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Promise me, Ned. When he turns thirteen, you will tell him the truth. Promise me.
The words echoed in Ned Stark's mind, haunting him as they had for thirteen years. Ashara's violet eyes, so like her brother's, had brimmed with tears when she'd made him swear. Now, the day had come, and the weight of that promise sat heavy on his shoulders.
Ned sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, now streaked with gray. Snow fell gently outside the window of his solar, a constant companion in the North even as summer lingered. The hearth crackled, casting long shadows across the room.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter," he called, straightening in his chair.
Maester Luwin shuffled in, his chain clinking softly as he moved. He carried a stack of parchments in his weathered hands, his gray eyes sharp despite his advancing years.
"My lord," Luwin bowed slightly. "The reports you requested. There have been more wolf attacks near Long Lake. Three sheep taken from the Cerwyn lands, and a child claims to have seen a direwolf, though that seems unlikely."
"Unlikely, yes, but not impossible," Ned replied, taking the parchments. "Direwolves haven't been seen south of the Wall in centuries, but the old stories say they return with harsh winters." He paused, frowning at the thought. "Where is Jon today?"
The change in the subject didn't surprise Luwin, who merely raised an eyebrow. "With Lord Robb and Theon Greyjoy, my lord. They were huddled in the stables earlier, speaking in whispers. I suspect they're planning some mischief."
"As boys do," Ned said, a fond smile briefly crossing his solemn face. "It feels like only yesterday they were fighting with wooden swords in the yard, barely tall enough to reach my waist."
"They grow faster than weeds, my lord. Some faster than others."
Ned looked up. "You speak of Jon."
"Aye," Luwin nodded. "The lad has an old soul. Watches everything, that one. Thinks before he speaks. Not unlike his father in that regard."
Ned shifted uncomfortably at the words. He turned his attention to the parchments, reading through complaints about border disputes, requests for aid with harvests, and a report of wildlings seen near the Last Hearth.
They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, until Luwin cleared his throat.
"My lord, if I may request your permission?"
"Permission?" Ned looked up, brow furrowed.
"For Jon's nameday gift." Luwin's eyes twinkled. "As you know, today marks his thirteenth year."
"Ah, yes." Ned set down his quill. "What do you have in mind?"
"I've procured a book. A rather rare volume on Old Valyria from the Citadel archives," Luwin said. "Took some convincing to get Archmaester Marwyn to part with it, even temporarily." He added under his breath, "At least one of them appreciates the written word."
"A book on Valyria?" Ned's smile stiffened. "Why would Jon want that?"
Luwin looked surprised. "The boy has been fascinated with Old Valyria for years, my lord. He's read 'Fire and Blood' by Archmaester Gyldayn three times over. Practically memorized sections about the Doom."
"Three times?" Ned sat up straighter, caught completely off guard. "I had no idea Jon held such interest in Targaryen history."
"Oh yes," Luwin nodded enthusiastically. "He's even picked up a few phrases in High Valyrian. Has quite the ear for it, too. Pronounces it better than most maesters I've known."
Ned's stomach tightened. "Since when has he been studying Valyrian?"
"Since he was nine or so," Luwin said, eyebrows drawing together at Ned's obvious discomfort. "Is something amiss, my lord?"
"No," Ned said too quickly. "I'm simply... surprised I wasn't aware."
"Jon is quiet about his passions. Not one to boast." Luwin smiled fondly. "But he asks the most insightful questions about the Targaryen conquest, dragon-binding, even the political structures of Old Valyria."
"What other books has he read on the subject?" Ned asked, trying to keep his voice casual while his heart hammered in his chest.
As Luwin rattled off titles—"The Princess and the Queen," "The Rogue Prince," "Conquest's Cost," "Valyrian Steel"—Ned felt a cold dread seeping through him. All this time, Jon had been drawn to his hidden heritage without even knowing it. Like a moth to flame. Like dragon to fire.
"And where is Jon now?" Ned interrupted, a new urgency in his voice.
"Last I saw, he was headed toward the godswood with Lord Robb and the Greyjoy boy."
Jon Snow
"I'm telling you, it's high time," Robb Stark insisted, his auburn curls catching the late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the godswood's canopy. "You're a man grown today. What better way to celebrate?"
Jon Snow leaned against the pale trunk of the heart tree, its carved face watching their conversation with sightless red eyes. The streak of silver in his otherwise dark hair gleamed like quicksilver against the weirwood's bark.
"It's not about being ready," Jon argued, his voice low. "It's about consequences. I won't father a bastard."
Theon Greyjoy snorted from where he lounged on a nearby rock, flipping a dagger end over end. "That's what moon tea is for, Snow. The girls at Ros's know their business." His eyes glinted with mischief as he caught the blade deftly by its handle. "Or are you afraid you wouldn't know where to put it?"
"Shut up, Greyjoy," Jon muttered, violet eyes flashing with annoyance.
"Ignore him," Robb said, shooting Theon a warning look. "But he's not wrong about the moon tea. And Ros runs a clean establishment—even Father knows it. Why do you think he turns a blind eye to the older guards visiting on their off days?"
Jon crossed his arms. "Lord Stark may tolerate it for others, but what would he think of me doing the same?"
"Seven hells, you overthink everything," Theon groaned, sitting up. "It's just fucking, not a marriage proposal. You Starks and your honor."
