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Jon woke to sunlight streaming through the narrow window of his chamber, his head throbbing with the remnants of too much ale. For a moment, he lay still, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Then the memories of the previous night flooded back—the brothel, Ros, her mouth, his shameful pleasure.
He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes. What would his father think of him now? What would Arya think? He'd crossed a line, stepped into a world he wasn't sure he belonged in. Yet even as shame washed over him, his body stirred at the memory of Ros's touch, her fiery hair spilling over his thighs, her knowing smile.
A thunderous pounding at his door jolted him upright.
"Snow! Are you dead in there?" Theon's mocking voice called from the corridor. "Or just worn out from last night?"
Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold stone floor. "Coming," he called, his voice rough with sleep.
He'd barely finished pulling on his jerkin when the door burst open. Robb strode in, looking annoyingly alert, followed by Theon, whose smug grin made Jon want to punch him.
"Well, well," Theon drawled, dropping onto the edge of Jon's bed without invitation. "Look who survived his first night of debauchery."
"Keep your voice down," Jon hissed, glancing toward the open door before pushing it shut. "Do you want the whole castle to hear?"
Robb laughed, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Relax, brother. No one's awake yet except the kitchen staff, and they're too busy to gossip about our whereabouts."
"Always the worrier," Theon said, leaning back on his elbows. "Though I suppose that's better than being a statue. Tell us, Snow, did you actually do anything with that pretty Dornish girl, or did you just stand there gawking all night?"
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. He turned away, ostensibly to pour water from the pitcher into his washing basin, but really to hide his face. "That's not your business, Greyjoy."
"Ha!" Theon crowed. "You see that, Stark? He's blushing like a septa caught in a brothel. You actually fucked her, didn't you?"
"Theon," Robb warned, though his blue eyes sparkled with interest as he studied Jon's face. "Well? Did you?"
Jon splashed cold water on his face, buying time. He'd felt so bold last night with Ros, but in the harsh light of morning, surrounded by his brother's curiosity and Theon's mockery, he felt like a green boy again. I didn't bed her, he wanted to say. But what we did... it felt just as shameful. Just as thrilling.
"Maybe I did," Jon muttered, not looking at either of them.
"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed. "Mybrooding brother finally becomes a man!"
Theon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're lying."
Jon turned, wiping his face with a cloth. "Believe what you want."
"Did you actually put your cock in her, or are you just twisting words like a court schemer?" Theon pressed, rising from the bed to confront Jon directly.
Jon met his gaze steadily, summoning the confidence he'd briefly felt with Ros. "I said it's not your business."
"He definitely did something," Robb interjected, grinning broadly. "Look at his face."
"Probably lasted all of ten seconds," Theon snorted. "And I guarantee you're half the size I am down there, Snow."
Jon rolled his eyes, though the comment stung more than he cared to admit. "According to Ros, I'm 'quite gifted.' Nine inches, she said."
The words escaped before he could stop them, and Jon immediately regretted them. What are you doing, bragging like some tavern drunk?
Robb burst out laughing at the stunned expression on Theon's face.
"You're lying," Theon repeated, though with less conviction. "Ros would never say that."
"She did," Jon shrugged, finding it strangely satisfying to see Theon's usual smugness falter. "But believe what you want."
"Enough about cock sizes," Robb said, still chuckling. "Let's get some food before training. I'm starving."
"Fine," Theon muttered, heading for the door. "But this isn't over, Snow. I know when someone's spinning tales."
"I'm sure you are quite familiar with that." Jon said and enjoyed the glare he received from Theon.
As they walked through the corridors toward the Great Hall, Jon fell into step beside Robb, letting Theon stride ahead.
"You really did it, then?" Robb asked quietly, his voice free of mockery. "With the Dornish girl?"
Jon hesitated. He couldn't bring himself to lie directly to Robb, not when his brother was looking at him with genuine curiosity rather than judgment.
"Not... exactly," he admitted in a low voice. "It was Ros, actually. And we didn't... I mean, I didn't..."
Understanding dawned on Robb's face. "Ah," he nodded. "Still, that's something. Your first time with a woman, even if it wasn't everything."
"It was enough," Jon said, feeling that familiar mix of shame and desire stirring again. "More than I expected."
Robb smiled, nudging Jon's shoulder with his own. "Good for you, brother. The first step is always the hardest."
