TBD? Alaric raised an eyebrow, his eyes locked on the glowing blue text. System, what exactly does ’To Be Determined’ an? Are you holding out on ?
A smaller, secondary notification window popped up with a soft chi.
[System Prompt:]TBD (To Be Determined) signifies a dynamic, performance-based reward. > The quality, rarity, and nature of this reward will scale directly with your combat performance against Ser Jai Lannister. Variables include: ti taken to subdue the target, damage taken by the Host, and the style/dominance of the victory. A flawless victory will yield a good reward or higher.
Alaric’s lips twitched upward into a smirk. Performance-based. I like the sound of that.
He ntally pressed [ YES ].
The translucent screens shattered into blue motes of light and faded from his vision, returning him to the freezing, torch-lit courtyard of the Twins.
As the Northern lords continued to shout orders and coordinate the logistics of moving their massive host inside the castle walls, Alaric let his mind race. The restriction on using his Summons against Jai wasn’t a handicap; it was an opportunity.
Between the magic of the Chalice and his growing army, he hadn’t actually had a chance to test his own raw, unbuffed combat stats against a truly elite opponent.
And there was no better benchmark in Westeros than the Kingslayer.
More importantly, capturing Jai alive gave him the ultimate leverage. Tywin Lannister might be willing to sacrifice a son for the legacy of his House, but Cersei? Cersei was driven by raw, narcissistic emotion. Having her golden twin in chains would give Alaric the perfect hostage to absolutely shatter the Queen Regent’s sanity and blackmail the Iron Throne itself.
Riding the high of his victory and the anticipation of the coming battle, Alaric stepped closer to Roslin. Without looking down, he casually slid a hand around her waist and pulled her flush against his side.
Roslin stiffened instantly. Her breath hitched, her eyes darting frantically toward the Greatjon Umber and Roose Bolton, who were standing less than twenty paces away, and the dozens of Frey spearn watching their new Lady’s every move.
"My Lord..." Roslin hissed under her breath, her face flushing crimson in the biting cold. She tried to subtly wiggle out of his iron grip, but he held her firm. "What are you doing? We are in the open!"
"Let them look, Rose," Alaric murmured, leaning in close so his breath ghosted against her ear, entirely unfazed by the audience. "You are the Lady of the Crossing now. A Lady needs a strong consort by her side to ensure her transition of power goes smoothly, doesn’t she?"
Her heart was hamring against his side like a trapped bird, but she stopped struggling, acutely aware that any sudden movent would only draw more attention.
"Besides," Alaric added, his voice dropping an octave, "you played your part perfectly today. Consider this your reward."
Roose Bolton’s pale eyes flicked over to the two of them. The Lord of the Dreadfort said nothing, but the calculating look on his face made it clear he was re-evaluating exactly who held the real power in the Riverlands.
Alaric finally released his grip on her waist, giving her a reassuring pat.
...
Hundreds of leagues to the south, the freezing, blood-soaked winds of the Twins gave way to the sun-drenched, perfud air of Highgarden.
Margaery Tyrell sat before a gilded vanity, staring intently at her own reflection in the Myrish glass. She traced the delicate line of her jaw,, simring frustration. By all accounts, she was the most desired maiden in the Seven Kingdoms. She possessed the endless wealth of the Reach, the fad beauty of a blossoming rose, and the sharp, calculating mind of her grandmother, Olenna.
Yet, as she looked at herself in the heavy silk of her gown, all of it felt utterly wasted on her current prospect.
Renly Baratheon, she thought, suppressing a heavy sigh. The man who would be King. He was handso, charismatic, and entirely, undeniably indifferent to her sex. She knew well enough where his true affections lay—her brother Loras had never been particularly subtle—but the reality of a loveless, unconsummated marriage lood over her like a suffocating veil.
To be a Queen who could not tempt her King into her bed, who could not easily give him an heir, was a dangerous and fragile position. She would be a prop. A political bargaining chip.
Surely, she mused, adjusting a stray curl that fell across her forehead, surely there must be a better option. A path to a crown with a man who actually hungers for a queen, rather than one who rely tolerates her for the swords her father brings.
A soft, hesitant knock broke her from her reverie.
"Enter," Margaery called out. Her posture instantly shifted, the weary contemplation vanishing behind a mask of picture-perfect, pleasant poise.
Her handmaid, a young girl nad Elin, slipped into the fragrant solar, looking uncharacteristically flustered. She held a thick, sealed scroll in her hands. The wax was a deep, srizing blue, stamped with a sigil Margaery did not imdiately recognize.
"My Lady," Elin curtsied hastily, her eyes wide. "Forgive the intrusion. A rider arrived at the gates just monts ago... and said this is a letter for you..."
Margaery raised a delicate eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. for her?. "From whom, Elin?"
"A... my Lady," the maid stamred, holding out the heavy parchnt. "A person nad Alaric Throne."
Alaric Throne.
She took the parchnt from the maid’s hands. "You may leave us, Elin. And speak of this to no one."
"Yes, my Lady."
Once the door clicked shut, Margaery broke the seal with her thumb and unrolled the scroll. As her eyes swept over the sharp, elegant handwriting, her breath hitched.
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