The sun over King's Landing was a disc of molten copper, pouring its heat onto the stone flagstones of the Red Keep until the very air seemed to dance with the shimmer of a forge. In this stifling atmosphere, the heavy perfumes of ladies and knights mingled with a less noble scent wafting from Flea Bottom whenever the winds shifted.
Ned Stark sat in the solar of the Hand of the King, his brow glistening with beads of sweat. The mountain of parchment before him looked like a castle wall—impenetrable. He looked older than his years, burdened by Southern secrets he did not fully comprehend.
The silence of the room was broken by a soft rapping at the door, and Alex Cassel stepped in. He wore his usual gray tunic, but he looked poised, his eyes carrying that wary glint a wolf possesses when catching an unfamiliar scent.
"Lord Stark," Alex said quietly. "Prince Joffrey is outside. He requests to take Lady Sansa for a stroll in the gardens."
Ned's jaw tightened. The memory of the Trident had never left his mind. "Joffrey..." Ned murmured bitterly. "I cannot refuse. He is the Crown Prince, and Sansa is his betrothed. But I will not send her alone with him and his Hound."
Ned raised his tired gray eyes toward Alex. "You will go with them, Alex. You are her shield today. Joffrey fears you, and Sansa... Sansa trusts you, even if she has yet to admit it to herself."
Alex bowed, feeling his heart hammer with an unusual rhythm. "I will protect her with my life, my lord."
Sansa emerged from her chambers like a vision from a singer's ballad. She wore a gown of sky-blue silk that matched the hue of her eyes, embroidered at the sleeves with delicate silver leaves mimicking the heart tree of Winterfell. Her flame-red hair was styled intricately in the Southern fashion, cascading in soft waves over her pale shoulders.
When Joffrey saw her, he wore that smile the Lannisters practiced so well; a charming mask that hid fangs. He was dressed in a doublet of crimson velvet, with his new sword, Lion's Tooth, hanging at his hip.
"My fair lady," Joffrey said, kissing her hand. "The gardens bloom today, but they pale in comparison to your beauty."
Sansa's cheeks flushed with a mix of bashfulness and joy. She was trying so hard to mend the torn fabric of her dream; she wanted to believe the Prince was handsome and kind, and that the monster she saw at the river was merely a passing shadow.
But when Joffrey's eyes landed on Alex standing behind her, his features contorted. "You?" he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Did my father send a nursery maid to escort us?"
Alex took a single step forward, the heavy thud of his boots the only reply. "Lord Stark commanded me to protect his daughter, my Prince. And in the North, we obey the commands of our lords."
The three walked the garden paths. Sansa and Joffrey in front, Alex two paces behind. Alex watched Sansa with an ache in his chest. He saw how she forced a laugh at Joffrey's hollow jests, and how she avoided looking into his eyes directly.
She doesn't love him, Alex thought, watching the slender white curve of her neck exposed to the sun. She loves the idea. She loves the golden crown, the silk, and the songs. She is a child playing with fire, unaware that she is about to be consumed.
Inside, Alex felt emotions that transcended duty. It wasn't just admiration for her striking beauty, but a sense of responsibility mingled with a deep desire to be the one—not that sadistic prince—walking at her side. He saw in her the innocence of the North that the South was preparing to violate.
At one point, Joffrey stopped to point at a rare flower. "Look, Sansa, this flower is from the Reach. They say it feeds on the blood of the insects that draw near." He plucked the bloom and crushed it slowly in his hand, tossing the remains to the dirt and wiping his hand with a silk handkerchief in disgust. "Weak... and pathetic."
Sansa's smile froze. She turned halfway back, her eyes searching for Alex. Their gazes met. In Alex's eyes, she found no fear or cruelty, but a steadfastness that resembled the walls of Winterfell. Alex gave a microscopic nod, as if to say: I am here. He will not hurt you.
Sansa felt something strange. Joffrey was the Prince, the golden sun. But Alex... Alex was the shadow in which she could rest from the sun's scorching glare. Joffrey made her feel like a fragile ornament, while Alex's gaze made her feel precious, and protected.
"Let us return, my Prince," Sansa said, her voice trembling slightly. "The sun has grown too strong."
Meanwhile, in the Tower of the Hand, Ned Stark decided to check on his daughters himself. He entered Arya's room. The chamber was in total disarray; clothes strewn on the floor, scraps of food for the dogs in the corner, and the window flung wide open.
Ned began to gather the clothes to tidy them, and as he lifted a heavy wool jerkin from a chest, something fell with a sharp, metallic ring. Ned knelt and picked it up. It wasn't a toy, nor was it a kitchen knife. It was a sword. Slender, sharp, and crafted with the skill of a master smith.
Arya entered the room at that moment and froze. Her pale face turned the color of milk.
"What is this, Arya?" Ned asked, his voice quiet but stern as he examined the blade. "This is no toy. This is live steel."
"It's... it's Needle," Arya whispered, lowering her head.
Ned sat on the edge of the bed, the sword in his hands. He looked at his youngest daughter and saw the ghost of his late sister, Lyanna. The same wild blood, the same rejection of chains. He remembered Lyanna screaming that she didn't want to be a lady of a castle; she wanted to ride and carry a sword. And he remembered how it ended... dead in a bed of blood and blue roses.
