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The dream dissolved like morning mist, leaving Jon alone in his chamber once again. In it, he'd been in Winterfell's godswood with Robb and Arya, snow falling gently on their faces as they laughed at some jest he could no longer remember. But the snow had turned warm against his skin, then hot, until it burned like Dornish sand.
Jon pushed himself upright, silk sheets clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. Even now, two weeks into his fostering, the heat pressed against him like a living thing. Sometimes he feared his face would melt like candle wax, sliding off his bones to puddle on the tile floor.
He reached for the water pitcher beside his bed, splashing his face until the dream's lingering confusion faded. The water was tepid—nothing in Dorne was ever truly cold. He dressed quickly in the loose training clothes he'd finally grown accustomed to, though part of him still yearned for Northern wool.
The sandals felt strange against his feet as he stepped onto the balcony. Below, the training yard lay empty in the light of the sun rising, calling to him like an old friend. At least some things remained constant.
He made his way down, sand gritting between his toes with each step. The training yard was blessedly cool at this hour, the sand not yet baked to burning by the sun. Jon selected a blade from the rack—Dornish-made, lighter than what he'd trained with at Winterfell, balanced for speed rather than power.
The forms came naturally now, his body adapting to the style Ser Odion had been drilling into him. Speed and precision over brute force. Like water, the Braavosi had said, flowing around obstacles rather than crashing through them. Jon had read something similar once, in Maester Luwin's books about the conquest of Dorne. The Young Dragon had written that fighting the Dornish was like trying to grasp water—they slipped away just when you thought you had them.
"You're up early, Wolf."
Jon spun, blade coming up instinctively before he recognized Nymeria's voice. She leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching him with that perpetual smirk that seemed bred into all Sand Snakes.
"I could say the same of you," Jon replied, lowering his sword.
"I never went to sleep." She pushed off the pillar, and only then did Jon notice the two figures behind her. Twins, by their identical faces, though one wore her blonde hair loose while the other had hers braided in an intricate crown.
"Jon Snow," Nymeria said with exaggerated formality, "meet the notorious Fowler Twins. Jeyne and Jennelyn, though even their own mother can't tell them apart half the time."
The twins stepped forward in perfect synchronization, their movements so coordinated it was almost eerie. Both were beautiful in that distinctly Dornish way—sun-kissed skin, dark eyes that promised mischief, and wispy blonde hair that caught the growing light.
"I'm Jeyne," said the one with loose hair.
"And I'm Jennelyn," added the crowned one. "Though you can call us whatever you like."
"As long as you call us," Jeyne finished, her smile predatory.
Jon felt heat rise to his face that had nothing to do with the Dornish climate. "My ladies," he managed, inclining his head politely.
"Oh, he's formal," Jennelyn said to her sister, though her eyes never left Jon's face. "I like that. Makes it more fun to corrupt them."
"Have you ever been with two women at once?" Jeyne asked bluntly, tilting her head like a curious cat.
Jon's mouth opened, then closed. He looked desperately at Nymeria, who was clearly enjoying his discomfort immensely.
"I... that is..." Jon stammered, his usual composure deserting him entirely.
Nymeria's giggle was beautiful to hear. "Now, now, ladies. There'll be plenty of time for sleeping later. You're making the poor wolf blush."
"That's the point," Jennelyn said, but she stepped back slightly. "We heard you were pretty, Jon Snow, but the stories didn't do justice to those eyes."
"Like twilight," Jeyne agreed. "Or perhaps dawn. Something between day and night."
Before Jon could respond to that rather poetic observation, another voice cut through the morning air.
"Tormenting the Stark boy already? The sun's barely up."
The newcomer was everything Jon had expected from Nymeria's descriptions. Daemon Sand had a strong jaw and sky-blue eyes that seemed to laugh at some private jest. His light sandy brown hair was artfully tousled, and when he smiled, dimples appeared that Jon was certain had charmed many women in Dorne.
