The month preceding the King's arrival passed like a tension-charged dream of relentless labor.
Winterfell was no longer the quiet sanctuary I had known in my early days; it had transformed into a restless beehive. Hammers struck anvils to repair plate armor, servants scrubbed the ancient stone walls, and horses were put through rigorous drills to appear in their prime.
As for me, this month was my final chance to transition from a "gifted youth" into a "man to be reckoned with."
I woke before the first light, when the mist still clung to the castle turrets like a shroud. I would run the perimeter of the battlements carrying heavy iron weights, then move to the training yard to practice sword forms alone before my father, Ser Rodrik, even stirred.
My goal wasn't just to learn how to fight; I wanted to fuse the raw, brutal strength of the North with the fluid agility I remembered from the "Water Dance" of Braavos.
But every morning, I felt the same thing:
Pain.
My right knee—which hadn't fully healed from the spy's kick—protested with every step. My left shoulder was stiff from a fall in training a week ago. And my fingers were covered in small cuts from gripping the wooden hilt for hours.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," my father told me one morning, his eyes examining my trembling hands. "Strength is built with time, not haste."
But I didn't have time.
I didn't have time.
I noticed my progress day by day. My muscles became more defined and symmetrical, my movements swifter and more lethal.
I began to earn nods of respect from the veteran soldiers, and even from Lady Catelyn, who would sometimes catch a glimpse of me from her balcony.
But there was a price.
I dreamed of the spy every night. His bulging eyes, the blood spilling from his mouth. I would wake drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a war drum.
(One night, the dream returned more cruelly: the spy wasn't alone, and there was a voice whispering: "Every action has a price." I woke gasping, my hands trembling, and I couldn't tell Robb the truth when he asked about my sleep.)
And I lied to everyone.
"Did you sleep well, Alex?" Robb would ask me in the morning.
"Yes, very well," I would lie, smile, pretend.
Every afternoon, I gathered with Robb, Jon, and Theon. We formed an indomitable quartet in the training yard.
Robb fought with the responsibility of a future Lord—his words few, his strikes calculated. Theon with the arrogance of a skilled archer, waving mockingly before attacking. And Jon with the bitterness of a man trying to prove his worth, quiet but sharp.
As for me? I was the "balance" among them.
I would occasionally leave subtle openings to allow Robb to win and bolster his confidence, while I was harsher on Theon to chip away at his vanity.
But every time I won, I felt empty.
Because I knew: I was cheating. Using moves from another world.
And a small part of me was proud of it.
And that made me hate myself more.
The moments that brought me the most peace were my secret training sessions with Arya.
She would come to me behind the stables, clutching a wooden stick instead of a sword.
"Alex, show me how you lunged at Theon yesterday!" she would say, her eyes shining with fire.
I taught her the "Cat's Balance" and how to use an opponent's weight against them.
She was incredibly quick-witted, and within weeks, her skills in stealth and surprise began to manifest.
But one day, she said something that made me freeze:
"Alex... why do you know all this? Who taught you?"
I looked at her, my heart stopping.
"Who taught you?"
The simple question was a trap.
"My father... and some books," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt.
Arya looked at me with a long gaze, then shrugged. "Alright. As long as you teach me."
But I saw something in her eyes.
Suspicion? Curiosity?
She was smarter than I thought.
In my spare time, I played with Bran and Rickon.
I climbed with Bran as much as I could without drawing my father's ire, telling him stories of "knights who fly," trying in every way to plant the seed in his mind that "climbing is only safe when you are alone and no one sees you"—preparing the ground to stop him on the day of the King's arrival.
Little Rickon would run behind me, shouting "Alex! Alex!" I would carry him on my shoulders, feeling a pang of grief in my heart; these children did not deserve the fate that awaited them.
"But can you truly save them?" the voice in my head whispered. "Or are you just delaying the inevitable?"
As for Sansa, she was the compass by which my heart wavered.
I didn't speak to her much that month, but our "eye language" was more eloquent than words.
I purposefully walked beneath her balcony when she was with her handmaidens, feeling her gaze follow me.
She looked at me with curiosity, perhaps noticing that I was no longer just her brothers' playmate, but a man possessing a distinct aura of authority.
Once, her embroidered silk handkerchief fell from her hand while she was watching us train.
I ran.
I ran fast—faster than I should have—my eyes on the handkerchief and not on the ground.
And my foot hit a stone.
I fell. Not a graceful, heroic fall. But an embarrassing, painful tumble onto my knee—the same injured knee—into the mud.
I heard a muffled laugh from one of the guards.
"Good gods..." Theon whispered, trying—and failing—to hide his laugh.
My face burned.
I rose quickly, snatching the handkerchief with a trembling hand—not from fear, but from absolute embarrassment—and looked up.
Sansa stood on the balcony, her hand over her mouth.
She was... laughing.
Not a cruel laugh, but a light, musical one, yet she was laughing.
"Are you alright, Alex?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of concern and amusement.
"I... I'm... yes, my lady," I stammered, my voice coming out louder than I intended. "Just... the stone... didn't see it."
"Gods, you sound like an idiot."
