A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 7: Alarys

~Summons~

The early morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of Alarys' chambers, casting long, soft shadows across the stone floor. A faint breeze swept in from the open window, carrying with it the smell of the arid desert beyond the walls of the fortress. Alarys Martell stood before the large mirror, adjusting the leather straps of her breastplate, her body still damp from the heat of the night.

Behind her, the bed was in disarray. The sheets were tangled and pushed to one side, revealing the lean, tanned form of the young guard sprawled across the mattress. His chest rose and fell with deep, rhythmic breaths, completely unaware that the princess he had spent the night with was already halfway dressed.

Alarys glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. He was handsome, at least, she thought. But beyond that? She felt nothing. No attachment, no lingering affection. To her, the pleasures of the flesh were as casual as a sparring match—a release of energy, a distraction from the monotony of her exile.

She returned her gaze to the mirror, fastening the last strap. Her fingers were quick and practiced, the years of training reflected in the fluidity of her movements. She had grown used to dressing herself—there were no ladies-in-waiting here to fuss over her appearance, no court to judge her clothing choices. It was one of the few freedoms she had come to enjoy in her seclusion.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Alarys didn't even flinch, her gaze still fixed on her reflection. "Enter," she called out, her voice calm despite her state of undress.

The door creaked open, and one of the handmaids assigned to the fortress stepped into the room. She was a plain woman, her eyes downcast as she crossed the threshold, but she was no stranger to the scene that greeted her. Alarys had never been one for modesty, and the presence of the guard—naked and barely concealed by the sheets—didn't seem to faze the maid in the slightest.

"Princess," the handmaid said, her voice soft but steady. "A raven arrived this morning. A message from Sunspear."

Alarys' fingers froze on the buckle of her sword belt, her eyes narrowing slightly. Sunspear. It had been years since she had received any direct communication from the capital. Why now? She turned slowly, holding out her hand for the letter. The maid quickly stepped forward, placing the folded parchment into her palm.

The seal was unmistakable: the sun and spear of House Martell. Alarys stared at it for a moment, her thoughts swirling. What could Doran possibly want from me now? Her brother, the current ruler of Dorne, had rarely made any effort to reach out to her during her exile. Oberyn had always been the one to send her small tokens of affection—sporadic visits, cryptic letters filled with wit and warmth. But Doran? He was a stranger, a distant figure that held no place in her heart.

With a flick of her thumb, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. As her eyes scanned the neat, precise handwriting, her heart sank. The message was as cold and impersonal as she had expected.

Alarys,

You are to report to Sunspear immediately. There is a matter that requires your attention, and it is not something to be delayed. Prepare yourself for travel and present yourself to me within a fortnight.

Your presence is required.

Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne

Alarys read the letter twice, her fingers tightening around the parchment. The words were a command, not a request. There was no affection, no warmth in them, only a stark reminder of her place within the family—an afterthought, a tool to be summoned when convenient. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she crumpled the letter in her hand, tossing it onto the bed beside the still-sleeping guard.