Sansa's breath hitched, a feverish crimson flush creeping up from her collarbone, but she didn't look back as she hurried toward the keep. Alaric watched her go until her presence was safely within the stone walls.
The hours ground on toward midnight, the celebratory roar of the final feast slowly fading into the heavy, wine-soaked silence of Winterfell's sleeping halls. In her chambers, Sansa Stark paced restlessly, the amber glow of the hearth flickering against her sky-blue bedgown. Every creak of the ancient stone seemed to echo her heartbeat until a sharp, distinct clack sounded against her floorboards.
She froze, looking down to see a small, frost-covered stone rolling across the heavy fur rug. Her breath hitched as she hurried to the window, pushing it ajar to peer into the frigid Northern night.
Below, half-hidden by the thick, gnarled ivy, Alaric stood in the shadows. He was looking up, his posture relaxed despite the danger, with his large hands resting possessively on his hips. The torchlight from the battlements caught the predatory glint in his eyes—the same dark confidence that had terrified Joffrey in the training yard.
Sansa leaned over the sill, her face flushing crimson as she realized just how reckless he was being. She looked toward the guard towers, her mind racing with the fear of Septa Mordane or her father's guards appearing in the corridor.
"Are you mad?" she mouthed, her voice a silent, desperate thread that the wind immediately swallowed.
Alaric didn't respond with words. Instead, he reached into his tunic and pulled out another small stone, this one wrapped tightly in a scrap of parchment and secured with a bit of twine. With a fluid, effortless motion, he tossed it upward. The projectile whistled through the freezing air and landed with a soft thud on the plush fur rug at Sansa's feet.
Sansa scrambled to pick it up, her fingers trembling as she unfurled the message. The charcoal script was jagged but clear:
Use your bed linens. Create a rope and secure it to the bedpost. The ivy is slick with frost; I need more than luck to reach you tonight.
Her eyes went wide, darting from the note to the heavy oak door. The sheer audacity of the request made her heart hammer against her ribs. To any other girl, it was madness; to the Lady of Winterfell, it was the first real choice she had ever made for herself.
She moved with frantic, speed. She stripped the heavy fur covers from her feather mattress and began knotting the sturdy linen sheets together with desperate strength. She looped one end around the thick, carved bedpost of her four-poster bed and threw the other end out the window.
Below, Alaric caught the makeshift rope. He didn't hesitate. Grabbing the linen and using the ancient, gnarled ivy for foothold, he began to ascend.
As his fingers finally gripped the stone sill, Alaric hauled himself up and stepped into the room, the scent of midnight and woodsmoke trailing behind him like a cloak. He kicked the window shut, the latch clicking with a finality that made Sansa jump.
Sansa stood in the center of the room, her breath hitching as she clutched the heavy velvet of her bedgown. The amber glow of the hearth threw Alaric's shadow across her, tall and predatory, and she swallowed hard, knowing that tonight the world she knew was ending.
"Are you mad?" she whispered, her voice a frantic thread of sound. "The castle is crawling with Lannisters and Baratheons. It is far more dangerous now than it ever was before. We... we will have more opportunities in the future, Alaric. On the road south, or in the city..."
She spoke the words, but as she looked into his dark eyes, she saw the new, unyielding confidence that had taken root in him. She had known him as her secret lover for years, and she knew the set of his jaw too well. He wouldn't leave.
Alaric didn't answer with logic or caution. He moved across the heavy fur rug, the distance between them vanishing in two silent strides. He reached out, his hand still holding the bite of the midnight air, and settled it firmly on her waist, pulling her flush against his leather jerkin.
"The future is a lie told by men who are afraid of the present, Sansa," he rasped, his voice a low, vibrant rumble that sent a jolt of electricity through her. "I am done waiting for 'opportunities' granted by your father or the King."
Sansa's hands came to rest on his chest, her fingers curling into his armor as if trying to ground herself. She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and filled with a raw, hungry relief that shattered her regal poise.
"You are a truly infuriating man," she breathed, her courage finally catching up to her desire.
Alaric's lips curled into a slow, predatory grin. "And you," he whispered, leaning down until his breath ghosted over her lips, "are a Lady who has finally stopped pretending she wants to be anywhere else."
Sansa looked up at him, her gaze lingering on the sharp, confident lines of his face. She felt the heat of his hand through her velvet bedgown.
"You have to be silent," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the hearth. "We cannot make much noise. Septa Mordane's ears are as sharp as a winter gale, and if we are found like this, there will be no mercy for either of us."