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Chapter Text

Author’s Note: I don’t own Game of Thrones, nor any of the characters. I only own the plot to the story and a few characters, which are my own.

Summary: Once upon a time, the Crown Prince would have been exactly what Sansa wanted in a husband. A golden-haired prince. He was not what she wanted. She wanted someone kind, gentle, and strong, someone like Jon.

Prologue 

Starfall—Dorne 281 AC.

Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark grimaced slightly in pain as he and Howland rode for Starfall. The bones of his companions who had fallen at the ill-named Tower of Joy. Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Oswell Went to fell that day.

Lyanna was gone, along with his stillborn nephew. Was it cruel for him to be thankful the spawn born of rape had not drawn a breath? Lyanna wept no tears for the babe she had lost.

Ned held her as she died from a birthing fever. The silver-haired cunt had left her there with no midwife nor maester to tend to her during the birth. His wounds were still healing. 

The Sword of the Morning would have killed him if not for Howland’s timely intervention. It's dishonourable to stab a man with his back turned to you. One must do what they must to survive. Ned was a good swordsman in his own right, but he was no match for the deadly milk blade of the Sword of the Morning.

“HALT, STATE YOUR BUSINESS.” The Dayne guards called from the walls above the gate to Starfall.

“I’ve come to return Dawn to Lord Dayne, along with the bones of his fallen brother,” Ned called back.

A few moments later, the gates opened with a groan. The Warden of the North urged his mount forward. Howland followed.

They were met in the courtyard by the Lord of Starfall. Vorian Dayne. Ned had shared a dance with Lord Dayne’s sister at Harrenhal. Ned had been infatuated. But that was all.

Brandon had been more so. It seemed. Brandon had disappeared for quite a while that night, only returning in the early hours of the morning. Brandon had always been better with girls than Ned had been.

“Lord Stark, welcome to Starfall.”

“Lord Dayne, I wish our meeting were under better circumstances than this,” Ned said grimly as he dismounted.

“I, too, wished it were under better circumstances than this as well. You’ve come to return my brother’s bones to us along with Dawn.”

“He died fulfilling his vows as a Kingsguard. He died well.” Ned presented Dawn to the Lord of Starfall.

“Hmm, it seems this war has taken much from us both. We both lost a brother and a sister.”

“Lady Ashara,” Ned asked.

“Died on the birthing bed. Your nephew Jon survived—your brother Brandon’s son.  Fear not, Lord Stark; he will be loved and cared for by me and my lady wife, Jeyna. I’ve named him my heir,” as if Vorian could read Ned’s mind. “My wife and I will never be blessed with children of our own. I suffered from a bad case of mumps as a child. While I survived, there was always a chance I couldn't father a child.

Jeyna has an affliction that, if she does become with child. She will never carry it to term. We have both come to terms with it. Jon is our chance at a child.  I made a promise to Ashara to raise the boy, and I will.”

“I only ask that when the time comes, he learns of his Northern family,” Ned said.

“Jon will be told of his mother and father. When the time is right” 

Ned and Howland departed Starfall a few days later. Making the long ride to King’s Landing. It would be another three moons before Ned returned to Winterfell.

Ned Stark cried the first time he held his daughter, Sansa, and son, Robb. Ned didn’t want to start off his marriage to Catelyn on the wrong foot. So he told her of Jon. Their nephew in Dorne. Catelyn was neither hurt nor surprised that Brandon had fathered a bastard. Catelyn had known of Brandon’s indiscretion before they even wed. 

Ned recalled one of his father’s many sayings. The Lone Wolf Dies so the Pack Survives. Jon was a part of the pack. One day he hoped he would come to the North to learn of his Northern roots. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

King’s Landing - the Crowlands 

295 AC

King’s Landing really was a shithole. You could smell the rank smell of shit and poverty from five or more miles away, given the wind direction. For Ser Jon Dayne, soon to be Lord of Starfall when he turned ten and six. 

Jon earned his spurs at age ten and four. Squiring for the Red Viper himself, Prince Oberyn Martell. Jon learned many lessons from the Red Viper. Weaponry, plants, poisons, and women alike. 

Jon rode to King’s Landing not alone. Ser Daemon Sand rode with him. Daemon, like Jon, had squired for the Red Viper himself.  Daemon had a squire, Branton Sand, bastard nephew of Franklyn Fowler, Lord of Skyreach.

Along with his sworn shield, Ser Patrack Tallman, second son of the Master of Arms of Starfall, Alon Tallman, and brother to the Captain of the Household Guard, Ser Anderon Tallman.

The Tallmans had served House Dayne in some desctions for well over a hundred years. The king was hosting yet another tournament. It was Crown Prince Joffrey’s name day. 

It was his ten-and-two name day tourney. The prize money was quite generous for the overall tournament champion. A prize of 20,000 Gold Dragons. Runner-up was 10,000. The prize money varied for the tourney events being held. 

The Street of Silk and Steel was abuzz with activity for those competing in the Crown Prince’s name day tourney that would be held over several days. Jon was entered in the melee and joust.

A Grand Feast was being held by the King to begin the week-long Tournament for the Crown Prince’s ten and two name day. To Jon, it was a waste of money. The Crown could better spend the money on improving the lives of the small folk who lived in the poorer parts of King’s Landing, Flea Bottom, and the like.

Jon ventured down to the Street of Steel with his sworn shield, Ser Patrack Tallman, and Branton Sand. Daemon’s squire. Daemon was who knows where, most likely the Street of Silk.

Jon headed for the best armourer in King’s Landing and, well, perhaps Westeros. A man Jon had been a frequent customer of since he was a squire. Master Tobho Mott.

“Ah, Lord Dayne. A pleasure to see you once again,” Mott greeted them as they entered his smithy.

“Master Tobho.” Jon nodded in greeting. “I was after a jousting shield for myself. I’ve come on behalf of Ser Daemon Sand. His squire, Branton Sand, requires new armour for himself.”

