The blue light of the System receded into Alaric's peripheral vision as he nodded slowly, the digital interface fading back into the darkness of the godswood.
He studied the cost of his potential growth with a calculating eye: 100 MP for the equivalent of three months of grueling physical training.
With a current balance of 250 MP, he had enough to sharpen himself into a lethal instrument, but the thought of the Lannisters stayed his hand.
He pictured Cersei and Jaime plotting to "erase" him like a stubborn stain on a rug. If he didn't secure the Sovereign Bond with Sansa soon, he would be walking blindly into a lion's den on the long road south.
"Not yet," he muttered. The cold Northern air stung his lungs as he decided to hoard his points for a moment of true desperation. He turned away from the ancient sentinel tree, his boots crunching through the frozen brush toward the looming, jagged silhouette of the castle.
...
Alaric cut across the inner yard, his breath hitching in frigid air. The rhythmic clack-shush of steel against wood echoed through the courtyard, drawing him toward the training grounds where flickering torchlight danced over frost-bitten stone.
He slowed as he reached the shadows of the gallery. Jon Snow stood there, stripped of his heavy cloak and clad in a simple tunic, moving through sword drills with a grim, focused silence. Nearby, perched on a wine barrel, Tyrion Lannister watched with the keen interest of a gambler studying the horses at the track.
"Skill is wasted without purpose," Tyrion drawled. His voice carried easily over the sound of Jon's strikes, "And purpose is wasted without ambition."
Alaric stayed at the edge of the yard, half-hidden in the gloom. Suddenly, a sharp, crystalline chime rang inside his skull.
[DING!]
[Quest Triggered: The Unbroken Circle]
Objective: Ensure the loyalty of one 'High-Destiny' male.
Tyrion pressed on, undaunted by the eye watching them from the darkness. "Never forget what you are, bastard. The world won't. Make it your strength. Wear it like armor, and no one can use it to wound you."
Alaric stepped into the light, finding this best apportunity to intervene. "Armor is for men who expect to be struck, My Lord," he said in a low rasp that cut through the air. "I prefer to end fights before the blade ever reaches me."
Jon whipped around, surprise flashing on his face as he lowered his practice sword. Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed and then sparked with a sudden, sharp amusement.
"The hero of the hour," Tyrion said, lifting his cup in a mocking toast. "The ward who plucked a Starkling from the air. A miraculous catch, they say."
"I caught a boy who slipped," Alaric replied, his expression flat and unreadable. "Nothing more." "Bold words for a ward," Tyrion replied, scrambling down off his barrel with a grunt.
"Our friend Jon here wants to run off to a wall of ice to find himself. You, on the other hand. you sound like a man who wants to rule it."
Alaric's stare hardened. "I don't want the Wall, My Lord. I want a world where we don't have to hide behind stone to feel safe. Kings build walls; a Monarch removes the need for them."
The yard fell silent but for the crackling of the dying torch nearby. Jon looked upon Alaric as if he was a stranger for the first time, while Tyrion took a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine.
Alaric watched the flicker of uncertainty in Jon's eyes and the sharp calculating gleam in Tyrion's. By speaking so boldly, Alaric wasn't being arrogant; he was testing the waters. He needed to see if Tyrion was an enemy to be feared or a mind to be utilized.
More importantly, he needed to plant a seed in Jon Snow. If he was to secure the loyalty of a "High-Destiny" target, he had to offer Jon something more than the cold, thankless life of the Night's Watch.
It was Jon who spoke first, his voice tight with defensive pride. "The Wall is a place of honor, Alaric. My uncle is there. My father says the Night's Watch is the shield that guards the realms of men."
Alaric turned his head, his dark eyes settling on the Bastard of Winterfell. "A shield only serves if there is a hand strong enough to hold it, Jon. If the North falls into the possession of lions or fools, the men upon that Wall will be forgotten and left to starve in the snow."
Tyrion hooted, wine spilling from his cup as he wiped his lip. "He has you there, Snow. Honor is a fine thing, but you can't eat it, and it won't keep your toes from rotting off in a blizzard." He leaned forward again, the levity suddenly gone from his face.
"You talk of kings and monarchs. You talk as if the world is about to break. What do you see when you look at my sister and her 'Golden' retinue, Ward?"
He's fishing, Alaric thought. He wants to see whether I'm a lucky guard or whether I know why Bran really fell.
"I see a storm wrapped in silk and gold," said Alaric simply. "And I see people who believe the North is merely a cold room that they must visit. They do not realize the floor is of ice, and it is beginning to crack.
Alaric took a step closer to Jon, oblivious to the Lannister for a moment. "The King is taking Lord Eddard south. He's taking Sansa. Winterfell will be empty, and you'll be a thousand miles away, sworn to a life where you can never help them again. Is that the 'honor' you want? Or do you want the power to actually protect your blood?"
Jon flinched as if struck, the words hitting exactly where Alaric intended: right in the heart of his desperate need to belong and deep-seated fear for his family.
System Analysis: Target 'Jon Snow' is reconsidering his path.
Affection/Loyalty: 45/100 (Interested)
He watched the exchange, his eyes dancing from one young man to the other. "You are a very dangerous person, Alaric Thorne," the Imp murmured, his words almost lost in the rising wind. "I can't decide if I should buy you a drink or run for my life."
"Do both, My Lord," Alaric replied with a faint, predatory grin. "It'll make the story more interesting."
The heavy, rhythmic thud of metal boots against the stone walkway sliced through Tyrion's laughter. The atmosphere in the yard changed at once, the air growing colder still with the approach of this new presence.
In the torchlight stood Prince Joffrey Baratheon, resplendent with golden locks and a sneer of pure disdain on his face. Behind him loomed the silent, terrifying form of Sandor "The Hound" Clegane. Joffrey's eyes swept over the group, lingering on Alaric with a look of intense distaste.