A massive, terrifying silhouette of a wolf appeared for a fraction of a second, filling the room with the scent of forests and iron, before the Sanguine Compression kicked in. With a sickening sound of shifting bone, it shrank until a large, black-furred hound stood before him, its eyes glowing with a faint, unnatural amber.
The path south was no longer a lonely one.
"I'll call you Shadow," Alaric whispered, reaching out. The wolf leaned its head into his hand; its fur felt like soft as silk, deceptively soft over hide that he knew was as tough as plate armor.
"And the other?" Alaric turned his head.
In the corner of the room, a man seemed to simply materialize out of the gloom. He was lean, dressed in mottled grey and charcoal leathers that would be invisible in the brush or a dark alley. His face was unremarkable—the kind of face a person would forget five seconds after seeing it.
"Monarch," the man said, kneeling. His voice was a rasp, barely louder than the wind. "I am your shadow on the road to greatness."
Alaric grinned, a genuine, predatory expression. "Perfect. Cersei thinks she's the only one who plays with hidden daggers. She has no idea the monsters I'm bringing to her doorstep."
He stood up, feeling the 20% boost in his strength surging through his limbs. He felt faster, heavier, and utterly untouchable by the cold. Alaric's fingers sank into the thick, obsidian fur of the wolf. The beast let out a low, thrumming vibration—not a growl, but a purr of concentrated power.
"Tomorrow," Alaric whispered, his eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight. "Tomorrow we leave the North."
He felt the surge of his new strength, a heavy, restless power coiling in his muscles. The increase wasn't just physical; his senses felt sharper, his mind more calculated. He began to think of the future—not just as a survivor, but as a Monarch.
"System," he thought, leaning back as Shadow settled at his feet like a dark patch of the night itself. "You mentioned building structures. If I'm to be a King, I can't just live in the guest chambers of my enemies. What does it take to manifest a castle?"
The blue light of the interface washed over the darkened room, the text appearing with a golden hue this time.
[MONARCH DOMAIN: CONSTRUCTION]
Status: Locked (Requires 'Sovereign' Rank or 5,000+ MP Lifetime Earnings)
The Obsidian Citadel (Tier 3 Fortress)
Cost: 8,000 MP
Comparison: On par with Highgarden or The Eyrie.
Features: Self-sustaining ecosystem, magically reinforced walls (immune to conventional siege), and a 'Monarch's Throne' that amplifies MP gain by 15%.
Note: Can be summoned onto any unclaimed or conquered land. The foundation will "root" into the earth in less than twenty-four hours.
Alaric's breath caught in his throat. 8,000 points sounded like an impossible sum, but then he looked at the 1,450 he had earned just from one mission and his encounter with Sansa.
"Highgarden in a day," he chuckled, the dark, jagged grin returning. "The Tyrells spent centuries breeding and building to get their riches. I can summon a fortress that rivals theirs just by breaking the right people."
He looked at the scout, then at the wolf. every plot he foiled would be another brick in his future castle.
"Rest," Alaric commanded the scout. "Shadow, stay close."
...
Next Day
The dawn over Winterfell arrived with a biting clarity, the frost clinging to the stone battlements like a shroud. Inside the guest chambers assigned to the royal family, the air was warm, perfumed with southern oils that felt out of place against the scent of old, frozen pine.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon sat by the hearth while her maid, Rosamund, braided her golden hair. Myrcella was gentle and possessed a courtesy that her elder brother entirely lacked, yet she was far from unobservant. She watched the flames dance, her mind replaying the chaotic scene in the training yard from the previous evening.
"Is it true, Rosamund?" Myrcella asked softly. "Did the ward truly strike Joffrey?"
Rosamund leaned in, her voice a hushed whisper. "They say he did more than strike him, My Lady. They say he played with the Prince as if he were a child with a wooden stick. Prince Joffrey was fuming when he returned to his chambers. He nearly threw a goblet at the page."
Myrcella let out a small, tired sigh. She loved her brother because he was her blood, but she was not blind to his temperament. She had seen him sneer at the Northmen since they passed the Neck, treating the ancient seat of the Starks like a stable.
"Joffrey has always been... spirited," Myrcella said carefully, choosing the kindest word available. "But the men in the yard were laughing. Even Uncle Tyrion seemed amused. Who is this ward? The one who caught Bran?"
"He didn't even look scared when Ser Jaime drew his sword," Rosamund added, finally finishing the braid.
"That's the problem," Myrcella said, standing up. "He's a ward of a dead house with zero power, yet he acts like he owns the place. Mother's radar is a death sentence, and he is a fool if he thinks he can humiliate Joffrey and just walk away. Once Mother decides someone is a problem, they don't last long."
She watched the fire, her expression darkening with genuine concern. "She'll have him killed before we even see the Red Keep. He made a fool out of the future King in front of everyone; in Mother's eyes, that isn't a mistake—it's treason. She's already talking about 'accidents' on the road. By the time we hit the bogs, he'll probably be a corpse in a ditch."