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“Good evening, fellow Lannister men-at-arms. The queen has instructed me to deliver a message of woe to a pair of prisoners held in the Black Cells. Where might I find Sansa and Arya Stark?”

Peering through the slits of his helm, Jon anxiously chewed the inside of his cheek as the soldiers looked up from their dice game. He had little experience with such dishonorable ventures as deception, impersonation, and infiltration, so he expected to earn a spear to the gut any second—but for his sisters, the risk was worth it.

“The Stark girls?” said one of the men. He scratched his scruffy jowls thoughtfully. “They’re down in the lower dungeon where the queen keeps her least favorite prisoners, the ones she really wants to suffer, more than the rest—you know how Cersei is. Anyways, you’ll need to be taking a left at the end of this corridor, then a right, two lefts, head down the staircase, make three rights and follow the curve to a second set of stairs, then take another three rights, two lefts, walk down the long sloping ramp, jump over the sewer drain, then one last right, two lefts, and you’re there! Got all that?”

Jon waited for the guards to burst into laughter. Or for one of them to identify him as a spy and skewer him on the spot. Either would have been preferable to trying to remember those directions.

“Yes. Of course. Every word.” Gulping heavily, he gave them all a polite nod and started off towards the entrance to the Black Cells. He frantically recited the instructions to keep them fresh in his mind, having little time for mistakes or delays.

“Hey, you—stop!”

Jon stopped.

“Yes?”

Hand on the pommel of his sword, he slowly turned to find the scruffy guard standing at the mouth of the corridor, spear in one hand and helmet cradled under his other arm.

“Let me deliver the message for you, friend. The rats down there are as big as cats!”

With a forced, dry chuckle, Jon shook his head. “Thank you, but I like a good fight now and then.”

“Suit yourself!” the guard laughed, offering a wave of farewell.

Breathing in a sigh of relief, Jon plucked a torch off the wall and faced the long, dark maw of the Red Keep’s notorious dungeon.

Despite the earlier implication, he’d had no shortage of fighting on his trek south: Lannisters and Freys, Boltons and Umbers, sellswords and wildmen. Some he needed information from, but many were traitors deserving of death anyway—that much was convenient, at least. Truthfully, he’d kill just about anyone to free Sansa and Arya.

He came to his first turn at the end of the corridor, taking a left past the corner cell.

“Mother?” the occupant moaned, voice thin and raspy. “Is that you?”

“Unlikely,” Jon mumbled back.

At the next junction, he took a right, then two lefts, crossed paths with a skeptical gaoler who asked his name, cut the gaoler’s throat, appropriated the dead man’s keys, made his way down the staircase, turned right three times and followed the curve to a second set of stairs, stumbled upon a rat as big as a cat which he punted into a bottomless chasm, took three more rights, two lefts, walked down the long sloping ramp, forgot about the sewer drain and stepped in some peasant’s excreted dinner, made one last left, two rights, and finally stopped at the wrought iron bars of a cell.

Hefting the torch, he peered into the shadows, clearing his throat to announce his presence. Any moment, he expected to hear Arya’s cheery voice calling his name, see her face bright with glee, and he would open the door to embrace her, sobbing as they found solace from all they’d lost.

Or he’d see Sansa, which would be fine too.

“Anyone in here?” he whispered. Jangling the keys for good measure, he tried the first one in the lock—then paused as he heard a quiet groan, one which didn’t sound like either of his sisters.

“What do you think, Lannister prick?” spat a thick accent. A tangled curtain of inky black hair took shape in the darkness, matted curls shifting and falling as the prisoner turned onto her side and threw her legs over the bunk. “The rats are still scuttling about, so it can’t be morning yet. Has Cersei finally decided to decorate the battlements with my head?”

Her husky, hissing voice lingered in the dank air of the dungeon as the woman stepped into view: big dark eyes shaded by long lashes, smooth skin glowing bronze beneath the torchlight, full lips curved into a disdainful sneer. She was stunningly beautiful, undeniably Dornish, and positively whip-tongued; considering Cersei’s unforgiving nature, as well as her particular hatred for Dorne and any lady prettier than herself, Jon didn’t have much trouble imagining how this woman came to be imprisoned in the Black Cells.

“You’re not Arya. Or Sansa,” he keenly observed. “Sorry to wake you. I’ll leave you be.”

He started back the way he’d come, mentally retracing his steps for the wrong turn. This detour cost him precious time—further delays would put their escape in serious jeopardy.

“Is that truly all you came here for?”

Gritting his teeth, Jon stopped and glanced over his shoulder, finding the prisoner studying him through the bars of her cell.

“I’m looking for someone else. Go back to sleep.”

“You must be lost.”

“Not lost, just new—a fresh recruit from Lannisport, as it happens. I stepped in some shit and turned left instead of right.”

“Perhaps I can help you find your way? It would be but a token gesture for an inept whelp such as yourself!”

