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Jon's eyes flutter closed, the familiar pull of moonlight drawing him into that space between waking and dreaming. His body relaxes against the furs, breath evening out as consciousness slips away like water through cupped hands. The transition feels like diving into a warm pool—darkness gives way to golden light, and suddenly he's standing in that achingly familiar courtyard.
The red door stands before him, paint slightly faded but still vibrant against whitewashed walls. The lemon tree spreads its branches overhead, fruit hanging heavy and ripe. After seven years of monthly visits, this place feels as real as Winterfell itself. More real, perhaps, because here he doesn't have to calculate every word and gesture.
"Jon!" Dany's voice rings out before he even pushes the door open. She's already running toward him, silver-gold hair streaming behind her. At thirteen, she's lost the roundness of childhood, growing tall and coltish, and she is easily the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.
She crashes into him with a hug that nearly knocks him backward. "You're late! The moon's been full for hours."
"Sorry," Jon grins, returning the embrace. She smells like lemons and sea salt, though he wonders if that's real or just his mind filling in details. "Lord Stark had me reviewing ledgers until my eyes crossed. Apparently, proper lordlings need to understand grain taxation."
Dany wrinkles her nose. "How dreadfully boring. Come, I made lemon cakes!" She tugs him inside, where a plate of slightly lopsided pastries waits on the wooden table. "Well, I helped make them. Mostly I stirred."
Jon takes a bite, savoring the tart sweetness even though dream-food never quite satisfies. "They're perfect. Better than our cook's honey cakes."
"Liar," she laughs, but looks pleased. "Though I suppose you northern lords prefer your food bland and boring, like your weather."
"Careful, princess," Jon says teasingly, then quickly adds, "or I'll tell you more thrilling tales of ledger management."
She sticks her tongue out at him, then grows more serious. "My brother's been so busy lately. He barely has time for me anymore." Her face scrunches in frustration. "Always locked away with the Magister, talking about ships and soldiers and boring trade agreements."
The Magister. Not the first time she had mentioned him, and not the first time she seemed to forget to mention his name. "Must be lonely," he says, keeping his voice sympathetic. "Maybe you could ask this Magister for something fun? Like a boat of your own to go sailing, like you've always wanted."
Dany's eyes light up. "Oh! Yes! Though..." she bites her lip. "My brother says the narrow sea isn't safe. Too many pirates and she says that we...we are not fish, and should not have desires to sail through the sea, he says we are not pirates."
"Pirates?" Jon grins wickedly, grabbing a wooden spoon from the table and brandishing it like a cutlass. "Arr, did someone say pirates? Hand over yer lemon cakes, wench!"
"Never!" Dany snatches up her own spoon. "I am a warrior princess! I'll feed you to my dogs!"
They circle the table, wooden spoons clacking as they fence. Dany's actually gotten quite good over the years—Jon's taught her real footwork and basic forms, adapted for their makeshift weapons.
"A princess?" Jon lunges forward. "All alone on the high seas? Where are your guards?"
"I need no guards!" Dany parries, silver hair whipping around as she spins. "The Usurper's dogs are more dangerous than any pirate, and I've evaded them for—"
She stops mid-sentence, spoon frozen in the air. For a heartbeat, Jon sees real fear flash across her face. Then she laughs, too bright and too quick. "I mean, in the stories! The evil usurper in the stories my brother tells me."
Usurper's dogs. The words echo in Jon's mind like a bell tolling. Princess Daenerys Targaryen. He'd suspected for years, but hearing her slip like that... His heart pounds, but he keeps his face carefully neutral, lowering his spoon with a dramatic sigh.
"You win, fierce princess. I surrender my pirate ways." He flops into a chair. "Though I still say you'd make an excellent pirate. You've got the spirit for it."
"Perhaps," she says, relief visible as they move past her slip. "But I'd rather be a queen. A good queen, who protects her people and makes sure everyone has enough to eat."
"You would be," Jon says softly. "The kindest queen the world's ever seen."
She blushes prettily. "Sing for me? The one about the dragon prince?"
Jon nods, clearing his throat. The melody comes easily—an old song Dany had taught him years ago, though she claimed not to remember where she'd learned it. Now he understands why.
"The last dragon prince rode to war,
Black armor gleaming in the sun,
Ruby-bright his purpose pure,
For love, the battle must be won..."
His voice fills the small room, rich and clear. Dany closes her eyes, swaying slightly. By the second verse, tears track down her cheeks.
"Upon the Godless Sea's rushing water,
Sword of day with sword of night,
The prince fell for his true love,
Rubies scattered in the fight..."
"It's so sad," Dany whispers when he finishes. "To die for love. Do you think it was worth it?"
"I think love makes people do impossible things."
She nods, then brightens deliberately. "Tell me about the snow! You promised last time."
So Jon describes winter in the North—how snow blankets everything in pristine white, muffling sound until the world feels wrapped in cotton. He tells her about ice crystals forming on windows, about riding through the wolfswood when every branch carries its own small avalanche. He describes the hot springs beneath Winterfell, how they keep the castle warm even in the deepest cold.
"And the heart tree," he says. "The weirwood in our godswood. Its leaves are red as blood against the snow, and its face..." He shivers. "It watches everything. Knows everything. My grandmother, Lyarra Stark says the old gods speak through it."
"I'd like to see it someday," Dany says wistfully. "All of it. The snow, the trees, the castles. You." She yawns. "Tomorrow my brother says we're meeting someone important. A visitor from across the narrow sea. He won't tell me who."
Warning bells chime in Jon's mind. "Be careful, Dany. Important visitors usually want something."
"I know." She squeezes his hand. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Jon. I understand more than my brother thinks."
The dreamscape begins to fade around the edges. Their time is ending, as it always does.
"Until next moon," Dany says, already growing translucent.
"Next moon," Jon agrees. "Sweet dreams, princess."
She smiles as she dissolves into mist. "You're the only sweet dream I have."
Then Jon is gasping awake in his bed, the sun rising from the horizon, it was early in the morning. His heart races as the full weight of confirmation settles over him. Daenerys Targaryen.
He touches his chest where she'd hugged him. In dreams, he can still feel warmth.
What are you? he wonders, staring at his reflection in the window glass. Purple eyes stare back, foreign and familiar at once. What are we to each other?
The sun offers no answers, but Jon knows that these dreams mean something. That he means something to her, just as she's become the one person he never has to perform for.
Princess Daenerys Targaryen. He rolls the name around his mind like a secret treasure. Soon, he'll return to being Jon Flint, heir of Breakstone Hill. He'll smile and charm and calculate every interaction.
But for now, he lets himself wonder what it means that the Dragon Princess calls him friend.
Later
The morning sun streams through Jon's window as he finds Robb breaking his fast in the Great Hall. Most of the family has already scattered to their duties, leaving the brothers relatively alone save for a few servants clearing trenchers.
"Still thinking about visiting those lovely ladies in Wintertown?" Jon asks, sliding onto the bench beside his brother.
Robb nearly chokes on his porridge. "Seven hells, Jon! Not so loud!"
"Relax," Jon grins, helping himself to bread and honey. "No one's paying attention. But yes, I've been thinking about your proposal."
"And?" Robb leans forward eagerly, blue eyes bright with anticipation.
"We're going to be lords someday," Jon says thoughtfully. "We should probably know what we're doing when it comes to... well, everything. Including women."
"Exactly!" Robb slaps the table. "So you'll come with me? Tonight?"
"Tonight." Jon nods. "But not through the hidden passages like you suggested. Too risky—we could get trapped if someone's using them."
Robb's face falls. "Then how? We can't just walk out the main gate!"
"Why not?" Jon takes a casual bite of bread. "Tell me, who's guarding the gate tonight?"
"What?" Robb blinks in confusion. "How should I know? I don't keep track of every soldier in Winterfell."
"That's your first mistake." Jon leans back, studying his brother. "Quick—name me five soldiers who serve our father. Not the important ones everyone knows."
"Well..." Robb screws up his face in concentration. "There's Vayon Poole, our steward. Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms. His nephew Jory captains the guards. Septon Chayle, Septa Mordane..." He counts on his fingers. "Oh, and Dorran Doyle in the kitchens, and Mikken the smith."
"Those are all the obvious ones," Jon says patiently. "The ones whose positions make them notable. But what about the men who stand guard every night? Who patrol the walls? Who would die for House Stark without anyone remembering their names?"
Robb shifts uncomfortably. "I... I suppose I never thought about it."
"Tonight, Dankenn and Donkenn have gate duty. They're brothers, both captains. Dankenn's got three daughters—I helped his middle girl find work in the candle-making guild when her betrothal fell through. Donkenn's wife just had their first son last month. I sent them extra candles and a silver stag as a gift."
"You did?" Robb's eyes widen. "Why?"
