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Jon Snow
The corridor leading to Arianne's chamber was empty save for the occasional torch guttering in its bracket. Jon's boots echoed against stone that had probably seen better centuries, and he found himself counting the steps, anything to keep his mind occupied with something other than the feast they'd just survived.
Forty-three people had watched Lord Ashaven ask if Jon was warming the Princess's bed. Jon had counted them too, afterward, when his heart had finally stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest. Forty-three witnesses to the old bastard's drunken leering, forty-three people who would spread that story through Planky Town by morning.
And here I am, walking to her chambers again. Excellent strategy, Snow.
But Arianne had been right when she'd said they needed to talk. The feast had yielded information, useful information, the kind that might actually help them navigate this disaster—and it needed to be organized before exhaustion turned their memories to fog.
He knocked twice on her door.
"Enter."
Jon pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was dim, lit only by a few candles that cast more shadow than light. He couldn't have described the furnishings if someone had offered him gold. His attention went immediately to Arianne, standing by the window with her back to him, still wearing that purple silk that had been making him carefully not look at her all evening.
She turned when the door closed. The candlelight caught in the gold chains woven through her hair, throwing tiny sparks of light across her face. She looked tired. Beautiful, always that, but tired in a way that went deeper than a single feast.
"That," she said without preamble, "was exhausting."
"You handled it well." Jon stayed by the door, suddenly uncertain about coming closer. The room felt smaller than it had this afternoon.
"Handling it well doesn't make it less exhausting." She moved away from the window, and Jon tracked the motion without quite meaning to. The silk clung to her with every step, outlining curves he was trying very hard not to think about. "But we learned things. Useful things."
"We did." Jon forced his mind back to politics, to the conversations he'd had with Daemon and Josefin and the merchants. "The family wants change. Ser Josefin practically admitted his father is destroying Planky Town through neglect."
"And the merchants see opportunity." Arianne reached for a decanter on a table Jon hadn't noticed, pouring two glasses of something amber. She held one out to him. "If we frame this right, we can build support from below before Lord Ashaven even knows what's happening."
Jon took the glass.
"Tomorrow morning," Arianne continued, settling into a chair that forced Jon to either remain standing awkwardly or take the seat across from her. He sat. "The market will be full. That's when we make our move."
"You want to present the water wheels publicly? Before talking to Lord Ashaven?"
"I want to create a situation where Lord Ashaven can't refuse without looking like he's deliberately keeping his people poor." She leaned forward, and Jon found his attention caught by the intensity in her dark eyes. "If the people want it, if his own family supports it, if the merchants are already counting their increased profits, what can he do? Say no and prove his son right, that he cares more about control than prosperity?"
Jon turned it over in his mind, looking for the flaws. "He'll be furious that we went around him."
"Yes."
"He'll see it as undermining his authority."
"Absolutely."
"Which means he'll want something in return." Jon's hand tightened around his glass. "Something significant."
Arianne's expression didn't change. "I'm aware of what he wants."
The memory of Lord Ashaven's spotted hand on her arm flashed through Jon's mind. The old bastard's leering expression, the way he'd called her the most beautiful woman in Dorne like she was a possession he was considering purchasing.
"His own children want him dead," Arianne said quietly. "Did you know that? Or at least gone. Ser Josefin didn't say it directly, but it was in every word he didn't speak. They're waiting for him to die so they can finally fix what he's broken."
"So asking his permission is pointless," Jon said.
"Asking his permission is a waste of time we don't have." Arianne said. "Dorne is my land. These are my people, Jon. Not just in Planky Town, but everywhere. And it's my duty to make sure my land prospers, that my people have what they need to survive." She stood up, walking up and down the chamber.
There was something in her voice that caught Jon off guard. Arianne was never one to sound vulnerable, and even when it came to talking about her people, she always talked about them as if they were strangers that did not matter to her. But right, she sounded like she truly cared about the people of this place.
"I don't want that to come at the cost of your happiness," he said and he stood up, approaching her, not wanting her to feel alone in this place.
Arianne turned, and Jon realized he'd moved closer than he'd intended. Close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. Close enough to see the surprise in her eyes as she looked at him.
"Jon..."
"I mean it." The words came out rougher than he'd planned. "Whatever we accomplish here, whatever water wheels we build or towns we improve, it's not worth you having to—" He stopped, unable to quite say it. Having to smile while that old bastard pawed at you. Having to pretend you don't mind when he looks at you like that.
