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On certain occasions, Jon Snow would secretly be glad that he was a bastard.
As he lifted the wine jug and topped off the cup he had just emptied, he realized this was one of those occasions.
He turned and dropped back onto the bench among the squires and young attendants, drinking with them as if he belonged. The summer red was sweet on his tongue, fruit-heavy, and for a moment it almost felt easy to smile.
Winterfell's great hall simmered with heat. Smoke and warmth rolled out from the hearths, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread torn open while it still steamed.
The gray stone walls were dressed in banners: the white direwolf of House Stark, the red flayed man of House Bolton, the Cerwyn battle-axe on a silver field, and House Tallhart's three green sentinel trees… and more besides, clustered and overlapping like a forest of painted cloth.
Somewhere a singer plucked at a harp and raised his voice in song, but between the roar of flame, the clatter of trenchers, and the loud, drunken swell of noble conversation, Jon—seated near the far end—could barely make out a single line.
This was Lord Eddard's thirty-fifth name day, and the feast to mark it was about to begin.
Across the hall, Jon's half-siblings sat with the sons and daughters of lords—too far away for comfort. On such nights Lord Eddard permitted each child a single cup of wine, no more.
But no one counted cups for bastards and serving boys. With the household youths, Jon could drink as much as he liked, and the more he drank, the louder their stories grew—war boasts, hunting tales, crude laughter about stolen kisses and half-remembered beds.
Jon found them easier company than the highborn, who smiled too neatly and watched one another like hawks.
Lord Eddard passed by with a small procession of guests.
Robb wore a gray wool tunic trimmed in white—the colors of House Stark—and Theon Greyjoy followed at his shoulder like a shadow.
Robb glanced toward Jon and offered him a quiet, warm smile as he passed. Theon did not so much as look at him. That, too, was nothing new.
Theon was Lord Eddard's ward—hostage, in truth, for House Greyjoy of the Iron Islands. He did not mind trailing Robb, but he held bastards like Jon in open contempt.
And then came Ser Domeric Bolton, drawing eyes as a torch draws moths. He offered his arm to Sansa Stark—Jon's sister in name—and guided her forward as if the hall itself belonged to them.
Sansa was only thirteen, yet her hair—thick and auburn—spilled from beneath her jeweled net in a shining fall. Jon felt a strange jolt of time passing: the little girl who used to follow Septa Mordane like a dutiful pup had become someone men would stare at in a marketplace.
As they went by, he saw the shy, pleased curve of Sansa's smile when she looked at Domeric.
And why would she not? Domeric was the trueborn son of House Bolton, tall and clean-limbed, black-haired, pale in the way the highborn praised. His smile could cut like a knife when he wished it. He wore black silk and high black boots, a black satin cloak, and on his chest the flayed man was stitched in red thread.
Some called him "the Bolton heir." Others whispered "flayer" behind their cups.
Jon found his gaze snagging on him again and again.
Domeric moved like a man used to being obeyed. There was a steadiness to him—something cold and deep behind his eyes. Jon had seen lords preen and posture, but Domeric did neither. He seemed… inevitable.
A king should look like that, Jon thought, and hated himself a little for thinking it.
He had heard the stories.
How Domeric had carved out a new holding in the Lonely Hills, where only rock and wind had ruled before, and in that hard land had found coal seams and iron veins enough to change the fortunes of any house.
How he had beaten wildling bands with only a few hundred men, subdued neighboring mountain clans that would not bend, and taken in tens of thousands of drifters, runaways, and hungry folk until the Lonely Hills teemed with new hands and new mouths.
How White Harbor's Manderly ships carried Bolton iron down the White Knife, around the Bite, and onward to other kingdoms, returning with grain and coin and goods that the North could not grow.
And how House Karstark—impoverished, bitter, grasping—had reached for its neighbor's throat when it could not feed its own pride.
Jon had felt a fierce, uncharitable satisfaction when he heard that the Karstarks had been crushed, their men thrown into mines to dig day and night.
Yet Domeric—under Lord Eddard's mediation—had agreed to release the invaders.
That single decision had softened Jon's view of him. Such restraint was rare among lords who counted slights like coins.
Once the honored guests were seated, cups were raised, blessings spoken, and formal words exchanged. Then the feast began in earnest.
Music swelled—lively and quick—rippling outward through the hall.
In the open space before the high table, Ser Domeric offered Sansa his hand and led her into a dance.
Sansa moved with a grace that made the hall go oddly still. Heads turned. Voices fell away. For a heartbeat there was only the blind harpist's music and the soft scuff of feet.
At first her steps were measured, almost restrained—like a proud, elegant bird picking its way among lesser creatures—then the rhythm caught her, and she seemed to float. Jon had never expected the sister he had always thought of as proper and delicate to dance with such certainty.
It was plain even to Jon: Sansa liked Domeric. More than liked him.
In truth, it seemed most of Winterfell did.
Lord Eddard had praised Domeric more than once before his children, calling him honorable and chivalrous, an example worth learning from.
Lady Catelyn had sighed over southern silks and said more than once how fine it would be to have a son-by-law with manners like that.
Robb treated Domeric like a brother and pestered him for counsel on swordplay and warcraft.
…
Jon, too, felt a reluctant warmth toward the Bolton heir—not only because Domeric was polished and composed, but because he was strange in a way Jon could not name.
Once, Domeric had told him a tale from beyond the Narrow Sea—one of those eastern parables that red priests and shadowbinders were said to trade like dice.
"Far to the east," Domeric had said, "by the Jade Sea, not far from Asshai-by-the-Shadow, there lived a holy pilgrim who served the Lord of Light.
They called him Sanzar, a man who walked with nothing but a staff, a prayer, and the certainty that fire was truth.
Sanzar set out to seek sacred writings—words that the red priests claimed were older than Valyria, older than the Andals, older even than the first kings of the First Men. They say he endured eighty-one trials on the road.
Some trials were steel and storm. Others were sweeter—and far more dangerous.
There were creatures in the dark who believed that if they ate the pilgrim's flesh, they would never die, and so they hunted him like wolves.
Yet others did not want his life at all. Witches sought to ensnare him with desire. And there was a queen—ruler of a women's isle in those far seas—beautiful and rich beyond sense, who offered him a crown and a bed and a kingdom, if only he would stay.
But Sanzar would not yield."
Jon had listened with the same hunger he felt for any story that sounded like a doorway to another world. When Domeric finished, Jon had asked, "Why would he not yield? Did he not want women, or wealth, or a crown?"
Domeric had shaken his head. "Because once he had taken what he sought, he believed he could pass into the Lord of Light's true hall.
Compared to that, even a queen's beauty and a queen's riches were ash."
Jon had pressed, "Then where is the Lord of Light's true hall?"
Domeric had smiled—small, knowing. "In the place you bind your heart. Where your heart is bound, there your god waits."
…
The song ended. Applause broke out like sudden thunder, and more young nobles—no longer able to restrain themselves—stepped forward to dance.
The hall's noise rose again, louder than before, and the night rolled on.
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🏰 Game of Thrones: Secrets Beneath the Dreadfort
📢 Dark Secrets Await in the North! 📢
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