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Arianne Martell
The great hall of Planky Town smelled like old leather and desperation, with something that might have been rotting fruit or possibly just the castle itself slowly decomposing. Arianne kept her expression pleasant as she crossed the threshold, her riding leathers still clinging to her skin from the morning's journey. Beside her, Jon Snow walked with that peculiar Northern stiffness that suggested he was preparing for battle rather than diplomacy.
Smart men, she thought. However, this particular battle won't be won with steel.
The hall itself was attempting grandeur and failing spectacularly. Tapestries that had probably been impressive three generations ago now hung like faded laundry. The long table running down the center was solid oak, at least, though someone had tried to disguise old wine stains with fresh linens that only drew more attention to the damage beneath.
And there, at the head of it all, sat Lord Tharnock Ashaven.
Oh, gods preserve me.
Arianne had seen old men before. Dorne was full of them, leathery survivors who'd been baked by the sun into something resembling dignified antiquity. This was not that. Lord Ashaven looked like someone had taken a wineskin, filled it with spoiled meat, dressed it in silk that strained across every bulge, and propped it in a chair to see if anyone would notice it wasn't actually human.
Seventy namedays, her father had said. The man looked closer to ninety, and not the healthy kind of ninety that some maesters achieved through clean living and scholarly pursuits. His face was the color of a fresh bruise, mottled purple and red, with broken veins spider-webbing across his nose and cheeks. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the morning cool, and his breathing sounded like a man drowning on dry land.
His eyes, though. Those were very much alive. They fixed on Arianne the moment she entered, traveling down her body. She felt her skin crawl, but kept her smile in place. This was far from the first time a disgusting man had looked at her like that, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
The things I do for Dorne.
Four men flanked the old lord, clearly his sons by the shared prominent chin that looked far better on them than it did on their father. The eldest stood closest, the one Jon had identified as Ser Josefin. Fifty-one years old and looking perpetually exhausted.
Behind them, a small army of grandchildren and great-grandchildren filled the hall, at least twenty people ranging from grey-haired adults to sticky-fingered children.
"Princess Arianne Martell," Ser Josefin announced, his voice booming across the hall. "Heiress to Sunspear and all of Dorne."
Lord Ashaven heaved himself partially upright, the chair beneath him groaning in protest. One spotted hand gripped the table edge while the other clutched at his chest, as if his heart might actually be trying to escape his body and was only restrained by increasingly desperate measures.
"Princess," he wheezed, and Arianne watched in horrified fascination as spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. "What a vision! What a beautiful sight graces my humble hall!"
"Lord Ashaven. Thank you for receiving us."
The old lord's smile widened, revealing teeth that had seen better decades. Several appeared to be missing entirely, while others had achieved a shade of yellow.
He lurched forward, one hand extended. "Such beauty! Such grace! You honor us, Princess. Please, allow me to welcome you properly."
Oh no. Oh, absolutely not.
Arianne saw exactly where this was going. The old bastard wanted to kiss her hand, probably leave his wet, spotted lips pressed against her skin for several seconds too long while making some nauseating comment about Dornish hospitality. She'd endured similar affronts before, had smiled through them with her teeth clenched and her stomach churning, but something about this particular old goat made her want to set him on fire and watch him burn.
Maybe it was the journey. Maybe it was the way his eyes kept drifting to her breasts. Maybe it was because of Jon, she wanted his lips on her hand, well, in other places as well.
She stepped smoothly to the side, letting his grasping hand close on empty air, and gestured to her companions instead. "Lord Ashaven, may I present Lady Nymeria Sand, Lady Sarella Sand, and Lord Jon Snow of Winterfell."
Arianne felt a flutter of satisfaction watching the old lord's face shift from lecherous anticipation to confusion to something approaching anger. His hand remained suspended in the air for a moment, fingers still curled as if he couldn't quite comprehend why they weren't currently wrapped around her own.
