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Jon woke to a sharp knock at his chamber door. He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, his head still foggy from the previous night's feast. The knocking persisted, more insistent this time.
"Jon? Are you awake?" It was Jory Cassel's voice.
Jon sat up, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. "I am now," he called, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Jory cracked the door open. "Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar. At once."
Something in Jory's tone made Jon's stomach tighten. The captain of the guard wasn't usually so formal with him. "Did he say why?"
"No. Just that it's important." Jory hesitated. "Best not keep him waiting."
Jon dressed quickly in simple clothes – a gray wool tunic, dark breeches, and his good leather boots. Whatever his father wanted, it clearly couldn't wait. As he splashed cold water on his face, he tried to recall if he'd done anything worthy of reprimand. The feast had gone well enough, though Prince Oberyn's interest in him had been strange. Perhaps his father was displeased with how much he'd spoken to the Dornish visitors?
The walk to his father's solar seemed longer than usual. Servants hurried past with averted eyes, and even the usual morning sounds of Winterfell seemed muted. When he reached the heavy oak door, Jon took a deep breath before knocking.
"Enter," came his father's voice.
Lord Eddard Stark sat behind his desk, back straight, face solemn – his lord's face, as Jon thought of it. The face he wore when duty demanded difficult things. A cup of untouched wine sat before him despite the early hour, and dark shadows beneath his eyes suggested he hadn't slept well.
"You sent for me, Father?"
"Sit down, Jon." His father gestured to the chair across from him.
Jon complied, the knot in his stomach growing tighter. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"How did you find the feast last night?" his father asked unexpectedly.
Jon blinked, thrown by the casual question. "It was... different. I've never sat at the high table before when guests came."
"And Prince Oberyn? What did you make of him?"
"He's not what I expected," Jon admitted. "Less formal than I imagined a prince would be. And he spoke highly of Dorne."
His father nodded slowly. "Dorne is indeed different from the North in many ways. Their customs, their attitudes... particularly toward those of... different birth."
Jon tensed. His bastardy was rarely discussed openly between them.
"Jon," his father continued, "Prince Oberyn has made an offer. He wishes to foster you at Sunspear."
The words hung in the air between them. Jon stared, certain he'd misheard.
"Foster me? In Dorne?" he finally managed.
"Yes. You would leave with him in three days' time."
Three days. The room seemed to tilt slightly. "I don't understand," Jon said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "Why would Prince Oberyn want to foster me? I'm a bastard, not a trueborn son."
"That matters less in Dorne than it does here."
"Is this... am I being punished for something?" The question escaped before Jon could stop it, he remembered the books; maybe his father thought the books weren't enough.
His father's expression softened slightly. "No, Jon. This isn't a punishment."
"Then why send me away?" Jon couldn't keep the hurt from his voice. "If I've done something to displease you or Lady Stark—"
"This has nothing to do with any wrongdoing," his father interrupted firmly. "Prince Oberyn specifically requested you. He believes you would thrive in Dorne, away from the... limitations placed on you here."
Jon's mind raced with confusion. None of this made sense. "But why me? Robb is the heir, but there's Bran?" He knew Rickon was too young to foster anywhere.
His father looked away briefly. "Prince Oberyn and I have history from the war. He sees this as a gesture of goodwill between our houses."
It was a careful answer that explained nothing. Jon leaned forward. "Father, please. There must be more to it than that. Why would a Prince of Dorne take interest in the bastard son of a Northern lord?"
His father sighed, looking suddenly older than his years. "I cannot pretend to understand all of Oberyn Martell's motivations. But I know this: in Dorne, you would have opportunities that aren't available to you here."
"Because I'm a bastard," Jon said flatly.
"Yes," his father acknowledged. "In the North, your path is limited. The Night's Watch, perhaps, or serving your brother when he becomes Lord of Winterfell. But in Dorne, bastards can rise high. Prince Oberyn's own daughters—all baseborn—are educated, trained in arms, respected."
Despite his confusion and hurt, Jon couldn't help but feel a flicker of curiosity. A place where his birth wouldn't define him? It seemed too good to be true. He had heard it all last night, but it still felt more like a dreamland than a real place.
"And you're just... giving me away?" The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
"I'm giving you a chance," his father countered, an edge entering his voice. "And you wouldn't be 'given away.' You would be fostered, like any noble son sent to another house to learn and grow. You could return to Winterfell anytime you wished."
"Does Robb know?"
"Not yet. I wanted to tell you first."
Jon stood and paced to the window, looking out at the familiar sight of Winterfell's courtyard. Early morning training was underway, Ser Rodrik shouting instructions to younger boys. This had been his whole world for thirteen years. The thought of leaving it filled him with dread, yet... hadn't he always felt like an outsider here? A reminder of his father's one dishonor, tolerated but never truly belonging?
"It doesn't make sense," Jon said, turning back to his father. "Why not foster Robb? Or Bran? Why me specifically?"
A shadow passed over his father's face. "Oberyn asked for you. Not Robb, not Bran."
"But why?" Jon pressed.
"I've told you what I can, Jon." His father's voice had that finality to it that Jon knew well—the tone that meant questions were finished.
Jon bit back his frustration. As always, the deeper truth remained hidden, locked behind his father's walls of honor and duty.
"You said I could return," Jon said after a moment. "When?"
"When you wish. This isn't exile, Jon. It's an opportunity. Learn from the Dornish, see a different part of the world, then come home when you're ready."
Home. Would Winterfell still feel like home after he'd been away? Would it ever truly feel like home for a bastard?
"What about my training?" Jon asked, grasping for practical concerns. "My studies?"
"Prince Oberyn has assured me you'll have the finest masters at arms and maesters to continue your education. He specifically mentioned your love of history and reading."
