He went quiet, his eyes darkening. "Something woke up in me that night. A memory in the blood. My ancestors had a power that let them bind themselves to ancient bloodlines. When we were together, Sansa, I tapped into the legacy of the First Men in your veins. That's how I called him—Shadow."
Sansa stayed perfectly still, her fingers curling into the leather of his tunic as she looked toward the dark shape by the door.
"In a way, he's as much yours as mine," Alaric whispered, leaning closer until his breath was warm against her skin. "He was born from that night. He smells your blood in me, and that's why he's so still. To the world, he's a nightmare. To you, he's a protector who will kill anyone who looks at you the wrong way."
Sansa lay back against the furs, her chest tight. It was hard to wrap her head around—the idea that this beast was a living manifestation of them both. Alaric didn't pull away; he kept his hand steady against her cheek, his expression softening.
"There's more," he said, his voice dropping. "If I'm going to keep you safe from this city, I need to be stronger. My power grows by binding other bloodlines to mine. To ensure the Lannisters can never touch you, I may have to claim other houses."
He watched her, his thumb lingering on her jaw. "But I won't do it without your word. If you can't stand the thought of me being with someone else, tell me now. I'll walk away from that power, even if it leaves us open to Cersei. I'd rather be a weak man with you than a King who's lost your heart."
The room went quiet, save for the wood popping in the fireplace. Sansa's mind was a blur of images: her brother falling, the Queen's sharp smile, the shadow surging like a weapon. The stories she'd grown up on—the songs of knights and fair princes—were dangerous lies. The reality was Alaric: a man who kept a nightmare at his side and carried enough secrets to get them both executed.
"You'd really do that?" she whispered. "You'd risk your life just so I wouldn't have to share you?"
Alaric gave a firm, slow nod. "I stood by you at Winterfell, and I'm standing by you here. If power costs me you, Sansa, I don't want it."
Tears pooled in her eyes, but she wiped them away, her jaw setting with a sudden, Northern hardness.
"I've spent every night since the Trident thinking of how to end it," she admitted, her voice brittle. "I thought about the poison in the maester's cabinet. I'd rather die than let Joffrey touch me, Alaric. I'd rather sleep forever than marry him."
Her breath hitched, and the pressure of it all finally broke. She balled her hand into a fist and hit him in the chest—a sharp strike fueled by pure frustration.
"How can you do this?" she cried softly, hitting him again. "How can you tell me these things—these horrible secrets—and then tell me you love me enough to die for my pride?"
She slumped against him, her forehead resting against his collarbone as she clutched his tunic.
"You're a selfish, terrifying man," she sobbed. "How am I supposed to want to die now? How can I leave you alone with these vipers? If you need this power to keep us alive... then do it. Just..." She looked up, her face flushed. "Just always come back to me. Let me be the one you return to."
Alaric pulled her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her. He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "No matter how many bonds I forge, no one can take your place. You're the foundation, Sansa. The first spark. Everyone else is just a tool. You are the heart of this."
They stayed like that for a long time, their breathing eventually falling into the same rhythm. The terror was still there, but it had changed. It was a shared burden now—a pact that made the Red Keep feel less like a tomb and more like a battlefield.
Finally, she pulled back to look at him. "What do we do now?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper. "If the Prince is a bastard... if they all are... then Joffrey has no right to the throne. We can just go to my father, can't we? He's the Hand. He's the most powerful man here besides the King. He could fix this. We could all just go home."
Alaric's expression went cold. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of red hair behind her ear.
"Your father is a man of honor, Sansa," Alaric said, his voice flat. "And in this city, honor is a noose. If we tell him, he'll go straight to Robert. He'll do the 'noble' thing. Do you know what Cersei Lannister does when she's backed into a corner? She burns the corner down."