The month preceding the King's arrival passed like a tension-charged dream of relentless labor. Winterfell was no longer the quiet sanctuary I had known in my early days; it had transformed into a restless beehive. Hammers struck anvils to repair plate armor, servants scrubbed the ancient stone walls, and horses were put through rigorous drills to appear in their prime.
As for me, this month was my final chance to transition from a "gifted youth" into a "man to be reckoned with."
I woke before the first light, when the mist still clung to the castle turrets like a shroud. I would run the perimeter of the battlements carrying heavy iron weights, then move to the training yard to practice sword forms alone before my father, Ser Rodrik, even stirred. My goal wasn't just to learn how to fight; I wanted to fuse the raw, brutal strength of the North with the fluid agility I remembered from the "Water Dance" of Braavos.
I noticed my progress day by day. My muscles became more defined and symmetrical, my movements swifter and more lethal. I began to earn nods of respect from the veteran soldiers, and even from Lady Catelyn, who would sometimes catch a glimpse of me from her balcony. I was aware that my "handsomeness" was beginning to draw eyes; it wasn't the soft beauty of the southern lords, but a rugged Northern ruggedness—a sharp jawline, eyes that radiated intelligence beyond my years, and dark hair kept neatly in place, giving an impression of nobility despite my simple attire.
Every afternoon, I gathered with Robb, Jon, and Theon. We formed an indomitable quartet in the training yard. Robb fought with the responsibility of a future Lord, Theon with the arrogance of a skilled archer, and Jon with the bitterness of a man trying to prove his worth. I was the "balance" among them. I would occasionally leave subtle openings to allow Robb to win and bolster his confidence, while I was harsher on Theon to chip away at his vanity.
But the moments that brought me the most peace were my secret training sessions with Arya. She would come to me behind the stables, clutching a wooden stick instead of a sword.
"Alex, show me how you lunged at Theon yesterday!" she would say, her eyes shining with fire.
I taught her the "Cat's Balance" and how to use an opponent's weight against them. She was incredibly quick-witted, and within weeks, her skills in stealth and surprise began to manifest. I saw in her the spirit of a true warrior, and I knew that what I was teaching her now might one day save her life in King's Landing.
In my spare time, I played with Bran and Rickon. I climbed with Bran as much as I could without drawing my father's ire, telling him stories of "knights who fly," trying in every way to plant the seed in his mind that "climbing is only safe when you are alone and no one sees you"—preparing the ground to stop him on the day of the King's arrival. Little Rickon would run behind me, shouting "Alex! Alex!" I would carry him on my shoulders, feeling a pang of grief in my heart; these children did not deserve the fate that awaited them.
As for Sansa, she was the "compass" by which my heart wavered. I didn't speak to her much that month, but our "eye language" was more eloquent than words. I purposefully walked beneath her balcony when she was with her handmaidens, feeling her gaze follow me. She looked at me with curiosity, perhaps noticing that I was no longer just her brothers' playmate, but a man possessing a distinct aura of authority.
Once, her embroidered silk handkerchief fell from her hand while she was watching us train. I sprinted and caught it before it could touch the muddy ground. I looked up at her; she was smiling shyly and nodded her thanks. In that moment, I wanted to scream at her: "Do not love Joffrey! He is a monster!", but I simply placed the handkerchief on the stone ledge with dignity and walked away, leaving behind the scent of maturity and gravity that had begun to define my presence.
Finally, the promised day arrived. The horns blared from atop the walls, and the guards announced the arrival of the Royal Procession. Everyone stood in line in the Great Yard; Lord Ned at the front, Lady Catelyn beside him, then the children in order. I stood directly behind my father, Ser Rodrik, in clean black leathers, my sword cinched to my waist.
The scene was breathtaking. Hundreds of knights in white and gold armor, banners bearing the "Stag" and the "Lion" fluttering in the cold air. When the massive Royal Wheelhouse—the "House on Wheels"—entered, I felt history writing a new chapter beneath my feet.
King Robert Baratheon dismounted. He was massive, smelling of wine and sweat, but his eyes sought only one thing: his old friend. He hugged Ned with a force that could have cracked a lesser man's ribs.
Then Queen Cersei Lannister stepped down. She radiated a cold, lethal beauty, her green eyes scanning the yard with a contempt she couldn't quite hide.
Beside her was Jaime Lannister, the "Kingslayer." He gleamed in his golden armor and golden hair, his mocking smile never leaving his face.
I noticed Jaime pause for a second as he looked toward the guards' line, and his eyes met mine. Perhaps he noticed the unusual "calm" in my gaze, or perhaps he saw that I was not awestruck like the others. It was a silent challenge between two predators.
As for Joffrey, he looked like a handsome prince on the outside, but I could see the latent cruelty in the corners of his mouth. I saw Sansa looking at him with pure, unadulterated admiration, and I felt a sting in my chest. She saw the "Promised Knight," unaware she was looking at her executioner
After the initial ceremonies, Robert wasted no time. "Ned, take me to the crypts. I want to see her."
I followed at a distance as part of my duty to secure the corridors, standing at the entrance of the dark vault. I knew what was happening inside. The King was mourning Lyanna Stark and asking Ned to become the new "Hand of the King."
When they emerged, Ned looked as if a mountain had been placed upon his shoulders. "I have accepted," he told Catelyn later, but the news spread like wildfire. The King didn't stop there; he officially announced the betrothal between Sansa and Joffrey.
A frenzy erupted in Winterfell. Sansa was flying with joy, her handmaidens congratulating her on her "future as a Queen." I stood in a dark corner of the hall, gripping the hilt of my sword so hard my knuckles turned white. I knew this decree was an unspoken death sentence for Lord Ned and the beginning of a journey of agony for Sansa.
That night, a massive feast was held. Wine flowed, and laughter filled the hall. I sat with the guards, but my eyes never left the high table. I saw Tyrion Lannister, "the Imp," drinking heavily and observing everyone with sharp intelligence. I saw Sansa and Joffrey talking; he was acting with a false nobility, and she was swallowing every word as if it were a revelation from the Lord.
I went out into the yard to breathe the cold air, and there I found Jaime Lannister standing alone, toying with his sword.
"You are Rodrik's son, are you not?" Jaime asked in a smooth, provocative voice.
"Yes, Ser Jaime," I replied firmly, without bowing excessively.
"You have a strange look about you, lad. You're not like these Northern barbarians. There's something in your eyes that says you know more than you should."
I gave a small, cold smile. "In the North, we learn that silence protects the neck, Ser Jaime. And eyes only see what minds want to believe."
Jaime laughed genuinely this time. "I like your answer. I hope we meet in the training yard tomorrow. I want to see if your speed matches your tongue."
Jaime walked away, and I remained alone under the stars. The storm had arrived, the horses were in motion, and the game had officially begun. Sansa would go south, Ned would go to his death, and I... I was the only person with the map in the middle of this fog.
"It will not end the way you think," I whispered to the cold wind. "I am here now, and history will be written with my blood and my sword, not your desires."