Once the host and guests were finally seated, the atmosphere in the great hall surged to its second climax of the night. The music brightened, the fire roared in the great hearth, and the long tables glowed with the reflections of candles and goblets.
Jon's siblings sat far away from him, separated not only by an entire hall but also by their status. As a bastard, Jon Snow had no place near the high seats. Robb, Bran, Sansa, and Arya sat among the young princes and princesses, just one row beneath the dais where the King and Queen were seated with Lord and Lady Stark.
On nights like this, Lord Stark permitted each of his legitimate children a single cup of wine—no more. Even Sansa and Arya had a glass of Summer Red before them, its ruby color gleaming enchantingly under torchlight. Young Rickon, still far too small for such privileges, had only a cup of warm milk, which he sipped with fierce dignity as if it were the rarest vintage in the Seven Kingdoms.
A shimmer of light and shadow danced across the hall. Goblets clinked, roasted meats were carved, and laughter rolled like waves against the stone walls.
Jon Snow rarely experienced a banquet of this scale. Normally, he remained at the fringes—present, but unnoticed. Tonight, however, perhaps because of the excitement or perhaps out of a quiet yearning to belong somewhere, he kept drinking. And drinking. And drinking. His face grew increasingly flushed, the heat of the fire and the warmth of the wine painting his cheeks a rosy red.
He had shed his cloak earlier and now wore only a thin leather jacket, which did little to hide how warm he was getting.
At the far end of the hall, where the rules were looser and the eyes of authority rarely lingered, Jon found himself more relaxed than usual. Robb's direwolf Grey Wind was not allowed in the hall, and neither were the other pups—except Ghost.
Ghost, his silent white shadow, was exempt due to Jon's position as Stark's son, even if a bastard.
Under the table, Jon reached down and nudged the little wolf's head up, discreetly tossing him an entire chicken bone. Ghost accepted it without sound, only narrowing his red eyes at a passing hound that dared to come too close. The hound backed off immediately. Ghost, though only a third the size of the kennel dogs, radiated a cold and deadly confidence.
Jon grinned smugly as Ghost settled down with the prize, victorious.
"You should learn from him," Karl murmured from across the table, having clearly witnessed Jon's secret act beneath the tablecloth.
Jon's smugness evaporated instantly. Before he could respond, a familiar voice drifted warmly to his ears.
"Is this the famous direwolf?"
Jon's head snapped up in delight.
"Uncle Benjen!"
Benjen Stark, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch and Lord Stark's younger brother, placed his hand on Jon's head, ruffling his hair with the same easy affection he had shown little Bailing earlier. Despite years spent beyond the Wall, he carried no icy stiffness in his demeanor tonight—only warmth, humor, and a trace of nostalgia.
"Yes," Jon said quickly. "His name is Ghost."
"Ghost," Benjen repeated with a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with approval. Then his gaze shifted past Jon and landed on the man seated opposite him.
"Ser Karl Stone. I heard quite a story about you today." He gave a small, respectful nod. "I believe Jon owes you thanks. It's an honor for him to be your squire."
Karl recognized him immediately, of course, though he still glanced at Jon politely, letting the boy handle the formal introduction.
"Lord Karl," Jon said, sitting straighter, "this is my father's brother—Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch."
Karl rose at once. Instead of simply nodding, he placed one hand over his chest and bowed respectfully.
"It is a privilege to meet you, Lord Benjen. The Night's Watch is a legendary order. The peace of the Seven Kingdoms rests on the sacrifices of men like you."
Benjen blinked, slightly surprised by the sincerity of the compliment.
Then he laughed and waved a hand dismissively. "The glory you speak of belongs to the old tales. What we defend today is little more than wind, snow, and a few stubborn savages."
The humility in his voice was genuine, but Karl's expression sharpened.
"Even legends leave footprints," Karl replied. "The Watch's achievements haven't faded with time. Without the Wall, the North would not be the North."
