Sansa gasped, the air catching sharply in her throat as her face glowed like a sunset. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck for stability. "Put me down!" she hissed. She didn't truly struggle; her body still felt heavy and exquisitely sensitive. "Don't... be dumb"
"You said your legs felt like broken stilts," he countered with a dark, playful glint. "I'm just being a dutiful knight, ensuring my lady doesn't collapse in the mud before reaching her carriage."
"I can walk," she lied, her voice trembling as she buried her face in the crook of his neck to hide her crimson flush. "I just need your arm. If you carry me out there, it will be bad..."
Alaric let out a low, dry chuckle and slowly let her slide down his chest until her feet were steady on the stone floor. He offered his arm, his grip firm and possessive. "Then walk, My Lady. But the moment those knees buckle, I'm picking you back up."
Sansa took a final, deep breath, leaning her full weight into Alaric's side as they stood before the heavy oak door. Every small movement sent a sharp, rhythmic ache through her lower body, but his physical presence as her shield gave her a newfound sense of steel.
Just as his hand reached for the iron latch to open the door to the bustling castle, she stopped him. She looked up at him, her blue eyes darting around the room one last time before dropping to a shy, breathless whisper.
"Wait," she murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of lingering heat and the sudden fear of the journey ahead. "Can I... can I have a kiss before we go out? Just one?"
She reached out, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his leather tunic. "My father and everyonne will be watching me constantly once we leave this room. There won't be many chances for this on the road south, or even in the city."
Alaric paused, the glint in his eyes softening as he looked down at the girl who was now his. He didn't answer with words; instead, he wrapped a heavy arm around her waist, pinning her to his chest as he tilted her chin up.
He pressed a slow, firm kiss against her lips, one that tasted of the midnight air and unyielding possession. It was a kiss meant to sustain her through the weeks of public performance and travel that lay ahead.
When he finally pulled back, Sansa's face was glowing, her breath hitching as she leaned into his shoulder for support.
"Now," Alaric rasped, his voice a low, vibrant rumble. "The Perfect Lady of Winterfell is ready."
He opened the door, and the chaos of the courtyard—the barking dogs, the shouting guards, and the clanking of Lannister steel—washed over them as they stepped into the cold morning light
As Alaric and Sansa stepped into the bustling courtyard, the sudden transition from the quiet warmth of her chambers to the frigid morning air made Sansa shiver.
She leaned more of her weight into Alaric's sturdy frame, her body still protesting every movement.
Amidst the sea of Lannister crimson and Baratheon gold, a silent shadow detached itself from a nearby stone pillar, trotting forward to fall into line behind them.
Sansa's eyes widened as she caught sight of the creature. It was a jet-black wolf, larger than any hunting hound, with eyes that glowed like molten embers. Its fur looked like spun obsidian, and it moved with a terrifying, preternatural intelligence.
"Alaric?" Sansa whispered, her voice trembling. "Is that your wolf? looks... fierce."
Alaric glanced down at the beast. "His name is Shadow. He is only fierce to enemies, Little Dove. To you, he is as loyal as the stone of Winterfell."
"You can pet him if you like; he already knows you."
Sansa hesitated, then reached out a trembling hand. Shadow did not growl; instead, he leaned his massive head into her palm. His fur felt deceptively soft, masking a hide as tough as plate armor. At that moment, Lady trotted forward with her usual calm. She stopped before the black beast, her yellow eyes fixed on him.
Sansa let out a soft, relieved laugh, the heavy ache in her lower body forgotten for a brief second.
"Look, Lady," she murmured, scratching her pup behind the ears. "You have a new friend." Lady sniffed the black wolf's muzzle, and for a second. With a low, thrumming vibration of acceptance, the wolves followed Alaric and Sansa toward the waiting caravan.
As they moved through the courtyard, Arya broke through a line of guards, her eyes darting between the two wolves with awe. "So, the 'Little Dove' finally decided to fly out of her nest," Arya teased, though her gaze stayed fixed on Shadow. "Whose wolf is this?? He looks like he was carved out of the night itself."
Sansa, leaning heavily against Alaric as the rhythmic soreness in her core flared, offered a tired but regal smile. "His name is Shadow, Arya. He's a friend to Lady."
From the gallery above, Ned Stark watched the scene, his face a mask of frozen granite. He noted how Alaric supported his daughter and the presence of the strange, jet-black wolf—a creature that felt more ancient than anything in the Wolfswood—but the memory of Alaric saving Bran held his tongue.
Near the golden wheelhouse, Joffrey stood with a blotchy, red face. His hand moved instinctively toward his sword as he watched Alaric walk with Sansa, but Jaime Lannister stepped forward, his hand resting firmly on the Prince's shoulder.
"Patience, Your Grace," Jaime murmured, his eyes locked on Alaric with a warning. "A hero's welcome is a heavy thing to carry, and the road south is long and full of accidents."
Joffrey snarled but remained still, his pride burning as he watched the ward lead the Lady of Winterfell.