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Jon Snow
The great hall had transformed in the hours since their arrival, though Jon wasn't sure the word 'transformed' was quite right. More like someone had tried to disguise its shortcomings with volume and lamplight. Torches blazed in every bracket, smoke curling toward rafters that looked like they'd been holding up this roof with hopes and prayers. Long tables had been assembled in rough rows, already groaning under platters of food that steamed in the flickering light.
Jon paused in the doorway, taking it in. The smell hit him first: roasted meat, spilled wine, sweat, and beneath it all something musty that probably lived in the walls. His stomach growled despite his misgivings. They'd eaten nothing but dried fruit and hard bread on the road, and his body didn't particularly care about politics when food was involved.
Arianne appeared at his elbow, dressed now in something that made her riding leathers look positively modest. Deep purple silk that clung to every curve, cut low enough that Jon had to consciously keep his eyes on her face. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and someone had woven small gold chains through it.
"You look like you're preparing for battle," she murmured.
"Aren't we?"
"Different kind of weapons here." She glanced around the hall, assessing. "Lord Ashaven's already drunk, look."
Jon followed her gaze to the high table. The old lord sat slumped in his chair, a goblet clutched in one spotted hand, his face even more flushed than it had been this morning. He was talking loudly to the man beside him, gesturing with his cup and sloshing wine onto the table.
"How can you tell from here?" Jon asked.
"The way he's moving. See how his head keeps listing to the left? That's his tell. By the time the main course arrives, he'll be nearly incoherent." Arianne's voice carried satisfaction rather than judgment. "Which means tonight isn't about convincing him of anything. He won't remember his own name by the end of this."
"Then why are we here?"
"To talk to the people who actually run this place while the old fool thinks he's in charge." She turned to look at him, in that moment, he remembered that she was a Princess, and she knew politics better than he did. "Use that silver tongue of yours on his sons and grandchildren. Learn what they want, what they fear, what they'd change if they could."
Jon felt heat creep up his neck. "I'm not sure my tongue is silver enough for that kind of work."
"Really? That's not what Nymeria said."
"I meant I'm not good at manipulating people."
"I know what you meant." Arianne's smile turned wicked. "I was making a different point entirely."
Before Jon could formulate a response that wouldn't make things worse, she'd already swept away toward the high table, leaving him standing alone like an idiot. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and tried to look like he had any idea what he was doing.
The hall was filling quickly now. Jon counted perhaps fifty people, maybe more, all apparently related to Lord Ashaven in some capacity. The man's four sons were easy to spot, each surrounded by their own clusters of children and grandchildren. Ser Josefin stood near the high table, a goblet in hand but barely touched, his expression suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else.
Jon made his way through the crowd, noting the glances that followed him. The purple-eyed Northern bastard, traveling with the Princess of Dorne. He could practically hear the speculation, the whispers that would follow him all evening.
Let them wonder. At least it means they're paying attention.
He found himself near one of the long tables where a group of younger men were already seated, passing a wineskin between them. They looked close in age, late twenties or early thirties, with the same prominent Ashaven chin.
"Lord Snow," one of them called out, gesturing to an empty space on the bench. "Join us. Any friend of the Princess is welcome at our table."
Friend. Right.
Jon settled onto the bench, accepting the wineskin when it was offered. The wine was better than he'd expected, sweet and strong. He took a careful sip and passed it along.
"I'm Jon Snow," he said, since apparently they already knew that. "I don't believe we were introduced earlier."
"Daemon Ashaven," said the man who'd invited him, a stocky fellow with callused hands. "Ser Josefin's third son. These are my cousins, Yoren and Andros. We heard you've come from Winterfell?"
"By way of Sunspear." Jon accepted a plate someone thrust at him, piled with meat and bread. "Your family is generous with its hospitality."
"Our grandfather loves an audience," Yoren said, his tone suggesting this was not a compliment. "Any excuse to show off."
"He's showing off for the Princess," Andros added, lowering his voice. "Has been since the letter arrived three days ago saying she was coming. Been insufferable about it."
Daemon shot his cousin a look that suggested this wasn't appropriate dinner conversation, but the wine had already loosened tongues.
"The letter mentioned business," Jon said carefully. "Did Prince Doran explain the nature of our visit?"