"Yes, yes," he said, the words coming out wet and irritated. His eyes barely touched on Nymeria and Sarella before dismissing them entirely. When his gaze landed on Jon, however, something shifted.
The old goat's not completely stupid, then. Pity.
For just a moment, Lord Ashaven's expression sharpened. He took in Jon's youth, his unusual purple eyes, his handsome face, the way he stood close to Arianne's left side. The calculating look that crossed those sagging features suggested the old lord understood exactly what he was seeing, even if he didn't particularly like it.
"Lord Snow," Ashaven said, infusing the title with just enough skepticism to remind everyone that Jon was, in fact, no lord at all. "The Bastard of Winterfell. I've heard tales. Something about Ned Stark keeping his dishonor under his own roof rather than farming it out to some lesser household."
Arianne felt her jaw tighten. Beside her, Jon's expression remained like a stone, but she knew he did not like his comment. The North might be full of stiff-necked honor and cold silences, but apparently, they shared Dorne's distaste for insults dressed as observations.
"Lord Stark raised me as his son," Jon said quietly. "I'm grateful for his generosity."
"Generosity," the old lord repeated, his lips curling. "Is that what they call it?"
Enough of this horseshit.
"We're here on business, Lord Ashaven," Arianne said, letting a hint of steel enter her voice. "Not to exchange pleasantries about Northern child-rearing practices."
The old lord blinked, caught between his evident desire to continue needling Jon and his equally evident desire to get back to staring at her breasts. After a moment's visible struggle, he settled on what he clearly thought was a diplomatic smile.
"Of course, of course, Princess. Business. Very important, I'm sure." He waved one spotted hand vaguely, as if business were a troublesome insect he could shoo away. "But surely such discussions can wait until after we've properly welcomed you? I've had my kitchens preparing since dawn. A feast in your honor, Princess. Nothing but the finest for Dorne's jewel."
"We would be honored," Arianne lied, the words sliding off her tongue with practiced ease. Lying to old men was one of her most developed skills, honed through years of her father's bannermen making increasingly transparent attempts to secure her favor. "Your hospitality is most generous."
"Excellent, excellent!" The old lord seemed to inflate slightly, like a toad puffing itself up to appear more impressive. "I've had chambers prepared for you as well. The finest rooms in the castle, Princess. Fitting for your station. And your... companions, of course."
Arianne understood what he meant by companions.
Ser Josefin stepped forward. "If you'll follow me, Princess, I'll show you to your rooms. I'm sure you'd like to rest after your journey."
"That would be lovely," Arianne said, grateful for the escape route even if it meant enduring more of this crumbling monument to architectural mediocrity.
As they turned to leave, she heard Lord Ashaven's wheezing voice one more time. "Tonight, Princess! Tonight we'll feast properly, and you can tell me all about the best spots of Sunspear. Perhaps you could show me around personally one day? A private tour?"
Over my dead body, you festering pile of ambition and failing organs.
"Perhaps," Arianne said aloud, her smile never wavering. "We'll have to see what time allows."
She could feel the old lord's eyes boring into her back as they left, tracking her movements like a starving man watching food walk away. Beside her, Jon's expression had gone blank but she could see...anger in his pretty purple eyes, and Arianne felt...delighted, she did not know why, but she was happy that he felt anger because of her...she still remembered his words towards her before they entered this castle, and his words made her heart beat faster. Jon was angry, but quiet about it, but the same wasn't true for everyone.
Nymeria, on her other side, leaned in close enough to whisper. "I've seen younger-looking corpses."
"At least corpses have the decency to stay quiet," Arianne murmured back.
Ser Josefin led them through corridors that were somehow even less impressive than the great hall, Sunspear was a much better castle than this shithole.
"I apologize for my father," Josefin said quietly once they'd moved beyond easy earshot. "He can be... enthusiastic in his welcomes."
Enthusiastic. That's certainly one word for it. 'Lecherous old goat who should have died a decade ago' would be more accurate, but I suppose we're being diplomatic.
