The heavy sound of hooves hitting the cobblestones broke the awkward silence. Ser Rodrik Cassel rode up behind Roslin on a warhorse.
The old knight looked completely exhausted. His armor was covered in dried mud, and his white whiskers were wild from the wind, but his eyes were wide as he took in the sight of the open gates and the surrendered Lannister guards.
Rodrik pulled his horse to a stop beside Alaric. He didn't bow, and he didn't use a formal title. He just stared at the towering walls of the capital, then back to the young ward he had helped train in the Winterfell courtyard.
"Alaric," Rodrik breathed, his voice rough from the long ride. "I pushed the men to the breaking point to get here in time for the siege. And you... you just walked right through the front door."
Rodrik shook his head slowly, a mix of disbelief and deep respect in his tired eyes. He cast a quick, cautious glance at Margaery and the sea of Tyrell banners behind them.
"I don't know how in the Seven Hells you managed to pull this off," Rodrik grunted, spitting a wad of dust onto the street. "But whatever you did... the North is in your debt, lad."
"We aren't finished yet, Ser Rodrik," Alaric said. He turned his eyes back up the hill toward the Keep. "The throne room is still occupied."
Alaric didn't wait for a response. He spurred his black destrier forward, resuming the slow, rhythmic march up the Street of Seeds. The towering Blood Knights fell into step around him, their heavy boots hitting the stone like thunder.
Behind him, Margaery smoothly swung her leg over her saddle. She slid down from her white mare, her silk skirts pooling gracefully over the muddy cobblestones. She handed her reins to a nearby guard and walked over to where Roslin was standing.
The Tyrell lords watched in stunned silence as their Queen linked her arm naturally through the dusty girl's arm.
"You must be exhausted from the Kingsroad, Lady Roslin," Margaery said, her voice warm and entirely genuine. "Come walk with me. We have so much to talk about before we take the castle."
Roslin blinked, entirely caught off guard by the Tyrell Queen's casual, friendly tone. "I... yes, Your Grace. Thank you."
The two women fell into step just behind Alaric's horse. As the massive army marched up Aegon's High Hill, Margaery leaned in close to Roslin, whispering something with a playful smile. Roslin's eyes widened slightly, and she let out a quiet, surprised laugh. Both women glanced up at Alaric's broad back, sharing a secret, knowing look.
The Red Keep stood waiting at the top of the hill. The heavy bronze gates of the castle were already visible, and the courtyard beyond them was dead quiet.
The courtyard of the Red Keep was not empty. A line of fifty Lannister red-cloaks stood at the bottom of the main steps. They held their spears out, but their hands were shaking.
Alaric didn't stop his horse. He just gave a short flick of his wrist.
The Blood Knights stepped forward and swung their heavy swords. The fight lasted less than a minute. Spears snapped in half. Men were thrown backward onto the cobblestones. The surviving red-cloaks immediately dropped their weapons and ran toward the lower bailey. The courtyard was theirs.
High above, in the Maidenvault, Sansa Stark stepped out of her ruined bedroom. The massive shadow-beast, Nyx, shook out its dark fur. As it moved, it quickly shrank down until it was the size of a normal Northern hound. It trotted happily at Sansa's heels.
Sansa walked to the hallway window and looked down. The courtyard was filled with Tyrell soldiers and giant red knights. And standing right in the middle of them was Alaric. She noticed Margaery Tyrell and Roslin Frey standing casually just a few feet behind him.
Alaric looked up. He spotted Sansa looking out the window. He paused, then raised his hand and gave her a stiff, slightly awkward wave.
Sansa didn't wave back. She grabbed the fabric of her heavy dress and ran for the stairs.
A few minutes later, she pushed her way out of the Keep doors and into the courtyard. Nyx followed right behind her, staying close to her legs.
Alaric saw her coming. He let out a slow breath of relief. He stepped forward and opened his arms to pull her into a hug.
Sansa didn't hug him. She stopped right in front of him, pulled her fist back, and punched him hard in the jaw.
The sharp smack echoed in the quiet courtyard.
"Lady Sansa..." Ser Rodrik muttered from behind, completely shocked.
Alaric didn't get angry. He just stood there, slowly rubbing his jaw with his leather glove. He looked down at her.
Sansa's angry glare suddenly crac ked. Her shoulders dropped, and she threw herself forward, crashing into his chest. She grabbed the heavy leather of his armor, burying her face against him.
"You dumb man," she mumbled into his chest, her voice thick with crying. "What took you so long?"
Alaric wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "...."
A few feet away, Margaery and Roslin watched the reunion. Roslin offered a soft, understanding smile. Margaery just raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the violent Northern greeting.
After a long moment, Alaric gently pulled back. He wiped a tear from Sansa's cheek.
Alaric wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "I'm here now, Sansa. I promised I would be."
Sansa pulled back just an inch, her face flushed with a mixture of tearful relief and lingering fury.
Before he could say another word, she grabbed the collar of his gambeson and pulled him down.
She didn't just hug him—she kissed him, hard and desperate, right there in the center of the Red Keep's courtyard.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Ser Rodrik's jaw dropped so low it nearly hit his mud-caked breastplate. He looked like he'd just seen a dragon hatch in the middle of a snowstorm. Behind him, the Northern soldiers froze mid-stride, their eyes bulging at the sight of the Ned Stark's daughter—the refined, proper Lady of Winterfell—abandoning every rule of Southern decorum in front of an entire army.
Margaery and Roslin, ever the diplomats, immediately turned their heads in unison. Margaery began a very intense study of a nearby stone gargoyle, while Roslin became fascinated by the stitching on her own gloves, both pretending they weren't witnessing the scandal of the decade.
Nearby, the three wolves—Nyx, Rivy, and Livy—sat in a perfect row. At their normal size. Nyx let out a low, satisfied huff, while the other two simply tilted their heads, watching the humans with unnerving, golden-eyed calm.
"By the Old Gods," Rodrik finally choked out, looking around to see if anyone else was seeing this. "She... she just... in front of the Tyrells?"