"I will never have any illegitimate children outside of our marriage!"
Carl and Hall's careless teasing hit a nerve in the boy. Jon Snow's cheeks, already flushed from wine and humiliation, burned even redder. His eyes, bloodshot from frustration he barely understood, locked onto his knight and his uncle with rare defiance.
"I'm almost an adult now," Jon insisted, suddenly standing up. "I don't want to be treated like a child! I'll be fifteen on my next name day—and Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than trueborn children."
His voice echoed across the table.
The laughter, chatter, and drunken shouting in the hall faltered. Several faces turned toward him—some surprised, some amused, others simply curious about what had stirred Ned Stark's quiet bastard into such boldness.
Jon's breath caught. He realized what he had nearly said—that he would never father a bastard—while staring directly at the knight who had only just taken him as a squire.
A knight who was a bastard. And not just any bastard—a royal one.
The realization struck him hard. He swallowed the words he was about to blurt out, panic and embarrassment knotting together in his throat. He resumed speaking only after a stumble, trying desperately to soften the blow he feared he had dealt.
But his discomfort was plain, and he looked ready to bolt from the table entirely.
That was when Hall, seated near him, tapped the empty belt around Jon's waist with two fingers.
"So you think you're grown, do you, kid?" Hall drawled.
Jon blinked, startled. "What?"
"Do you still remember the longsword the boss gave you this afternoon?"
Jon stiffened. Of course he remembered. Every humiliating moment of his defeat by Ser Calvin still stung like salt in an open wound. Instinctively, his hand moved to his waist, to the place where the sword—his sword—should hang.
Ser Cal had given it to him after accepting him as his squire. A real sword. Not wood. Not a toy.
Hall leaned closer, grinning. "You remember what he said, yeah?"
Jon swallowed. "I remember."
"Good. Because knowing you, kid, you probably didn't understand a damn word of it."
Jon frowned, his frustration returning. "He said… he never uses wooden swords. That someone afraid of getting hurt can never be a real warrior. And that I should learn to maintain the weapon properly."
He still remembered the strange pride he felt when Ser Cal told him the blade was his.
Hall snickered. "And did he tell you the story behind that sword?"
Jon froze. "Story? What story?"
Ban Yang leaned closer too, intrigued.
Hall cleared his throat dramatically, puffed out his chest, and launched into a speech as though he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"I don't know exactly how long the boss used that sword," Hall began. "Or how many enemies fell to it. Probably enough to drown a village in blood."
Jon felt an involuntary chill run down his spine.
"But what I do know," Hall continued, lowering his voice, "is that two Imperial Guards died on its edge. Kingsguard. White robes and all."
Jon's eyes widened. Hall mimed a stabbing motion, one hand at his own neck, the other at his heart.
"The leader—your knight—killed them both. One thrust to the throat. Another to the heart. Unarmored. They didn't even see him coming."
Jon's mouth fell open slightly.
"The Kingsguard…" he whispered. "The Iron Guard?"
Hall shrugged casually, as if speaking of killing two of the realm's most elite fighters was a matter of mild interest. "He wiped the blood with their own white cloaks. Two of them."
Jon's blush vanished instantly. The hall, the wine, the laughter—all of it seemed to fade around him.
The sword Ser Cal had given him…
A blade that once felled two Kingsguard.
Hall rapped his knuckles on the table, giving Jon a meaningful look.
"And you still dare say you aren't a child?"
Jon sputtered. "I—I—"
"Listen, kid," Hall said bluntly. "There are only two ways a man proves he's grown. By defeating an enemy… or by taking a woman to bed. You've done neither."
Jon's jaw dropped. His face burned anew. "Hall!"
Ban Yang choked on his drink laughing, but his amusement faded quickly. The weight of Hall's earlier words finally sank in.
He leaned back, staring at Carl Stone—silent, brooding, and impossibly dangerous—lost in thought.
Two Kingsguard… killed by him?
Before Jon could respond further, a small figure no taller than the long table itself waddled over, curiosity written all over his face.
"Well now," Tyrion Lannister remarked dryly, "this seems to be a rather unexpected conversation."
His arrival snapped the tension like a twig. Laughter resumed, conversations restarted, and the banquet continued into the night.
The Banquet Ends
The feast dragged on until most of the hall was drunk—especially the king, who had fallen into a snoring heap of royal flesh and wine.
Queen Cersei, cold and distant from the moment King Robert returned from the crypts with Ned Stark, did not spare her unconscious husband even a glance. She offered the Starks a polite farewell, nothing more, then swept her children away in a flurry of gold and green silk.
Eventually, even Ned Stark had no choice but to end the revelry. He ordered Robert carried to the chambers prepared for him.
The great hall emptied, its warmth fading into the cold stone corridors of Winterfell.
The Duke and Duchess soon retired to their own chambers.
In Lady Catelyn's Bedroom
Catelyn Stark's room was the warmest in Winterfell, so warm that fires were rarely needed. Steam from the hot springs beneath the castle flowed through the stone walls like blood through veins, warming the chambers even in the coldest winter.
Catelyn lay back against her pillows, wrapped in furs, watching Ned rise from the bed they had shared. His movements were practiced, almost ritualistic. He crossed the room, pulled aside the heavy brocade curtains, and unlatched the narrow high windows one by one.
A cold wind swept in.
Catelyn shivered and pulled the fur higher up her chin.
But Ned stood naked at the window, letting the frigid air wash over him as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
He stared into the darkness outside, rigid and silent. The weight on his shoulders was almost visible.
Catelyn's heart tightened. She knew what he was thinking about.
Robert's offer.
His command.
After a long silence, Ned finally spoke—softly, but with the gravity of a man wrestling with his own conscience.
"I'll refuse him."
Catelyn bolted upright. "No. Ned, you cannot."
He turned his head, and even in the dim light she saw the storm in his eyes.
"My duty is here," he said quietly. "In the North. I will not abandon it. I have no desire to be the king's Hand."
"You can't refuse," Catelyn insisted, voice trembling. "He is king now. And kings—especially Robert—cannot be refused lightly."
Ned's brow furrowed deeply. "He will understand."
"No," she whispered. "He won't."
She moved closer, reaching for his arm.
"If you refuse his offer…"
Her voice lowered.
"…he will start to wonder why."
Ned's jaw tightened.
"And if he wonders," Catelyn continued, "he will eventually suspect you. That you are hiding something. Or that you hold some secret grudge."
She swallowed. "Or worse… that you see his reign as unstable."
Ned closed his eyes briefly. The wind billowed around him, cold and sharp.
"Robert is my brother," he whispered.
"He is your king," Catelyn corrected gently.
Silence settled heavily between them.
Outside, Winterfell slept beneath a sky of endless black.
Inside, Ned Stark stood caught between honor and danger, between friendship and loyalty, between past promises and future threats.
For the first time in years, Catelyn Stark felt fear for her husband's life.
And for the future of the North.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)