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The King's Road stretched before them like a gray serpent winding through the snow-laden landscape. Jon had traveled this road before, but never beyond the shadow of Winterfell's walls, never with the knowledge that each hoofbeat carried him farther from the only home he'd known. The cold northern wind bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed the familiar sting. Soon enough, he'd face the legendary heat of Dorne—a place as foreign to him as the summer snows would be to the Dornish riders who surrounded him.
Prince Oberyn rode at the head of their column. Jon found his gaze drawn repeatedly to the prince—searching for some hint, some clue as to why this legend of Dorne had singled him out, a bastard of the North, for such an honor.
Or is it exile? Jon wondered, not for the first time.
Ellaria Sand rode close to Oberyn, whispering occasionally in his ear, drawing smiles and quiet laughter from the prince. The easy intimacy between them fascinated Jon. In Winterfell, bastards knew their place, kept to the shadows, avoided drawing attention. But these Dornish bastards—Sands, not Snows—carried themselves with the confidence of trueborn nobles.
Their party had made good time since departing at dawn, the Dornish seemingly eager to put Winterfell behind them. As the sun reached its zenith—a pale orb barely visible through the gray northern clouds—Oberyn raised his hand, signaling a halt by a small stream partially frozen at its edges.
"We'll rest the horses," the prince announced, swinging down from his sand steed. "Take water, stretch your legs. We ride until dusk."
Jon dismounted, grateful for the break. He led his horse to the stream, breaking the thin ice with his boot so the animal could drink.
"You sit a horse well, Jon Snow," came Oberyn's voice from behind him. "Though your mount seems ill-suited to long journeys."
Jon turned, meeting the prince's intense gaze. "He's Northern-bred, Prince Oberyn. Strong and sure-footed on icy ground."
"But how will he fare in the desert heat, I wonder?" Oberyn mused, reaching out to stroke the gelding's neck. "Like his master, he may find Dorne... challenging at first."
Before Jon could respond, a commotion arose from the rear of their party. Heads turned as a rider approached at a swift canter, the hooves of their mount kicking up plumes of snow. As the figure drew closer, Jon saw it was a woman, dressed in riding leathers that hugged a lithe, athletic frame. A thin spear was slung across her back, and her dark hair was tied in a braid that whipped behind her like a banner.
She pulled her mount to a stop before Oberyn, her olive-skinned face flushed from the cold and exertion. "Father," she greeted him with a wide smile. "I've completed the errand you gave me. The message is delivered."
"Excellent timing, my dear," Oberyn replied warmly. "We were just discussing how northern horses might fare in Dornish sands." He turned to Jon. "Allow me to introduce my daughter, Nymeria Sand. Nymeria, this is Jon Snow."
She turned toward him, and Jon felt a jolt of something—recognition, wariness, or perhaps simple appreciation for her striking beauty. She had her father's eyes, dark and keen, but there was a playfulness in them that Oberyn's usually lacked.
"Jon Snow," she said, his name rolling off her tongue like exotic spice. "The Bastard of Winterfell. I've heard much about you."
Jon bowed slightly, uncertain of the proper protocol. "Lady Nymeria."
Her laugh was sudden and musical. "Not a lady. Just Nymeria. Or Nym, if you prefer—all my friends call me Nym." She swung down from her horse with fluid grace, landing lightly in the snow. "Though we're not friends yet, are we, Jon Snow?"
"Not yet, no," he agreed cautiously.
Nymeria stepped closer, studying him with undisguised interest. "You have unusual eyes for a Northman."
"They're my mother's eyes," he said stiffly, the words emerging before he could consider them.
"Is that so?" Nymeria exchanged a quick glance with her father that Jon couldn't interpret. "And who might your mother be?"
"If I knew that," Jon replied with forced lightness, "I'd have a different name, wouldn't I?"
Oberyn chuckled, though his eyes remained watchful. "Well said, Jon Snow. Come, Nymeria, you must be hungry after your ride."
As they walked toward the small fire that the Dornish guards had kindled, Jon found himself watching Nymeria. There was something familiar about her, a nagging sense that he'd seen her before their introduction. Her confident stride, the way she casually brushed her braid over her shoulder.
"Does Nymeria intrigue you, Jon Snow?" Ellaria asked, appearing silently at his side.
Jon started, embarrassed to be caught staring. "I... she seems very different from Northern women."
"All Dornish women are different from your Northern ladies," Ellaria replied with a knowing smile. "We aren't taught to hide our desires or apologize for our strengths."
"I've noticed," Jon said dryly, earning a laugh from Ellaria.
"You've seen nothing yet," she promised, her eyes twinkling. "Nymeria is one of Oberyn's more... spirited daughters. Second-born of the Sand Snakes, trained in both courtly graces and deadly skills."
"Sand Snakes?" Jon questioned.
"What we call Oberyn's daughters," Ellaria explained. "Each dangerous in her own way, each with her mother's beauty and her father's venom." She nodded toward where Nymeria was now helping herself to dried fruit and hard cheese from their provisions. "Nym favors the whip and dagger."
The party rested for perhaps half an hour before Oberyn called for them to mount up. As Jon approached his horse, Nymeria appeared beside him, offering an apple for his mount.
"Northern horses," she said conversationally, "they're sturdy beasts, but they lack the speed and endurance of our sand steeds." She stroked Jon's gelding's nose with surprising gentleness. "Still, he has good lines. What's his name?"
"Shadow," Jon replied, accepting the apple and feeding it to his horse.
"How original for a black horse," she teased. "Did you choose the name yourself, or did the stablemaster lack imagination?"
Jon felt his ears warm despite the cold. "I was eight when he was born. It seemed clever at the time."