"I'm not a Stark," Jon reminded him, a familiar bitterness creeping into his voice.
"You are to me" Robb countered, clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Look, you don't have to if you truly don't want to. But I thought... well, it might help you stop brooding for one night."
"I don't brood," Jon protested.
Theon and Robb exchanged glances before bursting into laughter.
"What?" Jon demanded.
"You're brooding right now," Theon pointed out, mimicking Jon's serious expression and furrowed brow to perfection.
Despite himself, Jon's lips quirked upward. "Fine. Maybe I do. A little."
"More than a little," Robb grinned. "So? What do you say? One adventure to mark your nameday? We'll use the passage behind the burned tower. No one will know."
Jon hesitated, looking between his brother's eager face and Theon's challenging smirk. There was a part of him—a growing part—that was curious. The same part that sometimes caught himself watching Jeyne Poole when she didn't know he was looking, or noticing how the serving girls' dresses clung to their figures.
"The redhead—Ros—she's quite something," Theon added, a dreamy quality entering his voice. "Knows tricks that would make a Lyseni pleasure goddess jealous."
"I don't need to hear about your exploits, Greyjoy," Jon grimaced.
"Your loss," Theon shrugged. "But there's a new girl there. Arrived from White Harbor last month. Hair black as night, skin like cream. They call her the Winter Rose."
"Now you're just making things up," Jon accused.
"On my honor as a Greyjoy," Theon placed a hand over his heart, his face a mask of sincerity that fooled no one.
"That's worth about as much as teats on a breastplate," Robb laughed.
"You wound me, Stark," Theon clutched his chest dramatically before his expression turned sly. "But I'm not lying about the girl. And I hear she has a preference for pretty lads with dark hair."
Jon felt his cheeks heating. "I'm not pretty."
"Tell that to the kitchen maids who keep finding excuses to deliver your meals personally," Robb teased. "Or to Jeyne Poole, who turns the color of a pomegranate whenever you walk by."
"She does not," Jon protested, though he knew it was true.
"So?" Theon pressed. "Are you in or not? Because if you're not, I'll happily pay for the Winter Rose myself."
Jon looked up at the red leaves of the heart tree, as if seeking guidance from the old gods. What was he so afraid of? That he'd like it too much? That he wouldn't measure up? Or was it truly just the fear of fathering a bastard, condemning a child to the life he'd led?
"Fine," he said finally, looking back at Robb and Theon. "But I'm not promising anything beyond showing up."
Robb's face lit up with boyish excitement. "That's all we ask. Meet at the burned tower after the household retires. Bring your darkest cloak."
"And try not to look like you're marching to your execution," Theon added with a laugh. "It's a brothel, not the Wall."
"Very funny," Jon rolled his eyes, but there was a flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach. "If we're caught—"
"We won't be," Robb assured him. "We've done this before."
"You have?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "How many times?"
Robb and Theon exchanged another look.
"A gentleman doesn't count," Theon declared loftily.
"Then you should have a precise number," Jon shot back with a rare grin.
Theon's surprised laughter echoed through the godswood, and even Jon had to admit, if only to himself, that he was looking forward to the night's adventure more than he cared to admit.
.
.
Jon walked briskly across the courtyard, the cold northern air biting at his cheeks. He'd left Robb and Theon to their scheming, needing time to clear his head before tonight's escapade.
As he passed the steward's quarters, he noticed Vayon Poole struggling with an armful of ledgers, a look of frustration etched on his weathered face.
"Need a hand, Master Poole?" Jon offered, already moving to help the man.
"Ah, Jon Snow," Vayon smiled gratefully as Jon took half the burden. "The gods must have sent you. These old hands aren't what they used to be."
They walked together toward the Great Keep, their boots crunching on the frozen ground.
"Lady Stark wants a full accounting before the harvest feast," Vayon explained, shaking his head. "As if I don't have enough to manage with winter stores and tax collections."
"You're organizing by holdfast, not by type of goods?" Jon asked, glancing at the open ledger on top.
Vayon stopped mid-stride, blinking at the boy. "What do you mean?"
"Well," Jon continued hesitantly, not wanting to overstep, "if you organized by grain, livestock, and timber first, then by holdfast within each category, you could better track what the North as a whole has in reserve."
The steward's eyebrows rose. "That's... actually quite clever. Where did you learn about keeping ledgers?"
Jon shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I watch. And I read when Maester Luwin isn't looking for his missing books."
Vayon laughed, a warm sound that cut through the cold air. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, lad. Better than some born to lordship, if you don't mind my saying."
They reached Vayon's small office adjacent to the Great Hall, and Jon helped him arrange the ledgers on his desk.
"You know," Vayon said thoughtfully, "you could make a fine steward yourself someday. Not all warriors win glory with swords alone. Some secure victory through well-managed supplies and shrewd planning."
"Thank you," Jon replied, though the thought of being a steward rather than a warrior or ranger of the Night's Watch felt like settling for less somehow. "But I doubt Lady Stark would approve."
Vayon opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a soft gasp from the doorway.
"Father, I've been looking everywhere for—oh!"
Jeyne Poole stood frozen in the entrance, a basket of mending in her arms. Her dark hair was neatly braided, and her simple dress was well-kept, befitting the steward's daughter. Her cheeks flushed crimson the moment her eyes met Jon's.
