Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell

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A cool breeze blew through the opened windows of the keep. Winter was coming, and fast approaching if Maester Lewin were to be believed. It was a refreshing breath on the skin, especially after last night's antics, celebrating Theon's Nameday.

From the shuttered windows, the sounds of (a doubtlessly hungover) Robb, Theon and the younger boys of Winterfell sparring drifted through the halflight of the room.

On the far side of the room, a doorway into the Keep proper, usually bolted shut, stood slightly ajar, and he could make out an echoing commotion. The sounds of raised voices, babbling and clamoring over each other.