They entered the Great Hall, where servants were laying out bread, cold meats, and porridge for the household's breaking of fast. Jon was grateful for the bustle and noise that discouraged further private conversation. He filled his plate mechanically, his mind still caught between last night's pleasure and this morning's shame.
Does this make me less honorable? he wondered, watching Theon flirt with a serving girl across the hall. Or is this what becoming a man means—learning that honor has its limits when faced with desire?
He'd always judged himself harshly for being a bastard, holding himself to higher standards than even his legitimate siblings, as if perfect honor could somehow erase the stain of his birth. But last night with Ros had shown him a side of himself he'd never acknowledged—a side that wanted, that took, that gave in to pleasure without thought of consequence.
"We're going again next month," Theon said hushedly, returning to their table with a triumphant smirk. "The day after the harvest feast, when everyone will be too drunk or tired to notice us slipping away."
Jon looked up from his untouched porridge. His first instinct was to refuse, to declare last night a mistake never to be repeated. But unbidden, an image of Ros's knowing smile flashed through his mind, and he felt a stirring of anticipation.
"You in, Snow?" Robb asked. "Or was once enough for your delicate sensibilities?"
Jon should have hesitated. Should have weighed his options, considered the risk, reminded himself of his resolve. Instead, a single word tumbled from his lips before he could stop it.
"Yes."
Theon raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by Jon's eager response. "Well, well. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, Snow."
"Shut up, Greyjoy," Jon muttered.
As they finished their meal and headed out to the training yard, Jon tried to recapture his usual solemn demeanor, but something had shifted inside him. The wall between the person he thought he should be and the person he was becoming had cracked, letting in a dangerous light. And despite everything he'd been taught about honor and restraint, Jon found himself looking forward to feeling that light again.
Three days after his nameday, Jon slipped into Winterfell's library, seeking solace in the familiar comfort of books. The morning's training session had been grueling—Ser Rodrik pushing them harder than usual, making Jon pay for every moment his mind wandered to inappropriate memories of the brothel. His body ached, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess, but he knew where to find peace.
The library was silent save for the soft crackling of the hearth fire. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale sunlight that filtered through the narrow windows. Jon inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting scent of old parchment and leather bindings. This had always been his sanctuary, a place where his bastard status mattered less than his curious mind.
He made his way to the far corner, where he kept his favorite volume—Fire and Blood. It was always the same ritual: pull the heavy tome from its shelf, settle into the worn chair by the small window, and lose himself in tales of dragon riders and conquerors. Something about the Targaryens had always fascinated him, though he couldn't explain why. Perhaps it was their outsider status, coming to Westeros as foreigners and bending the Seven Kingdoms to their will. Perhaps it was simply the dragons.
But when Jon reached the familiar shelf, his hand found only empty space where Fire and Blood should have been. He frowned, eyes scanning the neighboring volumes. Perhaps someone had reshelved it incorrectly? Lady Stark occasionally sent servants to tidy the library, and they rarely knew where things belonged.
"That's odd," he murmured to himself, running his finger along the gap.
He moved to the next shelf, where he knew The Princess and the Queen was kept. Another empty space greeted him. Concern growing, Jon quickly checked the locations of his other favorite volumes—The Rogue Prince, Doom of Valyria, Conquest's Cost. All missing.
"This can't be a coincidence," he muttered, now methodically working his way through the entire library, checking each shelf. His heart beat faster as a pattern emerged. Every book on Valyria, every tome about dragons, every history of the Targaryen dynasty—gone.
By the time he'd finished his search, a cold knot had formed in his stomach. Someone had deliberately removed these specific volumes. But why? And who would care about his reading habits?
Lord Stark, a small voice whispered in his mind.
Jon shook his head, dismissing the thought. His father had never interfered with his education before. Besides, he'd given Jon a beautiful sword for his nameday; why would he simultaneously punish him by taking away his books?
There was only one person who might have answers. Jon left the library, striding purposefully toward Maester Luwin's turret. His mind raced like a horse, each thought more unsettling than the last. Was this some elaborate prank by Theon? Had Lady Stark finally found a way to make his life more miserable without directly confronting him?
He reached the maester's door and knocked several times in quick succession, his urgency getting the better of him.
"Maester Luwin!" he called. "Are you there? It's Jon!"
The door creaked open, revealing the elderly maester in his gray robes, chain clinking softly around his neck. His eyebrows rose at Jon's apparent distress.
"Jon? Why such urgency, lad? Are you injured?"