"Jeyne, perfect timing," her father said, oblivious to her sudden discomfort. "Jon here was just helping me with a new way to organize the harvest records."
"That's... that's very kind of him," she managed, her eyes darting everywhere except directly at Jon.
"Did you need something, child?" Vayon asked.
"Oh! Yes, Mother sent me to tell you that dinner will be ready early today. She made your favorite stew." Jeyne clutched the basket tighter, her knuckles turning white.
"Wonderful! I'll be along shortly. Just need to implement Jon's suggestion first." He turned back to the ledgers, effectively dismissing them both.
An awkward silence stretched between Jon and Jeyne as they stepped outside the office. Jon shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to say.
"I should go—" he began.
"I heard it's your name day," Jeyne blurted out simultaneously, then looked mortified.
"It is," Jon acknowledged with a small smile. "Thirteen name days today."
"Congratulations," she said softly. "I... I made these." She reached into her basket and pulled out a pair of gloves, finely stitched with dark leather and lined with fur. "They're nothing special, but winter is coming, and yours were looking rather worn."
Jon stared at the gloves, genuinely surprised. No one outside his family had ever given him a name day gift before.
"Jeyne, these are... thank you," he said sincerely, taking them from her outstretched hands. Their fingers brushed briefly, and she pulled away as if burned.
"You'd make a good steward," she said in a rush. "Father's right. You notice things others don't."
Before Jon could respond, she dipped in a quick curtsy and hurried away, leaving him standing alone with the gloves. He ran his thumb over the fine stitching, feeling both touched and uncomfortable with the attention. Gifts were for trueborn sons, not bastards. Jon walked outside and tried out the new gloves; they were comfortable. As he walked aimlessly, he found a staircase and sat on the first step, his mind deep in thought, going to a place he wished not to go.
His thoughts drifted to tonight's planned excursion. Would his father—would Lord Stark—be disappointed if he knew? He was a bastard, but he'd been raised by Ned Stark. Honor was expected, even from those born without it.
A movement caught his eye—a small dark figure darting between barrels in the courtyard, crouching low as if avoiding detection. Jon frowned, watching as the figure ducked behind a cart, then scurried toward the kennels, leaving smudges of something dark on the snow.
With an exasperated sigh, Jon followed, recognizing the furtive movements. He circled around the armory and cut off the escape route just as the figure attempted to dash toward the First Keep.
"Arya, did you take a mud bath?" he asked, crossing his arms as he looked down at his little sister.
"Shut up," she growled, her face so caked with dirt that only the whites of her eyes stood out clearly. Her dress—which had been a respectable blue wool that morning—was now a uniform brown, torn at the hem and soaked through.
"Your mother is going to have your hide," Jon observed, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.
"Only if she finds out," Arya countered, looking around wildly as if Lady Catelyn might materialize from the shadows. "Help me, Jon? Please? It's your name day—you get to ask for things today."
"That's not quite how it works," he chuckled, but he was already guiding her toward a side entrance to the Great Keep, keeping watch for servants or family members who might report back to Lady Stark.
"What happened this time?" he asked as they slipped inside and made their way up a narrow servants' staircase.
"Jakka and I were playing Florian and Jonquil—"
"You hate that story," Jon interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"Fine," Arya huffed. "We were playing Brandon the Builder against the White Walksers, and there was this perfect hill of mud for a battlefield, and Jakka said girls can't be builders OR fight the Others, so I had to prove him wrong."
"By diving headfirst into the mud?" Jon asked, steering her around a corner to avoid a passing chambermaid.
"By building a better fort and then destroying his," Arya said proudly. "But then his stupid brother showed up and started calling me 'little lordling' and saying I should be inside learning to curtsy, not playing in the dirt like a beggar."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "So I might have thrown mud in his face."
"Arya..." Jon sighed. Of all his siblings, Arya was the one he understood best. The outsider. The one who never quite fit.
"He deserved it," she insisted as they reached her chamber door. "And I would have gotten away clean if Beth Cassel hadn't seen me climbing over the east wall and threatened to tell Septa Mordane."
Once inside her room, Jon poured water from a pitcher into a basin and handed Arya a cloth.
"Here. Start with your face before someone mistakes you for a wildling and puts an arrow through you."
Arya stuck out her tongue but took the cloth, scrubbing half-heartedly at her cheeks. Jon took it back with a sigh and crouched before her, wiping the worst of the grime away himself.
"You've got mud in your ears," he said, shaking his head. "How does that even happen?"
"Talent," she grinned, looking more like herself as her features emerged from beneath the dirt.
"Some talent," Jon snorted, wringing out the cloth. "Look, if you're going to sneak out and play war mud games—which I'm neither encouraging nor discouraging—you need better tactics."
"Like what?" Arya asked eagerly.
"Like bringing a change of clothes, for one," Jon said, pointing to her ruined dress. "Hide them somewhere you can reach easily on your way back. And learn the guards' rotations so you know when to move without being seen."
Arya's eyes widened. "You do that?"
"I didn't say that," Jon replied with a small smile. "But hypothetically, if someone wanted to move around Winterfell undetected, they'd be wise to note that the guard at the Hunter's Gate takes a piss break every day just after the midday meal."
Arya giggled, then sobered as she looked down at her dress. "Mother's going to kill me. This was new."
