Wolf King of Oblivion

The gates of Winterfell creaked open as the royal procession entered, their banners fluttering in the cold Northern wind. The courtyard was bustling with activity, but the arrival of the Emperor of Tamriel brought it to a halt. Stark bannermen, stablehands, and household servants turned to watch as the grand carriage rolled through the snow-covered yard, flanked by an escort of armored warriors unlike anything the North had ever seen.

Lyara Emberforge rode beside the carriage, her fiery red hair standing out against the pale backdrop of Winterfell. Her sharp features and the faint shimmer of magical energy that seemed to ripple around her drew curious, uneasy stares. Drogan Darkstream's towering, shadow-cloaked form and his dark, enchanted armor made him look like a figure out of nightmare tales. Isolde Swiftwing, with her snow-white hair and ethereal grace, seemed almost otherworldly as she surveyed the gathered crowd with a faint smile. Brunar Hollowfist, his massive frame and Nordic furs, might have fit in among the Northmen if not for the strange runes etched into his skin.

The people of Winterfell whispered among themselves, their unease growing as they took in the Emperor's entourage. These were not men and women of Westeros—they were from lands beyond their imagination.

"What manner of people are these?" a guard muttered to his companion.

"Have you ever seen hair that white?" another whispered, glancing at Isolde. "She looks like she belongs in a story."

"And that one," a stablehand murmured, pointing at Drogan. "Is he even human?"

The carriage stopped, and a hush fell over the courtyard as the door opened. Jon Whitewolf stepped out, his dark blue cloak trimmed in silver billowing behind him. The Amulet of Kings gleamed faintly against his chest, drawing gasps from some of the onlookers. He stood tall, his grey eyes scanning the courtyard as the gathered crowd stared in stunned silence.

The murmurs grew louder as recognition dawned on the faces of some of the Stark bannermen. This was not the boy they had known. This was not Jon Snow. The boy had left Winterfell as a bastard, but the man who returned was an Emperor.

The Stark family stood waiting at the base of the keep. Eddard Stark was at the forefront, his grey eyes sharp as they took in the son he hadn't seen in years. Robb stood beside him, his expression a mix of astonishment and disbelief. Sansa and Arya were just behind, their faces filled with curiosity and awe. Bran and Rickon, whom Jon had never met, clung close to their father, wide-eyed and uncertain. Catelyn Stark remained at the back of the group, her hands clasped tightly together, her face pale.

Jon stepped forward, his boots crunching against the snow as he closed the distance between himself and his family. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but he met his father's gaze with quiet resolve.

"Father," Jon said, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "It's been a long time."

Eddard Stark's lips tightened as he took a step forward, his gaze locked on Jon. For a moment, the Warden of the North said nothing, his eyes sweeping over his son—his armor, his regal bearing, the amulet that seemed to pulse with power. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm. "You've come far, Jon."

Jon inclined his head slightly. "I've had good teachers."

Robb stepped forward, his expression softening into a tentative smile. "Jon… is it really you?"

Jon turned to him, a flicker of warmth breaking through his composed exterior. "It's me, Robb. You've grown."

Robb laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "So have you. I don't even know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Jon replied, clasping his half-brother's arm. "It's good to see you again."

Arya couldn't wait any longer. She darted forward, throwing her arms around Jon with a cry of joy. "Jon! I knew you'd come back!"

Jon laughed softly, returning her embrace. "It's good to see you too, Arya. You haven't changed."

"You have," Arya said, pulling back to study him. "You're… different."

Jon's smile faltered slightly. "We all change."

Sansa approached next, her movements more tentative but no less heartfelt. "Jon," she said softly, her blue eyes shimmering with emotion. "You've become… something none of us could have imagined."

Jon met her gaze, his voice gentle. "So have you, Sansa. You've grown into a lady."

Bran and Rickon stood a few paces behind, their expressions uncertain. Jon crouched slightly to meet their eyes, offering them a small smile. "You must be Bran and Rickon. I've heard so much about you."

Bran stepped forward hesitantly, studying Jon with a mix of curiosity and awe. "Father said you're our brother. But you're an Emperor?"

Jon nodded. "Both are true. I'm your brother, and I'll always be."

Rickon tugged on Bran's sleeve, whispering loudly. "He looks like a king."

Jon chuckled, rising to his full height. "I'm just Jon to you. Titles don't matter here."

Eddard watched the reunion in silence, his face unreadable. When Jon turned to him, there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes that he quickly suppressed. "We'll speak inside," Eddard said quietly, motioning toward the keep.

