The fires roared in the Great Hall.
A singer stood amid the clatter of cups and the murmur of drunken talk, fingers plucking at a harp as he sang of the First Men.
"Oh, First Men, masters of stone and song,
Your footprints carved in the earth's old bones,
Nameless gods in the heart-trees watch,
Your tales ride cold and howling winds…"
The tune was old and haunting, steeped in the weight of ages. For a moment, it pulled the hall into its spell.
Galon sipped his wine, listening to the song—but his eyes wandered ceaselessly, tracking Catelyn and Theon more than the melody.
Beside him, Ser Rodrik raised his cup with a smile.
"Lord Galon, why so modest with your wine?" he chuckled. "Feasts like this are rare in Winterfell."
Galon clinked his cup lightly against the knight's. "Forgive me, Ser Rodrik. I've not quite reached the age of drowning myself in ale."
Rodrik blinked, then laughed as it struck him that Galon and Robb were about the same age.
"I keep forgetting how young you are," he said. "Crossing blades with you these days makes my years feel wasted."
"Not wasted," Galon replied easily. "I only have youth on my side. If you were a few years younger, I doubt I'd stand a chance."
Rodrik roared with laughter and downed his cup. Galon took another small sip.
At that moment, Galon noticed King Robert pushing back his chair.
The king rose from the high table and strode down among the northern lords, laughing, clapping shoulders, and challenging men to drink with him.
Every time he drank someone under the table, he demanded more wine and pawed at whatever serving girl was closest—while Cersei's face on the high seat grew colder and tighter.
Ned soon followed, stepping down from the dais to try to rein him in.
"Come, Ned!" Robert boomed. "We'll drink till we drop!"
Ned could hardly refuse. A few cups later, other nobles joined in, and the hall swelled with raucous cheer.
Benjen rose from his place and moved toward the back of the hall, where Jon sat. He clearly meant to speak with his nephew.
Tyrion, meanwhile, looked unimpressed by the wine—perhaps still living off the pleasures of the afternoon. He slid from his seat and wandered toward the door.
Robb stood near the royal children, chattering eagerly with Joffrey and Tommen about tomorrow's hunt.
On the high dais, Catelyn saw Robert and Ned were fully occupied and seized her chance. She gave a discreet nod to her maid.
The girl understood at once.
She hurried to Sansa, who was sitting beside Princess Myrcella, and whispered, "Lady Sansa, your mother wishes you to come to her."
Sansa started, but rose obediently and made her way up to the high table.
Galon noticed at once.
So. Catelyn finally makes her move.
He shifted his gaze briefly toward Theon, who was talking with Robb, then fixed all his attention on the dais.
But to his surprise, Sansa only exchanged a few polite words with the queen—then returned to her seat.
Before Galon could puzzle it out, Robert slammed back the contents of his cup and turned. His gaze fell on Sansa just as she was stepping down from the platform.
And he remembered what he had meant to say in the crypt.
"Seven hells," he muttered. "I almost forgot."
He brought his cup down on the table with a heavy crash. The loud crack silenced the hall.
Conversation faded into uneasy quiet.
"Your Grace?" Ned asked, wary.
Robert's cheeks were flushed, his smile broad and easy.
"The wine here is strong enough to make a man forget his duties," he said. "I nearly neglected a very important matter."
He pushed himself fully to his feet and pointed at Ned. "You have a daughter, Ned. I have a son. Let's bind them together in marriage!"
The words rang through the hall like a hammer on an anvil.
Faces shifted—shock, dismay, excitement, calculation.
Ned's heart lurched.
Robert could mean only Sansa. Arya was far too young. He opened his mouth, but the Baratheon bannermen got there first.
"An alliance! An alliance!" they shouted, pounding their cups, their voices echoing off stone.
Sansa froze.
Joffrey turned to look at her.
Her hands tightened on her skirts. She wanted to seek out Galon in the crowd, but everyone around her was standing, shouting, blocking her view.
She could only drop her head, fingers twisting the cloth of her dress.
On the high seat, Catelyn's heart soared. She had not expected Robert to speak before she even approached him—but this was perfect.
The king had asked himself, before the entire North. Ned wouldn't dare humiliate his king by refusing.
'Seven bless us,' she thought. 'This way, I never need to mention Galon at all.'
She looked toward Galon, expecting to see him pale and panicked. Instead, he sat calmly, swirling what remained of his wine, face unreadable.
'Let's see how long you can pretend,' she thought coldly.
The shouting slowly died down.
Ned seized the moment, leaning close to Robert and whispering urgently, "Your Grace, Sansa is already promised."
"Promised?" Robert blinked. "To whom?"
The hall fell utterly silent.
Every eye turned to Ned Stark.
He felt the weight of them like a cloak of iron. If he mishandled this, he could shame both king and North.
He drew a deep breath and turned toward Galon's table, intending to explain—
But Catelyn moved first.
She glanced at Theon and gave the slightest signal.
Theon stepped forward, chest swelling with importance.
"Your Grace," he called out, loud enough for all to hear, "Lady Sansa has no formal betrothal. Lord Stark has only considered House Glover. No vows have been sworn."
Ned's head snapped toward him.
"Silence, Theon!" he barked, anger flashing.
Too late. The damage was done.
The hall buzzed at once.
"Glover?"
"The Glovers of the wolf-woods?"
"Overreaching, aren't they? Deepwood Motte thinks to wed into Winterfell?"
By a pillar, Jaime remembered the way Galon had stared at Joffrey and finally understood why. He smirked and added oil to the fire.
"A mere Glover," he drawled, "sets his sights on the Warden of the North?"
On the dais, Cersei turned to Catelyn with a faint, cutting smile.
"Sansa is a beautiful girl," she said softly. "It would be a terrible shame to waste such a jewel in the wolf-woods."
Catelyn kept her expression perfectly controlled.
She knew better than to speak now—better to let the king's will and the court's momentum do the work for her, without leaving proof of her own hand.
Robert clapped Ned's shoulder.
"If you've only been considering, and nothing's been sealed, then there's no problem," he declared. "If the Glovers hear of it, they'll know it's beyond their reach."
Ned tried again.
"Your Grace, I gave Galon my word—"
But Robert was drunk and done with complications.
"That's settled, Ned," he said, lifting his cup. "If this… Gal-something boy doesn't like it, I'll convince him myself."
He grinned and drank.
Every eye turned automatically toward the Glover table. Ser Rodrik glanced at Galon, worry etched into the lines around his eyes.
Galon rose slowly.
He brushed his tunic smooth, turned his head just enough to find Roger in the crowd and give him a small, precise nod.
Then he stepped out into the aisle, calm and steady beneath the weight of a hundred stares.
He looked up at the king.
"Your Grace," he said clearly, his voice carrying through the hall, "my name is Galon."
"Galon Glover."
__________
Upto 20 chapters ahead on patreon :-
patreon.com/Xorath