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Chapter Text

Promise me, Ned. When he turns thirteen, you will tell him the truth. Promise me.

The words echoed in Ned Stark's mind, haunting him as they had for thirteen years. Ashara's violet eyes, so like her brother's, had brimmed with tears when she'd made him swear. Now, the day had come, and the weight of that promise sat heavy on his shoulders.

Ned sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, now streaked with gray. Snow fell gently outside the window of his solar, a constant companion in the North even as summer lingered. The hearth crackled, casting long shadows across the room.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Enter," he called, straightening in his chair.

Maester Luwin shuffled in, his chain clinking softly as he moved. He carried a stack of parchments in his weathered hands, his gray eyes sharp despite his advancing years.

"My lord," Luwin bowed slightly. "The reports you requested. There have been more wolf attacks near Long Lake. Three sheep taken from the Cerwyn lands, and a child claims to have seen a direwolf, though that seems unlikely."

"Unlikely, yes, but not impossible," Ned replied, taking the parchments. "Direwolves haven't been seen south of the Wall in centuries, but the old stories say they return with harsh winters." He paused, frowning at the thought. "Where is Jon today?"

The change in the subject didn't surprise Luwin, who merely raised an eyebrow. "With Lord Robb and Theon Greyjoy, my lord. They were huddled in the stables earlier, speaking in whispers. I suspect they're planning some mischief."

"As boys do," Ned said, a fond smile briefly crossing his solemn face. "It feels like only yesterday they were fighting with wooden swords in the yard, barely tall enough to reach my waist."

"They grow faster than weeds, my lord. Some faster than others."

Ned looked up. "You speak of Jon."

"Aye," Luwin nodded. "The lad has an old soul. Watches everything, that one. Thinks before he speaks. Not unlike his father in that regard."

Ned shifted uncomfortably at the words. He turned his attention to the parchments, reading through complaints about border disputes, requests for aid with harvests, and a report of wildlings seen near the Last Hearth.

They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, until Luwin cleared his throat.

"My lord, if I may request your permission?"

"Permission?" Ned looked up, brow furrowed.

"For Jon's nameday gift." Luwin's eyes twinkled. "As you know, today marks his thirteenth year."

"Ah, yes." Ned set down his quill. "What do you have in mind?"

"I've procured a book. A rather rare volume on Old Valyria from the Citadel archives," Luwin said. "Took some convincing to get Archmaester Marwyn to part with it, even temporarily." He added under his breath, "At least one of them appreciates the written word."

"A book on Valyria?" Ned's smile stiffened. "Why would Jon want that?"

Luwin looked surprised. "The boy has been fascinated with Old Valyria for years, my lord. He's read 'Fire and Blood' by Archmaester Gyldayn three times over. Practically memorized sections about the Doom."

"Three times?" Ned sat up straighter, caught completely off guard. "I had no idea Jon held such interest in Targaryen history."

"Oh yes," Luwin nodded enthusiastically. "He's even picked up a few phrases in High Valyrian. Has quite the ear for it, too. Pronounces it better than most maesters I've known."

Ned's stomach tightened. "Since when has he been studying Valyrian?"

"Since he was nine or so," Luwin said, eyebrows drawing together at Ned's obvious discomfort. "Is something amiss, my lord?"

"No," Ned said too quickly. "I'm simply... surprised I wasn't aware."

"Jon is quiet about his passions. Not one to boast." Luwin smiled fondly. "But he asks the most insightful questions about the Targaryen conquest, dragon-binding, even the political structures of Old Valyria."

"What other books has he read on the subject?" Ned asked, trying to keep his voice casual while his heart hammered in his chest.

As Luwin rattled off titles—"The Princess and the Queen," "The Rogue Prince," "Conquest's Cost," "Valyrian Steel"—Ned felt a cold dread seeping through him. All this time, Jon had been drawn to his hidden heritage without even knowing it. Like a moth to flame. Like dragon to fire.

"And where is Jon now?" Ned interrupted, a new urgency in his voice.

"Last I saw, he was headed toward the godswood with Lord Robb and the Greyjoy boy." 

Jon Snow

"I'm telling you, it's high time," Robb Stark insisted, his auburn curls catching the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the godswood's canopy. "You're a man grown today. What better way to celebrate?"

Jon Snow leaned against the pale trunk of the heart tree, its carved face watching their conversation with sightless red eyes. The streak of silver in his otherwise dark hair gleamed like quicksilver against the weirwood's bark.

"It's not about being ready," Jon argued, his voice low. "It's about consequences. I won't father a bastard."

Theon Greyjoy snorted from where he lounged on a nearby rock, flipping a dagger end over end. "That's what moon tea is for, Snow. The girls at Ros's know their business." His eyes glinted with mischief as he caught the blade deftly by its handle. "Or are you afraid you wouldn't know where to put it?"

"Shut up, Greyjoy," Jon muttered, violet eyes flashing with annoyance.

"Ignore him," Robb said, shooting Theon a warning look. "But he's not wrong about the moon tea. And Ros runs a clean establishment—even Father knows it. Why do you think he turns a blind eye to the older guards visiting on their off days?"

Jon crossed his arms. "Lord Stark may tolerate it for others, but what would he think of me doing the same?"

"Seven hells, you overthink everything," Theon groaned, sitting up. "It's just fucking, not a marriage proposal. You Starks and your honor."

"I'm not a Stark," Jon reminded him, a familiar bitterness creeping into his voice.

"You are to me" Robb countered, clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Look, you don't have to if you truly don't want to. But I thought... well, it might help you stop brooding for one night."

"I don't brood," Jon protested.

Theon and Robb exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.

"What?" Jon demanded.

"You're brooding right now," Theon pointed out, mimicking Jon's serious expression and furrowed brow to perfection.

Despite himself, Jon's lips quirked upward. "Fine. Maybe I do. A little."

"More than a little," Robb grinned. "So? What do you say? One adventure to mark your nameday? We'll use the passage behind the burned tower. No one will know."

Jon hesitated, looking between his brother's eager face and Theon's challenging smirk. There was a part of him—a growing part—that was curious. The same part that sometimes caught himself watching Jeyne Poole when she didn't know he was looking, or noticing how the serving girls' dresses clung to their figures.

"The redhead—Ros—she's quite something," Theon added, a dreamy quality entering his voice. "Knows tricks that would make a Lyseni pleasure goddess jealous."

"I don't need to hear about your exploits, Greyjoy," Jon grimaced.

"Your loss," Theon shrugged. "But there's a new girl there. Arrived from White Harbor last month. Hair black as night, skin like cream. They call her the Winter Rose."

"Now you're just making things up," Jon accused.

"On my honor as a Greyjoy," Theon placed a hand over his heart, his face a mask of sincerity that fooled no one.

"That's worth about as much as teats on a breastplate," Robb laughed.

"You wound me, Stark," Theon clutched his chest dramatically before his expression turned sly. "But I'm not lying about the girl. And I hear she has a preference for pretty lads with dark hair."

Jon felt his cheeks heating. "I'm not pretty."

"Tell that to the kitchen maids who keep finding excuses to deliver your meals personally," Robb teased. "Or to Jeyne Poole, who turns the color of a pomegranate whenever you walk by."

"She does not," Jon protested, though he knew it was true.

"So?" Theon pressed. "Are you in or not? Because if you're not, I'll happily pay for the Winter Rose myself."

Jon looked up at the red leaves of the heart tree, as if seeking guidance from the old gods. What was he so afraid of? That he'd like it too much? That he wouldn't measure up? Or was it truly just the fear of fathering a bastard, condemning a child to the life he'd led?

"Fine," he said finally, looking back at Robb and Theon. "But I'm not promising anything beyond showing up."

Robb's face lit up with boyish excitement. "That's all we ask. Meet at the burned tower after the household retires. Bring your darkest cloak."

"And try not to look like you're marching to your execution," Theon added with a laugh. "It's a brothel, not the Wall."

"Very funny," Jon rolled his eyes, but there was a flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach. "If we're caught—"

"We won't be," Robb assured him. "We've done this before."

"You have?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "How many times?"

Robb and Theon exchanged another look.

"A gentleman doesn't count," Theon declared loftily.

"Then you should have a precise number," Jon shot back with a rare grin.

Theon's surprised laughter echoed through the godswood, and even Jon had to admit, if only to himself, that he was looking forward to the night's adventure more than he cared to admit.

.

.

Jon walked briskly across the courtyard, the cold northern air biting at his cheeks. He'd left Robb and Theon to their scheming, needing time to clear his head before tonight's escapade.

As he passed the steward's quarters, he noticed Vayon Poole struggling with an armful of ledgers, a look of frustration etched on his weathered face.

"Need a hand, Master Poole?" Jon offered, already moving to help the man.

"Ah, Jon Snow," Vayon smiled gratefully as Jon took half the burden. "The gods must have sent you. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

They walked together toward the Great Keep, their boots crunching on the frozen ground.

"Lady Stark wants a full accounting before the harvest feast," Vayon explained, shaking his head. "As if I don't have enough to manage with winter stores and tax collections."

"You're organizing by holdfast, not by type of goods?" Jon asked, glancing at the open ledger on top.

Vayon stopped mid-stride, blinking at the boy. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Jon continued hesitantly, not wanting to overstep, "if you organized by grain, livestock, and timber first, then by holdfast within each category, you could better track what the North as a whole has in reserve."

The steward's eyebrows rose. "That's... actually quite clever. Where did you learn about keeping ledgers?"

Jon shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I watch. And I read when Maester Luwin isn't looking for his missing books."

Vayon laughed, a warm sound that cut through the cold air. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, lad. Better than some born to lordship, if you don't mind my saying."

They reached Vayon's small office adjacent to the Great Hall, and Jon helped him arrange the ledgers on his desk.

"You know," Vayon said thoughtfully, "you could make a fine steward yourself someday. Not all warriors win glory with swords alone. Some secure victory through well-managed supplies and shrewd planning."

"Thank you," Jon replied, though the thought of being a steward rather than a warrior or ranger of the Night's Watch felt like settling for less somehow. "But I doubt Lady Stark would approve."

Vayon opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a soft gasp from the doorway.

"Father, I've been looking everywhere for—oh!"

Jeyne Poole stood frozen in the entrance, a basket of mending in her arms. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and her simple dress was well-kept, befitting the steward's daughter. Her cheeks flushed crimson the moment her eyes met Jon's.

"Jeyne, perfect timing," her father said, oblivious to her sudden discomfort. "Jon here was just helping me with a new way to organize the harvest records."

"That's... that's very kind of him," she managed, her eyes darting everywhere except directly at Jon.

"Did you need something, child?" Vayon asked.

"Oh! Yes, Mother sent me to tell you that dinner will be ready early today. She made your favorite stew." Jeyne clutched the basket tighter, her knuckles turning white.

"Wonderful! I'll be along shortly. Just need to implement Jon's suggestion first." He turned back to the ledgers, effectively dismissing them both.

An awkward silence stretched between Jon and Jeyne as they stepped outside the office. Jon shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to say.

"I should go—" he began.

"I heard it's your name day," Jeyne blurted out simultaneously, then looked mortified.

"It is," Jon acknowledged with a small smile. "Thirteen name days today."

"Congratulations," she said softly. "I... I made these." She reached into her basket and pulled out a pair of gloves, finely stitched with dark leather and lined with fur. "They're nothing special, but winter is coming, and yours were looking rather worn."

Jon stared at the gloves, genuinely surprised. No one outside his family had ever given him a name day gift before.

"Jeyne, these are... thank you," he said sincerely, taking them from her outstretched hands. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she pulled away as if burned.

"You'd make a good steward," she said in a rush. "Father's right. You notice things others don't."

Before Jon could respond, she dipped in a quick curtsy and hurried away, leaving him standing alone with the gloves. He ran his thumb over the fine stitching, feeling both touched and uncomfortable with the attention. Gifts were for trueborn sons, not bastards. Jon walked outside and tried out the new gloves; they were comfortable. As he walked aimlessly, he found a staircase and sat on the first step, his mind deep in thought, going to a place he wished not to go.

His thoughts drifted to tonight's planned excursion. Would his father—would Lord Stark—be disappointed if he knew? He was a bastard, but he'd been raised by Ned Stark. Honor was expected, even from those born without it.

A movement caught his eye—a small dark figure darting between barrels in the courtyard, crouching low as if avoiding detection. Jon frowned, watching as the figure ducked behind a cart, then scurried toward the kennels, leaving smudges of something dark on the snow.

With an exasperated sigh, Jon followed, recognizing the furtive movements. He circled around the armory and cut off the escape route just as the figure attempted to dash toward the First Keep.

"Arya, did you take a mud bath?" he asked, crossing his arms as he looked down at his little sister.

"Shut up," she growled, her face so caked with dirt that only the whites of her eyes stood out clearly. Her dress—which had been a respectable blue wool that morning—was now a uniform brown, torn at the hem and soaked through.

"Your mother is going to have your hide," Jon observed, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

"Only if she finds out," Arya countered, looking around wildly as if Lady Catelyn might materialize from the shadows. "Help me, Jon? Please? It's your name day—you get to ask for things today."

"That's not quite how it works," he chuckled, but he was already guiding her toward a side entrance to the Great Keep, keeping watch for servants or family members who might report back to Lady Stark.

"What happened this time?" he asked as they slipped inside and made their way up a narrow servants' staircase.

"Jakka and I were playing Florian and Jonquil—"

"You hate that story," Jon interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine," Arya huffed. "We were playing Brandon the Builder against the White Walksers, and there was this perfect hill of mud for a battlefield, and Jakka said girls can't be builders OR fight the Others, so I had to prove him wrong."

"By diving headfirst into the mud?" Jon asked, steering her around a corner to avoid a passing chambermaid.

"By building a better fort and then destroying his," Arya said proudly. "But then his stupid brother showed up and started calling me 'little lordling' and saying I should be inside learning to curtsy, not playing in the dirt like a beggar."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "So I might have thrown mud in his face."

"Arya..." Jon sighed. Of all his siblings, Arya was the one he understood best. The outsider. The one who never quite fit.

"He deserved it," she insisted as they reached her chamber door. "And I would have gotten away clean if Beth Cassel hadn't seen me climbing over the east wall and threatened to tell Septa Mordane."

Once inside her room, Jon poured water from a pitcher into a basin and handed Arya a cloth.

"Here. Start with your face before someone mistakes you for a wildling and puts an arrow through you."

Arya stuck out her tongue but took the cloth, scrubbing half-heartedly at her cheeks. Jon took it back with a sigh and crouched before her, wiping the worst of the grime away himself.

"You've got mud in your ears," he said, shaking his head. "How does that even happen?"

"Talent," she grinned, looking more like herself as her features emerged from beneath the dirt.

"Some talent," Jon snorted, wringing out the cloth. "Look, if you're going to sneak out and play war mud games—which I'm neither encouraging nor discouraging—you need better tactics."

"Like what?" Arya asked eagerly.

"Like bringing a change of clothes, for one," Jon said, pointing to her ruined dress. "Hide them somewhere you can reach easily on your way back. And learn the guards' rotations so you know when to move without being seen."

Arya's eyes widened. "You do that?"

"I didn't say that," Jon replied with a small smile. "But hypothetically, if someone wanted to move around Winterfell undetected, they'd be wise to note that the guard at the Hunter's Gate takes a piss break every day just after the midday meal."

Arya giggled, then sobered as she looked down at her dress. "Mother's going to kill me. This was new."

"Not if you are clever," Jon said, moving to her wardrobe. "Which dress is most similar to this one?"

"The dark blue one with the silver trim," Arya said immediately. "But Sansa would never ruin her dresses like this. Mother always says I should be more like her."

"And be a perfect little lady who does nothing but sew and sing and simper?" Jon asked, locating the dress and holding it up. "Where's the fun in that?"

Arya grinned again, but the smile faded quickly. "Sometimes I think it would be easier, though. To be what they want. I don't like it when Sansa calls me 'Horse Face'."

Jon set the dress aside and knelt before his sister, meeting her gray eyes—Stark eyes—with his unusual violet ones.

"Listen to me, little wolf. You are exactly who you're supposed to be. Sansa is Sansa, and Arya is Arya. The North needs both kinds."

"What does the North need dirty little girls for?" she asked skeptically.

"For reminding proper lords that a lady can have a fierce heart," Jon answered seriously. "The North remembers that its women are descended from warriors and wildlings, not just southron flowers."

He tugged gently on one of her tangled braids. "Now, change into this dress, and I'll take the ruined one to the wash house with a story about how I accidentally knocked you into a puddle while we were practicing swordplay."

Arya threw her arms around his neck, heedless of the mud transferring to his jerkin. "You're the best brother, Jon. The best in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon returned the hug, a lump forming in his throat. He wasn't a brother, not truly. He was a bastard, a Snow instead of a Stark. But in moments like these, he could almost forget.

"Go on, change," he said gruffly, releasing her and turning his back. "I'll wait here."

As Arya scrambled to change behind him, Jon's thoughts returned to the night ahead. The brothel. The women. The step into manhood that Robb and Theon were so eager for him to take.

What would Lord Stark think if he knew? What would Arya think of her favorite brother then?

"Done!" Arya announced, and Jon turned to see her looking presentable, if slightly rumpled, in the fresh dress.

"Better," he nodded, collecting the dirty one. "Though you might want to wash your neck before dinner. You've still got half the wolfswood behind your ears."

"Very funny," she scowled. "Will you sit by me at dinner? Sansa's been unbearable lately, going on and on about some knight from White Harbor who might be visiting."

"Of course," Jon promised, heading for the door with the muddied dress bundled under his arm. "It's my name day, after all. I get to ask for things."

Arya's laughter followed him out, momentarily chasing away his doubts about the night to come. Whatever else he was—bastard, nearly-man, or secret-keeper—he was her brother. That, at least, was real.

Later

The Great Hall of Winterfell hummed as servants bustled about, laying out platters of food along the heavy wooden tables. Though not a feast by Southern standards, it was more elaborate than typical evening meals—roasted venison, fresh bread, winter vegetables preserved in vinegar, and a selection of sweets that rarely appeared on Northern tables.

Jon entered hesitantly, lingering at the threshold. Name day or not, he was still a bastard, and the Great Hall was Lady Stark's domain. But before he could retreat to his usual place at the back, Robb spotted him from the high table.

"Jon! Come sit here," his brother called, patting the empty space beside him. "Father's orders."

Jon made his way forward, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. To his surprise, even Lady Catelyn's gaze seemed less frigid than usual. She didn't smile—she never smiled at him—but she inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment before turning her attention to baby Rickon, who was attempting to climb onto the table.

"Happy name day, brother," Robb grinned, clapping him on the shoulder as Jon took his seat. "How does it feel to be a man grown?"

"No different than yesterday," Jon replied with a small smile. "Though apparently being a man means I'm expected to ruin my reputation tonight." He added quietly at the end.

"Lower your voice," Robb hissed, though his eyes danced with mischief. "And it's not ruining if it's improving."

Before Jon could respond, Sansa appeared at his other side, carrying a small plate of lemon cakes.

"Happy name day, Jon," she said formally, placing the plate before him. Her auburn hair was neatly braided in the southern style, and she carried herself with the dignity of a lady twice her age. "I saved these for you."

Jon blinked in surprise. While Sansa was never cruel to him, she typically maintained a polite distance, mimicking her mother's behavior.

"Thank you, Sansa," he said sincerely, touched by the gesture. Lemon cakes were Sansa's favorite treat, a precious commodity in the North where citrus was rare and expensive.

"They're really very good," she added, the formal mask slipping for a moment as she eyed the cakes longingly. "Cook made them specially today."

Jon chuckled and pushed the plate between them. "Share with me?"

Sansa's smile was genuine as she carefully took one, her poise momentarily forgotten as she savored the first bite.

"Jon! Jon!" Bran's excited voice cut through the hall as the seven-year-old bounded up, narrowly avoiding a collision with a servant carrying a pitcher of ale. "Is it true you're getting a real sword? Not a practice one?"

"Is that so?" Jon raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the high table where Lord Stark was engaged in conversation with Maester Luwin.

"It's supposed to be a surprise," Robb muttered, shooting Bran a look. "Someone has been eavesdropping again."

Bran didn't look remotely abashed. "I was practicing climbing! Father and Ser Rodrik were talking in the yard, and I was on the roof of the armory."

"One day you'll fall and break your neck," Sansa scolded, brushing lemon cake crumbs from her fingers.

"I never fall," Bran declared confidently.

"Bran Stark!" Catelyn's voice carried from the high table. "Are you bothering your brothers when they're trying to eat?"

"No, Mother!" Bran called back, then lowered his voice. "Jon, will you show me how to use it when you get it?"

"Of course," Jon promised, ruffling the boy's hair. "Now go sit down before you get us all in trouble."

As Bran scampered off, Jon noticed Arya watching them from her seat beside Jeyne Poole. She looked considerably cleaner than earlier, though a smudge of dirt remained behind one ear. She caught his eye and grinned, then turned her attention to Sansa's perfect appearance with a roll of her eyes.

The meal progressed pleasantly, with Jon enjoying the rare treat of being at the center of family attention. Even Theon, seated further down the table, seemed to have temporarily shelved his usual barbed comments. The atmosphere was warm, the food excellent, and for once, Jon didn't feel like the outsider looking in.

Lord Stark rose as the main courses were cleared away, and the hall quieted.

"Today, Jon reaches his thirteenth year," he announced, his deep voice carrying to every corner. Jon felt a flush of pride, even if the truth of his birth remained obscured. "In the North, we consider this the threshold of manhood."

Ned gestured, and Jory Cassel stepped forward, carrying a long object wrapped in grey cloth.

"Jon, come forward."

Jon rose, suddenly conscious of every eye in the hall upon him. He approached his father and stood before him, back straight and chin high.

"A man should have a blade worthy of his arm," Ned said, taking the wrapped sword from Jory. "This was forged by Mikken, with a wolf's head pommel to mark you as of Winterfell."

He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a slender but well-crafted sword, smaller than a full longsword but larger than a child's training blade. The steel gleamed in the firelight, and the grey wolf's head pommel was inlaid with chips of amethyst for eyes—the same unusual color as Jon's own.

"Thank you, Father," Jon said, his voice thick with emotion as he accepted the sword. He drew it partially from its scabbard, admiring the fine edge and balance.

"Use it well, and with honor," Ned replied, a shadow passing briefly across his solemn features.

A cheer went up from the assembled household, led enthusiastically by Robb and the other Stark children. Even Sansa applauded decorously, though Lady Catelyn's hands remained folded in her lap.

As Jon returned to his seat, sword carefully belted at his hip, he scanned the hall for Maester Luwin. The old man caught his eye and smiled apologetically, shaking his head slightly. Jon fought back a pang of disappointment. He'd hoped for the promised book on Valyria, having read every volume on the subject available in Winterfell's library.

His melancholy was short-lived, however. A shriek from Sansa jolted him from his thoughts, followed by peals of laughter from the other end of the table. Jon turned to see his prim sister with lemon cake smeared across her cheek, Arya looking suspiciously innocent beside her.

"Arya!" Sansa wailed, dabbing at her face with a cloth. "You've ruined my dress!"

"I didn't do anything," Arya protested unconvincingly. "The cake jumped. It must have been magic."

Catelyn rose, her face thunderous, but before she could intervene, Sansa snatched up a honey cake and hurled it at her sister. Arya ducked, and the cake sailed past, landing squarely in Theon Greyjoy's lap.

For a moment, shocked silence fell over the hall. Then Robb snorted, attempting to stifle his laughter and failing miserably. Jon couldn't help but join in, especially when he saw Theon's outraged expression.

"You think this is funny, Snow?" Theon growled, scraping honey from his breeches.

"A bit, yes," Jon admitted, grinning as chaos erupted around them. More food began to fly, with Bran eagerly joining the fray despite his mother's commands to stop.

Lord Stark watched with a mix of exasperation and amusement, making a halfhearted attempt to restore order. "Children, enough! This behavior is—" He ducked as a spoonful of preserves sailed past his ear.

.

.

.

Night - Jon Snow

Jon's breath formed small clouds in the frigid night air as he pressed against the stone wall, listening for any sign of the guards. Beside him, Robb and Theon waited in anticipation, their faces half-hidden beneath dark woolen hoods. The moon hung high above Winterfell, casting long shadows across the courtyard—perfect cover for three boys intent on mischief.

"Clear," Jon whispered, motioning them forward toward the burned tower. The structure hadn't been used since before Jon was born, its upper levels charred and partially collapsed, deemed too dangerous to rebuild. But Jon had discovered something the castle's builders had forgotten: a narrow passageway beneath the tower that led beyond Winterfell's walls.

Jon felt along the base of the tower until his fingers found the loose stones that marked the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder, violet eyes scanning the darkness. No torches moved among the battlements, no guards making their rounds. He pressed against the stone, and a section of the wall moved inward with a faint scraping sound.

"Still can't believe you found this," Robb muttered as they slipped inside, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space.

"Two years of exploring every inch of this castle while you were busy with lordly lessons," Jon replied, leading them down a set of worn steps. The passage smelled of earth and old stone, damp and close.

"And you've been wasting it on trips to the wolfswood," Theon added with a snort, ducking beneath a low archway. "When the finest entertainment in the North was just a short walk away."

Jon made no reply. The wolfswood had been his sanctuary, a place where his name didn't matter, where he could be alone with his thoughts without Lady Stark's cold stares or the servants' whispers. But tonight was different. Tonight, he would become a man—or so Robb and Theon insisted.

They emerged from the passage into a small gully beyond the castle walls, the night air feeling suddenly expansive after the claustrophobic tunnel. Jon carefully replaced the covering of dead branches and undergrowth that concealed the exit.

"To Wintertown, then," Robb grinned, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "And to making a proper man of Jon Snow."

They kept to the shadows as they made their way toward the lights of Wintertown, avoiding the main road where they might be recognized. The settlement was more populous now than in summer years—winter always drew people closer to Winterfell's protection and warmth—and the streets bustled even at this late hour. They walked through the town; no one looked at them, everyone was off doing their own thing. Eventually, they reached a two-story building. It wasn't exactly new, but it looked good enough.

"There it is," Theon announced as they turned a corner. "The Frozen Peach."

Jon raised an eyebrow at the painted sign hanging above the door. It depicted a woman with white skin and curves, one eye closed in a suggestive wink.

"Subtle," he remarked dryly, earning a laugh from Robb.

"What did you expect? 'The Dignified Establishment for Gentlemanly Companionship'?" Theon pushed the door open, a blast of warm air and raucous laughter spilling out.

Jon hesitated at the threshold, his courage faltering. What if someone recognized them? What if word got back to his father? He imagined the disappointment in Ned Stark's eyes, the confirmation that his bastard son lacked the honor of a true Stark.

"Second thoughts, Snow?" Theon smirked over his shoulder.

Jon squared his jaw. "No," he lied, following them inside.

The common room of The Frozen Peach was dimly lit by several hearths and dozens of candles, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that softened the rough edges of reality. Men of all ages filled the tables—soldiers, merchants, farmers—drinking and laughing as women in various states of undress moved among them.

Jon kept his hood up, eyes lowered, keenly aware of his too-young face and the silver streak in his hair that always drew attention. The air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and cheap perfume, so different from the clean cold of Winterfell's halls.

"Well, well," a sultry voice cut through the noise. "Look what winter's blown in."

Jon looked up to see a stunning woman with fiery red hair approaching them. She wore a low-cut gown of deep green that emphasized her considerable assets, and her face was painted with subtle artistry that enhanced rather than masked her beauty.

"Ros," Theon greeted her with the easy familiarity of a regular customer, pulling back his hood. "Brought you a special guest tonight."

Robb followed suit, revealing his auburn curls. "Evening, Ros."

"Young Lord Stark," she smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Always a pleasure."

Her gaze shifted to Jon, who reluctantly lowered his hood. Ros's eyebrows shot up, and she studied him with interest.

"And who's this? You've been hiding a treasure from me, boys."

Jon felt heat creeping up his neck. "Jon Snow," he said simply.

"Lord Stark's bastard," Ros nodded, circling him like a wolf sizing up its prey. "I'd heard rumors you were a pretty one, but they didn't do you justice."

"I'm not—" Jon started to object, but Theon cut him off.

