Chapter 6: Jon
There were a few advantages, if not many, to being a bastard, Jon Snow thought, trying to strain his bitterness out of that thought. He was certainly happier now than he'd been a few weeks ago, before the direwolves, but at the same time.
He filled his wine cup again from a passing flagon. By now he was truly and thoroughly drunk. It was easy to forget how quickly one could get drunk on summerwine, because it tasted almost like juice, something sweet and harmless.
Jon turned and laughed at a dirty story he only half understood. Here among the common squires, people tried to make themselves understood and pass on jokes and advice and who knows what else. The accents everyone had were so strange, and Dornishman struggled to understand Reachman, who asked the young boy from the Vale to repeat the joke because he hadn't been talking clearly.
Jon coughed, glancing around the Great Hall, and smiling drunkenly. White, gold, and crimson banners gave the stone walls some welcome life: Stark, Baratheon, the lion of Lannister. He felt unbalanced, but in a way that made him understand why people got drunk. Up there, up with his brothers and sisters. No, his half-brothers and half-sisters, he'd have only a single glass of wine and have to talk to all the lords and ladies. Instead, he got to look around and hear stories and jokes and people trying to pass traditions back and forth.
Like a flyting contest was being attempted at the same time as a Riverlander tried to introduce the cumulative story, and jokes and llittle snippets of songs erupted from the table at points. Certainly, the singer on the hard couldn't be heard, though Jon glanced at him for a moment. He seemed odd, and Jon knew to trust his instincts, but today he had more important matters at hand.
Four hours into the welcoming feast, and he had made so many friends. Battles, bedding, the hunt, they all blended together, talking rapidly, getting sometimes only one word in three with how drunk some of them were.
It seemed to Jon the greatest entertainment man had ever devised. Certainly, it was better company than the visitors. The Queen was as beautiful as rumored, yet it seemed to him a cold beauty, though quite a rich one. And then the King, who was nothing out of the stories. Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, had gone soft like Kings always did in those stories, the ones that ended in disaster and discord. Jon knew that there was something odd, in the way his mind sometimes jumped towards the patterns of a story, but what more could he do, when he stared at a fat, red-faced man who had once been the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and already close to as drunk as Jon had been four hours later.
Then there were the children. Rickon first, such a sweet child. It was hard to add 'half' to anything he was, especially when Rickon had stopped to visit with his older brother, and had to be ushered along. Then there was Robb, and Princess Mycrella was on his arm. A wisp of a girl with a cascade of golden curls, she passed him shy, insipid looks and timid smiles at Robb. And Robb didn't even have the sense not to grin back at her. His half-sisters came with the royal princes. Arya, his favorite sister, with plump Tommen, with long white-blond hair.
Sansa, older by two years than Arya, no doubt thought she had all the luck. There was a girl that had believed in the stories and dreams more than anyone else, including Bran. But not the stories of the North, no, but most of all the stories of the south.
And to his dismay, Jon had to admit that Prince Joffrey looked like someone out of a story. Twelve and yet taller than Jon or Robb, he had the dark Baratheon hair, but his mother's deep green eyes. His hair was thick and dripped down past a golden choker, and he was dressed in finery which made Jon wonder, aware that there was some jealousy there, how he'd manage if he had to walk in the snow. So too did he note, bitterly, the bored look on Joffrey's face, the disdain that he seemed to aim at the Great Hall.
Far more interesting, and far stranger to his eyes, were the Queen's brothers. When he looked upon each of them, he felt a strange familiarity, a kinship he couldn't even define. They looked like normal men, but there was something glittering about the Lion, tall and golden, flashing green eyes and a hard, cutting smile. There were a few signs of wear, of battle and tear, but he looked the very picture of a monarch in crimson silk, high black boots, and a black satin cloak. The Kingslayer himself.
And the Imp had a sort of menace about him, that less drunk, Jon would have chalked up to the fact that he was an ugly, twisted dwarf, half his brother's height, with a head too large for his body, and a brute's squashed-in face, a shelf of a brown. Yet his eyes seemed to pierce straight through Jon when their gazes briefly met, one green and one black, beneath hair so blond it seemed white.
Jon shivered as he passed, unsure why.
Then came Benjen, smiling, and Theon, scowling, ignoring him, lost in thought, discussing something involving logistics with Benjen Stark.
