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."