"Theon Greyjoy."
Once the bannermen had settled into Winterfell, Eddard introduced the young man to Catelyn.
"He is the only surviving son of Balon Greyjoy. He is now a ward of Winterfell, and he will grow up alongside our children, Cat."
Catelyn took little Arya from Eddard's arms, her eyes flickering briefly to the Snows standing nearby. "Ned, every time you go south, I worry. And every time, you bring me a surprise."
"Come, go rest in the Great Keep. Thanks to Lord Wyman Manderly, the preparations for tonight's feast are complete. The Great Hall is filled with enough food and wine to satisfy every guest."
Eddard Stark's solemn face showed a rare trace of exhaustion as he nodded to her.
---
That evening, the feast began.
The usually austere walls of the Great Hall were draped with the banners of Stark bannermen and hung with the swords and shields of the guests.
The hall was packed. Guests crowded onto the benches, their voices raised in debate, boasting, and crude jokes.
"Look at this! A sapphire I pried from the cold dead fingers of an Ironborn lord!"
"The Umbers talk big, but when the fighting starts, they're slower than us Cerwyns. Always cleaning up our leftovers."
"Bugger you! We killed just as many squid-men as you did!"
The most popular topic of conversation, however, was Ser Jorah Mormont, the "Great Bear" of Bear Island. He had been the second man through the breach at Pyke and was knighted by King Robert on the spot for his valor.
Following that, he had won the tourney at Lannisport and successfully wooed the beauty of the Reach, Lynesse Hightower, daughter of the mighty Lord of Oldtown.
In terms of career and love, Ser Jorah had reached the pinnacle of life. He was winning at everything.
Arthur sat at the far end of a long table, nibbling on a peach pie as an appetizer. His gaze swept the hall until it landed on the high table. There, he saw the legendary simp, Ser Jorah Mormont, beaming next to his beautiful wife, Lynesse.
Arthur took a sip of the peach wine Jon had secretly poured for him, looking at the blissful Great Bear on the dais. He sighed softly.
"Land, honor, knighthood, a beautiful wife. Right now, the Great Bear is undoubtedly the winner of the game of life."
Once all the honored guests were seated, toasts were raised and blessings exchanged. Then, the main event of the evening began.
Creak—
The great oak-and-iron doors of the hall swung open, letting in a blast of cold air.
Arthur saw Robb, who had been missing until now. He rode his pony through the doors. Both boy and beast were draped in grey wool tabards emblazoned with the direwolf sigil.
Robb rode his pony up the steps and into the hall proper. The eight rows of trestle tables—four on each side with a wide aisle down the center—were packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Arthur was squeezed so tight he had to stand up.
"Stark! Stark!" Robb shouted as he galloped down the aisle.
The guests rose to their feet, their voices thundering in response. "Winterfell! Winterfell!"
As Robb raced his pony through the hall, the roar of "Winterfell!" drowned out every other sound.
Arthur knew this was a tradition for Winterfell's harvest or victory feasts. The cheers of the bannermen weren't just for Robb.
They were celebrating Duke Eddard Stark's victory in the Iron Islands. They were celebrating the harvests of years past. They were blessing his grandfather, and every Stark who had ruled for eight thousand years.
Finally, Robb rode up to the dais. Under the gaze of everyone present, he dismounted and took his seat beside his parents.
Once Robb was seated, Ser Rodrik Cassel bellowed for silence. The hall fell quiet.
Then Robb raised his voice, welcoming them in the name of his father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He asked them to thank the gods, old and new, for the glorious victory and the bountiful harvests to come.
"May the blessings be unending!" he finished. Under the approving gaze of his parents, he raised his father's silver goblet.
"Unending!" Pewter tankards, wooden cups, clay mugs, and iron-rimmed drinking horns clashed together in a chaotic toast.
At the far end of the table, Arthur and Jon had already downed several large cups of peach wine. Arthur was relieved to see that Jon's tolerance had improved; he wasn't playing make-believe heroes tonight.