“Very well, my Lord. GENDRY,” Tobho Mott called into the smithy. A tall, muscular lad about Jon’s age, or perhaps a few name days younger, came forward. Jon noted that the boy Gendry was the spitting image of the king himself. It was well known everywhere in the Seven Kingdoms that the king had indiscretions and had fathered multiple bastards throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon himself was born out of wedlock and orphaned technically the day he was born. Jon was lucky, he supposed. His Uncle Vorian and Aunt Jeyna had raised him as their own son.

Jon’s father’s family, the Starks, was a mystery to him. He had two uncles, an aunt, and five cousins in the North. Jon was curious about his father’s family. He was half Northern and half Dornish. A part of him had always felt like it was missing.

They were names to him and nothing more. Perhaps one day he could get to the North, Winterfell more specifically, and learn of his Northern heritage. One day, Gods willing, he would go to the North.

Jon noted a finely made helm in the back of the smithy. “Master Tobho, who made the helm in the back there?”

“My apprentice. Gendry, bring the helm you made. Lord Dayne wishes to see it.”

“It’s not for sale,” the lad Gendry answered.

“If Lord Dayne wishes to buy the helm, then he’ll buy the helm,” Mott cut in.

“It’s fine, Master…. It’s fine work, Gendry. I wouldn’t want to part with such a fine piece of craftsmanship. Would you be interested in a job then? We could use a man with your skills in Starfall. When you’ve finished your apprenticeship. 

I am to be the Lord of Starfall official in a year or so. I could use a good smith in Starfall if you're interested, that is.” Jon’s Uncle Vorian became ill when Jon was seven. Cancer of the stomach, Maester Sibas said. Vorian lived five years, dying when Jon was ten and two of stomach cancer.

Knowing he would die before Jon would come of age. Jon, then aged seven, name days, was sent to be a page/cupbearer for Prince Doran of Dorne and then a squire for Prince Oberyn. 

Jon’s mother, Ashara, had been a childhood friend and later a lady-in-waiting for the prince’s late sister. Princess Elia Martell. From Prince Doran. Jon learned many valuable lessons of lordship and leadership. Not of battle but politics. 

“Master Tobho, I myself would like to commission a set of armour for myself made by young Gendry. He does fine work.”After perhaps an hour or two. The three left the Street of Steel, headed back to where they were camping with Daemon.

Daemon rejoined them the next morning. Smelling of wine and cunts. No doubt he had been to the brothels on the Street of Silk. 

The tournament began in three short days. Jon wished to get as much training in beforehand. So that morning, three days before the tournament began. 

Jon, along with his sworn shield Ser Patrack Tallman and Branton Sand. Daemon remained at the campsite, sleeping off the wine he’d drunk last night and the day before that.

The training yards were a buzz of activity with knights and squires training before the tourney for Prince Joffrey’s name day began. 

It was a rare day off when Barristan Selmy, also known as the Bold, ventured to the training grounds of the tournaments. The king was having yet another tournament.

Barristan wasn't even sure what had drawn him to the training grounds. In one of the training yards. There was a small crowd formed around one of the yards. Three men were training. 

The distinctive pale milk blade of Dawn. Ancestral Sword of House Dayne. Caught Barristan's attention. The sword was once wielded by his former friend, brother-in-arms, and former Kingsguard. Ser Arthur Dayne. The last Sword of the Morning.

Now it was wielded by Arthur's only nephew. Lord of Starfall, Jon Dayne. Son of Lady Ashara Dayne and the Wildwolf Lord Brandon Stark. Even now, fifteen years later. That day in the throne room when what was now called the Wildfyre trials were held, with only Ethan Glover being spared.

The Mad King burnt the Warden of the North at the time, Lord Rickard Stark, alive in his own armour, while Brandon choked to death trying to save him. Those had been dark days.

The now Lord of Starfall. Wielded the Greatsword of House Dayne as if it were a mere toy in his hands. The lad was a big lad. Standing perhaps a strapping 6’1” at ten and five. He had the Northern build. Stocky and muscular. 

Fighting two to one. Jon held his own. The one Barristan recognised as Ser Daemon Sand: the Bastard of Godsgrace. The other man was a mystery to Barristan. He had seen the man a few times whenever he had seen Jon Dayne in the past. A sworn shield, perhaps.

“I yield.”The bastard of Godsgrace yielded, and his friend also yielded not long after.

Jon set Dawn back in its scabbard, tied to the post of the training yard. Climbing out of the training yard. Jon, Daemon, and Paterk had trained without armour and with live steel.

He dunked his head in a bucket of water that was close by. Taking the ladle, he drank from it deeply. He poured water over his head to cool off. 

“That was well fought, my lord. You fight like your uncle. A finer man I never knew. Would give the pleasure of sparring with me.” Jon glanced behind him to see one of his childhood heroes. Ser Barrisan Semly.

The two had met once or twice. The last time. Jon had been newly knighted at ten and three. 

“I would be a fool to turn down such an offer. “To spar with one of the finest knights in Westeros,” Jon answered. 

Word quickly spread around the tourney grounds: the Sword of the Morning’s nephew was sparring with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The crowd watched on bated breath. Jon drew Dawn from its scabbard. To everyone’s surprise. Jon picked up a shield as well. Greatsword is predominantly a two-handed weapon. Someone truly skilled or with above-average upper body strength could wield a greatsword one-handed with a shield.

“The first to draw blood or yield is the winner.”

Jon nodded an answer of yes.

Both knights circled each other. Waiting for any opening. The Bold made the first move. Slashing at the Lord of Starfall from the right. Jon met the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sword swing for sword swing. Both were evenly matched.

But Barristan was more experienced. The spar could have gone either way. Barristan was the victor of the two. Jon knew when he was outclassed or beaten. He yielded after he was set on his backside with the Bold’s sword at his throat.

“You fight well, Jon. Like your uncle. He was one of the finest swordsmen I’d ever seen. Given a bit more time, you can be as good or better than he was.”

“Thank you, Ser Barristan, and that means a lot. I still have much I can learn from you and others,” Jon thanked him.

“Good luck in the tournament.”

“Yes, as well if you are competing.” Jon took Barristan’s hand as he got to his feet.

“We shall see.” Barristan cracked a smile as he climbed out of the ring.

