The first light of dawn seeped through the narrow window into my chamber painting the stone walls of my chamber in shades of grey. I lay motionless beneath the furs. The dull throb in my temples had faded overnight, but a deeper ache lingered a gnawing certainty that this was not the fever dream I thought it to be, or was it a trick of the mind. I was here, in Robb Stark's body, in Winterfell, in a world I'd once pored over in books and watched flicker across a screen. I clenched my fists, the unfamiliar roughness of my callused palms pressing into my Robbs skin that was now mine.
I rose, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I crossed to the small table. A basin of water sat waiting, and I splashed it over my face, letting the icy sting jolting me awake. In the rippling surface, my reflection stared back young, broad-shouldered, with auburn curls and piercing blue eyes inherited from the Tullys. I ran a hand over my unfamiliar jaw, stubble prickling my fingertips. Not my face. Not anymore. Yet memories surged beneath the surface: Ned's stern voice drilling lessons into me, the thrill of racing Jon and Theon across the yard, the softness of Sansa's tiny hand in mine when she was small. They tangled with my own past—lecturing students at Oxford, the thunder of artillery in France, the hum of my television as I'd drifted off to Game of Thrones on more than one occasion realization allowing me to see myself in Robbs's face.
I dressed with care, pulling on a rough wool tunic and leather breeches, the coarse fabric scraping my skin. My sword I noticed leaned against the bedpost, and I fastened it to my waist, the motion fluid and instinctive, guided by a muscle memory that wasn't entirely mine. I was a soldier again, thrust into a war I hadn't chosen but this time, I knew the battlefield before hand.
The courtyard echoed with the clash of steel as I stepped outside, the air sharp with frost and the stench of horse dung. Jon Snow stood across from me, practice sword in hand, his dark hair flecked with snow. I tightened my grip on my own blade, testing its balance. It was lighter than the rifles I'd once carried, but it felt right in my hands.
"Ready?" Jon asked, his voice steady, though his stance betrayed his alertness.
I nodded, and we lunged. Wood slammed into wood with a heavy thud, the jolt shooting up my arm. My reflexes kicked in I sidestepped, parried, struck back in a smooth arc. But my mind layered its own instincts atop the motion: keep your guard up, watch his footing, hit where he's weak. I ducked Jon's next swing, quicker than I'd expected, my body humming with a strength and agility that still felt foreign.
Jon laughed, breathless as he stepped back. "You're quick today. Thought that fall scrambled you."
I grinned, masking the truth with a flicker of charm. "Maybe it woke me up."
We traded blows until the sun climbed higher, sweat mixing with the cold on our skin. My muscles burned, but the effort anchored me—this was real, not ink on a page or shadows on a screen. When we finally lowered our swords, Jon clapped my shoulder, his smile brief but warm.
"You'll recover well, it seems," he said, his tone light but his eyes shadowed with something deeper—maybe the fear of losing me, his closest brother.
My throat tightened. He didn't know what awaited him at the Wall—betrayal, blood, a knife in the dark. "In thanks to the old gods, it would seem they have need of us Starks," I said, patting his shoulder, weaving that thread of faith into our bond. Jon's place in my plans loomed large, even if he couldn't see it yet.
The solar glowed with firelight, its hearth casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. Ned Stark stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over Winterfell's snow-draped sprawl. The room smelled of wax and old parchment—a haven of duty and memory.
"You wanted me, Father?" The word felt clumsy on my tongue, but familiarity smoothed it over.
Ned turned, his grey eyes cutting through me. "Aye. Sit."
I sank into the chair across from the desk, my hands settling on its arms. Memories painted the scene the direwolf carved into the wood, the scratch of Ned's quill but I sized it up like a tactician. Sneed high like in the show but they looked so much more in person Imagine bringing the builder as a real person building these walls and gates alongside Giants Thousands of years ago at the place that reported to the lawyers where they defeated the dark night the first time before they had built the wall.
