293 AC
Lord Jon Stark
Jon Stark's fingers clenched around the railing. He breathed in the salty tang of the sea air, felt the wind ruffle his hair. Beneath him, the ship rocked on the waves. Ahead of him, out of the fog, came the ghostly sight of a castle, sat high atop the cliffs of the island. It was tall and imposing, its towers shaped like snarling dragons. Something inside him swelled at the sight.
The island was forbidding and grim, more so the more he looked at it. But it was his. He, who should have never been a lord or have held any lands or owned any keep. This was his, and he would have loved it if it were a hut on a slab of rock in the Iron Islands. He may not have always felt that way, no. He still remembered the anger that had burnt through him when he had realised he had been given the name he had always wanted, but only on the condition that he leave Winterfell and make his home elsewhere. He had hated his Lord Father, the king, the Gods themselves, for giving him a taste of what he wanted, but not all of it. As the moons had passed, though, he had felt the rage slip away.
He was a Stark. That, more than anything, more than Winterfell, had been what he had always wanted. He had had two years to adjust to the fact that he would have to leave, two years to grow weary of Lady Catelyn's hard, sharp eyes and pointed comments about what was owed to baby Bran. And now that he was here... He would miss Winterfell. But there was no Lady Catelyn here. There was no father or Robb or Arya either, but Uncle Benjen was waiting there with Aunt Dacey, and Uncle Arthur was standing just behind him, making sure he didn't overbalance on the ship's deck. Once, for a few moons between realising what it meant that he was a bastard and finding out he had been given this gift, he had thought the only place for him might be the Night's Watch, but here was something else, somewhere else to make a name for himself. A future. It was more than he was owed, and he was grateful, especially after all Uncle Arthur's stories. He could not wait to see the Great Drum and the map of Westeros, could not wait to see the statues up close and go hunting for dragon eggs and brightly coloured dragonglass in the passages beneath the castle. This was such a grand, important, historical place, and the thought that it was all his was nearly enough to overwhelm him.
Uncle Arthur's hand closed around his shoulder as they made landfall, and Jon set his first foot on the island. He breathed in the salt and sulphur in the air, and felt somehow lighter than he ever had. Winterfell was home, and safe. It was where his family was, more than anything, where he had been raised, the only place he had known. But as his dreams of the crypts had grown more and more frequent, as Lady Catelyn's gaze had grown sharper, he had felt less and less like he belonged, had felt an ever growing urge to disappear into the walls. Here... Everything was strange and unfamiliar, but it felt almost as though the island itself was reaching out to embrace him. This was not home, not yet. But he belonged. He did not know how or why, but he knew, deep within his gut. This, for whatever reason, was where he was meant to be. He glanced over his shoulder at Uncle Arthur.
His uncle gave him a slight smile, squeezed his shoulder. "Welcome home," he said.
Jon choked on a breath, but then regained his grip on himself. "Thank you, Uncle," he said, felt his mouth tuck into a smile. He looked around himself. He wanted to explore the town, the harbour, the castle. Wanted to get on a horse and ride around the rocky beaches and cliffs, wanted to go and go and go until he knew every inch of the island better than he had ever known Winterfell. There would be no crypts and Kings of Winter here, no angry forefathers telling him he was unwelcome and did not belong. Maybe tonight he would sleep well, for the first time in years. Some part of him wanted to kneel down and embrace the very ground at the thought of it, and that sensation nearly brought tears to his eyes. He held it back. He was no babe to weep at the chance of being his own man.
Uncle Arthur's hand tightened further, and without knowing why, Jon turned back and threw himself into his uncle's arms, holding on tight as he shook from the force of it all. Arthur caught him and held him close, stroking his back and shushing him with words Jon did not understand or recognise. They sounded like High Valyrian, but Maester Luwin had barely started on their lessons in that before he left, and Jon could not grasp the meaning, so he just clung on and squeezed his eyes shut so he would not cry at the force of it all.
