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The Dornish Letter Chapter 6 (Sands of Sunspear)
🕑 Added 2025-05-20 22:28:55 +0000 UTCThe Dornish Letter Chapter 6 (Sands of Sunspear)
Arrival at Sunspear Harbor - One Week Later
The Desert Wind glided into Sunspear's harbor at midday, the scorching sun bearing down with an intensity Jon Snow had never experienced. As sailors rushed to secure the vessel to the dock, Jon stood at the rail, squinting against the blinding light that reflected off the white stone buildings rising from the shore.
"Seven hells," Jon muttered, wiping sweat from his brow for what felt like the hundredth time since morning. "Is it always this hot?"
Nymeria appeared at his side, looking perfectly comfortable in her light silks despite the heat. "This? This is a pleasant day in Dorne." Her eyes glittered with amusement. "You northerners are so delicate."
The harbor was full of people—traders shouting in languages Jon had never heard, exotic goods being loaded and unloaded, and everywhere, colors brighter than any he'd seen in the North. Market stalls lined the waterfront, piled high with spices, fruits, and fabrics in shades of crimson, amber, and azure that made even Winterfell's best finery seem drab by comparison.
Jon's tunic clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. "I think I might melt before we reach the palace."
"Then remove your clothes," Nymeria suggested, loud enough for nearby dockworkers to turn and grin. "No one would mind the view."
Jon gave her a pointed look. "I'd rather not arrive at Prince Doran's court half-naked."
"Pity," she replied with a smirk.
As they prepared to disembark, Nymeria rummaged through a satchel and pulled out a bundle of fabric, thrusting it at Jon. "Here. These are proper clothes for Dorne. Put them on before you collapse from heat stroke."
The garments were light, loose-fitting, and distinctly Dornish—flowing trousers and a sleeveless tunic in sandy colors. Jon hesitated.
"I don't think—"
"For once in your life, Snow, don't think." Nymeria's tone was exasperated. "Just change before you cook inside that northern leather."
Jon reluctantly retreated to his cabin to change. When he emerged, feeling somewhat naked in the thin fabrics, Nymeria's appreciative glance made his ears burn hotter than the sun.
"Much better," she declared, circling him with her smile, the kind of smile she gave him when he was eating her pussy. "Though you're still red as a pomegranate."
"It's the sun," Jon lied.
"Of course it is," she replied, clearly unconvinced.
As they made their way down the gangplank, the full force of Dorne's heat hit Jon like melted iron. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents—spices that tickled his nose, salt from the sea, exotic perfumes, and the undercurrent of sweat from the press of bodies in the marketplace.
"Gods," Jon gasped, "how do you breathe in this air? I feel like I'm drowning."
Despite his change of clothes, sweat continued to pour down his face. Nymeria sighed dramatically, uncorked her waterskin, and without warning, dumped half its contents over Jon's head.
Jon spluttered, shocked by the sudden dousing. "What in the seven hells—"
"You'll thank me," she cut him off, capping her waterskin with a satisfied nod. "It's how we keep cool. Wet your hair, wet your clothes, let the breeze do the rest."
"We don't have these problems in the North," Jon grumbled, though he had to admit the water provided blessed relief. "Snow cools you quite efficiently."
"Yes, and turns your balls blue," Nymeria quipped. "I much prefer our men... unshriveled."
Jon choked on air, earning a hearty laugh from Prince Oberyn, who had silently appeared beside them.
"I see my daughter is educating you on Dornish customs already," Oberyn remarked, his eyes dancing with mischief. "The first lesson of Dorne: nothing is too private to discuss in public."
"I'm beginning to understand that," Jon replied dryly, smoothing back his wet hair.
The prince clapped him on the shoulder. "Look around you, Jon Snow. This is a land where pleasure is not hidden away like a shameful secret. We celebrate it." He gestured broadly at the harbor. "The food, the wine, the flesh—all gifts to be savored openly."
