A Prince of Dragonstone

by Etsukazu

The Targaryen dynasty has collapsed, ending three centuries of undivided rule and leaving a continent in the chaos and uncertainty of usurpation. However, even dethroned, the princes and princesses of the House Targaryen still live, hidden as they can, in Essos as in Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms may not have heard the last of the Targaryens and their mighty dragons.

7. A Summer in a Feast

The Targaryen were said to be powerful Dragon Lords from the East. Shrouded in mystery, they were often accused of witchcraft and incest, but their unshakeable supremacy on the continent of Westeros had never been threatened. Their dragons and then their royal prestige had always protected them.

Yet the Targaryen dynasty has collapsed, ending three centuries of undivided rule and leaving a continent in the chaos and uncertainty of usurpation.

However, even dethroned, the princes and princesses of the House Targaryen still live, hidden as they can, in Essos as in Westeros, sometimes at their expense, sometimes without even knowing who they are. The Seven Kingdoms may not have heard the last of the Targaryens and their mighty dragons.

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The Summer Banquet of Winterfell.

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THE HIDDEN PRINCE

About eighty years ago, the Seven Kingdoms had experienced the longest westerosi summer ever recorded by the Citadel. Although the fear of the eternal winter was firmly rooted in the minds of the people of Westeros, especially those in the north due to the age-old memories of the Long Night, it was not until the reign of King Maekar I of the Targaryen Dynasty that the enchanting idea of the eternal summer began to emerge in the minds. Most of the septons and other men of faith on the continent had given it the nickname of the Great Summer, an eternal period of abundance and divine emancipation, a period of absolution and perfection, when the incarnate gods would descend to this land to fulfil the wishes of mortals.

However, the religious infatuation of the Andals had quickly subsided, the Summer of Maekar having lasted six years and not one more. The winter that followed proved to be the cruellest that the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, and its memory persisted just as vividly even today for the sad events that, according to the books he had read, had been granted to it retrospectively: It had seen the tragic death of King Maekar I take place under the walls of Starpike and the long, sinister Red Spring. Some maesters had even claimed that it was by no means insignificant that the Mad King had been born at that dark time, that he too had brought winter in his wake.

Jon wondered if the maesters would ever talk about this Summer and the Winter that would follow. Seven years now that summer had been going on and no sign augured that it would end any time soon. Maester Luwin would often get lost in extrapolations on this subject and would predict at least two or three more years of summer, basing his calculations on dated and dusty sources. Sir Vayon Poole was the most fanciful of all at Winterfell and announced to anyone who would listen that summer would never come to an end, since it had none. His main argument, however irrelevant it may have been, was that for the seventh consecutive year, the North had the best harvest in its history: as Steward of Winterfell, Vayon Poole had never been busier or more euphoric than during these festive times.

For the North was in a festive time. That evening and the night that was coming saw the holding of the Summer Banquet, a festive and traditional event in the North, celebrating the benefits of Summer and the blessing of the Old Gods. This was the reason why these banquets were usually held at night, on the sixth day of the sixth moon, when the moon was high in the sky and the green and blue shades of the northern lights danced in a celestial ball.

They shone with a thousand lights in the night skies, illuminating the diffuse and dark distance of the northern plains and the dizzying peaks of the castle. Here below, the hearth fires numbered in the thousands, forming like carpets of light in the middle of the alleys of Winterfell, and they shone as many as there were windows.

The solitude of the balcony on which Jon stood changed little from the sounds that reached him. The clamour and festive music from outside could be heard with ease, especially as he had plenty of time to watch the brawls and other circle dances being held from here, with the little people having fun in tens - hundreds - around the many fires, dancing to the rhythm of the many travelling bards. They would celebrate Summer under the stars until dawn, enjoying the foodstuffs provided for this purpose and brought to the castle by the tons. And they were right to do so: the North, hard and cruel, would kill the weakest at the coming of Winter.

The music and the bursts of voices coming from inside again caught his attention and reminded him that he had come to the balcony to get away from it temporarily: the incipient drunkenness that had hit him during the feast and the ambient heat had almost gone to his head. He would have stayed alone longer if it had been up to him, but Jon knew that it was not acceptable for him to miss out on the annual social events of the castle when he was the second son of the lord of Winterfell.

Father or Uncle Benjen would probably not make any remarks to him if he slipped away, but Uncle Arthur would not hear it in the same way and would soon blame him for his negligence. Uncle Arthur would certainly tell him that it was not fitting for the heir of Dragonstone to ignore the rules of propriety of his castle, and that it began even before he inherited it. He would continue to nurse me even if I sat on the Iron Throne.

Inhaling one last breath of fresh night air, he then returned to the castle's banqueting hall.

The very next moment Jon was once again immersed in the colours and festive atmosphere of the dungeon of Winterfell.

Summer banquets could sometimes be mind-bogglingly crowded, but to see most of the noble houses of the North within the castle walls was a new spectacle for him. And certainly for most of the high-born, young and old, judging by the collective excitement that could be seen in every glance. The great feast had already ended many minutes ago, but the long rows of tables covered with rich tablecloths and coats-of-arms were still abundantly covered with all kinds of fine food and many courtiers were still there.

Roasted or pie-dried beef generously sprinkled with horseradish, hearty and tasty mutton stews, colourful dishes with game meats, hare, venison, deer, partridge, but also cattle of all kinds, and even auroch dishes cooked on the spit, the most expensive and sumptuous meat in the North. And all this accompanied by the most delicious fish, seafood and candied summer fruits that did not even grow in the North, such as figs, dates, lemons and other citrus fruits from Dorne or Essos. Father and his bannermen had spared no wealth.

Lords and ladies courted, negotiated and ate wherever Jon could look. He noticed as many colourful dresses and outfits as there were noble coats-of-arms, and as many different looks as there were groups and clan origins among the Houses of the North. The noble families of the Neck were distinguished by their smaller and slimmer than usual figures, and the noble families of Andal blood could be recognised by the clarity of their hair, among other things. Like the Manderly and the Hornwood, the latter came mainly from the White Knife and the Sheepshead Hills. The members of the northern mountain clans were also quite distinctive due to their immense size and their equally imposing corpulence.

The banqueting hall was in turmoil and it was without neglecting the fact that a substantial part of its former occupants had left it, certainly to go to the Winter Throne Room where the ball was to take place. Judging by the absence of Father, Lady Catelyn, Uncle Benjen, Robb, and his other siblings, the Stark family had surely gone there.

But Uncle Arthur, who was still here, Jon certainly didn't miss him, and vice-versa. People would usually seek to court the legendary Sword of the Morning, but his uncle seemed particularly inaccessible and unfriendly. For the Dayne was sitting alone in his seat, away from any potential group, and people were obviously careful not to approach him.

When Jon noticed the glow of scepticism in the Dayne's purple eyes, he knew immediately that the latter would soon speak to him about his ceremonial inconstancy. Taking it upon himself, and knowing that there was no point in prolonging the situation, he approached his uncle and sat down beside him. Nevertheless, against all expectations, Uncle Arthur remained silent. He did not even look at him, his attention being lost somewhere in front of him. Was he even looking at anything in particular?

Once again sitting down and warm, the inactivity of silence made him realise that the wine he had consumed during the feast was still having an effect. It had not even been enough to make him forget the depressing events of the morning, let alone the awkward and disturbing situation of the opening of the banquet. Sitting at the table of the Lords of Winterfell like the rest of his family - apart from Arya, who for some strange reason was absent from the banquet - the glasses of wine had not changed the presence of Alys, sitting with her family a few metres away.

"A thirteen year old boy with as many responsibilities as you have should not get lost in drinking as you just did."

Arthur put an end to his confused thoughts before he could put them in order. He still didn't look at him, but his tight jaw and steely gaze were enough signs for him to guess that his uncle was focused on him, and him alone.

And he was obviously waiting for an answer.

"It was only three cups, uncle…"

"I counted four. And these were not small cups."

Jon refrained from pushing a breath of derision. Did they still have to go through this? Did he still have to endure a sermon from Arthur, and at the worst possible moment, for that matter?

"What's the point of counting…?" he mumbled, but he avoided grumbling. "This was a feast. People are eating and drinking."

"And they have all seen you drinking four cups, and they observe and judge you in silence."

The only one who judges me is you, uncle, he almost answered him. But his instinct and reason made him suspect that this was not quite true. And he didn't want to hold out the staff to be beaten. He thought he was past that age.

"Besides, tell me what were you doing out there alone? What did you think you were doing when you got out of the feast before it was over? Your departure was noticed by everyone."

"I needed some air." he replied half-tone.

Of course, Arthur did not hear it that way, judging by his disdainful sigh and nod. He exuded disapproval, but this was nothing new.

He knew it had been a mistake. A Stark who got up in the middle of the feast and unilaterally left the room without coming back was not appropriate. But why did it matter, after all? Arya's empty seat must have raised many more questions, and it wasn't as if he was a real Stark anyway. The fact that he was sitting between Robb and Uncle Benjen did not change anything. The contemplative and solitary heights of the balcony had proved much more pleasant.

"Anyway, you should be at the ball with the rest of your brothers and sisters."

This time Jon didn't even bother to hide his scowl at the idea and even less bothered to answer his uncle. He had no desire to go to the damn ball. He didn't want to make a fool of himself, he didn't want to find no partner and he had absolutely no desire to see Alys dancing with that damned Daryn Hornwood.

"If you think that you can enjoy this banquet, as inebriated and sullen as you are, you are seriously mistaken, boy," his uncle finally replied. "You must be inclined to be able to dance with the ladies and talk with the lords of your rank, and they must have before them a lord who is sober, thoughtful and receptive. Not a big barrel full of beer like the fat heap that we have as a king and even less a little boy who secludes himself on his balcony to mope around like a crying maiden."

The anger that followed the shock once again almost made him say something regrettable. It was as if his uncle had never understood him, it was also as if he had never tried to understand him. It wasn't even his toxic comment about the King, everyone knew full well that Arthur Dayne had been Rhaegar Targaryen's closest friend and that he despised Robert Baratheon more than anyone else. But the way he commented on his behaviour was simply humiliating.

"Why should I dance with the ladies and chat with the lords of my rank? I'm not even a lord! Why can't I stay here without worrying about all this? Isn't that what you do, uncle?"

"But unlike you, I don't need to satisfy the mundane whims of ladies and lords to make myself known. This is not what is expected of me. When I dance, people die. That is what is expected of me. So consider yourself lucky to be in your place and concentrate on your duties before you worry about anything else, and even better, about what I do. I was one of seven sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. This is not your case."

Sometimes Jon thought very sincerely that his uncle despised him. How could he not think so, when his opinion was so hasty and absolute that it allowed no response at all? He never let him do what he wanted and was always critical of him. He always had something to say, even when it couldn't be that important. It was so frustrating.

"If you had lectured the Mad King in the same way, then perhaps you would still be his Kingsguard and the kingdom would be better off."

He didn't even have time to regret his words as he was overshadowed by his uncle's angry gaze.

"Is that all you are capable of answering? You know nothing except what your maester told you about him. And he doesn't know anything either. So think twice before you say that kind of filthy nonsense and avoid letting the alcohol speak for you, for all you're doing is proving my point," the Dayne retorted dryly and in one fell swoop. "I didn't choose an idiot coupled with a loser as my squire. You are better than that."

