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THE NIGHT'S WATCH

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NED STARK

"YOU'RE SPEAKING OF MURDERING A CHILD." Ned's own words caught in his throat, deep and guttural as they spilled out across the table. Robert's face was redder than usual, and Ned couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I warned you this would happen." The King's chest swelled with each heavy breath, reminding Ned just how far Robert had gone since the rebellion, "Back in the North, I warned you, but you didn't care to hear. Well, hear it now." He continued to stare Ned down, a darkness falling over his face, "I want 'em dead, mother and child both. And that fool, Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them both dead."

He would order the death of a child. The death of two children he considered a threat. Blood and blue roses danced before Ned's eyes, as visions of promises and forgotten words appeared before him.

Ned's voice grew tight. "You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this."

"Honor?!" Robert scoffed, as if Ned was a fool for believing in what Jon Arryn had taught them, "I've got Seven Kingdoms to rule! One King, Seven Kingdoms. Do you think honor keeps them in line? Do you think it's honor that's keeping the peace? It's fear! Fear and blood!"

Robert's roar soared through the hall, and Ned thought he could smell the wine on his breath even this far across the table.

The people would talk.

Just like they did about Aerys.

"Then we're no better than the Mad King."

Robert's gaze darkened and he stood up out of his chair, crimson flooding his cheeks. "Careful, Ned. Careful."

Emboldened by his honor, Ned pressed forward, "You want to assassinate a girl... Because the Spider heard a rumor?"

"No rumor, my Lord." Varys' soft lilt spoke carefully, "The princess is with child."

"Based on whose information?"

Varys shared a look with the rest of the table before meeting Ned's eyes again, "Ser Jorah Mormont. He is serving as adviser to the Targaryens."

Ned scoffed. Of course, they would believe the word of Jorah Mormont. The honorless man would have fit like a glove in King's Landing, "Mormont? You bring us the whispers of a traitor half a world away and call it fact?"

"Jorah Mormont's a slaver, not a traitor." Littlefinger interjected, the sound of his accent sending a pulse of annoyance flooding through Ned's veins, "Small difference, I know, to an honorable man."

There it was again.

The little jab he'd received for daring to be honorable in a land of snakes.

"He broke the law, betrayed his family, fled our land." Ned listed off, trying to communicate in a few words why Mormont wasn't trustworthy. He'd abandoned Jeor to the wall, forsaken his Aunt and cousins, disgraced his house. "We commit murder on the word of this man?"

"And if he's right?" Robert posited, clearly not willing to let this go, "If she has a son? A Targaryen at the head of a Dothraki army... What then?"

The sound of Ned's heart slamming against his chest was all he heard. He needed to do this. He had to do this. Murdering a child was not an option.

"The Narrow Sea still lies between us." Ned offered in a final effort to change his friend's mind, "I'll fear the Dothraki the day they teach their horses to run on water."

Robert's laugh was mirthless, nothing like the raucous one Ned remembered, "Do nothing? That's your wise advice? Do nothing til our enemies—"

"My Lords," The brown-haired squire from before shrunk inside himself, swallowing tightly as he found himself caught in a battle of power in the small council chamber. The council's heads whirled toward the squire in question, a letter held tightly in his hand. "The King has received a letter from Dorne."

Tyrion Lannister's chair scraped the floor, the small man standing up and making himself known for the first time since the fighting had broken out.

"From Dorne?" The dwarf asked, an unreadable expression moving across his face. Ned creased his eyebrows at the gesture, wondering what possible investment the Lannister had in the desert country.

Ned grasped the parchment in his hands, the orange and red wax almost burning under the pad of his thumb. The Martells had no reason to write. For the better part of a decade, Prince Doran had refused to have anything to do with the Baratheon regime, never forgiving Tywin Lannister for the murder of his sister and the crowning of Cersei in her place.

If it hadn't been for Jon Arryn convincing Robert to legitimize Nymeria, Ned was sure Prince Oberyn would have rallied Dorne to the Targaryen cause.

The Martells had gained a legitimate heir in exchange for peace. So why was Prince Doran writing now?

King Robert Baratheon,

This attack on the Royal House of Martell will not go unanswered. We forgave your goodfather's crimes against our sister, Elia, we accepted your former Hand's conditions for peace. For seventeen years we have stood still, refusing to raise our banners against you despite my kingdom's call for vengeance. Despite my brother's failed rebellion.

But this crime we will not forgive until Dorne receives the justice they were denied.

For the four lives we would have lost, we demand four conditions in return.