Jon remembered the prince's words at the feast: Knowledge is never truly lost. Merely... relocated. Perhaps you'll find what you seek elsewhere. Had Oberyn been hinting at this even then?
Slowly, Jon began to see beyond his initial shock. To be fostered by a prince, to learn from the legendary Red Viper himself—many trueborn sons would envy such an honor. And to live in a land where his bastardy wouldn't hang around his neck like a millstone...
"What does Lady Stark think of this?" he asked.
His father's expression was answer enough. Catelyn Stark would be glad to see the back of him.
"She agrees it could be beneficial for you," his father said diplomatically.
Jon almost smiled at that. Of course she did.
A new thought struck him then—a possibility so tantalizing he almost didn't dare voice it. But he had to know.
"Father," he began carefully, "is there a chance... in Dorne... might I learn who my mother is?"
The question hung between them, heavy with thirteen years of silence and evasion. Jon watched his father's face intently, hoping for some confirmation, some hint.
His father's gaze softened, and for a heartbeat, Jon thought he might finally get an answer. But then his father simply said, "You have her look about you."
Jon felt a familiar disappointment wash over him. Another non-answer, another piece of the puzzle that told him nothing. Yet somewhere in his mind, a name whispered: Ashara Dayne. The rumored beauty with violet eyes. House Dayne was of Dorne. Starfall, their ancestral seat, was somewhere in the western mountains.
Was that why Prince Oberyn wanted him in Dorne? Was that why his father was willing to let him go? The possibility made his heart race. After thirteen years of wondering, of imagining, could he finally be close to learning the truth? She was still alive as far as he knew...could he meet her?
"Will I need to pack warm clothes?" Jon asked, changing tack. "I've heard the Dornish climate is quite different from ours."
His father seemed relieved by the practical question. "Prince Oberyn has offered to provide suitable clothing once you reach Sunspear. But yes, Dorne is hot, especially in summer. Though from what I understand, the Water Gardens are quite pleasant."
They discussed practicalities for a while longer—what Jon should pack, how the journey would proceed, when they would depart. It felt surreal to Jon, planning his departure from the only home he'd ever known.
"I should tell Robb," Jon said finally.
His father nodded. "And your other siblings. I know Arya will take it hard."
Jon winced at the thought of saying goodbye to his little sister. Of all his siblings, Arya was the one who had never made him feel like an outsider, who had loved him completely and without reservation.
"Three days isn't much time," Jon observed.
"No," his father agreed, "but a long farewell often only prolongs the pain."
Jon stood, recognizing the dismissal in his father's tone. He had reached the door when his father spoke again.
"Jon," he called. Jon turned back. "This truly is for the best. I know it doesn't seem that way now, but in time, you'll understand."
There was something in his father's eyes—some emotion Jon couldn't quite name. Regret? Guilt? Fear? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, replaced by Lord Stark's customary reserve.
"I hope so, Father," Jon replied, though doubt still gnawed at him. "I hope so."
As he closed the door behind him, Jon's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear and excitement, anger and curiosity, a sense of loss alongside the thrill of possibility. In three days, he would leave the frozen North for the desert kingdom of Dorne. In three days, everything would change.
And perhaps, just perhaps, in the land of sand and sun, he might finally discover who he truly was.
Jon found them exactly where he expected—in the training yard, Robb and Theon circling each other with blunted swords, their breath clouding in the cold morning air. He paused at the edge of the yard, watching his brother feint left before striking right, a move Jon had seen a hundred times. Theon parried it easily, laughing as he countered with a thrust that Robb barely dodged.
For a moment, Jon simply observed them, trying to burn the image into his memory. Three days from now, he wouldn't be here to spar with them, to laugh with them, to be annoyed by Theon's smug smiles or heartened by Robb's unwavering loyalty. The thought left a hollow feeling in his chest, like hunger but sharper.
"Snow!" Theon called, catching sight of him. "Come to get beaten before breakfast?"
Jon stepped into the yard, forcing a smile he didn't feel. "Not today, Greyjoy."
Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because Robb lowered his sword, brow furrowing. "What's wrong?"
Jon took a deep breath. Better to say it plainly. "Father is sending me to Dorne. To be fostered by Prince Oberyn."
The words hung in the frosty air, as strange to his ears now as they had been in his father's solar. Robb's sword clattered to the ground, his blue eyes widening in shock.
"Dorne?" Theon repeated, his usual mockery absent for once. "Why in the seven hells would you go to Dorne?"
Robb found his voice. "Is this because of last night? You talked with the prince at dinner, but I didn't think—"
"It wasn't my idea," Jon clarified quickly. "Prince Oberyn requested me specifically. Father agreed. I leave in three days."
"Three days?" Robb's shock gave way to indignation. "That's... that's madness! You can't just leave in three days. There are preparations, arrangements..."
"Apparently not many are needed for a bastard," Jon said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. Even as he said it, he felt a pang of guilt. His father had presented this as an opportunity, not a dismissal.
"Did Father say why?" Robb asked, moving closer.
Jon shrugged. "He said Prince Oberyn believes I'd 'thrive' in Dorne. Where bastards are treated better." He kicked at the frozen ground. "Beyond that, he wouldn't say."
"Well, the Dornish do love their bastards," Theon mused, leaning on his practice sword. "And their women. Gods, Snow, you'll be surrounded by olive-skinned beauties with more fire than that whore of yours in Wintertown."
Jon shot him a glare. "Ros isn't 'my whore.'"
"No?" Theon smirked. "Then you won't mind if I pay her extra attention while you're gone."
"Enough, Theon," Robb said sharply, then turned back to Jon. "Did Father say how long you'll be gone?"
"Until I choose to return, apparently. It's not meant to be permanent." Jon wasn't sure he believed that, but repeating his father's words made them seem more substantial.
