That he needs to clear his thoughts

Jon drew a steadying breath amid the feast's clamour, the weight of their gazes pressing like unseen hands.

"I must excuse myself for a moment," he said, voice low but firm, "to be alone with my thoughts."

Cersei's grip lingered on his arm, nails pressing a final claim before she let go, her eyes locked on his with a heat that promised more than words. "Make sure to return, my love."

Jocelyn's sharp nod cut the air, her urgent tone slicing through the feast's murmur. "Don't be long."

From her sentinel spot behind, Jaime leaned close, her breath a warm tease against his ear. "We'll be waiting."

He rose swiftly, the bench scraping against stone, and wove through the hall's heat, the laughter and lute-strings chasing him like ghosts.

Ghost padded at his heels, a silent white shadow, while Della's armoured steps echoed close behind, her presence a steady anchor in the swirl.

The yard outside swallowed him in cold quiet, the night air biting sharp after the hall's stuffy warmth.

A single sentry huddled on the inner wall's battlements, cloak clutched tight against the wind's teeth, his face a mask of weary misery in the torch-glow.

Jon envied him that solitude, that simple duty far from the tangle of crowns and desires.

The castle stretched dark and empty around him, towers looming like forgotten sentinels.

He'd seen a ruined holdfast once, windswept and silent, where weeds claimed the stones and no echoes remained of the lives once lived there.

Winterfell felt kin to it now hushed, withdrawn, as if holding its breath against the revelry spilling from the great hall's windows, music and song drifting out like smoke on the breeze.

Jon paused in the yard's centre, the crunch of snow under his boots the only sound.

He needed this clarity, this space to untangle the knot marriage had thrown into his mind—a word he'd never dwelled on, even with the power thrumming in his veins, twisting fates like threads in a loom.

"Boy," a voice rasped from above.

Jon spun, eyes lifting to the ledge over the great hall's door.

A small figure perched there, legs swinging short and bandy, body twisted in a hunch that mocked the gargoyles carved into the stone beside him.

The face—mismatched eyes gleaming in the torchlight, oversized head cocked to one side, a grin splitting the ugliness like a crack in rock—clicked into place. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp himself.

The dwarf's grin flashed down at him, sharp and knowing. "Is that animal a wolf?"

"A direwolf," Della interjected, her tone even as she stepped forward slightly. "M'lord's named him Ghost."

Jon stayed silent at first, his inner turmoil slipping away as he stared up at the little man, curiosity overriding the storm in his chest. "What are you doing up there? Why aren't you at the feast?"

Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”

“Oh, bleed that,” the little man said.

He pushed himself off the ledge into empty air.

Jon gasped, lunging forward instinctively—but Della was faster, her armoured form blurring as she darted beneath the falling dwarf. Her arms shot up, catching Tyrion Lannister mid-tumble with a grunt, her chainmail clinking under the impact as she steadied him like a sack of grain. She set him down lightly on the snow, her grip firm but not rough, eyes narrowed in quiet assessment.

Tyrion dusted himself off and laughed once, sharp and surprised. “Well, that's a new way to land," he commented as Della put him down.

Jon beckoned his direwolf once more. "Ghost, come here. That's it, boy."

The pup edged forward, pressing his muzzle against Jon's cheek, though his red eyes stayed locked on Tyrion Lannister. When the dwarf extended a hand to stroke him, Ghost recoiled, lips peeling back in a soundless growl that bared gleaming fangs.

"Shy one, eh?" Lannister remarked.

"Sit, Ghost," Jon ordered. "Stay put. Good."

He glanced up at the dwarf. "You can touch him now. He won't budge until I say so. I've been working on that."

"Impressive," Lannister said. He scratched the thick white fur behind Ghost's ears and nodded. "Fine wolf you have." Tilting his large head, he studied Jon with those odd, mismatched eyes. "I'm Tyrion Lannister."

"I gussed, My lord," Jon replied. He pushed to his feet. Towering over the dwarf now felt odd, a twist in his gut that left him uneasy.

“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”

Jon nodded. The label would have stung once, but something in the dwarf's tone carried no malice, no bite to draw blood.

Tyrion's mismatched eyes gleamed as he tilted his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Not offended, I see—good. But you are the bastard, though, aren't you?"

"Last I checked, but perhaps I should check again?" Jon agreed, his voice boredbut steady, the admission hanging in the cold air without the usual weight.

The Lannister's mismatched eyes lingered on Jon's features, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark curls that framed his face. "Yes," he murmured, a faint nod tipping his oversized head. "I can see it. You carry more of the North in you than your brothers do."

The words landed like a quiet gift, warmth spreading through Jon's chest despite himself. He kept his expression steady, jaw set, but a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the satisfaction. "I hope that it drives Lady Stark mad," he replied, the admission slipping out with a hint of dry humor.

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Lannister agreed, amusement creasing his mismatched eyes as he traced Jon's features with a lingering glance.

Tyrion's head tilted slightly, the grin fading into something sharper, more appraising. "You seem rather at peace with your bastardy."

Meeting the stare Jon did not flinch, a faint curve tugging at his mouth. "If it doesn't seem too forward, my lord, you appear rather at peace with yourself."

The dwarf's chuckle rumbled low, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the wall, the sound echoing off the stone.

"I never forget what I am," Lannister said, his voice dropping to a confiding tone, the words carrying the weight of hard-won scars. "The world won't let me. So, I turned it into my armour—made it my strength. Now no one can use it to wound me."

Jon was in no mood for anyone’s counsel. “And that can work with Bastardry too, Lord Lannister?”

“I am no lord and all dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

His words made Jon's eyebrow rise “Are you not your mother’s trueborn son of Lannister.”

“Am I?” the dwarf replied, sardonic. “Do tell my lord father. My mother died birthing me, and he’s never been sure.”

That was interesting for Jon to know.