The great hall of Winterfell groaned beneath the weight of loud laughter and the clatter of silver; outside, silence kept its cold watch.
I cut across to the side training yard, away from the feast's roar, and found Jon Snow there. He was not watching the stars; he poured his energy and his bitterness into a training dummy of sand and rope. His wooden-sword blows were quick and brutal, as if he struck at a fate he had never chosen.
As I drew near, I saw a small shadow moving by the outer wall. Tyrion Lannister sat upon a great fallen trunk, a goblet of wine too large for his hand.
"Good blows, lad," Tyrion said in his measured, mocking voice. "You strike that sack as if you blame it for your name."
Jon stopped; his breath steamed in the frozen air. "Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion clambered down from the trunk with a little effort, looking first at Jon, then at me. He paused. He stared. Not a passing glance—an examination.
"Lord's son and the sword-master's son…" he said slowly, his eyes never leaving me. "Both fleeing the king's feast. Is the wine so bad inside?"
My heart sped. "He's watching me. He's testing me." I tried to sound calm. "The wine is excellent, Lord Tyrion, but some prefer the North's silence to the South's clamor."
Tyrion smiled—a small smile that did not reach his eyes. "The North's silence," he repeated, as if tasting the phrase. Then he turned to Jon, but his gaze returned to me for a long, long moment.
Tyrion's voice: a weave of mockery and caution; his words curl around meaning like thread around a needle, always carrying more than they say.
"Let me give you a piece of advice, 'Snow,'" he told Jon, though I felt the words aimed at me as well. "Never forget what you are, for the rest of the world will not. Wear it like a shield, and it will not be used to wound you." Then, before he left, he looked at me again. "Or perhaps…" he said softly, barely audible, "forget what you were. If you would remain." He moved off, his laugh wobbling in the air.
His words hung in the air like a blade. "Forget what you were." Did he know? Did he suspect? Or was I slipping into paranoia?
"Alex?" Jon's voice cut through my thoughts. He looked at me with concern. "Are you all right? You look… pale."
"I…" I began, swallowed, and said, "I'm fine. Just… cold." Another lie.
---
"Jon, enough training," I said, laying a hand on his tense shoulder. "The frost is starting to rim your lashes."
"You should be inside, Alex. You don't have to stay out here with me," Jon said, wiping sweat from his brow. Jon's voice: spare, but loaded with a raw honesty; when he speaks, each word feels heavier than his years.
"I won't go in without you," I said firmly. "I've arranged it with Lord Ned. There's a table in the corner, by the hearth and away from the queen's sight. Benjen will ask after you, and Robb will look for you with his eyes. Don't let a title steal from you a night that may not come again."
Jon hesitated, but our friendship and my insistence won out. "All right. But if Lady Catelyn looks at me—just once—I'll leave."
We entered the hall and were met by a wave of warmth and the smell of good food: roasted venison with garlic, pumpkin pies, and spiced wine. I seated Jon beside me; he looked around with a childlike wonder he tried to hide beneath a sober mask. As the night wore on, bellies filled and wine flowed, and Jon began to forget. I saw him laugh with a guard at a coarse jest; I saw him taste lemon cake with his eyes closed. This was the moment I had hoped for—to see Jon Snow as a seventeen-year-old boy, not as a walking sin.
---
Yet my joy was incomplete. I sat beside him, and still my heart felt gripped by iron. I watched the high table; Sansa sat there like a distant dream, beside Joffrey. I saw Joffrey whisper to her; I saw her shy smile and the flush on her cheeks. She looked at him as if he were the enchanted knight from her tales. A jealous pain struck me—not merely because I loved her, but because I knew that prince to be a dagger that would pierce her heart. I gripped my cup until my knuckles whitened, wishing I were seated there to shield her innocence from this world. But I was not. I would never be.
Suddenly a muffled cry rose from Sansa's direction. I turned to see a splash of pea-soup stain the collar of her fine dress. Arya crouched behind a great dish of fruit, her face the picture of "criminal innocence."
Laughter stuttered and then stilled; whispers rose under the tables. Servants turned quickly; two of them exchanged a quick look and murmured into each other's ears. A guard near the high table shot me a short glance, as if to ask without words: is this mere play or the start of trouble? Even some of the nobles turned, lips moving in hushed comment that only those beside them could hear.
