Jon remembered the feasts at Winterfell from his boyhood, where he was relegated to the back of the hall, while Lord and Lady Stark sat on the dais with their trueborn children. Back then, he had felt neglected and resented his placement. In his previous life, he took the seat at the head of the table once occupied by Lord Stark. Now, he sat on the dais between Lord Stark and Sansa, wishing he were at the back of the hall with his wife beside him.
Jon was not ungrateful, but he would have preferred spending the evening making love to Sansa or sitting at the back where prying eyes wouldn't watch their affectionate moments. Alas, it was not to be. Tonight, all eyes were still on Lord and Lady Stark. Tomorrow, that would change, and he would be the one the Lords looked to.
Though Jon had experienced being King in his last life, he was still a bastard, only made King because Sansa was a woman. Jon being a trueborn prince was a different feeling, as if he had more responsibility. It was not a role he could easily shed once his identity was revealed.
The feast wasn't large, only three courses, as the proper celebration would come when Jon's identity was revealed. There were still some Lords missing, most notably Lord Manderly, who was to arrive the next day, and Lord Bolton—a fact that was both suspicious and concerning. Jon suspected Varys might know something about it, but he hadn't yet spoken with the spider, uncertain if he could trust him.
The first course was cod cakes with a delicious sauce and Arbor Gold. Next came the venison pie, served with Dornish Red, much to the delight of Prince Oberyn. The final course was lemon cakes, a particular favourite of Sansa.
Once the eating was over, Lord Stark stood to make a speech.
"Tonight, we eat and reacquaint ourselves with merriment, for tomorrow will be dedicated to matters of a more serious nature. For now, I would like to welcome you all back to Winterfell, and most of all, my son Robb, my daughter Sansa, and my good son Jon," Ned said, as a roar of approval rang out through the great hall, accompanied by the beating of tankards on the tables. "Let us enjoy the merriment for tonight," he added as the musicians at the back of the hall struck up their instruments.
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Jon turned to Ned. "Did Lord Bolton confirm he would attend?"
Ned nodded. "Aye, he did."
"Do we know when he started out?" Sansa asked.
Ned shook his head. "I have had no word. None of our travellers have seen him."
This statement worried Jon. Their plans hinged on eliminating Roose Bolton by any means necessary. If he was missing or hadn't attended, it would make their job far more difficult.
"Maybe Varys knows something," Sansa suggested.
"Do you really think he's on our side?" Jon asked.
"He was as soon as he knew you," Sansa replied.
"Aye, but I was his last choice," Jon said.
"That was only because he didn't know about you. Once he saw you as King in the North, he started looking at you as a potential leader of the Seven Kingdoms, bastard or not. The only thing keeping him loyal to Daenerys was her dragons. Although, I think he had suspicions when he saw you riding Rhaegal."
"And how do you know this?" Jon asked.
"He was watching you carefully. And he knew you could ride a dragon. Don't you think he was a little suspicious of that? There is only one record of a non-Targaryen riding a dragon, and it is suspected that she was a dragonseed. I think he suspected you had Targaryen blood," Sansa said.
"That doesn't mean he would have tried to put me on the Iron Throne," Jon whispered.
"I think this conversation can wait for tomorrow," Ned stated. "We are supposed to be celebrating the coming together of the northern Lords. Of which, you are," he glared at Jon in such a manner, Jon felt like a boy again.
"Jon, would you care to dance?" Sansa asked attempting to divert the conversation.
Jon furrowed his brow. He hated dancing. It was one aspect of growing up a bastard he liked, not having to learn to dance as well as a Lord. Only enough to satisfy someone of lower birth.
"I'm not very good," Jon replied, trying his best to put Sansa off. "Dance with Robb, he is better at it than I."
"Jon, you need to learn these skills if you take the Iron Throne," Sansa whispered.
Jon looked at her in horror. "What does dancing have to do with being King?" he whispered.
"Lords in the south who wish to curry favour with a monarch will encourage you to dance with their wives and daughters. Especially their daughters. Just because you are wed doesn't mean you will stay faithful. It is not unusual for a King to have a mistress. Those who seek power will throw their daughters at you, their reputations be damned. Should you need a Lord's assistance, it would be wise to dance with his wife. It will become a useful tool when petitioning the Lords for help with the army of the dead," Sansa told him.
"But I don't want a mistress," Jon protested. "How can any woman measure up to you?"
Sansa blushed at the compliment, but she pressed on. "I'll give you an example. When you are King, Lady Margaery will try to seduce you. If she cannot be your wife, she will attempt to be your paramour. But you will only know for certain if you dance with her."
"If I don't dance at all, then they cannot seduce me," Jon countered.
"As long as their fathers are introduced, it is all that matters," Sansa replied.