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The night before the tournament, the king threw a lavish feast at the Red Keep. Jon sat at the table with Daemon and Patrek. Branton was sitting at a squire’s table. 

The minstrels played tunes from different parts of the Seven Kingdoms and some from the east. The king was deep into his cups that night. Ser Barristan was on duty that night. He nodded to Jon, who returned his nod of hello. The night wore on. Daemon disappeared for a time. Jon had an idea where he’d disappeared to. Daemon’s affairs were his business. But King’s Landing was a snake pit. Discretion was key in the capital, as Jon had learned long ago.

Jon danced with several ladies that night. Including Lady Margaery Tyrell. Behind Princess Myrcella and Princess Arianne, she was one of the best catches for a wife in the Seven Kingdoms. Knowing the Old Queen of Thorns by reputation only.

Only a royal match would do for the Rose of Highgarden.  The Queen Consort looked, at least to Jon, like she had a permanent smell under her nose; either that or she had disdain/contempt for her husband’s boorish actions during the feast. Flirting and pawing over any serving girl within reach.

Seven Hells have no fury like a woman scorned, as the saying goes. Jon pushed the thoughts of the queen and the royal family to the back of his mind come the next morning.

Daemon, himself, and Patrek were all entered in the individual melee for the sword. There were other individual melee for spear, axe, etc., going on as well.

Patrek drew Ser Addamm Morbane as his first opponent during the melee. The Westerlands Knight was the winner with a score of five to two. Daemon had a Frey knight in the first round. He advanced with a score of 6 to 1. Jon had Ser Edmure Tully in the first round.

It was a close contest, with the final score being 7 to 6 in favour of Jon. Daemon, unfortunately, drew Ser Brynden Tully, also known as Blackfish, in the second round. Losing with a score of 5 to 4 in a close-fought contest.

The individual melees for the sword, spear, axe, etc., took place over the first three days of the week-long tournament. The final came down to Jon and the Kingslayer himself, the Queen’s twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister.

The king was well into his cups when heralds announced the arrival of the king, the queen, and the royal children.

“The finalists for the individual Melee of the Sword. On my right. Ser Jaime Lannister, on my right, and Ser Jon Dayne, the Wolf of Dorne, Lord of Starfall. Best of luck to both combatants. May the best man win.” The herald announced.

"Get on with it before I piss myself," the king drunkenly slurred.

The flag dropped. Lannister went on the offensive. Slashing at Jon and quickly followed by a thrust. Jon with limited vision due to his helm. Acting on instinct, I stepped to the side. 

In the stands, watching the final of the Sword Melee. Was the Imp of Casterly Rock, the younger brother of Queen Consort Cersei Lannister. Tyrion Lannister. 

“A wage, my Lord Lannister. Two hundred gold dragons for your brother to win. Or would you rather lose your money betting on his opponent?” Petyr Baelish, also known as Littlefinger, slyly asked.

“I bet my gold will be safe on Dayne winning. While my brother is a formidable swordsman in his own right. But I’d wager double that Jon Dayne, the son of the man who very nearly killed you in a duel, will win.” Just as Tyrion uttered those words. Jaime Lannister found himself on the back foot against the Sword of the Morning’s only nephew.

The Lord of Starfall moved with grace, speed, and savagery behind every swing of his blunt tourney greatsword as he wielded it one-handed with a shield in the other.

Jaime fought desperately to regain the upper hand. A mistimed block ended with Jon slamming his shield full force into Jaime’s helm. The force of the blow knocked the Kingslayer back. Jaime lost his balance, falling to his knees. His helm was knocked from his head by the force of the blow. 

With the Kingslayer stunned enough for Jon to go for the killing blow. Before Jaime and anyone else could blink. Jamie was knocked onto his back. Dayne’s foot on his chest and the blunt sword tip at his throat.

“Do you yield, Lannister?” Dayne’s grey-purple eyes stared at him through the slit of his helm.

Jaime, who had the wind knocked out of him. He nodded his head in answer to the surrender of his yielding. 

“Ha, ha. Fight like his uncle,” the king drunkenly cackled. Which uncle? Jon had five uncles. Three were dead. With only his uncles on his father’s side living. One in Winterfell, the other in Castle Black.

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The Joust was a bloody and deadly affair, with several knights being killed during the Joust. Jon was declared tournament champion after he too won the joust. This time, unhorsing Loras Tyrell. 

Jon had faced the Knight of the Flowers many times in the lists. Knowing of his trick of using a mare in heat when competing. Jon had swapped horses when competing in the final.

Using another horse. A gelding. Who was not affected so much, then Jon’s Stallion would have been. Jon could have taken Tyrell’s horse and armor if he had been inclined to do so. But had chosen to allow the knight to keep his horse and armour.

“You want to go where?” Daemon looked at Jon as if he had grown a second or third head.

“Winterfell. The Starks are my kin. I want to see my father’s homeland. You don’t have to come, Daemon. You can return to Dorne if you wish to.” Jon shrugged his shoulders as they packed up their camp to leave King’s Landing after the tourney finished.

“Your aunt would murder me in my sleep if I let you go North by yourself.” Jeyna Dayne was a formidable woman for someone so tiny. Jon’s aunt and surrogate mother stood no taller than 5’ at most. Tiny but fierce.

“Aye, very true.” Jon chuckled. He had seen many hard-faced knights and lords trembling in their boots at a tongue-lashing from the Widow of Starfall. “I’ll send her a raven as soon as we’re able to.”

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Winterfell—the North 

295 AC.

Lord Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark groaned and rubbed his eyes. The endless piles of parchments with harvest counts and tax reports. They were doing his head in. Ned had never wanted to be Warden of the North nor Lord of Winterfell; that was supposed to be Brandon’s.

But life had not quite worked out that way. He had married Brandon’s intended. Binding the North and Riverlands through marriage, just as his father had wanted. 

He and Catelyn had married for duty rather than love. That had been ten and five years ago now. Much had changed since then. They had been blessed with five children. Sansa, Robb, Arya, Brandon ‘Bran,’ and young Rickon. But they had also lost a few as well. With miscarriages and a stillborn daughter born between Arya and Bran, being born in 287. 