"Is that all I inspire you, Uncle? An idiot coupled with a loser?"

"And if so, what would you do? Pity yourself like a mud-covered beggar in Flea Bottom? Did you even understand a word I just said to you? You are the heir to Dragonstone. The world will not stop or wait for you while you lament your fate. Let the Seven be my witnesses, that is not what I expect from you. Do you honestly think that Lord Stark behaved as you do when he heard of the death of his father and brother? Pull yourself together. The Usurper will not entrust Dragonstone to a slack damsel. If you are to inherit this castle, you must deserve it."

With his arguments now given, Arthur became as mute as before. And the background music played by the group of bards installed at the corner of the great hall did not change the leaden silence that reigned between him and the ex-Kingsguard. This time Jon simply did not dare to open his mouth any more, for fear that his elder would once again mortify him with his verb.

Perhaps, perhaps, mentioning Aerys the Mad had been a mistake. Jon knew it was a sensitive subject for Uncle Arthur. He never spoke of it, but you didn't have to be a Grand Maester to know that Arthur didn't have him in his heart any more than the present Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. But to make him his scapegoat and the object of his vindictiveness was absolutely unjust. He had not chosen to be a bastard any more than he had chosen to be the lord of Dragonstone, all he had chosen, in all humility, was Alys.

And he was vilified for it.

Uncle Arthur had made his point, however, so Jon stood up. He didn't want to stay here any longer anyway.

"I'm going to the ball." he said simply.

The knight didn't even bother to look at him, but his silence assured Jon that he had received the message. The next moment he left the room by the main door without even looking behind him, having had enough Arthur Dayne for the whole evening.

Jon realised, however, that he was really not in such a hurry to get to the Winter Throne Room. What could he do there, apart from making a fool of himself? Arthur may have mocked his fears, but they were well-founded. And yet, in spite of the fact that his heartbeat quickened as he approached, and in spite of the fact that the music in the ballroom became more and more perceptible, he continued.

Wide open, the doors of the Winter Throne Room were themselves already obstructed by the crowd. Ladies and lords were chatting there, hiding at first glance what Jon guessed to be the central dance area. Silently, he therefore discreetly entered through the mass of courtiers and reached one of the shady corners of the great hall, while the frescoes of light and atmosphere that was the Ball of Winterfell appeared before his very eyes in an instant.

Hundreds of people were there. From courtiers, lords, landed knights and ladies of high birth who had previously taken part in the feast, to the more humble visitors such as the household knights and other men-at-arms who made up the guards of the northern lords and who enjoyed a semblance of noble lineage, and the castle's servants, who were just as numerous.

If the banqueting hall had already proved to be rich in colour, the Winter Throne Hall had nothing to envy it. The walls were covered with blazons and coats-of-arms of all kinds and colours. Manderly turquoise and Ryswell bronze predominated above all else, if one omitted Stark grey and wolves covering the dresses of the courtiers of all the houses directly vassal of the Starks and of the servants who came to serve ladies and lords in wine and beer mugs from the north.

Tables, upholstered seats and benches had been laid out in large numbers on all sides of the hall and framed the central, empty space, where many nobles of all ages were currently dancing in low line. Jon could easily distinguish Sansa, with the bright auburn sheen of her long, smooth hair shining in the glow of the candelabra and wall torches. She was beautiful, his little sister. Surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, she seemed to enjoy the festivities like a princess among her courtesans.

She was not the only Stark to look so princely. Robb stood out from the crowd because of his physical appearance. If he did not dance like their sister and was therefore not in the centre of the room, his long, elegant red hair was just as distinctive. On the fringes of the dance space, a number of young lords and ladies seemed to be seeking his favour. It was at this point that their eyes met and Robb took his leave from his peers.

The next moment, his older brother made his way to him.

"You took your time, Jon," he said without waiting, coming to shake his shoulder with one hand. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

And Robb was right, because if it had been up to him, he wouldn't be here now, and his brother's unreadable look made him suspect that he had understood it.

"Arthur didn't let me." he replied mechanically.

"And Ser Arthur was right, Jon. Look at all these people, it's an opportunity of a lifetime to get known with such ease. It would be a shame to miss it."

It was an opportunity for Robb, but not for him. He didn't formulate it, but he didn't think any less of it. It didn't matter what the future might hold for him, because it wouldn't change the facts: If he was made lord of Dragonstone, he would surely never see any of the courtiers present there again, if he remained a bastard and ended up inheriting nothing, then it didn't matter what image he might try to build up among them all, for his only destiny in the North would depend on Father's good will, and then Robb's, to guarantee him a place of influence in the guard or stewardship of Winterfell. And this destiny only filled him with dread.

"Perhaps…" he finally said, for want of a better answer. "How did you even manage to find me in this crowd?"

If the latter had understood that he was trying to change the subject, he did not show it, preferring to display an amused smile that clearly showed his sarcasm.

"Are you really asking the question? With your silver strand of hair, the only way you could go unnoticed would be to go into the snowdrifts at the foot of the castle."

Obviously, how stupid he was. It wasn't as if this strand was the most obvious mark of his bastard blood, all the more so when he was the only one in the North to possess such attributes, Elina and Arthur aside.

That said, far from being offended by his brother's remark, he shared his spontaneous laughter. And as often the case, it didn't take much more than that for his worries to dissipate. His brother possessed this magic. It was frustrating at times, but more often than not, it was salutary.

Far from letting him go, Robb then put his arm around his shoulder as their attention slipped away towards the ball.

Naturally, his attention returned to their sister, who continued to dance the low line in the midst of many others. They followed the slow rhythm of the minstrels who played on the fringe, on a wooden stage that had been set up especially for them. One of them even played the carillon, the fingerboard instrument emitting a crystalline sound that Jon had literally never heard in the castle before.

How did Lady Catelyn managed to find a carillon player so far north, and how did she even manage to get the instrument into the Throne Room? Jon was still wondering. The Lady of Winterfell could be many things, but a poor organizer she was not.

"Sansa has spent the last two weeks anticipating this evening," Robb then explained without hiding his amusement. "I know you haven't been around much at family dinners because of your training with Ser Arthur, but just so you know. She couldn't keep quiet for two minutes at a time, it was hellish."

"If you say that, I can't even imagine what Arya thought," he replied, and his amusement echoed that of his elder brother. The image of a frustrated Arya in the middle of a meal while Sansa was rambling on about a social event could only be funny. But this distracting thought didn't last long, as the mention of Arya brought up a much more worrying subject. "Where is she, by the way?"

"If I knew, I would have told you already," Robb replied, taking the same concerned tone as he did. "Father refused to answer me when I asked him, and Mother... She was actually as surprised as I was. To be perfectly frank, I thought that at least you would know where she was."

"We had planned to ride together on Winter, along the Acorn Water, but she never showed up at the stables. And the fact that she was absent from the feast…"

The gleam in his brother's eyes made him suspect that they had come to the same conclusion.

"Father has punished her, obviously," Robb finally stated, before he laughed, straddling the line between spite and hilarity. "What could she have done that was so serious that Father, of all people, would punish her like that?"

"I don't know, but if he had her locked up on the day of the Summer Banquet, she must have done something awful."

It must have been because her brother was in a joyful mood, because his answer only made him more amused.

"She will never change," his brother concluded with a big smile. "And by the way, neither will you."

What did he mean by that, that was the question he would have liked to ask at that very moment. Unfortunately, Jon did not have the opportunity to do so, for thunderous tones and numerous outbursts of voices from one of the corners of the great hall, near the stage where the musicians were giving the rhythm of the dances in low line, came to put an end to most of the activities that were taking place in the throne room.

"Enough is enough! We want the dances!" they heard through the commotion.

"The dances, for fuck's sake!"

Unsurprisingly, Lord Jon Umber and his son were among those who started the uproar. They were not alone: about fifteen other men formed the ranks of this exuberant group. The largest of them was Lord Theo Wull, one of Father's friends, or simply Theo Wull, since it was not the custom of the chiefs of the Northern Mountain clans to award themselves a single title of nobility. Uncle Benjen had once told him that they had more of the wildlings than they were willing to admit, and he was willing to believe it, since their dress and coarse features made the most massive of them look like wildlings' chiefs.

"Abel the Bard!" Theo Wull then exclaimed.

His call was not unanswered, since the aforementioned, who was apparently already present on the stage, came to meet his peers. His elegant long black cape, decorated with blood-red bindings, caught his eye more than anything else. Dressed as he was, it was as if he fancied himself a Targaryen prince.

"Sing, Abel the Bard!" the chief of the Wull clan continued, his deep, stony voice rising above all others. "The song!"

Lords and ladies both had stopped dancing on the dance area and confusion due to the sudden lack of music settled in among the crowd. For a few seconds, Jon met the gaze of Father, who was standing on the other side of the room, beside Lady Catelyn. He had spotted him and Robb. Everyone seemed to be waiting in anticipation as best they could, wondering what might be going on. A period of latency that was soon shortened.

"I dedicate this epic ballad to the House Stark of Winterfell, to the First Men and the damsels of the North, may they be blessed," said the artist as he grasped his lute. "The Song of the Winter Rose."

The silence then dissipated under the bard's skilful fingers and the catchy melody emitted by his lute. Quickly followed by his fellow violists, flutists and bagpipers, he then began his singing to the enthusiasm of the crowd.

"A young man descended, from the far northern lands, at the dare that an old wolf had addressed to him. The first one was a bard, landless, valiant and strong, the second was a king, landed, mighty and proud…"

As the music took its course, the noble audience became calm while the bard told his story. The Greatjon and Theo Wull's band became much calmer, just like the noble audience, and while the bard sang, most of the courtiers still occupying the dance area went to the sides of the hall and to the tables to rest and refresh themselves, the others remained there, probably waiting for the dances to resume, as in the case of Sansa and her ladies. All then listened to a melodious and epic tale that none seemed to have heard before, except for Theo Wull, whose sarcastic expression was confusing.

But his confusion lasted no longer when, far from pursuing an agreed-upon serenade one might expect from a court minstrel, and under his suddenly rising melody Abel the Bard began the most provocative, saucy and bawdy song that Jon had ever heard in any of the Winterfell rooms. More and more voices gradually began to be heard, as soon as it became clear that the story was about the Starks.

"Oh the rascal and his damsel, to the King of Winter's daughter… into their bunk in the castle, he did tightly squeezed her crupper!"

A thunderous wave of laughter swept through the room without delay. Lords and ladies to the right and left began to laugh at the bard's provocative and idiotic words at the top of their lungs. But there were also many who made no secret of their outrage, as Lady Catelyn did once she understood the theme of the song. Jon could have seen her livid and outraged face among a thousand others, and he could not hold back a hilarious breath from escaping from between his lips. He heard the same reaction on his right, and his gaze found that of his older brother. Of the two of them, however, it was Robb who laughed first.

"Look at our sister, she doesn't know where to be anymore." the heir of Winterfell commented between two laughs.

Sansa was even more baffled than her mother, Robb was telling the truth. She almost made it hard to see, if it wasn't for the hilarity of the situation. They weren't the only ones, though, since the lords behind the change of atmosphere seemed to tease Father and laughed endlessly at him. But against all odds, Father then seized Lady Catelyn, to her great surprise, and immediately led them into a waltz dance which provoked a comical commotion, a concert of laughter, whistles and shouts.

