Alaric looked back at the horizon and gripped the reins. He hadn't just survived; he'd won big.
"System," he muttered, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. "You've got a twisted sense of humor."
[System Note: A Monarch must learn to spot poison, even when it is served on a silver platter.]
He swiped the blue window away. By turning down Catelyn Stark, he'd hit the jackpot.
"Eleven thousand points," he whispered.
He kicked his horse into a trot.
11,724 MP.
He shifted in his saddle, making the leather creak, and did the math.
A single Blood Knight cost 300 MP. Yesterday, summoning one of those seven-foot monsters was a tough choice. They were his best soldiers—rare and expensive.
Now? He had enough for Plenty.
He could bring plenty of them into the world right now, all at once. His smirk grew. That wasn't just a guard; that was a small army. Thirty-five giants in enchanted steel who felt no pain could tear through a thousand men. They could slaughter the Kingsguard before Joffrey even opened his mouth to scream.
Things just got a lot easier.
Alaric looked at the glowing numbers and wondered how much further he could push this power.
"System," he thought. "What else is there? What can I do with this much?"
A new window flickered into view.
[System Note: Construction Protocols Unlocked. You may now spend MP to create permanent structures, fortresses, and specialized facilities.]
Alaric's eyebrows shot up. He thought of the Obsidian Citadel—the massive fortress that cost 8,000 MP. He had enough. He could drop a castle right in the middle of the North if he wanted to.
[Warning: Construction is not recommended at this time. It is best to wait until you have settled a territory. Spending points now would be reckless.]
Alaric nodded to himself. The system was right. Dropping a fortress while he was still on the move would be a waste of resources and a massive target on his back. He needed to plan. He needed to decide exactly where he wanted his seat of power to be before he committed nearly all his points to stone and mortar.
He leaned back, letting the horse carry him forward.
"Fine," he whispered. "We wait."
The army ground to a halt as the sun dipped below the horizon. Men moved with practiced efficiency, hammering stakes and pitching tents for the night. Alaric waited until the camp was settled before heading to his private quarters.
Inside the tent, the air was warm compared to the biting wind outside. Roslin stood by the bed, her back to the entrance. She reached up to unfasten the heavy fur coat she had worn all day, letting the thick layers of wool and hide slide off her shoulders and hit the rug with a muffled thud.
Alaric walked up behind her, his boots silent on the fabric floor. Before she could turn around, he reached forward and cupped her breasts over her thin inner shirt.
Roslin let out a sharp moan, her head falling back against his chest. Her body went soft as she leaned into him. Alaric didn't let go; he squeezed them firmly, his thumbs brushing against her nipples through the fabric.
"My lord," she gasped, her hands coming up to cover his, pressing them tighter against her skin.
Alaric ignored the words and kept playing with them, feeling her heart hammer against his palms. He nipped at her neck, making her breath hitch in the quiet tent. She was already wet for him, her legs trembling slightly as he held her.
"System," Alaric commanded internally, his eyes never leaving Roslin's flushed face. "Erect a Soundproof Barrier around the tent."
[System Action: Silent Domain Activated. Cost: 50 MP.]
The howling wind outside vanished instantly. The tent fell into a heavy, supernatural silence, broken only by the crackle of the brazier and Roslin's ragged breathing.
Alaric didn't waste time with words. He gripped Roslin's waist and hoisted her up, sitting her on the edge of the heavy wooden table. Her skirts bunched up around her hips, leaving her legs bare and dangling.
"My lord," she breathed, her hands clutching his shoulders to steady herself.
He stepped between her thighs, forcing them wide apart. The golden light from the brazier hit her skin, highlighting the flush spreading across her chest. Alaric reached down and unlaced the front of his breeches. He wasn't interested in being gentle tonight; the adrenaline from the day's march was still humming in his blood.
Roslin looked down at him, her eyes wide and dark with a mix of fear and hunger. She remembered the moon tea she had taken. She knew there would be no accidents, only the raw weight of his ownership.
He grabbed her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and pulled her to the very edge of the wood. Roslin leaned back on her elbows, her chest heaving as she watched him. She didn't look like a Frey daughter anymore; she looked like a woman who had been broken and rebuilt to fit his shadow.
"Stay quiet," Alaric commanded, his voice a low growl.
Even with the system's soundproofing, he liked the control of making her hold her breath. He lunged forward, driving into her in one heavy motion. Roslin's back arched, and a muffled cry died in her throat as she bit her lip, her fingers scratching at the table's surface.
They didn't stop at the table.
For the next three hours, they moved through the tent. Alaric didn't tire. He moved her from the table to the high-backed chair. She sat across his lap, burying her face in his neck while he held her waist. Later, he backed her against the center pole. She wrapped her legs around him, her voice getting louder as he pressed into her.
Roslin had spent her life learning how to be a lady—how to be quiet and controlled. Tonight, that was gone. She matched him move for move, her cries echoing against the barrier walls.
"Alaric… please… more," she whispered, her voice breaking. Her muscles shook, but she didn't pull away.
Finally, he pushed her down onto the furs near the fire. He moved over her, sweat dripping from his skin. Roslin arched her back, her eyes rolling as she gripped the blankets. Alaric held her thighs tight and shoved forward one last time.
Roslin screamed, her body tensing and then going completely still. She slumped against his chest, her arms and legs dropping heavily. Her heart hammered against his ribs. For a long time, the only sound was the two of them gasping for air.
The tent was dead quiet. Roslin lay limp on top of him. Her skin was red and damp. She didn't move, but she didn't close her eyes either. Her fingers traced a faint scar on his chest, her mind clearly racing even though her body was spent.
...
The warhorse swayed rhythmically.
It was mid-morning the next day. The Northern army moved down the Kingsroad like a long line of grey steel. The air was freezing, turning the breath of twelve thousand men and horses into thick fog. Inside Alaric's heavy fur cloak, it stayed warm.