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The morning sun had barely crested the pink marble walls of the Water Gardens when steel rang against steel in the training grounds. Jon ducked under Daemon's thrust, the spear point whistling past his ear as he rolled forward. Two weeks of daily sparring had taught him the rhythm of the other bastard's attacks—thrust, sweep, spin, thrust again. This time, instead of retreating, Jon surged inside Daemon's guard.
His practice sword found the gap between movements, pressing against Daemon's ribs just as the spear shaft cracked across his shoulders. They froze, breathing hard, then stepped apart.
"Another draw," Daemon said, spinning his spear with a flourish that Jon suspected was purely for show. "You're learning too quickly, Snow. Soon I'll have to actually try."
"You mean you haven't been?" Jon asked, rubbing his shoulder where the spear had struck. "And here I thought Dornishmen took their honor seriously."
Daemon laughed, a warm sound that reminded Jon of Robb somehow. "Honor? We leave that to you Northerners. We prefer winning."
They moved to a stone fountain at the yard's edge. Jon splashed his face, washing away the sweat and sand, while Daemon simply dunked his entire head in the basin.
"How is is like being a bastard in the North? In Dorne, being a bastard simply means your parents weren't wed," Daemon asked as he kept washing his face before stretching out on the warm stone. "No great shame in passion."
"And in the North, it means you're a walking reminder of broken vows," Jon said. "Though Winterfell wasn't cruel, exactly. My lord father—" He caught himself, the word still feeling strange and formal for Ned Stark. "Lord Stark ensured I was educated alongside my trueborn siblings. Same masters, same training."
"Generous of him."
"Practical, more like. A bastard who can read and fight is useful. One who can't is just another mouth to feed." Jon paused, then added with a slight smile, "Though I'll admit, learning High Valyrian was my own choice. Lady Stark nearly choked on her wine when I answered Maester Luwin's question about dragon-riding commands."
Daemon's eyes sharpened with interest. "You speak High Valyrian?"
"Poorly. But I wanted to read the old histories in their original tongue. The translations lose something—the poetry of how Valyrians described dragon flight, the specific words they used for different types of fire." Jon shrugged. "My brothers thought I was mad, spending nights with dusty books about dead dragonlords."
"While they were doing what? Dreaming of glory and Southern knights?"
"Mostly dreaming of Southern women, if I'm honest. Theon was particularly creative in his descriptions." Jon grinned at the memory. "Though his imagination fell rather short of Dornish reality."
"Speaking of reality," Daemon said, his tone shifting slightly, "what do you make of all this?" He gestured at the Water Gardens surrounding them—the elaborate fountains, the complex systems of channels and pools.
"It's magnificent," Jon said honestly. "I've never seen its like—"
"Is unique in Dorne," Daemon finished. "This place, these waters—they're rarer than you might think."
Jon frowned, looking at the fountain they sat beside, its water flowing endless and clear. "But Dorne has rivers. The Greenblood, the Brimstone—"
"Have you seen the Shadow City's wells?" Daemon asked. "The public fountains there?"
"I... no, I haven't ventured that far into the city."
Daemon stood, beckoning Jon to follow. They walked to the Gardens' eastern wall, where a clever gap in the stonework offered a view of Sunspear's sprawl below. The Shadow City spread like spilled wine, cramped buildings clustered around the palace's base.
"See there?" Daemon pointed to several spots where small crowds gathered. "Public fountains. Three for a district of thousands. When I was young—before Prince Oberyn acknowledged me—I lived down there with my mother."
"We'd wake before dawn to queue for water," Daemon continued. "Sometimes the wait was three hours. Sometimes longer. My mother would send me with our jar while she worked. I was seven, maybe eight, standing in that line with grown men who'd knife you for cutting ahead."
Jon studied the distant crowds, understanding dawning. "But surely someone could build more fountains? Dig more wells?"
"Who would pay for it?" Daemon asked. "And more importantly, who would allow it?"
"Allow it?"
Daemon's expression grew carefully neutral, the same look Jon had seen on his father's face when navigating dangerous political currents. "Water is life in Dorne, Jon. And life... well, that's power, isn't it? If every man could simply draw water from his own well, what need would he have for his lord's protection? His lord's... generosity?"
The implication settled over Jon like a shadow. "The scarcity is deliberate."
"I didn't say that," Daemon said quickly, but his eyes confirmed what his words denied. "I'm merely observing that some problems persist because solving them would create... other problems. For certain people."
"Has anyone tried? To change things?"
"Oh, there have been attempts. Fifteen years ago, a Maester from Oldtown proposed an aqueduct system. Ten years ago, a merchant prince from Lys offered to fund new wells." Daemon's smile was humorless. "The Maester's plans were deemed 'impractical.' The merchant prince decided his gold was better spent elsewhere. Curious how these things happen."
Jon felt something stir in his chest—the same feeling he'd had when seeing the servants' children at Winterfell shiver in threadbare clothes while the store rooms overflowed with unused cloth. An injustice so normalized that questioning it seemed more radical than accepting it.
"In the North," Jon said slowly, "water falls from the sky as snow. We never think of it as precious because it's always there. But here..."
"Here, a man with a well is a lord, and a man without one is a beggar." Daemon clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Come, we should return before the sun gets higher. Unless you fancy explaining to Princess Arianne why you look like dried leather?"
As they walked back, Jon's mind churned with thoughts. The Water Gardens were beautiful, yes, but they were also a monument to what was possible—and what was denied to thousands below. He thought of the Targaryen kings who'd conquered Westeros with dragons but never conquered human greed. Perhaps dragons weren't the answer to every problem.
"Daemon," Jon said suddenly. "Those fountains in the Shadow City—what if there was a way to draw more water from the same wells? To make the existing sources serve more people?"
Daemon's step faltered slightly. "That's a dangerous thought, Snow."
"Is it? Or is it just an inconvenient one?"
"In Dorne, those are often the same thing." But Daemon was smiling now, a real smile this time. "Though I admit, I'm curious what a Northern bastard who reads about dragons might dream up. Just remember—the last person who tried to change how water flows in Dorne ended up floating face-down in it."
"Accidentally, I'm sure."
"Oh, absolutely. Tragic mishap. Fell into a well and somehow managed to tie his own hands behind his back on the way down." Daemon's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "Be careful, Jon Snow. Dorne appreciates clever men, but it has little patience for martyrs."
Jon nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere, thinking of wheels and water, of ancient Valyrian texts that described impossible fountains in lost cities, of how the Rhoynar had made rivers dance to their will before the dragons came.
First Week
The bruises had barely faded from his morning's lesson when Jon faced his new challenge: fighting two opponents at once. Obara Sand circled left while Nymeria went right, and Jon's head swiveled between them like a weather vane in a storm.
"The thing about fighting multiple opponents," Obara said conversationally, testing his guard with her spear, "is that they're usually kind enough to attack one at a time. Usually."
She lunged. As Jon parried, Nymeria's whip caught his ankle and yanked. He hit the sand hard, rolling aside just as Obara's spear point struck where his head had been.
"Usually isn't always," Nymeria added sweetly.
Jon spat sand. "You two practice this routine, or does the coordination come naturally?"
"Practice," they said in unison, then laughed.
He struggled to his feet, muscles already screaming. In Winterfell, he'd been one of the best swords in the training yard. Here, he was barely keeping up with the younger Sand Snakes. It was humbling and exhilarating.
"Again," he said, raising his blade.
That evening, Jon discovered Sunspear's library. It wasn't as grand as the one in Winterfell—fewer volumes, older scrolls—but it held treasures the North could never claim: Rhoynish texts that predated Aegon's Conquest.
"You can read Old Rhoynar?" The librarian, a weathered woman named Marei, peered at him with surprise.
"No," Jon admitted, running his fingers over the ancient script. "But the diagrams are clear enough. Look—these are water wheels, aren't they?"
"The Rhoynar were masters of water," Marei said, warming to the subject. "Before the dragons came, they made the river dance to their will. Channels, locks, wheels that turned day and night..."
"What happened to that knowledge?"
"What happens to all knowledge when cities burn?" She shrugged. "Some fled here with Nymeria. Some died with their creators. Some..." She gestured at the scrolls. "Some wait for someone clever enough to understand them."
Jon spent three hours that night copying diagrams by candlelight, his purple eyes straining in the dim glow.
Third Week
"You're distracted," Arianne observed, stretched across his bed like a cat while he sat at his desk, surrounded by maps. She'd taken to appearing in his chambers unannounced, always when he was alone, always wearing something that challenged his resolve.