"Not if you are clever," Jon said, moving to her wardrobe. "Which dress is most similar to this one?"
"The dark blue one with the silver trim," Arya said immediately. "But Sansa would never ruin her dresses like this. Mother always says I should be more like her."
"And be a perfect little lady who does nothing but sew and sing and simper?" Jon asked, locating the dress and holding it up. "Where's the fun in that?"
Arya grinned again, but the smile faded quickly. "Sometimes I think it would be easier, though. To be what they want. I don't like it when Sansa calls me 'Horse Face'."
Jon set the dress aside and knelt before his sister, meeting her gray eyes—Stark eyes—with his unusual violet ones.
"Listen to me, little wolf. You are exactly who you're supposed to be. Sansa is Sansa, and Arya is Arya. The North needs both kinds."
"What does the North need dirty little girls for?" she asked skeptically.
"For reminding proper lords that a lady can have a fierce heart," Jon answered seriously. "The North remembers that its women are descended from warriors and wildlings, not just southron flowers."
He tugged gently on one of her tangled braids. "Now, change into this dress, and I'll take the ruined one to the wash house with a story about how I accidentally knocked you into a puddle while we were practicing swordplay."
Arya threw her arms around his neck, heedless of the mud transferring to his jerkin. "You're the best brother, Jon. The best in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon returned the hug, a lump forming in his throat. He wasn't a brother, not truly. He was a bastard, a Snow instead of a Stark. But in moments like these, he could almost forget.
"Go on, change," he said gruffly, releasing her and turning his back. "I'll wait here."
As Arya scrambled to change behind him, Jon's thoughts returned to the night ahead. The brothel. The women. The step into manhood that Robb and Theon were so eager for him to take.
What would Lord Stark think if he knew? What would Arya think of her favorite brother then?
"Done!" Arya announced, and Jon turned to see her looking presentable, if slightly rumpled, in the fresh dress.
"Better," he nodded, collecting the dirty one. "Though you might want to wash your neck before dinner. You've still got half the wolfswood behind your ears."
"Very funny," she scowled. "Will you sit by me at dinner? Sansa's been unbearable lately, going on and on about some knight from White Harbor who might be visiting."
"Of course," Jon promised, heading for the door with the muddied dress bundled under his arm. "It's my name day, after all. I get to ask for things."
Arya's laughter followed him out, momentarily chasing away his doubts about the night to come. Whatever else he was—bastard, nearly-man, or secret-keeper—he was her brother. That, at least, was real.
Later
The Great Hall of Winterfell hummed as servants bustled about, laying out platters of food along the heavy wooden tables. Though not a feast by Southern standards, it was more elaborate than typical evening meals—roasted venison, fresh bread, winter vegetables preserved in vinegar, and a selection of sweets that rarely appeared on Northern tables.
Jon entered hesitantly, lingering at the threshold. Name day or not, he was still a bastard, and the Great Hall was Lady Stark's domain. But before he could retreat to his usual place at the back, Robb spotted him from the high table.
"Jon! Come sit here," his brother called, patting the empty space beside him. "Father's orders."
Jon made his way forward, feeling the weight of eyes upon him. To his surprise, even Lady Catelyn's gaze seemed less frigid than usual. She didn't smile—she never smiled at him—but she inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment before turning her attention to baby Rickon, who was attempting to climb onto the table.
"Happy name day, brother," Robb grinned, clapping him on the shoulder as Jon took his seat. "How does it feel to be a man grown?"
"No different than yesterday," Jon replied with a small smile. "Though apparently being a man means I'm expected to ruin my reputation tonight." He added quietly at the end.
"Lower your voice," Robb hissed, though his eyes danced with mischief. "And it's not ruining if it's improving."
Before Jon could respond, Sansa appeared at his other side, carrying a small plate of lemon cakes.
"Happy name day, Jon," she said formally, placing the plate before him. Her auburn hair was neatly braided in the southern style, and she carried herself with the dignity of a lady twice her age. "I saved these for you."
Jon blinked in surprise. While Sansa was never cruel to him, she typically maintained a polite distance, mimicking her mother's behavior.
"Thank you, Sansa," he said sincerely, touched by the gesture. Lemon cakes were Sansa's favorite treat, a precious commodity in the North where citrus was rare and expensive.
"They're really very good," she added, the formal mask slipping for a moment as she eyed the cakes longingly. "Cook made them specially today."
Jon chuckled and pushed the plate between them. "Share with me?"
Sansa's smile was genuine as she carefully took one, her poise momentarily forgotten as she savored the first bite.
"Jon! Jon!" Bran's excited voice cut through the hall as the seven-year-old bounded up, narrowly avoiding a collision with a servant carrying a pitcher of ale. "Is it true you're getting a real sword? Not a practice one?"
"Is that so?" Jon raised an eyebrow, glancing toward the high table where Lord Stark was engaged in conversation with Maester Luwin.
"It's supposed to be a surprise," Robb muttered, shooting Bran a look. "Someone has been eavesdropping again."
Bran didn't look remotely abashed. "I was practicing climbing! Father and Ser Rodrik were talking in the yard, and I was on the roof of the armory."
"One day you'll fall and break your neck," Sansa scolded, brushing lemon cake crumbs from her fingers.
"I never fall," Bran declared confidently.
