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"Jon—why are you hiding back here? You made me hunt for you."
A familiar voice rose beside him. It was Ser Domeric.
Jon looked up, brightening at once. "Ser Domeric. Good evening."
One of the squires who had been in the middle of a bawdy joke stopped short and hurried to shift aside, making room.
"My thanks." Domeric swung himself onto the bench and accepted Jon's cup from his hand.
"Summerwine," he said after a slow sip. "Nothing tastes sweeter than this. How many cups have you had tonight? I seem to recall Lord Eddard allows you children only one."
Jon only grinned, showing white teeth.
Domeric laughed softly. "Just as I thought. Well—no matter. The first time I drank myself senseless, I was younger than you."
He plucked a roasted onion from a wooden trencher—brown juices still running down it—and bit in with an audible crunch.
He was hungry. He'd spent half the evening dancing with Sansa and had scarcely had time to eat.
Chewing, Domeric studied Jon with amused interest. "Aren't you usually at table with your brothers?"
"That's on ordinary nights." Jon's answer came with a flicker of embarrassment. "Lady Catelyn thinks it would be an insult to the visiting lords if a bastard sat with them tonight."
"I see."
Domeric glanced toward the high table where Catelyn Stark sat. The Lady of Winterfell was, in truth, sharper-edged than she needed to be—often enough to make herself disliked.
"Lord Eddard doesn't look as though he's in much of a mood," Domeric went on. "And this is his name day feast—thirty-five years. Strange."
"The reason is simple," Jon said, a conspiratorial smile tugging at his mouth. "Do you want to hear it?"
"Oh?" Domeric raised a brow. "What reason?"
"Because of you—and Sansa."
Domeric's interest sharpened. Some highborn children were thick as oaks; others were keen as knives. Sansa belonged to the first sort. Jon Snow… did not.
"How so?" Domeric asked.
"Lady Catelyn means to betroth Sansa to you," Jon said solemnly.
"What?" Domeric was genuinely caught off guard.
"The word is solid," Jon insisted.
Domeric could not help a rueful smile. Each time he came to Winterfell he brought Lady Catelyn gifts—Braavosi silks, Reach jewelry, Dornish stones… it seemed they had not been wasted.
He had done it to keep House Stark well disposed.
But marriage into House Stark was not part of his design.
No wonder Lord Eddard had worn that hesitant look all evening. In Eddard's heart, he wanted Sansa tied to the royal line—King Robert's son, Joffrey—yet Catelyn's will pulled in another direction, leaving him unsure where to stand.
Domeric lowered his gaze into his wine and thought.
If he wed Sansa, it would mean an open alliance between House Bolton and House Stark.
The North's two greatest houses bound together—yes, it would steady the realm within its own borders.
But such a thing was not easily done.
Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were divided, and neither could bend the other. Their bannermen had their own calculations as well.
It explained the mixed looks he had felt when he danced with Sansa.
Lord Medger Cerwyn had drunk and laughed all night—his great bearded face flushed red behind his cup. He toasted every man, roared at every joke, and ate each course like a starving wolf.
Yet only a seat away, Lord Helman Tallhart sat like a carved stone, cold and watchful.
House Cerwyn had long been on good terms with House Bolton and would welcome such a match.
Lord Tallhart, for reasons of his own, plainly did not want Bolton and Stark joined by marriage.
Even Domeric's own chief knight—Ser Wendell—who had vanished soon after they entered Winterfell, now wore an ugly expression. He had heard the whispering too, clearly enough.
Wendell had been set on introducing Domeric to his niece—Lord Wyman Manderly's granddaughter—hoping to bind Bolton and Manderly instead…
Domeric suppressed a curse.
So he had been the last man in the hall to hear of it. His information work had been poor, and he had only himself to blame.
He looked back at Jon. "Your eye is sharp. Thank you."
Jon puffed a little with pride. "Of course it is. And my skill at arms isn't poor either. Robb is stronger with a spear, but I'm better with a sword. Hullen says my riding is among the best in the castle. Of course, next to you… I'm still far behind."
Domeric clapped Jon on the shoulder—and brushed at a speck of dandruff on his collar as he did.
[Secrets Delving System triggered!]
Jon Snow
Identity: Targaryen prince—son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark; claimant to the Iron Throne; Lord Eddard's blood nephew
Title: None
Strength: 45
Agility: 50
Will: 33
Combat Index: 128
Note: No fear detected; unable to窥探 (probe) deeper secrets.
A combat index of 128. Domeric gave a small, approving nod.
A grown man in Westeros might rate a miserable thirty. A trained knight might reach sixty. Yet Jon Snow stood at one hundred and twenty-eight.
Whatever else he was, the boy was talent.
"Lately," Jon said suddenly, "I've been thinking of asking my father to let me take the black."
"The Wall?" Domeric watched him closely. "For a man, it's a hard place. Why do you want that?"
"I'm nearly grown." Jon tried to sound steadier than he felt. "By my next name day I'll be fifteen, and Maester Luwin says bastards grow faster than other boys."
"That's often true." Domeric's mouth turned faintly down as he refilled his cup and breathed in the wine's sharp sweetness.
"Daeron Targaryen was only fourteen when he set out to conquer Dorne."
The Young Dragon was one of Jon's heroes.
"And that war lasted years," Domeric said, gentle but firm. "Your young king took Dorne at the cost of ten thousand dead. Then another fifty thousand died trying to hold it. Someone should tell you—war is not a game."
"I know that," Jon snapped, louder than he intended. The wine had given him courage—and loosened his tongue.
He straightened on the bench, trying to look taller. "Ser Domeric… I won't lie to you. I have reasons for wanting to join the Night's Watch."
He had turned it over and over in his mind—night after night, while his brothers slept around him and he lay awake, staring into darkness.
"What reasons?" Domeric asked.
Jon let out a slow breath. "Robb will inherit Winterfell someday. He'll command armies as Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon will become his bannermen, each with his own holdfast to manage. Arya and Sansa will marry into other great houses, and go to their husbands' lands as ladies."
His voice thinned, despite himself.
"And what am I meant to be? A bastard. What can I expect?"
The children of the poor learn early. Bastards of noble houses do too.
Domeric felt something like pity—quiet, unsentimental. "Jon… you may not understand. The Night's Watch is made of men without a future. They take no wives. They father no sons. They die on the Wall and leave nothing behind but a name carved in ice."
"A bastard has no future either," Jon said, helplessly. "Sometimes… I envy men like you, Ser Domeric."
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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