A betrothal between my son and your daughter.

A seat on the small council.

A position for my brother's daughter in the Red Keep.

Gregor Clegane's head on a pike.

Should these needs be met, Dorne will stay the docile, peaceful, nation Lord Arryn wished us to be. If receive word that any of these conditions have not been fulfilled, I will consider it, and your wife's attempt on my family's life, a declaration of war.

Prince Doran Martell

Prince of Dorne

Lord of Sunspear

"Seven hells," Robert swore, collapsing back into his chair and rubbing his hand down his face.

Varys' perfumed voice rose up out of the silence, "Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to give into Dorne's commands."

"Are you out of your mind?" Renly asked, jumping up out of his seat to protest the whole affair, "If we give Dorne a length they'll take a league, I say we refuse."

"With a possible Dothraki horde coming our way?" Varys continued to press, "Daenerys Targaryen pregnant with a possible heir to the throne?"

Littlefinger nodded, "For once, I agree with the eunuch. It is much better to have a united front than waging a civil war anyone can exploit." His narrow eyes seemed to shift toward Ned for a moment before returning back to the king.

Robert was slumped in his chair, fist tight as he stared at the letter Ned had read aloud. At the letter that was so close to ruining everything he and Jon had fought so hard to achieve.

"We can give the Prince his betrothal, surely he will be happy with that." Tyrion piped up, and Ned shook his head.

"No, I know the Martells," He announced, recalling the swift way Princess Nymeria had fought against her personal guard. How she'd been able to take down an assassin and save his son's life. The vengeance that had burned in her gaze when she spoke to the Queen. "They will want all of it or nothing."

Tyrion fell against his chair, defeated.

"You damn Lannisters," Robert growled, his sunken eyes staring down the dwarf's, "Thorns in my side, all of you."

His chair scraped the bottom of the floor, heavy footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the keep, Robert's face still the same cherry color it was when Ned had entered, only this time his gaze was clouded, bright blue dissolving into a stormy grey.

"Your Grace?" Pycelle asked, the rest of the council standing up.

Robert stopped at the exit, addressing the brown-haired squire with a curt nod, "If the Queen asks my whereabouts, tell her I've gone."
Pycelle moved again, "Your Grace, where are you going?"

"ON A HUNT!"

His voice rumbled through the hall, shaking the foundations of the keep and thundering in Ned's chest, the northern lord letting out a resigned sigh as the door slammed behind him, leaving the small council to sort out the mess he'd left behind.

NYMERIA MARTELL

She crushed the parchment in her hand, tossing it in the burning hearth as she paced around the room. This was useless. Doran's plan was useless. Sarella's letter had reached her much faster than Arianne's, but stuck up here amongst the cold with no access to the news of the realm was maddening.

Her thick cloak dragged across the wooden floor, the furs rustling with every footstep. Something glinted out of the corner of her eye and Nymeria froze, her gaze locking onto the dagger that had been left in her possession. It hung at her side, weighing her down with each step she took.

How could something so small do so much damage so quickly?
It was your fault too, her traitorous mind whispered, you are as much to blame as the Lannisters or the Starks.

She was trying to play the game. But she was failing.

This was what she had been raised to do. What her role had been since the beginning. The unexpected pawn. The level-headed Princess to Arianne's hot dornish blood.

But she was out of practice. Up here she could do nothing. Up here she was subject to the whims of her Uncle and the men surrounding her.

Up here the game didn't matter.

A knock was heard at the door and she spun around, clutching the dagger tightly in her grip as she came face to face with Samwell Tarly.

"Sorry to disturb you, Princess," He stammered over his words, fidgeting in his new leathers. They squeezed him tightly, turning his face red just from how tight they were, no doubt Thorne had requested them that way. "Lord Commander Mormont wishes to speak with you"

Seven hells, could this day get any worse?

Nymeria already had an inkling of what this meeting was about. Her Uncle had promised men, and yet all he had sent was a princess instead.

Six moons at the wall and Doran still hadn't fulfilled his promise.

"Thank you, Sam," She followed the Tarly boy through the winding passageways of the King's Tower, the blistering snow flying at her face, stinging her cheeks and causing her to draw her cloak closer as they crossed the courtyard, both southern children missing the warmth of their homelands. For Sam, she supposed it was the green fields and summery seasons of the reach, where flowers bloomed aplenty and wine was had by all. For Nymeria it was the harsh desert winds and the red sand dunes she would race Obara through. It was her feet sinking into the soft grains as the blistering heat warmed her face and tanned her skin a darker shade of bronze. It was the sound of crashing waves and steel clashing against steel, her Uncle Oberyn's laughter rising up from the gardens of Sunspear as he sparred with his daughters.

