[He isn’t sure how to react to what she’s just said. Over the years, as he grew from boyhood to manhood and once he was away from his father’s care and protection, more than one person had tried to use his birth to insult him. Too many for it to matter after a while: why should he care if they called him what he is? Them calling his father a traitor eventually had more power to anger him.

But he isn’t even sure that’s what she means. She is self-possessed; her manner so far is mostly mild and firm, sometimes flatter or sharper or a little more fierce, not giving much away. She doesn’t seem given to insinuations. He already knows that she thinks the North should be hers — but it’s no fault of his that her family had failed to hold it.]

We should. [But he hasn’t finished the salad, or his second bottle of ale, and doesn’t yet move to stand.]

I could call myself Jon Stark if I wanted. There’s no one to stop me. But I don’t, and I won’t. It’s a lie, but beyond that, I want every Snow in the North to know that their king was bastard-born. I want them to know it’s no dishonor... the same for the Stones and the Hills and the Rivers and Flowers if they hear of it. [He stares at her, emphatic, wondering if she can possibly understand — asking her to.] I know you and I aren’t the same, and I mean no disrespect, but — you’re more than they wanted you to be when you were a child, too.