The cold was the first thing I felt. Not the fleeting chill of a winter's morning, but a deep, predatory cold that seeped through my pores to gnaw at the very marrow of my bones. I pried my eyes open to find a ceiling of jagged, grey stone—nothing like the plastered flats of my former life. The air was a suffocating cocktail of burnt tallow, damp wool, and the pungent, earthy musk of horses that seemed to radiate from my own skin.
"Alex! Stir yourself, you lazy pup! The sun is high and the lords wait for no man!"
The voice was a gravelly roar, commanding and thick with the authority of a man who had spent a lifetime shouting over the clash of steel. I turned toward the sound. He was a massive man with a thick, snow-white beard trimmed with soldierly precision, clad in a heavy boiled-leather vest over a charcoal wool cloak. I recognized him instantly. He didn't need an introduction. He was Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. But he wasn't the actor from the screen; he was harder, his eyes etched with the weariness of real wars that no camera could ever truly capture.
"Father?" The word tumbled from my lips before my mind could process it. My voice was deeper, resonant, a stranger to my own ears.
"Father? And who else did you expect, a White Walker?" Rodrik snorted, tossing a heavy wooden practice sword toward me. "Up with you. Robb and Jon have been in the yard for an hour. If you ever hope to be Robb's right hand, you'd best learn to grip a hilt before you learn to wag your tongue."
I followed him out, my boots thudding against the stone. The corridors of Winterfell were a labyrinth of ancient rock. In the books, I had read of the "warmth of the walls" fueled by the hot springs beneath, and now I felt it—the stone was warm beneath my palm, yet the air that whipped my face was a brutal reminder that we were in the North, where winter has no mercy for the frail.
When we reached the training yard, my breath hitched.
There, in the center of the ring, they stood. Robb Stark, with his thick auburn hair and the broad shoulders of a boy becoming a man, and Jon Snow, his face a mask of somber shadows, his grey eyes carrying a weight that felt older than his years. They were trading blows with wooden blunts. The thack-thack of wood on wood echoed through the courtyard like rhythmic drumbeats.
I stood on the periphery, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew these boys. I knew one would be betrayed and butchered at a Red Wedding, and the other would die and rise again to face the literal tide of death. I knew the secrets of their birth; I knew the names of their eventual killers. But here, I was merely "Alex Cassel." If I ran to them now and screamed the truth, I'd be rotting in a dungeon as a madman before sunset.
"What's the matter, Alex? Seen a ghost?" That was Theon Greyjoy. He leaned against a wooden balcony, wearing that smirk—that insufferable, arrogant tilt of the lips that had made me hate him in the show and pity him in the books. He toyed with a bow, looking down at us with the practiced disdain of a ward who felt like a prince.
I remembered then. Theon wasn't just a villain; he was a fractured soul trying to find a home he would eventually burn down. I stared at him, my gaze lingering until his smirk faltered.
"No, Theon," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "I was just looking at what happens to a man who forgets where he belongs."
His eyebrows shot up in confusion, but Ser Rodrik shoved me toward the yard. "Enough prattling! Alex, you're with Robb. Jon, take a breather."
I stepped toward Robb Stark. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow despite the biting wind. He reached out to clasp my forearm. "Alex, I feared you'd decided to join the Maesters and leave the steel to us."
"Perhaps in another life, Robb," I replied, tightening my grip on the wooden hilt. "But in this one, it seems my fate is to be your punching bag."
Robb laughed, a sound so honest and free of the crown's burden it almost hurt to hear. The spar began. I was no warrior in my past life, but Alex's "muscle memory" was formidable. When Robb lunged, my body moved of its own accord. The shock that traveled up my arm from the wooden collision was painful, but it ignited a primal spark of survival.
I fought with a feverish intensity, my mind racing: This is Season One. King Robert is on his way. Ned Stark will go South. The war is coming.
Every strike I aimed at Robb carried a hidden desperation—a silent rage against the destiny waiting for him. I swung harder than I should have, forcing Robb back a step, his blue eyes widening in surprise.
"Easy, Alex! Are you trying to kill me?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive," I panted. "The world outside these walls isn't like Winterfell, Robb. Out there, they don't fight with wood, and they don't follow the rules."
In that moment, I caught a movement on the high gallery. Eddard (Ned) Stark stood beside his wife, Catelyn. He watched us with that stern, paternal gravity. Beside him, little Bran was already scrambling up the masonry, a climbing monkey oblivious to the abyss.
A cold stone dropped in my stomach. I looked at Bran, then at the Broken Tower in the distance. In a few days, that boy would fall, and the world would scream. Could I stop it? Could I pluck a single thread from this tapestry without the whole thing unraveling upon my head?
"Alex?" Robb called, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You're not yourself today. Go, rest."
I shook my head, trying to banish the ghosts of the future. "I'm fine. I just... I feel the winter coming, truly."
I looked toward Jon Snow, who watched us from the corner of the yard in silence. He looked so alone, an outcast even among his kin. I remembered the truth Ned Stark kept buried in his heart. You are their King, Jon, and you don't even know it.
I returned to my quarters later, sat on the edge of my cot, and began to scratch names into a scrap of leather with a piece of charcoal. Not in English, nor in Arabic, but in symbols only I could decode.
Petyr Baelish. Lysa. Cersei. Jaime. Joffrey.
I am no Lord, no Targaryen, no sorcerer. I am the son of the Master-at-Arms. My weapon is my sword, and my shield is my memory. But in this game, knowledge is more precious than gold and more lethal than the Tears of Lys.
I have to decide, and soon: Will I be a mere witness to the tragedy? Or will I be the sand that jams the gears of this godforsaken machine?
Outside, a direwolf pup let out a lonely howl in the courtyard. It had begun. The long summer was fading, and with the King from the South, the ravens would bring the scent of death.