Lady Catelyn drew a long breath, fighting to keep her anger from the queen. Her eyes swept the hall and settled on me. She raised a hand; I understood the command at once.
I slipped behind the tables and caught Arya before she could fling another piece of bread. "To the dungeons with you, little wolf," I whispered in her ear. "Alex! Let me go! She's dull and acts as if she were born in King's Landing!" Arya protested, kicking at my leg. Then, in a quieter voice, she added: "She wasn't even looking at you. I saw her. She was looking at that… that stupid prince instead." My heart stopped. "She saw me." Arya had been watching.
The whispers did not cease when the commotion died. A maid near the entrance hissed to her companion, "I heard the lady will go to the queen to complain." A merchant in a corner cast a quick glance and muttered, "This night will be told." Those small sparks—any one of them—could kindle a blaze of suspicion or envy. Tyrion raised his goblet again; his eyes took in every motion, as if each whisper were being noted in some hidden ledger in his mind.
---
The mood at our table shifted. Arya began to mimic Queen Cersei's haughty gait; Jon laughed until he nearly choked on his drink. We spent hours talking and laughing. Arya told me she wanted to learn real fighting; I promised her secret lessons away from her mother's eyes. It was a perfect, familial moment—a bubble of warmth far from southern intrigues.
But bubbles always burst.
---
Amid our laughter a long shadow fell across us. We looked up to find Benjen Stark in his black, the smell of snow clinging to him. "So, here hide the true men of the North?" he said in a warm, rough voice. We all rose with respect. He embraced Jon with a fierce warmth, then looked at me with interest. "You are Alex. Rodrik has not stopped speaking of you. He says you have grown a speed in the yard beyond belief."
"Ser Benjen, it is an honor," I answered. "We only try to keep Arya from starting a riot in the hall." Benjen laughed and sat with us a while. He spoke of the Wall and of the "walkers" in the night. I saw Jon listen with his whole soul, and I saw that spark I feared—the longing to go. I steered the talk with care, turning it to childhood memories in Winterfell to bind Jon more tightly to home.
---
As the hours waned the hall emptied. King Robert lurched out, singing in a hoarse voice. Sansa left, casting one last dreamy look at Joffrey—who did not bother to look back. I stood with Jon and Arya at the hall's exit. Arya rubbed her eyes; I hoisted her onto my shoulders. "Thank you, Alex," Jon said, staring into the dying embers of the great hearth. "Without you, this night would have been another painful memory. Now… I feel I belong somewhere."
"You belong with us, Jon," I said, truly. I handed Arya to her nurse and bade Jon good night.
---
I went to my chamber; the silence that settled over the castle was not innocent—it was watchful, like a drawn bow. Tomorrow the chapter that changes everything would begin. Tomorrow Bran would climb. I would be there to meet fate. I shut my door and drew my steel. It was cold to the touch, but my heart boiled. "Let morning come," I whispered.
---
I could not sleep. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw him—the spy—his bulging eyes, the blood. But this time the vision spread like a shattered painting. I saw a shadow approach a high tower; I saw Bran climbing, laughing, then his foot slip on a wet stone. He tumbled; the air left him with a whistle, his face meeting rock. The image shifted to Sansa, standing in a dimly lit chamber, her eyes bright with tears while a hand gripped her waist hard. Then Robb—one swift blow, a sword slipping from a hand, blood staining the snow. Between each image the same whisper returned: "Every deed has its price." The whisper was like dead leaves, but it screamed in my chest.
I woke gasping, hands trembling, the scent of blood in my nose though I had washed. I rose, went to the window, looked out over the empty yard, and vowed to be more vigilant than ever.
---
after a nightmare
I would no longer accept that dreams were mere dreams. The nightmare drove me to action. I opened a small drawer in my desk, took out an old scrap of leather, and began to write the names of the guards on duty the next night. I mapped in my head the chains of watch: who watches the gates, who moves through the secret passages, who keeps the stairways to the towers. I wrote names, rearranged patrols, and planned a place to hide should something stir in the dark. I would not leave the fates of those I loved to chance. I would be where spies could not easily see. I would watch the passages myself if need be.
The wind moved between the towers, carrying the smell of horses and iron. I whispered to the dark, "It will not end as you think." This time the words were not empty. They were a plan—the first step in a game larger than I.