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Arrival at Sunspear Harbor - One Week Later
The stone-faced servant walked three paces ahead of Jon, leading him through a bewildering maze of corridors. The man hadn't spoken a single word since Prince Quentyn had dumped Jon into his care with obvious relief.
At least someone's happy to be rid of me, Jon thought wryly. Though I'm not sure this one's any more pleased to be stuck with me.
"Your chambers, my lord," the servant finally spoke, stopping before an ornately carved door inlaid with amber and copper.
"I'm not a lord," Jon corrected automatically.
The servant's expression didn't change. "As you say." He pushed the door open and stepped aside.
Jon entered and froze mid-step. Seven hells.
The room—no, rooms—sprawled before him in a display of wealth that made Winterfell's best guest chambers look like stable accommodations. Gossamer curtains in burnt orange and deep crimson billowed from windows taller than Jon himself. A bed that could comfortably fit four people dominated one wall, piled high with silk pillows and covered in linens so fine they seemed to shimmer in the late afternoon light.
"Is there a mistake?" Jon turned to the servant. "These can't be my quarters."
"Prince Oberyn was most specific. The Bastard of Winterfell is to have the Sunrise Chamber." The man's tone carried no judgment, just statement of fact. "Will there be anything else?"
The Sunrise Chamber. Even the name sounded absurdly grand for a bastard's lodgings.
"No, that will be all," Jon said, still dazed.
The servant bowed slightly and departed, closing the door with a soft click that echoed in the vast space.
Jon walked further into the room, boots silent on plush carpets that depicted hunting scenes in vibrant threads. A writing desk of some dark, polished wood sat beneath one window, equipped with parchment, quills, and a selection of inks. Along another wall stood a wardrobe large enough to hold everything Jon had ever owned and still have room to spare.
Curious, he opened it to find shelves stocked with Dornish clothing—loose trousers, sleeveless tunics, and flowing robes, all in his size.
"They certainly came prepared," he muttered, fingering the fine fabric. "Did they measure me in my sleep?"
He thought back to his cramped quarters at Winterfell—plain stone walls, narrow bed, small trunk for his meager possessions. This room could fit that entire space in one corner and still have room for dancing lessons.
A set of glass doors caught his attention, leading out to a balcony. Jon crossed the room and pushed them open, stepping out into the late afternoon heat. The view stole what little breath the dry air had left him.
Sunspear spread before him in all its exotic glory, a maze of domes and spires gleaming in the lowering sun. Beyond the city walls, the Summer Sea stretched to the horizon, a deeper blue than even Winterfell's hotsprings. Ships dotted the harbor, their colorful sails furled as they rocked gently at anchor.
Arya would love this, he thought. She'd already be halfway down the wall, looking for adventure in the markets below.
Jon pictured his little sister's face, imagined her delight at the view, her endless questions about the ships, the people, the foods. Without her around, who would protect her from Septa Mordane's wrath? Who would she share her mischief with?
"I hope Robb is looking after you, little wolf," he whispered to the wind.
The sound of the door opening pulled Jon from his thoughts. He turned to see Prince Oberyn strolling in without ceremony, looking perfectly at ease.
"Ah, the little wolf admires his new den," Oberyn observed with a smile. "Do the accommodations meet with your approval?"
Jon stepped back into the room. "They're far more than I deserve, Prince Oberyn."
"Deserve?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "What strange Northern notion is this, that a boy 'deserves' only certain levels of comfort based on his birth?"
"I'm a bastard," Jon said simply.
"In Dorne, that word doesn't carry the weight you're accustomed to," Oberyn replied, dropping casually onto a divan. "My daughters are all bastards, as you've noticed. They lack nothing."
"I've noticed," Jon said, thinking particularly of his time with Nymeria. The memory of her taste on his tongue made him flush slightly.
Oberyn's sharp eyes missed nothing. "I see you've become well acquainted with at least one of them," he said, his voice dancing with amusement. "Nymeria tells me you have a talented tongue—though apparently you're rather rigid about certain other activities."
Jon's flush deepened.
"I won't father bastards," Jon said stiffly. "Not when I know what it means to grow up as one."
