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

Chapter 10- Jon Snow

~The Arrival of the Dornish Emissary~

The air was thick with the cold winds of the North, yet the sharp bite of winter seemed to fade in Jon's mind, drowned out by the lingering echoes of the Battle of the Bastards. The bodies had been cleared, the blood washed away by the snow, but the memory of that brutal day remained etched in his thoughts. His muscles ached, not from the fight but from the weight of leadership—a burden he hadn't fully realized until now. He stood atop the battlements of Winterfell, staring out over the castle courtyard, where his people moved about, rebuilding their home.

Beside him, Ser Davos stood quietly, his eyes scanning the horizon. Jon had grown to trust the man implicitly. Davos had a way of saying things that Jon needed to hear, even when they were hard truths.

"Winterfell's in better shape than I'd hoped," Jon said, more to himself than to Davos.

"It'll hold," Davos replied, his voice steady, reassuring. "The North remembers, and they'll fight for you. For their king."

Jon's brow furrowed at the title. King of the North. It still felt foreign to him, as if it belonged to someone else. Robb, maybe. Or even Ned, though his father had never sought it. Jon hadn't asked for this—he'd fought for his people, not for a crown. But here he was.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, distant shout from the gates. Jon glanced down to see a small group of riders approaching. Four, maybe five. Their banners were unfamiliar, their armor gleaming despite the journey, and the horses they rode were finely bred—clearly not from the North.

"Who's that?" Jon asked, turning to Davos.

Davos squinted, his brow furrowing in thought. "Hard to say from here, but... based on their attire, I'd wager they're from Sunspear. Dorne."

Jon felt a slight unease stir in his chest. Dorne. The name carried weight, history. The Martells had always been elusive allies at best and sworn enemies at worst. 

The riders were closer now, their sigils clear, though none bore the usual Martell sun. Instead, they wore lighter armor, their movements fluid and graceful, a testament to their time spent in the warm Dornish sun. Jon's eyes narrowed, focusing on the rider in the lead. A tall figure atop a large, dark brown stallion, their face obscured by the hood of a cloak, but their presence undeniable. The way they sat, the ease with which they handled the horse—it was clear they were someone of importance.

"One of Oberyn's bastards, maybe?" Davos mused, sensing Jon's curiosity. "A Sand Snake."

Jon nodded, though his thoughts lingered. The rider was too young to have been involved in Oberyn's schemes during the rebellion. He watched closely as they drew near, and finally, the lead figure pulled back their hood, revealing a woman's face framed by long, dark hair that fell in waves down her back. Her skin was the deep olive tone of Dorne, her eyes sharp and alert as they scanned the walls of Winterfell. She was beautiful, no doubt, but there was something more about her—an aura of confidence, of command.

Jon felt a strange pull in his chest, a feeling he hadn't experienced in some time. She dismounted with an easy grace, her hand brushing the stallion's neck before she patted it softly. Her movements were deliberate, precise, and even from this distance, Jon could sense the power in her stance.

"Who do you think she is?" Jon asked, his eyes not leaving her as she began to approach the gates with her guards flanking her.

Davos shook his head slowly. "Hard to say. Could be one of Oberyn's daughters, as I said. But there's something... different about her."

Jon felt it too, though he couldn't quite place it. The woman exuded an air of mystery, and the way she commanded the attention of those around her made it clear she was not just any emissary.

She strode into the courtyard, her dark eyes locking onto Jon's. For a moment, time seemed to slow. The way she looked at him wasn't with the curiosity or suspicion of an outsider; it was as if she had already judged him, and he had yet to pass her test. Jon found his breath catching in his throat.

"Welcome to Winterfell," Jon said as he descended from the battlements, his voice steady despite the odd flutter in his chest. He walked toward her with Davos at his side, trying to push away the strange sense of attraction tugging at his focus.

The woman gave a small smile, though there was a flicker of amusement behind her gaze. "Winterfell," she repeated, her voice smooth, lilting with the accent of Dorne. "It's colder than I expected."

Jon smirked despite himself. "It's always cold in the North."

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then, she inclined her head slightly. "I am Alarys of Dorne, here as an emissary of Prince Doran. I seek an audience with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell."

Before Jon could respond, Davos cleared his throat. "You're speaking to the King of the North."

Jon shifted, uncomfortable with the correction, but before he could speak, Alarys's gaze flicked between the two of them, her smile widening just a little. "My apologies," she said, her tone almost playful. "It seems I misjudged. But no Lady of Winterfell, then? How does a King of the North stay warm at night without a wife to share his fires?"

Jon's cheeks flushed, though he tried to keep his composure. Her words were clearly meant as a jest, but there was something in the way she looked at him—a spark of interest, a teasing challenge.

"No Lady of Winterfell," Jon replied, his voice firm but not unfriendly. "At least, not yet."

Alarys raised an eyebrow, her smile deepening as if she found the answer amusing. "Well then," she said, her tone softer, almost a purr, "perhaps in time, you'll find someone willing to brave these cold winters."

The tension in the air was palpable, though neither of them acknowledged it. Jon's mind was racing, struggling to find his footing in the strange mix of diplomacy and flirtation. He had faced down White Walkers, Ramsay Bolton, and armies far greater than his own. Yet here, in the presence of this mysterious emissary from Dorne, he found himself at a loss for words.

"We can discuss your purpose here after you've had time to rest," Jon finally said, his voice measured. "You and your guards are welcome in Winterfell. We'll meet in the Great Hall once you've had a chance to settle in."

Alarys inclined her head once more, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before she turned to her guards. "Rest sounds lovely," she said with a lightness in her voice that belied the intensity of her gaze. "I'll take you up on that, Your Grace."

Jon watched as she strode away, her guards following closely behind. His eyes lingered on her form as she disappeared into the castle, his mind whirling with thoughts he hadn't expected. There was something about her—a mystery he wanted to unravel, a fire that both intrigued and unsettled him.

"Something on your mind, Your Grace?" Davos asked, his voice cutting through Jon's thoughts.

Jon shook his head, clearing his mind of the strange pull he felt toward Alarys. "No," he replied, though his gaze remained fixed on the doors through which she had disappeared. "Nothing at all."

But deep down, Jon knew that wasn't true.