"Wake up, Little Dove," he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
Sansa's eyes fluttered, initially dazed before recognition hit. She bolted upright, letting out a sharp "oh!" as the rhythmic soreness in her body flared in protest.
"Alaric? What... what time is it?" she hissed, pulling the furs to her chest, her face flushing a deep, feverish pink.
"The sun is on the battlements," Alaric said, his eyes steady. "The tourney begins soon, and the city is already gathering. Dress quickly, before Septa Mordane comes to check on the you?'."
Hearing his words, memories of the night flooded her mind. She glanced down at herself, naked beneath the blankets, and her face deepened to a violent shade of crimson. Recalling her own boldness during their hours together, she buried her face in the furs to hide her shame.
However, as she peeked out and surveyed the room, she realized she felt refreshed. There was no lingering scent of their passion, and the chamber was meticulously clean. She knew only one person could have managed this... him.
She leaned over and pressed a quick, darting kiss to his cheek before springing up, clutching the blanket around her like a shield. Her limbs felt heavy and sore from the night's exertions, but it wasn't debilitating; she had grown somewhat accustomed to the sensation since losing her maidenhead.
At the vanity, Sansa worked with practiced speed. She smoothed the heavy velvet of her travel garments, the thick, layered skirts masking any lingering stiffness in her stride. Catching Alaric's satisfied gaze in the mirror, she immediately looked away, her cheeks still burning.
"I am ready," she whispered, her voice finally steady.
They had barely cleared the threshold of her room before the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a cane echoed down the hall. Septa Mordane rounded the corner, her usual mask of rigid discipline cracking into surprise at the sight of them.
"Sansa, child!" the Septa exclaimed, clutching her prayer beads. "I was just coming to wake you. You seem... remarkably prepared."
Sansa offered a stiff, regal nod, her posture impeccable despite the dull ache in her limbs. "I woke early, Septa. The excitement of the tourney, I suppose."
Mordane narrowed her eyes, inspecting the girl's hair and the high, tight collar of her dress. "Indeed. And your ward, Thorne... already at his post." She shot Alaric a suspicious glance, but his face was a masterpiece of professional indifference.
"A guard's duty begins before the dawn, Septa," Alaric replied, his voice a dry rasp.
"Well," the Septa huffed, smoothing her robes. "The King's party is already gathering. It wouldn't do for a Lady of Winterfell to be late. You look a bit flushed, Sansa. Are you quite well?"
"Perfectly, Septa," Sansa said, leaning subtly into Alaric's presence as they turned toward the Great Hall. "I am simply ready for the day."
As they finally arrived in tourney ground. The air was a thick soup of roasting grease and sun-baked horse musk, laced with the sharp, metallic tang of oiled plate armor.
When they reached the high-raised stands, the King's pavilion cast a long, velvet shadow over them. Alaric guided Sansa toward the front, his palm settling against the small of her back. The touch lingered—a warm, silent claim that hummed through her travel silks—before he moved to his post.
At the center of the spectacle, King Robert sat slumped and bloated, his eyes glazed with boredom. Beside him, Cersei.
Sansa slipped into her place, feeling Arya's restless energy before she even looked at her; her sister was already hunched over a scrap of leather, fingers twitching as if she were plotting an escape.
Alaric took the seat to Sansa's right, his broad frame creating a wall between her and the common walkway.
The roar of the crowd was reaching a fever pitch when a light, melodic voice drifted from behind. It carried the soft, lilting cadence of the Reach—a sound of gardens and summer silks.
"Pardon me, Ser... is this seat taken?"
Alaric turned, and for a rare moment, his expression shifted to genuine surprise. Standing there in green silks that smelled of jasmine and high summer was Margaery Tyrell.
He stared at her, his mind racing. According to every scrap of knowledge he possessed, she shouldn't be here. The Tyrells weren't supposed to enter the game until much later.
"The seat is free, My Lady," Alaric said, his voice a steady rasp as he shifted his weight to make room.
Margaery sat, her silk skirts settling with a soft rustle. She didn't look at him immediately, keeping her eyes on the field while smoothing her dress with a gloved hand.
"It's much more crowded than I expected," she said, her tone conversational and light. "My brother Loras is riding in the third tilt, and I find the Tyrell stands a bit suffocating today. Too much family tension. The Stark banners looked... peaceful."
She turned then, offering Alaric a practiced, polite smile—the kind reserved for high-ranking guards or minor lords. "I hope I'm not intruding on Lady Sansa's peace. It's a lovely day for a tourney, isn't it?"
Her eyes lingered on Alaric a beat longer than protocol dictated, a sharp intelligence dancing behind the courtesy. Then, she pivoted toward Sansa with effortless, sun-drenched warmth.
"Oh, where are my manners?" Margaery's voice dropped into a melodic lilt. She leaned slightly past Alaric. "I've quite forgotten to introduce myself. I am Margaery of House Tyrell. My brother Loras has spoken of nothing but the honor of hosting the Starks, though I fear he was too modest about the beauty of the Northern ladies."
Sansa, her spine rigid as a tree, forced a regal nod. "You are very kind, My Lady," Sansa replied, her voice steady but guarded. "I am Sansa Stark. This is my sister, Arya, and our Septa, Mordane."
"A pleasure," Margaery chirped. Her eyes flicked briefly to Arya, who was aggressively picking at a leather strap, before returning to Sansa. "Highgarden has heard much of Winterfell, but the songs do not do justice to your hair. It is like a sunset over the Mander."
Alaric watched the exchange, his dark eyes scanning the crowd while his mind ran the numbers. The System shimmered in his peripheral vision.
Target Analysis: Margaery Tyrell
Relationship: Strangers (Intrigued)
Aura: Ambition veiled in courtesy.
Status: Seeking a stable anchor in the capital's shifting tides.
"It must be such a change for you, Sansa," Margaery continued, resting her chin on a gloved hand.
"The capital is so loud. Do you find it overwhelming? I know I did when I first arrived."
Sansa smoothed her velvet skirts, her movements calculated to avoid a wince. "The air is... heavier here."
"Heavier, and far less honest," Margaery agreed with a soft laugh, her eyes darting toward the Royal Pavilion where Cersei sat like a jade idol. "In Highgarden, we say roses have thorns, but at least you can see them. In King's Landing, the thorns are hidden in the wine and the whispers."
She turned back to Alaric, her smile widening. "And your guard? He seems quite vigilant. I don't think I've seen a man sit so still while a thousand people shout. Is he always so... quiet?"
"Alaric is my protector..," Sansa said, a protective edge sharpening her tone. "He has been my shield since we left Winterfell. He doesn't speak much because he is busy watching for those hidden thorns you mentioned."
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Expect 9 new chapters before today's reset. Have your power stones at the ready! (●'◡'●)