Jon rolled his eyes, making Sansa laugh. "Ask Robb, then I will dance with you. I need more ale in my belly before I dare to dance," he replied.
"Ale will make it harder. I need to know your dancing skills because you need to be more than competent," she insisted.
Jon turned his head to Ned, Cat, and Robb, who were all watching with interest and smirking. When Sansa was adamant about something, there was no talking her out of it. Especially when he knew she was right.
Resigned to enduring some form of humiliation, Jon gave Sansa a nod. He stood, took her hand, and led her to the middle of the great hall where everyone was dancing. Sansa took Jon's hands in hers.
"Just follow my lead," Sansa told him. "You are graceful with a sword. Just imagine dancing as if you were sparring."
Jon looked at her nonplussed. How could sparring and dancing be similar? He thought. However, once he understood the steps, he saw some similarities between them. Though he knew which one he preferred, the chance to touch Sansa in public wasn't an opportunity he would turn down again.
They danced again before Robb relieved him and took his sister's hand. His brother had endured the lessons as children and had become a proficient dancer. As had Theon, who was trying to teach poor Ygritte the steps. She enjoyed dancing, just not in such a formal way. Tormund took pity on her and joined in, steps be damned, dancing how he wanted, causing much mirth in the Great Hall. A surge of guilt passed through Jon, as he knew Theon had yet to find out about his father. Jon resigned to telling him the next morning before it was announced to the Northern Lords.
The song stopped, and Sansa approached the table and sat beside him, breathless and flushed. Jon desired to whisk his wife off to bed, but he knew that would not be appropriate. She took a sip of water as she caught her breath.
"Having fun?"
"Very much so," Sansa replied and leaned into his ear. "We need to mingle. And I don't mean drinking goat's milk with Tormund. Robb is doing his part, evaluating the mood of the Lords." Jon turned to see Robb deep in conversation with Lord Glover. "Talk to Greatjon Umber. Introduce him to Tormund and sour goat's milk. Get them talking and find out what they have in common. Then let them get drunk. Or even suggest a drinking game," she said.
"What are you going to do?" Jon asked.
"I'm going to find out where Roose Bolton is. Father is already asking around, and Lord Varys knows. But Father would never ask him," Sansa said.
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"Tormund," Jon greeted the wildling with a hearty slap on the back.
Tormund, who had been talking to one of the other Freefolk who had accompanied him south, turned around and gave Jon one of his enormous grins. "Little Lord."
"I need your help," Jon said.
Tormund raised an eyebrow. "What do you want me to do?"
Jon nodded his head towards Greatjon Umber. "He doesn't like you very much."
"More like he fucking hates me. You should see the looks he's been giving me."
"We want to change that," Jon said. "Have you got any goat's milk with you?" Jon knew it was a stupid question. The Freefolk weren't fond of wine. They only just tolerated the ale and cider.
Tormund laughed. "HAR, what do you think? Would that be enough to persuade him?"
"Get him drunk. Play a drinking game and see if it works. The more the Freefolk are accepted by the northern Lords, the easier your life will be."
"How do you want the game to work?" Tormund asked as they made their way across the Great Hall.
Jon thought for a minute. There was a game he remembered playing when he was a child, although alcohol wasn't involved. "True or false," Jon said. "You say something about yourself, and the other person has to guess if it is true or false. If the person guessing gets the answer wrong, they have to drink. You have plenty of stories to tell and plenty to make up."
Tormund looked thoughtful for a moment. "I like the sound of that game," he grinned.
"Let me introduce you."
Jon and Tormund approached Greatjon Umber, who scowled at the presence of the red-haired wildling. This was going to be a huge test. The Umbers had been the most affected by the wildling raids, and although there had been no trouble since the Freefolk had farmed the Gift, Jon knew the huge Lord was sceptical Jon wanted the man by his side, so he bowed his head to appease him.
"Lord Whitestark," Greatjon's voice boomed. Jon was unsure whether or not the Greatjon sounded friendly. He just hoped that by the end of the drinking game, the two would befriend one another over their mutual liking for getting drunk.
"Lord Umber," Jon smiled, turning to Tormund. "I would like to introduce you to a good friend of mine, Tormund Giantsbane." The Greatjon raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but Jon continued. "I believe you both share a common interest in the finer traits of a good drink."
"What kind of pisswater can these wildlings offer?" Greatjon snapped.
"Better than that fucking grape piss you Southerners call wine. That's not a proper man's drink," Tormund retorted.
Jon smirked. Tormund was challenging Greatjon to a different type of game, a risky strategy, but it might be the only way this attempt could pay off.
"Go on, what do wildlings drink that is better than wine?" Greatjon challenged.
Tormund pulled out a flagon of sour goat's milk. Jon felt a hangover coming on just at the sight of it.
"Sour goat's milk," Tormund announced.