Something in Oberyn's expression shifted. "A principled stand. Though in Dorne, there are ways to enjoy a woman's company without risking children."
"So Nymeria mentioned," Jon replied dryly. Several times, in increasing detail.
Oberyn laughed. "I'm sure she did. My daughters don't usually take no for an answer." He stood in a fluid motion. "You should prepare for tonight's feast. The servants will bring water for bathing soon."
Jon nodded, then gathered his courage to ask the question that had been haunting him. "Prince Oberyn, why am I really here? This isn't a normal fostering arrangement."
Oberyn paused at the door, his expression unreadable. "Nothing about you is normal, Jon Snow." His voice had lost all traces of humor. "Your eyes alone tell a tale that would shake the Seven Kingdoms if widely known."
"My eyes?" Jon's hand unconsciously rose toward his face.
"Bright purple—a shade I've seen only once before." Oberyn's gaze seemed to pierce Jon's very soul. "In time, you'll understand. For now, enjoy the comforts of Dorne. Learn our ways. Meet my niece."
With that cryptic statement, Oberyn departed, leaving Jon more confused than ever.
A tale that would shake the Seven Kingdoms? Jon moved to the polished silver mirror hanging near the wardrobe and studied his reflection. His purple eyes stared back at him, unusual certainly, but worth bringing him across the continent?
Lord Stark has some explaining to do, Jon thought grimly. Though I doubt any ravens I send will receive meaningful answers.
The sound of servants approaching with bathing supplies interrupted his brooding. He had a feast to prepare for, apparently. And a niece to meet.
At least the food can't be more bewildering than everything else in this place, Jon thought, unaware of just how wrong he was.
Within minutes, a procession of servants entered carrying steaming buckets, each adding their burden to the tub until it was filled nearly to the brim. Among them was a young woman with olive skin and dark eyes who remained after the others departed.
She smiled at Jon, her gaze boldly traveling the length of his body. "I am Myra. I will help you bathe."
Jon blinked. "That won't be necessary."
"Oh, but it is customary in Dorne," she insisted, approaching him. "We take pride in our hospitality." Without warning, her fingers went to the laces of his tunic. "You northerners wear far too many clothes. Let me help you with these."
Jon caught her hands, ears burning hotter than the bathwater. "I can undress myself, thank you."
Myra looked up at him through long lashes. "Are you sure? Many find the experience... pleasurable." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"I'm quite capable of washing myself," Jon said firmly, taking a step back. "We manage to stay clean even in the frozen North."
Myra laughed. "As you wish, Lord Snow. Though your Northern modesty is most amusing." She moved toward the door, hips swaying provocatively. "Ring the bell if you change your mind. I'm very thorough."
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Jon released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Lord Snow," he muttered, shedding his travel-worn clothes. "I'm not a lord, and there's no snow for a thousand leagues."
Naked, he stepped into the bath, hissing as the hot water enveloped his travel-weary muscles. The heat was different from Winterfell's hot springs. He sank deeper, letting the scented oils work their magic on his skin.
This might be the one place in Dorne that isn't trying to cook me alive, he thought, leaning his head back against the tub's edge.
Jon closed his eyes, Prince Doran's cryptic words echoing in his mind: "Something in you that belongs in Dorne." What could he have meant? The only connection Jon had to Dorne was the whispers he'd overheard as a child—servants' gossip that his mother might have been Ashara Dayne of Starfall.
Is that why I'm here? Jon wondered, reaching for a cake of soap that smelled of lemons. To be closer to her family? Or perhaps...to her?
Jon scrubbed his skin until it glowed pink, as if he could wash away the questions that clung to him tighter than the sea salt and road dust. If his mother was indeed Ashara Dayne, that would explain his unusual purple eyes—eyes that had drawn comments throughout his life, and more pointed attention since arriving in Dorne.
Starfall isn't far from here, Jon thought, working the soap through his dark curls. Perhaps I could visit. See the home of my mother. Maybe even...
He couldn't complete the thought. Hope was a dangerous thing for a bastard. He'd learned that lesson early and thoroughly.
