Outside the noisy great hall, in the dark and silent courtyard of Winterfell, two figures were speaking in loud, serious tones.
Joffrey just happened to be leaning behind the door, listening in.
"...as a bastard..." said the taller one.
"...the only dwarf in the world..." said the shorter one.
The conversation wasn't particularly meaningful. They went back and forth, circling around the same conclusion.
That the mothers they had never known were, most likely, women.
Joffrey silently shook his head.
Not having a mother didn't seem so terrible. He had one, and she was a constant headache.
His gaze drifted back through the hall. Cersei still sat on the raised platform, lips pressed tightly together.
During the four-hour feast, she had not touched a single dish.
The voices in the courtyard gradually faded.
Joffrey straightened his expression and stepped out casually, as if he had just wandered there by chance.
"Uncle, what are you talking about out here with this Stark boy?"
Tyrion tilted his oversized head. "Eavesdropping is not something a well-behaved child should do."
Joffrey ignored him and walked directly toward the brown-haired, long-faced boy.
He pointed toward the white direwolf lying quietly in the shadows like a ghost.
"What's its name?"
"Ghost," Jon Snow replied.
He paused, then added carefully, "His name is Ghost, Your Highness."
Joffrey waved a hand dismissively. "We're not in the capital. No need to be so stiff. I already call your brother my brother."
Tyrion suddenly snorted.
He swayed slightly, putting on a look of exaggerated realization. "Very well. You two future brothers can continue your heartwarming conversation."
"I'll return to drinking."
He staggered toward the hall on his short legs.
Just before entering, he turned and threw out one more comment.
"See that, boy? That's what happens when you raise a wolf as a pet. Anyone trying to get close to you will know exactly where to start."
Joffrey kept smiling as he watched him leave.
Damn that imp. Was it really so hard to keep his mouth shut?
Fortunately, Jon Snow knew nothing.
Before the boy could fully process Tyrion's teasing, Joffrey smoothly picked up the conversation.
"Seems I didn't approach the wrong person."
"Everyone says Lord Eddard has six children. Until I met you, I had only seen five."
His tone was light, as if it were simple curiosity.
"What? Are you not welcoming us?"
Jon lowered his eyes for a moment.
"I'm a bastard," he said calmly, though his voice was low. "I have no place at the table."
Joffrey widened his eyes in mock surprise.
"That's strange. From what I can see, compared to your brothers, you're the one who looks most like a Stark."
"Otherwise, how would I have recognized you at a glance?"
Jon's head snapped up. A flicker of hope crossed his gray eyes.
"Really?"
"Of course... not."
Joffrey dragged out the words, grinning mischievously.
He tilted his chin toward Ghost. "I recognized him."
The direwolf's ears twitched slightly, pale red eyes turning toward Joffrey. Jon scratched the back of his head, laughing awkwardly.
The small joke eased the tension between them. Conversation began to flow more naturally.
But while he chatted casually, Joffrey's heart slowly grew heavy.
His arrival in the North had been pushed forward by at least three months. It was not yet the year 298 AC.
And yet, the deserter from the Night's Watch had still appeared before their arrival. The Stark children had already found the direwolf pups.
The timeline was holding firm.
Joffrey rubbed his fingers together, thinking.
A faint irritation rose in his chest.
He didn't have exact dates in his memory. Everything came in fragments. He couldn't determine the precise gaps between events.
What troubled him most was Littlefinger's letter accusing the Lannisters of murdering Jon Arryn.
Would it arrive before?
After?
Or perhaps tonight, right on schedule?
After a moment of consideration, Joffrey decided not to wait passively.
He would move first.
After saying farewell to Jon, he returned to the still-lively feast. With a bright smile, he slipped over to Cersei's side.
"Still angry at Father?"
Cersei gave a soft snort. "Had enough to drink? Remembered you have a mother at last?"
Her tone was sharp, but not as venomous as it could be.
"You're starting to resemble that drunkard. Perhaps you should bury yourself in the crypts with the dead as well."
Joffrey offered a few soft words to calm her before steering the conversation toward his real target.
"Mother," he said quietly, leaning closer. "Did you speak to Lady Catelyn about her sister?"
Catelyn Tully, seated nearby, visibly stiffened.
Cersei tilted her head back slightly, green eyes narrowing at Joffrey before flicking briefly to the side.
"I've been thinking," Joffrey continued, adopting a tone of mild self-blame, "what if Lady Lysa left because of me?"
"I once overheard Father say he wanted to send her son to Casterly Rock, to foster under Grandfather."
"But Lord Baelish told me earlier, smiling as always, that young Robert might instead be sent to Dragonstone, to serve Lord Stannis."
Catelyn's attention clearly shifted toward them.
"Joff," Cersei cut in sharply, "you're drunk."
Joffrey's voice grew softer, more sorrowful.
"I thought it strange at the time and mentioned it casually to the Hound. I didn't realize Lady Lysa was nearby. She may have overheard."
"Everyone knows she lost many children. It nearly drove her mad. Of course she treasures her son above all else.
Was it my loose tongue that made her flee back to the Eyrie so hastily, without even attending Lord Jon's funeral?"
Cersei wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
"Oh, my Joff. That is certainly not your fault."
"You meant no harm. She chose to leave. Why blame ourselves?"
She paused, then deliberately raised her voice. "Lady Lysa would not take offense. Would she?"
Catelyn, who had fully turned toward them by now, straightened abruptly.
"Yes. Of course not."
But her brow remained tightly furrowed, her gaze lowered to her folded hands.
Joffrey lifted his sleeve and dabbed lightly at the corner of his eye. It had taken effort to squeeze out that tear.
His goal achieved, he returned quietly to his seat and waited for tomorrow to unfold.
The feast continued.
With wine flowing and laughter echoing, no one paid much attention to the small exchange that had just taken place.
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