He planted a weirwood sapling along with a few ironwoods, sentinels and oaks in a corner of the overgrown gardens with Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey. It did not feel at all like the Godswood in Winterfell, but then the Godswood in Winterfell was near ten thousand years old, and this one newly planted. Maybe one day the Old Gods would make him feel soothed and sheltered here like they did in the North.
He worked on sums and letters and languages with the unfamiliar old maester, who always looked sad and liked to ruffle Jon's hair and tell him stories about Stannis Baratheon. He trained at swords and riding with Uncle Arthur. He listened to petitions from the smallfolk with Uncle Benjen at his side and Uncle Arthur at his back. When the septa who had apparently been living there since time untold offered to teach him music, Uncle Arthur encouraged him to learn the high harp. Jon did not understand why, and gave it up quickly. He had no head for music, could scarcely tell when a tune was wrong, and his Northern tongue was not shaped for the flowery words of Southron ballads. He did not know why it seemed to make Uncle Arthur sad; they put it behind them without another word.
Bit by bit, Jon's life began to fall into a routine. He no longer woke up confused by his unfamiliar chamber or the gritty salt air. He no longer stopped short and looked around for his father when someone addressed him as Lord Stark. Bit by bit, everything became less confusing. He did not stop missing Robb and Arya and his Lord Father, but the pain dulled to a steady throb rather than the fierce ache that had brought him close to crying himself to sleep many of his first nights there.
He had not even realised Uncle Arthur had been having the servants bring old paintings and tapestries up from one of the vaults until he came upon him and Uncle Benjen arguing about it. Hanging over the Painted Table was a portrait of a strangely familiar young man. His pale hair and purple eyes marked him a Targaryen, and Jon even recognised the legendary sword Blackfyre from his history lessons. "-must be able to see that putting up Targaryen artefacts will not endear Jon to anyone," Uncle Benjen was saying, face tight as he stared Uncle Arthur down. "Especially given the fact that no one has forgotten your old allegiances, let alone the boy's Lady Mother's."
"The place was too dreary," Uncle Arthur countered. Jon contemplated making them aware of his presence, but eventually decided not to. He did not care much about how the castle was decorated. The fact that his uncles apparently did was more than a little puzzling. "I have no idea how Stannis Baratheon stood it for all those years, or how you and Dacey have stood it for the past two."
"So have new decorations made," Uncle Benjen said, throwing up his arms. "You must know how this will make us look."
"To the bannermen, it will make it look as though Jon values and respects the history of the castle, regardless of the current political climate," Uncle Arthur said. "And I did order new decorations," he added, pointing at the banner hanging along the opposite wall, a white direwolf on a field of black. Jon was not sure who had made it up, but he had liked it since the first time he realised he would have a sigil of his very own. Still a Stark, even if he was no longer a Stark of Winterfell. He had taken to wearing black as often as he could since his father had first showed him the sigil, wearing his own colours as proudly as he had never really been able to wear those of Winterfell. "You can honour a grand history without betraying your own allegiances," Uncle Arthur said.
Uncle Benjen huffed. "And what are those allegiances, Ser Arthur?"
Uncle Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. The hilt of Dawn became visible at his side. "House Stark of Dragonstone. As it's been since the first time I saw Jon."
Jon felt a flush of warmth, felt a smile steal over his face. It was true. His uncle had always been good to him, even if he had been an occasionally hard taskmaster, even if he seemed to expect more, more intelligence, more talent with a blade, more everything, than anyone else Jon had known. He had always been there, protecting him, teaching him, pushing him, and Jon knew without a doubt that growing up a bastard would have been unbearable without his uncle there to shield him from the things even his Lord Father might have missed. "I like the painting," he declared, walking forwards. "Who is it?"
Uncle Benjen's eyes widened as he realised Jon was there. If Arthur was surprised at all - and Jon somehow doubted his uncle had not known he was there - he did not show it, just gave him that customary warm smile of his. Then Uncle Benjen glanced at the painting with a huff and made to leave only to throw a shocked glance at Jon, then back at the painting, face draining of colour, just slightly, before he walked out.
