The air in King's Landing was heavy, clinging to the skin like a wet cloak of cheap wool. It was not merely the heat of the sun pricking the back of the neck, but the smell; a cloying miasma of rotting fruit, fish left too long in the midday heat, and the stench of nightsoil that the floral perfumes of the court ladies tried in vain to mask. To Alex Cassel, whose lungs were tempered by the knife-sharp, clean air of the North, every breath in this city was a reminder that he had walked into the belly of the beast.
Alex sat on the stone sill of his chamber window in the Tower of the Hand, watching the city sprawl below him like a tapestry woven by a madman. Down in the winding alleys, life teemed in the filth; fishmongers hawked their wares with raspy voices, Gold Cloaks strutted on their horses as if they owned the very cobblestones, and naked children scurried between hooves, scrutinizing the mud for lost coppers. Alex recalled the descriptions in old tomes of the "Dragon of Stone and Iron," but the reality was simultaneously filthier and more enchanting than the ink suggested.
He dressed with care. He did not choose the heavy leathers of Winterfell, nor the silks favored by the southron peacocks. He selected a tunic of dark gray linen, stitched with faint silver thread at the collar, and a simple leather belt from which hung his newly polished sword. He intended to look Northern—foreign, perhaps—but not savage. He stood before the polished steel mirror, regarding a face he knew yet did not know; the broad jaw, the black hair now grown long enough to brush his shoulders, and eyes that held the gaze of a man who had lived two lives.
He descended the narrow spiral stair toward the training yard. He knew eyes were upon him. In the Red Keep, the walls have ears, and the shadows have eyes.
The training yard was alive with the clangor of steel. The shouts of men and the dull thud of wood against shields formed a symphony familiar to Alex's ears. He saw Ser Aron Santagar, the castle's master-at-arms, bellowing at a group of green boys. In the corner, knights of House Tyrell sparred with distinctive flair, their green and gold cloaks fluttering, the golden roses on their shields gleaming in the sun.
Alex stepped forward and drew his practice blade. He had no intention of revealing the full extent of his skill—such would be folly in a city of spies. He began his routine warm-ups, but he performed them with a fluidity that defied the southron reliance on brute strength. His movements were liquid, swift, and economic. A strike, a draw, a thrust, pivoting around a phantom opponent.
"Your movements recall a shadowcat more than they befit a wolf."
Alex paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. He turned to find Lord Renly Baratheon standing there. Renly was the spitting image of King Robert in his youth, just as the stories claimed. Handsomely maddening, with jet-black hair falling over his shoulders and blue eyes that sparkled with mirth and intelligence. He wore a doublet of forest-green velvet, embroidered with threads of gold that depicted a crowned stag dancing across his chest. He smelled of rosewater and lemons, a scent strong enough to drown out the musk of the stables.
Alex offered a short bow—respectful, but not subservient. "Lord Renly. In the North, we learn to move over the snow without breaking the crust. Brute force only makes you sink."
Renly laughed, a light, high sound, utterly unlike Robert's booming thunder. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning Alex in a way that made the hair on Alex's arms stand on end. It was not the look of a warrior assessing an opponent, but of a merchant appraising fine goods, or perhaps a gourmand eyeing a tender cut of meat.
"The snow..." Renly whispered, tilting his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the opening of Alex's tunic. "I have always wondered how Northern men keep their heat in such biting cold. It seems that hard labor builds... an impressive constitution."
Alex felt his stomach tighten. He knew of Renly's inclinations from the books and the show, and he knew of his bond with Loras Tyrell. But to be the target? The situation was as amusing as it was revolting. Alex decided to play the fool—to act the part of the "Simple Northerner" who understood nothing of subtle hints.
"Wool, my lord," Alex answered with feigned seriousness, his face void of expression. "We wear a great deal of wool. And layers of leather. It keeps the heat well. That, and the smell of sheep."
Renly blinked, his seductive smile faltering slightly, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Oh... wool. Yes, of course." He tried to recover the moment, reaching out to brush the fabric of Alex's tunic at the shoulder, his touch lingering a second longer than propriety allowed. "But here in the South, wool will stifle you. I must have my own tailor visit you. Silk would suit... your frame far better. I have doublets of velvet trimmed with gold in my solar; perhaps you would care to see them? The embroidery is quite intricate; it requires a close eye."
Alex almost laughed aloud. Etchings in his solar? Is that their version of 'Would you like to see my stamp collection'?