“Erm…thank you, but that’s unnecessary.”

She began to hum ‘The Rains of Castamere,’ which Jon accepted as her capitulation. Her voice had grown entirely too loud, possibly echoing down the adjacent corridors and, with his luck, attracting unwanted attention. That was the last thing he needed, especially with the dead gaoler upstairs waiting to be found.

“I’m starting to think you’re not really a guard at all!”

He winced when she called after him, again stopping in his tracks—but this time, he swiftly wheeled about and marched back to her cell door.

“Keep your voice down, understand?”

“I’m feeling rather inspired, actually. I may start singing!”

“No! Do not sing, please.”

“Why not?”

“Uh, well…because the other prisoners are sleeping.”

“Why should you care if any of us get a good night’s rest? We’re in the Black Cells! Unless, of course…”

“Unless what?” he pressed her, unsettled by her smug, knowing smirk.

“…you’re merely impersonating a Lannister man. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“What makes you so certain?”

She crossed her arms under her chest, tilting her head cheekily. “You’re too polite, too dubious, too jittery—and not least of all, the guards always ask me to lift the hem of my dress when they walk by.”

A few moments passed before Jon understood her meaning, and he briefly contemplated making the same request to salvage his cover. (Although her stained, rough-spun dress draped shapelessly down to her calves, he could tell that the prisoner was no stalk of grain underneath.)

“And do you?” he asked, his curiosity leaping in front of his propriety.

“What do you think?” she scoffed. “I’m not a whore!”

“How am I supposed to know?” He gave a self-absolving snort and stepped away. “There are characters of all sorts down here. Regardless, I really must be going. As a loyal agent of our illustrious queen, I have a number of treacherous tasks to carry out before—”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she snapped, curling her finger to beckon him near. “I know you’re not a guard—so come back here, take off that hideous helmet, and release me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll scream so loud ears will bleed from Oldtown to Qarth.”

Mumbling a curse under his breath, Jon started to do as she asked. He lifted the helmet off his head and tossed it onto a pile of dirty straw, facing her eye-to-eye for the first time.

“Happy?”

“I’m getting there,” she mused, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “You’re younger than I expected…and quite handsome—rugged and pretty. Let me out of here and I’ll give you a kiss, hm? I have a rich father who would lavishly reward you for delivering me from the capital. All you have to do is—”

“Alright, listen.” Holding up his hand, he briskly cut her off, watching her expression sour. “I’m sorry you’re here, and I’m sure you don’t deserve to be. If you want the truth, I came for my sisters. They’re locked up somewhere in the Black Cells. But if I start releasing every common prisoner in the whole dungeon, we’ll never make it out.”

“You believe me to be a ‘common prisoner,’ do you?” Nose scrunched with indignation, she cocked her head to the side.

“You don’t strike me as a murderer or raper, so yes. Besides not being a whore, I can’t speak to your character or your circumstances.”

“I thought you were making a jest before! Do you actually not know who I am?” Brows furrowed, she regarded him with flabbergasted disbelief, gripping the bars.

Jon shrugged. “Should I?”

“Indeed you should!” She shifted her weight back onto her heels, planting both hands on her trim waist to shape the woolen dress around her figure. “You’ve never ogled me at a tourney before?”

This was his turn for offense. “Ogle? I was raised in Winterfell. We show our ladies respect—and we don’t ogle them, even at tourneys.”

“Gods, a Stark man!” Smacking herself across the face, she groaned into her palm. “That certainly explains a number of things. I don’t suppose you recognize these at all?”

She gestured to her own chest, which left Jon even more confused.

“Why would I? Do they have names?”

“The Red Mountains. Sunspear’s Summits. The Great Domes of Dorne. Any of those ring a bell?”

“Can’t say they do.”

“I can’t believe it’s come to this…” she grumbled, ducking her head and peering sheepishly at him through her tangled curtain of hair. “Bards across Westeros have been known to sing of my beauty. I assume you’ve heard their most popular ballad…

“‘Round and ripe like an autumn peach
Sandy cheeks on a Dornish beach
Gods shaped her like an hourglass
Sing a song for our fav’rite lass

“‘Udders that put a heif’r to shame
They’re the crown of our lady’s fame
Curly black hair, flows and ripples
Large and dark are—’”

“You’re Princess Arianne Martell?”

“It’s always the end of the second stanza,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “But yes, that would be me. What boon can the heiress of Dorne offer you to deliver her from King’s Landing?”

Cringing, Jon averted his eyes. His sense of honor had already declared war on his practicality—the mere thought of leaving her behind to inevitably be executed by Cersei gnawed at him, but bringing her along put Sansa and Arya at too great a risk. Escaping the capital would become impossible, dooming them all to their father’s grisly fate.