"Aegon the Conqueror," Uncle Arthur said. "The first king of Westeros."
Jon felt a smile tug on his lips as he looked up at the painting again. That would be why he looked familiar. Jon must have seen him in some depiction or other during one of his lessons. Aegon the Conqueror was legendary, strong and brave, and so important to the history of the entire country. No matter what King Robert's view of Targaryens was, no one could possibly fault Jon for displaying the very man who had once forged his Iron Throne, could they? Then, remembering Uncle Benjen's words, he felt his face fall just a little. "Is it true?" he asked. "What Uncle Benjen said? Are you still loyal to the Targaryens?"
Uncle Arthur crouched down in front of him until they were at a height, reached out and gripped Jon's shoulders firmly. "I am loyal to you," he said. "My little Prince of Dragonstone."
Jon wrinkled his nose. "I am not little," he protested. "And I am no prince. Just a lord." Even saying that still brought a disbelieving smile to his face. He bit his lip. "You were friends with Rhaegar Targaryen, though. That means something too."
"It does," Arthur acknowledged.
"So if you knew where the Targaryen children were, would you not leave me to help them take back the Throne?" he asked.
Uncle Arthur pulled Jon tight against his chest, ruffling his hair with one hand. "Never," he said. "Since the first moment I saw you, you have been the most important person in the world to me. I have only ever wanted what was best for you. I will never betray you. And I will not leave you, even when I have grown old and grey and you have grown weary of my company."
Jon breathed easier at that, although he was uncertain why he had needed the reassurance in the first place. For all his life, Uncle Arthur had been the one person he had always known he could count on. That would not change, even if everything else did. "I will not," he protested, even as he hugged his uncle back.
Uncle Arthur laughed, gave his hair a gentle tug as he got back on his feet. "Come on, then," he said. "I believe it is high time we get you started on live steel."
Monford Valeryon showed up one day without so much as announcing himself. Jon knew they should have feasted the bannermen before now - he had been on Dragonstone for near on six moons already - but everyone kept saying how he was not ready. And he did not feel ready. Raised a bastard of Dorne and the North, and the son of a man the realm believed to be King Robert's best friend, he knew none of them were likely to welcome him kindly. Truly, he would be lucky if trying to feast them did not end with a blade in his back. They barely had time to get ready. Nonetheless, Uncle Arthur sent him to his chambers to change out of his practice leathers. As per Arthur's instructions, he wore black with a red doublet as he raced back towards the courtyard. Uncle Arthur caught up with him outside. He had changed as well, and instead of the nondescript clothes Jon was used to seeing his uncle in, Arthur wore his own house colours, though the purple seemed to be barely more than a detail against the white. He had strapped Dawn to his side, and Jon felt immediately less frightened when his uncle fell into step next to him. He had no idea where Uncle Benjen and Aunt Dacey were. They had been disappearing more and more often lately; the servants whispered he would probably have a cousin before the year was out.
They took their places on the cobblestones just as the gate was opened. A small retinue stepped inside. The man at their head was tall and lean, perhaps a decade and a half Uncle Arthur's senior. He wore white and teal, and a seahorse decorated his doublet. His presence was imposing enough that Jon had to fight the urge to bow like he always had to in Winterfell when they received visitors. But he was not a bastard here, Jon reminded himself. He was the liege lord, and this was his bannerman, arriving unannounced and uninvited. He gritted his jaw and kept his spine straight as steel. "Lord Monford," he greeted, hating the way he had to crane his neck to meet Velaryon's eyes as the man came closer. "Welcome."
Monford Velaryon's bow was not nearly as low as was proper, barely more than an inclination of his head. "Lord Stark," he greeted, and somehow managed to make the very words sound mocking. There was a hint of a foreign accent in his pronunciation. Was Velaryon one of the Houses the maester said still learnt High Valyrian as their first language? Probably.