Ned folded his arms, his stare unwavering. "Maester Luwin says you're recovering. No dizziness?"
"None," I lied, brushing aside the faint pulse behind my eyes. "I'm stronger than before."
He watched me, then nodded. "You've been quiet since the accident. More… thoughtful."
My pulse quickened. He's sharp. Stay steady. "Maybe I'm starting to see what's at stake. Being a Stark isn't just a name."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Good. The North needs that from you. There's trouble brewing—wildlings pressing south, the Night's Watch faltering. We can't turn a blind eye."
I seized the opening. "What if it's worse than wildlings? The Watch is weak, underfunded. If something bigger comes…"
He frowned. "Bigger?"
I almost slipped up right at the start I needed to chose my next words with care no White Walkers, not yet. "The old tales speak of threats beyond the Wall, kings rising if we let the wildlings run unchecked. The Watch can't manage a great ranging—not with what they've got. Maybe the houses near the Wall could muster a thousand men," I said, planting the seed for battle-hardened allies before the real war hit. "We should be ready at any moment. Winter is coming."
Ned rubbed his brow, weariness etching his face. "Your words have sense. Our house words ring true. I'll think on it, Robb."
I swallowed my impatience. His caution was a wall I'd need to wear down slowly. "Then let me ride to the Wall. See it for myself. If it's nothing, we lose only time."
He shook his head. "You're needed here. Winter's close, and the North must stand united. But…" He paused. "I'll write to Lord Commander Mormont about their straits."
A small win, but I'd take it. "Thank you, Father."
As I stood, his voice stopped me. "Robb."
I turned.
"You're my son. Whatever's weighing on you, you can tell me."
For a heartbeat, I ached to confess—the truth of who I was, the doom creeping closer. But love for him, and my own wariness, held me back. "I'm just trying to be the man the North deserves."
His face softened. "You already are."
The godswood sprawled before me, vast and silent, the weirwood's red leaves stark against the snow. I knelt at its base, damp earth soaking through my breeches. Faith wasn't my anchor—not in this life or the last—but the stillness here honed my thoughts.
I'd gained ground. Ned's trust was a lever, Jon's loyalty a bedrock. But time was slipping away, and the threats multiplied. My mind churned with plans:
The Wall. I'd prod Ned again—call it a hunt, maybe. Meeting Mormont could lock in early warnings, and tracking down Mance Rayder might turn the wildling tide.
Ramsey Bolton. Young, but already a beast. Roose's shadow unsettled my gut. A quiet exile—Wall or grave—could work, but Roose's shrewdness demanded finesse.
Alliances. The North's houses needed tying—Umbers with oaths, Manderlys with trade. My warmth could sway them, my foresight bind them.
The Long Game. Tyrion's path to Casterly Rock was years off, but worth noting. For now, Winterfell's strength came first—walls, grain, men.
I stood, snow clinging to my knees. The North was a stronghold A somewhat magical place something I would've compared to a huge Norris settlement from my life begging to be forged into a thriving nation of myth and legends I envisioned Giants and children of the forest once more and a stark garStark with one or two wargs , and I as Robb would be its maker. My scars from a war in another world whispered to me a truth I had learned victory lived in the planning, not the charge and though I knew, Rob would be good with the charge and strategy I would be able with my meta knowledge to do the planning for the future, especially since I know I had at least some time.
A rustle snapped me alert. I whirled, hand on my hilt, but it was only Arya small, fierce, her grin wide as the sky.
"Robb! You're supposed to be resting!"
I chuckled, easing into a brother's warmth. "And you're supposed to be sewing."
She scrunched her nose. "Sewing's dull. Let's ride instead!"
"Not today, little wolf." I ruffled her hair, her laughter a brief salve. Saving her saving them all was why I was here.
As she darted off, the wind cut deeper. Winter loomed, and beyond it, the dead. Two years, maybe less. I'd make every moment count for my I knew how much preparation for future events could and would change this story.