Ned would not change his life for quids. There was a part of their family/pack that was missing and had been missing for ten and five years. Jon.

While leaving Jon in Starfall to be raised by Vorian and Jeyna had been a good thing. A part of Ned ached to know his nephew more than a letter ever turned of the moon.

Vorian was gone now. He had gone to meet the stranger three years ago. Cancer of the Stomach, the letter from Starfall had said. Ned’s back and bones cracked as he stood from his stiff chair.

Gathering his heavy Northern cloak. Ned ventured out onto the ramparts above the training yard. Robb, Bran, and Ned’s hostage/ward, Theon Greyjoy, were in the training yard. 

Ned smiled when he noted a flash of brown hair race across the yard. Ayra was dodging her lessons with Septa Mordane. 

“Father, have you seen Arya? She’s been dodging her lessons with Septa Mordane again.” Sansa appeared a vision of her lady mother. But Ned could see much of Lyanna and his own mother, Lyarra, in his eldest daughter.

“She’s in the training yard with Robb and Bran. Red Wolf,” Ned smiled, kissing Sansa on the head. She disappeared just as quickly as she appeared.

“Lord Stark. A boy is asking to see you at the castle gates.” Jory Cassell appeared next. Cassell had been captain of the household guard for the last five years. Since they had returned from the ill-fated Greyjoy Rebellion.

“A boy”

“Well, there’s a group of four young men. The one who asked to speak with you. Had a great sword strapped to his back.” A great sword strapped to his back. Was it Jon who had come to the North and Winterfell to meet his father’s family? Why had he not sent word before now? Ned had so many unanswered questions.

“Jory, allow them in. I will meet and speak with them shortly.”

“Yes, my Lord ”, Jory bowed his head and retreated. Ned stood for a time on the ramparts. His heart beat fast as he made his way to one of the courtyards.

Stark soldiers stood at attention when Ned walked passed them. The group of four young men had ridden into the courtyard and dismounted by the time Ned had arrived.

“Lord Stark…. I um…… I’m not sure how I am to address you. I am Jon Dayne. Your nephew….. Your brother Brandon’s son with Ashara Dayne. I’m sorry to show up unannounced like this. I have always been curious about my Northern Roots and family. “Ned was taken aback by how much like Brandon Jon looked. There was some of Ashara in Jon, namely the colour of his eyes and perhaps his curly hair.

“You look so much like your father. For a second, I thought you were Brandon. I have not seen you since you were a babe mere moons old. You have nothing to apologise for, Jon. You are a family. A part of the pack.”Ned, without hesitation, hugged his only nephew. Benjen would never marry or father children; he had no interest in them. Well, women for one.  

“May I call you Uncle Ned?”

“You may call me Uncle Jon. You don’t have to ask. You may not have my name, but you have my blood. Your grandfather told me something when I was your age or a little younger. The Lone Wolf dies, but the Pack survives. Jon, you are a member of this pack from the time you drew breath till the time you draw your last.

You were always part of this pack, no matter what,” Ned answered.

“Uncle, this is my good friend Ser Daemon Sand, his squire Branton Sand. and my sworn shield, Ser Patrek Tallman” Jon made the introductions.

Jon’s Uncle called for the Steward of Winterfell, a man named Vayon Poole, arranging for rooms to be made up for Jon and his companions. His Uncle relayed further orders to a man named Jory Cassell. Captain of the Household Guard to gather Lord Stark’s family and wait in the Lord’s Solar. 

In the meantime, Jon and his Uncle Eddard would go to the Cyrpts. Ned led the way, grabbing a torch from the wall as they entered the darkened Crypts.

Jon knew from reading about the history of the North. Every King of Winter there had been till Torrhen Stark knelt for the Targaryens. Most of the Wardens of the Norths. But they had just been names to him. From his father’s side. That Jon knew very little about only what he’d read and been told by Aunt and Uncle, who had raised him from a babe.

“Your Grandfather, Rickard”, Ned pointed out his father to his nephew. “Your father, Brandon and”

“My Aunt Lyanna.”Ned nodded numbly. Lyanna’s death was still raw for him even all these years later. 

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“Why has Father asked us to gather in his solar?”Sansa asked first.

Catelyn adjusted Rickon on her lap before answering her eldest daughter, “Your father will answer you when he gets here.”

The faint sound of footsteps grew louder as they drew closer. The door swung open as Ned stepped into the Lord’s Solar, but not alone. Catelyn took a sharp intake of breath. As a ghost stood before her.

The lad with Ned was the spitting image of Brandon. This had to be her nephew Jon. Brandon’s natural-born son with Ashara Dayne. She finally had a face to the name she had known for ten and four years since Ned had returned from the Rebellion.

Robb glanced at the lad with his father up and down. He was a Stark, well, half a Stark perhaps. Was this their cousin Jon? Born and raised in Dorne. His Uncle Brandon’s natural-born son with Ashara Dayne, possibly.

“Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, this is your cousin Jon Dayne. Your Uncle Brandon’s son,” Ned began the introrductions. “Jon, these are your cousins Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon. And your Aunt, my wife Catelyn”

“Is that Sword you carry, Dawn?” Ayra blurted out.

Jon chuckled, “Aye, that’s Dawn. The dagger I carry is called Dusk. She’s a match for Dawn.”

Sansa, for whatever reason, felt her skin flush red with embarrassment when her handsome cousin turned his grey purple eyes to her. Stop it, Sansa. He’s your cousin.

‘Father’s parents were cousins. ’ A voice rang in Sansa’s mind. That hardly matters. Jon and she were cousins, yes. But she barely knew him. She had met him mere minutes ago. How could she feel like this about someone she had just met? She didn’t have a crush on him, did she? Surely not?

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Winterfell—the North 

295 AC.

Perhaps it was a force of habit, or his body was wired to wake in the early hours of the morning. The heat and humidity of Dorne. Jon and others would rise early in the day, training before the sun and humidity became too much.

The Northern Air was crisp and cold. It was a refreshing change from the constant heat and humidity of Dorne. King’s Landing came in a close second. They had all been roomed in the guest wing of the Castle. 

