The Bastard

"Jon, why are you hiding here? I've been looking all over for you," came a familiar voice beside him. It was Ser Domeric.

Jon looked up happily and greeted him. "Good evening, Ser Domeric."

A squire who had been in the middle of telling a bawdy joke fell silent and quickly made space on the bench.

"Thank you," said Domeric as he straddled the bench and accepted the wine cup from Jon.

"Summer red," Domeric said after taking a sip. "There's nothing sweeter than this wine. How many cups have you had? I thought Lord Eddard only allowed you children one."

Jon smiled without replying, flashing his white teeth.

Domeric chuckled. "Just as I thought. Well, never mind. I was younger than you the first time I drank myself senseless."

He picked up a roasted onion dripping with brown gravy from a wooden plate nearby and bit into it with a loud crunch.

Domeric was a bit hungry—he had danced with Sansa for an entire set and hadn't had a chance to eat.

As he chewed the onion, he eyed Jon with interest. "Don't you usually sit with your brothers at meals?"

"That's on regular days."

Jon replied, somewhat awkwardly, "Lady Catelyn believes that having a bastard share the high table during a feast is an insult to the noble guests."

"I see."

Domeric turned to glance at Lady Catelyn seated at the high table at the far end of the hall. Indeed, the Lady Stark seemed rather cold and unkind.

"Lord Stark doesn't seem in good spirits tonight," Domeric commented. "Strange, considering this banquet is meant to celebrate his thirty-fifth name day."

"The reason is simple. Want to hear it?" Jon grinned, adopting a tone of mystery. A bastard had to learn to read people, to see the emotions hidden behind their eyes.

"Oh? What reason?" Domeric asked, curious.

"Because of you and Sansa."

"What do you mean by that?" Domeric's interest was clearly piqued. Among the noble children, some were dull, others sharp. Sansa belonged to the former. Jon Snow was definitely among the latter.

"Lady Catelyn intends to betroth Sansa to you," Jon said seriously.

"What?" Domeric was caught off guard.

"The news is reliable," Jon said with certainty.

Domeric gave a wry smile. Every time he visited Winterfell, he brought gifts for the Lady Stark—Braavosi silks, fine ornaments from the Reach, gemstones from Dorne.

It seemed his efforts hadn't gone to waste.

All of it had been meant to maintain a good relationship with House Stark.

But marrying into the family had never been part of the plan.

No wonder Lord Eddard had looked so conflicted. He had clearly intended for Sansa to marry Prince Joffrey, son of his friend King Robert. Yet Lady Catelyn's insistence must have left him torn.

Domeric lowered his head, lost in thought. A union with Sansa would mean an alliance between House Bolton and House Stark.

The two greatest houses in the North, united, would certainly bring stability to the realm.

But such a match wouldn't be easily arranged.

Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn clearly disagreed, and neither could convince the other.

Even among House Stark's bannermen, opinions were divided.

No wonder the reactions after his dance with Sansa had been so mixed.

Lord Midge of Sevenhall had been guzzling wine all evening, his bearded face flushed red. He raised his cup to every toast, laughed at every joke, and devoured every dish like a starving man.

But just one seat over, Lord Herman of Torrhen's Square sat like a frozen statue.

The Sevens were friendly with the Boltons, so they naturally welcomed such a union.

Herman, on the other hand, had his own reasons for opposing it.

Then there was Domeric's own chief knight, Ser Wendell, who had gone missing for some time after arriving in Winterfell and now sat with a dark look on his face. He had probably heard the rumors too.

Ser Wendell had long hoped to marry Domeric to the granddaughter of the Lord of White Harbor, forging a union between House Bolton and House Manderly.

Damn it.

Turns out he was the last one to hear the news.

Clearly, his intelligence network had failed him, and Domeric couldn't help but curse himself.

He glanced at Jon. "You have a sharp eye. Thank you."

Jon responded with pride. "Of course. And I'm not bad with a sword either.

Robb is stronger with the spear, but I'm better with the blade. Hullen even says my riding skills are among the best in the castle—though I'm nowhere near your level, of course."

Domeric patted Jon on the shoulder, brushing off a bit of dandruff from his collar.

[Secret-Digging System Activated!]

[Jon Snow]

[Identity: Targaryen prince, son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, legitimate heir to the Iron Throne, nephew of Lord Eddard Stark]

[Title: None]

[Strength: 45]

[Agility: 50]

[Spirit: 33]

[Combat Index: 128]

[Note: Target is not in fear. Cannot uncover deeper secrets.]

Combat Index 128. Domeric nodded.

The average adult in Westeros had a combat value of around 30. A trained knight might reach 60. Jon Snow had 128—undeniably a remarkable talent.

"Recently, I've been thinking of asking my father's permission to join the Night's Watch."

Jon said suddenly. He couldn't hold it in any longer—he wanted Domeric's opinion.

"The Wall?" Domeric gave him a long look. "That's a hard place for any man. Why would you want to go there?"

"I'm nearly of age."

Jon explained. "I'll be fifteen on my next name day. Maester Luwin says bastards grow up faster than other children."

"That's true."

Domeric's lips curved downward as he picked up the wine jug and refilled his cup.

"Daeron Targaryen conquered Dorne when he was only fourteen."

The young Dragon King was one of Jon's heroes.

"That war took years," Domeric reminded him kindly. "The boy-king you speak of lost ten thousand men conquering Dorne, and fifty thousand more trying to hold it. Someone should've told you—war is no game."

"I know that!" Jon said loudly, emboldened by the wine.

He sat up straight, trying to appear taller. "Ser Domeric, to tell you the truth, I have a reason for wanting to join the Watch."

Jon had thought long and hard about this decision. At night, while his brothers slept soundly beside him, he lay awake in turmoil.

"What reason?"

Jon let out a soft sigh. "One day, Robb will inherit Winterfell. As Warden of the North, he'll command armies.

Bran and Rickon will serve him as bannermen, with lands and keeps of their own.

Arya and Sansa will marry sons of other great houses and become noble ladies of their own holdings.

But me? I'm just a bastard. What can I hope for?"

The poor learn to fend for themselves early—and so do highborn bastards.

Domeric sighed inwardly. "Jon, you may not realize, but the Night's Watch is a brotherhood without a future. Its men have no families, and they'll never father children..."

"Bastards have no future either," Jon Snow said quietly. "Sometimes, I truly envy men like you, Ser Domeric."

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