As if to illustrate his point, Nymeria casually trailed her fingers across Jon's chest. Jon instinctively glanced around, concerned about who might have seen.
"No one cares, Snow," she murmured, amused by his discomfort. "That's what Father is trying to tell you."
"In the North, we show more restraint," Jon said stiffly.
"And how has that served you?" Oberyn asked, cocking an eyebrow. "All that cold and restraint—it's unnatural. Men are not made to deny their passions."
"Some would say passions unchecked lead to chaos," Jon countered.
Oberyn laughed. "And some would say a life without passion isn't worth living at all."
Before Jon could respond, a commotion at the edge of the dock caught their attention. A group of guards approached, their spears adorned with small banners displaying the Martell sigil—a red sun pierced by a golden spear.
"Ah," Oberyn said, "our escort has arrived."
The captain of the guard bowed deeply to Oberyn. "Prince Oberyn, welcome home. Prince Doran sends his regards and eagerly awaits your return to the palace."
"Does he now?" Oberyn's tone suggested he doubted his brother's eagerness. "Well, we mustn't keep the Prince of Dorne waiting." He turned to Jon. "Come, Jon Snow. Your new life begins today."
As they followed the guards toward waiting horses, Jon cast one last glance at the Desert Wind. For weeks, that ship had been his last connection to the North. Now, even that tether was severed.
"Having second thoughts?" Nymeria asked quietly.
Jon shook his head. "Just wondering if I'll ever see snow again, or if I'm doomed to melt into a northern puddle on Dornish soil."
She laughed. "Don't worry, Snow. If you start to melt..." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned close. "I know several ways to make you solidify again."
Jon's ears burned, but this time, he allowed himself a small smile. "I'm beginning to think the heat isn't my greatest challenge in Dorne."
"Oh, it definitely isn't," she agreed with a wicked grin. "We haven't even introduced you to my sisters yet."
Jon's mount—a spirited sand steed far more slender than Northern horses—pranced beneath him as their procession wound through Sunspear's labyrinthine streets. Unlike Winterfell's practical layout, this city seemed designed to confuse, with narrow alleys opening suddenly into bustling squares before twisting away again.
Seven hells, I'll be lost within minutes if I'm ever alone here, Jon thought, his purple eyes widening as they entered what Oberyn called the Shadow City.
The sprawl surrounding the palace proper teemed with life and color. Market stalls overflowed with goods Jon had never seen—strange fruits with spiky exteriors, shimmering fabrics that changed color as they moved, and instruments shaped like no others he'd encountered. Performers juggled flaming batons while dancers swayed to drumbeats.
But it was the women who truly captured Jon's attention. Unlike Northern ladies with their modest garments and careful manners, Dornish women moved with unrestrained confidence. They wore flowing silks that revealed bronzed shoulders and arms, laughed openly at ribald jokes, and—most shocking to Jon—met men's gazes directly, sometimes even initiating conversation, and their clothes were doing a poor job at hiding their...woman parts.
In Winterfell, Lady Stark would faint if a woman behaved so boldly. Though I suspect Arya would love it here.
"Your eyes are wandering, Jon Snow," Oberyn called out, maneuvering his horse alongside Jon's. "See something that interests you?"
Jon felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the sun. "Just... observing cultural differences, Prince Oberyn."
"Ah, yes. Cultural differences." Oberyn's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Though I notice your... observations... tend toward the lovely merchants rather than their wares."
"The North doesn't prepare you for... this," Jon admitted, gesturing vaguely at a woman haggling ferociously with a spice merchant, her voice carrying clearly through the square.
"Dornish women speak their minds and follow their desires," Oberyn said proudly. "Much like you northerners follow duty and honor." He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "Though I suspect you might enjoy being... dishonored... by one of our desert flowers."
Jon choked slightly, earning a laugh from the prince. Gods, does everyone in Dorne speak in innuendos?
"Father, stop tormenting him," Nymeria chided, though her smile suggested she wasn't truly displeased. She guided her horse to Jon's other side. "Have you ever been in the presence of a prince or princess before, Snow?"