"It's his name day," Theon announced proudly. "Thirteen. Time to make a man of him."

Ros's smile widened. "Thirteen? With those shoulders?" She reached out to touch the silver streak in Jon's hair. "And this unusual coloring. You sure you're a Stark bastard and not some lost Targaryen prince?"

Jon stiffened at the jest. He'd heard such comments before—usually behind his back—about his unusual coloring. The streak of silver hair and violet eyes that belonged to neither the Starks nor any of the Northern houses. Just another reminder that I don't truly belong anywhere, he thought bitterly.

"He's Jon Snow, and it's his first time," Robb said, saving Jon from having to answer. "We were hoping you might have someone special for him."

"All my girls are special," Ros replied, but she was still studying Jon with that unsettling intensity. "But I think I know who might suit our young wolf cub." She gestured for them to follow her up a narrow staircase. "This way, my lords."

Jon trailed behind Robb and Theon, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain everyone could hear it. The upper floor was quieter, a long hallway lined with doors leading to private rooms. Ros stopped before a door near the end of the corridor and pushed it open.

Inside, three young women lounged on cushioned divans, completely naked. Jon froze in the doorway, his mouth suddenly dry. He'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected, but not this immediate display of flesh.

"Ladies," Ros called cheerfully. "I've brought you some noble company tonight."

The women rose gracefully, moving toward them with practiced smiles. One, a willowy blonde with startling blue eyes, immediately latched onto Robb.

"I missed you, my lord," she purred, leading him toward one of the adjoining rooms.

Robb shot Jon an encouraging wink before disappearing through the door, already tugging at his jerkin.

Theon wasted no time selecting a curvaceous brunette, who giggled as he whispered something in her ear that made her cheeks flush. They too vanished into a side room, leaving Jon alone with Ros and the remaining girl—a slender, dark-haired beauty with olive skin that marked her as not being from the North.

"This is Lyrra," Ros introduced her. "All the way from Dorne, where they know a thing or two about pleasure."

The girl—Lyrra—approached Jon with catlike grace, her dark eyes appraising him. "I've never had a Northman before," she said, her accent exotic and musical. "They say you're all made of ice. Is it true?"

Jon stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to do with his hands, his eyes, or any part of himself. He was acutely aware of her nakedness, of the gentle curves of her body, the dark peaks of her breasts, the juncture of her thighs. His body responded instinctively, his cock getting hard, even as his mind raced with uncertainty.

What would Father think? What would Arya think of me now? The images of Ned Stark's solemn face and Arya's innocent trust washed over him like cold water.

Ros observed his hesitation with knowing eyes. "Something wrong, pretty boy? Or is it that you're still a boy after all?"

"I'm not a boy," Jon protested automatically, though he felt every bit the child in that moment.

"No?" Ros raised an eyebrow. "A man would know what to do with a beautiful naked woman in front of him. A man wouldn't stand there looking like he's facing execution rather than ecstasy."

Jon's face burned with shame and frustration. He wanted to prove her wrong, to prove to Robb and Theon that he wasn't a child. But something held him back—something that felt oddly like his father's hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward what was right rather than what was easy.

"Maybe I'm not a man yet," Jon admitted quietly. "But neither am I a boy who does something just because others expect it of him."

Ros studied him for a long moment, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "Interesting," she murmured. She turned to Lyrra. "Give us a moment, love."

The Dornish girl shrugged and retreated to her divan, picking up a cup of wine.

Ros moved closer to Jon, lowering her voice. "What's really troubling you, Jon Snow? Is it fear? Or something else?"

"No." Jon answered and hated how vulnerable he sounded.

Ros stood before Jon, her emerald eyes piercing through his hesitation. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing the silver streak in his dark hair.

"There's no shame in pleasure, Jon Snow," she whispered, her voice like warm honey in the dimly lit room. "No shame in wanting. No shame in being wanted." She traced the line of his jaw with a single finger, watching his pupils dilate. "If you're not ready, I understand. But I can help you... if you'd like."

Jon swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as kindling. "Help me? How?"

A smile played across Ros's lips as she moved closer, the scent of jasmine and cloves enveloping him. Her hand slid down his chest, fingers dancing lightly over the rough wool of his jerkin before coming to rest boldly on the bulge straining against his breeches.

"You're quite handsome, you know," she murmured, her palm applying gentle pressure that made his breath catch. "Those eyes, those full lips... that streak of silver in your hair. It would be such a waste..." Her fingers began to unlace his breeches with ease.

Jon's head fell back against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed as unfamiliar sensations coursed through him. "A waste?"

"Mmm," Ros hummed, sinking slowly to her knees before him. She looked up through thick lashes, her fiery hair cascading over her shoulders. "A waste to let such a fine young man leave here without knowing pleasure." Her hands finished their work, freeing his cock from its confines. "May I?" she asked, her breath warm against his sensitive skin.

Jon could only nod, words failing him as he watched her lips part in a smile of delighted surprise.

"My, my," Ros whispered, wrapping her fingers around his thick shaft, "you are quite gifted, aren't you? Nine inches at least." She stroked him slowly, admiring the way he pulsed in her hand. "I'm going to have a lot of fun with you, Jon Snow."

His hips jerked involuntarily at her touch. "I've never... I don't know how to..."

"Shhh," she soothed, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "You don't need to do anything but feel. Can you do that for me?"

Jon nodded again, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Good boy," Ros purred, before dragging her tongue slowly along the underside of his cock, from base to tip.

Jon gasped, his hands finding purchase against the rough stone wall behind him. The sensation was unlike anything he'd experienced—wet, warm, and wickedly intense. His eyes remained fixed on her, unable to look away as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive head.

"You taste like winter," she murmured, placing soft kisses along his length. "Cold and clean and wild." She took him into her mouth then, just the tip at first, her eyes never leaving his.

"Gods," Jon breathed, his fingers instinctively tangling in her copper hair.

Ros hummed approvingly around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. She took him deeper, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue working magic against him. Then she withdrew slowly, releasing him with a soft pop.

"Is this alright?" she asked, her thumb circling the moisture at his tip. "We can stop if you want."

"No," Jon said quickly, surprising himself with his urgency. "I mean... please don't stop."

A delighted smile brightened her face. "As you command, my lord." She winked playfully, reminding him this was meant to be fun, not solemn like everything else in his life.

Ros took her time, showing him the full range of pleasure her skilled mouth could provide. She sucked him deeply then teased with light flicks of her tongue, alternating between firm pressure and feather-light touches that made his thighs tremble.

"You're very responsive," she murmured appreciatively, her hand working in tandem with her mouth. "Most men your age would have finished twice over by now."

Jon's face flushed with pride despite himself. "Is that good?"

"It's very good," she assured him, her lips brushing against his cock as she spoke. "It means we can explore... take our time..." She took him deep again, her tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.

Jon's gaze dropped to her chest, where her ample breasts threatened to spill from her loosened bodice. She noticed his attention and smiled knowingly.

"You like what you see?" Ros asked, using her free hand to tug her dress lower, exposing more of her creamy flesh.

Jon couldn't deny it. He nodded, mesmerized by the swell of her breasts, their pale perfection interrupted only by rosy pink nipples that had hardened in the cool air of the room.

"Many men do," Ros said, returning to her ministrations. She took him deeper this time, letting him feel the back of her throat.

Jon moaned, his head falling back as pleasure mounted within him. His hips began to move of their own accord, seeking more of the exquisite sensation she offered.

"That's it," Ros encouraged, pulling back momentarily. "Don't be afraid to take what you want." She guided his hands more firmly to her hair. "I won't break."

When she resumed, Jon found a gentle rhythm, carefully rocking into her welcoming mouth. The sight of his cock disappearing between her lips was mesmerizing, almost as intoxicating as the feeling itself.

"Ros," he warned after several minutes of mounting pleasure, feeling a tightening at the base of his spine, "I think I'm going to—"

She pulled back, squeezing firmly at the base of his cock. "Not yet," she said with a mischievous smile. "Let's make this last a little longer for your first time."

Jon bit his lip, his cock throbbing almost painfully as she denied him release. She continued to stroke him slowly, keeping him right at the edge.

"Has anyone ever told you what beautiful eyes you have?" she asked, her free hand caressing his thigh. "Like twilight violets. So unusual in the North."

Jon shook his head, unable to form words as she kept him balanced on the knife's edge of pleasure.

"They betray your every thought," she continued, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on the glistening head of his cock. "Right now, they're begging me for mercy." She laughed softly, wickedly. "But mercy isn't what you really want, is it?"

She took him in her mouth again, deeper than before, her throat relaxing to accommodate his impressive length. Jon gasped, his fingers tightening in her hair as the pleasure intensified. Again, just as he approached the precipice, she withdrew, leaving him panting and desperate.

"Please," he finally whispered=.

"Please what?" Ros teased, her hand still working him slowly.

"Please let me... finish," he managed, his voice strained.

"Finish where?" she pressed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tell me what you want, Jon Snow."

The words came easier than he expected, desire overriding his usual reserve. "In your mouth," he breathed. "I want to finish in your mouth."

Ros rewarded his boldness by taking him deeply once more, her pace increasing, her hands and mouth working in perfect harmony. This time, when he felt the familiar tightening, she didn't stop.

"Ros," he gasped, "I'm—"

She hummed encouragement, taking him to the hilt as his release finally crashed over him. Jon cried out, his body shuddering as wave after wave of intense pleasure coursed through him. Ros stayed with him, swallowing eagerly as he pulsed against her tongue.

When the last tremor subsided, she released him slowly, placing a final kiss on the sensitive tip before looking up with a satisfied smile.

"Sweet as summer wine," she declared, licking her lips appreciatively. "I do believe I'll remember you, Jon Snow."

Jon's legs felt like water as he slid down the wall to join her on the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "That was..." he began, unable to find words adequate for the experience.

Ros laughed softly, reaching out to brush a dark curl from his forehead. "That was just the beginning of what pleasure can be," she said. "When you're ready for more, you know where to find me."

Is this what becoming a man feels like? he wondered. Not the physical act itself, but this strange new awareness of his body's capabilities for pleasure, this connection to another person, however brief.

"Thank you," he said awkwardly, fumbling to lace his breeches with unsteady fingers.

Ros laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Oh, Jon Snow," she said, shaking her head in amusement. "You are a rare one indeed. Most men don't thank a whore for her services—they simply pay and leave."

"You're more than your profession," Jon replied seriously. It was something he understood all too well—being defined by a single aspect of one's identity, reduced to 'bastard' just as she was reduced to 'whore.'

Something softened in Ros's expression. "Perhaps you really are becoming a man after all, Jon Snow," she said quietly. "A better one than most."

Ned Stark

Dawn broke over Winterfell, painting the ancient stones with hues of gold and amber. Ned Stark sat alone in his solar, the fire already crackling in the hearth despite the early hour. Sleep had eluded him most of the night, his mind too full of memories and promises made long ago.

Promise me, Ned.

The words haunted him still. Not just Lyanna's, spoken through blood and tears in a tower far to the south, but Ashara's as well. Two women, two promises, one boy with a destiny Ned had tried to bury beneath the snows of the North.

He pulled a stack of parchments toward him—petty disputes from minor lords, reports of wildling sightings beyond the Wall, grain tallies for the coming winter. The mundane business of ruling the North. This was his world now, not the blood and fire of rebellion, not the secrets that could topple kingdoms.

A raven's cry pierced the quiet morning. Somewhere in the castle, he heard the distant sounds of life stirring—servants beginning their daily routines, guards changing their watch. Jon would be thirteen now. A man by many standards. No longer a child who could be shielded from the truth of his birth or the weight of his name.

The door to his solar opened without a knock, and Maester Luwin entered, gray robes swishing softly against the floor. The old man's face was solemn, more so than usual.

"My lord," he said, with a small bow. "Forgive the intrusion so early."

"It's no intrusion, Luwin," Ned replied, setting aside his work. "What brings you here at this hour?"

The maester hesitated, fingers curling around something in his sleeve. "A raven arrived in the night. From Sunspear."

Ned felt his blood turn to ice. 

"House Martell?" he asked, voice carefully controlled.

"Yes, my lord." Luwin withdrew a small scroll from his sleeve, its seal a deep orange wax pressed with the sun and spear of House Martell. "It is addressed to you personally."

Ned reached for the scroll, noting with dismay that his fingers trembled slightly. He took it from Luwin, feeling the weight of it.

"Thank you, Maester. That will be all for now."

Luwin bowed again and departed, closing the door behind him. Ned stared at the sealed scroll for a long moment before breaking the wax with his thumb.

The parchment unfurled, revealing elegant script in a hand he didn't recognize.

Ned's hands shook as he set the letter down on his desk after reading it twice. His eyes widened as the implications sank in. Did Ashara tell them the truth?

Chapter Text

Jon woke to sunlight streaming through the narrow window of his chamber, his head throbbing with the remnants of too much ale. For a moment, he lay still, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Then the memories of the previous night flooded back—the brothel, Ros, her mouth, his shameful pleasure.

He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. What would his father think of him now? What would Arya think? He'd crossed a line, stepped into a world he wasn't sure he belonged in. Yet even as shame washed over him, his body stirred at the memory of Ros's touch, her fiery hair spilling over his thighs, her knowing smile.

A thunderous pounding at his door jolted him upright.

"Snow! Are you dead in there?" Theon's mocking voice called from the corridor. "Or just worn out from last night?"

Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold stone floor. "Coming," he called, his voice rough with sleep.

He'd barely finished pulling on his jerkin when the door burst open. Robb strode in, looking annoyingly alert, followed by Theon, whose smug grin made Jon want to punch him.

"Well, well," Theon drawled, dropping onto the edge of Jon's bed without invitation. "Look who survived his first night of debauchery."

"Keep your voice down," Jon hissed, glancing toward the open door before pushing it shut. "Do you want the whole castle to hear?"

Robb laughed, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Relax, brother. No one's awake yet except the kitchen staff, and they're too busy to gossip about our whereabouts."

"Always the worrier," Theon said, leaning back on his elbows. "Though I suppose that's better than being a statue. Tell us, Snow, did you actually do anything with that pretty Dornish girl, or did you just stand there gawking all night?"

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. He turned away, ostensibly to pour water from the pitcher into his washing basin, but really to hide his face. "That's not your business, Greyjoy."

"Ha!" Theon crowed. "You see that, Stark? He's blushing like a septa caught in a brothel. You actually fucked her, didn't you?"

"Theon," Robb warned, though his blue eyes sparkled with interest as he studied Jon's face. "Well? Did you?"

Jon splashed cold water on his face, buying time. He'd felt so bold last night with Ros, but in the harsh light of morning, surrounded by his brother's curiosity and Theon's mockery, he felt like a green boy again. I didn't bed her, he wanted to say. But what we did... it felt just as shameful. Just as thrilling.

"Maybe I did," Jon muttered, not looking at either of them.

"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed. "Mybrooding brother finally becomes a man!"

Theon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're lying."

Jon turned, wiping his face with a cloth. "Believe what you want."

"Did you actually put your cock in her, or are you just twisting words like a court schemer?" Theon pressed, rising from the bed to confront Jon directly.

Jon met his gaze steadily, summoning the confidence he'd briefly felt with Ros. "I said it's not your business."

"He definitely did something," Robb interjected, grinning broadly. "Look at his face."

"Probably lasted all of ten seconds," Theon snorted. "And I guarantee you're half the size I am down there, Snow."

Jon rolled his eyes, though the comment stung more than he cared to admit. "According to Ros, I'm 'quite gifted.' Nine inches, she said."

The words escaped before he could stop them, and Jon immediately regretted them. What are you doing, bragging like some tavern drunk?

Robb burst out laughing at the stunned expression on Theon's face.

"You're lying," Theon repeated, though with less conviction. "Ros would never say that."

"She did," Jon shrugged, finding it strangely satisfying to see Theon's usual smugness falter. "But believe what you want."

"Enough about cock sizes," Robb said, still chuckling. "Let's get some food before training. I'm starving."

"Fine," Theon muttered, heading for the door. "But this isn't over, Snow. I know when someone's spinning tales."

"I'm sure you are quite familiar with that." Jon said and enjoyed the glare he received from Theon.

As they walked through the corridors toward the Great Hall, Jon fell into step beside Robb, letting Theon stride ahead.

"You really did it, then?" Robb asked quietly, his voice free of mockery. "With the Dornish girl?"

Jon hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to lie directly to Robb, not when his brother was looking at him with genuine curiosity rather than judgment.

"Not... exactly," he admitted in a low voice. "It was Ros, actually. And we didn't... I mean, I didn't..."

Understanding dawned on Robb's face. "Ah," he nodded. "Still, that's something. Your first time with a woman, even if it wasn't everything."

"It was enough," Jon said, feeling that familiar mix of shame and desire stirring again. "More than I expected."

Robb smiled, nudging Jon's shoulder with his own. "Good for you, brother. The first step is always the hardest."

They entered the Great Hall, where servants were laying out bread, cold meats, and porridge for the household's breaking of fast. Jon was grateful for the bustle and noise that discouraged further private conversation. He filled his plate mechanically, his mind still caught between last night's pleasure and this morning's shame.

Does this make me less honorable? he wondered, watching Theon flirt with a serving girl across the hall. Or is this what becoming a man means—learning that honor has its limits when faced with desire?

He'd always judged himself harshly for being a bastard, holding himself to higher standards than even his legitimate siblings, as if perfect honor could somehow erase the stain of his birth. But last night with Ros had shown him a side of himself he'd never acknowledged—a side that wanted, that took, that gave in to pleasure without thought of consequence.

"We're going again next month," Theon said hushedly, returning to their table with a triumphant smirk. "The day after the harvest feast, when everyone will be too drunk or tired to notice us slipping away."

Jon looked up from his untouched porridge. His first instinct was to refuse, to declare last night a mistake never to be repeated. But unbidden, an image of Ros's knowing smile flashed through his mind, and he felt a stirring of anticipation.

"You in, Snow?" Robb asked. "Or was once enough for your delicate sensibilities?"

Jon should have hesitated. Should have weighed his options, considered the risk, reminded himself of his resolve. Instead, a single word tumbled from his lips before he could stop it.

"Yes."

Theon raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by Jon's eager response. "Well, well. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, Snow."

"Shut up, Greyjoy," Jon muttered.

As they finished their meal and headed out to the training yard, Jon tried to recapture his usual solemn demeanor, but something had shifted inside him. The wall between the person he thought he should be and the person he was becoming had cracked, letting in a dangerous light. And despite everything he'd been taught about honor and restraint, Jon found himself looking forward to feeling that light again.

Three days after his nameday, Jon slipped into Winterfell's library, seeking solace in the familiar comfort of books. The morning's training session had been grueling—Ser Rodrik pushing them harder than usual, making Jon pay for every moment his mind wandered to inappropriate memories of the brothel. His body ached, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess, but he knew where to find peace.

The library was silent save for the soft crackling of the hearth fire. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale sunlight that filtered through the narrow windows. Jon inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting scent of old parchment and leather bindings. This had always been his sanctuary, a place where his bastard status mattered less than his curious mind.

He made his way to the far corner, where he kept his favorite volume—Fire and Blood. It was always the same ritual: pull the heavy tome from its shelf, settle into the worn chair by the small window, and lose himself in tales of dragon riders and conquerors. Something about the Targaryens had always fascinated him, though he couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was their outsider status, coming to Westeros as foreigners and bending the Seven Kingdoms to their will. Perhaps it was simply the dragons.

But when Jon reached the familiar shelf, his hand found only empty space where Fire and Blood should have been. He frowned, eyes scanning the neighboring volumes. Perhaps someone had reshelved it incorrectly? Lady Stark occasionally sent servants to tidy the library, and they rarely knew where things belonged.

"That's odd," he murmured to himself, running his finger along the gap.

He moved to the next shelf, where he knew The Princess and the Queen was kept. Another empty space greeted him. Concern growing, Jon quickly checked the locations of his other favorite volumes—The Rogue Prince, Doom of Valyria, Conquest's Cost. All missing.

"This can't be a coincidence," he muttered, now methodically working his way through the entire library, checking each shelf. His heart beat faster as a pattern emerged. Every book on Valyria, every tome about dragons, every history of the Targaryen dynasty—gone.

By the time he'd finished his search, a cold knot had formed in his stomach. Someone had deliberately removed these specific volumes. But why? And who would care about his reading habits?

Lord Stark, a small voice whispered in his mind. 

Jon shook his head, dismissing the thought. His father had never interfered with his education before. Besides, he'd given Jon a beautiful sword for his nameday; why would he simultaneously punish him by taking away his books?

There was only one person who might have answers. Jon left the library, striding purposefully toward Maester Luwin's turret. His mind raced like a horse, each thought more unsettling than the last. Was this some elaborate prank by Theon? Had Lady Stark finally found a way to make his life more miserable without directly confronting him?

He reached the maester's door and knocked several times in quick succession, his urgency getting the better of him.

"Maester Luwin!" he called. "Are you there? It's Jon!"

The door creaked open, revealing the elderly maester in his gray robes, chain clinking softly around his neck. His eyebrows rose at Jon's apparent distress.

"Jon? Why such urgency, lad? Are you injured?"

"No, Maester, I'm fine," Jon said, trying to calm his voice. "But the books are gone."

"Books?" Luwin stepped back, gesturing for Jon to enter his cluttered study. "What books?"

"All of them," Jon explained, stepping inside. "I went to read Fire and Blood as I often do, but it wasn't there. Neither was The Princess and the Queen or any of the other books on Valyria. All of them, gone. Every single one."

He watched Luwin's face carefully, and what he saw made his heart sink. Guilt flashed across the maester's features, quickly masked by a more neutral expression. But Jon had caught it.

"You know something," he said quietly. "Where are they, Maester Luwin?"

The old man sighed, moving to sit at his desk. "I had to return them to the Citadel, Jon."

The words hit Jon like a slap, even worse than the one Lady Stark had given him when he had called her mother for the first time. "Return them? All of them? Why?"

"They were only on loan, you see," Luwin explained, not quite meeting Jon's eyes. "Rare volumes that I was permitted to borrow for a time. I've been putting off their return for years, but the Archmaester finally insisted."

Jon's mind whirled with confusion and suspicion. "But why now? And why all at once? Surely not every book on Valyria in Winterfell's library belonged to the Citadel."

Luwin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, no. But once I was packing the borrowed volumes, I realized many of our own texts on similar subjects were in poor condition. I've sent them for rebinding and preservation."

It sounded reasonable, yet Jon couldn't shake the feeling that the maester wasn't telling him everything. He moved closer to the desk, scanning the parchments laid out there, looking for clues.

"Which books exactly did you return?" he asked.

Luwin listed them, counting off on his weathered fingers: "Fire and Blood, The Princess and the Queen, The Rogue Prince, Conquest's Cost, Valyrian Steel, Doom of Valyria, Dragon Binding, The Rise and Fall of House Targaryen..."

As the list continued, the pattern became unmistakable. Every single book dealt with Valyria or the Targaryens. Not a single volume on the other great houses or general Westerosi history had been removed.

"Don't you find it strange," Jon interrupted, "that only books about Valyria and the Targaryens needed to be returned or rebound? Not a single book about the Starks or the First Men or the Andals?"

The maester's eyes flicked nervously to the door, as if checking whether anyone might be listening. "Valyrian histories are particularly valuable, Jon. The knowledge they contain about dragons and magic—"

"This isn't about their value," Jon cut in, an uncomfortable pressure building in his chest. "Did I do something wrong, Maester Luwin? Is this some kind of punishment?"

"Punishment?" Luwin looked genuinely shocked. "Of course not, Jon! You've done nothing wrong."

"Then why?" Jon pressed, leaning on the desk. "Why take away the books I love most without warning? Why only those specific subjects?"

Luwin hesitated, fingers fidgeting with his chain. "It's... complicated, Jon. Sometimes knowledge must be handled carefully, especially for young minds."

"I'm not a child," Jon said, straightening. "I'm thirteen. A man grown by Northern standards."

"Yes, but—"

"Is it my father?" Jon asked suddenly. "Did Lord Stark order this?"

Something flickered in Luwin's eyes—confirmation, though the maester would never say it aloud. "Jon, please understand. Lord Stark has his reasons for everything he does. He cares for you deeply."

Jon stepped back, a hollow feeling spreading through him. Why would his father do this? What possible reason could he have for wanting to keep Jon from learning about Valyria and the Targaryens?

"When will they be returned?" he finally asked, his voice heavy with grief as if he had lost someone precious.

"Within a year or two, if all goes well," Luwin replied, relief evident in his tone at the change of subject. "I'll request certain volumes back sooner, if possible."

"A year or two," Jon repeated flatly. By then, he might be gone—off to the Wall or whatever fate his lord father decided for him. The timing felt deliberate, though he couldn't understand why.

"If there's anything else you'd like to read in the meantime," Luwin offered, "I'd be happy to suggest—"

"No, thank you," Jon cut him off. "I think I'll go train instead."

He turned and left without waiting for a response, anger and hurt churning inside him. As he descended the tower stairs, his mind returned to the conversation with his father five years ago, when he'd first expressed interest in the Targaryens.

"They were our enemies, Jon," Lord Stark had said, his voice unusually stern. "Remember that they killed your grandfather and uncle. It's important to learn history, but don't glorify those who would have destroyed our family."

Jon had been eight then, and he'd nodded solemnly, not understanding why his father seemed so troubled by his innocent questions about dragons. Now, at thirteen, with his books mysteriously vanished, Jon wondered what he was missing. 

As he emerged into the courtyard, Jon gazed up at the window of his father's solar. The missing books were just one more reminder that despite growing up in Winterfell, despite his father's care and his siblings' love, there were parts of this place that would always be closed to him. Doors that would remain locked, truths that would stay hidden.

Because I'm a bastard, he thought bitterly. Because I'm not really a Stark.

He turned away, heading for the armory. If they didn't let him find escape in books, he would lose himself in the familiar rhythm of swordplay instead, where at least the rules were clear, and the pain was honest.

A Fortnight Later

The practice yard rang with the clash of steel as Jon pivoted smoothly, his blade a silver blur as it swept past Robb's guard. The blunted edge tapped his brother's ribs before Robb could counter.

"Dead again," Ser Rodrik called, his bushy white whiskers twitching with approval. "Well struck, Jon."

Robb stepped back, breathing hard, sweat darkening his auburn hair despite the autumn chill. "Seven hells, when did you get so fast?"

Jon shrugged, trying not to look too pleased. "Been practicing footwork at night."

"While the rest of us sleep like normal people," Theon drawled from his perch on the fence. "Is that before or after you cry over your missing books, Snow?"

Jon turned to him, a rare spark of mischief in his violet eyes. "At least I know how to read, Greyjoy. The only thing you study closely is the ceiling of Ros's bedchamber—and even then, you don't last long enough to memorize the details."

Robb burst into laughter, nearly dropping his practice sword. "He's got you there, Theon!"

Theon's smug expression faltered into a scowl, but Jon had already turned back to his stance, ready to continue the match. The jibe had been satisfying, though the mention of his missing books still stung more than he cared to admit. A fortnight had passed since their discovery, and the hollow feeling in his chest hadn't diminished.

"Again," Ser Rodrik commanded. "And Robb, mind your left side. You're dropping your guard."

They reset their stances. Jon focused on Robb's eyes, watching for the flicker that always preceded his first move. There—a glance to the right. Jon was already moving as Robb lunged, sidestepping the attack with a grace that felt almost instinctive.

He hadn't told anyone, but he'd been dreaming of swords lately. Strange dreams where he wielded a blade of pale fire against shadows with blue eyes. The dreams left him restless, driving him to the practice yard in the predawn hours to work through forms until his muscles burned.

Jon parried Robb's next two strikes and feinted left before landing another touch on his brother's shoulder.

"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Are you part shadowcat now?"

Jon grinned. "Just lucky, I suppose."

From across the yard, Jon noticed his father watching from the covered walkway, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly before Lord Stark turned away, speaking in low tones to Jory Cassel. Something in his father's demeanor—a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes—sent a chill through Jon that had nothing to do with the autumn wind.

Something's wrong, he thought, not for the first time. And whatever it is, I'm somehow part of it.

