Not really a chapter, just a scene I had originally planned for the previous chapter, but left out because not thing important really happens. If you want more of Jon, including Jon/Arya interactions, this might be a fun bit of fluff to read :)

Jon was well and thoroughly drunk—a perfect state to be in this evening. In the Great Hall, the lights and delicious smells and the sounds of music and merrymaking swam pleasantly around him, though it was growing rather warm for his liking. Already he had undone the ties of both his jerkin and his doublet, but still there was a lively flame growing in his belly, and sweat prickled on his neck. The young squires he sat with at the end of the hall all agreed his face was turning redder by the hour.

As if he had developed a tick, for the hundredth time that evening he glanced up to the high table. One of the men from the king's party was up there now, bowing low over where his mother sat, and he saw her smile, nod, then follow him to the space cleared for dancing. As she walked past his father, she leaned down to whisper in his ear, and Jon almost laughed at the way his father's already stiff face seemed to darken like that of a harassed old cat.

Laughter erupted around him again—the youths with whom he sat had been exchanging stories of battle and hunting and bedding women these many hours past—and beneath the table he felt Ghost perk up his ears, then nudge his leg. He skewered the carcass of a roast chicken that had been relieved of its legs and wings and surreptitiously slid it under the table, where Ghost pounced on it with silent enthusiasm.

All counted, this was the pup's second whole chicken tonight, and Jon did not understand how all the food even fit in his belly. Earlier, two of the grown dogs had come and tried to relieve Ghost of a leg, but had been frightened off by his bared teeth and silent snarl. Jon did not think he would ever again be so proud of any creature.

He was certain none of his siblings had been allowed to have their wolves under the table, and no doubt the boisterous youths that surrounded Jon were much more interesting than the queen's children. Jon had gotten a good look at the royal party when they had paraded past in the procession, and if he were honest, it had been quite enough.

First had come his father escorting the queen, who had been dripping with gold and jewels that matched her hair and eyes. She was truly as beautiful as people said, and Jon hoped Theon would not remember that he had bet him a silver stag that the queen would not be as comely as the rumours told. Yet, there was something cold about her, and even from his seat now, he could see the queen's icy stare into the distance as she emptied her wine glass.

After that had come the king himself with his mother on his arm, and the air around them could not have been more different. Both were talking and smiling the whole time, and inside the great doors his mother whispered something to the king that made him throw his head back and roar with laughter. She did not look at Jon, but as they passed where Jon sat, she dropped her hand and gave him a wave before folding it back into her gown.

The king himself was a bewildering disappointment to Jon. Since he could remember, his father had told them stories of Robert Baratheon's prowess in battle—of how he rode into the melee, six and a half feet tall with his antlered helm on his head, swinging a war hammer Father could barely even lift. And yet this man was bearded and fat and red in the face, stumbling half drunk down he hall. What savagery the years could do to a man, Jon had thought, and shivered.

Next had come his siblings—Robb with the thirteen-year-old Princess Myrcella beside him, seemingly oblivious to the shy blush on her face, for she was but a child; Prince Joffrey escorting Sansa, who looked radiant as usual, but Jon had misliked immediately the way Joffrey was looking at his sister; Arya, paired with the plump ten-year-old Prince Tommen, who was as tall as she was, followed by Arthur and Lia who looked like matching dolls—and after them had walked Theon and Sam.

Each sought out Jon in the throng as they passed and offered him a smile, and Jon felt himself sitting just a bit taller. Arya had given him a wry, sideways look, as if daring him to laugh at her predicament, and Robb had offered him an apologetic shrug. Even Theon had smiled half in commiseration as he passed, and Jon had thought perhaps he would be honourable, and pay up for their bet even if Theon did not remember it.

Ser Jaime had been a sight to behold. For all that he had heard of the kingslayer's misdeeds, he looked like a true knight—even a king. And then there had been his dwarf brother, and as Jon watched him struggle up the aisle on his stunted legs, his face flat and his forehead protruding, he thought again of what Sansa had said of being kind. This man had likely had very little of kindness in his life, but truly he did not look benevolent or deserving of it.

"Are you going to pour me some of that wine?"

Jon jumped. He had been drinking for hours now, and had not heard Arya sneak up behind him until her head popped beside his.

"Damnation. You scared the wits out of me."

She rolled her eyes and tilted her goblet at him expectantly.

"You look like you're having more fun than the rest of us put together," she sighed, popping a roasted lantern pepper into her mouth as Jon filled her glass. "Joffrey keeps ogling Sansa, Myrcella keeps ogling Robb, and Tommen keeps ogling the suckling pig. Amma only gave us one flagon of wine for the table, and I'm going mad."