Tonight's outfit was particularly ambitious—or perhaps unambitious, given how little fabric was involved.
"I'm studying," Jon said, not looking up from the underground water surveys he'd found.
"Boring." She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands. "I can think of much more interesting subjects we could explore together."
"I'm sure you can."
"Don't you find me interesting anymore?" Her tone was playful, but he caught something else beneath it—genuine curiosity, perhaps.
Jon set down his quill and turned to face her. "You're the most interesting woman I've ever met, Princess. You're also the most dangerous."
"I like flattery."
"It's not flattery if it's true." He returned to his maps. "Did you know there's an underground river that runs beneath half of Sunspear? It surfaces at the palace wells, but if you could access it earlier..."
"Are you really going to talk about water while I'm lying half-naked in your bed?"
"Entirely naked, from what I can see."
"Then why aren't you looking?"
"Because," Jon said, tracing the river's path with his finger, "I have exceptional peripheral vision."
She laughed, and Jon decided that he liked the sound of her laughing. "One day, Jon Snow, you're going to run out of clever deflections."
"That day is not today."
"Clearly." She rose from the bed with feline grace, wrapping a silk sheet around herself. "What has you so fascinated with dusty maps anyway?"
Jon hesitated, then decided on a half-truth. "I'm trying to understand Dorne. Really understand it. In the North, everything is shaped by winter. Here, it's water that defines everything."
"And you think maps will teach you about Dorne?" She moved behind him, her breath warm on his neck. "Some things require... hands-on education."
"I'm a visual learner."
"Pity. I'm an excellent teacher."
Fifth Week
Hib watched a water seller measure out precise portions, charging what seemed like exorbitant prices for what would be free in the North.
"Three coppers for a full skin," the man called. "Clean from the sweet wells!"
Jon watched a woman count her coins carefully, then purchase only half a skin. Her children, he noticed, were dusty but not dirty—the careful cleanliness of those who couldn't afford to waste water.
"Interested in the water trade?" Daemon appeared at his elbow, dressed in common clothes that helped him blend with the crowd.
"It's educational," Jon replied. "In Winterfell, we complained when we had to break ice to get water. Here..."
"Here, water is gold, and gold is water." Daemon purchased two cups of fermented mare's milk from a vendor. "Though this is what most actually drink. Safer than questionable water, and it dulls the thirst."
They found a shaded spot to observe the crowd. Jon sketched in his small notebook—not the water sellers, but the flow of people, the natural gathering points, the places where new fountains would serve the most citizens.
"You're not very subtle," Daemon observed.
"I'm not trying to be. Just a Northern lordling fascinated by quaint local customs."
"Is that what you are?"
Jon met his eyes. "Would you believe me if I said I didn't know?"
Seventh Week
Training had evolved into something approaching actual combat. Jon faced three opponents now—guards who didn't pull their strikes like the Sand Snakes did. His speed was all that saved him, dancing between blades like water between stones.
"Better," Ser Odion called as Jon disarmed one guard while dodging another's thrust. "But you still think too much. Feel the rhythm."
After practice, Jon could barely hold a quill, but he forced himself to work. The Rhoynish texts were beginning to make sense—not the words, but the engineering principles. Water wanted to flow downward; the trick was making it travel upward first.
"My lord," a servant girl said softly, entering with his evening meal. "May I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"Is it true what they say? That in the North, water falls from the sky so often that you grow tired of it?"
"Snow falls," Jon corrected gently. "Frozen water. It must be melted first, but yes—we have more than we could ever use."
"Still..." She sighed. "Here, we pray for rain and receive it perhaps twice a year, if the gods are kind. To have water simply fall from heaven whenever you need it..."
"The gods have a strange way of showing love, then. Our water comes with killing cold that freezes men solid where they stand."
She considered this. "Better to die of cold with a full belly than thirst with warm feet."
After she left, Jon added another note to his growing pile: The people are ready for change. They just don't believe it's possible.
Late that night, alone in his chambers, Jon looked at two months' worth of work spread across his floor. Maps, diagrams, calculations, and at the center, his first real design—a wheel that could raise water continuously, powered by oxen or even by the water itself if the flow was strong enough.
