Chapter Text
The Cinnamon Wind is a trading ship, and everyone aboard is expected to be of use. Jon bought his passage but he also agreed to help where he can, so he learns to clean the deck and tie sailors' knots, and he carries goods to and from the ship when they stop at ports along the way to King's Landing. He doesn't mind, really; keeping busy keeps him from dwelling on his past... or his future, for that matter. He doesn't know his mother's goodbrother, though she writes affectionately of him. He'll answer to Lord Renly regardless of what the man is like, and now that the capital is drawing ever closer, Jon can't quite forget that.
And then there's his mother's husband, Lord Stannis, and their children. He's written to Shireen and Arthur, but what if the letters are not enough, in the end? And what will a man known to be as hard and cold as Stannis Baratheon really think of his wife's bastard, for all she'd told Jon he didn't care?
Really, it's good he has work to distract him. The fetching and carrying is easy, the knots and learning how to raise a sail are definitely not. It keeps him occupied. Ghost tends to stay in the part of the hold where Jon and the crew sleep on hammocks – the deck of a ship is not the best place for a growing direwolf. Some of the crew fear him, but others are fascinated, and know that when Jon's there, Ghost will behave himself.
And then there are the stories. The Cinnamon Wind has taken her captain and crew around the known world, even over the Jade Sea to cities like Yi Ti and Asshai. They have so many stories to tell, of a red god of fire whose influence spreads over Essos, the sorcerers of Qarth, the fearless riders of the Dothraki. In exchange, Jon tells them Northern legends, the ones he heard from Old Nan or the household men-at-arms, or even Uncle Benjen. The Kings of Winter, the Long Night, and the Others. Children of the Forest. Raji is a follower of the red god R'hllor but he's curious about Westerosi religions, so Jon tells him all about the Old Gods and hears quite a bit about this Lord of Light in exchange. It would be a more pleasant religion if they didn't like to burn things so much, he decides. The Islanders on the boat mention that sex is holy to them, and Jon thinks Theon would make a good worshipper of their faith, what with his frequent trips to Winter Town's brothel.
Most amusingly, he even picks up some words and phrases in the bastardized Valyrian dialects of the Free Cities, and some in the language of the Summer Isles (the captain, Quhuru Mo, and half his crew are from there). Of course, none of it is the type of language he can repeat in polite company – which is really why he finds it so funny. He considers, briefly, not getting off at King's Landing; instead he can try to join the crew, see all the places they've seen. It's a tempting thought, but then they're docking at the capital and Jon knows he can't go through with it. He doesn't really want to; he wants to know his family, he's just nervous.
His Stark siblings loved him, as did his father, but he never belonged with them. Will he belong here, when he looks so much like a Stark even if he will never bear the name? He doesn't know, but Captain Mo is snapping his fingers for Jon to help them unload one last time, and he's left at the docks, Ghost at his side. The Red Keep is easy enough to find, but he isn't sure... Can he just go up there and be let in?
This was the sort of thing he probably should have asked about in a letter. But before he could make an idiot of himself by wandering about the city, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning around, Jon found himself facing a boy of his own age or thereabouts, maybe a bit younger, with mussed brown hair and friendly hazel eyes. Also, he wore Baratheon livery. “Hello, I'm Devan Seaworth, Lord Stannis' squire. Lady Ashara sent me to fetch you – something about Lord Renly being a bit scattered and probably not remembering he should send someone. And she wishes to see you first in any case.” Devan's eyes fall on Ghost. “Gods, is that a wolf?”
Jon blinks, considering the boy. He knows the name Seaworth – his mother and siblings have mentioned a Ser Davos Seaworth in their letters. This must be his son. “A direwolf,” he explains. “My trueborn Stark siblings and I each have one; we found the pups in the wolfswood.”
“But wolves... They're wild creatures,” Devan says, eyes going wide. “Don't you fear he'll turn on you, or attack someone?”
“He won't attack anyone who doesn't hurt me,” Jon says with certainty. “Here, come closer. Ghost, stay.” Devan looks uncertain, but finally he puts his hand up by Ghost's muzzle like one would for a dog. Ghost's ears twitch, but he stays still, and Devan pats his head.
“Well,” he says, straightening up. “We'd best get inside; my lady is impatient to see you.”
“Thank you, I've never been here before,” Jon admits as he follows Devan toward the keep.
“My father was born here,” Devan says easily. “And my mother too. But I never came here before Lord Stannis made me his squire. My older brothers told me things, though – they spent some of their childhood here too before Father was knighted. And I've explored a bit. You'll have more time to do that than I did, if you want. Lord Renly's an easier sort of man.”
Jon's a bit distracted by the bustle of the city – he's seen White Harbour and Oldtown now, and they both smell a lot better than King's Landing, but there's something different to those cities in the capital besides that. He can't tell yet if it's good or bad. Devan points out places as they go, and he listens, but he knows he won't remember all of it. He gets a lot of strange looks, or rather, Ghost gets a lot of strange looks. Jon clenches his jaw and curls his fingers into Ghost's ruff, keeping him close. These Southrons can keep their mistrust, he thinks, and almost laughs; a very Northern thought for a boy who felt he had little of it in him.
