Seven Dreams One Kingdom

47-Jon

"Your grace," Pod's voice echoed through the hazy corridors of Jon Snow's consciousness, distant yet insistent. "Your grace, you need to wake up. Queen Sansa would like to see you in her solar in ten minutes."

Jon opened his eyes, squinting against the intrusive sunlight that flooded his vision. It was not the familiar sight of his current chambers; instead, he found himself in his old room. Confusion furrowed his brow. Why was he in his old room?

"I'm awake," he said, his voice laden with the remnants of sleep. "Tell her grace I'll be with her in a minute."

"You said that an hour ago, your grace," Pod said, with a touch of patience.

With a grunt, Jon forced himself into a sitting position, his surroundings coming into focus. The room seemed to spin, and he licked his dry lips. His mouth tasted of sawdust, an unpleasant scent lingered in the air — reminding him of a heavy night out.

"Why am I here?" Jon asked.

His hand reaching for his throbbing head. The details of the previous evening eluded him, a puzzle waiting to be pieced together.

"Her grace said she wasn't sharing her bed with a... I best not repeat what she called you," Pod confessed, a hint of embarrassment tingeing his cheeks.

As Jon surveyed the room, his gaze fell upon a pail beside the bed, its contents a less-than-pleasant reminder of the revelry from the night before. "Seven hells, how drunk was I last night?" Jon mused, raising his hand to his throbbing head.

"You started off drinking ale, then wine. A few of us returned to Winterfell, and you continued drinking wine. Lord Tormund returned with a whore and brought out the sour goat's milk."

"Ah," Jon recognised the culprit. "That stuff makes me ill every time."

"Lady Greyjoy helped you up to bed, but I think you may have insulted her grace. She called Lady Brienne, who helped me carry you to your old chambers. We've been looking after you throughout the night."

Jon winced at the revelation. "How many times was I sick?"

"Twice, your grace."

The pressing need to relieve himself took precedence. "I need to make water, Podrick. Tell her grace I am awake and will be with her in five minutes." With that, Jon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, steeling himself for rising after a night of excessive revelry.

"Yes, your grace." he turned to take his leave, but then reconsidered. "Your grace, I think I ought to give you fair warning. Her grace is not happy with you. She even cursed."

Jon grimaced. "Ugh. Am I to be relegated to sleeping in the kennels tonight?"

"I'd say more likely a week, your grace."

Jon made his way to the chamberpot. "Thank you, Podrick, for the warning. Did I do anything stupid last night?"

"Apart from getting very drunk. When the men tried to take you to the whorehouse, you refused. You said you have no need for a whore; you have..." Pod stopped mid-sentence, a flush spreading across his face.

"What did I say?" Jon asked, curiosity overcoming the throbbing headache.

Pod shook his head. "One was the Goddess of Westeros, the rest I can't repeat." The young squire's embarrassment was enough to leave Jon wondering about the extent of his inebriated declarations.

"The goddess of Westeros?" Jon muttered to himself, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement colouring his expression. "Does she know?" he asked. Pod simply nodded. "As your King, I command you to tell me."