Nymeria laughed, the sound somehow both mocking and friendly. "Eight-year-olds are rarely known for their creative naming. My sister Obella named her first pony 'Spots.' The poor creature was solid bay without a marking on him."
Jon couldn't help smiling at that. "My brother Bran named his pony 'Dancer,' though the animal has about as much grace as a drunken septon."
"Siblings," Nymeria said, her expression softening slightly. "Are you close to yours?"
"To Robb, yes," Jon replied, thinking of their farewell. "And to Arya."
"Ah, the wolf girl with the little sword," Nymeria nodded. "Father mentioned her. He said she reminded him of my youngest sisters."
Jon frowned, confused. "How would Prince Oberyn know about Arya's sword? I only gave it to her before I left."
"The servants talk. Word spreads. Especially about unusual girls who prefer swords to sewing." She mounted her sand steed in one fluid movement. "We should join the others. Father doesn't like to be kept waiting."
As they rode south, Jon found himself placed near the middle of the column, with Nymeria riding beside him. At first, they traveled in silence, but as the miles passed, she began to point out features of the landscape, asking questions about the North, offering bits of information about Dorne in return. Her knowledge of Westeros was impressive, her observations shrewd.
"So, Jon Snow," she said as the afternoon waned, "are you excited to see Dorne, or merely resigned to your fate?"
Jon considered his answer carefully. "Both, perhaps. I never thought to leave the North."
"And now you journey to its opposite in every way," she mused. "From ice to fire, from restraint to passion. It will be a shock to someone as cold as you, I think."
"I'm stronger than I look," Jon replied, a hint of defiance in his tone.
Nymeria's smile was predatory. "Oh, I don't doubt that. You'd have to be, growing up as Lord Stark's bastard in that frozen fortress." She leaned closer in her saddle, lowering her voice. "But Dorne will test you in ways the North never could. We don't bury our desires beneath layers of honor and duty. We celebrate them."
The way she said it—with heat in her eyes and a curve to her lips—made Jon's heart beat faster. He tried to recall the last time a woman had looked at him that way, with such open appreciation and intent.
And then it struck him like a blow to the chest.
The Frozen Peach. The night with Ros. There had been another woman there, a Dornish woman with olive skin and dark eyes who had smiled at him, the one who was supposed to serve him, but ultimately, Ros had done it. He had thought her a worker there, but now...
Jon glanced sharply at Nymeria, taking in her features with new awareness. The high cheekbones, the sensual curve of her lips, the knowing look in her eyes. It was her—the same woman who had been watching him that night in the brothel.
She was spying on me, Jon realized with a cold shock. Before I ever met Prince Oberyn, before I knew I was to be fostered in Dorne, they were watching me.
The implications sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the northern air. Whatever game the Dornish were playing, it had begun long before he'd been told the rules. Jon kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced with questions and suspicions.
Why would Prince Oberyn have his daughter spy on a bastard boy in the North? What could they possibly want with him? And how long had they been watching before he noticed?
As the sun sank toward the horizon, Jon made a decision. He would not confront them—not yet. He would watch, and wait, and learn. If the Dornish had secrets, then so would he.
They made camp as the last light faded from the sky, the stars emerging like scattered diamonds against the northern darkness. Jon helped set up tents, though he noticed the Dornish guards watching him with barely concealed amusement as he drove stakes into the frozen ground.
"You northerners," one commented, "always preparing as though winter might descend at any moment."
"In the North," Jon replied evenly, "it always might."
The guard—Daemon, Jon had heard Oberyn call him—laughed and clapped Jon on the shoulder. "In Dorne, we worry more about finding shade than shelter. You'll see soon enough."
Jon merely nodded, continuing his work while keeping Nymeria in his peripheral vision. Since his realization hours earlier, he'd been hyper-aware of her every movement, every glance in his direction. She moved through the camp, issuing orders to the guards.
Nothing like the North, Jon thought, trying to imagine Lady Stark's reaction if he'd ever presumed to order Winterfell's guards about.
Once the tents were raised and a fire blazed in the center of their camp, the Dornish settled into an evening routine far more relaxed than Jon was accustomed to. Wine flowed freely—warm spiced wine that Prince Oberyn insisted was barely a shadow of what they drank in Dorne—and servants unpacked provisions that seemed extravagant for the road: olives, soft cheese, dried fruits, and flatbread.
"Come, Jon Snow," Oberyn called, gesturing to a space near him beside the fire. "Share our meal and our wine. We Dornish believe in making each journey a pleasure, not merely an endurance."
Jon took the offered seat, accepting a cup of the spiced wine with a nod of thanks. The Dornish guards had formed a loose circle around the fire, some playing dice, others sharing stories in their lyrical dialect that Jon couldn't quite follow. Nymeria sat cross-legged, cleaning her daggers, though Jon noticed her eyes flick toward him occasionally.
"Your daughter seems skilled with those blades," Jon observed, choosing his words carefully. "I've never seen a noblewoman so comfortable with weapons."
Oberyn smiled, pride evident in his expression. "In Dorne, we do not waste talent based on birth or gender. Nymeria showed aptitude for blades from the time she could walk. Would you have me deny her training simply because she was born female?"
"No," Jon replied honestly. "My sister Arya would likely flee to Dorne herself if she knew girls were trained in combat there."
"The wolf girl," Oberyn nodded. "She has the Northern look about her, they say."
Jon frowned slightly. "They say? You didn't meet her at Winterfell?"
"Ah," Oberyn waved a dismissive hand, "servants talk. I listen. It's a useful habit." He filled Jon's cup again. "And what of you, Jon Snow? What weapons do you favor?"
