The wind had grown sharper by the time I left the great hall of Winterfell.
It wasn't the kind of wind that chased you. It didn't howl or bite. It simply pressed against your skin like the weight of the world, reminding you that here, in the heart of the North, you either moved forward—or froze.
I walked the stone paths in silence.
The guards didn't look at me. The servants passed without a word. Snow fell gently from the grey sky above, and Winterfell's towers stood like watchful giants.
The four boys were already gone—taken to be prepared for the long ride north to the Wall. I never even learned their names.
But I had chosen something.
And now, something in me had changed.
By the time I reached the outpost near the southern gate, the caravan camp was quiet. The horses were fed, the wagons checked. Harwin was sitting by a low fire near the far edge, his sword resting beside his knee. He was cleaning the blade with methodical care, as if wiping blood that no longer showed.
He looked up as I approached.
"You made it out alive," he said. "Did the Lord of Winterfell ask you to clean the kennels, or just scrub the snow?"
I gave a weak chuckle and sat beside him. The fire warmed my boots.
"He asked what happened," I said. "And what should be done."
Harwin didn't say anything. Just waited.
"They were sentenced to the Wall," I continued. "Lord Rickard gave them a choice—hang, or take the black. I… I told him the Wall was better."
Harwin nodded slowly, not looking at me. "You chose mercy."
"I chose a hard road over a short one."
He grunted. "Same thing."
I stared into the fire.
For the first time, I didn't feel like curling up in a tent. I didn't feel like sleeping off the fear or whining about how unfair the world was.
I felt… awake.
"They weren't much older than me," I said. "Maybe even younger. But they killed. That's something I couldn't stop thinking about. It wasn't just a bad day. It was a choice. They chose to swing first."
Harwin finally looked at me. "And what did you learn from that?"
I didn't answer at first. Then: "That choices have weight."
He nodded. "They do. Always."
I hesitated before continuing. "I used to think I could just drift through this world. That maybe I'd build something big one day. Take a keep. Raise a banner. Eat well. Be left alone."
"And now?"
"Now I know I'll have to work for it," I said. "That nothing here is free. Not food. Not gold. Not peace. Not even mercy."
Harwin gave me a long, unreadable look.
"You're not the same boy who climbed into my wagon back at Bogwater."
"I still don't know what I'm doing," I said honestly. "But I know I can't keep doing nothing."
He gave a low grunt. "Good. Because there's work to be done tomorrow. Axles to reinforce. Goods to reweigh. Maybe a new route north if the passes freeze early."
I blinked. "Wait. You're putting me to work?"
He smirked faintly. "You just said nothing is free."
I groaned, but I didn't argue.
Because for once—I wanted to do something.
Even if it was just hauling crates and double-checking the rope. Even if it meant sore arms and cold feet and aching legs.
It was a step.
That night, I lay beneath a wool blanket in the camp's worn-out tent, the fire still crackling outside.
My eyes stared at the tent's roof, and for the first time in this world, I didn't think about escape.
I thought about building something. Truly building. Not just with the cheat engine. Not just with numbers and tricks.
But with people. With trust. With choices.
I still had a long way to go.
I still only had swampberries and fake gold.
But I had a direction now.
And even if the world was cold, and the path steep—I would climb it.
One step at a time.