No, he'll head to the kitchens

Jon eased away from the workbench, the maester’s last remarks still moving through his thoughts, faint and lingering, like distant calls from the rookery overhead.

“Thank you for the counsel, Maester,” he said as he straightened. His voice held, even and composed. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Luna answered with a brief dip of her chin paired iwth a warm smile. The quill was already back between her fingers, scratching across the ledger as the links of her chain brushed together.

“Come back anytime, Jon. The door’s always open.”

The turret door closed behind him with a soft click. Cold met him at once as he took the spiral stairs, stone pressing chill through his soles while the sounds above thinned to nothing.

Frost glazed the yard, breaking beneath his boots as he crossed it. The bell tower threw a long shadow across the ground, stretched thin by the early light. Near its base, the kitchens crouched low, smoke slipping from the chimneys in slow grey threads. The smell reached him before the warmth did—bread rising, fat hissing on iron—steady, familiar, and impossible to ignore.

The heat struck as soon as he crossed the threshold, thick and immediate, driven by hearths that roared along the walls. Flames climbed the sides of blackened kettles, and spits turned over the fire, fat snapping as it fell into the coals.

The kitchens moved around him without pause. Cooks shouted to be heard over the clatter of iron and wood, servants wove through the narrow spaces with loaded trays, skirts and sleeves dusted white from the tables. No one slowed or looked twice as Jon stepped aside and claimed a stool near a worktable crusted with old flour and knife marks.

Jon took what was close at hand. A heel of oatbread, still warm, took the butter easily, leaving his fingers slick. The cheese was sharp and crumbly, the pork heavily salted, the rind crackling where it had just come off the pan. He ate standing half-turned from the table, bites quick and practiced, letting the heat soak into him. The press of noise and steam held his attention where it was, giving him something solid to focus on while the rest of the castle carried on around him.

A servant burst through the side door, breathless and flushed, her apron twisted at the waist and dark strands of hair slipping loose beneath her cap. She paused just long enough to get her bearings, chest rising in quick pulls of air, as though she’d run hard to get there.

Her gaze found him. Wiping her hands down her skirt, she crossed the room at once.

“Master Snow,” she said, the words coming fast and uneven, “Young Lord Stark’s asking for you. He’s been at it since he woke—said it couldn’t wait.”

Jon finished the last strip of salted pork, chewing longer than he needed to. The taste dulled, turning dry and bitter as the servant’s message settled in. He set the trencher aside and wiped his hands on his breeches, though the grease had already cooled. Around him, the kitchens carried on, their noise blurring until it pressed at the edges of his hearing.

Young Lord Stark. Not his father. Robb.

The name caught low and pulled, sharp as a hook set deep. Memories followed without effort—shared glances across the yard, laughter carried on cold air, the ease that had always come with standing at Robb’s side. His body leaned toward it before he realized, drawn by habit as much as affection.

He stopped himself. Something else stirred beneath the familiar tug, a steady thrum in his chest that refused to be ignored. It didn’t shout or rush him. It waited, measured and insistent, beating out a warning he could feel more than hear.

There had been a reason he’d kept his distance since the power took hold. The same reason he’d learned to angle away from Arya in the corridors, to let conversations end before they gathered weight. Words were no longer harmless once they left his mouth. A thought spoken carelessly could settle where it didn’t belong and refuse to move.

With Robb, the danger sharpened. Robb read him too well—the set of his shoulders, the rhythm of his voice. Any pause held a breath too long, any phrase chosen with care, would earn a look. Brows would draw together. The grin would falter.

What’s eating at you, Snow?

The question would come easy, half in jest. Answering it—even to deflect—risked more than honesty. A stray reassurance, an offhand certainty, could take root and harden into something Robb never chose for himself. One wrong sentence and the ground between them could shift, trust settling into a shape Jon had no right to give it. That closeness—the thing that had always let him stand beside Robb as something more than Snow—could be altered without either of them realizing how.

Going to him now meant facing that risk in open daylight, with guards within earshot and servants close enough to carry words further than intended. Staying away had its own cost. Robb would wait, then worry. Concern would grow where nothing had been said, the distance Jon had tried to keep from doing harm spreading on its own, thin and slow as a crack in winter ice.

The choice pulled at him from both directions. Under it all, the power stirred, patient and persuasive, offering answers that would make everything easier.