The winds of the Trident carried the scent of river-mud and iron, and something else besides—a thin, brittle tension that rippled over the water. Arya did not notice it; she was hacking at her own shadow with a willow branch, while Mycah ran off in the distance, his laughter echoing against the reeds. I picked up a withered stick to occupy her, and we began a slow, purposeless exchange of wooden thumps—a children's game played on a slick, treacherous bank.
Arya gave a sharp, wolfish laugh, and then the sound died. Two shadows, as tall as the reeds, approached with a measured pace. Sansa, in silk finery that looked a grotesque intrusion here, and Joffrey, swaggering with his hand upon the hilt of his sword as if a Prince wore his weapon the way he wore a crown. They were searching for a stage, and Joffrey had found his.
He stepped into our circle, eyeing the stick in my hand with a cold, polished disdain. "Look, Lady Sansa, your father's dog is dancing with sticks." His words were honed to a fine edge, like shards of sharpened metal. Then, without a blink of hesitation, he brought his boot down upon Arya's fallen scarf, grinding the silk into the black muck.
Arya's face flushed a dark, angry red as she yanked the cloth free. "Get away!" she shrieked, her voice small but sharp as a needle's point. Joffrey raised his hand, the motion clear as if he meant to cuff her. In that heartbeat, I was no longer a mere guard; something ancient and unyielding stirred in my chest.
I moved between them, the branch held like a fragile barricade. "My Prince, hands were forged for shaking, not for striking," I said. The voice came from deep within my gut, devoid of the hollow warmth of a sermon. It was a challenge, and it tasted of threat.
Joffrey could not stomach the coldness. He drew Lion's Tooth with a slow, practiced hiss, the steel gleaming like poisoned ice. "Raise your wood, Cassel. Kneel and beg for pardon." It was a command, not a question.
I did not kneel. I took a single step forward, baiting his fury. Joffrey lunged with a spiteful, clumsy thrust—not the strike of a trained knight, but of a boy desperate to prove his manhood before his betrothed. The earth was greasy; my foot slid in the mire, and the blade whispered across my arm like a knife through cloth. A long, shallow scratch, but deep enough for the blood to begin to bead and flower upon the linen. I did not touch him, but the blood began to soak my sleeve.
Sansa gasped, her hand flying to her necklace as if clutching at an internal resolve. Her eyes darted between my blood and Joffrey's pale, sweat-slicked face. I gave him no second chance. I cracked the tip of my branch against his wrist—not to break the bone, but to shatter his balance. He stumbled, his foot caught in the tangled roots of the reeds, and he went down hard on his back in the mud. His sword slid away into the silt. He lay there gasping, his white face reflecting a terror that was far more honest than his pride.
I stood over him, blood dripping from my fingers to leave dark, heavy spots on the mud. "Look, Lady Sansa," I said, my voice ragged with exertion. "Look at what your Prince has done." It was not a speech; it was a portrait of the truth.
In a heartbeat, the camp was upon us. Guards converged with shimmering spears, and whispers began to spread among the tents like wind-blown sparks. "Part them!" one shouted, but the murmurs did not cease; they were colored with shock, fear, and cold calculation.
Jory Cassel took my hand, binding the scratch with a hurried cloth, just as Ned Stark approached with heavy, rhythmic strides. His face was a slab of old stone, his grey eyes alight with a muffled, thundering rage. He placed a heavy hand upon my shoulder—a gesture that was not merely support, but a judgment. "You did your duty, Alex. You put your body between my daughter and a Prince's steel." His voice was low, but it carried the frozen weight of the entire North.
They took us to the King's pavilion. Inside, the air was cloying with the scent of heavy wine and thick perfumes. Cersei was shrieking, her voice cutting through the air like breaking glass. Robert sat, his face a florid mask of wine and fury. "Speak, Cassel!" he bellowed.
I lifted my arm, baring the scratch and the stained bandage. The blood shimmered, and the scent of iron filled the space. "Your Grace," I said with a calculated stillness. "The Prince drew his steel and lunged. My foot slipped in the mud, and the blade found my arm. I did not attack; I defended Arya."
Robert looked at the wound, then at his son. His laughter was a bitter thing—the sound of a man seeing his own failure mirrored in his heir. "Damn you, Joffrey! You cut the man with your sword and fell in the mud before your subjects?" He spoke with a bitterness that cared nothing for justice, only for the loss of prestige.
Sansa hesitated, then her fingers brushed a bead on her necklace as if measuring the weight of the truth. She lifted her head, her voice unwavering. "Your Grace, Alex was defending Arya. Joffrey fell on his own." Simple words, yet enough to tip the scales of the pavilion.
A heavy silence followed. The whispers outside turned into hushed debates. Two guards exchanged looks; one departed to inform the Captain of the Guard. Messages would be sent, stories woven. This was no incident that would vanish without a trace.
At the exit, Jaime Lannister passed, his spear slung over a shoulder, a thin, wintry smile playing on his lips. He leaned close, his voice devoid of warmth. "A minor scratch, Cassel. But remember: a Lion does not forget an insult." It was not merely a threat; it was a practical promise. The family would not forget, and they would never forgive.
I walked out of the tent, the mud on my boots, the blood on my arm. Ned placed his hand on my shoulder once more—a brief look, then a quiet command: "Stay close." It was no invitation to rest; it was a warning that the world had changed. I had earned the respect of the North, but I had hung myself from a very thin rope in the capital. The vipers there are many, and their song is a pitiless one.