"Bran Stark!" Catelyn's voice carried from the high table. "Are you bothering your brothers when they're trying to eat?"
"No, Mother!" Bran called back, then lowered his voice. "Jon, will you show me how to use it when you get it?"
"Of course," Jon promised, ruffling the boy's hair. "Now go sit down before you get us all in trouble."
As Bran scampered off, Jon noticed Arya watching them from her seat beside Jeyne Poole. She looked considerably cleaner than earlier, though a smudge of dirt remained behind one ear. She caught his eye and grinned, then turned her attention to Sansa's perfect appearance with a roll of her eyes.
The meal progressed pleasantly, with Jon enjoying the rare treat of being at the center of family attention. Even Theon, seated further down the table, seemed to have temporarily shelved his usual barbed comments. The atmosphere was warm, the food excellent, and for once, Jon didn't feel like the outsider looking in.
Lord Stark rose as the main courses were cleared away, and the hall quieted.
"Today, Jon reaches his thirteenth year," he announced, his deep voice carrying to every corner. Jon felt a flush of pride, even if the truth of his birth remained obscured. "In the North, we consider this the threshold of manhood."
Ned gestured, and Jory Cassel stepped forward, carrying a long object wrapped in grey cloth.
"Jon, come forward."
Jon rose, suddenly conscious of every eye in the hall upon him. He approached his father and stood before him, back straight and chin high.
"A man should have a blade worthy of his arm," Ned said, taking the wrapped sword from Jory. "This was forged by Mikken, with a wolf's head pommel to mark you as of Winterfell."
He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a slender but well-crafted sword, smaller than a full longsword but larger than a child's training blade. The steel gleamed in the firelight, and the grey wolf's head pommel was inlaid with chips of amethyst for eyes—the same unusual color as Jon's own.
"Thank you, Father," Jon said, his voice thick with emotion as he accepted the sword. He drew it partially from its scabbard, admiring the fine edge and balance.
"Use it well, and with honor," Ned replied, a shadow passing briefly across his solemn features.
A cheer went up from the assembled household, led enthusiastically by Robb and the other Stark children. Even Sansa applauded decorously, though Lady Catelyn's hands remained folded in her lap.
As Jon returned to his seat, sword carefully belted at his hip, he scanned the hall for Maester Luwin. The old man caught his eye and smiled apologetically, shaking his head slightly. Jon fought back a pang of disappointment. He'd hoped for the promised book on Valyria, having read every volume on the subject available in Winterfell's library.
His melancholy was short-lived, however. A shriek from Sansa jolted him from his thoughts, followed by peals of laughter from the other end of the table. Jon turned to see his prim sister with lemon cake smeared across her cheek, Arya looking suspiciously innocent beside her.
"Arya!" Sansa wailed, dabbing at her face with a cloth. "You've ruined my dress!"
"I didn't do anything," Arya protested unconvincingly. "The cake jumped. It must have been magic."
Catelyn rose, her face thunderous, but before she could intervene, Sansa snatched up a honey cake and hurled it at her sister. Arya ducked, and the cake sailed past, landing squarely in Theon Greyjoy's lap.
For a moment, shocked silence fell over the hall. Then Robb snorted, attempting to stifle his laughter and failing miserably. Jon couldn't help but join in, especially when he saw Theon's outraged expression.
"You think this is funny, Snow?" Theon growled, scraping honey from his breeches.
"A bit, yes," Jon admitted, grinning as chaos erupted around them. More food began to fly, with Bran eagerly joining the fray despite his mother's commands to stop.
Lord Stark watched with a mix of exasperation and amusement, making a halfhearted attempt to restore order. "Children, enough! This behavior is—" He ducked as a spoonful of preserves sailed past his ear.
.
.
.
Night - Jon Snow
Jon's breath formed small clouds in the frigid night air as he pressed against the stone wall, listening for any sign of the guards. Beside him, Robb and Theon waited in anticipation, their faces half-hidden beneath dark woolen hoods. The moon hung high above Winterfell, casting long shadows across the courtyard—perfect cover for three boys intent on mischief.
"Clear," Jon whispered, motioning them forward toward the burned tower. The structure hadn't been used since before Jon was born, its upper levels charred and partially collapsed, deemed too dangerous to rebuild. But Jon had discovered something the castle's builders had forgotten: a narrow passageway beneath the tower that led beyond Winterfell's walls.
Jon felt along the base of the tower until his fingers found the loose stones that marked the entrance. He glanced over his shoulder, violet eyes scanning the darkness. No torches moved among the battlements, no guards making their rounds. He pressed against the stone, and a section of the wall moved inward with a faint scraping sound.
"Still can't believe you found this," Robb muttered as they slipped inside, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space.
"Two years of exploring every inch of this castle while you were busy with lordly lessons," Jon replied, leading them down a set of worn steps. The passage smelled of earth and old stone, damp and close.
"And you've been wasting it on trips to the wolfswood," Theon added with a snort, ducking beneath a low archway. "When the finest entertainment in the North was just a short walk away."
Jon made no reply. The wolfswood had been his sanctuary, a place where his name didn't matter, where he could be alone with his thoughts without Lady Stark's cold stares or the servants' whispers. But tonight was different. Tonight, he would become a man—or so Robb and Theon insisted.