The crowd followed them and from then on took over the centre of the room, with dozens of courtiers dancing in the same way as Father and Lady Catelyn: in pairs, as was the custom of the commoners. As red as her hair when it shone under the white northern sun, Jon saw his little sister quickly take refuge on the fringes of the room, accompanied by her friends and followers. The chaos and electric atmosphere of the party quickly replaced the noble order of Winterfell's receptions with a wink of the eye.

Judging by the hundreds of excited and playful expressions, especially those of most of the young people his age, Jon was almost certain that half of them had been waiting for that very moment. But how could he doubt it, when most of them immediately began copying their elders and went off to court the partner they wanted?

Within a few minutes, most of the pairs were already formed, several of them having already joined the dance area, as was the case with his friend Cley Cerwyn and his partner. The heir of Castle Cerwyn was indeed the first to start, with at his arm Lady Clarisse Slate, the eldest daughter of Lord Robar Slate of Blackpool. She was a pretty young girl with an Andal appearance, her colourful outfit and her blond hair shining under the light of the big chandelier and the torches. A few feet away from these two, the Mormont sisters, who had already found their partners, were contrasting in colour, their austere brown outfits and their dark hair testifying in a striking way to their northern nature.

Left behind by her parents, who had imitated Father and Lady Catelyn, Jon even saw little Lyarra Dustin across the room heading towards Bran and watched them with amusement, the former trying to lure the latter into the middle of the room, even though it was easy to see the recalcitrant attitude of the second-to-last child of the House Stark. Unsurprisingly, a long list of suitors of varying ages came to court his younger sister in the hope of getting her to dance for the first time, although she did not grant any of them: overcome by the unexpected and unwittingly targeted turn of events and by the somewhat obscene lyrics of the bard's song, she was clearly not interested in showing herself, and her circle of courtesans made this clear, forming a veritable march around her.

When he even noticed the presence of Theon Greyjoy among the dancing courtiers, Jon finally realised that he was probably the only one still without a potential partner, apart from Robb. Robb didn't count, however: most of the young ladies of the court of Winterfell were already swooning before him and it wouldn't be much different any time soon. Many would have been jealous, but not him. It didn't matter to him, because the only lady he would have wanted to dance with was already there. Her long black dress, decorated with white suns that glowed like stars, emphasised her milk skin and long dark hair. But she was already dancing, her back towards him, in the arms of the betrothed whom they had so unjustly chosen for her. And he didn't deserve her. He would never deserve her.

"Of his daughter, deprived, his domain, he delved. His banners, dispatched, the singer, he hunted."

Anticipating that he would meet Alys' gaze, he lowered his own to the ground before it happened. Stubbornness wouldn't lead to anything, he knew it, especially now and here. Arthur may have been one of the most unpleasant men Jon knew, but that didn't stop him from being right: even if he only recognised his pragmatic words halfway, Jon knew very well that the world was not turning around him any more than he expected it to. But to forget the softness of Alys' lips, her smile and their promise was so hard. This world was unfair. Everything would have been so simple if they had been free like the bard and the rose.

"You should go talk to her and dance with her at least once, Jon."

"You're crazy," he replied. "Her family is here. Everyone is here. I don't want to dishonour Father in front of the whole North."

"It would just be a dance, nothing more. Lord Rickard wouldn't dare to take offence for so little, and especially in front of Father."

"I don't want to talk about it, Robb. And I don't want to dance."

Robb simply shrugged at his answer and added nothing more. It was better that way. His older brother was kind, but even one dance was too much. He didn't even know what he would be able to say to Alys after all this time and he was even more afraid of the potential events that would follow, was he to show himself with her at his arm, let alone at the sight of Lord Rickard Karstark. The aforementioned was on the other side of the room, surrounded by his sons and the many other courtiers who belonged to the group of influence of the House Manderly. He still looked as stern and rigid as Jon remembered.

Robb didn't know what it was like to be a bastard and he underestimated the lord of Karhold if he sincerely believed that he would not be offended to see him near his daughter. Moreover, the humiliating scene that had caused Benfred Tallhart to be sent back to Torrhen's Square for good had already caused him enough anxiety and adrenaline for the weeks to come. He wouldn't have the strength to endure any more humiliation, especially if it involved Alys.

The song and music followed its course as the courtiers ventured one after the other into the middle of the hall. It didn't take much longer for Jon to catch sight of the few courtesans who were waiting together nearby. They were not very difficult to discern, nor did they really try to remain discreet. Robb finally spotted them in turn and his embarrassed look made him smile.

"Look at them... A mammoth in the castle courtyard would go unnoticed in comparison. Do they really think we can't see them, gathered as they are?"

His brother had spoken in a low voice, but his light and conniving tone made him understand that the sight amused him more than it made him circumspect. He nevertheless detected a relative boredom in his eyes.

"I do not think that is even their intention, they are all clearly there to gain your favour."

"It's a bit ridiculous… It's not as if I'm the only boy available for the night."

"It's not as if you're the only heir of Winterfell available for the night."

His reply had the merit of making Robb laugh, even if it had not necessarily been his aim. It was the truth. These young ladies, mostly heiresses and daughters of lesser nobility, certainly hoped to attract Robb's attention for a long time to come. Jon would not be the one to go and ruin their hopes, even if he didn't think less of them as vain ones.

The future lady of Winterfell would come from a house of the highest nobility, and if Father wasn't the busiest in this matter, Jon knew that Lady Catelyn would soon make the matrimonial future of her eldest son her priority.

"You're right, I guess…" Robb finally pronounced, before concluding with amusement: "If I run away and Mother sees it, she'll make me dance with half the girls in the North, so I guess we have to go."

Resigned, his brother then went in the direction of the young courtesans who were humbly waiting, however, as soon as he realised that he was heading there alone, he turned towards him. His look of incomprehension was predictable, as was the question he asked without delay.

"Aren't you coming?"

Jon didn't answer him immediately and at first only nodded negatively.

"It's your favours they're looking for, Robb… not mine."

He would have liked this one answer to be enough, but his brother's frown made him understand how much good he thought of it. But it didn't matter to him, in truth. Robb could think what he wanted, it wouldn't make any difference. More than anything else, he did not want to be a second wheel or a stepping stone for a girl who hoped to win his brother's favour by courting him. He was far too proud to put up with that.

"You are wrong, just know that."

That was the only thing Robb said to him. The next moment he joined the group of girls and was joined by a handful of other boys, including Raymun Ryswell and Brandon Tallhart. Despite the surrounding atmosphere, Jon heard their laughter as they seemed to agree on the pairs. Within a few seconds they all made their way to the dance area and Jon lost sight of them in the crowd.

His secluded position allowed him to see that Father had distanced himself from the countless other dancers and had left Lady Catelyn at the arms of Ser Wylis, eldest son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbour. It was easy to recognise him by his huge moustache, in fact so picturesque and funny that Jon thought he was keeping it only to compensate for the baldness that had caused him to shave his head. It was astonishing that despite the morbid obesity that seemed to affect the men in his family, the heir of White Harbour was moving with unusual grace. And yet the Manderly was a knight, and reputed to be good and competent at it if one were to believe the words of such renowned northern knights as Ser Mark Ryswell.

"Oh the rascal and his damsel, hidden from the dispossessed wolf… into their bunk in the castle, they conceived him his heir! His heir!"

The heir of White Harbour seemed to be caught up in a rather serious discussion with the lady of Winterfell. Jon was almost convinced they were talking about betrothal. That of Robb with Lady Wynafrid, obviously.

Nothing concrete had yet been promised, especially as the houses in favour of a Ryswell wedding were more or less openly opposed to it, but that didn't change anything. This betrothal prospect was one of the most anticipated in the North. Ser Wylis would have no more children and he had no sons, thus Lady Wynafrid would inherit White Harbour after him.

One could say of Ser Wilys that he was indeed a merman, especially when compared to his lord father: the two men shared the same physique en masse. Seeing the Manderly in his armour must certainly have been a sight to behold. In comparison, Lady Wynafrid was a mermaid. Robb had said something similar, but this was not surprising, as it was difficult to argue that Wynafrid Manderly was anything less. She was simply far too beautiful and graceful. She was not dancing, strangely enough, and was quietly observing the activities of the room while chatting with her table neighbours, including the man Jon recognized as Lord Rickard's eldest son, Harrion Karstark.

The apprehension of crossing the gaze of a single Karstark, even at this distance, led him to look away to observe the dancers again. Soon he could no longer help but weave a smile on his lips at the sight of his brother Bran and Lady Lyarra Dustin. He had eventually yielded to the more than insistent advances of his soon-to-be fiancée and reluctantly danced with her. His reluctant expression did not seem to dampen the youthful enthusiasm of his lady. Despite this touching spectacle, even these two were not spared the power stakes of the Lords of the North.

It was precisely to calm some of the lords of the North as to the imminence of an alliance with the House Manderly, notably the Ryswells, that Father had conceded this alliance, not that it was a real concession as far as Father was concerned. Everyone in the castle knew that Lord William Dustin was like an older brother to him. Only Lady Catelyn had objected, but judging by the gentleness with which she had treated Lady Lyarra earlier in the day, her reluctance on principle must have evaporated at the sight of the girl.

"From the crypts she came out, her little prince at her breast. In front of her aghast father, and this heir he made his."

It was as if he was the only one of his siblings not to have received offers, when one thought about it, and Theon Greyjoy's insulting words came back to him naturally. A bastard with an uncertain future who would never be happy, a false heir with no dynastic value, that was what the Ironborn had told him. He knew that this could not be true when King Robert was doing him such a favour, and that Father had no more matrimonial plans for him than he had for Arya, Sansa or Rickon. But it did hurt, and to see Robb choose his ladies with such ease while the courtiers had at that moment only eyes for him frustrated him deeply.

"From a foreign father, but from his blood that he was. The elder made the bastard the high prince of these lands."

At some point the crowd stopped again and turned to the singing bard. The cheerful and naughty tune that had amused the audience so much had just changed to this strange and melancholy melody. Once again, everyone wondered what the singer had in mind, and they all listened to him.

It was such a sad song.

"The bard, of the free folk, his kingdom went forth to found. His unified tribes, on the watch, he brought them down."

Jon soon noticed the more or less nervous reactions of some of the lords and knights present in the hall. It wasn't long before shouts were heard in some corners of the room, where the banners of the Umbers, Mormonts and Glovers were displayed.

"From a foreign father, but from his blood that he was. But that day they crossed sword, so the young then killed the old."

The Winter Throne Room returned to relative silence as Abel the Bard ended his singing. He leaned forward and curtseyed as low as courteous, his long, curly chestnut hair almost touching the ground because of his posture. Applause came from almost the entire hall as the ruckus seemed to emerge from the corners of the most northern noble houses. They must obviously not have appreciated very much the fact that the bard of the song found his origins beyond the wall.

