Not yet, but he broods over it

The temptation clawed at Jon’s will fiercely, promising sweet justice for every sidelong glance and whispered judgment, but Jon clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze to the battlements above, where the Stark banner snapped defiantly in the wind.

Drawing strength from the image of House Stark, Jon cooled his anger, and reminded himself that he was a Bastard, and to the Septa, treacherous was what he was supposed to be.

He lingered in the courtyard a moment longer, the frost crunching under his boots as he turned toward the armoury. Servants bustled past, hauling crates of provisions for the king's feast, their eyes flicking toward him before darting away—quick, habitual glances that now burned like accusations.

One older groom, pausing to adjust a harness, muttered something to his companion about "the lord's by-blow" needing to stay out of sight for the royal eyes.

Jon's steps faltered, his ears straining against the wind, catching the words like barbs snagging cloth.

The older groom turned away quickly and made himself busy.

Seeing that the man was coward Jon pressed on, shoulders hunched beneath his cloak, the power's hum vibrating in his chest, a constant reminder of what he could silence with a breath.

The sun finally breached the jagged line of Winterfell's battlements, spilling golden light across the training yard like molten iron from a forge, turning the hard-packed dirt into a shimmering arena. Robb moved at its centre, his auburn hair catching the rays as he circled a burly guardsman, blunted sword weaving in lazy arcs that belied the power behind them.

Two more men traded blows nearby, their grunts punctuating the rhythmic thud of wood on wood, sweat already darkening their tunics in the crisp air. Jon slipped into the fray without a greeting, his boots scuffing the earth as he grabbed a weathered practice blade from the rack, its grip familiar yet suddenly heavy in his palm.

He lunged at the nearest opponent—a lanky youth with a scarred shield—his strikes coming fast and fierce, edges biting deeper than drills demanded, each resounding crack echoing the septa's barbs that still festered in his thoughts.

This caused Robb paused mid-parry, shooting him a sidelong glance laced with curiosity, but Jon pressed on, channelling the morning's slights into every swing, the blade whistling through the air as if to cleave away the invisible chains of his birth.

Robb grinned through sweat-slicked hair, clapping him on the back after a solid parry. "You're fighting like a man with ghosts at his heels today, Snow." The word Snow hung in the air, warm yet laced with unintended pity—Robb's easy use of it, unmarred by qualifiers.

Jon nodded curtly, driving forward with renewed ****, the blade whistling as it cut the chill morning air. Inside, the septa's sermon echoed, twisting every camaraderie into a reminder of the line that divided them.

As the session wound down, a cluster of kitchen maids crossed the yard's edge, giggling over baskets of fresh-baked loaves. One, bolder than the rest, called out teasingly to Robb about saving a dance for her at the feast, then her gaze slid to Jon, her smile fading into a polite nod.

"My lord's son," she said, the title clipped short, omitting the warmth she'd given Robb. Jon felt the slight coil tighter in his gut, his fingers whitening on the sword hilt. He sheathed the weapon with a scrape, excusing himself to the stables, where the scent of hay and horse sweat offered brief solace.

Even there, a stableboy's offhand comment about "bastards knowing their place around fine southern mounts" grated against his raw nerves, each casual dismissal amplifying the septa's venom until it pulsed like a fresh bruise.

The early morning dragged on, the castle alive with preparations—banners unfurled, hearths stoked high, the air thick with roasting spices. Jon sought refuge in the quieter corners, mending a torn saddle strap alone in a shadowed stall.

Footsteps approached, light and mocking, and Theon Greyjoy sauntered in, his Ironborn swagger cutting through the dim light. Leaning against a post, Theon smirked, tossing an apple core into the straw. "Hiding from the royal pomp, Snow? Or just polishing up for your grand disappearance?"

Footsteps approached, light and mocking, and Theon Greyjoy sauntered in, his Ironborn swagger cutting through the dim light. Leaning against a post, Theon smirked, tossing an apple core into the straw. "Hiding from the royal pomp, Snow? Or just polishing up for your grand disappearance?"

Jon kept his eyes on the leather, threading the needle with deliberate care, but Theon's presence prickled like salt in a wound.

They were alone now, the stableboys scattered to other chores, the space echoing with the soft nickers of horses.

Theon chuckled, plucking a straw from his teeth. "Heard the septa gave you a proper dressing-down this morn. Those Seven-worshipping prudes and their talk of taint—ridiculous, but handy for keeping bastards like you in line, eh? Best not to tempt fate with the king around, lest you prove her right with that treacherous gleam." He paced closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial drawl.

"Speaking of temptations, I've got plans for tonight. That red-haired wench from the village—Kyra, was it? She'll warm a man's bed for a silver or two. You should join me, Snow. Loosen that northern virtue of yours before you swear it away at the Wall."

Jon's needle paused mid-stitch, the thread pulling taut. Theon's words dredged up the old vow he'd made to himself—no sons condemned to his fate, no shadows cast by his own hand. He glanced up, meeting Theon's mocking grey eyes.

"Come on," Theon pressed, leaning in with a grin that bared too many teeth. "What's the harm? A quick tumble, and who knows—you might sire a little bastard of your own. Keep the tradition alive, eh? Or are you too pure for that, too scared to spread your tainted seed?"

The anger surged then, hot and unchecked, flooding Jon's veins until his vision narrowed to Theon's smug face. His fists clenched around the strap, knuckles paling, the power roaring in his ears like a storm wind, begging to be unleashed—to twist Theon's taunts into silence, to **** humility down his throat with a single, reshaping word.