Queen of Ashes [ASOIAF]

―jon.

           𝓙on had been tucked in the back of the hall with the younger squires, but he didn't mind. The company here was surely better than that of the royalty on the dais. He'd had the chance to judge them all from his vantage point as they entered the Great Hall. The Queen, though beautiful, wore a smile like wax. Her King was no more impressive, fat and sweating though his silks.

          Robb escorted Princess Myrcella in, grinning like a fool. Jon didn't see much in her to inspire that sort of reaction, the tiny blonde seemed uninspiring and commonplace compared to the princess they spent every day with. Arya and Sansa entered with Princes Tommen and Joffrey respectively. The eldest prince, though younger than Jon, was taller, and he frowned at the hall as if it were beneath him. Sansa didn't appear to notice however, and smiled up at him dreamily.

          Among the last to enter were the Queen's brothers. Ser Jaime was tall and gallant with golden hair and he wore the white armor of the Kingsguard. He looked like a true knight straight out of Sansa's beloved songs. The dwarf was more than a few steps behind, attempting to keep up.

          On the arm of the Kingslayer, was Amina. Her hair was newly dyed and so black it seemed to drink in the light. Her gown was silver and white, like Sansa's. But Amina wore rubies around her neck and dangling from her ears, red and sparkling like dragon blood. She looked every bit the princess that she was. Ser Jaime whispered something in her ear and she laughed, not the polite giggle she'd given King Robert when he praised her beauty, but a true laugh. Jon could see the smirk on her face when her eyes darted toward the dais, and knew the next words out of her mouth were some scathing joke. It was Jaime's turn to laugh then. They seemed as if they were old friends.

          He'd started drinking then, and had not stopped. There was no one here to limit him to only one glass of wine, and he told himself he was fortunate in that.

          Some time later, uncle Benjen joined them at the back table, squeezing in beside Jon and stealing away his summerwine. He took one look at his nephew, who'd long since lost count of how many glasses he'd had, and laughed. "Well, I believe I was younger than you the first time I got truly and sincerely drunk."

          Benjen scratched between Ghost's ears under the table, and snuck him a chicken leg while no one was looking. Jon hardly noticed, for across the room Amina's head was bent toward Jaime Lannister's as they talked so intensely it was as if they were sat alone. Jon had sat with her like that a hundred times, and more oft than not she could be found with Theon Greyjoy, heads bent together plotting something sure to get them both in trouble. But they, along with Robb, had been by her side for years.

          "Have you heard a word I've said, boy?" Benjen asked, waving a roast onion in Jon's face. "You fancy the Corrigan girl?" It took half a moment for Jon to recall the name Amina was most known as, and when he did, he flushed. "They do say she's the darling of Winterfell, or the terror, depending who you ask."

          "Depending on the day," Jon murmured.

          "She's the only one on the dais who appears to be enjoying herself," his uncle noticed. "Other than the King." Jon had realized that too. His father was polite but withdrawn, and the Queen was cold as an ice sculpture. Even his half-siblings seemed finally to realize their companions were less interesting than expected. Only Amina's glowing smile matched the King's drunken revelry, and she knew better than to be in her cups at a feast.

          If only Jon himself had half the restraint. Her words came back to him from the evening before. She'd asked him to run away with her, as she had a dozen times before. Each time he'd turned her down, for this reason. This world, with nobility and politics and feasts, it was her world. She belonged here, in Winterfell, with Robb. No matter how she begged, Amina Targaryen was not meant to be a bastard's wife. She would always want for more, she would always deserve a crown. Jon could never give her that life, but just like Amina, he wanted for more as well.

          He turned back to his uncle, a man of the Night's Watch, an honorable order. Jon would never be a Lord like Robb, never command armies like Bran and Rickon, but in the Night's Watch he could be something. "When you go back to the Wall, take me with you."

          Benjen watched his nephew for a heartbeat. "The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon."

          "I know what I'm asking, and I am ready to take an oath."

          His uncle glanced toward the dais, then back to Jon. "We have no families, none of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up. Come back to me when you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."

          "I will never father a bastard," he insisted, enunciating each word. "Never!"

          The table had fallen silent, the other men watching the altercation between uncle and nephew, and Jon felt the tears welling up in his eyes. He stood, and stepped away from the table. "I must be excused." It was the summerwine, he'd had too much. On his way out of the hall, he nearly tripped over his own feet and he stumbled into a serving girl who spilled her tray.

          He hardly acknowledged the laugher, or the hands that offered to help him keep his feet. Jon pushed through the doors and stepped out into the yard. He took up a dulled practice sword and swung it at one of the targets. Once, twice, three times. Straw flew around him.

          "If you take the arm off, Ser Rodrick will make you sew it back on yourself." Jon turned at the familiar voice. Amina stood there, in her gown and jewels, looking entirely out of place in the training yard. She climbed up on the railing, as if she were wearing leather pants and a tunic instead. "You made quite a fuss inside. That poor serving girl ran crying into the kitchens."

          Jon flushed. "I drank more than I ought have."

          She hummed. "Then you're in good company. Most of the hall could say the same, not the least of which the King himself." Amina pushed herself from the railing, and took the sword from his hand, returning it to the stand. She led him around the corner, out of sight of the sentry on the battlement. One of her hands tangled in his curls. "Are you alright?"

          Jon nodded, though Amina's frown indicated she saw right through it. But he couldn't tell her the things he'd thought, couldn't tell her he'd asked to be taken far away. Before she could ask again, he leaned her against the wall and brought his lips down to hers. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer toward her.

          After a moment, she pulled away, looking up at him. "One day, we'll be free of this. I feel it in my bones. We were meant for more than this."

            Jon kissed her forehead. "Go. They'll miss you inside." She held him in her arms for a moment, then gave a nod. "Give them a good show."

          "I always do." Amina let him go, and slipped out from under his arms. When she was halfway to the door, she turned to curtsey and give him a wink, before disappearing back into the great hall. When she was gone, Jon stood there in the yard, alone.