"I am Jon Snow," Jon said, grateful for the distraction from the twins' attention.
"I know who you are," Daemon replied, clasping Jon's offered forearm. "Prince Oberyn spoke of you. Said you were quick with a blade."
"You're the Prince's squire," Jon observed. "I wondered why you weren't in Winterfell when he came to collect me."
Something flickered across Daemon's handsome features—so quickly Jon almost missed it. "I don't care for the cold," he said easily, but Jon sensed there was more to it. Perhaps some task that had kept him in Dorne, or perhaps... Jon had heard enough servants' gossip to know that Daemon Sand was counted among Princess Arianne's particular friends. Very particular friends, if the whispers were true.
Rather than press, Jon gestured to the training yard. "Care for a spar? I was just warming up."
Daemon's grin widened. "Gladly. Though I should warn you, my weapon of choice isn't a sword." He moved to the weapon rack and selected a spear, spinning it once like he was trying to impress the twins.
Jon had been training against spears with Obara, learning their reach and rhythm. This would be a good test of his progress. They took their positions, circling each other while the twins and Nymeria found seats on the low wall.
Daemon struck first, the spear darting forward like a serpent. Jon slipped aside, using his speed to close the distance, but Daemon was already spinning away, the spear's butt coming around in a arc that Jon barely ducked.
They danced across the sand, Jon's blade singing through the air while Daemon's spear wove patterns of defense and attack. The Dornishman was good—very good. He used his weapon's reach expertly, never letting Jon inside his guard for long.
But Jon had been learning too. He feinted left, then rolled right, coming up inside Daemon's reach. His blade touched the other man's ribs just as the spear shaft cracked against his temple.
They froze, breathing hard, then stepped apart.
"A draw," Nymeria called out. "How disappointing. I was hoping to see one of you in the sand."
"Your footwork," Daemon said, ignoring her. "That roll—was that Braavosi?"
"Ser Odion has been teaching me," Jon confirmed, rubbing his temple where the spear had struck.
"It shows. Another year and you'll be dangerous."
"He's dangerous now," Jennelyn purred. "Just not with weapons."
Before Jon could answer, a woman appeared at the yard's entrance. She was older than Jon, with short brown hair and olive skin.
"Cedra," Nymeria said by way of introduction.
The woman inclined her head to Jon. "My lord, the Prince requests your presence. You are to accompany him to the Water Gardens today."
"Now?" Jon asked, acutely aware of his sweat-soaked training clothes.
"You have time to bathe and break your fast," Cedra assured him. "The Prince will depart when the sun is two hands above the horizon."
Jon nodded his thanks, and the woman departed as quietly as she'd come. The Water Gardens—he'd read about them, strange that Prince Doran would invite him there so soon.
"Lucky you," Jeyne said, stretching like a cat. "The Water Gardens are beautiful. All those pools and hidden alcoves..."
"Perfect for all sorts of activities," Jennelyn finished with a wink.
Jon collected his sword, trying to ignore the implications. As he turned to leave, Daemon called out.
"Jon Snow."
He paused, looking back.
"You fight well," the Bastard of Godsgrace said. "We should spar again. Next time, I won't hold back."
"Neither will I."
As he made his way back to his chambers, Jon caught himself humming—an old Northern ballad about the last hero that Old Nan used to sing. The melody felt strange in the Dornish morning, like snow in summer.
Why had they brought him here? The question haunted him like a ghost. Prince Doran was not a man to act without purpose.
Even if his mother had been a Dayne. What use could the Princes of Dorne have for Ned Stark's bastard son?
The servants he passed in the halls watched him with curious eyes. Not hostile, not anymore, but uncertain. He was neither fish nor fowl to them—not Dornish, but no longer entirely Northern either. Caught between worlds like his eyes were caught between purple and indigo, neither one thing nor the other.
At least at Winterfell, he'd known who he was. Ned Stark's bastard, unwanted but tolerated. Here, he felt himself changing, adapting, becoming something new. Whether that transformation would serve him well or ill remained to be seen.