Jon gave her a dry look. "The North isn't exactly a holiday destination for the royal family. Too cold for their delicate southern constitutions."
"Fair enough," Nymeria conceded. "But Prince Doran isn't like other nobles. He'll observe everything—how you sit, how you speak, even how you breathe. Don't fidget. Don't speak unless spoken to. And whatever you do, don't mention his gout."
Jon frowned. "His what?"
"His gout. It's painful and makes him irritable. Just pretend not to notice his wheeled chair."
"What about the other Martells?" Jon asked, wiping sweat from his brow as the relentless heat intensified. His head had begun to swim slightly, but he'd rather collapse than show weakness.
"Well, there's Prince Quentyn," Nymeria said with a dismissive wave. "A frog of a boy."
"A... frog?"
"You'll understand when you meet him," she smirked. "Then there's Trystane, but he's only six. I doubt you'll spend much time with a child."
Jon swayed slightly in his saddle. "And the princess? Arianne? The Heiress of Dorne? How should I address her?"
Nymeria's giggle was mischievous. "Just show up looking exactly as you do now, and you won't need to say a word."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jon asked, perplexed.
"It means," Oberyn interjected with a knowing smile, "that my niece appreciates beauty. And you, Jon Snow, with those remarkable purple eyes and pretty curls..." He ran his gaze appreciatively down Jon's form. "Well, let's just say you're exactly her type."
Jon stiffened in the saddle. "I'm not here to—"
"To what? Enjoy yourself?" Oberyn laughed. "Such a Northern response. Tell me, is pleasure considered a sin in Winterfell?"
Only the kind you're implying, Jon thought irritably. Though Lord Stark would probably have an apoplexy if he could hear this conversation.
As they continued through the winding streets, Jon became uncomfortably aware of the stares following their procession. Unlike the rest of their party, his pale skin and Northern features marked him as distinctly foreign. Children pointed openly while adults whispered behind their hands.
I've gone from being the Bastard of Winterfell to being the Pale Northern Curiosity. Splendid progress.
"They're just curious," Nymeria said, noticing his discomfort. "Most have never seen a northerner before."
"Lucky them," Jon muttered under his breath.
The path began to climb, and ahead Jon could see the imposing silhouette of the Martell palace rising against the piercing blue sky. The city opened onto a broad thoroughfare leading to the first of three massive gates.
"The Threefold Gate," Oberyn announced proudly. "The first defense of Sunspear."
Each successive gate they passed through was more elaborate than the last. The first was formidable but plain—iron-reinforced wood with the Martell sigil burned into its surface. The second featured intricate carvings of desert scenes, its posts topped with gilt spear points. But the third took Jon's breath away: massive bronze doors inlaid with precious stones forming the image of a sun in full glory.
Well, the Martells certainly aren't shy about showing their wealth, Jon thought as the gates swung open before them. Father would consider this ostentatious. Though I suppose when you're called the Sun of Dorne, subtlety isn't the point.
As they passed through the final gate into the palace proper, Jon felt a momentary rush of vertigo. The heat, the strangeness, the long journey—it all suddenly crashed down upon him.
"Almost there, Snow," Nymeria said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Try not to faint. The guards would never let you forget it."
Jon straightened in his saddle, summoning his remaining strength. "Starks don't faint," he said with as much dignity as he could muster. "We merely... strategically rest our eyes while vertical."
Her surprised laugh carried him forward, into the heart of Sunspear and whatever awaited him there.
A lush courtyard awaited them within the palace walls—an oasis of shade and greenery that made Jon instantly grateful for the respite from the relentless sun. Water trickled from a series of fountains. Flowering vines climbed elegant columns, releasing a sweet perfume that reminded Jon of the glass gardens at Winterfell, though these blooms were far more exotic.
And in the center of this paradise stood three women, as different from one another as night from day, but the way their faces brightened at the sight of Prince Oberyn told Jon enough to know who they were.
