The Great Hall of Winterfell was happy with food, drink and song. Boisterous laughter boomed every few seconds from the head of the table. The old fat king Robert Baratheon was seated next to Eddard Stark. His father, Jon thought, a queer smile tugging at his lips. Even now, half a day in his new life, Jon could hardly believe it. But there was no denying it. Looking into his wine bottle, Jon could clearly see his Stark features. He was made like a younger Eddard Stark, an ever foreboding expression on his face, as if his life was destined to end in some horribly tragic way.
Considering how the Stark family ended, it probably was. Jon swung his head back and took a long drink, trying not to think about it. He licked at his lips after he was done, savoring the sweet Arbor wine dripping down his lips. It was probably good luck that I woke up Jon Snow and not Robb Stark, he thought, his fork picking at a greasy pork sausage on his dinner plate. He got to enjoy good food and expensive wine, and he would never have his corpse desecrated and paraded around like a puppet.
The Young Wolf, forever young.
Jon had given little thought to the matter, but with the alcohol clouding his mind, his eyes wandered over to his half brother, or his cousin, it really didn't matter. Jon had made a vow to himself the moment he discovered his new identity. Regardless of whatever happened or whoever died, he would regard the Starks as friendly strangers. It was a bit heartless, but for his own mental stability, Jon decided to reject his identity as a "bastard." Unfortunately, he could not reject the name.
In his previous life, he was named Jonathan. A bit of an ironic joke from whatever deity had decided to shove him into this medieval fantasy world.
Jon leaned forward to grab another bottle of Arbor wine but a strong hand firmly gripped his shoulder. He looked back and saw another Stark, sharp faced with grey blue eyes. Benjen, the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.
"Came to see the king, Uncle?" Jon smiled and lowered his voice. "You better hurry, I'm afraid our dear Robert might choke on a bone."
Benjen looked up at the Baratheon king on the high table with raised eyebrows. Robert spoke loudly as he ate, gorging himself on every meat, delicacy and desert was placed in front of him. It was a wonder he hadn't choked himself to death.
Benjen didn't seem to care much, his long black cloak draping over Jon as he ripped the summer wine out of his hands. "Don't drink too much Jon, I plan to bring some of this back with me."
He sat down next to Jon, pouring himself a tall glass of wine as he called for a light snack from one of the servants.
"So," Benjen said, looking back up at the high table, "why aren't you seated with the rest of them? I thought the eight of you usually ate together."
"Usually," Jon repeated, "I'm afraid it'd be a bad look if a bastard was seated with the king and queen."
Benjen carefully scanned his face, a light smile blossoming, "You don't mind?"
Jon's eyes glazed over the high table. The other Jon must have been furious when Catelyn Stark seated him at the back of the Great Hall, but he didn't really care. Were the king, queen and their bastard children such great people that he should be angry he couldn't sit at a table with them? Were the Starks?
No, no they were not.
Jon shook his head and smiled. "One day, my name will command more respect than that of the Tully's" He raised his half eaten sausage and pointed it at Catelyn Stark's neck. "When that day comes, I will welcome my sweet mother into my home, seat her at the head of the table, and proclaim her Catelyn Rivers, the bastard of Riverrun."
If Benjen found what he said amusing, he didn't show it. His knowing eyes seemed to search every corner of his face, no doubt looking for any sign of his nephew. He didn't find him. All he could do was sigh and look around, making sure no one had heard what Jon said.
"Don't talk about her like that," he finally managed. "Regardless of how she might treat you, she did raise you. Any lesser woman would have had you gone from Winterfell the second you arrived as a babe."
"I imagine she did try and have me gone." Jon said, setting his fork down on his empty plate. "And soon, I will be gone. Father is heading south, I assume he'll take Sansa and Arya with him. My mother won't want me here. I'll probably be forced to leave Winterfell."
Benjen suddenly aged a few years. "I'll, uh, talk to your father. We'll see if there's anything we can do about your situation. I would like you to join the Night's Watch with me, but I can't force it on you."
"Not the Wall," Jon vehemently shook his head. "I've had enough of the cold. I want to taste summer."
If there was one place Jon refused to go to, it was the Wall. Jon Snow might be a Northerner, but Jonathan was used to the warm climate of southern California, were the lowest the temperature ever got to was 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Jon had only seen it snow twice in his hometown. Once, when he was six, and the second when he was a grown man.
"I want to head south to King's Landing." Benjen's face grew awkward, as if he knew what he was going to say next. "I want to be a knight and be anointed in the name of the Seven. I'll joust in tourneys and fight in melees. If I can never have Winterfell, I'll make my own keep and create my own name."
"You're a boy Jon," Benjen whispered. "You don't know what it's like down there. You may not have our name but you certainly have our blood. Stay here in Winterfell, Catelyn won't harm you."
"You can't keep me here, uncle." Jon didn't know why, but he felt a strong heat washing over him. "One day, the common folk will cheer when they see my coat of arms. It won't be a grey dire wolf on white, but a white dire wolf on grey."
Just as the words left his mouth, he heard a strange sound that felt so out of place it unnerved him to no end. Yet, when he saw where the sound had come from, his lips couldn't form a wider smile.
[A condition has been met.]
[Inheritance: Aegor Rivers]
["Beneath the gold, the bitter steel."]
As the memories of another life washed over him, Jon could only be certain of one thing.
His destiny was to ride south.