VII. The Sun in Shadow

Jon sat down with clenched fists as Arthur strapped on a brigandine.

Why was he doing this? There was nothing his uncle had to prove. If people said the Sword of the Morning was past his prime, then let them! Though Jon tried to keep his reaction hidden, the others picked up on it.

Quentyn clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Relax, they're just going to show off."

"Leave him alone, Quentyn," Elia Sand scoffed, "He has good reason to worry, When's the last time you saw D- Ser Dayne leave Starfall? I'd be surprised if he was anything like he used to be."

Jon glowered at her and Quentyn followed suit. After a moment, she backed off and stepped away, pretending to be distracted by a nearby weapon rack."

"Sorry, Jon," Quentyn stared after her, "She's abrasive, but she doesn't truly mean to hurt."

"It's fine, Jon grumbled, only half listening.

The two warriors were circling each other slowly. No blades had clashed yet. No words had been exchanged yet. Arthur Dayne's face was a steely visage of concentration, with lips drawn tight and eyes glinting with focus. But Oberyn Martell was a different story. His eyes swayed from side to side. His face had an easy smile. But their bodies spoke the same language.

When they moved, it was in utter silence. If Jon had not been laser-focused on the two, he would've missed their first step and first clash.

Arthur Dayne's first step bought him within striking range of that vicious spear yet was not threatened. His sword flickered out, Dawn moving as fast as a shaft of light. It slipped past Oberyn's blocking spear as easily as the sunlight flickers through trees. The viper swayed back, avoiding the starmetal by a hair's breadth.

In the next breath the Red Viper swung straight at Arthur's head. Jon nearly yelled out in alarm — the spear wasn't blunted. But Arthur twisted his arms and the blade of the spear caught in Dawn's crossguard. In that instant, Arthur stepped forward again, putting himself inside the spear's reach. Oberyn did not hesitate, not even for a moment. One hand let go of the spear to jab at Arthur's face, the other twisted to bring the spear down towards his ankles.

Twisting his head to the side, Arthur dodged Oberyn's strike and shoulder-checked him. The Red Viper stumbled backwards but caught his footing. But there was no time to make space, as Arthur was upon him again, Dawn swinging. The two met in a blistering display of legwork and bladework, neither giving any more ground.

Then Arthur faltered. Jon felt it before he really saw it. The force of his blows lessened a bit. The rictus of his face contorted a bit. And Oberyn took full advantage of it, stepping forward to land a hefty swing from the staff of the spear right in the middle of Arthur's chest.

The Sword of the Morning staggered back. It wasn't a match-ending blow, just a painful one. Arthur wasn't wearing plate, so he felt the bruises that would soon be forming.

A momentary pause. The two warriors took stock once again. Oberyn spun his spear in his hand until it became a blur, his posture casual. Arthur smiled. "Showoff."

The viper gave casual shrug, and at that moment Dawn stuck forward as Arthur leaned in for a great thrust. Oberyn sidestepped it, but contrary to Jon's expectations Arthur didn't lose his footing. Instead, he converted the momentum into a wide sweep, spinning around in a flash. Oberyn blocked that blow with the haft of his spear, but the white metal bit deep into the wood. Arthur stepped back, wrenching Dawn away. The upper half of the spear clattered to the ground.

"Gods, I hate Valyrian Steel. And whatever's in that sword of yours." Oberyn muttered, holding his arm out, "Another spear!" Elia tossed it before he even finished.

The two of them exchanged blows again, and this time Jon could see it. His eyes were already adjusting to their motion. He kept his eyes on Arthur's footwork, knowing that he might never see such a duel again in his lifetime.

How does a swordsman fight a spearman? Common sense would tell one that the swordsman is disadvantaged in almost every way — speed, reach, and range of motion. Yet Arthur stood there, giving a masterclass in fighting a spearman with a single longsword.

There was no wasted motion. Every step he took either bought him inside the range of the spear, or was to strike at O beryn and prevent him from attacking back with the spear. His arms were always in motion. Slapping away the spear, punching and shoving Oberyn, warding away his opponent's arms and legs.

