The stone corridors of Winterfell were colder than the yard, but Alaric Thorne didn't feel the chill. His blood was still humming with the rush of the System's success.
He was heading toward the kitchens when a shadow detached itself from a pillar near the Guest House.
"A miraculous catch," a voice drawled. It was smooth and carried the distinct ring of golden arrogance.
Alaric stopped. Jaime Lannister stepped into the flickering torchlight, his face unreadable. The Kingslayer didn't look like a man who had just watched a child almost die; he looked like a hunter who had found an unexpected hole in his trap.
"Ser Jaime," Alaric said, giving a short, respectful nod. He felt a flicker in his peripheral vision—the System was analyzing the threat.
"Tell me, Ward," Jaime said, his hand resting idly on the railing. "What brings a man to the base of a ruined, abandoned tower at midnight? Are the Northern girls so dull that you prefer staring at old stones?"
"I find the night air helps one think, Ser," Alaric replied, his voice a steady, low rasp. He didn't blink. "And it's a good thing I did. Otherwise, Lord Eddard would be waking to a much quieter morning."
Jaime's eyes narrowed. He knew the odds of someone "just happening" to be under that specific window were thin. "Lucky for the boy. And very lucky for you. A hero's welcome is a heavy thing to carry, Thorne. Make sure you don't trip under the weight."
The Kingslayer turned away without another word. Alaric had 'The Golden Secret' now, and the Lannisters knew he was the only thing standing between them and the headsman's axe.
By dawn, the story had spread through the castle like wildfire. The ward of a fallen house had caught a falling prince. Alaric was summoned to the Lord's Solar. Eddard Stark looked as though he hadn't slept a wink.
"You saved the future of my House, Alaric," Ned said, his voice carrying the solemn steel of the North. "The North does not forget such things."
"I only did what I could, My Lord," Alaric replied, bowing his head.
"I intended to leave you here with Robb," Ned sighed. "But Bran... he keeps asking for you. And my daughter, Sansa, has made it quite clear she feels safer with her guard nearby."
The System pinged in Alaric's mind:
[Influence with House Stark: 15%]
[New Status: Personal Guard to the Lady Sansa]
...
As Alaric stepped out of the Lord's Solar, the weight of Ned Stark's gratitude felt like a physical armor . He moved through the crowded corridor, where the arrival of the King's retinue had turned the quiet halls of Winterfell into a hive of activity .
Near the entrance to the Great Hall, a flurry of blue silk caught his eye. Sansa was walking toward the Guest House, flanked by her usual attendants, her expression carefully neutral for the public eye . As they passed one another in the narrow space, her hand brushed his. It wasn't an accident; it was a quick, practiced motion. He felt the dry scrape of parchment against his palm before she pulled away without a single glance back .
Alaric didn't slow his pace. He waited until he reached the quiet of the outer courtyard, stepping into the shadow of a stone buttress. He unfurled the small, crumpled slip of paper.
The handwriting was elegant, though the ink looked hurried:
At our spot. When my father and mother are with the King and Queen.
Alaric let out a low breath, the paper disappearing into his tunic . He knew "their spot"—the sentinel tree in the Wolfswood.
The System flickered in his vision, updating his status as he watched the royal wheelhouse being prepped for the journey south .
Hours later, as the Great Hall swelled with the noise of a final breakfast for the royals, Alaric slipped into the trees . He found Sansa waiting beneath the ancient branches, her hood up to hide her distinctive Tully hair .
She turned as he approached, her eyes searching his face with a mix of lingering hurt and desperate relief . She didn't look like the poised lady of the court; she looked like the girl who had thrown a pillow at him in the dark .
Alaric moved silently across the frozen earth, closing the distance between them until he was standing directly behind her.
He didn't say a word as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his leather-clad chest.
Sansa gasped softly, her body relaxing into his familiar strength as the scent of the Wolfswood and his skin enveloped her.
She turned in his arms, her movements frantic as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "I'm sorry...," she whispered, her voice breaking as the apologies tumbled out of her in a breathless rush. "I was so selfish. I was angry that you left, but if I had stopped you—if I had made you stay in that bed—Bran would be..."
She couldn't finish the sentence, a sob hitching in her throat as she clung to him like a trapped bird. She kept apologizing, her heart hammering against his ribs, her mind clearly haunted by the sight of her brother's limp body in Alaric's arms earlier that morning.
"You saved him. While I was being a petulant child, you were saving my brother's life. Thank you, Alaric. Thank you".
Alaric silenced her by tilting her chin up and pressing his lips to hers in a slow, deep kiss. When they finally broke apart, they sat down together beneath the wide roots of the sentinel tree, the world holding heat despite the biting air. Sansa didn't let go; she locked both of her hands around one of his, leaning her head heavily against his shoulder.
For a long time, they watched the distant towers of Winterfell in silence. Finally, Sansa spoke, her voice dropping to a shy, raw whisper. "I wanted to give myself to you last night,"