More of Oberyn's daughters, Jon realized. More Sand Snakes. How many does he have?
The tallest of the three stepped forward, a spear gripped casually in one hand. Despite the heat, she wore practical leather armor, and her dark hair was pulled back. Her face felt like looking at a piece of rock. When they landed on Jon, her eyes narrowed.
"Father," she acknowledged Oberyn without shifting her gaze from Jon. "This is the northern bastard?"
Charming, Jon thought. At least in Winterfell, people whispered "bastard" behind my back.
"Obara," Oberyn greeted his eldest. "Yes, this is Jon Snow, our honored guest."
Jon gave a respectful nod, which Obara did not return.
"He doesn't look like much," she said. "Too pretty for a fighter."
"I'd be happy to prove otherwise," Jon replied evenly, meeting her challenging gaze.
Obara's lip curled. "Northern bravado. I've killed men twice your size, boy."
"Obara," Oberyn cautioned. "He is our guest, not challenger. There will be time for you to test his mettle in the training yard."
Before Jon could respond, a blur of yellow silk and golden hair appeared before him—the second daughter, who couldn't have presented a more striking contrast to her sister. Where Obara was like a rock given a face, this one was all soft curves and beguiling smiles. Her eyes were impossibly blue, set in a face of such sweet innocence that Jon immediately distrusted her.
"Don't mind Obara," she said, her voice melodic and gentle. "She greets everyone with threats of violence. I'm Tyene." She extended a delicate hand, which Jon took cautiously. "Oh, your hands are calloused! A swordsman, then?"
"Yes, my lady," Jon replied.
Tyene giggled, even her giggle was soft. "Not a lady. Just Tyene." She moved closer, invading his space. "Your eyes are extraordinary. I've never seen such a shade of purple before."
Gods, they're all forward, Jon thought, taking a subtle step back. Is this another Dornish custom—standing close enough to count eyelashes?
"They're my mother's eyes," he said automatically, then regretted revealing even that small detail about his mysterious parentage.
"Fascinating," Tyene breathed, studying him with renewed interest. "And who might your mother be?"
"If I knew that," Jon repeated the line he'd used with Nymeria, "I wouldn't be a Snow."
"Ohhh," Tyene cooed, placing a sympathetic hand on his arm. "How terrible not to know one's mother."
Her touch lingered, her thumb making small circles against his skin. Jon felt a prickle of awareness—not just because of her obvious attractiveness, but because something about her screamed danger far more loudly than Obara with her spear.
The sweet ones are always the most dangerous, Jon thought, recalling Sansa's ability to get her way with a smile while Arya struggled with her direct demands. While Tyene reminded him of Sansa, the difference was that Sansa's head was in the clouds, and she was a little too naive; Tyene's smile made him picture a smiling blonde snake.
"I manage," Jon replied dryly.
"I'm sure you do," Tyene purred, giving his arm a final squeeze before stepping back.
The third sister had been hanging back, observing with keen interest. Unlike the others, she made no move to approach Jon directly. Instead, she seemed content to watch from a slight distance. Her skin was darker than her sisters', her garb more practical—somewhere between Obara's warrior attire and Tyene's feminine silks. A collection of scrolls protruded from a satchel at her side.
"And you must be Sarella," Jon ventured, recalling the names Nymeria had mentioned during their journey.
The woman's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You know of me?"
"Nymeria mentioned you're a scholar," Jon explained.
Sarella shot an appreciative glance at Nymeria before approaching Jon. "Not just a pretty face, then. You pay attention."
"Hard not to, when sailing for weeks with someone determined to educate me about Dornish customs," Jon replied, earning a smirk from Nymeria.
"Then you must tell me about Northern customs in return," Sarella said eagerly. "Is it true your maesters believe the Wall was built using ancient magic? And that wildlings practice blood sacrifices to their old gods? How do your people survive the winters? Do you truly sleep with your dogs for warmth?"