Though Jon's focus was mostly on his Uncle, he could still appreciate the skill displayed by the Red Viper. He had never seen someone dance in the midst of battle, but what Oberyn Martell did could be called precisely that. Every movement he made flowed in one motion, as if he had never been interrupted. Whenever Arthur blocked his spear, he flowed into another strike from a different angle, as if that had been his plan all along.

For minutes, the two men fought. Oberyn replaced two more spears, and Arthur's breath drew more and more haggard.

Jon could see his uncle leaning to the side, as if to keep himself from bending over. His left hand hung low. How painful his wound must have been, Jon couldn't imagine. Arthur hadn't fought someone of equal skill in a decade.

In fact, the last time he must have fought seriously was… probably against Jon's father, at the Tower of Joy.

In the end, they called the duel a tie. Arthur was on his last legs, though he tried to not let it show. Any longer and Jon might not have been able to stop himself from interceding. But Oberyn had lost five spears, and even Elia Sand, petulant as she was, looked awed. She japed, "Any longer, Father, and we'll run out of spears! The seamstresses will be too busy with the new banners to have time for you."

Quentyn and Jon grimaced in unison.

As Arthur stepped out of the ring, Jon saw his steps wavering. He was at his uncle's side in an instant, propping him up. He offered to take Dawn, but Arthur shook him away.

One hand gripping Dawn tightly, Arthur saluted Oberyn. "It was a worthy match, Prince."

"The same to you." his eyes narrowed. "Are you well, Dayne?"

Arthur forced a chuckle. "As well as I could be after so many bouts. It's nothing a few hours' rest won't fix.

"That makes me glad to hear." Oberyn answered, then turned to his nephew. "So, Quentyn-"

The moment Oberyn's attention was turned away, Arthur whispered to Jon. "Help me to my rooms."

Jon braced his Uncle all the way across the gardens. They made it to their apartments, but it was a close thing. Just outside, two of the Dayne men stood guard. Jon called out to them as soon as they were in sight.

"Wyck! Towler! Help me out here!"

"Lord Dayne!" They were quick to move. They carried Arthur between them and deposited him in his bed. Arthur hissed in pain and relief.

"Are you- should we call for the Maester, my lord?" Wyck asked.

"No, no. I will be fine, thank you. Return to your posts." Arthur answered them before Jon could say anything.

Jon waited until the guards had left. "That was too much, Uncle! Why did you agree to the match?"

Arthur didn't respond for a while. He sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling. His ragged breathing slowly stabilized. "I didn't have a choice. Fetch me the chest."

From his uncle's gesturing arm, Jon realized which chest exactly. The case inside which Dawn was kept. He bought it over and put it on the bed next to his uncle. Instead of simply placing the sheathed sword inside, Arthur sat up with a groan, and slowly set to cleaning the sword.

A few minutes passed. Jon watched. At last, his patience failed. "What do you mean by that, Uncle?"

"Jon, you— no. Jon, I've protected you since you were born. Not with this blade, but with my name itself."

"Your name…"

"Do you think anyone would dare spirit you away, if it meant having to face the Sword of the Morning? Everything, for you, Jon."

Jon took those words in quietly. "I- I'm not worth all that, uncle. Please… don't scare me like that again. Or I'll send a raven to Mother rightaway!" With that last line, he forced a bit of brevity into his voice. Arthur chuckled and pulled him in for a hug.

"Stop worrying, lad. You're far too young for that."


"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Quentyn whispered furtively in Jon's ear for the fourth time that morning.

"We'll be fine, Quentyn." Jon muttered. But at the same time, looking at the buildings around him, Jon felt a speck of doubt. He gripped the dagger he had snuck out under his cloak.

"I'm telling you, there's another seer near the high street. That's safer, if you really want your fortune told or something. This part of Planky Town isn't safe for us." Quentyn muttered in his ear.

"But it's safe for them?" Jon pointed at a trio of children, one or two namedays younger than him, tussling near an alley. "Besides, Deete asked me to visit his grandmother. The rest is just a bonus."

"They belong. Look at them. They're not wearing fine leather cloaks with barely a mark."

"You picked these cloaks!"

"Where would I find old, ratty cloaks? We don't have beggars at the water gardens!"

Despite his hesitation, Quentyn followed Jon's lead. It was the day they were about to depart Dorne, though the ship Arthur had chartered would not be ready to set sail for several hours yet. He had begged those hours from his uncle, so that they might explore Planky Town.

