He glanced toward the wolf, Shadow, who sat like a statue by the door.
"If the truth comes out before I'm ready, your father will be dead before sunset. You and Arya will be hostages—or worse. Robert is a broken king, Sansa. He's surrounded by Lannister gold and Lannister guards. Striking at the Queen's children is starting a war in a palace where we're outnumbered a hundred to one."
He gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
"We say nothing to Lord Eddard. Not yet. He doesn't know how to play this game, and I won't have his blood—or yours—on my hands because of his 'honor.' I'll build my own strength and wait for the lions to make a mistake. Only then do we strike."
Of course he can't have them caught yet. He still has to harvest a lot of MP from them first.
Sansa listened to his grim assessment of her father's honor, her heart sinking as she realized the cold logic in Alaric's words. She had seen her father's rigid nature her entire life; he was a man who moved like a mountain, slow and unyielding, while the people in this city moved like water—fluid, deceptive, and capable of drowning the unwary.
"I trust you," she whispered.
She leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting once more to the door where the black hound sat. The fear was still there, a prickle at the back of her neck, but curiosity began to bloom in its place. She thought of what he had said—about the union of his power and her blood.
"Is he really..." she started, her voice faltering as she looked at the beast. "Is he truly like a child to us? Our... son?"
Alaric gave a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Not a child in the way you dream of, Little Dove. He wasn't born in a cradle, his essence recognizes you. To him, I am the Master, but you are the Source. In his primal mind, we are the only two beings that matter.
Father and Mother... it is a simple way to put it, but yes, his loyalty to you is woven into his very spirit."
Sansa swallowed hard, her blue eyes shimmering. She looked at the hound and, for the first time, didn't see a monster. She saw a protector born of the love.
"Shadow," she called out, her voice soft but surprisingly steady. "Come here."
The wolf didn't move at first, his amber eyes flicking to Alaric for the briefest of seconds. Alaric gave a sharp, imperceptible nod.
Instantly, the beast rose. He didn't trot like a dog; he moved with the silent, ghostly gait of a predator. As he reached the edge of the bed, his massive head was level with Sansa's chest. He let out a low, huffing breath, the heat of it warming her hands.
Sansa reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the obsidian fur. It wasn't coarse like a common wolf's; it felt like cool silk and tempered steel. As she began to pet the space between his ears, Shadow let out a deep, vibrating rumble—a sound that would have terrified a grown knight, but to Sansa, it felt like the purr of a mountain.
He leaned his heavy head into her palm, closing his eyes in a display of total, vulnerable submission.
"He's so warm," she breathed, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her pale mask. She looked at Alaric, her eyes bright. "He really does know me."
Sansa ran her fingers through the thick, black fur. Her fear had faded, replaced by a strange, quiet wonder. The wolf leaned into her touch, resting his heavy head on the edge of the mattress with a soft huff of air.
As the silence stretched, Sansa's brow furrowed. She looked from the massive beast back to Alaric.
"Shadow?" she asked, her voice regaining some of its old, playful edge. "That's really what you've been calling him?"
Alaric blinked, caught off guard. "It fits. He lives in my shadow. It's practical."
Sansa let out a short laugh that was almost a scoff. She pulled her hand away from the wolf's ears and punched Alaric in the shoulder.
"You Alaric you have the imagination of a rock," she chided, hitting him again, lighter this time. "Shadow? You named a creature born of our blood after a patch of darkness? You're a dummy. Do you even know how to name anything?"
Alaric rubbed his arm, a lopsided grin breaking through his mask. "I've been a little busy staying alive, Sansa. I didn't think he needed a poet's touch."
"Everything needs a bit of thought," she countered. The wolf looked up at her, his amber eyes expectant. "He's the product of the North and your power. He deserves a real name. Not something a stable boy would call a barn cat."
Alaric chuckled, leaning back on his elbow. Seeing her fuss over a name made the room feel warm again, pushing the danger of the Red Keep into the corners.
"Fine," he murmured. "If my name isn't good enough for a Lady of the North, then you do it. He's as much yours as mine. Name him yourself."
Sansa went still, her gaze locking onto the wolf's eyes. She ran her hand down his snout, feeling the heat of his breath. She thought of the winter roses at Winterfell and the cold stars they'd seen on the road.
She leaned down, pressing her forehead against the wolf's cool, dark brow.
She wanted a name that sounded like the old songs, but with the bite of a Northern winter.
"Nyx," she whispered. "It's an old word for the night. It's short and sharp, and it belongs to the dark, just like he does. Not 'Shadow'—that's just where light isn't. Nyx is the night itself."
The beast let out a low chuff, leaning into her hand as if he liked the change.
Alaric laughed softly, shaking his head. "Nyx." He reached out, covering her hand with his own on the wolf's fur. "Very well. He is Nyx. Though I suspect he'll still only listen to me when he feels like it."
Sansa beamed. "He'll listen to me because I'm the one who gave him an identity. You just treated him like a tool."
She leaned her head against Alaric's shoulder, her hand still buried in the black fur.