"Fostering with a prince," Robb said, his initial shock giving way to forced enthusiasm. "That's... that's quite an honor, actually. Many lordlings would kill for such an opportunity."
"I'm not a lordling," Jon reminded him.
"No, but you're still a Stark," Robb countered firmly. "Even if you don't have the name."
The words warmed Jon, as they always did when Robb insisted on his place in the family. Yet they both knew it wasn't entirely true. He was a Snow, not a Stark, and no amount of brotherly loyalty could change that.
"You'll probably melt in that Dornish sun," Theon said, eyeing Jon's pale northern complexion. "Like snow in summer. They'll have to sweep you up with a broom."
"I'll manage," Jon replied dryly, though he'd had the same concern. His skin burned easily in the mild northern summers; how would it fare under the fierce Dornish sun?
"You'll have to write," Robb insisted. "Tell us everything about Dorne—the castles, the training, the food."
"The women," Theon added with a wolfish grin. "Especially the women. I hear they're all wanton temptresses who'll tumble into bed if you so much as smile at them."
"I doubt that's true," Jon said, but couldn't help wondering what Dornish women were really like. Would they find his northern reserve strange? Would they laugh at his inexperience?
"Who knows?" Robb said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Maybe you'll come back with a Dornish bride. Wouldn't that set the North talking?"
Jon snorted. "A bastard with a Dornish bride? Lady Stark would bar the gates."
"Not if she were highborn and beautiful," Robb argued. "Father would welcome her. And I'd make sure of it once I'm Lord of Winterfell."
"Maybe I'll stay in Dorne forever," Jon said, only half-joking. "Where my name doesn't matter so much."
A flash of genuine alarm crossed Robb's face. "You can't. You have to come back." He looked almost boyish in his sudden vulnerability. "We've never been apart."
Jon had never known a life without Robb beside him, his brother in all but name, his closest friend despite their different stations.
"I'll come back," Jon promised, throat tightening unexpectedly. "Of course I will."
Theon, perhaps sensing the shift in mood, jabbed Jon lightly with his practice sword. "Before you go native and start wearing those flimsy Dornish robes. Or take up that ridiculous spear fighting they do."
"The spear is a noble weapon," Jon protested, grateful for the distraction. "Prince Oberyn is said to be one of the finest spearmen in Westeros."
"A sword is a northman's weapon," Theon countered. "Don't forget that while you're down south, prancing about with pointed sticks."
"I won't forget anything about the North," Jon said, more seriously than he intended.
A silence fell between them. Jon had never been good at expressing how he felt—had always kept his deeper feelings locked away, safe from mockery or rejection.
"We should make the most of these three days," Robb said finally, breaking the silence. "Hunt in the wolfswood one last time. Visit the winter town."
"The brothel, you mean," Theon corrected with a grin. "Give Snow a proper northern send-off before he's corrupted by Dornish pleasures."
Jon rolled his eyes, but found himself smiling despite everything. Even Theon's crassness was familiar, almost comforting in its predictability.
"I'd like that," he admitted. "One last hunt, at least."
"Then it's settled," Robb declared. "We'll tell Father we're going hunting tomorrow. Just the three of us."
"And tonight?" Theon asked.
Robb looked at Jon questioningly. "What do you want to do tonight, brother?"
The simple question caught Jon off guard. What did he want? He'd spent so much of his life doing what was expected, accepting what was given, that being asked his preference felt strange.
"I want things to be normal," he said finally. "Just an ordinary night at Winterfell. Dinner in the hall, stories by the fire. As if I weren't leaving."
Robb nodded, understanding. "Then that's what we'll do."
As they walked back toward the armory to return their practice weapons, Robb fell into step beside Jon, letting Theon go ahead.
"You know," Robb said quietly, "I've never been jealous of you before. Not once."
Jon looked at him in surprise. "Why would you ever be jealous of me?"
"But I am now," Robb continued, ignoring the question. "You're going to see the world, Jon. Adventure, new places, new people. While I stay here, learning how to be Lord of Winterfell."
Jon couldn't help but laugh at the irony. "All my life I've envied you your name, your place, your future. And now you envy me?"
Robb smiled, a bit sadly. "Perhaps we both want what we can't have."
"Perhaps," Jon agreed. Then, more softly: "I'll miss you, Stark."
"And I you, Snow."
.
.
Jon found Arya behind the old keep, letting arrows loose at a straw target she'd set up herself. She wasn't supposed to be practicing archery—Septa Mordane had scheduled needlework lessons for the morning—but Jon wasn't surprised to find her here instead. His little sister had always preferred bows to needles, swords to sewing.
He watched her for a moment, smiling despite his heavy heart. Her small face was scrunched in concentration, her stance all wrong, but her determination was unmistakable. She loosed an arrow, which sailed wide of the target, bouncing off the stone wall behind.
"You're dropping your elbow," Jon called out.
Arya whirled around, her face lighting up. "Jon!" Then, defensively: "I am not dropping my elbow."
"You are," he insisted, approaching her. "Here, let me show you."
He positioned himself behind her, adjusting her arms, showing her how to hold the tension properly. "Keep your back straight, elbow high. That's it."
Arya loosed another arrow, this one striking the outer ring of the target. She beamed up at him. "Did you see that? Right on target!"
"Well, on the target at least," Jon corrected with a grin. "A few more years of practice and you might actually hit what you're aiming at."
She swatted at him playfully, but her smile faded as she noticed his expression. "What's wrong? You look strange."
Jon sighed. Of all his siblings, Arya had always been the most perceptive, the most attuned to his moods. Perhaps because they shared the same feeling of being outsiders—he for his bastardy, she for her refusal to behave like a proper lady.
