The great hall of Winterfell still rang with the echoes of music, laughter, and hushed conversation. The feast to welcome the king had been grand, but for Jon, the taste of cheap wine and the warmth of the fire were a bitter reminder of his place in the hierarchy of his father's house.

He had endured sitting at the squires’ table, watching from afar as his brothers stood beside the king and the princes. It didn’t bother him as much as it should have, but the conversation with Benjen… it burned in his chest like live coals.

He walked out into the courtyard, the cold wind biting his face. Jon was furious—at Benjen, at himself, at everything. “You’re too young, Jon.” His uncle’s words echoed in his mind. “You don’t understand what the Watch is really about.” He knew he did. Or at least he wanted to believe that.

The Wall would be a place where he could be more than just Ned's bastard. But Benjen doubted him, as everyone else seemed to. He gripped the cold stone edge of the wall and took a deep breath, trying to push his thoughts away. When he heard light footsteps approaching, he turned, ready to dismiss any curious squires or servants.

But it wasn’t any of them. It was her.

Vayon Poole’s eldest daughter stood there, wrapped in a dark cloak that hid her banquet dress. Her hair was loose and disheveled, as if she had escaped a dance or fled a conversation she didn’t want to have. She seemed surprised to see him there, but not frightened.

“Didn’t you enjoy the feast?” she asked, a small smile lighting her eyes in the pale moonlight.

Jon hesitated. She had that way of asking questions that seemed so simple, but somehow required deeper answers than he cared to give. He finally shrugged.

"Feasts are not for bastards," he said without thinking, the bitterness escaping before he could contain it.