Ghost kept beneath the table, where nobody could see him. He was white and oddly quiet, yet sometimes he swore, as with the moment Jon had dropped an entire chicken between his legs for Ghost, that there was intelligence in those red eyes, staring back at him, judging. Learning perhaps. Certainly, Ghost seemed to terrify the other dogs, glaring silently at any that tried to take what was his.
Perhaps he was growing up fast, a bastard just like Jon. He never made more than the smallest of sounds, yet sometimes Jon could swear it was like he was talking to the boy. Jon wondered whether there was something more there, and yet it wasn't a thought he could entertain, and before he could drunkenly pursue it to any end at all, his thoughts were interrupted, "Penny for your thoughts?" his uncle Ben asked, ruffling his hair and after a moment being given space to sit down. He straddled the bench and said, "So, this is Ghost?"
He glanced down between his legs at Ghost, who was staring up at him thoughtfully.
"Yes, yes it is," Jon said, and then blinked as Ben took the cup from his hand and sipped it.
"Ah, summerwine. How much have you had?"
Jon smiled, "Enough, Uncle Ben."
Ben Stark laughed, and ate a little, before saying, "Well, I was younger than you when I got drunk, so I can hardly blame you. Is it the Lannisters and company?"
Jon blushed, looking at his uncle. Gaunt and sharp, his uncle had laughter in his blue-grey eyes, and several rather interesting scars across his face. He was dressed in a rich black velvet, with high leather bloods, and a belt with a silver buckle. A heavy silver chain was looped round his neck, but in addition to that, he had an iron-chain as well. It was, Jon knew, a tradition among many in the north to keep iron well at hand.
Benjen said, "I take that as a yes? The beast is very quiet."
"Quiet," Jon said, "But watchful."
"Almost like he's reading me. We get direwolves beyond the wall. I've even seen a few up close, though not for long. There's a trick that sometimes works to get them close, but even then. Not for long. I doubt it'd work on a pup as canny as Ghost, though," Ben said, thoughtfully. "Can I guess that the Lady Stark has--"
He trailed off, and Jon replied, tone carefully flat and neutral, "She thought it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard with them."
"Certainly my brother doesn't seem to be too festive," Ben said, gesturing over towards the high table. Ned was frowning over something, and Jaime was talking animatedly, trying to engage with his sister, who looked angry. And the King was drinking heavily. A bastard had to notice these things, to read the truths and the ways that the world turned. To see deeper than other men. And where was Tyrion? Jon admitted, he trusted an Imp he couldn't see even less than one he could.
"The queen might be angry because Father took the king down to the crypts. Though it seems there is more than that," Jon said.
"You don't miss much. We could use someone like you on the Wall," Ben said.
Jon smiled softly. There were times for modesty, but now he swelled with pride as he said, "Robb is stronger with a lance than I am, but I'm the better sword, and Hullen says I'm better than any rider except him, and liable to get better still." Jon loved horses, it felt as if he had a connection to them, so easy was it to control them, to work with them to push them as far as they could safely go.
It was a talent that, were he commonborn, rather than a bastard, might make him any lord's trusted Master of the Horse.
"Notable achievements, but what of your learning?" Ben asked.
"Is there such a call for that, beyond the Wall?" Jon asked, more curious than anything else.
"It takes a keen eye and a quick mind to survive ranging after ranging. Battle isn't the only threat out there, and a mind that takes well to facts and details can be its own advantage."
"Maester Lunwin says I take to his lessons well. He mentioned, well. He offered that I could be sent south, to the Citadel."
"A Maesters vows and station are honorable as well," Ben said.
"But I said I didn't want to. That I'd rather go to the Wall than become a Maester," Jon said.
"Though, boy, one can do both," We certainly need good Maesters on the Wall, though one wouldn't Range if that were so."
"I can save any of that for later. Please, when you go back, take me with me. I wish to join the Night's Watch," Jon said, saying what he'd been thinking about for more than a little time.
"The Wall is a hard place for a boy of fourteen, Jon."
"I am almost a man grown," Jon said, having guessed at this, "I will turn fifteen before too long, and everyone knows bastards grow up faster than other children. And besides," Jon said, using an argument he was sure would work. He'd even studied the books to make sure he was right. "Besides, Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne, so it is not as if youth is such a limit."
