GOT: Heir of Dreadfort

There were moments when Jon Snow found himself quietly thankful for being a bastard.

As he picked up the wine jug and refilled his cup, just emptied, he realized this was one of those moments.

Jon turned and sat back down on the bench, among the squires and young attendants, sipping from his freshly filled cup.

The sweet, fruity aroma of summer red wine filled his mouth and curled his lips into a faint smile.

The great hall of Winterfell was thick with heat and heavy with the scent of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread.

Banners hung from the grey stone walls—white for the Stark direwolf, red for the flayed man of House Bolton, the silver axe of House Seven, and the triple green sentinels of House Tallhart.

A bard in the corner strummed a harp and sang a ballad, but his song was lost under the roar of flames, clatter of platters, and drunken chatter. Seated at the far end of the hall, Jon could barely hear it.

The feast to celebrate Lord Eddard Stark's thirty-fifth name day was about to begin.

Jon's brothers and sisters were seated on the other side of the hall, alongside the sons and daughters of lords and noblemen.

On such special occasions, Lord Stark allowed each of his children a single cup of wine—no more than that.

But Jon, seated with the servants and squires, was under no such restriction. No one cared how much he drank.

To his surprise, he found he could hold his wine like a grown man. Urged on by the lively youths around him, one cup quickly turned to two.

Jon was happy in their company, listening eagerly to their boasts of war, hunting, and secret trysts.

He believed them far more entertaining than the pretentious nobles.

Just then, Lord Eddard walked past, followed by a line of noble guests.

Robb wore the grey and white wool of House Stark, with Theon Greyjoy trailing behind like a shadow.

Robb gave Jon a warm smile as he passed, while Theon ignored him completely. That, at least, was nothing new.

Theon was Lord Stark's ward and the hostage-son of the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. He was content to be Robb's companion, but looked down on bastards like Jon Snow.

Next came the center of attention: Ser Domeric, arm in arm with Sansa—Jon's sister in name.

Sansa was only thirteen, but with her hair swept back in a net of pearls and rubies, her auburn tresses cascaded like a waterfall.

Jon found himself surprised. That little girl had truly grown. If she walked down the street now, half the town would turn to look.

As they passed, Jon noticed the shy smile Sansa gave Ser Domeric.

What girl wouldn't be taken with someone like him?

Ser Domeric was the heir to House Bolton—tall, dark-haired, and striking, with sharp, blade-like features and the pale skin so prized among the highborn.

He wore a black silk tunic, high black boots, and a long cloak of dark satin. A red flayed man was embroidered across his chest in blood-red thread.

They called him the Heir of the Dreadfort, and whispered his nickname behind his back—"the Flayer."

Jon found it hard to take his eyes off him.

There was something in Ser Domeric's deep, ocean-dark eyes, something in the way he moved, that radiated command.

This, Jon thought, was what a true lord should be.

He had heard many tales of Domeric.

How he had carved a domain out of the barren mountains, founded new settlements, and uncovered veins of coal and iron.

With only a few hundred men, he had defeated wildling tribes numbering in the thousands, subjugated unruly clans, and fed tens of thousands of starving refugees in the Lonely Mountain region.

Ships from White Harbor sailed down the Endriver and around the Shivering Sea, trading the Boltons' ironworks for wealth and food from all corners of the realm.

But the greedy Karstarks, lords of a near-bankrupt keep, had dared to covet their neighbor's land.

Evil, however, never triumphs over justice. Wicked men always face their end.

When Jon heard that the Karstark army had been annihilated, their lords taken and forced to dig in mines day and night under Domeric's command, he nearly laughed aloud.

Eventually, at Lord Stark's mediation, Ser Domeric agreed to release the invaders.

Jon couldn't help but admire him. Such magnanimity was rare among the stingy nobility.

Once the honored guests had all arrived, the hall raised their cups in a chorus of blessings and well-wishes. The banquet began in earnest.

Music flowed like ripples of water across the hall, and soon Ser Domeric took Sansa by the hand and stepped onto the dance floor.

The nobles fell silent at the sight of Sansa's graceful movements, their conversations and gestures halted.

This unusual hush caught Jon's attention. He turned and stopped mid-motion.

Only the blind bard continued to play.

Sansa's steps, led by Ser Domeric's hand, began slow and elegant—like a peacock striding proudly through a sea of birds. Her movements were smooth and dignified, as if each step floated on clouds, carried on the wind.

Jon hadn't expected this side of his ladylike "sister."

He could sense her fondness for Ser Domeric.

Truth be told, every member of House Stark liked him.

Lord Stark had praised him more than once before his children, calling him a true knight and an example to learn from.

Lady Catelyn had once received silk gowns from the southern court and sighed aloud, wishing for a son-in-law as refined as Ser Domeric.

Robb treated him like a brother, frequently consulting him on war and swordplay.

Jon, too, found himself drawn to the man—not just for his noble bearing, but because he was something else entirely.

He remembered a story Domeric had once told:

"Far to the east, in the city of Asshai, there lived a monk of the Lord of Light named Abel. People called him Priest Abel.

Priest Abel journeyed to R'hllor's divine kingdom to seek the holy scriptures. Along the way, he faced eighty-one trials.

Some were dangers. Some were temptations.

Demons had heard that his flesh could grant immortality and sought to devour him.

Witches tried to seduce him. The Queen of a kingdom of women offered him a crown, luxury, and beauty, begging him to stay and rule by her side.

But he refused them all."

Jon had listened closely and asked, "Why didn't Priest Abel give in? Didn't he want women or riches?"

Domeric had shaken his head. "Because once he gained the scriptures, he could enter the kingdom of the Lord of Light.

Compared to that, even the most beautiful queen was nothing. So temptation held no sway."

"And where is the Lord of Light's kingdom?" Jon had asked, intrigued.

Domeric had smiled. "In your heart. Wherever your heart longs for, that is your divine kingdom."

The dance ended.

A round of applause burst forth. More young lords and ladies couldn't hold back any longer and took to the floor.

The feast grew livelier still.

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