Another week passed in Winterfell, and my body began to adapt to this harsh world. One morning, I made my way to one of the hot springs near the Godswood to wash away the exhaustion of a dawn training session. Standing before the clear, still water, I paused. Even though I had seen my reflection many times over the past few days, I still hadn't grown accustomed to this "version" of myself.
I was no longer the person I remembered from my past life. The reflection showed a youth with sharp, sculpted features and dark eyes that sparkled with an ancient sorrow and a keen intelligence. My handsomeness felt foreign to me—a rugged, Northern beauty that drew lingering looks and caused Lady Catelyn's handmaidens to whisper as I passed. I felt as though I were wearing the mask of a charmer, while my soul still carried the confusion of a reader who feared death.
"Alex! Are you going to spend the whole day flirting with your shadow in the water?" a voice called from behind me.
I turned to find Robb Stark. He wore his usual brotherly grin, with Jon Snow standing beside him.
"Robb, Jon," I said, pulling on my wool shirt quickly. "I was just... thinking."
"All that thinking will make you slow in the yard," Jon said, shaking his head. "Robb thinks he can beat you today because you're 'preoccupied with your looks,' and I'm betting on him."
I laughed with them, but I knew I needed to prove otherwise. My looks might catch the eye, but in Winterfell, respect was earned with iron.
When we reached the training yard, my father, Ser Rodrik, was waiting for us with a stern expression.
"Alex, step forward," my father said, gesturing toward three seasoned guards. "I saw you yesterday, showing off your speed. Today, you'll learn that speed means nothing against experience. Face them!"
It wasn't a fair fight, and it wasn't meant to be. The three guards lunged toward me. At first, I tried to use my agility; I dodged the first man's strike and parried the second's blade with a graceful movement, feeling for a moment like Syrio Forel. But reality struck me hard.
The third guard, a massive man named Halder, exploited my retreat and kicked me in the stomach with a force that sent me reeling back several feet. Before I could catch my breath, a wooden sword crashed down on my shoulder, forcing me to my knees.
"Get up!" my father roared. "A warrior doesn't look for the beauty of his movement; he looks to save his neck!"
I tried to attack again, successfully tripping one of them with a sudden sweep, but the other two closed in on me like a closing vice. It ended with me splayed in the mud, my body screaming in pain, and my wooden sword far out of my reach.
"You're no hero from the stories, Alex," my father said as he approached and helped me up. "You have talent, and you have looks that make the girls smile, but in a real fight, these men would cut you to pieces in seconds. Keep practicing, and don't let your ego outpace your skill."
I saw Robb and Jon watching me; Robb had a sympathetic look, while Jon nodded as if to say: Welcome to our world.
As I was washing the mud from my face, I saw strange horses at the gate. Benjen Stark had arrived, Ned's brother and the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. His early arrival brought a sudden draft of the Wall's chill into the keep.
Benjen looked like a piece of living rock; cold, hard, his eyes carrying the secrets of the Far North.
"You're Rodrik's son," Benjen said, examining my bruises. "I saw you fall in the yard. A good fall... the man who never falls never learns how to stand."
"I'll stand better next time, Ser Benjen," I replied with a mix of bitterness and resolve.
Benjen nodded slowly. "The North needs men who know their true measure. The Wall is always calling, and the raven looks for new eyes. Have you ever thought of taking the black?"
"Not yet, my Lord," I said, looking at him with a trace of sadness, for I knew his mysterious fate. "Winterfell still needs its swords."
In the evening, I passed through the Great Hall. Sansa was sitting with her mother, looking like a delicate dream amidst the ruggedness of the North. She looked up, saw the bruise on my forehead, and gave a shy, worried smile. Even though I wasn't used to my own face, her look made me feel a heavy weight of responsibility; how was I supposed to protect such gentleness from the Lannisters' fangs?
As for Arya, she was hidden behind a pillar, clutching a long piece of wood and trying to mimic the strike I had used to trip the first guard.
"Your right foot should be the pivot for that move, Arya," I whispered as I passed her.
Arya jumped, startled, then her eyes lit up. "Alex! Did you see how that man hit you? He was a cheat—it was three against one!"
"In war, there is no cheating, Arya. There is only those who live and those who die," I told her quietly. "If you want, I'll teach you how to evade the big men in secret at dawn."
"Truly?" she asked with a child's excitement. "I promise I'll be your best student."
I returned to my room and looked at my trembling hands. My defeat today was the bitter medicine I needed. I wasn't a superhero; I was just a young man with knowledge of the future and a body that still needed much pain before it could endure.
One and a half months remained until the King's arrival. I had to forget my looks, forget my ego, and focus only on how not to fall next time... because next time, the swords might be real steel.