the Dragonpit on Rhaenys’ Hill. They rejoiced when the King proclaimed a city wide holiday for the coronation and declared that the entire population of Kings Landing was welcome to attend.
Now the object of the people’s awe and affection stood looking out over his city. But his thoughts were not of the festivities planned for the day, nor of the trip he would shortly make through throngs of his subjects, riding from Maegor’s Holdfast through the city to the massive arena where he would finally be crowned with all pomp and ceremony.
He leaned his elbows on the thick stone of the balcony and enjoyed the sea breeze that wafted in over Blackwater Bay, his thin linen shirt and sleep pants billowing in the breeze. He turned his eyes North again, but his mind was no longer on the progress wrought during the first three years of his reign. Instead, his mind flew up the Kingsroad, far beyond the Neck, to his boyhood home. He was barely 16 when King Robert had come to Winterfell, along with a massive retinue that had straggled along the Kingsroad for miles and had sent everyone, near and far, into a frenzy. Just two days after the welcoming feast, Bran had fallen from the Broken Tower. He could remember it almost as if it had happened yesterday. His brother’s pup, Summer, had found him cleaning tack in the stables and had persistently whined and circled his legs until he finally followed him to the base of the old tower where he found Bran lying, his small body so very still. He had screamed for help, unwilling to leave his little brother even for a second. The keep was deserted since all the adult men – all except the Bastard of Winterfell – had accompanied Lord Stark and the King on a hunt. Finally, Maester Luwin had arrived with Hodor in tow. Under the older man's direction he and Hodor had managed to find a wide flat board on which the unconscious boy was gently placed. As they were carrying Bran back to the family’s quarters, Catelyn had appeared, surrounded by several ladies of the keep. Her face pale, she had rushed to her son’s side, running her hands lightly over his still form; then she looked up at Luwin and the Bastard had seen her features twist in grief as she read the uncertainty in the Maester’s eyes.
Days passed but Catelyn Stark adamantly refused to leave her son’s bedside. The other Starks came and went, welcome to visit, but there was never a question that the Lady of Winterfell would part from her sleeping son for even a moment. This had made it difficult for him to visit because Catelyn despised him; he was the living embodiment of her honorable husband’s one certain fall from grace. He had persisted, however, filled even at a young age with the same dogged determination that had held him in good stead the past three years. He loved his little brother and the gods could damn him to doomed Valeria and back if he would let one vicious woman keep him from visiting Bran.
It had been the night before he was to leave for the Wall. He had opened the door quietly and slipped in, halfway hoping that Lady Stark would be napping. But she was wide awake and working diligently on a talisman that she would hang over Bran’s bed when she finished it. He had ignored her pointed glare and moved to kneel by the side of the bed. Reaching out, he had brushed Bran’s bangs off his forehead and tenderly kissed his little brother. He then conducted a one sided conversation with Bran, sharing the events of his day and ticking off future plans they would share when Bran was finally back on his feet again. When he paused, he braved a glance at Lady Catelyn who fixed him with a stare that was so angry, so bitter, even he, so used to her contempt by now, was taken aback by it.
"You travel North tomorrow," she hissed. "That is a good thing. It cannot happen soon enough. You do not belong here; you will never belong here. But once you take the Black and are bound to the Wall by your oath, I can finally be at ease. The next time you come this way, the next time you visit, as I know you will, the next time I see you....you will no longer be a threat to my son, the rightful heir to Winterfell. That makes me rejoice."
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Jon turned from the balcony with a sigh. There had been no love lost between him and his step-mother but he had nevertheless grieved her murder at the Red Wedding, if for no other reason than she had died simultaneously with the death of the brother of his heart, Robb Stark, proclaimed King in the North. Her words had never quite left him and on a day such as today, when he was at the center of attention, honored far beyond his wildest childhood expectations, he wondered for the thousandth time, what the Lady Stark would say if she were here today, if she knew the truth about her bastard step-son. Would it have made a difference?
He glanced at the large bed enveloped in gauzy canopies which were moving gently in the early morning breezes. As was his wont, Satin had snuck into his chambers while he was lost in his thoughts, and quietly, but efficiently, laid out his garments for the coronation. He walked over to the bed and picked up one sleeve of the dark tunic, thumb rubbing over the fabric, gold thread glinting through the weave of the fine cloth. Again, his mind cast back to the day he had left Winterfell....