They emerged from the passage into a small gully beyond the castle walls, the night air feeling suddenly expansive after the claustrophobic tunnel. Jon carefully replaced the covering of dead branches and undergrowth that concealed the exit.
"To Wintertown, then," Robb grinned, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "And to making a proper man of Jon Snow."
They kept to the shadows as they made their way toward the lights of Wintertown, avoiding the main road where they might be recognized. The settlement was more populous now than in summer years—winter always drew people closer to Winterfell's protection and warmth—and the streets bustled even at this late hour. They walked through the town; no one looked at them, everyone was off doing their own thing. Eventually, they reached a two-story building. It wasn't exactly new, but it looked good enough.
"There it is," Theon announced as they turned a corner. "The Frozen Peach."
Jon raised an eyebrow at the painted sign hanging above the door. It depicted a woman with white skin and curves, one eye closed in a suggestive wink.
"Subtle," he remarked dryly, earning a laugh from Robb.
"What did you expect? 'The Dignified Establishment for Gentlemanly Companionship'?" Theon pushed the door open, a blast of warm air and raucous laughter spilling out.
Jon hesitated at the threshold, his courage faltering. What if someone recognized them? What if word got back to his father? He imagined the disappointment in Ned Stark's eyes, the confirmation that his bastard son lacked the honor of a true Stark.
"Second thoughts, Snow?" Theon smirked over his shoulder.
Jon squared his jaw. "No," he lied, following them inside.
The common room of The Frozen Peach was dimly lit by several hearths and dozens of candles, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that softened the rough edges of reality. Men of all ages filled the tables—soldiers, merchants, farmers—drinking and laughing as women in various states of undress moved among them.
Jon kept his hood up, eyes lowered, keenly aware of his too-young face and the silver streak in his hair that always drew attention. The air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and cheap perfume, so different from the clean cold of Winterfell's halls.
"Well, well," a sultry voice cut through the noise. "Look what winter's blown in."
Jon looked up to see a stunning woman with fiery red hair approaching them. She wore a low-cut gown of deep green that emphasized her considerable assets, and her face was painted with subtle artistry that enhanced rather than masked her beauty.
"Ros," Theon greeted her with the easy familiarity of a regular customer, pulling back his hood. "Brought you a special guest tonight."
Robb followed suit, revealing his auburn curls. "Evening, Ros."
"Young Lord Stark," she smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Always a pleasure."
Her gaze shifted to Jon, who reluctantly lowered his hood. Ros's eyebrows shot up, and she studied him with interest.
"And who's this? You've been hiding a treasure from me, boys."
Jon felt heat creeping up his neck. "Jon Snow," he said simply.
"Lord Stark's bastard," Ros nodded, circling him like a wolf sizing up its prey. "I'd heard rumors you were a pretty one, but they didn't do you justice."
"I'm not—" Jon started to object, but Theon cut him off.
"It's his name day," Theon announced proudly. "Thirteen. Time to make a man of him."
Ros's smile widened. "Thirteen? With those shoulders?" She reached out to touch the silver streak in Jon's hair. "And this unusual coloring. You sure you're a Stark bastard and not some lost Targaryen prince?"
Jon stiffened at the jest. He'd heard such comments before—usually behind his back—about his unusual coloring. The streak of silver hair and violet eyes that belonged to neither the Starks nor any of the Northern houses. Just another reminder that I don't truly belong anywhere, he thought bitterly.
"He's Jon Snow, and it's his first time," Robb said, saving Jon from having to answer. "We were hoping you might have someone special for him."
"All my girls are special," Ros replied, but she was still studying Jon with that unsettling intensity. "But I think I know who might suit our young wolf cub." She gestured for them to follow her up a narrow staircase. "This way, my lords."
Jon trailed behind Robb and Theon, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain everyone could hear it. The upper floor was quieter, a long hallway lined with doors leading to private rooms. Ros stopped before a door near the end of the corridor and pushed it open.
Inside, three young women lounged on cushioned divans, completely naked. Jon froze in the doorway, his mouth suddenly dry. He'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected, but not this immediate display of flesh.
"Ladies," Ros called cheerfully. "I've brought you some noble company tonight."
The women rose gracefully, moving toward them with practiced smiles. One, a willowy blonde with startling blue eyes, immediately latched onto Robb.
"I missed you, my lord," she purred, leading him toward one of the adjoining rooms.
Robb shot Jon an encouraging wink before disappearing through the door, already tugging at his jerkin.
Theon wasted no time selecting a curvaceous brunette, who giggled as he whispered something in her ear that made her cheeks flush. They too vanished into a side room, leaving Jon alone with Ros and the remaining girl—a slender, dark-haired beauty with olive skin that marked her as not being from the North.
"This is Lyrra," Ros introduced her. "All the way from Dorne, where they know a thing or two about pleasure."
The girl—Lyrra—approached Jon with catlike grace, her dark eyes appraising him. "I've never had a Northman before," she said, her accent exotic and musical. "They say you're all made of ice. Is it true?"
Jon stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to do with his hands, his eyes, or any part of himself. He was acutely aware of her nakedness, of the gentle curves of her body, the dark peaks of her breasts, the juncture of her thighs. His body responded instinctively, his cock getting hard, even as his mind raced with uncertainty.
What would Father think? What would Arya think of me now? The images of Ned Stark's solemn face and Arya's innocent trust washed over him like cold water.
