The Wolfswood was freezing, but beneath the roots of a large tree, the ground stayed warm.
Alaric Thorne leaned against the tree with one arm around Sansa Stark. She stood close to him, her silk dress brushing his leather armor. To anyone passing by, he looked like her sworn shield, a loyal ward of House Stark.
In the dark, he was the man she clung to.
Sansa kissed him with frantic need, the kind that came from knowing her life was about to change. King Robert's caravan stood less than a mile from Winterfell's gates. The Little Dove should have been in her chambers, dressing for a prince. Instead, she hid here, shaking in the arms of the boy raised in her father's shadow.
"They're going to marry me off, Alaric," she said. Her voice shook. "My father. The king. They're sending me south."
He looked at her and said nothing. He'd loved her for years, but love didn't change what he was. A ward from a broken house. No land. No title. Nothing that could stand in a king's way. The truth pressed down on him. He had turned eighteen that morning, and already his life felt boxed in.
Something rang inside his head. Sharp. Heavy. Like a bell struck too close.
[Ding!]
[Conditions met: Host has reached age 18.]
[Status confirmed: Uncrowned Monarch.]
[Initializing Bloodline Monarch System…]
Alaric froze.
Sansa pulled back a little. "Alaric?"
He didn't answer.
Blue light washed over his sight. A clear shape formed in the air before him. Only he could see it.
[Initialization complete.]
Host: Alaric Thorne
Bloodline: Normal
Current Territory: Winterfell — Influence: 5%
Detection: High-destiny individual — Sansa Stark — in physical contact.
Relationship: Secret (unbound)
Affection Level: 94 / 100
System Notice:
Target bloodline contains Legacy of the First Men.
By forming a Sovereign Bond, the Host may claim the North without war.
"You're scaring me," Sansa said. She reached for his hand.
The moment her fingers touched his, something moved inside him.
The forest shifted.
Not in sight — in feeling.
A map opened in his mind.
He felt the guards along Winterfell's walls.
The wolves moving between the trees.
Then something far larger.
Slow. Bright. Heavy with gold.
Rolling toward the gate.
The king's wheelhouse.
Alaric tightened his hold. The helplessness vanished. In its place came focus.
"No one is taking you anywhere," he said.
Alaric didn't wait for her to respond. He reached down, his large hands gripping her thighs, and hoisted her up with a surge of newfound strength that made her gasp. Sansa instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her silk skirts bunching up as he pinned her firmly against the rough, ancient bark of the sentinel tree.
"Alaric!" she breathed, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her heart hammering against his chest like a trapped bird.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He ignored the soft, feminine scent of lemon cakes and winter roses, focusing on the pulsing heat of her skin. He pressed a slow, bruising kiss right against her collarbone, just above the swell of her chest.
Sansa threw her head back, a broken moan escaping her lips as she arched into him.
Sansa's back arched further against the sentinel tree, her breath hitching as the moan left her lips. But as Alaric's lips grazed lower, the distant sound of a hunter's horn echoed through the trees, snapping a thread of sanity back into her mind.
She shivered, her hands moving from his hair to his chest, pushing back slightly even as her legs stayed locked tightly around his waist.
"Control yourself," she whispered into his ear, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and lingering heat. "The scouts... my father... we might get caught. If they find us like this, there will be no South for me, and no head on your shoulders."
Alaric pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. The blue light of the System still flickered in his peripheral vision, but his focus was entirely on the girl in his arms. A dark, playful glint sparked in his eyes—a confidence he had never dared to show before today.
Instead of letting her down, he shifted his grip, his large hands giving her soft, silk-covered thighs a firm, possessive squeeze.
"Ow... Alaric!" she gasped, her face flushing a deep crimson. She tried to look indignant, but the way her eyes fluttered betrayed her. "You are getting naughty day by day. Where did this boldness come from?"
"It came from the thought of losing you to some golden-haired boy," Alaric rasped, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw before landing on her lower lip.
Sansa hid her face in the crook of his neck, her heart racing against his leather armor.
"I... I have to go. The wheelhouse is almost at the gate. If I'm not there to greet them, my mother will send the guards to look."