"The sword," Jon answered. "Though I'm competent with a bow."
"A swordsman," Oberyn mused. "Fitting for the North. In Dorne, you'll learn the spear as well. More versatile, especially in our style of fighting—quick, precise." His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. "I think you'll adapt well. You have a certain... quickness about you."
Jon took a sip of wine, letting the warm spices linger on his tongue. "I've heard many stories of Dorne," he said carefully. "Of the Red Mountains, the Shadow City... Starfall."
"Ah, Starfall," Oberyn nodded. "Seat of House Dayne. One of our most ancient and respected houses." He studied Jon over the rim of his cup. "Does it interest you?"
Jon shrugged with a casualness he didn't feel. "I've heard the tales of Dawn—the sword of House Dayne. They say it's like no other blade in the Seven Kingdoms." Jon wanted to bring up Arthur Dayne, but knew better. He was not sure whether the Dornish would appreciate it if he brought up The Sword of the Morning, who Lord Stark killed.
"Indeed," Oberyn agreed. "Forged from the heart of a fallen star, if the legends are to be believed. Pale as milkglass, yet stronger than Valyrian steel." He tilted his head slightly. "Though Dawn is not the only treasure of House Dayne worth noting."
Jon's pulse quickened. "Oh?"
"The Daynes themselves are... unusual among Dornish houses," Oberyn continued. "Many bear distinctive features—hair as pale as moonlight, eyes of a most remarkable violet hue." His gaze flickered to Jon's face. "Not unlike your own eyes, in fact."
Jon fought to keep his expression neutral, though he felt as though Oberyn had just confirmed a suspicion long held in the depths of his heart. "A coincidence, I'm sure," he managed.
"Coincidences," Oberyn said softly, "are often the gods' way of remaining anonymous in our affairs."
From across the fire, Nymeria rose and joined them, settling beside her father. "Are you filling Jon's head with Dornish philosophy already, Father? Give the poor boy time to adjust before you confuse him entirely."
"I was merely educating him about House Dayne," Oberyn replied. "Their storied history, their... distinctive traits."
Nymeria's eyes, dark and knowing, found Jon's. "House Dayne," she echoed. "Yes, a fascinating house indeed. Their current lady, Ashara, is quite renowned for her beauty even now."
The name sliced through Jon like Valyrian steel. Ashara. He had heard it in whispers at Winterfell for as long as he could remember, always falling silent when he entered a room. Ashara Dayne, the woman who had danced with his father at Harrenhal.
The woman with violet eyes.
"Will we visit Starfall?" Jon asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperate for the answer.
Oberyn and Nymeria exchanged a glance that Jon couldn't interpret.
"Starfall lies somewhat out of our way," Oberyn replied. "Our path takes us directly to Sunspear. But perhaps, in time, arrangements could be made for a visit." He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "If that would interest you?"
"I'm interested in all of Dorne," Jon answered diplomatically. "I've never traveled before. Every castle, every house would be new to me."
"Of course," Oberyn nodded. "Though I suspect some might hold more fascination than others."
"I'm not sure what you mean, Prince Oberyn." Jon deflected his answer. Not in the mood to talk about it with anyone.
White Harbor - Five Days Later
White Harbor rose before them like something from a dream—white stone buildings climbing the hills beyond the harbor, towers and domes gleaming in the winter sunlight. For Jon, who had never seen a proper city, the sight stole his breath away. The vastness of it, the sheer number of people and buildings packed into one place, made Wintertown seem like little more than a cluster of hovels by comparison.
But it was the sea that truly captured him. Jon reined in his horse at the crest of a hill, staring at the endless expanse of gray-blue water stretching to the horizon. He had imagined it countless times from descriptions in books and travelers' tales, but no words had prepared him for the reality—the immensity of it, the way it seemed to breathe with each rolling wave, the smell of salt and fish and something indefinable that carried on the breeze.
"Your first glimpse of the sea," Nymeria observed, guiding her sand steed alongside his. "What do you think?"
Jon struggled to find words adequate to the moment. "It's... bigger than I imagined."
Nymeria laughed, the sound bright against the winter air. "That's your eloquent response? 'It's bigger than I imagined'? Gods, Snow, you northerners really do have ice in your veins."
Jon felt his cheeks warm despite the chill. "What would you have me say? That it steals the breath from my lungs? That I never understood how small I was until this moment?" He shook his head. "Words seem inadequate."
To his surprise, Nymeria's teasing smile softened. "Better. Much better. And you're right—some things cannot be described. The first time I saw snow, I stood with my mouth open like a complete fool, letting flakes melt on my tongue."
The image made Jon smile. "When was that?"
"Two Months ago. When we first passed the Neck." She gestured toward the city below. "Shall we? The others are already descending."
Indeed, Prince Oberyn and the main party had continued down the road toward White Harbor's gates while Jon had been transfixed by the sea. Only Nymeria had remained behind with him.
As they rode toward the city, Jon found himself stealing glances at her profile. In the days since they'd left Winterfell, he'd observed her closely, searching for clues to her true nature and purpose. She was undeniably dangerous—he'd watched her practice with her daggers each morning—but also capable of unexpected kindness, especially toward the servants traveling with them.
"You're staring, Snow," she remarked without looking at him. "See something interesting?"
"Just trying to figure you out," Jon replied honestly.
That earned him another laugh. "Good luck with that. Men have died trying to understand me." She flashed him a grin that was half-jest, half-warning. "Though I might let you live if you keep looking at me with those pretty purple eyes."