Alex took a step back, pretending to wipe down his blade, creating a safe distance. "You are too generous, Lord Renly. But my father, Ser Rodrik, taught me that silk slips when gripping a hilt, and velvet drinks blood until it becomes heavy. I am a simple man; I prefer linen. One does not grieve when it tears."
Renly pursed his lips, realizing his attempt at courtship had crashed against a wall of dull, Northern pragmatism. "How... practical. Lord Stark surrounds himself with such serious men. Do you never smile in Winterfell?"
"Only when summer comes, my lord," Alex replied.
Renly waved a hand in boredom, his interest in flirting with this "stone wall" having evaporated. "Very well. If you change your mind about the silk... or about seeking company more pleasant than rusty swords, you know where to find me." Renly turned and swept away, his cloak billowing behind him, leaving a cloud of rose scent in his wake.
Alex exhaled. He had survived the Storm Stag by pleading ignorance. It was a successful strategy.
By evening, Ned Stark and his household were summoned for a small supper in the Small Hall. It was not a raucous royal feast, but a gathering more intimate and far more dangerous. The tables groaned under dishes that made the mouth water: quails roasted and glazed with honey and garlic, a massive lamprey pie with a golden, flaky crust, mounds of onions swimming in gravy, fresh black bread, and flagons of golden Arbor wine.
Alex sat at the far end of the table reserved for Ned's men, beside Jory Cassel. Littlefinger, Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle sat near Ned, who looked as though he were seated upon thistles rather than velvet cushions.
Littlefinger wore a tunic of plum velvet, his gray-green mocking eyes sweeping the room. When his gaze landed on Alex, he leaned toward Varys and whispered, loud enough to be heard:
"Look there, Lord Varys. The North truly produces sturdy timber. I am told this lad put Prince Joffrey in the mud. Do you suppose he used sorcery, or merely... healthy savagery?"
Varys tittered, a soft sound like silk rubbing against stone. "Oh, Lord Baelish, you are always so suspicious. Courage is a rare coin in this city; we ought to cherish it. The lad looks... promising. Even if he lacks a certain polish."
Alex did not respond. He continued to slice the meat on his trencher calmly, pretending to be entirely focused on his meal. He knew they were categorizing him: Talented warrior, handsome, but simple-minded, loyal to Stark, and perhaps reckless. It was the perfect cover. No one fears the "loyal soldier"; everyone assumes they can use him or kill him with ease. The true danger lies in being the player no one sees.
Alex looked at Ned Stark. Ned's face was long and pale, his gray eyes heavy with burden. He was trying to keep up with Littlefinger's talk of the Crown's debts, but he looked like a man slowly drowning. Alex felt a pang of pity. You do not know, Ned, Alex thought. You sit with the murderers of your brother and sister, and yet you eat their salt.
After supper, as the servants cleared the trenchers, Ser Barristan Selmy approached Alex. The old knight was the only spot of white in this swamp of colors.
"Son," Barristan said, his voice quiet and grave. "King Robert asked after you. He laughed long when he retold the story of the river. He wants you to ride in the Hand's Tourney, to be held soon in honor of Lord Stark."
"A tourney?" Alex asked, knowing this event was the stage for major calamities. "I am no knight, Ser Barristan. I am a master-at-arms' son."
"Skill needs no 'Ser' to shine," Barristan replied. "And the King loves a good show. But take counsel from an old man... a tourney is not a battlefield, yet it can be more dangerous. Vanity kills more men there than spears ever do."
"I will keep that in mind," Alex said
Alex returned to his chamber late. He did not sleep immediately. He took a piece of charcoal and a scrap of parchment, and began to draw a mind map—not of the city, but of the people.
Ned: In constant peril. Trusts Littlefinger too much.
Sansa: Enchanted by the city, but the river incident planted a seed of doubt.
Arya: Hates this place. Good; hatred keeps her alert.
Renly: Interested in me physically. This means he can be distracted, but he is no reliable ally.
Littlefinger & Varys: They see me as a pawn. Good. Pawns that reach the end of the board become Queens.
Alex stood at the window once more. King's Landing glimmered in the dark like an ember beneath ash. The scent of jasmine from the lower gardens mixed with the sewer reek, a blend that summarized the truth of this place: beauty masking filth.
Alex remembered the words of Syrio Forel, whom he would soon arrange to teach Arya: There is only one god, and His name is Death.
"Not today," Alex whispered to the dark. "And not Ned. Not while I am here."
He blew out the candle, letting the room drown in darkness, while his eyes remained open, plotting the next step in the dance of dragons and wolves