Alaric sat at the edge of the mattress, the bed groaning under his weight as he looked at the girl who had once been a distant lady and was now his. He reached out, his hand finding the curve of her ankle beneath the furs in a steady, possessive grip.
"You worry too much, Little Dove," he murmured, his dark eyes tracing the persistent flush on her cheeks. "The South expects a delicate flower, but you are a Stark of Winterfell. You only need to hide the marks for a few hours."
He gestured toward her wardrobe, his voice dropping to a commanding rasp. "Choose your heaviest travel garments—the thick wools and layered velvet skirts. If the fabric is dense and wide enough, no one will notice the stiffness in your gait or the way your body protests every step."
Sansa peeked over the edge of the silk pillow, her expression clouded with uncertainty. "And my father? The Queen? They will expect me to glide toward the wheelhouse with the grace of a princess."
"Then let them be disappointed by a 'sickly' girl," Alaric countered with a sharp grin. "Lean on me. I am your Sworn Shield now; it is my task to carry your weight if your legs fail you." He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Once you are inside that carriage, you won't have to move a muscle. You can sink into the cushions and rest until we reach the first camp. The rest of the world will just see a dutiful daughter of the North departing for her future."
Sansa let out a shaky breath, the heavy, pulsing ache within her a constant reminder of why she was in this state. "You make it sound so simple, Alaric."
"It is simple," he said, standing up and offering a hand to help her from the furs. "Get dressed."
Alaric turned to leave, his hand already reaching for the iron latch. Before he could take a single step, he felt a small, warm hand wrap around his wrist, pulling him back with a desperate, shaky strength.
"Alaric..." Sansa whispered, her face turning a feverish pink as she looked up from the bed. "Help me... help me dress."
He froze, eyebrows shooting up in genuine surprise as he looked from her pleading eyes to the wardrobe filled with complex layers of Northern finery. "Sansa, I am a soldier, not a lady's maid," he rasped, a dark, amused glint in his eyes. "If I stay here and try to figure out the laces of a corset, we'll both be caught before the first horse is saddled. Besides, my hands were built for other things."
"No 'buts'!" she interrupted, her voice a sharp, frantic thread of sound. She gripped his hand tighter, her nails digging into his skin as she ignored the dull soreness that made every movement a struggle. "Just help me quickly. If I call the maids back now, they'll see how I move. They'll see the marks on my neck of your kisses. "
She let out a tiny, breathless huff of frustration, her regal poise flickering as she looked at her own trembling hands. "Please. I can barely stand straight, and the Septa will be back in heartbeats to check on my 'fever.' If you're my knight, then do your duty and help your lady into her armor."
Alaric let out a low, vibrant chuckle that rumbled through the quiet room. He didn't move toward the door this time. Instead, he turned back to the bed, his hands reaching down to gently haul her upward. "As you wish, My Lady," he murmured, his voice dropping to a predatory rumble. "But if we're late to the King's procession, I'm telling your father the 'Little Dove' insisted on one last lesson."
"You wouldn't dare," she gasped, even as she leaned her full weight against his chest. Her thighs still trembled with the heavy, persistent soreness he had left her with, making her reliance on him absolute.
"Try me," he whispered, already reaching for the thick wools he had ordered her to wear.
Alaric reached down, his hands sliding under her arms to haul her gently from the mattress. Sansa let out a sharp, indrawn breath as her feet touched the floor, her legs nearly giving way. He caught her easily, pulling her flush against his chest to steady her.
With slow, deliberate movements, he began to peel away the light silk shift. As the fabric fell, the amber light of the dying hearth danced over her skin, revealing the transformation of the night. She was no longer just a girl of soft edges; she possessed the radiant, lingering air of a woman who had been thoroughly claimed. Her curves seemed more pronounced in the morning light—the swell of her breasts still carried the faint marks of his possessive touch, and the graceful line of her hips bore the light bruising of his grip. There was a raw magnetism in her silhouette, a heat that seemed to pulse from her core, making her appear far more alluring than the "Little Dove" the world knew.
"You look different, Sansa," Alaric rasped, his eyes dark as he looked at lovebites on her back and around the neck.
He began the task of dressing her, his hands moving with surprising care. He helped her into the heavy wool hosen first, the fabric thick enough to hide any stiffness in her gait. Next came the layered velvet skirts, their weight providing a shield for the internal ache that flared with every small adjustment of her legs.
As he tightened the last of the laces on her bodice, ensuring the collar was high enough to mask the traces of his teeth on her throat, Sansa rested her forehead against his shoulder. The long night had left her physically spent, but as she looked at him, there was a fierce, unwavering devotion in her eyes that no septa could ever teach.
"There," Alaric murmured, stepping back to survey her. "The Perfect Lady returns, even if she can barely walk."
Sansa gave a tired, triumphant smile, brushing her copper hair over her shoulders. "And the Perfect Knight has finished his chores. Now, lead me out before my father decides to come looking for us himself."
Alaric chuckled, a low, vibrant sound that hummed through the quiet room. He stepped forward and, before she could protest, scooped her up into his arms, his large hands supporting her back and thighs in a firm carry.
"How about we make an entry like this?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave as he looked down at her. "I could carry you right through the courtyard for all of Winterfell and the King to see."