Jon:

"The King is dead."

There was a moment when the entire crowd seemed frozen. Nobles and smallfolk, men and women, the old and the young. All together, they held their breath. Then Ghost threw back his head and let off a long howl that echoed off the cold stones.

Jon looked to Sansa, standing at the bottom of the Sept stairs, her wedding dress a pile of bright gossamer silk around her. Incomprehension was writ on her face. She looked very young. "Jon?" she asked, but whatever she was about to say was lost.

"King Aegon is dead," Willas Tyrell's voice was clear and confident, cutting over her. "King Jon, long may you reign."

"No!" he said, but a chorus of voices rang out all around them. The sound was like the breaking of a dam of tension, a great rush of noise. There were cries of "King Jon" and "The White Dragon!" But there were other voices too - angry, afraid.

The crowd surged forward.

Jon shook his head. "NO! Stop!" But it was too late.

Rhaegal threw his head back and screamed. The sound was deafening. It echoed off the buildings of the square. Visarion spread his wings and answered.

The crowd stopped. The cries hailing the new king turned to the shrieks of children. There was a collective move back. The people began to push and shove. The Golden Cloaks drew their swords. Around the stairs, the nobles began to move up the stairs, heading for the safety of the Sept.

Rhaegal lowered his head, turned towards the crowd of smallfolk and bared his teeth.

Jon gasped. "Sansa! You need to get out of here," he said. But she was ashen, frozen, staring at Aegon's corpse.

"He's dead," she said, her voice hollow.

He grabbed her arm in frustration, pulled her around to face him. She stared at him.

She can't cope with death, she has seen so little, she doesn't know. "Yes, he's dead. Dead! People die. You shoot a crossbow bolt in someone's lung, and it collapses and they choke to death. It happens. You need to get into the Sept! Sansa!" He grabbed her other arm, and shook her. Hard, maybe too hard, a part of him knew that, but damnit.

Her head snapped back and she let out a choked cry. "Stop, you are hurting me." But there was reason in her eyes, and that was what Jon needed.

"Get into the Sept, now."

She looked at Rhaegal. "The dragon … what …" She squared her shoulders. "I can…"

"NO! It is too dangerous for you. I will handle it! Go. Go now."

Sansa hesitated, but then Ermensande appeared on one side, and Rickon on the other, throwing his arm protectively around her shoulders. She nodded. She gathered her skirts - astonishingly graceful in all that ridiculous mass of fabric - and hurried up the Sept stairs in a cloud of silk. Even in their fear, the gathered nobles parted ways for her. The three of them vanished into the Sept and were gone.

It was a tiny relief, but it made Jon all the more conscious of the weight of lives surrounding him, the thousands of eyes that looked to him. Save us. Save us from the monster.

And that little voice of the boy who rode out of Winterfell so long ago spoke softly. It isn't fair.

No, he answered himself. It isn't. But it is my duty. What Rhaegar bred me for, and Ned committed me to. I have no choice.

Jon looked to the dragon. "Stop," he said, gently, but with all the authority of the Lord Commander in his voice. "Nobody here is your enemy." He glanced at Aegon, blank eyes staring at the sky. "Nobody was his enemy." He could hear the lie in his voice.

There's a crossbow bolt in the man's chest, you fool.

Rhaegal looked to Aegon's body, and to Jon, and his eyes narrowed.

There was a moment of quiet. A breeze blew through the square. It touched Jon's cheek - so warm, the air down here - and made the banners snap. The clouds were bright in the sky above. On the air was the scent of life, the bread of bakeries, the reek of shit and sweat, the musk of horses, the cold tang of steel. And closest to Jon, that elusive scent that was the spark of the dragon. Not so different. Just trying to live, in its own way.

Then a child screamed, a shrill sound that made eardrums ache.

The dragon turned his head toward the crowd, and drew in a deep, long, slow breath.

There is no time. There is no one else.

Jon did the only thing open to him in that heartbeat before the flames. He threw his mind open to the dragon.

He had done it before, in those desperate days in the war, the days that seemed like a nightmare of dark and cold and pain. The dragon's mind was fire.

He nearly screamed from the pain.

He felt that panic, that rage, shake the threads that bound him to Viserion's mind. The white dragon spread his wings and his scream echoed his brother's.

Jon felt a moment's terror. No. I have to trust to Bran's spell, what he put in place before I left the North. If I lose control of Viserion, he will go to Dragonstone. I can risk that bond. Rheagal is what I have to fear now.

He had to do it, he knew, he knew, he knew, but it felt like such an impossible task, like bending to lift a weight beyond the limits of his strength, anticipating the tearing of muscle under the cruel force.

He looked around to the crowd, to the children, and he threw his mind back into the dragon's.

There were flashes of bright colour, darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision. He saw … he saw ... Fire. The bright fire he had been born in. The warmth of cradling arms as the fire faded and cold dark crept in. Scales against flesh, silver hair, and the knowledge of an absolute will sheltering him. He had been small and afraid. Protected.

He saw the undulating grass of a great endless plain, the cold sky with a thousand stars over a pitiless desert, the fierce joy of the air, a burning city, meat, flame, battle … his brothers, black and white … no, black and green … Flaming. Now he made the fire, now he protected. Still that same will, that faith. I am great. We are great. Fear us.

