Jon IV

"Oh, it's just so good!" Carmyn gushed, devouring the piece of heavy cake the innkeeper set before her. It was dark, rich, and sweetened with sugar as well as candied fruit.

Jon smiled placidly and nibbled on his own piece of cake. There were nuts as well, big grooved ones that added a nice bit of crunch. Carmyn's belly was even bigger, he saw. Her appetite had grown in proportion, and she let him feel the babe kick when they retired together at night. It thrilled him more than he could say. Jon Snow, a father! Him! Well, the babe would be a Sand, but that seemed to please his lady. "Our little one will have ten thousand brothers and sisters!" she told him one time. Was that truly how the Dornish reckoned things?

"Sugar is cheap in these parts," the fat innkeeper went on. "Cakes I have in plenty, for travelers highborn and low. What, with the rains and all, the sugarcane harvest has been better than anyone can remember, uncommon good, I say, and the wine as well. Seven Hells, every harvest has been better than anyone can remember!" he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his apron. The man was swarthy, with a receding hairline, but jolly withal, and eager for news. It was no wonder the man was so pleased, for custom was greatly increased by their presence. Everyone in the inn's common room wanted to have a look at the Northerner and his white wolf. It was a prosperous establishment, all of whitewashed stone with real glass windows on the ground floor. They were murky, and not of the best make, but let you look out onto the water to the south.

Sarella and Hoster were seriously considering a man who owned a fruit orchard and wanted a weirwood sapling for his own. Their supply of trees was running short, for not a single lord or lady's castle or even rude holdfast of landed knights refused their offer. It seemed to Jon that with every tree they planted the weather grew fairer. When he said so aloud, Sarella grew quiet and pensive, and her whispered conversations with Hoster Blackwood grew rapid.

The village they were staying in belonged to a knight sworn directly to Sunspear, in lands irrigated by the Greenblood. Tomorrow, if they were fortunate, their party would reach the seat of House Martell. Their way was an uncommon one, heading south from Ghost Hill, rather than hugging the coast, but there'd been no problems, so why not?

On the morrow, some riders met them on the road. "My prince would have you attend him at the Water Gardens, rather than at Sunspear itself," explained Ser Andrey Dalt of Lemonwood. On the way, he mentioned he had a Northern wife himself, a Stout of Goldgrass, one of Barbrey Martell's own bannermen.

"And never let us forget it!" teased Sylva Santagar, better known as Spotted Sylva. Her husband, Ser Kyle Condon, rode with them.

Looking about, Jon realized the party sent to receive them was chosen with care: two highborn Dornish with Northern spouses. Was it to do him honor, he wondered? Surely a bastard did not merit such, even a bastard of Lord Stark himself. Whatever it was, the sight of the Water Gardens drove all speculation from his mind.

More pleasure palace than castle, all of pink marble with tiled pools dotted with fountains, the Water Gardens were crowded with hordes of screaming naked children of all sorts. All the different kinds of Dornish could be seen, from straw-haired stony to salty to sandy and dark like his Carmyn. His eyes might have deceived him, but a few of those children had a Northern look.

Stolen story; please report.

Prince Doran was there, watching them at their play from a queer wheeled chair. He looked tired and wan, bearing only a passing resemblance to his brother Oberyn. He had a few courteous words with Jon, and informed him that Lord Stark had called his banners. There was a wildling King-beyond-the-Wall and many queer rumors concerning missing rangers among the Watch. Wights and witchcraft and worse had been blamed, but those were just stories, surely?

In any case, the prince dismissed them all, all save Sarella. Of what they spoke of, he had no notion. Carmyn spent the time regaling him with tales of her own time in the pools.

"I had such fun, Jon! See the game where girls sit on the shoulders of boys and have a pushing contest? I used to live for that game, I'll have you know. There was a boy, pale Lyseni, couldn't stay out in the sun too long, but together, we were unmatched in our time! All our children will have their turn in the Water Gardens. Why, looking forward to it almost makes me feel a girl again!"

Whatever it was that Prince Doran had to say to her, Sarella would not speak of it, even to her lover, Hoster. And Jon knew they were lovers. At the inn they stayed at the night before, Carmyn hushed Jon and bid him listen at the thin walls. How they managed it, Jon didn't care to picture. Hoster was a good foot and a half taller than Sarella. Would the two of them even fit in a single bed?

They left Prince Doran's maester with a weirwood and instructions, which he promised to follow exactly. Queerly, they never visited Sunspear itself, which Carmyn was thankful for. "That slut Arianne would try to seduce you, no doubt," she said with some heat. Was that any way to speak of their future princess? By Dornish law, she was heir, and would have Hellholt's fealty in time.

Their journey from there took them up the Greenblood by raft. The river was swollen and faster-flowing than usual, their guide reported. Even the vassal stream, the Vaith, was entirely navigable. At the headwaters, they mounted up one final time for a crossing through the deep desert, or what had been desert.

Where once was sand, they found small streams, even little lakes, feeding fields of flowers that made Jon sneeze. It was like galloping over a Myrish carpet as woven by a madman; so many colors were to be seen. People who rarely wandered so far from the safety of the river could be found camping in open ground, fearing not the sun, and when they reached the Brimstone, they found it flooded too. The sulfur smell was fainter, and Carmyn's father, Ser Ulryck, told them the great cisterns of Hellholt, deep beneath the ground, were full to bursting with sweet water, perfumed with roses, lilies, and flowers Jon had no name for.

A Green Man, riding a great elk, had visited not a fortnight past, and carved a face into the heart tree in Hellholt's godswood with a black dagger. The face looked like a demon Jon remembered from an old illuminated tome Maester Luwin had shown him and Robb back at Winterfell. The eyes were like snake eyes, and the smiling mouth had jagged teeth that bled red sap. Above the eyes was carved a flame pattern not unlike the sigil of House Uller, making the face seem to have fire for hair. Carmyn absolutely adored it.

Sarella and Hoster left, hoping to find the Green Man and have words with him, but Carmyn's time was soon. Jon was proud to say he held her hand the whole time while she fought to bring their child into the world.

Children, actually. Carmyn had twins, which explained her huge belly, bigger than most pregnant women he had seen. They were red and squalling and bald, with the most vivid purple eyes he had ever seen. They named their daughter Mara, for Carmyn's mother, and the boy Morgan, for her grandfather. Good Dornish names, Jon thought, but how many Sands had purple eyes?