The Second Visit

"You came back," Ros purred, her fingers trailing along Jon's collar as she led him up the narrow staircase of The Frozen Peach. "I wasn't sure you would."

Jon's mouth felt dry, anticipation and nervousness warring within him. "Neither was I," he admitted.

Unlike his first visit, there was no paralyzing indecision this time, no moral crisis freezing him in place. He knew what he wanted--what he'd been thinking about for a moon's turn--and Ros's knowing smile suggested she did, too.

"The others have already chosen their companions for the evening," she said, glancing back at him with emerald eyes that sparkled in the dim lantern light. "I thought perhaps tonight you might want me for yourself?"

Heat bloomed in Jon's chest and spread lower. "Yes," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Ros led him to a different room than before—this one smaller, more intimate, with a proper bed rather than divans. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. A single candle burned beside the bed, its honey scent mingling with Ros's floral perfume.

"You've been on my mind, Jon Snow," Ros said, closing the door behind them. "That's not something I often say to men who visit me."

Jon wasn't sure how to respond to that. Was it a practiced line meant to make him feel special, or was there truth in it? He found himself hoping for the latter, foolish as that might be.

"You've been on mine as well," he confessed. It was true—her fire-kissed hair and knowing touch had haunted his dreams for weeks, making his solitary pleasures in the dark of night pale in comparison to the memory of her mouth on him.

Ros stepped closer, her hands finding the clasps of his cloak. "Shall we pick up where we left off?" she asked, unfastening it and letting the heavy wool fall to the floor. Her nimble fingers moved to his jerkin next.

Jon let her undress him, his breathing quickening as she worked. When she had him down to just his breeches, she smiled in appreciation, running her hands over the lean muscle of his chest and shoulders.

"The training yard has been kind to you," she murmured, tracing a finger along the definition of his stomach.

"The Master-at-Arms isn't," Jon replied with a half-smile, remembering Ser Rodrik's punishing drills.

Ros laughed, a genuine sound that transformed her face, making her look younger, more carefree. Jon found himself staring, captivated by this glimpse of the woman beneath the practiced seductress.

She moved to the laces of his breeches, loosening them with practiced efficiency. "Let's see if you're still as impressive as I remember," she teased, pushing the fabric down his hips.

His cock sprang free, already hard from their brief interaction. Ros made a sound of approval, wrapping her hand around him and stroking slowly.

"Just as magnificent," she praised, sinking to her knees before him.

Jon reached out, catching her wrist gently before she could take him in her mouth. "Wait," he said softly.

Ros looked up, surprise evident in her expression. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

Jon shook his head, suddenly feeling foolish but determined nonetheless. "No, it's not that. I just..." He took a breath, steadying himself. "What can I do to please you?"

Ros blinked, genuinely caught off guard. She rose slowly to her feet, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. "Please me?" she repeated, as if testing the unfamiliar concept on her tongue.

Jon nodded, meeting her gaze despite the heat he could feel rising to his face. "Last time was... it was very pleasurable for me," he said, stumbling slightly over the words. "But I want to know how to please you too."

Something flickered across Ros's face—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something softer and more vulnerable than he'd seen from her before.

A sultry smile curved her lips as she reached for the laces of her dress. "Well then, Jon Snow," she said, her voice like honey, "let me show you."

With tantalizing slowness, she unlaced her gown and let it slide from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a puddle of emerald silk. She wore nothing underneath, and Jon found himself momentarily stunned by her nakedness—the creamy skin glowing golden in the firelight, the generous curves of her hips, the graceful slope of her waist, and those ample breasts that had haunted his dreams.

Her beauty was almost otherworldly—her beautiful face with high cheekbones and full lips, her red hair cascading down her back like living fire. Jon felt his throat constrict, his desire for her almost painful.

"You can always put it in," Ros said, her gaze dropping pointedly to his erect cock as she moved closer, the heat of her body radiating against his skin.

Jon's mind raced at the suggestion. Gods, how he wanted to—to feel her around him, to know the pleasure men spoke of in hushed, reverent tones. He could almost imagine it, the wet heat of her enveloping him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he...

But then reality intruded, harsh and unavoidable. The image of another bastard, another child growing up with the weight of shame and uncertainty that he knew all too well. He couldn't risk creating another life like his own, no matter how much his body craved the release.

"Is there..." Jon hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Is there any other way I can please you?"

Disappointment flashed briefly across Ros's features before her professional mask slipped back into place. But there was something else there too—a flicker of respect, perhaps, for his restraint.

She considered him for a moment, then a slow smile curved her lips. "You could give me the Lord's Kiss," she suggested, though her tone held a note of doubt. "Though most men don't care to do that."

Jon frowned in confusion. "The Lord's Kiss? What's that?"

Ros laughed softly, the sound warming something in Jon's chest. "It's when a man uses his mouth on a woman," she explained, gesturing vaguely toward the juncture of her thighs. "Down there."

Jon felt his eyes widen slightly. He'd never heard of such a thing, though it made a certain sense—if a woman's mouth could bring a man pleasure, why not the reverse?

"I'd like to try," he said decisively, even as uncertainty gnawed at him. Would he know what to do? What if he was terrible at it?

Ros looked genuinely surprised again. "You would?"

Jon nodded, more confident than he felt. "If you'll show me how."

A slow smile spread across her face, more genuine than any he'd seen from her before. "Come here, then," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed.

She lay back against the pillows, her fiery hair spread out like a fan beneath her. She parted her legs, revealing the pink folds between her thighs.

Jon stared, fascinated. He'd never seen a woman like this before, so open and vulnerable. The sight stirred something in him, a hunger.

"Kneel between my legs," Ros instructed, her voice gentler now, patient. When Jon obeyed, awkwardly positioning himself, she continued. "Now, use your tongue. Start slowly. Lick me like you would honey from your fingers."

Jon leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt clumsy, uncertain, but determined not to disappoint her. Tentatively, he extended his tongue, drawing it slowly through her folds.

The taste surprised him—musky and sweet, unlike anything he'd experienced before. Not unpleasant, just... different. Unique to her.

"That's it," Ros encouraged, her breath catching slightly. "Now find the little pearl at the top. That's where the pleasure is strongest."

Jon explored carefully, using the tip of his tongue to search for what she described. When he found the small nub nestled at the apex of her folds, Ros's sharp intake of breath told him he'd succeeded.

"There," she gasped. "Circle it with your tongue. Gently at first."

Jon did as instructed, circling the sensitive bud, paying close attention to how Ros responded. At first, his movements were awkward, too forceful or too light, but he was a quick study. He'd spent his life watching, learning, adapting—skills that served him well now as he noted each gasp, each subtle arch of her back.

"Use your fingers too," Ros directed after a while, her voice breathier than before. She guided his hand, showing him how to slide a finger inside her while his tongue continued its work. "Curl them up, like you're beckoning someone."

The heat and wetness around his finger was intoxicating. Jon felt a surge of pride as Ros moaned when he found the spot she'd described, a slightly rougher patch inside her that seemed to intensify her pleasure when he stroked it.

As the moments passed, Jon grew more confident, finding a rhythm that drew increasingly desperate sounds from Ros. Her thighs trembled on either side of his head, her hips beginning to move against his mouth of their own accord.

"Faster now," she gasped, one hand tangling in his dark curls, guiding him. "Don't stop."

Jon increased his pace, his tongue flicking more insistently over her pearl, his fingers working steadily inside her. He looked up along the length of her body and was struck by the sight—her head thrown back, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath, her skin flushed and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Suddenly, Ros cried out, her body tensing beneath him. Her inner walls clamped down around his fingers in rhythmic pulses as she shuddered through her release. Jon continued his ministrations, gentler now, guiding her through the waves of pleasure until she weakly pushed at his head, too sensitive for more.

He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching in awe as Ros caught her breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes closed, a look of peaceful satisfaction on her face that he'd never seen before.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him with something like wonder.

"Seven hells, Jon Snow," she breathed, a lazy smile spreading across her face. "For someone who didn't know what the Lord's Kiss was thirty minutes ago, you're a remarkably fast learner."

Jon couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips, a rare feeling of pride blossoming in his chest. For once, he'd excelled at something that had nothing to do with swords or fighting or being a Stark—something that was just him, Jon Snow.

"I enjoyed it," he admitted, surprised to find it was true. The pleasure he'd taken in her pleasure was different from his own physical release, but no less satisfying in its way.

Ros pushed herself up on her elbows, looking at him with newfound curiosity. "You're a strange one, aren't you? Not like the other men who come here."

Jon shrugged, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "I'm just Jon."

"No," Ros said thoughtfully, reaching out to brush the silver streak in his hair. "You're not 'just' anything, Jon Snow. And someday, I think the world will know it."

Two Weeks Later

The first snow of the season dusted the godswood like honey on a lemon cake, transforming the ancient grove into something from a tale. Jon sat beneath the heart tree, sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

The scrape of steel was hypnotic, allowing his mind to wander through the events of the past two months. His visits to the brothel, now numbering three, each less guilt-ridden than the last. His growing prowess in the training yard, where even Ser Rodrik had taken to pitting him against older boys to give him a proper challenge. The continued emptiness of the library shelves where his favorite books had once rested.

And always, always, the sense of being watched.

Like now, Jon's hand stilled on the whetstone as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He didn't turn, didn't give any indication that he'd sensed the presence. Instead, he resumed sharpening as he strained his ears for any sound.

Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of ravens from the broken tower.

Yet Jon knew someone was there, observing him. He'd felt it repeatedly over the past weeks—in the library, the practice yard, even once while returning from The Frozen Peach. Always just out of sight, just beyond confirmation.

"If you're going to spy on me," he called out suddenly, "you might as well show yourself."

Only silence answered him. Jon sheathed his sword and stood, scanning the trees carefully. A flash of movement caught his eye—a figure slipping behind a sentinel pine. Too small to be a guard, too stealthy to be one of his siblings.

Jon pursued, boots crunching through fresh snow as he rounded the tree. Nothing. He continued through the godswood, following faint tracks until they disappeared at the edge of the hot spring. Whoever had been watching him knew Winterfell well enough to vanish without a trace.

That night at dinner, Jon studied the faces around the hall, wondering which of them might be his shadow. His eyes settled on his father, who seemed more withdrawn than ever.

That night, Jon made his fourth visit to The Frozen Peach with Robb and Theon. For the first time, he didn't hesitate at the threshold, didn't question his right to pleasure. He sought Ros out specifically, finding in her arms a respite from the growing sense that something fundamental in his life was about to change.

"You're far away tonight," she murmured against his neck as they lay tangled together afterward.

"Just thinking," Jon replied, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder.

"About what?"

Jon considered the question. How could he explain the strange confluence of events that troubled him? The missing books, the mysterious watcher, his father's unusual behavior, and the odd looks he sometimes caught Maester Luwin giving him—sad and concerned, as if Jon were dying and didn't know it yet.

"The future, I suppose," he said finally. "I'm a bastard. I have no place at Winterfell once I'm grown."

Ros propped herself up, her expression unusually serious. "Everyone has a place in this world, Jon Snow. Sometimes it's just not where we expected to find it."

Jon left the brothel that night with her words echoing in his mind, a strange premonition settling over him like the first snow of winter—gentle yet inexorable, covering everything familiar in something new and unknown.

Ned Stark

Ned Stark stared at the ledgers spread across his desk, though his mind was far from grain counts and winter stores. Two moons had passed since Jon's nameday, two moons since the letter from Dorne had arrived bearing the sun and spear seal. Two moons of indecision, of watching his sister's son grow more restless, more questioning.

Outside, a bitter wind howled around the towers of Winterfell. The first true storm of winter had blown in from the north two days prior, burying the castle under a fresh blanket of snow. The weather had given Ned hope that perhaps the Martells' journey would be delayed, giving him more time to prepare, to decide.

But prepare for what? he asked himself, running a weary hand over his face. You've had thirteen years to prepare. Thirteen years to tell the boy the truth. And you've wasted every one of them.

It had seemed the right choice at the time—to protect Jon, to hide his identity even from himself. He knew Robert's hatred of the Targaryens had not diminished with the years. 

Ned reached for the goblet of watered wine at his elbow, wondering for the hundredth time what his sister would think of the choices he'd made. Had he honored her last request, or twisted it to ease his own conscience?

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter," he called, straightening in his chair.

Jory Cassel stepped into the solar, snow still melting on his cloak and beard. "My lord," he began, his expression unusually grave. "Riders have been spotted approaching the east gate. They bear the banners of House Martell."

Ned's heart sank. Despite the preparations, despite the scouts' reports that the Dornish party had been sighted crossing the Neck a fortnight ago, some part of him had clung to the hope that this moment might never arrive.

"How many?" he asked, buying time as he mentally prepared himself.

"A small party, my lord. Perhaps twenty men, including servants. Prince Oberyn rides at their head."

"Oberyn?" Ned frowned. He had expected an emissary, perhaps even a trusted advisor, but not the Red Viper himself. "You're certain?"

"Aye, my lord. I'd not mistake him. I saw him fight in the tourney at Storm's End years back."

Ned nodded, rising from his chair. "Have chambers prepared in the Guest House. The best we have. And inform Lady Stark that we'll be hosting Prince Oberyn for dinner."

"It's already done, my lord," Jory replied. "Lady Stark has the servants preparing as we speak."

"Good. Show Prince Oberyn to my solar when he arrives."

After Jory departed, Ned moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard below. Men scurried about making last-minute preparations, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Off to the side, near the armory, Jon was helping Bran with his archery stance, patiently adjusting the boy's elbow and grip.

The sight sent a pang through Ned's chest. Jon had always been good with his younger siblings—patient where Robb was impulsive, gentle where Theon was harsh. He would make a fine teacher, a fine protector. If circumstances were different, he might have made a fine lord.

But circumstances were what they were, and Ned had run out of time to change them.

He turned from the window as the door opened again. This time, Vayon Poole entered, announcing that Prince Oberyn had arrived and was being escorted to the solar.

"Send him in," Ned said, steeling himself.

Moments later, the door swung wide, and Prince Oberyn Martell strode into the room like a man entering his own home rather than a foreign stronghold. He was tall and slender, with the olive skin and black hair typical of Dorne. A neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp features, and his dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and something harder to define—amusement, perhaps, or contempt.

"Lord Stark," Oberyn said, his accent thick. "At last we meet face to face."

Chapter Text

Ned poured the wine carefully, watching the dark red liquid pool in the goblets. He handed one to Prince Oberyn Martell, who took it, swirling it beneath his nose before taking a measured sip.

"Dornish red," Oberyn observed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "How telling that even a frozen land cannot survive without the warmth of Dornish wine."

"The North trades its ale to Dorne regularly," Ned replied evenly. "It seems Dorne cannot survive without Northern ale either."

Oberyn chuckled. "A fair point, Lord Stark. Perhaps our kingdoms are more dependent on each other than either would care to admit."

Ned settled into his chair, his expression growing serious. "Why are you here, Prince Oberyn? I doubt you traveled thousands of leagues to discuss trade arrangements."

Oberyn lounged comfortably, looking entirely too at ease in Ned's private solar. "Can a man not simply wish to see the world? I have had many adventures, Lord Stark. I've studied at the Citadel, fought in the Free Cities, even sailed as far as Yi Ti. But I had never been North." His eyes glittered with something Ned couldn't quite read. "A grave oversight I felt compelled to correct."

"And do you find the North's beauty to your liking?" Ned asked.

Oberyn gestured to the window where snow fell in thick flakes. "This place is not kind to a man accustomed to warm climates. Yet even in what some might call a frozen hell, I find... interesting people."

Ned's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I find it surprising that you would journey here now. Dorne and the North have had little to discuss since the war."

At the mention of the war, Oberyn's easy smile vanished like mist before the sun. "Ah yes, the war. The Rebellion that put your friend on the throne."

"My sister died in that war," Ned said quietly.

"As did mine," Oberyn replied, his voice hardening. "Along with her children, butchered by Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch on Tywin Lannister's orders." He leaned forward, the wine in his goblet threatening to spill. "Your friend Robert called them 'dragonspawn,' did he not?"

Ned's throat tightened at the memory. "I never agreed with Robert's decision. I told him the Mountain and Tywin should be punished for their crimes."

"Yet you still fought for him in the Greyjoy Rebellion," Oberyn observed, studying Ned with those sharp, dark eyes. "Loyalty is an admirable trait, Lord Stark. But I wonder... to whom are you truly loyal?" He set his goblet down with deliberate care. "I'm here for the boy."

"What boy?" Ned asked, though his heart had begun to pound in his chest.

Oberyn laughed, the sound lacking any real mirth. "Please, Lord Stark, let us not play this game. Your attempt at deception is as clumsy as a summer child in winter snow." His expression grew serious, all pretense of casual conversation gone. "I know that Jon Snow is not your bastard. He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and your sister Lyanna Stark. And not a bastard at all, but trueborn."

The words hung in the air like a blade. Ned's fingers tightened around his goblet, his knuckles white. "How could you possibly know this?"

"Ashara Dayne told me the truth," Oberyn said simply.

Ned felt as if he'd been struck. Ashara. The name alone brought back memories he'd tried for years to suppress. Those haunting violet eyes, so like Jon's own. The way she had held the infant, tears streaming down her face as she mourned her brother.

"Ashara would never break her word," Ned said, but even as he spoke, doubt crept in.

"She didn't break her word lightly," Oberyn confirmed. "Thirteen years ago, when you returned Arthur's sword to Starfall, she figured out who the babe truly was. She offered to raise him as her own son, did she not?"

Ned remained silent, but his face must have betrayed him, for Oberyn continued with increasing confidence.

"You refused her offer. You decided to raise him as your bastard, to keep him close, to keep him safe." Oberyn's voice softened slightly. "Ashara told me how she made you promise to tell the boy the truth when he reached his thirteenth nameday."

Promise me, Ned. The words echoed in his mind, but they belonged to Lyanna, not Ashara. Yet the sentiment had been the same - a promise to reveal the truth when the time was right.

"It's been two months since his nameday," Oberyn continued relentlessly. "And still the boy knows nothing of his true heritage."

Ned's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. He had intended to tell Jon, truly he had. But each time he'd worked up the courage, something had held him back. Fear for Jon's safety. Fear of what the boy might do with such knowledge. Fear of betraying Robert, the friend he had fought for, bled for.

"Ashara must have realized you failed to keep your promise," Oberyn said, his voice softer now, almost sympathetic. "So she took matters into her own hands. She told me, knowing I would do something about it."

"And what do you intend to do?" Ned asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

Oberyn regarded him thoughtfully. "That depends on you, Lord Stark. The information I possess could prove... problematic if it reached the wrong ears. Your friend Robert, for instance."

The threat was clear. If Robert learned the truth - that Lyanna had gone willingly with Rhaegar, that she had borne him a legitimate son who had a stronger claim to the throne than Robert himself...

"What do you want?" Ned asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The boy should come to Dorne," Oberyn said. "To be fostered at Sunspear."

"You want to take Jon away?" Ned's surprise was genuine. He had expected demands for gold, for political support, perhaps even for military aid in some future conflict. Not this.

"Is that so surprising? In Dorne, he would be among his mother's friends. Ashara could see him regularly. He would be treated with respect, not hidden away in shame." Oberyn's eyes grew hard. "And he would be far from Robert Baratheon's reach should the truth ever come to light."

The logic was sound, Ned had to admit. Jon's safety had always been his primary concern. And Jon had struggled in Winterfell, always an outsider despite Ned's best efforts. Catelyn's coldness, the stigma of bastardy... perhaps in Dorne, where such things mattered less, he might find a measure of happiness.

And yet, the thought of sending him away...

"I have conditions," Ned said finally.

"Name them."

"Jon is not to be told who his real parents are," Ned insisted. "Not until I see him again and tell him myself."

Oberyn frowned. "The boy deserves to know his heritage."

"The boy deserves to live," Ned countered sharply. "If he knows the truth, he might make claims that would put him in danger. Robert is still king, and Robert still hates Targaryens." And if Jon knew he was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, would he challenge Robert? Would he bring war to Westeros once more? Ned couldn't risk it - not for Jon's safety, and not for the realm's stability.

After a long moment, Oberyn nodded reluctantly. "Very well. What else?"

"Jon must be free to return to the North if he wishes it," Ned continued. "And he must not be harmed in any way while under your protection."

Oberyn's expression darkened with offense. "I might despise Rhaegar Targaryen for what he did to my sister, but I would never harm someone innocent of those crimes." His tone softened slightly. "Besides, in a twisted way, because Rhaegar married your sister as his second wife, Jon is Elia's son as well. Or her stepson, at the very least."

Ned hadn't considered that perspective. The tangled web of relationships created by Rhaegar's actions had rippled across the Seven Kingdoms.

"When would you have him leave?" Ned asked, resignation seeping into his voice.

"In three days," Oberyn replied. "Time enough to prepare, not so long that questions arise about why I linger in the North."

Ned nodded slowly. "I will tell him tonight that he is to be fostered in Dorne. That it is an opportunity for him to see the world beyond Winterfell's walls."

Oberyn rose to leave, but paused at the door. "One last question, Lord Stark. What is the boy's Targaryen name? Surely Lyanna gave him one before she died."

Ned hesitated. He had kept this secret for so long, buried it so deep, that speaking it aloud felt like a betrayal. But perhaps it was time for at least this small truth to see the light.

"Daemon," he said finally. "His name is Daemon Targaryen."

Oberyn nodded, a strange expression crossing his face. "Daemon. A strong name. A prince's name." With that, he left the solar, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ned remained seated, staring at his untouched wine. Soon he would have to face Jon, would have to lie to him once more while sending him away from the only home he had ever known. The weight of it pressed down on him.

Forgive me, Lyanna, he thought. 

Outside, the snow continued to fall, burying Winterfell beneath a blanket of white, just as Ned's secrets remained buried beneath his carefully constructed lies. For now.

Ned stood at the window of his solar, watching snow blanket the courtyard below. The small fire in the hearth did little to ward off the chill that had settled in his bones—a chill that had nothing to do with the northern winter.

Oberyn Martell's words still echoed in his mind. Daemon Targaryen. How strange to hear that name spoken aloud after thirteen years of careful silence. It almost felt like the name of a stranger.

He closed his eyes, and the years fell away. The Tower of Joy rose before him, a lonely sentinel against the red mountains of Dorne. The smell of blood and winter roses, as vivid now as it had been that day. Lyanna, pale as death, lying in her bed of blood.

"Promise me, Ned," she had whispered, her voice already fading. "Robert will kill him if he knows. You know he will. Promise me."

And he had promised. He had taken her son, this child with Targaryen blood, and claimed him as his own bastard. He had tarnished his own honor, endured his wife's cold fury, all to keep that promise.

"Was I right to do it?" he murmured to the empty room. "To deny you your name, your heritage... your throne?"

For that was the crux of it. Jon Snow was not just any child. He was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. The product of a legitimate union between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. If the truth became known, it would destroy the peace that Robert's Rebellion had bought. It would mean war, bloodshed, death.

And what of Jon himself? The boy had a good heart, an honorable spirit. But he was young, with a young man's fire and sense of justice. If he learned he was the rightful king, would he challenge Robert? Would he feel duty-bound to reclaim what was stolen from his family?

He would, Ned thought with a mixture of pride and dread. He is too much like me not to.

And there lay the danger. Robert was still king, still powerful, still consumed by hatred for all things Targaryen. If he ever discovered Jon's parentage, not even Ned's friendship would stay his hand. He would see Jon dead, just as he had rejoiced in the deaths of Rhaegar's other children.

Dragonspawn, Robert had called them. Innocent children, brutally murdered in their beds.

Ned's stomach churned at the memory. He had nearly broken with Robert over that atrocity. Their friendship, once as strong as the foundations of Winterfell itself, had cracked that day. But it had not broken. Despite everything, Robert was still his king, still his friend. Ned had fought for him, bled for him, helped him secure his throne. Could he now harbor the very threat that might dethrone him?

A bitter laugh escaped him. The gods had a cruel sense of humor, placing him squarely between his love for his friend and his duty to his sister's son.

His thoughts turned to the incident last month, when Maester Luwin had come to him with a worried expression.

"Jon is quite distraught, my lord," Luwin had said, his chain clinking softly as he shifted. "He discovered the books are missing. He came to me demanding to know where they'd gone."

"What did you tell him?" Ned had asked, guilt gnawing at him.

"What you instructed me to say—that they were returned to the Citadel or sent for rebinding. But he didn't believe me, my lord. He's... perceptive. He knows they were removed deliberately."

When Ned had learned at Jon's nameday that the boy had developed a particular fascination with Targaryen history, with dragons and Old Valyria, panic had seized him. Was it mere coincidence, or was it blood calling to blood? Either way, it was too dangerous. He had ordered Luwin to remove every volume that mentioned Targaryens, dragons, or Valyria from Winterfell's library.

"He's heartbroken, my lord," Luwin had continued. "Those books were his refuge. Books don't judge a bastard the way people do."

The memory stung. He had taken away one of Jon's few comforts out of fear—fear of what the boy might discover, fear of what he might become.

Now he would be sending him to Dorne. Was it protection or further cruelty? In Dorne, Jon would be among people who hate Rhaegar and are not allies of the North, in the very land where his mother had died bringing him into the world. 

The door to his solar opened, breaking his reverie. Catelyn entered.

"Prince Oberyn has retired to his chambers," she said, crossing to stand beside him at the window. "He seemed pleased about something. What did he want, Ned?"

Ned hesitated. For thirteen years, he had kept Jon's secret from everyone, including his wife. But now, with Jon leaving for Dorne, perhaps Catelyn deserved some measure of the truth.

"He wants to foster Jon in Sunspear," he said finally.

Catelyn's eyebrows rose in surprise. "...The boy? Why would a Prince of Dorne take an interest in your... in Jon?"

Ned ignored the way she stumbled over referring to Jon. Even after all these years, she could not bring herself to acknowledge him.

"Oberyn says Jon would fare better in Dorne, where bastards are not looked down upon as they are here."

"And you agreed?" There was a note of hope in Catelyn's voice that made Ned wince inwardly.

"I did. Jon leaves in three days."

Catelyn tried to hide her relief, but Ned saw it nonetheless—the slight relaxing of her shoulders, the way the corners of her mouth threatened to turn upward.

"It's for the best, Ned," she said, placing a hand on his arm. "The boy has no future here. In Dorne, he might find opportunities that would be closed to him in the North."

"He's just a boy, Cat," Ned said quietly. "Barely thirteen."

"He's a man grown," Catelyn countered. "And he's always been serious beyond his years. This will be good for him." She paused, studying his face. "You're troubled by this decision."

It wasn't a question. After years of marriage, Catelyn could read him like a book.

"I promised to protect him," Ned said. "How can I protect him if he's hundreds of leagues away?"

Catelyn's expression softened slightly. "He can't remain in your shadow forever, Ned. Sooner or later, every child must make their own way in the world. Even a bastard."

If only she knew, Ned thought sadly. If only she understood that the boy she's resented all these years is not mine at all, but the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.

But that was a truth he could never share, not even with her. Especially not with her. 

"Prince Oberyn has given his word that Jon will be treated well," Ned said, as much to reassure himself as her. "And Jon is free to return North if he wishes."

"Then you've done all you can," Catelyn said, her voice gentler now. "The rest is in the gods' hands."

Ned nodded, though the weight in his chest didn't ease. He had broken many of his promises over the years—to Robert, to Catelyn, even to himself. But the promise he'd made to Lyanna as she lay dying had been sacred. He had sworn to protect her son.

And now he was sending that son into the viper's nest of Dorne, trusting in the honor of a man called the Red Viper.

Have I protected him, Ned wondered, or have I just sealed his fate?

Only time would tell. And time, Ned Stark had learned, was rarely kind to those with Targaryen blood.

Night - Betrothal - Jon Snow

The inn was quiet this time of night, most patrons having retired to their rooms or stumbled home through the gathering darkness. Jon followed Ros up the narrow staircase, watching the sway of her hips in the dim light of the wall sconces. His heart hammered in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and nervousness making his mouth dry.

"You're getting quite the reputation at The Frozen Peach," Ros teased over her shoulder, her fiery hair cascading down her back. "The brooding Snow boy who actually cares about a woman's pleasure. If you're not careful, I'll have to fight off the other girls."

