The sun dipped toward the western horizon, staining the sky in shades of fading gold. As dusk crept over the North, Winterfell did not fall into its usual quiet. Instead, a rare and restless liveliness stirred the cold stone walls. The dogs barked more than usual, crows cawed noisily from the roofs, and faint shouts echoed from the training yard long after sunset.
The king's arrival brought not only pomp but chaos, filling the solemn northern stronghold with a kind of warmth it rarely knew—warmth born from noise, wine, and far too many people crammed into one place.
Tonight, nearly five hundred souls were gathered inside and around Winterfell's great hall. Long tables were packed shoulder to shoulder, and laughter carried across the torchlit air. Servants rushed between the aisles with steaming trays of food, while men shouted toasts across the tables as if competing to drown out the roar of the fire.
Jon Snow sat near the far end of the hall, pushed into a corner usually reserved for men of little consequence—mercenaries, hired swords, camp followers, and the like. Tonight he found himself strangely grateful for his status as a bastard. At least he didn't have to sit at the high table pretending to enjoy the king's company.
It was one of the rare occasions where being born on the wrong side of the sheets felt like a blessing.
He lifted a clay jug someone had shoved into his hands and topped off his empty cup, taking a moment to appreciate the small luxury. That's when he realized just what kind of occasion this truly was—a night where no one cared who you were, as long as you could drink.
But before he could savor the feeling, a voice cut in from beside him.
"Fill mine too, good sir!"
Cal—Sir Karl to some, "the mad knight" to others—handed Jon his horn cup without even looking his way, still laughing at something one of his men had said.
"Yes, sir…" Jon muttered.
He took the carved horn and poured a generous amount of Summer Red into it. The act felt strangely humiliating, but he doubted Cal even noticed. When Jon handed the cup back, Karl caught it easily, then casually licked a streak of spilled wine from the back of his hand.
"Good lad. Next time wipe up the spill, will you? Waste of perfectly good wine." He nodded toward the doors. "I'm sure there are some spare horse ropes outside you can use as a rag."
Jon stiffened.
Karl wasn't done. "And unless I'm mistaken, this wine all comes from White Harbor, doesn't it? Perhaps I'll suggest to Lord Stark that you take charge of the trade next time!" he added cheerfully.
Jon felt the sudden and fierce urge to punch the man square in the jaw.
So this was the "benevolent" knight who had declared Jon his servant. His tongue was sharper than any sword he'd drawn today. Unfortunately, Jon knew he couldn't win in a fight—Karl fought like someone born with a blade in hand.
He swallowed his frustration, sat back down, and tried his best to blend into the shadows. But even among Karl's rough mercenaries, he felt misplaced—too young, too sober, too unsure of where he stood.
To cope, he imagined Karl performing in some traveling circus—juggling knives, taunting the audience, making everyone laugh like a fool. The image cheered him slightly. After mentally awarding himself this small victory, he took a sip of wine.
The sweet, fruity warmth of Summer Red spread over his tongue, soothing the edge of his irritation. He let out a quiet breath.
Around him, the hall was alive with heat and sound. The fire blazed, roasting fat slabs of meat that dripped onto the hearth with a sizzle. Fresh bread perfumed the air. Sweat, smoke, and the unmistakable northern odor of wet boots and damp wool mingled with the aromas of food.
Karl, after laughing loudly at some joke, leaned back and paused to catch his breath. He grabbed a dagger, stabbed a piece of stewed turnip and meat, and chewed while surveying the stone walls around them.
Candles lined the hall, flickering against banners that hung proudly overhead. Stark gray direwolves. Baratheon black stags on gold. Lannister lions gleaming crimson in the firelight.
Karl's gaze lingered on them, eyes narrowing with thought.
Music drifted from the platform—a soft strumming of lute strings and the faint voice of a singer. But between the crackling fire, clinking cups, and drunken roars, the words were impossible to hear from this end of the hall.