Before Jon could formulate a response to that, they passed through White Harbor's outer gate, where the city guard nodded respectfully to Prince Oberyn's banner. The streets within were crowded with people—merchants, sailors, fishwives, tradesmen—all going about their business with a bustle that made Jon's head spin.
"Stay close," Nymeria instructed. "It's easy to get lost if you're not used to cities."
Jon bristled slightly at being treated like a child. "I can manage."
"Can you?" she challenged, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Tell me, Jon Snow, do you know how to haggle with a Tyroshi silk merchant? Can you spot a cutpurse before he relieves you of your coin? Do you know which taverns serve honest ale and which water their drink with gods-know-what?"
Jon's silence was answer enough.
"As I thought," Nymeria nodded. "Consider me your guide to civilization, Snow. Your first lesson in life beyond the frozen North."
Their party made its way to the harbor proper, where Prince Oberyn had arranged passage on a trading galley bound for Sunspear. The ship wouldn't sail until the following morning, giving them one night in White Harbor to rest and resupply.
While Oberyn and Ellaria went to meet with Lord Manderly, Jon found himself walking the docks with Nymeria, ostensibly to "stretch their legs after days in the saddle," though Jon suspected she'd been assigned to keep watch over him.
The harbor was a riot of activity and noise—sailors shouting in a dozen different tongues, merchants hawking their wares, seagulls screeching overhead. Ships of all sizes and descriptions crowded the piers, from small fishing boats to massive trading galleys flying the colors of distant lands.
"That one's Braavosi," Nymeria pointed out, indicating a sleek purple-hulled vessel. "And that green monstrosity is Tyroshi. The one with the golden kraken on its sail is from the Iron Islands—nasty raiders, those ironborn."
Jon followed her finger, taking in each vessel with wide eyes. "How many ports have you visited?"
"Dozens," she replied with a casual shrug. "Father believes in practical education. I've seen Braavos, Pentos, even Volantis once." She glanced sideways at him. "The world is vast, Jon Snow. The North is barely a fraction of it."
They walked in companionable silence for a time, with Jon absorbing the sights and sounds of the busy port. The smell of the sea was stronger here—salt and fish and tar—mingled with spices and cooking food from the nearby marketplaces.
Eventually, they found themselves on a less crowded pier, away from the main bustle of the harbor. Jon leaned against a bollard, watching a distant ship with white sails disappear over the horizon.
"Why were you at the Frozen Peach?" he asked abruptly, turning to face her. "Before we ever met, before I knew I was going to Dorne. You were there, watching me."
Nymeria didn't feign ignorance or surprise at his question. Instead, her lips curved in a slow smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Observant of you to notice. Most men wouldn't have remembered my face from that establishment. Too... distracted."
"You weren't there by chance," Jon pressed. "You were watching me. Why?"
"Perhaps I heard tales of the handsome bastard of Winterfell and wanted to see for myself," she suggested, her tone light.
"Don't play games," Jon said, a harder edge entering his voice than he'd intended. "You and your father have been orchestrating this whole thing from the start. I want to know why."
Nymeria studied him for a long moment, the playfulness fading from her expression. "Not here," she said finally, her voice lowered. "Not now. Some questions are better asked in Dorne, Jon Snow."
"So you admit you were spying on me?"
She laughed, the sound somehow both genuine and deflective. "Spying? Such a harsh word. Let's call it... advance scouting." She stepped closer, close enough that Jon could smell the spice and citrus scent that clung to her skin. "Would it make you feel better to know I was impressed by what I saw? Even before the red-haired whore took decided to have you for herself?"
Jon felt heat rise to his face, part embarrassment, part anger. "That doesn't answer my question."
"Doesn't it?" Nymeria countered, reaching up to trace a finger along his jaw, her touch feather-light. "Father wanted to know what kind of man Ned Stark's bastard had become. I volunteered to find out." She smiled mischievously. "Though I admit, I might have preferred a more... direct approach to my investigation than merely watching from across the room."
Jon caught her wrist, halting her touch. "And what did you report back to Prince Oberyn?"
"That you were comely, courteous, and carried yourself like a man worth knowing." Her smile turned enigmatic. "And that your eyes reminded me of someone, though I couldn't quite place who."
Before Jon could press further, a shout from the main harbor drew their attention. One of Oberyn's guards was waving to them, signaling their return.
"Our time alone is cut short, it seems," Nymeria sighed, gently extracting her wrist from Jon's grip. "Such a pity. I was just beginning to enjoy our little talk." She took a step back, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual amusement. "Come, Snow. Father will want to show you our vessel before nightfall."
They chose me specifically, Jon thought, watching Nymeria walk ahead of him with her confident, graceful stride. They watched me, studied me, and then arranged for me to be fostered in Dorne. But why? What do they want from Ned Stark's bastard?
Or was it possible they knew something he didn't? Something about his mother, about Ashara Dayne with her violet eyes so like his own? The thought stirred both hope and apprehension in his chest.
.
.
Three days at sea had done little to settle Jon's stomach. The constant rolling of the ship beneath his feet, the perpetual creaking of wood and rope, the salty air that seemed to permeate everything—it was all foreign to a boy raised in the stable solidity of the North. He'd spent much of the first day leaning over the ship's railing, emptying his stomach while the crew laughed and Nymeria offered sardonic encouragement.
"Feed the fishes, Snow! They're hungry for northern delicacies!"
By the third evening, though, Jon had found his sea legs, or at least enough of them to join the gathering on the main deck. The Desert Wind—a sleek trading galley with a distinctly Dornish flair to its decorative carvings—sailed swiftly south along the eastern coast of Westeros. The air had grown noticeably warmer, even at night, and Jon had shed his heavy northern furs for the first time in his life.
