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

Chapter 11: Jon Snow

~Formal Introduction~

Jon Snow stood at the head of the great table in Winterfell's hall, the noise of laughter and celebration surrounding him like a warm cloak. After the bloody chaos of the Battle of the Bastards, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread, mingled with the earthy aroma of the North. The remaining Wildling and Northern forces were gathered, still celebrating their hard-fought victory. Jon glanced around at his companions—Tormund Giantsbane, Ser Davos, Sansa Stark—all enjoying the raucous atmosphere, trying to forget the lives lost for just a moment.

"Where's that Dornish emissary?" Tormund boomed, his voice cutting through the laughter as he leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I'd like to see if she can keep up with the Northmen!"

Jon chuckled, shaking his head, but felt a twinge of anticipation. He remembered Alarys from their brief introduction earlier; the confidence she exuded was impossible to forget. He didn't know much about her, but something about her presence intrigued him.

As if summoned by Tormund's words, the heavy doors to the great hall swung open, and Alarys stepped inside, flanked by her guards. The torches flickered, casting a warm glow on her striking figure. She wore tight leather pants that accentuated her strong legs and a flowing silk shirt in hues of gold that dipped low, revealing a hint of her collarbone. Despite the chill her arms were bare, displaying the strength of her training, her confidence radiating through the room.

"Now that's a woman dressed as she should be," Tormund declared, unabashed. "These Southern women don't dress to show their strength, they dress like prudes."

Jon couldn't help but smile at Tormund's unabashed admiration, even as Alarys rolled her eyes playfully. She was bold, unmistakably so, and it both surprised and captivated him.

"Ser Davos," Tormund called out, a grin stretching across his face. "Bring her over here! I want to see if she can drink as well as she fights!"

Davos approached Alarys, gesturing toward Jon. "Your Grace," he said, his voice warm. "This is Jon Snow, the King in the North."

Alarys met Jon's gaze, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. "King of the North, is it?" she said, her tone teasing. "Yes, we've met. Why is it always the handsome brooding ones that come with titles?"

Jon felt a warmth bloom in his chest at her words. "And you  the Dornish emissary," he replied, attempting to match her lightness. "I've heard tales of your people."

"I hope they were flattering," she replied, a smirk dancing on her lips as she stepped closer.

As the two exchanged pleasantries, Sansa approached, her brow furrowed. "So, you're from Dorne?" she asked, her tone cool and calculating. "Do you know Oberyn Martell?"

"Only in passing," Alarys said, a subtle edge in her voice. "He was kind to me once. Though I didn't have the pleasure of knowing him well."

"Pleasure is a curious word for Oberyn," Sansa remarked, eyeing Alarys with a hint of suspicion.

Littlefinger stepped forward, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Ah, I recall a younger sister," he said, feigning ignorance. "Oberyn's family has always been shrouded in mystery since the Rebellion. It seems we've finally found the lost Martell."

Jon felt the tension rise in the air as Alarys responded with a pointed look. "Not lost, merely hidden," she shot back, her tone laced with amusement and a hint of challenge. "After all, some secrets are best kept away from prying eyes."

Her wit hung in the air, silencing Littlefinger as he retreated, his interest piqued but clearly outmatched.

Alarys turned her attention back to Jon, her expression serious. "I've come at the request of the Crowned Prince of Dorne. He is concerned about the reports of White Walkers crossing the Wall."

Jon's brow furrowed, intrigued. "You believe in them?"

"Seen stranger things," she replied, her voice steady. "I know enough about the shadows of this world to believe in what my eyes cannot see."

Tormund interjected with a hearty laugh, recounting tales of their fierceness, and the room erupted into laughter once more.

As dinner continued, Alarys seamlessly engaged with the men, her laughter ringing like a melody in the hall. Jon couldn't take his eyes off her; she moved with grace and strength, a presence that commanded attention. She was fierce yet playful, and he felt drawn to her confidence.

When the meal concluded, Jon found himself rising from his seat, instinctively stepping toward Alarys as the crowd began to disperse. "May I escort you to your chambers?" he asked, his heart racing slightly.

"Why, thank you, my King," she replied with a coy smile, falling into step beside him.

As they walked through the dimly lit hallways, the atmosphere shifted, the noise fading to a gentle murmur. It was just the two of them, and Jon felt an intimacy that surprised him.

"You were a welcome presence at dinner," he said, breaking the silence. "The others seem to take a liking to you."

"I can hold my own," Alarys replied, glancing up at him with a flicker of mischief in her eyes. "I'm used to it."

"I wouldn't be upset if you didn't believe in the White Walkers," he confessed, a weight lifting off his chest. "There are many in the North who still question their existence."

"I do believe you, Jon," she said softly, her gaze steady. "I've seen enough darkness in my life to know something wicked is out there. I came here to help prepare for it."

He stopped in front of her chambers, the door looming before them. "You're brave," he said, his voice low. "Not many would dare to face such uncertainty."

She tilted her head, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Perhaps, but bravery is often born of necessity. It's not something I take lightly."

Jon felt an urge to reach out, to touch her, to close the distance that had formed between them. He brushed a stray hair from her face, the heat of her skin surprising him. The contrast of her warmth against the cool air sent a jolt of awareness through him.

"Your skin is warm," he murmured, momentarily lost in her gaze.

"It's from the deserts of Dorne," she replied with a teasing smile. "A different kind of warmth."

The air thickened with unspoken words, a connection neither of them fully understood. Alarys held his gaze, the corners of her lips turning up in a playful smirk. "If you get cold, you know where to find me," she said, her voice low and inviting. "I'd love to help keep you warm."

With that, she slipped into her chambers, leaving Jon standing in the dim light of the hallway, a mix of intrigue and anticipation swirling in his chest.

As Jon turned away from Alarys's door, he felt an unrelenting pull in his chest, a weight that settled heavily upon him. He walked back through the dimly lit hallways of Winterfell, the echoes of laughter and celebration still hanging in the air, but they felt distant now, muted by the lingering warmth of her presence.

His thoughts raced, swirling with images of her—how she moved with confidence, how her dark eyes sparkled with mischief, and how her laughter danced through the hall like a song he didn't know he wanted to hear. There was something intoxicating about her, a fire that ignited in his gut and left him both exhilarated and unsettled.

Jon shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts that consumed him. He had faced death on the battlefield, had battled with his own identity, yet here he was, lost in the memory of a woman he barely knew. He couldn't understand why the idea of her lingered so insistently in his mind, why her warmth seemed to radiate even in the cool stone halls of Winterfell.

He settled onto a wooden bench near the hearth, staring into the flames as they flickered and danced. Images of Alarys filled his mind—the way her lips curled into a smile, the strength in her stance, the playful glint in her eye when she teased him. Jon realized he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to know her fully, to unravel the secrets she held behind that confident facade.

 The thought was both thrilling and terrifying, a precarious balance he wasn't sure he was ready for. Still, he felt a tether pulling him toward her, an undeniable connection that he knew would shape the days to come.

With a heavy sigh, Jon leaned back, staring into the flames, knowing full well that the warmth of the fire could never compare to the heat of her skin against his.