As the Starks began to move, Jon's gaze flicked toward Catelyn. She hadn't spoken, hadn't moved from her place at the back of the group. Her pale face and tightly clasped hands betrayed her discomfort, but she remained silent, her eyes briefly meeting Jon's before darting away. Jon's stomach tightened, but he said nothing. This was not the time.

The silence was broken by a voice laced with thinly veiled disdain. "Quite the homecoming."

Jon turned to see Theon Greyjoy leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed and his smirk firmly in place. His sharp features and cocky demeanor immediately set Jon on edge.

"You must be Theon Greyjoy," Jon said, his tone flat.

Theon pushed off the pillar, strolling forward with an air of casual arrogance. "And you must be the Emperor. I've heard a lot about you."

Jon's grey eyes darkened. "And I've heard about the Greyjoys."

Theon's smirk widened. "Careful, Your Majesty. You wouldn't want to insult your host."

Selina Ashenvale stepped forward, her gaze icy as she studied Theon. "I suggest you keep your comments to yourself, Greyjoy."

Theon raised his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk didn't waver. "No offense meant. Just curious how a bastard from Winterfell ends up ruling an empire."

Jon's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "Through hard choices and sacrifice—two things you might not understand."

Theon's smirk faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly, stepping back with a shrug. "Welcome home, then, Your Majesty."

Jon turned away, dismissing Theon entirely as he followed his family into the keep. The weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future pressed down on him, but he carried it with the quiet resolve of a man who had endured far worse.

The fire crackled softly in Eddard Stark's private office, casting flickering light over the assembled family. Jon stood near the hearth, his dark cloak draped over the back of a chair, his face calm yet shadowed with the weight of years spent apart from his family. His gifts had been distributed, and his siblings were still marveling over them—Arya inspecting her dagger, Robb admiring his armband, and Sansa delicately turning her hairpin between her fingers. Even Bran and Rickon clutched their wolf carvings tightly, wide-eyed with awe.

Eddard, seated behind his desk, leaned forward slightly. "You've brought gifts for all of us, Jon. It's only fitting that we offer you something in return."

Jon tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his grey eyes. "You don't need to give me anything, Father."

Eddard's lips twitched into a faint smile. "That's not entirely true. There's something you've earned—something that belongs to you." He gestured to the door, and a servant stepped in carrying a small bundle of pale fur.

The bundle wriggled in the servant's arms, and Jon's breath caught as he realized what he was looking at. A direwolf pup, its fur as white as freshly fallen snow, with piercing red eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the firelight. The pup's small but sharp ears twitched as it gazed around the room before locking eyes with Jon.

The servant approached, kneeling to place the pup at Jon's feet. The little wolf stood there for a moment, sniffing the air before padding forward to nuzzle Jon's leg. A wave of warmth surged through Jon as he knelt down, his hand brushing gently over the soft fur. The pup didn't flinch or shy away—instead, it leaned into his touch, its tail wagging slightly.

Eddard's voice was low, almost reverent. "This one was the runt of the litter, smaller and quieter than the rest. The others didn't take to it, but it survived. When I saw it, I thought of you."

Jon's throat tightened, the significance of the gift hitting him harder than he expected. He looked down at the pup, which was now licking his hand, its red eyes filled with intelligence and trust. "Ghost," Jon said softly, the name coming to him as naturally as if it had always belonged.

Arya leaned forward, her face lighting up. "Ghost. That's perfect."

"Doesn't even bark," Robb added with a grin. "Looks like he's already yours."

Jon stroked the pup's fur, feeling an unexplainable connection forming—a bond deeper than anything he had ever felt before. It wasn't just affection; it was as if the direwolf were an extension of himself, a piece of his soul made flesh. Ghost let out a soft, almost inaudible whine and nudged Jon's hand, as if sensing his thoughts.

"He's perfect," Jon said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you, Father."

Eddard nodded, his expression softening. "A Stark always needs their wolf. I thought you might need yours now more than ever."

The room fell quiet as Jon continued to stroke Ghost's fur, the warmth of the pup's presence grounding him. For the first time since returning to Winterfell, Jon felt something he hadn't expected: belonging. Ghost wasn't just a gift. He was a reminder of who Jon was—and who he could still become.

Jon sat back near the hearth, the direwolf pup now curled at his feet, its white fur glowing faintly in the firelight. Ghost had already settled in as if he'd always belonged there, occasionally lifting his head to gaze at Jon with those piercing red eyes before nuzzling back into his fur.

