It wasn't easy to shadow someone in Winterfell without being noticed, especially when you possessed a face that everyone was beginning to memorize. But I had learned in the past days that people don't look at "shadows"; they look at garments, at swords, and at the faces they expect to see. So, I donned a tattered old cloak, hid my dark hair under a frayed hood, and waited by the servants' exit.
When the servant Wat emerged from the western gate heading toward Winter Town, he moved with a suspicious caution. He didn't head for the tavern, nor his home; instead, he took a narrow side path behind the pig pens, where the stench of rot and filth hung heavy.
I trailed him, using everything I had learned about stealth. My heart hammered against my ribs like a war drum. This wasn't the training yard; there was no wooden sword here, and no Ser Rodrik to stop the fight if I bled.
Wat stopped at a derelict shack on the edge of town. The stranger I had seen the day before stepped out. He wore dark clothes, and in his hand, a dagger glinted in the pale moonlight.
"Did you bring the guard roster?" the stranger asked in a voice that sounded like the hiss of a snake.
"Yes, but Lord Stark has increased the watches. The Cassel boy, that handsome youth, has started prowling the corridors too often. He makes me nervous," Wat whispered anxiously.
"The Cassel boy is just a pup playing with a sword," the stranger replied with disdain. "We'll deal with him if necessary. What matters now is the message going to King's Landing. Lord Baelish is waiting for news of Stark's movements."
Baelish! The blood froze in my veins. Littlefinger already had eyes here, even before the King's feet had touched the North.
Suddenly, my foot came down on a dry branch. Snap! The sound of breaking wood was like a gunshot in the stillness of the night.
"Who's there?" the stranger shouted, drawing his dagger.
There was no time to hide. I stepped out from the shadows, my real sword—the steel I had stolen from the armory—in my hand.
"The pup you spoke of has fangs," I said, my voice shaking slightly from the adrenaline, but I fought to remain steady.
The stranger didn't wait. He lunged with terrifying speed. He wasn't a formal warrior; he was a killer. His movements were unpredictable, aimed at the throat and the eyes. I remembered my bitter lesson in the yard. Don't be a hero; be a survivor.
I dodged his first thrust, feeling the dagger's tip tear the edge of my cloak. Wat had already fled, screaming into the darkness. We clashed. He had the advantage of experience in killing, even if I was taller and stronger.
He kicked me in my injured knee, and I fell to the ground, exactly as I had in the training yard. The stranger laughed as he stepped closer to finish it. "That pretty face of yours will look grand with a long slit."
In that moment, I didn't think of the "Water Dance" or "Chivalry." I remembered my father's words: A warrior does what is necessary to live.
As he leaned in to stab me, I grabbed a handful of mud and filth and flung it into his eyes. The stranger shrieked, stumbling back blindly. I rose quickly, and with all my strength, I drove my sword into his chest.
I felt the resistance, then the sound of tearing flesh and bone. It was the first time I felt a blade sink into a human body. The stranger stared at me with bulging eyes, blood beginning to spill from his mouth, before he slumped into a lifeless heap in the mire.
I stood over him, my hands shaking violently, the smell of blood mixing with the stench of the filth. I had killed a man. It wasn't like the movies; it was sickening, heavy, and it left a hole in my soul.
But I had no time to collapse. I searched his pockets quickly and found the scroll. It contained names, numbers, and details of Winterfell's defenses. Littlefinger didn't just want to spy; he was preparing for a grand betrayal.
I returned to the keep through the secret passages I had learned from Arya. I washed the blood from my hands, but the scent lingered in my nose. I went to the mirror. My handsome face was smeared with mud and gore. I no longer saw the youth who read novels in peace; I saw someone who had begun to be tainted by the filth of Westeros.
"The Game of Thrones isn't played with words alone, Alex," I whispered to myself as I burned the scroll in the candle flame. "It is played with blood in dark alleys."
One month remained until the King's arrival. And now, I wasn't just a trainee; I was a killer, and a guardian of a secret that could burn the entire North if it were known.