The barrage of questions came so rapidly that Jon barely had time to register one before the next arrived. He blinked, momentarily overwhelmed.
"Perhaps one question at a time," he suggested, wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the courtyard's relative coolness, the heat continued to take its toll.
"Sarella," Oberyn chided gently. "The boy has only just arrived. Save your interrogation for when he's had a chance to rest."
Jon shot the prince a grateful look, though he suspected Oberyn's intervention had more to do with amusement than mercy.
The three Sand Snakes moved to stand beside Nymeria, creating a formidable lineup of Oberyn's four eldest daughters. They formed a half-circle around Jon, each watching him with different intent—Obara's open hostility, Tyene's sweetness, Sarella's scholarly curiosity, and Nymeria's knowing familiarity.
I feel like a rabbit surrounded by foxes, Jon thought uneasily. Or wolves. And I'm not even the wolf here.
"Ladies," Oberyn addressed his daughters, "Jon Snow will be staying with us as my ward. I expect you to make him feel welcome." The words were pleasant enough, but something in Oberyn's tone made it clear this was not a suggestion.
"Of course, Father," Tyene replied sweetly, her gaze lingering on Jon. "I'd be delighted to help him... adjust to Dorne."
The way she said "adjust" made Jon's collar feel suddenly tight.
"I can show him the library," Sarella offered eagerly.
"And I can test his combat skills," Obara added, though her tone suggested she looked forward to humiliating rather than training him.
Nymeria just smiled, a secretive curve of lips that reminded Jon of their shipboard activities. "I believe Jon and I have already become well acquainted," she said, just ambiguously enough to make Jon's ears burn.
Tyene caught the exchange and turned curious eyes to Jon. "Is that so?" she asked lightly. "What talents has our northern visitor revealed to you, sister?"
"He has a gifted tongue," Nymeria replied without hesitation. "For languages, of course."
Jon nearly choked. Seven hells, does she have no shame?
Tyene's eyes widened with interest. "How fascinating. Perhaps he could demonstrate these... linguistic skills... for the rest of us sometime."
"I'm sure Jon would be delighted to share his talents," Oberyn interjected, clearly enjoying Jon's discomfort. Then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. "But first, he must meet your uncle. Doran is waiting, and it would not do to keep the Prince of Dorne waiting."
The change in Oberyn's tone made the playful atmosphere evaporate immediately.
"Come, Jon Snow," Oberyn said, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's time you met the true power in Dorne."
Jon nodded, relieved to escape the scrutiny of the Sand Snakes, yet apprehensive about what awaited him. As they turned to leave, Tyene called after him.
"Jon Snow?"
He looked back cautiously.
"I hope we'll have time to become... better acquainted." Her smile was pure innocence, but her eyes promised something else entirely.
Lord Stark never warned me about this, Jon thought as he followed Oberyn deeper into the palace. I survived thirteen years of Lady Stark's coldness only to be thrown into this nest of vipers—or snakes, rather.
Robb would never believe this, Jon thought with a wry internal smile. He'd think I was making it all up. Four beautiful, deadly women, all watching me like I'm some exotic dessert. If the heat doesn't kill me, they probably will.
But what a way to go.
Jon followed Oberyn through a series of increasingly opulent corridors, each turn revealing new wonders of Dornish craftsmanship—intricate mosaic floors, tapestries that showed quite a lot, one of them showing a man pleasing two women at once. After climbing a spiral staircase, they arrived at a set of ornate double doors atop the Tower of the Sun.
Two guards stood at attention, their spears crossing to block the entrance. At Oberyn's approach, they straightened and pulled their weapons aside.
"Prince Oberyn," one acknowledged with a bow. "Prince Doran awaits within."
Oberyn placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Remember, speak when spoken to. My brother may appear frail, but his mind is as sharp as Valyrian steel."
Jon nodded, squaring his shoulders. Just another lord to meet, he told himself, though the flutter in his stomach suggested otherwise.