For a long moment, Arianne just stared at him. Then Jon was sure her eyes had turned foggy.
"I promise you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I will never allow him to touch me. Never."
Jon felt relieved to hear that, but why?
Why does it matter so much? he thought. She's the Princess of Dorne. You're a bastard from Winterfell. This is about politics and water wheels and helping people, not... not...
But he couldn't finish the thought, because Arianne was still looking at him with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through whatever defenses he'd thought he was maintaining. And Jon realized, with a clarity that felt like falling, that this had stopped being just about politics somewhere along the way.
Maybe it had stopped being just politics the moment she'd blushed in the courtyard that morning, when he'd told her he was glad she was here. Maybe it had stopped even earlier, in Sunspear, during one of a dozen late-night conversations that had felt like something more than strategy sessions.
"Thank you," Arianne said softly. "For that."
Jon nodded. He should step back. Put proper distance between them. Remember that she was the Princess of Dorne and he was Ned Stark's bastard, and that the gap between those two things was wider than the Narrow Sea.
But he didn't step back. And neither did she.
This is a bad idea, some distant part of his mind supplied. This is dangerous and complicated and will make everything harder.
But that voice was growing fainter by the second, drowned out by the sound of Arianne's breathing and his own heartbeat and the crackle of candlelight against stone.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Just for a second, just long enough for Jon to stop breathing entirely, and then she was leaning in, and he was leaning in and—
Arianne pulled back.
She turned away, one hand pressed to her temple.
"You should go back to your chamber," she said quickly. "Before... we can't give them more to whisper about."
Jon knew she was right, he was being naive and foolish.
"Tomorrow morning." She still wasn't looking at him. "Fourth hour after dawn. We meet in the outer district and begin our campaign in earnest. Yes?"
"Yes," he said right away. "Fourth hour."
He moved toward the door, each step feeling wrong somehow, like he was walking away from something important. His hand was on the latch when Arianne finally spoke again.
"Goodnight, Jon."
He looked back. She was still standing with her back to him, shoulders rigid, one hand tangled in those gold chains like she was anchoring herself in place.
"Goodnight...Arianne."
The corridor outside was cold after the warmth of her chamber. Jon pulled the door closed and stood there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
What in seven hells just happened?
But he knew. He'd known the moment she'd looked at him with those glistening eyes and promised that old bastard would never touch her. He'd known when the relief had hit him, when he'd realized he cared more about her happiness than about water wheels or politics or anything else they'd supposedly come here to accomplish.
Jon started walking, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Tomorrow they'd present the water wheels to the people of Planky Town. Tomorrow, they'd begin the real work of changing how this city functioned. Tomorrow they'd face Lord Ashaven's fury and his family's desperation and all the complicated politics they'd come here to navigate.
I'm in trouble, Jon thought as he reached his own door. Gods, I'm in so much trouble.
This was not supposed to happen. Arianne was the one who tried to sleep with him since the day he arrived in Dorne. The two had kissed before, but it was just...lust kissing; there were no feelings behind those kisses. Yet, tonight, it had felt different; the old Arianne would not have pulled away. She would have kissed him; she would have wanted to do it right there. It would have been amazing, it would have been pleasurable, but this Arianne, she did not want just the pleasure anymore.
.
.
Arianne Martell
Arianne stared at the door long after Jon's footsteps faded down the corridor. Her hand was still tangled in the gold chains of her hair, her breathing still uneven, her body still thrumming with the ghost of his nearness.
What is wrong with me?
She'd pulled away. She, Arianne Martell, who had never denied herself pleasure, who had taken lovers as she pleased since her sixteenth nameday, who had kissed Jon before with nothing but hunger and heat—she had pulled away.
The wine sat untouched on the table. Arianne poured herself another glass with shaking hands, drained it in three swallows, and poured a third. The amber liquid burned down her throat but did nothing to quiet the chaos in her chest.
She should sleep. Tomorrow would demand all her cunning, all her charm, all her political acumen. She needed to be sharp.
The knock came again. Softer this time.
Arianne sat up in bed, and the room looked different—hazier somehow, the candlelight softer, the shadows gentler. She wore only a thin sleeping shift that clung to her curves.
"Enter," she whispered.
The door opened. Jon stood there, in his Northern clothes, but they seemed to fit him differently now. His violet eyes caught the candlelight as he closed the door behind him.
"I couldn't stay away," he said, and his voice was rougher than she'd ever heard it. "I tried, but..."
"Jon." His name fell from her lips like a prayer.
