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Jon Snow
The morning sun over Planky Town was already hot enough to bake clay, but Jon Snow welcomed the heat. It gave him an excuse for the sweat running down his back, and the physical exertion of clearing the market square gave his mind something to chew on other than the memory of Arianne Martell's eyes in the candlelight.
"Heave!" Jon grunted, his shoulder wedged against a rotting fishmonger's stall that looked like it hadn't moved since the Rhoynar crossed the Narrow Sea.
On the other side, two of the Martell spearmen strained, their boots slipping in the muck of the riverbank. With a groan, the heavy structure shifted, sliding back three feet to reveal a patch of damp, hard-packed earth perfectly situated near the main well.
Jon straightened, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm. He wasn't wearing his doublet today, only a loose linen shirt unlaced at the throat and breeches tucked into boots that had seen better days. The work felt good. It felt like the North.
"Careful, Snow," a voice drawled from the shade of an awning. "You'll pull something. And then who will do all the heavy lifting for us?"
Jon turned to see Daemon Sand leaning against a post, looking annoyingly fresh in his silks, an apple in one hand.
"If I pull something, Daemon, I'll just have you carry me," Jon said, not missing a beat. "You look like you need the exercise. All that riding in the litter has made you soft."
Daemon laughed, pushing off the post and tossing the apple core into the river. "Soft? I'll show you soft when I put you in the dirt again next spar. But truly, you're attacking this market like it insulted your mother. Or..." He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Like a man trying to work off a surplus of energy."
"We need the space clear by the fourth hour," Jon said flatly, turning back to the table they were assembling.
"Of course," Daemon agreed, stepping in to help Jon level the heavy drafting table. "I did notice you returning to your chambers quite late last night. Or was it early this morning? Everything is a bit blurry."
Jon didn't look up, focusing on the brass hinges of the water wheel model case. "We had strategy to discuss. Lord Ashaven isn't going to roll over easily."
"Strategy," Daemon repeated with a smile that made it clear he did not believe his word. "Is that what they call it in Winterfell? Down here, when a man with eyes like yours visits a woman like Arianne at midnight, we usually call it something else."
"Whatever you call it," a female voice cut in, sounding amused, "I'm sure Jon performed admirably. He usually does."
Nymeria Sand strolled into the cleared circle, hips swaying as usual, earning quite the attention. She wore trousers and a tunic, her hair pulled back in a severe braid that only highlighted the sharpness of her cheekbones. She looked Jon up and down, her gaze lingering on his chest where the linen shirt clung to damp skin, then flicking up to his face.
She smirked, a look that brought back the memory of the ship's cabin, the heat, and the surprisingly generous way she'd taught him the difference between fumbling and pleasing.
"You look terrible, Wolf," Nymeria said affectionately, coming to stand beside him. She reached out, dusting a smudge of dirt from his shoulder. "Did my cousin keep you up all night?"
"We talked," Jon said, sounding a little annoyed.
Nymeria raised an eyebrow. "Just talked? Arianne? With you?" She laughed. "What a waste of those pretty purple eyes. If you'd come to my room, we wouldn't have done much talking."
"Nym," Jon warned, thought he was smiling. It was hard to be angry with her; their arrangement had been simple, pleasurable, and entirely without attachment beyond friendship. "We are here to build a wheel, not a reputation."
"Your reputation is building itself, my friend," Daemon chimed in, securing the legs of the table. "Half the household is already whispering that you're the Princess's new favorite. The other half thinks you're a sorcerer who convinced her to care about irrigation."
Jon set the wooden case down on the table with a thud that silenced them both. He looked up, catching Daemon's gaze, then Nymeria's. He didn't flush. He didn't look away. Two weeks ago, the insinuation would have made him stammer or brood about his honor. Now, he just felt a calm, cold resolve.
"Let them whisper," Jon said, his voice steady. "Let them think I'm her lover, her sorcerer, or whatever. As long as they come to this square in an hour and watch this wheel turn, I don't care what they think." He unlocked the case, revealing the intricate wooden model inside, gears and a bucket, something that when put together could save a town. "This is what matters. If this fails, Josefin Ashaven shuts us down, the Lord laughs at us, and nothing changes. Are we ready, or are we gossiping?"
Daemon stared at him for a moment, then a slow, respectful grin spread across his face. "Gods, you sound like Prince Oberyn when he's sober. It's terrifying."
"He's right," Nymeria said, her playfulness vanishing into focus. She looked at the model, then back at Jon. "The guards are posted at the perimeter. The criers have been sent to the lower districts. The stage is yours, Jon."