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. "I only want you," he said, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

Ros paused at the top of the stairs, turning to face him with an enigmatic smile. "Sweet words from a sweet boy," she murmured, trailing her fingers along his jaw. "Let's see if we can make you a bit less innocent tonight, shall we?"

The door to her chamber closed behind them with a soft click. Firelight danced across the walls, casting the small room in a warm glow. Jon stood awkwardly for a moment before Ros stepped closer, her hands finding the clasps of his cloak.

"Still nervous?" she asked, gently pushing the heavy wool from his shoulders.

"A little," Jon admitted. Despite their previous encounters, being alone with Ros still left him feeling slightly out of his depth.

Her lips curved into that knowing smile he'd come to crave. "Don't be. I have something new to teach you tonight."

His cock twitched at her words, already hardening beneath his breeches. Ros noticed, her eyes dropping to the growing bulge. "Eager, are we?" she laughed softly, her fingers working at the laces of his jerkin.

Jon leaned down, capturing her lips in a hungry kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, warm and inviting. She tasted of sweet wine and something uniquely her own. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as their tongues danced together.

"Mmm," Ros hummed appreciatively against his mouth. "You're getting better at that too."

She stepped back, reaching behind herself to loosen the ties of her dress. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, revealing the creamy expanse of her skin and the full curves of her breasts. Jon's breath caught in his throat. No matter how many times he saw her like this, the sight never failed to awe him.

"Take off your clothes," she instructed, her voice husky with desire.

Jon obeyed, pulling his tunic over his head and pushing down his breeches until he stood before her naked, his cock standing proudly erect. Ros's gaze traveled appreciatively over his lean, muscled form.

"The gods blessed you in more ways than one, Jon Snow," she said, stepping forward to trail her fingers down his chest. "Now, come to bed. I want to show you something."

She led him to the small bed in the corner, pushing him gently until he sat on the edge. Then she knelt before him, positioning herself between his legs. Jon's pulse quickened as she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, giving it a slow stroke.

"Tonight," she said, looking up at him through her lashes, "I'm going to teach you how to please a woman with your fingers. Would you like that? To learn how to make me come undone with just your touch?"

"Yes," Jon breathed, his cock twitching in her grip.

Ros smiled, rising to sit beside him on the bed. She laid back against the pillows, gesturing for him to join her. When he did, she took his hand and guided it between her thighs.

"Feel how wet I am for you already," she whispered.

Jon's fingers slid through her slick folds, marveling at the heat and wetness he found there. Each time they were together, he discovered something new about the female body, about pleasure.

"Start slow," Ros instructed, spreading her legs wider. "Use your fingertips to explore. Every woman is different, but we all have the same parts. Remember the pearl I showed you last time?"

Jon nodded, his fingers searching until they found the small bud at the apex of her sex. Ros's sharp intake of breath told him he'd found the right spot.

"That's it," she encouraged. "Circle it gently. Not too hard at first."

Jon followed her instructions, watching her face intently for signs of pleasure. Her eyes had drifted closed, her lips parted slightly as her breathing quickened. He circled the sensitive nub with his index finger, varying the pressure based on her reactions.

"Now," she gasped after a few minutes, "slide a finger inside me."

He did as she asked, marveling at the tight, wet heat that enveloped his digit. Ros moaned softly, her hips lifting slightly off the bed.

"Add another," she directed, her voice growing breathier. "And curl them upward, like you're beckoning someone to come closer."

Jon slid a second finger alongside the first, curling them as instructed. He was rewarded with a sharp gasp from Ros as his fingertips found a slightly rougher spot inside her.

"There!" she cried. "Right there, Jon. Keep doing that while your thumb works my pearl."

The position was a bit awkward at first, but Jon quickly adapted, establishing a rhythm that had Ros writhing beneath his touch. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, her back arching off the bed.

"Fuck, that's good," she moaned, her voice rougher than he'd ever heard it. "Faster now."

Jon increased his pace, watching in fascination as Ros's composure crumbled. Her usual controlled seduction gave way to something rawer, more authentic. Her cheeks flushed, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

"Kiss me," she demanded, reaching for him.

Jon leaned down, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss while his fingers continued their work. Ros moaned into his mouth, her tongue aggressive against his. When they broke apart for air, her eyes locked with his.

"My tits," she gasped. "Suck them."

Jon needed no further encouragement. He bent down, taking one rosy nipple into his mouth while his free hand cupped the weight of her other breast. The heavy mound filled his palm perfectly, soft yet firm. He swirled his tongue around the hardened peak before sucking gently.

"Harder," Ros commanded, threading her fingers through his dark curls to hold him in place.

Jon sucked more forcefully, occasionally grazing the sensitive flesh with his teeth in a way that made her shudder and cry out. All the while, his fingers continued their relentless rhythm between her legs.

"Oh god... oh fuck... Jon..." Ros's words dissolved into incoherent moans as her body began to tense. "Don't stop... don't you fucking stop..."

Jon had no intention of stopping. He could feel her inner walls beginning to pulse around his fingers, her thighs trembling on either side of his hand. He switched to her other breast, sucking the neglected nipple into his mouth with renewed enthusiasm.

"FUCK!" Ros screamed, her back arching sharply as her release crashed through her. "OHHHH FUCK... JON!"

Her inner muscles clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic contractions as she rode out her orgasm. Jon continued his ministrations, gentler now, guiding her through the waves of pleasure until she weakly pushed his hand away, too sensitive for more.

He sat back, watching in wonder as she caught her breath. Her chest heaved, her skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and her red hair was splayed wildly across the pillow. Jon had never seen anything so beautiful.

"Seven hells," Ros panted, a satisfied smile spreading across her flushed face. "Where did you learn to do that, Jon Snow?"

"From you," he replied honestly. "I just paid attention."

She laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Most men never bother to pay attention. They're too focused on their own pleasure."

Jon shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "I enjoy making you feel good."

Ros looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher—something between curiosity and fondness. She reached out, tracing the silver streak in his dark hair.

"You're different, aren't you?" she said softly. "Not like the others."

Before Jon could respond, Ros pushed herself up and climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs. His cock, still hard and aching, pressed against her stomach.

"Now," she purred, wrapping her fingers around his length, "let me return the favor."

She slid down his body, positioning herself between his legs. Without preamble, she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his considerable girth. Jon groaned, his head falling back as wet heat enveloped him.

"Gods, Ros," he gasped, his fingers tangling in her fiery hair.

She hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. Her tongue swirled around his head before she took him deeper, her hand working the base of his shaft in perfect harmony with her mouth.

It didn't take long. The combination of watching Ros come undone beneath his touch and the exquisite skill of her mouth had Jon teetering on the edge within minutes. His breathing grew ragged, his muscles tensing as his release approached.

"Ros, I'm going to—" he started to warn, but she only increased her pace, looking up at him with mischief in her green eyes.

The sight of her—this beautiful woman on her knees, her lips stretched around his cock, her eyes locked with his—was Jon's undoing. With a hoarse cry, he spilled himself in her mouth, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

Ros swallowed everything he gave her, continuing to work him gently until the last aftershocks subsided. When she finally released him with a wet pop, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smiled up at him.

"You taste sweet," she said, climbing back up to lie beside him. "Most men don't."

Jon wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply pulled her closer, tucking her against his side. They lay like that for several minutes, the only sounds their gradually slowing breaths and the occasional pop from the fire.

"You know," Ros said eventually, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest, "you could have more than this, Jon."

He looked down at her, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you could have a real woman. Not just a whore you pay to fuck." Her voice was casual, but Jon sensed something else beneath the surface—a hint of vulnerability she rarely showed.

"You are a real woman," Jon said firmly.

Ros rolled her eyes, though there was no malice in the gesture. "You know what I mean. Someone from a good family. A lady who could give you children."

Jon laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "I'm a bastard, Ros. No lady from a good family would have me."

"You're Ned Stark's son," she countered. "That counts for something, even if you don't have his name."

Jon was silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. "Sometimes I wonder," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Wonder what?"

"If I am his son." The words came out before Jon could stop them, giving voice to a doubt that had lingered in the darkest corners of his mind for years.

Ros propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face in the firelight. "What makes you say that?"

Jon sighed, immediately regretting having opened this door. "Nothing. Just... sometimes I feel like there's something he's not telling me. Everyone says Lord Stark is the most honorable man in the North, yet I'm living proof that he betrayed his marriage vows. It doesn't fit."

"Men are complex creatures," Ros replied, her tone surprisingly philosophical. "Even the most honorable can make mistakes."

"I suppose," Jon conceded. 

Ros seemed to sense his internal conflict. She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Don't dwell on it too much, Jon Snow. Whoever your parents were, they gave the world something special."

Jon smiled despite himself, touched by her unexpected kindness. "Thank you, Ros."

She yawned, settling back against his chest. "How long do you have tonight?"

"Not long," Jon admitted regretfully. "I need to be back before the guards change."

"Then we should make the most of what time remains," Ros murmured, her hand sliding down his stomach to find him already beginning to harden again. "Young men and their quick recovery," she laughed. "One of the few perks of my profession."

Jon grinned, rolling her beneath him. "Let me practice what you taught me," he said, his fingers finding her still-sensitive flesh.

Ros gasped, her body arching into his touch. "Such an eager student," she breathed.

As Jon bent to capture her lips in another hungry kiss, he pushed aside thoughts of his parentage, of Winterfell, of his uncertain future. For now, there was only this room, this moment, this woman teaching him that there was more to life than duty and honor – there was also pleasure, and the unique joy of giving it to another.

Tomorrow - Jon Snow

Jon Snow's sword whistled through the air, connecting with the wooden practice dummy with a satisfying thwack. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill, his breath fogging in the cold northern air. He'd been at it for over an hour, working through the forms Ser Rodrik had taught him until his arms ached and his lungs burned.

But the physical pain was preferable to the restlessness that had plagued him since the Dornish arrival. Something wasn't right. He could feel it in the air, in the way his father had been avoiding his gaze.

Jon pivoted smoothly, his blade a silver blur as it connected with the dummy's neck—a killing blow. His uncommon speed had always been his advantage in the training yard. While Robb had the raw strength to overpower most opponents, Jon could dance around them, finding openings before they even realized he'd moved.

"If that dummy were alive, he'd be quite dead," Robb's amused voice called from behind him.

Jon turned to see his half-brother approaching, practice sword in hand, auburn hair ruffled by the light breeze. Jon pushed a sweat-dampened lock of dark hair from his forehead, the distinctive silver streak catching the pale winter sunlight.

"Perhaps I should try my luck with a living opponent then," Jon replied, managing a smile despite his dark mood.

Robb grinned, settling into a ready stance. "Careful what you wish for, Snow."

They circled each other warily, snow crunching beneath their boots. Jon kept his violet eyes trained on Robb's blue ones, watching for the flicker that always preceded his brother's first move.

"So," Robb said casually, feinting left, "what did you make of our Dornish visitors? Rather far from home, aren't they?"

Jon sidestepped, his blade meeting Robb's with a metallic clang. "That's what troubles me. Why would a Prince of Dorne come all this way in winter?"

Their swords clashed again, the sound echoing across the nearly empty yard. Most of the household was preoccupied with the Dornish guests, leaving the training ground deserted save for the two young men.

"Politics, I imagine," Robb grunted, pressing his attack. "Father says tensions are rising in the south. Perhaps Dorne seeks Northern allies."

Jon parried a thrust, spun away, and landed a light tap on Robb's shoulder—first point to him. They reset, circling again.

"It's more than that," Jon insisted. "Haven't you noticed how strangely Father's been acting? And that Dornish prince—Oberyn—he was watching me yesterday during the welcoming feast. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time."

Robb frowned, momentarily distracted. Jon seized the opening, moving with his characteristic speed to slip past Robb's guard and tap his ribs.

"Two-nothing," Jon said, unable to keep a hint of smugness from his voice.

"You're getting faster," Robb acknowledged with a rueful shake of his head. "Or I'm getting slower. Father's been acting oddly because he's hosting a prickly Dornishman who has no love for King Robert. And as for Prince Oberyn watching you..." Robb shrugged. "Perhaps he was admiring your pretty eyes."

Jon rolled those "pretty eyes" in exasperation. His unusual coloring—the dark hair with its silver streak, the violet eyes—had always drawn attention, not all of it welcome. Theon liked to joke that Jon must be part Lysene pleasure slave with such features, though Robb had once quietly suggested that Jon might have inherited them from his mother.

"It wasn't admiration," Jon said, dodging another of Robb's attacks. "It was... assessment. Like he was taking my measure."

"You think too much, brother," Robb countered, finally managing to land a blow on Jon's shoulder. "One-two."

They continued sparring, the rhythm of their movements as familiar as breathing. Despite the casual banter, Jon couldn't shake the feeling of impending change.

"I don't know how to explain it," Jon said after their fifth exchange. "But something's about to happen. Something important."

Robb lowered his sword, studying Jon's face with genuine concern. "What makes you say that?"

"I dreamt of fire last night," Jon admitted quietly. "And snow falling on a desert. I've never even seen a desert, but I knew that's what it was." He shook his head. "It sounds mad when I say it aloud."

"Not mad," Robb said, resting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Just... Northern. Old Nan would say you have the wolf-blood, that it gives you dreams."

Jon managed a smile. "Perhaps."

"Jon! Robb!" a high, clear voice called across the yard.

They turned to see Arya running toward them, her dress muddied at the hem, her dark hair escaping its braids as usual. Despite his mood, Jon felt a rush of affection for his youngest sister. Of all his half-siblings, Arya was the one who had never made him feel like an outsider.

"What are you doing out here?" Jon asked as she skidded to a stop beside them, her cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.

"Escaping Septa Mordane," she replied with a mischievous grin. "She wants me to practice my stitches, but I'd rather practice swordplay." Her expression grew serious. "Why is that Dornish prince here, Jon? I heard the servants whispering that he came to see you."

Jon blinked in surprise. "Me? Why would a Prince of Dorne have any interest in me?"

"That's what I want to know," Arya said, crossing her arms. "He keeps looking at you strangely."

Jon and Robb exchanged glances. So Jon wasn't imagining it after all.

"Perhaps Dorne wants a betrothal with House Stark," Jon suggested, trying to lighten the mood. "Creating alliances through marriage is common enough."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Who would Robb even marry?"

"Prince Doran Martell has three children," Jon said, ticking them off on his fingers. "Arianne Martell, who is said to be very beautiful, though she's seven years older than Robb and I. Then there's Quentyn Martell, who's fifteen, I believe. Not much is said about him. And Trystane Martell, the youngest at nine years old."

Arya stared at him, her gray eyes widening. "Why do you know all that? Nobody cares about Dorne except in stupid songs."

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. He couldn't very well tell her that his visits to The Frozen Peach had yielded more than physical pleasure. Ros was surprisingly well-informed about the noble houses of Westeros, having entertained merchants and travelers from across the Seven Kingdoms.

"I read," he said instead. "And I listen. Information is valuable."

"Is that why you were so upset when Father sent those books away?" Arya asked shrewdly. "The ones about dragons and old Valyria?"

The reminder stung more than Jon cared to admit. "Perhaps," he acknowledged. "Knowledge shouldn't be hidden away. Especially about our history."

"You sound like Maester Luwin," Robb teased, trying to divert the conversation.

"What's wrong with that?" Jon retorted. "Not all battles are won with swords."

Arya's face lit up with a sudden thought. "Maybe the prince came to bring your books back!"

Jon laughed. "I doubt Prince Oberyn concerns himself with a bastard boy's reading habits."

"You're not just any bastard boy," Arya said fiercely. "You're Jon Snow. You're better than half the highborn lords in Westeros. You are my favorite brother."

"Ouch." Robb faked a wince, rubbing his shoulder.

Her unwavering faith in him touched Jon deeply. If only the rest of the world saw him as Arya did.

"Thank you, little sister," he said softly, ruffling her hair. "But I'm afraid princes have more important concerns than me."

"Like what?" she challenged.

Jon shrugged. "Politics. Power. Father always says we're better off avoiding the South."

"It sounds stupid," Arya declared with a child's certainty. "I'd rather play come-into-my-castle with you and Robb."

Robb laughed, sheathing his practice sword. "We're a bit old for that game, aren't we?"

"You're never too old for games," Arya insisted. "That's what makes you both so boring lately. All Robb talks about is his duties as heir, girls and more girls, and all Jon does is brood and read books about dead people."

"I do not brood," Jon protested, though he knew it was a lie. Brooding came as naturally to him as breathing.

"Yes, you do," Arya and Robb said in unison, then burst into laughter.

Night

The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with torchlight, the crackling hearths and crowded bodies driving back the northern chill. Jon had never seen the hall look like this—silver candelabras polished to gleaming, the high table adorned with the finest linens.

Jon lingered at the entrance, his customary place far at the back of the hall already occupied by servants and lesser guards. Lady Stark had always made it clear that a bastard had no place near the high table when distinguished guests were present. He would slip in quietly, eat quickly, and withdraw before the festivities truly began—a routine so familiar he could perform it in his sleep.

"Jon!" Robb called from near the high table, waving him over. "Father says you're to sit with us tonight."

Jon blinked in surprise. "Are you certain?"

"Of course I'm certain. Come, you're between me and Arya. She threatened to put live frogs in Sansa's bed if she couldn't sit by you."

Jon followed his brother in a daze, acutely aware of the stares he was drawing. He'd taken extra care with his appearance tonight, wearing the fine black wool tunic he saved for special occasions, his dark curls neatly combed, the silver streak caught behind his ear.

As they approached the high table, Jon caught Lady Stark's tightly controlled expression—a mask of courtesy barely concealing her displeasure. The seating arrangement was not her doing, then. His father must have insisted.

"Jon Snow," a rich, accented voice called as he reached the table. "At last we meet properly."

Prince Oberyn Martell rose from his seat beside Lord Stark, extending a hand in greeting. The Dornishman wore a copper-colored silk tunic embroidered with golden sunbursts, and his dark eyes glittered with curiosity.

Jon bowed slightly, then clasped the offered hand. "Prince Oberyn. It's an honor to welcome you to Winterfell."

"Such courteous manners," observed the woman beside Oberyn—Ellaria Sand, his paramour. Unlike the prince, she made no attempt to hide her frank assessment of Jon, her eyes lingering on his face, his form, his hands. "And so comely. You didn't exaggerate, my love."

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. Exaggerate? Had Oberyn been discussing him?

"You must forgive Ellaria," Oberyn said with an indulgent smile. "In Dorne, we speak our minds freely."

"There's nothing to forgive, my prince," Jon replied, finding his voice. "A compliment is always welcome, especially from such a beautiful lady."

Ellaria's eyebrows rose in pleased surprise, and she turned to Oberyn. "He has a silver tongue to match his silver streak. Are you certain he's a Northman?"

Jon took his seat between Robb and Arya, relieved to escape the scrutiny, though he could still feel Oberyn's gaze upon him.

"Why are they staring at you?" Arya whispered, scrunching her nose. "You are not a girl."

"I don't know," Jon admitted, reaching for his cup of watered wine. "Perhaps Dornishmen have different customs."

The feast began with a succession of elaborate courses—roasted capons stuffed with chestnuts and onions, joints of lamb with mint sauce, buttered parsnips and peas, sweet pastries filled with preserved apples. Jon ate sparingly, his appetite diminished by the strange tension in the air. Across from him, his father conversed with Prince Oberyn in low tones, but Jon noticed how Lord Stark's eyes continually darted to him, filled with an emotion Jon couldn't decipher.

"Tell me, Jon Snow," Oberyn's voice cut through the general conversation, silencing the table. "Have you ever traveled beyond the North?"

All eyes turned to Jon, who set down his fork carefully. "No, my prince. I've never left the North."

"A pity," Oberyn said, swirling the wine in his goblet. "The world has much to offer a young man with curiosity in his eyes. Especially Dorne."

"What's so special about Dorne?" Arya asked, leaning forward eagerly, always hungry for tales of distant places.

Oberyn's eyes crinkled with amusement. "What isn't special about Dorne, little wolf? We have mountains of red stone that glow like fire at sunset. We have deserts of golden sand where stars burn so bright at night you could read by their light. We have cities older than the Andals, with towers of colored glass that cast rainbows across marble floors."

Jon had read about Dorne, of course, but the books had focused on history and politics, not the beauty Oberyn described.

"It sounds like something from a song," Sansa sighed dreamily from further down the table.

"Better than a song," Ellaria interjected, "for it is real. And unlike your cold North, in Dorne we do not hide from pleasure or pretend that passion is shameful."

Lady Stark coughed delicately, her cheeks coloring, but Oberyn continued as if he hadn't noticed.

"In Dorne, we judge people by their actions, not their birth. A man—or woman—born on the wrong side of the sheets is still a person of worth."

Jon's attention sharpened. He couldn't help but glance at Lady Stark, whose lips had pressed into a thin line.

"You mean bastards are treated well in Dorne?" Jon asked, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.

"Better than well," Oberyn confirmed, meeting Jon's eyes directly. "My own daughters—the Sand Snakes, they're called—are bastards, yet they live in the palace at Sunspear, are educated by maesters, and trained in whatever pursuits interest them. My eldest, Obara, is one of the finest spear fighters in Dorne."

Jon leaned forward, suddenly ravenous for more details. "And do they inherit? Are they permitted to bear arms and hold lands?"

Oberyn nodded. "If they prove worthy, yes. My brother, Prince Doran, has acknowledged them all as his nieces, with all the privileges that entails."

Jon tried to imagine such a life—to be acknowledged, respected, given opportunities based on his abilities rather than the circumstances of his birth. He could read books there, and no one would take them away. Definitely not his own father.

"It sounds almost too good to be true," he said.

"It is true," Ellaria assured him, her eyes softening as she regarded him. "You have thousands of brothers and sisters in Dorne, Jon Snow. All waiting to welcome you."

Arya's fork clattered to her plate. "He already has sisters," she protested, shooting Ellaria a glare. "Here, in Winterfell."

Jon placed a calming hand on Arya's arm. "I think she means other bastards, little wolf," he explained gently. "Like me."

"Snow, Sand, Stone, Rivers, Flowers, Hill, Storm, Waters, Pyke—all names that mark a child as baseborn," Oberyn said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "As if the circumstances of one's birth determine the content of one's character. In Dorne, we know better."

Jon felt the impact of those words. All his life, he'd been defined by his bastardy, limited by it. To imagine a place where that might not be true...

"I've read that Dorne remained unconquered for centuries," Jon said, eager to continue the conversation. "Even Aegon the Conqueror couldn't subdue you with his dragons."

Oberyn's expression brightened with approval. "You know your history, Jon Snow. Yes, we fought the dragons to a standstill. 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken'—the words of House Martell. We joined the Seven Kingdoms through marriage, not conquest."

"Jon loves history," Robb interjected with affectionate exasperation. "He's read every book in Winterfell's library, I'd wager."

"Not every book," Jon corrected, a shadow crossing his face. "Some... disappeared recently."

He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. The missing Targaryen histories still rankled, especially as he'd never received a satisfactory explanation for their removal.

"Knowledge is never truly lost," Oberyn said cryptically, studying Jon with renewed intensity. "Merely... relocated. Perhaps you'll find what you seek elsewhere."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Jon became aware that his father was watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Enough talk of books," Theon declared from his place beside Robb. "Tell Prince Oberyn about the bear, Jon. It's a better story than dusty histories."

Jon grimaced. "It wasn't that impressive, Theon."

"Not impressive?" Robb exclaimed. "Three green boys against a full-grown bear, and you say it wasn't impressive?"

Oberyn leaned forward, his interest piqued. "A bear? Now this I must hear."

Jon sighed, seeing no way to avoid the tale now that Theon had brought it up. "It was two years ago. Robb, Theon, and I were hunting in the Wolfswood when we became separated from the main party. We stumbled upon a she-bear with cubs."

"She charged immediately," Robb continued eagerly. "No warning, just a roar and then eight hundred pounds of fur and fury coming straight at us."

"Greyjoy here nearly pissed himself," Jon added with a rare mischievous smile, prompting laughter around the table and an indignant protest from Theon.

"I was evaluating the tactical situation," Theon insisted.

"From behind a tree," Robb countered, grinning.

Jon continued the story, his initial discomfort fading as he warmed to the tale. "Robb stood his ground, trying to look big and shout her down. I flanked right with my bow, hoping to distract her if she charged."

"And did she charge?" Ellaria asked, leaning forward, clearly captivated.

"Like a storm," Jon confirmed. "Straight at Robb. I was ready with my knife, but then—"

"That's when I let loose an arrow," Theon interrupted, eager to redeem himself in the story. "Struck her right in the leg. She fell, stumbling forward, giving Jon and Robb the chance they needed."

"We finished her quickly," Jon said. "Made it as clean as possible."

"And the cubs?" Ellaria asked, her expression softening.

"We made sure they found their way to another she-bear we knew frequented the area," Jon explained. "No sense in letting them starve."

"Compassionate as well as brave," Ellaria remarked, her gaze lingering on Jon's face. She leaned slightly closer, her perfume—exotic spices and floral notes—wafting over him. "Tell me, Jon Snow, do they teach all northern boys such gallantry, or are you a special case?"

Jon glanced uncertainly at Oberyn, aware that he was being flirted with by the prince's paramour, but Oberyn merely smiled indulgently, seemingly unbothered by Ellaria's attention to Jon.

"I... I'm no more gallant than any other northerner, my lady," Jon managed, the heat returning to his cheeks.

"Oh, I think you are," Ellaria said with a knowing smile. "Don't you agree, my love?" she asked, turning to Oberyn.

"Jon Snow certainly has qualities worth noting," Oberyn agreed, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. "It reminds me of a time in Volantis, when I was scarcely older than you are now..."

Oberyn launched into a tale of his adventures in Essos—a story involving a Volantene merchant's daughter, three sellswords, and a stolen elephant. 

As the feast progressed, Jon noticed how Oberyn's gaze continually returned to him, studying his features. Several times, the Dornish prince's eyes lingered on the silver streak in Jon's hair, then moved to his violet eyes, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

As the evening wound down and guests began to disperse, Jon excused himself from the table. His head swam slightly from the unaccustomed wine and the strange undercurrents of the evening. He needed air, space to think.

In the torch-lit corridor leading to his chambers, Jon found himself humming softly—an old northern melody that Old Nan had taught him as a child. The familiar tune steadied him, helped clear his mind as he tried to make sense of the evening's events.

Why had he been seated at the high table? Why did Prince Oberyn seem so interested in him? Why did his father look at him with such concern?

For all his questions, one certainty remained: something was changing. 

As Jon reached his chamber, still humming the gentle melody, he couldn't shake the feeling that the life he knew was slipping away, like snow melting at the touch of the Dornish sun.

Chapter Text

 Jon woke to a sharp knock at his chamber door. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, his head still foggy from the previous night's feast. The knocking persisted, more insistent this time.

"Jon? Are you awake?" It was Jory Cassel's voice.   

Jon sat up, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. "I am now," he called, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Jory cracked the door open. "Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar. At once."

Something in Jory's tone made Jon's stomach tighten. The captain of the guard wasn't usually so formal with him. "Did he say why?"

"No. Just that it's important." Jory hesitated. "Best not keep him waiting."

Jon dressed quickly in simple clothes – a gray wool tunic, dark breeches, and his good leather boots. Whatever his father wanted, it clearly couldn't wait. As he splashed cold water on his face, he tried to recall if he'd done anything worthy of reprimand. The feast had gone well enough, though Prince Oberyn's interest in him had been strange. Perhaps his father was displeased with how much he'd spoken to the Dornish visitors?

The walk to his father's solar seemed longer than usual. Servants hurried past with averted eyes, and even the usual morning sounds of Winterfell seemed muted. When he reached the heavy oak door, Jon took a deep breath before knocking.

"Enter," came his father's voice.

Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, back straight, face solemn – his lord's face, as Jon thought of it. The face he wore when duty demanded difficult things. A cup of untouched wine sat before him despite the early hour, and dark shadows beneath his eyes suggested he hadn't slept well.

"You sent for me, Father?"

"Sit down, Jon." His father gestured to the chair across from him.

Jon complied, the knot in his stomach growing tighter. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

"How did you find the feast last night?" his father asked unexpectedly.