Arya, still holding her dagger, leaned forward eagerly. "You've told us bits and pieces, Jon, but we want the full story. How does a bastard of Winterfell become an Emperor?"

Robb nodded, his tone curious but tinged with disbelief. "It's hard to imagine. You've lived a life none of us could have dreamed of."

Jon glanced around the room, taking in the mixture of expressions—curiosity, amazement, and a faint unease from Catelyn and Theon. Eddard remained calm, his gaze steady as he waited for Jon to begin.

"It wasn't something I chose," Jon started, his voice measured. "When I left Winterfell, I didn't know where I would end up. Being handed over to Euron Greyjoy… it was the start of something I wouldn't wish on anyone. The Silence was a nightmare. I saw things on that ship I'll never forget."

The room fell silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Bran and Rickon's wide eyes reflected the growing tension, while Arya's jaw tightened, her hand gripping the hilt of her new dagger.

"How did you escape?" Sansa asked softly.

Jon's gaze flicked to the flames. "Through luck—or perhaps something greater. A storm wrecked the ship, and I was thrown into the sea. When I woke, I wasn't in Westeros anymore. I was in a place called Tamriel, a land unlike anything you could imagine."

Theon snorted, leaning back against the wall. "A different land. Convenient."

Arya shot Theon a glare. "Shut up. Let him finish."

Jon ignored Theon, his voice steady as he continued. "Tamriel is vast. It has its own kingdoms, its own wars, and its own gods. I was found by a couple—former adventurers who took me in. They treated me like their own and taught me everything they knew: swordsmanship, diplomacy, the histories of their world, and…" He hesitated, glancing at his father. "And magic."

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at the word. Eddard's expression tightened slightly, though he said nothing. Robb exchanged a glance with Sansa, while Arya leaned forward, her eyes alight with curiosity. Bran and Rickon both gasped softly, the idea of magic thrilling them.

"Magic?" Arya asked, her tone awed. "You can use magic?"

"I can," Jon said simply. "It's common in Tamriel—part of the fabric of life there. It was something I had to learn, whether I wanted to or not. And it's helped me survive."

Robb frowned slightly. "You're saying you can do things… like the old stories? Like the Children of the Forest?"

"Show us!" Bran blurted out, his excitement bubbling over.

"Bran," Catelyn said sharply, her voice edged with unease. "Magic is dangerous. We've no need for such things here."

"It's part of who I am now," Jon said calmly, looking at his father. "But I won't hide it. If you want to see, I'll show you. And if not, I'll respect that."

Eddard studied Jon for a long moment, his grey eyes unreadable. Finally, he gave a short nod. "Show us."

Jon stood slowly, Ghost stirring at his feet but remaining calm. He extended his hand toward the fire, his movements deliberate and slow. The flames flickered, and then, as if responding to his will, they danced upward in a sudden, brilliant flare. Gasps filled the room as the fire twisted into the shape of a wolf, its flaming form moving with an eerie, lifelike grace.

Arya's mouth dropped open in amazement, while Bran and Rickon stared in awe. Sansa clutched her hairpin, her expression torn between wonder and discomfort. Robb's brow furrowed, his warrior instincts warring with his curiosity. Even Theon, who had been smirking moments before, looked momentarily stunned.

Catelyn stiffened, her knuckles white as she gripped the back of a chair. "This… this is unnatural."

"It's controlled," Jon said evenly, lowering his hand. The flaming wolf dissolved back into the hearth fire, leaving the room in silence. "Magic isn't good or evil—it's a tool. It depends on the person who wields it."

Eddard finally broke the silence. "And you've wielded it to protect others?"

"Yes," Jon said firmly. "It's saved lives, ended battles, and helped me protect the people who depended on me. It's not something I use lightly, but I won't deny what it's done for me."

Eddard nodded slowly, his expression settling into one of quiet acceptance. "Then that's all that matters. The North may not understand magic, but I trust you, Jon. And that trust is enough for me."

Arya grinned, leaning forward. "That was incredible. Can you do more? Teach me!"

Jon smiled faintly. "Maybe one day. But it's not something to take lightly, Arya."

Sansa, still gripping her hairpin, spoke hesitantly. "It's… beautiful, in a way. But also frightening."

"That's because you've never seen anything like it," Jon said. "None of you have. But in Tamriel, magic is as common as swords and shields. It's just another part of life."

