Alaric stared at the screen, his brow furrowing. "What the hell?" he muttered. He hadn't even seen the man since returning to Winterfell. He tried to figure out why the system was rewarding him for a confrontation.
Then a soft movement caught his eye.
Dae walked toward him, his footsteps silent on the damp soil. He didn't sit on the stone bench; instead, he lowered himself to the ground at Alaric's feet. He looked like a humble servant taking a rest, but his eyes remained sharp.
"The Ironborn boy has a very loud voice and a very small mind, Master," Dae said. His voice was smooth and calm.
Alaric leaned back as the pieces clicked into place. "So that was you. What happened?"
Dae gave a slight, respectful bow from the ground. "He went to your chambers. He was persistent. He tried to force his way inside and was far too bold with Lady Roslin. I reminded him of his place."
Alaric's jaw locked. The light drained from his eyes, leaving them dark and flat, like glass. He said nothing. One finger tapped against his other arm, slow and steady.
Minutes passed. Then he finally spoke.
"You did well to step in," Alaric said. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp that barely carried in the garden air. He turned away, staring at the grey clouds. "He's lucky. If you hadn't pulled him away, he'd be a corpse by now."
He watched a drop of condensation slide down the pane. "My wolves don't show mercy to anyone who threatens those they claim as their own."
Dae smiled. It was thin and sharp, an edge that sat wrong on his plain face. "I believe he felt their teeth, Master. He left in a hurry. Said your luck with the Stark boy has gone to your head."
Alaric snorted. "Let him think it's luck. It'll make it easier to crush him when the time comes."
He glanced down at the demon. "Keep watching. If he or anyone else goes near that door again with ill intent, don't wait for him to talk. Just handle it."
"As you command, My Monarch," Dae whispered.
...
High above the sea, Casterly Rock was quiet.
Tywin Lannister sat without moving. The letter lay open on his oak desk, held flat beneath his hand. His pale green eyes did not blink.
Tyrion has been taken.
The words pressed into the page. He read them again.
Outside the window, a raven called. Tywin did not look up.
"A Tully woman," he said at last. "With a Stark at her shoulder." His voice was quiet. Sharp.
"Bold."
Another parchment waited beside the letter. The seal was broken, the wax cracked by haste. Tywin skimmed it once, then folded it with care.
Dead guards. Steel in the street. Eddard Stark left in the mud.
His fingers came together, steepled. They did not tremble.
Jaime had always struck first.
Tywin turned to the map pinned to the table. The Riverlands spread beneath his gaze, neat lines and painted rivers. He traced the road north with one finger, then stopped.
"Let's see," he murmured.
His gaze drifted to the side. There, resting apart from the war maps and the reports of blood in the streets, lay a single letter. It sat heavy on the dark oak, the gold wax of a Queen's seal staring back at him.
...
Winterfell
Theon Greyjoy paced the length of the armory. Heat still clung to his face. Across the room, Robb Stark tested the balance of a new war axe, lifting it, lowering it, eyes fixed on the blade.
Theon's jaw tightened. He saw the servant's hand again, fingers knotted in his collar.
"He's changed," Theon said.
Robb did not look up. "How?"
Theon stepped closer and lowered his voice. "A southern girl. And that servant—came out of nowhere. I spoke to him. He threatened me. In your halls."
Robb turned the axe, studying its edge. "You shouldn't have gone to his door."
"I'm watching out for you," Theon said at once. "He spent weeks in the capital. You know what the Lannisters do. They buy men. Now he comes back with fine clothes, good steel, and a servant. Where does a ward find that kind of coin?"
Theon pressed on. "He saved Bran and it went to his head. He forgets his place. Men who hide their allies and their dealings don't stand straight when swords come out."
Robb looked up at last. His face had gone still.
"I'll speak with him," he said. "About the servant. And the woman."
The Guest Room
Alaric stopped at the door and knocked once, twice—then again, softer. A moment passed. The bar slid back.
Roslin moved toward him as soon as he stepped inside. Her face was pale.
"Dae told me," Alaric said. His voice stayed even, but his hand curled at his side. "Did the Greyjoy touch you?"