Robb had hurried to catch up with him as he strode through the busy courtyard, saddle slung over his shoulder, toward his waiting horse. The older boy had grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He wanted to be angry, to lash out at the "rightful heir to Winterfell", making him feel just a little of the pain his mother’s words had caused his bastard brother. But then Robb had rubbed his gloved hand through auburn curls, and produced a smile that no one in the keep could resist. "Next time I see you, you’ll be all in black." He had smiled back, a small grimace that couldn’t hold a candle to Robb’s grin. "It was always my color," he had replied. He had slung his saddle over the horse’s back and then was suddenly, abruptly, caught up in a hard embrace. Robb had smiled at him again, swallowing hard as if a lump had formed in his throat. "Goodbye, Snow," he said, turning and waving over his shoulder as he headed back to the keep. "Goodbye, Stark," he had replied, the last words spoken to a man he loved more than any other save Ned Stark himself.
The King snapped out of his reverie and wondered with a small chuckle what his lost brother – no – cousin, would have to say about his choice of coronation clothes, almost entirely black in color. He donned the garments quickly, without ceremony, and then called for Satin to come help him with his hauberk. As Satin lifted the light armor over his head, he rubbed his hand across the new sigil of the king, commissioned especially for this momentous day, and struck from an image created by his own Maester, Samwell Tarly. Raised over the chest plate was a snarling direwolf, white in color, facing an emerald green dragon, claws and wings raised as if in battle. Both creatures bore eyes of startling deep red.
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Aegon VI, as he was to henceforth be known, pushed aside the light cape Satin offered him and strode out the door of his chambers, his aide following behind. The captain of his Kingsguard, Jamie Lannister, sprang to attention and snapped his fingers for the other men to follow suit. "Your Grace," Lannister bowed.
The King kept up a brisk pace, forcing the Commander to do the same. "Save the royal titles for when we are in public, Lord Jamie," the King spoke with a sideways glance. "Men who fought the Others together do not stand on ceremony, no matter their rank."
"As you will, Your...Jon." The King stopped abruptly, forcing everyone behind to do the same or risk a royal collision. He placed his hand on the taller man’s golden shoulder. "Thank you for calling me that today, ser. It will keep me properly humble to remember the simple name I have lived with for most of my days. Lannister looked at the younger man with true affection. "No one will ever think your name humble, Your Grace; they will not forget Jon Snow, the savior of Westeros."
Jon and his retinue passed by the small council room where the Hand of the King routinely held sessions. He nodded as Ser Davos, decked out in new robes chosen especially for him by the highest lady in the court, joined his party, walking to his left, as Ser Jamie took the right. "A great morning for a coronation, Jon," Davos cheerily spoke, "Are your nerves settled enough or do we need to have Tormund provide you with a horn of his special brew?"
"Gods, no!" Jon chuckled as he rounded the corner and turned toward the stairs that would lead down to the royal courtyard. "I just hope Tormund can keep himself sober until the end of the ceremony." Davos returned his chuckle. "That man’s come a long way, Your Grace. From a Wilding who doesn’t kneel to anyone to a lord of the realm with his own holdfast back in the North."
Jon nodded and kept moving. His mind wandered back North once again. He remembered the nervous energy he had felt the day he left Winterfell to travel to the Wall. How young and full of unbridled ambition and pride he had been! When the large party had reached the Kingsroad, the bulk of the company had turned south while Uncle Benjen, Lord Tyrion, and his personal guards had turned North toward Castle Black. His father had stopped him for a private word, their horses stamping their hooves by the side of the road, eager to join the caravan as it moved on past them. Jon had known it was his last opportunity to ask his father about his mother and so he had.
"Does she know about me, is she still alive, does she know where I am going and what I am doing?" He had asked the questions without stopping, hoping against hope that his taciturn father would respond. Ned Stark had turned toward him and spoken words that the King had played over and over in his mind ever since he had learned his true identity.
