He invites himself to the Royal Procession

Jon lingered in his chamber until the horns blared from the battlements, signalling the royal banner sighted on the king’s road. The castle erupted into motion then—servants dashing across the yard with armloads of linens, guards snapping to attention along the walls, and his siblings herded toward the great hall by a flustered Septa Mordane. He slipped out amid the chaos, cloak hood pulled low, weaving through the press of bodies without drawing eyes. No one spared him a glance; all minds fixed on the king.

He found a spot behind a stack of ale barrels near the inner gate, crouched low where the shadow of the armoury fell heavy. From there, he could see the courtyard clear as day—the Stark household arrayed in their finest, Lord Stark at the fore with Lady Stark beside him, Robb and Sansa straight-backed, Arya fidgeting in her dress, Bran and Rickon wide-eyed at the end.

Theona stood off to one side with the household guards, her quiver slung easy, chatting low with Jory Cassel. Jon's gut twisted at the sight of her, but she seemed unchanged in manner, no hint of the fracture he'd caused.

The gates groaned open, and the procession thundered in—banners of gold and black whipping in the wind, armoured knights on destriers kicking up snow. At the head rode a massive man, broader than any two guards put together, his black beard wild and his cloak straining over a belly that spoke of too many feasts.

That had to be the king, Jon figured Robert Baratheon Baratheon, the one Father spoke of with that mix of fondness and sorrow. He looked nothing like the warrior from the tales, the one who'd smashed Rhaegar at the Trident.

This man wheezed as he dismounted, armour creaking, and crushed Father in a bear hug that lifted him off the ground.

"Your Grace," Father said, voice steady but warm. "Winterfell is yours."

Jon watched the king's hand land heavy on Lord Stark's shoulder, the slap ringing sharp across the yard. Knights swung down from their mounts, armour flashing under the weak northern sun, while boys in mismatched livery darted forward to grab reins and lead horses away. His eyes narrowed at the woman who stepped in next—hair like spun gold catching the light, face all hard angles and green eyes that swept the courtyard without warmth.

She led two children by the hand: a boy near Bran's height, curls the same bright yellow as hers, staring around with a smirk that didn't match his years; and a small girl, fingers twisted tight in the woman's skirts, peeking out shy but silent.

That had to be the queen, Cersei Lannister—lion badges snarled on her guards' cloaks, and the way she held her chin high screamed southron pride. Jon's stomach knotted as Lord Stark dropped to one knee in the slush, pressing his lips to the ring she extended, his grey cloak pooling dark against the white.

The king hauled Lady Stark close then, arms wrapping her like an old friend, his voice booming "Cat" with a familiarity that made Jon's jaw tighten. She stiffened at first, then patted his back awkward, her smile thin.

He shifted his weight behind the barrels, a chill creeping up his spine that had little to do with the snow. These were the faces from Old Nan's tales—the storm lord turned king, the golden lions who bought their power with coin—but up close, they carried an edge that set his teeth on edge.

The queen's gaze flicked over the Starks like she measured them for flaws, and the king's laugh boomed too loud, hiding something weary in his eyes

The queen's face tightened, lips parting in protest. "We have ridden since dawn, Your Grace. Everyone is tired and cold—surely, we should refresh ourselves first. The dead will wait."

The king shot her a look, hard and unyielding. A man beside her—twin in face, with the same golden hair and a white cloak marking him Kingsguard—took her arm gentle but firm. She fell silent, colour rising in her cheeks.

Jon shifted behind the barrels, breath fogging the air. Father called for a lantern, no more words needed, and led the king toward the keep. The rest dispersed—queen and children toward the guest house, knights barking orders for stables. Jon waited until the yard cleared some before slipping away, heart pounding not from the cold but the weight of it all.

The king honoured the dead first, even over comfort—that much spoke well of him, whatever the years had done to his frame. But the queen's eyes held daggers, and Jon wondered what shadows followed from the south. He headed for the godswood again, needing quiet before the feast pulled him into view.

Jon's gaze drifted from the queen to the man at her side, the one who'd silenced her with a touch—golden hair cropped short like hers, face a mirror of sharp Lannister lines but hardened by a fighter's edge, green eyes scanning the yard with lazy arrogance.

He stood tall in gleaming plate armour chased with gold lions at the shoulders, a white cloak draped over one arm marking him Kingsguard, sword hilt jutting prominent at his hip, crusted with jewels that caught the pale sun.

That had to be Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer, twin to the queen and oathbreaker who'd slain the Mad King—stories painted him as the realm's finest sword, handsome as a god but rotten inside, his honour traded for a white cloak stained by betrayal.

But Jon had to ask himself if killing the Mad King was such a bad thing?

A flicker of unease stirred in Jon's chest as he watched the man move, steps fluid and predatory, like a lion sizing up prey amid the dismounting knights. Whispers from the yard reached him—guards murmuring awe at the Lion of Lannister, his presence drawing eyes despite the king's bulk dominating the scene.

Jon clenched his jaw, hidden in the shadows, envy mixing with wariness; here was a knight who'd risen high on skill and name alone, no bastard's shame to drag him down, yet the tales spoke of treachery that made even a Snow seem clean by comparison.