He will assert he is invited.

Jon met Lady Stark’s glare head-on, refusing to look away. Something in her eyes—raw, undiluted contempt—stirred the familiar pull inside him, that dark whisper he’d grown used to wrestling with.

A small curl of satisfaction rose in his chest, quiet and hidden, like heat leaking from banked embers. The temptation unfurled with practiced ease, the same coaxing urge that had pushed him to reshape Septa Mordane, the Queen, the Kingslayer, and even the fallen Crown Prince into loyal shadows orbiting his will.

So why not her?

Why not reach into the heart of the woman who had met his first breath with cold disdain? Why not twist the hatred she’d carried for years into something that clung instead of recoiled—turn those icy, withering looks into eyes that sought him out, wanting?

The temptation pressed close—so simple to act on, a handful of words to turn her contempt into something far different, to fold her into the quiet collection of souls who moved at the pull of his will. The chamber around them seemed to narrow at the thought, the air tightening with possibility.

Then another image cut through the haze: Lord Stark, standing in memory as he always had—grey eyes steady, posture plain and uncompromising. Jon had grown up watching that man carry the weight of honour as if it were part of his body. Every lesson, every clipped word of guidance, every silent expectation had settled into Jon’s spine over the years. The idea of reaching into Lady Stark’s mind felt like laying a hand on something his father held sacred.

And the cost didn’t end there. Robb’s easy warmth. Arya’s fierce grin. Bran’s careful questions. Rickon barrelling after anything that caught his attention. Jon hadn’t dared speak to any of them directly since the debacle with Theon. He kept his distance not out of coldness, but out of fear—fear that a stray phrase, a careless tone, might shift something inside them and leave him staring at versions of his siblings shaped by his power rather than by who they were.

Whatever coldness Lady Stark had shown him over the years—whatever bitterness she carried—there were lines he couldn’t bring himself to step over. Faces rose unbidden in his mind: Lord Stark’s steady gaze, Robb’s easy confidence, Arya’s crooked smirk, Bran leaning forward to catch every detail of a story, Rickon barrelling through the snow with boundless energy. Their trust, their place in his life, anchored him more firmly than any notion of vengeance ever could.

The enticing pull inside him flickered once and settled down, leaving a clearer readiness in its place.

“Lady Stark, the Queen herself expects me to attend,” Jon said opting to not touch Lady Stark just yet. The power stayed still inside him, untouched; he didn’t need it. The Queen had summoned him to the royal wheelhouse that morning, placed proper attire in his hands, and given her instructions plainly enough.

Lady Stark’s scoff cut through the solar, a harsh sound that bounced off the stone walls. She folded her arms more tightly across her chest, silk whispering as it drew close. Even the winter roses arranged on the nearby table seemed to lose some of their colour under the chill of her tone.

“You expect me to believe that Snow?” she said, each word carrying the same bite as her stare.

“Yes,” Jon said, cutting across her disbelief. His voice stayed flat, steady, and the power rose beneath it like a quiet undertow. “It’s the truth. Princess Jocelyn asked me to sit beside her as well.”

The air in the solar seemed to tighten around the words, settling over Lady Stark with a slow, creeping weight. Her expression faltered; a small crease formed between her brows as the certainty took hold, unwelcome yet unavoidable. The old disdain didn’t vanish, but it wavered, pushed aside by the undeniable pull of belief.

She drew in a measured breath, her blue eyes narrowing—not to reject his claim, but to make sense of it.

“I… believe it,” she said, the admission scraped raw as it left her. Her posture eased a hair’s breadth, a shift she likely hadn’t intended. “Though I fail to see the reason. The Queen, the Princess—showing favour to you?” Her gaze raked over him, searching for something she couldn’t name. “What could possibly make lions look kindly on a boy like you?”