"Lord Ashaven is gracious to host us," Arianne said, because that's what princesses said in these situations, even when they were thinking about how satisfying it would be to accidentally push said lord off one of his own towers.
They climbed a winding staircase, the stones worn smooth in the middle from centuries of feet. Josefin paused at the first landing, gesturing to a door on the left.
"Lord Snow, this will be your chamber."
"Thank you," Jon said to Josefin, inclining his head before disappearing into the room.
They continued upward, and Arianne couldn't help but notice they were climbing considerably higher than where they'd left Jon. Interesting. The bastard gets the low rooms while the princess gets the tower. How very symbolic.
"Your chamber, Princess," Josefin said at last, opening a door that at least looked like it had been cleaned sometime in the last year. "I hope you'll find it comfortable. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."
Arianne stepped inside and had to admit, grudgingly, that the room was actually decent. Not Sunspear decent, but a clear attempt had been made.
"It's lovely," she said, and almost meant it. "Thank you, Ser Josefin."
The man bowed and retreated, leaving her alone with Nymeria and Sarella. The moment the door closed, Nymeria threw herself onto the bed with theatrical abandon.
"Well," she announced to the ceiling, "that was absolutely revolting."
"He tried to kiss your hand," Sarella observed, settling more carefully into a chair with a book already appearing in her hands from somewhere. "I thought he might actually cry when you dodged."
Arianne moved to the window, looking out at the sprawl of Planky Town below. From here, she could see the true scope of it. Thirty thousand people crammed into a space that should probably hold half that, their buildings leaning against each other like drunks trying to stay upright.
And somewhere down there, people were queuing for water. Paying silver they didn't have for something that should be as free as air.
"He's proposed to me three times," Arianne said, still staring at the city. "Did I mention that?"
"You might have brought it up once or twice," Nymeria replied. "Usually while making gagging sounds."
Arianne turned from the window, facing her half-sisters. "He controls this city and everything in it. Including the water Jon Snow wants to help distribute."
"So we smile and pretend we don't want to set him on fire," Sarella said, not looking up from her book. "Politics as usual."
"Politics as usual," Arianne agreed.
She thought of Jon, tucked away in whatever inadequate room they'd given him, probably already planning how to convince an old man who'd spent seventy years consolidating power to voluntarily give some of it away. Jon had balls, she'd give him that. Probably not enough sense to go with them, but definitely balls.
And something else. Something she was trying very hard not to think about, especially not with Nymeria watching her like a cat that had spotted a particularly interesting mouse.
"You're thinking about the wolf," Nymeria said, because of course she was.
"I'm thinking about water distribution and political strategy," Arianne replied coolly.
"Right. And I'm thinking about taking holy vows and becoming a septa."
Sarella snorted without looking up from her book. "Please don't. You'd corrupt the entire Sept within a week."
Arianne ignored them both, moving to splash water from the basin onto her face. The cool liquid felt good against her skin, washing away the dust of travel and the greasy residue of Lord Ashaven's stare.
Tonight, there would be a feast. She'd have to smile through it, endure more of the old lord's wheezing compliments, and somehow convince him that helping Jon was in his own interest. Or barring that, convince him that opposing the Princess of Dorne was a spectacularly bad idea.
But first, she needed to talk to Jon. Make sure they were aligned on strategy, that he understood what they were walking into.
Make sure he understood that some prices were too high to pay, no matter how many people needed water.
Jon Snow
The door closed behind Jon, and he stood in the middle of what could only charitably be called a chamber. He'd slept in worse, technically. The small room at Winterfell that had been his for thirteen years hadn't exactly been spacious. But at least that room had been clean.
This looked like someone had stored furniture here twenty years ago and simply forgotten about it.
The bed was narrow enough that Jon suspected he'd wake with bruises from rolling against the wall. A thin mattress lay atop rope supports that sagged in the middle, and the blanket folded at its foot had the musty smell of something that had spent too long in a damp cellar. The pillow was flat as a cake that Arya had tried to bake once, before the chef banned her from the kitchens entirely.