The sun was rising properly now, painting the sandstone walls gold and crimson. Another day in Dorne, another test to pass, another mystery to unravel.
The morning sun had climbed higher by the time Jon joined Prince Doran's entourage in the palace courtyard. The Prince's litter stood ready, an elaborate contraption of silk curtains and cushions designed to spare him the agony of riding. Jon had heard the servants whisper about their Prince's gout, how his knees swelled red as pomegranates and how each step sent lightning through his bones.
Areo Hotah stood beside the litter like a mountain given human form, his longaxe resting against his shoulder. The bearded priest nodded once at Jon—high praise from a man who seemed to communicate entirely through silence and violence.
"Jon Snow," Prince Doran's voice emerged from within the litter, soft but carrying. "Join me."
Jon hesitated. Sharing the Prince's litter felt presumptuous, but refusing would be worse. He climbed in carefully, settling himself opposite the Prince of Dorne.
Doran Martell looked older in the morning light, his face deeply lined, his once-powerful frame diminished by illness. But his eyes remained sharp as the spears his people favored, dark and calculating. Those eyes now were looking at Jon, making him feel small.
"Your first journey beyond Sunspear's walls," Doran observed as the litter lurched into motion. "What do you make of my principality thus far?"
Jon considered his words carefully. "It's... very different from the North, my Prince. Beautiful, but strange to my eyes."
"Beauty and strangeness often walk hand in hand," Doran mused. "Tell me, what differences strike you most?"
"The heat," Jon said immediately, then caught himself. "But beyond that... the people, my lord. They're more..." He searched for the right word.
"Forward? Passionate? Unrestrained?" Doran suggested, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
"Free," Jon finished. "In the North, everyone knows their place. Here, it seems the lines are less clearly drawn."
"They are lines drawn in the sand." The Prince shifted slightly, wincing as the movement jarred his swollen joints. "In the North, you follow the old ways. Lords and smallfolk, separated by blood and birth. Here in Dorne, we remember that we were all Rhoynar once, fleeing the dragons together. That shared history creates different bonds."
Through the litter's gauze curtains, Jon could see the city passing by. People pressed close to see their Prince. Children ran alongside the litter, laughing. An old woman called out a blessing in the Rhoynish tongue. A young man juggled lemons, bowing theatrically when coins were tossed his way.
"They love you," Jon observed, surprised.
"Love is too simple a word," Doran corrected. "They trust me to remember them, to consider their needs alongside those of the high lords. It is a different kind of strength than your Northern lords cultivate."
Jon thought of his father—Lord Stark was respected, even revered, but there was always distance between him and his people. The lord's face must be stern, Ned had taught him, so that men know justice will be done.
"There are many kinds of strength," Doran continued, his voice taking on a teaching quality. "The strength of arms, which your Northmen prize. The strength of wealth, which the Lannisters hoard. The strength of fear, which the Mountain wields. But there is also the strength of patience, of planning, of knowing when to bend so you need not break."
"Like the Dornish spear fighters," Jon said, understanding dawning. "They give ground, let their opponents tire themselves, then strike when the moment is right."
"Precisely." Doran's approval was subtle but unmistakable. "You have been learning more than swordplay from Ser Odion, I see."
The conversation lulled as they passed through the Shadow City's gates. Jon watched the landscape change from crowded streets to orange groves and date palms. The air smelled of citrus and distant water.
"What do you think of my daughter?" Doran asked suddenly.
Jon tensed. This felt like walking on thin ice. "Princess Arianne has been... welcoming, my Prince."
"Come now," Doran chided gently. "If I wanted honeyed words, I would hire a fool. Speak plainly."
Jon took a breath, remembering that in Dorne, even bastards might speak truths, but this was the Heiress of Dorne. "She's blunt," he said carefully. "Direct in a way that would scandal half the North. But also..."
"Yes?"
