He was certain the Lannisters were not behind this.
"So what this means," he thought, his leg tapping rhythmically against the wooden floor, "is that someone else is pulling these strings."
The motive was obvious. Someone wanted House Stark and House Lannister to start a bloody war immediately. To make that happen, they needed a dead Stark child on Winterfell's floor. Only one man was desperate and ambitious enough to pull a move like that from hundreds of miles away: Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger.
Alaric shook his head. A cold smirk touched his lips as he looked at the glowing System notification floating in front of him:
System Update: Mission Success
Mission: The Debt (Prevent Bran Stark's death).
Result: Success.
Reward: +1,500 Monarch Points (MP).
Current Balance: 5,724 MP.
Alaric set the silver cup down. The heavy clack echoed in the quiet room. The bitter taste of the poison was almost gone, but the girl's intent hung in the air.
He turned his head toward the servant standing by the door. She was shaking, her hands twisting her apron into knots. She stared at the cup, waiting for him to die. When Alaric didn't move, her panic took over.
He flicked his fingers toward the two Blood Knights at the door.
The girl froze. She watched Alaric, waiting for him to choke, but he just stared her down. Her jaw clamped shut.
Crunch.
The sound of breaking glass came from her mouth. White foam bubbled over her lips and her eyes rolled back. Her knees hit the wooden floor hard, and she slumped over, dead.
Alaric moved fast. He put his large hand over Bran's eyes and pulled the boy's head against his side, shielding him from the sight.
"Keep your eyes closed, Bran," Alaric said. His voice was low and calm.
He flicked his fingers at the Blood Knights. The giants moved without a word. One threw the dead woman over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her out. The other pulled the stained rug off the floor.
The door banged open. Ser Rodrik rushed in, his hand on his sword and his breath heavy.
"The guards signaled trouble," Rodrik said, looking around the room. He looked at Alaric, then at the boy. "What happened?"
Alaric didn't let go of Bran. He picked up the silver cup and held it out.
"Smell it."
Rodrik took the cup and sniffed the steam. He flinched.
"Wolfsbane," Rodrik whispered. "And something else. Something sour."
"Enough to kill a child in seconds," Alaric said. "The servant girl brought it. When she saw I knew, she killed herself."
Rodrik went pale. He stared at the empty spot on the floor. "She's worked in the kitchens for years."
"Treachery doesn't care how long you've worked here," Alaric said. He took the cup back and poured the tea into the fireplace. The flames hissed and turned a sickly green. "They tried to kill Robb. Now they've tried to kill Bran."
Alaric stepped closer to the knight.
"We aren't safe. Question everyone—servants, cooks, stable boys. If you don't trust them, lock them up or throw them out. No exceptions."
Rodrik's shock turned into anger. He straightened his back. "I understand."
"Good. And Rodrik? Burn the woman's body in the courtyard. Let everyone watch. Let them see what happens to traitors."
Rodrik nodded and marched out. When the door clicked shut, the room went quiet. Alaric sat back down and looked at Bran. The boy was white as a sheet, his knuckles turned white as he gripped his chair.
"It's over, Bran," Alaric said. "You're safe."
Bran nodded, but he looked terrified.
A soft knock came at the door. It opened before Alaric could say a word.
Roslin stepped inside. Her dress was grey and white, simple but elegant, and she held her head high. She moved with a smooth, quiet grace, completely ignoring the two giant Blood Knights guarding the entrance.
Bran's face brightened immediately. The fear vanished from his eyes.
"Big sister!" Bran chirped, shifting in his seat.
Roslin's face softened. A warm, genuine smile broke through her usual reserve. She didn't look at Alaric; she went straight to the boy. She sat on the edge of his bed, close enough to touch, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
"I am late," she said, her voice light and teasing. "I hope you weren't bored."
"Alaric was here," Bran said, glancing at the man in the corner. "But... I was waiting for the story."
"And I brought it." Roslin produced a small, leather-bound book from behind her back. "The Life of Aemon the Dragonknight. Just as I promised."
She opened the book and leaned in, pointing at a picture of a dragon. Bran leaned in with her, his shoulder pressing against her arm.
Alaric watched them from his chair. Over the last week, Roslin hadn't just sat in her room. She had made herself useful. She had spent hours with Bran, reading to him, listening to him, and filling the empty space Catelyn Stark had left behind.