"Sansa, are you still in bed?" Septa Mordane's voice shouted through the door. "The Queen wants you in the gardens right now to plan the wedding. Open up!"
Sansa's heart raced. She looked at Nyx, who sat still and silent like a shadow.
"I'm busy, Septa!" Sansa called back, making her voice sound firm. "I'm resting. My head hurts after everything that happened. Tell the Queen I'm staying in my room. She'll have to wait."
"How dare you!" the Septa huffed. Sansa could almost hear her pacing in frustration. "This is the capital, not some the North. You don't just ignore a Queen."
"I am a Lady of Winterfell," Sansa snapped, feeling a surge of the confidence Alaric had given her. "I'll do what I want in my own room. Go away. Do not disturb me."
The hallway went quiet. Finally, the thud of the Septa's cane faded into the distance. Sansa exhaled and turned to the mirror. She touched a dark mark on her neck, then began pulling up her high collar to hide it.
...
The morning air grew sharper, and Roslin couldn't stop shivering. Her damp, ruined silk dress did nothing to block the biting river mist.
"Achhoooo!"
The small sneeze made her jump. She stared at the floor, her heart racing as if she had committed a crime.
"S-sorry," she whispered. She kept her head down, sure that even her breathing was annoying him. "I didn't mean to make a noise, My Lord. I'm sorry."
Alaric didn't slow the horse. His eyes stayed on the grey horizon. "It's the cold, Roslin. You can't help it when you're freezing."
"Sorry," she blurted out again. She stared at his gloved hands on the reins—hands that broke steel and controlled monsters. She felt tiny next to him. "I'm sorry for the noise."
Alaric exhaled and pulled the horse to a walk. He looked down at her. She was huddled away from him, acting like she was wasting his time.
"Why do you apologize for things you can't control?" he asked, his voice deep and steady. "I told you to be quiet when you were crying, not for sneezing."
"S-sorry!" she gasped. Her face turned bright red as she realized she had done it again. "I'm sorry, I... I did it again. I am so sorry, My Lord."
Alaric shook his head. The girl was so broken by her father that a simple sneeze felt like a death sentence.
"Stop," he said, his voice softening. "You are with me now, not a Frey. You don't need to apologize for being cold."
"Yes, My Lord," she whispered, clutching her stained dress. "I'm sor—... I understand."
...
After three days of riding, the green hills of the Riverlands had faded into grey and brown. They were reaching the Neck. The ground felt soft, and the air smelled of salt and rotting wood.
The morning was bitter. Frost crunched under the horse's hooves. Alaric stopped the horse near a group of twisted trees to let it rest.
Roslin slid down, her legs shaking. She didn't go to the trees. Instead, she walked to Livy. The huge wolf sat on a dry patch of grass like a dark hill in the mist. Roslin pressed herself against the wolf's side, tucking her numb fingers into her armpits.
Livy huffed a warm breath. The wolf's body heat was the only thing keeping Roslin from freezing.
Alaric stood a few feet away, checking the horse's shoes. He moved steadily, acting as if the biting wind didn't exist.
Roslin watched him over her shoulder. Her face was pale, her nose red, and her eyes looked exhausted.
"My Lord?" she called out softly.
Alaric didn't look up. "Speak."
"Is it... going to get colder than this?" she asked. She looked at her trembling, blue-tinged hands. "I can't feel my fingers. I didn't know the air could feel so sharp."
Alaric finally looked at her. He saw her huddled against the wolf, her fine dress now nothing but a rag. He walked over, his boots thumping on the frozen ground.
"Much colder," he said flatly. "This is just river damp. Once we hit the Northern hills, the wind will cut like a knife. It can freeze the breath in your throat."
Roslin's eyes widened. She sank deeper into Livy's fur. "Oh."
They left the swamps behind. For days, they avoided the main roads, moving through grey mist and black mud. Alaric chose hidden paths where they saw no one. They were like ghosts—a man, a girl, and two black wolves moving through the silence.
As they crossed the Northern border, the world turned iron-brown. The air became thin and cold. One afternoon, the grey sky broke. Small white flakes of snow began to fall, dusting the horse's mane and Roslin's hair.
Roslin wasn't shivering as hard now, but only because she was tucked against Alaric's chest. He had wrapped her inside his massive, fur-lined cloak. The heavy wool shielded her from the howling wind.
They reached a high ridge. The horizon was an endless stretch of beautiful mountains and trees. Roslin leaned heavily against him, hiding her face under his chin to catch his body heat. Only the tip of her red nose poked out from the furs.
Alaric let the reins drop, letting the horse follow the wolves. He wrapped his large, gloved hands over hers, pulling her tighter into the warmth of his cloak.
He leaned down, his voice a low rumble near her ear. "Winterfell isn't far," he said. "Just a few more days."
Roslin tried to sniffle bravely, but the cold was too much. Her face scrunched up.
"Achoo!"
The sneeze was tiny. She let out a miserable groan and buried her face deeper into the dark fur of his coat.
"I'm—achoo!—I'm fine," she managed, her voice muffled by layers of wolf skin and wool.
///
Next Up: The Winterfell Takeover
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