Of course, giving their guards the slip wasn't hard at all. What was hard was finding Old Melia, the… witch? The woman Deete the Boatsman had told him to visit.

If only the boat boy had explained himself!

Normally, Jon wouldn't have taken such a risk. Lemonshade was a dark and grimy collection of huts and decks built with salvaged boat-wood upon stilts on the banks of the Greenblood, perpetually in darkness with Castle Lemonwood looming directly over it. It was noon, but hardly any light shone upon them. The whole area was darker and more cramped than any place Jon had been to. The houses on the to their left and right were so close together there was scarcely space for three men to walk abreast.

Decrepit hawkers peered at him from behind dirty curtains, clutching their wares tightly. Beggars reached out towards him forcing him to swerve away. The wooden deck below him felt like it would rot away and break at any moment. There was an indeterminate smell that had Jon on the verge of stuffing his nose shut.

The two boys turned into another street that opened to a square. Here a canvas was drawn across above, hooked between the surrounding buildings, making it a roof of sorts. It was crowded and cramped. It was some kind of market or winesink, Jon assumed.

"Jon." Quentyn tapped him on the shoulder furiously, "Where is this witch of yours?"

"I-..."

"You don't know."

Jon nodded mutely. It was only now occurring to him that he had no idea where Old Melia might be. There were scores of people milling around here, sitting in corners, eating and drinking and arguing. Not one of them looked sorcerous. Or reputable.

"Great. Do you want to ask around?" Quentyn muttered. "Maybe that fellow over there, with a hundred scars, wiping blood off his sword? Or that toothless girl licking those bird skulls? Or maybe that old man humping the wall will have answers?"

Grimacing, Jon shushed Quentyn. "I get it. Ugh, I'm sorry. There has to be someone around here we could ask."

"Maybe we should go back? Ask around in the better parts of town?"

"We don't have enough time. Who knows if they'll know."

Quentyn sighed in frustration, leaning against the wall. Jon scanned the square for the least intimidating person to ask. No one caught his eye. Everyone seemed engrossed in whatever they were doing, paying no attention to the child in the corner.

"Boys, boys, boys."

Jon froze at the soft, sultry voice behind him. He knew that voice. His first thought was that he was going to get caught. So he tried to run, and found that he couldn't.

"Good catch, Garin. I'm hurt you'd try to run from me, little brother. And I see you roped the Dayne boy into whatever you're up to."

"Your grace." Jon greeted. Garin let go of his shoulders and stepped back, arms crossed. Jon recognized his build, with those broad shoulders and tanned skin and dark features. He had to be an Orphan of the Greenblood. Next to him, in garments that fit the environs far better than theirs, was Princess Arianne Martell.

"Wh-" Quentyn sputtered, "You shouldn't be here, sister!"

Arianne scoffed. "Oh, and you should? What do you know, Quentyn? This must be your first time here, pattering around like lost sheet, the two of you. That cloak's barely a disguise."

"You-" But Arianne shushed him.

"Ah, it's too crowded here. Bring them over, Garin." She commanded, then turned and headed down a side alley. Before the Rhoynar boy could pick him up, Jon followed after her. They passed down a series of alleys, still in the dimness of Lemonshade. Left, right, left, left, and so on until Jon was completely lost. But Arianne seemed to know exactly where she was going, as she led them into a building.

It was surprisingly clean and brightly lit inside. It was a tavern. The room was lit by candles and over a dozen people sat at different tables, eating loudly. Jon's stomach growled — he'd skipped the midday meal.

"She joins us at last!" A handsome man with light hair at one of the tables called out, at the sight of Arianne. "And who has she brought?"

"I caught these two creeping around. Gods know what they were doing here." She slid into the bench next to the man. He wrapped his arms around her and she laughed, leaning into him. Jon blinked and they were locked in a kiss.

Quentyn stared, mouth agape.

Only then did Jon notice the others seated at the table. They were vaguely familiar, though only just barely. "Dalt? Andrey Dalt?"

Andrey Dalt had been one of Allyria's suitors years and years ago. He had a lot more weight on then, Jon recalled. Now he was slimmer, though not as handsome as the man Arianne was occupied by. "Not Dalt the Dolt now, eh? Good to see you… Jon, was it?" He grinned widely.