He crossed the room, and then his hands were cradling her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch. Not grabbing, not demanding—cradling, like she was something precious.
"I should have kissed you," he murmured, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "When we were standing there, I should have..."
Arianne rose to her knees on the bed, bringing their faces level. "Then kiss me now."
He did.
And gods, it was nothing like the kisses they'd shared before. Those had been fire and hunger, the rush to consume. This was different. This was Jon's lips moving against hers like he was learning her, memorizing her, worshipping her. His hands slid into her hair, gently, and Arianne melted into him with a soft sound she'd never made before.
"Arianne," he breathed against her mouth. "Gods, Arianne..."
She pulled him down onto the bed, and he came willingly, his body covering hers with a delicious weight. But still, he moved slowly, kissing her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. Each press of his lips felt like reverence.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered against her skin. "So perfect."
Arianne had heard those words a hundred times from a lot of men. They'd never mattered. They'd been empty sounds, currency in the transaction of pleasure.
But from Jon's lips, they felt like truth.
His hands slid down her sides, pushing the thin shift up and over her head. The night air kissed her bare skin, but Jon's gaze burned hotter than any fire. He looked at her like she was the only woman in the world, like every curve and valley of her body was a treasure to be explored.
"I want to taste you," he murmured, and the raw need in his voice made her pussy clench. "Will you let me?"
"Yes." The word came out breathy, desperate. "Yes, Jon, please—"
He started at her breasts, his mouth hot and wet on her nipple while his hand cupped the other, kneading gently. Arianne arched into him with a gasp, her fingers tangling in his dark curls.
"Mmmmm," she moaned as he sucked, as his tongue swirled and his teeth scraped just enough to make her squirm.
He moved lower, kissing down her stomach, his hands spreading her thighs wide. And when he looked up at her from between her legs, those violet eyes dark with desire and something deeper, something that made her heart stutter—
"You're mine," he said softly. "Say it."
"Yours," she breathed. "I'm yours, Jon."
Then his mouth was on her cunt, and Arianne's whole world exploded into sensation.
Arianne had felt this before; Tyene had been quite eager to do the same many times they lay together, but this felt very different. Jon licked her slowly, thoroughly, like he wanted to savor every drop of her arousal. His tongue dragged through her folds, circled her clit with maddening patience, dipped inside her entrance to taste her more deeply.
"Oh gods," Arianne gasped, her hips rolling against his face. "Jon, fuck—"
He groaned against her pussy, the vibration making her thighs tremble. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as he worked her with single-minded devotion. Every stroke of his tongue was worship, every suck on her swollen clit was adoration.
"So wet for me," he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. "So sweet."
The pleasure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last. Arianne's fingers tightened in his hair, holding him against her as she rode his face, chasing the climax that shimmered just out of reach.
"Please," she whimpered. "Please, Jon, I need—"
He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, hard, while two fingers thrust deep inside her cunt. The combination shattered her.
"AHHHHH!" Arianne's scream echoed off the stone walls as her orgasm crashed through her like a tidal wave. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, her whole body convulsing with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. "Yes, yes, YES!"
Jon didn't stop. He worked her through it, licking and sucking and fucking her with his fingers until she was sobbing with oversensitivity, until her body sang with bliss.
Finally, he crawled up her body, his lips glistening with her arousal. He kissed her gently, and Arianne could taste herself on his tongue.
"I love you," he whispered against her mouth, his violet eyes burning into hers. "I love you, Arianne Martell. You. Just you."
Her heart cracked open—
Arianne's eyes flew open.
Her chamber was dark, the candles burned down to stubs. And her fingers—
Oh gods.
Her fingers were buried knuckle-deep in her cunt. Her shift was rucked up around her waist, her thighs trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm. The sheets beneath her were damp.
She'd been dreaming.
It had all been a dream.
Arianne pulled her hand away with a shaky breath, staring at her glistening fingers in the dim light. She'd touched herself countless times before. She'd taken her pleasure freely, boldly, without shame.
But she'd never dreamed like that. Never woken with tears on her cheeks and an ache in her chest that had nothing to do with physical need.
I love you.
Jon's voice echoed in her mind, and Arianne pressed her palm against her racing heart.
"Fuck," she whispered to the darkness. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Because she knew, with terrible certainty, what this meant. What had changed between them in that moment before she'd pulled away.
She wasn't just attracted to Jon Snow anymore.
She was falling in love with him.
This feeling...terrified her.
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