Jon saw a gathering swelling under the Umber and Wull banners, and like everyone else, in spite of the crowd and although they were unintelligible, he heard the echo of shouting and screaming as the standing ovation given to the bard approached its end and was no longer enough to hide it. No doubt an argument was in progress. The absence of Father in his original place made it clear to him that he must have been in the crowd, as must have been the case with the Greatjon and his son, as well as Theo Wull. For these three had previously been with Father but were no longer there either.

"You will pay for it! You will pay for this, you hear, the Hugo! Nobody insults Mors Crowfood and gets away with it!"

It was the only distinctive shout he really understood. Emerging in an instant from the gathering, Jon recognised to his unique and intimidating appearance the eldest of the Greatjon uncles, the mighty Mors Umber, whom people in the North nicknamed Mors Crowfood. He was Umber in everything one would expect of them: a half giant who competed with the Greatjon and his son in stature and could certainly lift him with one hand.

"Get out of my way, you goat's milk drinkers!" he yelled enraged to the people who had the misfortune of standing in front of him as he left the room. The most unfortunate among them, he violently pushed them aside and knocked down more than one while he undoubtedly forced his way through the crowd.

His face was twisted by anger, which only made it more scary, for the fury painted on his face highlighted his most demeaning trait, the one for which he was called Mors Crowfood: an eye torn out, replaced by a sculpted piece of obsidian, lying at the centre of a horrible and deep scar. It tore the left half of his face from top to bottom, but rather than hiding his wound with a blindfold, the mighty Umber proudly wore it. It was said that the crows had done it to him by gouging out his eye, mistaking him for a corpse when he was just sleeping.

The man did not go alone. In his wake, more than twenty men, whom he recognised without difficulty as other Umbers, Glovers and also Karstarks, followed him. The Greatjon and his son were among them, but also Master Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte.

Around him, Jon heard the worried voices of several courtiers who feared an escalation of violence, rather well-founded worries if there were any. It was indeed quite rare in the North that a feast, even among the nobility, did not end at one time or another with an event of this kind. The North was vast, and as was customary to say among the smallfolk, there were as many noble houses as there were enmities and ancestral problems.

And yet, once they had left, the tension and anxiety in the room subsided. He saw Father in turn emerge from the gathering to return to his initial place, followed by Theo Wull and his cousin Hugo, Lord William, Ser Martyn, Ser Mark and also Lord Rodrik Ryswell. They were unsurprisingly joined by Lady Catelyn, who certainly wanted to inquire about the situation.

For a few minutes, Jon even wondered if the party would be interrupted, as lively and obviously serious discussions were taking place around Father. But finally, after a sudden but clear sign from him sent to the minstrels, the music resumed, and with it the festivities.

In an instant, following the tambourines and flutes of his fellow musicians and the slow, melodious rhythm of his lute, Abel the Bard picked up his voice and began to sing Brave Danny Flint, a song as beautiful as it was sad about a young woman who wanted to be a sworn sister of the Night's Watch. The impatient courtiers were soon dancing again, the slow and romantic rhythm of the song even inviting more of them to take over the middle of the hall with their partners.

But this time, despite the reprise and against all his expectations, it was no longer in the arms of Daryn Hornwood that he found Alys. But in Robb's.

Anger overcame him before he really understood it, and the blood that flowed through his veins became as boiling as the beating of his heart was unbridled. He could not determine, however, whether this was the work of jealousy or vexation. His brother knew, he knew everything. So why did he do this?

An answer came to him very quickly, when his brother and his new partner stared at him more and more. They seemed to be talking and he naturally understood that he was the subject. What are you doing Robb?

And what he feared, Robb did, as soon as the minstrels ended their song. The warning glance he gave his brother had no effect, and far from deflating, Robb had the audacity to bring him Alys for all to see.

"You are unconscious. What do you think you're doing? You're going to create a scene." he grumbled softly, as fast as he could, and taking the driest tone his whisper allowed him.

"Don't chicken out," Robb replied in a patronising tone, a tone that made Jon realise that his elder didn't care about the repercussions. "I'm doing you a favor. Stop pitying yourself and talk to Alys at least once."

Jon would have returned a scathing reply but his mention of Alys threw like a bucket of cold water over the burning coals. She was there, just a few steps away, and waited so calmly that Jon no longer even had the courage to ignore her gaze.

"Don't keep her waiting... Come on!"

Robb pushed him in the direction of the Karstark girl, certainly to force him to do what he wanted, not that he'd run away. It was now too late.

Neither he nor she pronounced anything. He just looked at her and she did the same, and that was enough. So he offered her his hand, not even knowing what kind of expression was covering his face at that moment, or even what kind of look he was giving her, and Alys gave him hers. Ignoring everything else, he led her to the centre of the room, passing between the couples who were already dancing, and finding an unoccupied space, he did as they had always done when they were younger and danced to the rhythm of Elina's harp.

It was as if the time they had spent away from each other hadn't mattered, as if their last dance was only a few days ago. This only made the situation stranger and more horrible, as his eyes were lost in the pretty blue-grey eyes of his winter lady. Seen so closely, her beauty was all the more absurd, or was it love that made him absurd. Yet Alys was more beautiful than ever. She had grown, just like him, the signs of her femininity causing him a sensation as uncomfortable as it was overwhelming. His right hand on her hip, and while he held her thin, soft hand in his left one, she sometimes pressed her chest against him in a movement.

To have her so close to him was electrifying, so much so that at times he thought he couldn't even resist the urge to kiss her, right there, right now. This desire terrified him because it reminded him of Lord Rickard's angry look and the tears Alys had shed when they were separated.

"Forgive him." Alys suddenly pronounced, the timbre of her voice more bewitching than any other instrument.

"It is I who should ask you to forgive him," he replied then. "You know how he is. He is so defiant about so many things. He is not always aware of the results of his actions…"

"Jon, you've got it all wrong. If I was that worried about it, I would have said no to him."

Yet it was impossible for him to ignore the distrustful and hostile eye of the Karstarks, who were watching them attentively. It was obvious that they would have noticed them.

"Your father hates me, and I'd rather not cause you any more trouble."

The only answer he got from Alys was a smile. A melancholy smile or an amused smile, he didn't really know. Alys was not the easiest to read, but it was a beautiful smile.

They let music guide their steps, taking advantage of their relative privacy in the midst of all the courtiers to forget their situation. Jon had never liked to dance very much, and perhaps that was why Elina had been uncompromising in her teaching, more so than in any other discipline - High Valyrian aside. But with Alys it was so different. Having her in his arms managed to make him forget everything, even his aversion. Thus, even before he realised it, they were already smiling at each other, giving each other laughing glances as they danced boldly.

"I didn't remember you being such a good dancer." she noticed with her distinctive timbre.

"I had an excellent partner," he replied in a similar tone. "And an exceptional teacher... although a bit horrible and above all downright tyrannical."

"And does that tyrannical teacher continue to teach you dance?"

"As well as everything else. When you left, she even called herself my partner. You know her, she's a living hell."

Alys' laughter was a blessing. He had been dreaming about it for over a year and it rang in his ears in a way even better than he had hoped for. It was both so invigorating and nostalgic, and it reminded him of their carefree days before everything in the castle went wrong. Everything had seemed so simple then, even if it had never been.

"Then nothing really changed…"

She seemed relieved, as if she had been worried about them when it was her future that had been made so obscure.

"Yes, but… you're gone."

His answer might have sounded like a reproach, but that was not his intention and he hoped afterwards that she would understand. However, she remained silent, an illegible expression covering her white face. This was probably what made him so sad.

Alys always had this secret side, as did many ladies of high lineage, prudence being a quality that nobles cultivated in all circumstances. Yet he could see through the appearance and remember the young and pretty Stark with the bright smile and crystalline laughter, she seemed so extinct that he felt his heart breaking.

But at the same time, she seemed to be in such harmony with herself and so calm that it made him envious. She gave him this unrecognisable impression of maturity, almost as if she were older than him, even though she was a year younger than him. How did she do it? He couldn't understand. In comparison, he was so full of whims that he felt like a summer boy no older than Bran. She was a descendant of the Kings of Winter much more than he would ever be.

His wandering thoughts were certainly reflecting on his face during the silence, for she again granted him the grace of hearing the crystalline timbre of her voice soon afterwards.

"When are they planning your departure to the south?"

"I don't really know," he told her, silencing his doubts as best he could. "Soon. Before I turn fifteen, according to my uncle Benjen."

"A year from now…"

It was a whisper, but he heard it as clearly as the howling of the wolf on a full moon night. She no longer looked at him and was content to see, preferring a place in front of her, unreachable to the eye, whatever it might be. They both knew what his departure meant. Their two paths would branch off forever and they would never see each other again. This dance, to the melancholy rhythm of Brave Danny Flint, would be their last moment together.

He took it upon himself to swallow all his remorse, all his resentment and purged his face of the puerile and negative expressions that were likely to have appeared there until then. The next moment, rather than letting her drift into any affliction, he brought her back to him by grasping her hip more firmly and dragged her into a long dance. He put everything else aside, he released his fears, he forgot the presence of Father and Lord Rickard, and for a moment he deigned to become again the petulant boy he had chosen not to be any longer. He would not let Alys remember him only with regrets. He wanted her to remember their laughter, their escapades and his indigo eyes.

Surprised by his attitude, the pink took her by the cheeks at the sensation of their bodies pressed against each other while she could not help but look straight into his eyes and follow in his footsteps. It was the only moment when he felt her wavering, when she seemed younger than he was, and it was also their most beautiful moment when she started to laugh and he imitated her, and they turned in this waltz dance like the children they still were. It was their most beautiful moment, but it was also their last.

When the music stopped and waves of applause from the courtiers in the hundreds replaced it, reality tore them away from their ephemeral little piece of paradise. They found themselves face to face and motionless, once again under that great chandelier, surrounded by the countless people standing in the middle of that crowded hall. And she to take advantage of the darkness and chaos of this crowd to hug him like the loving girl he knew she still was.

He gave her back her embrace and gave her as much time as she wanted while he immersed himself in the perfume of her hair all along. Could Lord Rickard see them from here? Was he going to be offended by their behaviour? When he felt Alys' lips against his cheek, he realised that it didn't matter.

"Goodbye Jon." she whispered to him.

The strange sensation he felt when he saw her return to the sides of the Winter Throne Room was unheard of. He knew he could stop her, for it was only a few steps and a burst of voice. Did he have to? Arthur would tell him no, without any doubt, and Father would remain silent.

In the end, she disappeared into the meandering crowd and he found himself in the middle of the people dancing, motionless, lulled with regret and alone.

With a clearer mind than during the feast, the sobering having gradually done its work, questions began to haunt him for long minutes, as he watched the ball take its course, song after song, while sitting in the distance. No one would care about him here, half hidden by one of the side pillars of the hall, so what was he still doing there? Why hadn't he already left? Why had he even come in the first place if all he got out of it was disappointment and despair? He felt empty, purposeless and powerless. He felt lonely.

He had always been lonely, this thought came to his mind before any other. If he was self-pitying like Uncle Arthur or Robb claimed, or if he tried to put his feelings into perspective, the answer was as confused as his emotions. And yet this thought was clearer to him than any other, more concrete at that moment than it had ever been before. The reality, simple and banal, was bitter, if not tasteless.