Daemon, Branton and Patrek all struggled with the cold. But for Jon, it didn’t seem to bother him as much. His Northern Blood, perhaps.  Jon strapped Dawn to his back, with Dusk on his hip. Jon never went anywhere without Dawn and Dusk. For good reason.

It wasn’t quite first light yet when he ventured out of the Keep. The changing of the guard was happening as Jon left the Keep. Walking aimlessly towards the Godswood. 

The Hearttree beckoned to him. Jon knelt by the tree. Saying a short prayer in the Old Tongue. Jon had taught himself to speak the Old Tongue on the journey North to Winterfell on the Kingsroad.

Jon remained in the Godswoods for a time. Jon wasn’t exactly a believer in the Seven or the Old Gods. He followed both Gods. He was drawn more to the Old Gods. But in the same instance, he followed the Seven. He had sworn his vows of knighthood under the Seven.

Jon was returning from the Godswoods when he ran into Daemon returning to the keep. Smelling of Wine or perhaps Northern Ale and Cunts. Jon didn’t have to guess where his friend had spent his evening.

“Sampling the Northern Wares then,” Jon joked as he and Daemon walked back towards the keep.

“Yes, the most delish Northern Wares. You should taste them yourself, Jon.” Daemon smiled.

“Aye, perhaps I will,” Jon returned Daemon’s smile as he bumped shoulders with his best friend.

Daemon and Jon parted ways once more. Jon went to the Great Hall to break his fast. Well, Daemon was no doubt going to his bed. Having not gotten a wink of sleep last night, no doubt.

His uncle, aunt, and cousins were already there when Jon joined them. Jon removed Dawn from his back, placing her close by. Jon took a seat between Robb and Arya. Little Rickon sat beside Jon’s Aunt Catelyn. Sansa sat across from Jon. While Bran sat next to Arya. 

Conversation flowed freely around the table. The breaking of their fast was interrupted by the grizzled master-at-arms. Ser Rodrik Cassel came to their table.

“Lord Stark. A deserter has been captured in the Wolfwood about three and a half miles from here.”

“Robb, saddle your horse as well as mine and Theon’s.” Jon’s uncle turned to his ward and hostage. “Theon see Ice is ”brought”—the ancestral Valyrian Great Sword of House Stark. It was said to be the same size as Dawn, perhaps bigger.

“Yes, my Lord.” Jon had not taken a liking to his uncle’s ward/hostage. The feeling was mutual, it seemed. Jon could not understand why Robb and Theon were friends. Robb must see some quality in Theon that makes him consider him a friend.

“Bran, you're coming to. Jon, you, and Ser Patrek are welcome to come along.”

“Ned Bran is a boy. He is far too young to see such things.” Jon had not been much older the first time he saw his Uncle Vorian execute a man. A deserter, rapist, and murderer. 

“He is of the North and a Stark. I was not much older the first time my father took me with him when he executed a deserter. Ours are the old ways, Cat. The man who passes the sentence shall swing the sword. He will not be a boy forever. Winter will come soon enough,” his uncle concluded.

Jon stood up from the table. Gathering Dawn, strapping it to his back. “The deserter that's been caught. He’s from the Night’s Watch,” Jon asked his cousin as they walked towards the stables.

“Aye. The vows are for life. Deserting is punishable by execution.” Robb answered.

Jon saddled his stallion. They rode in silence to where the execution would take place. Bran looked nervous and apprehensive. His cousin would soon learn that life was not all stories and songs. Life was harsh and unforgiving. 

Ned nodded to the guards to put the deserter’s head over the block. Pulling Ice from its scabbard. Ned knelt.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, King of Andals, of the first men.”

“Don’t look away; Father will know,” Robb advised his younger brother. Jon stood stoically beside them with his sworn shield not far away. 

“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die." There was a pause before Ned beheaded the deserter with one clean swing of Ice, the Valyrian greatsword that was the ancestral sword of House Stark.

“You did well, Bran." Robb patted Bran on the shoulder.

Ned took no pleasure in taking lives. But sometimes it was necessary. Bran looked a little green in the face as he tended to his horse.

“You understand why I did it.”

“Robb told me he was a deserter,” Bran answered, his father tightening the girth on his saddle. 

“But do you understand why I had to do it?” Ned questioned.

“Our way is the old way.”

“Aye, the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. My father taught me that, and his father taught him. You’ll do the same with your sons one day, Bran.” Ned answered.

Robb bragged that his horse was the fastest in all the North and would beat Jon’s Sand Steed stallion. 

Jon’s horse, which he’d named Storm. Storm had never lost a race. Bred from the finest Sand Steeds in all of Dorne. Storm was bigger than most Sand Steeds, standing at 17 hands. 

Ned shook his head as his son and nephew raced each other back to Winterfell. Bran rode beside his father. His pony trotted to keep pace with Ned’s horse.

Jon let Storm have his head as he and Robb raced each other back to Winterfell. Approaching a bridge. A dead elk lay on the other side. A great black beast with blood-red eyes. Stood almost as tall as Jon’s horse. A direwolf. 

Jon had only seen drawings of the direwolves in books on the history of the North. They usually lived beyond the wall. Yet here one stood. Large as life. The direwolf watched Jon with its blood-red eyes. 

Jon slowed Storm before they reached the bridge. Robb came racing around the bend. Slowing too when he noticed the direwolf. “Seven Fucking Hells, what is that?”

“A direwolf,” Jon answered.  

Ned and the others arrived only a short time later. “What is it? It looks like a freak.”

“That is no freak, Theon. That’s a Direwolf.” Direwolves hadn’t been south of the Wall in almost two centuries, yet here one stood, large as life.

“Uncle, I don’t think he’s the only one. There’s a dead direwolf down by the stream. His mate, most likely, and their pups.” The whimpering of wolf pups could be faintly heard. “If he wished to harm us, he would have done so by now.”

Jon had a point. If the Direwolf had wished to harm them. He would have done it long before now. Perhaps it was a sign of the gods, but what was the sign? These pups were meant for his children and perhaps one for his nephew.

