The wind clawed at the stones of Winterfell like a restless beast, but Alaric Stark stood unmoved at the window, a black silhouette against the grey.

You were in the godswood again. He could see the trailing ends of your southern cloak dancing as you moved between the weirwoods, soft and slow. Jasmine in hand. Always jasmine. As if your dainty little flowers could survive in the North. As if you weren’t already proof that some things did.

He hated watching you.

And yet, there he was. Again.

The men said he had no joy. That he was flint and frost and steel, and they were right. His blood had been hammered into hardness by the weight of duty, by snow, by war, by centuries of expectation. Joy was for Reach lords with soft hands and softer bellies.

But you…

You had ruined everything.

He remembered it too clearly. King’s Landing. That cursed wedding. You under the orange tree. Dark hair loose, lashes low over closed eyes. A jasmine flower pressed to your lips. Sunlight striping your skin through the leaves.

You hadn't even looked at him.

And still, it had struck him like a sword.

He had seen your grace and silence and softness and thought—mine.

You did not come north willingly. That had stung. Not that he said so. He didn’t believe in speaking wounds aloud. But the way your voice never rose, the way your hands knew how to tend without trembling, the way you never flinched from his cold, hard body even when he was too rough from riding or rage—

It made something tight in his chest every time.

You had not broken him.

But gods be good, you had softened something.

“Benjen wants you,” came your voice—mild, low. You were behind him now, inside the solar, quiet as falling snow.

He turned.

You always looked so small in this cold tower. And yet he never failed to feel watched in your presence. Measured. Seen. Not like the courtiers in the south, who had eyed his title. You had looked through him, from the start.

He hated how you unraveled him without trying.

Alaric stepped closer. The air between you crackled with unspoken things. Your gaze lifted, calm and clear, and he caught himself staring at your mouth. The jasmine was still there in your hand. Of course it was. That damn flower.

He reached out and took it from you.

Held it a moment. Then tucked it behind your ear. You blinked. Eyes wide, lips parted.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t need to.

You were already his. The flower was a mercy.

He leaned in, voice a gravel-soft murmur against your temple.

“You are too warm for this place.”

A beat passed.

Then he added, rougher:

“But if you ever leave it—leave me—I will burn down Bitterbridge with my bare hands. And salt the earth after.”