Jon ran a hand over the smooth wood of the model wheel. The mechanism was sound. Sarella's calculations were perfect. He knew how to build this. He knew how to make it work.
He looked out at the river, the Greenblood sluggish and brown, hiding the life-giving power beneath its surface.
"Then let's bring them some water," Jon said.
Arianne Martell
Arianne Martell had learned the art of wearing a mask before she had learned to braid her own hair. She knew the mask of the innocent daughter, the mask of the seductress, the mask of the bored courtier. But today, stepping out of her litter into the swirling dust and noise of the Planky Town market, she wore the heaviest mask of all: the Ruling Princess.
She had chosen her attire with the precision of a general selecting armor. Gone were the diaphanous silks and scandalous cutouts she had worn to the feast, the ones designed to distract and entice. Today, she wore the deep, burning orange of a desert sunset, trimmed with heavy gold brocade that caught the light like armor. The neckline was high, framing her face, and the sleeves were long and split only at the wrist. It was a dress that said Look at me, but it also said Do not touch.
It was a necessary barrier. Because beneath the silk and the gold, Arianne felt raw.
Every time she blinked, the memory of the dream washed over her, the ghost of Jon's lips on her skin, the impossible tenderness in his violet eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he said I love you. She could still feel the warmth of his body pressing her into the mattress, a sensation so vivid it made her skin prickle in the morning heat.
Get a grip, Arianne, she scolded herself, forcing her spine straighter as the crowd parted for her. You are the heir to Sunspear. You do not fall apart because of a wet dream about a boy.
But then she saw him.
Jon was standing by the riverbank, wiping his hands on a rag. He was talking to Daemon, his profile sharp against the muddy water. He looked rougher than the man in her dream—sweaty, dirt-streaked, his hair escaping its tie—but the sight of him hit her.
He turned as she approached, and those purple eyes locked onto hers.
For a heartbeat, Arianne forgot the plan. She forgot the merchants, the water wheels, the heat. She only wondered if he could see it on her face, the feelings growing in her heart.
"Princess," Jon said, bowing his head.
Arianne forced a polite, distant smile onto her lips. It felt brittle. "Snow. Is everything ready?"
"The model is prepped," Jon replied, gesturing to the table. He didn't step closer. He didn't try to catch her eye with any secret intimacy. He was playing his part perfectly, and Arianne hated the pang of disappointment that shot through her. "The guards have cleared the perimeter."
"Good." She looked past him, scanning the gathering crowd. "Then let us begin the real work."
She turned away before she could do something foolish, like reach out and brush the dirt from his arm. She had targets to acquire.
Standing near a stack of spice crates, looking skepticism personified, were the men Jon had pointed out the night before: Mallor the Weaver and Tyren of the Guild. They were watching the preparations with arms crossed, clearly expecting a disaster.
Arianne moved toward them. She did not walk like a woman hoping to be liked; she walked like a woman who owned the ground beneath her feet.
"Master Mallor," she said, her voice cutting through the market noise. "Master Tyren. I am pleased you could join us."
The two merchants startled, scrambling into hasty, clumsy bows. Mallor, a heavy man with a face like a rising dough ball, sweated profusely. "Princess Arianne! We... we did not expect... that is, we heard rumors of a spectacle."
"Not a spectacle," Arianne corrected smoothly. "An investment."
She stepped into their space, forcing them to look at her.
"I have been looking at your ledgers, Master Mallor," she lied effortlessly. "Or rather, I have been looking at your labor costs. You employ, what, forty men in your dye pits?"
Mallor blinked, wiping his brow. "Forty-two, Princess. Good men."
"And how many of those men spend their mornings hauling buckets from the river to the vats?" Arianne asked. "Ten? Twelve?"
"Well... water is heavy, Princess. It takes time."
"It takes three hours a day," Arianne said, her voice sharpening. "Three hours where twelve men are walking back and forth, carrying water like mules, instead of mixing dyes. That is thirty-six man-hours a day you are paying for, receiving nothing but wet floors in return."
She turned to Tyren, a sharp-featured man who looked like he counted coppers in his sleep. "And you, Master Tyren. Your tanneries reek because the wash-water is not changed often enough. You lose, what, a fifth of your hides to rot in the summer?"
Tyren bristled slightly. "Water is scarce, Princess. We ration what we can."
"What if it wasn't?"
Arianne gestured toward the river, toward Jon and the strange wooden contraption on the table.
