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The feast had ended, but the air in Sunspear remained thick with heat and the kind of tension that didn't cool with wine. Jon Snow walked beside Arianne Martell through the moonlit corridor, trying not to think about the ghost of her fingers still lingering on his cock, or the way her laughter during dinner had made the Yronwoods seethe.
She walked like the palace owed her apologies just for existing, her hips swaying under that scandalous gold mesh that made silk look puritanical. The torchlight flickered along the walls, casting shifting shadows—and glinting off the swell of her breasts, barely contained by a bronze bodice that could've doubled as a siege weapon.
"I thought Northerners didn't blush," Arianne said, brushing her arm along his. "Yet here you are, pink as a summer peach."
"That's heatstroke," Jon replied. "Or possibly your perfume. I think it's eating my self-control."
She grinned. "Citrus and jasmine. Mixed to drive men mad."
"It's working," he muttered.
"You handled yourself well tonight," she continued, voice low and syrupy. "At the table, I mean. I expected your Northern instincts to kick in when Yronwood opened his smug little mouth."
"Trust me, they did," Jon said. "I was one insult away from planting his face in the pudding."
Arianne laughed, full-bodied and wicked. Her breasts bounced slightly with the motion, drawing his eye before he could stop it. She noticed. Of course she did. She slowed her steps deliberately, and stretched—just enough for the deep neckline of her bodice to shift, offering him a better view.
"You're staring," she said lightly, without shame.
"I noticed."
"And yet you haven't tripped over your own boots or choked on your tongue. I'm impressed."
Jon glanced at her sidelong. "You're very proud of your—" he gestured vaguely toward her chest "—assets."
"They deserve it," she said with mock dignity. "They've opened more doors than most swords in Dorne."
"Do they usually press against people while doing so?" he asked, as she "accidentally" leaned into him again.
"Only the ones worth tempting."
Jon snorted, trying and failing not to smirk. "Gods, you're relentless."
"And you're resisting," she said, flicking his collar with her nail. "It's adorable. Do all bastards in the North take vows of chastity, or is it just the beautiful ones with violet eyes?"
He gave her a look. "You're fishing for compliments."
"I'm fishing for you," she said, lips curling. "And you keep swimming in circles."
They reached another corridor, darker now, lined with tall windows that opened to the night breeze. Arianne paused, tilting her face toward the moonlight. It silvered the curves of her body beneath the sheer fabric—smooth and golden, like a goddess carved for sin.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "if I leaned just a little further out, this bodice might not hold."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Is that a warning or a demonstration?"
"Depends," she said, stepping forward, "on how fast you catch things when they fall."
Her breasts brushed his chest again—no accident this time—and Jon felt his cock stir traitorously beneath the light silk of his trousers.
"Arianne," he said, voice level but strained, "if you keep testing my restraint, you're going to learn exactly where it ends."
"Oh?" she purred. "So you do have limits. I was beginning to think you'd sworn a vow to blue balls."
He exhaled through his nose. "Ros used to say I was frustrating."
"Ros?" she echoed. "Who's she? A northern nun with a whip?"
"A whore," Jon said. "From Winterfell. Kind. Clever. Moaned my name. But I never gave her more than fingers and tongue."
Arianne blinked. Then smirked. "Gods. No wonder Nymeria wouldn't shut up. I thought she was exaggerating."
"She wasn't," Jon said dryly. "But I don't father bastards."
Arianne circled him now, slow, deliberate. "Such principle. Such control. And yet—" she reached out, tracing one finger along the seam of his vest, "—your heart's racing."
"That's not my heart," he said without thinking.
She laughed, delighted. "There's the wolf I want."
They stopped at his chamber door. She didn't step back. Her body was inches from his, full curves almost brushing his, her breasts practically begging for attention.
"You're going to invite me in," she said simply.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Yes, you have. You're just pretending to think."
He met her eyes. "You think I'll open that door and forget every reason I've held back?"
"No," she said softly, "I think you'll open it and finally admit you don't want to."
Jon hesitated. The air between them was molten. Her lips were close. Too close. His body wanted her. His cock ached for her.
But something in him—some flickering echo of Winterfell's cold stone walls, of his father's solemn eyes—held firm.
Not yet.
"I'll admit to wanting," he said, reaching behind him, "but not to forgetting."
