Game of Dragonborn.

[Chapter Size: 2700 Words.]

Third Person POV.

Winterfell.

...

...

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

"Go! Go!"

The chorus quickly caught the attention of most of the hall as they continued shouting, watching both contestants try to win the drinking competition. Jon remained calm as he gulped down the beer made in these lands—something, to be honest, he had never tried before. After all, he had only been a child when he last lived here, unable to taste such things, and now he tried to behave properly in front of the Starks. Even so, it seemed like weak alcohol compared to much stronger ones he'd had before. This made him drink calmly until his body consumed the last drop.

When he finished, he smiled at the chorus cheering him on while watching the man from the North still struggling to finish his mug.

"Come on, give me another one!" he demanded as the men quickly handed him another drink.

"Come on, Dovahkiin!" they exclaimed as Jon moved on to his second mug, his challenger still trying to finish the first.

When Jon finished the second mug, he was already halfway through the third while the people laughed at the Northerner, who was visibly losing. Nevertheless, another mug was passed to him.

"Ricked, looks like someone drinks more than you! Are you going to give up already?!" his friend teased, placing another mug in his hands. Ricked quickly grabbed it and raised it to his lips, trying to keep up with the Dragonborn.

Jon kept drinking until he finished, then opened a smile as he looked at the man struggling with his second mug.

"Come on, you challenged me, and now you're drinking like a girl," Jon taunted with a grin, eliciting some laughs from the men around them.

Jon drank his third mug while the man barely managed half of his second before starting to cough and choke, having rushed too much after Jon's mocking.

"Looks like the Dovahkiin won," a friend commented, clapping the Northerner on the shoulder as he was still trying to recover amidst the crowd celebrating Jon's victory.

"Looks like it... How can you drink so much?!" Ricked, still coughing, looked at Jon, who simply shrugged.

"No one can beat me at this game," Jon said.

"I doubt you could beat the Greatjon. I guarantee he drinks more than an ox," a Northerner soldier from House Umber commented from nearby. There were many soldiers from various Northern houses present.

Jon shrugged. "Bring him, or anyone else for that matter. Let them come and try to beat me."

He issued the challenge.

"Let me try!" said a man who didn't seem to belong to any house—a southern mercenary. "I'm great with drinks. I can beat you without choking like this Northerner here. After all, they barely drink anything," the man openly mocked.

His fellow mercenaries laughed and cheered for him, while the Northerners at the table began to boo, clearly displeased with the man's comment.

"Then prove it. Give him a drink, and bring me another one," Jon challenged as he watched the maids place more drinks on the table, their gazes intense upon him.

"Alright, let's do this!" the mercenary exclaimed, and both began drinking rapidly.

They continued drinking, the mercenary proving to have a stronger stomach than the last opponent. Both drank evenly while Jon maintained his pace, savoring the alcohol. They moved on to the second, third, and fourth mugs and were already on the fifth.

"Hey, what's going on over there?" someone at the Umber table, also visiting Winterfell, commented, noticing the commotion drawing more attention than anything else in the hall.

"Lord Umber, two outsiders are having a drinking competition," the guard who had spoken with Jon earlier returned to his lord's table, answering his question and informing him of the situation. "Both are mocking the Northerners' ability to drink. One is from the South, and the other from beyond Westeros. Though the latter is good enough to win most of the matches, the mercenary won't last much longer against him."

"What?! They dare mock the North when it comes to drinking?!" Greatjon immediately stood up.

"What are you going to do, Father?" his daughter asked.

"I'm going to teach these Southerners and whoever else comes from outside a lesson," Jon Umber said in a firm voice, beginning to stride toward the back of the hall, several men quickly following in his wake.

"Why are these people so loud..." Jeyne Poole commented beside Sansa Stark, glancing at the table in the back with some dissatisfaction.

"Yes... how can they allow this kind of lowly crowd in the presence of royalty? I feel uncomfortable with it," Sansa added, her expression equally displeased as her friend's.

"These people disgust me. They're savages! How can anyone let them be here, in my presence?" Prince Joffrey was also not at all pleased, his gaze falling upon his personal guard, while his siblings beside him merely shrugged.

"Hound, make them stop!" he said angrily, though he didn't yell. Sandor nodded, rising from the high table and heading toward the back.

"How can there be barbarians here..." the queen's lips murmured softly as she let those words slip.

"..." Catelyn overheard and frowned, her gaze meeting her husband's across the table. He nodded, understanding what she meant.

"Look at that table..." Robert's voice rumbled as he ate and drank some more, a grin spreading across his face as his eyes lingered on the scene.