"You may not have my name," he had spoken in his rough Northern tones, "but you have my blood." Ned had looked toward King Robert’s caravan as it moved away, clearly considering his next words carefully. "The next time I see you, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise."
Of course, as the fates would have it, Jon had never seen his father again. Since becoming King he had walked to the site of the Great Sept where his father — no, uncle — had been executed. The tall stone steps were gone now, destroyed by another mad queen in an explosion of emerald wildfire. Jon had not seen fit to build the Great Sept back; to his mind religion had played a big part in the woes the country had suffered since Robert’s death. But he had stood silently on the spot where Sansa and Arya had seen their father beheaded and he had grieved, yet again, for a person he had loved deeply. Now, as he moved into the courtyard for the journey that would carry him to Rhaenys’ Hill, he wondered, again, for the thousandth time, what might have happened if Ned had only shared his Mother’s identity with him that long ago day. How different might things have been if I had only known the truth?
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A large crowd of castle servants and craftsmen had gathered in the castle yard to greet Jon as he strode toward his horse. They would follow the King and his guard all the way down Aegon’s Hill and through the flower strewn streets of the city. A cheer erupted for the King and he stopped, tears glimmering in his dark eyes, as he surveyed his most loyal retainers. "These are my people," he thought. "Not the fawning, simpering fools that think they have a mandate to govern this land, but these hardworking folk." As he made his way to his stallion, he took time to clasp calloused hands and give a nod to the blushing maids and cooks. Reaching his mount, he grabbed the pommel and vaulted into the saddle. Today he was riding a beautiful pure white stallion which had been a gift from the Dornish delegation. While the Kingsguard also mounted and moved into formation around their King, with Davos positioned just behind him, Jon chuckled when the servants abruptly parted - a gasp here, an outright shriek there - as his direwolf presented himself by his side. "Hello, Ghost," he greeted the white canine that was almost as tall as a small horse. The direwolf whined and he leaned over to rub his snout with affection. Just as he straightened back up in the saddle, a sudden loud whoosh sounded overhead and the courtyard was momentarily cast in shadow as a great figure glided past. Jon smiled to himself; knowing that the citizens of King Landing greatly feared the sole surviving dragon, the King had commanded Rhaegal to keep primarily to Dragonstone where there was ample wildlife and fish for the emerald beast to be happy and satisfied. But he had sent a mental message to the dragon to return today because he needed the people to see both sides of his heritage, wolf and dragon, in evidence. Also if things went as planned, after the coronation and the feast that would follow, he intended to return with the beast back to Dragonstone for a much deserved break from his duties.
The crowd eased; they had great faith in their King and it was apparent he could control the dragon, and would do so, unlike Daenerys Stormborn, who in their eyes had used her dragons only for destruction.
The King’s party cantered out of the Red Keep into the city. Jon saw a figure on horseback waiting just outside the gate. This time, his chuckle became a laugh as he recognized the rider. A sleek bob of short dark hair capped a slim, almost elegant form, garbed in a fine doublet and breeches. "Sister!" he cried out in greeting. The guard parted the crowd to allow the cousin of the King to join the royal party. The crowd murmured with excitement. Children were put to sleep by bedtime stories of Jon Snow, the White Wolf, and his heroic sister, Lady Arya, who together slew the Night King and saved the world!
Jon leaned over and gave Arya a fierce hug. "I had begun to think you would miss this momentous day," he chided with a twinkle in his eye. "Miss it!", she huffed. "Gods be good, Gendry has been marking the day for months."
"Where is the Lord of Storms End anyway?" Jon quirked an eyebrow at his little sister.
"He has gone ahead to the Dragonpit," Arya replied. "Good," Jon nodded. "It will be nice to see at least one friendly face in the crowd when I arrive."
Arya snorted as she spurred her smaller mount to keep up with the stallion. "Seven hells, Jon, you must know that you are the most beloved man in the country. The people adore you."
The King colored slightly. "Go on with you now, Arya. We must look properly distinguished for the crowds."
Arya turned then to the King’s Hand, greeting him and updating him on her husband’s doings as Ser Davos was particularly fond of the former Baratheon bastard. While Jon waved and greeted his people as a matter of habit and routine, his mind was again elsewhere, drifting back once again to the day he left Winterfell.