Under a sky dusted with stars and lit by a waxing moon, the Dornish had arranged themselves in a loose circle. Wine flowed freely—better wine than Jon had ever tasted, even at Winterfell's high table—and the mood was festive. One of the guards had produced a simple drum, while another played a stringed instrument Jon didn't recognize, its sound high and sweet against the backdrop of waves.
Jon sat slightly apart, still uncertain of his place among these southerners with their easy laughter. But Nymeria had insisted he join them, practically dragging him from his cramped cabin below deck.
"Northerners might be content to brood alone in the dark," she'd declared, "but in Dorne, we share our joys and sorrows."
Now she sat across the circle from him, firelight from the brazier dancing across her olive skin as she laughed at something Ellaria had whispered in her ear. Her eyes caught his, and she raised her wine cup in silent toast, her lips curving in that now-familiar half-smile that Jon still couldn't quite decipher.
Prince Oberyn held court at the center of the gathering, regaling them with a tale of his time fighting with the Second Sons across the Narrow Sea. His voice rose and fell, his hands gesturing expressively, drawing his audience into the story of a desperate battle against overwhelming odds.
"And there I stood," Oberyn proclaimed, "back to the wall, three Tyroshi bearing down on me, each man twice my size."
"And half your skill," Ellaria interjected with knowing amusement.
"Naturally," Oberyn agreed without missing a beat. "But skill means little when outnumbered by brutes with axes. I had my spear, but in such close quarters..."
"You made them kill each other," one of the younger guards suggested eagerly.
Oberyn laughed. "A charming notion, but no. I simply had to..." He paused dramatically, "...improvise."
What followed was a tale so outrageous, involving a well-placed kick, a falling chandelier, and the fortuitous intervention of a performing bear, that Jon found himself joining the general laughter despite his reservations. The prince was a masterful storyteller, Jon had to admit. Whether the tale was true or embellished hardly seemed to matter.
As the night progressed, others contributed songs and stories from their homeland. Ellaria sang a haunting Dornish love ballad that made several of the hardened guards misty-eyed. One of the sailors performed a ribald tavern song that had Nymeria howling with laughter while Jon fought to control his blush.
"What about you, Jon Snow?" Ellaria asked during a lull, her dark eyes warm with wine and good humor. "Surely the North has tales worth sharing?"
All eyes turned to him, and Jon felt the familiar discomfort of being the center of attention. "I'm not much of a storyteller," he demurred.
"Then sing for us," suggested Oberyn, leaning back comfortably against a coil of rope. "Every land has its songs."
Jon hesitated. Singing had always been private for him—something done in the quiet of the wolfswood, or softly in his chambers after the castle slept. In Winterfell, only Arya and occasionally Robb had heard him sing properly. Even at the feast before his departure, he'd kept to humming along rather than joining the singers.
"I don't—" he began, but Nymeria cut him off.
"Don't be modest, Snow. I've heard you humming to your horse when you think no one's listening." She leaned forward, firelight dancing in her eyes. "Besides, you can't possibly be worse than Daemon here, who sounds like a dying cat when he sings."
The guard in question tossed a piece of hardtack at her, which she caught effortlessly and popped into her mouth with a wink.
"Just one song," Ellaria encouraged. "A northern ballad, perhaps? I've always found them so beautifully melancholy."
Trapped, and somewhat loosened by the excellent Dornish wine, Jon relented. "All right. One song." He cleared his throat, momentarily searching his memory for something appropriate. "This is 'The Winter Maid'—it's about a First Men warrior who fell in love with one of the children of the forest."
Jon closed his eyes, finding the first notes of the melody deep in his chest. When he began to sing, his voice emerged clear and strong, filling the night air with a sound as pure as freshly fallen snow. The ballad was ancient, its words in the Old Tongue, though Jon had learned a common translation. It spoke of impossible love, of winter's grip, of magic lost to the ages.
As he sang, a hush fell over the gathering. Even the normal sounds of the ship—the creaking of wood, the snapping of sails—seemed to quiet. Jon lost himself in the music, forgetting his audience, forgetting his uncertain status among these strangers. For those moments, there was only the song, the sea, and the stars overhead.
When the final note faded into the night, Jon opened his eyes to find every face on deck staring at him in stunned silence. The only sound was the gentle lapping of waves against the hull.
Nymeria was the first to break the spell, her expression one of genuine astonishment rather than her usual sardonic amusement. "Seven hells, Snow," she breathed. "Where have you been hiding that voice? I've heard court singers in Sunspear who would weep with envy."
Jon shifted uncomfortably under the collective gaze. "It's just a song."
"Just a song?" Nymeria laughed incredulously. "Like Valyrian steel is just a sword?" She shook her head, turning to the others. "Did you hear him? The best I've ever heard, and I've heard the finest singers from Dorne to Braavos."
"Truly remarkable," Ellaria agreed softly, something unreadable in her expression.
"Gods, Arianne will fight us all to have you singing in her chambers," Nymeria continued, her usual teasing tone returning. "The heir to Dorne has a weakness for beautiful things, and that voice of yours..." She fanned herself dramatically. "You'll have to beat the court ladies off with that fancy sword of yours."
"I don't sing for courts," Jon protested, embarrassed by the attention.
"Oh? Where do you sing then? The trees? The stars?" Nymeria's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Or perhaps just for lonely northern girls who melt at the sound? Tell me, how many Winterfell maids have swooned into your arms after a private performance?"
"None," Jon insisted, though his cheeks burned. "I don't—it's not something I do often."
"What a waste," Nymeria declared. "In Dorne, a voice like that would have women throwing their smallclothes at you faster than you could catch them. And men too, for that matter."
