The night following the spy's death was not easy.
I slept only a few hours, haunted by the image of the blade sinking into his chest. But every time I woke—drenched in sweat, my heart hammering like a forge—there was something else.
Something worse than nightmares.
There was a small, dark part of my heart... that was proud.
Proud that I had survived. Proud that I had killed. Proud that I had done something.
And that poisonous pride made me feel sicker than the smell of blood.
I washed my face with cold water—water so cold it made my teeth chatter—and looked at the polished piece of steel that served as the closest thing to a mirror.
The face that stared back was still Alex's face. Still the young man everyone loved, whom Robb smiled at, whom Arya trusted.
But behind those dark eyes, there was a secret.
A secret that could change the fate of the North. A secret that could burn everything.
"And you carry it alone," I whispered to my reflection. "Because you can't tell anyone. You can't."
Because if I told Ned Stark that Littlefinger had spies in Winterfell, he would ask: "How did you know?"
And I had no answer that wouldn't make me sound insane.
I was in the yard, checking the sharpness of my sword—a sword that was no longer clean, even after I'd washed it again and again—when the castle horns blared.
I looked up and saw a black raven flying with great effort above the Maester's turret. Its wings beat the air desperately, as if carrying a weight greater than just a message.
It didn't take long before the castle exploded with whispers.
"Lord Arryn is dead! King Robert is coming to Winterfell!"
I froze in place.
Even though I had been waiting for this moment, hearing it now made my stomach churn.
Jon Arryn is dead.
The first murder. The first thread that would pull everything into the abyss.
"It's begun," I whispered to myself. "It's truly begun."
I ran toward the inner corridors, my heart pounding hard, and there I found him.
Jon Snow.
He was leaning against a stone wall in a dark corner, away from the castle's growing bustle. His face was a mask of shadows, his gray eyes staring at nothing.
He looked... lost.
I approached him and sat beside him on the cold stone floor.
Silence reigned between us for a long time, broken only by the sound of servants rushing to prepare the Great Hall.
"Have you heard?" I finally asked, staring at the gray clouds.
Jon looked at me with eyes full of bitterness and anxiety. "The King's Hand is dead, Alex. My father (Ned)... looks unspeakably grim. They say the King will arrive within a month with half the court. Winterfell will be crowded with strangers... and queens who cannot stand the sight of those like me."
I felt his bitterness seeping into my bones.
"Jon, don't think that way. You are a part of this house."
Jon sighed deeply, then said suddenly, his voice more resolute:
"Alex, I've been thinking... perhaps this is the time to leave. My uncle Benjen will arrive with the King, and I'll ask him to take me to the Wall. In the Night's Watch, it doesn't matter who your father is or if you're a bastard. There, I'll be a man among men."
I bolted upright, feeling a desperate urge to stop him.
"The Wall? Are you mad, Jon? You're seventeen years old! The Wall isn't a place for heroes like in the stories; it's a place for criminals and exiles who have nowhere else to go. You are not one of them."
"But there is no place for me here!" Jon cried in a desperate tone, his face reddening. "When the King comes, I'll be put at the end of the table. Lady Catelyn can't bear to look at me. At the Wall, I'll find my own honor."
I grabbed his shoulder and shook him firmly, speaking with the maturity of a young man who sees the coming danger—but a maturity built on knowledge stolen from another world.
And I felt the arrogance creeping in again.
"You know more than him. You know what will happen. You—"
"You're a fraud. Using knowledge that isn't yours."
But I ignored the voice and continued:
"Honor isn't built by running away, Jon. Listen to me carefully... Winterfell is going to face difficult days. The King is coming with southern vipers. Lord Ned will need you. Robb will need you. I will need you! If you leave now, you're abandoning your family at a time when they are in most desperate need of every loyal sword."
