The blue light of the System receded into Alaric's peripheral vision as he nodded slowly, the digital interface fading back into the darkness of the godswood.
He studied the cost of his potential growth with a calculating eye: 100 MP for the equivalent of three months of grueling physical training.
With a current balance of 250 MP, he had enough to sharpen himself into a lethal instrument, but the thought of the Lannisters stayed his hand.
He pictured Cersei and Jaime plotting to "erase" him like a stubborn stain on a rug. If he didn't secure the Sovereign Bond with Sansa soon, he would be walking blindly into a lion's den on the long road south.
"Not yet," he muttered. The cold Northern air stung his lungs as he decided to hoard his points for a moment of true desperation. He turned away from the tree, his boots crunching through the frozen brush toward the looming, jagged silhouette of the castle.
...
Alaric cut across the inner yard, his breath hitching in frigid air. The rhythmic clack-shush of steel against wood echoed through the courtyard, drawing him toward the training grounds where flickering torchlight danced over frost-bitten stone.
He slowed as he reached the shadows of the gallery. Jon Snow stood there, stripped of his heavy cloak and clad in a simple tunic, moving through sword drills with a grim, focused silence. Nearby, perched on a wine barrel, Tyrion Lannister watched with the keen interest of a gambler studying the horses at the track.
"Skill is wasted without purpose," Tyrion drawled. His voice carried easily over the sound of Jon's strikes, "And purpose is wasted without ambition."
Alaric stayed at the edge of the yard, half-hidden in the gloom. Suddenly, a sharp, crystalline chime rang inside his skull.
[DING!]
[Quest Triggered: The Unbroken Circle]
Objective: Ensure the loyalty of one 'High-Destiny' male.
Tyrion pressed on, undaunted by the eye watching them from the darkness. "Never forget what you are, bastard. The world won't. Make it your strength. Wear it like armor, and no one can use it to wound you."
Alaric stepped into the light. "Armor is for men who expect to get hit," he said. His voice was low and rough. "I prefer to end the fight before the blade gets close."
Jon spun around and lowered his wooden sword. Tyrion leaned back, squinting his mismatched eyes before a grin spread across his face.
"The hero of the hour," Tyrion said. He lifted his wine cup. "The ward who caught a falling Stark. A miracle, they say."
"The boy slipped. I caught him," Alaric said. He didn't blink. "That's all."
Tyrion grunted as he climbed down from his barrel. "Bold words for a ward. Our friend Jon here wants to hide on a wall of ice to find himself. You? You sound like a man who wants to rule it."
Alaric stepped closer. "I don't want the Wall. I want a world where we don't have to hide behind stone to feel safe. Kings build walls. A Monarch makes them useless."
The yard went quiet. Only a nearby torch crackled. Jon stared at Alaric like he was seeing a stranger. Tyrion took a slow sip of wine, his eyes moving between the two men.
Alaric watched them back. He wasn't just talking; he was checking them. He wanted to see if Tyrion was a threat or a tool he could use. More importantly, he needed Jon. He had to show Jon that the Night's Watch was a dead end.
"The Wall is a place of honor, Alaric," Jon said, his voice tight.
Alaric turned to Jon. "A shield is only good if someone is strong enough to hold it. If lions or fools take over the North, the men on that Wall will be forgotten. You'll be left to starve in the snow."
Tyrion laughed so hard he spilled his wine. He wiped his lip with a sleeve. "He's got you there, Snow. You can't eat honor, and it won't keep your toes from freezing off."
Tyrion's smile vanished. He leaned in, his eyes sharp. "You talk about kings and the world breaking. What do you see when you look at my sister and her people?"
He's fishing, Alaric thought. He wants to know if I saw what happened in that tower.
"I see a storm dressed in silk," Alaric said. "They think the North is just a cold room they're visiting. They don't realize the floor is made of ice, and it's starting to crack."
Alaric stepped closer to Jon, ignoring the Lannister. He lowered his voice, the words sounding like treason.
"The King is taking your father south. He's taking Sansa. Winterfell is going to be empty. You'll be hundreds of miles away, stuck in a life where you can never help them again. Is that the 'honor' you want? Or do you want the power to actually protect your family?"
Jon flinched. The words hit him right where it hurt—his fear for his family and his need to belong.
System Analysis: Target 'Jon Snow' is reconsidering his path.
Affection/Loyalty: 45/100 (Interested)
Tyrion watched them both, his eyes darting back and forth. "You are a dangerous man, Alaric Thorne," he muttered. The wind was picking up, almost swallowing his voice. "I can't decide if I should buy you a drink or run for my life."
"Do both," Alaric said with a sharp, mean grin. "It'll make for a better story."
The sound of heavy metal boots hitting the stone cut Tyrion's laughter short. The air felt colder as someone approached.
Prince Joffrey stood in the torchlight. He had bright blonde hair and a permanent sneer. Behind him loomed Sandor Clegane—the Hound—looking like a giant shadow. Joffrey looked at the group, his eyes stopping on Alaric with pure disgust.