"I apologize for this, Your Majesty. Many Northerners are gathered there. I'll ask them to settle down," Ned said, already signaling to a Stark guard to deliver the warning.

"No, don't do that, Ned. And I've told you to call me just Robert. Besides, that table reminds me of the days when we were just boys in the Vale. I mean, you were the shy one, but it was always a party when we met up with the others," Robert began to laugh.

"But, Robert, your family doesn't seem to enjoy it much," Ned tried to persist.

"Don't be foolish, Ned. Can't you see the men are just having fun? It's so lively over there, I'm tempted to leave this table," Robert replied. He glanced to the side and muttered, "Here, all I see is a sour-faced woman. At least over there, the talk is of men—they're enjoying themselves, drinking, probably reminiscing about battles. Ah, I miss those days." He lamented slightly about his current state but still laughed, while Ned frowned.

Catelyn Stark observed the scene, while the queen maintained her rigid expression. Catelyn's gaze shifted back to her husband, silently urging him to do something about that table. Ned nodded, knowing that while Robert might appreciate the revelry, it wouldn't be long before someone there caused trouble in his hall. He feared the men might get out of control.

Meanwhile, Greatjon arrived at the table just as the mercenary, who had given up on the fifth mug, began vomiting on the floor. Cheers and exclamations erupted, laughter echoing through the space. Jon finished his fifth mug, slamming it on the table with a smile.

"Is there no one here who can challenge me?" he asked confidently, the crowd continuing to chatter and drink. Even the mercenaries, though disappointed by their comrade's defeat, admired Jon's audacity, and the Northerners couldn't help but laugh as well.

"I am here to challenge you, stranger!" a deep voice boomed. Jon turned to see a massive man, nearly two meters tall and a few centimeters taller than himself, bearded and middle-aged, approaching with a steady gait. The man's piercing eyes locked onto him.

"And whose presence do I have the honor of being in?" Jon asked with interest, though he didn't recognize the man beyond seeing him earlier at the table with House Umber guards.

"Jon Umber, Lord of Last Hearth," the man replied. "You can call me Lord Umber. Or Greatjon, if I like you," he added calmly.

"Very well, Lord Umber. Let's see if you can beat me," Jon replied with a challenging tone.

"These outsiders think they can outdrink a Northerner? Don't get cocky. I'll see you vomiting soon," Greatjon mocked.

The Northerners quickly raised their mugs, cheering with excitement. Despite Jon's impressive victories over his previous opponents, he had already downed more than eight mugs of ale. Who could possibly endure more?

Jon said nothing, simply waiting for someone to place the filled mug in front of him. Lord Umber also received his, staring intensely at the stranger with a serious expression, while Jon maintained a smile, locking eyes with him.

"Let's begin," Greatjon said simply. Both picked up their mugs and started drinking, pouring the liquid down their throats.

"Go! Go! Go!" the crowd chanted once again as they emptied their first mugs and moved on to the second, third, fourth, and eventually the fifth. The first four mugs went down easily, as though they were travelers drinking after days in the desert. But as they continued, the hall grew even more animated, and everyone watched the two men closely. They had already surpassed a staggering number of mugs for any normal drinker.

Everyone was astonished to see Jon continuing steadily, drinking without faltering, while Greatjon began to struggle on his sixth mug. He seemed to realize that Jon was no easy opponent, contrary to his initial assumption after downing so much himself.

The contest went on as the shouting escalated. By the ninth and tenth mugs, Greatjon finally faltered, swaying slightly as he placed his mug on the table, trying not to vomit. Jon, still finishing his ninth mug, was prepared for the tenth but stopped upon seeing his opponent concede.

"You're one hell of a drinker!" the large man slurred, visibly drunk, pointing at Jon.

"And you're one hell of a loser," Jon retorted with a grin, somewhat drunk himself. After all, his stomach wasn't made of steel, and he still relished the slight intoxication—a man had to enjoy his drink, after all.

"I can't beat you... Tell me your name!" Greatjon muttered, his words slurred, as the surrounding crowd laughed.

"I'm the Dovahkiin, Lord Jon," Jon replied.

"No, no... no more 'Lord Jon.' Call me Greatjon from now on, because you've earned my respect, Dovahkiin!" Greatjon exclaimed, prompting everyone to raise their mugs and cheer all at once.

"Come, my lord, I think it's best if you leave now," one of the men from House Umber murmured to his lord, who nodded, still swaying.

"Dovahkiin, come to my table next time. I'll beat you then!" Greatjon called out, laughing as he stumbled away, the hall erupting into laughter with him.

