Roslin was fast asleep against his chest.
She sat sideways in the saddle, her back pressed against him. Alaric kept his left arm around her waist to hold her steady as the horse moved. Tucked inside his heavy winter cloak, she was a warm weight against his hard leather armor.
After the three hours they had spent together the night before, he wasn't surprised she was exhausted. Her body had hit its limit, but she breathed deeply, completely passed out.
The horse hit a rut in the road and jolted. Roslin stirred with a quiet, sore groan and pulled herself closer to him.
"Mmm..." she mumbled into his tunic, her voice thick with sleep. "Are we... stopping?"
"Not yet, Rose," Alaric murmured, his voice a low vibration that rumbled through his chest and directly into her. He shifted his grip slightly, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the curve of her hip beneath the furs. "Go back to sleep."
She shifted, looking up at him through a gap in the cloak. The cold air hit her face, making her blink. "How long, my lord? My legs... I don't think I can even walk."
Alaric smirked. "Good thing you don't have to. We'll hit the bogs by tomorrow evening. After that, it's a straight shot to the Green Fork."
Roslin tensed. The sleep left her eyes instantly. The Green Fork meant the Twins. It meant her father, Walder Frey, and the brothers who had treated her like property.
"My father will close the gates," she whispered. Her hands gripped his over the reins. "When he sees a Northern army, he'll want a toll. He'll want a marriage pact or gold. He might even demand you give me back so he can punish me."
Alaric looked down at her. His face turned hard. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes.
Alaric said quietly. "Rules changed the moment I took you. When we reach the Twins, Walder Frey will come and and open the bridge with his own hands..."
Roslin stared at him. She saw the look in his eyes and felt the tension leave her shoulders. She let out a long breath, smiled, and tucked her head back under his chin, letting the cloak cover her again.
Alaric looked back at the horizon.
For the next six days, the Winterfell army moved down the Kingsroad like a shadow. Twelve thousand men marched in a steady, heavy rhythm through the frost.
Alaric kept everything quiet. He knew Tywin Lannister used gold to buy spies, so Alaric blinded him. He didn't have to worry about the high lords yet, but the army was full of camp followers and sellswords looking for a payday. Every night, Alaric's Blood scout watched the camp from the darkness.
Three times that week, someone tried to slip away to ride south and sell information to King's Landing. None of them made it past the trees.
Two black wolves, Livy and Rivy, trotted behind Alaric's horse. Even in a normal wolf size, the infantry stayed away from them. The men could tell these weren't normal animals.
Whenever a spy tried to run into the woods at night, Alaric sent a silent command. The two wolves would vanish into the snow. Hours later, they would trot back to the line with red muzzles.
The skies were locked down, too. Twice, Alaric saw ravens take flight from the edge of the camp. They were likely sent by Lannister spies who had been hiding in Winterfell for years. Before the birds could even reach the treetops, Alaric's scout shot them down. Their broken bodies were left in the mud as a warning: nothing left the North without Alaric's permission.
Through the long trek, Roslin stayed hidden. When the wind turned sharp, she stayed wrapped in his heavy cloak. At night, inside the soundproofed tent, Alaric kept her warm on his grey enchanted blanket. He fed her high-calorie food so she wouldn't feel the strain of the march. Most of the time, she just slept against his chest, lulled by the horse's pace.
A week passed in a cycle of cold steel and blood.
On the seventh day, the ground changed. The frozen dirt turned to soft, damp mud. The air began to smell like rotting plants, pine, and salt. They had reached the edge of the Neck.
Ahead of them, the horizon was swallowed by a massive sea of canvas tents, wooden palisades, and thousands of smoking campfires.
The banners had gathered.
As Alaric's vanguard broke through the final tree line, a deafening horn blast signaled their arrival. Spread out across the sprawling plains just north of the ruined, black towers of Moat Cailin were the combined forces of the North.
Alaric pulled back on his reins, bringing his warhorse to a halt on a high ridge overlooking the valley.