Winterfell in the morning was like a massive stone beast breathing steam.
The hot springs running behind the walls sent warm breaths to defy the Northern frost, yet the true wonder wasn't in the architecture—it was in the souls who inhabited it.
I woke late that day—something that hadn't happened in weeks. My body protested against every movement. My right knee was stiff from yesterday's embarrassing fall in the yard, when I'd attempted a complex spinning maneuver I'd seen in my mind's eye but which ended with me sprawled in the mud before Robb and Theon.
"The great warrior, defeated by mud!" Theon had laughed until he nearly choked, while even Robb—kind-hearted, noble Robb—had hidden a smile behind his fist.
I rose slowly, feeling a sharp pain in my back. I'd slept in the wrong position, or perhaps Alex's body was still rebelling against the foreign soul inhabiting it.
I walked toward the side chamber where a stagnant pool of water sat—a place the servants used for washing. I hadn't truly looked at my face since I'd awakened in this world.
I was afraid, perhaps. Afraid I'd see a stranger. Or perhaps... afraid I'd see myself.
I knelt beside the pool, and the water's surface reflected a face that made me freeze.
It was a beautiful face.
Not beautiful in the soft way you see in Southern princes, but beautiful in a dangerous way—a rough, carved beauty, like a sculpture of dark marble chiseled by a rebellious artist who cared nothing for conventional perfection.
My features were sharp: a broad, strong jaw, a straight nose with a slight bend to the left—as if it had been broken once and healed, giving it a more masculine character. My eyes were dark—deep brown approaching black, but with something... intense in them. A gaze that didn't fit a young face, a gaze carrying weight, depth, as if it had seen things it shouldn't have seen.
My hair was black as night, thick, falling in calculated disorder around my ears and over my forehead—the kind of chaos that seemed deliberate, attractive in an unconscious way.
And there were scars—a small one above my right eyebrow, another thin one on my lower lip. But they didn't mar the face; they added to it. Gave it an edge, a story, a history.
I looked like... Joffrey? No. Joffrey was beautiful in an artificial way, weighed down with gold and perfumes. This face was rougher, more honest, but it was—without doubt—striking.
But the strangest thing wasn't the face itself, but how I felt about it.
I didn't feel pride. I didn't feel confidence.
I felt... fear.
Because I knew what beauty meant in this world. It meant attention. It meant envy. It meant that those in power—Cersei, Littlefinger, Varys—would look at you not as a soldier, but as a tool. Or a threat.
And worse? It meant people would expect me to be more than I was. They'd expect the hero, the knight, the savior.
But beneath this face, I was still just... a frightened reader.
"This isn't me," I whispered to my reflection. "This is... a mask."
But the mask was glued to my skin now, and I couldn't remove it.
I splashed my face with cold water and left the chamber. I walked toward the balcony overlooking the Glass Gardens, trying to banish the unsettling thoughts.
And there, I saw them.
Sansa Stark walking beside Septa Mordane, and beside her Arya—that small chaos child—trying and failing to look like a proper lady.
Sansa glanced toward me, and for a moment—just one moment—she stopped.
Her blue eyes widened slightly, her lips parted faintly. It was an involuntary reaction, instinctive—the kind of look a girl gives when she sees something... beautiful.
Then, quickly, she looked away, her cheeks flushing slightly.
Something in my chest twisted.
Not from joy, but from... guilt? Fear?
Because I knew what this meant. I knew Sansa was a girl who dreamed of knights and princes, and that a look like this—even a fleeting one—could plant a dangerous seed.
"No," I thought forcefully. "This can't happen. It mustn't happen."
Because I wasn't the prince from her stories. I was the intruder, the fraud, the man who knew secrets that could burn this entire world.
"Alex! Will you stand there like a statue carved from salt?"
My father's voice cut through my thoughts like a sword.
I turned to find Ser Rodrik standing behind me, carrying a bundle of spears. He was looking at me with a... strange expression. Not anger, nor pride. Something closer to... concern.
"Father, I was watching... the keep's discipline."
He glanced toward the gardens, where Sansa and Arya were, then looked back at me. There was something in his eyes—a warning? Understanding?
"The girls in the gardens are none of your concern, son," he said quietly, but his words carried weight. "Especially those girls. Leave the ladies to their business and come with me."
Then he added, his voice softer: "A handsome face opens doors, Alex. But it also brings envy. And envy in this world... kills."
In the following days, I pushed myself to my absolute limits.
Not because I wanted to be the best, but because I was afraid.
Afraid that beauty alone wouldn't protect me. Afraid that people would look at this face and expect a hero, while I was just... a fraud.
I began a brutal dawn routine: running around Winterfell's massive walls three times while the castle still slept. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I didn't stop.
In the yard, I asked Mikken the blacksmith to forge iron weights for my wrists and ankles.
"You're mad, Alex," Jon Snow told me one day, watching me strike a tree trunk until my hands bled. "Even my uncle Benjen doesn't train this hard."
I stopped, panting. I looked at Jon—at his sad face, at his gray eyes carrying weight beyond his years.
"Jon, you fight because you want to find a place for yourself. I fight because I know this world will try to crush us all."
Jon sat beside me. "Sometimes you talk as if you've seen the future."
If only you knew.
That night, I heard faint crying from a side chamber.
I pushed the door open quietly. It was Arya, sitting on the floor, holding a torn piece of cloth—a failed embroidery of a wolf.
"Arya?"
"Go away!" she screamed, tears streaming. "Don't look at me!"
But I entered, sat beside her on the cold floor.
"I'm not good at anything," she whispered, her voice broken. "Sansa is perfect at everything. And I... I just ruin things."
I looked at her small face, at her tear-filled eyes, and felt something break in my chest.
"Me too," I said quietly.
She raised her head, eyes widening.
"Do you know what people see when they look at me, Arya?" I continued, my voice hoarse. "They see the face. They see the... exterior. And they expect me to be someone great. But the truth? I fell in the mud yesterday. I failed at a simple move. And sometimes... sometimes I feel like I'm an intruder in my own body."
Arya stared at me, silent.
"But you know what?" I smiled a sad smile. "Wolves don't need to be perfect. They just need to be wolves. You're a wolf, Arya. And I... I'm trying to be one."
Arya smiled—a small, tired smile, but genuine.
"You're a strange wolf, Alex."
"So are you."
Alex - Supper with Wolves
That evening, I was invited to dine with Lord Ned and Lady Catelyn.
When I entered the hall, I felt everyone's eyes following me. Even the servants paused for a moment, as if seeing something... unusual.
Lady Catelyn looked at me with a long, scrutinizing gaze. It wasn't a look of admiration, but of assessment—as if trying to understand: "Is this young man dangerous?"
"Ser Rodrik tells me his son has become obsessed with training," Ned said.
I smiled respectfully, but I felt the smile came a beat too late—a touch too forced.
"I only wish to be ready to serve House Stark, my lord."
Catelyn looked at me sharply. "Sansa says you watch her from afar."
My heart stopped.
Damn.
"Lady Sansa represents Winterfell's beauty, my lady. It's my duty as a master-at-arms' son to think of protecting that beauty."
"Gods, that sounds terrible."
But Ned nodded. "A fine loyalty."
I left that hall sweating.
Alex
I returned to my room that night and stood before the polished steel.
I looked at the beautiful face—the mask—I wore.
"I'm not a hero," I whispered. "I'm just... afraid."
But perhaps, just perhaps, fear is what keeps me alive.
Outside, a direwolf howled.
And winter was coming.