The Light that Brings the Dawn

The Unnamed King of Westeros

Part 9 – Continuation of Episode 9
Unnamed King of Westeros

Daenerys stood, a solitary figure of grief, a short distance from where Jon Snow's body lay at the base of the Iron Throne. Drogon, in an act that seemed to acknowledge Jon's true heritage, had gently placed him there amidst the wreckage of the Great Hall—a hall now scarred by the battle fought against the Night King.

Tears streamed down Daenerys's cheeks, her sorrow a river that could not be stemmed. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, a futile attempt to dam the flow of her grief.

Tyrion, ever the loyal advisor, stepped forward, his heart heavy with the burden of finding words that might offer solace to his queen. "Your Grace," he whispered, his voice barely carrying in the vastness of the ruined hall. "My Queen."

At the titles, Daenerys flinched, a visceral reaction that spoke volumes. "Tell them," she commanded, her voice gaining strength as she stood taller amidst the rubble of her dreams. A crowd had gathered in the Great Hall, drawn by the weight of the moment.

Tyrion, caught in the gravity of her gaze, felt the enormity of the task before him. Her next words came as a command, laced with pain and determination. "Tell them who he was," she implored, her voice tight. "They must know. It is past time."

With a heavy heart, Tyrion turned to face the assembly, the weight of history and truth pressing down upon him. "Many of you here know Jon Snow..." he began, his voice carrying across the silent onlookers, "served with him, followed him, even fought him, but you don't know the real story of his life. You do not understand the concealed identity of the realm's most faithful protector."

He paused, glancing back at Daenerys, witnessing the agony of loss etched upon her face. "He wasn't a bastard son of Ned Stark. That was merely an illusion to protect his real identity from King Robert. Jon was the legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. The two were married in a secret ceremony on the Isle of Faces. It was made record of in the journal of High Septon Maynard, found by Sam Tarly when he went there for Maester training."

In that moment, Tyrion did not just speak to those gathered; he spoke to history itself, revealing a truth long buried beneath layers of secrecy and sacrifice—a truth that had forever altered the Seven Kingdoms.

As Tyrion's revelation unfurled, a collective gasp swept through those gathered, the weight of his words settling like a cloak over the assembly. "Lyanna was never kidnapped or raped; their union was one of love, and as such, the wars of the last twenty years should have never been," he declared, his voice betraying the emotion he fought to contain. The pause that followed was filled with the effort to regain composure, spoke volumes. "Our rightful king has been in Westeros all along, protecting and serving us as he was born to do, while we have all been fighting each other." His gaze, laden with sorrow, swept over the crowd, closing momentarily as the burden of shared loss momentarily overwhelmed him. "He has given his life twice to us, and we should all remember what our hero did for the living, what he did for the realm. The unnamed King of Westeros."

In the wake of his words, Daenerys turned, her attention caught by the sound of Drogon landing on the remnants of the hall's roof. The dragon's arrival stirred panic, prompting the crowd to scatter, yet those closest to her, including Arya, remained steadfast by her side.

Tyrion, with a gesture of loyalty and support, reached for Daenerys's hand. "Your grace," he intoned, guiding her toward the throne. The path they took was symbolic, leading not just to a seat of power but to a moment of profound introspection for Daenerys.

"When I was a girl, my brother once told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon's fallen enemies." She reached a hand out to gently finger the pommel of a sword. Her eyes were fixed on the chair for a long moment, as if entranced and then she looked back to Tyrion. "What do a thousand swords look like in the mind of a little girl who cannot count to twenty?" Her voice was wistful as she continued to cry. "I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon's feet." She briefly smiled at that distant memory. Her hand dropped from the chair and her eyes fell. Wiping the tears back she turned away from the chair and looked back to the body of her beloved.