The blood rushed to Roslin's face, a deep, burning crimson. She tried to hide her face against his shoulder, but he wouldn't let her, his hands keeping her firmly in place.
"Alaric! That... that's different," she squeaked, her voice muffled.
"Is it?" he chuckled, enjoying the way her embarrassment finally chased away the cold fear of her father. "I think you're plenty strong. And as for your brothers... I have a way to make them listen. A way to make sure they never even think about raising a hand to you."
He reached for the silver Blood-Oath Chalice on the table, letting it catch the lamplight.
She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her skin radiating heat against his collarbone. The mention of her earlier, bold promise made her want to sink through the floor, but Alaric's steady heartbeat under her ear kept her grounded.
"Fine," she muttered, her voice muffled against his skin. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her face a bright, beautiful crimson that clashed with the dusty riding leathers she wore. "I will be whatever Lady Frey you want me to bee. But..."
She poked a finger sharply against his chest, her eyes narrowing with a mix of genuine annoyance and lingering shyness.
"You have to stop. Don't you dare tease me with that in the future, Alaric. It's... it is so incredibly embarrassing," she squeaked, her voice cracking slightly. "I only said it because... because I was caught up in the moment. If you keep bringing it up every time I get nervous, I'll—I'll never be able to look at you again without turning into a beet!"
He caught her hand, kissing the finger she was using to point at him.
He gave her fingers a playful squeeze, his eyes dancing with a light she rarely saw.
"Alright, alright," he conceded, though the tilt of his lips suggested he was far from finished. "I'll try to keep my tongue in check. But I make no guarantees, Rose. You make it far too easy to enjoy myself."
Roslin huffed, a small pout forming on her lips as she leaned back against him, finally allowing the last of her tension to bleed away.
...
Two days later, the Northern army reached the Green Fork.
The river was deep and the water moved fast. On both sides of the water stood the Twins—two massive stone castles connected by a wide, heavy bridge. The wooden gates on both sides were shut tight. There was no other way to cross the river.
Alaric pulled his horse to a stop. He ordered the army to set up camp right outside the archery range of the castle walls. He did not order the men to build siege weapons or prepare for an attack. He just waited.
An hour later, the gates of the eastern castle opened slowly. A group of ten riders came out. They wore gray cloaks with the twin tower sigil on their chests.
Alaric sat in his command tent. He looked at Roslin.
"Go to the back area of the tent," Alaric told her, pointing to the thick canvas divider that hid the sleeping furs. "Do not come out until I call you."
Roslin nodded quickly and slipped behind the canvas.
A minute later, the tent flap opened. Ser Rodrik walked in. Two Frey men followed him inside. One was older with thinning gray hair. The other was younger, plump, and had a fake smile on his face.
"Stevron and Lothar Frey," Ser Rodrik announced.
Alaric sat in his heavy wooden chair behind the table. He did not stand up to greet them. "Sit."
Stevron looked at the two massive, seven-foot Blood Knights standing in the corners of the tent. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixing on their thick armor for a second before he sat down. Lothar decided to stand right next to his brother.
"Lord Walder sends his greetings," Stevron said. He tried to sound strong, but his voice shook a little. "He wants to know why so many Northern soldiers are camping on his grass."
Alaric did not answer at once. He studied the Freys in silence, long enough to make Stevron shift in his seat.
"And you are?" Stevron asked at last, unable to bear the quiet.
"Alaric Thorne." His tone stayed even.
Stevron blinked. Lothar's fake smile completely vanished. They both knew that name. Ravens from King's Landing had brought stories of the Stark ward—the boy who humiliated the Crown Prince in the yard and openly defied Queen Cersei.
Lothar turned his head and looked sharply at Ser Rodrik. "Alaric Thorne? The ward?" Lothar sounded insulted. "Ser Rodrik, why did you bring us to him? We came to negotiate with the commander of this army. Where is Robb Stark?"
Ser Rodrik did not move. "You are speaking to the commander."
Stevron frowned. He looked back and forth between the old knight and the young man sitting behind the table. "Robb Stark is the heir. He should be leading these men."
"Robb Stark is in Winterfell," Alaric said. His voice was calm and flat. "Why he is there, and how I got this command, is none of your concern."
He leaned back in his heavy chair. "I am leading this army. That is all you need to know."
Stevron opened his mouth, but shut it again. Lothar looked past Alaric, glancing at the shadows of the giant Blood Knights in the corners of the tent. They did not like taking orders from a ward, but they had no choice. this many Northern soldiers were camped outside. The army was massive, and Alaric was the one holding the command.
"We are marching south," Alaric continued. "The Lannisters attacked Lord Eddard and broke the peace. We are going to fight them for their wrongdoings."
He rested his hands flat on the wooden table. "I expect House Frey to help us in this cause. We need to cross the river, and we need your swords to join our march."
Stevron and Lothar looked at each other. This was not the conversation they planned for. They came expecting to bully a young, desperate Stark. Instead, they were sitting across from a wall of cold stone.
Lothar shifted his weight. His fake smile was completely gone now. "The bridge belongs to House Frey. And House Frey answers only to Lord Walder."
Stevron nodded quickly, eager to get out of the tent. "Yes. We cannot just give you the bridge or our soldiers. We must take this to our father. We will give him your message and get his instructions."