Jon rinsed his hair, watching the water cloud with dirt. Just like his presence here, nothing was clear. Not Prince Doran's interest, not Prince Quentyn's hostility, not even Prince Oberyn's intentions with him. He was adrift in unfamiliar waters, surrounded by currents he couldn't see or understand.
"At least I'll face whatever comes smelling better," he muttered, rising from the tub to reach for a drying cloth. "Small victories, Snow. Small victories."
Jon finished fastening the last button on his new Dornish tunic—a sleeveless garment of deep blue that felt scandalously revealing after a lifetime of Northern layers. Despite his discomfort with showing so much skin, he had to admit the lighter fabric provided blessed relief from the relentless heat.
I look like I'm about to perform at a mummer's show, he thought, examining his reflection. Theon would laugh himself sick if he could see me now.
A sharp knock interrupted his self-conscious musings. Jon crossed the room and pulled open the door, expecting perhaps the silent servant returning with information about the feast.
Instead, he found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
She was slightly taller than him, though Jon was only thirteen, so he had quite a few more years to get taller, her presence filled the doorway completely. Glossy black curls framed a heart-shaped face with full lips curved in a knowing smile. Her silk dress—if one could dignify such a scant garment with that name—revealed more golden-brown skin than it covered, clinging to curves that made Jon's mouth go dry. The neckline plunged dangerously low, displaying the generous swell of her breasts in a way that no Northern lady would ever dare.
"You must be Jon Snow," she said, her voice a musical lilt that somehow reminded Jon of honey being poured. "My father said you had unusual eyes, but he failed to mention how striking they are."
Jon stood frozen, his brain desperately searching for words—any words—that wouldn't make him sound like a complete fool.
"You're... I mean, I'm... Yes," he finally managed. Brilliant, Snow. Absolutely brilliant.
Her laugh was warm and rich as she stepped past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. "I'm Princess Arianne Martell." She moved like a cat... no, a snake, circling him slowly. "Has the journey rendered all your Northern courtesies mute, or do you find yourself at a loss for other reasons?"
Jon swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her eyes instead of letting his gaze drift to the distracting curves below. "Forgive me, Princess. We don't... that is... women in the North dress differently."
"More's the pity for the North," she replied, completing her circle to stand before him again. She reached up and boldly traced a finger along his jawline. "Are all Northern boys so pretty, or is just you?"
Jon took a step back, his ears burning. "I wouldn't know, Princess. I don't make a habit of assessing other men's looks."
That earned another laugh. "He speaks! And with a sharp tongue, no less." She moved to the balcony doors, the silken fabric of her dress shifting enticingly with each step. "I hear you've met my brother Quentyn."
"Briefly," Jon managed, grateful for the change of subject. "He seemed... displeased with my presence."
Arianne waved a dismissive hand. "Quentyn's displeased with everything these days. He takes himself far too seriously for a boy of sixteen." She turned back to Jon, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "I, on the other hand, find your presence most intriguing."
I bet you do, Jon thought, noting the predatory gleam in her eye. Though I can't imagine why. I'm just a bastard from the North who can't even form complete sentences around pretty women.
"Your father mentioned a feast tonight," Jon said, desperately trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.
"Yes, a small gathering to welcome you." Arianne moved closer again, close enough that Jon could smell her perfume—something exotic and spicy that made his head swim. "But we have hours yet before that begins. I thought you might appreciate a tour of the castle from someone who knows all its... secret places."
The way she said "secret places" left little doubt she wasn't just referring to the architecture.
"That's very kind of you, Princess," Jon replied, finally finding some semblance of his usual composure. "I would be grateful for your guidance. Sunspear seems quite different from Winterfell."
"Oh, you have no idea," she purred, linking her arm through his. The casual touch sent a jolt through Jon's body. "Dorne will open your eyes to many things your frozen North never dreamed of."
"I fear I may not be the most entertaining companion. I know little of Dorne beyond what Maester Luwin taught us."
Arianne's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth against her beautiful olive skin. "Don't worry, Jon Snow. I find Northern ignorance quite... charming. And educating you will be my pleasure." She tugged gently on his arm. "Shall we begin?"
