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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.
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