“Your Highness, you must understand…” he sighed, voice heavy with the weight of his words. “I’m here for my sisters. The boat I have waiting on the beach is small, scarcely enough to fit three people. And a fourth passenger, especially an…um…”

“A Dornish girl with udders that put a heifer to shame and a bum round and ripe like an autumn peach?”

“Those are the bard’s words, not mine…but I cannot see how we would make it out of Blackwater Bay otherwise. I’m truly sorry.”

“Damn your pity and your common sense—I’m not done yet!” Behind the bars, she rapped her fingers on her hips pensively, scrutinizing him. “My Maiden-given charms should have gotten me out of here already, but you just had to be a fucking Stark man, didn’t you?”

“Not my choice, I’m afraid. Ned Stark is my father.”

Arianne paused for a moment as she worked through the necessary deductions. “And that would make you a Snow?”

“Jon Snow.”

“Very well, Jon Snow...” He could see the gears turning in her head like those at Wintertown mill, grinding out a scheme as fine as flour. “…in Dorne, we concern ourselves little with the traditions of bastardy—most of my cousins are Sands, and they’re treated no worse than your sisters are in the North—so how would you like a highborn lady as your wife? It’s not every day you have the opportunity to rescue one from the Black Cells.”

He recoiled, shaking his head in disgust. “What makes you think I would ever want to marry one of my sisters?! Do I look like a Targaryen to you?! There is no viler a thought than—”

“I’m talking about myself, fool!”

“You’re…oh. You mean…?”

“Yes. Fit my ripe, round peach in your stupid little boat, and I’ll be your bride. Do we have a bargain?”

The dungeons were cool, but Jon could feel a bead of sweat crawling down his brow. All at once, a new front had opened, his honor now reinforced by a less noble but decidedly more stirring motivation. He never expected to marry, much less wed a highborn lady, and never in his wildest dreams did he wed a highborn lady whose beauty was the subject of bawdy ballads. Beyond that, he found her sharp wit and dauntless audacity as attractive as anything concealed beneath her baggy prisoner’s garb. To have such a woman as his wife, the mother of his children, tugged at his deepest longings.

What he could not stomach, though, was acquiring a wife through such a transaction—where all the leverage rested on his side of the bars.

“Your Highness is more beautiful than any bastards’ words can describe, but I would never extort you for your hand—or for gold or lands or whatever else you may offer. If my word means anything, I swear I will not abandon you. Even if I cannot fit you in our boat, I won’t leave the Black Cells without unlocking yours first.”

She nodded in acceptance, not at all satisfied, but still understanding. “So be it, Jon Snow. The gods have been generous to me before. If I have to place my fate in their hands again, I will.”

A joke prickled on his tongue, and given how dour she looked, he could not help himself.

“Are you so certain they didn’t send me?”

Her lips curved into a smile, sweet and coy. “With a face carved by the Mother, you might be. I suppose a brave, comely boy rescuing a round-arsed princess from a dark dungeon would make for quite a song of its own.”

“If you say so,” Jon chuckled, stepping away. He took one last private moment to admire the lovely face eyeing him playfully through the bars, knowing that the next time he saw her would be in parting. “I’ll fetch my sisters swiftly. For your own safety, stay here until I return.”

“I thought I might search for any other handsome bastards wandering about the dungeon…but if you do insist…”

With a huff of laughter, Jon turned away and corrected his original course: two lefts and a right, bringing him back to the sewer drain, then a right and two lefts from there.

As he traversed the corridors, Arianne weighed heavily on his mind. She sounded so sure that the queen would mount her head on the walls sooner rather than later; if her outlook truly was so dire, releasing her into King’s Landing would, at best, leave her to make more risky offers for passage out of the city—this time to men less scrupulous and honorable than himself. Clever as she was, her streak of naivety might land her as a slave in a Lysene pleasure house or on the auction block in Volantis. Not a comforting thought.

“Who’s there?”

A quiet, meek voice in the dark drew him out of his brooding. He rushed to the bars and raised his torch, eyes frantically searching the cell interior.

“Arya?”

“Jon!” She bounded out of the shadows and threw out her arms to reach for him through the iron. “I knew you’d come for us! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

“I came as soon as I could. Everything’s going to be alright now—I promise.”

While he tried the keys, Arya sniffled noisily—he couldn’t tell if she was giddy to the point of tears or simply overwhelmed by the prospect of freedom, but it hardly mattered. When he flung open the bars, she flew into his arms.

“I’m sorry about Father,” he murmured into her greasy hair. “And Robb. And Lady Catelyn.”

“We’ll make the Lannisters pay,” she growled. “The Freys and Boltons, too.”

“We will. Every single one of them.” He drew back, wiping her nose with his sleeve, and mustered a smile. “But first, let’s free Sansa and get out of this wretched city.”

“She’s this way. I can always hear her stupid mewling after dinner when the rats come out.” Arya took the lead, guiding him along the corridor. Many things had changed, but evidently her disdain for Sansa had not. “They’re huge down here! I heard they swarmed a half-man while he was sleeping and ate him alive.”