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Arya had hugged him fiercely when he gave her the small, slender sword made especially for her.
"Sansa has her sewing needles," she had mused, "now I have a Needle of my own." As she gingerly ran her finger down the thin blade, Jon had joked, reminding her to "stick them with the pointy end." When he turned to leave her chambers, Arya held the precious gift, carefully wrapped back up in its traveling cloth, and proclaimed with a definitive nod of her head, "The next time you see me, Brother, I will be a warrior just like Torrhen of old." Jon had chuckled and departed her room, shaking his head at his beloved little sister’s outlandish fantasy.
The King turned in the saddle to look at the woman riding between him and Ser Davos. In his wildest dreams, Jon would never have envisioned the path his little sister (for sister she still was to him) had taken. But she had been right. When next he saw her, she had been a true warrior, and thanks in large part to her, the world was still a place of hope and promise. He chest filled with emotion and he exhaled, reveling in the shouts honoring his sister as they made their way down the hill.
When the King’s party reached the Street of the Sisters, they turned east, toward Rhaenys’ Hill. The crowds were thicker here; after all, Flea Bottom was located at the base of the mountain named after one of Aegon the Conqueror’s warrior sisters. Jon was overwhelmed by the throng that greeted him. The sun was bright, the day was lovely, and it was a matter of great pride to the King that Flea Bottom no longer smelled like a cesspool. He glanced over at Ser Davos and felt a surge of emotion as he saw the older man openly wiping tears away with his short-fingered hand. This was what it meant to be King, he thought. To make the lives of your people better.
More than an hour later, they began the trek up the hill to the great Dragonpit that sat at its apex. Rheagal had flown ahead and could already be seen circling the massive arena. Hundreds of people who could not hope to fit into the stands lined the path to the site. Now he could hear music from the coronation site as it wafted down from the coronation site. The people joined in singing the songs of heroes, both ancient and new. It was truly a joyous day. Jon glanced down at Ghost and smiled as he saw his great direwolf on his best behavior, calmly accepting children’s eager pats and hugs as they moved through the throng.
The company finally entered the arena and the thousands that had been waiting for a glimpse of their King, erupted in a great roar of approval. Jon looked over at Arya, a bit overwhelmed, and found himself grounded in her steady gaze. The King’s Council waited along with a host of Lords and Ladies. Jon grimaced. He would have to move through them to make his way to the stage where the coronation would take place, a gauntlet of false and insipid approval and fawning courtesies.
Jon removed his riding gloves and handed them to Satin who, once again, had magically appeared when needed. Again he brushed off the cloak offered; it was too blasted hot! He looked around, then down, and nodded, "Lord Tyrion." He surveyed the small circle of his closest advisors, greeting Lord Edmure, Robin of the Vale, and the Lord of Dorne. He stopped when he reached Yara, first Lady of the Iron Islands and his Master of Ships. Eschewing a bow, he grasped her arm as he would any fellow warrior at arms. Yara had clearly wanted him dead when he slayed Daenerys Targaryen, but she had grudgingly bowed to the superior will of the other lords when Jon was declared King. Over time, Jon had won her over and when she finally accepted a position on his ruling council, she had paid him the ultimate compliment, "I suppose I can work with you seein’ as you aren’t as big a prick as some."
Last, but certainly, not least, Jon allowed himself to be enveloped in a bear hug from the newest noble in the realm, Lord Tormund Giantsbane of Last Hearth. "Look at you, Little Crow," the big man chortled. "All grown up and ready to be King."
