Alaric blinked, his concentration snapping instantly. He looked up, his eyes meeting her bright blue ones.
"What are you thinking about?" Sansa asked, a teasing smile playing on her lips. She didn't let go of his cheek. "You are completely lost in thought. You look exactly like my father used to when the Winterfell harvest counts came in low."
Alaric let out a low rumble of a chuckle. He reached up, his hand wrapping gently around her wrist to pull her fingers away from his face. Instead of letting her go, he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist.
"I was just planning our next welcome party," Alaric said smoothly, keeping his grip on her hand.
Margaery walked over to the table, pouring herself a cup of watered wine from a silver jug. She took a graceful sip and raised an eyebrow at him. "A welcome party? Please tell me another army hasn't miraculously appeared on our doorstep. I just finished sorting out the grain rations for this one."
"Not on our doorstep," Alaric corrected. "Stannis Baratheon's host left Storm's End. They will be at the Blackwater Rush in a week."
Sansa let out a dramatic, heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping as she leaned more of her weight against Alaric's side. The mention of another army, more logistics, and more war seemed to drain the last bit of energy she had left from the long day.
"A welcome party," Sansa muttered, rolling her blue eyes. She playfully pulled her wrist free from his grip and rested her hand on his broad shoulder instead. "Let them wait a week. Honestly... today was exhausting."
She let out a soft huff, tilting her head back to look up at the dark canvas ceiling of the tent. "All I want right now is to lie around in a tub of incredibly hot water until I completely forget what parchment and ink smell like."
Roslin perked up from the edge of the bed, her tired brown eyes suddenly bright. "Oh, that sounds wonderful," she murmured, reaching down to rub her aching calves. "My feet feel like they are made of lead."
Margaery chuckled, swirling the watered wine in her silver cup. "I have to agree with our Lady of Winterfell. Managing the egos of forty Reach lords is dirty work. A hot bath sounds like exactly what we need before we even think about Stannis Baratheon."
Alaric looked down at Sansa's tired face, then glanced over at the standard iron tub sitting in the corner of the tent. It was barely big enough for one person to squeeze into comfortably. It certainly wasn't big enough for three. And it definitely wasn't big enough for four.
He had nearly forty thousand points sitting in his bank. He was the King of Westeros. Why on earth would he make his wives bathe in a cramped, rusted bucket with water heated by campfires?
"Welllll....," Alaric said, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face. "Let seeeee...."
Before Sansa could ask what he meant, Alaric stepped forward. In one smooth, effortless motion, he leaned down, swept one arm under her knees, and scooped her up into a perfect princess carry.
Sansa let out a startled squeak, instinctively throwing her arms around his thick neck to keep her balance. "Alaric! What are you doing?"
"Taking you to a bath," Alaric said casually. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the other two. "Follow us. Get your horses."
Without waiting for an answer, Alaric carried Sansa right through the heavy canvas flap and out into the evening air.
The camp was bustling with the evening watch. Dozens of heavily armored Tyrell knights and Northern spearmen were walking the dirt paths. The moment Alaric stepped out carrying the Lady of Winterfell in his arms, every single man stopped dead in his tracks and stared.
Sansa's face instantly burned a brilliant, fiery shade of crimson. She wasn't just blushing; she looked like she might melt. She let out a mortified little groan and quickly buried her face directly into the heavy fabric of Alaric's black tunic, hiding from the hundreds of staring eyes.
Alaric didn't care about the soldiers. He walked straight past the stunned guards to where his massive black destrier was tied to a post. He easily lifted Sansa up, setting her sideways in the leather saddle, before grabbing the pommel and swinging himself up right behind her.
A moment later, Margaery and Roslin emerged from the tent. Margaery was entirely amused, her eyes dancing with laughter as she mounted her pristine white mare. Roslin, still adjusting to the sheer audacity of her new husband, hurriedly scrambled onto her roan, her own cheeks slightly pink.
Alaric took the reins and spurred the massive warhorse forward, leading them away from the crowded center of the camp.
He didn't ride toward the Kingswood. Instead, he steered the horse straight up the slope toward Aegon's High Hill. The area around the massive green glass crater was completely cordoned off by his Blood Knights. It was dead quiet, isolated from the noise of the army, and the smooth, melted glass still radiated a faint, comforting warmth into the evening air.
Alaric pulled back on the reins, bringing the black destrier to a halt near the edge of the sheer glass drop-off. Margaery and Roslin pulled their horses to a stop right behind him.
Sansa finally peeked out from his chest, looking around at the empty, smoking crater. The sky above them was turning a deep, twilight purple.
"Alaric," Sansa said, her voice a mix of confusion and lingering embarrassment. "There's nothing out here."
Alaric chuckled, his chest vibrating against her back. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, sliding his large hand upward. With a casual, teasing confidence, he gave the soft curve of her breast a playful, firm press right through the fabric of her dark Northern dress.
Sansa let out a sharp, sudden gasp, her back arching slightly against his chest.
"Well," Alaric whispered, his voice a low, rough purr right next to her ear. "Since my Queen wants a hot bath..."