It was too cold up North.

Too harsh.

There was no laughter at Castle Black, nor crashing seas. There was wood upon steel and shivering men and the sun was nowhere to be found. Nymeria drew her eyes up toward the grey skies, wishing for even the tiniest sliver of warmth to peek through the barrage of clouds. But all she felt were the snowflakes on her cheeks. The sun had set a long time ago, and Nymeria missed the long days in Dorne.

The wood creaked underneath her feet, filling the silence between Sam and Nymeria as they reached the top of the Lord Commander's Tower, Jeor Mormont patiently waiting as he tended to business.

Nymeria wondered how much of it was real.

"Lord Commander Mormont," She spoke stiffly, unused to being summoned by anyone except her Uncle.

The Old Bear stared at her, blue eyes piercing into her dark gaze before setting his ink and parchment aside.

"Princess Nymeria." His voice wavered on the first word. He was still unused to addressing her as such. "I believe you and I have something to discuss."

The door shut behind her and she was alone in the chamber, Sam no doubt relieved to be out of the room and his duty fulfilled. Nymeria couldn't say she blamed him.

"If this is about my Uncle—"

"He promised us men and he failed." Mormont's tone was stern, like a father talking down to his daughter instead of a man of the watch discussing issues with a princess of Dorne, "I have been more than generous in allowing you to stay here Princess, but after the men take their vows, I must ask you to leave."

This wasn't part of the plan. Her breathing grew shallow. She had clear instructions from Doran, stay at the wall and watch over Jon Snow. Convince him to leave the Wall and come to Dorne. Her goal was so near. But things were accelerating much quicker than she or Doran anticipated.

"Lord Commander," Her voice hissed through her teeth, fingers clenching themselves into a tight fist over the pommel of the Valyrian dagger, "My Uncle is an overly cautious man, and I think you overestimate the stamina of your ravens, my lord."

Mormont stiffened, but his expression remained unchanged, fixed on hers with all the stubbornness his house was known for. "You have been here for nearly six moons, surely that is enough time for Prince Doran to have made his decision."

She scoffed inwardly, biting the inside of her cheek. Doran never did anything in a timely manner, taking seventeen years to enact any sort of revenge for his dead sister. Her mother.

Oberyn was too hasty and Doran was too slow.

It made her wonder if her mother had been the balanced one of the siblings.

"Prince Doran never does anything without reassurances," Nymeria explained, fingernails digging into her palms, her nerves engulfed in the fist by her side, hidden from view. "If there is any doubt in his mind, he will sit there and do nothing until it resolves itself."
Commander Mormont's expression shifted for the first time since she entered, eyes squinting at her, the tightness in his jaw disappearing.

He let out a large exhale, "You sound as if you've done this before."

Nymeria nodded curtly, eyes flitting toward the floor before meeting the Old Bear again, "This is not the first time my uncle has needed alliances, my lord."

She recalled the disastrous attempt to betroth Trystane to the youngest Manwoody, and how Doran's foolish caution had cost them that political alliance in the long run.

She loved her uncle, but he was weak. Waiting until the perfect moment to strike. The grass never strikes, she thought, it just sits.

Mormont looked pensive, looking down at the piece of parchment he had shoved aside, "Would you say Prince Doran would be more willing to support us if he knew what we were fighting?"

Nymeria scoffed. Everyone knew what the Night's Watch was for these days. Stopping Wildlings and harboring prisoners. There was nothing out beyond the wall worth fighting anymore. Maybe once there had been, like in the tales and legends commonly passed around by the small folk. But now there was only cold.

Only snow.

"Yes, he would."

Mormont nodded in thought at her words. "Benjen Stark's horse rode through the wall this morning, missing his rider."

Nymeria's eyebrows knit themselves together, confusion stirring in the pit of her chest, trying to decipher the older man's motive for telling her this. "I'm sorry for your loss, my lord."

Mormont's eyes shot up to meet her gaze again, his lips downturned and jaw clenched, "Benjen Stark is still alive." He sounded certain, but from what Nymeria had seen, nobody could survive that weather for that long. "I am leading a ranging to find him after his nephew swears his vows."

Her throat constricted, chest tightening as she contemplated his words.

Jon Snow was not meant to swear his vows. Nymeria's plan was to keep him south. Keep him a free man.

But the Lord Commander had different plans.

