The caravan moved like an iron serpent cutting through the grey heart of the North, leaving behind a wake of dust that mingled with the morning mist. Amidst the rhythmic clatter of harness and the thud of hooves, one sight justified every drop of blood I had spilled: Bran.
He rode his small pony, his laughter cutting through the chill like a silver blade. I saw him waving his arms, a little knight who thought the world was but a grand tourney ground. A lump formed in my throat—a bitter joy mingled with a relief that felt like prayer. This boy was running now, his feet touching the earth instead of lying as a broken thing upon a bed of stone. I had twisted fate, and for the paltry price of Tom's life, I had bought a miracle.
I bid Jon farewell at the fork in the road. We shared a long look that spoke of everything we had left unsaid. "We shall meet again," I vowed, not as a hope, but as a blood-oath. "I know," Jon nodded solemnly, before turning to follow Benjen toward the Wall, leaving only the dust of the Kingsroad behind him.
That night, the tents groaned under the weight of the King's fury. Robert's voice thundered from within his golden pavilion, roaring about "Targaryen whores" and "Dothraki weddings," while Ned stood like a jagged crag before the storm. The rift between the two old friends was widening, and I could smell the coming war in the very air of the camp.
I returned to my post beside the royal wheelhouse. Arya poked her head from the window, her face a mask of boredom, while Sansa sat in perfect, practiced repose.
"Alex Cassel..." Sansa called, her voice soft as silk, yet carrying that inflection that placed every person in their proper station.
I turned to her, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe. Her red hair spilled like a waterfall of fire, and her blue eyes held a deceptive innocence... but it was a "calculating" innocence. She was not looking at me as a hero from a song; her eyes were running cold sums. She was weighing me, measuring my loyalty, deciding which square on her little political board I was meant to occupy.
She ran a finger along the wooden sill of the window and raised her cup with a measured grace, as if arranging the pieces of her world. In that moment, I felt no flattery—only a stinging insult to my pride. I realized then that to Sansa, I was not a man with a heart or a history; I was but another "blade" in her father's belt, or a "guard" to be moved to secure her path to the throne.
I lifted my head, and instead of bowing in submission, I met her gaze with a cold, unyielding stare. "Will my father and the King remain friends?" she asked softly, still attending to the delicate ritual of smoothing her gown.
"Kings have no friends, Lady Sansa," I said, my voice dry, deliberately shattering the comforting tone she expected. "They have tools, and pawns, and men they move like pieces on a cyvasse board. But pawns, sometimes, grow weary of dancing to another's tune."
Her hand froze mid-motion. Her eyes widened slightly, and a flicker of confusion marred her perfect features. She was not used to the "shadow" speaking out of turn.
"Alex?" Arya whispered mischievously, watching the tension crackle. "Sansa makes you nervous."
"No, Arya," I replied, turning my gaze away from Sansa and gripping the hilt of my sword until the cold steel bit into my palm. "Sansa makes me realize that the capital has begun to change us before we've even arrived. But I am no wooden piece, Lady Sansa, and I never shall be."
I stepped back, leaving her in her silent bewilderment. My heart hammered, not with love this time, but with a rebellion against the gaze that had stripped me of my humanity. If Sansa wished to play the Game of Thrones, she would learn that some threads are made of Northern steel, and steel does not bend for the delicate fingers of princesses