Jon winced.

Next to him was a girl he didn't recognize. But those freckles were unmistakable. "Lady Santagar?" He ventured.

"Where the hells do you think we are? Call me Sylva." She said, raising a tankard to her mouth. "My, I never thought our little princeling would be joining us for drinks here."

Quentyn barely acknowledged her. She followed his gaze, then added: "Since Daemon's too busy, I'll do the honours. That's Daemon Sand, your uncle's squire. He's a fine one with a sword, one of the finest in al Dorne, or so Arianne tells me." She laughed huskily

Even Jon couldn't mistake the meaning of that. Quentyn flushed red.

"Did you follow Arianne here?" Andrey suddenly asked the younger Martell. "Never thought you were a nosy one."

Quentyn started, but Jon answered first. "It was me, actually. He just came to help me."

Sylva raised an eyebrow. "What business would a coddled boy on his first trip out of home have in this corner of Planky Town?"

It was his turn to flush in embarrassment. "Second," he muttered.

"Second trip. right" The older girl accepted the correction without hesitation, a hint of sarcasm in her response. She pushed her tankard towards Jon.

The liquid inside was dark, but smelt pleasantly sweet. It wasn't wine or cider, that much Jon could tell. Gathering his courage, he took a big gulp.

"What is this?" He asked

"Spiced Rum." She glanced down. "You drank too much."

Too much? The rum had been thick and sweet, with a smell he couldn't recognize. There was just a slight heat at the back of his throat from the spices. It was pleasant, really.

The pleasantness faded. The heat was growing, Jon realized. It swept across him like a blaze in a field of wheat. First it was at the back, ravaging his throat, then it swept all the way to the tip of his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and it burned so badly. It was like his entire mouth was on fire. He bent over, clutching at his neck.

After long minutes, it subsided a little. "Seven hells. That's poison!" Jon spat.

"This is the spiciest rum there is in Planky Town. I've seen grown men rolling on the floor. You did a good job." She smiled and raised a new tankard, bumping it against his. As her freckles spread across her face, Jon was suddenly struck by how pretty she was.

"You're Jon Sand? Arthur Dayne's nephew?" It was Daemon Sand, who had extricated himself from Arianne's face.

"Aye." Jon nodded. "It's good to meet you, Daemon."

Jon felt Daemon's calculating gaze looking him up and down. "You have a few more years to go yet. I would've enjoyed matching swords with someone trained by the Sword of the Morning."

"Of course. But I think someone else wants to go first." Jon put a hand on Quentyn's shoulder, who had eyes only for Arianne. Eyes smoldering with anger.

"Does Father know?" Quentyn asked in a low voice.

"That I gave my maidenhead to Daemon? Of course."

"What? And he allowed it?"

Arianne scoffed. "As if he even cared. All he said was this: that I may not wed him."

"Of course not!" Quentyn shot back. "You're a match for a lord paramount's son. You're the Heiress of Dorne-"

In an instant, the mood changed. Sylva's smile died. Andrey frowned. Garin took a step forward. Only Daemon Sand remained unperturbed, but Jon noted his hands were under the table. He could draw steel before anyone knew. Suddenly, the camaraderie from moments ago was gone, and every single one of Jon's instincts screamed at him to get away. But Garin would catch either of them before they could run.

He looked at the others for support. Only Dalt caught his eye, and shook his head imperceptibly, as if to say 'don't interfere'.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity. Jon held his breath. He itched to jump out of his chair, to do something, or say something. But he couldn't.

So he watched, petrified. Arianne leaned in close to her brother. "Am I?"

Quentyn glanced around in surprise and fear. "What-? Why wouldn't you be? This is Dorne."

"I'm no fool, Quentyn. You think I don't know what Father has been planning? He hates me, you know. He despises me, despises me enough to usurp me. You will have Dorne, and I am to be chained to a lonely castle and some foul old bastard."

"I- wh- what're- what are you talking about? It's absurd. I don't-"

Fast as a snake, Arianne's hand swept down and up. Steel glinted in the candlelight as she held a dagger before Quentyn's neck. Inches away.

