A dragon in his keep.

The last time it had happened, Queen Alysanne had managed to melt the barriers that he used to put up so well after the death of his wife. One day was enough to make him crack a smirk, two days enough to make him smile, three days enough to make him laugh.

Gods forgive him, for he was absolutely lost.

You were the vision of your mother, truly. With the same charms, the exact same grace, and Alaric knew he'd have little choice since the moment you stepped foot in Winterfell.

Your own royal progress, as you'd called it, seeing as you were the heir of the Iron Throne, now. You would become his monarch, and he'd have to bend the knee to you in the same way you bowed your head when you two first met.

He was, unfortunately, taken with you.

It was unnatural — how easily you seemed to break down the walls with nothing but a smile, much more easily than your own mother did. If Alysanne had managed to see good in him, you had managed to make him look like someone completely different.

Your chambers were too cold? He'd ask the maids to move your things to one that was warmer. The food was too raw? He'd send it back to the kitchens just so it would fit to your taste. Your clothes didn't warm you enough? He'd lend you his own cloak if it meant keeping you from freezing.

Alaric did not know how you bewitched him so, but he loved and hated it at the same amount.

It was late at night when he knocked on your chambers, his breath leaving a ghost of air each time he exhaled. He waited for a few seconds, then your doors opened and he immediately wrapped his fingers around your wrist.

His hold wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rough, either. His hands were cold, colder than they usually were, and he looked into your eyes with the same roughness that he always had, giving little space for warmth in his gaze.

"If I may, Your Grace... I would like it if you would follow me."