A small table squatted beneath the room's single window, which was barely wide enough for Jon to stick his head through if he felt particularly suicidal. The shutters hung crooked on their hinges. Someone had attempted to carve something into the tabletop, given up halfway through, and left a series of scratches that might have been letters.
Jon crossed to the window and looked out. His view consisted primarily of the castle's inner wall, close enough that he could probably reach out and touch it if he were stupid enough to try. Beyond that, a slice of sky and the distant sounds of the town going about its business.
Well. At least I can hear if anyone's trying to kill me.
He turned back to survey his accommodations.
This was an insult.
Lord Ashaven had probably spent all of five seconds deciding where to put Ned Stark's bastard. Somewhere that said "you're here because I have to house you, not because I want you." Somewhere that reminded Jon of exactly how much he mattered in the grand scheme of Planky Town politics, which was to say, not at all.
The princess gets a tower room with a view. The bastard gets a closet that someone optimistically called quarters.
Jon sat on the bed, which creaked ominously under his weight. The rope supports sagged further, and for a moment he genuinely worried the entire thing might collapse and dump him on the floor. It held, barely.
He'd been treated better in Sunspear. Considerably better. The Sunrise Chamber had been almost obscenely luxurious, all silk and space and views that made him forget he was supposed to be grateful for scraps. Prince Doran's household had offered him respect he hadn't earned yet, courtesy he definitely didn't deserve.
Here, he was back to being what he'd always been. A bastard. Someone to be tolerated, housed in whatever space was left over after everyone who actually mattered had been settled.
It was almost comforting, in a perverse way. At least he understood the rules again.
The problem was that those rules were going to make everything considerably more difficult. Lord Ashaven had already marked Jon as irrelevant, which meant anything Jon said would be dismissed or ignored. The old lord wouldn't listen to engineering principles or economic benefits from someone he'd already decided wasn't worth listening to.
And then there was the other problem. The bigger one.
Jon had seen how Lord Ashaven looked at Arianne. Had watched those watery eyes travel across her body. The old bastard wanted her, in whatever capacity his failing body could still manage want. That much had been obvious from the moment they'd entered the hall.
Which meant Lord Ashaven saw Jon as competition.
Never mind that Jon was a landless bastard with nothing to offer and Arianne was the Princess of Dorne. Never mind that the very idea was laughable. Old men with power didn't think in terms of realistic obstacles. They thought in terms of what they wanted and what stood between them and getting it.
Right now, Jon stood between Lord Ashaven and Arianne. Or at least, the old lord probably thought he did.
That's going to be a problem.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Jon called out permission to enter, and two servants shuffled in carrying a wooden tub between them. They were followed by three more, each bearing buckets of water that sloshed gently with their movements.
"For your bath, my lord," the first servant said, not quite meeting Jon's eyes. They set about filling the tub, though Jon noticed the water steaming only slightly.
"Thank you," Jon said, because his father had raised him to be courteous to servants even when he himself was being treated like one.
They filed out quickly, leaving Jon alone with his lukewarm bath and his lukewarm welcome.
He stripped off his travel-stained clothes, grateful at least to be out of the leather and linen that had been clinging to him since before dawn. The ride from Sunspear had been long and dusty, and he could feel grit in places he'd prefer not to think about.
The water was cool enough to make him hiss when he first stepped in, but after the heat of travel it felt almost refreshing. Jon sank down until the water reached his chest, then grabbed the sliver of soap someone had thoughtfully left on the tub's edge.
He scrubbed mechanically, watching the water cloud with road dust, and let his mind work through the problem they faced.
Lord Ashaven controlled Planky Town absolutely. Thirty thousand people lived at his pleasure, drank water he allowed them to access, built their lives around systems he maintained or ignored as suited him. That kind of power, held for seventy years, didn't make men generous. It made them possessive.
The water wheels would work. Jon was certain of that. The engineering was sound, the economics favorable, the benefits undeniable. But Lord Ashaven wouldn't care about any of that unless he could see how it benefited him specifically.