Jon blinked, thrown by the casual question. "It was... different. I've never sat at the high table before when guests came."

"And Prince Oberyn? What did you make of him?"

"He's not what I expected," Jon admitted. "Less formal than I imagined a prince would be. And he spoke highly of Dorne."

His father nodded slowly. "Dorne is indeed different from the North in many ways. Their customs, their attitudes... particularly toward those of... different birth."

Jon tensed. His bastardy was rarely discussed openly between them.

"Jon," his father continued, "Prince Oberyn has made an offer. He wishes to foster you at Sunspear."

The words hung in the air between them. Jon stared, certain he'd misheard.

"Foster me? In Dorne?" he finally managed.

"Yes. You would leave with him in three days' time."

Three days. The room seemed to tilt slightly. "I don't understand," Jon said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Why would Prince Oberyn want to foster me? I'm a bastard, not a trueborn son."

"That matters less in Dorne than it does here."

"Is this... am I being punished for something?" The question escaped before Jon could stop it, he remembered the books; maybe his father thought the books weren't enough.

His father's expression softened slightly. "No, Jon. This isn't a punishment."

"Then why send me away?" Jon couldn't keep the hurt from his voice. "If I've done something to displease you or Lady Stark—"

"This has nothing to do with any wrongdoing," his father interrupted firmly. "Prince Oberyn specifically requested you. He believes you would thrive in Dorne, away from the... limitations placed on you here."

Jon's mind raced with confusion. None of this made sense. "But why me? Robb is the heir, but there's Bran?" He knew Rickon was too young to foster anywhere.

His father looked away briefly. "Prince Oberyn and I have history from the war. He sees this as a gesture of goodwill between our houses."

It was a careful answer that explained nothing. Jon leaned forward. "Father, please. There must be more to it than that. Why would a Prince of Dorne take interest in the bastard son of a Northern lord?"

His father sighed, looking suddenly older than his years. "I cannot pretend to understand all of Oberyn Martell's motivations. But I know this: in Dorne, you would have opportunities that aren't available to you here."

"Because I'm a bastard," Jon said flatly.

"Yes," his father acknowledged. "In the North, your path is limited. The Night's Watch, perhaps, or serving your brother when he becomes Lord of Winterfell. But in Dorne, bastards can rise high. Prince Oberyn's own daughters—all baseborn—are educated, trained in arms, respected."

Despite his confusion and hurt, Jon couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity. A place where his birth wouldn't define him? It seemed too good to be true. He had heard it all last night, but it still felt more like a dreamland than a real place.

"And you're just... giving me away?" The words tasted bitter on his tongue.

"I'm giving you a chance," his father countered, an edge entering his voice. "And you wouldn't be 'given away.' You would be fostered, like any noble son sent to another house to learn and grow. You could return to Winterfell anytime you wished."

"Does Robb know?"

"Not yet. I wanted to tell you first."

Jon stood and paced to the window, looking out at the familiar sight of Winterfell's courtyard. Early morning training was underway, Ser Rodrik shouting instructions to younger boys. This had been his whole world for thirteen years. The thought of leaving it filled him with dread, yet... hadn't he always felt like an outsider here? A reminder of his father's one dishonor, tolerated but never truly belonging?

"It doesn't make sense," Jon said, turning back to his father. "Why not foster Robb? Or Bran? Why me specifically?"

A shadow passed over his father's face. "Oberyn asked for you. Not Robb, not Bran."

"But why?" Jon pressed.

"I've told you what I can, Jon." His father's voice had that finality to it that Jon knew well—the tone that meant questions were finished.

Jon bit back his frustration. As always, the deeper truth remained hidden, locked behind his father's walls of honor and duty.

"You said I could return," Jon said after a moment. "When?"

"When you wish. This isn't exile, Jon. It's an opportunity. Learn from the Dornish, see a different part of the world, then come home when you're ready."

Home. Would Winterfell still feel like home after he'd been away? Would it ever truly feel like home for a bastard?

"What about my training?" Jon asked, grasping for practical concerns. "My studies?"

"Prince Oberyn has assured me you'll have the finest masters at arms and maesters to continue your education. He specifically mentioned your love of history and reading."

Jon remembered the prince's words at the feast: Knowledge is never truly lost. Merely... relocated. Perhaps you'll find what you seek elsewhere. Had Oberyn been hinting at this even then?

Slowly, Jon began to see beyond his initial shock. To be fostered by a prince, to learn from the legendary Red Viper himself—many trueborn sons would envy such an honor. And to live in a land where his bastardy wouldn't hang around his neck like a millstone...

"What does Lady Stark think of this?" he asked.

His father's expression was answer enough. Catelyn Stark would be glad to see the back of him.

"She agrees it could be beneficial for you," his father said diplomatically.

Jon almost smiled at that. Of course she did.

A new thought struck him then—a possibility so tantalizing he almost didn't dare voice it. But he had to know.

"Father," he began carefully, "is there a chance... in Dorne... might I learn who my mother is?"

The question hung between them, heavy with thirteen years of silence and evasion. Jon watched his father's face intently, hoping for some confirmation, some hint.

His father's gaze softened, and for a heartbeat, Jon thought he might finally get an answer. But then his father simply said, "You have her look about you."

Jon felt a familiar disappointment wash over him. Another non-answer, another piece of the puzzle that told him nothing. Yet somewhere in his mind, a name whispered: Ashara Dayne. The rumored beauty with violet eyes. House Dayne was of Dorne. Starfall, their ancestral seat, was somewhere in the western mountains.

Was that why Prince Oberyn wanted him in Dorne? Was that why his father was willing to let him go? The possibility made his heart race. After thirteen years of wondering, of imagining, could he finally be close to learning the truth? She was still alive as far as he knew...could he meet her?

"Will I need to pack warm clothes?" Jon asked, changing tack. "I've heard the Dornish climate is quite different from ours."

His father seemed relieved by the practical question. "Prince Oberyn has offered to provide suitable clothing once you reach Sunspear. But yes, Dorne is hot, especially in summer. Though from what I understand, the Water Gardens are quite pleasant."

They discussed practicalities for a while longer—what Jon should pack, how the journey would proceed, when they would depart. It felt surreal to Jon, planning his departure from the only home he'd ever known.

"I should tell Robb," Jon said finally.

His father nodded. "And your other siblings. I know Arya will take it hard."

Jon winced at the thought of saying goodbye to his little sister. Of all his siblings, Arya was the one who had never made him feel like an outsider, who had loved him completely and without reservation.

"Three days isn't much time," Jon observed.

"No," his father agreed, "but a long farewell often only prolongs the pain."

Jon stood, recognizing the dismissal in his father's tone. He had reached the door when his father spoke again.

"Jon," he called. Jon turned back. "This truly is for the best. I know it doesn't seem that way now, but in time, you'll understand."

There was something in his father's eyes—some emotion Jon couldn't quite name. Regret? Guilt? Fear? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by Lord Stark's customary reserve.

"I hope so, Father," Jon replied, though doubt still gnawed at him. "I hope so."

As he closed the door behind him, Jon's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear and excitement, anger and curiosity, a sense of loss alongside the thrill of possibility. In three days, he would leave the frozen North for the desert kingdom of Dorne. In three days, everything would change.

And perhaps, just perhaps, in the land of sand and sun, he might finally discover who he truly was.

Jon found them exactly where he expected—in the training yard, Robb and Theon circling each other with blunted swords, their breath clouding in the cold morning air. He paused at the edge of the yard, watching his brother feint left before striking right, a move Jon had seen a hundred times. Theon parried it easily, laughing as he countered with a thrust that Robb barely dodged.

For a moment, Jon simply observed them, trying to burn the image into his memory. Three days from now, he wouldn't be here to spar with them, to laugh with them, to be annoyed by Theon's smug smiles or heartened by Robb's unwavering loyalty. The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, like hunger but sharper.

"Snow!" Theon called, catching sight of him. "Come to get beaten before breakfast?"

Jon stepped into the yard, forcing a smile he didn't feel. "Not today, Greyjoy."

Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because Robb lowered his sword, brow furrowing. "What's wrong?"

Jon took a deep breath. Better to say it plainly. "Father is sending me to Dorne. To be fostered by Prince Oberyn."

The words hung in the frosty air, as strange to his ears now as they had been in his father's solar. Robb's sword clattered to the ground, his blue eyes widening in shock.

"Dorne?" Theon repeated, his usual mockery absent for once. "Why in the seven hells would you go to Dorne?"

Robb found his voice. "Is this because of last night? You talked with the prince at dinner, but I didn't think—"

"It wasn't my idea," Jon clarified quickly. "Prince Oberyn requested me specifically. Father agreed. I leave in three days."

"Three days?" Robb's shock gave way to indignation. "That's... that's madness! You can't just leave in three days. There are preparations, arrangements..."

"Apparently not many are needed for a bastard," Jon said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Even as he said it, he felt a pang of guilt. His father had presented this as an opportunity, not a dismissal.

"Did Father say why?" Robb asked, moving closer.

Jon shrugged. "He said Prince Oberyn believes I'd 'thrive' in Dorne. Where bastards are treated better." He kicked at the frozen ground. "Beyond that, he wouldn't say."

"Well, the Dornish do love their bastards," Theon mused, leaning on his practice sword. "And their women. Gods, Snow, you'll be surrounded by olive-skinned beauties with more fire than that whore of yours in Wintertown."

Jon shot him a glare. "Ros isn't 'my whore.'"

"No?" Theon smirked. "Then you won't mind if I pay her extra attention while you're gone."

"Enough, Theon," Robb said sharply, then turned back to Jon. "Did Father say how long you'll be gone?"

"Until I choose to return, apparently. It's not meant to be permanent." Jon wasn't sure he believed that, but repeating his father's words made them seem more substantial.

"Fostering with a prince," Robb said, his initial shock giving way to forced enthusiasm. "That's... that's quite an honor, actually. Many lordlings would kill for such an opportunity."

"I'm not a lordling," Jon reminded him.

"No, but you're still a Stark," Robb countered firmly. "Even if you don't have the name."

The words warmed Jon, as they always did when Robb insisted on his place in the family. Yet they both knew it wasn't entirely true. He was a Snow, not a Stark, and no amount of brotherly loyalty could change that.

"You'll probably melt in that Dornish sun," Theon said, eyeing Jon's pale northern complexion. "Like snow in summer. They'll have to sweep you up with a broom."

"I'll manage," Jon replied dryly, though he'd had the same concern. His skin burned easily in the mild northern summers; how would it fare under the fierce Dornish sun?

"You'll have to write," Robb insisted. "Tell us everything about Dorne—the castles, the training, the food."

"The women," Theon added with a wolfish grin. "Especially the women. I hear they're all wanton temptresses who'll tumble into bed if you so much as smile at them."

"I doubt that's true," Jon said, but couldn't help wondering what Dornish women were really like. Would they find his northern reserve strange? Would they laugh at his inexperience?

"Who knows?" Robb said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe you'll come back with a Dornish bride. Wouldn't that set the North talking?"

Jon snorted. "A bastard with a Dornish bride? Lady Stark would bar the gates."

"Not if she were highborn and beautiful," Robb argued. "Father would welcome her. And I'd make sure of it once I'm Lord of Winterfell."

"Maybe I'll stay in Dorne forever," Jon said, only half-joking. "Where my name doesn't matter so much."

A flash of genuine alarm crossed Robb's face. "You can't. You have to come back." He looked almost boyish in his sudden vulnerability. "We've never been apart."

Jon had never known a life without Robb beside him, his brother in all but name, his closest friend despite their different stations.

"I'll come back," Jon promised, throat tightening unexpectedly. "Of course I will."

Theon, perhaps sensing the shift in mood, jabbed Jon lightly with his practice sword. "Before you go native and start wearing those flimsy Dornish robes. Or take up that ridiculous spear fighting they do."

"The spear is a noble weapon," Jon protested, grateful for the distraction. "Prince Oberyn is said to be one of the finest spearmen in Westeros."

"A sword is a northman's weapon," Theon countered. "Don't forget that while you're down south, prancing about with pointed sticks."

"I won't forget anything about the North," Jon said, more seriously than he intended.

A silence fell between them. Jon had never been good at expressing how he felt—had always kept his deeper feelings locked away, safe from mockery or rejection.

"We should make the most of these three days," Robb said finally, breaking the silence. "Hunt in the wolfswood one last time. Visit the winter town."

"The brothel, you mean," Theon corrected with a grin. "Give Snow a proper northern send-off before he's corrupted by Dornish pleasures."

Jon rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling despite everything. Even Theon's crassness was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.

"I'd like that," he admitted. "One last hunt, at least."

"Then it's settled," Robb declared. "We'll tell Father we're going hunting tomorrow. Just the three of us."

"And tonight?" Theon asked.

Robb looked at Jon questioningly. "What do you want to do tonight, brother?"

The simple question caught Jon off guard. What did he want? He'd spent so much of his life doing what was expected, accepting what was given, that being asked his preference felt strange.

"I want things to be normal," he said finally. "Just an ordinary night at Winterfell. Dinner in the hall, stories by the fire. As if I weren't leaving."

Robb nodded, understanding. "Then that's what we'll do."

As they walked back toward the armory to return their practice weapons, Robb fell into step beside Jon, letting Theon go ahead.

"You know," Robb said quietly, "I've never been jealous of you before. Not once."

Jon looked at him in surprise. "Why would you ever be jealous of me?"

"But I am now," Robb continued, ignoring the question. "You're going to see the world, Jon. Adventure, new places, new people. While I stay here, learning how to be Lord of Winterfell."

Jon couldn't help but laugh at the irony. "All my life I've envied you your name, your place, your future. And now you envy me?"

Robb smiled, a bit sadly. "Perhaps we both want what we can't have."

"Perhaps," Jon agreed. Then, more softly: "I'll miss you, Stark."

"And I you, Snow."

.

.

Jon found Arya behind the old keep, letting arrows loose at a straw target she'd set up herself. She wasn't supposed to be practicing archery—Septa Mordane had scheduled needlework lessons for the morning—but Jon wasn't surprised to find her here instead. His little sister had always preferred bows to needles, swords to sewing.

He watched her for a moment, smiling despite his heavy heart. Her small face was scrunched in concentration, her stance all wrong, but her determination was unmistakable. She loosed an arrow, which sailed wide of the target, bouncing off the stone wall behind.

"You're dropping your elbow," Jon called out.

Arya whirled around, her face lighting up. "Jon!" Then, defensively: "I am not dropping my elbow."

"You are," he insisted, approaching her. "Here, let me show you."

He positioned himself behind her, adjusting her arms, showing her how to hold the tension properly. "Keep your back straight, elbow high. That's it."

Arya loosed another arrow, this one striking the outer ring of the target. She beamed up at him. "Did you see that? Right on target!"

"Well, on the target at least," Jon corrected with a grin. "A few more years of practice and you might actually hit what you're aiming at."

She swatted at him playfully, but her smile faded as she noticed his expression. "What's wrong? You look strange."

Jon sighed. Of all his siblings, Arya had always been the most perceptive, the most attuned to his moods. Perhaps because they shared the same feeling of being outsiders—he for his bastardy, she for her refusal to behave like a proper lady.

"I need to tell you something," he said, sitting down on a nearby crate and patting the space beside him. "Something important."

Arya frowned but set down her bow and joined him. "Are you in trouble? Did mother catch you doing something? I'll tell Father it was my fault."

The fierce loyalty in her voice made what he had to say even harder. "No, I'm not in trouble. It's..." He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving Winterfell, Arya."

Her gray eyes widened. "Leaving? What do you mean? Where?"

"Prince Oberyn has offered to foster me in Dorne. Father has accepted. I leave in three days."

Arya stared at him as if he'd started speaking High Valyrian. Then her face crumpled. "No. You can't go."

"I have to," Jon said gently. "Father has decided."

"Then I'll talk to him!" Arya jumped up, her small hands clenched into fists. "I'll make him change his mind. He can't send you away. He can't!"

Jon caught her wrist as she turned to storm off. "Arya, wait. It's not like that. I'm being fostered, not banished. It's... it's an honor, actually."

"I don't care what it is," she declared, her voice rising. "You can't leave. You're the only one who—" She broke off, her lip trembling.

"The only one who what?" Jon prompted gently.

"The only one who understands me," she finished in a small voice. "Robb tries, but he's going to be Lord of Winterfell someday. Sansa thinks I'm hopeless and horseface. Bran's too young. And Mother..." She didn't need to finish that thought.

Jon pulled her back down beside him, his heart aching. "I know. And I'll miss you more than anyone, little sister."

"Then don't go," she pleaded, her gray eyes—so like their father's—filling with tears. "Tell Prince Oberyn you can't. Tell Father you want to stay."

How could he explain that a part of him—a part he was almost ashamed to acknowledge—was desperately curious about his mother, who might be Dornish?

"Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do," he said instead. "That's part of growing up."

"I hate growing up," Arya declared fiercely. "And I hate Prince Oberyn for taking you away."

"Don't say that," Jon chided gently. "Prince Oberyn is offering me an opportunity few bastards ever receive. And Dorne... in Dorne, people like me aren't looked down upon the way they are here."

Arya considered this, her brow furrowed. "Because you're a bastard?"

Jon nodded, trying not to wince at her bluntness. "In Dorne, birth doesn't matter as much. Prince Oberyn's own daughters are all Sand Snakes—bastards like me—and they're respected, educated, trained in arms."

"Like real ladies?" Arya asked.

"Better than ladies," Jon replied with a small smile. "From what the prince says, they fight with spears and ride horses and aren't forced to spend their days sewing."

That caught Arya's interest, as he knew it would. "Really? Girls can learn to fight in Dorne?"

"So I'm told."

A new determination entered her eyes. "Then I'm coming with you."

Jon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "What?"

"I'm coming with you to Dorne," she repeated, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. "If Dornish girls can learn to fight, then I should go there too. We can go together!"

"Arya, you can't—"

"Why not?" she demanded. "If Father's letting you go, why not me too? I could be fostered with those Sand Snake girls."

Jon sighed, realizing he'd inadvertently given her false hope. "It doesn't work that way, little wolf. You're a Stark of Winterfell. Your place is here, with your family."

"You're my family too," she insisted stubbornly.

"I know that. But I'm a Snow, not a Stark." The words tasted bitter, as they always did, but they were true nonetheless. "Your mother would never allow it anyway."

Arya's face fell as the reality sank in. "It's not fair," she whispered.

"No," Jon agreed quietly. "It's not fair. But I promise I'll write to you. And perhaps someday, when you're older, you could visit me in Dorne."

"When I'm older," she repeated miserably. "That could be years."

"Not so many," Jon assured her. "And until then, you'll have something to remember me by."

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a slender package wrapped in soft leather. He'd been saving it for her nameday, still two months away, but now seemed the right time.

"What is it?" Arya asked, curiosity momentarily outweighing her sadness.

"Open it and see."

She unwrapped the leather covering to reveal a slender sword, its blade no thicker than her thumb, with a simple leather grip sized perfectly for her small hand.

"A sword," she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. "My own sword."

"It won't hack a man's head off," Jon warned, "but it can poke him full of holes if you're quick enough."

Arya lifted it reverently, testing its weight. "It's so light."

"Because it's meant for a quick hand, not a strong one." Jon watched her examine the blade, pride and sadness mingling in his chest. "The Braavosi call this kind of blade a water dancer's sword. It's for stabbing, not slashing."

"How do I use it?" she asked eagerly.

Jon smiled. "First lesson: stick them with the pointy end."

Arya giggled, a sound that warmed him to his core. She lunged forward, striking at an imaginary foe. "Like this?"

"You'll need proper training," Jon cautioned. "But yes, that's the idea."

"Will you show me before you go?" she pleaded.

"As much as I can in three days," Jon promised. "But you'll have to practice in secret. If your mother or Septa Mordane finds out..."

"They won't," Arya assured him with the supreme confidence of a nine-year-old. She bit her lip, suddenly serious again. "What should I call it? All the best swords have names."

Jon considered. "The best swords are named for their qualities or for what they represent. What does this sword mean to you?"

Arya thought for a moment, then smiled. "Needle. Because I'll be doing needlework after all."

Jon laughed, genuinely delighted by her cleverness. "Needle it is."

She set the sword carefully aside, then threw her arms around his neck with such force that he nearly toppled backward. "I'll still miss you," she mumbled into his shoulder.

Jon hugged her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair—pine needles and dirt and something uniquely Arya. "And I you, little sister. Every day."

"You have to promise to write," she insisted, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Not just to Father or Robb. To me. Real letters, not just 'Hello Arya, the weather is nice, goodbye.'"

"I promise," Jon said solemnly. "I'll tell you all about Dorne—the castles, the training, the people. And you must write back and tell me everything happening at Winterfell. Especially your training with Needle."

Arya nodded, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement. "And you'll come back someday? You won't stay in Dorne forever?"

Jon hesitated. For all his talk about opportunities in Dorne, the North was in his blood. Winterfell, despite everything, was home. "I'll come back," he promised. "The North is part of me. I couldn't stay away forever if I tried."

She studied his face with those perceptive gray eyes, as if checking for any sign of deception. "Good," she said finally. "Because you belong here with us. No matter what anyone says."

"Will you help me practice with Needle before you go?" she asked, mercifully changing the subject before he could embarrass himself by growing emotional.

"Of course," Jon agreed, ruffling her hair. "First, show me your stance."

I'm going to miss you terribly, little wolf, he thought. More than you'll ever know.  

But he said nothing, only continued his instruction, giving her this one gift he could before he left—the beginning of the freedom she so desperately craved, just as he sought his own.

.

.

Jon found Sansa in the glass gardens, carefully selecting winter roses for her needlework. The humid warmth was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, fogging the glass panels with condensation. She looked up as he approached.

"Sansa," Jon greeted her, suddenly unsure what to say. Of all his half-siblings, Sansa had always been the most distant, following her mother's example in treating him with cool courtesy rather than warmth.

"Jon," she acknowledged, straightening up with a small cluster of blue blossoms in her hand. "Arya told me you're leaving for Dorne."

"Yes," he confirmed. "In two days now."

Sansa nodded casually. "It must be exciting. I've read that Dorne is very beautiful, with marble palaces and water gardens."

"So I'm told," Jon said, surprised by her apparent interest. "I've never been south of Winterfell, so it will all be new to me."

A brief, awkward silence fell between them. Jon was acutely aware that they had never had a proper conversation, just the two of them. What was there to say now, on the eve of his departure?

"Will you bring me something when you return?" Sansa asked suddenly. "From Dorne, I mean. They make beautiful silks there, and I've heard their gold work is unmatched even by Lannister craftsmen."

The request caught Jon off guard. "Of course," he promised. "I'd be happy to."

"Thank you." Sansa smiled. "I hope you'll be happy there, Jon."

It wasn't an emotional farewell, but coming from Sansa, it was more than he had expected. "Take care of Arya," he said. "She'll be lost without... without someone to get into trouble with."

Sansa rolled her eyes, but her expression remained gentle. "I'll try, though she never listens to me."

With a final nod, Jon left her to her flowers, feeling oddly lighter. Perhaps distance would give them what proximity never had—a chance to see each other as people rather than as the bastard and the lady.

Finding Bran was easier—Jon simply followed the sound of laughter to the stables, where his little brother was attempting to teach his pony to bow on command.

"Bran," Jon called. "A word?"

Bran turned, his face lighting up. "Jon! Look what I taught Dancer to do!" He tapped the pony's foreleg, and the animal obligingly bent its knee in a semblance of a bow.

"Impressive," Jon acknowledged with a smile. "You'll be a master horseman in no time."

"Ser Rodrik says I might be ready for a real horse by my next nameday," Bran said proudly.

Jon ruffled his auburn hair affectionately. "I've no doubt. But listen, Bran, I need to tell you something. I'm going away for a while."

"I know," Bran replied matter-of-factly. "You're going to Dorne with the Red Viper. Arya told me. She's very upset about it."

"And you're not?" Jon asked, curious about his brother's calm acceptance.

Bran shrugged. "I'll miss you, of course. But it sounds like a grand adventure! You'll see the Red Mountains and the Greenblood River and the Water Gardens of Sunspear." His eyes shone with excitement. "You must tell me everything when you come back."

Jon felt a rush of affection for his little brother, always dreaming of adventures and knights. "I will," he promised. "Every detail."

"Do you think you'll fight in a tournament?" Bran asked eagerly. "Prince Oberyn is a famous jouster, you know. Maybe he'll teach you."

"Perhaps," Jon allowed, though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Though I'd need to be knighted first."

"Bastards can be knights," Bran pointed out. "Even the Kingsguard has had bastard knights before."

Leave it to Bran to know such details. The boy devoured stories of knights and their deeds like other children devoured sweets.

"Well, if I'm ever knighted, you'll be the first to know," Jon promised.

Bran beamed, then surprised Jon by throwing his arms around his waist in a fierce hug. "I'll miss you," he mumbled against Jon's chest.

Jon hugged him back, throat suddenly tight. "And I you, little brother. Be good while I'm gone."

"I will," Bran promised, pulling away. "But not too good. Someone has to keep Robb on his toes once you're gone."

Jon laughed, ruffling Bran's hair one last time. 

He found Rickon with Old Nan, the ancient nursemaid telling him stories of the Long Night as she often had for Jon and his siblings. At three, Rickon was too young to truly understand what Jon's departure meant, but he clung to Jon's leg when he tried to leave, sensing something important was happening.

"No go," the toddler insisted stubbornly, his small face set in determination.

Jon crouched down to his level. "I have to, little one. But I'll bring you back a present. Would you like that?"

Rickon considered this, his brow furrowed in concentration. "A big present?"

"The biggest I can find," Jon promised solemnly.

This seemed to satisfy the child, who released Jon's leg and returned to Old Nan's stories, already forgetting the conversation. Jon envied him that simplicity, that ability to live entirely in the present moment.

Jon had hoped to avoid a direct farewell with Lady Stark, but she found him as he was leaving the nursery.

"Boy," she said. "A word, if you please."

He followed her to a nearby alcove, bracing himself for... what? A final rebuke? A warning to stay away?

"Prince Oberyn speaks highly of you," she said, surprising him. "He seems to think you have great potential."

Jon wasn't sure how to respond. "I'm... grateful for the opportunity, my lady."

Lady Stark studied him, her blue eyes as cold as the winter itself. "I pray you find whatever it is you seek there and you never let it go."

The words were technically proper, but the ice in her tone left no doubt about her true feelings. Coming from the woman who had regarded him as a living reminder of her husband's infidelity for thirteen years, even this frigid acknowledgment was more than he'd expected.

"Thank you, my lady," Jon said, bowing slightly.

She merely pursed her lips and walked away, her back rigid. Jon watched her go, understanding once again that Lady Stark would never see him as anything but a stain on her marriage. 

In Maester Luwin's turret, Jon found the old man sorting herbs, his chain clinking softly as he moved.

"Ah, Jon," Luwin greeted him warmly. "Come in, come in. I was hoping to see you before you left."

Jon entered the familiar chamber, breathing in the comforting smells of parchment, herbs, and candle wax. How many hours had he spent here as a child, learning his letters, listening to Luwin's patient explanations of history?

"I wanted to thank you," Jon said, "for all your teachings over the years."

Luwin waved away the gratitude. "It was my pleasure. You were always an attentive student, with a curious mind." He reached for a small package on his desk. "I have something for you. A parting gift."

Jon unwrapped the cloth to find a slender book bound in red leather.

"'The Histories of the Great Houses of Dorne,'" Luwin explained. "I thought it might prove useful in your new home."

Jon ran his finger over the embossed title, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. "Thank you, Maester. I'll treasure it."

"And one piece of advice, if I may," Luwin added, his gray eyes kind but serious. "The world is larger and more complex than it appears from Winterfell. Keep an open mind, Jon Snow. Question what you think you know. The greatest wisdom often comes from unlearning our certainties."

Jon frowned slightly, sensing a deeper meaning in the maester's words. "I'll remember that," he promised.

"See that you do," Luwin said, patting his shoulder. "Now go. You have much to prepare, and I have ravens to tend."

Jon's final stop was the godswood, the ancient heart tree with its solemn face carved into the white bark. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he approached, the pool of black water still as glass despite the winter wind that rustled through the red leaves above.

