Another week passed in Winterfell, but my body hadn't adapted as I'd hoped.
One morning, I made my way to one of the hot springs near the heart tree grove, my body broken from the brutal training I'd imposed upon myself. My right knee screamed with every step—it hadn't fully healed from that embarrassing fall a week ago—and my left shoulder was stiff from where one of the veteran guards had struck me with the pommel of his wooden sword and sent me sprawling to the ground before Robb, Jon, and Theon.
"Perhaps our brave hero should slow down a bit," Theon had mocked then, and even Jon—who rarely mocked anyone—looked away to hide a smile.
I plunged into the hot water and felt my muscles finally surrender. I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind them brought no relief—only memories.
Memories that weren't mine.
Flashes from the original Alex's life: a small boy training with his father in Winterfell's yard, a fall from a horse that made Ser Rodrik scream at him, a night where he wept in his room because Robb and Jon were better than him at everything.
"You carry the Cassel name, but you'll never be more than a shadow of your father."
Words spoken by one of the guards once, and the original Alex had never forgotten them.
I opened my eyes suddenly, my heart pounding.
Were those his memories? Or mine? Was there even a difference anymore?
I climbed out of the water and dressed slowly. Every movement was a reminder that this body wasn't a machine—it was flesh and blood, and it hurt.
I headed toward the training yard, but instead of my usual jog, I walked. Slowly. I was tired—tired in a way I'd never felt before, a weariness that went beyond the body and reached the soul.
When I arrived, I found Robb, Jon, and Theon exchanging blows. They stopped when they saw me.
"Alex!" Robb called out, waving his wooden sword. "You're late! We thought you'd run south with the merchants."
I smiled a weary smile. "If only it were that easy, Robb."
I grabbed a wooden sword from the rack and felt its weight more than I was used to. When did wood become this heavy?
"Come on, Alex!" Theon shouted, bouncing from foot to foot with annoying energy. "Show us those fancy moves you practice every dawn!"
Something in his voice—the subtle mockery—ignited something in my chest.
Anger.
Not heroic, noble anger. But small, selfish anger—the anger of a young man trying to prove himself and constantly failing.
"Fine," I said, my voice sharper than I'd intended. "Let's see."
I faced Theon first.
Theon was fast—faster than I'd expected. He lunged with a showy move, and I had to retreat. I tried to use the spinning maneuver I'd been practicing—the one I'd failed catastrophically at last week—but this time, it worked.
I dodged his strike by a hair, spun around him, and struck the back of his knee with my sword's pommel.
Theon fell to one knee, his mouth open in shock.
"Dead," I said quietly, placing the wooden blade at his neck.
Theon looked at me, and for the first time, he wasn't mocking. He was... wary.
Then came Robb's turn.
Robb was stronger—much stronger. We exchanged blows for what felt like hours, though it was probably ten minutes. Sweat poured from my forehead, my hands trembled, but I didn't give up.
Finally, I used a risky move—a quick spin followed by a low thrust—and sent Robb's sword flying from his hand.
Everyone stood in silence.
Robb looked at his sword on the ground, then looked at me. And he smiled—a broad, genuine smile.
"Old Gods, Alex! Where did you learn that?"
But I didn't feel victorious. I felt... empty.
Because I knew the truth: I hadn't beaten Robb with skill. I'd beaten him by cheating—with knowledge of moves from another world, moves I wasn't supposed to know.
I was a fraud.
I retreated to the edge of the yard, sitting on an old tree stump. My hands were shaking—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper.
Fear.
"Alex?"
Jon's voice. He sat beside me, wiping his blade slowly.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "You won. Why do you look like you lost?"
I looked at my hands—at the cuts, bruises, small scars. They weren't my hands. This wasn't my body. This wasn't my life.
I was a thief. I'd stolen the life of a dead boy, and I was living in his shell.
"Jon," I said, my voice hoarse. "Do you ever feel... like you're not yourself?"
Jon stopped wiping his blade. He looked at me with a long, strange look.
"Every day," he finally said, his voice barely a whisper. "Every day I look in the mirror and see a face that doesn't belong. A bastard. No Stark, nothing. A shadow."
He turned toward me, his gray eyes boring into my soul.
"But you know what, Alex? It doesn't matter who we are. It matters what we do. The rest... is just noise."
That night, I lay on my bed, staring at the dark stone ceiling.
Jon's words echoed in my head, but they brought no comfort.
Because I knew something Jon didn't: Actions have consequences.
I'd already changed events. I'd saved Bran from falling, but... what if there was a price? What if saving one boy meant another's death? What if history was correcting itself, finding other ways to reach the same bloody end?
The butterfly effect.
In my past life, I'd read about the theory: a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil could cause a hurricane in Texas.
What if I was that butterfly? And what if the hurricane was... worse than the original?
I sat up suddenly, cold sweat covering my forehead.
"I need to be more careful," I whispered into the darkness. "I need to think before I act. I need to—"
A knock on the door cut through my thoughts.
I opened the door slowly. It was Arya, wearing an oversized nightshirt, holding a piece of bread in her hand.
"Alex?" she whispered, her eyes wide in the darkness. "I couldn't sleep. Can I... can I come in?"
We sat on the floor, our backs against the cold wall. Arya was tearing the bread into small crumbs, not eating any of it.
"Alex," she finally said, her voice small. "Do you think... do you think I'll ever be good at anything?"
I looked at her—at her small face, her gray eyes full of self-doubt.
And I felt something break in my chest.
Because I knew what she would become. I knew she'd become a killer, a survivor, a legend. But I also knew the price—everything she'd lose, everyone she'd lose, all the innocence that would be stolen from her.
"Arya," I said, and my words came out rougher than I intended. "You're already good at something. You survive. You fight. You don't give up. That's... that's more than most people."
She looked at me, her eyes searching my face.
"But what about you, Alex?" she whispered. "Are you good at anything?"
I laughed—a short, bitter laugh.
"No. I'm not good at anything, Arya. I'm just... trying not to die."
We sat in silence after that, a girl and a young man—both lost, both afraid, both pretending to be brave.
And for one moment, I felt less alone.
But the loneliness returned, as it always does, when Arya left.
I stood at the window, looking at Winterfell under the moonlight. Somewhere out there, Cersei and Jaime were doing it—the act that would shatter the Seven Kingdoms. And Littlefinger was weaving his webs, and Varys was whispering his secrets.
And me? I was just a boy—a handsome boy, perhaps, but a boy nonetheless—trying to play in a game far bigger than himself.
"Two months until the King arrives," I whispered to myself. "Two months to become stronger. Faster. Smarter."
But a small voice in my head whispered: "Or two months until you die?"
I blew out the candle and let the darkness swallow me.
Outside, a direwolf howled—a long, mournful, lonely sound.
And I, for the first time since my arrival, felt like I understood it