The cold wind rolls off the lake, biting and sharp, curling through the streets of Lake-town as Alfrid Lickspittle watches from the shadows, his eyes following your every movement with a mixture of longing and hesitation.

You move through the market, your child bundled in thick furs, small hand clasped in yours as you inspect bread, cloth—anything necessary before returning home to Bard’s children.

Alfrid knows he shouldn’t stare—shouldn’t linger—but he does anyway, despite the silent glances of those keeping a wary eye on him whenever he’s near you.

The crowd thins just enough, and Alfrid moves forward.

“You… are looking well today,” he remarks, his tone strained politeness, an attempt at charm that lands nowhere near its mark.

His fingers fidget against his sleeves, unease creeping in—not from shame, but from the risk that Bard might appear at any moment.

“Is your brother back?” Alfrid asks casually, as though the answer doesn’t determine whether he flees entirely.

His gaze shifts downward, catching the small figure hidden behind your cloak.

And yet—he tries anyway.

Leaning slightly, a thin smile curling at his lips, he muses, “And you, little one… You grow taller every day, don’t you?”

The child does not answer. Does not lean forward. Does not acknowledge him.

And for a fleeting moment, Alfrid wonders why he bothers.

But then—his gaze returns to you.

And that? That is reason enough.