"Because they serve us," Jon says simply. "They protect our home, our family. The least we can do is know their names, their struggles. When we walk through that gate tonight, they'll see me and nod. They won't say a word to Father because they know I see them as men, not just walking armor."
"Fuck," Robb breathes. "You really do think of everything, don't you?"
"Not everything," Jon admits. "But I try. Father rules with honor and justice, which men respect. But sometimes..." He lowers his voice. "Sometimes you need men who'll bend rules for you. Not because you order them to, but because they want to."
Robb stares at him with something like awe. "When did you get so clever about all this?"
"When I realized being a bastard meant I had to work twice as hard for half the respect," Jon says, then catches himself. "Well, former bastard. Old habits."
"You're going to be a fucking terrifying lord someday," Robb says, but he's grinning. "Good thing we're brothers, or I'd be worried about you plotting against me."
"Please," Jon scoffs. "Plotting against you would be like plotting against a newborn pup. Where's the challenge?"
"Fuck off," Robb laughs, shoving him. "Just for that, you're buying the first round tonight."
"Deal. But you're explaining to the whores why you only lasted thirty seconds."
"I'll last longer than you!"
"Brother," Jon says with mock seriousness, "I've seen you try to talk to pretty girls. You turn red just thinking about tits."
"And you're so experienced?" Robb challenges.
"No," Jon admits. "But I'm better at pretending I know what I'm doing. It's all about confidence."
They spend the rest of breakfast trading increasingly crude insults.
The evening air bites with northern chill as Jon and Robb approach Winterfell's main gate. True to Jon's prediction, Dankenn stands at his post, weathered face breaking into a genuine smile when he spots them.
"Lord Jon," he nods, then "Lord Robb. Fine evening for a walk."
"Indeed it is, Dankenn," Jon replies warmly. "How's little Mara settling into the candle shop?"
"Like she was born to it, m'lord. Can't thank you enough for putting in that word."
"She earned it herself. I just made the introduction." Jon pauses. "We're heading to Wintertown for a bit. Robb wants to see how the new houses are coming along."
Dankenn's knowing look suggests he's not fooled, but he simply steps aside. "Mind yourselves, m'lords. Town can get rowdy after dark."
"We'll be careful," Robb manages, his voice only slightly higher than normal.
Once they're out of earshot, descending the hill toward the sprawling town below, Robb exhales shakily. "Fuck, I thought he'd stop us for sure."
"Why would he?" Jon asks. "We're not prisoners. Besides, he knows exactly where we're going. Half the castle probably knows. They just won't say anything because it's expected—lords need experience before marriage."
The five-minute walk passes quickly, Wintertown spreading before them in the deepening twilight. Jon observes with satisfaction how much it's grown—new houses rising where hovels once stood, glass windows glowing with warm candlelight instead of crude shutters. His candles burn in nearly every home now, steadier and cleaner than rush lights or tallow.
"Look at that," he points to a well-dressed merchant family. "A year ago, they could barely afford bread. Now they're wearing new wool and their children have meat with supper."
"All because of candles?" Robb sounds skeptical.
"Because of opportunity," Jon corrects. "Create one successful business, and others spring up around it. The candle-makers need supplies, storage, transportation. Those workers need food, clothing, entertainment..."
"Entertainment," Robb grins. "Speaking of which..."
They round a corner and the brothel comes into view—a large, well-maintained building with red lanterns flanking the door. Even from outside, they can hear laughter, music, and unmistakable sounds of pleasure.
"Ready?" Jon asks, though his own heart pounds harder than he'd like.
"Fuck yes," Robb says, then immediately adds, "Fuck, I'm nervous."
"Good. Means you're not stupid." Jon claps his shoulder. "Come on. Time to become men."
The sounds grow louder as they approach—feminine laughter mixing with deeper groans, the creak of wood and rustle of fabric. A woman lounges against the doorframe, her dress cut low enough to leave little to imagination. She straightens when she sees them, eyes going wide.
"Well, well," she purrs, gaze flicking between them. "Blue eyes like winter ice, and purple like..." She trails off, clearly recognizing who they are. "My, my. Winterfell's young lords, gracing us with their presence."
Jon catches Robb's eye, a silent message passing between them. Robb fumbles for his purse, pressing a bronze penny into her palm. "For your discretion."
She laughs, low and knowing. "Oh sweetling, my lips are sealed tighter than a septa's legs. Come in, come in. The girls will be thrilled."
The common room hits Jon's senses like a punch. Women dance on low tables, silken scarves barely concealing curves that make his breath catch. He's seen naked women before—accidentally glimpsing servants bathing—but never like this. Never displayed so openly, so intentionally.
