Jon

           Thereweretimesnotmany,butafewwhenJonSnowwasgladhewasabastard.Ashefilledhiswinecuponcemorefromapassingflagon,itstruckhimthatthismightbeoneofthem.

           Hesettledbackinhisplaceonthebenchamongtheyoungersquiresanddrank.Thesweet,fruitytasteofsummerwinefilledhismouthandbroughtasmiletohislips.

           TheGreatHallofWinterfellwashazywithsmokeandheavywiththesmellofroastedmeatandfresh-bakedbread.Itsgreystonewallsweredrapedwithbanners.White,gold,crimson:thedirewolfofStark,Baratheon’scrownedstag,thelionofLannister.Asingerwasplayingthehighharpandrecitingaballad,butdownatthisendofthehallhisvoicecouldscarcelybeheardabovetheroarofthefire,theclangorofpewterplatesandcups,andthelowmutterofahundreddrunkenconversations.

           Itwasthefourthhourofthewelcomingfeastlaidfortheking.Jon’sbrothersandsistershadbeenseatedwiththeroyalchildren,beneaththeraisedplatformwhereLordandLadyStarkhostedthekingandqueen.Inhonoroftheoccasion,hislordfatherwoulddoubtlesspermiteachchildaglassofwine,butnomorethanthat.Downhereonthebenches,therewasnoonetostopJondrinkingasmuchashehadathirstfor.

           Andhewasfindingthathehadaman’sthirst,totheraucousdelightoftheyouthsaroundhim,whourgedhimoneverytimehedrainedaglass.Theywerefinecompany,andJonrelishedthestoriestheyweretelling,talesofbattleandbeddingandthehunt.

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