Well he should go see Lady Stark

Jon held Della’s gaze in the dim chamber, the lantern’s weak glow catching on the plates of her freshly donned armour. Her question lingered in the air between them, weighted by the earnest loyalty she hadn’t yet learned to temper.

“Aye,” he said at last, his voice steady. “Take me to Lady Stark. If she has words for me, I’ll hear them from her own lips.”

A quiet warmth softened Della’s expression. The small lift at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes brightened, all of it spoke more than the smile itself. “As you wish, m’lord’s son,” she murmured, a gentle cadence threading through the reply. “Follow me.”

She turned with a faint clink of chainmail and started forward, her armour shifting in subtle, uneven notes as she guided him out the door. Jon followed her down the tight stairwell, its stone steps worn shallow in the centre by generations of boots. A draft whispered upward from the lower hall, carrying the scent of hearth-smoke and damp wool. Shadows stretched long across the curved walls, thrown by torches struggling to stay lit in the chill.

The corridors below swelled with movement. Servants hurried in both directions, balancing trays, folded linens, and baskets of rushes, their sleeves brushing against one another in the narrow passageways. No one spared Jon or Della more than a fleeting glance; the keep pulsed with preparations, and every hand seemed claimed by some urgent task. A boy stumbled past with a stack of polished goblets nearly as tall as he was, and a scullery maid muttered apologies as she squeezed around a pair of guards hauling a cumbersome bench.

Della wove through the bustle without hesitation. Her stride had shifted—relaxed, steady in a way it hadn’t been that morning. The movement of her cloak matched that certainty, settling and swaying behind her in slow, confident arcs. The sword at her hip tapped against her thigh with each step, a quiet, rhythmic knock that kept its own cadence beneath the surrounding noise. Jon watched her for a moment, noting the new ease in her posture, the way she held herself like someone who had finally stepped into a role that fit.

They passed beneath an archway carved with the sigil of House Stark—direwolf chasing snowdrift—and turned toward a smaller door on the hall’s right side. Beyond it lay a dim passage lined with narrow arrow slits, each one letting in a sliver of pale afternoon light. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, stirred by their movement. A distant murmur of activity filtered through the stone: kitchen clatter, a hammer striking wood, muffled voices raised in debate over where something should be placed or who should carry it.

Della pushed open the final door, and they stepped into a side chamber just off the great hall—a modest solar used on busy days for private matters. Thick tapestries covered much of the wall space, depicting winter hunts, harvest feasts, and a faded scene of Bran the Builder standing beside the earliest foundations of Winterfell. Each heavy panel stifled the outside clamour, leaving the room wrapped in a hush that felt almost intimate.

Lady Catelyn stood at the chamber’s centre. Her auburn hair, drawn back with practiced care, revealed the calm set of her jaw. She directed a cluster of maids with clipped, efficient motions, tapping one finger on a trestle table when a garland sagged unevenly. The maids, quick to adjust under her watchful eye, shifted the winter roses—pale violet and deep frost-blue—until they hung neatly in place. A dish of melted beeswax sat warming near the hearth, and every now and then the soft scent of it curled through the room, mingling with dried thyme and juniper tied in bundles along the mantle.

Jon paused just inside the doorway, letting the warmth of the chamber settle around him. Compared to the bustle outside, the solar felt anchored ordered by Lady Catelyn’s presence alone.

At their approach, she acknowledged the maids with a brief, controlled nod. They finished their adjustments and stepped back, gathering their cloths and baskets before slipping quietly past Jon and Della. The door shut behind them with a muted thud, and the muted stillness of the room returned.

The garlands swayed faintly from the disturbance, the winter roses brushing together with the softest whisper of petals. The lingering fragrance of herbs, beeswax, and cleaned stone filled the air, steady and clean—an echo of the woman who stood amid it all.

Lady Catelyn turned at the sound of their entrance, her blue eyes narrowing as they settled on Della before shifting to Jon. The scrutiny in her gaze carried its own weight, pointed and unspoken.

“Did you deliver my message to the bastard?” she asked. The question wasn’t raised, only shaped with a firm edge that left little room for wandering answers.

A tension rippled through Della’s stance; her shoulders locked beneath the steel, jaw tightening for the briefest moment. Even so, her reply came level—controlled in a way that hid the heat coiling behind her eyes.

“I brought him here instead, my lady,” she said. “So, he could hear your words himself.”

At these words the brow of Lady Stark tightened, a brief flash of irritation passing over her features as she cast a quick, clipped look toward Della. Her lips thinned, holding back whatever she meant to say. The shift in her expression was swift; when her attention swung to Jon, the change carried the weight of something long rooted. Her stare landed hard, steady as steel gone cold.

The silence between them hardened. She didn’t need to raise her voice—her gaze carried enough ****, sharp with the same resentment that had followed him through the halls for as long as he could remember.

This time Jon didn’t drop his eyes or shift aside. He held her stare and let a scowl settle across his face. “Lady Stark,” he said, the words clipped and stiff, “I was told you had something to say to me.”

“I do.” Her answer came sharp enough to cut. “And I assumed you knew your station well enough to accept a message delivered by my servant.” She let the final word hang before adding, “Snow,” with a bite that struck harder than the rest.

Heat stirred under Jon’s skin at the way she said his name, anger rising before he could temper it. “It isn’t,” he said, his voice turning cold without his permission.

A subtle shift ran through the room as the power inside him swelled, pressing outward in a quiet, unseen surge. Lady Stark’s expression faltered for half a heartbeat before she straightened, masking it with icy poise.

Lady Stark’s blue eyes thinned, the torchlight in the solar catching on every hard line of her expression. She drew her arms across her chest, silk brushing softly as it settled, and held her stance without a flicker of doubt. The quiet stretched just long enough to feel intentional before she inclined her head once measured, controlled, as though acknowledging a point she didn’t care to grant.

“You’re right,” she said at last. The smoothness in her voice didn’t soften the underlying cold; it simply carried it more cleanly. “A servant’s report won’t do when the message comes from the Lady of Winterfell and concerns her lord husband’s natural son.” Her gaze stayed fixed on Jon as she spoke, unblinking. “If the words are to matter, they need to be spoken directly and received without question.”

Her mouth tightened at one corner—not a smile, merely the edge of something cutting.

“We both know why you hesitate, Snow,” she said, her tone turning precise. “It isn’t the servant you question.” Her gaze moved over him with cool assessment, as though weighing and discarding him in the same breath. “You’ve always struggled to keep hold of things when they’re spoken around you. Meanings slip. Intentions warp. Simple words turn sideways.” She lifted her chin slightly. “So, I’ll speak them clearly, to leave no room for you to lose them.”

Jon felt the sting of it sink under his ribs, heat gathering in his chest. Still, he held her gaze, the familiar hum of power stirring beneath his skin, steady and waiting.

“It is improper for a bastard like yourself to stand among the royal guests,” Lady Stark said, each word clipped with disdain. “You’ve ignored my earlier messages—or failed to grasp them—so let me make this one impossible to miss.” Her sneer sharpened as she fixed her gaze on him. “You will not attend the feast.”

The sentence landed with the **** she intended, but Jon felt a quiet spark kindle behind his stillness. She had no idea—no hint at all—how the royal family would react if Jon was absent.