Game of Thrones: The Dragonborn - Chapter 51 - The Winterfell Banquet 10.

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Third Person POV.
Winterfell.

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...

"Yes..." The words escaped the mouth of the Lord in front of the Dragonborn.

"As I imagined," Jon commented while analyzing Lord Reed and his children, who watched him with a certain caution. "I’ve always heard that you were a close friend of Lord Stark, from his own lips many years ago, but I also heard you never left your swamp in the south of the North. It seems that has changed." He spoke while noticing the man wasn’t drinking, as there was nothing for him or his children to consume.

The man gave a tight-lipped smile. "And it remains so. After all, I have a debilitating condition," he said, seemingly glancing at his legs.

"I noticed that..." Jon said suddenly. "I know you survived, but it was still rather cowardly what you did to the greatest swordsman in Westeros." His words made the man flinch slightly, looking at Jon in surprise that he knew, while his children seemed confused.

"I’m not proud of it at all..." Howland said, continuing, "But for the first time in 16 years, I am here in Winterfell." He commented as Jon raised an eyebrow.

Jon ignored the comment about Ser Arthur Dayne’s fate. "Indeed... looking at it like this, it almost seems like you’re here precisely to see me. Like you foresaw my arrival or something like that?" Jon asked, raising his eyebrow again.

"Not me, but my son." He gestured toward the boy beside him, and Jon scrutinized him with his eyes in the next moment.

"My name is Jojen Reed, and I have a question for you." The boy spoke directly, staring at Jon with intense eyes.

"Go ahead," Jon said, unsure what the boy wanted but certainly curious.

"You were beyond the Wall, weren’t you?" Jojen began, taking care to ensure no one else could hear.

"Yes," Jon replied, a bit surprised but also intrigued by what the boy wanted to say.

"Then you killed him, didn’t you?" The boy continued. Jon gave him a look that suggested he understood what Jojen was referring to.

"Are you talking about the old man in the tree or the White Walkers?" Jon asked, making everyone there, even Lord Reed, furrow their brows. Jon answered before Jojen could speak.

"Both. I killed both. The White Walkers, as they appeared before me, and that old man in the tree... well, he became my enemy. So I went to him, confronted him. He was there, trapped in the roots, and I killed him. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?" Jon spoke calmly, while Jojen remained silent at his words, not seeming too surprised by Jon’s response.

"Why? Why did you do it? You changed the future of this world!" Jojen murmured, perplexed.

"I did. Well, it doesn’t matter," Jon replied, impassive. "After all, I’ll shape my own future and won’t rely on prophecies or an old man in a tree who claimed to be a Messiah. All that matters is what I want to do." He spoke with an arrogant tone.

Meera Reed, Lord Reed’s daughter, observed Jon carefully while her father tried to decipher him. He was certainly nothing like what he had expected from a son of Lyanna Stark. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing. But Jon was very different from the Starks—or at least this one was sure of that. Though his talent with music was something inherited from his father, it still seemed different from Rhaegar.

"And what is your goal now?" Jojen spoke again, while Jon’s gaze lingered on the main table. There, Benjen Stark was talking to his brother, likely asking what his brother wanted with him, while Lord Stark, in turn, seemed a bit confused.

"Before that, let me ask you something, Lord Reed." Jon shifted his gaze to Howland before continuing. "Do you know who I am? I don’t mean my name or what I appear to be. I mean, who I truly am the son of."

"Yes, I know," Lord Reed murmured, unfazed, given that Jon had already spoken about Arthur Dayne.

"I see. It's understandable. After all, you were there with Lord Stark. Perhaps you're the only person who truly knows my origin, aren't you?" Jon asked, as Rowland nodded again before he continued.

