There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard1.
As he filled hiswine cup once more from a passing flagon,
it struck him that this might be one of them.
He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires2 and drank.
The sweet, fruitytaste of summerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.
The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy3 with smoke and heavy with the smell of
roasted meat andfresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners.
White, gold, crimson4: the direwolfof Stark5, Baratheon’s crowned stag, the lion
of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp6 andreciting a ballad7, but down
at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar ofthe fire,
the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a
hundred drunkenconversations.
It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king.
Jon’s brothers and sisters had beenseated with the royal children,
beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the kingand queen.
In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass
of wine,but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop
Jon drinking as much as hehad a thirst for.
And he was finding that he had a man’s thirst, to the raucous8 delight of the youths
around him, whourged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company,
and Jon relished9 the storiesthey were telling, tales of battle and bedding and the hunt.
He was certain that his companions weremore entertaining than the king’s offspring.
He had sated his curiosity about the visitors when theymade their entrance.
The procession had passed not a foot from the place he had been given on thebench,
and Jon had gotten a good long look at them all.
His lord father had come first, escorting the queen. She was as beautiful as men said.
A jeweledtiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds a perfect match for the
green of her eyes. Hisfather helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat,
but the queen never so much aslooked at him. Even at fourteen,
Jon could see through her smile.
Next had come King Robert himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. The king was a
greatdisappointment to Jon. His father had talked of him often: the peerless
Robert Baratheon, demon10 ofthe Trident, the fiercest warrior11 of the realm,
a giant among princes. Jon saw only a fat man, red-facedunder his beard, sweating
through his silks. He walked like a man half in his cups.
After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the
dignity athree-year-old could muster12. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to
visit. Close behind cameRobb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors.
He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm.
She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade13 of golden curls under
a jeweled net. Jonnoticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the
tables and the timid way she smiledat him. He decided14 she was insipid15.
Robb didn’t even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; hewas grinning like a fool.
His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen,
whosewhite-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the
crown prince, JoffreyBaratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller
than either, to Jon’s vast dismay.
Prince Joffrey had his sister’s hair and his mother’s deep green eyes.
A thick tangle17 of blond curlsdripped down past his golden choker and high
velvet18 collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walkedbeside him, but Jon did not
like Joffrey’s pouty19 lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked
at Winterfell’s Great Hall.
He was more interested in the pair that came behind him: the queen’s brothers,
the Lannisters ofCasterly Rock. The Lion and the Imp20; there was no mistaking
which was which. Ser Jaime Lannisterwas twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden,
with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife.
He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his
tunic21, the lion of hisHouse was embroidered22 in gold thread, roaring its
defiance23. They called him the Lion of Lannister tohis face and whispered
“Kingslayer” behind his back.
Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like,
he thought to himselfas the man passed.
Then he saw the other one, waddling24 along half-hidden by his brother’s side.
Tyrion Lannister, theyoungest of Lord Tywin’s brood and by far the ugliest.
All that the gods had given to Cersei andJaime, they had denied Tyrion.
He was a dwarf25, half his brother’s height, struggling to keep pace onstunted legs.
His head was too large for his body, with a brute’s squashed-in face beneath a
swollenshelf of brow. One green eye and one black one peered out from under a
lank26 fall of hair so blond itseemed white. Jon watched him with fascination27.
The last of the high lords to enter were his uncle, Benjen Stark of the Night’s Watch,
and hisfather’s ward28, young Theon Greyjoy. Benjen gave Jon a warm smile as he went by.
Theon ignoredhim utterly29, but there was nothing new in that. After all had been seated,
toasts were made, thankswere given and returned, and then the feasting began.
Jon had started drinking then, and he had not stopped.
Something rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Jon saw red eyes staring up at him.