Greatjon turned to Jon. "Is this genuine?" he asked.
Jon laughed. "It tastes disgusting and gets you so drunk that a chamber pot is required."
"HAR," Tormund laughed. "Only because this little Lord can't handle his drink."
"Aye, you're right. I can't handle that stuff. I bet even Tyrion Lannister would struggle," Jon japed. Tormund took hold of three tankards and filled them, but Jon put his hand over his.
"What's up?" Greatjon asked.
"I haven't seen my wife in three moons. I don't want to spend our reunion with my head in a chamber pot."
"I bet you want to spend it with your head between her legs," Tormund's eyes lit up as he stuck out his tongue and made a licking motion.
At first, the Greatjon looked shocked, then burst into hysterical laughter. "I don't expect you to drink it all, but I want you to drink some first," he told Jon.
Jon lifted the tankard and took a gulp followed by a cough and a splutter, as he pulled it away. He felt the warmth of the alcohol seeping into his body and the buzz almost immediately hitting his head. Tormund laughed at him, downing half of his tankard, and wiping his mouth afterwards. Seeing this as a challenge, Greatjon picked up his tankard and drank it all.
"You're going to regret that," Jon laughed, shaking his head.
Tormund finished his tankard and poured himself and Greatjon another round of goat's milk. They clashed their tankards together and downed their second one. This time, Greatjon smiled.
"Not bad," he said. "You got any more?"
"Oh yes," Tormund grinned. "Barrels of the stuff."
"Well, I say we get drunk and leave this one to pleasure his wife," Greatjon said, leaning down to Jon. "I know I shouldn't say this, as she's your wife and Lord Stark's daughter. But I'd rather spend my night with a woman like her than getting pissed with this ginger twat."
"I shall leave you two to get drunk on that stuff," Jon smiled at Greatjon. "We'll ensure you have extra chamber pots, just in case it disagrees with you."
"Fuck that!" Greatjon said. "It's fine stuff, this. I must find out how it's made. Maybe these wildlings have something of used to offer after all."
Jon left the two of them to bond over their mutual appreciation for alcohol, while he sought Sansa, who was seated with Lord Varys. The spider was dressed in grey and white silks, much like he had been in their previous life.
"Lord Varys," Jon nodded.
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm no Lord, Lord Whitestark. I hope you don't mind, but I've just been chatting with your lovely wife. You are a lucky man."
Jon gave Varys a genuine smile and squeezed Sansa's shoulder, catching her eye. "I am fully aware of how lucky I am, Lord Varys."
"We were just talking about Lord Bolton," Sansa said, lowering her voice.
Jon frowned. He didn't like her lowering her voice; it suggested something was amiss. He sat next to her and took her hand. "What of him?"
"After Lord Robb visited Roose Bolton, he wrote to the Hand of the King."
"Tywin Lannister?" Jon frowned.
"The very one," Varys confirmed. "He informed the Lord Hand of some interesting news and met with Kevan Lannister at Harrenhal. Lord Tywin couldn't go himself, otherwise it would seem rather odd. That is why he sent his brother, Kevan. Black Walder was also part of the meeting."
"What did they speak of?" Sansa asked.
Varys shook his head. "Alas, I had none of my little birds in those meetings. A plan is being hatched, my Lord. Although what it is, I cannot say. One would expect Lord Bolton to have discussed the northern situation surrounding the Freefolk and the taxes being paid to the Night's Watch instead of the crown."
"The crown has no jurisdiction over the New Gift or Brandon's Gift," Jon said.
"I suspect the Hand might argue that as you are a Lord, he has authority over you to submit taxes to the crown. From what my little birds tell me, there are whispers from all over the realm. Lord Stark intends to send the wildlings south to raid their villages."
Jon dragged his hand down his face. "Seven hells. Who are the other missing Lords?" he asked.
"The Manderlys, the Dustins, the Ryswells, and the Hornwoods," Varys replied.
"Lord Manderly will be here on the morrow," Jon said.
"The others are known supporters of the Boltons," Sansa added.
"Lord Tywin wished to marry you off to Jaime Lannister," Varys said. "And kill you, Lord Whitestark."
"That would get us both out of the way," Jon exhaled. "But why are we so important?"
"The New Gift and Brandon's Gift are highly desirable lands. The north grows wealthy, my Lord. Soon it will surpass many other regions in Westeros. I would estimate it is already more wealthy than the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Stormlands. All because you let the wildlings south. Increasing the wealth of the North in such little time is no mean feat. The crown is in much debt, thanks to King Robert's reckless spending."
"So Tywin wants to take back the Gift and put in a northerner of his choosing?" Jon surmised, to which Varys nodded.
"It is the only way he can gain control. He'd never send his troops north," Sansa frowned.