"Ladies do not play with swords, Arya," Ned said bitterly. "Ladies marry lords, and give birth to knights and princes."
"No!" Arya shouted with a sharpness that startled him. "That's not me! I don't want to be a lady! I want to be a warrior! Sansa is the lady, but I am a wolf!"
Ned fell silent for a long time. Conflict tore at his heart, caught between a father's fear and the desire not to break his daughter's spirit as Lyanna's had been broken. He sighed deeply and returned the sword to its sheath.
"If you are to carry this," Ned said slowly, "then you must not use it as a toy. War is no game, little one. If you want to fight, you shall learn to do it properly. No more running and waving sticks."
Arya looked up, her eyes shining with tears and hope. "Truly, Father?"
"I will find you a master," Ned promised. "There is a man from Braavos here in the capital. They say he is a wizard with the blade. His name is Syrio Forel."
After supper, Alex met Arya in the corridor leading to the stables. She was bouncing from one foot to the other, her excitement nearly making her fly.
"Alex! Alex!" she whispered loudly, pulling him into a dark corner. "Father found Needle! I thought he'd take it, but... he agreed! He's getting me a teacher! A 'Water Dancer' from Braavos!"
Alex smiled genuinely. This was the moment he had waited for. "Syrio Forel," he said the name like an incantation. "He was the First Sword of Braavos, Arya. You are very lucky."
Then, the idea struck him. He knew the basics of the Water Dance from his past life and his own self-training, but he had never trained under a true master. Syrio Forel was an irreplaceable opportunity—a chance to refine his hybrid style, to turn his movements from mere imitation into a lethal art.
"Arya," Alex said seriously. "This training will be hard. And I want to make sure you're learning correctly. I will ask your father to let me join the lessons with you. To be... your sparring partner."
Arya's eyes lit up. "Yes! That would be wonderful! We can fight together against everyone!"
Late that night, Alex knocked on Ned Stark's door once more.
"Lord Ned," Alex began without preamble. "Arya told me about the Braavosi master. I ask your permission to join these lessons."
Ned looked at him in surprise. "You are an accomplished warrior already, Alex. Your father Rodrik taught you well. What will a slender dancer teach you?"
"Ser Rodrik taught me how to fight as a Westerosi knight, with a shield and a heavy blade," Alex replied cleverly. "But in this city, heavy armor draws the eye and slows the step. The Braavosi style relies on speed, surprise, and fighting without armor. This is exactly what I need to protect your daughters in the narrow alleys of King's Landing. And to protect Arya during her training as well."
Ned considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Your logic is sound. Very well, the lessons begin tomorrow in the small hall. Be there."
Alex left Ned's solar, but he did not go to sleep. There was one final piece in the day's puzzle. He knew that Ned would soon begin searching for the cause of Jon Arryn's death. And the answer lay in a massive, dusty tome: The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses.
If Ned found the book now, he would discover the truth of Cersei's children too early, and he would act with the honor and stupidity that led to his immediate death in the original story. Alex needed to control the timing of this discovery. He needed the book.
Alex headed toward the chambers of Grand Maester Pycelle. He feigned panic and hammered on the door.
"Maester Pycelle! Open up! It's Lady Arya!"
The door creaked open slowly, and Pycelle appeared in his loose robes, his heavy chains clinking with every movement. The room smelled of old herbs, dust, and rotting paper.
"What is it? What is this disturbance in the hour of the wolf?" Pycelle asked in his rehearsed, shaky voice.
"Lady Arya has a sudden fever and stomach pains; Lord Stark demands a sedative immediately!" Alex lied with a performer's grace.
"Oh... oh... very well, wait here, I shall fetch a draught from the back," Pycelle muttered, shuffling his feet with the speed of a tortoise toward the inner room.
As soon as Pycelle disappeared behind the curtain, Alex moved with lightning speed. His eyes scanned the room cluttered with books and scrolls. And on a massive wooden table near the window, he found it.
It was a gargantuan book, its cover made of white leather cracked by time, its clasps of tarnished gold. Lineages and Histories. It was heavier than he expected. Alex lifted it, feeling the weight of centuries of noble betrayals in his hands.
Quickly, he tucked the book under his loose cloak and replaced it with another volume of similar size lying on a nearby chair, so Pycelle would not immediately notice the void.
Pycelle returned, clutching a small phial. "This... this will help her sleep."
"Thank you, Maester," Alex said, bowing slightly, the heavy book pressing against his ribs beneath his tunic. "I shall see that she drinks it at once."
Alex exited the room and walked through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, his heart thumping like a drum. It wasn't just a book. He had stolen the evidence that severs heads. Now, Ned Stark's life, Cersei's secret, and the future of the Seven Kingdoms... were all hidden beneath his cloak.
He reached his room and hid the book at the bottom of his wooden chest, beneath layers of winter wool. He sat on his bed and exhaled a long breath.
Now, the game moves on my time, Alex thought. Ned will not find the truth until I decide the time is right for him to carry a sword—not to die by one.
Outside, the winds of the capital howled, as if the ghosts of ancient dragons knew that history had just been altered