Jon looked at me in shock, so I continued:
"The Wall will stay where it is; it's not going anywhere. But if something happens here in the North, who will protect your younger siblings? Theon? He loves us, but he's an outsider. Me? I'm just the master-at-arms' son. You are the true blood, Jon, even if you don't carry the name. Your place is here, beside me and beside Robb. Promise me you won't rush into this."
Jon didn't answer immediately, but he lowered his head and began to contemplate my words.
"You talk as if a war is coming, Alex."
"War always follows kings, my friend," I replied sincerely. "Just stay here. The North is stronger with us all together."
Long silence.
Then, finally, Jon nodded. A small, weary nod.
"Alright. I'll stay... for now."
I felt a wave of relief, but it was mixed with something else.
Guilt.
Because I wasn't telling the whole truth. I didn't tell him that staying might mean his death at the hands of his brothers in the Night's Watch. I didn't tell him that "staying for family" might mean watching that family shatter.
I was manipulating him.
And like killing the spy, a small part of me was proud of it.
I headed to the training yard where Robb and Theon were trading blows. My father, Ser Rodrik, was watching sharply.
I entered the ring and gripped my heavy wooden practice sword.
"Alex! Come, show this 'Fish' how the men of the North fight!" Theon shouted with his usual arrogance, pointing at Robb.
I stepped forward to face Theon first.
In the blink of an eye, I parried his thrust, struck the hilt of my sword against his wrist, and placed the wooden blade under his chin in a flash.
"You're dead, Theon," I said with a confident side-smile.
But the confidence was... fake.
Because I knew I had used a move from the memory of another world. Not my skill. Not really mine.
Then came Robb's turn.
Robb was very strong, and we traded blows for ten full minutes.
But in the end, I managed to catch Robb off-guard with a swift pirouette move—a move I had learned from my memories of what true combat should be—and sent his sword flying from his hand.
Everyone stopped.
Robb looked at his sword on the ground, then looked at me.
And smiled.
A broad, genuine smile, full of brotherly pride.
And me? I felt... empty.
Because I hadn't beaten him fairly. I cheated. I used knowledge I wasn't supposed to have.
My father stopped and coughed with dignity. "Well done, Alex. You are faster than Theon and more skilled than Robb at maneuvering. But remember, do not let your dominance here make you arrogant."
The words hit me like a slap.
Arrogant.
Was I arrogant?
I looked at my hands—the hands that had killed a man two nights ago—and felt a chill.
"Yes," the voice in my head whispered. "You are arrogant. You think you know everything. You think you can save them all."
"But what if you're wrong?"
Late in the afternoon, I saw Sansa walking with her handmaidens toward the garden.
I stopped behind a massive tree trunk, pretending to tie my boot.
I didn't want to disturb her, but I couldn't stop myself from looking.
She looked radiant, like a flower in the midst of the snow.
I wanted to be the person who talked to her, who laughed with her...
But I knew my place.
I was Alex, the son of the master-at-arms.
And she was the Lady of Winterfell.
Suddenly, a piece of silk flew from the hand of one of her maidens due to the wind, landing near me.
I ran and caught it before it could get soiled.
"Lady Sansa," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my attempt to stay steady, as I held out the scarf.
Sansa looked at me and smiled.
A smile that makes one's knees shake.
"Thank you, Alex. You are always quick to the rescue, even with scraps of silk."
"It is my duty, my Lady," I replied, bowing my head respectfully.
Her maidens giggled in whispers, and Sansa continued on her way.
I stood there for a few seconds, breathing in the scent of lemon cakes and winter roses that lingered in the air.
My heart was pounding madly.
"She will not go to the South and be crushed there, not while I draw breath."
But another voice whispered:
"What if you can't stop it? What if you try... and fail?"
I returned to my room with my sword and a new resolve.
The King was coming.
The game had begun.
And I was no longer just an observer.
I was the wolf who would guard the den.
But as I sat on the edge of my bed, looking at the sword in my hands, I felt something cold creeping into my heart.
Fear.
Not fear of death, but fear of something worse:
The fear that in trying to save them all...
I would destroy them.