He thought of Daemon's warning about the last man who'd tried to change Dorne's water distribution. But he also thought of that woman in the market, choosing between water for herself or her children.
His mother—if she truly was Ashara Dayne—came from this land. These were her people, in a way. Would she be proud of him trying to help them? Or would she call him a naive Northern fool playing with forces he didn't understand?
Jon liked to image that she would be proud of him if she saw him right now, he could almost see her smile.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. He quickly covered his work with a blanket before opening the door.
Sarella Sand stood there, arms full of books, dressed in practical scholar's robes that made her look older than her seventeen years. Her dark eyes, sharp with intelligence, met his purple ones with curiosity.
"Jon Snow," she said. "I've been watching you in the library. You read Old Rhoynar texts like you're trying to devour them whole."
"Lady Sarella," Jon said, surprised. Of all the Sand Snakes, she was the one he'd interacted with least. "It's quite late."
"Knowledge doesn't sleep," she replied, brushing past him with the confidence all of Oberyn's daughters seemed to possess. "And neither, apparently, do you."
She set her books on his table, carefully avoiding his covered work. "I brought you something. Marei mentioned you were interested in Rhoynish water systems." She opened one tome, revealing detailed diagrams. "This is a copy of Nymeria's personal records—how she adapted Rhoynish knowledge to Dornish conditions."
Jon's breath caught. "This is... I've been looking for something like this for weeks."
"I know." Sarella's smile was different from her sisters'—less predatory, more conspiratorial. "You're not as subtle as you think. Asking servants about water prices, studying underground river maps, spending hours calculating flow rates."
Jon tensed. "And what do you intend to do with this observation?"
"Help you, if you'll let me." She moved to his covered work. "May I?"
After a moment's hesitation, Jon pulled away the blanket, revealing his designs. Sarella leaned over them, her expression shifting from curiosity to genuine interest.
"This is brilliant," she breathed, tracing the wheel mechanism with one finger. "The paddle angles—you've optimized them for minimal resistance on the upward rotation."
"You understand it?"
"I understand more than my sisters think I do about many things." She pulled up a chair beside him. "But here—your calculations assume consistent water table depth. In Dorne, it varies by season. After the rare rains, it rises. In deep summer, it drops."
She took his quill without asking, adding notations in neat script. Jon found himself leaning closer, catching the scent of her—ink and parchment and something sweetly spiced.
"You smell like the library," he said without thinking.
Sarella laughed, a warm sound that made him smile. "Is that a compliment or an observation?"
"Both. It's... nice. Better than the perfumes everyone else drowns themselves in."
"Careful, Jon Snow. Compliment a girl's scent of old books and she might think you're actually interested in her mind."
"I love a clever mind,"
She blinked, clearly not expecting such directness. "Most men prefer my sisters' more... obvious charms."
"There are things to appreciate in both you and your sisters." Jon turned back to the designs.
They worked together for the next hour, Sarella's knowledge of Dornish geology and climate patterns filling gaps Jon hadn't even known existed in his plans.
"You could adapt this," she said suddenly, sketching a modification. "If you chain multiple wheels together, powered by a single ox team walking in circles, you could serve an entire district."
"That's—" Jon stared at her addition. "That's genius."
"It's math," she said, but he could see her pleasure at the praise. "My father thinks I waste my time with books. Says I should focus on poisons like Tyene or combat like Obara."
"Your father's wrong."
"Careful. That's Prince Oberyn you're disparaging."
"Then Prince Oberyn is wrong." Jon met her eyes steadily. "You have a gift. Your mind could change Dorne more than all your sisters' weapons combined."
"You really believe that."
"I do."
She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Most people see us as Oberyn's bastard daughters. Weapons he's forged. You're the first to see me as... just me."
"You're a person, not a blade," Jon said simply. "And a brilliant one at that."
Sarella looked away, seemingly unsure how to respond to such directness without flourish or flirtation behind it.
They returned to the work in comfortable silence, only occasionally breaking it to point out an adjustment or share an observation.
When the candle had burned nearly to nothing, Sarella finally stood, stretching her back with a small grimace.
"I should go," she said, gathering her books. "Dawn comes early, and unlike you, I need to maintain the pretense of being a proper lady sometimes."
Jon walked her to the door. "Thank you. For the books, the help... all of it."