Jon cringed, hoping the half-man wasn’t Tyrion, though he doubted Cersei would have a different imp locked up in the Black Cells.

“Any idea which direction they come from? There’s supposed to be a tunnel that runs east to the base of the castle, so if we follow the rats, we’ll find our way out.”

Arya looked back at him over her shoulder, brows furrowed. “But that’ll take us to the sea, won’t it? Don’t we want to go through the city to the north gate?”

“I’m not taking our chances with the same people who celebrated when Joffrey had Father killed—that’s why I stashed a small boat in the rocks down by the beach. It only has room for three, though…” Melancholy swept over him at the thought of leaving Arianne behind. He didn’t like her chances of escaping the city, though when he considered it, the rats would probably have her as a spicy Dornish snack before she made it out of the dungeon. She stood less than a foot taller than Tyrion, if he had to guess, making her easy prey.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Arya said. She blinked at him, tilting her head curiously. “Three is enough—me, you, and Sansa. Was there someone else you were hoping to bring with us? Cersei, perhaps?”

Jon broke into a snorting chuckle, his spirits buoyed by the sound of Arya’s quiet snickering.

“That would make for an exciting tale, to be sure. Truthfully, I crossed another prisoner while searching for you, and she was certain that Cersei was simply waiting for the right time to kill her. She’s a Princess of Dorne, and—”

“A Princess of Dorne? Which one? Wait, there’s only one, isn’t there? So that must make her…

“‘Round and ripe like an autumn peach!
Sandy cheeks on a Dornish beach!
Gods shaped her like an hourglass!
Sing a song for our fav’rite lass!

“‘Udders can put a heif’r to shame!
They’re the crown of our lady’s fame!
Curly black hair, flows and ripples!
Large and dark are Arianne’s—’”

“Yes, yes,” Jon interrupted, “that’s the one. Where could you have possibly heard that song?”

“Everyone knows the Ballad of Arianne Martell! She’s coming with us, isn’t she? You aren’t telling me you’re thinking of leaving behind a Dornish princess with udders that put a heif—’”

“Not if I can help it. I promised that I would release her on our way out, but the boat…it only seats three. If a fourth tried to fit…”

“Especially someone with a round, ripe peach,” Arya mused solemnly. “Did she offer you a reward for rescuing her?”

“Arianne, she…well, she said that if I got her out of the capital, I could…have her as my…” He swallowed uncomfortably, hoping that Arya would fill in the rest. She did not. “…wife.”

All at once she stopped, turning on her heel to face him. “What?! Did putting on the Lannister sigil turn you into an imbecile? Or—oh, gods…the Night’s Watch made you into a eunuch, didn’t they?!”

“What? No! I’m not a eunuch! They stabbed me a few times, just not down there.”

“Then why aren’t you—Seven Hells, Jon,” Arya snapped, cutting herself off to start again. “There’s no point in clinging to honor so tightly that you strangle yourself with it. That’s what happened to Father! And now you are passing up the chance to marry a Dornish princess?”

“I would never loosen my honor just for a pair of—”

“It’s not just the udders! Think of what an alliance with Dorne could do for House Stark! For the North!”

“I…hadn’t thought of that…”

“Of course you didn’t—because you were too busying telling yourself you didn’t deserve her!” Fists on her hips, Arya glared at him in a scolding, disappointed manner that reminded him far too much of Lady Catelyn. “Stop thinking of yourself as a lowly bastard who is doomed to a life of tragedy. You’re selfless, brave, heroic—the kind of man who should marry a princess after he’s saved her from the clutches of an evil queen! You’d better not look this gift horse—or gift Dornishwoman—in the mouth. I’d rather go back to my cell than see you leave her behind.”

Utterly stunned, Jon stood there dumb and speechless as Arya pivoted around and continued down the dungeon corridor.

He supposed that confinement in the Black Cells gave her a great deal of free time to contemplate the flaws and shortcomings of everyone she knew, him included. And while her words stung, she did have a point—he was selling himself short. While he would never accept Arianne’s offer as the direct payment for freeing her, he could still make a play for her hand under less pragmatic circumstances, once they were to safety. The original idea had been hers, after all.

That did nothing to solve the problem of the boat, though.

“Sansa is right this way,” hissed Arya’s silhouette. “It’s not too late to leave her and turn back for Arianne instead, you know. She’ll never know the difference.”

“We are not leaving Sansa behind.”

“You aren’t considering it? Just a wee bit?”

“No,” he lied. “Absolutely not.”

They approached the cell, and once again Jon raised his flickering torch to illuminate the interior. The light caught Sansa’s copper-red hair as she laid sideways on her cot, sound asleep.

“She snores like Hodor,” Arya murmured, snickering softly. “Some lady.”