Jon swirled his mug in his hand until his eyes landed on a man standing nearby. He had already noticed him earlier: a man with half his face burned, covered in scars. Jon stared at him, noting how the room fell silent. Everyone recognized the man—the loyal sword of the royal family, the Hound, Sandor Clegane.

"What do we have here?" Jon commented curiously, finally meeting the man's intense and intimidating gaze.

"Can I ask you all to stop this damned shouting? Some people are getting bothered by it," Sandor said bluntly.

"And who might you be?" Jon asked calmly.

"I'm Sandor Clegane."

"I see, Sandor Clegane. But if you ask like that, I'm not sure I can comply," Jon replied with the same smile.

"I don't give a damn what you think. Stop this shit now, or you won't like what happens next, you little shit," Clegane retorted directly, knowing Jon had been the center of attention during the competition.

The atmosphere grew tense after Sandor's words. Those nearby watched anxiously, expecting a fight to break out at any moment. After all, Jon had already intimidated a Southern knight earlier, but this man seemed different—more dangerous. He was the personal guard of the prince and future king of Westeros.

"Well, Sandor Clegane, what can I say to you?" Jon began, looking directly into Sandor's eyes as though trying to uncover his secrets. He saw something intriguing there and smiled. "I feel like you're afraid of something. Something that terrifies you... perhaps the reason behind that scar on your face. You fear my fire, don't you?" the Dragonborn asked bluntly.

For the first time, Sandor was taken aback. Jon's remark unsettled his sharp, defiant expression, causing him to hesitate.

"Look at my hands, Sandor. Tell me what you see," Jon said, raising his hand in front of him. A flame suddenly flickered to life between his fingers. While no one behind them could see, a few people nearby noticed. Sandor stared, not understanding what Jon meant until he saw the flames clearly appear out of nowhere.

Sandor's eyes widened as Jon cast a simple fire spell, extinguishing it moments later to avoid drawing too much attention. Sandor took a step back, stunned.

"Of all the people you might face in your life, Sandor, I am the worst of them," Jon said calmly, his soft tone carrying the weight of his warning. His words suggested that he was something Sandor couldn't contend with, and the Hound furrowed his brow. This time, Sandor didn't look confident—there was a hint of fear in his gaze. Jon had infused a bit of the power of the Thu'um into his words, as he had taken a dislike to Sandor and wanted to end the exchange without resorting to violence or causing a scandal so early in the evening.

"Screw this," Sandor muttered before turning and walking away. Everyone around them was stunned, watching the Dovahkiin intimidate yet another knight. Sandor didn't even return to the prince; instead, he exited through the back door without informing anyone.

"Well, where were we?" Jon asked with a smile, leaning back in his seat. The crowd around him began to cheer again, the atmosphere returning to its earlier excitement.

At that moment, Winterfell's castellan, Vayon Poole, appeared, his expression serious as he approached.

"Gentlemen, please, I must ask you to stop all this noise. It's disrupting the feast and could reflect poorly on you in the presence of the royal family..." he said openly, addressing no one in particular.

"You heard him, everyone? We'll have to calm down a bit," Jon said to the group, supporting the castellan's words. He wasn't keen on remaining at the table anymore. He had done exactly what Sandor had demanded, but Vayon Poole's polite request made him more willing to comply.

At that moment, Jon's gaze fell on the castellan, who also looked at him in surprise. Poole frowned, sensing a familiarity in the stranger before him. To Poole, the man resembled the boy who had fled Winterfell so many years ago. Yet, he now saw not a boy Robb Stark's age, but a fully grown man. Deciding to say nothing, Poole dismissed the thought, as the ages didn't seem to match.

The men began to settle down, and the commotion at the table dissipated. The hall returned to a relatively calm state, with people chatting without causing much disturbance, while the bards continued their performance. Even so, Jon didn't remain at the Northerners' table. Instead, he moved to another nearby, where Mance Rayder and his Free Folk were seated, waiting patiently for their turn on the stage.

The wildlings were visibly surprised when the stranger who had caused such a stir in the hall approached and sat beside them. All eyes turned toward him immediately, wary and clearly displeased with his presence.

Mance stared at Jon attentively, a bit uneasy. He began to suspect that this man might know more about his identity than he let on. Jon kept the same curious gaze as before and finally addressed them.

"Hey, hey, don't look at me like that," Jon said with a slightly drunken grin. "I'm just curious..." He paused for a moment. "...Curious to see wildlings in the middle of Winterfell's hall, in the presence of the king on this side of the Wall... I must say, it's quite an unusual sight."

Jon maintained his smile as he observed each person at the table. Mance's men, along with the King Beyond the Wall himself, were speechless, unsettled by Jon's boldness.

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