I held out the handkerchief toward her, my hand still trembling slightly.
"Thank you, Alex," she said, her smile still playing on her lips. "You are always so... eager to help."
"Eager."
Not "quick." Not "heroic." "Eager."
I nodded, unable to speak, and turned to leave.
And from behind me, I heard one of her handmaidens whisper—not quietly enough:
"He's handsome... but strange, isn't he? He stares so much. Then falls like a child."
Another giggled softly. "Perhaps he likes her. Poor boys always stumble around ladies."
My heart stopped.
"Strange." "Stares." "Poor boy."
They no longer saw me as a warrior.
They saw me as... an awkward, infatuated boy.
Finally, the promised day arrived.
The horns blared from atop the walls, and the guards announced the arrival of the Royal Procession. Everyone stood in line in the Great Yard; Lord Ned at the front, Lady Catelyn beside him, then the children in order.
I stood directly behind my father, Ser Rodrik, in clean black leathers, my sword cinched to my waist.
The scene was breathtaking.
Hundreds of knights in white and gold armor, banners bearing the "Stag" and the "Lion" fluttering in the cold air.
When the massive Royal Wheelhouse entered, I felt history writing a new chapter beneath my feet.
King Robert Baratheon dismounted. He was massive, smelling of wine and sweat, but his eyes sought only one thing: his old friend.
He hugged Ned with a force that could have cracked a lesser man's ribs.
Then Queen Cersei Lannister stepped down.
She radiated a cold, lethal beauty, her green eyes scanning the yard with a contempt she couldn't quite hide.
Beside her was Jaime Lannister, the "Kingslayer."
He gleamed in his golden armor and golden hair, his mocking smile never leaving his face.
I noticed Jaime pause for a second as he looked toward the guards' line, and his eyes met mine.
Perhaps he noticed the unusual "calm" in my gaze, or perhaps he saw that I was not awestruck like the others.
It was a silent challenge between two predators.
But I made a mistake.
I didn't look away quickly enough.
I held his gaze for two seconds longer than I should have.
I saw something change in his eyes. Curiosity.
"Damn," I thought, finally looking away. "Don't draw attention. Don't—"
But it was too late.
As for Joffrey, he looked like a handsome prince on the outside, but I could see the latent cruelty in the corners of his mouth.
I saw Sansa looking at him with pure, unadulterated admiration.
And I felt a sting in my chest.
She saw the "Promised Knight," unaware she was looking at her executioner.
After the initial ceremonies, Robert wasted no time.
"Ned, take me to the crypts. I want to see her."
I followed at a distance as part of my duty to secure the corridors, standing at the entrance of the dark vault.
I knew what was happening inside. The King was mourning Lyanna Stark and asking Ned to become the new "Hand of the King."
When they emerged, Ned looked as if a mountain had been placed upon his shoulders.
"I have accepted."
The words spread like wildfire.
The King didn't stop there; he officially announced the betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey.
A frenzy erupted in Winterfell. Sansa was flying with joy, her handmaidens congratulating her on her "future as a Queen."
I stood in a dark corner of the hall, gripping the hilt of my sword so hard my knuckles turned white.
I knew this decree was an unspoken death sentence for Lord Ned and the beginning of a journey of agony for Sansa.
That night, a massive feast was held.
Wine flowed, and laughter filled the hall.
I sat with the guards, but my eyes never left the high table.
I saw Tyrion Lannister, "the Imp," drinking heavily and observing everyone with sharp intelligence.
And for a moment, his eyes met mine—not a passing glance, but a careful examination, like someone trying to solve a puzzle.
My heart raced.
"Does he suspect? Has he seen something?" I whispered inside.
I didn't dare approach him, but I felt the weight of his gaze like a potential judgment.
I went out into the yard to breathe the cold air, and there I found Jaime Lannister standing alone, toying with his sword.
"You are Rodrik's son, are you not?" Jaime asked in a smooth, provocative voice.
"Yes, Ser Jaime," I answered quickly, perhaps too quickly.
"You have a strange look about you, lad. You're not like these Northern barbarians. There's something in your eyes... that says you know more than you should."
My heart raced.
"What do I say? What—"
"In the North..." I began, then stopped. My mind went blank. "We... we learn to keep... things... to ourselves?"
"Gods, that sounds stupid."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Keep things to yourselves?"
"I mean... silence. We learn... silence." My voice came out tense, uncertain. "Safer. That way, you know?"
Silence.
Jaime looked at me with a long gaze.
Then he laughed—not mockingly, but amused.
"Silence. Safer." He repeated, as if tasting the words. "Simple Northern wisdom, then. But it works, I suppose."
He turned to leave, then stopped.
"I hope we meet in the training yard tomorrow, Cassel boy. I want to see if your sword is better than your words."
Jaime walked away.
And I stood there, my face burning.
"Your sword better than your words."
That wasn't a compliment.
I whispered to the cold wind:
"It will not end the way you think."
But the words sounded empty.
Because, for the first time, I felt something I hadn't felt before:
Doubt.
Doubt in myself.
"What if I'm wrong? What if everything I'm doing... is making things worse?"