The great hall smelled of wine, honey mead, and roasted mutton.
After four hours the main guests finally made their entrance.
Ned Stark escorted Queen Cersei to her seat.
She looked stunning in a jeweled crown that caught the light against her golden hair, but she never once glanced at him.
Robert followed with Catelyn on his arm, the pair looking like a bear leading a lady.
Then came the children: little Rickon trying his best to look serious, Robb walking with Princess Myrcella, Sansa beside Prince Joffrey, and Arya paired with young Tommen.
Jaime Lannister brought up the rear, towering over his brother Tyrion.
Robert gave a short, blunt welcome, and the feast roared back to life.
Wine was a dangerous thing at a gathering like this.
It loosened tongues and started fights just as easily as it made men laugh.
With the king present everyone stayed on their best behavior.
Until Jon Snow broke the peace.
Benjen Stark, Ned’s brother and First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, stopped by Jon’s table.
Jon, still burning to prove himself despite his bastard name, told Benjen he wanted to take the black.
Benjen told him he was too young.
Wait a few years.
Get some experience with women first.
“Father a couple of bastards out in the world,” Benjen said.
“Then come talk to me and see how you feel about it.” The words hit Jon like a slap.
His eyes flashed.
“I’ll never father bastards,” he said fiercely.
“Never.” He stood up with what little dignity he had left and walked out fast, before anyone could see the tears starting.
Once Jon was gone, the young servants at Aragorn’s table turned the conversation to him.
“Jon wants to join the Night’s Watch.” “The Night’s Watch?
What the hell for?” “Honor,” one of them said with a snort.
“Stupid kid still believes in that shit.” “Honor won’t keep you warm or put food on the table.
No wives, no gold, no lands.
Just cold and duty until you die.” “Used to be they called it the highest honor.
Noble talk to trick fools like us into going.
You ever see any highborn rushing to take the black?
Didn’t think so.” They raised their cups again.
“Come on, forget him.
Drink!” Aragorn had been matching them cup for cup all night.
His game-given resistance kept the alcohol from touching him.
The others decided this was unacceptable.
They were going to get him drunk.
Aragorn sighed but agreed to a contest.
“All of you against me.
Whoever’s still standing when I go down wins.” They took that as a challenge.
An hour later Aragorn was the only one still upright.
The rest were slumped over the table or on the floor.
He slipped away while they were still snoring.
Outside, the noise of the feast faded.
He found a quiet spot, looked up at the stars, and took a deep breath.
The night air smelled like wine and roast meat.
He smiled to himself.
In his old life he had never been part of anything this loud or this alive.
It was actually kind of fun.
“You hiding out here for a reason?” Aragorn looked down.
Tyrion Lannister stood in the shadows, swaying.
He wore a fine silk tunic that was now half-unbuttoned and missing one boot.
The other boot was still on his foot.
He took a long drink from the wineskin in his hand, then tossed the remaining boot away.
“Much better,” he muttered.
“You’re drunk, my lord.” “Obviously.” Tyrion tried to walk, staggered, and nearly fell.
“Help me back before I freeze my balls off.” Aragorn hesitated, then simply reached down and picked the dwarf up with one hand, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Tyrion let out a surprised squawk that turned into wild laughter.
“I’m flying!” he shouted, arms waving.
“Tysha!
I have a dragon!
Tysha, look—I’m riding a dragon!” Aragorn carried him toward the more populated part of the castle, hoping to find someone who knew where Tyrion’s rooms were.
He spotted a tall man in dark armor that didn’t look northern and called out.
“Ser!
Lord Tyrion is drunk.
Could you help me get him to his chambers?” The man turned.
Half his face was a mass of burn scars.
Sandor Clegane.
“Don’t call me ser,” the Hound growled.
“I’m busy.” “I don’t know where his rooms are.
Just point me in the right direction.” “Drop him on the ground and be done with it.” Aragorn didn’t move.
“If I do that and he wakes up freezing or hurt, I’ll have to explain to Ser Jaime who left his brother lying in the dirt.
I’m sure you’d rather not have that conversation.” The Hound stopped.
He turned slowly, eyes narrowing with real anger.
“You’ve got a clever mouth, boy.
Fine.
I’ll take the little shit back.
But keep your tongue behind your teeth.
If I hear you’ve been running your mouth about this, I’ll come find you.
Understood?” “Understood.” The Hound grabbed Tyrion off Aragorn’s shoulder without another word and stalked away into the dark.