"I want you to join us," Mormont finished, the final shock to her system nearly causing her entire facade to break down and expose the surprise that burst inside her.

"My Lord, I am not a member of the watch, I cannot—"

"If proof is what your uncle needs, Princess, then proof he shall get."

Nymeria swallowed.

***

The cold still hadn't gotten any easier to deal with during her stay. Nearly half a year at Castle Black and she still needed several furs and a brightly lit fire to keep her from shivering. She thought she'd get used to it, Mormont had been kind enough to lend her a fur cloak, the black feathers and thick wool reminiscent of the jape most of Westeros knew the Watch as.

A crow.

Was that what she was now? She had been here so long she could hardly recall what Dorne felt like, how it smelled. All she remembered was the sound of waves crashing against the shore in a desperate attempt to walk on land. Was she even a viper anymore? Did she deserve that title?

The courtyard was barren, most of the men either asleep or finishing up the last of their training. It was only a matter of days before time ran out.

Before they were called upon to swear their vows.

Her heart hammered against her chest, pulse quickening as her footsteps moved through the thick snow, leaving a trail in her wake.

Her cloak was beginning to weigh her down, and Nymeria quickly ducked into the stables to shake some of the snow off.

A soft whinny came from one of the stalls and she removed the hood, the lit candles providing a bit of warmth as she moved toward the sound.

Her heart melted when she saw the animal who had let it out. "Phoenix," She spoke softly, her sand steed fidgeting in her stall until Nymeria's hand landed on her thick black mane, gently brushing her coat while her other hand stroked her nose.

"Shhhh, you're okay," Nymeria soothed, "Shhhhh."

Phoenix's dark eyes were wide, pupils dilated as she blinked at her rider. The north was no place for a sand steed. She was a dornish horse, made to roam free among the sand dunes underneath the hot sun.

There was no place in the cold for her.

"We can't stay here much longer," Nymeria whispered, Phoenix gently nuzzling her hand, "This isn't our home."

The horse neighed in affirmation, digging her hoof into the ground.

She knew what she had to do. No matter what Mormont or Doran said, she knew once Jon took the black, she wouldn't be allowed to stay any further.

Something twisted in her chest at the thought, but she shook it away.

When Phoenix seemed to calm down, Nymeria gave her one last pet before adjusting her cloak once again.

Her boots crushed against the hay, moving through the stable until the wind stung her face again.

Seven Hells, it was almost worse than Dorne's.

"Well look what we've got 'ere."

Footsteps crunched against the ground and Nymeria froze, blood turning to ice like the ground beneath her feet.

Karl Tanner's sneer was wide and gleeful, black eyes scanning her up and down in a way that only made her shiver. Ethan Blackmont was beside him, the former heir circling her like a hungry wolf ready to engulf his prey.

"Our very own Danny Flint," Karl's voice was rough and scratchy, grating on her ears with each word that dropped from his mouth. Ethan's tongue swiped across his teeth, and Nymeria's jaw clenched.

She knew the story by now. The men had wasted no time telling her it, the familiar glares of lust lingering on her before growing quiet. Shrugging like it was a pity she wasn't the northern woman. A pity that she had the protection of a title.

Her hand drifted to her side, ready to grab one of her daggers if need be.

They can't touch you, she whispered to herself, you are a Princess of Dorne, and you belong to no man.

Ethan's footsteps stopped behind her, and Nymeria forced herself to recall Oberyn's lessons. The men weren't wearing armor, a swift kick in the gut or a scratch across the face would be enough to subdue them. She pressed forward, Karl's body stopping her.

"Now where do 'ou think 'ou're goin' Princess?"

The title dripped with contempt, and the knot in Nymeria's stomach grew tighter, nearly paralyzing her as her chest heaved up and down silently. More figures in black appeared out of the corner of her eye, Rast and Chett among the entourage.

Shit.

She forced steel into her spine and lifted her chin proudly, shoving whatever she felt deep into the depths of her gut. She would not cower for them.

"My quarters," She spoke coldly, hoping it would deter him, "And I'd like to get back before Ser Marwyn realizes I am missing."
It was an empty threat. Ser Marwyn was too far away and probably too deep in his cups to do anything, but they didn't need to know that.

Karl's laugh was obnoxious and echoed off the empty towers. They rattled like a prison cell, and he pushed forward, forcing Nymeria back.

She slammed directly into Ethan, whose wandering hands found her waist, squeezing her tightly. His nose pressed deep into her hair, "She even smells filthy," He muttered, his voice shivering next to her ear, "But she'll make for a good fuck."

