When Jon Snow began the journey from the Wall to King’s Landing, he did what was expected. He smiled at awestruck men and spoke the right words. Highborn and fishmongers all reminded him of what he was worth to Westeros, of the task that awaited him. He was the rock which drowning men latched on, the walls of Winterfell to hold against a whirlpool of wintry winds, the sword in the darkness. Chosen ones had no free will.
The roofs of the Throne Room were rebuilt for his coronation ceremony. Sansa Stark sat next to the empty throne of swords, and Council members on chairs beside. Commoners in the hall cheered as he entered. Jon did not hear them. He only had ears for the sighing breeze, the crying birds.
Everyone told him the Iron Throne was the promised land, that he had won, that he was the champion of death, a prince with a flaming sword, scourge of White Walkers. Jon Snow was no such thing. What he was, was desperately unfortunate.
The green boy in him once imagined this day, like all green boys did. Jon hated that boy now. His foster parents were gone. Daenerys was dead, Ygritte was dead. Arya, Robb, Rickon, all gone. Bran was a boy in a tree, lost to the world. They all get to die, but I have to live?
As he walked, he noticed Missandei from among the crowd. When Jon passed her, he was reminded of the debt he owed her, the debt he owed Daenerys Targaryen. “I will rescue Meereen if it’s the last thing I do,” he recalled telling her. The light in his eyes had left, but that would not stop him trying to bring it back into others.
As Jon neared the throne, Sansa stood, crown in hand. Don’t say it, Jon pleaded in his mind, but his sister said it anyway. “I now proclaim Jon of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.”
As he ascended the steps, Jon Snow saw the sigils either side of the Iron Throne, the three-headed dragons. The sight made his heart flutter, reminding him what he was not. It ought to have been a direwolf.
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