The royal caravan hummed with the final movements of departure. Arya trotted alongside the pair, her sharp eyes scanning her sister's stiff gait.
"Are you sick?" Arya asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she watched Sansa lean heavily into Alaric. "You're walking like an old woman with rusted joints."
Sansa offered a weary, regal nod, her face flushing as she felt the dull ache in her core. "A lingering fever from the shock of Bran's fall," she lied, her voice steadying as she gripped Alaric's leather-clad arm for support.
Alaric guided her toward the massive, golden-roofed wheelhouse. As they reached the steps, he felt her knees buckle. With a firm grip, he hoisted her up and helped her navigate the steep climb into the velvet-padded interior. Once she was settled, he pulled the heavy silk curtains shut, shielding her from the prying eyes of the courtyard before vaulting onto his horse.
Moments later, Catelyn Stark rushed to the carriage, her eyes red-rimmed. She pulled back a corner of the curtain to find Sansa enveloped in furs.
"Be brave, my heart," Catelyn whispered, clutching her daughter's hand. "Listen to your Septa, and keep your guard close."
Catelyn turned her gaze to Alaric, searching for the same reliability that had saved Bran. She stepped closer to his horse, moving away from the Lannister guards to speak in a hushed tone.
"Alaric," she said, her voice dropping to a low, urgent rasp that pulled him closer. "The South doesn't remember the cold, and it has no respect for the truth. In Winterfell, a man is only as good as his word, but in the capital, they use words like silk—soft enough to comfort you while they're tightening the noose."
"Keep Sansa safe, as you swore you would. But watch over the little one, too," Catelyn added, her eyes turning back to him, sharp and glass-bright with unshed tears. "They are walking into a den of vipers, and vipers do not strike in the light."
Alaric looked down at the Lady of Winterfell, feeling as immovable as the mountain in his saddle. "You have my word, My Lady," he replied, his voice a low rasp. "No harm will come to them while I draw breath. I know the threat we face."
Catelyn nodded, a flicker of relief crossing her features, before stepping back as the Great Gates of Winterfell began to groan open. The wheelhouse lurched forward, its heavy wheels crunching over the frozen earth. Alaric whistled sharply, and Shadow, the jet-black wolf, fell into a silent pace beside him.
As the caravan passed through the gates, Alaric felt a faint pulse in his mind—the mental link to his Monarch Scout. The ghost was already moving through the shadows of the Kingsroad, miles ahead of the royal procession, marking every potential ambush Cersei Lannister might have planned.
The great gates of Winterfell groaned as they swung wide, the sound rolling across the frozen valley like the low cry of a wounded giant. As the royal column lurched into motion, the heavy, gold-roofed wheelhouse led the way, its iron-shod wheels crushing the frozen rime of the earth.
Alaric Thorne rode tall, his presence an anchor beside the silk-curtained window of Sansa's carriage. He kept his horse at a steady pace.
Shadow moved at Alaric's stirrup, a phantom of jet-black fur that seemed to absorb the pale morning light. Beside the great wolf, Sansa's direwolf, Lady, trotted with a calm, watchful grace, keeping close to Shadow's flank as if acknowledging a new alpha. Further back, Arya's Nymeria darted between the horses, wild and restless, giving the massive black wolf a respectful berth.
"He looks like he came from the dark itself," she noted, her voice small against the wind. "Where did you find a beast like that?"
"He found me," Alaric replied.
Further ahead in the column, the sun caught the polished gold of Jaime Lannister's armor. The Kingslayer turned in his saddle, his gaze sliding back toward Alaric—a sharp, measuring look. It was the look of a hunter who had realized the woods were no longer his alone.
Inside the wheelhouse, the world was a blur of velvet and rocking timber. Sansa lay against the plush cushions, She clutched a silk pillow to her chest—the one he had returned to her—and as the rhythmic beat of hooves lulled her, she finally drifted into a heavy sleep.
Mission Status: The Long Road South has begun.
Current MP: 149
The days blurred into a weary, dust-covered routine. The royal procession snaked south like a slow, golden serpent, the massive wheelhouse its heavy, plodding heart. Each night, a city of pavilions rose from the earth; each morning, it was dismantled before the frost could melt.
By the tenth day, the air had lost its bite, and the scents of the road—damp earth, horse sweat, and woodsmoke—had become the new constants of their lives.