And with that, he stepped inside and shut the door—gently, not slamming it.
On the other side, Arianne laughed again, slow and triumphant. As if the game was still hers.
And maybe it was.
Jon leaned back against the door, breath coming slow. His cock throbbed behind silk. He was burning from the inside out.
But his pride?
Still intact.
Barely.
Jon paced his chamber like a caged direwolf, the stone cool beneath his bare feet. The night's feast still hummed in his blood—a dangerous cocktail of spiced wine, political victory, and the lingering heat of Arianne's hand beneath the table. He'd escaped that particular temptation, but found himself wondering if he'd merely postponed the inevitable.
A soft knock at his door halted his restless movement.
She's come back, he thought, his pulse quickening beneath the thin Dornish tunic he'd changed into.
"Enter," he called, steadying his voice even as his heart betrayed him with its hammering.
The door opened to reveal Arianne, still dressed in her golden mesh gown, though she'd added a silk robe that did little to conceal what lay beneath. She carried a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses.
"I thought perhaps our conversation was cut short," she said, eyes glittering like obsidian in torchlight. "I brought Dornish fire wine to loosen your Northern tongue."
Jon raised an eyebrow, allowing himself a small smile. "My tongue seems to have caused enough trouble already."
Her laugh was musical and knowing. "Oh, I've only just begun to appreciate your... talents."
This is madness, Jon thought. But what's one more conversation?
"Please, come in," he said, gesturing toward the sitting area near the balcony. "Though I can't promise I'll be better company than at the feast."
Arianne swept past him, a desert storm draped in gold and silk, leaving the scent of orange blossoms and something darker in her wake. She set the decanter and glasses on a small table before turning to face him.
"You underestimate yourself, Jon Snow," she said, pouring two measures of the wine. "You held your own against Lord Yronwood's viper of a son while I did my best to distract you. Few men have such... focus."
Jon accepted the glass she offered, their fingers brushing deliberately. "Perhaps I'm simply accustomed to maintaining composure under difficult circumstances."
"Being the Bastard of Winterfell taught you that, I imagine." Her voice held no judgment, only curiosity.
Jon took a careful sip of the wine, feeling it burn a path to his stomach. "Being Lord Stark's bastard teaches many lessons. Especially when Lady Stark never lets you forget it."
Arianne settled onto a cushioned bench, patting the space beside her. Jon hesitated only briefly before joining her, maintaining a respectable distance that she immediately closed by shifting closer.
"And what of your mother?" Arianne asked, her voice softening. "Do you know nothing of her?"
Jon stared into his wine glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Only whispers. They say she was Ashara Dayne of Starfall. That her eyes were..." He paused, then met Arianne's gaze directly. "That they were like mine."
Arianne's expression flickered with something unreadable. "Is that why you agreed to come to Dorne? To find her?"
"I hadn't considered it until I arrived," Jon admitted. "But yes, the thought has crossed my mind. Is she truly alive?"
"The Lady of Starfall lives," Arianne confirmed, sipping her wine. "Though she seldom leaves her home these days."
Hope flickered in Jon's chest—a dangerous, fragile thing he scarcely dared acknowledge. He masked it by drinking deeply from his glass.
Arianne set her wine aside and rose with fluid grace. She moved to the balcony doors, pushing them open to let in the night air. The silver moonlight transformed her, silhouetting her curves through the thin fabrics she wore.
"Dorne is beautiful at night," she said, her back to him. "Almost as beautiful as during the day."
With deliberate slowness, she untied her silk robe and let it slide from her shoulders. The golden mesh dress beneath caught the moonlight, rendering it nearly transparent.
Jon's mouth went dry. This is no longer just conversation.
"Princess," he began, his voice rougher than intended.
"Arianne," she corrected, turning to face him. Her hands moved to the clasps at her shoulders. "We're far past titles, don't you think?"
One clasp came undone, then the other. The dress didn't fall—it clung to her as if reluctant to release its claim—but the message was unmistakable.
"What are you doing?" Jon asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.
Arianne smiled, a predator confident in her hunt. "Something we both want." She took a step toward him. "Something you denied us both earlier."
Jon stood, his wine forgotten on the table. "I told you my reasons."
"Ah yes, your noble fear of fathering bastards." She took another step closer. "A commendable concern. Unnecessary, but commendable."