Jon stared in horror. His hand crept to his own dagger. Could he get it out in time? Even if he did, what good would it do, surrounded by Arianne's people? His eyes locked onto Arianne's weapon. The metal glistened. Poison, or simply oil?

"W-What are you doing? Sister, stop, please!" Quentyn blubbered.

"Imagine my surprise when you walk straight into my arms without a care. Maybe I should claim my rightful place right here, right now." She twisted the dagger idly in her hands. But Jon could see the slightest tremor in her hands.

"You- you'd be a kinslayer." The words came out of him unbidden. "You couldn't get away with it."

Arianne's eyes flickered to Jon. She mused. "Perhaps. Or my beloved here could do it instead."

"I-"

"He's your brother!" Jon hissed back. "You cannot be serious."

"But I am." Arianne looked directly at him. She was beautiful and terrifying in equal measures. "By the laws of Dorne and Nymeros Martell, I am the Heiress to Sunspear. Yet Father writes to Yronwood, speaking of Quentyn ruling Dorne. Not an idle thought, but a conspiracy years in the making. It is plain, that he means to cast me aside."

"You don't have any proof. If he wanted Quentyn to rule, don't you think he would have kept him at Sunspear?" Jon protested.

"The Yronwoods are second only to Martell. Anders could teach him to rule just as well." Andrey Dalt said. "And at Yronwood, he's far from harm."

"Dayne. Yronwood. Allyrion. Wells." Sylva ticked off the names. "Those are your friends. All great houses of Dorne. They would back Quentyn's claim against Arianne. Isn't it so?"

Jon shook his head. "There's no such plan."

"Of course there isn't." This time, Jon saw the mockery clear as day.

He glanced around the table. Could he run? Could he save Quentyn? He had no chance in a real fight. He gripped his dagger tightly, hand shaking.

Turn and stab Garin, he thought. Pull Quentyn away. Throw the knife at Andrey- no, Daemon. The tankard at Andrey. Then run.

It was a poor plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with.

Before he could make a decision to follow through, he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

"You're late, cousin!" Arianne called out upon seeing her.

Tyene Sand paused for a moment to look across the table. "Garin," she called out. "Two steps to the right, please, or else the Dayne boy might really put his knife in your belly." Jon groaned, the last flickers of hope snuffed out.

One more, and a shrewd one at that. There was no chance of escape, Jon knew then. He took his hand off his knife and placed rested it atop the table.

"That's a good boy, dear." Tyene patted Jon on the head and elegantly swept into the bench next to him. Once seated, she sighed. "Arianne, you cannot do this."

"Give me one good reason why not. Tyene, it could be done tonight."

"If Doran really means to pass you over, then Trystane will be next. Could you do the same to him? This is not the way, Arianne."

"Yes." Quentyn desperately nodded, having regained his voice. "She's right. I swear I have no intention of usurping you, sister. I swear on the old gods and the new I have no idea what my father has been writing to Yronwood about."

"You really didn't know?"

"No!" Quentyn nearly shouted.

"I won't let him do that to you. Dorne is your birthright and you should have it. I'll get to the bottom of this now."

Arianne lowered the dagger and contemplated those words. "Father will ship me back to Sunspear for another year soon enough, I imagine. If you want to act-"

"I'll confront him. I'll do it as soon as we return to the Water Gardens."

A moment of silence passed. Arianne sat back, leaning into Daemon's arms once again.

Andrey Dalt stood up. "Brother's asked for me later today. If we're done with this, I'd best not tarry." With a measured look at Jon and Quentyn, he added, "Apologies for the… trouble." He pushed his own half-finished drink towards Quentyn. "For the nerves. It's not as spicy as what Sylva drinks."

"That really parched my throat." Sylva groaned, taking another swig. "For what it's worth, Quentyn, I don't bear you any ill will myself. If you're telling the truth, that is."

"R-right. I am!" Quentyn drank.

"And were you really going to stab Garin, Jon?"

Jon nodded mutely.

"Ballsy. And then?"

"Throw the knife at Daemon." Jon answered with a nod at Daemon. For his part, the squire looked suitably impressed. "I'll take it as a compliment." He said with a laugh.

"Nothing for me?" Andrey stopped mid-stride.

Jon tapped the tankard.

"What about me?" Sylva took another gulp.

