Jon was sitting watching the feast from afar. The king seemed to be having a row with some of the Lannisters and was flirting with other women as usual. Jon could see Sansa and Joffrey speaking, and felt vaguely protective and angry at the sight. He couldn't quite place it, but something about Joffrey, it didn't sit well with him. After speaking with his father, Lord Stark had said he should go back to the keep and rest. Jon however had different ideas. After that last vision, he didn't think he could get any sleep or even think of relaxing for a long time. The sight of all those wights and white walkers chilled him to the bone- no pun intended. And he couldn't get the image of that boy out of his head. He seemed so familiar. Jon felt as though he should know him, or at least recognize him. But nothing had come to mind. And it infuriated him. Hence why he was sitting there, away from everyone else, a pitcher of wine at his feet and a full goblet in his hand.

Taking a sip from his goblet, Jon thought back to the conversation he'd had just before his father had left to return to the tourney.

"Lord Stark," he'd started. "Why did you forbid me from coming here?"

It was a valid question, Jon thought. One he couldn't imagine an answer to. The only plausible explanation being he might have run into Sansa and she would expose him. Though what that would actually do to him he couldn't think of. It wasn't like he was under cover. It would just look strange to an outsider. Or he would be ridiculed. But Jon could probably take it. Theon had given him loads of practice.

A faraway look passed over his father's face at his question, grey eyes turning stormy.

"Call me overly cautious," he said. "Starks and tourneys don't seem to mix. Not in my experience." Jon frowned at the answer, but didn't push. His father seemed upset by the question, and he didn't want to push further. Even if it confused him.

Jon took another drink from his goblet, shaking off the feeling he'd gotten from the conversation. Unease. He couldn't explain why, but something about his father, the look in his eyes. There was something he wasn't telling him. But for the life of him, Jon couldn't figure out what it was, or why.

"Trying to get drunk?" A voice said behind him. Turning around, Jon saw a boy around his age, probably older, standing there with his own goblet. He was wearing rich clothing and had long golden curls that gleamed in the torchlight. Definitely a nobleman's son.

"Maybe," he said, eyeing him warily.

"Forgive me," The boy said, noticing Jon's cold disposition. "I'm Ser Loras of house Tyrell. I had assumed you would have recognized me from the jousts today."

Jon frowned. "And why's that?"

"Well, because of the Mountain," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I was the only one to beat him. It caused quite a stir." He chuckled slightly at the memory, whatever it was, before turning back to Jon. "Anyways, I'm sorry I interrupted your evening. I had only hoped to speak with someone my age." Then, with a scowl, "All the other knights are far older than I."

Jon huffed a laugh. "I know how you feel."

Loras raised an inquisitive blonde eyebrow. "You do?"

"Aye, I'm Lord Stark's squire. I'm rarely around others my age. It does get tiring."

A thoughtful look lit up Loras' expressions "How about this," he said. "We go out to a tavern, one I know squires frequent, and get thoroughly drunk." He smiled. "What say you to that?"

Jon gave it a moment's thought. He barely knew this boy, but he seemed nice enough. And he had a certain charm to him, a charisma if you would. And Jon did like the idea of getting drunk. He'd never done so before, but he heard from others that it made forgetting your problems easier. And how he wanted to forget his issues.

Jon found himself smiling at the young knight. "Sure," he said. "Why not."

And that was how they found themselves in some tavern back in the city near the red keep. It was packed with young people like himself all of whom had been at the tourney that day. There was singing, shouting, drinking games, and overall rowdiness. Jon found himself participating in quite a few of those activities, having more fun the more drink he had in him.

Ser Loras had offered to pay for all their drinks, having a fair bit of coin being the son of a major house. Jon wasn't about to stop him. It was around their sixth (seventh?) that found them at a table with a bunch of other squires, complaining about their lords.

"I'm telling you," one said. "Yon Royce, fat fucker. I'm amazed he can get into that magic bronze breast plate at all."

The table burst into a round of laughter.

"I mean it!"

"I'm sure you do," Loras laughed, wiping his eyes of tears. His face was flushed bright red and he seemed to be giggling at everything. That and winking at Jon every other second, though the boy was oblivious to it.

"Alright then, what does your lord do that annoys you?" The squire challenged.

"Nothing," Loras smirked. "I'm already a knight."

