Victory brought no lightness to my spirit. As I walked the freezing corridors of Winterfell, I felt the eyes of others upon my back like the lash of a whip. They were not looks of admiration, but of a quiet, skittish fear. The guards I had jested with only yesterday now parted before me in uneasy silence, as if the beast I had unleashed in the yard still crouched upon my shoulder, ready to snarl.
The taste of coppery blood lingered in my mouth, and my hands still trembled. It was not from fatigue, but from the haunting memory of Tom that refused to fade. With every step, the sound of his body hitting the earth echoed in my ears like the crack of doom.
I have purchased a princeling's life with a stableboy's blood, I whispered to the empty air. A bitter bile rose in my throat, a taste no arbor gold could wash away. In the cold scales of the Old Gods and the New, did the life of Brandon Stark truly weigh more than that of a simple groom? I did not wish to know the answer, for in this world, such answers are always written in red.
I was summoned to Lord Eddard's solar. The room smelled of old parchment, dry ink, and the woodsmoke of the hearth. I found him standing by the window, his back to me, gazing out at the grey expanse of his domain. Jon Snow stood in the corner, pale and still as a statue carved from ice.
"Alex," Ned said without turning. His voice was heavy, weary as a man carrying the Wall itself on his shoulders. "Vayon Poole told me what passed in the yard. Vance is a hard man, but you were not content to merely defeat him... you sought to tear him apart."
I found no pretty words, for the truth was uglier than any mummer's lie. I stood with my head bowed, feeling the weight of his judgment. "He mocked the honor of the North, Lord Ned. I could not hold back the rage that has festered in me since... since yesterday."
Ned turned then. I saw no bard's pride in his long, solemn face, but a dark and fatherly concern. "Rage is a sword without a hilt, lad; it cuts the hand that wields it. The Lannisters have long memories, and they do not forget the man who made one of their own crawl in the mud. Your father, Ser Rodrik, is proud, but he fears you have drawn the wrong sort of eyes upon yourself."
Ned paused, his grey eyes shifting to his bastard son. "Jon has told me of your counsel. That he should ride with Bran and Benjen to the Wall, not to swear his life away, but to visit. At first, I took it for a boy's flight from duty, but I see now it is a man's choice to protect."
Jon spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "I will be his eyes and his shield, Father. Bran will not fall again while I stand beside him."
Ned nodded slowly, a hidden sorrow swimming in his gaze. "Go then, with Benjen. Alex... you have shifted the currents of my sons' lives today. Go now and make ready. The caravan moves at first light.
I left the solar, my mind a tangle of relief and guilt, haunted still by Tom's ghost. I walked with a heavy tread, until suddenly, the air in the corridor seemed to freeze.
She was there. Queen Cersei Lannister.
She had no retinue, save for two handmaidens hovering in the shadows like moths. She did not walk; she glided over the cold stones, a vision in crimson silk and hammered gold that shone like a cat's eyes in the dark. My throat went dry, and my heart hammered against my ribs. I bowed quickly, deeply, until my forehead nearly brushed the rush-strewn floor. I was no diplomat then; I was a boy standing before a woman who could snuff out a life as easily as a candle.
"Rise," she said. Her voice was soft as spun silk, yet it carried the biting chill of the wind off the Shivering Sea.
I lifted my head, avoiding her direct gaze. Her emerald eyes swept over me with a cool, predatory curiosity, as if she had discovered a gleaming bauble amidst the grey rubble of the North.
"You marred the face of one of my men today," she said, stepping closer. The scent of jasmine wafted from her—a cloying, southern perfume that choked out the honest smells of wool and iron. "Jaime says you possess a 'savage beauty' when you fight. Tell me, boy, do all you Northmen hide such cruelty behind these quiet faces?"
"Y-Your Grace," I stammered, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "I meant no... offense to your household. It was but a moment of madness in the yard."
Cersei laughed, a light, tinkling sound that never touched her eyes. She did not see a threat to her throne; she saw something dazzling and amusing. "A moment of madness? You were magnificent in your brutality. You are not merely a steward's son. You have something in your eyes... a hunger, perhaps?"
She reached out, a single finger tracing the line of my jaw. Her touch was cold as ice. A shiver ran down my spine.
"The North is a place where beauty goes to die, Alex Cassel. You belong in the South, where faces that possess both the edge of a blade and the smoothness of silk are properly appreciated. Jaime finds you amusing. I... I see a face that might one day shine brightly in the court of King's Landing."
She withdrew her hand and continued her glide down the hall, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and a whirlwind of confusion in my mind. She did not fear me. She saw me as a plaything, a shiny new piece for the game board that she might one day wish to collect.
I returned to my chamber and shut the door with a heavy thud, leaning my back against the cold oak.
In the gloom, Tom's face returned. The way he had smiled before the fall; the way he looked as a broken thing in the mud. I had saved Bran, yes. I had bought Jon a chance to see the world before shackling himself to the black, yes. But in exchange, I had drawn the gaze of the Lioness.
"The game has truly begun," I whispered to the emptiness, the sound of my own ragged breathing filling the room.
I looked down at my hands. They were still trembling. The brief peace I had found in the violence of the yard had been a lie. The guilt of the boy's death would remain, and now, the emerald eyes of the Queen would haunt me all the way to the Wall.