Her hands went to the front of her dress, slowly peeling the golden mesh away from her skin. First one breast was revealed, then the other—large and perfect in the mingled torchlight and moonlight.
Jon couldn't look away. His body responded instantly, his cock hardening against the thin fabric of his sleeping trousers. Arianne's eyes dropped to the obvious bulge, her smile widening.
"In Dorne," she continued, letting the dress fall to her waist, "we have ways to prevent unwanted consequences. Moon tea. Other methods." Another step closer. "I am the heir to Dorne, Jon Snow. Do you think I would risk an unplanned child any more than you would?"
Seven hells, Jon thought, his resolve wavering like a candle in a storm. She has an answer for everything.
"It's not just that," he said, holding his ground even as she approached. "It's—"
"Your honor?" Arianne was directly before him now, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her bare skin. "Honor can be found in pleasure freely given and received."
Jon's hand moved of its own accord, capturing hers before it could wander lower. "You make it sound simple."
"It is simple." Arianne leaned in, her breath warm against his neck. "You want me. I want you. The only complexity is what you create with your Northern guilt."
Before Jon could respond, she had pressed her lips to his in a kiss that burned hotter than Dornish fire wine. For a moment, he remained frozen—then something broke loose inside him, and he was kissing her back with equal fervor.
His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her against him. Arianne moaned into his mouth as his hardness pressed against her stomach. Her hand slipped from his grip to tangle in his dark curls, holding him to her as their tongues danced.
This is madness, he thought again, but the voice of reason was growing fainter by the second. Sweet, intoxicating madness.
Arianne guided his hand to her breast, and Jon needed no further encouragement. He cupped the soft weight, his thumb brushing across her nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from her. His other hand slid lower, finding the golden mesh bunched at her waist and pushing beneath it.
"Yes," she breathed against his lips as his fingers found the hot, wet center of her. "Gods, yes."
Jon circled her entrance with two fingers before slowly pushing inside. Arianne's head fell back, exposing the column of her throat as she moaned. Jon seized the opportunity to taste her skin, trailing kisses from her jaw to her collarbone.
"Jon," she gasped as his thumb found the sensitive bud at the apex of her thighs. "Just like that."
He worked her with fingers and thumb, remembering the lessons Ros had taught him, reading Arianne's responses to find what brought her the most pleasure. Her breathing grew ragged, her hips moving against his hand in an increasingly urgent rhythm.
"Inside me," she demanded, one hand dropping to the ties of his trousers. "I want to feel all of you."
The words were like cold water, dousing the fire of Jon's desire just enough for reason to reassert itself. This is the precipice, he realized. One step further and there's no turning back.
Rather than pulling away entirely, he redoubled his efforts with his fingers, curling them to find the spot that had made Ros cry out his name. Arianne's reaction was immediate—her body stiffened, her eyes widening in surprise.
"Gods!" she cried, clutching his shoulders as her inner muscles clenched around his fingers. "Don't stop!"
Jon captured her mouth again, swallowing her moans as she came apart in his arms. Only when the last tremors had subsided did he slowly withdraw his hand, breathing as heavily as she was.
For a long moment, they stood entangled, foreheads pressed together, the only sound their mingled breathing. Then Arianne pulled back, her dark eyes meeting his violet ones with a mixture of satisfaction and frustration.
"You continue to surprise me, Jon Snow," she said, making no move to cover herself. "Most men would have been inside me at the first invitation."
"I'm not most men," Jon replied, his voice steady despite the almost painful arousal still evident in his trousers.
Arianne's gaze dropped to the prominent bulge. "No," she agreed, "you most certainly are not." Her hand brushed against him, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "If you can make me come undone with just your fingers, I can only imagine what that delicious cock of yours could do."
She stepped back, retrieving her robe from the floor and slipping it on without bothering to fix her dress. "Your resistance is admirable," she said, moving toward the door. "And doomed."
Jon followed, pulse still racing beneath his composed exterior. "Is that a threat, Princess?"
"A promise," she corrected, pausing at the threshold. "Soon enough, I'll have you inside me, Jon Snow. And you'll be moaning my name when you finally let go of that ironclad control."
With that, she slipped out with a big smile on her face, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts, his unfulfilled desire, and the lingering scent of oranges and female arousal.