He knelt before the weirwood, as he had seen his father do countless times. Jon wasn't sure he believed in the old gods, not truly, but there was something in this quiet grove that spoke to his northern blood.

"I don't know if you're listening," he said softly to the carved face. "I don't know if anyone is. But if you are, watch over them while I'm gone. Robb and Arya and all the rest. Keep them safe."

The face stared back, silent as always, its sap-red eyes seeming to look through him rather than at him. Jon had never felt the divine presence his father claimed to sense here, but today, in the stillness of the godswood, he felt... something. A connection to this place, to the North itself.

I will return, he promised silently. Whatever I find in Dorne, whatever I become there, I will come back to Winterfell someday.

Night

The Frozen Peach was quieter than usual, the winter night keeping all but the most determined patrons at home by their hearths. Jon slipped in through the back entrance, the path now familiar after his handful of visits over the past months. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the biting cold, the air heavy with the scents of spiced wine, perfume, and woodsmoke.

He found Ros in the common room, laughing at something a merchant was saying, her copper hair gleaming in the firelight. She caught his eye across the room, her smile shifting from professional charm to genuine pleasure.

"Excuse me," she murmured to her companion, rising gracefully. She crossed to Jon, her green gown hugging her curves in a way that still made his pulse quicken despite their familiarity.

"Jon Snow," she greeted him warmly. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."

"Never," Jon assured her. "I just... things have been complicated."

Ros studied his face, her mirth fading into concern. "You look troubled. Come, let's go somewhere private."

She led him upstairs to her chamber, a small but comfortable room with a proper bed and a crackling hearth. Unlike their previous visits, she didn't immediately begin unlacing her gown or reaching for his belt. Instead, she poured two cups of wine and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

"Now," she said, handing him a cup, "tell me what's wrong."

Jon took a long drink before answering. "I'm leaving Winterfell. Two days later."

Ros's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Leaving? Where to?"

"Dorne. Prince Oberyn Martell has offered to foster me at Sunspear."

"Dorne?" Ros repeated, clearly stunned. "That's... unexpected." She took a sip of her wine, considering. "Though perhaps not entirely especially from what I have heard."

Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"News travels quick in a small town, love," Ros explained. "Half the servants from Winterfell drink here. They said Prince Oberyn couldn't take his eyes off you, especially that silver streak in your hair." She reached out to touch it gently. "Can't say I blame him. It is rather striking."

Jon caught her hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I wanted to say goodbye properly. You've been... kind to me, Ros. Kinder than I deserved."

Ros laughed softly. "Sweet boy. I wasn't being kind, I was being selfish. You're quite pleasant to look at, you know, with those unusual eyes of yours. And you're one of the few men who bothers to make sure I enjoy myself too." Her expression turned more serious. "But I'll miss you all the same."

There was silence between them until Ros decided to break it.

"Dorne, eh?" Ros mused, setting aside her wine cup. "You'll like it there, I think. The Dornish are passionate people, not cold and reserved like Northerners. And they don't look down on bastards the way folk do here."

"So I'm told," Jon said wryly. "Though it's hard to imagine."

Ros traced the line of his jaw with her finger. "Here's a truth you should take with you, Jon Snow. In Winterfell, you'll always be Ned Stark's bastard. That's all most people will ever see when they look at you, no matter how skilled you become with a sword, no matter how honorable your actions."

Jon flinched, though he knew she was right.

"But elsewhere?" Ros continued. "In a place like Dorne? You could be anyone. Anything. You're handsome, you're clever, you have a good heart. Those things matter more than your name in most of the world."

"You make it sound simple," Jon murmured.

"It's not simple," Ros acknowledged. "Nothing worth having ever is. But it's true. I've seen enough of men to know the ones who rise above their circumstances from the ones who drown in them." She smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "You're one of the risers, Jon Snow. Just don't let your Northern pride get in your way."

"I suppose you're right," he conceded. "Still, I wish..."

"Hush," Ros said, pressing a finger to his lips. "No regrets tonight. But before we say a proper goodbye, let me give you some advice about women. Southern women, specifically."

Jon raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "I'm listening."

"Dornish women aren't like Northern girls," Ros began, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. "They won't simper and blush if you look their way. They know what they want and they aren't afraid to take it."

"And that's... good?" Jon asked hesitantly.

Ros laughed. "It's very good, if you're smart enough to appreciate a woman who knows her own mind. Don't mistake their directness for lack of feeling, though. Passion burns hotter in Dorne, they say."

"You seem to know a lot about Dorne for someone who's never left the North," Jon observed.

"I listen to stories," Ros shrugged. "Men talk after they've had their pleasure. Especially travelers, lonely for conversation as much as for a woman's touch." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "But enough talk of other women. You're still here for now, and so am I."

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. Jon responded, drawing her closer, breathing in her familiar scent of roses and cloves.

"I never thought I'd say this to a customer," Ros murmured against his lips, "but I truly will miss you, Jon Snow."

Tomorrow - Night

The moon hung full and bright over Winterfell. Jon sat alone in a staircase that lead from the Training Yard to the Armory as the farewell feast continued without him in the Great Hall below.

Tomorrow, he would leave Winterfell. The thought still didn't seem real, even after days of preparations and goodbyes. The North was all he knew—its customs, its weather, its people. He belonged here, in a strange, incomplete way. A bastard of Winterfell, not quite a Stark but not entirely separate either.

What awaited him in Dorne? A land of sand and spices, of strange customs and stranger tongues. Would he find a place there, or simply exchange one form of isolation for another?

Jon's fingers traced the hilt of his sword, finding comfort in its familiar weight. At least this would travel with him—a piece of the North, of his father, to carry at his side.

His father. Lord Stark had been unusually distant these past days, as if already preparing himself for Jon's absence. Or perhaps hiding something. The reasons for his fostering still made little sense, no matter how Jon examined them. Why would Prince Oberyn, a man who had never laid eyes on Jon before his visit, specifically request him?

The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and Jon turned sharply to find he was no longer alone. Ellaria Sand stood nearby, wrapped in a fur cloak several sizes too large for her slender frame.

"Lady Ellaria," Jon said, quickly rising to his feet. "I didn't hear you approach."

"Not a lady," she corrected with a smile, "just Ellaria. May I join you? Or would you prefer solitude on your last night in Winterfell?"

Jon hesitated, then gestured to the place beside him. "Please. Though it's quite cold."

"So I've noticed," Ellaria replied dryly, pulling the fur tighter around her shoulders as she settled beside him. "You Northerners must have ice in your veins to endure this climate."

"You get used to it," Jon said with a small smile.

"I sincerely hope not to be here long enough for that to happen." Ellaria gazed out at the moonlit expanse of Winterfell, the torchlit windows of the Great Hall casting golden rectangles on the snow below. "You were missed at the feast. Your father seemed concerned."

Jon winced at that. "I needed time to think."

"Second thoughts about joining us?" she asked directly.

"Yes," Jon admitted, seeing no point in lying. "I know nothing of Dorne, and Dorne knows nothing of me. I still don't understand why Prince Oberyn would want to foster a Northern bastard."

Ellaria studied him for a long moment. "Would it surprise you to learn that I found myself in a similar position once? Young, uncertain, being taken from the only home I knew by a prince with enigmatic motives."

Jon looked at her. "What happened?"

"I chose to trust," she said simply. "Not blindly, mind you. But I recognized an opportunity when it was presented." A smile curved her lips. "Of course, I was a woman grown, and Oberyn's motives were somewhat less... paternal than they are with you."

Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hid his embarrassment. Ellaria laughed softly.

"You're two years older than my oldest daughter," she continued. "Elia. She is named for the prince's sister, who races horses better than most grown men, then there is Obella, she likes songs. Dorea likes water, and Loreza is my youngest."

"They sound remarkable," Jon said, genuinely impressed.

"They are," Ellaria agreed, pride evident in her voice. "And do you know what they all have in common, besides their father?"

Jon knew the answer. "They're all Sand Snakes. Bastards, like me."

"Like us," Ellaria corrected. "I am Ellaria Sand, natural daughter of Lord Harmen Uller. And yet, I am consort to a prince, mother to his children, respected at court." She turned to face him directly. "In Dorne, Jon Snow, your birth means far less than who you choose to become."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Jon said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "But that still doesn't explain why Prince Oberyn would cross the Seven Kingdoms to bring a Northern bastard to Dorne."

Ellaria sighed, looking briefly troubled. "Oberyn has his reasons. Some are his to share when the time is right. But I can tell you this much: he sees something in you. Something rare and worth nurturing."

"What could he possibly see in me?" Jon asked, genuine confusion in his voice. "I'm no one special."

"Aren't you?" Ellaria challenged. "The way you move in the training yard. The way you speak—carefully, thoughtfully, with none of the Northern bluster. Those unusual eyes of yours." She reached out to touch the silver streak in his hair. "And this mark that sets you apart."

Jon shifted uncomfortably. His coloring had always made him stand out, another reminder that he didn't quite belong. "These are accidents of birth, not achievements."

"Perhaps," Ellaria acknowledged. "But they hint at what lies beneath. The North has shaped you, Jon Snow, but it does not define you. In Dorne, you might discover parts of yourself that could never flourish in Winterfell's cold."

Her words struck a chord deep within Jon, touching on things he had never articulated even to himself. How often had he felt constrained here? How often had he sensed there was more to him than being Ned Stark's bastard, if only he could discover what that was?

"I'm afraid," Jon admitted quietly. "Not of Dorne itself, but of failing. Of disappointing Prince Oberyn, or my father, or myself."

"Fear is natural," Ellaria said gently. "Courage isn't the absence of fear, but the decision that something else is more important." She smiled warmly. "My daughters were afraid too, each time they tried something new. But fear didn't stop them from becoming who they were meant to be."

Jon gazed out at the familiar landscape of Winterfell, etched in moonlight and memory. This place had shaped him, for better or worse. But perhaps it was time to discover who he could be beyond its walls.

"I've never left the North," he said softly. "I've never even seen the sea."

"Then you have many firsts awaiting you," Ellaria told him. 

"Thank you, Ellaria," he said, meaning it. "Truly."

She stood, extending her hand to him. "Come. It's too cold for extended philosophizing, and you'll need your rest for tomorrow's journey. Return to the feast—let your family see you one last time before you leave."

Morning

Dawn broke pale and clear over Winterfell, the first rays of sunlight glinting off fresh snow that had fallen during the night. Jon stood at his chamber window, watching the sky lighten from black to purple to the soft blue of early morning. His last sunrise in the North, at least for some time.

His belongings were already packed—pitifully few for someone embarking on such a journey. His sword and the clothes on his back. A few spare tunics and breeches. The book Maester Luwin had given him. A small carved wolf Bran had pressed into his hands the night before.

"Not a very impressive collection for a lordling off to be fostered," came Theon's voice from the doorway.

Jon turned to find Robb and Theon standing there, both looking unusually solemn despite Theon's attempted jest.

"Good thing I'm not a lordling, then," Jon replied with a half-smile.

Robb moved forward, holding something wrapped in cloth. "We have something for you. A going-away gift."

Jon unwrapped the bundle to find a fine leather jerkin, black with subtle gray stitching along the seams. 

"It gets hot in Dorne," Robb explained, "but the nights can be cold in the desert. We thought you might need a reminder of home when the temperature drops."

Jon ran his fingers over the supple leather, throat suddenly tight. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"The leather is Northern deer," Theon added. "So you can take a piece of the North with you, even surrounded by all that Dornish extravagance."

The thoughtfulness of the gift surprised Jon, especially coming partly from Theon. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll write," Robb insisted. "Say you'll tell us everything about Dorne—the good and the bad."

"I will," Jon promised. "Every moon, at least."

"The Dornish are waiting in the courtyard," Theon said finally. "We should go."

Jon nodded, took one last look around the chamber that had been his for thirteen years, and followed them out.

The courtyard was a flurry of activity, horses stamping impatiently in the cold, their breath forming clouds in the crisp air. The Dornish party was mounted and ready, their colorful garb a stark contrast to Winterfell's somber stones.

Jon's siblings were gathered near the gate—Arya trying desperately not to cry, Bran bouncing with excitement, Sansa standing straight and proper beside them. Even Rickon was there, clutched in Old Nan's arms, his chubby face confused by the early morning commotion.

"Don't forget your promise," Arya reminded him fiercely as he approached. "Letters. Real ones."

"Every moon," Jon assured her, crouching to her level. "And you'll practice what I showed you?"

 "Every day."

"Good." Jon hugged her tightly.

Bran was next, bubbling with last-minute instructions about what to look for in Dorne. "And if you see any dragons, you have to tell me right away," he insisted.

"Dragons have been extinct for over a hundred years," Sansa corrected primly, "but if you see any interesting fabrics or jewels, I would like to hear about those." She hesitated, then surprised Jon by leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "Safe travels, Jon."

One by one, he said his goodbyes, each farewell adding to the weight in his chest. When he reached his father, standing apart from the others with his lord's face firmly in place, Jon felt suddenly like a child again, uncertain and seeking approval.

"The Dornish will expect different things from you than the North has," Lord Stark said quietly. "But never forget who you are, Jon. You were raised in Winterfell, with Northern values. Honor, duty, family—these things matter, no matter where you go."

"I won't forget," Jon promised. "I'll make you proud, Father."

"You already have," he said, voice rough. "You always have."

"It's time," called Prince Oberyn from atop his sand steed. "The day grows short, and we have far to travel."

Jon moved to his own mount, a sturdy Northern gelding chosen for the long journey south. As he swung into the saddle, he caught Ellaria's encouraging smile from where she sat astride her horse nearby.

"Ready, Jon Snow?" Prince Oberyn asked, guiding his horse alongside Jon's.

Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.

Oberyn studied him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "The road ahead may not be easy, but I promise you this—at the end of it, you will find truths worth knowing."

"What truths?" Jon asked, confused by the cryptic statement.

The prince smiled enigmatically. "About Dorne."

Before Jon could press further, Oberyn wheeled his horse around and called for the party to move out. The portcullis raised with a grinding of chains, revealing the snow-covered landscape beyond Winterfell's walls.

Jon took one last look back at his family gathered in the courtyard—Robb standing tall as the future Lord of Winterfell, Arya struggling not to show her tears, Bran waving excitedly, Sansa straight-backed and proper. And his father, watching him.

I'll come back, Jon promised silently. Whatever I find in Dorne, I'll come back someday.

With that thought firm in his mind, he turned his horse and rode through the gate, crossing the threshold that separated his past from his future. The Dornish party fell in around him, their bright banners snapping in the northern wind as they began the long journey south.

Jon did not look back again. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, on the road that would take him from the land of snow to the land of sun. From the familiar to the unknown. From Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, to whoever he might become in the kingdom of Dorne.

Chapter Text

The King's Road stretched before them like a gray serpent winding through the snow-laden landscape. Jon had traveled this road before, but never beyond the shadow of Winterfell's walls, never with the knowledge that each hoofbeat carried him farther from the only home he'd known. The cold northern wind bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the familiar sting. Soon enough, he'd face the legendary heat of Dorne—a place as foreign to him as the summer snows would be to the Dornish riders who surrounded him.

Prince Oberyn rode at the head of their column. Jon found his gaze drawn repeatedly to the prince—searching for some hint, some clue as to why this legend of Dorne had singled him out, a bastard of the North, for such an honor.

Or is it exile? Jon wondered, not for the first time.

Ellaria Sand rode close to Oberyn, whispering occasionally in his ear, drawing smiles and quiet laughter from the prince. The easy intimacy between them fascinated Jon. In Winterfell, bastards knew their place, kept to the shadows, avoided drawing attention. But these Dornish bastards—Sands, not Snows—carried themselves with the confidence of trueborn nobles.

Their party had made good time since departing at dawn, the Dornish seemingly eager to put Winterfell behind them. As the sun reached its zenith—a pale orb barely visible through the gray northern clouds—Oberyn raised his hand, signaling a halt by a small stream partially frozen at its edges.

"We'll rest the horses," the prince announced, swinging down from his sand steed. "Take water, stretch your legs. We ride until dusk."

Jon dismounted, grateful for the break. He led his horse to the stream, breaking the thin ice with his boot so the animal could drink.

"You sit a horse well, Jon Snow," came Oberyn's voice from behind him. "Though your mount seems ill-suited to long journeys."

Jon turned, meeting the prince's intense gaze. "He's Northern-bred, Prince Oberyn. Strong and sure-footed on icy ground."

"But how will he fare in the desert heat, I wonder?" Oberyn mused, reaching out to stroke the gelding's neck. "Like his master, he may find Dorne... challenging at first."

Before Jon could respond, a commotion arose from the rear of their party. Heads turned as a rider approached at a swift canter, the hooves of their mount kicking up plumes of snow. As the figure drew closer, Jon saw it was a woman, dressed in riding leathers that hugged a lithe, athletic frame. A thin spear was slung across her back, and her dark hair was tied in a braid that whipped behind her like a banner.

She pulled her mount to a stop before Oberyn, her olive-skinned face flushed from the cold and exertion. "Father," she greeted him with a wide smile. "I've completed the errand you gave me. The message is delivered."

"Excellent timing, my dear," Oberyn replied warmly. "We were just discussing how northern horses might fare in Dornish sands." He turned to Jon. "Allow me to introduce my daughter, Nymeria Sand. Nymeria, this is Jon Snow."

She turned toward him, and Jon felt a jolt of something—recognition, wariness, or perhaps simple appreciation for her striking beauty. She had her father's eyes, dark and keen, but there was a playfulness in them that Oberyn's usually lacked.

"Jon Snow," she said, his name rolling off her tongue like exotic spice. "The Bastard of Winterfell. I've heard much about you."

Jon bowed slightly, uncertain of the proper protocol. "Lady Nymeria."

Her laugh was sudden and musical. "Not a lady. Just Nymeria. Or Nym, if you prefer—all my friends call me Nym." She swung down from her horse with fluid grace, landing lightly in the snow. "Though we're not friends yet, are we, Jon Snow?"

"Not yet, no," he agreed cautiously.

Nymeria stepped closer, studying him with undisguised interest. "You have unusual eyes for a Northman."

"They're my mother's eyes," he said stiffly, the words emerging before he could consider them.

"Is that so?" Nymeria exchanged a quick glance with her father that Jon couldn't interpret. "And who might your mother be?"

"If I knew that," Jon replied with forced lightness, "I'd have a different name, wouldn't I?"

Oberyn chuckled, though his eyes remained watchful. "Well said, Jon Snow. Come, Nymeria, you must be hungry after your ride."

As they walked toward the small fire that the Dornish guards had kindled, Jon found himself watching Nymeria. There was something familiar about her, a nagging sense that he'd seen her before their introduction. Her confident stride, the way she casually brushed her braid over her shoulder.

"Does Nymeria intrigue you, Jon Snow?" Ellaria asked, appearing silently at his side.

Jon started, embarrassed to be caught staring. "I... she seems very different from Northern women."

"All Dornish women are different from your Northern ladies," Ellaria replied with a knowing smile. "We aren't taught to hide our desires or apologize for our strengths."

"I've noticed," Jon said dryly, earning a laugh from Ellaria.

"You've seen nothing yet," she promised, her eyes twinkling. "Nymeria is one of Oberyn's more... spirited daughters. Second-born of the Sand Snakes, trained in both courtly graces and deadly skills."

"Sand Snakes?" Jon questioned.

"What we call Oberyn's daughters," Ellaria explained. "Each dangerous in her own way, each with her mother's beauty and her father's venom." She nodded toward where Nymeria was now helping herself to dried fruit and hard cheese from their provisions. "Nym favors the whip and dagger."

The party rested for perhaps half an hour before Oberyn called for them to mount up. As Jon approached his horse, Nymeria appeared beside him, offering an apple for his mount.

"Northern horses," she said conversationally, "they're sturdy beasts, but they lack the speed and endurance of our sand steeds." She stroked Jon's gelding's nose with surprising gentleness. "Still, he has good lines. What's his name?"

"Shadow," Jon replied, accepting the apple and feeding it to his horse.

"How original for a black horse," she teased. "Did you choose the name yourself, or did the stablemaster lack imagination?"

Jon felt his ears warm despite the cold. "I was eight when he was born. It seemed clever at the time."

Nymeria laughed, the sound somehow both mocking and friendly. "Eight-year-olds are rarely known for their creative naming. My sister Obella named her first pony 'Spots.' The poor creature was solid bay without a marking on him."

Jon couldn't help smiling at that. "My brother Bran named his pony 'Dancer,' though the animal has about as much grace as a drunken septon."

"Siblings," Nymeria said, her expression softening slightly. "Are you close to yours?"

"To Robb, yes," Jon replied, thinking of their farewell. "And to Arya."

"Ah, the wolf girl with the little sword," Nymeria nodded. "Father mentioned her. He said she reminded him of my youngest sisters."

Jon frowned, confused. "How would Prince Oberyn know about Arya's sword? I only gave it to her before I left."

"The servants talk. Word spreads. Especially about unusual girls who prefer swords to sewing." She mounted her sand steed in one fluid movement. "We should join the others. Father doesn't like to be kept waiting."

As they rode south, Jon found himself placed near the middle of the column, with Nymeria riding beside him. At first, they traveled in silence, but as the miles passed, she began to point out features of the landscape, asking questions about the North, offering bits of information about Dorne in return. Her knowledge of Westeros was impressive, her observations shrewd.

"So, Jon Snow," she said as the afternoon waned, "are you excited to see Dorne, or merely resigned to your fate?"

Jon considered his answer carefully. "Both, perhaps. I never thought to leave the North."

"And now you journey to its opposite in every way," she mused. "From ice to fire, from restraint to passion. It will be a shock to someone as cold as you, I think."

"I'm stronger than I look," Jon replied, a hint of defiance in his tone.

Nymeria's smile was predatory. "Oh, I don't doubt that. You'd have to be, growing up as Lord Stark's bastard in that frozen fortress." She leaned closer in her saddle, lowering her voice. "But Dorne will test you in ways the North never could. We don't bury our desires beneath layers of honor and duty. We celebrate them."

The way she said it—with heat in her eyes and a curve to her lips—made Jon's heart beat faster. He tried to recall the last time a woman had looked at him that way, with such open appreciation and intent.

And then it struck him like a blow to the chest.

The Frozen Peach. The night with Ros. There had been another woman there, a Dornish woman with olive skin and dark eyes who had smiled at him, the one who was supposed to serve him, but ultimately, Ros had done it. He had thought her a worker there, but now...

Jon glanced sharply at Nymeria, taking in her features with new awareness. The high cheekbones, the sensual curve of her lips, the knowing look in her eyes. It was her—the same woman who had been watching him that night in the brothel.

She was spying on me, Jon realized with a cold shock. Before I ever met Prince Oberyn, before I knew I was to be fostered in Dorne, they were watching me.

The implications sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the northern air. Whatever game the Dornish were playing, it had begun long before he'd been told the rules. Jon kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced with questions and suspicions.

Why would Prince Oberyn have his daughter spy on a bastard boy in the North? What could they possibly want with him? And how long had they been watching before he noticed?

As the sun sank toward the horizon, Jon made a decision. He would not confront them—not yet. He would watch, and wait, and learn. If the Dornish had secrets, then so would he.

They made camp as the last light faded from the sky, the stars emerging like scattered diamonds against the northern darkness. Jon helped set up tents, though he noticed the Dornish guards watching him with barely concealed amusement as he drove stakes into the frozen ground.

"You northerners," one commented, "always preparing as though winter might descend at any moment."

"In the North," Jon replied evenly, "it always might."

The guard—Daemon, Jon had heard Oberyn call him—laughed and clapped Jon on the shoulder. "In Dorne, we worry more about finding shade than shelter. You'll see soon enough."

Jon merely nodded, continuing his work while keeping Nymeria in his peripheral vision. Since his realization hours earlier, he'd been hyper-aware of her every movement, every glance in his direction. She moved through the camp, issuing orders to the guards.

Nothing like the North, Jon thought, trying to imagine Lady Stark's reaction if he'd ever presumed to order Winterfell's guards about.

Once the tents were raised and a fire blazed in the center of their camp, the Dornish settled into an evening routine far more relaxed than Jon was accustomed to. Wine flowed freely—warm spiced wine that Prince Oberyn insisted was barely a shadow of what they drank in Dorne—and servants unpacked provisions that seemed extravagant for the road: olives, soft cheese, dried fruits, and flatbread.

"Come, Jon Snow," Oberyn called, gesturing to a space near him beside the fire. "Share our meal and our wine. We Dornish believe in making each journey a pleasure, not merely an endurance."

Jon took the offered seat, accepting a cup of the spiced wine with a nod of thanks. The Dornish guards had formed a loose circle around the fire, some playing dice, others sharing stories in their lyrical dialect that Jon couldn't quite follow. Nymeria sat cross-legged, cleaning her daggers, though Jon noticed her eyes flick toward him occasionally.

"Your daughter seems skilled with those blades," Jon observed, choosing his words carefully. "I've never seen a noblewoman so comfortable with weapons."

Oberyn smiled, pride evident in his expression. "In Dorne, we do not waste talent based on birth or gender. Nymeria showed aptitude for blades from the time she could walk. Would you have me deny her training simply because she was born female?"

"No," Jon replied honestly. "My sister Arya would likely flee to Dorne herself if she knew girls were trained in combat there."

"The wolf girl," Oberyn nodded. "She has the Northern look about her, they say."

Jon frowned slightly. "They say? You didn't meet her at Winterfell?"

"Ah," Oberyn waved a dismissive hand, "servants talk. I listen. It's a useful habit." He filled Jon's cup again. "And what of you, Jon Snow? What weapons do you favor?"

"The sword," Jon answered. "Though I'm competent with a bow."

"A swordsman," Oberyn mused. "Fitting for the North. In Dorne, you'll learn the spear as well. More versatile, especially in our style of fighting—quick, precise." His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. "I think you'll adapt well. You have a certain... quickness about you."

Jon took a sip of wine, letting the warm spices linger on his tongue. "I've heard many stories of Dorne," he said carefully. "Of the Red Mountains, the Shadow City... Starfall."

"Ah, Starfall," Oberyn nodded. "Seat of House Dayne. One of our most ancient and respected houses." He studied Jon over the rim of his cup. "Does it interest you?"

Jon shrugged with a casualness he didn't feel. "I've heard the tales of Dawn—the sword of House Dayne. They say it's like no other blade in the Seven Kingdoms." Jon wanted to bring up Arthur Dayne, but knew better. He was not sure whether the Dornish would appreciate it if he brought up The Sword of the Morning, who Lord Stark killed.

"Indeed," Oberyn agreed. "Forged from the heart of a fallen star, if the legends are to be believed. Pale as milkglass, yet stronger than Valyrian steel." He tilted his head slightly. "Though Dawn is not the only treasure of House Dayne worth noting."

Jon's pulse quickened. "Oh?"

"The Daynes themselves are... unusual among Dornish houses," Oberyn continued. "Many bear distinctive features—hair as pale as moonlight, eyes of a most remarkable violet hue." His gaze flickered to Jon's face. "Not unlike your own eyes, in fact."

Jon fought to keep his expression neutral, though he felt as though Oberyn had just confirmed a suspicion long held in the depths of his heart. "A coincidence, I'm sure," he managed.

"Coincidences," Oberyn said softly, "are often the gods' way of remaining anonymous in our affairs."

From across the fire, Nymeria rose and joined them, settling beside her father. "Are you filling Jon's head with Dornish philosophy already, Father? Give the poor boy time to adjust before you confuse him entirely."

"I was merely educating him about House Dayne," Oberyn replied. "Their storied history, their... distinctive traits."

Nymeria's eyes, dark and knowing, found Jon's. "House Dayne," she echoed. "Yes, a fascinating house indeed. Their current lady, Ashara, is quite renowned for her beauty even now."

The name sliced through Jon like Valyrian steel. Ashara. He had heard it in whispers at Winterfell for as long as he could remember, always falling silent when he entered a room. Ashara Dayne, the woman who had danced with his father at Harrenhal.

The woman with violet eyes.

"Will we visit Starfall?" Jon asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperate for the answer.

Oberyn and Nymeria exchanged a glance that Jon couldn't interpret.

"Starfall lies somewhat out of our way," Oberyn replied. "Our path takes us directly to Sunspear. But perhaps, in time, arrangements could be made for a visit." He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "If that would interest you?"