"The conquest lasted only a summer, and your Boy King, your Young Dragon, lost ten thousand men taking the place, and another fifty trying to hold it. War isn't a game," Ben said, "And we study his example to see just how bad logistics and overreach can turn a dozen battles won into a lost war. And," Ben said, reaching out for some wine, "Daeren Targaryen was only nineteen when he died."
"I know that," Jon said, sitting as straight as he could, "Yet I want to serve the Night's Watch, Uncle."
Everyone else would have something for them, but what could a bastard hope for? He wasn't that religious, to be an old priest, and he didn't follow the Faith of the Seven, for that was the faith of a stepmother who had never loved him, and if he didn't want to be a Maester, all that was left was the Wall.
"You can't know what you're asking, Jon, because we keep our rituals secret. We are a sworn brotherhood, pledged upon the wall itself to always be loyal, and we can have no wives or families. We shall not father sons. Our wife is duty, our mistress is honor."
"A bastard can have honor too. I am ready to swear any pledge you would have of me," Jon said.
"You are a boy of fourteen. Until you have known a woman, you cannot know what you would be giving up. Until you have known a world of towns and cities, of pleasure and life, you cannot know just what this pledge will cost, how binding it shall be. Deserters are the most cursed of me."
"I would never desert," Jon said, and only later did he realize he'd raised his voice, that people were turning to listen.
"That you would not, son."
"You are not my father," Jon said, voice hard and raising ever still
"But I would not be an Uncle to you if I did not give you good advice. Wait, think, see the world. I have reason to suspect," Ben said quieter, "That the King intends Ned to go south. Go south with them, despite the prejudice, and see what the world has to offer. Come back to me after that, after you've known a few women and fathered a few bastards--"
"I will never father a bastard. Never!" Jon spat. He looked. The whole table, and even some people beyond, had been listening. He even saw the people from the high table, his brothers and sisters peering at him.
He was drunk. Too drunk. He'd seen too much and felt too much and said too much, and he said, "I must be excused." There were tears in his eyes as he lurched towards the door, tripping on his feet and knocking a serving girl on the way out, sending a flagon crashing to the bloor. People laughed, and Jon could hear Robert, all the way across the hall, roaring with laughter, voice booming like the thunder of the Stormlands,"That boy of yours likes his drink, eh! You should introduce us!"
Jon pictured himself decades older, fat and drunk like Robert. Was he on his way to being a lout, a drunkard idiot? His eyes hot with tears, he evaded all hands and, Ghost at his heels, he ran for the door, exiting into the night.
The yard was quiet and empty, with only a lone sentry, bored and miserable, at watch. Jon would have traded places with him in an instant, as he looked around the dark and deserted castle. Of course, there wasn't much a chance of danger attacking now, and yet Jon would have set a few more guards on the wall, two or three, to keep themselves company. He wiped away his tears, furious that he'd done something so unmanly as cry, something so immature as get that drunk.
"Boy. Jon," a voice called out to him, in the accent of the Westerlands. Jon turned to see Tyrion Lannister sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, like a gargoyle grinning down at him. "That's no wolf. I don't know what it is."
"A direwolf," Jon said, "His name is Ghost." He felt curioisty instead of disappointment, staring at this man whose eyes seemed to stare right into him. "What are you doing up there?"
"Looking down at you," Tyrion says, "If that's a Direwolf. If that's a direwolf, then the whole of the land across the Wall would be empty of people, and we would soon be facing a direwolf invasion of Westeros. And no doubt soon my father would send me North to negotiate with the direwolf lords who had conquered all of the North, in the hopes that they'd gobble me up. So, since I'm not currently practicing my howling, that's no Direwolf."
Jon stared at Tyrion, "But, he is."
"Have you tried asking him?" Tyrion said with an ironical grin, "Never matter."
"Why aren't you at the feast?" Jon asked.
"Why aren't you?" Tyrion asked, "For me it's the heat, the noise, and I've drunk rather too much wine. Long ago I learned it is considered rude to vomit on your brother."
"I drank too much, said a few stupid things," Jon admitted.
"Ah, how they grow up so fast," Tyrion said, "May I have a closer look at that thing you call a Direwolf?"
Jon took a moment to decide, but nodded. Yet, he couldn't resist a jab, "Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?"