Jon still remembered Hodor’s snoring. His was terrible, but Sansa sounded worse—more like a grizzly bear with severe olfactory congestion.

“Sansa,” he whispered, rapping the bars. “Sansa, wake up. Sansa!”

“Hey freckle-face!”

At Arya’s taunt, she suddenly jerked upright, squinting at them groggily. Rubbing her eyes, she slipped her feet off the cot to rest them daintily on one of the small straw heaps lying around the cell floor.

“Arya? Jon? Is that you?”

“No, it’s Olenna Tyrell and the fucking Mountain,” spat Arya. “Now stand up—Jon’s getting us out of this smelly shithole of a city.”

As he began trying keys in the lock one by one, Sansa drew near to the bars, wringing her hands anxiously.

“Please, hurry. I can’t take much more of this…”

“You’ll be fine another few seconds,” Arya groaned. “Just be patient.”

“How can I be patient when we’re surrounded by filth and rats and all manner of horrible people—murderers and rapers and traitors and bastards!”

Jon stopped fiddling with the keys and glanced up to give Sansa an indignant scowl.

“Not you, of course,” she added, though her tone was unconvincing. “It was very thoughtful of you to make an alliance with the queen, Jon.”

“Alliance?” he scoffed. “There’s been no alliance. I wasn’t given this armor. On my way south, I stepped off the road to shit in the woods, and apparently some Lannister man had the same idea. Had to strangle him with my own hands.”

“Awesome!” cheered Arya.

“Horrible!” Sansa mewled. “You mean to say that Queen Cersei isn’t releasing us? You’re…you’re…”

“He’s breaking us out, and right under Cersei’s ugly nose! Jon said there’s a boat by the coast waiting for us. We just need to find a way for the prin—”

“Wait!” Sansa gasped, touching her fingers to her mouth. “A boat to where?”

Having missed the right key, Jon grumbled quietly and started over again with the top of the keyring.

“First I’ll take us up the coast to Duskendale. If we make good time, there’s a ship we can catch to Braavos before the sennight is up.”

“Braavos!” Sansa yelped. “I can’t go to Braavos!”

“What’s wrong with Braavos?”

“It’s in Essos! It’s a strange city full of strange people! I can’t go there—I want to go home!”

He sighed, shaking his head, and flipped to the next key. “The Boltons hold Winterfell and most of the North. We can’t go back there, not yet.”

“I don’t care!” Sansa squawked. She took her face in her hands, eyes wild with hysteria. “I want to go home! Not Braavos!”

“Shut up!” Arya growled. “We’ll go home eventually, freckle face. For now, we stick to Jon’s plan and—”

“Oh, I know! Lord Bolton has a son! I can marry him and become Lady of Winterfell! I won’t have to go anywhere near Braavos!”

The lock turned at last, and Jon yanked open the bars to face Sansa directly.

“And where would that leave Arya and I?” he fired back. “You’re not going to Winterfell. You’re not marrying Ramsay Bolton, formerly the bastard Ramsay Snow. You’re coming with us to Braavos, and there will be no further debate.”

“No! No!” she shrieked, taking a step back into her cell. “I won’t! You can’t make me!”

“Sansa, listen to me. Calm down and—”

“I’ll never go to Braavos!”

“—lower your voice. You’re going to alert—”

“Never as long as I live! I want to go home!”

“—the guards. We can talk on the boat, but for now you have to—”

“I’ll scream! Come any nearer and I’ll scream! I swear it!”

She opened her mouth to make good on her promise, but all that came out was a grunt as Arya’s fist connected squarely with her face. Her eyes fluttered once, twice, and thrice before she crumpled to the ground like a drunk who had a drop too many.

“…trust me,” Jon mumbled. He raised an eyebrow at his younger sister, who appeared to be extraordinarily satisfied with herself. No doubt Arya had been waiting years for a chance to knock Sansa out cold. “Was that really necessary?”

“Don’t blame me—she said herself that she was going to scream! Besides, she was really fucking loud, anyway. Wouldn’t be surprised if the actual Mountain is on his way down here right now.”

Jon nodded in reluctant agreement as the two of them looked down at the inert, Sansa-shaped lump lying across the straw-strewn floor. She didn’t stir in the slightest; there wasn’t even any obnoxious snoring.

“I’m not sure that I can carry her and navigate out of the dungeons.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Also a pity that she seemed more fond of the Lannisters and Boltons than her own blood.”

“That too.”

Jon scratched his stubble, keys clinking softly in his hand. He continued staring blankly at Sansa, though his mind was elsewhere—a few turns back, in fact, seated beside a ripe autumn peach and the lovely princess it belonged to.

Arya nudged him. “Considering it now?”

“What?”

“Leaving Sansa and taking Arianne instead.”

“Of course not. She’s our sister.”

“She made it painfully clear she didn’t want to come with us.”