What game are we playing? he wondered, returning to the balcony to let the cool night air calm his body. And who's truly winning?
He wasn't sure yet why he was called to Dorne, no one told him, not Prince Oberyn and he was sure that Nymeria didn't know herself why her father had decided to foster a bastard boy of Winterfell. But he wanted to keep a hold of himself while he was still here, he wasn't sure yet what to expect from the people of this place, but he would not allow himself to be anyone's toy. If certain things would happen, they only would happen after Jon was sure he was winning this game.
Tomorrow
Dawn came to Sunspear like a forge fire, painting the eastern sky in shades of copper and flame. Jon stood on his balcony, watching the sun climb above the Summer Sea, already feeling sweat gathering at the base of his neck despite the early hour. The air hung thick and still, promising another day of heat that would make his Northern bones ache.
What are you doing right now, Arya? he wondered, gripping the stone railing. Probably sneaking out of needlework lessons to practice with that wooden sword of yours. Or driving Septa Mordane to prayer with some new mischief.
The thought made him smile despite his nervousness about the day ahead. Arya would have loved this place—the exotic foods, the colorful markets, the weapons displayed openly. But she'd have taken one look at Princess Arianne's attempts at seduction and probably challenged her to single combat for daring to "make cow eyes" at her brother.
Gods, what would she think of last night? Jon's ears burned at the memory of Arianne pressed against him in the doorway, her lips promising things that made his blood run hot. She'd probably want to claw the princess's eyes out. Or lecture me about honor for an hour.
The training yard beckoned below—a rectangular space of packed sand surrounded by covered galleries where observers could watch without melting in the sun. Already, several figures moved within its boundaries, and Jon could see the glint of steel catching the morning light.
Time to face whatever Dorne had planned for him next.
Jon descended through the palace corridors, noting how the servants were already busy despite the early hour. The heat seemed to demand an earlier schedule here—work done before the sun reached its full fury. Smart, really, though Jon doubted he'd ever truly adapt to this climate.
The training yard felt like stepping into a furnace. The sand radiated heat even in the morning shade, and Jon could already feel his light tunic beginning to stick to his back. A handful of guards practiced basic forms near one wall.
"You must be Jon Snow."
Jon turned to find a lean man approaching, olive-skinned and graceful as a dancer. Everything about him spoke of Braavos—from his curved blade to the strange red ring with its purple gem adorning his right ear. His dark hair was pulled back in a simple tail, his eyes were so dark, it felt like looking at two pits.
"Master Odion, I assume?" Jon bowed slightly. "Prince Oberyn said you'd be instructing me."
"Indeed." Odion circled Jon slowly, his gaze clinical. "Show me your stance. Drawing guard, if you please."
Jon fell into the familiar position—feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, practice sword held in a middle guard that could transition to attack or defense.
"Hmm." Odion's expression was unreadable. "Northern style. Solid foundation, but built for different ground, different climate, different enemies." He gestured for Jon to relax. "Tell me, boy—what do you favor in combat?"
"Speed," Jon replied without hesitation. "I'd rather strike first than rely on strength alone."
"Good. Many your age think muscles are everything. But tell me—what good is speed if it's misdirected? What use is quickness if it exhausts you after a single exchange?"
Before Jon could answer, the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Three figures entered the yard—Nymeria, Tyene, and Obara Sand. The eldest carried her spear with casual familiarity, while her younger sisters settled into the shaded gallery to watch.
"The wolf pup awakens," Obara commented, her tone holding the same warmth one might reserve for rotting fish. "I was beginning to think all Northerners were as lazy as they were soft."
"Just adjusting to your southern sunrise," Jon replied mildly. "In the North, we're usually still sleeping at this hour. The sun knows its place."
Nymeria laughed. "He has you there, sister."
Obara's scowl deepened, but Master Odion intervened before she could respond.
"You seek to move like lightning, boy?" The man said with a booming voice. "Then know this—speed alone is a fool's blade. The wind is fast, aye, but what good is it if it howls the wrong way? What you need is control, cunning, and the swiftness to strike not once, but again, and again, and again, without tiring."
Jon nodded, intrigued despite the heat already making his head swim.
"I'll teach you not just to move fast—but to be faster than thought, lighter than breath, sharper than instinct. You'll not just outrun a sword—you'll outthink the man who swings it." Odion's smile was sharp as his blade. "If you want speed, here's what you'll train."