"Clever. She sees much and reveals little, even when she seems to bare everything." Jon paused, then added boldly, "I think she should attend more important meetings, Prince Doran."
Doran's eyebrows rose slightly. "Explain."
"My brother Robb is three-and-ten, like me," Jon said. "But already our father brings him to meetings with the bannermen since last year. Not to speak, just to watch and learn. So they can see him, know him, prepare for the day he'll take Lord Stark's place. The Princess is your heir, but I've not seen her in any formal councils."
"An interesting comparison." Doran's voice gave nothing away. "Though perhaps the North and Dorne require different approaches to succession."
"Perhaps, my prince. I only know that Robb learns by watching our father rule. How else can he prepare for what's to come?"
"Arianne takes after her mother," Doran said after a long pause. "Passionate, impulsive, certain the world should bend to her will rather than learning to navigate its currents."
Jon didn't respond. He knew nothing of Princess Arianne's mother—not even her name. She wasn't in Sunspear, that much was clear, but whether dead or simply elsewhere remained a mystery. In the North, one didn't pry into such matters.
The sound of hoofbeats interrupted his thoughts. Through the curtains, he glimpsed riders approaching fast from the palace. Arianne led them, her dark hair streaming behind her like a war banner. She'd dressed more practically for riding—leather riding pants and a silk top that, while more modest than her usual attire, still left little to the imagination regarding her generous curves.
Daemon Sand rode at her right, easy in the saddle as only a lifetime horseman could be. Nymeria and Tyene flanked them, along with five soldiers he had seen in Sunspear.
"Father," Arianne called out as she reined in beside the litter. "I thought we might join your party. The Water Gardens are so beautiful this time of year."
"How thoughtful," Doran replied mildly. "I'm sure Jon will appreciate the additional company."
Arianne's dark eyes found Jon through the gauze curtains. "Oh, I'm certain he will. Won't you, my lord?"
There was challenge in her voice, as always. Jon had learned that Princess Arianne approached everything as a contest to be won. Even simple conversations became verbal duels, each word a testing thrust.
"The more the merrier, Princess," Jon replied neutrally.
She laughed, bright and sharp. "How very diplomatic. You're learning our ways quickly, Jon Snow. Soon you'll be speaking in riddles and plots like a true Dornishman."
"I think the wolf prefers plainer speech," Daemon interjected with a grin. "This morning's spar showed he's more comfortable with steel than subtlety."
"All men think themselves more comfortable with steel," Tyene observed sweetly. "Until they learn that softer weapons cut deeper."
"Speaking of cutting," Nymeria added, "did you know our wolf can sing? I forgot to mention but during our little travel from White Harbor to here, our wolf sang for us, and it's the most beautiful sound I have ever heard."
Jon felt heat rise to his face. He knew what that meant.
"Is this true?" Arianne leaned forward in her saddle, interest sharpening her features. "A warrior-poet? How unexpected. You must sing for us at the Water Gardens."
"I'm no poet, Princess," Jon protested. "Just old songs I learned as a child."
"Old songs often carry the deepest truths," Doran observed. Jon couldn't tell if the Prince was helping or hindering him. "The Rhoynar sang their history for generations before they learned to write it down."
"The dragons sang too," Arianne said, her voice taking on a strange quality. "Or so the stories say. Rhaegar Targaryen made women weep with his harp, before Robert's hammer made him weep blood."
The reference to the last dragon prince sent an odd chill through Jon despite the heat. He'd read about Rhaegar in Maester Luwin's histories—the melancholy prince who'd thrown the realm into war for madness, the Prince who kidnapped and murdered Lyanna Stark, while he was married to Princess Elia Martell, because of his foolishness. Westeros turned red with blood, and because of his foolishness, Elia Martell and her children were butchered.
"All that singing didn't save him in the end," Daemon pointed out with a hard tone. "Steel speaks louder than songs when it comes to it."
