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

Chapter 8: Alarys

~Return to Sunspear~ 

The sun hung high in the sky as Alarys approached Sunspear Castle, casting long shadows over the sandy path that wound through the dunes. She rode alone, her guards having fallen behind her, their pace slowed by the scorching heat. She, however, seemed to glide over the sand with ease, her long black hair catching the dry breeze as her horse trotted along. The familiar sight of Sunspear—its towering walls and winding streets—should have stirred something in her. Nostalgia, perhaps. But as she neared the castle, all she felt was a strange detachment, a distance that could not be bridged by mere stone and mortar.

Her fingers tightened around the reins as she passed under the archway leading to the castle courtyard. She could see a small group gathered near the entrance to the Great Hall—Oberyn Martell and three young girls, all of them laughing as they swirled wooden swords in a mock battle. Oberyn's daughters—his Sand Snakes. Alarys recognized them immediately, though the youngest was no more than ten. They had inherited their father's quickness, their movements sharp and agile even at their young age. A pang of bitterness shot through her. They know him. They have him.

She dismounted swiftly, tossing the reins to a stable hand who rushed forward. She straightened her tunic and adjusted her twin long swords strapped to her back, their hilts peeking out over her shoulders. With a deep breath, she strode forward, her eyes fixed ahead. She would have to face Oberyn before she could confront Doran, but she had no interest in reuniting as family.

Oberyn spotted her first, his easy grin fading slightly as he watched her approach. His daughters stopped their play, all three of them staring at her with a mix of curiosity and confusion. Alarys didn't slow her pace as she closed the distance between them, her expression neutral, though she could feel the weight of their stares.

The eldest girl, Nymeria, cocked her head. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice bold, as one might expect from a daughter of Oberyn Martell.

Alarys didn't break stride. "Just a warrior of Dorne," she replied, her tone dry and dismissive. "Here to receive my orders from the Prince."

The girls exchanged glances, unsure how to react to her coldness. Oberyn, however, frowned, stepping forward to stand between Alarys and his daughters. "Is that all you are now, Alarys?" His voice was low, laced with disappointment.

She met his gaze for the first time, and for a moment, the years between them vanished. His face was as she remembered—handsome and full of life, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. But where once she might have run to him, eager for his affection, now she felt only a bitter distance.

"If you'd rather correct them, then do it," Alarys said, shrugging her shoulders. "Tell them I'm their aunt. Tell them I'm a princess." She paused, her voice hardening. "But it makes no difference to me. I'm here for the Prince, not a family reunion."

Oberyn's frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he looked at her more closely. "They deserve to know who you are, Alarys. You're not just some nameless warrior. You're—"

"I'm whoever I need to be," she interrupted, her tone final. "And right now, that means I need to see Doran."

Oberyn hesitated, clearly torn. For a moment, it looked as though he might press the issue, but then he let out a soft sigh, stepping aside. The girls watched her with wide eyes, still confused by the strange woman who had arrived with swords strapped to her back and no warmth in her voice. Alarys gave them no more thought as she walked past them, her boots echoing against the stone as she entered the Great Hall.

Inside, the air was cooler, though no less stifling. The tall windows that lined the walls allowed streams of sunlight to cut through the dim hall, illuminating the long table where Doran Martell sat at the far end. He was alone, save for a single guard standing at attention near the door. His face was as expressionless as Alarys had imagined it would be. His skin was pale for a Dornishman, a sign of how little time he spent outside, and his thinning hair had grown more silver in the years since she had last seen him.

He didn't rise when she entered, nor did he offer any greeting. He simply gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit," he said, his voice as calm and measured as ever.

Alarys stood for a moment, studying him. She had spent her entire life waiting for some sign of affection from her eldest brother, some indication that she was more than just a pawn in his careful game of politics. But as she stared at him now, she realized that whatever hope she had once held was long gone. He had always been this way—cold, distant, calculating. She was a tool to him, nothing more.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she walked to the chair and sat, folding her arms across her chest. "I received your letter," she said, her voice clipped. "What do you need from me?"

Doran leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her in return. "There have been troubling reports from the North," he began, his tone measured. "It seems the new King in the North, Jon Snow, has allowed wildlings to cross the Wall. There are whispers of something darker coming from beyond the Wall, something even the Night's Watch cannot control."

Alarys raised an eyebrow. "Wildlings? What concern are they to us? They've never troubled the South before."

"It's not the wildlings that concern me," Doran said, his voice lowering slightly. "It's what they're fleeing from. I've received reports—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "—of creatures. Dead men, walking in the night. The Northern lords seem divided on whether to believe it, but Jon Snow is mobilizing forces to deal with the threat."

Alarys blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Creatures? Dead men? It sounded like the ramblings of a madman, but Doran would not have summoned her for a mere rumor. He was too careful for that.

"So, you want me to what?" she asked, her tone skeptical. "Go to Winterfell and fight ghosts?"

"I want you to go to Winterfell and assess the situation," Doran replied, his voice firm. "If these reports are true, we need to be prepared. If the threat moves South, Dorne must not be caught unawares. You are to offer your services to Jon Snow as an envoy of Dorne. Ensure that he understands our position and that we are willing to form an alliance, should the need arise."

Alarys let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "So, you want me to play the diplomat now? After years of exile, after being hidden away like some shameful secret, now I'm useful to you?" Her voice dripped with bitterness. "Of course you want me to go into the line of fire. It's not like I matter to you."

Doran's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that might have been hurt, though he quickly buried it. "You have always mattered, Alarys," he said quietly. "I sent you away to protect you. You were—"

"I was what?" she snapped, leaning forward in her chair. "An inconvenience? A loose end that needed tying up? Don't pretend this was about protection, Doran. You sent me away because I didn't fit into your plans. And now, you want to use me because I'm convenient again."

Doran held her gaze, his face unreadable. "You may believe whatever you wish, but the facts remain. You are needed in Winterfell. If the reports are true, this is not just Dorne's concern. It's all of Westeros. We must be ready."

Alarys clenched her fists, the anger simmering beneath her skin. She had spent so long building herself up, becoming strong and independent, only for Doran to reduce her to a pawn once more. But she would not let him break her, not this time. If he wanted her to go to Winterfell, then she would go—but not for him. She would go because it was her choice, because she had the power to shape her own destiny.

She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor. "Fine," she said, her voice cold. "I'll go. But don't think for a second that I'm doing this for you."

Doran didn't respond, his gaze fixed on her as she turned and strode toward the door. As she reached the threshold, she paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

"You've always been a coward, Doran," she said softly. "Hiding behind your games, your strategies. I'm not like you. I don't hide."

With that, she turned and left the Great Hall, her heart pounding in her chest. Winterfell. It seemed like a distant, cold place, far removed from the warmth of the Dornish sun. But perhaps that was exactly what she needed now—a place as cold and harsh as she had become.

And Jon Snow... she had heard the name before. The bastard who had risen to be King. A man as much an outcast as she had been.

Perhaps