Jon glanced around, desperate to change the subject, when he noticed Prince Oberyn's face. Unlike the others, who were smiling or looking impressed, Oberyn had gone utterly still. His expression was frozen somewhere between shock and pain, his dark eyes fixed on Jon.
For a moment, Jon wondered if the Prince would strike him, the way his hand was twitching towards one of his many small hidden blades in his clothes.
Without a word, the prince rose abruptly to his feet. For a moment, he looked as though he might speak, his lips parting slightly. But then he turned and walked away, disappearing below deck without explanation.
The sudden departure left an awkward silence in its wake. Jon looked questioningly at Nymeria, who was watching her father's retreating form with a slight frown.
"Did I offend him somehow?" Jon asked, concerned.
Nymeria's expression smoothed over immediately, a smile returning. "Not at all. My father just remembered he needed to check our course with the captain. We're approaching waters known for pirates, you know. Safety first, revelry second."
It was a plausible explanation. But Jon had spent enough time observing Nymeria to recognize when she was lying. Something about his singing had genuinely disturbed Oberyn Martell.
Another piece of the puzzle, Jon thought, though he didn't press for the truth. If Nymeria didn't want to tell him, there would be a reason. Her secrets were her own, just as his father's had been. Just as his mother's might still be, waiting for him in Dorne.
The gathering continued, with others contributing songs and stories, but Jon remained quiet for the rest of the evening. Occasionally, he would catch Nymeria watching him with a speculative expression, as if recalculating some complex equation in her mind.
Later, as he lay in his narrow bunk below deck, listening to the endless creaking of the ship, Jon found himself wondering what it was about his voice that had affected the prince so strongly. Was it the song itself? The language of the First Men? Or something else entirely?
Two Weeks Later
The Desert Wind cut through the waters of the Narrow Sea like a knife through silk, its red sails billowing with a steady wind from the north. Two weeks had passed since they'd left White Harbor, and with each passing day, Jon felt the temperature rise and the air grow more humid. The heavy furs and wool he'd worn all his life now lay packed away in his trunk, replaced by lighter garments provided by Prince Oberyn's steward.
Jon stood at the ship's bow, watching the endless expanse of water before him. Far to the east, barely visible on the horizon, was the shadowy outline of land—the Free Cities, the captain had told him when Jon had asked. Another world entirely, as unknown to him as Dorne would soon be.
The prince had been scarce since the night of Jon's singing, spending most of his time with the captain or sequestered in his cabin with maps and correspondence. On the rare occasions when they did cross paths, Oberyn was unfailingly courteous.
Jon heard soft footsteps behind him, too light, he knew who it was.
"Contemplating jumping overboard and swimming back to your frozen wasteland?" Nymeria's voice held its usual teasing tone, but when Jon turned to face her, her expression was more thoughtful than mocking.
"Just wondering what waits beyond the horizon," Jon replied.
"Adventure. Danger. Beautiful women." She moved to stand beside him at the railing, close enough that her arm brushed his. "All the things a sheltered northern boy has been denied."
Jon smiled despite himself. "Is that how you see me? A sheltered boy?"
"Aren't you?" Nymeria challenged, turning to face him fully. The sea breeze played with strands of her dark hair, whipping them across her face. "What do you know of the world, Jon Snow? What pleasures have you tasted? What risks have you taken?"
There was something different about her today—the way she was looking at him. She wore a simple sleeveless tunic that revealed the smooth skin of her arms and the curve of her neck, and Jon found his eyes drawn to the hollow of her throat where a pulse beat steadily.
"I'm not as innocent as you imagine," Jon said, thinking of Ros and the Frozen Peach.
"No?" Nymeria raised an eyebrow. "Yet I recall certain activities left unfinished at that charming establishment in Wintertown." She stepped closer, her scent—spices and citrus. "The red-haired whore took you upstairs, but you didn't do the full deed that night, did you?"
Jon stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "You were watching very closely."
"I'm observant," she shrugged, unapologetic. "It's a useful trait." Her fingers reached out to trace a pattern on his wrist, the touch feather-light but sending heat through his veins. "I've been thinking about that night. About what might have happened if it had been me who took you upstairs instead of the northern girl."
Jon swallowed hard, acutely aware that they were alone at the bow, the nearest sailor occupied with rigging some distance away. "Nymeria..."
"Have you been thinking about it too, Jon Snow?" she asked, her voice dropping lower, her eyes holding his with an expression that was part challenge, part invitation. "About what it might be like between us?"
The truth was, he had. Despite his suspicions, despite his wariness of her motives, Jon had found himself imagining exactly that in the solitude of his narrow cabin. The memory of her at the Frozen Peach, combined with the reality of her beside him each day—her quick wit, her deadly moves with a blade, the way she moved like a cat among the ship's rigging—had woven itself into dreams he'd rather not admit to.
"It wouldn't be wise," Jon managed to say, but it sounded stupid in his head.
"Wisdom is overrated," Nymeria countered, her fingers now tracing up his arm, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Passion, on the other hand..." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Passion is what makes life worth living."
Jon caught her wrist, halting her touch. "I won't father a bastard," he said firmly. "I know what that life is like. I wouldn't inflict it on a child."
To his surprise, Nymeria laughed—not her usual sardonic chuckle, but a genuine sound of amusement. "Oh, Jon Snow. So honorable, so concerned." She shook her head, still smiling. "Have you never heard of moon tea? We Dornish women aren't fools. We take our pleasure without unwanted consequences."
"Moon tea isn't infallible," Jon argued, thinking of the rumors he'd heard in Winterfell of herbs that failed, of women who died from badly brewed concoctions.
