Cersei's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her pale cheek. She had lost the opening to execute the "Northern filth," but she was far from finished.
"If the girl's wolf cannot be found," Cersei said, her voice dropping to a low, predatory purr, "then we have another. A direwolf is a direwolf."
The words fell like a shroud over the room. Ned Stark's face hardened into stone. Beside Alaric, Sansa let out a choked gasp, her hand flying to her throat as if she could feel the pulse of Lady's life rhythmically fading.
Alaric didn't wait for Ned to find his voice. He stood up slowly, his movements so precise and devoid of fear that the nearby Lannister guards instinctively recoiled. He didn't look at the Queen with anger; he looked at her with pity.
"A direwolf is a direwolf?" Alaric repeated, his voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of a falling hammer. "With all respect to the Crown, Your Grace, that logic is... curiously hollow."
The silence in the room was so absolute that the crackle of the hearth sounded like a thunderclap. Cersei's eyes flared. "You dare question the Queen?"
"I question the precedent, Your Grace," Alaric said, taking a measured step toward the center of the hall. He kept his hands visible and relaxed—the posture of a man explaining the weather to a child. "By that same reasoning, if a Kingsguard knight were to commit a crime and flee, should we execute Ser Boros simply because a knight is a knight? If a Lannister bannerman rebels, must we put the Queen to the sword because a Lannister is a Lannister?"
"You overstep, ward," Jaime Lannister warned, his hand shifting toward his gilded hilt.
"I am speaking of the King's justice, Ser Jaime," Alaric countered, turning his gaze to Robert, who was watching the exchange with growing agitation. "Your Grace, Lady was nowhere near the river. She has never bared a tooth at a soul. To execute her for the 'crime' of her breed is not justice. It is an admission of fear."
He turned back to Cersei, his eyes narrowing. "Is that the story the Crown wants told? That the royal family is so terrified of a pet that they must slaughter a different animal to feel secure? The singers would have a field day: 'The Lion so frightened by a wolf that wasn't there.'"
Cersei's face flushed a deep, indignant red. "It is about the danger! The beasts are wild—"
"Lady is as wild as a lapdog, and you know it," Alaric interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating register that seemed to rattle the wine goblets.
"Killing her won't punish Arya. It will only signal to the realm that the Prince was bested by a child, and the only way to reclaim his 'honor' is to butcher an innocent creature miles away from the fight. It makes the Prince look weak. It makes the Queen look petty. And it makes the King look like he can be led by the nose into a nursery spat."
Robert's eyes snapped to Alaric. The word weak had landed with the precision of a warhammer. The King loathed the perception of being a puppet, and he loathed Joffrey's entitlement even more.
[System Notification: Logic Critical Hit]
[MP Harvested: +300 (Public Humiliation / Lannister Pride)]
"Robert, are you truly going to let this... this servant lecture us on honor?" Cersei's voice rose from a whisper to a jagged edge. She turned on the King, her eyes wild with the sting of public shame. "He has insulted your son! He has mocked the very justice of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Robert's jaw worked, his face deepening into a dangerous, bloated shade of purple. He wasn't looking at Alaric anymore; he was staring at Cersei, the vein in his temple throbbing in time with his mounting rage.
"The boy has a sharp tongue, Cersei, but it speaks more sense than I've heard all day," Robert grumbled, reaching for his wine with a trembling hand.
"Sense?" Cersei hissed, slamming her palms onto the table. The goblets jumped at the impact. "He is a Northern savage defending a Northern beast! If you won't take the wolf's head, then give me the boy's! He has slandered the Prince's courage! He—"
"SHUT UP, WOMAN!"
Robert's roar shook the very dust from the rafters. He surged to his feet, sending his heavy chair crashing backward. The room went deathly, terrifyingly still.
"I am sick to death of your screeching!" Robert spat, his voice thick with a decade of resentment. "I have a kingdom to run and a road to travel! Since we reached the Trident, all I've heard is your damn vanity! The wolf didn't do it, and the other one is gone. I will not butcher a pet to soothe your pride!"
"Robert, the Prince's honor—"
"The Prince's honor is in the dirt because he let a little girl and a butcher's boy get the better of him!" Robert barked, casting a look of pure disgust at Joffrey.
The Prince shrank back into his silks, suddenly looking very small. "Now get out! Take the boy and get out of my sight before I do something we both regret! OUT!"
Cersei stood frozen. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had been dismissed like a common scold in front of her enemies and the Northern "ward" who had orchestrated her humiliation. She looked toward Ned Stark, who had remained a silent, steady sentinel throughout the storm.
Ned finally spoke, his voice quiet, heavy, and final. "The matter is settled, Your Grace. The wolf stays. My ward has spoken the truth—even if he did so with a lack of courtly grace."
Ned's support was the final blow. Standing together, Robert and Ned were a wall the Lannisters could not yet breach.
Cersei's eyes darted to Alaric. In that look lived a promise of fire and blood. Without a word, she seized Joffrey's good arm—hard enough to draw a whimper—and swept from the room. Jaime followed, his expression one of golden indifference, though his eyes lingered on Alaric's throat as if measuring it for a blade.
As the heavy doors thudded shut, Robert slumped into a chair, rubbing his face with both hands.
"Seven hells, Ned. Why did I ever leave the North?"
Alaric remained on one knee until the King gave a dismissive wave.
[MP Harvested: +1000 (Total Dominance over the Queen)]
Sansa was trembling, but a new light shone in her eyes. It wasn't just the relief of Lady's safety; it was the realization that in a world of vipers and drunken kings, she had a protector who could out-maneuver the devil herself.
Alaric rose, his gaze meeting Ned Stark's. The Lord of Winterfell's eyes were searching, filled with a volatile mix of gratitude and a new, suspicion.
"Alaric," Ned said, his voice low and weary. "Go. Take Sansa and the wolf back to the tents."
"As you command, my Lord," Alaric replied, the picture of the perfect ward.
As he walked with Sansa and Arya toward their tent, a voice suddenly echoed in his head: