"I wanted to give myself to you last night,"
she murmured, her face flushing as she stared at their joined hands. "I knew the King was here. I knew they were going to take me south, away from my home... away from you. I thought it was my last chance to give you my innocence on my own terms, before they married me off to a prince".
She squeezed his hand tighter, a small, weary smile touching her lips as she looked up at him.
"But my father has made you my guard now. We'll be on the road for weeks, and the Red Keep is a city of thousands". She leaned in, her breath ghosting against his ear. "It seems we'll have many more opportunities than I thought, Alaric Thorne".
Alaric pulled her closer
Alaric looked at her, the exhaustion he'd been suppressing finally beginning to bleed through the cracks of his discipline. The adrenaline of the System's prompts and the confrontation with Jaime Lannister was fading, leaving behind a leaden weight in his limbs.
"You haven't slept since yesterday, have you?" Sansa asked softly, her eyes tracing the dark circles beneath his own.
Before he could answer, she leaned in and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to his cheek. Her skin was cool, but the gesture sent a spark of warmth through him that no hearth fire could match.
"Lie down," she commanded gently, patting her lap.
She began to unfasten the heavy, fur-lined travel cloak she wore, the grey-blue wool spilling over her skirts. "Use this. The ground is frozen, but I can keep you warm."
Alaric hesitated, his eyes instinctively scanning the treeline. "Sansa... the patrols. If a scout wanders this far out, or if your father sends Jory to find you... if I fall asleep, I won't hear them coming. It's too dangerous for you to be caught like this."
Sansa didn't flinch. She reached out, her fingers lacing through his and pulling him downward with a surprising, quiet strength. A small, knowing smile played on her lips—one that held more steel than the "Little Bird" the court expected her to be.
"I have enough surrounding awareness, Alaric," she whispered, her voice teasing but firm. "Do not think me so dumb or helpless. I've spent my life watching the movements of this castle. I know how the guards march and how the wind carries the sound of hoofbeats."
She settled his head onto her lap, draping the heavy cloak over his chest and shoulders until he was cocooned against the winter chill. Her fingers began to move through his hair, a rhythmic, soothing motion.
"Just sleep," she murmured, leaning down so her breath warmed his forehead. "I will watch the woods. I will wake you long before anyone finds us. For once, let me be the one to guard you."
The System flickered one last time in his peripheral vision.
As the scent of lemon cakes and winter roses enveloped him, Alaric's eyes finally closed, the heavy
...
The golden wheelhouse of the King sat like a bloated monument to southern excess in the middle of Winterfell's courtyard. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and the heavy, floral perfume the Queen favored—a sharp contrast to the smell of old stone and frozen pine outside.
Jaime Lannister leaned against the velvet-padded wall, his golden breastplate catching the dim light. He stared out the narrow window, his mind replaying the moment Alaric Thorne had emerged from the shadows of the Broken Tower with a Stark heir in his arms.
"He knows," Jaime said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
Cersei, who had been pouring wine with a steady hand, paused. She didn't need to ask who he was talking about. "The ward? The boy is a nobody, Jaime. A stray dog the Starks took in to feel noble."
"A nobody who was standing exactly where he needed to be to catch a falling bird," Jaime countered, turning to face her. "I saw his eyes. He wasn't surprised to see Bran falling. He was waiting for it. If that boy knows about us—if he saw what happened in that tower—we are walking onto a headsman's scaffold."
Cersei set the carafe down with a sharp clack. Her eyes, green and cold as wildfire, snapped to his. "And what if he does? He is a ward of a fallen house with no land and no title. Even if he spoke, it is the word of a servant against the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He has no proof. He has nothing but a story that would die in his throat the moment I commanded it."
She stepped closer to Jaime, her silk skirts rustling in the cramped space. Her voice became a predatory purr. "The Starks are sentimental fools. They've made him the girl's personal guard because they think he's a hero."
"A hero is just a man who hasn't been given a reason to die yet," Jaime muttered.
"Then find the reason," Cersei whispered, her fingers tracing the golden lion on his chest. "We are going south. The road is long, and the Neck is full of bogs, lizard-lions, and accidents. If the boy is truly a threat, find an opportunity to take care of him. A stray arrow, a 'bandit' attack, a fall of his own."
She looked toward the door, her thoughts turning toward the Stark boy who had survived. "And the child... Bran. If the fall didn't finish it, time will. But that ward... he is the variable. Watch him, Jaime. And when the time is right, erase him."
...
The heavy pull of exhaustion finally relented as a soft warmth pressed against Alaric's forehead. The System's interface, usually a sharp blue glare, was dimmed to a faint pulse in his peripheral vision, acknowledging his restored stamina.
"Alaric... wake up, my prince," a voice whispered, sweet as honey and soft as the morning mist.