He rejects her but his dreams make him regret it

Jon considered her for a moment, the lantern's flicker playing across her face, softening the edges of her concern.

He shook his head once, firm but without sharpness, his voice steady in the quiet room.

"Thank you, Theona, but no. I'll manage on my own tonight. You've waited long enough—get some proper rest."

Theona's hand dropped from his hair, her expression shifting to a resigned nod, though a faint smile tugged at her lips.

"Aye, if you're sure." She gathered her cloak from the chair's back, slinging it over her shoulders with a rustle. "Don't be a stranger tomorrow. Robb'll want to hear you're alright."

She slipped out with a final glance, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving the chamber to its hush.

Jon barred the door, the wood cool under his palm, and turned to Della.

She stood watchful near the window, her armor a faint gleam in the low light.

"Guard the door," he said simply. "No one enters until morning."

She dipped her chin, taking position outside with a soft clink of chainmail, the latch falling into place.

Jon stripped down to his smallclothes, the fine attire from the Queen folded neatly on the chest, and slid under the furs.

The bed still held Theona's warmth, the indented pillow a reminder of her vigil, her faint scent of salt spray and pine resin lingering in the furs like a whisper from the Iron Islands. Exhaustion pulled him under like a current, the feast's echoes fading to black.

The great hall of Winterfell stretched empty around him, tables vanished into shadow, hearths black and lifeless, banners drooping from the rafters like wilted skins.

The air hung heavy, cold as crypt breath, pressing on his shoulders as he faced the dais.

Lord and Lady Stark loomed from the stone dias, rigid and severe. Cold light traced the lines of their faces, catching in eyes set hard and watchful, as if the weight of Winterfell itself stood behind their gaze. The air beneath them felt smaller, pressed down by their presence.

Lady Stark's arms locked tight across her chest, her mouth a slashed line, her glare scorching his skin as if he were filth she could burn away.

"Bastard," her voice cracked through the void, sharp as a whip's snap. "Born of lust and weakness. A stain on this house."

Lord Stark's grey eyes weighed heavier, no fire in them, only a deep sorrow that sank into Jon's bones like lead, his face etched with lines of quiet grief.

"You were meant for better," he said, the words falling soft but landing hard, each one a stone bruising Jon's chest. "Honour was your path. Now look what you've become."

Darkness swallowed the hall, shadows coiling into hooded robes that multiplied like spreading ink, septons' voices rising in a droning tide: "Bastards are treacherous by nature... wanton... deceitful... born from sin to spread it..."

Cold iron snaked around his wrists and ankles, links biting into flesh as they yanked him to his knees, the metal clanking with every tug.

The chains grew heavier, each segment forged from flashes—the Queen's arched back, her moans echoing; the septa's body yielding on the altar; gifts twisted from words that bent wills like reeds.

He thrashed, chains rattling, pulling tighter until his joints screamed.

"I didn't mean..." he gasped, the plea **** out, but it shattered into the chant's relentless grind: "Treacherous... wanton... bastard..."

The dais swelled upward, the Starks rising like gods from ancient tales, their forms blotting the ceiling.

Lord Stark's disappointment crushed down, a vast pressure flattening him to the stone, air squeezing from his lungs in ragged bursts.

Lady Stark's anger flared hotter, flames licking at his edges, while guilt poured in like black river water, filling his mouth, his throat, drowning him in the flood of betrayal—the man who'd raised him betrayed, the house that had given him shelter defiled, all traded for stolen power and fleeting heat.

Jon woke with a jolt, heart hammering, the chamber's quiet a stark contrast to the dream's roar, sweat cooling on his skin as dawn's first light crept through the shutters.

He pushed himself upright, moving with care as the furs slid down and bunched at his waist. Cool air brushed Jon's skin, prickling along his arms. After a moment, the shadows resolved, and the Bastard of Witnerfell's gaze found Della at the door.

She remained at her the door, stance held by habit even as her shoulders eased a fraction. The mail across her chest caught the thin light, each link dull and worn. She blinked once, measured, then rolled her neck beneath the weight of the gorget, a gauntleted hand briefly easing the strain before dropping back to her side. When she shifted her footing, it was quiet and controlled. Her eyes swept the room again, clear and focused, despite the heaviness riding their edges—fatigue kept in check, waiting its turn.