The table burst into loud protests, all proclaiming he was too young, too pretty, or too rich to be a knight. Eventually the mayhem died down and they were back to their original topic. Now it was a different boy, younger than the first, speaking.

"I don't mind my lord much, if I'm being honest," he said, taking a large swig of his ale. "But that Joffrey, I hate him."

"What, the crowned prince?" Another asked.

"Yeah, my lord teaches him, so I have to be there during their lessons. Right prick, that one. Can barely use a sword."

"I thought the son of King Robert would excel at combat," Jon mused, causing the squire to scoff.

"One would think that," he conceded. "But I swear, it's as if he hasn't got a drop of Baratheon in him. No, Joffrey's all lion I say. Act's like one too."

Not a drop of Baratheon in him. All lion.

For some reason the word struck a cord in Jon, pulling him out of his drunken stupor.

All lion.

Green eyes, golden hair. Come to think of it, he was an exact copy of his uncle Jaime Lannister. Whereas Gendry Waters looked like what Robert had in his youth. So he was told. Infact, all the Baratheons aside from the royal family had those traits. At least, all of those alive did. He suddenly had an idea, but he had to check to make sure.

"I have to go," he said, standing up abruptly, falling slightly before catching himself on the table. How much had he had to drink?

"What, why?" Loras moaned, put out.

"I just remembered something," he lied. "Sorry."

Loras' looked crestfallen, but he didn't stop him. Jon took that as his cue to leave. Which he did. He had to get back to the red keep, to that old tome he had stashed away in Arya's room. The one with all the descriptions of everyone born into any great house.

Somehow, he made it back to the keep without falling onto the ground, a danger he hadn't foreseen upon leaving the tavern. He made it up the tower of the hand, knowing Arya would be back by now with the direwolves, whom he had sent off to her before going to the tavern. Reaching her door, he gave himself pause before knocking, the world starting to spin uncomfortable. He'd definitely had too much ale.

He knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times-

"What!?"

The door swung open to reveal a bleary eyed, annoyed, Arya. She was dressed in her sleeping gown, and her hair was more mussed than usual. Clearly he had woken her.

"I'm sorry Arya, but I need that book."

"What book?" She asked, frowning.

"The one with the names," he said, trying to think through his foggy mind. He was leaning heavily against the doorway, swaying slightly as he tried to keep himself upright. "The house names," he finally managed.

Arya's frown deepened, and she scowled up at him. A long moment passed where neither said anything, until, "Are you drunk?" She asked accusingly.

A pause. "No."

"Seven hells," she sighed. "Fine, just get it quickly, I want to go back to sleep."

Jon thanked her and rushed into the room, looking around for where he stashed the book. He would make it up to her later. Perhaps when he was more sober. He was about to look on top of a table when he tripped over his own feet, embarrassingly enough, and landed face first on the cool floor.

"Ow," he moaned. He received no sympathies from Arya.

"It's your own damn fault," she sidled. Jon couldn't disagree. He shifted to get up, but stopped when his eyes landed on what he was searching for, under the bed.

"Found it!" He cried, reaching for it and pulling it out.

"Great, now can you please tell me why you need it so badly?" Arya sighed, hopping up onto her bed, sitting cross legged while watching Jon flip through the pages.

"I think I figured it out," he said.

"Figured what out?" She asked. "There's a lot of things to figure out right now."

"Cersei," he said. "I remember, I saw her talking with someone about Robert in one of my dream, vision, things. I think she wanted to kill him. I just never knew why." He found the page about the Baratheons. "And we know she's killed someone over her secret, the only question was, what secret is so dangerous you have to kill one of the most powerful people in the seven kingdoms over?" Blue eyes, black of hair, the entries read, over and over again.

"So, what is it?" Arya pressed.

"Here," Jon pointed to the latest Baratheon entries. Under Robert there was a name he didn't recognise, but knew it had been Robert's and Cersei's child, but had died. Beside the name were the words 'blue eyes, black of hair'. Then, under that one, was Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. All with the words 'green eyes, blonde of hair'.

"Robert's not their father," Jon told her. "They're all bastards."

Arya's brows pulled close together, her frown reapering on her face. "If they're not the kings, then whose are they?"

"That's the bad part," Jon said, turning to her. "They're Jaime's."