What followed was unlike anything Jon had experienced in Winterfell's yard. Where Ser Rodrik emphasized strength and endurance, Odion focused on flow and precision. He set Jon to running narrow balance logs that had been placed over shallow pools of water, forcing him to maintain speed while adjusting constantly for balance.
"If your feet move faster than your foe's thoughts, their strength means naught," Odion called as Jon wobbled precariously, arms windmilling for balance.
The Braavosi then introduced what he called "goat-path sprints"—short bursts up uneven terrain marked by scattered stones and obstacles. Jon's lungs burned as he navigated the course, his Northern conditioning ill-suited to the humid air.
Gods, I feel like I'm drowning on dry land, he thought, gasping as he completed another circuit.
"Faster!" Obara called from the gallery, though whether in encouragement or mockery, Jon couldn't tell.
Next came the bells—dozens of them hung at various heights throughout the training area. Odion would strike one randomly with a stick, and Jon had to hit it with a wooden sword before the sound faded.
"Speed begins in the eye—but true speed lives in the nerve," Odion explained as Jon missed his third consecutive target.
The morning progressed with drill after drill. Pole flow exercises that had Jon weaving a long staff around his body in fluid patterns. Ladder step drills where he had to follow intricate patterns carved into the sand. Rolling and recovery practice that left him dizzy and covered in grit.
"The fastest blade is one that does not fight its own flesh," Odion observed as Jon struggled with a particularly complex transition.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Jon felt like he'd been beaten with hammers and roasted over coals. Sweat poured down his face, his tunic was soaked through, and his legs trembled with exhaustion.
"Not terrible," Obara announced, dropping down from the gallery with spear in hand. "Though I suppose even a Dornish toddler could manage better."
Jon straightened, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Care to prove that theory?"
Her smile was Prince Oberyn's smile. "Gladly."
Master Odion tossed Jon a practice spear similar to Obara's, though lighter and shorter. "Remember, boy—speed without wisdom is just flailing. Watch her feet, not her point."
The first exchange nearly ended the match immediately. Obara's spear came at Jon like a striking snake, and only his quick reflexes saved him from a blow that would have left him gasping on the sand. As it was, her weapon slapped against his ribs hard enough to bruise.
"Dead," she announced cheerfully, resetting her stance.
Jon circled warily, noting how she moved. Her footwork was impeccable, her breathing controlled despite the oppressive temperature. Meanwhile, he felt like he was fighting underwater.
The second exchange went better. Jon managed to deflect her initial thrust and even land a glancing blow on her shoulder before she spun away, but her counterattack came so fast he barely got his spear up in time.
"Better," Obara admitted grudgingly. "At least you're not completely hopeless."
By their fifth bout, Jon had found a rhythm. His Northern training served him well in reading her attacks, and the morning's drills had loosened his movements enough that he could flow between defensive positions without fighting his own body. When Obara committed to a high thrust, Jon dropped low and swept at her legs, forcing her to leap backward.
"Ha!" Nymeria called from the gallery. "The wolf has teeth after all!"
Obara's eyes glittered anger. Her next attack was a whirlwind of wood and steel, her spear seeming to come from three directions at once. Jon parried desperately, giving ground with each exchange, until his back was nearly against the wall.
Then training took over. Instead of trying to match her aggression, Jon focused on Master Odion's lessons about speed and timing. As Obara's spear came in for what she clearly intended as a finishing blow, Jon stepped aside at the last possible moment, letting her momentum carry her past him while he brought his own weapon around toward her exposed back.
Obara spun with quickness, catching his spear on hers and twisting it from his grip. A heartbeat later, her point was at his throat.
"Dead again," she said with a bright smile. "Though that last move showed promise. Most men try to meet strength with strength. You let me defeat myself."
Jon nodded, breathing hard. "My father always said the enemy's momentum could be your ally."
"Wise words." Obara stepped back, lowering her spear. "You fight better than I expected for a pampered lordling."
"I'm not a lord," Jon replied automatically.
"No," she agreed, studying him with new interest. "But you're not helpless either. Train hard, eat well, and perhaps in a year or two you might actually be worth fighting."
From Obara Sand, Jon suspected that was high praise indeed.