A tense silence fell over the group. Even Nymeria's perpetual smirk faded. Jon noticed how Arianne's hands tightened on her reins, knuckles white despite her controlled expression.
"The dragon prince sang sweetly while my aunt screamed," Tyene added softly, her sweet voice carrying poison. "They say little Rhaenys hid under her father's bed. The same father who abandoned them for his Northern whore."
Jon glared at Tyene for saying that. "My aunt is not at fault here, my lady, she was kidnapped and raped by the Prince, are you saying she asked for that to happen?" Jon's voice was as cold as steel, and Tyene seemed like she wanted to say something, but Doran interrupted.
"Enough." The Prince's voice was quiet but carried absolute authority. "There is no victory in warring with the dead. They cannot hear our accusations nor answer for their sins."
The tension in the air remained thick as Dornish summer. Jon's purple eyes still blazed with Northern fury, while Tyene's sweet smile had turned sharp as broken glass.
"The blame," Doran continued, "lies with those who still draw breath. Those who gave the orders. Those who swung the blades. Those who wrapped babes in Lannister cloaks before dashing their heads against walls."
His dark eyes moved between them all, lingering on Jon. "Rhaegar Targaryen was a fool, perhaps mad, certainly selfish. But it was Tywin Lannister who commanded the deaths of my sister and her children. It was his creature, Gregor Clegane and Armory Lorch, who carried out those commands."
The Prince shifted slightly in his litter, a grimace of pain crossing his features before he mastered it. "In Dorne, we understand patience. The snake does not strike in blind fury at every movement. It waits, coiled and ready, for the perfect moment. And when that moment comes..."
Jon understood what the Prince was saying.
"Lyanna Stark was a victim," Doran said to Jon, his tone gentling slightly. "As was my sister. Let us not make them enemies in death when they were both prey to the same folly in life."
Arianne had been silent throughout the exchange, but now she spoke. "The Water Gardens await, Father. Perhaps we should speak of lighter things."
"Yes," Doran agreed. "Let the dead rest. We have the living to concern ourselves with."
The party continued in this vein, conversation flowing between light banter and deeper currents Jon couldn't quite grasp. He noticed how Arianne's jokes carried barbs aimed at her father, how Doran didn't seem to care.
The sun climbed higher, and Jon found himself grateful for the litter's shade. Outside, the riders had produced water skins, passing them around. Desert travel required constant vigilance against the heat.
"Tell me, Jon," Arianne called out during a lull in conversation. "What would your lord father think of you riding with such scandalous company? An old prince, and a woman who speaks her mind?"
"He would say that a man is judged by the company he keeps," Jon replied carefully.
"And what judgment would that be?"
Jon considered. "That I'm either very brave or very foolish."
Laughter rippled through the group, even drawing a soft chuckle from Prince Doran.
"Both, perhaps," the Prince murmured, so quietly Jon almost missed it. "The brave and the foolish often walk the same paths. It's only at journey's end that we learn which they were."
The Water Gardens appeared on the horizon like a mirage made real—pale pink marble walls rising from a sea of green, the sound of fountains carrying on the wind like distant music. Jon felt something ease in his chest at the sight. Water meant coolness, meant relief from the crushing heat.
But as they drew closer, he noticed Arianne watching him with that calculating look he'd come to recognize. She was planning something, he was certain. The question was whether he'd recognize the trap before he stepped into it.
"Welcome to the Water Gardens, Jon Snow," she said as the gates came into view. "Where princes and paupers play as equals, and even bastards might find their place."
The Water Gardens rose before them like something from a song—pink marble walls, crowned with golden domes that caught the sun. As they passed through the gates, Jon felt his breath catch. He'd read about this place in Maester Luwin's histories, but the reality far surpassed any description.