"Um-"

"Don't you dare count me out just because I'm a woman. Unless…" She licked the rum from her lips. "Fallen for me already? Couldn't bear to hurt a beautiful maiden?"

"He was ready to kill all of you or die trying. Arthur Dayne truly raised a warrior, and loyal to Quentyn too." Tyene said. "I see I came at the right moment."

"As am I." Garin said, softly, taking Andrey's seat. "I'm Garin, no great name."

"I'm sorry about that." Jon told Garin. "Wanting to stab you, that is. Are we… friends, then?"

"No." Arianne shook her head. "Not until Quentyn lives up to his end of the promise."

The prince looked up with a start. He'd been lost in thought. "I will. I told you, I will get to the bottom of this."

"Then we can be." Arianne finished.

There was a moment of silence. No one knew quite what to say, after all that.

Abruptly, the princess stood to her feet, so quickly that the bench scraped loudly against the floor. "I need… some time." she said, and went up the stairs. Daemon seemed taken aback at that. Without a word, he followed behind her up the stairs.

Jon noticed Tyene and Sylva exchange a glance. They seemed to share some unspoken words, heading up after Arianne. It was now just the three of them at the table.

"So," Garin began. "Why were the two of you here in the first place?"


"Old Melia doesn't take many visitors." Garin explained as he led the way deeper into Lemonshade. "I don't know if she'll even speak to you."

"I still have to try." Jon answered.

"All this, because a boatsman asked you to pass on a message to his grandmother?"

That was Jon's cover story. Explaining that he'd felt something weird in the water would be too far fetched. It was the story he'd fed Quentyn too, though he wished he could tell his friend the truth.

"Here." Garin paused in front of an unremarkable house. It was a shack built out of what seemed like torn apart pieces of a boat, like all the other dwellings around. "We'll be right outside." He said, motioning for Quentyn to wait.

"Right. I'll be back soon."

The inside of the house was almost pitch black. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the faint glow of a single candle burning low at the center of the room. In that light, he could make out the dim shapes of shelves and jars on the walls, baskets and pots stacked up by the sides. Old, lumpy clothes hung on a rope. An unlit pit and a cooking pot in the corner. There was a mat on the far side of the room, and on the mat lay the oldest woman Jon had ever seen.

She looked like she would crumble to dust at any moment. Jon couldn't even tell if she was awake or asleep, alive or dead.

As he stepped into the middle of the room, Old Melia moved.

She moved like a woman fifty years younger. One moment she was sitting up, and the next she was right in front of Jon, her skeletal face almost touching his. Jon shrank back in fright.

"Hmph. Sit, boy, sit." The old woman stepped back and sat down next to the candle. "Old Melia doesn't receive many visitors these days. Who are you?"

"I'm Jon, ma'am. I-"

"Jon, you say. I disagree. You are more. Who are you?"

"What-? My name is Jon. Jon D- Sand. I was born to Ashara Dayne of Starfall. I-"

"Answer the bloody question, boy."

Jon suddenly felt a surge of anger. "Are you deaf? I already told you my name-"

The woman spat on the candle. It flicked out, extinguished. Before Jon could react, she reached over, bony hands grabbing him by the jaws. He tried to cry out, but his mouth was closed. She held him, peering at his face. "You are but a child. Small wonder."

She released him.

Jon scrabbled back, trying to get away from the crone. This wasn't worth it, he decided. She was senile, or mad, or something. But before he could get to his feet, she asked, "That's who you are. But why are you here?"

Could he really leave without the answers? He had suffered too much today to just stop short. Not wanting to waste time, he told his story in the fewest words possible. "I travelled on the Greenblood in the company of two Orphans. Deete and Drylle. But then I did something I can't explain. I… touched the water. Without actually touching it, I mean. I rocked the boat and nearly fell aboard."

"Ahh!" Old Melia exclaimed. "And so Deete sends you my way. Lazy, ungrateful boy, that one. Come here, child. Come."

Jon hesitated, remembering her manic behaviour just moments ago. Slowly, he approached her. "Deete has Mother Rhoyne's blessings. You and I do, too." She said.

"What do you mean, blessings?

"Ach. It is impossible to tell. I must show." She rose with that alarming alacrity and brought one of the pots to the center. It was filled with water.

"Feel it." She commanded.