"I need to tell you something," he said, sitting down on a nearby crate and patting the space beside him. "Something important."
Arya frowned but set down her bow and joined him. "Are you in trouble? Did mother catch you doing something? I'll tell Father it was my fault."
The fierce loyalty in her voice made what he had to say even harder. "No, I'm not in trouble. It's..." He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving Winterfell, Arya."
Her gray eyes widened. "Leaving? What do you mean? Where?"
"Prince Oberyn has offered to foster me in Dorne. Father has accepted. I leave in three days."
Arya stared at him as if he'd started speaking High Valyrian. Then her face crumpled. "No. You can't go."
"I have to," Jon said gently. "Father has decided."
"Then I'll talk to him!" Arya jumped up, her small hands clenched into fists. "I'll make him change his mind. He can't send you away. He can't!"
Jon caught her wrist as she turned to storm off. "Arya, wait. It's not like that. I'm being fostered, not banished. It's... it's an honor, actually."
"I don't care what it is," she declared, her voice rising. "You can't leave. You're the only one who—" She broke off, her lip trembling.
"The only one who what?" Jon prompted gently.
"The only one who understands me," she finished in a small voice. "Robb tries, but he's going to be Lord of Winterfell someday. Sansa thinks I'm hopeless and horseface. Bran's too young. And Mother..." She didn't need to finish that thought.
Jon pulled her back down beside him, his heart aching. "I know. And I'll miss you more than anyone, little sister."
"Then don't go," she pleaded, her gray eyes—so like their father's—filling with tears. "Tell Prince Oberyn you can't. Tell Father you want to stay."
How could he explain that a part of him—a part he was almost ashamed to acknowledge—was desperately curious about his mother, who might be Dornish?
"Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do," he said instead. "That's part of growing up."
"I hate growing up," Arya declared fiercely. "And I hate Prince Oberyn for taking you away."
"Don't say that," Jon chided gently. "Prince Oberyn is offering me an opportunity few bastards ever receive. And Dorne... in Dorne, people like me aren't looked down upon the way they are here."
Arya considered this, her brow furrowed. "Because you're a bastard?"
Jon nodded, trying not to wince at her bluntness. "In Dorne, birth doesn't matter as much. Prince Oberyn's own daughters are all Sand Snakes—bastards like me—and they're respected, educated, trained in arms."
"Like real ladies?" Arya asked.
"Better than ladies," Jon replied with a small smile. "From what the prince says, they fight with spears and ride horses and aren't forced to spend their days sewing."
That caught Arya's interest, as he knew it would. "Really? Girls can learn to fight in Dorne?"
"So I'm told."
A new determination entered her eyes. "Then I'm coming with you."
Jon blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "What?"
"I'm coming with you to Dorne," she repeated, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. "If Dornish girls can learn to fight, then I should go there too. We can go together!"
"Arya, you can't—"
"Why not?" she demanded. "If Father's letting you go, why not me too? I could be fostered with those Sand Snake girls."
Jon sighed, realizing he'd inadvertently given her false hope. "It doesn't work that way, little wolf. You're a Stark of Winterfell. Your place is here, with your family."
"You're my family too," she insisted stubbornly.
"I know that. But I'm a Snow, not a Stark." The words tasted bitter, as they always did, but they were true nonetheless. "Your mother would never allow it anyway."
Arya's face fell as the reality sank in. "It's not fair," she whispered.
"No," Jon agreed quietly. "It's not fair. But I promise I'll write to you. And perhaps someday, when you're older, you could visit me in Dorne."
"When I'm older," she repeated miserably. "That could be years."
"Not so many," Jon assured her. "And until then, you'll have something to remember me by."
He reached into his cloak and withdrew a slender package wrapped in soft leather. He'd been saving it for her nameday, still two months away, but now seemed the right time.
"What is it?" Arya asked, curiosity momentarily outweighing her sadness.
"Open it and see."
She unwrapped the leather covering to reveal a slender sword, its blade no thicker than her thumb, with a simple leather grip sized perfectly for her small hand.
"A sword," she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. "My own sword."
"It won't hack a man's head off," Jon warned, "but it can poke him full of holes if you're quick enough."
Arya lifted it reverently, testing its weight. "It's so light."
"Because it's meant for a quick hand, not a strong one." Jon watched her examine the blade, pride and sadness mingling in his chest. "The Braavosi call this kind of blade a water dancer's sword. It's for stabbing, not slashing."
"How do I use it?" she asked eagerly.
Jon smiled. "First lesson: stick them with the pointy end."
Arya giggled, a sound that warmed him to his core. She lunged forward, striking at an imaginary foe. "Like this?"
"You'll need proper training," Jon cautioned. "But yes, that's the idea."
"Will you show me before you go?" she pleaded.
"As much as I can in three days," Jon promised. "But you'll have to practice in secret. If your mother or Septa Mordane finds out..."
"They won't," Arya assured him with the supreme confidence of a nine-year-old. She bit her lip, suddenly serious again. "What should I call it? All the best swords have names."
Jon considered. "The best swords are named for their qualities or for what they represent. What does this sword mean to you?"
Arya thought for a moment, then smiled. "Needle. Because I'll be doing needlework after all."
Jon laughed, genuinely delighted by her cleverness. "Needle it is."
She set the sword carefully aside, then threw her arms around his neck with such force that he nearly toppled backward. "I'll still miss you," she mumbled into his shoulder.
Jon hugged her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair—pine needles and dirt and something uniquely Arya. "And I you, little sister. Every day."
"You have to promise to write," she insisted, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Not just to Father or Robb. To me. Real letters, not just 'Hello Arya, the weather is nice, goodbye.'"