"So, you know I have some unfinished business, as you can imagine, with my mother’s family. And what happened to my brothers... Even without knowing them and despite having different mothers, what kind of person would I be if I left such things unanswered? After all, the Lannisters always pay their debts, and they owe me a rather large one, along with the Baratheons, of course." Jon spoke, unconcerned about sharing such things with the lord before him—it wouldn’t change anything.

"So, you seek war?" Rowland murmured.

"There will be no other way. Dealing with this will indeed create great chaos," Jon replied.

"Do you seek the throne?" Rowland asked again, as Jon shook his head.

"No. The throne, even if it belongs to me, is not something I desire. I don’t want to be king."

Jon held something he would never trade for anything: his freedom. And he knew he wouldn’t find that as king, even if legitimate. He would have to deal with the problems of the Seven Kingdoms every day, surrounded by deceitful people trying to gain something from him. It wasn’t something he aspired to. Perhaps some lands in the North where he could raise his children would be the ideal way to live out the rest of his life, if he could choose.

"And what will you do about the threat beyond the Wall? You’ve seen them, haven’t you? You know the danger," Jojen murmured now, with an even more intense tone, as Jon had killed the Three-Eyed Raven.

"The White Walkers will be dealt with at the right time. Don’t worry about that. I won’t let this world become a graveyard of icy corpses walking around, if that’s what concerns you. But even so, I wish to take care of my business in the South," Jon said with a serious tone.

"I understand," Jojen murmured, glancing at the main table. "But war, whether you interfere or not, will be inevitable." He spoke vaguely, already foreseeing wars breaking out among those people and others, while Jon looked at him, shrugging, not fully grasping his meaning.

"Well, in any case, I’d better go. After all, I’m just a strange bard talking to high nobles of the Northern Realm." Jon spoke, beginning to rise.

"Wait, Daemon," Rowland called before he could leave. Jon turned to him, raising an eyebrow upon hearing his true name spoken—it seemed he had known since Jon left the Tower of Joy.

"Can you tell me where you’ve been all this time and what happened to you?" Rowland asked. Jon gave a small smile.

"I’ve been very far away, Lord Reed. Very, very far. And, let’s say, the gods sent me back here. Anyway, I hope to see you again. After all, it’s not every day that someone knows my name or my origin, and you seem fairly trustworthy, despite saying some rather odd things." Jon said, taking his leave as he moved away toward the middle of the hall.

And so he did, looking for something to occupy himself with. After all, he was still at a feast. Jon continued to keep a low profile to avoid drawing too much attention, as he was still being hunted by the king.

"For a bard, you certainly know how to evade His Majesty and his lackeys..." a voice emerged beside him at that moment. Turning, Jon saw a short man drinking among others who appeared to be guards, knights, and mercenaries.

Jon found it curious and certainly intriguing. The man, seeing his surprised silence, continued.

"If you’d like to sit, come join us. It’s not every day I see such an interesting character at a banquet," Tyrion said.

Jon found the comment bold and amusing as he simply moved and sat next to Tyrion. The entire table turned to look at him but remained silent, and Jon returned his attention to the man who had called him.

"You are quite perceptive, dwarf," Jon commented.

"Well, I do try to train my eyes a lot, even though I’m not in the best condition. So, I suppose the compliment means more coming when I’m drunk than when I’m sober..." Tyrion replied solemnly.

Jon couldn’t help but smile at his words. "So we have here a man of good humor," he said.

"Thank you for that... I think. Your name is Dovahkiin, isn’t it? An unusual name. Where exactly are you from?" Tyrion asked, clearly intrigued by the oddity of it.

"From a place very far away, if you must know. Best not to ask, as I doubt you’d ever reach it," Jon replied.

"Really? And do the bards there play so well? I nearly saw my sister cry, and let me tell you, that’s like seeing stones pulled from her eyes." Tyrion laughed.

"Truly? Who is your sister?" Jon asked, curious about the humor. Tyrion certainly seemed like someone quite grumpy.

"This is Tyrion Lannister, brother to Cersei Lannister," one of the knights chimed in, overhearing their conversation.