As the morning session wound down, Jon noticed they'd drawn quite an audience. Palace guards had paused in their duties to watch, and several servants lingered in doorways. Even some of the minor nobles staying at Sunspear had emerged to observe the bastard of Winterfell's first training session.
Already making a spectacle of myself, Jon thought ruefully. Though I suppose that's better than being ignored.
Master Odion approached as Jon toweled sweat from his face. "Your foundation is solid, young Snow. But your body fights itself—too much tension, too much thought. Speed comes from letting go, not holding on."
"I'll work on it," Jon promised.
"See that you do. We train again tomorrow at dawn. And the day after. And every day until you stop thinking like a Northerner and start moving like water." The Braavosi's smile was encouraging despite his words. "You have potential, boy. Don't waste it."
As Jon headed back toward the palace, legs shaking with exhaustion, he caught sight of a figure watching from a high balcony. Prince Doran sat in his wheeled chair, studying Jon with those calculating eyes that seemed to see everything.
Another test passed, Jon realized. But how many more are waiting?
Later
Jon found Nymeria in the palace's eastern courtyard, practicing knife throws at a series of wooden targets. Sweat glistened on her olive skin despite the early hour, and she'd tied her dark hair back to keep it from her face.
"Impressive," Jon said, approaching as she retrieved her knives. "Though I notice you're not aiming for anything vital."
"These are just practice targets," she replied with a wicked grin. "When I aim for something vital, I don't miss." She cleaned one blade on a cloth before sliding it back into its sheath. "What brings you to watch me work, Snow? Hoping for lessons?"
"Actually, I was hoping you might show me the Shadow City," Jon said. "I'd like to see more of Sunspear than just the palace walls."
Nymeria paused in her blade cleaning, raising an eyebrow. "Why? Most nobles are content to admire the view from their towers."
Jon shrugged. "I want to understand this place. See how the people live, how they survive in this heat. The markets, the streets—the real Dorne, not just the side meant for visiting lords."
"Curious wolf," she mused, studying his face. "Very well. But we'll need guards first. Father insists on it when any of us venture into the city." She smirked. "And Arianne will want to come too. She's taken quite an interest in your... education."
At the mention of Arianne, Jon's mind immediately conjured the memory of the previous night—her golden dress, the way it had clung to her curves, the sight of her generous breasts pressing against him in the doorway. Heat crept up his neck that had nothing to do with the Dornish sun.
Nymeria's smirk widened, clearly reading his expression. "My cousin is hard to forget, isn't she?"
Jon cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure. "I've noticed that, yes."
"Oh, I'm sure you have," Nymeria laughed, sheathing her last knife. "The way she looks at you, the way she moves around you—like a cat circling cream. Should make for an interesting expedition."
"Wonderful," Jon muttered, already imagining the comments and touches Arianne would no doubt subject him to during their tour of the city.
"Don't worry, Snow," Nymeria said, patting his shoulder with mock sympathy. "I'll try to keep her from devouring you in front of the shopkeepers. Wouldn't want to cause a scene in the markets."
"Your consideration knows no bounds," Jon replied dryly.
"I'll speak to the guards and let Arianne know. We can leave after the midday meal, when the worst heat has passed." She grinned. "Try not to think too hard about my cousin's... assets... before then. You'll need your wits about you in the Shadow City."
With that parting shot, she strode away, leaving Jon to wonder once again what he'd gotten himself into.
.
.
The sun hammered down on the cobblestones like a smith working molten gold as Jon followed Arianne through the palace gates into what she called the Shadow City. The name, he'd quickly learned, was less poetic than practical—in Dorne, shadows were currency, and every scrap of shade was fought over like territory.
"Stay close," Arianne murmured, though her tone held more amusement than concern. "The markets can be... overwhelming for those unused to our ways."
Behind them, Nymeria walked with the casual grace of someone completely at home, while two palace guards flanked their small party. Jon noted how the guards' hands never strayed far from their weapons, even here in what should be friendly territory.
Even princes need protection in paradise, he thought, adjusting the light cloak Arianne had insisted he wear. Though I suspect the real danger walks beside me, not in these streets.
The first thing that struck him was the noise—a constant hum of voices haggling in a dozen languages, the creak of cart wheels on stone, the splash of water being poured from vessels, and underneath it all, the rhythmic clacking of fans wielded by anyone who could afford them.