And what the old lord wanted, what he'd made crystal clear from the moment they'd arrived, was Arianne.
Jon felt something hot and ugly twist in his chest at the thought. The idea of that wheezing, spotted old man putting his hands on her made Jon want to reach for a sword he wasn't currently wearing. Which was stupid. Arianne was perfectly capable of handling lecherous old lords. She'd probably been doing it since she was old enough to understand what those stares meant.
But still. The thought of her having to smile through his attention, to let him paw at her hand or worse, all for the sake of getting approval for a water wheel...
That's too high a price. There has to be another way.
Jon finished washing and climbed out, reaching for the drying cloth that had been left folded nearby. It was rough, probably used, but it did the job. He dried off and pulled on clean clothes from his pack, grateful that at least he'd been smart enough to bring spare clothing.
The knock came perhaps an hour later, just as Jon was considering whether to venture out and explore the castle or wait for someone to summon him to this feast Lord Ashaven had promised. The decision was made for him when he opened the door to find a young woman in servant's clothing, her dark hair pulled back in a practical braid.
"Lord Snow," she said, bobbing a curtsy. "Princess Arianne requests your presence in her chambers."
Jon felt his stomach drop. Of all the reckless, foolish, politically suicidal things Arianne could do right now, summoning him to her private chambers ranked somewhere near the top of the list.
Every servant in this castle would know within the hour. Which meant Lord Ashaven would know within two. The old man already saw Jon as competition for Arianne's attention. This would only confirm his suspicions and probably make their task ten times harder.
Unless that's the point. Unless Arianne wants him to think there's something between us.
Jon couldn't decide if that was brilliant strategy or just asking for trouble they didn't need. Probably both, knowing Arianne.
"Of course," Jon said, stepping into the corridor and closing the door behind him. "Lead the way."
The servant set off at a brisk pace, and Jon followed, noting the route they took. Up two flights of stairs, through a corridor that actually had proper tapestries instead of bare stone, past windows that offered real views instead of intimate glimpses of castle walls.
"You're not from Dorne," the servant said suddenly, glancing back at him with curious eyes.
"No," Jon agreed. "I'm from the North."
"I thought so. Your features are different. Paler." She studied him more openly now, apparently feeling that conversation gave her permission to stare. "Where in the North?"
"Winterfell."
Her eyes widened slightly. "The Stark stronghold? Are you a bannerman's son, then?"
Here it comes.
"Jon Snow," he said evenly. "Bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
The servant actually stumbled slightly, catching herself against the wall. She turned to face him fully, reassessing what she was looking at with new eyes.
"I see," she said slowly, though her tone suggested she saw considerably more questions than answers. "And you've come all this way with the Princess? That's quite a journey."
"Princess Arianne has been generous with her time," Jon replied carefully. "Showing me Dorne, explaining your customs."
"Has she?" The servant's smile took on a different quality. "The Princess is known for her generosity. Especially with handsome young men."
There it is.
This wasn't idle gossip. This was reconnaissance, questions designed to sound innocent while actually digging for specific information.
Is the bastard sleeping with the Princess? How close are they? Should Lord Ashaven be worried?
"The Princess has been an excellent guide," Jon said, offering nothing. "Dorne is very different from the North. I'm grateful for her instruction."
"Instruction," the servant repeated. "Is that what you call it in the North?"
"That is the word used when someone teaches you on things you don't know in case you forgot."
They'd reached another staircase, this one spiraling upward into what must be one of the castle's towers. The servant started climbing, and Jon followed, noting how she kept glancing back at him as if trying to read his thoughts from his expression.
Good luck with that. Ned Stark's bastard has had thirteen years to learn how to keep his face quiet.
"The Princess must trust you greatly," the servant tried again. "To request your presence in her private chambers. That's quite an honor."
"I imagine she wants to discuss tomorrow's plans," Jon replied. "We have business in Planky Town that requires coordination."