The earnestness of the knight—unexpected on such a festive evening—made Benjen pause. His smile softened, warmer this time.
Caesar, seated beside Jon, noticed the change of tone and quickly rose to offer his bench to the honored guest. Benjen accepted it with ease, swinging a leg over the seat and settling down comfortably. Jon tried to hide how pleased he was to have his uncle here, but the faint upward curl of his lips betrayed him.
Benjen took Jon's drink without asking, inspecting the redness of Jon's cheeks.
"Summer Red," he said after one sip. "Still the sweetest wine in the North."
Then he looked at Jon again, sniffing exaggeratedly. "And judging by the way you smell, you've had… what? Three cups? Four?"
Jon reddened even further and offered a helpless smile.
"As I thought." Benjen shook his head in mock disappointment. "Don't worry. I got drunk for the first time even younger than you. Nearly fell off a horse in front of half the keep."
That made Jon laugh, though awkwardly. But the tension was broken, and the three of them—Jon, Karl, Benjen—fell easily into conversation.
Benjen lifted his cup toward Karl. "Ser Karl, when did you first taste wine? Or rather, when did wine first overpower you?"
Karl rubbed his chin thoughtfully, pretending to ponder deeply. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "It might've been right after a donkey kicked me unconscious."
Benjen blinked. "A donkey?"
Karl shrugged. "Either the donkey or the wine laid me flat. Hard to tell which."
Benjen burst into laughter, loud enough that several guests turned their heads. "Gods, you're a strange one, Ser Karl."
With a grin, he swallowed another large gulp of wine, then reached for a roasted onion slick with brown juices. It crunched loudly when he bit into it, and even Jon winced at the sound.
Karl, meanwhile, observed him quietly. Benjen Stark had the gaunt build of a man who lived in harsh places. His face was sharp, almost carved from stone, and the silver chain around his neck glinted against the black velvet of the Watch. But despite his rugged appearance, his gray-blue eyes always carried a gentle humor.
He was the kind of man who seemed strict yet kind, intimidating yet comforting—a paradox shaped by the Wall and softened by family.
Just as Karl finished his assessment, Benjen's expression shifted. He looked at Jon with unexpected seriousness.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "it's a good thing Jon is going south this time."
Jon stiffened.
Karl pretended not to hear, sipping calmly from his cup.
"I would rather go north with you," Jon blurted, staring earnestly at his uncle. "I thought you might take me with you when you returned to the Wall."
Benjen froze, caught off guard. His eyes softened with something like both pride and sorrow. He looked at Jon as if seeing not just a nephew, but a boy standing on the edge of becoming a man.
"Jon," he said gently, "the Wall is a harsh place—harsh enough for grown men, let alone boys."
He glanced deliberately at Karl.
"And now, you have a better road ahead of you."
Karl raised his hands defensively. "I can't promise him anything. In my eyes, Jon has a long way to go. Before today, I had only prepared his first lesson. After that, he still needs to learn how to hold a sword properly."
Benjen arched a brow. "His first lesson? And what exactly was that?"
Karl grinned, leaning back slightly. "To teach him how to become a man instead of a boy."
Benjen blinked, then slowly began to understand. His mouth opened slightly in disbelief.
Karl gave him an expression that clearly said: You know exactly what I mean.
"Aye," Benjen muttered with a helpless sigh. "Once he's sired two or three little bastards of his own, maybe he'll understand the world better."
Jon nearly choked on air.
Benjen laughed, slung an arm around Jon's shoulders, and whispered conspiratorially, "But maybe not too soon, eh? Let's wait until you can walk straight after drinking."
Jon groaned softly, burying his face in his hands. Karl and Benjen both laughed.
The fire crackled warmly behind them. The music swelled. The wine flowed freely. And for a brief moment, despite bastardy, expectations, and the weight of futures not yet decided, Jon Snow sat among people who cared for him—who teased him, guided him, and believed in him.
Perhaps that was worth more than any place at the high table
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