Fountains danced everywhere, their music filling the air with constant melody. Pools of every size dotted the grounds, some shallow enough for toddlers, others deep and dark with mystery. Orange and lemon trees provided patches of blessed shade, their branches heavy with fruit. The scent of blood oranges mixed with jasmine and the clean smell of flowing water.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Prince Doran observed from his litter as servants rushed to help him descend. Each movement clearly pained him, his face tightening as his swollen foot touched the ground. Areo Hotah stood ready, but the Prince waved him off, accepting only a carved walking stick.
"I've never seen its like," Jon admitted, still drinking in the sight. How did they keep so much water flowing in the desert? He could see channels cut into the marble, carrying water from pool to pool in an endless cycle.
"My ancestor, Maron Martell, built this for his bride," Doran explained, leaning heavily on his stick as they walked slowly through the grounds. "Daenerys Targaryen, sister to the Dragon King. She was homesick for the waters of the Blackwater Rush, so he gave her all the waters of Dorne."
Jon knew the history—the marriage that had finally brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms after a hundred and fifty years of independence. Where conquest had failed, love had succeeded. Or politics dressed as love, depending on which histories you believed.
"Fire and water," he murmured, watching the light dance on the pools' surface.
"An apt observation," Doran noted. "Though perhaps it would be more accurate to say fire and sun, cooled by water. Even dragons need respite from the heat."
A shriek of laughter drew Jon's attention to the largest pool, where children splashed and played with abandon. What struck him most was the mix—he could see noble children by their finer features playing alongside what were clearly servants' offspring, all distinctions washed away by the water.
"In the North, such mingling would be..." Jon searched for the right word.
"Scandalous?" Arianne suggested, having dismounted to walk beside them. Her riding clothes clung to her curves in ways that made Jon determinedly focus on the architecture. "Here, all children are equal in the water. Prince or pauper, all must learn to swim or sink."
"A lesson that extends beyond these pools," Doran added meaningfully.
As they toured the grounds, Jon noticed servants setting up pavilions and laying out refreshments. The Gardens were clearly accustomed to noble visitors. Yet the children played on, unimpressed by the arrival of their ruling Prince.
Jon looked and found Tyene, she was wearing, well, less clothes than before, showing off her beautiful body, he knew she was beautiful, but seeing so much skin, he could feel his cock hardening beneath his breaches.
"Enjoying the view?" Arianne's voice came close to his ear, making him start.
"Very much," Jon replied, letting his eyes drop deliberately to her large chest before meeting her gaze again. "The Gardens are... breathtaking."
Her eyes widened slightly at his boldness before warming with pleasure. "I meant the water," she said with false innocence. "So cooling, so inviting. Do you swim, Jon Snow?"
"Not well," he admitted, moving closer to her. "But I'm told I'm a quick learner when properly motivated."
Her laugh was throaty and full of promise. "A wolf who fears the water? I suppose you'd sink like a stone in all that Northern fur and leather."
"I managed the Sunset Sea without drowning," Jon pointed out, letting his fingers brush against hers as they walked.
"Being on a ship and being in the water are vastly different things," Arianne countered. She tilted her head, studying him with those dark eyes that always seemed to see too much. "I could teach you."
The offer dripped with suggestion. This time, Jon didn't deflect. "I'd like that. When?"
"Now, if you're brave enough," she challenged.
Daemon and Tyene had wandered off to greet some minor nobles, while Nymeria helped Prince Doran settle into a shaded pavilion. Jon found himself alone with Arianne among the orange trees.
"Lead the way, Princess," he said, offering his arm.
She took it, pressing close enough that he could feel the soft swell of her breast against his bicep. "Come, there's a smaller pool away from the children. Unless you'd prefer an audience for your... lesson?"
Jon followed her through a grove of lemon trees to a more secluded pool, its waters clear and inviting. Arianne sat on the marble edge and began unlacing her sandals, then stood to shimmy out of her riding clothes with deliberate slowness.
"You'll want to remove those," she said, nodding at his own clothes as she stripped down to a thin shift that clung to every curve. "Leather and water don't mix well."
Jon pulled off his boots and outer tunic, then his shirt, revealing his lean, muscled torso. Arianne's appreciative gaze made him smirk as he kept his loose cotton pants on and waded into the water.