Against his better judgment, Ned dismounted his horse. “My Lord,” Jory called after him.

The male direwolf bared his teeth a little. “Jory, put away your blade. That goes for all of you. No one is to draw their swords.”

The direwolf continued to watch Ned with curious blood-red eyes as Ned slowly approached. Holding out his gloved hand. Hoping the direwolf wouldn’t just bite off his hand or wouldn't rip his throat out.

The direwolf smelled his hand. Nudging Ned’s gloved hand with his snout. Ned nodded to Robb and Jon to gather the direwolf pups. There were six in total. One each for his children and one for his nephew. 

“Did you want to hold it?” Robb handed one of the pups to Bran to hold. 

Once the direwolf pups were wrangled up. They made their way back to Winterfell. The father direwolf stuck close by. They received many looks as they rode to the keep with the direwolf pups and the large black male direwolf.

“Lord Stark…”

“Allow him through,” Ned ordered. The guards moved aside, allowing the direwolf into the keep. Many stopped and whispered in hushed tones. A direwolf. No direwolves had been seen south of the Wall in almost two centuries, yet here were seven of them.

“Mother, Mother. We found direwolf pups in the Wolfwoods. Father said we can keep them, right, Father?” Bran asked. 

“You will train them yourselves, you will feed them yourselves, and if they should die, you will bury them yourselves,” Ned agreed.

“Thank you, Father.” Bran ran with his pup in his hands. Hugging Ned once before running off to find his sisters. To tell of the direwolf pups they had found in the Wolfwoods.

Sansa and Arya took the two female pups, naming them Lady and Nymeria. While Robb named his pup Greywind. Bran named his Summer, and Rickon gave his the name Shaggy Dog.

Jon named his own direwolf Ghost. Mainly for how quiet the pup was and the colour of his fur.

On the third day of Jon’s visit to Winterfell. Jon joined his cousins and his uncle’s ward/hostage in the training yard. Daemon joined them alongside his squire and Ser Patrek.

In one of the training rings were Robb and Theon Greyjoy. Jon leaned on the fence, watching Greyjoy and Robb spar. Robb’s form was excellent. Greyjoy was hardly a challenge for Robb, by the look of it. Daemon was close by in another training ring, where Bran and Branton were sparring under Daemon’s watchful eyes.

Ser Rodrik barked, “Watch your footwork.”

Greyjoy was disarmed a few moments later. With his blunt tourney sword being sent flying. “I yield.”

“Nice work, Robb.” The grizzly Master at Arms praised the Heir to Winterfell and the North.

“Cousin, you’re not too tired for another spar with a more worthy adversary than Greyjoy,” Jon said mockingly. Jon found the Greyjoy to be an insufferable, egotistical twat, and he’d only known him for a few days.

Robb wiped the sweat from his brow. Drinking from the water bucket before answering his cousin. “Aye, let’s see how really good you are, Cousin, against a Northerner. We Northerners are a harder breed than those Southern Knights you faced,” Robb grinned.

Jon climbed into the training ring. After picking a tourney sword about the same length and weight as Dawn. Picking up a shield as well. 

“Begin,” Rodrik barked as his nephew Jory joined him at the fence of the training yard. “I’ve seen a man wield a greatsword one-handed with a shield in the other.”

“His uncle was one of the best swordsmen to live. I would not be surprised; Lord Dayne is as good as his uncle was, if not better, given time. He squired for the Red Viper himself.” Rodrik glanced at his nephew as they watched Lord Robb spar with his cousin.

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Arya had disappeared once again. Sansa cursed her sister to the Seven Hells. “I don’t want to be a lady,” Arya said often enough. Her sister was a wild thing. Like their Aunt Lyanna had been, those who had lived in Winterfell before the Rebellion started.

Sansa found herself in the training yard. Out of the corner of her eyes. She spotted her younger twin brother, Robb, sparring with their cousin Jon. Robb was a fine swordsman, but Jon was better. Way better.

Sansa felt her cheeks heat up with a blush as she noted his back muscles as his shirt clung to him from sweat from the spar with Robb. 

“Come on, cousin, you could do better than that. Dead.” Jon slapped Robb on the ribs with his blunt tourney sword. “Your opponent will give no quarter in the heat of battle; it’s fight or die. Use your head.”

Sansa was so engrossed in watching Jon that she didn’t notice Jeyne beside her.

“Your cousin is handsome. Don’t you think so, Sansa? You’ve been staring at him ever since he arrived.” Sansa jumped at the sudden appearance of Jeyne.

“He’s handsome, sure.”

“You have a crush on him,” Jeyne teased.

“He is my cousin and nothing more.”

“Uh huh. Then why are you blushing?” Jeyne continued to tease Sansa.

Sansa tried to think of something to say to change the subject. But she did have a crush on Jon. How could she have a crush on her cousin she had only known for three days?

Sansa finally spotted her wayward sister. “ARYA,” Sansa called to her. Sansa turned back to the training yard where Jon and Robb had been. Her blue eyes met Jon’s grey and purple eyes. He gave her a half grin. Gods be good, she was in trouble. His shirt was soaked with sweat. It clung to him like a second skin. 

Seven fucking hells, she was in trouble, alright.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Winterfell - the North 

295 AC.

Winterfell had been abuzz with activity for weeks. Jon’s Aunt and Maester Luwin were busy organising for the Heavest Feast. Held every year or every two years. Depending on how the Harvest went for that year. 

The North’s harsh and cold climate made it hard to grow some crops. At the same time, root vegetables could be grown in abundance in the North. Along with a few cereal crops that could grow in the cold and harsh North, where the soil was poor. 

Jon had promised his Uncle to speak on his behalf to Prince Doran about a possible trade deal between Dorne and the North. Jon had been in the North for two moons now. 

He was in no hurry to go back South. Jon wished to see the Wall and finally met his Uncle Benjen. A sworn brother of the Night’s Watch and recently appointed First Ranger of Castle Black.

The Haveast Feast/Festivial was to begin in a few days. Many Northern Lords and Ladies began to arrive for the forthcoming celebrations. Jon had been to many feasts and tourneys over the years. But nothing like that.