Ros observed his hesitation with knowing eyes. "Something wrong, pretty boy? Or is it that you're still a boy after all?"
"I'm not a boy," Jon protested automatically, though he felt every bit the child in that moment.
"No?" Ros raised an eyebrow. "A man would know what to do with a beautiful naked woman in front of him. A man wouldn't stand there looking like he's facing execution rather than ecstasy."
Jon's face burned with shame and frustration. He wanted to prove her wrong, to prove to Robb and Theon that he wasn't a child. But something held him back—something that felt oddly like his father's hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward what was right rather than what was easy.
"Maybe I'm not a man yet," Jon admitted quietly. "But neither am I a boy who does something just because others expect it of him."
Ros studied him for a long moment, something like respect flickering in her eyes. "Interesting," she murmured. She turned to Lyrra. "Give us a moment, love."
The Dornish girl shrugged and retreated to her divan, picking up a cup of wine.
Ros moved closer to Jon, lowering her voice. "What's really troubling you, Jon Snow? Is it fear? Or something else?"
"No." Jon answered and hated how vulnerable he sounded.
Ros stood before Jon, her emerald eyes piercing through his hesitation. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing the silver streak in his dark hair.
"There's no shame in pleasure, Jon Snow," she whispered, her voice like warm honey in the dimly lit room. "No shame in wanting. No shame in being wanted." She traced the line of his jaw with a single finger, watching his pupils dilate. "If you're not ready, I understand. But I can help you... if you'd like."
Jon swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as kindling. "Help me? How?"
A smile played across Ros's lips as she moved closer, the scent of jasmine and cloves enveloping him. Her hand slid down his chest, fingers dancing lightly over the rough wool of his jerkin before coming to rest boldly on the bulge straining against his breeches.
"You're quite handsome, you know," she murmured, her palm applying gentle pressure that made his breath catch. "Those eyes, those full lips... that streak of silver in your hair. It would be such a waste..." Her fingers began to unlace his breeches with ease.
Jon's head fell back against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed as unfamiliar sensations coursed through him. "A waste?"
"Mmm," Ros hummed, sinking slowly to her knees before him. She looked up through thick lashes, her fiery hair cascading over her shoulders. "A waste to let such a fine young man leave here without knowing pleasure." Her hands finished their work, freeing his cock from its confines. "May I?" she asked, her breath warm against his sensitive skin.
Jon could only nod, words failing him as he watched her lips part in a smile of delighted surprise.
"My, my," Ros whispered, wrapping her fingers around his thick shaft, "you are quite gifted, aren't you? Nine inches at least." She stroked him slowly, admiring the way he pulsed in her hand. "I'm going to have a lot of fun with you, Jon Snow."
His hips jerked involuntarily at her touch. "I've never... I don't know how to..."
"Shhh," she soothed, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "You don't need to do anything but feel. Can you do that for me?"
Jon nodded again, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Good boy," Ros purred, before dragging her tongue slowly along the underside of his cock, from base to tip.
Jon gasped, his hands finding purchase against the rough stone wall behind him. The sensation was unlike anything he'd experienced—wet, warm, and wickedly intense. His eyes remained fixed on her, unable to look away as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive head.
"You taste like winter," she murmured, placing soft kisses along his length. "Cold and clean and wild." She took him into her mouth then, just the tip at first, her eyes never leaving his.
"Gods," Jon breathed, his fingers instinctively tangling in her copper hair.
Ros hummed approvingly around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure up his spine. She took him deeper, her mouth hot and wet, her tongue working magic against him. Then she withdrew slowly, releasing him with a soft pop.
"Is this alright?" she asked, her thumb circling the moisture at his tip. "We can stop if you want."
"No," Jon said quickly, surprising himself with his urgency. "I mean... please don't stop."
A delighted smile brightened her face. "As you command, my lord." She winked playfully, reminding him this was meant to be fun, not solemn like everything else in his life.
Ros took her time, showing him the full range of pleasure her skilled mouth could provide. She sucked him deeply then teased with light flicks of her tongue, alternating between firm pressure and feather-light touches that made his thighs tremble.
"You're very responsive," she murmured appreciatively, her hand working in tandem with her mouth. "Most men your age would have finished twice over by now."
Jon's face flushed with pride despite himself. "Is that good?"
"It's very good," she assured him, her lips brushing against his cock as she spoke. "It means we can explore... take our time..." She took him deep again, her tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
Jon's gaze dropped to her chest, where her ample breasts threatened to spill from her loosened bodice. She noticed his attention and smiled knowingly.
"You like what you see?" Ros asked, using her free hand to tug her dress lower, exposing more of her creamy flesh.
Jon couldn't deny it. He nodded, mesmerized by the swell of her breasts, their pale perfection interrupted only by rosy pink nipples that had hardened in the cool air of the room.
"Many men do," Ros said, returning to her ministrations. She took him deeper this time, letting him feel the back of her throat.
Jon moaned, his head falling back as pleasure mounted within him. His hips began to move of their own accord, seeking more of the exquisite sensation she offered.
"That's it," Ros encouraged, pulling back momentarily. "Don't be afraid to take what you want." She guided his hands more firmly to her hair. "I won't break."
