Alaric moved through the gates of Winterfell. The courtyard was a chaotic mess of Lannister crimson and Baratheon gold. He spotted the King—a bloated, red-faced man roaring for wine—and the Prince, Joffrey, looking at the Northmen with a sneer that made Alaric's hand instinctively twitch.
He didn't need a voice in his head to tell him that these people were his enemies. He could feel it in the way the air curdled around them.
The Great Hall was a cacophony of banging tankards and grease-slicked laughter. Alaric stood at his post against a cold stone pillar, his eyes fixed on the high table.
Sansa.
She was a vision in blue silk, her eyes constantly darting toward his dark corner.
As the hours ground on, the drink took its toll. The King was eventually dragged off to bed, shouting for more ale, and the Queen departed with a face like curdled milk. When Sansa was finally escorted to her chambers by Septa Mordane, she passed Alaric and let her silk handkerchief flutter to the floor.
Alaric stepped forward, retrieving the cloth. As he handed it back, their fingers brushed. Her skin was electric, and the look she gave him wasn't one of a lady to her guard—it was the look of a woman crowning her savior.
Alaric waited until the torches in the corridors grew dim and the snores of drunken guards echoed off the rafters. He slipped out of a side postern, moving into the deep shadows of the Inner Ward.
The air was frigid, the kind of cold that should have cracked his skin, but he didn't feel the bite. His blood felt like liquid fire after living all these years in this enviroment. He reached the base of the tower where the Stark children were housed. High above, a single window stood ajar, a faint, warm glow spilling out into the darkness.
He grabbed the thick, gnarled ivy clinging to the ancient stone. He climbed with a grace.
Halfway up, he froze. He looked toward the battlements. A lone guard was walking the wall, his torch flickering against the frost. Alaric pressed himself into the leaves. He didn't just hide; he felt like he became the stone. The guard passed, oblivious to the man clinging to the wall like a gargoyle.
Alaric reached the ledge and pulled himself up, his boots finding purchase on the narrow stone sill. He peered inside.
The room smelled of lavender and the cedar-smoke of the hearth. Sansa was there, pacing restlessly.
She wore a heavy bedgown of sky-blue velvet lined with soft rabbit fur, held closed at her waist by a simple silk sash. Beneath the velvet, the hem of a fine white linen shift brushed against her wool-clad ankles.
She looked every bit the highborn lady of a frozen castle, but when she saw his silhouette in the window, the regal poise shattered into a raw, hungry relief.
Alaric stepped into the room, the cold air of the North trailing behind him like a cape. He kicked the window shut, the latch clicking with a finality that echoed through the quiet room.
"You're late," she whispered.
Alaric let out a low, rough exhale that was almost a laugh.
"The guards were slow to drown themselves in their casks tonight, Little Dove," he murmured.
Alaric moved across the room, the heavy fur rug muffling his boots. He didn't wait for an invitation, sinking onto the edge of her feather mattress. The bed groaned under his weight, and the sudden presence of a man—not a guard, but her man—filled the chamber.
Sansa didn't hesitate. She crossed the room with a rustle of velvet and sat beside him, so close their thighs pressed together. The heat radiating from her was a shock against the lingering frost on his cloak.
"Do you want me to get caught?" she whispered, her voice a mix of genuine fear and a thrill she couldn't hide. "If Septa Mordane hears a man's voice in here, she'll have my father's guards at the door in heartbeats."
Alaric looked at her, truly looked at her. In the soft, amber glow of the hearth, she looked breathtaking—all soft edges and porcelain skin, a stark contrast to the rough, violent world he had just stepped out of. He reached out, his hand still holding the bite of the midnight air, and gave her cheek a sharp, playful pinch.
Sansa let out a tiny, soft gasp, her skin flinching at the cold of his fingers. "Ow! Alaric, you're freezing!"
"A reminder of what it's like outside your tower, Little Dove," he teased, his voice dropping to a low, vibrant rumble. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, he let it slide down the column of her throat before settling firmly on her waist. He pulled her a fraction closer, his thumb tracing the blue velvet of her gown.
"Now," he murmured, leaning in until his lips were inches from her ear, "you were the one who invited me up here. You told me earlier I'd have to 'find out' what you had planned. So, tell me... what lesson is the Lady of Winterfell going to teach her lowly ward tonight? Is it poetry? History?"
He felt her heart drumming against her ribs like a trapped bird. He gave her waist a possessive squeeze.
"Or," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her skin, "did you have a different kind of education in mind?"
Sansa's face flushed a deep, feverish crimson. She didn't look away. Instead, she reached up, her small, warm hands coming to rest on his chest, right over the leather of his jerkin.
"I think," she breathed, her courage finally catching up to her desire, "that you've learned enough from books, Alaric Thorne."
Alaric's lips curled into a slow, predatory grin. Without a word, he shifted his weight, his large hands moving from her waist to her shoulders. With a sudden, firm movement, he pushed her back.
Sansa let out a soft "oh!" of surprise as she fell against the mound of furs and silk pillows. The ancient wood of the bed frame let out a sharp, rhythmic creak that seemed to echo like a thunderclap in the silent room.
Sansa froze, her eyes widening as she looked toward the heavy oak door, her breath held in her throat. Alaric, however, didn't seem to care. He followed her down, hovering over her, his boots still dangling off the edge as he braced his weight on his forearms.
"Careful, Little Dove," he murmured, his voice thick with a mock innocence that didn't match the fire in his eyes. "If you keep making the furniture cry out like that, the Septa really will come knocking."
He reached out again, but this time he didn't go for her face. His hands slid beneath the heavy sky-blue velvet of her bedgown, finding the soft, rounded curves of her cheeks that were hidden beneath the fine linen of her shift. He gave them a firm, possessive squeeze, his fingers digging into the softness through the fabric.
Sansa's back arched off the bed, a muffled gasp dying in her throat as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The bed creaked again, louder this time.
"Alaric..." she hissed, her face a mask of scandalized heat. "Stop! You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're being... you're being a brute!"
"A brute?" Alaric repeated, tilting his head as if deeply confused. He tightened his grip, pulling her hips flush against his leather-clad thighs. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean. I'm just a simple ward, My Lady. I thought you were going to show me some... Southern courtships? Perhaps a dance?"