"He's sent out descriptions of—"
"The girl with me has nowhere to go," Alaric interrupted, his voice cutting the Maester's report.
Luwin blinked, startled. Alaric looked Robb dead in the eye, his expression unshakable.
"I rescued her from a greedy father," Alaric said firmly. "The man was about to marry her off without her consent, selling her like a piece of livestock. She's with me because I took her away from that. She has no interest in being found."
Robb looked at Alaric for a long moment. He knew Alaric's reputation, and the story of a girl fleeing a forced marriage sounded like a dozen other stories he'd heard.
"I see," Robb said, glancing at Luwin. "If she's under your protection, Alaric, then Winterfell won't be the one to hand her back to a father she fears."
Theon rolled his eyes but stayed silent, and Luwin slowly folded the parchment, the description of Roslin Frey forgotten in his hand.
Alaric turned his gaze to Maester Luwin. His voice remained steady, showing just enough respect to the older man without losing its edge.
"Maester," Alaric said. "If a Frey girl was taken weeks ago near the Neck, that's a long way from here. How are we even supposed to know anything about it? We've got our own borders to watch."
He shifted his look to Robb, raising an eyebrow slightly. "We have enough to worry about in the North without chasing after Walder Frey's runaway problems. Right?"
Robb looked at the mud, then back at Alaric. He let out a short breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he nodded.
"Right," Robb said. "The Freys can manage their own house. We won't waste men or time looking for a ghost in the woods."
Theon let out a sharp laugh, finally breaking his silence. "Old Walder probably lost her himself and just wants someone to blame."
Luwin sighed and tucked the parchment into his sleeve, the matter settled. "As you wish, Lord Robb."
Alaric watched them for a moment, then began walking toward the guest quarters.
Robb watched Luwin walk away, then looked back at the muddy ground.
"The Freys took their sweet time," Robb muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Three weeks? If they had sent that raven the moment it happened, we might have actually found something. Now? The trail is buried under a month of snow and mud."
Alaric stopped mid-stride. He didn't turn around immediately, letting the silence hang in the air for a second before he slowly pivoted back to face them.
"Theon," Alaric said, his voice deceptively calm.
Theon looked up, his smirk faltering just a fraction. "What?"
"I heard you were busy while I was away," Alaric said, taking a slow step toward him. "Word reached me that you told my guest you could have the guards toss me into the snow if you felt like it. That I'm 'nothing' in this castle."
Theon's face went pale for a heartbeat before a defensive flush crept up his neck. He forced a laugh, looking at Robb for support, but Robb was watching him with narrowed eyes.
"I never said any such thing," Theon scoffed, crossing his arms. "You're hearing ghosts, Thorne. Or maybe your 'servant' has a vivid imagination. I was just welcoming your guest to Winterfell. Properly."
"Is that right?" Alaric asked. He stopped just a foot away from Theon, looming slightly. "Because my man says you were using your boot to keep a lady's door open. That doesn't sound like a welcome."
Theon gritted his teeth. "I don't answer to you, and I certainly don't answer to your lackey. If you have a problem with how I talk, take it up with Lord Stark."
Alaric didn't back down. He kept walking until he was inches from Theon, forcing the Ironborn to tilt his head up to maintain eye contact. The air between them felt thick, and even Robb stayed silent, sensing the shift in the yard.
Alaric looked directly into Theon's eyes, his gaze cold; he just stared until the bravado in Theon's expression started to flicker into genuine unease.
Theon shifted his weight, his hand twitching near his belt, but he couldn't look away.
After a long, heavy silence, the tension suddenly broke. Alaric reached out, not for a weapon, but to settle his hand on Theon's shoulder. He gave it a firm, almost friendly pat, though the grip was tight enough to be felt through the heavy wool of Theon's doublet.
"Take care of yourself, Theon," Alaric said quietly.
Robb stood there, his eyes moving between the two of them. The yard had gone quiet. The guards on the walls were looking down, sensing the heat even in the freezing air.
Robb's face didn't soften. He looked at Theon, then at Alaric's retreating back. Finally, he turned his full attention to Theon.
"He's right," Robb said, his voice flat.
Theon's jaw dropped. "You're taking his side? He just threatened me in your own yard, Robb! And his servant—"
"My father's house is a place of guest right, Theon," Robb interrupted, stepping closer. "If you were lurking at a guest's door and making threats, you're lucky it was Alaric who found you and not my father. Or worse, my mother."
Theon opened his mouth to argue, but Robb held up a hand.
"Alaric has been here as long as we have. He's family in everything but name. If you have a problem with him, keep it to the training ring. But if I hear about you bothering that girl again, I'll be the one putting you in the snow. Do you understand?"
Theon looked like he'd been slapped. He glanced toward the guest quarters where Alaric had disappeared, his eyes stinging with a mix of rage and embarrassment. He didn't answer.
"I asked if you understood," Robb repeated, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like Ned Stark than he ever had.
"I understand," Theon spat.
He didn't wait for a dismissal. He turned and stormed off toward the armory, kicking a bucket of slush out of his way.
Robb watched him go with a heavy sigh. He looked at Bran, who was still standing by the archery targets with wide eyes.
"Get back to your practice, Bran," Robb said tiredly. "And keep your chin up. Alaric's right about the grip—don't choke the wood."