As Jon gazed around the arena, packed beyond capacity, he looked down at Arya. "I wish Bran was here with us." Arya nodded, her dark eyes, so like his own, shimmering. "I believe that he is here with us, Jon," making a fist over her heart, "I feel him, right here." The King found his thoughts once again spinning back to the day he left Winterfell for the Wall. He had gone to say one final goodbye to his little brother, defiantly disobeying the Lady Catelyn for yet one last bittersweet farewell. He had whispered to a sleeping Bran that when he woke up, he could come visit him at the wall, knowing that the boy yearned for adventure more than any of the Starks. "The next time I see you," he had whispered in his brother’s ear, "we will go out walking past the Wall." How strange then that Bran had, in fact, travelled North, without Jon’s help, and he had returned, transformed into the 3 Eyed Raven, ready to do battle with the Night King, ultimately sacrificing himself to win the War Against the Dead. Sansa had his body placed in the crypts below Winterfell, but somehow they all agreed that didn’t seem quite right. After King’s Landing, a year into his reign, Jon had answered his sisters’ call and flown his dragon back to Winterfell. Together, he and Arya had taken Bran to the far North, to the place where the Great Weirwood stood in majestic solitude. They had lain his body inside the roots of the large tree and had watched in amazement as the roots had wrapped themselves around their brother’s body until he became one with it. Jon couldn’t explain it, he knew that his brother had died but somehow he was also certain that a part of him lived on as the 3 Eyed Raven, waiting for one final, eternal spring.
The King closed his eyes as he heard a soft whisper in his ear, "I am right where I should be, Jon, and you are right where you are supposed to be as well, Aegon, Sixth of His Name."
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The members of the Council had gone ahead and were seated in places of honor on the stage. Samwell Tarly, his oldest and best friend, Maester of the King’s Council, stood on the stage, waiting for his sworn brother to take the oath as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Arya gave his arm a quick squeeze and darted off to join her husband. Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His scarred hand reached across his body, as if by reflex and gripped the head of his Valerian steel sword. He took a step and the crowd erupted in cheers once again. He walked slowly through the nobility. Some of the ladies, likely by design, were bowing so low he could see down their bodices. He rolled his eyes and kept walking, his focus on reaching the stage where Sam waited for him.
He had reached the steps that led to the platform. The crowd noise ceased and across the arena, you could have heard a pin drop. Even Rhaegal, perched on the top of the Dragonpit, was still and silent. He paused, swallowed nervously, and thanked the gods that Ghost was still with him, sitting by his side as he knelt.
"Who comes to claim the throne of the Seven Kingdoms?" Sam called out in a surprisingly strong voice that carried to the farthest reaches of the arena.
Jon took a deep breath and responded. "I do. Aegon, Sixth of his Name, true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and the Lady Lyanna Stark. Raised by the Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark, and his Lady Wife. At the age of 16, a Brother of the Night’s Watch," here Jon paused and glanced at Sam who shared a quick smile with him, remembering a cold night north of the Wall when they had sworn their oaths together in a small godswood. "Later 998th Commander of the Night’s Watch. Released from my vows by death," the crowd gasped even though they all knew the story by now, "then, named Lord of Winterfell and the King in the North by my banner men." He swallowed hard again and pressed on. "Bent the knee and pledged my fealty to the Dragon Queen yet broke my vows after the slaughter of Kings Landing," cheers erupted only to be quickly silenced when Sam raised his arms. "By the will of the Lords of Westeros, named King of the Seven Kingdoms three years hence and I have served as such to the best of my ability."
"How would you be acknowledged as the rightful King?" Sam’s voice sung out.
Jon rose and pulled Long Claw from its scabbard, the blade gleaming in the sun. "By the steel of old Valeria and of my ancestors." He handed the blade into Sam’s hands and then knelt again.
Sam held the sword aloft, then first tapped Jon’s left shoulder, then his right. "By the gods of Westeros, as men see fit to worship them, by the Old Gods of the North that you have lived by, and sworn yourself to, I, Samwell Tarly, Maester of the King, hereby declare that you are henceforth to be known as Aegon, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Sam returned the sword to Jon and he slid it back into the scabbard at his side. Sam turned to Ser Davos who approached with a large tray covered by a black cloth. He pulled the cloth off to reveal a gleaming crown of silver and gold worked together to resemble intertwined weirwood branches, one perfect ruby of the deepest red placed at the center. Jon bowed his head and Sam placed the crown on his head where it rested, held secure by his thick curls. "Rise, King Aegon, and greet your subjects."