"No, Maester, I'm fine," Jon said, trying to calm his voice. "But the books are gone."
"Books?" Luwin stepped back, gesturing for Jon to enter his cluttered study. "What books?"
"All of them," Jon explained, stepping inside. "I went to read Fire and Blood as I often do, but it wasn't there. Neither was The Princess and the Queen or any of the other books on Valyria. All of them, gone. Every single one."
He watched Luwin's face carefully, and what he saw made his heart sink. Guilt flashed across the maester's features, quickly masked by a more neutral expression. But Jon had caught it.
"You know something," he said quietly. "Where are they, Maester Luwin?"
The old man sighed, moving to sit at his desk. "I had to return them to the Citadel, Jon."
The words hit Jon like a slap, even worse than the one Lady Stark had given him when he had called her mother for the first time. "Return them? All of them? Why?"
"They were only on loan, you see," Luwin explained, not quite meeting Jon's eyes. "Rare volumes that I was permitted to borrow for a time. I've been putting off their return for years, but the Archmaester finally insisted."
Jon's mind whirled with confusion and suspicion. "But why now? And why all at once? Surely not every book on Valyria in Winterfell's library belonged to the Citadel."
Luwin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, no. But once I was packing the borrowed volumes, I realized many of our own texts on similar subjects were in poor condition. I've sent them for rebinding and preservation."
It sounded reasonable, yet Jon couldn't shake the feeling that the maester wasn't telling him everything. He moved closer to the desk, scanning the parchments laid out there, looking for clues.
"Which books exactly did you return?" he asked.
Luwin listed them, counting off on his weathered fingers: "Fire and Blood, The Princess and the Queen, The Rogue Prince, Conquest's Cost, Valyrian Steel, Doom of Valyria, Dragon Binding, The Rise and Fall of House Targaryen..."
As the list continued, the pattern became unmistakable. Every single book dealt with Valyria or the Targaryens. Not a single volume on the other great houses or general Westerosi history had been removed.
"Don't you find it strange," Jon interrupted, "that only books about Valyria and the Targaryens needed to be returned or rebound? Not a single book about the Starks or the First Men or the Andals?"
The maester's eyes flicked nervously to the door, as if checking whether anyone might be listening. "Valyrian histories are particularly valuable, Jon. The knowledge they contain about dragons and magic—"
"This isn't about their value," Jon cut in, an uncomfortable pressure building in his chest. "Did I do something wrong, Maester Luwin? Is this some kind of punishment?"
"Punishment?" Luwin looked genuinely shocked. "Of course not, Jon! You've done nothing wrong."
"Then why?" Jon pressed, leaning on the desk. "Why take away the books I love most without warning? Why only those specific subjects?"
Luwin hesitated, fingers fidgeting with his chain. "It's... complicated, Jon. Sometimes knowledge must be handled carefully, especially for young minds."
"I'm not a child," Jon said, straightening. "I'm thirteen. A man grown by Northern standards."
"Yes, but—"
"Is it my father?" Jon asked suddenly. "Did Lord Stark order this?"
Something flickered in Luwin's eyes—confirmation, though the maester would never say it aloud. "Jon, please understand. Lord Stark has his reasons for everything he does. He cares for you deeply."
Jon stepped back, a hollow feeling spreading through him. Why would his father do this? What possible reason could he have for wanting to keep Jon from learning about Valyria and the Targaryens?
"When will they be returned?" he finally asked, his voice heavy with grief as if he had lost someone precious.
"Within a year or two, if all goes well," Luwin replied, relief evident in his tone at the change of subject. "I'll request certain volumes back sooner, if possible."
"A year or two," Jon repeated flatly. By then, he might be gone—off to the Wall or whatever fate his lord father decided for him. The timing felt deliberate, though he couldn't understand why.
"If there's anything else you'd like to read in the meantime," Luwin offered, "I'd be happy to suggest—"
"No, thank you," Jon cut him off. "I think I'll go train instead."
He turned and left without waiting for a response, anger and hurt churning inside him. As he descended the tower stairs, his mind returned to the conversation with his father five years ago, when he'd first expressed interest in the Targaryens.
"They were our enemies, Jon," Lord Stark had said, his voice unusually stern. "Remember that they killed your grandfather and uncle. It's important to learn history, but don't glorify those who would have destroyed our family."
Jon had been eight then, and he'd nodded solemnly, not understanding why his father seemed so troubled by his innocent questions about dragons. Now, at thirteen, with his books mysteriously vanished, Jon wondered what he was missing.
