The Great Hall of Winterfell had long since dissolved into the warm, chaotic haze that came with northern feasts. Smoke curled thickly toward the rafters from the enormous hearths lining the stone walls, carrying the scent of roasted boar, spilled ale, and burning pine through the crowded hall. Tankards slammed against wooden tables in uneven rhythm while somewhere near the musicians, one of the younger squires attempted to sing loudly enough to drown out the rest of the room.

Snow battered softly against the high windows. Beyond them, the courtyards of the castle had disappeared beneath darkness and white frost.

You barely noticed any of it anymore.

The room swayed pleasantly around you, blurred at the edges by too much wine and the heavy heat of the feast. Your head felt warm, thoughts slow and tangled as laughter echoed somewhere too loud in your ears. One moment you’d been sitting with Sansa Stark, and the next she was dragging you across the hall while you struggled very hard to walk in a straight line.

“She’s not good at drinking, apparently,” Sansa said with an exasperated laugh.

You must have looked ridiculous. Dark curls had fallen loose from their braids hours ago, brushing against your flushed cheeks whenever you moved. The golden stags embroidered into the sleeves of your gown flashed in the firelight as you stumbled slightly, blinking owlishly at the figure seated near the end of the table.

Jon Snow looked up only when Sansa stopped in front of him. His cup of ale sat untouched beside his hand, attention pulled away from Robb and Theon’s drunken shouting the moment you nearly lost your footing.

Jon let out a quiet sigh beneath his breath before setting the cup aside. A steady hand caught you carefully by the waist, grounding you before you could fall directly into him.

“Gods,” he muttered, fingers tightening slightly to keep you upright, “how much did you drink?”