"Business." The servant's tone suggested she found this explanation as believable as a fish claiming it could fly. "Of course. What sort of business brings the Princess of Dorne to our humble town?"
"Water distribution," Jon said, because it wasn't exactly a secret. "Improving access to clean water for the people."
"How noble." They'd reached a landing now, a door of decent quality wood standing closed before them. "Though I confess, most young men summoned to a princess's chambers aren't thinking about water distribution."
Jon met her eyes directly. "Then most young men are fools who don't understand how politics work."
The servant blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct response. After a moment, she laughed, though it sounded uncertain. "Perhaps you're right, Lord Snow. Though you must admit, it's unusual."
"Many things are unusual," Jon agreed. "That doesn't make them improper."
He could see her trying to decide if she'd learned anything useful.
Jon knew she'd report all of that back to whoever was paying for information, probably Lord Ashaven himself, and the old lord would draw his own conclusions regardless of what Jon actually said.
The servant knocked on the door, three precise raps. "Princess Arianne? Lord Snow, as you requested."
"Enter," came Arianne's voice from within, and the servant pushed the door open.
Jon stepped through, taking in the room beyond. Considerably nicer than his accommodations, as expected. Actual furniture that looked maintained, windows that offered views of the Greenblood, a bed large enough for one person without requiring them to sleep in a specific position to avoid falling out. Arianne was sitting on a chair, drinking water from a goblet.
He'd expected to find Nymeria or Sarella here as well, some pretense of propriety even if it was thin. But Arianne was alone, which made this meeting even more conspicuous than it already was.
The servant had apparently reached the same conclusion. She lingered in the doorway, not quite leaving.
Arianne noticed. "You may leave us."
"My Princess?" The servant's tone carried just enough false innocence to be insulting. "You wish to be left alone with Lord Snow?"
"I wish to discuss Lord Snow's water distribution plans," Arianne said, her voice taking on the particular edge that suggested a princess who'd run out of patience. "Do you understand how water wheels work?"
The servant hesitated. "No, my lady."
"Then you won't find our conversation very interesting, will you?" Arianne smiled, the expression holding no warmth whatsoever. "You're dismissed."
The servant curtseyed, deeper this time, and backed out. The door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded louder than it should.
Jon waited until he heard footsteps retreating down the stairs before speaking. "That was subtle."
"Subtlety is overrated," Arianne replied. "Besides, she was going to report this meeting regardless. At least this way, she has something specific to tell Lord Ashaven instead of inventing her own story."
"You mean she'll tell him we're alone in your chambers discussing water distribution, and he'll assume we're lying about what we're actually doing."
"Probably." Arianne said with a shrug. "But that's better than him thinking we're conspiring against him politically. Let him think this is about passion instead of plots. Passion he understands."
Jon wasn't sure he agreed, but he also wasn't sure he had a better option. He glanced around the room again, noting the details. "Your accommodations are considerably nicer than mine."
"You sound surprised."
"Not particularly. I'm a bastard. You're the Princess of Dorne. I'd be more surprised if they'd given me a room as nice as yours."
"Does it bother you? The difference in treatment?"
Jon shrugged. "I've had thirteen years to get used to being treated differently than trueborn children. This is nothing new."
"But it still bothers you."
"What bothers me," Jon said carefully, "is that we're trying to help thirty thousand people get better access to water, and Lord Ashaven's first concern is figuring out whether you and I are sleeping together. That suggests our priorities might not align with his."
"No," Arianne agreed. "They don't. Which is why we need to talk about how we're going to handle this."
She gestured to the other chair, and Jon sat, wondering what exactly they'd gotten themselves into.
"What do you think of our accommodations?" Arianne asked, gesturing vaguely at the room around them. "Lord Ashaven's legendary hospitality."
Jon glanced around again, taking in the decent furniture, the clean linens, the windows that actually opened properly. "Well, the tower hasn't collapsed yet. That's something."