"Only that his daughter wished to discuss matters of importance to Planky Town." Daemon took a long pull from the wineskin. "My grandfather's been trying to guess what those matters might be ever since. Thinks perhaps the Princess wants to establish a permanent residence here."
Jon nearly choked on his bread. "What?"
"Our grandfather has... aspirations," Yoren said delicately. "Where the Princess is concerned."
"Gods," Jon muttered. "He actually thinks—"
"He thinks many things," Daemon interrupted. "Most of them wrong, but he's seventy namedays old and doesn't take well to correction." He studied Jon with sharp eyes. "So what business does bring you here, Lord Snow? The letter was remarkably vague."
Here was the moment, then. Tell them or wait for Arianne to make the announcement. But Arianne was at the high table now, and Jon could see Lord Ashaven leaning close to her, one hand gesturing broadly while wine sloshed from his cup. She maintained her smile, but her shoulders were tight.
"Water distribution," Jon said. "We want to improve access to clean water for the people of Planky Town."
The three men exchanged glances. Yoren frowned. "Water? That's what brings the Princess of Dorne to our hall?"
"Thirty thousand people live in this town," Jon said. "How many wells serve them?"
"Twelve," Daemon answered immediately. "Everyone knows that."
"Which means each well serves approximately twenty-five hundred people." Jon paused for a moment. "In Winterfell, we have ice warmers enough for everyone. And water fell from the sky regularly besides."
"This isn't Winterfell," Andros pointed out.
"No. But that doesn't mean people should have to queue for hours just to get water for their families." Jon reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, one of his simpler diagrams. "I've designed a water wheel. A device that can raise a thousand gallons per hour from a well, continuously, as long as you have animals to turn it."
Daemon took the parchment, studying it in the torchlight. His cousins leaned in, squinting at the design. Jon watched their faces, trying to gauge their reactions. Confusion, mostly. A hint of interest from Daemon.
"This works?" Daemon asked finally.
"The principle is sound. The Rhoynar used similar devices before the Conquest."
"And you want to build these... where?"
"Throughout Planky Town. Starting with the outer district, where the need is greatest."
Yoren barked a laugh. "You mean where the poorest people live. The ones with no coin and no influence."
"The ones who need it most," Jon corrected.
"My grandfather will never allow it," Andros said flatly. "The water sellers pay him fees for access to the wells. If you make water easier to get, those fees disappear."
Jon had expected this argument. "Not necessarily. More water means more people can afford to settle here, more crops can be grown, more trade can flow through the port. Your grandfather loses the water fees but gains in tax revenue from increased prosperity."
"Assuming people actually come," Yoren countered. "Assuming crops grow. Assuming any of this works the way you think it will."
"That's why we want to build a demonstration first," Jon said. "Prove it works before expanding further."
Daemon was still studying the diagram, his brow furrowed. "My father might listen to this," he said slowly. "He's been arguing with grandfather for years about improving conditions in the outer district. Says we're going to have riots if something doesn't change."
"Will there be riots?" Jon asked.
"Not while grandfather lives. They're afraid of him." Daemon looked up from the parchment. "But my father's fifty-one years old, Lord Snow. He's been waiting to inherit since he was younger than you are now. And he's tired of watching this town fall apart while grandfather refuses to spend coin on anything that doesn't benefit him directly."
Something in Daemon's voice suggested there was more to this story, layers of family resentment that went deeper than water access.
"Where is your father now?" Jon asked.
"At the high table, probably apologizing to the Princess for grandfather's behavior." Daemon's smile was bitter. "As he does every time we have guests. One day he's going to stop apologizing and start actually changing things, but that day isn't today."
The conversation moved on to other topics after that—trade routes, river traffic, the quality of this year's date harvest—but Jon's mind kept circling back to what Daemon had said. A son waiting decades to inherit, watching his father drink and decay and make decisions that hurt the very people he was supposed to protect. That kind of frustration could be useful, if handled carefully.
He glanced toward the high table. Lord Ashaven was telling some story that involved a lot of gesturing and spilled wine. Arianne sat beside him, her expression perfectly pleasant, but Jon could see the tension in her jaw. As he watched, the old lord reached out and placed one spotted hand on her arm. Arianne didn't pull away in disgust; instead, she moved her arm, reaching for food, and Ashaven's hand was touching air now.