"I promise," Jon said solemnly. "I'll tell you all about Dorne—the castles, the training, the people. And you must write back and tell me everything happening at Winterfell. Especially your training with Needle."
Arya nodded, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement. "And you'll come back someday? You won't stay in Dorne forever?"
Jon hesitated. For all his talk about opportunities in Dorne, the North was in his blood. Winterfell, despite everything, was home. "I'll come back," he promised. "The North is part of me. I couldn't stay away forever if I tried."
She studied his face with those perceptive gray eyes, as if checking for any sign of deception. "Good," she said finally. "Because you belong here with us. No matter what anyone says."
"Will you help me practice with Needle before you go?" she asked, mercifully changing the subject before he could embarrass himself by growing emotional.
"Of course," Jon agreed, ruffling her hair. "First, show me your stance."
I'm going to miss you terribly, little wolf, he thought. More than you'll ever know.
But he said nothing, only continued his instruction, giving her this one gift he could before he left—the beginning of the freedom she so desperately craved, just as he sought his own.
.
.
Jon found Sansa in the glass gardens, carefully selecting winter roses for her needlework. The humid warmth was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, fogging the glass panels with condensation. She looked up as he approached.
"Sansa," Jon greeted her, suddenly unsure what to say. Of all his half-siblings, Sansa had always been the most distant, following her mother's example in treating him with cool courtesy rather than warmth.
"Jon," she acknowledged, straightening up with a small cluster of blue blossoms in her hand. "Arya told me you're leaving for Dorne."
"Yes," he confirmed. "In two days now."
Sansa nodded casually. "It must be exciting. I've read that Dorne is very beautiful, with marble palaces and water gardens."
"So I'm told," Jon said, surprised by her apparent interest. "I've never been south of Winterfell, so it will all be new to me."
A brief, awkward silence fell between them. Jon was acutely aware that they had never had a proper conversation, just the two of them. What was there to say now, on the eve of his departure?
"Will you bring me something when you return?" Sansa asked suddenly. "From Dorne, I mean. They make beautiful silks there, and I've heard their gold work is unmatched even by Lannister craftsmen."
The request caught Jon off guard. "Of course," he promised. "I'd be happy to."
"Thank you." Sansa smiled. "I hope you'll be happy there, Jon."
It wasn't an emotional farewell, but coming from Sansa, it was more than he had expected. "Take care of Arya," he said. "She'll be lost without... without someone to get into trouble with."
Sansa rolled her eyes, but her expression remained gentle. "I'll try, though she never listens to me."
With a final nod, Jon left her to her flowers, feeling oddly lighter. Perhaps distance would give them what proximity never had—a chance to see each other as people rather than as the bastard and the lady.
Finding Bran was easier—Jon simply followed the sound of laughter to the stables, where his little brother was attempting to teach his pony to bow on command.
"Bran," Jon called. "A word?"
Bran turned, his face lighting up. "Jon! Look what I taught Dancer to do!" He tapped the pony's foreleg, and the animal obligingly bent its knee in a semblance of a bow.
"Impressive," Jon acknowledged with a smile. "You'll be a master horseman in no time."
"Ser Rodrik says I might be ready for a real horse by my next nameday," Bran said proudly.
Jon ruffled his auburn hair affectionately. "I've no doubt. But listen, Bran, I need to tell you something. I'm going away for a while."
"I know," Bran replied matter-of-factly. "You're going to Dorne with the Red Viper. Arya told me. She's very upset about it."
"And you're not?" Jon asked, curious about his brother's calm acceptance.
Bran shrugged. "I'll miss you, of course. But it sounds like a grand adventure! You'll see the Red Mountains and the Greenblood River and the Water Gardens of Sunspear." His eyes shone with excitement. "You must tell me everything when you come back."
Jon felt a rush of affection for his little brother, always dreaming of adventures and knights. "I will," he promised. "Every detail."
"Do you think you'll fight in a tournament?" Bran asked eagerly. "Prince Oberyn is a famous jouster, you know. Maybe he'll teach you."
"Perhaps," Jon allowed, though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Though I'd need to be knighted first."
"Bastards can be knights," Bran pointed out. "Even the Kingsguard has had bastard knights before."
Leave it to Bran to know such details. The boy devoured stories of knights and their deeds like other children devoured sweets.
"Well, if I'm ever knighted, you'll be the first to know," Jon promised.
Bran beamed, then surprised Jon by throwing his arms around his waist in a fierce hug. "I'll miss you," he mumbled against Jon's chest.
Jon hugged him back, throat suddenly tight. "And I you, little brother. Be good while I'm gone."
"I will," Bran promised, pulling away. "But not too good. Someone has to keep Robb on his toes once you're gone."
Jon laughed, ruffling Bran's hair one last time.
He found Rickon with Old Nan, the ancient nursemaid telling him stories of the Long Night as she often had for Jon and his siblings. At three, Rickon was too young to truly understand what Jon's departure meant, but he clung to Jon's leg when he tried to leave, sensing something important was happening.
"No go," the toddler insisted stubbornly, his small face set in determination.
Jon crouched down to his level. "I have to, little one. But I'll bring you back a present. Would you like that?"
Rickon considered this, his brow furrowed in concentration. "A big present?"
"The biggest I can find," Jon promised solemnly.
This seemed to satisfy the child, who released Jon's leg and returned to Old Nan's stories, already forgetting the conversation. Jon envied him that simplicity, that ability to live entirely in the present moment.
Jon had hoped to avoid a direct farewell with Lady Stark, but she found him as he was leaving the nursery.
"Boy," she said. "A word, if you please."
He followed her to a nearby alcove, bracing himself for... what? A final rebuke? A warning to stay away?
"Prince Oberyn speaks highly of you," she said, surprising him. "He seems to think you have great potential."