She slammed her elbow into his gut, backhanding him into the snow. She was Princess Nymeria of Dorne, daughter of Queens, and he would not have her.

A small dagger slid into her hand and she struck, slicing Karl's bicep and parrying his punch, with her hand and dagger locked around his forearm, she twisted, eliciting a scream of pain for the man. Rast was moving in next and she kicked him in the gut, the gesture sending the weak boy reeling as she moved to run, three out of her four assailants dealt with.

Large arms wrapped around her chest and pulled her back, pressing her up against the brick of the building.

"You little whore," Ethan's breath was hot on her neck, breathing shallow as it bounced back at her from against the wall. His hands pinned her arms to her side, shoving her against the wall again, her back screaming in pain as he grew closer. His teeth were crooked, bright green eyes blazing as his lips forcefully pressed against hers. Nymeria kept hers thin and frozen, but his tongue slid past her iron prison, disgusting and slimy as it licked in the inside of her mouth before licking Ethan's lips in victory.

"Let me go," She muttered, trying to regain some of her strength. He slammed her against the wall again.

"Now," She hissed as his hand slid against her bare skin, nearing her leggings as his crooked teeth widened themselves into a smile, his grip still tight against her, "Let's see if the dornish taste as good as they claim."

Nymeria willed herself to shut her eyes, praying to the Mother, The Maiden, The Warrior...anyone who was out there that could help her. But the wind blew soft and cold, and as Ethan's breath prickled against her skin, her eyes shot open, grabbing his wrist and pulling it free.

"I said. No."

She grabbed his fingers and bent them back, hearing the crack of bone mixing with Ethan's howls. Skin slapped into her jaw and she fell face first into the snow, cold seeping into her clothes and dampening her tainted clothes.

Rushed footsteps.

Angered men.

Nymeria thought of her mother as she tried to crawl back up.

Elia Martell, bleeding and crying on the floors of King's Landing while Gregor Clegane raped her and murdered her.

Elia Martell. The Princess of Dorne.

Elia Martell. Her mother.

She was a Princess of Dorne and the Seven afforded her no dignity as she left this world.

As she left Nymeria.

You are not me, my child. Her voice seemed to say. I had no say in my death or my life. But you do. You do.

Her fingers found something metallic and she whipped around and pushed, blood gushing over her hands as it drained out of a pale figure above her.

I Am Princess Nymeria Martell of Dorne. Daughter of Queens. And I belong to no man.

Crimson stained the snow, Ethan's dark hair and alabaster face hollow.

Her hand trembled, the Valyrian steel ready to slip out of her grip at any second.

Oh, gods. What had she done?

White fur and red eyes bounded out of the shadows, mirroring the scene before her.

"Ghost?" She breathed out.

The wolf licked her bloody hands, and a tear slid down her face.

JON SNOW

Jon heard the sobs first. He thought it was Sam once again, come to seek comfort for his supposed failings as a man of the watch. But these sobs were softer, separated by deep gasps of air, like they were searching for breath.

He pressed the wooden door open, stopping when he caught sight of the woman sitting on his bed, tears streaming down her face as she met his gaze.

"Nymeria?" The word choked in his throat, knitting his face together in an attempt to understand what the princess was doing in his room.

His eyes fell to her hands, firelight illuminating the crimson color that coated her hands, her abdomen drenched in it.

He hurried forward, pulse quickening and stomach clenching as he brought his hands to her stomach, a gesture she stiffened at. Jon removed his hands. "What happened?"

Nymeria's lips tightened and she pulled away, the gesture wounding him more than he anticipated.

He didn't know what to do. Sansa always went to Lady Stark or Father when she cried and Arya was more angry than sad most of the time. It seemed as though she didn't want to be touched, so all Jon did was sit there and stare, his wide grey eyes fixated on the shaking woman before him.

The woman he had seen stare down the King and Queen with little difficulty. The woman who had confronted Tyrion Lannister with ease.

The woman who'd stood up to Thorne and fought beside Jon with little prompting.

But now here she was. A puddle at his side.

And Jon didn't know what to do.

"I killed him." She wavered once again, gaze drifting down to her bloodied hands, Ghost gently licking them. The wolf was snuggled against her legs, sitting quietly like he always did. But his head rested on Nymeria's lap, red eyes wide as they stared up at her.

His own wolf was a better comfort than Jon was right now.

"Who?"