The arena erupted with prolonged cheers and shouts of acclamation. Even the ever grumbling lords of the kingdom seemed pleased with the pomp and splendor of it all. Jon rose to his feet, winking at Sam even as his portly friend bowed to his new King and then stepped to the side with Ser Davos. Two thrones stood in the center of the stage. Jon approached the larger of the two. The thrones were, at first glance, extremely plain. Their design had been chosen by Jon deliberately, intending them to be as far in appearance from the Iron Throne as possible. Up close, however, the care and thought which had gone into crafting the King’s royal seat of power was breathtaking. At Tyrion’s suggestion, announcements had been made throughout the city as to the King’s intentions. The crowd knew that the thrones were built from the finest wood harvested from all of the seven regions of Westeros. The backs of each throne were carved with scenes from the entire history of Westeros, from the Children of the Forest to the First Men, from Aegon’s Conquest to the Defeat of the Night King in the North. The crowd roared its approval once again as Jon took a seat on the larger throne. Rhaegal took off with a triumphant growl, circled the arena, and landed again.
Sam came to the center of the stage once more and held up his hands for silence. The crowd persisted for some moments but eventually quieted. Sam’s clear voice, no longer the tremulous squeak that Jon remembered from years gone by at the Wall, now strong and proud, called out across the great expanse. "By order of the King, a second coronation has been planned." The crowd murmured in renewed excitement and the Lords and Ladies looked at each other in confusion. Sam waited for his audience to settle yet again. "King Aegon married in secret two years ago. His bride is highborn, of true and noble blood. The King has chosen this moment to reveal his Lady Wife and he intends to see her crowned this day as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"
All eyes, Jon’s included, turned to the entrance to the Dragonpit. His hands clenched on the arms of the Throne, but his body leaned forward in anticipation. He had slept alone last night, not willing to take the chance that his bride would be discovered in his bed; she had resided, undetected, in a luxurious set of rooms, furnished especially with her in mind, within Maegor’s holdfast. The King had most recently been apart from his wife for nearly six months; in truth, during their entire marriage, mutual duty had kept them apart more than together. That, he had sworn to himself, would end today. He was King of the Seven Kingdoms now, and godsdammit, he would not suffer any further separations.
As he waited for his Queen to make her appearance, Jon’s thoughts flew back to long ago Winterfell one last time. He had wanted to say goodbye to her before he left for the Wall, but unlike with Robb, Arya, and Bran, even little Rickon, he had never been very close to this other sister. As such he was uncertain how to approach her. Of all the Stark children, Sansa was most like Catelyn and although he never thought her cruel, she was often remote and distant from him. Jon had come to expect that she would treat him differently; after all, she was a Tully with her flashing blue eyes, tall, slender form, and long hair of copper gold. Jon had resigned himself to the fact that he would only see her in the caravan from a distance and perhaps, if the fates allowed, he would wave at her as she set her sights south to King’s Landing and a future marriage to Joffrey Baratheon.
But Sansa had surprised him. The night before the planned departure, as he was packing his meager belongings in two saddlebags, he had been surprised by a knock on his door. Thinking that perhaps Robb had come to share one final glass of ale with him, he had opened the door to find Sansa, her fine features glowing from the cold, holding a plate of what smelled suspiciously like lemoncakes. She had looked down, then up at him, through perfect lashes. "I thought you might get hungry on the journey North, so I persuaded Cook to bake these for you," she murmured as she handed him the platter.
"Thank you, Sansa. Thank you." Jon had stood in the door and then realized that the corridor was drafty in this part of the castle and Sansa, no doubt, was freezing. "Would you come in?" he offered, then recoiled, realizing he had committed a grievous error. He couldn’t expect a highborn lady to enter the bed chamber of a bastard! But Sansa had surprised him; darting a look to the left and the right along the silent hallway, she had nodded, then ducked into his rooms.
Sansa held her hands over the small fireplace and warmed them. She turned around and watched Jon as he continued to pack. "Is that all you have to take with you?" she queried in earnest shock.
Jon had smiled and continued to stuff his extra garments in the bag. "I don’t need as much as a lady to survive, Sansa. I will be fine." She had moved to him swiftly then, catching him off guard. Taking his hands in hers, she had turned them over, studying his palms as if searching them for the meaning of life, then drew his hands close to her heart. "We will see each other again, Jon. I know we will. When I am Queen, you will come for my coronation." She laughed, a high clear bell sounding through his chambers, and then placed a quick kiss on his cheek. "That’s right, the next time I see you, I will be a Queen."
