Alaric watched the connection between Sansa and the wolf with a sense of satisfaction. She wasn't just accepting this power; she was embracing it. But the internal clock in his head warned him that they were in the Red Keep, not the open North.
He gently took her hand, pulling it away from the black fur. "I should go before your father checks on you. He's the Hand now, but he still has a father's eyes. If he finds me here this late, even my service to him won't stop the questions."
Sansa's smile dipped. She looked at the door and nodded, her fingers tightening briefly around his. "You're right. He said he'd stop by after the Small Council meeting to talk about the tourney."
Alaric stood, his movements silent and fluid. With a mental tug, he signaled the wolf. Nyx stood, gave Sansa one last look with his amber eyes, and padded toward Alaric. As the beast crossed his path, it lost its form, melting like ink into the shadows at Alaric's feet.
...
Back in his spartan quarters, Alaric sat on the edge of his cot in the dark. He didn't light a candle; he didn't need one to see the blue interface shimmering in his mind.
[Current Balance: 1,545 MP]
The Hand's Tourney was the only thing anyone in the barracks talked about. Robert was throwing a massive celebration for a man who didn't want it, using money the crown didn't have.
Alaric drummed his fingers against his knee. A tournament in this city wasn't just about sport; it was a stage for "accidents" and blood-bought reputations.
"The Queen will make sure I'm on that list," he muttered to the empty room.
He had Sansa's permission now, which meant he needed to find his next bond. Margaery Tyrell was the logical choice. Myrcella—the "Bastard Princess"—was too much of a grenade. If he touched the girl, Cersei would stop playing games and simply burn the city down. But the Rose of Highgarden was different. The Tyrells had the food, the gold, and the men.
"She's ambitious," Alaric whispered, feeling Nyx stir in the shadows at his feet. "And I might be the only thing in this city big enough to satisfy that ambition."
...
Far to the south, in the gardens of Highgarden, Margaery Tyrell sat among her roses. She had been taught by the Queen of Thorns that information was the most valuable currency in the world.
"Are you certain, Loras?" she asked, her voice calm and curious. "The Queen was dismissed in front of everyone?"
Loras Tyrell leaned against a marble pillar, a disbelieving smirk on his face. "Not just dismissed. She was lectured on justice by a Northern ward—a boy from a dead house named Alaric Thorne. The scouts say he looked Jaime Lannister in the eye without blinking while the King roared at Cersei to shut her mouth."
Margaery tilted her head, a thoughtful smile touching her lips. "A boy with no name who humbles the Lions? I think I should like to meet this Northman at the tourney."
...
In the days that followed, Alaric maintained his double life. By day, he was Sansa's shadow; by night, he managed his growing network.
"System," he thought. "Status update."
The interface hummed, showing the Red Keep mapped out in pulsing red dots.
Blood Scout 01: Tower of the Hand. Monitoring Eddard Stark and Littlefinger.
Blood Scout 02: Kitchens. Watching for Lannister poisons.
Blood Scout 03: Tourney Grounds. Tracking the Queen's sellswords.
[Current Balance: 945 MP]
He'd spent 600 points on two more scouts. It was a steep price, but necessary. The tourney began in the morning, and Alaric knew the "game" was about to get much more violent.
He moved through the Tower of the Hand with a predatory grace. His enhanced senses picked up every shift in the air, every distant footfall. Using the vigilance boost from the wolf in his shadow, he slipped past the guard rotations and reached Sansa's door.
He gave the rhythmic knock they'd agreed upon. The latch was unlocked. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut with a finality that sealed them away from the vipers outside.
Alaric crossed the room silently. Sansa sat at her vanity, her copper hair cascading over her shoulders as she worked a brush through the tangles with rhythmic strokes. In the soft glow of the lanterns, the reflection in the glass revealed the lingering tension in her eyes.
He stepped up behind her, his hands coming up to cup her face. He caught her gaze in the mirror and gave her cheek a sharp, playful pinch.
"Ow... Alaric!" she gasped, a flush creeping up from her neck. She leaned her back against his chest, her fingers resting against his leather-clad arms.
"The tourney starts tomorrow," she said quietly. "The Mountain is there. Jaime Lannister, too. Everyone says they're the most dangerous men in the world."
She turned around in his arms, her hands reaching for the buckles of his armor.
"You're always so tense," she muttered. "You're carrying everything on your own—my father's safety, the secret about Bran, the Queen's threats."
She unhooked his sword belt and let it drop to the floor. Her fingers moved to the laces of his vest, her breathing hitching.
"I don't want you going out there tomorrow with your head full of stress," she said, looking up at him. "If you're going to fight those monsters, I want you focused. I don't want you thinking about anything but coming back to me."
She stepped back toward the bed, slowly pulling the silk ties of her dress. The gown slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet. In the dim light, she looked at him with a directness she'd never shown before.
"Come here," she said.
///
Alaric Thorne - Status Update
Current MP: 945
Key Attributes: Endurance (Enhanced), Strength (Enhanced)
Passives: Winter's Skin (+20% Multiplier)
Summons: Nyx (Ancient Dire-wolf), 3x Blood Scouts
New Ability: Umbral Indwelling (Shadow Meld)
///