“That doesn’t mean we should leave her.”

“Actually, Jon, it does. We have to. There’s no other choice.”

Scrubbing his face with his palms, he let out an exasperated sigh, followed by a long, ragged breath. He didn’t need to open his eyes to see Arya’s pointed, urging look.

“Fucking hells...”

Jon gave the bars a push, and they closed with a resounding clang!

 

| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

 

The return to Arianne’s cell was swift and relatively light in terms of conversation.

For one, they had just left Sansa in the Black Cells of the Red Keep, abandoned to the fickle mercy of Cersei Lannister. Arya rationalized that Sansa’s fresh black eye would convince the queen she hadn’t aided her own escape, but it didn’t do much to lighten their guilt.

For another, Jon forgot to warn her about the sewer drain, so Arya spent the second half of their walk grumbling and cursing at some knight’s bowel movement.

After making two rights, two lefts, and another two rights, they found Arianne just as Jon left her, anxiously hovering near the bars.

“What took you so long?”

“Well, you see,” he began, sarcasm perched on his tongue, “there were a number of other princess and highborn ladies begging me to rescue them, so I took my time deciding which to free and which to leave. Some had flowing black hair, others sported udders that put a heifer to shame, and a few brandished bums round and ripe like an autumn peach—but none of those ladies threatened to call the guards or used the pejorative, ‘a fucking Stark man,’ so I had to disappoint them.”

At his bold flirting, a wicked smile broke across Arianne’s face, erasing any trace of unease. She threw back her hair and shifted her weight to one foot, hands settling above the dramatic flare of her hips.

“Did the gods shape any of them like an hourglass, hm?”

“No, actually. A few like sundials or water clocks, but no hourglasses.”

In the corner of his eye, he caught the teasing wag of Arya’s eyebrows, which he opted to ignore. Her encouragement had been helpful up to this point, but he wasn’t interested in that sort, not from her.

“You must be Lady Stark,” Arianne said as he started unlocking the cell. She sounded a bit stiff and stuffy, like she had only just realized that she’d been flirting with him in front of his sister. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Honor’s all mine, Your Highness! I’m Arya. Can’t say I’ve met much of anyone from Dorne, so it’s funny that a princess is the first! Is it true that your cousins can all fight? When I first heard of the Sand Snakes I couldn’t believe the daughters of a great lord were trained warriors! And what are the Water Gardens like? We have a spring in Winterfell but it’s a hot spring which is probably for the best because if you want to cool yourself off in the North you can just bury yourself in the snow. Oh! I heard a song about you once and I don’t know if it’s true but in the second stanza there’s a line that goes something like, ‘Large and dark are Arianne’s—’”

“Alright, slow down with the questions.” Jon’s interruption was punctuated by the clicking of the cell lock. He threw the door open, and for the first time, no obstruction stood between him and the princess.

She stepped across the threshold, smirking devilishly at him, but addressed Arya first. “Given the circumstances of our introduction, Arya, you can call me Arianne. And I will answer all your questions…after I pay the first installment on my debt.”

Jon furrowed his brow, opening his mouth to object that she owned him no debt at all, and that he had been clear on that matter, and that he was rescuing her because it was the right, honorable thing to do, and that he expected no compensation whatsoever now or later.

But he certainly didn’t object when Arianne pounced, rising to her toes and mashing their mouths together.

Between the hand in his hair, the other on his shoulder, and the warm, full lips pressed to his, Jon nearly forgot to breathe. The kiss itself, though, was as memorable as anything that had ever happened to him—a reward he’d earned, a clear message that fate had more in store for him than misery and tragedy.

(Namely, a beautiful Dornish princess.)

When she dropped back down to her heels, it occurred to him that he might have forgotten to reciprocate as well—but if he did, she wasn’t bothered. In fact, her sweet, smug little smile only grew as her eyes fluttered open and she caught his look of boyish bafflement.

“Let’s be on our way, shall we?” Twirling around, Arianne strutted off down the corridor, leaving him to look on in awe.

Her languid sashay smothered any coherent thoughts; only his eyes followed her, rather than his feet—and so it took Arya nudging him to break his trance.

“Uh, Jon…I think she’s about to—”

They winced as Arianne suddenly recoiled, bouncing on one foot and frantically shaking the other.

“Ahck! What is that?! Stranger’s Shit, did I just step in…?!”

“Shit indeed,” he muttered.

After they’d used some straw to wipe her foot and put some distance between themselves and the dreaded sewer drain, Jon proceeded to lead the way by torch, plunging deeper into the heart of the dungeon. Dawn was a scarce few hours away, and if they didn’t start making their way up the coast of Blackwater Bay by first light, they’d be spotted and caught—or simply buried under a volley of arrows.

All he could do was take things one step at a time, and at least for now, he had a welcome distraction.

“You’re serious?!” Arya gasped. “You don’t wear anything when you go to the Water Gardens? But you said the water is cold!”