The doors swung open to reveal a circular chamber with windows on all sides, offering a panoramic view of Sunspear and the sea beyond. A gentle breeze flowed through, making this room noticeably cooler than the rest of the palace. A boy was standing near one of the windows, but Jon paid him no mind. At the center, seated in an ornate wheeled chair of gilded wood, was the Prince of Dorne.
Doran Martell was not what Jon had expected. After meeting the vibrant, physical presence that was Oberyn, Jon had imagined the ruling prince would be cut from similar cloth. Instead, he found a man seemingly consumed by his own body—swollen joints, atrophied muscles, and pain etched into every line of his face. Jon was reminded of Nymeria's warning about her uncle.
Gods, how does a man like this command armies? Jon wondered. Lord Stark leads from the front, as does Prince Oberyn by all accounts. But this man looks like he hasn't left that chair in years. Can he even walk to the privy chambers on his own?
"Brother," Oberyn greeted warmly, approaching to place a kiss on Doran's cheek. "May I present Jon Snow of Winterfell."
Jon bowed deeply. "Prince Doran. Thank you for your hospitality."
"Straighten, boy," Doran commanded, his voice surprisingly strong despite his frail appearance. "Let me look at you."
Jon complied, meeting the prince's gaze directly. Doran's eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting as he studied Jon's features.
"Your features," Doran remarked after a lengthy silence. "They seem... unusual for a northerner."
"I take after my mother, they say," Jon replied carefully.
"Interesting," Doran mused, his gaze flicking briefly to Oberyn before returning to Jon. "Very interesting indeed."
Why is everyone looking at my eyes? Jon wondered, but did not ask.
"Please, sit," Doran gestured to a chair positioned across from his own. "Oberyn tells me you've never left the North before. How do you find Dorne so far?"
Jon chose his words carefully. "Very different from Winterfell, my prince. Warmer. More... colorful."
A ghost of a smile touched Doran's lips. "A diplomatic answer. You may speak freely here, Jon Snow. Do you find our heat oppressive? Our customs shocking? Our food too spiced for your northern palate?"
"All of the above, except for the food, I haven't had the pleasure of tasting it yet," Jon admitted with a small smile. "Though the heat is the greatest challenge. In the North, one can always add another layer against the cold. Here, I've removed as many layers as propriety allows, yet still feel like I'm being roasted alive."
"Honesty. Good." Doran nodded in approval. "And what of your journey? I understand you came by sea. The Desert Wind is a fine vessel."
"It was my first time at sea," Jon replied. "An experience I won't soon forget."
Oberyn chuckled behind him. "Our young friend discovered he lacks sea legs. Though by the end of the voyage, he seemed to have found his... balance."
The loaded meaning wasn't lost on Jon, whose ears burned at the reference to his activities with Nymeria. Seven hells, does everyone in this family discuss bedroom matters in public?
If Doran caught his brother's innuendo, he gave no sign. "Tell me of your upbringing, Jon Snow. What education have you received? What training?"
"I was raised alongside Lord Stark's trueborn children," Jon explained. "We shared the same lessons in history, mathematics, and languages from Maester Luwin. Ser Rodrik Cassel trained us in swordplay, archery, and riding."
"And were you treated as one of them? Truly?"
Jon hesitated. "Lord Stark treated me with... kindness." He chose the word carefully. "But I was always aware of my status."
"And Lady Stark?" Doran pressed.
What's he after? Jon wondered.
"Lady Stark tolerated my presence," Jon said diplomatically.
"Tolerated," Doran repeated, his expression unreadable. "A cold word."
"The North itself is cold, my prince."
"Indeed." Doran's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on his armrest. "And yet here you are, in the hottest region of the Seven Kingdoms. A curious fostering arrangement."
"I confess, I was surprised by it myself," Jon admitted.
"Were you?" Doran's gaze sharpened. "Did Lord Stark offer no explanation?"
"Only that it would be good for me to see more of the world than Winterfell."