"Oh, sot that," Tyrion said, and then did what afterwards Jon would swear was impossible. He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air as Jon gasped, then spun in a tight ball, landing on his hands, and then he vaulted backwards on his feet, then back to his hands, drawing closer to wolf, then back to his feet and back to his hands until there he was, standing in front of Jon, grinning.
Jon wanted to clap and throw money, and he opened his mouth, speechless. Ghost, meanwhile, backed away and even made little noises of worry.
The dwarf dusted himself off and said, "I must be drunk. Usually I could do five in a row. But I think I've frightened him. I am sorry." Then he leaned down, and stared right at Ghost and said, "My apologies." As if Ghost could understand him.
Jon bristled, "He's not scared. Ghost, come here. Come on."
The wolf pup moved over to Jon and nuzzled his face, but kept his intelligent, wary red eyes on Tyrion's own eyes. When Tyrion reached for him, Ghost drew back and bared his fangs. "You're shy, aren't you?" Lannister asked.
"Sit, Ghost," Jon commanded, and for a long moment Ghost looked at him as if asking him if he were sure. "Yes. That's it. Keep still. You can touch him now, I've been training him."
Tyrion chuckled, "Or him training you."
"Yet if I wasn't here, he'd tear out your throat," Jon said, though it wasn't true yet. It would be true before long.
"I believe you, and thus you'd' better stay close." He cocked his huge head to one side and looked over Jon again, this time seeming to look even deeper, "I am Tyrion Lannister."
"I know," Jon said, rising to his full height, feeling a little dizzy with drink. He loomed over the dwarf, and yet he didn't feel that much taller.
"So, you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"
Jon pressed his lips together, almost wanting to shiver.
"Did I offend you?" Lannister asked. "If so, I am sorry. Dwarfs don't have to be tactful. Generations of fools in motley means I get to be a fool as well. A learned fool, but those are all the worse, aren't they?"
"I remember, I saw Maester Lunwin talking to you," Jon said, trying to unbend some, not be stiff around this strange guest.
"Finding books to fill my time. I wish to study some of lore of the North. There is more in this world than many think. Such as that Ghost of yours," Tyrion said. "But you are the bastard, though, am I right?"
"Lord Eddard Stark is my father," Jon admitted.
"Yes, I can see it. You have far more of the north in you than your brothers." Tyrion's face looked strange, and Jon peered closer at it, even then he was pleased by Tyrion's comment, "Half brothers," he corrected, almost absently.
"Allow me to give you counsel. As the older and more foolish voice," Tyrion said grinning playfully, drunkenly, "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it into your strength, turn your scars into hard armor, and they will never be a weakness. Keep the world out, and learn to use your weaknesses and those of others."
Jon frowned, "And what do you know about being a bastard?"
"All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes."
"You are your mother's trueborn son of Lannister."
"Am I? Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me," Tyrion said, sarcastically, spreading his arms out as if to say 'look at me', "And remember what I said before. If he had a chance, he'd send me to negotiate with these direwolf overlords stark naked except for steak tied around me, and then sigh and smile when they gobbled me up." He stroked Ghost's fur once more, almost fondly.
Then, then Tyrion's appearance changed. It seemed darker, more covered in scars, and if anything uglier, but his eyes, which had been the center of him, now seemed both darker and more glowing. They didn't give off light, only seemed to, and his whole skin seemed similarly dark, yet giving off a certain sheen. Jon felt his hands shaking, awe and fear creeping up from the back of his brain. Tyron's fingers seemed longer than expected, and suddenly he was an inch taller, perhaps, his whole form transformed in a thousand subtle ways.
It was impossible, it was horrifying, but most of all it filled him with the sort of awe he associated, in stories, with something religious.
Tyrion looked back at him, puzzled. Eyes wide, as if trying to figure something out. And then he laughed, a single sharp note, and said, "Those eyes of yours, they can see pretty far, can't they? And pretty deep. Keep them sharp, for while all dwarfs may be bastards, not all bastards need be dwarves. Perhaps you would like to talk again sometime," Tyrion offered, as he turned towards the feast, whistling a tune, all puzzlement seemingly replaced by nonchalance.
It sounded so familiar, and yet so different. Jon stared at the Imp's tail, at his crooked back, at the dark streaks in his blond hair. Yet more than that, when the light threw his shadow, he looked as tall as a King.
"Yes," Jon called out, "I would."
And figure out just what you were, Jon didn't say.
