The air in King's Landing clung to the skin like a second cloak, damp and unwelcome. It was not the clean, knife-sharp cold Alex Cassel had known all his life in the North, but a thick miasma carrying the stench of too many bodies pressed too close together. Rotting fish from Fishmonger's Square, nightsoil baking in the sun, the sickly-sweet perfume the highborn ladies wore to mask it all—every breath reminded him he had walked into the mouth of a beast, and the beast was hungry.
From his chamber window in the Tower of the Hand, Alex looked down upon the sprawl of the city. The Red Keep perched atop Aegon's High Hill like a mailed fist, its walls the color of dried blood in the afternoon light. Beyond, the city descended in a tangle of crooked streets and cramped alleys, where life seethed and boiled like a pot left too long on the fire. He could see Gold Cloaks riding through Cobbler's Square, their golden cloaks bright as flames, scattering urchins and beggars before them. A fishwife screamed curses at a customer. Two men fought with fists over something Alex couldn't see. A septa in gray robes hurried past, clutching her crystal to her chest as though it might ward off the stink.
This is the seat of kings, Alex thought. This is what Robert and Ned fought a war to win.
It seemed a poor prize.
He turned from the window and dressed with care. Not the heavy furs and leathers of Winterfell—those would mark him as foreign, uncouth, a Northman playing at Southern games. Instead, he chose a tunic of dark gray linen, stitched with fine silver thread at the collar and cuffs. Simple, but well-made. A leather belt, plain and unadorned. His sword, freshly oiled and polished, hung at his hip. He studied himself in the polished steel mirror. Black hair, longer now than he'd worn it in Winterfell, falling to his shoulders. A broad jaw. Eyes that had seen too much, lived too long, even if the face was young.
I look like a Northman, he thought. But not a savage. That's important here.
In the Red Keep, appearances were armor.
The training yard was chaos incarnate. Steel rang against steel, men shouted, the dull thud of practice swords against shields echoed off the high stone walls. Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master-at-arms, stood in the center of it all, barking orders at a line of green boys who held their swords as though they were pitchforks. In the far corner, a pair of Tyrell knights sparred with exaggerated flourishes, their green cloaks swirling, the golden roses on their shields catching the sun.
Alex stepped into the yard and drew his practice blade. He had no intention of revealing everything he could do—not here, not yet—but neither would he play the clumsy fool. He began his warm-up, flowing through the basic forms: strike, parry, riposte, pivot. His movements were clean and economical, no wasted motion, no excess strength. The Water Dance of Braavos had taught him that. Speed and precision beat brute force.
"You move like a shadowcat, not a wolf."
Alex stopped mid-strike and turned. Lord Renly Baratheon stood at the edge of the yard, one hand resting on the pommel of a sword he'd likely never drawn in anger. He was every inch the image of his brother Robert in his youth—or so the singers said. Tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair falling in curls to his shoulders and eyes as blue as a summer sky. He wore a doublet of deep green velvet, embroidered with gold thread in the shape of a crowned stag. The scent of rosewater and lemon drifted from him, so strong it nearly drowned out the smell of horse and sweat.
Alex bowed, short and respectful. "Lord Renly. In the North, we learn to move across the snow without breaking the crust. Brute strength will only make you sink."
Renly laughed, a light, musical sound utterly unlike his brother's booming roar. He stepped closer, and his gaze traveled over Alex in a way that made the hair on the back of Alex's neck prickle. It wasn't the look of a warrior sizing up an opponent. It was the look of a man appraising a horse at market—or perhaps a meal.
"The snow," Renly said softly, his eyes lingering on the open collar of Alex's tunic. "I've always wondered how Northmen keep warm in such bitter cold. It seems that hard work builds... an impressive physique."
Alex felt his stomach tighten. He knew of Renly's inclinations from the books and the show, knew of his bond with Loras Tyrell. But to be the target? The situation was as amusing as it was revolting. Alex decided to play the fool—to act the part of the "Simple Northerner" who understood nothing of subtle hints.
"Wool, my lord," Alex answered with feigned seriousness, his face void of expression. "We wear a great deal of wool. And layers of leather. It keeps the heat well. That, and the smell of sheep."
Renly blinked, his seductive smile faltering slightly, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Ah... wool. Yes, of course." He tried to recover the moment, reaching out to brush the fabric of Alex's tunic at the shoulder, his touch lingering a second longer than propriety allowed. "But here in the South, wool will stifle you. I must have my own tailor visit you. Silk would suit... your frame far better. I have doublets of velvet trimmed with gold in my solar; perhaps you'd care to see them? The embroidery is quite intricate; it requires a close eye."