She downed half the goblet, then slid into the seat next to Jon to pet Ghost, who narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her before giving her a tentative lick. It was funny. Jon laughed. Hard. Arya raised a dark eyebrow.

"Well, you really have been having fun."

"Yes," said Jon, drawing out the 's' sound. "The company down here is no doubt better. And if Prince Joffrey keeps looking at Sansa like that, we might have to do something about him."

Arya grinned, emptying her wine.

"Robb's face has been turning into Father's all evening. Don't do anything to Joffrey without Sansa knowing, though. She'll be put out if you mess with him before she's decided against him, and I'll be the one hearing her moping."

Jon frowned.

"When has Sansa ever decided against anyone?"

Arya smirked at him and refilled her goblet.

"Don't worry, big brother. No doubt he'll make a nuisance of himself these next days and Sansa will come to her senses. I'll come to find you to plot his downfall, promise."

Jon was glad he'd rarely gotten on Arya's bad side growing up. She used to hit back her revenge with lightning efficacy—that slug in the stomach when he and Robb had tried to scare their sisters in the crypts came to mind—but in recent years she had taken to plotting revenge schemes as one would plot murder.

Jon had yet to be on the receiving end of one of those, though he had seen Robb bite into a powder cake only to find it topped with salt and white pepper, not sugar, and heard Theon scream bloody murder because Arya had fashioned a broken doll to drop over his bed in the middle of the night.

"Seven hells," Arya said now, peering under the table. "Did Ghost eat all that chicken?"

Jon shot her a toothy grin.

"He'll be bigger than all his littermates soon."

Arya narrowed her eyes.

"Size isn't everything."

"Said like the true giantess you are," snickered Jon, and he reached out to muss her hair, but Arya was quick—quicker than usual, for some reason. She ducked under his arm, purple eyes glittering with fierce mischief, and jabbed him in his ticklish spot with her sharp little elbow.

Jon choked on his breath and sputtered.

"Arya!"

"I endured nearly an hour of sitting for this hair," she hissed, and jabbed him again. "Careful, big brother, or I might decide to hide something unpleasant in your shoes."

"That'll stay with you," came a voice behind them, and Theon's dark head emerged into view. He, too, held an empty goblet, and Jon obligingly filled it without being asked. "I still never put my feet into my shoes without checking, all thanks to Arya's head cheese stunt."

"You should be doing that anyway," said Arya, swivelling around to him and leaning forward, chin on her hand. "I helped you develop some good habits."

Growing up on the Iron Islands, Theon has never seen head cheese, and was still put off by it to this day. Not that Jon blamed him. When Jon had been thirteen, Theon had done something or other to incite Arya's wrath. He had put his boots on the next morning only to step into coagulated pig's tongue. He and Robb had mocked Theon's high-pitched scream for a whole month.

"Aye, you're the image of the Mother, really," said Theon, and Arya smirked at him.

"Cheers to that. I am the height of benevolence."

Jon sputtered on his wine this time. Theon laughed, his eyes never once leaving Arya's face except when it dipped—Damnation, did Amma see how low Arya's bodice was cut?

Jon felt himself glaring at them both. These past months, he sometimes wondered wildly if they were having a tryst. Jon had no idea what two people who were bedding together would look like before others, but surely not. Theon wouldn't. Arya would, and she needed no other reason than that it was Theon, but surely Theon wouldn't. No, perhaps Arya was having a laugh with flirting, and had trapped Theon into her games.

He didn't meet Theon yesterday, and he knew his sister even better. Theon was a scoundrel, but if there was any advantage being taken, it was Arya doing the taking. Still, Jon was certain Theon was not bedding his sister. He wouldn't. Right?

Just the thought made his skin crawl. A disadvantage of drinking, this: ridiculous thoughts tended to burst into his head uninvited.

Preferring not to see or think about the scene beside him, Jon turned back to Ghost and poured himself more wine. Overall, not a bad evening, if he could forget the sting of the reason he sat back here. The hall was swimming pleasantly once more, and it wasn't even so hot anymore.

Later, he remembered his Uncle Benjen appearing, petting Ghost as he shed his frosty cloak. He had explained Ghost's name-because he was white all over and silent as a spectre.

Jon remembered also boasting that he could best Robb with the sword. Uncle Ben had joked that they could use a man like him at the Wall, and then they both laughed, his uncle reminding him not to tell his mother he had said such a thing, for fear Amma would slice his throat open with her knives for suggesting it.

Some time later, Arya had cursed under her breath, downed her wine, and scurried away. Jon barely remembered any details. It was all blending together into a nice, relaxed, orange haze. The next thing he knew, morning light was shooting painfully into the back of his eyes, and a woollen sock had replaced his tongue.