Before Jon could quite figure out how to move the conversation forwards, Aunt Dacey and Uncle Benjen joined them, Aunt Dacey holding a plate of bread and salt, and Jon had to forcibly bite back a sigh of relief when Lord Velaryon thanked her and ate. He was not sure how much guest rights meant in the South, but it had to count for something. "Let us retire inside, My Lord," Uncle Benjen said, his voice smoothening and losing some of its brogue. Benjen and Dacey had been here for two years already, Jon reminded himself, if only to keep the surprise at bay. After Velaryon had agreed, Uncle Benjen led the way inside, though not before casting a strange glance over his shoulder at Jon. Jon followed, with Uncle Arthur just a step behind, at his right shoulder.
They entered the Stone Drum, and went through into one of the smaller halls where a pair of fast-thinking servants were already laying out a small luncheon. Once everyone was seated and food had been distributed onto the plates, Uncle Benjen looked up at Velaryon, grey eyes piercing. "What brings you here, My Lord?" Uninvited, he did not say, but the directness of the question, Jon supposed, was enough to imply it.
"I am here," Velaryon said, "On behalf of myself, Celtigar, Sunglass and Bar Emmon, to let the Lord of Dragonstone know that the ships we were ordered to add to our fleets have been built. And to request the promised stipend."
Jon frowned.
Aunt Dacey waved over one of the servants. "Get the Maester, would you?"
Benjen cocked an eyebrow at Velaryon. "I fear I have not been informed of any of this."
Velaryon all but smirked. "When Lord Stannis requested our aid in suppressing the Greyjoy uprising, we could not muster the ships he required since most of ours were on business in Essos and difficult to recall. He told us we clearly did not have enough ships if they were not available to the crown when needed, and to go get ourselves more. When I asked him if he would fund them, he was kind enough to promise to do so. I'm sure your maester can confirm this."
Jon swallowed. He had not truly familiarised himself with the book keeping of the castle yet. It would be nearly six years before Uncle Benjen's regency ended, after all, and his uncles and the maester had agreed it was more important for him to focus on his education for now. But he knew, depending on the number of ships, that they would be hard pressed to pay. Dragonstone was not a rich holding in and of itself, meant, traditionally, to provide the crowned prince and his family with a bit of spending money and not much more. With the bare number of bannermen, who were apparently very good at withholding taxes without much of a consequence to them, that was unlikely to change. All this sounded more than passing strange to begin with. Why would Stannis Baratheon, by all accounts a stern, clever and near miserly man, agree to something like this in the first place?
"I should like to wait for Maester Cressen and see the papers concerning this," Uncle Benjen said after a moment. "Let us eat."
Maester Cressen, when he finally arrived on staggering old legs, looked horrified when Velaryon's words were relayed to him. He stared at Velaryon as though he would like nothing better than to spit in his face. Then he turned to Uncle Benjen. "I can assure you no such agreement was ever made," he said. "Lord Stannis did order them to get more ships, but if I remember correctly, his response to the matter of who should foot the bill was 'who do you think?'. The Lords deliberately misunderstood his meaning, and now they mean to entrap you, Lord Stark. There are no papers to review, for no promise of payment was ever made."
"Still," Velaryon said, purple eyes flashing. "We have acquired altogether two dozen ships, brand new and of the highest quality. Ships that we ourselves have not set aside the funds for."
"Perhaps you should pay for them, and leave them here," Uncle Benjen said. There was a snarl in the back of his voice. "As repayment for taxes owed."
Velaryon smirked and sat back, with an expression that clearly asked how they planned to make him do that. "You clearly have the wrong of it, Lord Stark," he said. "We owe no allegiance to your House. It was King Robert we bent our knee to. Lord Stannis at least had the blood of Old Valyria through his grandmother. You are nothing more than tree worshipping barbarians, here to insult us. If Robert truly means to have a bastard in Dragonstone, he might have appointed my brother. At least his blood gives him some claim."