Arianne's laugh surprised him. He knew this was a real laugh. "Gods, you sound like Sarella. She spent ten minutes explaining exactly how the eastern wall is slowly separating from the main structure and will probably fall into the river within twenty years."
"Only twenty? I'd have said ten, given how the mortar looks."
"Now you're just trying to make me feel better about staying here."
"Is it working?"
"A little." She sobered, the amusement fading back into the calculating expression Jon had come to recognize. "We need to talk about how we're going to approach this. The presentation, I mean. When to do it, how to frame it."
Jon settled back in his chair, which was considerably more comfortable than anything in his own room. "You're the one with experience navigating Dornish politics. What do you think?"
"I think you're the one with the actual idea," Arianne countered. "The water wheel, the engineering, all of that. You should present it."
"And I think Lord Ashaven made it abundantly clear that he doesn't give a damn what I have to say." Jon kept his voice level. "He'll hear me, Princess. But he won't listen to me."
Arianne's expression tightened. "So you want me to do it."
"I want you to be part of it. Your voice carries weight that mine doesn't. You're the Princess of Dorne. When you speak, people pay attention."
"The last thing I want," Arianne said, her voice taking on an edge, "is to spend more time than necessary talking to that rotting corpse. Did you see how he looked at me? Like I was a particularly appealing piece of meat he was considering purchasing?"
Jon had seen. He'd been trying very hard not to think about it, actually, because thinking about it made him want to find Lord Ashaven and introduce him to Ice, the Valyrian Steel Sword of House Stark.
"I know," he said carefully. "And I understand why that makes this difficult. But you're still the Princess. Your name holds power. People will listen to you in ways they'll never listen to me."
Arianne stood abruptly, moving back to the window. Her shoulders were tense beneath the dress she was wearing now, and Jon could see her jaw working like she was physically chewing through her frustration.
"You make it sound so simple," she said finally. "Just smile, present the plan, convince the lecherous old bastard that it's in his interest to help. As if I haven't spent my entire life having to charm men who look at me like that."
"I don't think it's simple," Jon replied. "I think it's necessary. And I think you're more than capable of handling it."
She turned to look at him. "You have a lot of faith in my abilities."
"I've seen what you can do when you want something." Jon stood as well, crossing to join her at the window. "You understand how to navigate conversations most people would fumble."
"That's politics. This is..." She gestured vaguely, frustrated. "This is different."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to do it!" The words burst out of her with more heat than Jon had expected. "Because I'm tired of having to smile at men who make my skin crawl. Because one day I'm going to rule Dorne, and I'd rather do it on my own terms instead of constantly having to charm and manipulate and pretend I don't want to set half the lords in Dorne on fire."
This wasn't about Lord Ashaven specifically. This was about everything the role demanded of her, had always demanded of her, and always would.
"Do you know about Queen Alysanne?" he asked.
Arianne blinked at the apparent non sequitur. "The Good Queen? Jaehaerys's wife?"
"The same." Jon leaned against the windowsill, thinking of the histories he'd read in Winterfell's library. "She married the king when she was young, and everyone expected her to just be decorative. To sit quietly and produce heirs while Jaehaerys ruled."
"But she didn't."
"She didn't," Jon agreed. "She flew her dragon to every corner of the realm. She listened to the smallfolk, the ones nobody else bothered with. She cleaned the Blackwater Bay when it was so filthy people were dying from the water. She abolished the Right of First Night."
"The tradition where lords could bed any bride on her wedding night before her husband."
"The lords hated her for it," Jon continued. "Claimed she was overstepping, that she didn't understand their ancient rights. But she did it anyway, because it was the right thing to do. And you know what? History remembers her as one of the best queens Westeros ever had."
"And you're telling me this why?" Arianne asked but Jon was sure she knew where he was going with this.
Jon turned to face her fully. "Because one day you're going to sit where your father sits. You're going to rule as Princess of all Dorne, and when that day comes, you'll face every kind of lord imaginable. Old ones, young ones, clever ones, stupid ones, cruel ones. If you want to be ready for that day, you need to practice now. Learn how to navigate them without compromising who you are."