"I'm interested in all of Dorne," Jon answered diplomatically. "I've never traveled before. Every castle, every house would be new to me."

"Of course," Oberyn nodded. "Though I suspect some might hold more fascination than others."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Prince Oberyn." Jon deflected his answer. Not in the mood to talk about it with anyone.

White Harbor - Five Days Later

White Harbor rose before them like something from a dream—white stone buildings climbing the hills beyond the harbor, towers and domes gleaming in the winter sunlight. For Jon, who had never seen a proper city, the sight stole his breath away. The vastness of it, the sheer number of people and buildings packed into one place, made Wintertown seem like little more than a cluster of hovels by comparison.

But it was the sea that truly captured him. Jon reined in his horse at the crest of a hill, staring at the endless expanse of gray-blue water stretching to the horizon. He had imagined it countless times from descriptions in books and travelers' tales, but no words had prepared him for the reality—the immensity of it, the way it seemed to breathe with each rolling wave, the smell of salt and fish and something indefinable that carried on the breeze.

"Your first glimpse of the sea," Nymeria observed, guiding her sand steed alongside his. "What do you think?"

Jon struggled to find words adequate to the moment. "It's... bigger than I imagined."

Nymeria laughed, the sound bright against the winter air. "That's your eloquent response? 'It's bigger than I imagined'? Gods, Snow, you northerners really do have ice in your veins."

Jon felt his cheeks warm despite the chill. "What would you have me say? That it steals the breath from my lungs? That I never understood how small I was until this moment?" He shook his head. "Words seem inadequate."

To his surprise, Nymeria's teasing smile softened. "Better. Much better. And you're right—some things cannot be described. The first time I saw snow, I stood with my mouth open like a complete fool, letting flakes melt on my tongue."

The image made Jon smile. "When was that?"

"Two Months ago. When we first passed the Neck." She gestured toward the city below. "Shall we? The others are already descending."

Indeed, Prince Oberyn and the main party had continued down the road toward White Harbor's gates while Jon had been transfixed by the sea. Only Nymeria had remained behind with him.

As they rode toward the city, Jon found himself stealing glances at her profile. In the days since they'd left Winterfell, he'd observed her closely, searching for clues to her true nature and purpose. She was undeniably dangerous—he'd watched her practice with her daggers each morning—but also capable of unexpected kindness, especially toward the servants traveling with them.

"You're staring, Snow," she remarked without looking at him. "See something interesting?"

"Just trying to figure you out," Jon replied honestly.

That earned him another laugh. "Good luck with that. Men have died trying to understand me." She flashed him a grin that was half-jest, half-warning. "Though I might let you live if you keep looking at me with those pretty purple eyes."

Before Jon could formulate a response to that, they passed through White Harbor's outer gate, where the city guard nodded respectfully to Prince Oberyn's banner. The streets within were crowded with people—merchants, sailors, fishwives, tradesmen—all going about their business with a bustle that made Jon's head spin.

"Stay close," Nymeria instructed. "It's easy to get lost if you're not used to cities."

Jon bristled slightly at being treated like a child. "I can manage."

"Can you?" she challenged, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Tell me, Jon Snow, do you know how to haggle with a Tyroshi silk merchant? Can you spot a cutpurse before he relieves you of your coin? Do you know which taverns serve honest ale and which water their drink with gods-know-what?"

Jon's silence was answer enough.

"As I thought," Nymeria nodded. "Consider me your guide to civilization, Snow. Your first lesson in life beyond the frozen North."

Their party made its way to the harbor proper, where Prince Oberyn had arranged passage on a trading galley bound for Sunspear. The ship wouldn't sail until the following morning, giving them one night in White Harbor to rest and resupply.

While Oberyn and Ellaria went to meet with Lord Manderly, Jon found himself walking the docks with Nymeria, ostensibly to "stretch their legs after days in the saddle," though Jon suspected she'd been assigned to keep watch over him.

The harbor was a riot of activity and noise—sailors shouting in a dozen different tongues, merchants hawking their wares, seagulls screeching overhead. Ships of all sizes and descriptions crowded the piers, from small fishing boats to massive trading galleys flying the colors of distant lands.

"That one's Braavosi," Nymeria pointed out, indicating a sleek purple-hulled vessel. "And that green monstrosity is Tyroshi. The one with the golden kraken on its sail is from the Iron Islands—nasty raiders, those ironborn."

Jon followed her finger, taking in each vessel with wide eyes. "How many ports have you visited?"

"Dozens," she replied with a casual shrug. "Father believes in practical education. I've seen Braavos, Pentos, even Volantis once." She glanced sideways at him. "The world is vast, Jon Snow. The North is barely a fraction of it."

They walked in companionable silence for a time, with Jon absorbing the sights and sounds of the busy port. The smell of the sea was stronger here—salt and fish and tar—mingled with spices and cooking food from the nearby marketplaces.

Eventually, they found themselves on a less crowded pier, away from the main bustle of the harbor. Jon leaned against a bollard, watching a distant ship with white sails disappear over the horizon. 

"Why were you at the Frozen Peach?" he asked abruptly, turning to face her. "Before we ever met, before I knew I was going to Dorne. You were there, watching me."

Nymeria didn't feign ignorance or surprise at his question. Instead, her lips curved in a slow smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Observant of you to notice. Most men wouldn't have remembered my face from that establishment. Too... distracted."

"You weren't there by chance," Jon pressed. "You were watching me. Why?"

"Perhaps I heard tales of the handsome bastard of Winterfell and wanted to see for myself," she suggested, her tone light.

"Don't play games," Jon said, a harder edge entering his voice than he'd intended. "You and your father have been orchestrating this whole thing from the start. I want to know why."

Nymeria studied him for a long moment, the playfulness fading from her expression. "Not here," she said finally, her voice lowered. "Not now. Some questions are better asked in Dorne, Jon Snow."

"So you admit you were spying on me?"

She laughed, the sound somehow both genuine and deflective. "Spying? Such a harsh word. Let's call it... advance scouting." She stepped closer, close enough that Jon could smell the spice and citrus scent that clung to her skin. "Would it make you feel better to know I was impressed by what I saw? Even before the red-haired whore took decided to have you for herself?"

Jon felt heat rise to his face, part embarrassment, part anger. "That doesn't answer my question."

"Doesn't it?" Nymeria countered, reaching up to trace a finger along his jaw, her touch feather-light. "Father wanted to know what kind of man Ned Stark's bastard had become. I volunteered to find out." She smiled mischievously. "Though I admit, I might have preferred a more... direct approach to my investigation than merely watching from across the room."

Jon caught her wrist, halting her touch. "And what did you report back to Prince Oberyn?"

"That you were comely, courteous, and carried yourself like a man worth knowing." Her smile turned enigmatic. "And that your eyes reminded me of someone, though I couldn't quite place who."

Before Jon could press further, a shout from the main harbor drew their attention. One of Oberyn's guards was waving to them, signaling their return.

"Our time alone is cut short, it seems," Nymeria sighed, gently extracting her wrist from Jon's grip. "Such a pity. I was just beginning to enjoy our little talk." She took a step back, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual amusement. "Come, Snow. Father will want to show you our vessel before nightfall."

They chose me specifically, Jon thought, watching Nymeria walk ahead of him with her confident, graceful stride. They watched me, studied me, and then arranged for me to be fostered in Dorne. But why? What do they want from Ned Stark's bastard?

Or was it possible they knew something he didn't? Something about his mother, about Ashara Dayne with her violet eyes so like his own? The thought stirred both hope and apprehension in his chest.

.

.

Three days at sea had done little to settle Jon's stomach. The constant rolling of the ship beneath his feet, the perpetual creaking of wood and rope, the salty air that seemed to permeate everything—it was all foreign to a boy raised in the stable solidity of the North. He'd spent much of the first day leaning over the ship's railing, emptying his stomach while the crew laughed and Nymeria offered sardonic encouragement.

"Feed the fishes, Snow! They're hungry for northern delicacies!"

By the third evening, though, Jon had found his sea legs, or at least enough of them to join the gathering on the main deck. The Desert Wind—a sleek trading galley with a distinctly Dornish flair to its decorative carvings—sailed swiftly south along the eastern coast of Westeros. The air had grown noticeably warmer, even at night, and Jon had shed his heavy northern furs for the first time in his life.

Under a sky dusted with stars and lit by a waxing moon, the Dornish had arranged themselves in a loose circle. Wine flowed freely—better wine than Jon had ever tasted, even at Winterfell's high table—and the mood was festive. One of the guards had produced a simple drum, while another played a stringed instrument Jon didn't recognize, its sound high and sweet against the backdrop of waves.

Jon sat slightly apart, still uncertain of his place among these southerners with their easy laughter. But Nymeria had insisted he join them, practically dragging him from his cramped cabin below deck.

"Northerners might be content to brood alone in the dark," she'd declared, "but in Dorne, we share our joys and sorrows."

Now she sat across the circle from him, firelight from the brazier dancing across her olive skin as she laughed at something Ellaria had whispered in her ear. Her eyes caught his, and she raised her wine cup in silent toast, her lips curving in that now-familiar half-smile that Jon still couldn't quite decipher.

Prince Oberyn held court at the center of the gathering, regaling them with a tale of his time fighting with the Second Sons across the Narrow Sea. His voice rose and fell, his hands gesturing expressively, drawing his audience into the story of a desperate battle against overwhelming odds.

"And there I stood," Oberyn proclaimed, "back to the wall, three Tyroshi bearing down on me, each man twice my size."

"And half your skill," Ellaria interjected with knowing amusement.

"Naturally," Oberyn agreed without missing a beat. "But skill means little when outnumbered by brutes with axes. I had my spear, but in such close quarters..."

"You made them kill each other," one of the younger guards suggested eagerly.

Oberyn laughed. "A charming notion, but no. I simply had to..." He paused dramatically, "...improvise."

What followed was a tale so outrageous, involving a well-placed kick, a falling chandelier, and the fortuitous intervention of a performing bear, that Jon found himself joining the general laughter despite his reservations. The prince was a masterful storyteller, Jon had to admit. Whether the tale was true or embellished hardly seemed to matter.

As the night progressed, others contributed songs and stories from their homeland. Ellaria sang a haunting Dornish love ballad that made several of the hardened guards misty-eyed. One of the sailors performed a ribald tavern song that had Nymeria howling with laughter while Jon fought to control his blush.

"What about you, Jon Snow?" Ellaria asked during a lull, her dark eyes warm with wine and good humor. "Surely the North has tales worth sharing?"

All eyes turned to him, and Jon felt the familiar discomfort of being the center of attention. "I'm not much of a storyteller," he demurred.

"Then sing for us," suggested Oberyn, leaning back comfortably against a coil of rope. "Every land has its songs."

Jon hesitated. Singing had always been private for him—something done in the quiet of the wolfswood, or softly in his chambers after the castle slept. In Winterfell, only Arya and occasionally Robb had heard him sing properly. Even at the feast before his departure, he'd kept to humming along rather than joining the singers.

"I don't—" he began, but Nymeria cut him off.

"Don't be modest, Snow. I've heard you humming to your horse when you think no one's listening." She leaned forward, firelight dancing in her eyes. "Besides, you can't possibly be worse than Daemon here, who sounds like a dying cat when he sings."

The guard in question tossed a piece of hardtack at her, which she caught effortlessly and popped into her mouth with a wink.

"Just one song," Ellaria encouraged. "A northern ballad, perhaps? I've always found them so beautifully melancholy."

Trapped, and somewhat loosened by the excellent Dornish wine, Jon relented. "All right. One song." He cleared his throat, momentarily searching his memory for something appropriate. "This is 'The Winter Maid'—it's about a First Men warrior who fell in love with one of the children of the forest."

Jon closed his eyes, finding the first notes of the melody deep in his chest. When he began to sing, his voice emerged clear and strong, filling the night air with a sound as pure as freshly fallen snow. The ballad was ancient, its words in the Old Tongue, though Jon had learned a common translation. It spoke of impossible love, of winter's grip, of magic lost to the ages.

As he sang, a hush fell over the gathering. Even the normal sounds of the ship—the creaking of wood, the snapping of sails—seemed to quiet. Jon lost himself in the music, forgetting his audience, forgetting his uncertain status among these strangers. For those moments, there was only the song, the sea, and the stars overhead.

When the final note faded into the night, Jon opened his eyes to find every face on deck staring at him in stunned silence. The only sound was the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.

Nymeria was the first to break the spell, her expression one of genuine astonishment rather than her usual sardonic amusement. "Seven hells, Snow," she breathed. "Where have you been hiding that voice? I've heard court singers in Sunspear who would weep with envy."

Jon shifted uncomfortably under the collective gaze. "It's just a song."

"Just a song?" Nymeria laughed incredulously. "Like Valyrian steel is just a sword?" She shook her head, turning to the others. "Did you hear him? The best I've ever heard, and I've heard the finest singers from Dorne to Braavos."

"Truly remarkable," Ellaria agreed softly, something unreadable in her expression.

"Gods, Arianne will fight us all to have you singing in her chambers," Nymeria continued, her usual teasing tone returning. "The heir to Dorne has a weakness for beautiful things, and that voice of yours..." She fanned herself dramatically. "You'll have to beat the court ladies off with that fancy sword of yours."

"I don't sing for courts," Jon protested, embarrassed by the attention.

"Oh? Where do you sing then? The trees? The stars?" Nymeria's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or perhaps just for lonely northern girls who melt at the sound? Tell me, how many Winterfell maids have swooned into your arms after a private performance?"

"None," Jon insisted, though his cheeks burned. "I don't—it's not something I do often."

"What a waste," Nymeria declared. "In Dorne, a voice like that would have women throwing their smallclothes at you faster than you could catch them. And men too, for that matter."

Jon glanced around, desperate to change the subject, when he noticed Prince Oberyn's face. Unlike the others, who were smiling or looking impressed, Oberyn had gone utterly still. His expression was frozen somewhere between shock and pain, his dark eyes fixed on Jon. 

For a moment, Jon wondered if the Prince would strike him, the way his hand was twitching towards one of his many small hidden blades in his clothes.

Without a word, the prince rose abruptly to his feet. For a moment, he looked as though he might speak, his lips parting slightly. But then he turned and walked away, disappearing below deck without explanation.

The sudden departure left an awkward silence in its wake. Jon looked questioningly at Nymeria, who was watching her father's retreating form with a slight frown.

"Did I offend him somehow?" Jon asked, concerned.

Nymeria's expression smoothed over immediately, a smile returning. "Not at all. My father just remembered he needed to check our course with the captain. We're approaching waters known for pirates, you know. Safety first, revelry second."

It was a plausible explanation. But Jon had spent enough time observing Nymeria to recognize when she was lying. Something about his singing had genuinely disturbed Oberyn Martell.

Another piece of the puzzle, Jon thought, though he didn't press for the truth. If Nymeria didn't want to tell him, there would be a reason. Her secrets were her own, just as his father's had been. Just as his mother's might still be, waiting for him in Dorne.

The gathering continued, with others contributing songs and stories, but Jon remained quiet for the rest of the evening. Occasionally, he would catch Nymeria watching him with a speculative expression, as if recalculating some complex equation in her mind.

Later, as he lay in his narrow bunk below deck, listening to the endless creaking of the ship, Jon found himself wondering what it was about his voice that had affected the prince so strongly. Was it the song itself? The language of the First Men? Or something else entirely?

Two Weeks Later

The Desert Wind cut through the waters of the Narrow Sea like a knife through silk, its red sails billowing with a steady wind from the north. Two weeks had passed since they'd left White Harbor, and with each passing day, Jon felt the temperature rise and the air grow more humid. The heavy furs and wool he'd worn all his life now lay packed away in his trunk, replaced by lighter garments provided by Prince Oberyn's steward.

Jon stood at the ship's bow, watching the endless expanse of water before him. Far to the east, barely visible on the horizon, was the shadowy outline of land—the Free Cities, the captain had told him when Jon had asked. Another world entirely, as unknown to him as Dorne would soon be.

The prince had been scarce since the night of Jon's singing, spending most of his time with the captain or sequestered in his cabin with maps and correspondence. On the rare occasions when they did cross paths, Oberyn was unfailingly courteous.

Jon heard soft footsteps behind him, too light, he knew who it was.

"Contemplating jumping overboard and swimming back to your frozen wasteland?" Nymeria's voice held its usual teasing tone, but when Jon turned to face her, her expression was more thoughtful than mocking.

"Just wondering what waits beyond the horizon," Jon replied.

"Adventure. Danger. Beautiful women." She moved to stand beside him at the railing, close enough that her arm brushed his. "All the things a sheltered northern boy has been denied."

Jon smiled despite himself. "Is that how you see me? A sheltered boy?"

"Aren't you?" Nymeria challenged, turning to face him fully. The sea breeze played with strands of her dark hair, whipping them across her face. "What do you know of the world, Jon Snow? What pleasures have you tasted? What risks have you taken?"

There was something different about her today—the way she was looking at him. She wore a simple sleeveless tunic that revealed the smooth skin of her arms and the curve of her neck, and Jon found his eyes drawn to the hollow of her throat where a pulse beat steadily.

"I'm not as innocent as you imagine," Jon said, thinking of Ros and the Frozen Peach.

"No?" Nymeria raised an eyebrow. "Yet I recall certain activities left unfinished at that charming establishment in Wintertown." She stepped closer, her scent—spices and citrus. "The red-haired whore took you upstairs, but you didn't do the full deed that night, did you?"

Jon stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "You were watching very closely."

"I'm observant," she shrugged, unapologetic. "It's a useful trait." Her fingers reached out to trace a pattern on his wrist, the touch feather-light but sending heat through his veins. "I've been thinking about that night. About what might have happened if it had been me who took you upstairs instead of the northern girl."

Jon swallowed hard, acutely aware that they were alone at the bow, the nearest sailor occupied with rigging some distance away. "Nymeria..."

"Have you been thinking about it too, Jon Snow?" she asked, her voice dropping lower, her eyes holding his with an expression that was part challenge, part invitation. "About what it might be like between us?"

The truth was, he had. Despite his suspicions, despite his wariness of her motives, Jon had found himself imagining exactly that in the solitude of his narrow cabin. The memory of her at the Frozen Peach, combined with the reality of her beside him each day—her quick wit, her deadly moves with a blade, the way she moved like a cat among the ship's rigging—had woven itself into dreams he'd rather not admit to.

"It wouldn't be wise," Jon managed to say, but it sounded stupid in his head.

"Wisdom is overrated," Nymeria countered, her fingers now tracing up his arm, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Passion, on the other hand..." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Passion is what makes life worth living."

Jon caught her wrist, halting her touch. "I won't father a bastard," he said firmly. "I know what that life is like. I wouldn't inflict it on a child."

To his surprise, Nymeria laughed—not her usual sardonic chuckle, but a genuine sound of amusement. "Oh, Jon Snow. So honorable, so concerned." She shook her head, still smiling. "Have you never heard of moon tea? We Dornish women aren't fools. We take our pleasure without unwanted consequences."

"Moon tea isn't infallible," Jon argued, thinking of the rumors he'd heard in Winterfell of herbs that failed, of women who died from badly brewed concoctions.

"The Dornish recipe is," Nymeria replied confidently. "Lady Ellaria is a master at brewing it. No Sand Snake has ever conceived without choosing to." Her free hand—the one he wasn't gripping by the wrist—came up to trace the line of his jaw. "So you see, your honor remains intact. No bastards need come from our joining."

Jon hesitated. The logical argument against her advances had been dismantled, leaving only his own uncertainty. And beneath that uncertainty was a growing desire he could no longer deny.

"There are... other ways," he said finally, releasing her wrist. "Ways that don't risk children at all."

Nymeria's eyes lit with triumph and amusement. "The red-haired whore taught you well, it seems. Yes, Jon Snow, there are many ways to pleasure each other without risking your noble seed finding purchase." She traced her fingertip across his lower lip. "Would you like me to show you some that your northern girl perhaps didn't know?"

The heat that had been building in Jon's body intensified at her words, at the images they conjured. But a part of him—the wary, suspicious part that had been watching the Dornish party so carefully—wondered at her timing, at her sudden interest.

"Why now?" he asked, his voice husky with both desire and caution. "Why me?"

"Because you intrigue me," she answered, her eyes direct. "Because I want to. Isn't that enough?"

Perhaps it should have been. But Jon had learned that with the Dornish, particularly this Dornish woman, nothing was ever quite as simple as it appeared. "Is this another form of spying, Nymeria? Another way to observe the northern bastard for your father's purposes?"

Her expression flickered, a momentary hesitation, before her confident smile returned. "Can't it be both? Pleasure and purpose need not be enemies, Jon Snow." She moved closer, her body pressing against his. "But right now, I assure you, pleasure is very much my priority."

Her lips found his before he could respond, and Jon's remaining reservations melted away under the heat of her kiss. Her mouth was confident, demanding, so different from Ros's gentle instruction. This was a woman who knew precisely what she wanted and how to get it.

Jon responded in kind, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. If she wanted to play games, he could play too. And perhaps, in the heat of passion, she might reveal more than she intended.

They stumbled into Jon's cramped cabin, lips barely parting, hands exploring with growing urgency. Nymeria kicked the door shut behind them, the latch clicking with a finality that sent shivers down Jon's spine.

"I want to see you," she murmured against his mouth, her nimble fingers already working at the laces of his shirt.

Jon helped her, shrugging out of the leather garment, then pulling his linen shirt over his head. Nymeria's eyes darkened as she took in his bare chest, her palm flattening against the hard planes of his stomach.

"You northerners," she purred, tracing a finger along a scar near his ribs. "So much... tension in your bodies. Like you're always ready for battle."

Jon reached for her, his own fingers finding the complicated fastenings of her Dornish attire. "May I?"

Her smile was wicked. "Please do, Jon Snow."

He worked carefully, revealing her sun-kissed skin inch by tantalizing inch. Her bodice fell away, exposing small, perfect breasts with nipples the color of copper pennies, already hardened in the cool air of the cabin.

"Gods," he breathed, cupping one breast gently.

Nymeria arched into his touch. "Your hands are calloused. I like it."

His thumb brushed across her nipple, eliciting a soft gasp that made his cock strain painfully against his breeches. She reached for him then, her hand cupping his hardness through the fabric.

"So eager," she teased, giving him a firm squeeze that made his hips buck involuntarily. "But not yet, Jon Snow. Not yet."

With surprising strength, she pushed him back onto the narrow bunk. Jon landed with a grunt, looking up to see Nymeria standing over him, her hands working at the ties of her flowing trousers. They slid down her legs, revealing the neat triangle of dark curls between her thighs.

"You mentioned other ways," she said, her accent thicker with desire. "Show me what the north knows of pleasure without consequences."

Jon sat up, reaching for her hips to pull her closer. "Come here," he said, his voice rough with want.

She straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, her nakedness contrasting with his half-dressed state. The heat of her core pressed against his still-clothed erection, making him groan.

"I want to taste you," he said boldly, remembering how Ros had responded to his mouth. "Lie back."

Surprise flickered across Nymeria's face, but she complied, switching positions with him so she lay across his bunk. Jon settled between her thighs, his hands spreading her legs wider.

"Most men don't offer this," she said, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him. "They take, but rarely give."

Jon looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "Then most men are fools," he said simply, before lowering his mouth to her sex.

The first broad stroke of his tongue made her gasp, her head falling back. "Fuck," she breathed, the crude word sounding musical in her Dornish accent.

Jon smiled against her flesh, pleased by her response. He'd learned well from Ros, discovering that while each woman was different, there were techniques that seemed universally appreciated. He flattened his tongue, licking slowly from her entrance up to the small, sensitive bud at the apex of her folds.

"Ohhhh," Nymeria sighed, one hand moving to tangle in his dark curls.

He continued his exploration, alternating between broad strokes and more focused attention, learning what made her breath catch and her thighs tremble. When he circled her entrance with his tongue, he felt her hips rise to meet him.

"Inside," she commanded breathlessly. "Your tongue, inside me."

Jon obeyed, stiffening his tongue to press it into her slick channel. He fucked her slowly with his tongue, his nose brushing against her clit with each movement.

"Yessss," she hissed, grinding against his face. "Just like that. Gods, Jon Snow, where did you learn this?"

He didn't answer—couldn't answer with his mouth so pleasurably occupied—but he took her words as encouragement, redoubling his efforts. His hands slid beneath her ass, lifting her slightly to improve his angle, his tongue delving deeper.

Nymeria's thighs began to tremble, her breathing becoming more ragged. Jon withdrew his tongue, replacing it with two fingers that slid easily into her wetness. As he curled them forward, finding the rough patch inside that had made Ros cry out, he returned his attention to Nymeria's clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before drawing it between his lips to suck gently.

"Fuck! Jon! Yes!" Her voice rose, her accent thickening further as pleasure overtook her. "Right there, don't stop, don't—ahhhhh!"

Her back arched, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers as she came. Jon continued his ministrations, gentler now but persistent, drawing out her pleasure until she pushed weakly at his head.

"Enough," she gasped. "Too much. Come here."

Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smile of satisfaction curving his lips as he moved up to lie beside her. Nymeria's eyes were half-lidded, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Well," she said when she could speak again. "It seems the North does know something after all."

Jon chuckled. "Did you doubt it?"

"Most men..." she began, then shook her head. "Most men don't bother. They think their cocks are all that matters."

"Their loss," Jon said simply.

Nymeria turned to face him fully, her expression curious. "Did dear Ros teach you all that."

Jon felt his cheeks warm. "Three times, actually. Ros, at the Winter Town brothel."

"Ah," Nymeria nodded. "But you didn't fuck her."

"No," Jon confirmed. "I couldn't risk fathering a bastard."

"So you found other ways to please her—and yourself." Her hand trailed down his chest to the waistband of his breeches. "And did she teach you to enjoy receiving similar attentions?"

Jon's cock twitched at her words. "She did."

Nymeria's smile turned predatory. "Then I shall have to see if I can improve upon your education." She pushed at his shoulder. "Lie back, Jon Snow. It's my turn to worship."

Jon complied, his heart hammering as Nymeria unlaced his breeches with torturous slowness. When she finally freed his erection, he groaned in relief, only to hiss in pleasure as her hand wrapped around him.

"Impressive," she murmured, stroking him from base to tip. "The northern blood runs hot after all."

Jon couldn't speak, could only watch as she lowered her head, her dark hair falling forward to tickle his thighs. When her tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture at his tip, he nearly came off the bunk.

"Patience," she admonished, her breath hot against his sensitive flesh. "We're just beginning."

She continued to tease him, placing light kisses along his shaft, occasionally letting her tongue flick out to taste him. Jon's hands fisted in the rough wool blanket beneath him, his breathing harsh in the quiet cabin.

"Nymeria," he groaned. "Please."

"Please what, Jon Snow?" She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips hovering just above his straining cock. "Tell me what you want."

"Your mouth," he managed. "Take me in your mouth."

Her smile was victorious. "Since you ask so nicely..."

Finally, blessedly, she wrapped her lips around his crown, the wet heat of her mouth making him moan low in his throat. "Fuuuuck."

Nymeria hummed in approval. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she took more of him in, her tongue swirling around his shaft as she descended.

Jon watched as his cock disappeared inch by inch between her lips. When she had taken as much as she could, her hand wrapped around what remained, working in tandem with her mouth as she began to bob her head.

"Gods, Nymeria," he panted. "That feels incredible."

She pulled off with a pop, her hand continuing to stroke him. "The key, Jon Snow, is to make it last. To bring you to the edge..." She squeezed him firmly, her thumb brushing over his sensitive tip. "And then pull you back. Again and again, until you can't bear it any longer."

True to her word, that was exactly what she did. Each time Jon felt himself approaching his peak, Nymeria would sense it, slowing her movements or changing her technique just enough to keep him from tumbling over. She used her mouth, her hands, even the soft weight of her breasts, all while watching his reactions with sharp, knowing eyes.

"Please," Jon finally begged, sweat beading on his forehead, his cock painfully hard and leaking steadily. "Nymeria, I need..."

"What do you need, Jon Snow?" she asked, lazily pumping him with her fist. "Tell me."

"Release," he gasped. "I need to finish."