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King Aegon, Sixth of his Name, rose as his Lady approached. She was surrounded by her own loyal guard, all riding on matching horses of solid white, and led by none other than Ser Brienne of Tarth, the very one who had been knighted just before the Long Night by her own secret lover, Jamie Lannister. Jon was now fully prepared to bend the rules about marriage for members of the Kingsguard, but only, as he explained to an incredulous, but ridiculously pleased, Ser Jamie, if his Commander intended to marry the Lady Brienne. Jamie had quickly assented.
Sansa dismounted from the gentle mare she was riding, and approached the stage. She was a vision in pure white, blue roses woven into her long hair, but wearing a cloak of Targaryen red with white direwolves embroidered throughout. The crowd gasped in awe and their King followed. He stood stock still in the center of the stage as she approached the steps. The Maester intervened, gently clearing his throat as he none so gently moved Jon to the side. "Who comes to be crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?" Sam called out.
The crowd held its breath and then let it out in a collective rush as she responded in a clear, firm voice. "Sansa Stark, wife to King Aegon Targaryen, and the Lady of Winterfell."
Sam beamed as he took her hand and helped her to kneel. He then motioned for Jon to come forward. "King Aegon, do you acknowledge this lady to be your one and true wife?"
Jon cleared his throat, and spoke in his gruff low tones which still carried through the still air of the arena as if it were but a small room. "I do acknowledge this lady as my one and true wife."
"And being your wife, do you also intend her to rule by your side as Queen?"
Jon looked down at Sansa and thought his heart would burst from the love he held for her. "Aye. I do intend that."
Sam gestured for Ser Davos who again appeared with a smaller platter, also covered in black cloth. "Then, King Aegon, by all means, crown your Queen."
Jon removed the cloth and took the diadem resting thereon, a smaller version of his own, in both hands. He gently placed it on his wife’s head and then, when he was sure it was properly settled, he raised her to her feet. Drawing her close, he led her to the thrones. Taking her hand in his, he raised them both high in the air. "People of Westeros, your Queen, Sansa of Winterfell, the Red Wolf, and the Guardian of the King’s heart."
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The celebrations lasted all night and into the next day. No corner of King’s Landing was immune from the revelry; years later, the people who were present on that momentous occasion declared that they had never enjoyed themselves more than the day their King and Queen were crowned. The small Council handed out pockets of coins to the small folk, courtesy of the Queen, and the Lords received scrolls which, although opened with some trepidation, given the King’s routine annoyance with them, were nevertheless greeted with cheer when they realized that the King was suspending the required tribute to the Crown for three moons. All present agreed it was a glorious event.
None thought it more so than the young couple who slipped away from the head table, just before midnight, and stole up to the top of the Keep where their ride, an especially eager and proud dragon, awaited them. With a swift pet to the head of the King’s direwolf and a wave to their sister and good brother who would see to Ghost while they were gone, they took off on Rhaegal. The dragon, clearly celebrating in its own way, circled the keep once just for fun and then moved quickly through the moonlight, across the bay and into the darkness toward Dragonstone.
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Jon slipped from the bed he shared with Sansa and moved to the open windows. The sea below Dragonstone glimmered and shone under a full moon. He wondered what would come next for him and his wife; they had already experienced enough adventures for a lifetime and he was yet barely six and twenty. As he stood there, naked as his name day, he felt a warm arm encircle his waist and a moist mouth press against his neck. "Come back to bed, my King. We have much work to do to make up for all the time spent apart these past two years." Jon turned and looked down into the lovely eyes of his wife. "Aye, as my Queen commands, I must obey." He dipped suddenly and catching her by surprise, swept Sansa off her feet and into his arms, vowing that he would indeed work very, very hard to catch up.
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Nine months after King’s Aegon’s coronation, a raven arrived from the capital. The message, delivered to the Lord and Lady of Storms End while they were yet breaking their fast, was short and to the point.
"The next time we see you (which we command must be very soon), you will be presented to your niece, the lovely Princess Lyarya. Signed, King Aegon and Queen Sansa."