"What if the river walked to you?" she asked softly. "What if you had a constant stream of fresh water flowing directly into the tannery district, day and night, without a single copper paid to a water-carrier? What if those twelve men of yours, Mallor, could spend their mornings dying cloth instead of hauling buckets? How much more silk could you sell to the Free Cities? Double? Triple?"
She saw the change in their eyes. The greed was taking root.
"Lord Ashaven..." Tyren started, lowering his voice. "He controls the water rights. He charges the carriers."
"Lord Ashaven is a man of tradition," Arianne said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that drew them in. "But tradition does not fill coffers. Innovation does. And when the gold starts flowing, do you think anyone will complain about where the water came from?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She patted Mallor on the arm, a gesture that was both benediction and command, and turned back to the crowd.
The square was filling up now. Washerwomen with red, chapped hands; dockworkers with backs bent from years of labor; children with dusty faces and dry lips. They watched Arianne with a mixture of awe and suspicion. They were used to Martells in Sunspear, distant figures in a palace. They were not used to a Princess standing in the mud of their market.
Arianne moved among them. She stopped by an old woman selling withered lemons.
"The heat is cruel this year, grandmother," Arianne said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, but her tone gentle.
"It is, Princess," the woman rasped. "The wells are low. The lines are long."
"No one should have to wait in line for life," Arianne declared, lifting her head to address the growing circle. "Water is the blood of Dorne. It belongs to the land, and it belongs to the people who work the land."
A murmur went through the crowd. It was a dangerous thing to say in a town where water was sold by the cup, but Arianne Martell was past caring about safety. She needed them hungry. She needed them to want this so badly that Lord Ashaven wouldn't dare deny them.
She looked back at the table. Jon was watching her. He wasn't looking at her dress or her hair. He was watching her work the crowd, and there was a look on his face—not the adoration from her dream, but something realer. Respect.
He nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. I am ready.
Arianne took a deep breath, pushing the dream-Jon back into the shadows of her mind and letting the Princess take the stage.
"People of Planky Town!" her voice rang out, clear and commanding, silencing the chatter. "You have been told that thirst is your lot in life. You have been told that water is a luxury to be bought and rationed. Today, my friend Jon Snow is here to show you that you have been lied to."
She swept her arm toward Jon, stepping back to cede the floor.
Jon stepped into the cleared circle of hard-packed earth. The market square of Planky Town was no longer a thoroughfare; it was an amphitheater of dust and desperation. Hundreds of eyes fixed on him—washerwomen with red, cracked hands; tanners smelling of urine and lye; young men with the ropy muscles of water-carriers; and the merchants Arianne had just expertly cornered.
They looked at him with curiosity and deep-seated skepticism. To them, he was a stranger. A northerner with a strange accent and eyes the color of a bruise. They didn't care about his lineage or his sword arm. They cared about the fact that their throats were dry and their backs were aching.
Jon rested his hand on the wooden case of the model. He felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline, different from the cold focus of a duel. In a fight, you only had to worry about one opponent. Here, he had to win a thousand hearts at once.
"How much does a bucket of water weigh?" Jon asked.
The murmur of the crowd died down, replaced by a confused silence. It wasn't the opening they expected from a nobleman. They expected flowery greetings or declarations of House Martell's benevolence.
Jon looked directly at a man in the front row, a water-carrier whose shoulders were permanently hunched forward. "You, friend. How much does it weigh?"
The man blinked, surprised to be addressed. "Eight pounds, m'lord. Maybe ten if the cooper made it thick."
"Ten pounds," Jon repeated, walking slowly along the edge of the crowd. "And how many trips do you make from the Greenblood to the tannery vats in a morning?"
"Twenty," the man grunted. "Thirty on a bad day."
"Three hundred pounds," Jon said, letting the number hang in the air. "Three hundred pounds of river dragged up the bank on your back, step by step, day after day. Your father did it. Your grandfather did it." He stopped, turning back to the table. "And if nothing changes, your sons will do it until their backs break too."
A ripple of unease went through the crowd.
"But it doesn't have to be that way," Jon said. "The Rhoynar knew this a thousand years ago. They didn't carry the river. They made the river walk."
With a nod to Daemon, who stepped forward to help, Jon unlatched the front of the display case. The sides fell away, revealing the model in all its intricate glory.
It was a beautiful thing, crafted from polished cedar and brass. A central axle connected to a series of gears, which in turn drove a large wheel fitted with two dozen angled buckets. At the base, a copper trough filled with water represented the Greenblood. At the top, a series of chutes waited to catch the flow.