As he emerged into the courtyard, Jon gazed up at the window of his father's solar. The missing books were just one more reminder that despite growing up in Winterfell, despite his father's care and his siblings' love, there were parts of this place that would always be closed to him. Doors that would remain locked, truths that would stay hidden.
Because I'm a bastard, he thought bitterly. Because I'm not really a Stark.
He turned away, heading for the armory. If they didn't let him find escape in books, he would lose himself in the familiar rhythm of swordplay instead, where at least the rules were clear, and the pain was honest.
A Fortnight Later
The practice yard rang with the clash of steel as Jon pivoted smoothly, his blade a silver blur as it swept past Robb's guard. The blunted edge tapped his brother's ribs before Robb could counter.
"Dead again," Ser Rodrik called, his bushy white whiskers twitching with approval. "Well struck, Jon."
Robb stepped back, breathing hard, sweat darkening his auburn hair despite the autumn chill. "Seven hells, when did you get so fast?"
Jon shrugged, trying not to look too pleased. "Been practicing footwork at night."
"While the rest of us sleep like normal people," Theon drawled from his perch on the fence. "Is that before or after you cry over your missing books, Snow?"
Jon turned to him, a rare spark of mischief in his violet eyes. "At least I know how to read, Greyjoy. The only thing you study closely is the ceiling of Ros's bedchamber—and even then, you don't last long enough to memorize the details."
Robb burst into laughter, nearly dropping his practice sword. "He's got you there, Theon!"
Theon's smug expression faltered into a scowl, but Jon had already turned back to his stance, ready to continue the match. The jibe had been satisfying, though the mention of his missing books still stung more than he cared to admit. A fortnight had passed since their discovery, and the hollow feeling in his chest hadn't diminished.
"Again," Ser Rodrik commanded. "And Robb, mind your left side. You're dropping your guard."
They reset their stances. Jon focused on Robb's eyes, watching for the flicker that always preceded his first move. There—a glance to the right. Jon was already moving as Robb lunged, sidestepping the attack with a grace that felt almost instinctive.
He hadn't told anyone, but he'd been dreaming of swords lately. Strange dreams where he wielded a blade of pale fire against shadows with blue eyes. The dreams left him restless, driving him to the practice yard in the predawn hours to work through forms until his muscles burned.
Jon parried Robb's next two strikes and feinted left before landing another touch on his brother's shoulder.
"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Are you part shadowcat now?"
Jon grinned. "Just lucky, I suppose."
From across the yard, Jon noticed his father watching from the covered walkway, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly before Lord Stark turned away, speaking in low tones to Jory Cassel. Something in his father's demeanor—a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes—sent a chill through Jon that had nothing to do with the autumn wind.
Something's wrong, he thought, not for the first time. And whatever it is, I'm somehow part of it.
The Second Visit
"You came back," Ros purred, her fingers trailing along Jon's collar as she led him up the narrow staircase of The Frozen Peach. "I wasn't sure you would."
Jon's mouth felt dry, anticipation and nervousness warring within him. "Neither was I," he admitted.
Unlike his first visit, there was no paralyzing indecision this time, no moral crisis freezing him in place. He knew what he wanted--what he'd been thinking about for a moon's turn--and Ros's knowing smile suggested she did, too.
"The others have already chosen their companions for the evening," she said, glancing back at him with emerald eyes that sparkled in the dim lantern light. "I thought perhaps tonight you might want me for yourself?"
Heat bloomed in Jon's chest and spread lower. "Yes," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.
Ros led him to a different room than before—this one smaller, more intimate, with a proper bed rather than divans. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. A single candle burned beside the bed, its honey scent mingling with Ros's floral perfume.
"You've been on my mind, Jon Snow," Ros said, closing the door behind them. "That's not something I often say to men who visit me."
Jon wasn't sure how to respond to that. Was it a practiced line meant to make him feel special, or was there truth in it? He found himself hoping for the latter, foolish as that might be.
"You've been on mine as well," he confessed. It was true—her fire-kissed hair and knowing touch had haunted his dreams for weeks, making his solitary pleasures in the dark of night pale in comparison to the memory of her mouth on him.
Ros stepped closer, her hands finding the clasps of his cloak. "Shall we pick up where we left off?" she asked, unfastening it and letting the heavy wool fall to the floor. Her nimble fingers moved to his jerkin next.