Arianne's eyes softened a little as she looked at him.
"You're saying Lord Ashaven is practice."
"I'm saying he's an obstacle you'll face a hundred times in different forms. Better to learn how to handle it now, than not know how to handle after you have sat on your throne."
Arianne was quiet for a long moment, staring out at Planky Town. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "You have a silver tongue, Jon Snow."
"Is that a yes?"
"It's an acknowledgment that you're right, which might be worse." She turned to face him, and Jon appreciated the beauty he saw: beautiful lips, a beautiful face, and her eyes were two pools of warmth that he wanted to stare at for a bit longer. "I'll present your water wheels. I'll smile at Lord Ashaven and use my title and my name and whatever other tools I have." Arianne agreed with him.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Her expression darkened. "Because that old man will want something in return. They always do. And it's very clear what he wants."
"That will never happen," he said, and his voice came out harder than he'd intended.
Arianne's eyes widened slightly. "Jon..."
"I mean it." He took a step closer, not entirely sure what he was doing but unable to stop himself. "Whatever Lord Ashaven wants, whatever he thinks he can demand in exchange for cooperation, that is not on the table. Do you understand?"
"You can't promise that," Arianne said. "You don't have the authority to—"
"I don't care about authority." Jon knew he was being irrational, that political reality didn't bend to personal feelings, but the thought of that wheezing old bastard laying hands on her made rational thought difficult. "If he tries, if he even suggests it, I'll find a way to make sure it doesn't happen."
For a moment, Arianne just stared at him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for that."
Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Arianne stood close enough that he could smell her perfume, something with oranges and spice that made him think of Sunspear and training yards and late-night conversations that had slowly stopped being just political maneuvering.
He should step back. Put a proper distance between them. Remember that she was the Princess of Dorne and he was a bastard with delusions of helping people, and that the gap between those two things was wider than the Narrow Sea.
But he didn't step back. And neither did she.
"We should discuss the actual plan," Arianne said finally, though she made no move to return to her chair. "How to present the water wheels in a way that makes Lord Ashaven think it benefits him."
"Right. The plan." Jon forced his mind back to engineering and politics, away from the warm brown skin of her throat and the way her eyes caught the last of the evening light. "We need to frame it as increasing his revenue, not threatening his control."
"More prosperous tenants means more taxes he can collect."
"Exactly. And if we can demonstrate it working, show real results instead of just promises, it becomes harder for him to refuse without looking like he's deliberately keeping his people poor."
Arianne nodded slowly. "We'd need a demonstration then. Build one wheel, prove it functions, use that to leverage approval for more."
"That was my thinking." Jon said with a smile, and the two kept talking for two more hours until Jon decided that he had stayed long enough in her bed chamber.
"If it works, he can't afford to refuse. If it fails, at least we tried." Jon stood, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten. "I should go. Before that servant reports that I've been here all evening and Lord Ashaven decides I'm compromising your virtue."
"I lost my womanhood many years ago, Jon," Arianne said. "Though you're right. No need to make this more complicated than it already is."
Jon moved toward the door, then paused. Jon was not sure why he paused. He felt like he needed to say something to her, but instead.
"Goodnight, Princess," he said finally.
"Goodnight, Jon."
He left before either of them could say anything else, closing the door softly behind him. Jon made his way back to his chamber, and he cursed under his breath.
Arianne, in her chamber, cursed as well. You are so stupid, Arianne told herself. It was always about pleasure, that is all, she was no fucking maiden, she had been with many men and even women, she knew the pleasure of flesh, and she enjoyed it, but right now, she did not want Daemon on her bed, she knew she could easily do that, as she always did, he was her friend as well...but, as Arianne closed her eyes, all she could see were purple eyes...and the desire to call fo Daemon flickered out like a candle against a mighty nothern wind.
This has never happened before...what is happening...
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