Jon felt the blood drain from his face. No one, since he had been legitimised, had spoken of him that way, at least to his face. Stupidly, he had thought he would not have to hear things like that again. And it hurt, more than he had ever thought it would, made him feel as low and small as he once had. But underneath that, underneath the hurt and humiliation, he felt something else roar through him, some fire that seemed almost to stem directly from the Dragonmont beneath their feet, something waiting to explode. Still, it was a kind of helpless rage. He did not know how to channel or direct it. What was he meant to do? What power did he really have? The Dragonstone garrison was not large, and clearly the bannermen were united against him. And even if he had known which words to yell, what would that do except make him look like a child throwing a tantrum? He clenched his jaw, took a deep breath. "Uncle, please see to it that Lord Velaryon is given a guest gift. My Lord." He looked at Velaryon, and the urge to shout was there again. He kept it in, kept his fists from clenching or shaking. "I will see to it that you are paid for the ships, once they have been brought here to serve under Dragonstone directly." How he would ever find the money, he did not know, but they would figure something out. They had to. Besides, Dragonstone was supposed to have a fleet. It used to, before it was decimated in the Iron Islands. He glanced over his shoulder. "If you would see the good lord out, Ser Arthur?"
For long moments, Velaryon did not reply, simply stared at Jon with an expression Jon had no idea how to interpret. Then he huffed. "You presume too much, boy." He looked around himself, at the decorations Uncle Arthur had brought out from storage. Then his gaze fell pointedly at the clothes Jon wore. "Far too much," he continued. "And if you ever want peace around these parts, you would do well to cease mocking a history richer than anything you could ever hope to lay claim to."
Again, it was with some effort Jon pushed down his anger. He had been angry for much of his life; it was not as hard to control it as it had seemed, in the shock of the moment, just a bit ago. "My heroes, as a boy, the ones I would pretend to be when playing with my brother, were Aemon the Dragonknight and Daeron the Young Dragon," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice even. "As I grew, I came to admire Aegon the Fortunate and Jaehaerys the Wise. I do not have to share their blood to appreciate their history, nor do I feel the need to mock their House. The realm is what it is because of the Targaryens. Is it so offensive that I can appreciate the good done by your kinsmen?" He paused, took a deep breath, made himself gather his thoughts rather than forge on. Despite the vigorous training Maester Cressen, and Maester Luwin before him - and Uncle Arthur, who had never let him get away with his silences to begin with - had given him in rhetoric, he was still less than certain of how to shape his thoughts into proper words. Speaking had never come that easily to him. "I see you are wearing Manderly colours today, My Lord. I am honoured. However, if I had come to your keep and found Bolton keepsakes on your walls, I would have been deeply offended. I do not think the Targaryens were ever to the Velaryons what the Boltons are to the Starks, or am I mistaken?" He glanced over his shoulder at Uncle Arthur. "If you would be so kind, Ser?"
"Yes, my Lord," Uncle Arthur said, and unless Jon was very mistaken, there was a flash of fierce pride in his eyes. A flash of warmth welled up in Jon at the sight, defusing his still-simmering anger. "Lord Velaryon," Arthur said, stepping towards the doors. "I will show you out, if it please you."
"I will see myself out," Velaryon said, finally getting to his feet. His eyes flashed, but there was a strange uncertainty to his voice. "I have no wish to remain in the presence of a traitor."
When Uncle Arthur replied, there was a strange hint of humour to his expression, at odds with his hard tone. "I never bent the knee following the War," he said. "Never have I been a traitor or served where I should not."
Velaryon's steps faltered for a moment. Then he straightened his back and exited. One of the household guard flanked him, presumably to make sure he did see his way out. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, more than glad to see the back of him.
A/N: Thank you so much for all the favourites, follows, reviews and everything. It means a lot to me. Now, I do have an admission to make. I have not used ffnet since... honestly, probably early to mid 2000s, and I have no idea really how it works these days, how to reply to reviews etc. Do you just use the PM features? Sorry for the cluelessness, and hopefully someone will take mercy on me.