Surrounded by his most eminent guests, he watched him with a neutral and discreet gaze. He must certainly have seen him with Alys, which did not delight him or make him feel better, quite the contrary. He felt frustrated and angry, at himself and at others, and now he felt ashamed to be seen by Father. Had he experienced this same torment when he had been forced to abandon Mother?

Thinking of Mother made him think of Arthur. He would have been better off not listening to him. Convinced that he was unnecessary in this place where he did not belong, he got up hastily, ready to retire for good. But it was then that he saw her, through the crowd, surreptitiously appearing between the dancing and colourful bodies of the guests. He would have missed anyone else, but not her.

Sitting on a seat against the Winter throne, Sansa looked inaccessible and sad. And it was not an expression he would have expected to see on her little sister's face during the night she had anticipated so much. It made him feel sorry for her.

She was all alone, too.

However, he did not let her be like that for very long, for he came to sit beside her shortly afterwards, taking his place on the Winter throne, with a friendly smile drawn on his face. She greeted him in silence and looked at him with that same neutral and distant look, without giving him back his smile.

She seemed to have seen and concluded what she wanted since she lost interest in him after a few seconds, focusing again on the great hall of the throne.

He did not feel any particular rejection from her, either in her gestures or in her silence, so he concluded that she accepted his presence at least to a minimum, despite the fact that she clearly did not want to know why he was sitting next to her.

"What are you doing here alone?" he asked her in the kindest tone he could take at the time.

She did not answer him immediately. Some of the courtiers might have thought that she had ignored them, and she had certainly done so before that evening, but he was her brother and knew her much better than that. The expression on her face and the gleam of reflection in her eyes were enough signs to let him know that she was pondering her answer.

"I am not alone." she finally deigned to say.

She had illustrated her answer by insisting on a particular place in the room. Following it, Jon noticed Jeyne Poole dancing in the arms of a young boy who appeared to be the same age. He was none other than Denys, the son of Hallis Mollen, a captain of the Winterfell guards. Next to these two, Greta and Beth Cassel also danced, respectively with a boy from the House Cardon, a son of Ser Kyle most certainly, and Brandon Tallhart.

The observation was self-evident despite what she was doing.

"You look rather gloomy for someone who is not alone."

Usually Sansa would probably not have appreciated the comment and would have replied, this time she preferred to flee from his gaze and look the other way. He often forgot that his younger sister was only ten years old, partly because she was so wise and mature for her age, but when she was pouting and her face was clothed in such a childish expression, it was hard to ignore it.

"Why aren't you dancing? I thought that the lady of Winterfell was the first to introduce herself."

"I'm not the lady of Winterfell, it's Mother, you should know that." she grumbled.

Sansa had immediately turned to him and her predictable reaction amused him, to say the least. She admired Lady Catelyn so much that she couldn't bear to be compared.

"That's true, but you don't answer my question."

"What question? I don't remember."

She remembered very clearly, but he played the game.

"Why aren't you dancing with the others?" he repeated. "That's what you were doing earlier, though. I saw you dancing the low line with everyone."

This time she could not ignore his question, and judging by the annoyed expression covering her face, she obviously did not want to talk about it. But this was not surprising, because if all went well, she would not be sitting there alone, chomping at the bit.

"I don't want to talk about it and I don't want to dance any more anyway."

Her answer immediately reminded him of the one he had given Robb earlier, and the tender smile that wove itself on his lips was hard to hide from his sister. Naturally, she misunderstood its meaning, was offended by it and judged him with a single glance. She was clearly vexed.

"Have you come to make fun of me? Don't you have better things to do?"

"It doesn't suit you to imitate Arya and me." he answered softly.

She did not appreciate his response either, despite his intonation, and the gleam of defiance in her eyes was unequivocal. Far from being intimidating, she was more touching to him than anything else. Everyone said she was Lady Catelyn come again, and for sure they had the same characteristic beauty and grace. But when she was pouting like that, she looked like Arya, not like their mother.

She was precious, his sister.

"Let's be honest… You have no partner, have you?" he continued, leaning over the arm of the Winter throne.

She hadn't backed down despite the fact that he had just invaded her personal space, but his rather mischievous question stung her to the core. The red that caught her cheeks was quite distinctive. By the Old Gods, how easy it was to tease her.

"The eminent Sansa Stark, the highest lady of the North, has not even found a suitable partner for the biggest ball in the North, while her ladies-in-waiting are chaining them up with ease? What would the ladies of King's Landing say if they knew? Or even those of White Harbour? Perhaps we should ask Lady Wynafrid for her opinion?"

He soon stopped teasing her when he noticed that she took it much more to heart than he had expected and that she no longer even hid her sadness. Her reaction also confirmed to him that it was the fact that she didn't have a partner that made her so worried and sad.

"Why?" he asked, although he realised from his sister's eyes that she hadn't understood what he was asking.

"Why what?"

"Why don't you have any? I've seen boys approach you before."

The uncertainty in Sansa's eyes indicated that she doubted his intentions and weighed the pros and cons of answering him honestly. But he already suspected the nature of her worries, for Lady Catelyn's high expectations and the pressure she put on herself to answer them were not a foreign matter to him.

The fact that she was not at the moment dancing among the courtiers with young heirs must have been an absolute disappointment to her.

"You can tell me, I won't make fun of you, I swear."

"Do you really swear?"

"I swear, on the Heart Tree."

Her promise seemed to reassure Sansa, so she felt less on guard than before.

"I refused them... I think."

She thought? He had of course heard, but he was afraid he didn't understand. The confusion must have been apparent on his face, as she repeated with a little more energy and deepened her explanation.

"I did not answer the invitations to dance from Sir Raymun Ryswell and Sir Brandon Tallhart."

"So… you turned them down because you were shy?"

Sansa nodded after a few seconds of hesitation.

"And not because you thought they were ugly, we agree?"

The sweet laughter his sister had at his joke soothed him, the situation was not as bad as he had initially thought. It just turned out that Sansa was Sansa, moved by her contradictions as everyone else was. When she calmed down, her expression gave him the feeling that she was putting things into perspective. Talking to her must have done her some good and brought her out of her unusual loneliness.

"No other boy came to court me after that…"

She put her sentence on hold but she didn't really need to say much more anyway. The situation was already clear enough for him.

"You haven't been very clever," he knowingly observed. "By refusing them one after the other, you must have discouraged them all."

Naturally, the conclusion that no boy would perhaps come nearer to him at night came immediately to his sister, judging by the relative distress in her eyes.

"But what can I do about it? It would be unseemly and indecent to make the first step, I don't want to shame Mother… And what if my feet get caught in my dress? I am not prepared for such dances, I might embarrass myself in front of the whole court… Father would be appalled…"

"Sansa, you worry too much." he eventually said.

She didn't seem to agree, but it was expected.

"And yet I am all alone here while Jeyne is dancing."

"That is true, but the ball isn't over yet."

She remained silent for a few seconds, watching the people dancing in front of them. He wondered what she was thinking and was about to ask her when she finally spoke again.

"I am the eldest daughter of the House Stark," she began as the tone of her voice gradually became disdainful and dejected. "I should be as pure and immaculate as the Maiden, a role model for all the other ladies at this ball, and all the boys of the North should be courting me in the hope of a dance. I can't afford to make mistakes, Jon…"

"You're making a mistake right now," he told her at once, before quickly moving on so she wouldn't cut it off. "In all decency, no one in this room can expect you to be a perfect lady, you know? Certainly not Lady Catelyn and even less Father."

"And how would you know?"

"Because perfection is not human and only gods are perfect. I am sure that even the illustrious beings of old, such as the Dragon Lords of Valyria or the Children of the Forest had their faults."

"Old Nan always says that we are descended from the Children of the Forest…"

"Old Nan always says a lot of things… but until the contrary is proven, our skin is not made of bark and we are not covered with leaves."

The little giggle that the Stark girl couldn't contain proved to him that she wasn't insensitive to what he was saying. The smile that remained on her lips and the lighter expression she later displayed indicated that she had managed to relax, despite the anguish she had experienced. That's a relief.

The minutes that followed passed quietly, the long and melodious ballad sung by the bards accompanying the dances of the courtiers and giving rhythm to the festivities and laughter. Here and there, everywhere, in every place, there were incredible scenes, encounters as unique as they were new. Perhaps it was during this kind of celebration that the interest of the Winter throne took on its full meaning, or perhaps he had never really noticed it before, but from here, slightly overhanging in front of this great pit-shaped hall, the diversity of the North had never seemed more fascinating and authentic.

But on the other hand, the privileged position conferred by this royal pedestal made him feel so aware of his loneliness that he immediately understood why Sansa had felt so sad. It was perhaps this, more than anything else, that prompted him to act: this, and the fact that the song that was being played had meanwhile come to an end.

He then got up and stood in front of his little sister, to whom he addressed a complicit smile.

"Lady Stark, will you grant me your next dance?"

She looked at him with a look of uncertainty and remained silent. Her blue eyes went from his indigo eyes, to the hand he was holding out to her, to the crowd behind his back. Some of the courtiers took their places among the dancers while others moved away. Robb was seen in the crowd as he chatted while waiting for the next song, Lyra Mormont at his arm and surrounded by a handful of young heirs and their ladies. Notably those whom Sansa had previously refused.

"All you need is a first dance, Sansa," he continued kindly. "They will all fall under your spell as soon as they see you dance. Trust me."

It didn't take much more than that for her to put her little hand in his. The next moment, he brought them both to the middle of the throne room, exposed for all to see, next to their elder brother and all the others. And all this just in time, for the melody that resounded in the room sounded the reprise.

A big, delighted smile took a lasting place on Sansa's face soon enough, the lights of the flaming torches brightening up her coppery hair. Amidst the songs, the melody of flutes, viols and bagpipes, and as they twirled with each other in this lively waltz dance, she metamorphosed like a butterfly under the sun.

At last, her acute laughter made him realise that the fears that had gripped her until then had dissipated as if they had never existed.

Sansa's laughter was echoed by the laughter of Robb and Lyra who danced a few feet away, her brother's red hair rivalling that of their younger sister. Bran was not far away either, his reticent attitude having long since given way to a playful, youthful attitude, one he shared with his Dustin lady. Arya aside, and Rickon also because of his age, they were all there in the same place, to the rhythm of the music and in the eyes of all, the children of the North, moving under the weight of the eyes of the Winterfell court.

It was at that moment, while he was looking around them, that Jon realised that he had been right.

"People are looking at us now." he informed Sansa in a whisper.

She was lovely, his younger sister, and it was only natural for people to notice her, especially now, as radiant as she was, in the middle of that court that covered their house with so many favours. She stopped laughing, however, and looked at their surroundings as he did. Here and there, the lords of the North had eyes only for them, for his brothers, for their sister, perhaps even for himself, exposed as they were, on the princely winter flagstones.

The youthful shyness of his younger sister seemed to be quickly reflected in her suddenly clumsy steps. However, neither her ephemeral failure nor her apparent embarrassment were able to overcome her radiant and fulfilled look. This was how Jon knew that his sister loved to dance more than he ever would: her enthusiasm was simply insatiable.

Focused as they were during this dance, the end of the song came sooner than they thought. And as on the many previous occasions, there were many interactions between the courtiers, some exchanging partners, and others leaving the dance area. Naturally, the time came for him to let his sister go. Uncertain, she had noticed, as he had, her potential suitors waiting on the sides and observing them. He shared a complicit look with her and finally let her go.