Alex almost laughed aloud. Embroidery in his solar? Is that their version of 'Would you like to see my stamp collection'?
Alex took a step back, pretending to wipe down his blade, creating a safe distance. "You're too generous, Lord Renly. But my father, Ser Rodrik, taught me that silk slips when gripping a hilt, and velvet drinks blood until it grows heavy. I'm a simple man; I prefer linen. One doesn't mourn when it tears."
Renly pursed his lips, realizing his attempt at courtship had crashed against a wall of dull, Northern pragmatism. "How... practical. Lord Stark surrounds himself with such serious men. Do you never smile in Winterfell?"
"Only when summer comes, my lord," Alex replied.
Renly waved a hand in boredom, his interest in flirting with this "stone wall" having evaporated. "Very well. If you change your mind about the silk... or about seeking company more pleasant than rusty swords, you know where to find me." Renly turned and swept away, his cloak billowing behind him, leaving a cloud of rose scent in his wake.
Alex exhaled. He'd survived the Storm Stag by pleading ignorance. It was a successful strategy.
By evening, Ned Stark and his household were summoned for a small supper in the Small Hall. It wasn't a raucous royal feast, but a gathering more intimate and far more dangerous. The tables groaned under dishes that made the mouth water: quails roasted and glazed with honey and garlic, a massive lamprey pie with a golden, flaky crust, mounds of onions swimming in gravy, fresh black bread, and flagons of golden Arbor wine.
Alex sat at the far end of the table reserved for Ned's men, beside Jory Cassel. Littlefinger, Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle sat near Ned, who looked as though he were seated upon thistles rather than velvet cushions.
Littlefinger wore a tunic of plum velvet, his gray-green mocking eyes sweeping the room. When his gaze landed on Alex, he leaned toward Varys and whispered, loud enough to be heard:
"Look there, Lord Varys. The North truly produces sturdy timber. I'm told this lad put Prince Joffrey in the mud. Do you suppose he used sorcery, or merely... healthy savagery?"
Varys tittered, a soft sound like silk rubbing against stone. "Oh, Lord Baelish, you're always so suspicious. Courage is a rare coin in this city; we ought to cherish it. The lad looks... promising. Even if he lacks a certain polish."
Alex didn't respond. He continued slicing the meat on his trencher calmly, pretending to be entirely focused on his meal. He knew they were categorizing him: talented warrior, handsome, but simple-minded, loyal to Stark, and perhaps reckless. It was the perfect cover. No one fears the "loyal soldier"; everyone assumes they can use him or kill him with ease. The true danger lies in being the player no one sees.
Alex looked at Ned Stark. Ned's face was long and pale, his gray eyes heavy with burden. He was trying to keep up with Littlefinger's talk of the Crown's debts, but he looked like a man slowly drowning. Alex felt a pang of pity. You don't know, Ned, Alex thought. You sit with your brother's and sister's murderers, and yet you eat their salt.
After supper, as servants cleared the trenchers, Ser Barristan Selmy approached Alex. The old knight was the only spot of white in this swamp of colors.
"Son," Barristan said, his voice quiet and grave. "King Robert asked after you. He laughed long when he retold the story of the river. He wants you to ride in the Hand's Tourney, to be held soon in honor of Lord Stark."
"A tourney?" Alex asked, knowing this event was the stage for major calamities. "I'm no knight, Ser Barristan. I'm a master-at-arms' son."
"Skill needs no 'Ser' to shine," Barristan replied. "And the King loves a good show. But take counsel from an old man... a tourney is not a battlefield, yet it can be more dangerous. Vanity kills more men there than spears ever do."
"I'll keep that in mind," Alex said.
Alex returned to his chamber late. He didn't sleep immediately. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at the city sprawled below. King's Landing glimmered in the dark like an ember beneath ash. The scent of jasmine from the lower gardens mixed with the sewer reek, a blend that summarized the truth of this place: beauty masking filth.
Alex remembered the words of Syrio Forel, whom he would soon arrange to teach Arya: There is only one god, and His name is Death.
"Not today," Alex whispered to the dark. "And not Ned. Not while I'm here."
He blew out the candle, letting the room drown in darkness, while his eyes remained open, plotting the next step in the dance of dragons and wolves.