Alaric chuckled, a low, vibrant sound that seemed to hum through Sansa's very bones. He slowly let her slide down the rough bark of the sentinel tree, his hands lingering on her waist until her feet were steady on the frozen earth.
Sansa immediately began fussing with her appearance, her cheeks still burning a feverish red. She looked down at her fine silk dress—now hopelessly wrinkled and stained with a bit of tree sap—and then at the stray copper hairs falling wildly across her face.
"Look at this!" she scolded, though her voice lacked any real bite. She swiped at her skirts, trying to smooth the creases his iron grip had left on her thighs. "You've completely messed up my clothes, Alaric. If Septa Mordane sees me like this, she'll know I haven't been 'meditating in the godswood.' I look like I've been tossed in a hayloft!"
She huffed, looking up at him as she tried to fix her hair with trembling fingers. "And my collar... there's a mark right where the silk meets the skin. How am I supposed to hide that from my mother? You've become entirely too reckless today."
Sansa turned to leave, her silk skirts rustling against the snow, but she stopped after only two steps. She looked back over her shoulder, her voice dropping to a shy, breathless whisper.
"I will leave the window of my room open," she murmured, her blue eyes darting around as if the trees themselves had ears. "The ivy is strong enough to hold you. You can... climb inside tonight. After the feast."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. As she turned to hurry away, he reached out, catching her slender wrist and pulling her back into his chest with a gentle but firm tug.
"What do you mean by tonight, Little Dove?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned down to her ear. "Are we going to discuss the history of the First Men, or is there a different lesson you had in mind for your knight?"
Sansa's breath hitched, her face glowing like a sunset. She looked up at him, trapped once more against his leather armor, her heart hammering against his ribs. She didn't pull away this time; instead, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just long enough to send a jolt of electricity through him.
"You'll just have to find out," she whispered mischievously.
With a final, lingering squeeze of his hand, she broke away and disappeared into the brush, lifting her skirts as she ran toward the looming towers of Winterfell.
Alaric watched her go until her blue dot on his [Territory Map] was safely within the stone walls. He adjusted his sword belt, his eyes turning toward the horizon where the massive, golden roof of the King's wheelhouse was now visible over the ridge.
Alaric stood alone in the silence of the Wolfswood, the air still smelling of winter roses and the heat of Sansa's skin. He didn't look at the retreating girl; instead, his gaze fixed on the translucent blue window hovering in the freezing air.
"Eighteen years," Alaric muttered, his voice a low rasp. He spat into the snow, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. "I've been a ward of a dead house, eating Stark bread and training in the mud while I waited for a sign. You took your sweet time showing up, didn't you?"
The screen flickered, the text scrolling upward as if responding to his disdain.
[System Response: The Bloodline Monarch requires the Host to reach biological maturity and possess a desire for 'Sovereignty' that outweighs 'Survival.']
"Well, you got your wish," Alaric said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at the notification regarding Sansa. "Now, explain this. What is this 'Sovereign Bond'? And what do you mean by 'claiming the North without bloodshed'?"
The blue interface shimmered, reorganizing its data as Alaric's demand for clarity echoed through his mind. The complex jargon stripped away, leaving only the cold, hard mechanics of his new reality.
[System Protocol: The Sovereign Bond]
The Concept: You are the Uncrowned Monarch. To rule, you must tie your fate to the bloodlines that already hold the land.
The Method: By physically uniting with a high-destiny female—like Sansa Stark—you initiate a Bloodline Siphon.
The Result: You don't just win her heart; you unlock the genetic power of her ancestors. Once the bond is sealed tonight, you will permanently inherit a Unique Ability from the Stark lineage.
[Target Analysis: Sansa Stark]
Source: Legacy of the First Men.
Inheritance Odds:
1.Warg-Sight: The ability to see through the eyes of the beasts of the North.
2.Winter's Skin: Drastic increase in physical strength and immunity to the cold.
3.Commanding Presence: A natural aura that compels Northmen to follow your lead.
System Note: Sealing this bond makes you a "Stark" in spirit and power. The North will eventually bow to you not because you conquered them, but because you are them.
Alaric stared at the list. A dark, satisfied grin spread across his face. For years, he had been the outsider—the boy from a fallen house who had to ask permission to breathe the cold Northern air. Now, the System was handing him the keys to the kingdom.
"So," Alaric whispered, watching the last of the King's retinue disappear behind the stone walls of Winterfell. "I don't just get the girl. I get her father's power. I get the North's respect. And I get it all by doing exactly what I've wanted to do since I was sixteen."
He looked at his hands. They felt heavier, steadier. The "biological maturity" the system mentioned wasn't just about his age; it was about the hunger for power finally eclipsing his fear of the consequences.
The screen flickered one last time before fading into his peripheral vision.
[Mission Update: Attend the Welcoming Feast. Maintain cover. Do not let 'Eddard Stark' or 'King Robert' detect your intent.]
[Countdown to Midnight: 06:14:22]
Alaric adjusted his boiled leather armor, smoothed his hair, and began the trek back to the castle.