“Hungryagain?” he asked. There was still half a honeyed chicken in the center of the
table. Jon reached out totear off a leg, then had a better idea. He knifed the bird
whole and let the carcass slide to the floorbetween his legs. Ghost ripped into it in
savage30 silence. His brothers and sisters had not beenpermitted to bring their
wolves to the banquet, but there were more curs than Jon could count at thisend
of the hall, and no one had said a word about his pup. He told himself he was
fortunate in that too.
His eyes stung. Jon rubbed at them savagely31, cursing the smoke.
He swallowed another gulp32 ofwine and watched his direwolf devour33 the chicken.
Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them,
a black mongrel bitchwith long yellow eyes, caught a scent34 of the chicken.
She stopped and edged under the bench to get ashare. Jon watched the confrontation35.
The bitch growled36 low in her throat and moved closer. Ghostlooked up, silent, and fixed
the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge.
She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move.
He stood over his prize andopened his mouth, baring his fangs38.
The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight.
She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant39 snap to save her pride.
Ghost went back to his meal.
Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle40 the shaggy white fur.
The direwolf looked up athim, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.
“Is this one of the direwolves I’ve heard so much of?” a familiar voice asked
close at hand.
Jon looked up happily as his uncle Ben put a hand on his head and ruffled41
his hair much as Jon hadruffled the wolf’s. “Yes,” he said. “His name is Ghost.”
One of the squires interrupted the bawdy42 story he’d been telling to make
room at the table for theirlord’s brother. Benjen Stark straddled the bench with
long legs and took the wine cup out of Jon’shand. “Summerwine,” he said after a
taste. “Nothing so sweet. How many cups have you had, Jon?”
Jon smiled.
Ben Stark laughed. “As I feared. Ah, well. I believe I was younger than you the
first time I got trulyand sincerely drunk.” He snagged a roasted onion, dripping
brown with gravy43, from a nearby trencherand bit into it. It crunched44.
His uncle was sharp-featured and gaunt as a mountain crag, but there was always
a hint of laughterin his blue-grey eyes. He dressed in black, as befitted a man
of the Night’s Watch. Tonight it was richblack velvet, with high leather boots and
a wide belt with a silver buckle45. A heavy silver chain waslooped round his neck.
Benjen watched Ghost with amusement as he ate his onion. “A very quietwolf,” he observed.
“He’s not like the others,” Jon said. “He never makes a sound.
That’s why I named him Ghost.
That, and because he’s white. The others are all dark, grey or black.”
“There are still direwolves beyond the Wall. We hear them on our rangings.”
Benjen Stark gaveJon a long look. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”
“Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it
might give insult tothe royal family to seat a bastard among them.”
“I see.” His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of
the hall. “Mybrother does not seem very festive46 tonight.”
Jon had noticed that too. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the
truth that people hidbehind their eyes. His father was observing all the courtesies,
but there was tightness in him that Jonhad seldom seen before. He said little,
looking out over the hall with hooded47 eyes, seeing nothing.
Two seats away, the king had been drinking heavily all night. His broad face was
flushed behind hisgreat black beard. He made many a toast, laughed loudly at every jest,
and attacked each dish like astarving man, but beside him the queen seemed as
cold as an ice sculpture. “The queen is angry too,”
Jon told his uncle in a low, quiet voice. “Father took the king down to the crypts
this afternoon. Thequeen didn’t want him to go.”
Benjen gave Jon a careful, measuring look. “You don’t miss much, do you, Jon?
We could use aman like you on the Wall.”
Jon swelled48 with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better
sword, and Hullensays I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”
“Notable achievements.”
“Take me with you when you go back to the Wall,” Jon said in a sudden rush.
“Father will giveme leave to go if you ask him, I know he will.”
Uncle Benjen studied his face carefully. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.”
“I am almost a man grown,” Jon protested. “I will turn fifteen on my next name day,
and MaesterLuwin says bastards49 grow up faster than other children.”
“That’s true enough,” Benjen said with a downward twist of his mouth.
He took Jon’s cup fromthe table, filled it fresh from a nearby pitcher50,
and drank down a long swallow.
“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said.
The Young Dragonwas one of his heroes.