"True," Varys agreed. "Instead, I believe he would create a civil war among the northerners. It is what I would do with the information he has. But of course, he doesn't know everything," he turned to Jon. "Does he, your grace?" Varys whispered.
"How did you know?" Jon asked.
"Ashara Dayne gave birth to her daughter before you were born," Varys said. "I questioned myself, why would Ned Stark lie, and I could only come up with one answer. There are records in the Citadel, or so I believe, confirming Lyanna and Rhaegar were legally wed."
"What do you intend to do with this information, Lord Varys?" Jon asked.
"I serve the realm, your grace. Knowledge of your identity changes nothing in that regard. I watch out for the smallfolk. Alas, the smallfolk will suffer whether Tommen remains King or you take the Iron Throne, for war is brewing. Therefore, I have chosen who I think is best suited to caring for the smallfolk after the war."
"And who would that be?" Jon asked.
"Why, you, of course, your grace," Varys shrugged.
"How do we know we can trust you?" Sansa asked.
"You can't," Varys said, shrugging his shoulders. "How can you trust any of these men?" he asked, gesturing around the room before returning his hand to his sleeve. "All I can do is offer my counsel and the service of my little birds. I'm sure knowing what is happening in the Red Keep would benefit you."
Jon looked to Sansa, who gave him a nod. "I think we should," she said.
"You would be wise to listen to her grace. I could be of use to you."
"Aye, I've no doubt you would be useful. But you are offering to betray your current King in favour of another prospect. Did you not try to have my aunt murdered at the behest of Robert Baratheon? Why are you not seeking her out?" Jon asked, his voice low and distrustful.
"I had every intention of searching for Daenerys. However, I do have reservations. Three dragons do sound rather terrifying," Varys shuddered.
"You don't like the idea of a Targaryen riding a dragon?" Jon asked.
"I'm not against the idea, Your Grace. When a person has the blood of old Valyria, it is to be expected that one might be able to control a dragon. However, I believe three dragons for one person is a little excessive. One could even say greedy," Varys said. Jon and Sansa exchanged glances, and Varys eyed them both. "Am I to assume you also have three dragons hidden somewhere in the north, your grace?"
Jon laughed at the suggestion. "No, Lord Varys. I concur. Three is far too many for one person. How can she control all three? It is hard enough controlling two direwolves, imagine three dragons."
"All these years the Targaryens have been trying to hatch dragon eggs. None for centuries, then three come all at once. Just when we thought the Targaryen line had died out," Sansa said, to which Jon laughed and Varys tittered.
"Well, your grace, I shouldn't take up your valuable time," Varys nodded. "I think it is time I retired. I believe tomorrow promises to be a long day," he said, getting up.
"What do you recommend we do about Lord Bolton?" Jon asked.
"Do?" Varys raised an eyebrow. "For now, there is little you can do. He will not attend the council, for he set off before Lady Whitestark. I witnessed it on my way north. He was heading south down the Kingsroad."
"Wouldn't someone have seen him?" Sansa asked.
"I doubt he passed Winterfell, Lady Whitestark," Varys replied.
Jon furrowed his brow. "Where do you think he has gone?"
"One would assume either the Twins or Harrenhal," Varys replied. "If you would excuse me, I think it is time I retire for the evening. I find it rare for feasts to divulge secrets. The alcohol does that, and all too often. I bid you a good evening, my Lord, my Lady," Varys bowed his head to them.
"Evening, Lord Varys," Sansa said.
"Evening, my Lord," Jon added.
Once the eunuch had gone, Jon turned to Sansa. "Do you think we can trust him?"
Sansa laughed. "Only a fool would trust Varys," she said, reminding Jon of when they retook Winterfell from the Boltons. Sansa looked at him as she realised what she had said, and they both laughed.
"Come, dear wife. I believe it is time for us to retire for the evening. Tomorrow will be a long day," he said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.
They bid everyone of importance goodnight and made their way back to their chambers. Jon hadn't been lying; he was tired, and so was Sansa, especially as she had been travelling all day. He just hoped she had enough energy to make love once before bed.
As Jon entered the room, his plans dissolved. The once-singing dragon had fallen silent, yet its call felt more urgent than ever. His gaze fixed on the box containing the egg, a sensation washed over him, as if the baby dragon within was pleading for release, ready to emerge into the world.
But Jon faced a daunting dilemma. He lacked the knowledge of how to hatch the dragon egg. Then, a phrase echoed in his mind: 'Perzys se ānogar.' Despite his limited grasp of Valyrian, the meaning was clear: fire and blood.
Realisation dawned upon Jon. A human sacrifice was required, the blood of a deceased man. He decided to execute Ramsay himself, and that would serve as the first order of business the following day: Ramsay's trial and subsequent execution. The announcement of Jon's true identity would have to wait. The hatching of the egg was far more urgent.