“That it is,” Arianne laughed. “But the chill is a welcome respite from the heat of Dorne. I have just as difficult a time imagining how you would willingly immerse yourself in hot water to relax yourself.”

“It’s great! Especially because no one can tell if you’re taking a piss.”

“Ha! I can’t recommend that you ever invite Tyene and Nymeria to Winterfell—they would do the same, I’m sure.”

“So do all the Sand Snakes know how to fight? Do you think they would teach me?”

“Some are too young, others too gentle—but a few are as ruthless as the Faceless Men, and they would gladly instruct you in my uncle’s tactics. The Red Viper’s style is well-suited to a nimble, agile man, or a girl with the same advantages. I would have learned from him myself, but the gods blessed me with different gifts.”

“No offense, but I would rather have the Sand Snakes’ gift than yours.”

“No offense taken—most ladies would disagree, you know. I admire you for having your own opinions, particularly as a girl raised in the North. Speaking of that…where is your sister? Aren’t we fetching a second Lady Stark before we make for the coast?”

“Ah, you see, Sansa also has her own opinions—but they’re mostly stupid, like her. She wanted to stay here in the Red Keep, so we let her.”

“She wanted to stay? In a dungeon?”

“My sister is one of a kind! Snores like Hodor, whines like a dying sheep. Now, if you don’t mind my asking about your…well, how the songs say…”

“The songs?”

“You know…the Ballad of Arianne Martell?”

“Oh, of course. If you want the truth, the bards…”

Jon turned his head slightly, trying to listen closer for Arianne’s answer. But while her voice had not grown any quieter, he found it impossible to hear, muffled by an overwhelming white noise.

“Stop!”

If either of them replied, their words were inaudible now.

Swallowing harshly, he attuned his hearing to the deafening, ubiquitous chittering that had gradually grown louder and louder as they ventured through the corridors and tunnels; only now did he realize just how horrible it had become, drowning out even his thoughts.

He slowly lowered his torch.

And there they were: bigger than cats, blinking at him with sinister red eyes from the shadows, their silhouettes dancing and scurrying about—a swarming legion of feral vermin.

“Rats!” Arianne squealed. He shushed her.

“Follow my lead,” he called, keeping his torch low to hold them at bay. “Don’t startle them, and they won’t harm us.”

Or so he hoped. Jon had never seen rats this big, and there was no telling how many of them there were—hundreds, probably thousands. To give him a greater cause for concern, the rats were bold enough to worry the guards, and—apparently—had eaten Tyrion Lannister alive. Devouring a full-man could not be too much more difficult than a half-man, in his estimation.

They pushed along, slow and steady. He dared not look back to check on Arya and Arianne with so many rats ahead, so he had to trust that the hand on his shoulder meant that both of them were following closely. At a narrow set of stairs, rats rushed up and down in a continuous stream of dark fur and slithering tails, though they gave his torch a wide berth. His eyes tracked them moving along the walls, too, hissing and chittering at eye-level.

“This must be it.” He pointed to a thick oaken door at the end of the tunnel, barely visible in the torchlight. “Almost there.”

No more than twenty metered away, Jon finally thought to look up. He did so just in time to see a rat nearly half the size of a direwolf leap off the rafters, lunging for his face.

And if his sword arm were a second slower, he would not have had much of a face.

Arya yelped. Arianne shrieked. The mass of rats churned and surged, finally making their move. All Jon could do was swing his torch and jab with his sword, afraid the latter might strike the ladies. He carved a path through the vermin one step at a time, swatting another jumper out of the air. Hands held fast to his crimson cloak, terrified voices ringing in his ears.

So close to the door, two words cut through the rest.

“Help her!”

He whipped around to find Arya pointing back to Arianne, who had fallen behind—no more than a pace away, but surrounded. One rat crawled its way up her prisoner’s garb, scratching and tearing at the thin fabric, mounting the curve of her Red Mountains and making for her face. Two more were clinging to her rear, chewing their way through to her peach.

And Arianne was helpless through it all, her screaming and weak flailing having no effect—a princess in dire need of rescuing.

Riding a rush of adrenaline, Jon leapt towards her, using his torch to bat away the rat on her chest and slicing the other two off her backside. He cast the sword at the nearest rat and swept the sobbing Arianne under his arm before turning back for the door.

“Run for it!”

A flying rat collided with the torch, knocking it from his hand as they made a mad rush for the exit, blindly dashing through the darkness. Arya raised the bar, throwing her weight into the heavy wood, and brilliant moonlight filled the tunnel—sending the rats running. At last, the three of them stumbled out into the open air.

Jon disentangled himself from Arianne and doubled over, gasping for breath. If giant, bloodthirsty rats were the worst of this whole adventure, he could handle the rest with ease.

Arya clapped him on the back, ringing out in a cheery laugh.