His body responds immediately, cock hardening in his breeches as he watches a dark-haired beauty arch her back, pink nipples visible through transparent fabric. Another girl, blonde and laughing, lets her dress slip off one shoulder entirely.
Fuck, Jon thinks, trying to adjust himself discreetly. This is really happening.
"Gods be good," Robb breathes beside him, eyes wide as platters.
Their entrance doesn't go unnoticed. Several women immediately walk toward them, hands reaching out to touch arms, shoulders, chests.
"Such handsome boys," one coos, fingers trailing down Jon's arm. "First time?"
"Look at those eyes," another gasps, peering at Jon. "Purple as sunset! Are you some lost prince, sweetling?"
Before Jon can respond, a slightly older woman—perhaps twenty-one, with chestnut hair and impressive curves—takes Robb's hand. "This one's mine," she declares, leading a stunned but eager Robb toward the stairs. "Don't worry, lovey, I'll take good care of you."
Robb throws one last wide-eyed look at Jon before disappearing up the steps, leaving Jon surrounded by increasingly bold women. Hands stroke his chest, his arms. Someone's fingers tangle in his curls.
"So pretty," they murmur. "Such lovely hair."
"Those eyes..."
"Bet he's pretty everywhere."
Jon forces himself to breathe normally, to observe rather than panic. The women are beautiful, yes, but there's something practiced about their touches. Professional. He notes how they position themselves to best display their assets, how their compliments follow patterns.
They're working, he realizes. This is their craft, like any other.
It helps him regain some composure, even as his body continues responding to the sight of so much exposed flesh. He's particularly transfixed by one woman's lips—full and red, curled in a knowing smile that makes him wonder what they'd feel like against—
"That's enough, girls."
The voice cuts through the chatter like a blade. The women surrounding Jon immediately step back, revealing a striking redhead descending the stairs. She's older than the others—perhaps mid-twenties—with auburn hair that catches the lamplight like fire. Her dress, while revealing, speaks of quality, and her bearing suggests authority.
"But Ross—" one girl protests.
"He's so pretty!" another whines. "Those eyes—"
"Which is exactly why I'll handle this personally," Ross says smoothly. "Off with you now. Plenty of other customers need attention."
They disperse reluctantly, shooting envious glances back at Jon. Ross approaches with feline grace, her green eyes appraising him with intelligence that goes beyond professional interest.
"Jon Flint," she says. "Or should I say, Lord Jon? Though we've never met, your reputation precedes you."
Jon raises an eyebrow. "You know who I am?"
"Sweet boy, everyone knows who you are." She gestures at his face. "How many purple-eyed lordlings do you think wander through Wintertown? You're rather... distinctive."
"I could be a merchant's son from Lys," Jon suggests.
Ross laughs, rich and genuine. "With that northern accent? That Stark jaw? Please. You're Ned Stark's baseborn son, legitimized by your mountain grandfather. The purple-eyed wolf who's made half this town rich with your clever mind."
She steps closer, close enough that Jon can smell her perfume—something floral and expensive. "Tell me, Lord Jon, do you know any other northerners with purple eyes? Any at all?"
Jon's mind races—she's right, of course. He's never met another purple-eyed northerner. His mother must have had them, whoever she was, but...
"I hadn't really thought about it," he admits.
"No? Such a clever boy,"
She leads him toward a door at the back, her private chambers presumably. The room beyond is richly appointed—silk cushions, expensive carpets, a bed large enough for three.
"So tell me," Ross says, turning to face him. "What does Winterfell's young genius want from a whore? And don't say you're here just to lose your maidenhead. You could have done that with any of those girls pawing at you."
Jon considers lying, then decides against it. Something about Ross suggests she'd see through pretense anyway.
"I want to learn," he says simply. "How to give pleasure, not just take it. How to read a woman's desires. How..." He pauses, then forges ahead. "How women seduce men. The tricks, the techniques. Information is power, and this is information I lack."
Ross's eyebrows climb. "My, my. Most boys your age just want to stick it in and rut like dogs. You want an education."
"Among other things," Jon admits, his body still very much interested in the 'other things.'
"Practical. I like that." She moves to the bed, fingers working at her dress fastenings. "You've certainly come to the right place. I've been doing this since I was younger than you, learned from the best in King's Landing before coming north."
The dress parts, revealing smooth skin and curves that make Jon's mouth go dry. She's beautiful in a knowing way, comfortable in her body as a warrior in armor.