Jon let her undress him, his breathing quickening as she worked. When she had him down to just his breeches, she smiled in appreciation, running her hands over the lean muscle of his chest and shoulders.
"The training yard has been kind to you," she murmured, tracing a finger along the definition of his stomach.
"The Master-at-Arms isn't," Jon replied with a half-smile, remembering Ser Rodrik's punishing drills.
Ros laughed, a genuine sound that transformed her face, making her look younger, more carefree. Jon found himself staring, captivated by this glimpse of the woman beneath the practiced seductress.
She moved to the laces of his breeches, loosening them with practiced efficiency. "Let's see if you're still as impressive as I remember," she teased, pushing the fabric down his hips.
His cock sprang free, already hard from their brief interaction. Ros made a sound of approval, wrapping her hand around him and stroking slowly.
"Just as magnificent," she praised, sinking to her knees before him.
Jon reached out, catching her wrist gently before she could take him in her mouth. "Wait," he said softly.
Ros looked up, surprise evident in her expression. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?"
Jon shook his head, suddenly feeling foolish but determined nonetheless. "No, it's not that. I just..." He took a breath, steadying himself. "What can I do to please you?"
Ros blinked, genuinely caught off guard. She rose slowly to her feet, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. "Please me?" she repeated, as if testing the unfamiliar concept on her tongue.
Jon nodded, meeting her gaze despite the heat he could feel rising to his face. "Last time was... it was very pleasurable for me," he said, stumbling slightly over the words. "But I want to know how to please you too."
Something flickered across Ros's face—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something softer and more vulnerable than he'd seen from her before.
A sultry smile curved her lips as she reached for the laces of her dress. "Well then, Jon Snow," she said, her voice like honey, "let me show you."
With tantalizing slowness, she unlaced her gown and let it slide from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a puddle of emerald silk. She wore nothing underneath, and Jon found himself momentarily stunned by her nakedness—the creamy skin glowing golden in the firelight, the generous curves of her hips, the graceful slope of her waist, and those ample breasts that had haunted his dreams.
Her beauty was almost otherworldly—her beautiful face with high cheekbones and full lips, her red hair cascading down her back like living fire. Jon felt his throat constrict, his desire for her almost painful.
"You can always put it in," Ros said, her gaze dropping pointedly to his erect cock as she moved closer, the heat of her body radiating against his skin.
Jon's mind raced at the suggestion. Gods, how he wanted to—to feel her around him, to know the pleasure men spoke of in hushed, reverent tones. He could almost imagine it, the wet heat of her enveloping him, her legs wrapped around his waist as he...
But then reality intruded, harsh and unavoidable. The image of another bastard, another child growing up with the weight of shame and uncertainty that he knew all too well. He couldn't risk creating another life like his own, no matter how much his body craved the release.
"Is there..." Jon hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Is there any other way I can please you?"
Disappointment flashed briefly across Ros's features before her professional mask slipped back into place. But there was something else there too—a flicker of respect, perhaps, for his restraint.
She considered him for a moment, then a slow smile curved her lips. "You could give me the Lord's Kiss," she suggested, though her tone held a note of doubt. "Though most men don't care to do that."
Jon frowned in confusion. "The Lord's Kiss? What's that?"
Ros laughed softly, the sound warming something in Jon's chest. "It's when a man uses his mouth on a woman," she explained, gesturing vaguely toward the juncture of her thighs. "Down there."
Jon felt his eyes widen slightly. He'd never heard of such a thing, though it made a certain sense—if a woman's mouth could bring a man pleasure, why not the reverse?
"I'd like to try," he said decisively, even as uncertainty gnawed at him. Would he know what to do? What if he was terrible at it?
Ros looked genuinely surprised again. "You would?"
Jon nodded, more confident than he felt. "If you'll show me how."
A slow smile spread across her face, more genuine than any he'd seen from her before. "Come here, then," she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed.
She lay back against the pillows, her fiery hair spread out like a fan beneath her. She parted her legs, revealing the pink folds between her thighs.
Jon stared, fascinated. He'd never seen a woman like this before, so open and vulnerable. The sight stirred something in him, a hunger.
"Kneel between my legs," Ros instructed, her voice gentler now, patient. When Jon obeyed, awkwardly positioning himself, she continued. "Now, use your tongue. Start slowly. Lick me like you would honey from your fingers."