"The Dornish recipe is," Nymeria replied confidently. "Lady Ellaria is a master at brewing it. No Sand Snake has ever conceived without choosing to." Her free hand—the one he wasn't gripping by the wrist—came up to trace the line of his jaw. "So you see, your honor remains intact. No bastards need come from our joining."
Jon hesitated. The logical argument against her advances had been dismantled, leaving only his own uncertainty. And beneath that uncertainty was a growing desire he could no longer deny.
"There are... other ways," he said finally, releasing her wrist. "Ways that don't risk children at all."
Nymeria's eyes lit with triumph and amusement. "The red-haired whore taught you well, it seems. Yes, Jon Snow, there are many ways to pleasure each other without risking your noble seed finding purchase." She traced her fingertip across his lower lip. "Would you like me to show you some that your northern girl perhaps didn't know?"
The heat that had been building in Jon's body intensified at her words, at the images they conjured. But a part of him—the wary, suspicious part that had been watching the Dornish party so carefully—wondered at her timing, at her sudden interest.
"Why now?" he asked, his voice husky with both desire and caution. "Why me?"
"Because you intrigue me," she answered, her eyes direct. "Because I want to. Isn't that enough?"
Perhaps it should have been. But Jon had learned that with the Dornish, particularly this Dornish woman, nothing was ever quite as simple as it appeared. "Is this another form of spying, Nymeria? Another way to observe the northern bastard for your father's purposes?"
Her expression flickered, a momentary hesitation, before her confident smile returned. "Can't it be both? Pleasure and purpose need not be enemies, Jon Snow." She moved closer, her body pressing against his. "But right now, I assure you, pleasure is very much my priority."
Her lips found his before he could respond, and Jon's remaining reservations melted away under the heat of her kiss. Her mouth was confident, demanding, so different from Ros's gentle instruction. This was a woman who knew precisely what she wanted and how to get it.
Jon responded in kind, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. If she wanted to play games, he could play too. And perhaps, in the heat of passion, she might reveal more than she intended.
They stumbled into Jon's cramped cabin, lips barely parting, hands exploring with growing urgency. Nymeria kicked the door shut behind them, the latch clicking with a finality that sent shivers down Jon's spine.
"I want to see you," she murmured against his mouth, her nimble fingers already working at the laces of his shirt.
Jon helped her, shrugging out of the leather garment, then pulling his linen shirt over his head. Nymeria's eyes darkened as she took in his bare chest, her palm flattening against the hard planes of his stomach.
"You northerners," she purred, tracing a finger along a scar near his ribs. "So much... tension in your bodies. Like you're always ready for battle."
Jon reached for her, his own fingers finding the complicated fastenings of her Dornish attire. "May I?"
Her smile was wicked. "Please do, Jon Snow."
He worked carefully, revealing her sun-kissed skin inch by tantalizing inch. Her bodice fell away, exposing small, perfect breasts with nipples the color of copper pennies, already hardened in the cool air of the cabin.
"Gods," he breathed, cupping one breast gently.
Nymeria arched into his touch. "Your hands are calloused. I like it."
His thumb brushed across her nipple, eliciting a soft gasp that made his cock strain painfully against his breeches. She reached for him then, her hand cupping his hardness through the fabric.
"So eager," she teased, giving him a firm squeeze that made his hips buck involuntarily. "But not yet, Jon Snow. Not yet."
With surprising strength, she pushed him back onto the narrow bunk. Jon landed with a grunt, looking up to see Nymeria standing over him, her hands working at the ties of her flowing trousers. They slid down her legs, revealing the neat triangle of dark curls between her thighs.
"You mentioned other ways," she said, her accent thicker with desire. "Show me what the north knows of pleasure without consequences."
Jon sat up, reaching for her hips to pull her closer. "Come here," he said, his voice rough with want.
She straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, her nakedness contrasting with his half-dressed state. The heat of her core pressed against his still-clothed erection, making him groan.
"I want to taste you," he said boldly, remembering how Ros had responded to his mouth. "Lie back."
Surprise flickered across Nymeria's face, but she complied, switching positions with him so she lay across his bunk. Jon settled between her thighs, his hands spreading her legs wider.
"Most men don't offer this," she said, propping herself up on her elbows to watch him. "They take, but rarely give."
Jon looked up at her, meeting her eyes. "Then most men are fools," he said simply, before lowering his mouth to her sex.
The first broad stroke of his tongue made her gasp, her head falling back. "Fuck," she breathed, the crude word sounding musical in her Dornish accent.
Jon smiled against her flesh, pleased by her response. He'd learned well from Ros, discovering that while each woman was different, there were techniques that seemed universally appreciated. He flattened his tongue, licking slowly from her entrance up to the small, sensitive bud at the apex of her folds.
"Ohhhh," Nymeria sighed, one hand moving to tangle in his dark curls.
He continued his exploration, alternating between broad strokes and more focused attention, learning what made her breath catch and her thighs tremble. When he circled her entrance with his tongue, he felt her hips rise to meet him.
"Inside," she commanded breathlessly. "Your tongue, inside me."
Jon obeyed, stiffening his tongue to press it into her slick channel. He fucked her slowly with his tongue, his nose brushing against her clit with each movement.
"Yessss," she hissed, grinding against his face. "Just like that. Gods, Jon Snow, where did you learn this?"
He didn't answer—couldn't answer with his mouth so pleasurably occupied—but he took her words as encouragement, redoubling his efforts. His hands slid beneath her ass, lifting her slightly to improve his angle, his tongue delving deeper.