She smiled, satisfied with his begging. "As you wish."

This time when she took him in her mouth, there was no teasing, no holding back. She sucked him with purpose, her cheeks hollowing, one hand working his shaft while the other cupped and gently squeezed his balls.

The pleasure built rapidly, unstoppably, a wave that had been held at bay too long. "I'm going to—" Jon tried to warn her, his hands moving to her shoulders to push her away.

But Nymeria only doubled her efforts, her eyes meeting his in clear challenge. The sight of her, so beautiful and fierce with his cock between her lips, was his undoing.

Jon came with a hoarse shout, his hips jerking as pulse after pulse of pleasure crashed through him. Nymeria didn't pull away, swallowing everything he gave her, her throat working until he was spent.

When she finally released him, Jon collapsed back, quickly gathering himself. Nymeria moved up to lie beside him, a smug smile playing at her lips.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Gods," Jon breathed, still trying to gather his wits. "That was... I've never felt anything like that."

"The art of the edge," she said, tracing patterns on his chest. "Pleasure is so much more intense when it's denied, then finally granted."

Jon turned his head to look at her, noting the self-satisfaction in her expression. "You enjoyed that. Having that power over me."

Nymeria laughed softly. "Of course I did. But don't pretend you didn't have similar power earlier, with your mouth between my thighs."

He couldn't argue with that. They lay in companionable silence for a moment, the rocking of the ship and their slowing breaths the only sounds.

"So," Nymeria eventually said, propping herself up on one elbow. "Was it wise, Jon Snow?"

Jon considered the question, looking up at this dangerous, beautiful woman who might still be using him for her own ends—but who had also given him pleasure beyond anything he'd experienced before.

"No," he admitted with a small smile. "But wisdom is overrated."

Nymeria's laugh filled the cabin, bright and genuine. "Now you're learning, northerner. Now you're learning."

Chapter Text

Arrival at Sunspear Harbor - One Week Later

The Desert Wind glided into Sunspear's harbor at midday, the scorching sun bearing down with an intensity Jon Snow had never experienced. As sailors rushed to secure the vessel to the dock, Jon stood at the rail, squinting against the blinding light that reflected off the white stone buildings rising from the shore.

"Seven hells," Jon muttered, wiping sweat from his brow for what felt like the hundredth time since morning. "Is it always this hot?"

Nymeria appeared at his side, looking perfectly comfortable in her light silks despite the heat. "This? This is a pleasant day in Dorne." Her eyes glittered with amusement. "You northerners are so delicate."

The harbor was full of people—traders shouting in languages Jon had never heard, exotic goods being loaded and unloaded, and everywhere, colors brighter than any he'd seen in the North. Market stalls lined the waterfront, piled high with spices, fruits, and fabrics in shades of crimson, amber, and azure that made even Winterfell's best finery seem drab by comparison.

Jon's tunic clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. "I think I might melt before we reach the palace."

"Then remove your clothes," Nymeria suggested, loud enough for nearby dockworkers to turn and grin. "No one would mind the view."

Jon gave her a pointed look. "I'd rather not arrive at Prince Doran's court half-naked."

"Pity," she replied with a smirk.

As they prepared to disembark, Nymeria rummaged through a satchel and pulled out a bundle of fabric, thrusting it at Jon. "Here. These are proper clothes for Dorne. Put them on before you collapse from heat stroke."

The garments were light, loose-fitting, and distinctly Dornish—flowing trousers and a sleeveless tunic in sandy colors. Jon hesitated.

"I don't think—"

"For once in your life, Snow, don't think." Nymeria's tone was exasperated. "Just change before you cook inside that northern leather."

Jon reluctantly retreated to his cabin to change. When he emerged, feeling somewhat naked in the thin fabrics, Nymeria's appreciative glance made his ears burn hotter than the sun.

"Much better," she declared, circling him with her smile, the kind of smile she gave him when he was eating her pussy. "Though you're still red as a pomegranate."

"It's the sun," Jon lied.

"Of course it is," she replied, clearly unconvinced.

As they made their way down the gangplank, the full force of Dorne's heat hit Jon like melted iron. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents—spices that tickled his nose, salt from the sea, exotic perfumes, and the undercurrent of sweat from the press of bodies in the marketplace.

"Gods," Jon gasped, "how do you breathe in this air? I feel like I'm drowning."

Despite his change of clothes, sweat continued to pour down his face. Nymeria sighed dramatically, uncorked her waterskin, and without warning, dumped half its contents over Jon's head.

Jon spluttered, shocked by the sudden dousing. "What in the seven hells—"

"You'll thank me," she cut him off, capping her waterskin with a satisfied nod. "It's how we keep cool. Wet your hair, wet your clothes, let the breeze do the rest."

"We don't have these problems in the North," Jon grumbled, though he had to admit the water provided blessed relief. "Snow cools you quite efficiently."

"Yes, and turns your balls blue," Nymeria quipped. "I much prefer our men... unshriveled."

Jon choked on air, earning a hearty laugh from Prince Oberyn, who had silently appeared beside them.

"I see my daughter is educating you on Dornish customs already," Oberyn remarked, his eyes dancing with mischief. "The first lesson of Dorne: nothing is too private to discuss in public."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Jon replied dryly, smoothing back his wet hair.

The prince clapped him on the shoulder. "Look around you, Jon Snow. This is a land where pleasure is not hidden away like a shameful secret. We celebrate it." He gestured broadly at the harbor. "The food, the wine, the flesh—all gifts to be savored openly."

As if to illustrate his point, Nymeria casually trailed her fingers across Jon's chest. Jon instinctively glanced around, concerned about who might have seen.

"No one cares, Snow," she murmured, amused by his discomfort. "That's what Father is trying to tell you."

"In the North, we show more restraint," Jon said stiffly.

"And how has that served you?" Oberyn asked, cocking an eyebrow. "All that cold and restraint—it's unnatural. Men are not made to deny their passions."

"Some would say passions unchecked lead to chaos," Jon countered.

Oberyn laughed. "And some would say a life without passion isn't worth living at all."

Before Jon could respond, a commotion at the edge of the dock caught their attention. A group of guards approached, their spears adorned with small banners displaying the Martell sigil—a red sun pierced by a golden spear.

"Ah," Oberyn said, "our escort has arrived."

The captain of the guard bowed deeply to Oberyn. "Prince Oberyn, welcome home. Prince Doran sends his regards and eagerly awaits your return to the palace."

"Does he now?" Oberyn's tone suggested he doubted his brother's eagerness. "Well, we mustn't keep the Prince of Dorne waiting." He turned to Jon. "Come, Jon Snow. Your new life begins today."

As they followed the guards toward waiting horses, Jon cast one last glance at the Desert Wind. For weeks, that ship had been his last connection to the North. Now, even that tether was severed.

"Having second thoughts?" Nymeria asked quietly.

Jon shook his head. "Just wondering if I'll ever see snow again, or if I'm doomed to melt into a northern puddle on Dornish soil."

She laughed. "Don't worry, Snow. If you start to melt..." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned close. "I know several ways to make you solidify again."

Jon's ears burned, but this time, he allowed himself a small smile. "I'm beginning to think the heat isn't my greatest challenge in Dorne."

"Oh, it definitely isn't," she agreed with a wicked grin. "We haven't even introduced you to my sisters yet."

Jon's mount—a spirited sand steed far more slender than Northern horses—pranced beneath him as their procession wound through Sunspear's labyrinthine streets. Unlike Winterfell's practical layout, this city seemed designed to confuse, with narrow alleys opening suddenly into bustling squares before twisting away again.

Seven hells, I'll be lost within minutes if I'm ever alone here, Jon thought, his purple eyes widening as they entered what Oberyn called the Shadow City.

The sprawl surrounding the palace proper teemed with life and color. Market stalls overflowed with goods Jon had never seen—strange fruits with spiky exteriors, shimmering fabrics that changed color as they moved, and instruments shaped like no others he'd encountered. Performers juggled flaming batons while dancers swayed to drumbeats.

But it was the women who truly captured Jon's attention. Unlike Northern ladies with their modest garments and careful manners, Dornish women moved with unrestrained confidence. They wore flowing silks that revealed bronzed shoulders and arms, laughed openly at ribald jokes, and—most shocking to Jon—met men's gazes directly, sometimes even initiating conversation, and their clothes were doing a poor job at hiding their...woman parts.

In Winterfell, Lady Stark would faint if a woman behaved so boldly. Though I suspect Arya would love it here.

"Your eyes are wandering, Jon Snow," Oberyn called out, maneuvering his horse alongside Jon's. "See something that interests you?"

Jon felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the sun. "Just... observing cultural differences, Prince Oberyn."

"Ah, yes. Cultural differences." Oberyn's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Though I notice your... observations... tend toward the lovely merchants rather than their wares."

"The North doesn't prepare you for... this," Jon admitted, gesturing vaguely at a woman haggling ferociously with a spice merchant, her voice carrying clearly through the square.

"Dornish women speak their minds and follow their desires," Oberyn said proudly. "Much like you northerners follow duty and honor." He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "Though I suspect you might enjoy being... dishonored... by one of our desert flowers."

Jon choked slightly, earning a laugh from the prince. Gods, does everyone in Dorne speak in innuendos?

"Father, stop tormenting him," Nymeria chided, though her smile suggested she wasn't truly displeased. She guided her horse to Jon's other side. "Have you ever been in the presence of a prince or princess before, Snow?"

Jon gave her a dry look. "The North isn't exactly a holiday destination for the royal family. Too cold for their delicate southern constitutions."

"Fair enough," Nymeria conceded. "But Prince Doran isn't like other nobles. He'll observe everything—how you sit, how you speak, even how you breathe. Don't fidget. Don't speak unless spoken to. And whatever you do, don't mention his gout."

Jon frowned. "His what?"

"His gout. It's painful and makes him irritable. Just pretend not to notice his wheeled chair."

"What about the other Martells?" Jon asked, wiping sweat from his brow as the relentless heat intensified. His head had begun to swim slightly, but he'd rather collapse than show weakness.

"Well, there's Prince Quentyn," Nymeria said with a dismissive wave. "A frog of a boy."

"A... frog?"

"You'll understand when you meet him," she smirked. "Then there's Trystane, but he's only six. I doubt you'll spend much time with a child."

Jon swayed slightly in his saddle. "And the princess? Arianne? The Heiress of Dorne? How should I address her?"

Nymeria's giggle was mischievous. "Just show up looking exactly as you do now, and you won't need to say a word."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon asked, perplexed.

"It means," Oberyn interjected with a knowing smile, "that my niece appreciates beauty. And you, Jon Snow, with those remarkable purple eyes and pretty curls..." He ran his gaze appreciatively down Jon's form. "Well, let's just say you're exactly her type."

Jon stiffened in the saddle. "I'm not here to—"

"To what? Enjoy yourself?" Oberyn laughed. "Such a Northern response. Tell me, is pleasure considered a sin in Winterfell?"

Only the kind you're implying, Jon thought irritably. Though Lord Stark would probably have an apoplexy if he could hear this conversation.

As they continued through the winding streets, Jon became uncomfortably aware of the stares following their procession. Unlike the rest of their party, his pale skin and Northern features marked him as distinctly foreign. Children pointed openly while adults whispered behind their hands.

I've gone from being the Bastard of Winterfell to being the Pale Northern Curiosity. Splendid progress.

"They're just curious," Nymeria said, noticing his discomfort. "Most have never seen a northerner before."

"Lucky them," Jon muttered under his breath.

The path began to climb, and ahead Jon could see the imposing silhouette of the Martell palace rising against the piercing blue sky. The city opened onto a broad thoroughfare leading to the first of three massive gates.

"The Threefold Gate," Oberyn announced proudly. "The first defense of Sunspear."

Each successive gate they passed through was more elaborate than the last. The first was formidable but plain—iron-reinforced wood with the Martell sigil burned into its surface. The second featured intricate carvings of desert scenes, its posts topped with gilt spear points. But the third took Jon's breath away: massive bronze doors inlaid with precious stones forming the image of a sun in full glory.

Well, the Martells certainly aren't shy about showing their wealth, Jon thought as the gates swung open before them. Father would consider this ostentatious. Though I suppose when you're called the Sun of Dorne, subtlety isn't the point.

As they passed through the final gate into the palace proper, Jon felt a momentary rush of vertigo. The heat, the strangeness, the long journey—it all suddenly crashed down upon him.

"Almost there, Snow," Nymeria said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Try not to faint. The guards would never let you forget it."

Jon straightened in his saddle, summoning his remaining strength. "Starks don't faint," he said with as much dignity as he could muster. "We merely... strategically rest our eyes while vertical."

Her surprised laugh carried him forward, into the heart of Sunspear and whatever awaited him there.

A lush courtyard awaited them within the palace walls—an oasis of shade and greenery that made Jon instantly grateful for the respite from the relentless sun. Water trickled from a series of fountains. Flowering vines climbed elegant columns, releasing a sweet perfume that reminded Jon of the glass gardens at Winterfell, though these blooms were far more exotic.

And in the center of this paradise stood three women, as different from one another as night from day, but the way their faces brightened at the sight of Prince Oberyn told Jon enough to know who they were.

More of Oberyn's daughters, Jon realized. More Sand Snakes. How many does he have?

The tallest of the three stepped forward, a spear gripped casually in one hand. Despite the heat, she wore practical leather armor, and her dark hair was pulled back. Her face felt like looking at a piece of rock. When they landed on Jon, her eyes narrowed.

"Father," she acknowledged Oberyn without shifting her gaze from Jon. "This is the northern bastard?"

Charming, Jon thought. At least in Winterfell, people whispered "bastard" behind my back.

"Obara," Oberyn greeted his eldest. "Yes, this is Jon Snow, our honored guest."

Jon gave a respectful nod, which Obara did not return.

"He doesn't look like much," she said. "Too pretty for a fighter."

"I'd be happy to prove otherwise," Jon replied evenly, meeting her challenging gaze.

Obara's lip curled. "Northern bravado. I've killed men twice your size, boy."

"Obara," Oberyn cautioned. "He is our guest, not challenger. There will be time for you to test his mettle in the training yard."

Before Jon could respond, a blur of yellow silk and golden hair appeared before him—the second daughter, who couldn't have presented a more striking contrast to her sister. Where Obara was like a rock given a face, this one was all soft curves and beguiling smiles. Her eyes were impossibly blue, set in a face of such sweet innocence that Jon immediately distrusted her.

"Don't mind Obara," she said, her voice melodic and gentle. "She greets everyone with threats of violence. I'm Tyene." She extended a delicate hand, which Jon took cautiously. "Oh, your hands are calloused! A swordsman, then?"

"Yes, my lady," Jon replied.

Tyene giggled, even her giggle was soft. "Not a lady. Just Tyene." She moved closer, invading his space. "Your eyes are extraordinary. I've never seen such a shade of purple before."

Gods, they're all forward, Jon thought, taking a subtle step back. Is this another Dornish custom—standing close enough to count eyelashes?

"They're my mother's eyes," he said automatically, then regretted revealing even that small detail about his mysterious parentage.

"Fascinating," Tyene breathed, studying him with renewed interest. "And who might your mother be?"

"If I knew that," Jon repeated the line he'd used with Nymeria, "I wouldn't be a Snow."

"Ohhh," Tyene cooed, placing a sympathetic hand on his arm. "How terrible not to know one's mother."

Her touch lingered, her thumb making small circles against his skin. Jon felt a prickle of awareness—not just because of her obvious attractiveness, but because something about her screamed danger far more loudly than Obara with her spear.

The sweet ones are always the most dangerous, Jon thought, recalling Sansa's ability to get her way with a smile while Arya struggled with her direct demands. While Tyene reminded him of Sansa, the difference was that Sansa's head was in the clouds, and she was a little too naive; Tyene's smile made him picture a smiling blonde snake.

"I manage," Jon replied dryly.

"I'm sure you do," Tyene purred, giving his arm a final squeeze before stepping back.

The third sister had been hanging back, observing with keen interest. Unlike the others, she made no move to approach Jon directly. Instead, she seemed content to watch from a slight distance. Her skin was darker than her sisters', her garb more practical—somewhere between Obara's warrior attire and Tyene's feminine silks. A collection of scrolls protruded from a satchel at her side.

"And you must be Sarella," Jon ventured, recalling the names Nymeria had mentioned during their journey.

The woman's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You know of me?"

"Nymeria mentioned you're a scholar," Jon explained.

Sarella shot an appreciative glance at Nymeria before approaching Jon. "Not just a pretty face, then. You pay attention."

"Hard not to, when sailing for weeks with someone determined to educate me about Dornish customs," Jon replied, earning a smirk from Nymeria.

"Then you must tell me about Northern customs in return," Sarella said eagerly. "Is it true your maesters believe the Wall was built using ancient magic? And that wildlings practice blood sacrifices to their old gods? How do your people survive the winters? Do you truly sleep with your dogs for warmth?"

The barrage of questions came so rapidly that Jon barely had time to register one before the next arrived. He blinked, momentarily overwhelmed.

"Perhaps one question at a time," he suggested, wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the courtyard's relative coolness, the heat continued to take its toll.

"Sarella," Oberyn chided gently. "The boy has only just arrived. Save your interrogation for when he's had a chance to rest."

Jon shot the prince a grateful look, though he suspected Oberyn's intervention had more to do with amusement than mercy.

The three Sand Snakes moved to stand beside Nymeria, creating a formidable lineup of Oberyn's four eldest daughters. They formed a half-circle around Jon, each watching him with different intent—Obara's open hostility, Tyene's sweetness, Sarella's scholarly curiosity, and Nymeria's knowing familiarity.

I feel like a rabbit surrounded by foxes, Jon thought uneasily. Or wolves. And I'm not even the wolf here.

"Ladies," Oberyn addressed his daughters, "Jon Snow will be staying with us as my ward. I expect you to make him feel welcome." The words were pleasant enough, but something in Oberyn's tone made it clear this was not a suggestion.

"Of course, Father," Tyene replied sweetly, her gaze lingering on Jon. "I'd be delighted to help him... adjust to Dorne."

The way she said "adjust" made Jon's collar feel suddenly tight.

"I can show him the library," Sarella offered eagerly.

"And I can test his combat skills," Obara added, though her tone suggested she looked forward to humiliating rather than training him.

Nymeria just smiled, a secretive curve of lips that reminded Jon of their shipboard activities. "I believe Jon and I have already become well acquainted," she said, just ambiguously enough to make Jon's ears burn.

Tyene caught the exchange and turned curious eyes to Jon. "Is that so?" she asked lightly. "What talents has our northern visitor revealed to you, sister?"

"He has a gifted tongue," Nymeria replied without hesitation. "For languages, of course."

Jon nearly choked. Seven hells, does she have no shame?

Tyene's eyes widened with interest. "How fascinating. Perhaps he could demonstrate these... linguistic skills... for the rest of us sometime."

"I'm sure Jon would be delighted to share his talents," Oberyn interjected, clearly enjoying Jon's discomfort. Then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. "But first, he must meet your uncle. Doran is waiting, and it would not do to keep the Prince of Dorne waiting."

The change in Oberyn's tone made the playful atmosphere evaporate immediately.

"Come, Jon Snow," Oberyn said, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's time you met the true power in Dorne."

Jon nodded, relieved to escape the scrutiny of the Sand Snakes, yet apprehensive about what awaited him. As they turned to leave, Tyene called after him.

"Jon Snow?"

He looked back cautiously.

"I hope we'll have time to become... better acquainted." Her smile was pure innocence, but her eyes promised something else entirely.

Lord Stark never warned me about this, Jon thought as he followed Oberyn deeper into the palace. I survived thirteen years of Lady Stark's coldness only to be thrown into this nest of vipers—or snakes, rather.

Robb would never believe this, Jon thought with a wry internal smile. He'd think I was making it all up. Four beautiful, deadly women, all watching me like I'm some exotic dessert. If the heat doesn't kill me, they probably will.

But what a way to go.

Jon followed Oberyn through a series of increasingly opulent corridors, each turn revealing new wonders of Dornish craftsmanship—intricate mosaic floors, tapestries that showed quite a lot, one of them showing a man pleasing two women at once. After climbing a spiral staircase, they arrived at a set of ornate double doors atop the Tower of the Sun.

Two guards stood at attention, their spears crossing to block the entrance. At Oberyn's approach, they straightened and pulled their weapons aside.

"Prince Oberyn," one acknowledged with a bow. "Prince Doran awaits within."

Oberyn placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Remember, speak when spoken to. My brother may appear frail, but his mind is as sharp as Valyrian steel."

Jon nodded, squaring his shoulders. Just another lord to meet, he told himself, though the flutter in his stomach suggested otherwise.

The doors swung open to reveal a circular chamber with windows on all sides, offering a panoramic view of Sunspear and the sea beyond. A gentle breeze flowed through, making this room noticeably cooler than the rest of the palace. A boy was standing near one of the windows, but Jon paid him no mind. At the center, seated in an ornate wheeled chair of gilded wood, was the Prince of Dorne.

Doran Martell was not what Jon had expected. After meeting the vibrant, physical presence that was Oberyn, Jon had imagined the ruling prince would be cut from similar cloth. Instead, he found a man seemingly consumed by his own body—swollen joints, atrophied muscles, and pain etched into every line of his face. Jon was reminded of Nymeria's warning about her uncle.

Gods, how does a man like this command armies? Jon wondered. Lord Stark leads from the front, as does Prince Oberyn by all accounts. But this man looks like he hasn't left that chair in years. Can he even walk to the privy chambers on his own?

"Brother," Oberyn greeted warmly, approaching to place a kiss on Doran's cheek. "May I present Jon Snow of Winterfell."

Jon bowed deeply. "Prince Doran. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Straighten, boy," Doran commanded, his voice surprisingly strong despite his frail appearance. "Let me look at you."

Jon complied, meeting the prince's gaze directly. Doran's eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied Jon's features.

"Your features," Doran remarked after a lengthy silence. "They seem... unusual for a northerner."

"I take after my mother, they say," Jon replied carefully.

"Interesting," Doran mused, his gaze flicking briefly to Oberyn before returning to Jon. "Very interesting indeed."

Why is everyone looking at my eyes? Jon wondered, but did not ask.

"Please, sit," Doran gestured to a chair positioned across from his own. "Oberyn tells me you've never left the North before. How do you find Dorne so far?"

Jon chose his words carefully. "Very different from Winterfell, my prince. Warmer. More... colorful."

A ghost of a smile touched Doran's lips. "A diplomatic answer. You may speak freely here, Jon Snow. Do you find our heat oppressive? Our customs shocking? Our food too spiced for your northern palate?"

"All of the above, except for the food, I haven't had the pleasure of tasting it yet," Jon admitted with a small smile. "Though the heat is the greatest challenge. In the North, one can always add another layer against the cold. Here, I've removed as many layers as propriety allows, yet still feel like I'm being roasted alive."

"Honesty. Good." Doran nodded in approval. "And what of your journey? I understand you came by sea. The Desert Wind is a fine vessel."

"It was my first time at sea," Jon replied. "An experience I won't soon forget."

Oberyn chuckled behind him. "Our young friend discovered he lacks sea legs. Though by the end of the voyage, he seemed to have found his... balance."

The loaded meaning wasn't lost on Jon, whose ears burned at the reference to his activities with Nymeria. Seven hells, does everyone in this family discuss bedroom matters in public?

If Doran caught his brother's innuendo, he gave no sign. "Tell me of your upbringing, Jon Snow. What education have you received? What training?"

"I was raised alongside Lord Stark's trueborn children," Jon explained. "We shared the same lessons in history, mathematics, and languages from Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrik Cassel trained us in swordplay, archery, and riding."

"And were you treated as one of them? Truly?" 

Jon hesitated. "Lord Stark treated me with... kindness." He chose the word carefully. "But I was always aware of my status."

"And Lady Stark?" Doran pressed.

What's he after? Jon wondered.

"Lady Stark tolerated my presence," Jon said diplomatically.

"Tolerated," Doran repeated, his expression unreadable. "A cold word."

"The North itself is cold, my prince."

"Indeed." Doran's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his armrest. "And yet here you are, in the hottest region of the Seven Kingdoms. A curious fostering arrangement."

"I confess, I was surprised by it myself," Jon admitted.

"Were you?" Doran's gaze sharpened. "Did Lord Stark offer no explanation?"

"Only that it would be good for me to see more of the world than Winterfell."

Doran exchanged a look with Oberyn that Jon couldn't interpret. "A father's wisdom, no doubt," the prince said, though something in his tone suggested he didn't believe Jon's account. "But enough of the past. Let us discuss your future in Dorne."

Doran leaned forward slightly, wincing as the movement clearly caused him pain. "You will have chambers in the eastern wing, with a view of the sea. You will train with our master-at-arms to learn Dornish fighting techniques. You will study our history, our customs, our politics. And when you are not training or studying, you will attend court functions as my brother's ward."

"You honor me, Prince Doran," Jon said, genuinely grateful for what seemed generous treatment.

"Honor has nothing to do with it," Doran replied, his voice suddenly cooler. "Blood determines more than most men realize."

The words sent a chill down Jon's spine despite the heat.

"Your blood may be of the North," Doran continued, "but there's something in you that belongs here in Dorne. Something that may flower in our harsh sun better than it ever could in your frozen wasteland."

Does he know? Jon wondered, heart pounding. About my mother? Is that why I'm here?

Oberyn cleared his throat. "Brother, perhaps we shouldn't overwhelm the boy on his first day. He's had a long journey."

Doran waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. You're right, of course." His intense focus shifted away from Jon like a cloud passing from the sun. "You are dismissed, Jon Snow. My son Quentyn will show you to your chambers. Rest. Recover. You are invited to the feast tonight. Tomorrow, your new life begins."

Jon rose and bowed. "Thank you, Prince Doran."

At Doran's signal, a young man who had been standing silently in the corner stepped forward. This must be Prince Quentyn Martell—and Jon immediately understood Nymeria's "frog" reference. The young man had a broad, flat face with protruding eyes that did indeed give him a somewhat amphibian appearance.

"Quentyn, escort our guest to the east wing," Doran instructed his son. "Ensure he has everything he needs."

"Yes, Father," Quentyn replied, his voice tight. It reminded Jon of Lady Catelyn every time she was forced to talk to him.

"Oberyn, a moment," Doran added. "I would speak with you alone."

Jon followed Quentyn from the chamber, the guards closing the heavy doors behind them. They walked in uncomfortable silence down the spiral staircase, Quentyn's movements stiff and his expression closed.

"The east wing is this way," he finally said, gesturing down a corridor with obvious reluctance.

Well, this is going splendidly, Jon thought. I've been in Dorne less than a day and already made an enemy of the prince's son.

"Thank you for showing me the way, Prince Quentyn," Jon offered, trying to ease the tension.

Quentyn shot him a sidelong glance. "I'm sure you'd rather have one of my cousins showing you around. Perhaps Nymeria? I understand you two have become... familiar."

The pointed barb confirmed Jon's suspicion that nothing remained private in this palace. Seven hells, does everyone know about our shipboard activities?

"I'm grateful for any guidance," Jon replied diplomatically.

Quentyn scoffed. "Save your courtesies, Snow. I know why you're here."

"That makes one of us," Jon muttered under his breath.

Quentyn stopped abruptly, turning to face Jon. "You think this is a game? You think you can just arrive from the North and—" He cut himself off, visibly collecting himself. "Never mind. Your chambers are through here. A servant will bring water for bathing. Dinner is at sunset in the small hall."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jon standing bewildered in the corridor.

Well, that was a warm welcome, Jon thought, wondering what his problem was, as far as he knew, bastards were not seen as lesser in Dorne, so he doubted that Prince Quentyn was angry with him because he was a bastard, so there must be a different reason.

Behind those closed doors in the solar, he imagined the Martell brothers discussing him, dissecting him, planning... what? His future? His purpose here? And whatever that purpose was, it clearly bothered Prince Quentyn greatly.

Lord Stark sent me into a nest of vipers with no warning, no preparation, Jon realized with growing unease. The question is—are they my enemies, or my unexpected allies?

Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: both Prince Doran and his son saw something in Jon Snow that went far beyond a bastard boy from the North, and whatever that something was, it was significant enough to bring him across the continent into the heart of Dorne.