By the time the servants came knocking for Galon, dusk already clung to the halls of Winterfell like a cold mist.
He straightened his clothes, smoothed the last crease from his tunic, and stepped into the corridor.
The murmur of a gathering crowd led him to the courtyard, where knights, bannermen, and noble retainers streamed toward the Great Hall, chatter bubbling with anticipation of food and royal entertainment.
Through the crowd, a familiar voice rose above the noise:
"Galon! Over here!"
Jon waved frantically, grinning like a boy relieved to find a friend in a sea of strangers.
"Weren't you with Benjen?" Galon asked as he joined him.
Jon shook his head. "He went to rest after meeting Lord Stark. He'll be sitting with the king later—while I'm stuck at the end of the hall, like the bastard I am."
Galon smirked. "Then allow a mere minor lord's son to accompany you. Two outcasts together."
They laughed and walked shoulder-to-shoulder into the Great Hall. Inside, servants guided them apart—nobles here, bastards there.
Galon found himself placed with Winterfell's bannermen; Jon sat far back with the household's lesser guests.
Roger, Galon's captain, was seated beside him.
At least they were along the aisle—the royal procession would pass directly before them. Close enough for Jon to watch his king… and Galon to watch everyone else.
Galon offered greetings to Ser Rodrik and the others, then took in the hall.
Heat and the smell of roasted boar and fresh bread billowed beneath the high rafters.
The gray stone walls were alive with banners—Stark's white direwolf, Baratheon's crowned stag, Lannister's crimson lion.
'One day, the Glover sigil will hang here as well,' Galon vowed silently.
Seats filled quickly. When at last the heralds signaled the arrival of the highborn, the hall rose as one.
Ned Stark entered first, escorting Queen Cersei.
She walked like a lioness dissatisfied with her surroundings—chin high, gaze fixed ahead, grace polished into arrogance.
Ned aided her up the steps to the high table; she did not grant him even a passing glance.
Galon watched her with cool interest, a strange impulse flickering through his mind.
Then came King Robert—arm-in-arm with Lady Catelyn. Robert's stare raked the hall like a hammer judging its worth.
Catelyn smiled with practiced courtesy—but when she passed Galon, her eyes flickered toward him with something sharper… amused, confident.
So she means to cause trouble tonight.
Did she say something to Robert? Has she already set her snare?
Galon's mind raced. Whatever she planned—he would be ready.
A small figure marched in next: Rickon, trying much too hard to appear stately… at least until he spotted Jon and waved so enthusiastically his whole façade fell apart.
Jon laughed and gestured for him to hurry.
Robb and Princess Myrcella followed. Robb's goofy smile never left his face, and Myrcella blushed shyly under the attention. Galon nearly groaned.
Fool boy, she already looks uncomfortable.
Arya and Tommen entered next—awkward strangers simply doing as told.
Then— Sansa, arm-in-arm with Prince Joffrey.
The prince examined the hall with open disdain, nose raised at every northern face as though he were slumming among peasants.
Sansa remained perfectly polite—smiling without warmth.
But when she reached Galon's row, her eyes brightened and she lowered her gaze shyly, cheeks tinted pink.
Galon's chest tightened. Joffrey noticed.
His lips curled downward as he looked Galon over—taller, stronger, handsome—and jealousy flashed in his cold eyes. With a sharp huff, he dragged Sansa onward.
Jaime Lannister followed, golden and immaculate—glancing toward Joffrey with irritation but noticing little else.
Behind him waddled Tyrion, his steps wobbly, his grin suspiciously content. When he passed Galon, the dwarf gave him a conspiratorial wiggle of his brows.
So Galon had been right: Tyrion's legs had paid the price for that afternoon's indulgence.
Finally, Benjen Stark entered with Theon at his side.
Benjen greeted Galon kindly. Theon, however, stared at him with a triumphant smirk—brimming with some secret delight.
Catelyn spoke to him, Galon realized.
Whatever she whispered, Theon thinks he holds a dagger to my throat.
We'll see who bleeds first.
Once all were seated, the hall quieted as Ned rose, cup in hand.
"Friends," Ned called, "the King and Queen have graced Winterfell with their presence. It is the honor of all the North!"
"Long live the King! Long live the Queen!"
The cry thundered through the hall.
When it ended, Robert slammed back his wine and laughed. "No more ceremony! Eat, drink, and be merry!"
The feast erupted into cheers—
and the game began.
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