Nymeria refused to tear her gaze from her hands, "I had to. I had to do it, I had no choice, he was..." Her voice cracked, broken and soft and collapsing under the weight of her sin, "I was on the ground and he—" Her hand clasped her mouth, her muffled sobs cutting off her words. Her eyes were pools of brown he almost found himself lost in, wide and frightened and resembling his own during that awful storm when he was younger.

She let out another shaky breath and grasped his hands, warmth bursting across his palms. "I killed Ethan." Her sobs punctured the breath between each word, the soft candlelight illuminating the saltwater dripping down her face. Her gaze was harder now, resembling the amber color he had seen atop the wall months ago. Something dark drifted over her face, jaw clenching.

Jon could only sit there and watch.

He'd seen his father execute deserters. He'd seen Jory loose an arrow and skin a stag faster than he could run. He'd heard of men dying in battle, his Uncle Benjen telling him of the glorious stories in the Night's Watch, his father telling him of Ser Arthur's tragic demise during the Rebellion.

The Martells spoke in secrets, Maester Lupin had told him, but before him, he could only see honesty.

"Did you burn it?"

Her sobs quieted, and Jon held his breath.

"What?"

Jon exhaled sharply, his face stone as anger and nerves raged like a fire in his gut. Gods he was stupid.

"The body," He didn't know why he was continuing down this road, "Did you burn it?"

Nymeria shook her head, finally tearing her gaze away from him, leaving his hands cold as she pried them away from him. "No," She swallowed, "I was a bit preoccupied if you hadn't noticed."

The words were sharp, and pierced straight through his chest like they were meant to.

"The men of the watch burn their bodies. Like the wildlings." Jon explained, a voice in the back of his head mentally slapping him for opening up his mouth, "Most men of the North do."

"Well I'm not from the north am I?" Her brown eyes had hardened into icy amber, grief morphing into anger before him. "In Dorne, we bury bodies, like the rest of Westeros."

She sniffed and dragged her hand across her face, twisting the sheathed knife in her hands as she stared at the floor.

Anger morphed back into grief, except Jon knew this sadness. This horrible feeling that had plagued him the first few weeks at the Wall. That still plagued him sometimes.

"Tell me about Dorne," He finally offered, her eyes latching into his again. They were softer this time around, a beautiful array of golds and browns and, if he peered close enough, a slight violet tinge. Her lips perked up slightly and her gaze glazed over.

"It's...it's home." She began, "The sand dunes are worse than the seven hells to wade through, especially on a sunny day, but the soft winds we get from the dornish marches make it easier to bear. The Red Mountains are harsh, but stand taller than anything I've ever seen. They jut out of the ground like tall spears piercing the brilliant blue sky." She chuckled and closed her eyes, almost as if she could see the scene before her, "And the sun— the sun..."

She exhaled deeply, and that was all Jon needed to understand her meaning.

The sun was to her what the snow was to Jon.

Comforting in a way nothing else was.

"It's blistering and warm and...I've never felt anything like it." Her smile was growing wider, lips open slightly as she tilted her head back, almost basking in the imaginary element.

Jon couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips.

Her gaze met his and she chuckled alongside him. "You would do well in Dorne," She bit her lip, chewing on the skin as her eyes flickered up and down.

Jon shuffled in his seat, moving away from the warmth she'd been radiating. "I'm not much for deserts, Princess."

Her hand latched out to grab his. It was desperate, gripping his fingers with a strength he hadn't expected.

"Come home with me." She spoke softly, voice barely above a whisper as her gaze stayed stuck on his, "No one cares about bastards in Dorne. No one would look twice."

But he would still be a bastard. Still a man with no name or title bringing shame to his family.

Sitting there, scanning the doe-eyed, desperate look on her face, Jon wanted to say yes. Perhaps before Benjen went missing he would have.

Before his father becoming hand he would have.

In another lifetime Jon dreamt of sailing across the Narrow Sea and becoming a sellsword, just as he used to dream of joining the Kingsguard.

But his Uncle was missing. And his family needed him close. He could do more for them at the Wall than he ever could in Dorne.

He was to be a man of the Night's Watch. The Sword in the Darkness. The Watcher on the Wall. He swore to protect Sam and Grenn and Pyp and the rest of his brothers.

This was his duty. And he could not forsake it.

He brought his other hand to close around Nymeria's, refusing to look at her. "No."

Nymeria cracked, a soft gasp of shock leaving her lips before sealing them shut. Jon's chest ached, and he found himself wanting to go back on his word.

Warmth slipped out of his hand as a girl with long dark hair and sad eyes crept through the wooden door, not even sparing him a second glance.