As for the choice for which bastard name to use for Jon, I can't really seem to find any specific explanation for why they are given the ones they're given. Jon was born in Dorne but is canonically Jon Snow (is Ned's tight lips about who his mother is and where he's from the only reason he's a Snow?). But that can't solely be because of Ned's heritage, since Robert has, that we know of, at least a Stone (born to a Vale woman), a Waters (Crownlands mother)... and a Storm with a mother from the Reach? Meanwhile, I have seen Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella referred to (in fanon) as both Waters and Hills and it's just giving me a headache trying to figure it all out. Is it determined by mother or father? Where they were born? Where they grow up? I don't know, but I chose Sand for this story as something Ned and Arthur settled on to make Jon's supposed connection to the Daynes seem more overt and legit, if that makes sense?
In the meantime, I'll try to include a couple of notes here. Feel free to skip, since it might get a bit long, but I feel it is relevant for those interested:
Obviously, this is a canon divergent story. It is not meant to be taken too seriously. It is, in a lot of ways, too neat for that. Also, the differences in canon means that some characters may seem OOC. Sorry about that. In the end, though, this story, to me, is not so much about being true to the source material (haven't read the books for years), but more about exploring different outcomes, different characters, and getting my writing voice back on the fantasy track, so to speak. I'm sharing for your enjoyment and mine, but please don't come to me about how things are too neat or easy; this was written to be short and relatively simple.
Most of the points of canon divergence should be obvious, but I'll sum them up for your convenience:
- Ned and the Kingsguard came to some kind of agreement that allowed all parties to leave the Tower of Joy alive. Will be expanded upon in later chapters of the story itself.
- Due to recalcitrant Lords, the Greyjoy Rebellion lasted years rather than a few months (for all its fighters, certain parts of Westeros lacks a decent navy), and killed Stannis Baratheon. Though he isn't important to the story, Bran Stark does exist. He's just born a few years later. Shireen Baratheon was never born in this timeline.
- Ned and Robert never made up post the killing of the Targaryen children, and Robert has been trying to make friends ever since.
- Benjen Stark married Dacey Mormont and was granted future Lordship over Moat Cailin, rather than take the Black. His feelings on the matter are unknown.
Most other things, I think, are as they should be. The story follows the show regarding the dates for Jon Arryn's death and the consequences thereof. Many things, however, are borrowed from book canon.
The year noted in the beginning of each chapter indicates the year of the start of the chapter. A chapter, however, might stretch into the next year despite this.
Most of the things in this story, including characters' appearance, is a mixture of show and books. I cannot help but picture Kit Harington when imagining Jon Snow, but I will substitute brown eyes for grey. I'm pushing the storyline forwards rather than back, though, and stuff like Jaehaerys II is still canon.
However, the thing that inspired several of Arthur Dayne's home decorating adventures are two of the illustrated ASoIaF calendars, both by Magali Villeneuve and both officially recognised by GRRM. Now, I know there are some artists out there who are really only capable of drawing the same face over and over again, and I recognise that this might be a case of that. Or, it is very deliberate, and the artist as well as GRRM were having a good laugh at the ridiculous resemblance pictured here. So, while I still picture a slightly altered Kit Harrington, just pretend the resemblance is the same (disregarding the colouring as you would with those two pieces of artwork).
I would post links, but I have no idea how to make that work on here. If you go on google and search for Jon Snow calendar, however, Jon Snow in the snow with Baby Ghost should be one of the first pictures (if not the first) to show up. Likewise, if you google Aegon the Conqueror calendar, one of the first (if not the first) picture to show up will be of a fairly young Aegon holding Blackfyre with what appears to be either the Field of Fire or a burning Harrenhal in the background. Those are the images I'm referring to.
Also, please remember this version of Jon was raised in large part by a Dornish knight who always saw him as far more than the bastard of Winterfell. His education as well as his martial training would in this scenario be advanced beyond what it is in canon, and he would not have been able to get away with things the same way the original Jon Snow probably did. Sullen silences and ineloquent answers were not tolerated, and his self-esteem is stronger.
Next up: Further King Robert shenanigans. Olenna finally meets Jon Stark. And also Doran Martell, because why not?