One evening, as the camp settled into the rhythmic scrap of sharpening steel and the braying of tired horses, Alaric stood watch at the entrance of the Stark camp.
Sansa emerged from the tent, her movements regaining their natural grace. She took a seat by a private brazier, her gaze drifting into the glowing embers. As Alaric stepped closer, his silhouette stretched thin across the frosted grass.
"How much longer, Alaric?" she asked, her voice sounding thin, as if the dust of the road had finally worn it down. She looked out at the passing landscape with a hollow sort of longing. "The road feels endless, and the trees here... they look wrong. They aren't like the trees at home."
Alaric adjusted his grip on the reins, his eyes scanning the treeline before settling back on her. "We've made good time through the Neck, but the Kingsroad is a long stretch of misery," he replied, his voice a steady, grounding rasp. "Expect another three weeks of this before the Red Keep rises to meet us."
He nudged his horse a hair closer to the carriage window, his gaze dropping to the high, stiff collar of her travel furs—the one meant to hide his work from the morning of their departure.
"Does the 'travel fever' still trouble you, Sansa?" he asked, his voice dropping low enough that the passing guards wouldn't catch the edge in it. "Or has the soreness finally begun to fade?"
She shook her head quickly, looking back toward the heat of the coals. "...i feel normal now.."
Their quiet was broken by Arya, who trotted into the light with Nymeria at her heels. The younger girl was caked in mud to her knees, a wooden practice sword tucked under her arm.
"It's too hot down here," Arya grumbled, smearing a fresh streak of mud across her forehead with the back of her hand. She narrowed her eyes at them, looking between Alaric's hand on his sword and the heat in Sansa's face. "Why are you two always whispering? It's dull. Nymeria and I found a pond with lizard-lions, but Jory's a spoilsport and made us come back."
In the shadows behind Alaric, the great black shape of Shadow let out a low, vibrating huff. Lady padded forward to meet her sister, the two wolves circling one another before settling like twin sentries at the edge of the firelight.
"A lady doesn't whisper, Arya," Sansa said, her back straightening as she pulled her dignity around her. "She consults with her Sworn Shield on the safety of the road."
"You consult like a Septa mumbles her prayers," Arya shot back. She stuck her tongue out and flopped onto the grass, burying her fingers in the thick fur behind Nymeria's ears.
The quiet didn't last. From the darkness of the camp's main path, the dry rustle of silk against the grass signaled a new arrival.
Cersei Lannister stepped into the light, flanked by two Kingsguard whose white cloaks looked like pale ghosts in the gloom. Jaime walked at her side. He didn't spare a glance for the girls; his eyes were locked on Alaric with the sharp, hungry interest of a man who had finally spotted something worth killing.
"A touching scene," Cersei said, her voice smooth and dangerously thin. Her gaze raked over the girls before landing on Alaric. "The ward and his charges, huddled in the dirt. One might think you were afraid of the road, Stark."
Alaric didn't bow. He stood his ground, the Winter's Skin keeping the night's bite at bay. He met the Queen's eyes with a flat, unblinking stare. "The North isn't afraid of the road, Your Grace. We just prefer to keep our own fires. The dark holds things that don't care for Lannister gold."
Jaime's mouth twisted into a dry smirk. "The boy talks like a philosopher. I wonder if his wolf bites as hard as his tongue."
Cersei ignored him, her eyes settling on Sansa. "The King is impatient to reach the city, Sansa. He expects his 'Little Bird' to be a vision of grace when we arrive. See to it your... protector doesn't keep you out in the damp for too long. It would be a shame if another 'fever' delayed us again."
Cersei's smile was a thin, sharp line that never touched her eyes. She stepped toward Sansa, her silk gown hissing against the grass. "You must learn to care for yourself, child. As your future mother-in-law, I have a vested interest in the Crown's prospects. Once you wed Joffrey, such 'fevers' become a matter of state, not merely a girl's discomfort."
Sansa felt her heart thudding, but she kept her chin up.
"You are too kind to worry, Your Grace," she said, her voice steady with the practiced poise of the North.
Cersei turned her look back to Alaric, her expression hardening. "A dutiful guard," she mused.
"Though I wonder, Ward Thorne, if you understand the price of overstepping with a future queen. In the South, we are quite protective of our treasures."
"In the North, Your Grace, we protect what is ours with more than words," Alaric said. He didn't raise his voice, but the rasp of it was enough to make Jaime's hand tighten on his hilt.
Jaime stepped into the light, letting out a short, dangerous laugh. "He has a bite, Queen. Perhaps he thinks having a big black dog makes him a wolf." He gestured vaguely toward the darkness of the Kingsroad. "The road is long. Accidents find heroes every day. Be careful you don't trip in the dark, Thorne."
"I see well enough in the dark, Ser Jaime," Alaric replied. He could feel the familiar pulse in the back of his mind—a connection to the scout he had positioned a mile ahead. "And I rarely travel alone."
Shadow rose slowly. The black wolf didn't growl; he simply vibrated, a low thrum that seemed to come from the earth itself. The two Kingsguard shifted their weight, hands hovering near their swords.
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "We shall see how well you see when the sun sets on the Trident," she whispered. She turned on her heel, her golden hair catching the firelight one last time. Jaime followed, casting a final, measuring look at Alaric—the look of a man who no longer saw a lucky ward, but a problem that needed solving.
Alaric watched the gold-and-crimson shadows bleed into the gloom of the camp. He stood like a statue of Northern stone, but his mind was moving with cold detachment.
Why? Cersei was a narcissist and Jaime was arrogant, but they weren't fools. They were the most powerful players in the Seven Kingdoms. Why go out of their way to personally provoke a ward? To tell a man "accidents happen" to his face felt performative. It felt like a distraction.