"It's time to find you a better partner than me." he suggested.

"Aren't you staying?" she asked.

He replied with a negative nod. He had not planned to stay here, he would have left long ago if it hadn't been for her.

"Oh, you're not planning to stay with us, Lord Jon?"

It was the crystalline voice of a woman just beside them that was heard. Turning around, Jon met the clear and attentive gaze of Lady Wynafrid Manderly. She was standing there, at the arm of the man who had hitherto been her most recent partner: the young Raymun Ryswell. He soon realised that both of them were hoping to exchange partners. It would have been ill-advised for him and Sansa to refuse this eminent duo, so he was quick to meet their expectations.

"Perhaps I could… stay a little longer, if Lord Raymun would do me the honour of taking my sister as his partner for the next dance and give me… yours. If it suits you, my lady."

"It suits me, my lord." the Manderly replied with a smile.

It seemed to suit Raymun Ryswell too, as he immediately invited Sansa in with an outstretched hand, the big hopeful smile on his face reminding him of Ser Mark. Raymun certainly looked like his uncle. And while the future lord of the Rills took his sister along, the music resumed at the same time, and Jon could do nothing about it.

In no way sulking his contact, the Manderly had invaded his personal space before he was even ready, and to such an extent that it was almost confusing: she was close, much too close. Thus, having put his right hand against the Manderly's hip and taken one of her hands in his own, he found himself dragged along, forced to imitate all the other courtiers in order not to embarrass himself in front of the court, and against this girl, two years his senior, a woman rather than a girl actually. The most coveted woman in the North.

It wasn't like with Alys who was still a bit juvenile, or Sansa who was totally juvenile, and with whom he felt in control. If he could sum up his impression, it was that Lady Wynafrid seemed overwhelming, for want of a better term. From touch to smell to sight, she simply overwhelmed all his senses. If she had ever looked beautiful from afar, it was unparalleled up close. As for the fragrant smell of her hair, it even went to his head, reminding him that he was not yet completely sober... Was it a smell of cinnamon or almond? She smelled good.

But it was the touch that proved to be the most embarrassing, that silky touch of her hand in his and that voluptuous touch of her body against his as they spun, especially when he simply couldn't ignore the voluminous lures of the Manderly that weighed down on his chest. She was enjoying it, he knew it, he was sure of it, for the laughing, turquoise look she gave him was too innocent for her not to suspect the effect she was having on him. She had very beautiful eyes.

And all this made him nervous.

"For such a good dancer, I haven't seen you dance much tonight, Lord Jon." she said unexpectedly.

Caught unawares, he didn't really know what to say and remained mute and indecisive for a while. Yet she was patient: a girl like Lyra Mormont would have openly chastised and teased him endlessly.

"You flatter me, Lady Manderly, but I am not as good a dancer as you say."

"Let me be the judge of that," she answered him lightly, before continuing in the same vein. "Please call me Lady Wynafrid, by the way. I am not so much older than you, and I am not the lady of White Harbour. At least not yet."

"And I am no lord, in spite of the courtesy titles granted to me."

He immediately regretted having answered without thinking. But for some reason he didn't know, rather than hold his grumpy tone against him, Wynafrid continued as if nothing had happened.

"Aren't you? Aren't you supposed to inherit the lordship of Dragonstone?"

He looked at her hesitantly. The pleasant and imperturbable tone of the young woman and the softness of her voice were as many disturbing as they were soothing. He didn't even know what she wanted... Did he have to answer sincerely?

"Precisely, my lady, I am supposed to inherit it… but it will be at the king's discretion. Nothing can be taken for granted yet."

"Hasn't House Stark been guarding Dragonstone in the name of the king for fourteen years?"

"It has, my lady."

"Well, if so, then you are a lord and I am a lady."

She hadn't even let him finish, but he thought it was better that way. It wasn't a good idea to voice his concerns aloud to the woman who was to inherit the most powerful fiefdom in the North in the future. Arthur would undoubtedly criticise him for his overly hung tongue. And perhaps even Father would also go along with his sermon this time.

"And you still haven't answered my point, my lord," she continued, emphasizing with amusement on the last word. "Why do you present yourself so sparingly? Yet this banquet is such a wonderful opportunity to show the whole court the valiant knight of this morning."

"You flatter me again, my lady. It is useless, I assure you…"

"I am sincere," she cut it off in a tone that seemed very paradoxical to her because of her pleasant mood. There was something predatory about her, even though she hid it well. "You may not know it, but many people were fascinated by your performances during the day. They say that Ser Arthur Dayne would be your appointed master-at-arms and that he took you on as his squire, is this true?"

"He is not really my appointed master-at-arms, but I am his squire," he replied cautiously. "You should know that Arthur Dayne is my uncle. It is a tradition in our family for the elders to train their cadets in arms from an early age."

"Is that what Ser Arthur did with you?"

"Since I was five years old." he revealed to her in a nod.

The turquoise eyes of his partner grew more and more fascinated when he confirmed it.

"That explains it all… That's why you managed to knock down that brute Benfred Tallhart with such ease."

He wouldn't have said with such ease. Facing Benfred Tallhart had been a real ordeal. Certainly he had been dominant throughout the whole fight, but it would have taken only one mistake to fail in front of everyone. Moreover, defeating his opponent had been nothing like a victory.

"Aren't you satisfied with your victory?"

Lady Wynafrid had asked her question hesitantly, which was understandable given his silence. He must not have given the most charming impression. In fact, his sisters used to call him the grumpy one at times like this. His partner was intelligent and she quickly pinpointed the problem. Much too quickly for his taste.

"Is it the fact that he insulted you in front of everyone that makes you so bitter?" she asked then, but it was a rhetorical question and he was pretty sure they both knew it. "Doesn't the fact that your father banished him from Winterfell satisfy you?"

"Of course not." he refuted without delay.

As if he could answer otherwise, as if he could openly admit that he had enjoyed it. For Father had banished Benfred in the course of the day and in front of a large part of the court. Jon had known nothing of this in the first place: he had been in the library at the time. The jubilation was soon replaced by regret when he learned that Ser Helman had preferred to escort his heir son back to their fiefdom, leaving his wife, children and household in the castle.

Many rumours had been spread by many people, and everyone had gone to great lengths to peddle the event that had led to such a sanction. But it was indeed Father's worried expression that made him feel petty and guilty.

"I feel sorry for Ser Helman, he is a good and honourable man," he continued, although he preferred not to look his partner in the eye. "Neither he nor his house deserved such humiliation."

"While you deserved yours?"

"That's not what I said…"

This time he looked into Wynafrid's eyes. He feared by his sceptical intonations that he might appear discourteous, but once again she seemed neither offended nor indisposed in any way. She was thinking.

"It's not what you said, but it's what is understood," she said at last. "By insulting you in this odious manner before the whole court, Benfred Tallhart has sullied the honour of your house. Indeed, it was only natural for your lord father to take action. It is the opposite which would have been regrettable."

But in doing so, Father deprived himself of the support of the future Torrhen's Square master.

"I would have preferred it not to have come to that point," he admitted. "Even for all the contempt he inspires in me."

"And that's how we can see that you are better than him. He believes that nobility resides only in the blood, while it also resides in the soul. And he has it in neither."

The conclusion of the lady made him smile.

Afterwards they said nothing more and were content to follow the music for a while.

It went by much faster than he thought it would, as he danced in harmony with this intriguing damsel. He didn't even know why she had given him so much time. She was destined to his brother, it was well known. Who else could he marry in the North but her? And yet she danced with him, the bastard who had remained on the fringes of the ball. He, the second son, whose inheritance was as hazardous as his lineage.

They danced for many more minutes in this same silence, the long turquoise dress of his partner floating with their movements. Others stopped and others changed partners, but she remained in his arm and held him at the same time within this celebration, for the same obscure reason that he could not guess, and that he finally stopped trying to unveil. Lady Wynafrid had her secrets just as he had his.

And so they continued until the music stopped and they left the dance floor in tandem at the announcement of an intermission. He had enough and so did she. She finally turned to him and broke the silence they had jointly established.

"Will you finally continue the ball with us? Or will you remain that dark and mysterious wolf that hides behind its stone column and leaves the damsels prey to their own curiosity?"

She had formulated her question in a very teasing way, but it was still a real question. For a moment, if she sincerely wanted him to stay, he even thought of answering her in the affirmative.

But the exhilarating air of the festivities no longer disturbed his senses and the coats-of-arms of the Karstarks and the Hornwoods, which stood not far from those of the Manderlys, brought him back to reality. No matter how nice it was, it was only an interlude. Just a long interlude.

"Thank you, Lady Wynafrid, but I'm not as fond of dancing as you think and solitude suits me better."

"A pity."

That was all she said, that strange smile on her face. They greeted each other and he kissed her hand reverently.

The next moment they parted and he watched her return to her own people, to her sister, their mother, their courtiers and their cousin. He did not even try to catch sight of the Hornwood: the very instant he saw his silhouette and his orange doublet, he returned to the depths of the room and to the solitude that he thought was his respite.

Robb was still dancing with Lyra Mormont at his arm and Sansa hadn't left Raymun Ryswell's company either. Although they no longer danced, Bran and Lyarra were also still together, sitting at a table with the latter's parents and chatting with many other courtiers, the Cerwyn, the Slates, but also some Flints and Ryswells. Uncle Benjen was among them and seemed to be telling a thrilling tale if the fascinated looks of his little brother, his lady and their neighbours were any indication.

Isolated and alone with himself, the lone wolf that he was became aware that this renewed freedom did not bring him the deliverance he had hoped for, for behind his stone column, all the torments of being left aside from his kin appeared to him once again. And he did not appreciate them any more now than he had appreciated them before.

But of all of these, it was the idea of seeing Alys dancing again in the arms of another that made him get up, his blossoming mood coming from his dances with Sansa and Wynafrid already dissipated and far away behind him. This time, however, no sister to help and no curious lady appeared to hold him back, so he left the great hall through the back doors leading to the upper floors and balconies, certain that he would not meet any intruders. And now his dancing watch had ended.

It took him less than a minute to reach the upper floor, climbing one by one up the large stone steps of the spiral staircase. It was much darker here, the only lights being the torches in the throne room. Over the edge of the inner balcony one could see the many guests dancing below, and as expected, no one was here, not even a guard. He did not want to linger there either and preferred to use the ironwood postern that led to the other balconies, the ones outside.

The coolness of the night soon replaced the hot and stifling air of the castle and he welcomed it like a blessing from the Old Gods. Breathing in a deep breath of air, he felt the breeze blowing through his hair, drying his moist eyes. It was surely during this special moment that one really realised how much the accumulated heat of the fireplaces, the bodies and the festivities could go straight to one's head. But he was probably the only one in this castle who had to escape from the mundanities and prefer the privacy of a balcony.

Or so he thought, until that moment, when the squeaking of the iron hinges of the wooden balcony door could be heard. His attention immediately turned away from the distant night and concentrated on the unwelcome one that came to disturb him.

He would have preferred any other person to the two intruders who stood before him.

"Aren't you enjoying the night, Snow?"

It was Eddard Karstark who had just spoken, his deep voice rising from the silence.

