"...So, how was it? Your first time... with me? Was I alright?" she whispered. Her voice carried a tremor of genuine curiosity, still caught in the lingering haze of the night.
Alaric let out a low, gravelly chuckle that vibrated through his chest beneath her. He looked up at her, his dark eyes softening in a way he rarely permitted outside these four walls. "Sansa," he rasped, reaching up to tuck a stray, copper curl behind her ear. "The fact that I can't feel my legs should probably answer that. But in all honesty? I believe I should be the one asking you."
The bold light in her eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, shy warmth. A flush crept up her neck, independent of the room's heat. With a soft exhale, she ducked her chin, burying her face into the crook of his neck to hide her expression.
"I was scared at first," she admitted, her voice muffled against his skin. "I used to listen to the maids gossiping in the laundry rooms... they talked about a woman's first time as if it were a battle to be endured. They spoke of nothing but pain, claiming men were clumsy and hurried just to get it over with. I've spent years dreading this night, thinking it was a duty I simply had to survive."
She tightened her arms around him, her fingers tracing the tension in his shoulders.
"But it wasn't like that," she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze with raw honesty. "They didn't have someone like you. They didn't have someone so... patient. You didn't just take; you waited. You made sure I was with you every step of the way."
She let out a tiny, breathless laugh, resting her forehead against his. "I think the maids were just unlucky. Or perhaps... they simply lacked a wolf quite as handsome as mine."
Alaric watched her for a long moment. He reached up, his palm cupping her cheek, and pressed a lingering, tender kiss to her brow.
"You're far too precious for your own good," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made her breath hitch. "In the future, pay no mind to the talk of laundry maids. They know nothing of us."
The moment of quiet vulnerability lingered for only a heartbeat longer before the weight of her surroundings—and the demanding reality of her own body—crashed back down on Sansa.
With a soft gasp of realization, she attempted to scramble upward, but the sudden movement proved to be a painful mistake. As she pushed herself away from the lingering warmth of Alaric's chest, a sharp, heavy ache radiated through her thighs and lower back. Her muscles felt as useless as melted wax, her legs wobbling precariously as she finally managed to slide off him and find her footing at the edge of the bed.
Sansa surveyed the room, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. It wasn't just the bed that had been upended; the entire chamber looked like a battlefield. The heavy furs and silken sheets were a tangled, chaotic mess, tossed aside. On the floor, a discarded pitcher of water lay on its side where it had been forgotten, and their clothing was strewn in a frantic, discarded trail leading toward the dying embers of the hearth.
As she stood, she felt a sudden warmth stir and then slick down the inside of her thigh—a direct, physical reminder of how Alaric had lost his grip on his self-control and stayed deep inside her until the end.
She felt stretched and tender in places she'd never really thought about before, a lingering ache that made her feel heavy and slow. Every pulse of heat from between her legs made even a small step feel like a massive effort.
She gripped the bedpost for support, her face turning a bright, frantic shade of crimson as she surveyed the "mess" they had made. She looked back at Alaric, who remained sprawled out with a look of dark, satisfied exhaustion.
"Alaric..." she started, her voice high and slightly panicked. "How... how am I supposed to clean all of this?"
She gestured weakly to the stained sheets and the puddles on the floor, then looked down at her shaking legs.
"If anyone sees this..." she whispered, her lip trembling in a mix of embarrassment and genuine physical fatigue. "I can't even stand straight, let alone scrub the floors or change these heavy furs. My legs are so sore I feel like I'm walking on broken stilts. And... and it's still dripping out of me!"
"You did this to me," she whispered, her face a bright, frantic shade of crimson. "You made this mess, Alaric. You must help clean it before the sun rises, for I can barely stand, let alone scrub the floors."
Without waiting for his response, Sansa retreated toward the washroom. Her movements were stiff, her legs trembling with a heavy, throbbing ache that made every step a trial.
Alaric sat up, his body mapped with the exhaustion of the night, and surveyed the wreckage of the chamber. The room was a disaster of tangled furs, discarded silks, and the heavy, musky scent of their union.
"System," Alaric thought, his voice a low rasp in the quiet. "I don't have time to scrub floors or fan out the smell before the castle wakes. Can I spend points to fix this?"
The blue interface flared to life in his peripheral vision.
[SYSTEM RESPONSE: UTILITY PROTOCOL]
Request: Restoration of 'High-Destiny' Living Quarters.
Cost: 1 Monarch Point (MP).
Effect: Complete molecular restoration of fabrics, removal of biological fluids, and neutralization of atmospheric scents.