The heavy oak door of Sansa's chambers creaked open, admitting a flurry of nervous energy in the form of Septa Mordane and two handmaidens.
Sansa remained seated at her vanity, her movements slow and deliberate as she brushed her copper hair. Every stroke felt like a monumental effort; her body felt weighed down, and a dull, pulsing heat radiated from her core—a constant, physical reminder of the "lessons" Alaric had provided until the early hours of the morning.
"Sansa, child, you must hurry," Septa Mordane urged, her hands fluttering over a dress of fine silk. "Prince Joffrey has requested your presence in the courtyard. He wishes to walk through the glass gardens before the departure."
One of the younger maids giggled, stepping forward with a pair of soft wool hosen. "They say the Prince is most anxious to see you, My Lady. He hasn't stopped asking for you since he broke his fast."
Sansa looked at the dress, and for the first time, the thought of Joffrey's golden presence felt like a sickening intrusion. She shifted slightly on her stool, and a sharp, heavy ache flared through her thighs and lower back, making her breath hitch.
"No," Sansa said, her voice sounding surprisingly steady, even to her own ears.
The Septa froze, her mouth agape. "No? Sansa, it is the Crown Prince. One does not simply refuse a royal invitation."
"I am not feeling well today, Septa," Sansa interrupted, her gaze fixed on her reflection. "The shock of Bran's accident has taken its toll. My head swims, and my legs feel as though they might give way if I try to stand."
"But the Queen—"
"The Queen will surely understand that a Lady of the North requires rest," Sansa said with a cold, regal finality that left no room for argument. "Tell the Prince I am honored, but I shall remain in my chambers. Let him wait."
As the bewildered attendants retreated, closing the heavy door behind them, Sansa's poised mask shattered. She leaned heavily against the vanity, a soft, shaky exhale escaping her lips. How could I possibly go out there? she thought, her face flushing a deep, feverish pink.
She gingerly stood up to move toward the bed, but the moment she put weight on her feet, a rhythmic soreness flared through her lower body. She walked with a stiff, hesitant gait, her thighs feeling tight and unyielding. She collapsed back into the fresh, crisp furs of her bed, letting out a tiny, breathless moan as the ache throbbed.
...
The sun had barely begun to touch the frost-covered battlements of Winterfell when the castle erupted into a symphony of barking dogs, shouting stable boys, and the rhythmic clanking of Stark steel. The departure for King's Landing was no longer a distant threat; it was a reality.
Alaric Thorne moved through the corridors with a new, fluid grace, the Winter's Skin making the morning chill feel like a tepid breeze. His [Mini-Map] pulsed in his peripheral vision, showing the red dots of the Septa and handmaidens safely at the far end of the gallery, likely fussing over Arya's packing.
He was alone.
Alaric gave the door a sharp, rhythmic knock—the signal of a guard.
"I told you, I am resting!" Sansa's voice drifted through the wood, sharp with exhaustion and irritation. "Come back when the wheelhouse is actually at the gates!"
Alaric didn't answer. He reached for the iron latch and, finding it unlocked, pushed the door open. He stepped inside, the heavy wood clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the room feel like a fortress. Sansa was sprawled across the bed, her copper hair a wild fire against the white furs. She didn't look up, her face buried deep in a silk pillow.
"What part of 'resting' do Southern ears not understand?" she muffled into the fabric.
"Perhaps it's the Northern ears that are failing, Little Dove," Alaric rasped, his voice a low, vibrant vibration in the quiet room.
Sansa bolted upright—or tried to. As she pushed herself up, a sharp, heavy ache flared through her lower body, causing her to let out a soft "oh!" of surprise before collapsing back into the pillows. She looked at him, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of scandal and relief.
"Alaric! What are you doing here?" she hissed, clutching a fur to her chest. "I told the Septa I wouldn't be seen. If they find you inside my chambers now..."
"They won't," Alaric said, leaning back against the door, his hands resting possessively on his belt. "And have you forgotten? Lord Eddard officially named me your personal guard. It is my duty to ensure the Lady of Winterfell is ready for the road."
He moved toward the bed, the confidence in his stride making Sansa's heart hammer against her ribs.
"The King's wheelhouse is being prepped," he continued, a dark, playful glint in his eyes. "Are you not going to get ready??"
Sansa buried her face back into the pillow, her voice a low, vulnerable mumble. "I can't walk, Alaric," she confessed, her face flushing a deep, feverish crimson. "I am so sore after last night. Every time I move, I feel like I'm walking on broken stilts. How am I supposed to climb into a carriage and pretend to be a 'Perfect Lady' when I can barely stand straight?"
Alaric reached the edge of the mattress and sat down, the bed groaning under his weight. He reached out, his hand finding the curve of her ankle beneath the furs.
"Then it's a good thing you have a knight to lean on," he whispered.