Jon's hand tightened around his goblet. It's politics, he reminded himself. She knows what she's doing. But watching that old bastard paw at her made him want to cross the hall and break the man's fingers.
"Your grandfather is drunk," Jon observed to Daemon.
"He's always drunk by the main course." Daemon didn't sound particularly concerned. "He'll pass out before dessert if we're lucky. If we're not, he'll start singing."
"Singing?"
"Badly." Yoren shuddered. "Trust me, you don't want to hear it."
Jon stood, making some excuse about needing air, and worked his way around the hall's perimeter. He passed clusters of Ashavens, all talking and drinking, their voices blending into a wall of sound. Near the far end, he spotted Sarella in conversation with an older woman, both of them bent over what looked like a ledger. Leave it to Sarella to find the one person at a feast who wanted to discuss record-keeping.
Nymeria was nowhere to be seen, which probably meant she was either causing trouble somewhere or avoiding it entirely. Hard to say which.
Jon found Ser Josefin standing alone near one of the hall's side entrances, a goblet in hand but untouched. The man looked exhausted.
"Ser Josefin," Jon said quietly. "Might I have a word?"
The older man turned, and Jon caught something in his expression. Relief, maybe, at having an excuse to stand apart from the celebration.
"Lord Snow. Are you enjoying the feast?"
"Your family is welcoming," Jon said, which wasn't quite a lie. "I spoke with your son Daemon. He mentioned you've been concerned about conditions in the outer district."
Josefin looked annoyed. "Daemon talks too freely when he's been drinking."
"He seemed to think you might be sympathetic to proposals for improving water access."
For a long moment, Josefin said nothing. He stared into his wine, then he looked at Jon's purple eyes.
"I apologize for my father's behavior," he said quietly. "Toward the Princess. He becomes... inappropriate when he drinks."
"I noticed."
"He's seventy years old and believes the world should bend to his will because it always has before." Josefin's voice carried resignation rather than anger. "Nothing I say makes any difference. He does what he wants, and I clean up the consequences."
"That must be difficult."
"It is what it is." Josefin finally took a sip of his wine. "I heard you were talking to my sons something about water wells. What exactly are you proposing?"
Jon explained, keeping it simple this time. The water wheels, the demonstration in the outer district, the potential for expansion if it worked. Josefin listened without interrupting, his expression giving nothing away.
"My father will say no," Josefin said when Jon finished. "He'll say it threatens the water sellers' fees, that it's too expensive, that it's change for the sake of change. He says no to everything that doesn't directly benefit him."
"And what would you say?"
Josefin was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was barely above a murmur. "I'd say the outer district has been on the edge of catastrophe for ten years. I'd say we've had three riots in the last five years over water access, and my father pretends they're isolated incidents rather than symptoms of a larger problem. I'd say that when I inherit—if I ever inherit—I'll have a city on the verge of collapse because we refused to invest in infrastructure when it might have made a difference."
"Then help me convince him," Jon said.
"You don't convince my father of anything. You wait for him to die and then fix what he broke." Josefin's smile was grim. "Though if you manage it, Lord Snow, I'll be impressed. Just don't expect it to be easy. And don't expect him to agree to anything without demanding something in return."
Jon knew what Lord Ashaven wanted in return. The old bastard had made that abundantly clear.
"The Princess won't—"
"I know," Josefin interrupted. "And I wouldn't ask her to, even for the good of Planky Town. My father's desires are his own problem to manage. But he doesn't think that way. He sees something he wants, and he assumes the world will provide it if he just pushes hard enough."
From across the hall, Lord Ashaven's voice rose above the general noise. "Princess! Princess Arianne! Come, sit closer! Let an old man admire Dorne's beauty properly!"
Jon watched Arianne rise with practiced grace, moving to a seat closer to the old lord. Her smile never wavered, but her eyes found Jon's across the hall. Just for a moment, something passed between them. An acknowledgment of the absurdity, the disgust, the necessity of playing this game.
Then she turned back to Lord Ashaven and laughed at whatever he'd said, but Jon knew that laughter was a political laugh.
"If you'll excuse me, Lord Snow, I should check on my grandson. The boy's been ill, and I promised his mother I'd look in on him."
"Of course."
Jon watched Josefin leave, then turned his attention back to the high table. Lord Ashaven was in the middle of another story, one hand waving wildly while the other remained far too close to Arianne's arm.