The Red Keep is smaller than Winterfell. The towers go higher, but overall it's smaller. Jon hadn't expected that, but strangely enough it helps his nervousness. He follows Devan through the corridors with Ghost trotting at his heels and his bag slung over one shoulder, and he's painfully aware of the stares. He exchanged his Northern clothes for ones bought in the market at Oldtown – it was just too warm to continue wearing them by then. But he's still not in court clothes, he looks so much like his father it's uncanny, and even if neither of these things were true, Ghost at his side would be enough to have every eye on him at least for a moment. The looks in the city streets were amusing, but these stares hold a judgment that was not present in the cityfolk's gazes. It sets his teeth on edge.
Do Southrons have nothing better to do with their time than gawk at unfamiliar sights? Jon forces himself to shake off the annoyance; he's spent his entire life with Lady Stark's eyes making him an interloper in what was supposedly his home, with his father's bannermen and their people looking at him askance. This is nothing compared to that. Devan notices the stares too, and he gives Jon an apologetic look. Jon manages to smile. “I'm used to it, and Ghost will draw eyes,” he says.
“My father used to be a smuggler from Flea Bottom – they look at him like he doesn't belong too,” Devan says. “And my brothers and me, as well. My mother says they're just perfumed idiots.”
Jon laughs aloud, and it doesn't seem so bad, when he knows he's not the only outcast. Soon enough, they're at the door to the Lord of Dragonstone's chambers, though, and Jon's breath catches in his throat. He doesn't – he's not – Jon knows his mother, knows Shireen and Arthur, only through letters. Letters are wonderful in their way, but... What if they don't like him? What if it turns out he is too Northern, too Stark after all?
He's trembling when the Baratheon guardsmen let them pass, and he tries to hide it but he's absolutely certain he's failed. He has a moment to take a few steps into the room, to recognize it as a solar not unlike Lady Stark's at Winterfell. Then, suddenly, he's caught up in a firm embrace, the scent of... The perfume is cinnamon and other scents he doesn't know. Distantly, he hears Devan murmur a farewell, footsteps and a closing door, but he isn't paying attention.
After a moment, the woman holding him draws back so Jon can see her face. Her face framed by hair the same black as his. Her cheekbones are like his, and the look in those violet eyes is one he knows too well, and has never seen directed his way before. The way a mother looks at her child. “M-mother?” he says, stumbling over the word like a child even though he knows the answer.
Ashara Dayne Baratheon puts her hands on Jon's shoulders, gaze sweeping over him, and Jon hopes desperately that she likes what she sees. “You look like Arthur,” she says, and Jon's confusion must show on his face, because everyone has always told him he looks like his father. “Oh, you have your father's look, but these dark curls, certain things in your face... You look like my brother.”
Jon smiles, uncertainly. "I, I do? Truly?"
She smiles, hand cupping his cheek. "You don't need to be afraid, Jon. You'll belong here, I promise."
The door crashes open, a pair of children tumbling in. The girl is about Arya's age, the boy about Bran's, and both of them peer up at Jon with blue-violet eyes. "Are you our brother Jon?" the boy - Arthur, it has to be - asks. Jon doesn't know what to say, his throat strangely tight, so he nods.
The next thing he knows, he has a small boy colliding with him, wrapping his arms around Jon's waist, and the girl - Shireen - is giggling. "Arthur! Don't ambush him!" She smiles. "Sorry about him," she tells Jon, an impish light in her eyes before she blushes and ducks her head.
Jon hugs Arthur back, that lump in his throat still there. But it isn't a bad thing, not really. Still, he can't let himself cry when he has a younger brother clamoring to know all about his journey and a younger sister slowly asking questions about the stories he and the sailors exchanged. When he has a mother for the first time in his life, watching the three of them with the kind of soft smile he used to see directed at his Stark siblings by Lady Catelyn.
The door opens again, and Jon finds himself facing two tall men, black-haired and blue-eyed. The elder of them has a tightly-clenched jaw and he's mostly bald, the younger wears his long hair tied back and has a lazy grin. "Jon, this is my husband, Stannis, and his brother, Renly, who you'll be squiring for." Stannis nods, politely enough, and it startles Jon, who had deep-down expected more of the way Lady Stark looked at him. "Your mother will be accompanying you to Sunspear so Doran Martell can make a legal Dayne of you."
Jon's mother straightens. "Robert gave consent, then?"
Stannis nods. "I spoke to Lord Arryn; he took care of the rest. Which reminds me, we must speak of his son." He looks at Jon, Arthur, and Shireen impassively. "It can wait, however." He leaves the room, and Renly shakes his head.
"Don't mind him, Snow - or, no, should I start out by calling you Dayne, get us both accustomed?"
"I - Jon is fine, my lord."
"Well, then you must call me Renly."
"That's your name, Uncle Renly, what else would he call you?" Arthur pipes up.
"Exactly my point, dear nephew."
Jon is silent, unsure what to make of his distant stepfather and remarkably friendly knight-master. A hand slips into his, and he looks down to see Shireen, the greyscale unable to mar her pretty eyes or sweet smile. He smiles back, thinking of how tight his mother hugged him, and... He misses Robb and Bran and especially Arya, but... He thinks he really can belong here.