Alex
The cold was the first thing I felt.
Not the fleeting chill of a winter morning that could be banished by fire and wool, but a cold with intention and purpose, a cold that seeped through the pores to nest in the bones. I opened my eyes slowly, as if my eyelids were weighed down by stones, and found myself staring at a ceiling of rough gray stone. This was not the ceiling of my room. This was not... anything I knew.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry as sand. The smell of burnt tallow filled the air, mixed with damp wool sweat and another scent... horse dung? No, not just horse dung. The smell of stables, feed, tanned leather. The smell was emanating from my body.
I raised my hand before my face. It was a strange hand. Rough, covered in small cuts and broken nails. My fingers were longer than I remembered, and thicker. The hands of a man who worked with his hands, not the hands of... who was I?
"Alex! Get up, you lazy pup! The sun is high and the lords wait for no man!"
The voice was like a massive boulder rolling down a mountain, rough and decisive. I turned toward the source of the sound, feeling a dull ache in my neck, as if the muscles weren't yet accustomed to my movement.
He was a massive man, bearded with a snow-white beard trimmed with military precision, wearing a heavy boiled-leather vest over a gray wool cloak. I knew him instantly. Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell. But he wasn't the actor I'd seen on screen; he was harder, more... real. His eyes carried a weariness no camera could truly capture, deep creases around his eyes from years of staring death in the face.
"Father?"
The word fell from my mouth before I could stop it. My voice was strange, deeper, hoarse. A man's voice, not mine.
Rodrik raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Father? And who else did you expect, a White Walker?" He scoffed, tossing a heavy wooden practice sword toward me. "Up with you. Robb and Jon have been in the yard for an hour. If you ever hope to be Robb's right hand one day, you'd best learn to grip a hilt before you learn to wag your tongue."
I followed him out of the room, my boots striking the solid stone. The corridors were a labyrinth of ancient rock. In the books, I had read of the "warmth of the walls" fed by the hot springs beneath Winterfell, and now I could feel it; the stone was warm beneath my palm, but the air that struck my face was like a cold whip reminding me that we were in the North, where winter knows no mercy.
When we reached the training yard, I felt my breath catch.
There, in the center of the ring, they stood. Robb Stark, with his thick auburn hair and the broad shoulders that were beginning to resemble those of a man, and Jon Snow, his face a mask of somber shadows, his gray eyes carrying a weight that seemed older than his years. They were trading blows with wooden swords, and the sound of wood striking wood echoed through the courtyard like rhythmic drumbeats.
I stood on the edge, my heart pounding against my ribs. I knew these boys. I knew one would be betrayed and butchered at a Red Wedding, and the other would die and rise again to face the literal tide of death. I knew the secrets of their birth, the names of their eventual killers. But here, I was merely "Alex Cassel." If I ran to them now and screamed the truth, I'd be rotting in a dungeon as a madman before sunset.
"What's the matter, Alex? Seen a ghost?"
That was Theon Greyjoy. He leaned against a wooden railing, wearing that smirk—that insufferable, arrogant tilt of the lips that had made me hate him in the show and pity him in the books. He toyed with a bow, looking down at us with the practiced disdain of a ward who felt like a prince.
I remembered then. Theon wasn't just a villain; he was a fractured soul trying to find a home he would eventually burn down. I stared at him, my gaze lingering until his smirk faltered.
"No, Theon," I said, my voice steady in a way that surprised me. "I was just looking at what happens to a man who forgets where he belongs."
Theon's eyebrows shot up in confusion, but Ser Rodrik shoved me toward the yard. "Enough prattling! Alex, you're with Robb. Jon, take a breather."
I approached Robb Stark. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the biting wind. He reached out to clasp my forearm. "Alex, I feared you'd decided to join the Maesters and leave the steel to us."
"Perhaps in another life, Robb," I replied, tightening my grip on the wooden hilt. "But in this one, it seems my fate is to be your punching bag."
Robb laughed, a sound so honest and free of the crown's burden it was almost painful to hear.
The spar began. I was no warrior in my past life, but Alex's muscle memory was formidable. When Robb lunged, my body moved of its own accord. The shock that traveled up my arm from the wooden collision was painful, but it ignited a primal spark of survival.
I fought with feverish intensity, my mind racing: This is Season One. King Robert is on his way. Ned Stark will go South. The war is coming.
Every strike I aimed at Robb carried hidden desperation—a silent rage against the destiny waiting for him. I swung harder than I should have, forcing Robb back a step, his blue eyes widening in surprise.
"Easy, Alex! Are you trying to kill me?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive," I panted. "The world outside these walls isn't like Winterfell, Robb. Out there, they don't fight with wood, and they don't follow the rules."
In that moment, I caught a movement on the high gallery. Eddard (Ned) Stark stood beside his wife, Catelyn. He watched us with that stern, paternal gravity. And beside them, little Bran was already scrambling up the masonry, a climbing monkey oblivious to the abyss.
A cold stone dropped in my stomach. I looked at Bran, then at the Broken Tower in the distance. In a few days, that boy would fall, and the world would scream. Could I stop it? Could I pluck a single thread from this tapestry without the whole thing unraveling upon my head?
"Alex?" Robb's voice cut through my thoughts, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You're not yourself today. Go, rest."
I shook my head, trying to banish the ghosts of the future. "I'm fine. I just... I feel the winter coming, truly."
I looked toward Jon Snow, who watched us from the corner of the yard in silence. He looked so alone, an outcast even among his kin. I remembered the truth Ned Stark kept buried in his heart.
You are their King, Jon, and you don't even know it.
I returned to my quarters later, sat on the edge of my cot, and began to scratch names into a scrap of leather with a piece of charcoal. Not in English, nor in Arabic, but in symbols only I could decode.
Petyr Baelish. Lysa. Cersei. Jaime. Joffrey.
I am no Lord, no Targaryen, no sorcerer. I am the son of the master-at-arms. My weapon is my sword, and my shield is my memory. But in this game, knowledge is more precious than gold and more lethal than the Tears of Lys.
I have to decide, and soon: Will I be a mere witness to the tragedy? Or will I be the sand that jams the gears of this godforsaken machine?
Outside, a direwolf pup let out a lonely howl in the courtyard.
It had begun. The long summer was fading, and with the King from the South, the ravens would bring the scent of death.
But I am here now.