He made his way through the crowd again, this time toward where he'd spotted a cluster of older men in merchant's clothing. They stood apart from the main celebration, talking in low voices and occasionally glancing toward the high table with expressions that suggested they found Lord Ashaven as tiresome as his family did.
Jon approached carefully, waiting for a lull in their conversation. One of them noticed him first, a heavyset man with shrewd eyes and ink-stained fingers.
"You're the Northern boy," the man said.
"Jon Snow. And you are?"
"Mallor Sand, if it matters. I run the trade office here, such as it is." He gestured to his companions. "These are our esteemed colleagues, Masters Tyren and Gormon. We manage the port operations."
"Then you're the men who actually keep Planky Town functioning," Jon observed.
Mallor's eyebrows rose. "Flattery from a bastard. How unusual."
"Not flattery if it's true."
The three men exchanged glances. Gormon, the oldest of them, spoke next. "What brings you to our celebration, Lord Snow? Besides the obvious."
"Water distribution," he said. "I've designed a device that can improve access throughout Planky Town, particularly in the outer districts."
"We've heard about your wheels," Mallor said. "Word travels fast in a feast. Though we've also heard Lord Ashaven has no interest in your proposals."
"Lord Ashaven hasn't heard my proposals yet."
"Won't matter when he does. The old man doesn't change his mind once it's set." Tyren took a drink from his goblet. "We've been trying to improve port facilities for fifteen years. He says no every time."
"Because it doesn't benefit him directly," Jon guessed.
"Because he's a short-sighted fool who thinks Planky Town will run itself through sheer momentum." Gormon said with frustration. "We lose trade to Sunspear every year, lose merchants to ports with better facilities, but does he care? As long as his water fees keep coming in, the rest can rot."
Jon saw his opening. "What if there was a way to make improving water access benefit you directly?"
The three men focused on him with sudden intensity. Mallor leaned in. "Explain."
"More available water means more people can settle here. More people means more trade, more goods moving through your port." Jon kept his voice low, conscious of who might be listening. "Right now, how many merchants avoid Planky Town because the conditions are poor?"
"Half at least," Tyren admitted. "They'd rather deal with Sunspear's crowds than our water shortages and inadequate facilities."
"So give them a reason to come here instead. Make Planky Town the port where water is abundant, where they can resupply easily, where their crews can stay healthy instead of getting sick from bad water."
Gormon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That would require considerable investment."
"The water wheels are relatively cheap to build. Any competent carpenter can manage it with proper plans. The real cost is political—convincing Lord Ashaven to allow it."
"Which brings us back to the same problem," Mallor said. "The old man won't agree unless—"
He stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting past Jon to where Arianne had appeared at Jon's elbow. She'd moved so quietly Jon hadn't heard her approach.
"Masters," she said warmly, including all three men in her smile. "I hope my companion isn't boring you with talk of engineering."
"Not at all, Princess," Mallor said, bowing, and his eyes brightened. "We were discussing trade opportunities."
"Ah. Then perhaps you can help me understand something." Arianne stepped closer to the group, drawing their attention like moths to flame. "I've been thinking about Sunspear's port, how crowded it's become. Every season we turn away merchants because there's simply no room. But Planky Town..." She paused, looking thoughtful. "Planky Town has space. It has the Greenblood. It has potential."
"It does, Princess," Tyren agreed eagerly. "We've been saying that for years."
"What it lacks," Arianne continued, her voice taking on a considering quality, "is reliable access to fresh water. Merchants avoid ports where their crews might fall ill, where resupply is difficult." She turned those dark eyes on Mallor. "Tell me, Master Sand, if Planky Town could guarantee abundant fresh water, how much additional trade might that bring?"
"Thirty percent increase," Mallor said immediately. "Maybe more, depending on how reliable the supply was."
"And thirty percent more trade means..."
"Higher port fees. More goods moving through our warehouses. Increased tax revenue for Lord Ashaven's coffers." Mallor's eyes had taken on a calculating gleam. "Though convincing him of that might prove difficult."
"Perhaps he doesn't need to be convinced," Arianne said softly. "Perhaps he simply needs to see it working. A demonstration, as it were, of what Planky Town could become with proper investment. There is a lot of coin in this,"
"The outer district," Gormon said slowly. "If we built one of these wheels there, proved it could work..."