Theon, recovering his composure, scoffed from his corner. "Another part of life, is it? Seems like a good way to make enemies, playing with fire."

Jon turned his gaze to Theon, his voice cool. "And yet here I am, alive, standing before you. Perhaps you'd do well to learn from that."

Theon opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it, leaning back with a scowl. The tension eased slightly as Jon returned to his seat, Ghost nuzzling his leg in silent support. The family's reactions were varied.

Jon sat back down near the hearth, the room still heavy with the weight of what he had shown them. Ghost, sensing the tension, curled at his feet, the direwolf pup's calm presence a grounding force. The flickering firelight danced across the faces of his family, each of them processing what they had seen in their own way.

Arya was the first to break the silence, leaning forward eagerly. "You can do more than that, can't you? What else can you do? Can you summon storms or—"

"Arya," Eddard interrupted gently but firmly. "Enough."

Arya huffed, sitting back on her stool but still watching Jon with an awestruck expression. Robb, meanwhile, leaned forward, his brows furrowed in thought. "It's not what I expected, Jon. But if it helped you survive and brought you back to us, I won't question it."

Sansa nodded, her voice tentative but earnest. "It's… strange, but I see why it was important. Your life in Tamriel must have been… unimaginable."

Jon smiled faintly, his gaze moving between his siblings. "It was a world I didn't understand at first, but it became my home. After I escaped Euron Greyjoy's ship, I was cast into a land completely unlike Westeros. I was found by a couple—Duris and Alenya Vehlmor. They were adventurers once, but they had retired to a quiet village."

Bran and Rickon leaned in closer, captivated. "What were they like?" Bran asked.

"They were kind," Jon said, his voice softening. "Duris was a former knight, a skilled swordsman. Alenya was a healer, a mage. They didn't care about where I came from or what my name was. They took me in, taught me everything they knew. They gave me a place to belong."

Arya's eyes softened. "They sound like good people."

"They were," Jon replied. "And they made me who I am today. They taught me how to fight, how to lead, how to think beyond just survival. And when the time came, I used those lessons to help others."

Robb folded his arms, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "So, you went from being a village boy to an Emperor. How does that happen?"

Jon's expression grew more serious. "It wasn't easy. Tamriel was in chaos. The Empire was fractured, its provinces on the brink of war. The land was overrun by creatures from a place called Oblivion—Daedra, they're called. Monsters from another plane of existence, invading our world. People needed someone to lead, someone to unite them."

"And that was you?" Bran asked, his eyes wide.

Jon nodded. "I didn't want it at first. I was just trying to protect the people around me. But when the Emperor—Martin Septim—sacrificed himself to stop the invasion, he left the Empire without a ruler. Somehow, the people looked to me. They believed I could lead them, and… I couldn't turn away from that."

Sansa tilted her head, her expression curious. "Were you… afraid?"

"Terrified," Jon admitted. "But I'd already faced worse than fear. The people needed someone to believe in, and I wasn't about to let them down."

Rickon tugged on Bran's sleeve, whispering loudly, "He sounds like a hero."

Bran nodded in agreement. "He does."

Catelyn, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke, her voice cold and measured. "Magic. Daedra. Other worlds. These things don't belong here, Jon. Winterfell is a place of honor and tradition, not… whatever this is."

Jon met her gaze steadily, refusing to flinch under her disapproval. "I'm not trying to bring Tamriel here, Lady Stark. I'm just telling you the truth about what happened to me."

Before Catelyn could respond, Eddard raised a hand, his voice firm. "Enough. Jon has been through trials none of us can fully understand. I trust him, and that should be enough for all of you."

The room fell silent again, and Jon nodded his thanks to his father. Ghost let out a soft whine at his feet, as if sensing the tension, and Jon reached down to stroke the pup's fur. The connection between them was undeniable—a bond that felt as natural as breathing.

Arya, as irrepressible as ever, leaned forward again. "So, what happens now? Are you going to stay here? Or do you have to go back to Tamriel?"

Jon hesitated, glancing at the fire. "For now, I'm here. I came to see my family, to reconnect with the North. Tamriel is stable, but there's always work to be done. For the first time in years, I have a chance to rest."

Robb nodded. "Well, you're home now, Jon. And you're still my brother, no matter where you've been or what you've done."

Jon's lips curved into a faint smile. "Thank you, Robb. That means more than you know."