Nymeria's thighs began to tremble, her breathing becoming more ragged. Jon withdrew his tongue, replacing it with two fingers that slid easily into her wetness. As he curled them forward, finding the rough patch inside that had made Ros cry out, he returned his attention to Nymeria's clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before drawing it between his lips to suck gently.
"Fuck! Jon! Yes!" Her voice rose, her accent thickening further as pleasure overtook her. "Right there, don't stop, don't—ahhhhh!"
Her back arched, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers as she came. Jon continued his ministrations, gentler now but persistent, drawing out her pleasure until she pushed weakly at his head.
"Enough," she gasped. "Too much. Come here."
Jon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smile of satisfaction curving his lips as he moved up to lie beside her. Nymeria's eyes were half-lidded, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Well," she said when she could speak again. "It seems the North does know something after all."
Jon chuckled. "Did you doubt it?"
"Most men..." she began, then shook her head. "Most men don't bother. They think their cocks are all that matters."
"Their loss," Jon said simply.
Nymeria turned to face him fully, her expression curious. "Did dear Ros teach you all that."
Jon felt his cheeks warm. "Three times, actually. Ros, at the Winter Town brothel."
"Ah," Nymeria nodded. "But you didn't fuck her."
"No," Jon confirmed. "I couldn't risk fathering a bastard."
"So you found other ways to please her—and yourself." Her hand trailed down his chest to the waistband of his breeches. "And did she teach you to enjoy receiving similar attentions?"
Jon's cock twitched at her words. "She did."
Nymeria's smile turned predatory. "Then I shall have to see if I can improve upon your education." She pushed at his shoulder. "Lie back, Jon Snow. It's my turn to worship."
Jon complied, his heart hammering as Nymeria unlaced his breeches with torturous slowness. When she finally freed his erection, he groaned in relief, only to hiss in pleasure as her hand wrapped around him.
"Impressive," she murmured, stroking him from base to tip. "The northern blood runs hot after all."
Jon couldn't speak, could only watch as she lowered her head, her dark hair falling forward to tickle his thighs. When her tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture at his tip, he nearly came off the bunk.
"Patience," she admonished, her breath hot against his sensitive flesh. "We're just beginning."
She continued to tease him, placing light kisses along his shaft, occasionally letting her tongue flick out to taste him. Jon's hands fisted in the rough wool blanket beneath him, his breathing harsh in the quiet cabin.
"Nymeria," he groaned. "Please."
"Please what, Jon Snow?" She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips hovering just above his straining cock. "Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth," he managed. "Take me in your mouth."
Her smile was victorious. "Since you ask so nicely..."
Finally, blessedly, she wrapped her lips around his crown, the wet heat of her mouth making him moan low in his throat. "Fuuuuck."
Nymeria hummed in approval. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she took more of him in, her tongue swirling around his shaft as she descended.
Jon watched as his cock disappeared inch by inch between her lips. When she had taken as much as she could, her hand wrapped around what remained, working in tandem with her mouth as she began to bob her head.
"Gods, Nymeria," he panted. "That feels incredible."
She pulled off with a pop, her hand continuing to stroke him. "The key, Jon Snow, is to make it last. To bring you to the edge..." She squeezed him firmly, her thumb brushing over his sensitive tip. "And then pull you back. Again and again, until you can't bear it any longer."
True to her word, that was exactly what she did. Each time Jon felt himself approaching his peak, Nymeria would sense it, slowing her movements or changing her technique just enough to keep him from tumbling over. She used her mouth, her hands, even the soft weight of her breasts, all while watching his reactions with sharp, knowing eyes.
"Please," Jon finally begged, sweat beading on his forehead, his cock painfully hard and leaking steadily. "Nymeria, I need..."
"What do you need, Jon Snow?" she asked, lazily pumping him with her fist. "Tell me."
"Release," he gasped. "I need to finish."
She smiled, satisfied with his begging. "As you wish."
This time when she took him in her mouth, there was no teasing, no holding back. She sucked him with purpose, her cheeks hollowing, one hand working his shaft while the other cupped and gently squeezed his balls.
The pleasure built rapidly, unstoppably, a wave that had been held at bay too long. "I'm going to—" Jon tried to warn her, his hands moving to her shoulders to push her away.
But Nymeria only doubled her efforts, her eyes meeting his in clear challenge. The sight of her, so beautiful and fierce with his cock between her lips, was his undoing.
Jon came with a hoarse shout, his hips jerking as pulse after pulse of pleasure crashed through him. Nymeria didn't pull away, swallowing everything he gave her, her throat working until he was spent.
When she finally released him, Jon collapsed back, quickly gathering himself. Nymeria moved up to lie beside him, a smug smile playing at her lips.
"Well?" she prompted.
"Gods," Jon breathed, still trying to gather his wits. "That was... I've never felt anything like that."
"The art of the edge," she said, tracing patterns on his chest. "Pleasure is so much more intense when it's denied, then finally granted."
Jon turned his head to look at her, noting the self-satisfaction in her expression. "You enjoyed that. Having that power over me."
Nymeria laughed softly. "Of course I did. But don't pretend you didn't have similar power earlier, with your mouth between my thighs."
He couldn't argue with that. They lay in companionable silence for a moment, the rocking of the ship and their slowing breaths the only sounds.
"So," Nymeria eventually said, propping herself up on one elbow. "Was it wise, Jon Snow?"
Jon considered the question, looking up at this dangerous, beautiful woman who might still be using him for her own ends—but who had also given him pleasure beyond anything he'd experienced before.
"No," he admitted with a small smile. "But wisdom is overrated."
Nymeria's laugh filled the cabin, bright and genuine. "Now you're learning, northerner. Now you're learning."
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