“That was exciting! We should do it again sometime!”

Chuckling along with her, he straightened his back and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Next time, I’ll bring a mace. Maybe a cask of oil for good measure.”

“Too bad you don’t have a flaming sword like Beric Dond…oh.” He noticed Arya’s attention shift behind him, eyes suddenly going wide. “Jon, we have a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The rats made off with Arianne’s clothes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. So she’s…naked…?”

“Very,” the princess answered herself.

Without a thought, Jon unclasped his cloak and handed it to Arya, who then stepped out of view. He waited patiently until he heard her say, “It’s no fancy silk gown, but it’ll do.”

“Certainly better attire to travel in,” Arianne agreed.

He turned and met her eyes. She gave him a curious look, though not a disapproving one—as if he were an extraordinary species Sothoroyi bird no one from Westeros had seen before.

“Jon Snow, did you just forgo an opportunity to see a Princess of Dorne in nothing but her skin?”

“I suppose I did.”

“Do you know how many men would have spun around and ogled me, right then and there, and never offered me their cloak at all?”

“Most, I would suspect.”

“Indeed. You’re not a eunuch, are you?”

Her challenging glare flickered with the promise of a smile, which Jon took as a sign to extend another chivalrous gesture. He stepped forward and swept her off her feet, cradling her comfortably in his arms.

“It does seem fitting that you should carry your bride-to-be, protecting her from jagged rocks,” she teased, pecking him on the cheek. “Especially after you stood by and watched me step in shit earlier.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, cringing. Careful with his steps, he followed Arya down the rocky slope. “But what you said before, about payment. So that we have no further misunderstandings, Your Highness owes me nothing. Having you as my wife would be the greatest honor—”

“And pleasure.”

“Yes, and pleasure, of my life. Regardless, I cannot accept your hand as part of a bargain where you had everything to lose if I refused. However, if we were to—”

“Alright, shut up.” Arianne covered his mouth with her hand, drawing her face close to look him directly in the eye. He stopped, afraid of tripping and sending them both tumbling down the hill. “Since I flowered, I’ve been dragging around a trunk of fantasies about a dark, mysterious, dangerous man saving me from certain doom and then stealing me away to be his wife. Somehow, you’ve satisfied those fantasies all at once expect that you’re so absurdly decent and honorable I can hardly imagine you carrying me away under dubious intentions. So you’d better find us a Weirwood Tree or Septon on the way to Duskendale before I change my mind.”

He blinked at her, trying to parse through her confession—and largely failing.

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

Arianne leaned forward in his arms all of a sudden, causing him to pitch back as she brought their lips together for a second time. The first kiss in the dungeon seemed like a casual gesture next to the fierce, passionate fury she showed him now. All lingering doubt in his mind was erased on the spot.

“Jon! I found your boat!” called Arya from down below. “We can start…ew, gross. I’m definitely getting my own cabin on the way to Braavos.”

Pulling back, Arianne’s lips curved into a coy smirk, her voice a whisper.

“Yes, she is going to need her own cabin.”

Once he and Arya had dragged the boat out to the surf, he helped Arianne step inside before pushing the craft into the water and leaping in to join them. He took up the oars and began to row them north, taking a deep sigh of relief.

Overhead, the stars still shone brightly in the sky, and the full moon offered plenty of light to navigate up the coast; behind him, Arianne rested her head against his back, arms looped around his waist; ahead, Arya made herself comfortable by lying sideways, legs hanging over the water.

“Think the bards will write a song about this?”

“About what?” he asked absently.

“About Jon Snow, Arya Stark, and Arianne Martell’s great escape from the Red Keep! Wandering the dark tunnels…finding our way out of the Black Cells…fighting off hordes of man-eating rats!”

“I doubt it,” he snorted, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Increasingly familiar lips left a kiss on the shell of his ear while fingers tickled under his chin. “Bards do love to sing of things large and grand—and your heroics were that, to be sure.”

He simply shrugged.

“Perhaps.”

 

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Round and ripe like an autumn peach!
Sandy cheeks on a Dornish beach!
Gods shaped her like an hourglass!
Sing a song for our fav’rite lass!

Udders that put a heif’r to shame!
They’re the crown of our lady’s fame!
Curly black hair, flows and ripples!
Large and dark are Arianne’s eyes!

Temper hot as noon in Meereen!
Made a foe of the Lann’ster queen!
Found herself in the lion’s den!
Locked up down in a black dunge’n!

Sweet princess don’t worry your tits!
Comes dashing knight with hon’r and wits!
Though his chances were mighty sparse!
Risked his life for her lovely arse!

Wed him on the very next morn!
To her shock a king he was born!
Hear her now high up in the Keep!
Always in bed but ne’er much sleep!

Making love to her dragonlord!
Belly swollen like a plump gourd!
Next royal babe, she won’t wait long!
That’s the end of Arianne’s song!