Right now, Robb was playing the Lord of Winterfell… and he looked the part a hundred times better than Jon ever could.
With the ceremonies concluded, the feast began in earnest. Dish after dish was carried out, a dizzying array of food.
Naturally, the high table was served first, with platters then passing down the hierarchy until they reached the end of the hall.
Servants brought out haunches of roasted aurochs with leeks, venison pies stuffed with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, mutton chops glazed with honey and cloves, spiced duck, peppered boar, roast goose, skewers of chicken and pigeon, beef stewed with barley, and chilled fruit soup.
Lord Wyman had brought twenty crates of seafood from White Harbor packed in salt and seaweed: whitefish and whelks, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster, and lampreys.
Everywhere there was black bread, honeycakes, and oatcakes. Turnips, peas, and beets. Beans, squash, and huge red onions. Baked apples, berry tarts, and pears poached in strong wine.
Beside the salt cellar on every table sat wheels of white cheese. Pitchers of hot spiced wine and chilled peach wine from the Garden circulated freely.
Musicians from the South played enthusiastically, their harps, fiddles, and horns striving for elegance. But the music was soon drowned out by laughter, the clatter of cups, and the barking of dogs fighting over scraps beneath the tables.
The singers performed "The Iron Lances," "The Burning of the Ships," and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but hardly anyone listened.
The noise level rose steadily, merging into a continuous, deafening roar that made the head spin.
Lord Bolton was conversing with Lady Dustin across his son, Domeric.
Lord Manderly and his two similarly massive sons were happily charging fork-first into platters of lamprey pie.
Ser Jorah Mormont was gallantly cutting slices of wild boar for his beautiful southern wife.
As each course was served, it was first presented to Lord Eddard for tasting. As the liege lord, he had the right to choose the choicest cuts from any dish.
However, Lord Eddard spent most of the time drinking and ate very little. If a dish smelled particularly tempting, he would send it to one of the nobles on the dais.
It was a gesture of friendship and favor.
He sent some salmon to the haggard-looking Lord Rickard Karstark and a portion of cave bear meat to the boisterous Umbers.
Sitting at the end of the table with nothing to do, Arthur watched how his uncle distributed the food.
When he saw Uncle Ned send a platter of goose stuffed with berries to Lady Dustin, Arthur wondered privately: Is he hoping the berries will bury her resentment?
A massive steamed lobster was sent to Lord Roose Bolton.
Arthur couldn't help but laugh, spraying a mouthful of wine onto Jon's face. The Flayed Man's skills will certainly come in handy for that lobster.
A roasted grouse was sent to the new ward, Theon Greyjoy.
Seeing Theon smile with obvious pleasure, Arthur shook his head as he wiped the wine Jon had spat back at him off his tunic.
"We Do Not Sow" were the Greyjoy words. In Arthur's mind, an Ironborn should never smile while accepting handouts.
I am Ironborn! Give it here!
That's what he should have said, Arthur mumbled internally.
Aside from the drama on the high table, the lower tables offered plenty of entertainment.
Serving girls wove through the benches pouring wine, enduring the inevitable groping. The timid ones blushed and ran; the fierce ones fought back.
A man-at-arms from House Tallhart slid his hand up a girl's skirt and was immediately cracked over the head with a pitcher of wine. The pitcher shattered, and the hall erupted in laughter.
Mikken, the smith, boldly thrust his hand down a woman's bodice, and she didn't seem to mind a bit.
Farlen, the kennelmaster, teased his red bitch with a bone. Across the table, Hother and Mors Umber were in a drinking contest, downing cup after cup of peach wine.
Arthur looked around again. It was too hot, too loud, and everyone was getting drunk.
He took one last look at Robb Stark sitting properly on the dais, trying so hard to be the Lord, and at the weary face of Lord Rickard Karstark.
Arthur knew he would never become the "Purple Stark" or "Peach Stark" in this life.
"Virtue Prevails."
Arthur recited his house words silently in his heart—a motto that would never see the light of day—reminding himself that soon, he would have to leave this place behind.