Jon wasn't sure how to respond. "I'm... grateful for the opportunity, my lady."
Lady Stark studied him, her blue eyes as cold as the winter itself. "I pray you find whatever it is you seek there and you never let it go."
The words were technically proper, but the ice in her tone left no doubt about her true feelings. Coming from the woman who had regarded him as a living reminder of her husband's infidelity for thirteen years, even this frigid acknowledgment was more than he'd expected.
"Thank you, my lady," Jon said, bowing slightly.
She merely pursed her lips and walked away, her back rigid. Jon watched her go, understanding once again that Lady Stark would never see him as anything but a stain on her marriage.
In Maester Luwin's turret, Jon found the old man sorting herbs, his chain clinking softly as he moved.
"Ah, Jon," Luwin greeted him warmly. "Come in, come in. I was hoping to see you before you left."
Jon entered the familiar chamber, breathing in the comforting smells of parchment, herbs, and candle wax. How many hours had he spent here as a child, learning his letters, listening to Luwin's patient explanations of history?
"I wanted to thank you," Jon said, "for all your teachings over the years."
Luwin waved away the gratitude. "It was my pleasure. You were always an attentive student, with a curious mind." He reached for a small package on his desk. "I have something for you. A parting gift."
Jon unwrapped the cloth to find a slender book bound in red leather.
"'The Histories of the Great Houses of Dorne,'" Luwin explained. "I thought it might prove useful in your new home."
Jon ran his finger over the embossed title, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. "Thank you, Maester. I'll treasure it."
"And one piece of advice, if I may," Luwin added, his gray eyes kind but serious. "The world is larger and more complex than it appears from Winterfell. Keep an open mind, Jon Snow. Question what you think you know. The greatest wisdom often comes from unlearning our certainties."
Jon frowned slightly, sensing a deeper meaning in the maester's words. "I'll remember that," he promised.
"See that you do," Luwin said, patting his shoulder. "Now go. You have much to prepare, and I have ravens to tend."
Jon's final stop was the godswood, the ancient heart tree with its solemn face carved into the white bark. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he approached, the pool of black water still as glass despite the winter wind that rustled through the red leaves above.
He knelt before the weirwood, as he had seen his father do countless times. Jon wasn't sure he believed in the old gods, not truly, but there was something in this quiet grove that spoke to his northern blood.
"I don't know if you're listening," he said softly to the carved face. "I don't know if anyone is. But if you are, watch over them while I'm gone. Robb and Arya and all the rest. Keep them safe."
The face stared back, silent as always, its sap-red eyes seeming to look through him rather than at him. Jon had never felt the divine presence his father claimed to sense here, but today, in the stillness of the godswood, he felt... something. A connection to this place, to the North itself.
I will return, he promised silently. Whatever I find in Dorne, whatever I become there, I will come back to Winterfell someday.
Night
The Frozen Peach was quieter than usual, the winter night keeping all but the most determined patrons at home by their hearths. Jon slipped in through the back entrance, the path now familiar after his handful of visits over the past months. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the biting cold, the air heavy with the scents of spiced wine, perfume, and woodsmoke.
He found Ros in the common room, laughing at something a merchant was saying, her copper hair gleaming in the firelight. She caught his eye across the room, her smile shifting from professional charm to genuine pleasure.
"Excuse me," she murmured to her companion, rising gracefully. She crossed to Jon, her green gown hugging her curves in a way that still made his pulse quicken despite their familiarity.
"Jon Snow," she greeted him warmly. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."
"Never," Jon assured her. "I just... things have been complicated."
Ros studied his face, her mirth fading into concern. "You look troubled. Come, let's go somewhere private."
She led him upstairs to her chamber, a small but comfortable room with a proper bed and a crackling hearth. Unlike their previous visits, she didn't immediately begin unlacing her gown or reaching for his belt. Instead, she poured two cups of wine and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
"Now," she said, handing him a cup, "tell me what's wrong."
Jon took a long drink before answering. "I'm leaving Winterfell. Two days later."
Ros's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Leaving? Where to?"
"Dorne. Prince Oberyn Martell has offered to foster me at Sunspear."
"Dorne?" Ros repeated, clearly stunned. "That's... unexpected." She took a sip of her wine, considering. "Though perhaps not entirely especially from what I have heard."
Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
"News travels quick in a small town, love," Ros explained. "Half the servants from Winterfell drink here. They said Prince Oberyn couldn't take his eyes off you, especially that silver streak in your hair." She reached out to touch it gently. "Can't say I blame him. It is rather striking."
Jon caught her hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. "I wanted to say goodbye properly. You've been... kind to me, Ros. Kinder than I deserved."
Ros laughed softly. "Sweet boy. I wasn't being kind, I was being selfish. You're quite pleasant to look at, you know, with those unusual eyes of yours. And you're one of the few men who bothers to make sure I enjoy myself too." Her expression turned more serious. "But I'll miss you all the same."
There was silence between them until Ros decided to break it.
"Dorne, eh?" Ros mused, setting aside her wine cup. "You'll like it there, I think. The Dornish are passionate people, not cold and reserved like Northerners. And they don't look down on bastards the way folk do here."
"So I'm told," Jon said wryly. "Though it's hard to imagine."
Ros traced the line of his jaw with her finger. "Here's a truth you should take with you, Jon Snow. In Winterfell, you'll always be Ned Stark's bastard. That's all most people will ever see when they look at you, no matter how skilled you become with a sword, no matter how honorable your actions."
Jon flinched, though he knew she was right.
"But elsewhere?" Ros continued. "In a place like Dorne? You could be anyone. Anything. You're handsome, you're clever, you have a good heart. Those things matter more than your name in most of the world."
"You make it sound simple," Jon murmured.
