As they walked toward the Stark pavilion, a voice resonated in the back of Alaric's mind, cold and precise.
"Great Monarch, it is done. The butcher's boy is on the path to Winterfell. I have led the Hound on a false trail; by the time he realizes the deception, the boy will be long gone."
He did not reply to the Scout as he kept on walking
The humid night air of the Riverlands offered little relief from the adrenaline of the confrontation they had just survived. When they reached the edge of the camp, the silence between the two sisters was heavy. Arya, her face smeared with soot and sweat, stopped short of the entrance.
She wouldn't go inside. Instead, she claimed a weather-worn stump, her small fingers white-knuckled around her whetstone and the hilt of Needle.
She stared into the black maw of the treeline, her jaw set with a grim resolve that was the ghost of Ned Stark's own expression. After hours spent being hunted through the brush, the thought of four canvas walls felt less like a shelter and more like a trap.
Alaric gave her a short, silent nod. Arya caught his eye, offering a rare, fleeting look of respect before he turned to usher Sansa through the heavy velvet curtains of the tent.
As soon as the fabric fell shut, cutting off the campfires and replacing them with the dim, amber glow of the lanterns, Sansa's composure disintegrated. She didn't scream or wail; she simply broke.
She fell against Alaric's chest, her body wracked by tremors so violent they felt like a fever chill. Her fingers dug into the wool of his tunic, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world turned to glass. She wept with a desperate, muffled intensity, her breath coming in jagged hitches, terrified that even a sob might reach the Queen's ears.
Alaric pulled her close, his hands steady against the small of her back. He could feel her heart racing, a frantic beat against his own ribs.
"Easy," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, grounding tone. "It's over. Look at me, Sansa. Everyone is safe. Lady is unharmed, and Arya is right outside. No one is coming for them."
She looked up, her blue eyes clouded with tears and exhaustion. Alaric didn't wait for her to find her words. He leaned down and kissed her—a long, firm pressure that tasted of salt and the lingering fear of the day.
Sansa froze for a heartbeat, the shock of it stilled her breath, but then she softened. Her eyes drifted shut as she wound her arms around his neck.
Alaric moved his hands from her waist to her thighs, lifting her with a sudden, effortless strength. Sansa let out a soft, sharp gasp, her legs instinctively locking around his hips as he backed her against the wooden center pole of the pavilion. He looked up at her, the usual hardness of his features giving way to a rare, faint smile.
"Enough tears," he said, his voice a low, steady thrum. "Are you not a lady of the North? A high-born lady doesn't weep over a defeated Queen. She keeps her chin up and lets the world wonder why she's smiling."
A watery, breathless laugh escaped her, the suffocating weight of the day finally lifting. She nodded, wiping the salt from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Looking down at him, the fear and duty that usually governed her life felt a thousand miles away, replaced by something far more real.
"I love you, Alaric," she whispered, her voice fragile but certain.
Alaric leaned in until his breath grazed her ear. "I love you too," he answered, the words barely more than a ghost of a sound. Then, his tone sharpened with a playful, warning edge. "But we're playing a risky game. Your sister is sitting five feet away, and she hears like a wolf. If we're caught now, even Robert Baratheon won't be able to save me from your dad."
Sansa flushed. She glanced toward the tent flap, almost feeling Arya's suspicious gaze burning through the fabric. She slowly unhooked her legs and let him slide her back to the floor, though her hands lingered on his chest, reluctant to break the contact.
[System Notification: Affection Level Critical — Sansa Stark]
[New Status: Soulbound Secret]
[MP Harvested: +500]
Outside, the rhythmic scrape-scrape-scrape of the whetstone stopped dead.
"Alaric?" Arya's muffled voice called out. "Is she done leaking from her eyes yet?"
Sansa practically jumped back, smoothing her skirts with frantic, trembling hands. Alaric's face transformed instantly; the warmth vanished, replaced by the cool, professional mask of a man who had been doing nothing more than standing guard.
He gave Sansa's hand a final, firm squeeze—a silent promise—before stepping toward the entrance. With a fluid pull, he drew back the heavy curtain, letting the crisp night air sweep out the stifling heat of the tent.
Arya stood silhouetted against the orange glow of the campfires. She looked at Alaric for a long, quiet moment, her eyes searching his face for any crack in the armor. He met her gaze with the stillness of a frozen lake.
Finally, she brushed past him. Sansa was standing by the center pole, her face still flushed but her back straight. The two sisters stood in the dim light—one a polished stone, the other a jagged blade.
"Sansa," Arya began, her voice unusually small. she looked down at her mud-caked boots, then back up, her eyes bright with a rare, stinging guilt. "I... I'm sorry. For all of it."
Sansa blinked, her mouth parting in genuine surprise. The apology was a rare fracture in Arya's iron-willed exterior.
"It was all because of me," Arya hurried on, the confession tumbling out in a rush. "If I hadn't hit Joffrey... if I hadn't run... the Queen wouldn't have come for Lady. I was just so angry, and I didn't think. I didn't mean for any of this to fall on your head."
Sansa reached out and took Arya's hand, her thumb tracing her sister's knuckles. She gave Arya's hand a firm, forgiving squeeze, and for the first time in weeks, the air between the Stark girls was clear.
When the sisters finally retreated to their furs for a fitful sleep, Alaric took his post outside. As Arya turned her back to settle in, Sansa leaned through the tent flap one last time. With a quick, playful glint in her eyes, she reached out and gave Alaric's cheek a sharp pinch before vanishing back into the amber glow of the lanterns.
Alaric remained in the cool night air, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as he looked toward the shadows where Shadow kept watch.
...
The days that followed blurred into a weary rhythm of creaking timber and shifting dust. Cersei Lannister remained a phantom behind the silk curtains of the wheelhouse; her silence wasn't peace, but the calculated patience of a predator.