The Karstark crossed the threshold of the balcony, quickly imitated by his younger brother Torrhen. They entered the balcony, pushing the door behind them. He faced them without delay. He already suspected the reason for their presence, they would not have followed him all the way here to talk about the stars. He had no trouble spotting the contempt that gleamed in their blue-grey eyes, just as he spotted the anger in them.

"What did you dare to say to our sister to make her leave the banquet in tears?" continued the elder, quickly followed by the younger one.

"Tell us what we want to know, Snow! Tell us what you did to her!"

"I don't even know what you're talking about." he replied in a dry tone.

He didn't even know that Alys had left the banquet after their dance. And besides, what more could he have done? How could they even come to the conclusion that he was at fault?

"You don't know? Stop playing innocent!" Eddard Karstark got angry. "Everyone saw you dancing with her earlier. Now answer! What did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything to her."

His circumspect intonation obviously displeased Lord Rickard's two cadets. Not that he was sorry. The contempt they had for him he was quite happy to reciprocate.

"Answer, by the gods!"

"All we did was dance, nothing else happened," he replied with disdain, looking him in the eye. "And even if I'd said something to her, it's none of your business."

"Fucking liar!"

He swore that Torrhen Karstark's screeching could have been heard as far as the paved courtyard of the citadel. Eddard Karstark, however, stopped his younger brother from doing anything but shouting: he had blocked his way with an outstretched arm.

"You've got a lot of nerve, Snow," he said. "But I warn you, you are going to stop turning around her. She has already suffered too much because of you, and there's no way we're going to let you jeopardize her betrothal a second time."

"And otherwise, what?"

"Otherwise I'll throw you over the balcony, Snow, may the gods be my witnesses!"

Torrhen Karstark's bellow echoed in the night. If the realisation of what he had said came to him afterwards, the Karstark clearly didn't budge from it and kept this aggressive posture. Jon looked him in the eye and showed him that he would not meet their hypocritical demands like a coward who would give in to the slightest threat. He was not afraid.

"Don't delude yourself, Snow," Eddard continued. "Our father will never let you defile our bloodline with your seed. Alys deserves a thousand times better than a bastard."

"My brother is not a bastard!"

Robb's voice split the air, as clear as the moonlight in the night sky.

He had just pushed open the door, imposing his presence on the threshold of the balcony. His blue eyes were filled with a fury such as Jon had rarely seen. Surprised by his intrusion, the two Karstark brothers turned towards their future liege lord, with mixed expressions on their faces.

"It doesn't concern you, Robb Stark! Mind your own business!"

"It doesn't concern me, you say? How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you answer me? Do you even know who you're talking to, Torrhen Karstark?"

Robb's successive questions had become more and more furious. If Torrhen thought that Robb expected him to answer, he was heavily mistaken, for the very second he opened his mouth, his brother was the first to do so.

"Spare me your saliva you fool, or else the gods will curse me, for I will be the one to throw you over the balcony!"

In spite of his indignant look and the outraged grimace that stretched across his bearded face, Torrhen did not dare to answer him. As for Eddard, he seemed both scandalized and worried. Unlike his brother, he seemed to realise that they were facing the heir of their liege lord.

"You insulted and threatened my brother before my very eyes! In my father's house! Do you really realize the gravity of your act? You know what happened to Benfred Tallhart, imagine what you can incur!"

"Lord Robb–…"

"Silence!" Robb cried out, immediately interrupting Eddard Karstark.

And silence was, for a time.

Until Robb breaks it again, at his convenience.

"You will not appear in court again. Until your father returns to your fiefdom with your household, I won't see you anywhere. And may the gods have mercy on you if I see you again in the presence of my brother. Now go away!"

Jon watched the two Karstarks evacuate the place, the same vindictive look still on their faces. Yet they did not disagree at any point and the heavy iron wooden door slammed on its hinges as they passed.

From then on, only the northerly wind came to disturb the silence, heavy as lead.

However, their departure did not relieve him of anything. It only added to his already strong resentment the incomprehension of this umpteenth suspension point. Again and again this conformist suspension before the situation turned dramatic, as if it had not already capsized.

As if the damage had not already been done.

"Why?"

Robb had turned towards him, his face covered with an expression he had never seen before. His gaze was terribly accusing but also terribly sad, an incomprehensible and equally chaotic mixture.

"Why do you let them talk to you like that? What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? Are you really asking that?"

"Of course I'm asking! In the name of the gods, Jon, where's your pride? Would you even have had the decency to defend yourself if they had attacked you?"

"Decency…?" he asked in a whisper.

Indignation came to his blood immediately. It was as if Robb was blaming him for being insulted. Reproaches, always reproaches, endless reproaches! This premiere plunged him into an intense state of disarray. And then anger, always it, always there, boiling, burning, from the very beginning.

"You're a complete idiot, Robb. You understand nothing at all. I didn't want to dance with Alys, I didn't want to dance with anyone, but you didn't listen to me. It's because of you that they're here! It's all your fault! You and Arthur are nothing but self-centred idiots, you don't care about how I feel, but between the two of you, you're the worst!"

The confusion and surprise on his brother's face only made him angrier.

"You think everything is simple, but you don't know what it is to be born a bastard. You can't even imagine all the insults, all the mockeries, all the contempt. For you, it's all about decency or pride! But what is the pride of a bastard worth? You have always ignored everything and never understood anything. But how could you understand anything anyway, eh? You've always had everything, you're the worthy heir, you're the goodborn, everyone is swooning over you, everyone is cheering you, to you the nobility, to me the bastardy! You don't know what it's like to be stepped on all your life and to be refused the girl you love just because of your birth. I was born out of vice, I was born without a mother, and yours hates me for that reason alone. Just like the Karstarks, just like half the people I meet, but you don't care about that! We don't have the same mother, we're not of the same race, we don't have the same name and you obviously don't even know who I am, so spare me your conceit, spare me your pretences and your unwelcome compassion, and above all stop calling me brother because you're not like me!"

He was no longer in control of his heart. He couldn't even control his screams. In fact, he couldn't control anything. His breath ran out and he felt tears coming up in his eyes. In front of him, dumbfounded, defeated, frozen and pale, Robb looked halfway at his feet. In the chaos of his emotions gradually emerged the guilt of having shouted at him. Shame, in turn, stabbed him, mingled with his anger and provoked a feeling of disgust, which was soon so intense that it became unbearable.

He waited no longer for his bewildered brother to recover from his terrible diatribe and ran away, as fast as he could, as fast as the stairs, the corridors and the people allowed him to.

He found himself outside the dungeon in a few minutes, then outside the citadel, in the crowded barnyards where the festivities were in full swing, thousands of people everywhere dancing, singing, and feasting. For fear of being recognised and quickly overwhelmed, he crossed as quickly and discreetly as he could this ocean of bodies, hiding his silver strand of hair in his hand and hugging the walls whenever he could. The intense and intermingled smells of wood fires, meat and sweat made him sick, and the profound din of music and the thousands of voices made him dizzy, and from then on he yearned only for peace and silence.

Shortly afterwards he found these in the north courtyard, in the shadow of the broken tower and the moon, near the graveyards and the entrance to the crypts, where he was sure that no one would hang around on this festive night. The only beings living in these places were ghosts and crows.

He felt some rare tears making warm furrows along his cheeks during the night, but he did not have the famous decency to come and wipe them off. He preferred to remain motionless, his arms dangling, lying on the dry but cold grass of the mounds of the north courtyard. Only ghosts and crows would see him here, and they were not very talkative about decency or pride.

Above him, the Ice Dragon reigned in the heavens and traced his titanic path through the darkness, defying all other constellations and heading in eternal solitude towards the far, distant and mythical north. Jon would have liked to be as free as the dragon was.

If he had been a dragon, he would have flown over land and sea and fled far away, so far away that no one would ever have been able to follow him. He would have carried Alys away in the clouds and there would not have been a single man in this world brave enough to oppose him. But it was only a fantasy, as vain and vague as this recurring vision that occupied his dreams, that of the white dragon striped with red that he sometimes embodied, flying under an eclipse sky.

Courting sleep, he finally lost track of time under the stars, the celestial vault glittering with a thousand lights, crisscrossed by the northern lights, veritable swarms of crystals. Old Nan often said that they were the souls of the First Men who danced in the heavens like mortals here below, but for eternity. His mother must also have been there, somewhere in the depths of darkness, near the Ice Dragon, watching him.

The sudden noises of equestrian snorting and hooves in the gravel made him emerge from his dreams and he straightened up in an instant. Arthur was approaching, forcing him to get up in a hurry and wipe the few traces of dry tears from his cheeks.

His uncle was holding two saddled horses by the bridle and Jon had no trouble recognising them. The first was none other than Arthur's steed, Ember, but it was the sight of the second that brought a smile to his face. Winter was still as beautiful as ever and he was all his own.

He approached his horse in silence, reached his muzzle in a few steps and stroked it without waiting. Winter was very happy to see him, he clearly felt him deep inside himself in the same way as he did with Gobbler. His uncle handed him the bridle of his horse shortly afterwards without saying a word and went back to his own horse, while Jon looked at him with curiosity. The knight adjusted his stirrups and saddle sheaths, from the largest of which he saw the characteristic starry pommel of Dawn. Then he settled down on Ember with a nimble leap.

"On your saddle, knight." he says simply.

Without even waiting for his answer, he spurred the flanks of his horse and rode towards the North Gate.

Watching his uncle move away, Jon finally complied a few seconds later. He hoisted himself up as he could on Winter's saddle and put his feet in his stirrups. He noted that Arthur had provided his saddle with its equipment: on the back of it were fixed saddlebags and camp bag, while his bastard sword placed in its scabbard hung on the right side, half hidden under a large iron-plated shield. With a slight blow to the flanks and a fleeting thought, he then told his stallion to trot after his companion.

They made their way to the paved courtyard at the north entrance to the castle and then to the postern, their horses' hooves clapping on the stone and gravel. The place, lightened by just a few torches placed here and there on the walls, was deserted of all life. They approached the double drawbridge that formed the castle boyau on either side and Jon noted that it was guarded by a handful of guards of the House Stark, all in armour and heavily armed. They greeted them as they arrived, but his uncle did not seem to linger for even a moment, so they passed them by and crossed the long drawbridge suspended over the void.

They were out of Winterfell in an instant and found themselves trotting along the path, towards the Acorn Water. After passing the crossroads between the path to Winterfell and the riverside road, they turned north and passed the stone bridge, then headed east and up the valley. At one point, Ember began to increase his pace at the request of his master, and so he told Winter to imitate them. The trot then doubled and became a gallop.

Jon could see Ember galloping ahead, in full wind at an unsuspected speed. In spite of the night and his jet-black coat, he was still visible because of his fiery red mane: it flew under the speed, like the small speck of fire emanating from the embers, which is why his uncle had called him as such. Ember was one of the representatives of the sand steeds, the purest and noblest of Dorne's breeds of steed. There were few of them anywhere else, and he must have been the only representative of them in the whole North.

But for all the uniqueness of Ember, Winter was even more unique. With his grey-white, mottled coat and matching mane, he was the natural embodiment of the colours of the House Stark and the North. Slightly more massive and muscular than Ember, he was a Purebred of the Rills, a Northern steed of the purest lineage. And galloping with him proved to be as exhilarating and invigorating as ever.

Arthur, however, was such a good rider and rode through the night in such a way that Jon could barely keep up with him, despite his powerful mount. Nevertheless, he saw the silver strands that glowed in his uncle's dark hair, shining under the moon and the stars, as did his own.

The wind blew on his face and in his hair and the country passed before his eyes, the hovels that were becoming rarer and rarer, the ditches less and less well dug, and the hills and then the woods. For a few minutes they rode like this. The only light they had then was that of the sky, inconstant but varied, the cold colours of the northern lights giving relief to the open countryside and the tops of the fir trees. Soon there were so many of these that even the moon had difficulty in illuminating them, but Arthur was stubborn and they went deeper into the forest and along what Jon understood to be a mountain path.

Their race through the forest did not last, as the path that zigzagged and climbed up the mountainside came to an end, and with it the woods. At the end of it, the path then opened onto a clearing on the cliffside, on which an imposing dolmen had been erected. The megalithic complex was built in a circular shape, probably by the First Men from time immemorial. There were many of those in the North. This one surrounded a cairn which seemed to be just as old and whose half-ordered pile of stone had partly collapsed on itself.

Arthur dismantled not far away and Jon observed him lead Ember by the bridle into the old site of cult to the Old Gods. He finally decided to imitate him, although he wondered why they were here, and set his feet on the fresh, thick grass.

Winter obediently let himself be guided through the old stones, among which Arthur was standing. When he saw that his uncle had relieved Ember of his bit and bridle and that the animal was grazing the grass growing around them, Jon relieved Winter of his own without delay. The Purebred of the Rills joined his fellow grazer right away.

When he approached Arthur and sat down beside him, it was then that Jon understood.

In the distance stretched the vastness of the North. The dolmen was a belvedere and faced south, and in the middle of the view, Winterfell stood high up in the hills, in the heart of the plain, across the Acorn Water. The fortress and its lower town shone brightly on the solstice night. It was a magnificent sight.

"Winterfell is the heart of the North and its most majestic fortress, but you have to look at it from as far away as here to really appreciate it. Not within its walls, even if they are comfortable and warm. Dragonstone is a little bit the same. It stands on the side of Dragonmont, so high that you can see it about a dozen leagues from the sea and confuse it with the shadow of a huge sleeping black dragon. It influences the whole Narrow Sea, but it is hard to imagine it from its keep."

Arthur had spoken without turning away from the castle. His tone was calm, almost peaceful, the antithesis of the slaughterful mood he had shown at the end of the feast. Jon simply listened to him, failing to really understand what he was getting at. But the Dayne soon enlightened him.

"It's the same for your life, lad," he said. "You will never be able to understand the magnitude of the world around you and the influence you can exert on it if you don't take the necessary distance. I told you that earlier. You have to be strong."

"To inherit Dragonstone?" he asked, but his question was more rhetorical than anything else. "What does it matter if I don't inherit Dragonstone? And even if I do inherit it, what does it matter if my vassals defy me and kick me out of it? And if they don't chase me out, there will always be half of them openly challenging me. And the others will content themselves with ignoring me."

"And if you believe that, then it is precisely for this reason that you have to stay focused on your goals and your future," Arthur replied wearily. "Don't slacken off when faced with the pettiness of the present, no matter how painful it may be."

"Is this where you tell me to ignore my bastardy?"

"This is where I tell you not to forget who you are deep down and what your place is in this world. And your hypothetical bastardy will not change that. It is not birth that defines men, it is their choices. I have seen in the course of my life simple millers show more bravery and honour than the knights who were said to be the most eminent, but who only received their supposed nobility of sword by blood. Even the soul of the most vile extraction can acquire the most eminent of nobilities, and if Ser Duncan the Great is not a sufficient example, one need only to observe half of the guards of Winterfell, who are brave men. So no matter what doubts you have, you will be made a lord and knight of the Seven Kingdoms. You will enjoy great privileges with these dignities, but you will also have to bear the heavy burden of duty that comes with them. And this duty is already upon you."

"And this duty implies forgetting Alys." Jon bitterly concluded.

His uncle's silence was unequivocal.

It lasted for a long time, with a broad breeze that even had time to rock the place, perceptible in the rustle of the tall grasses and the treetops. Not far behind, the occasional snorting of Winter and Ember could be heard as they grazed.

"Don't let your passions get the better of you. Passion is a fire that consumes everything, and it has consumed great men to their own ruin. If you let it cloud your judgement and blur your decisions, it will lose you."

His uncle's warning sounded like a funeral oration. Had he already lived it? No, he had been in the Kingsguard, so it could not have been him.

"Is that what lost Rhaegar Targaryen?"

The passion he had for his aunt, Lady Lyanna. The kingdom had bled for this passion. Or so they all said. Father refused to talk about it, as did his uncles.

Arthur watched him then as he had never watched him before. It was a heavy, almost haunted look, and very difficult to understand. But in the end he turned away from him and concentrated again on the distant castle.

"Rhaegar Targaryen had his own passions, like all men, and he made mistakes that proved fatal to him. But unlike what you may have heard about him, he never gave in to his passions. Never. He was a man of duty and reason, full of abnegation and righteousness. And he remained so until the very end."

It was the first time Arthur spoke about him. Usually, Prince Rhaegar was as taboo a subject for Arthur as Lady Lyanna was for Father. He did not know what motivated his uncle to reopen the past, but curiosity took him and swept away his previous worries, at least for a while.

"What was he like, Prince Rhaegar?"

A thin smile seemed to weave itself on the Dayne's lips. It seemed as if he was remembering happy moments from the past.

"He was a good man, the noblest of all, the best I have ever known. He was unequalled among the Targaryens. He was wise like Jaehaerys the Conciliator, devoted like Aemon the Dragon-Knight and virtuous like Aegon the Unlikely. He had dedicated his whole life to the kingdom. And he would have sat on the Iron Throne as never before had any of his ancestors done so."

His uncle had never worn such fervent words for anyone. Nor had he ever spoken so freely.

"You admired him." he noted.

"He was my dearest friend and he was the king I had chosen," his uncle confided to him. "I would have sacrificed myself for him without a moment's hesitation. If I had disobeyed, I would have accompanied him to the Trident and I would have slaughtered the Usurper even before his mount had reached him. I will regret it for the rest of my life."

And no one could explain it. That Father led his men into battle, but that Arthur was not there.

"But in this case, what has lost Rhaegar Targaryen, if not his passions?"

"His mistakes," Arthur pronounced bitterly. "His father's destructive madness. And his duty."

Jon did not fully understand the conclusion of the Dayne. If passion was a weakness and duty led to death, what was he to conclude from what he told him? At no time did the latter enlighten him, and he preferred to stand up. He returned to Ember, whose saddle he handled, and left him to his unanswered questions. When he came back, he was holding two of the three sheaths he had previously attached to his saddle. He literally threw one of them at him as soon as he stood up, so he caught it clumsily.

All smiles had disappeared from the dornish knight. He had regained that unbiased expression that Jon had always known.

"Be aware of this: the vows of a knight are sacred and those of a sworn brother of the Kingsguard are even more so. I swore my oath before the Seven and I have kept it to the very end. I was a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. That, I will never regret. And I will be a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms until the day I die. When you will have to swear your oath, you will understand that duty can be as constraining as it is emancipating. Duty makes you free."

And his uncle drew his sword. The wrought iron gleamed under the silver moon.

"Now lighten your steel, knight. The sun is not yet up. You may have defeated Tallhart, but I shall not knight my only squire if it means he will lose to a miller in the future."

The rest of that solstice night dedicated to Summer, they spent it by the Sword.

Surrounded by the Old Gods.

---

Bonjour everyone,

Thus concludes this chapter VI of A Prince of Dragonstone.

I reiterate my deepest apologies for the questionable delay in the publication of this chapter. In all, this chapter required more than 400 hours of editing time due to its great complexity. And about 30 hours to translate it. Started around the second week of October 2020, the first two months proved to be infernal from a creative point of view. I was blocked on many occasions and had to go back over several passages. I knew where I wanted to go, but I didn't know how. This turmoil continued until mid-December, when I finally understood how I should proceed.

This chapter is 20,000 words long. As stated in the previous chapter, this chapter was a direct continuation of it. You will also note, if you follow my comments, that I have cut this chapter of a substantial part of its content: Ned Stark's PoV, of approximately 10,000 words, will be published at a later date. This will be the next chapter. However, as it did not directly follow the chapter of the Summer Banquet of Winterfell, I have decided to make it an independent chapter.

I am very satisfied with this chapter. It proved to be a trial. A narrative trial, a restitution of rhythm and moods trial, an imagination trial and just about everything else trial. It's also the first time I've made a chapter based on a single scene without any discontinuity. There was so much to show and say in this chapter that I didn't know where to start and where to go.

I just love Jon. I think I do a very good job with his character, and I try to develop him gradually to make him a good man, made up of a very concrete, very human panel of emotions. It turns out that I also love Robb and Sansa very much. I wanted to give them more substance, more impact. I wanted to show the friendship between Robb and Jon, more than the brotherhood that comes from blood. In spite of a relationship that is not simple, marked by the reality of their births, their futures, and a semblance of inherent sibling rivalry. Jon is jealous of Robb, which is also an important point. Jon is fallible. So is Robb. Sansa is not perfect either, she is very uncompromising, far too uncompromising. She hurts herself. I wanted to show that they are brother and sister. Certainly not the closest, because that privilege belongs to Arya, but that doesn't change the fact that Jon loves Sansa and would protect her in a vulnerable situation.

I am beginning to exploit the political breadth of the North very seriously. This necessarily involves Lady Wynafrid Manderly, the future lady of White Harbour. Don't forget that the laws of the North are quite advanced in terms of inheritance and that daughters inherit before uncles. And like many others, because of her straight line, her father Wylis being Lord Wyman's heir, and she being his father's heir (until the day he conceives a son, which he manifestly does not desire), and therefore by extension her grandfather's heir, Wynafrid is led to become the Lady of White Harbour. And thus the most powerful bannerman (bannerwoman?) of the House Stark. Wynafrid is therefore one of the key characters of A Prince of Dragonstone and will come back later on. Of course she will. According to Jon, her family has destined her for Robb Stark. This would merge the Houses Stark and Manderly, giving the former a political power in the North equivalent to that held by the Lannisters in the Westerlands. A project of union unprecedented in the history of the North since the foundation of the Seven Kingdoms. And of course, strongly contested by many of the lords of the North, who obviously do not want the House Stark to be so powerful. The issue will be discussed further in the next Ned PoV.

In conclusion, I hope you have enjoyed reading this chapter. It would never have come to life in this magnified form (at least in my opinion) without the vital help of my dearest friend, Lexias. So Lexias, thank you. Thank you for your time, thank you for your invaluable advice, thank you for your even more invaluable friendship. And to all of you, I can't advise you enough to go and read Overwatch: Crossroad, based on the eponymous fandom, which has immense potential, is very well written and is very much worth your time. Do not hesitate to leave me a small comment, which will make me very happy, and feel free to ask me questions or leave me critics.

Take care of yourself, and stay safe,

Etsukazu