"First lesson," Ross says, silk pooling at her feet as she stands gloriously naked. "Stop thinking so much. Your body knows what it wants—let it guide you. The mind comes later, once you understand the basics."
Ross moves toward him with liquid grace, every step calculated to draw his eyes to the sway of her hips, the curve of her breasts. Jon tries to maintain some composure, but his body betrays him—pulse racing, breath catching, cock straining against his breeches.
"So tense," she murmurs, circling behind him. Her fingers ghost along his shoulders, finding knots of muscle. "Like a bowstring drawn too tight."
Her hands slide down his chest, working at the laces of his doublet. Jon shivers as cool air hits his skin, followed immediately by the warmth of her palms. She maps the planes of his chest with knowing touches, nails dragging lightly enough to raise goosebumps.
"Well-built for thirteen," Ross observes, her breath hot against his ear. "All that sword work shows."
When her hand dips lower, brushing the bulge in his breeches, Jon can't suppress a gasp. Ross chuckles, low and pleased.
"Eager thing, aren't you?" She moves to face him again, pressing her naked body against his half-clothed one. The sensation of her breasts against his bare chest nearly undoes him. "Tell me, clever boy—what new scheme are you hatching? Candles made Wintertown rich, but I know that mind of yours hasn't been idle."
Through the haze of arousal, Jon almost answers. The words about ice houses and preservation hover on his tongue before self-preservation kicks in. "I... that's..."
"Shh," Ross soothes, fingers tangling in his curls as she pulls his head down. "No need to share secrets. Though you should know..." Her lips brush his jaw. "Men tell us things. All sorts of things. When they're relaxed, satisfied, guards down."
The implication hits Jon like cold water. Information. Whores hear everything. But then Ross is kissing him properly, and all strategic thoughts flee.
Her mouth is soft but demanding, teaching him rhythm and pressure. When her tongue traces his lower lip, Jon opens for her instinctively. She tastes like wine and something darker, more complex. His hands hover uncertainly until she guides them to her waist.
"Touch me," she instructs against his mouth. "Learn what makes a woman sigh."
Jon explores tentatively at first—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. When his thumb brushes the underside of her breast, Ross makes an approving sound that goes straight to his cock.
"Good," she praises. "You pay attention. Most men grab like they're kneading dough."
She works his breeches open with practiced efficiency, and Jon's breath stutters as cool air hits heated flesh. When Ross looks down, her eyebrows climb.
"Well now," she says, wrapping slim fingers around his length. "Six inches at least, and you're not done growing. Some god smiled on you, Lord Flint."
Pride swells in Jon's chest for exactly three seconds—until Ross strokes him thrice, thumb circling the sensitive head, and he explodes like touched wildfire. Pleasure whites out his vision as he spends himself across her hand and stomach, hips jerking helplessly.
Shame follows immediately, hot and crushing. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Hush." Ross's voice holds amusement but no mockery. "You think you're the first green boy to spend himself at the third touch? Or the tenth?"
She retrieves a cloth, cleaning them both. "Big cock doesn't make you a god of the bedchamber, sweet thing. It's just a tool, and a useless one if you don't know how to wield it."
"How long before...?" Jon gestures vaguely, face burning.
"At your age? Give it ten minutes and you'll be hard as castle-forged steel again." She guides him to sit on the bed's edge. "Time enough for your first real lesson."
Ross kneels between his legs, looking up at him through her lashes. "Watch everything I do. Feel it, memorize it. Because someday you'll have a woman you actually care about spread beneath you, and you'll want to make her scream your name for all the right reasons."
Her hands trail up his thighs, nails dragging lightly. "Most men think sex is about their own pleasure. The smart ones know better. Make a woman come undone, truly undone, and she's yours. She'll tell you secrets, follow you anywhere, kill for you if needed."
"Is that what you do?" Jon asks, curiosity overcoming embarrassment. "Collect secrets from satisfied lords?"
Ross laughs, genuine this time. "Wouldn't you like to know? But here's free advice—assume every whore has someone's ear. The question is whose, and what they want."
She leans forward, breath ghosting over his spent cock. "Now pay attention, little wolf."
Seven hells, Jon thinks as her tongue flicks out.
But even as his body responds to Ross's ministrations, part of his mind files away her words. Whores as information brokers. Another layer to the game he's learning to play.
Later, he tells himself as pleasure builds again. Think later. Feel now.
For once, Jon Flint stops calculating and lets himself simply experience.
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