It was strange, but Jon obeyed. He reached out, only for Melia to smack his arm. "Not like that, child. Feel it."

"I don't understand. Feel it without feeling it?"

She smacked him in the head. Her limbs were surprisingly strong. "You already felt it once. Do it again. I will stir. Then it will be easier. Do it, then I will tell."

Felt it once already? Then Jon remembered. That sensation, all the way back on the boat. When he sat with Deete at the prow. He remembered the heat of the sun, the noises and birds and more. He remembered them fading away.

"Nothing, child. Find nothing. Then find water."

There was none of that here. No sun, no heat, no noise, no light. It was dark, deep and peaceful. It was the nothing she mentioned. No sound, save the gentle slosh of the water that Old Melia stirred. Jon sank into that gentle tune.

He remembered the river. There had been a current in it, a thread, a solidity. That water had already been shaped. But this water was formless. It was gentle to touch and feel, and he felt that he could move it. Like clay? No, not clay. It slipped through his fingers, for it was not solid enough.

How to make it more solid? Jon grasped it and twisted it around his hands to hold it better. That seemed to work, so he twisted it again, and again, and again. Now it was like a thread, a rope. He pulled. Like a tongue of flame it leapt up. He felt the water splash against his face. He tried to grasp it again, and lost the thread.

"Not like that!" She slapped his arm again. "Pay attention. I want to go back to sleep."

Jon felt the water shift before he put any effort. After a moment, he realised it wasn't his doing. It was the crone's. He sank into the water again and felt that structure he had once before felt. Strong and rigid, yet still simply water. This time, he didn't try to touch it or anything. He just watched. It flowed sinuously, yet could bend and twist and roll.

Then the water rose. Out of the pot a single tongue of water, like a cord the width of his finger, rose up snaking into the air. It was too dark for Jon to see it, but he sensed it.

Old Melia tutted. "Enough, child. You felt it. The water, yes?"

Jon stared at the bowl. "Y-yes. How?"

"Time. You had it nearly. Keep your mind on it. Shape it proper first, then shift it."

It was magic. Jon's heart fluttered with something — an elation. He was witnessing sorcery the likes of which he had only read about in stories of legendary heroes. The dragons were dead, but magic was not!

"How is this possible? Wh-Why can we do this? Why can't others?"

"What do I know of that? They say it is Mother Rhoyne's blessing. Maybe it is." The crone grunted. "I only help with the doing. Not understanding. Find some scholar or loreman. Many in the East."

East meant Essos. Jon knew the traditions of that land were radically different from Westeros. If magic was not common in Westeros, then he would have to go east.

"What do I do now?" Jon asked, still stunned.

"Start with one tongue. Water, maybe others. Then many. Then more." She instructed. "Learn to weave. Learn to bind. Do as the Rhoynar of Old."

"Others? There is more to magic than water?"

"I don't know, child." Old Melia answered gruffly. "Maybe Air. Maybe Fire. In the past, there were many peoples. First Men and Forest Children. Andals and Dragonlords. They had magic too, but not Water. Now go. I wish for sleep."

"What?" Jon said, startled. "You aren't going to teach me anything more?"

"Teach what? You can touch water already. You have talent. Learn it yourself. I am too old to hold hands."

She shooed Jon out of the hut. But even as he walked back into the street, his mind was still spinning.

Would they know more at the Citadel at Oldtown? But he was headed in the opposite direction from it! Plus Maester Lycran would always say that all the magic in the old stories was gone now, and he had clearly been wrong.

But in the North were the First Men, and the Old Gods they worshipped. There was the Wall too, and rumours of fantastic creatures behind it. Maybe he could learn more about the magic of the First Men, or even the Children of the Forest! Yes, that was a good plan.

For now, he would practice with water, he decided.

There would be plenty of it at sea, after all.


It's amazing how when you need to write something, instead of working on your grad school SoP you end up working on your fics.

Honestly, this entire chapter was a bit of a shocker. The scene with Arianne was not planned at all. It was supposed to be a short conversation on the streets, before Garin guides them away. But Arianne letting them go so quickly didn't feel natural, and one thing led to another, and now Doran's whole plan may yet go up in flames. May.

Up next, in Chapter VIII - Frozen Seas, Jon picks up his sea legs.