Doran exchanged a look with Oberyn that Jon couldn't interpret. "A father's wisdom, no doubt," the prince said, though something in his tone suggested he didn't believe Jon's account. "But enough of the past. Let us discuss your future in Dorne."
Doran leaned forward slightly, wincing as the movement clearly caused him pain. "You will have chambers in the eastern wing, with a view of the sea. You will train with our master-at-arms to learn Dornish fighting techniques. You will study our history, our customs, our politics. And when you are not training or studying, you will attend court functions as my brother's ward."
"You honor me, Prince Doran," Jon said, genuinely grateful for what seemed generous treatment.
"Honor has nothing to do with it," Doran replied, his voice suddenly cooler. "Blood determines more than most men realize."
The words sent a chill down Jon's spine despite the heat.
"Your blood may be of the North," Doran continued, "but there's something in you that belongs here in Dorne. Something that may flower in our harsh sun better than it ever could in your frozen wasteland."
Does he know? Jon wondered, heart pounding. About my mother? Is that why I'm here?
Oberyn cleared his throat. "Brother, perhaps we shouldn't overwhelm the boy on his first day. He's had a long journey."
Doran waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. You're right, of course." His intense focus shifted away from Jon like a cloud passing from the sun. "You are dismissed, Jon Snow. My son Quentyn will show you to your chambers. Rest. Recover. You are invited to the feast tonight. Tomorrow, your new life begins."
Jon rose and bowed. "Thank you, Prince Doran."
At Doran's signal, a young man who had been standing silently in the corner stepped forward. This must be Prince Quentyn Martell—and Jon immediately understood Nymeria's "frog" reference. The young man had a broad, flat face with protruding eyes that did indeed give him a somewhat amphibian appearance.
"Quentyn, escort our guest to the east wing," Doran instructed his son. "Ensure he has everything he needs."
"Yes, Father," Quentyn replied, his voice tight. It reminded Jon of Lady Catelyn every time she was forced to talk to him.
"Oberyn, a moment," Doran added. "I would speak with you alone."
Jon followed Quentyn from the chamber, the guards closing the heavy doors behind them. They walked in uncomfortable silence down the spiral staircase, Quentyn's movements stiff and his expression closed.
"The east wing is this way," he finally said, gesturing down a corridor with obvious reluctance.
Well, this is going splendidly, Jon thought. I've been in Dorne less than a day and already made an enemy of the prince's son.
"Thank you for showing me the way, Prince Quentyn," Jon offered, trying to ease the tension.
Quentyn shot him a sidelong glance. "I'm sure you'd rather have one of my cousins showing you around. Perhaps Nymeria? I understand you two have become... familiar."
The pointed barb confirmed Jon's suspicion that nothing remained private in this palace. Seven hells, does everyone know about our shipboard activities?
"I'm grateful for any guidance," Jon replied diplomatically.
Quentyn scoffed. "Save your courtesies, Snow. I know why you're here."
"That makes one of us," Jon muttered under his breath.
Quentyn stopped abruptly, turning to face Jon. "You think this is a game? You think you can just arrive from the North and—" He cut himself off, visibly collecting himself. "Never mind. Your chambers are through here. A servant will bring water for bathing. Dinner is at sunset in the small hall."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Jon standing bewildered in the corridor.
Well, that was a warm welcome, Jon thought, wondering what his problem was, as far as he knew, bastards were not seen as lesser in Dorne, so he doubted that Prince Quentyn was angry with him because he was a bastard, so there must be a different reason.
Behind those closed doors in the solar, he imagined the Martell brothers discussing him, dissecting him, planning... what? His future? His purpose here? And whatever that purpose was, it clearly bothered Prince Quentyn greatly.
Lord Stark sent me into a nest of vipers with no warning, no preparation, Jon realized with growing unease. The question is—are they my enemies, or my unexpected allies?
Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: both Prince Doran and his son saw something in Jon Snow that went far beyond a bastard boy from the North, and whatever that something was, it was significant enough to bring him across the continent into the heart of Dorne.