A warm body pressed against his, and he buried his hand in Ghost's fur. The direwolf's mind was a vast reservoir of strength, like a deep clear pool of water. In that refuge, Jon clung to his sanity against the chaos of Rhaegal's mind and fought for control.

That will, that fire … that voice in the darkness that said "Don't be afraid. We are dragons. No fear. No obligation. No guilt. We are dragons."

Daenerys, her body pressed against his, sweat mingling, both of them gasping for breath. Alive.

Running through an endless forest, body flexing and stretching, paws barely touching the earth. Snow sparkling in the dawn light like a million tiny rainbows as the pink and golden sky arced above. Drinking from deep cool pools of blue water nestled in secret hollows. The startle of a single beast cascading into a great thunder of movement as a herd of caribou took to the hoof. Curled up in a warm den smelling of pine while the wind howled outside. Standing on a rock under the moon, calling out to his lost brothers and sisters in an unending song of grief.

Fire….

Snow ...

A warm body pressed against his, and he buried his hand in Ghost's fur.

I can't do it. I have to. I can't. No one else can do this. I can't.

I have to.

Jon found himself gasping, sweat pouring off his face. He fought through the morass of Rhaegal's mind.

Dappled light in the clearings with the sun warm on his fur …

The Wall, the dead. Following his brothers into battle. They were the great heroes of this war. But he was always behind, without a rider. The dead, burning the dead. Always burning. Drogon falling from the sky. Mother. Mother gone. And Aegon's face, younger. As frightened as the dragon. Battling against the dead, Aegon on his back.

Yes, the dead. The Great Battle. He brought his own memories out, let them fuse with the dragon's. I remember.

I remember your fire. I remember that you saved us.

We don't need to be afraid.

Don't be afraid.

No fear.

Rhaegal lowered his head, closed his eyes. But his great chest was still heaving with shock. He shook his head, as if troubled by some small pest. Then he let out his breath, and turned his head away from the crowd.

Jon sagged with relief, but there was no time to catch his breath.

"Get Rhaegal out of here - get him away from the people, now, while we can!" Elia Sand screamed into his ear, shocking him back to the world. "Viserion - can you get him into the air?"

"I … yes." He hoped so. What just happened?

"Then on three, do it!"

She grabbed a shield from one of the guards. Jon braced himself and sunk back into a dragon's mind, this time just one, this time a dragon as sane as any dragon could be. Viserion's mind was full of confusion. He took that confusion, and drove it upwards. Viserion tensed, and leapt. As he moved, Elia threw the shield onto the stone in front of Rhaegal. The dragon flinched, and then he was in the air too, winging his way after his brother. They dwindled into the sky (... the ground dropped away beneath him …) and they were gone.

Jon took a breath, and let it out. Tentatively, he reached out to touch Viserion's thoughts, unsure what damage the bond might have suffered. It felt as strong as ever, and he felt the dragon's fierce joy in the air beneath its wings. They were flying.

It is done. We are safe. Jon found himself suddenly exhilarated. Aegon is dead, and not by my hand. We can deal with Rhaegal. Sansa and I can marry, that will sort the legitimacy issues. He felt a laugh bubbling up. What I wouldn't give to see Catelyn Stark's face at that. His lips quirked. Her precious little girl and the bastard.

"Jon." Elia looked at him sharply. "Your brother is dead."

Yes, right. Jon schooled his face into an expression of grief. Very sorry. No laughing.

A white body pushed against him. There was a whine, sad, questioning. Yes, right, Ghost. He gave the wolf a pat. Jon felt like there was something he had forgotten, but it was an uncomfortable thought and he pushed it aside.

He scanned the assembled nobles. They were all looking to him.

Robter stood with the other members of the Small Council. That was Jon's strongest ally, but Davos was there too, with the weight of the Stormlands behind him. Garlan with the roses on his surcoat, but he could be discounted, it was Willas who was the real power in the Tyrell family. The Gardener would need watching. Jon looked over the Gold Cloaks - Ned Stark misplayed there - and the members of the kingsguard - fools, but there was still power in the office. None of them were threats, though. Not at this time.

But there were others … the High Septon was glaring, his white hair a soft halo around a hard expression, high officials in the faith surrounding him. The man staked a great deal on that sham of a marriage between Sansa and Aegon. To oppose me. It didn't work. Martyn Lannister stood with his useless mouth gaping open. Even a fool can be dangerous. And standing on the Sept stairs was Robert Arryn, a glare on his little weasel face. Jon met his eyes evenly, and Robert looked away.

"Have my brother laid out in the Sept with all honours," Jon ordered. "He must be laid to rest with our ancestors on this hallowed ground." He stepped around Aegon's corpse. "Lord Tyrell, as the oldest living Lord Paramount, perhaps you can take it upon yourself to carry out this great duty?" We can put him beside Joffrey for the next age. That's suitable company. Wouldn't do to use him for dragon food.

Willas paused a beat, clearly not expecting to go from kingmaker to attendant to the dead in a matter of moments. But he looked at Jon, and the wheels visibly turned. "I would be honoured. Your Grace." He bowed his head, in deference clearly greater than that owed to a prince. Some present also bowed their heads. Others did not.

"And when that is done, we must all return to the Red Keep," Jon added. "There is much to discuss."

There was a shift in the crowd, a feeling of tension releasing, of breath being let out.

Jon turned away from them all.

Aegon dead, and I don't have to worry anymore. Don't have to carry the weight of all that guilt.

Jon felt light, free, like he was buoyed up by fire.