Bran looked at her like she had always been his sister. The bond was real. And in that moment, seeing the boy laugh at something she whispered, Alaric knew his hold on Winterfell was tighter than ever.
Alaric sat in the corner. He didn't move. He watched Roslin read to the boy, but he wasn't listening.
He was thinking about the message from his scout three days ago.
"The King has left for the hunt."
Alaric looked up at the ceiling. He ran the numbers in his head.
The Boar Hunt, he thought. Robert is dead.
He ran the math in his head again, a calculation he had obsessed over since the message arrived. Three days since the hunt began. Robert was likely drunk and tracking the beast by now. Perhaps he had already been gored. Give it two days for the King to rot from the festering wound, babbling his final commands. Then the raven would fly.
A cold realization washed over him. He didn't have a week. He might not even have three days. The news could arrive tomorrow.
I have run out of time, Alaric realized, the peaceful silence of the room suddenly suffocating him. If I am to act, I need to take the North now.
He stood up abruptly. The heavy wooden chair scraped loud and harsh against the stone floor, a violent sound that shattered the quiet.
Roslin jumped, nearly dropping the book. She clutched it to her chest, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. Bran turned in his seat as well, the direwolf at his feet perking its ears at the sudden shift in Alaric's aura.
"Is... is something wrong, Alaric?" Roslin asked softly, sensing the tension radiating off him.
Alaric looked down at them. For a split second, he saw the map of Westeros burning behind his eyelids. He forced his face to relax, smoothing away the killing intent. He couldn't tell them that the King was likely bleeding out in a pavilion hundreds of miles away.
"No," Alaric lied, his voice smooth as polished steel. "Just remembered a patrol schedule. I have orders to give."
He turned and walked to the heavy oak door, his stride long and purposeful.
Alaric pushed open the door to his solar. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles that cast long, dancing shadows against the stone walls.
He walked straight to the large wooden table, ignoring the empty chairs. He was alone, and the wait was over.
He leaned over the map of the North spread out before him, his finger tracing the line of the Kingsroad. The silence in the solar was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. He began to calculate the marching time from King's Landing to Winterfell.
Ping.
The sound was sharp and sudden in his mind, shattering his concentration. Alaric blinked, summoning the System interface.
[Alert: High-Velocity Hostile Detected.]
A mini-map materialized in his peripheral vision. A single, bright red dot was moving across the castle grounds. It wasn't moving along the paths or through the corridors. It was moving in a dead straight line.
Alaric frowned, his pulse quickening. "System, what is this?."
Alaric watched, stunned, as the red dot crossed the outer wall of the Great Keep without slowing down. It didn't climb; it went through. It bypassed the guard posts, bypassed the locked doors, and was currently tearing through the stone foundations of the tower he was standing in at an astonishing speed.
"It's coming here," Alaric realized.
He kicked the heavy oak chair aside and drew his sword—a castle-forged blade he had taken from the armory. The steel sang as it cleared the scabbard. He spun toward the wall nearest the door, adopting a defensive stance, though he didn't know what he was fighting.
Seconds later,
The shadows cast by the torchlight seemed to curdle. A patch of darkness on the wall rippled like disturbed water, and then pushed itself outward.
A figure stepped out of the solid stone.
It was humanoid, but only just. It was composed entirely of shifting, coiling black smoke. It had no face, no eyes, and no armor—only a silhouette that seemed to vibrate with a silent, malevolent energy.
Alaric didn't have time to speak.
The entity lunged. It moved with a terrifying, jerky speed, closing the gap instantly. A limb made of condensed smoke formed into a razor-sharp spike and stabbed toward Alaric's throat.
Alaric's reflexes—honed by his attribute upgrades—screamed. He twisted his body to the left, feeling the rush of freezing air as the shadow-spike missed his jugular by a fraction of an inch.
"Die!" Alaric roared.
He used the momentum of his dodge to pivot and drive his sword in a lethal, horizontal arc. It was a perfect strike, aimed to decapitate the intruder.
Whoosh.
There was no impact. No resistance.
Alaric stumbled slightly as his blade passed harmlessly through the creature's neck, slicing through the smoke as if he were cutting through a morning mist. The shadow's head simply swirled and reformed instantly.
Alaric backed away, his eyes wide. He stared at his sword, then at the monster. He was dumbfounded. His strength, his sword, his training—none of it mattered against something that wasn't solid.
"System!" Alaric shouted in his mind, backing toward the window as the creature turned toward him again. "Analysis! What is this thing? How do I kill it?"
The System window flashed red.
[Analysis Complete]
Target: Shadow.
Origin: Blood Magic / Shadowbinding.
Physical Composition: 0% Solid / 100% Energy.
Immunity: Immune to physical damage.
Status: Summoned for assassination.
Target: Alaric Thorne.
The Shadow Assassin lunged again, its movement a blur of darkness. Alaric barely had time to react before a tendril of smoke, hardened into a spearpoint, slashed across his chest. His leather jerkin parted like wet paper, and a line of freezing pain seared his skin.
He stumbled back, crashing into the heavy oak table. Blood welled from the cut, but it didn't drip; it crystallized instantly in the unnatural cold emanating from the creature.
"Damn it!" Alaric cursed, swinging his sword in a desperate parry. The blade passed through the shadow's arm without even slowing it down.