The cold bit at the timbers of my room, a hard reminder that I was still in the North despite the southern gold that had poured through the castle the day before. Dawn had not yet broken, but my mind was already boiling. Today, I told myself, I would wrench fate's neck—so I told myself, and so I lied.
I dressed with hands that would not steady. I fumbled the leather of a boot; my fingers would not obey. A strange fear sat under my ribs—not the fear of failure, but the fear of that whisper that would not leave me: every deed has its price. The thought was a stone in my gut.
I took the yard before the sun. The wind sang through the stones and my sword made a thin, angry music as I struck at the air.
"You fight the air as if it were your sworn enemy," Arya said from behind me.
I spun and nearly knocked her over. She wore her rough leathers; her hair was a wild thing. "I want to learn to strike and not be seen," she said, sharp as a blade. "I saw the queen yesterday. She looked at us like dirt. I want to be strong enough to keep Bran and Jon and Sansa safe."
She did not ask for a lesson; she asked for a weapon. "Fighting is not a dance, Arya," I said, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. "It is survival. Today you will learn silence. The hunter does not shout before he kills. Be a breeze, not a storm."
I taught her how to move without sound, how to make the ground betray no footfall, how to watch without being watched. She drank it in like a thing born to it. At the end she asked, quietly, "Why now?" I only looked at her and said, "Because I think I know what is coming."
When the hunting drums rolled and the castle stirred, I ran for the Broken Tower. Bran was climbing—light and quick, his small hands finding cracks no one else saw.
"Bran! Come down!" I called, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
He froze and looked down with that insolent smile. "Why? Tom's on the Eastern Tower. We wagered a silver dagger."
Tom. A child's dare turned into a race. I climbed a few steps to be nearer. "Listen," I said, words hard as flint, "this is not about falling. There are strangers in the castle. Men of the king are not our men. I saw one watching this tower. If he thinks you spy, he may think you an enemy. Do you want trouble for your father with the king?"
Doubt creased his face. "But I promised Tom—"
"Tom will understand. I'll give you my knife if you come down. I'll teach you how to hunt with a blade like the rangers."
He looked at me long, the stubbornness and the curiosity wrestling on his face. At last he sighed and came down. The moment his feet hit the ground I felt a sickness lift from me. I had done it. I had saved him.
The relief lasted no more than a breath. A cry tore the morning—short, choked, ended with a heavy thud that shook something inside me.
I ran for the Eastern Tower, Bran calling his friend's name behind me. There, in the mud, lay Tom. His body was broken like a wooden toy under a beast's hoof. His eyes were open, staring at the sky with a blankness that made my stomach turn.
Bran froze, then gave a bitter, animal cry and flung himself down beside his friend's corpse. I stood back. My hands shook so hard I hid them behind my back. He was dead because of me. In the other tale, Bran's own cry had warned Tom and made him stop. Today there had been no such warning. The wind and the drums swallowed the sound; Tom kept climbing to win the wager—and his foot slipped.
I could not say the old phrase aloud. It had become a smell and a sound: rope screaming, stone sliding, blood bright on the snow. I had saved one boy and paid for it with another's life.
The news spread like a spark. Servants ran, faces white, hands trembling. A woman at a doorway screamed and clutched her child. The lords turned, lips moving in whispers. Guards gathered, blades flashing, but in their eyes there was fear and accusation.
Tyrion lifted his cup slow as a man taking measure. Tyrion's eyes took everything in, as if he kept a ledger in his head. The jests of the smallfolk died; even Theon's mockery sounded thin. Robb laughed once, a sound that did not reach his eyes. Every whisper was a tinder; any one of them might set a blaze of blame. I felt the weight of those looks like another stone on my shoulders.
I found Jon in the stables, cinching his saddle. His face was a mask of stone. He was packing to go.
"So you're leaving?" I asked. My voice felt strange and thin.
"There's no place for me here," he said without looking up. "The black will take me. The Starks would sooner have that boy Tom than me."
"The Wall is a foul place, Jon," I said, sitting on a crate because my legs would not hold me. "The cold there kills horses and men forget their names."
"I'll be a crow," he said stubbornly. "Better than being a nameless bastard."
"Listen to me," I cut in, sharp. My hands trembled; I hid them under my arms. "You think you run away. You think you find honor. You'll only bury yourself. Go with your uncle Benjen—yes. But do not bind yourself yet. Go as a visitor. See the Wall. Smell the cold. Then decide."
"What good is delay?" he snapped.
"The good is that your house is tearing," I shouted, rising with effort. My eyes kept seeing Tom's body in every dark corner. "Bran—look at him. He's broken. He needs to see more than corpses. Take him with you. Let him see the world beyond these walls. Go as a guardian, not a ghost. Promise him a month. If after that you still swear, I will be the first to salute you. But if you leave now and swear, you may never come back when we need you."
Jon looked at me with suspicion. "You're acting strange, Alex. Your hands shake like you've seen a ghost."
I wiped my face with a shaking hand. "I've seen worse than ghosts, Jon. I've seen how death steals the small ones." I stepped close and gripped his shoulder so hard I might have hurt him. "Don't be a fool like the other knights. Honor won't warm you in a grave. Go as a visitor. Protect Bran. Give yourself a chance to come back. That's all I ask."
Silence stretched. Jon looked at Bran—pale, lost—and then slowly nodded. "As a visitor, then. I'll speak to my father."
I left the stables into the cold. There was no triumph in me. I felt I had soiled everything I touched. I had altered a thread of fate—and the price had been a child's blood. For the first time I understood that knowing the future was not a gift but a burning thing that ate me from the inside.
Before dawn the next day I opened a small drawer in my desk. I took out a scrap of leather and a quill. I wrote the names of the men on watch that night. I hung a small token at the Eastern Tower gate and told an old guard, "Stay there until I return." I set new patrols, marked watch-points, and planned a hiding place should something move in the dark.
The wind moved between the towers, carrying the smell of horses and iron. I spoke to the dark: "It will not end as you think." This time the words were not empty. They were a plan. A small, solid thing to hold when the rest of the world unravels.