"Gods," Jon breathed, watching a merchant douse his awning with precious water just to create a few moments of cooling mist. "Do they water their shops?"
"Only the wealthy ones," Arianne replied, steering him toward a covered marketplace. "Water here is like gold in King's Landing—too valuable to waste, but sometimes necessary to survive."
They ducked under a canvas awning stretched between two buildings, and Jon immediately felt the temperature drop several degrees. The relief was so sudden he actually sighed aloud.
"Better?" Nymeria asked with a knowing smile. "Wait until you've been here a full summer. You'll be diving into horse troughs just for relief."
"Appealing," Jon said dryly. "And here I thought Dornish were supposed to be elegant."
"Elegance is a luxury," Arianne said, leading them deeper into the market. "Survival comes first. Though we do try to make survival... stylish."
She wasn't wrong. Even in the oppressive heat, the Dornish had turned necessity into art. Buildings were painted in light colors that reflected the sun's fury, their walls pierced with intricate lattework that allowed air to flow while keeping the worst heat at bay. Awnings stretched between structures created a network of shaded walkways, and everywhere Jon looked, he saw clever adaptations to the climate.
A woman passed them carrying a clay vessel on her head, water sloshing gently within.
"The water sellers," Arianne explained, following his gaze. "They're the backbone of the Shadow City. Fresh water from the wells, cooled in underground chambers, sold by the cup to those who can afford it."
"And those who can't?" Jon asked.
"Make do with whatever they can find. Or die." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but Jon caught something in her expression—a flicker of genuine concern that surprised him. "It's why my father works so hard to maintain the aqueducts. Water is life in Dorne, more precious than any jewel."
They passed a fountain where children splashed in the shallow basin while their mothers watched from nearby benches. The water was brown with mud and hardly looked appealing, but the children shrieked with delight as they cooled themselves.
"Even dirty water is a blessing when the sun wants to cook you alive," Nymeria observed, noting Jon's expression.
"In the North, we complain when water freezes," Jon said. "Here, you celebrate when you can find it at all."
"Different problems, same desperation," Arianne agreed. She paused beside a spice merchant's stall, the air thick with the scent of cardamom and cinnamon. "Tell me, Jon Snow—what do you think of our survival?"
Jon considered the question, watching as the spice merchant carefully measured out tiny portions of saffron for a customer. The transaction was conducted with the solemnity of a religious ritual—every grain precious, every exchange weighed and measured.
"I think," he said slowly, "that you've turned hardship into an art form. In the North, we survive winter by enduring it. Here, you've learned to dance with the heat."
Arianne gave him a look of approval, and her face seemed even more beautiful. "Most visitors see only the discomfort. They miss the beauty in adaptation."
"I'm learning that beauty in Dorne often comes disguised," Jon replied, meeting her gaze. "Like shadows in the desert, or water in clay pots. Precious because it's hard-won."
Nymeria snorted. "Listen to him wax poetic. Next he'll be composing songs about sand dunes."
"Don't tempt me," Jon said with a grin. "I've been known to torture innocent audiences with my singing."
They moved deeper into the maze of the market, passing stalls that sold everything from carved bone jewelry to fermented mare's milk. Jon noticed how the vendors organized their wares—the most valuable items kept in shaded areas, while goods that could tolerate heat were displayed in the sun.
"Even commerce adapts," he murmured.
"Everything adapts, or dies," Arianne said. "It's the first law of Dorne."
A commotion ahead drew their attention—raised voices and the sound of something breaking. Their guards immediately stepped closer, hands moving to weapon hilts.
"What's happening?" Jon asked.
"Water theft, most likely," Arianne replied, her voice tight with concern. "Or a dispute over well rights. Such things can turn violent quickly when people are desperate."
Indeed, as they approached, Jon could see two men shouting at each other while a crowd gathered. Between them lay the remains of a clay water jar, its contents already soaked into the thirsty earth.
"A week's wages, spilled in the dirt," Nymeria said softly. "That man's children will go thirsty tonight."
Jon watched as one of the men—the one who'd presumably owned the jar—sank to his knees beside the spreading puddle. His face showed the hollow desperation of someone watching their family's survival literally drain away.