Jon leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt clumsy, uncertain, but determined not to disappoint her. Tentatively, he extended his tongue, drawing it slowly through her folds.
The taste surprised him—musky and sweet, unlike anything he'd experienced before. Not unpleasant, just... different. Unique to her.
"That's it," Ros encouraged, her breath catching slightly. "Now find the little pearl at the top. That's where the pleasure is strongest."
Jon explored carefully, using the tip of his tongue to search for what she described. When he found the small nub nestled at the apex of her folds, Ros's sharp intake of breath told him he'd succeeded.
"There," she gasped. "Circle it with your tongue. Gently at first."
Jon did as instructed, circling the sensitive bud, paying close attention to how Ros responded. At first, his movements were awkward, too forceful or too light, but he was a quick study. He'd spent his life watching, learning, adapting—skills that served him well now as he noted each gasp, each subtle arch of her back.
"Use your fingers too," Ros directed after a while, her voice breathier than before. She guided his hand, showing him how to slide a finger inside her while his tongue continued its work. "Curl them up, like you're beckoning someone."
The heat and wetness around his finger was intoxicating. Jon felt a surge of pride as Ros moaned when he found the spot she'd described, a slightly rougher patch inside her that seemed to intensify her pleasure when he stroked it.
As the moments passed, Jon grew more confident, finding a rhythm that drew increasingly desperate sounds from Ros. Her thighs trembled on either side of his head, her hips beginning to move against his mouth of their own accord.
"Faster now," she gasped, one hand tangling in his dark curls, guiding him. "Don't stop."
Jon increased his pace, his tongue flicking more insistently over her pearl, his fingers working steadily inside her. He looked up along the length of her body and was struck by the sight—her head thrown back, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath, her skin flushed and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Suddenly, Ros cried out, her body tensing beneath him. Her inner walls clamped down around his fingers in rhythmic pulses as she shuddered through her release. Jon continued his ministrations, gentler now, guiding her through the waves of pleasure until she weakly pushed at his head, too sensitive for more.
He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching in awe as Ros caught her breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes closed, a look of peaceful satisfaction on her face that he'd never seen before.
When she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him with something like wonder.
"Seven hells, Jon Snow," she breathed, a lazy smile spreading across her face. "For someone who didn't know what the Lord's Kiss was thirty minutes ago, you're a remarkably fast learner."
Jon couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips, a rare feeling of pride blossoming in his chest. For once, he'd excelled at something that had nothing to do with swords or fighting or being a Stark—something that was just him, Jon Snow.
"I enjoyed it," he admitted, surprised to find it was true. The pleasure he'd taken in her pleasure was different from his own physical release, but no less satisfying in its way.
Ros pushed herself up on her elbows, looking at him with newfound curiosity. "You're a strange one, aren't you? Not like the other men who come here."
Jon shrugged, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "I'm just Jon."
"No," Ros said thoughtfully, reaching out to brush the silver streak in his hair. "You're not 'just' anything, Jon Snow. And someday, I think the world will know it."
Two Weeks Later
The first snow of the season dusted the godswood like honey on a lemon cake, transforming the ancient grove into something from a tale. Jon sat beneath the heart tree, sharpening his sword with a whetstone.
The scrape of steel was hypnotic, allowing his mind to wander through the events of the past two months. His visits to the brothel, now numbering three, each less guilt-ridden than the last. His growing prowess in the training yard, where even Ser Rodrik had taken to pitting him against older boys to give him a proper challenge. The continued emptiness of the library shelves where his favorite books had once rested.
And always, always, the sense of being watched.
Like now, Jon's hand stilled on the whetstone as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He didn't turn, didn't give any indication that he'd sensed the presence. Instead, he resumed sharpening as he strained his ears for any sound.
Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of ravens from the broken tower.
Yet Jon knew someone was there, observing him. He'd felt it repeatedly over the past weeks—in the library, the practice yard, even once while returning from The Frozen Peach. Always just out of sight, just beyond confirmation.
"If you're going to spy on me," he called out suddenly, "you might as well show yourself."
Only silence answered him. Jon sheathed his sword and stood, scanning the trees carefully. A flash of movement caught his eye—a figure slipping behind a sentinel pine. Too small to be a guard, too stealthy to be one of his siblings.
Jon pursued, boots crunching through fresh snow as he rounded the tree. Nothing. He continued through the godswood, following faint tracks until they disappeared at the edge of the hot spring. Whoever had been watching him knew Winterfell well enough to vanish without a trace.
