Teaser of The Dornish Letter Chapter 1 (A Name Day)

Summary: What happens when Ned receives a letter from Dorne that changes everything, forcing him to foster Jon Snow to Dorne when he is 13 years old? What happens when Jon grows into a Handsome man and starts stealing the hearts of beautiful women left and right? What happens when a Lannister Princess falls for him during a Tourney? (Jon Snow/Harem)

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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.

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.

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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."

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