He attends the feast

Jon emerged from his chamber, the new garments clinging tightly to his frame with unyielding precision, black leather sighing softly as he shifted down the hall.

Follow closely, Della moved just a step behind, the links of her mail gently clinking against the stone with each purposeful stride through the shifting light.

Figures darted by clutching platters heaped with steaming meats and loaves, scents of clove-laced ale and charred herbs thick in the draft, yet gazes slid past without catching as the pair threaded the courtyard, drawn toward the hall's yawning entrance where firelight spilled golden onto the snow.

Heat spilled from the hall's open doors, carrying bursts of raucous laughter and the grating drag of wooden benches across stone.

Direwolf banners rippled alongside crowned stags high in the rafters, stirred by drafts from the crowded space below. Tables groaned beneath piled venison slabs glistening with fat, loaves split open to reveal steaming crumb, and iron pots bubbling over with thick barley stew flecked in herbs.

Plucking at lute strings, minstrels huddled in a shadowed alcove, their notes rising jagged and testing before smoothing into melody.

Jon threaded the throng, lords in cloaks edged with sable and marten brushing past, ladies' hairnets sparkling with garnets and pearls under the torch-glare.

Curious eyes flicked his way—a quick skim from a bearded bannerman, a sidelong peek from a silk-draped matron—only to slide off like water from oiled leather.

Rising on its platform, the high table commanded the hall's far end.

Lord Stark hunched near the King, their murmurs blending into the hall's roar like whispers swallowed by a storm. Beside him, Lady Stark sat ramrod-straight, her hands twisted in her lap as if gripping an unseen blade.

Cersei and Jocelyn held the royal end, their golden locks spilling in loose waves that snatched firelight and held it captive. Sinking into her seat with queenly grace, Cersei drew every gaze—cheekbones carved high and sharp, green eyes piercing like emeralds honed for a crown, lips parted in a faint, beckoning curve.

Beside her, Jocelyn lounged one seat removed from Cersei, leaving the chair between them vacant like an unspoken invitation.

She crossed her legs with deliberate ease, the crimson gown hugging her form—bodice embroidered with snarling lions in gold thread that gleamed under the hall's blaze, the fabric dipping low to trace the swell of her breasts before flaring into sleeves edged in purple velvet. Her golden braids twisted into a crown, strands escaping to frame a face of sharp, ethereal beauty: skin glowing like polished ivory, emerald eyes hooded with a sly allure, cheeks dusted faint pink, lips full and tinted rose as if kissed by wine. A pendant lion dangled at her throat, catching light with each breath, her posture all languid confidence that promised secrets and storms alike.

Both women's expressions softened at his approach, gazes locking on him with a warmth that outshone the hall's roaring hearths.

Easing sideways in her seat, Cersei cleared the chair between them, a flicker darting through her emerald gaze while her back straightened in the quiet claim of triumph.

Jocelyn bent forward, a grin breaking across her lips—sharp yet inviting—her fingers coiling in a silent summons to the vacant spot.

Sliding into the seat, Jon felt the wolf-fur mantle graze Cersei's velvet sleeve on one side, Jocelyn's stitched hem crowding warm against the other.

Della wove into the throng at the lower benches, her form blurring amid the jostle until she dissolved like mist into twilight.

Leaning in, Cersei let her breath skim his ear, warm and intimate. "You chose well," she murmured, her nails tracing secret lines along his thigh beneath the tablecloth's fold.

Jocelyn reached across, her palm clamping his knee in a fierce, unyielding hold. "Finally," she whispered, the syllable laced with relief that pierced the surrounding clamour like a ray slicing gloom.

Horns clattered the air. Servers wove through the throng with laden trays, while fiddles and lutes leaped into a lively reel, voices swelling as the feast ignited.

Turning toward him, Cersei and Jocelyn held his gaze—softened edges in their eyes, affection blooming open amid the din, the hall's tumult shrinking to a distant hum around their shared pull.