"You can look, you know," she said, slipping in after him. The wet fabric turned nearly transparent, her dark nipples clearly visible through the clinging material. "I'm certainly looking."
"I noticed," Jon said, moving closer. "You're not exactly subtle, Princess."
"Why should I be?" She circled him in the water like a shark. "Life's too short for subtlety. Besides, you seemed to appreciate directness the other night."
The memory of her coming apart on his fingers made Jon's cock harden further. "As I recall, you were the one who couldn't keep quiet."
"Mmm, those clever fingers," she purred. "But we're here for swimming lessons, aren't we?"
She demonstrated floating, her full breasts rising above the water like islands. Jon watched openly this time, earning an approving smile.
"Your turn," she commanded, standing again. "I'll support you. Trust me."
She moved behind him, one hand on the small of his back, the other on his chest. The intimacy of it, combined with the memory of their previous encounter, made his breath catch.
"Relax," she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. "You're all tense. The water isn't your enemy."
"It's not the water making me tense," Jon admitted.
Her laugh vibrated through him. "Focus, my wolf. Float first, play later."
They worked for perhaps an hour, Arianne proving a patient if distracting teacher. Her touches grew less clinical and more lingering as time passed, her body pressing against his more.
"You're a quick study," she said as Jon managed to float unassisted. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've proven adept at... learning new skills."
"I had an excellent teacher," Jon replied, finding his feet and pulling her against him in one smooth motion. "Very hands-on."
Her eyes darkened with desire. "Jon Snow, are you flirting with me?"
"Attempting to," he said, his hands settling on her waist. "Is it working?"
"Perhaps," she breathed, pressing closer. "Though actions speak louder than words."
A bell chimed somewhere in the Gardens, signaling the midday meal. Arianne sighed but didn't pull away.
"We should return before they send search partie," she said reluctantly.
"In a moment," Jon said, walking them backward until her back hit the pool's edge. "I should thank you properly for the lesson first."
His hand slipped between them, finding her center through the thin, wet fabric. Arianne gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Someone could see," she protested weakly, even as her hips rocked against his touch.
"Then you'll have to be quiet," Jon murmured, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that made her whimper. "Can you do that, Princess?"
"Fuck," she breathed, already panting. "You little—oh—"
Jon silenced her with his mouth, swallowing her moans as his fingers worked her with the skill he'd learned from their last encounter. She was already so wet, so ready, her body remembering his touch.
"That's it," he whispered against her lips. "Let go for me."
His fingers circled and pressed, finding the rhythm that made her shake. When he slipped two fingers inside her while his thumb continued its assault on her clit, she nearly screamed. Only his mouth on hers kept her cries contained.
"Jon, Jon, fuck, I'm going to—"
She came hard, her inner walls clenching around his fingers as she shuddered against him. Jon worked her through it, gentling his touch as she came down from her peak.
When she finally stilled, panting against his neck, Jon withdrew his hand and stepped back with a wink.
"Thanks for the swimming lesson, Princess," he said casually, moving toward the pool's edge. "Same time tomorrow?"
"You fucking tease," Arianne gasped, still braced against the wall on shaky legs. "You can't just—"
But Jon was already pulling himself out of the pool, water streaming down his chest. He grabbed a towel and began drying off, hiding his grin at her frustrated expression.
"Can't just what?" he asked innocently. "Return the favor of excellent instruction? I thought I thanked you quite thoroughly."
"Get back here," she demanded, but he was already pulling on his shirt.
"The bell rang. We'll be late for the meal," Jon said, his purple eyes dancing with mischief. "What would your father think?"
"I'm going to murder you," Arianne promised, hauling herself out of the pool with less grace than usual. "Slowly. With my bare hands."
"Looking forward to it," Jon called over his shoulder as he headed back through the lemon trees, leaving a furious and thoroughly satisfied princess in his wake.
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