"This is not magic," Jon announced, his voice firm, cutting through the sudden whispers. "There are no spells here. No sorcery from Asshai. This is wood, iron, and leverage. It is a machine, simple as a cart, honest as a plow."
He pointed to the horizontal gear at the side. "In the full-sized version, an ox is yoked here. The beast walks in a circle, doing the work of twenty men without complaint. As the ox walks, the gears turn."
Jon gripped the hand-crank that served as the stand-in for the ox. He looked at Arianne for a fleeting second. She was standing perfectly still, her face composed, but her eyes were burning hotter than the sun.
Jon began to turn the crank.
Creak... clack... creak...
The large vertical wheel began to rotate. The first bucket dipped into the copper trough, scooping up water. The crowd leaned in, a collective breath held in a thousand lungs.
The bucket rose. Then the second. Then the third.
As the first bucket reached the apex of the wheel, it tilted. The water poured out, the sun glittering making it seem like silver, splashing into the upper catch-basin and flowing immediately down the constructed chute.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Jon kept cranking. A continuous stream of water began to flow from the bottom trough to the top chute, cascading down into a waiting bucket that Daemon held. It filled in seconds.
"The river rises," Jon said, his voice steady over the sound of splashing water. "Not by sweat. Not by pain. By the turning of a wheel."
The crowd didn't cheer. Not yet. They stared, mouths slightly open, processing the impossibility of it. They were watching water flow uphill.
"One wheel," Jon continued, not stopping the crank, letting the rhythm hypnotize them. "One wheel, powered by two oxen, can lift ten thousand gallons in a single day. That is enough to fill every vat in Master Mallor's dye shop by second breakfast. That is enough to flood the irrigation ditches of the eastern fields before noon. That is enough to fill a public fountain in the center of this square so that no child has to beg for a cup of muddy water."
He stopped cranking. The wheel slowed, the last few drops falling with a musical plink-plink-plink.
"It works," a voice called out from the back. A rough, disbelief-filled voice. "It... it just works."
This was the moment. Jon stepped back, wiping his hands. He had provided the proof. He had shown them the steel and the wood. Now they needed the fire.
Arianne stepped forward.
"Jon Snow has shown you a machine," she said. "I am showing you your lives."
She turned to face the merchants, Mallor and Tyren, who were staring at the model with greed naked on their faces.
"Master Mallor," she said. "This wheel means that the twelve men you pay to haul water are now standing at your vats. It means your production doubles. It means your coin purse grows heavy enough to burst."
She spun back to the women in the crowd. "Mothers of Planky Town. This wheel means your sons come home at night with straight backs. It means you wash your clothes in fresh water, not the dregs of the tide. It means that when the summer heat strikes, the fountains flow, and the fever does not take your little ones because the water is clean."
Arianne moved towards the model, resting her hand on the chute where the water had flowed.
"This is not a gift from the gods," she declared. "This is a tool. A tool that sits here, ready to be built. We have the wood. We have the iron. We have the builder." She gestured to Jon, and the crowd's gaze snapped to him like he was their King.
"So I ask you," Arianne continued. "Why do you not have it already?"
The silence felt suffocating; for a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped.
"Is it because the river is too far?" Arianne asked. "No. The river is right there."
"Is it because the wood is too dear?" She shook her head. "No. We have ships rotting in the harbor that have more wood than we need."
"You do not have it," Arianne said, her voice hardening into steel, "because there are men who profit from your thirst. Men who would rather see you sweat for a copper than prosper for free."
She didn't name Lord Ashaven. She didn't have to. Jon watched as their faces changed, the awe in their eyes turned into anger, resentment, and determination.
"We want to build this for you," Arianne said, spreading her arms wide, embracing the whole town. "Jon Snow has designed it. House Martell has authorized it. We are ready to break ground today."
She paused, letting the tension peak.
"The only question," she said softly, "is who will try to stop us?"
"Let them try!" a man shouted from the back.
"Build the wheel!" another voice cried out, followed by a chorus of agreement. "Build it! Give us the water!"
The chant started low, a rumble in the throat of the crowd, then grew. Build the wheel. Build the wheel.
Jon looked at Arianne across the table. Her chest was heaving slightly, her cheeks flushed with the thrill of the rhetoric. She looked magnificent. Dangerous.
She caught his eye, and Jon was a little surprised by the spark in her eyes. She appeared like a goddess among them, and her eyes were her jewels.
He nodded to her, a silent acknowledgment of their victory. Then he turned back to the crowd, raised his hand, and the roar became deafening.
They had lit the spark. Now they just had to survive the fire.
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