When she resumed, Jon found a gentle rhythm, carefully rocking into her welcoming mouth. The sight of his cock disappearing between her lips was mesmerizing, almost as intoxicating as the feeling itself.
"Ros," he warned after several minutes of mounting pleasure, feeling a tightening at the base of his spine, "I think I'm going to—"
She pulled back, squeezing firmly at the base of his cock. "Not yet," she said with a mischievous smile. "Let's make this last a little longer for your first time."
Jon bit his lip, his cock throbbing almost painfully as she denied him release. She continued to stroke him slowly, keeping him right at the edge.
"Has anyone ever told you what beautiful eyes you have?" she asked, her free hand caressing his thigh. "Like twilight violets. So unusual in the North."
Jon shook his head, unable to form words as she kept him balanced on the knife's edge of pleasure.
"They betray your every thought," she continued, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on the glistening head of his cock. "Right now, they're begging me for mercy." She laughed softly, wickedly. "But mercy isn't what you really want, is it?"
She took him in her mouth again, deeper than before, her throat relaxing to accommodate his impressive length. Jon gasped, his fingers tightening in her hair as the pleasure intensified. Again, just as he approached the precipice, she withdrew, leaving him panting and desperate.
"Please," he finally whispered=.
"Please what?" Ros teased, her hand still working him slowly.
"Please let me... finish," he managed, his voice strained.
"Finish where?" she pressed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Tell me what you want, Jon Snow."
The words came easier than he expected, desire overriding his usual reserve. "In your mouth," he breathed. "I want to finish in your mouth."
Ros rewarded his boldness by taking him deeply once more, her pace increasing, her hands and mouth working in perfect harmony. This time, when he felt the familiar tightening, she didn't stop.
"Ros," he gasped, "I'm—"
She hummed encouragement, taking him to the hilt as his release finally crashed over him. Jon cried out, his body shuddering as wave after wave of intense pleasure coursed through him. Ros stayed with him, swallowing eagerly as he pulsed against her tongue.
When the last tremor subsided, she released him slowly, placing a final kiss on the sensitive tip before looking up with a satisfied smile.
"Sweet as summer wine," she declared, licking her lips appreciatively. "I do believe I'll remember you, Jon Snow."
Jon's legs felt like water as he slid down the wall to join her on the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "That was..." he began, unable to find words adequate for the experience.
Ros laughed softly, reaching out to brush a dark curl from his forehead. "That was just the beginning of what pleasure can be," she said. "When you're ready for more, you know where to find me."
Is this what becoming a man feels like? he wondered. Not the physical act itself, but this strange new awareness of his body's capabilities for pleasure, this connection to another person, however brief.
"Thank you," he said awkwardly, fumbling to lace his breeches with unsteady fingers.
Ros laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Oh, Jon Snow," she said, shaking her head in amusement. "You are a rare one indeed. Most men don't thank a whore for her services—they simply pay and leave."
"You're more than your profession," Jon replied seriously. It was something he understood all too well—being defined by a single aspect of one's identity, reduced to 'bastard' just as she was reduced to 'whore.'
Something softened in Ros's expression. "Perhaps you really are becoming a man after all, Jon Snow," she said quietly. "A better one than most."
Ned Stark
Dawn broke over Winterfell, painting the ancient stones with hues of gold and amber. Ned Stark sat alone in his solar, the fire already crackling in the hearth despite the early hour. Sleep had eluded him most of the night, his mind too full of memories and promises made long ago.
Promise me, Ned.
The words haunted him still. Not just Lyanna's, spoken through blood and tears in a tower far to the south, but Ashara's as well. Two women, two promises, one boy with a destiny Ned had tried to bury beneath the snows of the North.
He pulled a stack of parchments toward him—petty disputes from minor lords, reports of wildling sightings beyond the Wall, grain tallies for the coming winter. The mundane business of ruling the North. This was his world now, not the blood and fire of rebellion, not the secrets that could topple kingdoms.
A raven's cry pierced the quiet morning. Somewhere in the castle, he heard the distant sounds of life stirring—servants beginning their daily routines, guards changing their watch. Jon would be thirteen now. A man by many standards. No longer a child who could be shielded from the truth of his birth or the weight of his name.
The door to his solar opened without a knock, and Maester Luwin entered, gray robes swishing softly against the floor. The old man's face was solemn, more so than usual.
"My lord," he said, with a small bow. "Forgive the intrusion so early."
"It's no intrusion, Luwin," Ned replied, setting aside his work. "What brings you here at this hour?"
The maester hesitated, fingers curling around something in his sleeve. "A raven arrived in the night. From Sunspear."
Ned felt his blood turn to ice.
"House Martell?" he asked, voice carefully controlled.
"Yes, my lord." Luwin withdrew a small scroll from his sleeve, its seal a deep orange wax pressed with the sun and spear of House Martell. "It is addressed to you personally."
Ned reached for the scroll, noting with dismay that his fingers trembled slightly. He took it from Luwin, feeling the weight of it.
"Thank you, Maester. That will be all for now."
Luwin bowed again and departed, closing the door behind him. Ned stared at the sealed scroll for a long moment before breaking the wax with his thumb.
The parchment unfurled, revealing elegant script in a hand he didn't recognize.
Ned's hands shook as he set the letter down on his desk after reading it twice. His eyes widened as the implications sank in. Did Ashara tell them the truth?
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