He recognised some of the Northern Houses he’d read about in the books he’d read in the North as a child. House Umber, Karstark, Locke. Mormonts of Bear Island. House Manderly of White Harbour.

Jon had loved his time in the North with his father’s family. Robb, Bran and Rickon were the brothers he had never had. While Arya was like a sister to Jon. Sansa. Sansa was different 

Jon didn’t quite know how in Seven Fucking Hells he felt about his cousin. She was pretty; there was no denying that. But what he felt for her was a cousinly or sibling-like bond he had for Arya or her brothers. 

Ghost was growing quickly like his littermates. Greywind was the biggest of the six pups. Ghost was growing like a weed. Lady was the calmer of the two female pups. Nymeria, like her mistress, was wild and full of mischief, it seemed. 

More Northern Lords arrived in the next few days before the Harvest Feast/Celebration began. Jon was getting ready for the opening feast. The Harvest Celebration was to last several days. 

Ghost’s ears pricked up, and there was a knock at Jon’s chamber door. Jon threw aside the shirt in his hands. His Uncle Benjen was coming all the way from Castle Black.

According to his Uncle Ned, Benjen had not been back to Winterfell for several years. It was a long, long-overdue visit, apparently. Many Northern Lords who had known Jon’s father commented on how much like the father Jon had never known he looked like.

Jon opened the door to see Sansa standing there mid-knock… For several moments, she stared at him with an open mouth.

“Sans. What brings you to my door? You may want to close your mouth, cousin, or you will catch flies,” Jon teased. Noting how red Sansa’s cheek got and how flustered she looked seeing him half-dressed.

“Jon… I brought this for you. I made it for you. I made others for Robb and Bran,” Sansa stammered. 

“Come in.” Jon stepped aside, allowing Sansa inside his rooms. 

“I made this for you.” Jon took the shirt that Sansa had made for him. It was in the colours of House Dayne and House Stark. “Thank you, Sans.”

Gods be good. When he called her Sans, it made her weak in the knees. She definitely had a crush on her cousin. There was no denying that now. Seven fucking hells, she was in trouble.

“I will see you at the feast then.”

“Aye, you will. Thank you for the shirt.  Jon kissed Sansa lovingly on the forehead before she left his room.

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A waft of Northern tunes played as they entered the Great Hall. His Uncle Ned escorted Jon’s Aunt Catelyn. Robb escorted Arya, while Sansa had opted for Jon to escort her. 

Theon escorted Jeyne Poole, while Daemon escorted Beth Cassell. Jon recognised a few more of the Northern lords and ladies in attendance. House Forrester and House Whitehill. Had been mortal enemies for years, kind of like House Blackwood and Bracken of the Riverlands. 

Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort gave Jon a bad feeling about him. The Lord of the Dreadfort was a peculiar man. His son Dominic seemed a nice enough sort. He was home from the Vale.

Jon was used to girls and women paying attention to him. His Dornish, or rugged Northern, handsomeness, they called it. But Window Lady Barbrey Dustin, she looked at him as if she had seen a ghost.

Jon had asked his Uncle Eddard why Lady Barabery Dustin, née Ryswell, looked at him so.

“My brother, your father, was fostered with the Ryswells. There were rumours that Brandon had taken her maidenhead, and that was why she was married hurriedly to William Dustin. 

I thought that could have just been talk. Barabery was in love with your father, perhaps still is,” Ned had answered him.

They all sat at the High Table. Daemon, Branton, and Patrek. Greyjoy was seated at a table not far away.

His Uncle Eddard rose from his chair. 

“My Lords and Ladies of the North. The gods have blessed us with a bountiful harvest this year. Tonight we celebrate that bountifulness and give thanks to the Gods,” Eddard toasted.

Greatjon Umber and Smalljon Umber laughed loudly and heartily as they toasted.

Music, wine, ale, and food soon followed through the Great Hall. Jon had come to love the North and its people. He would miss his aunt, uncle, and cousins dearly when it came time for him to leave.

But now was not the time to think of such sadness. This was a time of celebration. Soon, a space was cleared for those who wished to dance. A man dressed in black entered the Great Hall. He looked remarkably like Uncle Ned.

His Uncle Benjen had at long last arrived. Jon excused himself, rising from his chair between Robb and Arya. Ghost and the other direwolves were lying under the table or around it.

“Jon, come here, Lad.” His Uncle Ned called him to them.

“By the Old Gods, you’re the spitting image of Brandon. You’ve got some of your mother in you, lad.” Jon’s Uncle Benjen pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Robb had asked Alys Karstark to dance. Jon had the eye of every unmarried woman in the room, with many married women eyeing him as well. Jon was a handsome young man. And would make any woman a fine husband.

Jon excused himself from his uncle's and headed back to the High Table. Arya and Bran were treading on each other’s toes as they attempted to dance. Branton danced with Beth Cassell.

While Daemon had taken a shine to Jeyen Poole, and she to him, it seemed. Sansa, to Jon’s surprise, remained at the table. Robb had now come to ask his mother for a dance.

 “My lady, may I have the honour of this dance?” Jon asked with his hand held out.

“You may, kind Ser.” Sansa took her deviously handsome cousin’s hand, whom she had a crush on.

Lady joined Ghost under the High Table, watching their master and mistress dance together. Ghost licked Lady’s face. Resting his head on hers. 

Jon and Sansa danced twice more before Robb cut in to dance with his sister. Jon danced with some of Maege Mormont’s daughters, Arya, and his aunt. 

Jon stood to one side when Lord Roose Bolton and his good father, Lord Rodrik Ryswell, approached Jon.

“Lord Bolton, Lord Ryswell,” Jon nodded in greeting.

“Lord Dayne, how are you finding the North? It seems you have acclimated quite well.” What was Bolton hinting at?

“Speak plainly, Bolton. No riddles,” Jon grunted, already disinterested. 

“You have impressed the Northern Lords. There are some who think you should be heir to the North. Your father was the eldest of your grandfather's sons.”