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—stories of Winterfell, the changes in the North, and tales of Jon's travels that didn't involve magic or Daedra. Yet, despite the warmth of the reunion, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that his place in this family was still uncertain. For now, though, he was content to simply be here, surrounded by the people he had longed to see again.

The sound of horns blaring through Winterfell's gates signaled the moment everyone had been waiting for. Eddard Stark straightened from where he stood by the window in his solar, his expression calm but his eyes watchful. He turned toward Jon, who had been standing near the hearth with Ghost at his feet.

"He's here," Eddard said simply.

Jon nodded, brushing a hand over Ghost's fur. "Good. It's time."

The Stark family and Jon made their way to the courtyard. The air was thick with anticipation, and the banners of both House Stark and House Baratheon fluttered in the brisk wind. Stark bannermen lined the walls, their somber faces watching as the golden stag banners of the Royal Escort crested the hill leading to the castle gates.

The procession that entered Winterfell was grand. Dozens of knights clad in gilded armor rode with precision, their polished breastplates glinting in the winter sun. At the center of it all was a massive man astride a powerful black stallion—King Robert Baratheon himself. Though his years on the throne had softened his once-imposing frame, there was no mistaking his commanding presence. His tunic bore the crowned stag of House Baratheon, stretched over his broad chest, and his booming laughter carried across the courtyard as he greeted those around him.

As Robert dismounted, his gaze immediately swept the gathered crowd, searching. When he saw Eddard, his face broke into a grin. "Ned! By the gods, it's been too long!"

Eddard stepped forward, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "Robert. Welcome to Winterfell."

The King's laugh was loud enough to echo off the walls. "Don't 'Robert' me, you old wolf. Come here." He pulled Eddard into a bear-like embrace that left the Warden of the North visibly stiff but resigned.

Robert's eyes then roamed to the people gathered behind Eddard. His gaze landed on Jon, who stood tall, the Amulet of Kings faintly gleaming against his dark tunic. Robert's grin faltered, his brows knitting as he took in the younger man's features.

"And who is this?" Robert asked, his voice quieter but no less commanding. "He looks like a Stark."

Eddard stepped aside, gesturing toward Jon. "This is Jon Whitewolf, Emperor of Tamriel."

The courtyard fell into silence, save for the faint whistling of the wind. Robert blinked, then let out a booming laugh that sounded more like a roar. "Emperor? This boy? Ned, what in the Seven Hells is this?"

Jon stepped forward, meeting Robert's gaze with steady grey eyes. "It's the truth, Your Grace. I am Emperor of Tamriel."

Robert's laughter faded, replaced by a calculating look as he studied Jon more closely. "Emperor, you say? And a bastard at that?" His tone was not cruel, but there was an unmistakable edge of disbelief.

"I was once," Jon replied evenly, his voice calm. "Now I am more."

Robert's blue eyes darted back to Eddard. "How does this happen, Ned? Only your bloodline could pull off something like this. Conquering a nation, rising to power—hell, it reminds me of us, back in the rebellion."

Eddard's expression didn't shift, but his voice carried a quiet pride. "Jon forged his path with his own strength. He has my blood, and that was enough to start."

Robert stared at Jon for another long moment before breaking into another grin. "By the gods, I like him! He's got fire, just like you, Ned."

Jon inclined his head slightly, his voice respectful but firm. "The fire was forged in trials, Your Grace. I didn't get here easily."

"I'll wager you didn't," Robert said, clapping Jon on the shoulder hard enough to make Ghost growl softly at Jon's feet. The direwolf's red eyes glinted as it stared up at the King, who glanced down in surprise. "What's this? A direwolf pup?"

"Ghost," Jon said simply, resting a hand on the pup's head. "My companion."

Robert laughed again, stepping back to take in both Jon and the wolf. "A wolf for a wolf. Fitting. You're full of surprises, lad."

Jon said nothing, but his calm demeanor didn't waver under Robert's scrutiny. As the King turned his attention to the rest of the family, Arya leaned close to Jon, whispering, "He likes you."

Jon murmured back, "He likes the idea of me."

Robert's booming voice interrupted their quiet exchange. "Enough standing around. We've come all this way—I expect good food and better ale! Let's go inside before the cold freezes me solid."

Eddard motioned for everyone to follow, and the procession began toward the Great Hall. Jon fell into step beside his father, Ghost padding silently at his side. He could feel Robert's eyes on him even as the King laughed and joked with those around him. The meeting had been unconventional, as Jon expected, but the weight of Robert's words lingered.