Karl lifted the horn Jon had filled and raised it to his lips—then froze.
His eyes widened slightly, then sharpened. They cut through the crowd toward the distant figure of the singer, half-hidden in torchlight and shadow.
Karl blinked once. Twice.
Then a smile—small, knowing, amused—curved at the corner of his mouth.
"Interesting," he murmured, barely audible. "Oh… very interesting."
"Boss?" a slurred voice croaked beside him. "What's interesting?"
Kexi—Dogtooth, as the others called him—leaned heavily on Karl's shoulder, bleary-eyed and pink-cheeked from too much ale.
Karl didn't bother to explain. "The story is starting to get interesting," he said instead, taking a long drink.
Kexi shrugged and wiped grease from his chin with his sleeve. Then his gaze drifted toward Jon Snow, who sat awkwardly squeezed between two burly sellswords.
"But boss," Kexi said, lowering his voice, "why'd you choose this kid as your servant? 'Cause he's an illegitimate child too?"
He squinted at Jon. "And isn't he a bit too old for servant work?"
Karl shot him a cold glare.
"If you were a bastard as well," he said mildly, "I might consider taking you as my servant. And I wouldn't even mind the terrible fact that you're nearly forty."
Kexi immediately sensed danger, scratched his head, and grinned foolishly.
But after a moment, he leaned even closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Boss, I didn't see your glorious battle today, but guess what I found?"
Karl pulled back a little, nose wrinkling at Kexi's ale-laced breath. Still, he humored him. "What? Did you stumble upon a talking she-dragon?"
"And where were you hiding earlier, you rat?" Karl asked, genuinely curious.
Kexi grinned wide enough to show the missing tooth he was famous for. Before he could answer, Hall—sitting on Karl's other side—snorted loudly.
"Boss, don't listen to Dogtooth! That bastard went to a brothel!"
"A brothel?" someone else chimed in immediately. "In Winterfell? Hah!"
"What do you mean a brothel?" Kexi protested, slapping the table indignantly. "I was gathering information! Intelligence is life, don't you know?!"
His speech slurred halfway through, making Hall and the others howl with laughter.
"Oh? Then tell us," Hall said teasingly, "which girl's the prettiest, eh? Winterfell's colder than a dead man's backside! Can flowers really bloom here?"
Kexi puffed his chest with drunken pride. "Actually," he said loudly, "there is one!"
The table fell silent.
Jon, unable to stop himself, glanced over as well. The wine had painted his cheeks pink, and the candlelight did nothing to hide it.
"What's her name?" Hall asked, suddenly interested. "What's she look like?"
"A girl with fiery red hair," Kexi declared. "Name's Rose."
Jon froze.
He knew her. He'd even paid for her time once—though he never actually went through with it. The fear of fathering a bastard, of repeating the pain he'd lived with his whole life, prevented him.
He also knew Theon Greyjoy was a frequent visitor of hers.
Karl's eyebrows lifted.
"Rose? Red hair? And very pretty?" he repeated thoughtfully.
His eyes slid toward Jon, who looked as if someone had just slapped him with a trout. The boy's expression said far more than words could.
Karl grinned.
"In that case," he said, "I'll give you a task."
Jon stiffened.
"I want you," Karl said, pointing at Kexi, "to take my new servant to visit this Rose tomorrow."
Jon nearly choked on his wine.
Karl continued calmly, "I will not have my servant remain a timid little virgin who's never tasted a woman's warmth before learning to kill with a sword."
A few mercenaries burst out laughing.
Karl raised his voice proudly.
"I refuse to be laughed at! So—let this be his first lesson in becoming a man."
Jon stared at him, wide-eyed, horrified.
Kexi slammed his fist on the table. "Yes! I'll train him myself!"
Karl smirked, swirling the wine in his cup.
The hall roared with drunken cheers, and Jon Snow wanted nothing more than to crawl under the table and disappear.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)