Into the lion's den—or should I say, the viper's nest, Jon thought as he allowed himself to be led toward the door. Lord Stark definitely forgot to warn me about this particular danger.
"Lead on, Princess," he said, resigning himself to whatever game Arianne Martell was playing. He only hoped he could learn the rules before he lost too badly.
Arianne led Jon through sunlit corridors that twisted and turned like a serpent, each passage seeming to narrow just enough that she had to brush against him to proceed. The fourth time her hip grazed his, Jon realized this was no accident.
She's doing this deliberately, he thought, his heart racing. I've faced Theon's archery practice, yet it's a tiny princess who might be the death of me.
Though "tiny" wasn't exactly right—while she was petite in stature, she still stood a good half-head taller than Jon, who had yet to hit his growth spurt. The height difference meant her impressive cleavage was almost directly at his eye level, a fact Jon was painfully aware of each time she turned to explain some feature of the palace.
"The Spear Tower houses our most distinguished guests," Arianne explained, pointing to a soaring structure visible through an arched window. "Though we felt the Tower of the Sun more appropriate for you."
"Because of my cheerful disposition?" Jon quipped.
Arianne glanced back with an appreciative smile. "He jests! I was beginning to think they bred humor out of northerners." Her eyes dropped to his lips. "I wonder what else they haven't bred out of you."
"You might be surprised what we cold northerners keep hidden beneath all those furs, Princess."
Arianne's eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise. "My, my. The wolf pup has teeth." She leaned down slightly, her face close to his. "I'm rather fond of being bitten, you know."
Jon cleared his throat, startled by his own daring. "Princess Arianne—"
"Just Arianne, please," she corrected, leading him down a flight of stairs. "Titles are so formal, and I intend for us to become quite... informal."
They emerged into an enclosed courtyard where the clash of steel against steel rang out. Several men sparred under the watchful eye of a grizzled warrior.
"Our training yard," Arianne explained. "I understand you're quite skilled with a sword for your age."
"I'm adequate," Jon replied modestly.
"Nymeria suggested your skills extend beyond swordplay." Arianne's smile was wicked. "She speaks highly of your... technique."
Jon's cheeks flamed. Gathering his courage, Jon looked up at her. "Perhaps Nymeria should be more discreet about private matters."
"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Arianne laughed. "Besides, her endorsement has only increased my curiosity."
"The yard is smaller than Winterfell's," he said, desperately changing the subject.
"We prefer quality in Dorne," Arianne replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "My father says you'll train with Master Odion beginning tomorrow. He is one of the best swordsman in Sunspear. He's from Braavos, and his style might suit your build better than traditional Dornish spearwork."
"Are you suggesting I'm small, Princess?" Jon asked with mock offense.
"Merely that you're still growing," she countered, her eyes traveling the length of his body. "Though I find your current proportions quite... intriguing."
They continued through a series of gardens where exotic flowers bloomed in riotous colors. "We can meet here when you need respite from the heat," Arianne suggested, indicating a secluded alcove hidden behind cascading purple vines. "It's one of the coolest spots in the palace, and quite... private."
Jon nodded, painfully aware of the implication. Despite her height advantage making him feel young, something about her attention sparked his confidence.
"Careful, Princess," he said quietly. "Someone might think you're trying to corrupt a poor northern boy."
Arianne's laugh was quite pretty. "Corrupt? Or educate?" She reached out to brush a curl from his forehead. "And you don't strike me as particularly poor or helpless."
Soon, she grabbed his hand and led him somewhere else.
"And this," Arianne said, pushing open a set of heavy doors, "is the great hall."
Jon stepped into a vast chamber dominated by an enormous table carved from a single piece of red wood. But it was the tapestries lining the walls that caught Jon's attention—or rather, what they depicted. Men and women entwined in positions Jon had never imagined possible, some involving multiple participants.
Gods be good, Jon thought, quickly averting his eyes. They eat beneath these every day?
"That one is particularly interesting," Arianne commented, nodding toward a tapestry showing a woman astride a man while another pleasured her from behind. "The Lysene Triple Embrace. Supposedly brings transcendent pleasure to all involved."