"It's not simple," Ros acknowledged. "Nothing worth having ever is. But it's true. I've seen enough of men to know the ones who rise above their circumstances from the ones who drown in them." She smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "You're one of the risers, Jon Snow. Just don't let your Northern pride get in your way."
"I suppose you're right," he conceded. "Still, I wish..."
"Hush," Ros said, pressing a finger to his lips. "No regrets tonight. But before we say a proper goodbye, let me give you some advice about women. Southern women, specifically."
Jon raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "I'm listening."
"Dornish women aren't like Northern girls," Ros began, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. "They won't simper and blush if you look their way. They know what they want and they aren't afraid to take it."
"And that's... good?" Jon asked hesitantly.
Ros laughed. "It's very good, if you're smart enough to appreciate a woman who knows her own mind. Don't mistake their directness for lack of feeling, though. Passion burns hotter in Dorne, they say."
"You seem to know a lot about Dorne for someone who's never left the North," Jon observed.
"I listen to stories," Ros shrugged. "Men talk after they've had their pleasure. Especially travelers, lonely for conversation as much as for a woman's touch." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "But enough talk of other women. You're still here for now, and so am I."
She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. Jon responded, drawing her closer, breathing in her familiar scent of roses and cloves.
"I never thought I'd say this to a customer," Ros murmured against his lips, "but I truly will miss you, Jon Snow."
Tomorrow - Night
The moon hung full and bright over Winterfell. Jon sat alone in a staircase that lead from the Training Yard to the Armory as the farewell feast continued without him in the Great Hall below.
Tomorrow, he would leave Winterfell. The thought still didn't seem real, even after days of preparations and goodbyes. The North was all he knew—its customs, its weather, its people. He belonged here, in a strange, incomplete way. A bastard of Winterfell, not quite a Stark but not entirely separate either.
What awaited him in Dorne? A land of sand and spices, of strange customs and stranger tongues. Would he find a place there, or simply exchange one form of isolation for another?
Jon's fingers traced the hilt of his sword, finding comfort in its familiar weight. At least this would travel with him—a piece of the North, of his father, to carry at his side.
His father. Lord Stark had been unusually distant these past days, as if already preparing himself for Jon's absence. Or perhaps hiding something. The reasons for his fostering still made little sense, no matter how Jon examined them. Why would Prince Oberyn, a man who had never laid eyes on Jon before his visit, specifically request him?
The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and Jon turned sharply to find he was no longer alone. Ellaria Sand stood nearby, wrapped in a fur cloak several sizes too large for her slender frame.
"Lady Ellaria," Jon said, quickly rising to his feet. "I didn't hear you approach."
"Not a lady," she corrected with a smile, "just Ellaria. May I join you? Or would you prefer solitude on your last night in Winterfell?"
Jon hesitated, then gestured to the place beside him. "Please. Though it's quite cold."
"So I've noticed," Ellaria replied dryly, pulling the fur tighter around her shoulders as she settled beside him. "You Northerners must have ice in your veins to endure this climate."
"You get used to it," Jon said with a small smile.
"I sincerely hope not to be here long enough for that to happen." Ellaria gazed out at the moonlit expanse of Winterfell, the torchlit windows of the Great Hall casting golden rectangles on the snow below. "You were missed at the feast. Your father seemed concerned."
Jon winced at that. "I needed time to think."
"Second thoughts about joining us?" she asked directly.
"Yes," Jon admitted, seeing no point in lying. "I know nothing of Dorne, and Dorne knows nothing of me. I still don't understand why Prince Oberyn would want to foster a Northern bastard."
Ellaria studied him for a long moment. "Would it surprise you to learn that I found myself in a similar position once? Young, uncertain, being taken from the only home I knew by a prince with enigmatic motives."
Jon looked at her. "What happened?"
"I chose to trust," she said simply. "Not blindly, mind you. But I recognized an opportunity when it was presented." A smile curved her lips. "Of course, I was a woman grown, and Oberyn's motives were somewhat less... paternal than they are with you."
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hid his embarrassment. Ellaria laughed softly.
"You're two years older than my oldest daughter," she continued. "Elia. She is named for the prince's sister, who races horses better than most grown men, then there is Obella, she likes songs. Dorea likes water, and Loreza is my youngest."
"They sound remarkable," Jon said, genuinely impressed.
"They are," Ellaria agreed, pride evident in her voice. "And do you know what they all have in common, besides their father?"
Jon knew the answer. "They're all Sand Snakes. Bastards, like me."
"Like us," Ellaria corrected. "I am Ellaria Sand, natural daughter of Lord Harmen Uller. And yet, I am consort to a prince, mother to his children, respected at court." She turned to face him directly. "In Dorne, Jon Snow, your birth means far less than who you choose to become."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Jon said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "But that still doesn't explain why Prince Oberyn would cross the Seven Kingdoms to bring a Northern bastard to Dorne."
Ellaria sighed, looking briefly troubled. "Oberyn has his reasons. Some are his to share when the time is right. But I can tell you this much: he sees something in you. Something rare and worth nurturing."
"What could he possibly see in me?" Jon asked, genuine confusion in his voice. "I'm no one special."
"Aren't you?" Ellaria challenged. "The way you move in the training yard. The way you speak—carefully, thoughtfully, with none of the Northern bluster. Those unusual eyes of yours." She reached out to touch the silver streak in his hair. "And this mark that sets you apart."
Jon shifted uncomfortably. His coloring had always made him stand out, another reminder that he didn't quite belong. "These are accidents of birth, not achievements."
"Perhaps," Ellaria acknowledged. "But they hint at what lies beneath. The North has shaped you, Jon Snow, but it does not define you. In Dorne, you might discover parts of yourself that could never flourish in Winterfell's cold."