That night at dinner, Jon studied the faces around the hall, wondering which of them might be his shadow. His eyes settled on his father, who seemed more withdrawn than ever.
That night, Jon made his fourth visit to The Frozen Peach with Robb and Theon. For the first time, he didn't hesitate at the threshold, didn't question his right to pleasure. He sought Ros out specifically, finding in her arms a respite from the growing sense that something fundamental in his life was about to change.
"You're far away tonight," she murmured against his neck as they lay tangled together afterward.
"Just thinking," Jon replied, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder.
"About what?"
Jon considered the question. How could he explain the strange confluence of events that troubled him? The missing books, the mysterious watcher, his father's unusual behavior, and the odd looks he sometimes caught Maester Luwin giving him—sad and concerned, as if Jon were dying and didn't know it yet.
"The future, I suppose," he said finally. "I'm a bastard. I have no place at Winterfell once I'm grown."
Ros propped herself up, her expression unusually serious. "Everyone has a place in this world, Jon Snow. Sometimes it's just not where we expected to find it."
Jon left the brothel that night with her words echoing in his mind, a strange premonition settling over him like the first snow of winter—gentle yet inexorable, covering everything familiar in something new and unknown.
Ned Stark
Ned Stark stared at the ledgers spread across his desk, though his mind was far from grain counts and winter stores. Two moons had passed since Jon's nameday, two moons since the letter from Dorne had arrived bearing the sun and spear seal. Two moons of indecision, of watching his sister's son grow more restless, more questioning.
Outside, a bitter wind howled around the towers of Winterfell. The first true storm of winter had blown in from the north two days prior, burying the castle under a fresh blanket of snow. The weather had given Ned hope that perhaps the Martells' journey would be delayed, giving him more time to prepare, to decide.
But prepare for what? he asked himself, running a weary hand over his face. You've had thirteen years to prepare. Thirteen years to tell the boy the truth. And you've wasted every one of them.
It had seemed the right choice at the time—to protect Jon, to hide his identity even from himself. He knew Robert's hatred of the Targaryens had not diminished with the years.
Ned reached for the goblet of watered wine at his elbow, wondering for the hundredth time what his sister would think of the choices he'd made. Had he honored her last request, or twisted it to ease his own conscience?
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called, straightening in his chair.
Jory Cassel stepped into the solar, snow still melting on his cloak and beard. "My lord," he began, his expression unusually grave. "Riders have been spotted approaching the east gate. They bear the banners of House Martell."
Ned's heart sank. Despite the preparations, despite the scouts' reports that the Dornish party had been sighted crossing the Neck a fortnight ago, some part of him had clung to the hope that this moment might never arrive.
"How many?" he asked, buying time as he mentally prepared himself.
"A small party, my lord. Perhaps twenty men, including servants. Prince Oberyn rides at their head."
"Oberyn?" Ned frowned. He had expected an emissary, perhaps even a trusted advisor, but not the Red Viper himself. "You're certain?"
"Aye, my lord. I'd not mistake him. I saw him fight in the tourney at Storm's End years back."
Ned nodded, rising from his chair. "Have chambers prepared in the Guest House. The best we have. And inform Lady Stark that we'll be hosting Prince Oberyn for dinner."
"It's already done, my lord," Jory replied. "Lady Stark has the servants preparing as we speak."
"Good. Show Prince Oberyn to my solar when he arrives."
After Jory departed, Ned moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered courtyard below. Men scurried about making last-minute preparations, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Off to the side, near the armory, Jon was helping Bran with his archery stance, patiently adjusting the boy's elbow and grip.
The sight sent a pang through Ned's chest. Jon had always been good with his younger siblings—patient where Robb was impulsive, gentle where Theon was harsh. He would make a fine teacher, a fine protector. If circumstances were different, he might have made a fine lord.
But circumstances were what they were, and Ned had run out of time to change them.
He turned from the window as the door opened again. This time, Vayon Poole entered, announcing that Prince Oberyn had arrived and was being escorted to the solar.
"Send him in," Ned said, steeling himself.
Moments later, the door swung wide, and Prince Oberyn Martell strode into the room like a man entering his own home rather than a foreign stronghold. He was tall and slender, with the olive skin and black hair typical of Dorne. A neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp features, and his dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and something harder to define—amusement, perhaps, or contempt.
"Lord Stark," Oberyn said, his accent thick. "At last we meet face to face."
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