She paused at the threshold, looking back at him with those intelligent dark eyes. "I enjoyed this," she said simply. "More than I expected to."
Then she was gone, leaving Jon with his improved designs and the lingering scent of ink and parchment. He returned to his desk, working until the candle finally guttered out, incorporating her suggestions into his plans.
One Week Later
The model was finally complete.
Jon set the miniature water wheel on his desk, watching with satisfaction as the tiny clay pots rotated smoothly around the wooden frame. A week of late nights had produced something tangible from his months of theory. His purple eyes, bloodshot from strain, traced each component with pride.
The mechanism was elegantly simple. A large wooden wheel, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter when built to scale, with clay pots attached at regular intervals around its circumference. As oxen or horses walked in circles, turning the central axle, the pots would descend into the well, fill with water, and rise to pour their contents into a collection channel. Continuous, efficient, and requiring no more effort than what farmers already used for grinding grain.
His calculations covered every surface of the desk. A single wheel could raise nearly a thousand gallons per hour—enough to serve two hundred families if distributed properly. The Shadow City had six major wells; if each had such a wheel...
Jon rubbed his eyes, trying to focus the numbers that had begun to blur. The deep wells of Dorne had defeated previous attempts at improvement because hauling water up forty feet by bucket was backbreaking work. But the wheel would do that work tirelessly, as long as the animals kept walking.
The door opened without a knock. Jon didn't bother looking up, only one person in Sunspear had such magnificent disregard for privacy.
"You missed dinner," Arianne said, her voice carrying a note of genuine concern beneath its usual teasing lilt. "And the entertainment. The Fowler twins did this thing with scarves that—" She stopped. "What is that?"
Jon looked up to find her staring at his model with an expression he'd never seen before—genuine surprise. Tonight she wore a deep purple dress that matched his eyes, though he suspected that was intentional rather than coincidental.
"It's a water wheel," Jon said, too tired for their usual verbal sparring. "Well, a model of one."
Arianne moved closer, her expensive perfume mixing with the smell of ink and wood shavings. "Show me how it works."
Jon demonstrated, turning the tiny crank that simulated animal power. The miniature pots dipped into a bowl of water, rose, and emptied into a channel he'd carved. The princess watched intently, her dark eyes following each rotation.
"The real one would be much larger," Jon explained, warming to his subject. "The pots would hold perhaps two gallons each. With twenty pots on a wheel, that's forty gallons per complete rotation. If the oxen maintain a steady pace—"
"You built this?" she interrupted, reaching out to touch the smooth wood.
"Carved it myself. My brother Robb used to say I was better with a knife than a sword, though he meant it as an insult." Jon allowed himself a small smile. "Turns out carving and swordplay aren't so different. Both require precision."
"How deep can it reach?"
"Deeper than any well in Dorne. The Rhoynar used similar devices to reach water tables sixty feet down. The engineering is sound. It's been proven for a thousand years."
Arianne picked up one of his diagrams, studying it with surprising focus. "This could actually work."
"Did you think I was just playing with toys?"
"I thought you were avoiding me," she said bluntly. "You've been locked in here for a week. Even Sarella says she hasn't seen you in the library."
Jon felt heat rise to his face at the mention of Sarella. Their late-night collaboration had been... illuminating. "I've been focused."
"I can see that." Arianne set down the diagram and fixed him with those dark, calculating eyes. "Do you understand what you're proposing here?"
"I'm proposing a way to get water to people who need it."
"No," she said slowly, "you're proposing to overturn a system that's existed for centuries."
"Lord Yronwood controls three wells in the eastern districts," she said quietly. "His family has held those rights for over three hundred years. The water sellers pay him one-third of their profits for the privilege of drawing from those wells."
Jon stood to join her at the window. "And if anyone could simply draw water?"
"Then Lord Yronwood loses a significant income source. As does Lord Qorgyle, who controls the northern wells. And Lord Blackmont, who owns the water rights to half the farmland near the Greenblood." She turned to face him, her expression serious. "You're not just threatening gold, Jon. You're threatening power."
"I'm offering progress," Jon countered. "More water means more crops. More crops mean more trade. More trade means more tax revenue for the crown. Dorne could feed itself instead of importing grain from the Reach."
"The lords don't care about Dorne's theoretical prosperity. They care about their actual control."