"We, uh, favor hunting scenes in the North," Jon managed.
Arianne laughed, the sound echoing through the empty hall. "Your face! You look like you've swallowed a lemon." She moved closer, her large breasts brushing against his shoulder. "These tapestries are ancient. Dornish history is woven from blood and pleasure in equal measure."
A servant entered carrying a tray of fruits, bowing deeply to Arianne before offering it to them. Jon noticed the man's eyes remained fixed on the floor, never rising even as Arianne selected a blood orange.
"You're uncomfortable with how they defer to you," Arianne observed, skillfully peeling the fruit.
Jon shrugged. "In Winterfell, the servants treated me differently than the trueborn Starks. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of that kind of attention."
Something shifted in Arianne's expression—a flicker of genuine interest. "Tell me of your life there."
As they continued walking, Jon found himself sharing stories of Winterfell: snowball fights with Robb, teaching Arya to use an arrow when no one was looking, hiding from Septa Mordane with her.
"And Lady Stark?" Arianne probed gently. "How did she treat her husband's bastard in her home?"
Jon's expression cooled. "Like an unavoidable burden."
"That must have been difficult for a child."
"I had Lord Stark's affection, which is more than most bastards receive," Jon replied. "And my siblings never treated me differently."
"In Dorne, you wouldn't have faced such prejudice," Arianne said, leading him up another staircase. "Bastards are judged by their own merits here, not the circumstances of their birth."
"So I've been told," Jon replied. "Though I suspect even Dorne has its hierarchies."
Arianne raised an eyebrow. "Perceptive as well as pretty."
"You're not so bad yourself," Jon replied with a half-smile, enjoying the surprised laugh his comment elicited.
"The wolf cub grows bolder by the minute," she said, her eyes dancing with amusement.
They reached a circular chamber with windows offering views in every direction. "This is Sunspear's heart," Arianne said. "From here, you can see all of Dorne—the sea to the east, the mountains to the north, the desert stretching endlessly southward."
Jon moved to the windows, momentarily forgetting his nervousness as he took in the spectacular vista. "It's beautiful," he admitted. "Different from the North, but beautiful in its own way."
"Like its people," Arianne added, coming to stand beside him.
"Some more beautiful than others," Jon said, daring to meet her eyes directly.
Arianne's smile turned appreciative. "I'm beginning to think the quiet wolf of Winterfell is just biding his time, waiting to howl."
As the tour continued, Jon found himself gradually relaxing in Arianne's company. Beneath her flirtation lay a sharp mind that reminded him somewhat of Arya—if Arya were older, politically savvy, and intent on seducing him.
"My father rules Dorne now," Arianne explained as they walked along a covered portico, "but unlike the rest of Westeros, the eldest child inherits regardless of gender. When he passes, I will rule."
"The North could learn from that," Jon remarked.
"We have our own ways," Arianne replied. "Dorne bent the knee to the Iron Throne, but we never broke. We maintain our customs, our laws."
They had completed a full circuit of the palace, returning to the corridor leading to Jon's chambers. Jon couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the flirtation, he'd just undergone some kind of test. Whether he'd passed or failed remained unclear.
"Thank you for the tour," Jon said, stopping outside his door. "You've been most kind."
"It was my pleasure," Arianne replied. She moved closer, pressing her large breasts against his chest as she rose on tiptoes. Despite her height advantage, the position pushed her curves firmly against him, making his already hard cock throb painfully.
"I look forward to seeing you at the feast tonight, Jon Snow," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. She pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, her hand "accidentally" brushing against the front of his breeches, touching his hard cock for a moment. "Perhaps afterward, we can continue our... discussions."
With that, she glided away, leaving behind only the scent of exotic perfume and Jon's racing heartbeat.
I'm playing a game I don't understand, Jon thought, watching her disappear around a corner.
He entered his chambers, closing the door and leaning against it with a ragged sigh. His body still thrummed with desire, and his mind spun with the implications of Arianne's interest in him.
Robb would never believe this, he thought, moving to splash cool water on his face. The Princess of Dorne herself... What in seven hells does she want with a bastard from the North?
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