"What can I say? My sister is the queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Tyrion murmured, giving a smile that quickly faded as he caught sight of Jon’s face. The Dragonborn’s expression was far from friendly, a stark change from the demeanor he had moments before.

"You don’t seem to like my family, Dovahkiin," Tyrion murmured, noticing the coldness in Jon’s eyes fixed on him. He felt a deep sense of danger emanating from that gaze, an instinct urging him to flee as quickly as possible. At the same time, Jon took a deep breath, seeming to calm himself.

"Sorry about that, but don’t worry too much. There are many people I dislike," Jon said. He now recalled Tyrion as the youngest son of Tywin Lannister and Joanna Lannister, though he wasn’t sure if there were more children, as his information about the Lannisters was outdated.

"Well, I hope I’m not one of those you’d want to kill," Tyrion remarked, attempting to sound casual but with a tone of caution.

"Don’t worry. I’m not the kind to kill someone just because I dislike their family. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Tyrion Lannister," Jon said quickly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. Though he found the dwarf amusing, learning he was a Lannister had not sat well with him. Tyrion, for his part, looked slightly bewildered.

"I apologize if my family has done something. They’re certainly not the most lovable bunch," Tyrion murmured, giving a slight bow.

"Seems like you don’t have a very good experience with them either," Jon said, raising an eyebrow before finally leaving.

"You can be sure of that. After all, I am a dwarf," Tyrion muttered, raising his cup in a solitary toast before taking another sip.

"If your family mocks you for your disability, they’re definitely a bunch of bastards," Jon quipped.

"If only what you say were true. I've never heard anyone say that about them, but thank you," Tyrion laughed. "I saw the mess you caused down at the end of the hall. You managed to chase off two knights, including one of them being my nephew’s sworn sword. I saw him run off with his tail between his legs after talking to you. I wonder, how do you do it?" he asked, trying to sound more friendly, though clearly cautious. Tyrion certainly didn’t want to be this man’s enemy.

"Well, I’m used to it where I come from. Anyway, it’s my secret, and I’m leaving now because I still want to continue the chaos, but this time in the middle of the hall," Jon said, smiling for the first time since meeting Tyrion.

After learning Jon’s name, Tyrion realized he had a gift for words. As the Dragonborn walked away, Tyrion lifted his mug, pausing for a second as if unsure what to do, before murmuring, "Strange fellow." He then downed his drink, but at that moment, a giant body crashed onto his table, making him spill his mug and look around, stunned. It was Jon Umber, trying to stand up with a bloody nose.

"You little bastard! You didn’t tell me you were so good with your fists! Come here!" Jon Umber shouted, charging back toward the middle of the hall.

Tyrion looked utterly lost, unable to comprehend what was happening, when suddenly a mug flew through the air and struck another man sitting at the table. The man stood up angrily, shouting.

"Who did that?!" Before anyone could answer, he punched someone else, and in the next instant, that entire section of the hall descended into chaos. Men began throwing punches at each other, women screamed and backed away, and some servants tried to flee but were shoved aside in the commotion. Tyrion, still perched on the table, stared at the unfolding madness, utterly bewildered as to how it had all started.

The feast in Winterfell quickly turned into a scene of complete chaos. Tyrion found himself in serious danger as massive men brawled, tables were overturned, and the music came to a halt. Lord Stark shouted commands at his men to stop the fighting, while the younger attendees and ladies moved away from the center, visibly alarmed as more than thirty men clashed with one another.

At the center of the chaos was Jon, laughing as he traded punches with Jon Umber. He seemed to be enjoying himself more than anyone else, reveling in the moment, landing another hit squarely on the man’s face.

"Now this is a proper feast!" Jon exclaimed, delivering another blow. And the rest of the night continued in much the same way, turning the banquet into exactly what he wanted—full of excitement, laughter, drink, and a good brawl.