"Then the other districts would demand the same," Tyren finished. "And Lord Ashaven would look like a fool for refusing."
"Or," Arianne suggested gently, "he could take credit for the innovation. Announce it as his own initiative to improve Planky Town's prosperity. Merchants don't care who had the idea, after all. They care whether the water flows. Once the water flows, so will the coins."
The three men were nodding now, seeing the angles, understanding how this could benefit them.
This is what she does, he realized. She finds what people want and shows them how helping her gets them closer to it.
"We would need Lord Ashaven's approval," Mallor said carefully. "Or at least his lack of disapproval."
"Leave that to me," Arianne replied. "You focus on ensuring the port merchants understand the opportunity. Create demand from below, and the supply will follow."
She swept away after that, leaving the three men staring after her with expressions somewhere between lust and calculation. Jon wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
"Your Princess is a clever woman," Mallor observed.
"She's not my Princess," Jon said right away.
"No?" Gormon's smile suggested he didn't believe that for a moment. "Could have fooled us."
Before Jon could respond, a crash echoed from the high table. Lord Ashaven had knocked over his goblet, wine spreading across the white cloth like blood. He was trying to stand, one hand braced on the table, the other reaching toward Arianne who had stepped carefully back.
"Princess," the old lord slurred. "Dance with me! Show these fools how a real woman moves!"
"Perhaps after you've rested, my lord," she said smoothly. "The hour grows late."
"Nonsense! The night is young, and so are you!" Lord Ashaven lurched forward, would have fallen if Ser Josefin hadn't caught his father's arm. "Unhand me, boy! I'm talking to the Princess!"
"Father," Josefin said quietly. "You're tired. Let me help you to your chambers."
"I'm not tired! I'm celebrating! We have the most beautiful woman in Dorne at our table, and you want me to sleep?" Lord Ashaven's eyes found Jon across the hall. "Though perhaps she prefers younger men. Is that it, Princess? Does the Northern bastard warm your bed?"
The silence deepened. Jon felt every eye in the hall turn toward him. Jon was not sure what to do, and he noticed Sarella was on her feet, and Nymeria had suddenly appeared, and she had a dagger in her hand, and the guards of the Princess looked like they wanted to carve the old lord into tiny pieces.
Arianne giggled instead, paying no attention to Jon. "My lord, you flatter me with your interest. But I fear I'm a terrible dancer, and I'd hate to embarrass us both." She turned to Josefin. "Perhaps you should help your father rest. We have business to discuss tomorrow, and it would be better done with clear heads."
Ser Josefin seized the opportunity, guiding his father toward the exit while the old man continued to mutter protests.
The feast began to break up after that, people drifting away in ones and twos. Jon remained where he was, watching Arianne accept compliments and farewells with the same grace she'd shown all evening. Only when the hall had mostly cleared did she finally make her way to where he stood.
"That went well," she said dryly.
"He called you beautiful and asked if I was warming your bed. In front of fifty people."
"Forty-three, actually. I counted." She rubbed her temples. "Gods, I need wine. Real wine, not whatever that old fool was drinking."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just tired of being pawed at by men who think they're entitled to it." She looked up at him, something vulnerable in her expression. "Did you learn anything useful?"
Jon told her about his conversations with Daemon, with Josefin, with the merchants. As he spoke, he watched her think deeply about what he said.
"So the family wants change, the merchants want profit, and the old man wants me," she summarized. "Wonderful."
"We can work with this."
"Can we?" She sounded genuinely doubtful. "Because right now it feels like we're trying to negotiate with a drunk octopus. Too many grasping hands and not enough brain."
Jon surprised himself by laughing. "That's an image I won't soon forget."
"Good. I'd hate to suffer alone." She started toward the exit, then paused. "Come to my chambers. We need to plan tomorrow before I forget half of what we learned tonight."
Jon followed, acutely aware that they were walking alone through darkened corridors toward the Princess's private rooms. Again. The servant who'd questioned him earlier would definitely report this.
Jon knew that as long as he didn't stay in her chamber for long, there would be only speculations, and the old lord already thought Jon was warning her bed, but Jon knew that if he stayed too long, the old lord might decide to not listen to him or Arianne no matter what, in that case, all left would be the option that he would never agree with, or to go behind his back and risk everything for a chance.
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