Her words struck a chord deep within Jon, touching on things he had never articulated even to himself. How often had he felt constrained here? How often had he sensed there was more to him than being Ned Stark's bastard, if only he could discover what that was?
"I'm afraid," Jon admitted quietly. "Not of Dorne itself, but of failing. Of disappointing Prince Oberyn, or my father, or myself."
"Fear is natural," Ellaria said gently. "Courage isn't the absence of fear, but the decision that something else is more important." She smiled warmly. "My daughters were afraid too, each time they tried something new. But fear didn't stop them from becoming who they were meant to be."
Jon gazed out at the familiar landscape of Winterfell, etched in moonlight and memory. This place had shaped him, for better or worse. But perhaps it was time to discover who he could be beyond its walls.
"I've never left the North," he said softly. "I've never even seen the sea."
"Then you have many firsts awaiting you," Ellaria told him.
"Thank you, Ellaria," he said, meaning it. "Truly."
She stood, extending her hand to him. "Come. It's too cold for extended philosophizing, and you'll need your rest for tomorrow's journey. Return to the feast—let your family see you one last time before you leave."
Morning
Dawn broke pale and clear over Winterfell, the first rays of sunlight glinting off fresh snow that had fallen during the night. Jon stood at his chamber window, watching the sky lighten from black to purple to the soft blue of early morning. His last sunrise in the North, at least for some time.
His belongings were already packed—pitifully few for someone embarking on such a journey. His sword and the clothes on his back. A few spare tunics and breeches. The book Maester Luwin had given him. A small carved wolf Bran had pressed into his hands the night before.
"Not a very impressive collection for a lordling off to be fostered," came Theon's voice from the doorway.
Jon turned to find Robb and Theon standing there, both looking unusually solemn despite Theon's attempted jest.
"Good thing I'm not a lordling, then," Jon replied with a half-smile.
Robb moved forward, holding something wrapped in cloth. "We have something for you. A going-away gift."
Jon unwrapped the bundle to find a fine leather jerkin, black with subtle gray stitching along the seams.
"It gets hot in Dorne," Robb explained, "but the nights can be cold in the desert. We thought you might need a reminder of home when the temperature drops."
Jon ran his fingers over the supple leather, throat suddenly tight. "It's perfect. Thank you."
"The leather is Northern deer," Theon added. "So you can take a piece of the North with you, even surrounded by all that Dornish extravagance."
The thoughtfulness of the gift surprised Jon, especially coming partly from Theon. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll write," Robb insisted. "Say you'll tell us everything about Dorne—the good and the bad."
"I will," Jon promised. "Every moon, at least."
"The Dornish are waiting in the courtyard," Theon said finally. "We should go."
Jon nodded, took one last look around the chamber that had been his for thirteen years, and followed them out.
The courtyard was a flurry of activity, horses stamping impatiently in the cold, their breath forming clouds in the crisp air. The Dornish party was mounted and ready, their colorful garb a stark contrast to Winterfell's somber stones.
Jon's siblings were gathered near the gate—Arya trying desperately not to cry, Bran bouncing with excitement, Sansa standing straight and proper beside them. Even Rickon was there, clutched in Old Nan's arms, his chubby face confused by the early morning commotion.
"Don't forget your promise," Arya reminded him fiercely as he approached. "Letters. Real ones."
"Every moon," Jon assured her, crouching to her level. "And you'll practice what I showed you?"
"Every day."
"Good." Jon hugged her tightly.
Bran was next, bubbling with last-minute instructions about what to look for in Dorne. "And if you see any dragons, you have to tell me right away," he insisted.
"Dragons have been extinct for over a hundred years," Sansa corrected primly, "but if you see any interesting fabrics or jewels, I would like to hear about those." She hesitated, then surprised Jon by leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "Safe travels, Jon."
One by one, he said his goodbyes, each farewell adding to the weight in his chest. When he reached his father, standing apart from the others with his lord's face firmly in place, Jon felt suddenly like a child again, uncertain and seeking approval.
"The Dornish will expect different things from you than the North has," Lord Stark said quietly. "But never forget who you are, Jon. You were raised in Winterfell, with Northern values. Honor, duty, family—these things matter, no matter where you go."
"I won't forget," Jon promised. "I'll make you proud, Father."
"You already have," he said, voice rough. "You always have."
"It's time," called Prince Oberyn from atop his sand steed. "The day grows short, and we have far to travel."
Jon moved to his own mount, a sturdy Northern gelding chosen for the long journey south. As he swung into the saddle, he caught Ellaria's encouraging smile from where she sat astride her horse nearby.
"Ready, Jon Snow?" Prince Oberyn asked, guiding his horse alongside Jon's.
Jon nodded, not trusting his voice.
Oberyn studied him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "The road ahead may not be easy, but I promise you this—at the end of it, you will find truths worth knowing."
"What truths?" Jon asked, confused by the cryptic statement.
The prince smiled enigmatically. "About Dorne."
Before Jon could press further, Oberyn wheeled his horse around and called for the party to move out. The portcullis raised with a grinding of chains, revealing the snow-covered landscape beyond Winterfell's walls.
Jon took one last look back at his family gathered in the courtyard—Robb standing tall as the future Lord of Winterfell, Arya struggling not to show her tears, Bran waving excitedly, Sansa straight-backed and proper. And his father, watching him.
I'll come back, Jon promised silently. Whatever I find in Dorne, I'll come back someday.
With that thought firm in his mind, he turned his horse and rode through the gate, crossing the threshold that separated his past from his future. The Dornish party fell in around him, their bright banners snapping in the northern wind as they began the long journey south.
Jon did not look back again. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, on the road that would take him from the land of snow to the land of sun. From the familiar to the unknown. From Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, to whoever he might become in the kingdom of Dorne.
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