"Only your bloodline could pull this off."

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with light and sound. The long tables were laden with roasted meats, thick stews, fresh-baked bread, and flagons of ale and mead. The fire in the hearth blazed brightly, its warmth pushing back the chill of the Northern winter. Stark bannermen and Baratheon retainers mingled, their laughter and conversation filling the air.

At the high table, Jon sat between his father and Robert Baratheon. Ghost lay curled at his feet, ever watchful. Across the hall, a bard plucked a lively tune, his voice rising above the din as he sang of great battles and ancient heroes. The mood was light, and for a moment, Jon allowed himself to relax.

Robert raised his goblet, his face flushed with drink and joy. "Now this is how it should be! None of those southern feasts with their prissy courtiers and bland food. Meat, ale, and good company—this is how you celebrate!"

Jon smiled faintly, lifting his own goblet. "You've brought more than enough company, Your Grace."

Robert roared with laughter, slapping Jon's back with enough force to make him wince. "And you, lad—you've surprised me. Emperor of a foreign land? I'd never have guessed it, but you've got Ned's blood. That explains it."

Jon inclined his head. "And yours, Your Grace. No rebellion could have succeeded without you."

"Aye," Robert said, his grin widening. "But it was Ned who held it all together. I swung the hammer, but he kept the cause alive. Seems his blood runs strong."

Barristan Selmy, seated near Robert, leaned forward with a smile. "I've heard tales of Tamriel, Your Majesty. Few could rise as you have. It speaks to your strength—and your honor."

Jon met Barristan's gaze, recognizing the knight's sincerity. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. It wasn't a path I sought, but it's one I've embraced."

"Humility and power," Barristan said with a nod. "A rare combination."

On Jon's other side, Tyrion Lannister swirled his wine, his sharp eyes studying Jon with evident amusement. "You know, most bastards would be content to scrape out a living on their father's land. You've gone and conquered a continent. Makes one wonder what I've been doing with my life."

Jon smirked faintly. "I wouldn't call it conquering. Tamriel needed unity, and I was in a position to provide it."

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast. "And modest, too. I like you, Emperor Whitewolf."

Jon returned the toast, finding himself warming to the clever Lannister despite his initial reservations. "I've heard you're not one to shy away from ambition yourself, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion's grin widened. "Ah, but my ambitions are far smaller. A good book, a better glass of wine, and an occasional conversation with someone interesting. Tonight, I've checked all three boxes."

Across the hall, the sounds of laughter turned sharper, edged with mockery. A cluster of Lannister retainers, including Jaime Lannister, had gathered near the hearth with Theon Greyjoy. Their voices carried over the revelry, drawing glances from nearby guests.

"An Emperor," Jaime said, his tone laced with irony. "From a bastard. Who would've thought the North could produce such wonders?"

Theon chuckled, swirling his drink lazily. "It's a bit much, isn't it? All this fuss for someone who didn't even belong here to begin with."

Another Lannister knight, a younger man with sharp features, leaned in. "Maybe that's why he left. Found somewhere he could pretend to be important."

The group laughed, their words deliberately loud enough to carry toward the high table. Jon's sharp ears caught fragments of their mocking tones, but he chose not to react. His grip tightened on his goblet briefly before he relaxed his hand, his expression remaining calm.

Tyrion noticed and leaned closer, his voice low. "Pay them no mind. Jaime's always been a bit too pleased with himself, and Greyjoy… well, he's as sharp as a blunt axe."

Jon smirked slightly, his voice equally quiet. "I've dealt with worse."

Robert, oblivious to the undercurrents, raised his goblet again. "Enough talk of titles and battles! Let's drink to family, to the ties that bind us, and to the North! I've missed this place, Ned."

Eddard nodded, his expression softening. "And you're always welcome here, Robert."

The hall erupted in cheers as goblets clinked and the feast continued. Jon exchanged a small, knowing glance with his father, their unspoken understanding bridging the gap of years and experiences. Though the mocking laughter lingered in the background, it couldn't dampen the growing camaraderie at the high table.

As the night wore on, Jon found himself engaged in conversation with Robert, Barristan, and Tyrion. They spoke of battles, of leadership, and of the challenges of ruling. For the first time in a long while, Jon felt a sense of ease—of belonging, even in a place where his past and present collided.

But beneath the revelry, he remained watchful. The shadows of mockery and old tensions loomed, reminders that peace was often fleeting, even in moments of celebration.