Before he quite realized what he was doing, Jon stepped forward and pulled out his coin purse. "Here," he said in his halting Dornish, offering the man enough silver to buy ten water jars.
The crowd fell silent. The man looked up at Jon with wide eyes, then at the coins, then back at Jon's face.
"You don't understand," the man said in Common Tongue, his accent thick. "That water... it was for my daughter. She's sick, and the clean water..."
"I understand enough," Jon replied firmly, pressing the coins into the man's palm. "Buy what your daughter needs."
The man clutched the silver like a lifeline, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his cheeks. "The gods bless you, young lord. The gods bless you."
As they walked away from the grateful crowd, Jon became aware of Arianne's stare. Her dark eyes held an expression he couldn't quite understand.
"That was kindly done," she said quietly.
Jon shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. "It was nothing. Just coin."
"Just coin?" Nymeria laughed. "Jon Snow, you just gave that man more silver than most Dornish see in a year. And you call it nothing?"
"His daughter was sick," Jon said simply. "What else was I supposed to do?"
Arianne stopped walking entirely, studying his face with new intensity. "You could have done what most nobles do—express sympathy and move on. You could have told yourself it wasn't your problem. You could have calculated the cost versus the benefit to your reputation."
"I could have," Jon agreed. "But what would that have accomplished? His daughter would still be sick, and I'd still have more coin than I need."
"Most men would have wanted something in return. Gratitude, recognition, a favor to be called in later."
Jon frowned. "It was water for a sick child, not a political alliance."
For a long moment, Arianne said nothing. Then, so quietly he almost missed it, she murmured, "No wonder Father finds you interesting."
They continued through the market, but Arianne was looking at him strangely, he wondered why, it was just some silver coin, is not like he gave him a castle or anything.
"Tell me about the North," she said as they paused beside a fountain where water bubbled up from deep springs. "Not the politics or the history. Tell me about the people."
Jon dipped his hand in the cool water, grateful for even that small relief. "What do you want to know?"
"What they value. How they treat each other. What they consider important."
Jon considered the question, thinking of Winterfell's great hall during the long evenings—servants and nobles sharing the same fire, the same stories, the same sense of family despite their different stations.
"Honor," he said finally. "Not the showy kind that needs witnesses, but the quiet kind that nobody sees. Keeping your word even when it costs you. Protecting those who can't protect themselves. Doing what's right because it's right, not because someone's watching."
"And bastards?" Arianne asked softly. "How does the North treat them?"
Jon thought of Lady Catelyn's cold silences, of being seated below the salt at formal dinners, of always being careful not to reach too high or want too much.
"Depends on the bastard," he said carefully. "And who their father is. Lord Stark... he was kinder than most. But kindness doesn't change what you are."
"What you are," Arianne repeated. "And what do you think you are, Jon Snow?"
Jon met her eyes, she seemed curious on his answer. "I don't know," he admitted. "I thought I did, before I came here. Now... everything feels different."
"Different how?"
"In the North, I always knew my place. Bastard son, grateful for scraps, careful not to presume. Here..." He gestured around them at the bustling market, the casual acceptance of the guards, the way even common merchants treated him with respect. "Here, you look at me like I might be something more than what I was born to be."
Arianne was quiet for a long moment, her gaze distant. "Perhaps," she said finally, "that's because we see what you could become, not just what you've been."
They made their way back toward the palace as the sun began its descent toward the western horizon. The heat was still oppressive, but Jon found himself walking with more confidence, his body beginning to adapt to the rhythm of Dornish life.
"You surprise me, Jon Snow," Arianne said as they climbed the steps to the palace gates.
"How so?"
"Most men try to impress me with their wealth, their strength, their connections. You impressed me by giving away your silver to a stranger without a second thought."
Jon felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the sun. "I wasn't trying to impress anyone."
"I know," she said, and her smile held a warmth he hadn't seen before. "That's what made it impressive."
As they entered the cool shadows of the palace, Jon caught Nymeria watching them with a knowing expression.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said innocently. "Just enjoying the show."
"What show?"
"The one where my cousin discovers that the pretty wolf from the North might actually have substance beneath all that brooding."
Jon glanced at Arianne, who had moved ahead to speak with the guards. Her posture was different somehow—less predatory, more thoughtful.
I wonder if this was another test from House Martell, and did I pass it?
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