Jon felt frustration building. "So nothing changes? People continue to suffer because lords prefer profit to progress?"
"Welcome to politics." Arianne's smile was bitter. "My father has been Prince for twenty years, and even he must balance the lords' interests carefully. Push too hard, and they push back."
"Your father seems clever enough to see the benefits—"
"My father sees everything and does nothing," Arianne snapped, then caught herself. "Forgive me. That was... unworthy."
Jon studied her face. "He keeps you from council meetings."
"An observation you've made before."
"Because it remains true. How can you learn to rule if you're never allowed to see how it's done?"
"Perhaps he doesn't intend for me to rule," she said quietly.
The admission made Jon look at her, and for the first time, she was not the princess who always tried to seduce him. Jon knew he should leave it alone, but exhaustion had eroded his usual caution.
"Then prove him wrong," he said. "Support this. Show him you understand both progress and politics. Any fool can maintain the status quo. It takes vision to create change."
Arianne's eyes flashed. "Any fool? Is that what you think I am?"
"I think you're brilliant, beautiful, and bored," Jon said bluntly. "I think you're tired of being decorative when you could be transformative. I think you want to matter, to be remembered as more than just another Dornish princess who lived and died without leaving a mark."
The slap came so fast he didn't see it coming. His cheek stung, but he held her gaze steadily.
"How dare you—"
"Do you want to be remembered as a ruler who brought prosperity to Dorne, or just another princess who maintained the status quo?"
Jon immediately realized he'd overstepped. She was still the Princess of Dorne and he was a bastard, he should show her respect, not tell her what she should and should not do.
Arianne's hand rose again, but this time she caught herself. The anger in her eyes changed, she was not angry anymore, but she wasn't calm either.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Jon Snow."
"I'm not playing at all."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. "No, you're not, are you? You actually believe this could work. You actually think you can change things."
"I know I can. The engineering is sound, the economics are favorable, and the people are ready. All I need is political support."
"My support."
"Your father's support. But yes, yours would help considerably."
Arianne was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edge of his desk. When she looked up, her expression had changed completely, the seducing princess was back in full force.
"I could arrange an audience with my father. I could even speak in favor of your proposal."
Jon's heart leaped, but he kept his expression neutral. "What would you want in return?"
She moved even closer, her body nearly pressed against his. "A favor. One significant favor, to be claimed when I choose."
"That's rather open-ended."
"Yes, it is." Her hand came up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "But then, you're asking me to risk my political capital on an untested Northern bastard's dream of reform. That requires significant trust."
Jon considered his options. Without political backing, his design was just carved wood and wishful thinking. But owing Arianne an undefined favor felt like signing a blank contract.
"Within reason," he said carefully.
"Oh, Jon." She smiled, the expression both beautiful and dangerous. "Nothing I do is within reason."
Before he could respond, she kissed him. Her lips were warm and tasted of Dornish red wine. For a moment, Jon let himself respond, his hands finding her waist.
Eventually, the two pulled back. "This isn't the favor?"
She laughed, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "If I wanted that from you, I wouldn't need to bargain. No, my favor will be... something else. Something you're uniquely positioned to provide."
"Which is?"
"I'll tell you when I decide." She stepped back, smoothing her dress. "Agree to my terms, and I'll ensure you get your audience. I'll even help you prepare your presentation. My father respects preparation."
Jon looked at his model, at the designs covering his desk, at the woman offering him everything he needed for a price yet to be named. In the North, such agreements would be considered foolish at best, dishonorable at worst.
But he wasn't in the North anymore.
"I agree," he said.
Arianne's smile widened. "Excellent. We'll begin tomorrow. Wear something impressive—we're going to need to convince several key lords before we approach my father. And Jon?"
"Yes?"
"That comment about me being bored? You weren't entirely wrong." She moved to the door, pausing to look back. "But after tonight, I don't think I'll be bored anymore."
She left, her perfume lingering in the air. Jon slumped in his chair, exhausted but oddly exhilarated. He'd just made a deal with perhaps the most dangerous woman in Dorne, committed himself to an unknown favor, and challenged the political structure that had existed for centuries.
His father would be appalled. His mother, if she truly was Ashara Dayne, would probably laugh.
Jon looked at his water wheel model, spinning slowly to a stop. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Tonight, he'd wonder what exactly he'd just set in motion.
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