“Stop right there, Bolton. I have no intention of usurping my uncle or cousin. I will never betray my family. You, my Lords, have no honour or decency. I am a legitimate bastard of the once heir to Winterfell and the North.

I hardly think my father would have wed my mother because she was with child. I have lands and titles of my own. I have no desire to take Winterfell or the North from my family. Good day, my lords,” snakes in the grass, the pair of them.

Jon felt a fair amount of jealousy when Sansa danced with Theon Greyjoy of all people. Why was Jon jealous of Sansa dancing with Greyjoy? Sansa was his cousin. Jon wasn’t sure how he felt about Sansa. But he felt something.

Perhaps he had a crush on his cousin. She would be a heartbreaker when she was older. Who was he kidding? Jon was already way over his head, and he didn’t know it. 

Ned's Direwolf unnamed. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Winterfell—the North 

295 AC

After the Harvest Feast. Life in Winterfell calmed down. The Northern Lords and Ladies returned to their respective lands. Benjen returned to Castle Black.

It was getting closer to the time that Jon, Daemon, Branton, and Ser Patrek would depart to head back to Dorne. Until then, Jon was spending as much time as possible with his uncle, aunt, and cousins.

The day's lessons ended early for his cousins. With Uncle Ned’s blessing, Jon and Cousins went riding. Daemon and Ser Patrek joined them along with Branton. 

A small escort guard rode with them. Arya and Bran raced ahead of them, with Branton giving chase. The only one of Jon’s cousins not there was little Rickon. 

The direwolves were growing fast. It was hard to imagine that only two and a half moons ago, they’d found the direwolves' pups. Greywind was the biggest of the pups. Ghost had once been the runt of the litter, but no longer. He was the second biggest of the litter.

Robb led the way with Theon riding beside him. Daemon and Patrek rode just behind them, with Jon and Sansa bringing up the rear.  

After a few hours of riding, they reached a picturesque waterfall. Jon made a mental shapeshop of the North; he could remember the sights and places he’d seen during his time in the North.

 Reaching the Waterfalls. They stopped dismounting. Even in the midst of summer, it still snowed in the North. Light flakes of snow came down around them. Bran, Branton, and Arya ran about, throwing snowballs at one another.

While the others played around in the snow. Jon dismounted his horse, Storm, and walked over and helped Sansa down from her grey mare. Jon offered his arm as they walked. The others were occupied. Ghost and Lady followed their master and mistress. A pair of silent chaperons, perhaps.

“Jon, can I ask you something? You can say no.”

“Sure, what is it, Sans?” Gods be good every time he called her that. Sansa blushed bright red. She most certainly had a crush on her handsome Dornish cousin.

“It’s umm… I never kissed anyone. You know, like on the…” Sansa stammered.

“Kissed someone properly on the lips, and you wanted me to be your first,” Jon finished.

Sansa nodded, not trusting herself to say something stupid.

Jon stopped walking after a while. Ghost, perhaps, could somehow read Jon’s mind. Silently stood watch for any unwanted guests. 

“No tongue”

“What do you mean, no tongue?” Sansa questioned.

“Oh my sweet little cousin, Sansa. You have much to learn. There are many different types of kissing people can do, and not just on the mouth. But that’s a lesson for another time. One I shan’t give if I wish to keep my balls, or Uncle Ned will geld me himself and set me to the wolves.” Jon laughed as Sansa’s blush deepened.

“A knight doesn’t make fun of a lady.”

“Then I am a poor substitute for a knight, then,” Jon chuckled still.

Sansa’s heart beat so fast she was sure it would beat right out of her ribcage at this rate. Her palms sweated as Jon placed a calloused hand on her cheek. 

The kiss they shared was more than a quick peck on the lips. Jon kissed her with no tongue. Sansa felt a spark ignite between them; she saw stars, etc. 

Jon pulled away a few moments later. “How was that for your first kiss?”

“It…was…um…good.”

“Ahm. If you want more kissing lessons, I will be happy to oblige.” Sansa was bright red at Jon’s words.

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Sunspear—Dorne 

295 AC.

Jon, Daemon, Branton, and Ser Patrek Talltree departed Winterfell after three moons there. Jon promised he would write to them every turn of the moon or so. 

They rode for White Harbour, staying a few days enjoying the hospitality of House Manderly before sailing south for Sunspear. The winds had been kind to them. Reaching Sunspear in a month and a half’s sailing. 

Jon had sent a raven from White Harbour to Sunspear for the attention of Prince Daron to discuss a possible trade deal with the North. The Prince of Dorne only frequented the Water Gardens or Sunspear when his gout was playing up.

A host of Martell guards escorted them to the Sunspear Keep. Jon was escorted to the Prince of Dorne’s private solar.

“Ah, Lord Dayne, it has been too long since we saw one another, no?”

“Aye, it has, my Prince.” Jon bowed his head, sitting when the Prince of Dorne motioned for him to sit.

“Your Raven said you were coming on behalf of your uncle. Lord Eddard Stark. A trade deal between the North and Dorne”

“Yes, my Prince.” Jon handed over the letter his uncle had written. The trade deals were explained in greater detail in the letter. Jon had delivered on his Uncle Eddard’s behalf.

“Hmm. It seems like a fair trade deal. I will speak with the other Dornish lords before anything is decided. You and your companions are welcome to stay for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you, my Prince.”

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Starfall, Dorne

295 AC.

Jon had been back in Sunspear for a few weeks when Prince Doran’s answer to the trade deal came. Jon wrote out a letter to his uncle.

To the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark.

Uncle. I have good news. Prince Doran has agreed to a trade deal between the North and Dorne. He will write to you with greater detail than what I know. How are Aunt Catelyn and my cousins Robb, Sasan, Arya, Bran, and Rickon?

Give my love to everyone, even Theon.

Your nephew: Ser Jon Dayne—Lord of Starfall. 

Ghost lay content at Jon’s feet. The Albino Direwolf had shed his heavy Northern coat for a lighter coat to better deal with the heat. Jon scratched Ghost's head. It was good to be back home in Dorne. But Jon missed the North, his cousins. One in particular, but he was too blind to see it just yet.