Dawn in Winterfell brought no light, only a gradual shift from black to a pale, haunting grey.
I slipped out of my room, avoiding the guards changing shifts at the inner gates. My body still throbbed from yesterday's bruises, but the pain had become a good teacher; it was a constant reminder that I wasn't in a dream, but in a reality that could take my head at any moment.
By the Burned Tower, where the shadows remained thick, I found her.
Arya was wearing a boyish leather vest, clutching her piece of wood like a national treasure.
"You're two minutes late," she whispered sharply, her eyes gleaming with defiance.
"A good warrior surveys his surroundings before entering the field, Arya," I replied, checking the corners. "Come here, away from the eyes of the guards on the battlements."
We began. I didn't teach her to strike with force; Arya would never defeat a man the size of one of the massive guards with brute strength. I taught her "how not to be there." We focused on footwork, on agility, and on using an opponent's momentum against them.
She learned with startling speed, as if the wolf blood in her veins had been waiting for this spark.
But I noticed something: she was learning faster than I had at her age.
And that made me feel... something strange. Pride? Jealousy? I wasn't sure.
"Why are you teaching me this, Alex?" she asked suddenly, wiping sweat from her small face. "Mother says swords aren't for ladies."
I stopped, looking at her. How much should I tell her? How much should I warn her?
"Because the world you read about in stories is about to change, Arya. And swords don't care if the hand that holds them is soft or rough; they only care about who strikes first."
She looked at me with a long gaze, and for a moment, I saw something in her eyes—fear? Understanding?
"Alex... are you afraid of something?"
The question hit me like an arrow.
"Yes," I said, before I could stop myself. "Every day."
As I was leading Arya back toward the inner corridors of the keep, I saw something strange.
Near the entrance to the servants' passages leading to the wine cellars, I saw one of the servants—a slight man named Wat—speaking with a stranger whose clothes didn't match the typical travelers of the North. The stranger's garb looked "cleaner" than it should for someone navigating the Northern roads.
I stopped and hid behind a stone statue of an ancient King of Winter.
"Is the message ready?" the stranger whispered in a sharp tone.
"Yes. Lord Stark goes hunting tomorrow, and the raven will fly as soon as he departs," Wat replied, handing him a small parchment roll.
A chill seeped into my core, and it wasn't from the air.
Spies? Now?
Ned Stark hadn't even left for the South yet, and Jon Arryn might still be struggling against the poison in King's Landing. Had Littlefinger or Varys already begun moving their pawns in Winterfell so easily?
My heart was pounding, and I felt that familiar feeling—the urge to act.
But what if I was wrong? What if I rushed in again?
I waited until the stranger left and Wat began returning to his chores. I knew Wat; he was a quiet man who worked in the kitchens. He'd never seemed like a traitor, but in the Game of Thrones, ordinary faces are the most dangerous.
I need to tell someone. But who? Ned? Robb? My father?
Then I thought: What if I'm wrong? What if this is something innocent, and I'm just seeing conspiracies because I know what's coming?
Arrogance.
That was my problem. I thought I knew everything, but the truth? I was a frightened boy playing with fire.
Later that day, I was in the training yard with Robb and Theon. Robb was practicing his archery while Theon was showing off, as usual.
"Alex, you look as though you've seen a ghost," Theon said, loosing an arrow into the center of the target. "Where is that... presence that charms the maids? Your face today is as gloomy as Jon Snow's."
Something in his words—the subtle mockery, the belittling—ignited that small anger again.
"Perhaps because I'm thinking of how many spies live among us, Theon," I said with intentional indifference, watching their reactions.
Theon laughed mockingly. "Spies in Winterfell? And who would care to spy on a fortress of rock and snow? We aren't in the Red Keep."
But Robb stopped shooting and looked at me seriously. "Why do you say that, Alex? Did you see something?"
I hesitated. Should I tell him? Or wait?
"I saw a servant handing a message to a stranger at dusk," I said in a low voice. "Robb, your father is a Great Lord, and Great Lords have enemies even in their dining halls. We must be more careful."
"I'll tell my father," Robb said, but I placed a hand on his shoulder.
"No... not yet."
Robb looked at me in confusion. "Why?"
Because I'm not sure. Because I might be wrong. Because I'm afraid of moving the wrong piece and breaking everything.
But I said: "If you tell him now, the spy will flee or the servant will be killed before we know who the real puppet master is. Let me watch them for a while. I'm just the master-at-arms' son; no one notices me."
Robb looked at me with a long gaze, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But if you see anything else, you tell me immediately."
That evening, during dinner in the Great Hall, I sat at the far end of the tables, away from the Starks, but my eyes never left them.
I saw Sansa laughing with her friend, Jeyne Poole. She looked radiant, painfully innocent.
Then she turned toward me—just for one moment—and her eyes met mine.
She smiled. A small, shy smile.
And I felt my heart... stop.
No. No no no.
This can't happen. She's betrothed to Joffrey. She's going south. I'm... I'm nobody.
But something small, selfish, inside me wanted that smile.
I looked away quickly, my heart pounding like a war drum.
"You're a fool," I whispered to myself. "A damned fool."
As for Ned Stark, he sat at the head of the hall, looking as solid as a mountain. I looked at him and thought: Oh, Lord Eddard, if only you knew that the poison is being brewed now, and the ravens carry your secrets before you even speak them.
But what could I do? Tell him? "Excuse me, Lord Ned, but I'm from another world and I know the future?"
They'd lock me in a cell before sunrise.
No. I had to be smarter. More careful.
But careful also meant slow. And slow meant people might die.
The thought made my stomach twist.
I decided that I wouldn't settle for just physical training. I had to be the "eyes" of Winterfell.
That night, instead of sleeping, I began taking notes. Not in English, nor in Arabic, but in symbols only I could decode. I started watching who left, who entered, and who spoke with whom.
I wrote down everything I could remember from the books, the show—every detail that might help me navigate this nightmare.
But as I wrote, my hand began to shake.
Because I was realizing something terrible:
The more I tried to control, the less control I actually had.
Saving Bran might have consequences I couldn't foresee. Warning Robb about spies might push them underground where I couldn't track them. Every action, every word, every choice—ripples in a pond I couldn't see the edges of.
What if I was making everything worse?
I put down the charcoal and stared at my trembling hands.
The remaining month and a half wouldn't just be for sword training. It would be training for "survival."
But survival of whom? The Starks? Or just... me?
I didn't know the answer.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Outside my window, a direwolf howled—a long, lonely sound that seemed to echo my own fear.
I am Alex Cassel, and I've only just begun to realize that the real battle isn't always fought with wooden swords in the yard, but with whispers in dark corridors.
And I'm not sure I'm strong enough for that battle.