The frost clung to Winterfell's stone walls like a second skin, glinting faintly in the pale morning light. I stood in the training yard, my breath fogging in the crisp air, the familiar weight of a blunted sword in my hand. Its leather grip was worn smooth from years of use—years that belonged to Robb Stark, not me. Erik Haugen, I reminded myself for the hundredth time, though the name felt less real with every passing day. Around me, the guards milled about, their cloaks pulled tight against the cold, their faces ruddy from the chill. Jory Cassel stood at the yard's edge, arms crossed, his keen eyes watching me.
"Two at a time today," I called, my voice—Robb's voice—carrying over the murmur of the men. "Let's see what you've got."
Two guards stepped forward—Bennard, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek, and Tomm, younger and wiry, his eyes sharp with ambition. They exchanged a glance, then advanced, blades raised. I shifted my stance, planting my boots firmly in the packed dirt. Assess, adapt, strike, I thought, letting Robb's instincts flow through me while my own mind—Erik's mind—calculated each move.
Bennard swung first, a heavy overhand blow meant to overwhelm. I sidestepped, the blade whistling past my ear, and parried Tomm's quick thrust from the left. Steel clashed, sharp and clear, drawing nods from the watching guards. I ducked under Bennard's next swing, then drove my shoulder into his chest, sending him stumbling back. Tomm lunged low, seizing the opening, but I twisted, catching his strike on my shield and shoving him off balance.
"Too slow," I said, tapping Tomm's ribs with my blade. "You're dead." I turned to Bennard, who'd regained his footing, and met his charge head-on. Our swords locked, hilts grinding, until I pivoted, using his momentum to trip him into the dirt.
"Dead too," I said, stepping back. The guards laughed, a rough, approving sound, as Bennard hauled himself up, grinning despite the mud on his tunic.
Jory approached, clapping me on the shoulder. "You're a terror this morning, Robb. What's driving you?"
I lowered my sword, wiping sweat from my brow. "The North needs us sharp. Every man." I glanced at the guards, their postures straighter now, their eyes fixed on me. They're starting to see me as theirs, I thought. Good. Loyalty's forged in sweat.
"Let's make it three," I said, raising my voice for all to hear. "Who's next?"
The great hall was a cavern of warmth that evening, the long tables laden with steaming trenchers of venison and barley stew. The fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the banners of House Stark. I sat at the high table beside Ned, nursing a horn of ale, its bitter tang anchoring me in this strange, borrowed life. Across from us, Catelyn spoke softly with Sansa, her fingers smoothing her daughter's auburn hair. Arya, predictably, was absent—likely off chasing rats in the stables again.
Ned set down his knife, his grey eyes settling on me. "You were hard on the men today."
"They can take it," I replied, keeping my tone light. "Jory's got them disciplined, but they need to be pushed. We're too far from the Wall to let them soften."
He nodded, a faint approval in his gaze. "You've got a soldier's mind lately. More than before."
My chest tightened. His words cut too close—did he sense the stranger beneath Robb's skin? I forced a smile. "Falling off a horse will do that to a man." Before he could dig deeper, I leaned forward, seizing the moment. "I've been thinking about the North, Father. About keeping it strong."
His brow lifted. "You've got my ear."
"Our bannermen are loyal," I began, my voice steady, "but distance breeds cracks. We need to bind them tighter—bring their blood to Winterfell."
Catelyn looked up, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. "What are you suggesting, Robb?"
"Wards," I said, meeting her gaze. "Noble children fostered here. It's worked before—look at Theon. The Greyjoys haven't stirred since he came."
Ned rubbed his beard. "Theon's a hostage as much as a ward. But there's truth in it. Fostering ties houses together."
I pressed on, turning to him. "The Mormonts, for one. Bear Island's far, but they're fierce. Arya could use a friend—someone wild like her. A Mormont girl, maybe one of Lyanna's daughters. They'd run the castle ragged together, and we'd have Bear Island's loyalty in our walls."
Ned's mouth twitched—a rare hint of a smile. "Arya'd take to that like a wolf to the woods."
Catelyn frowned. "A Mormont girl might encourage Arya's… recklessness."
"Maybe," I conceded, "but it'd channel it. And the Mormonts would see it as an honor." I shifted my focus to her. "And for Sansa—the Manderlys. They follow the Seven, like you. A granddaughter here would give Sansa a companion, and it'd please White Harbor. Their wealth could bolster us too."
Catelyn's expression softened, her fingers pausing on Sansa's hair. "The Faith would comfort her. And Wylla Manderly's girl—Wynafryd, I think—is near Sansa's age."
Sansa's eyes brightened. "Would she bring silks from White Harbor? I've heard their markets are grand."
I chuckled. "I'd wager she would." And Catelyn's hooked, I noted, tucking that away.
Ned leaned back, considering. "And who else?"
"The Umbers," I said, tracing a finger along the table's grain. "Greatjon's son, Smalljon. He's a fighter—could train with us, squire for you even. The Umbers value strength; having him here would show we respect that."
Ned's gaze sharpened. "Smalljon's nearly a man grown. Could be a handful."
"So's the North," I shot back, grinning. "We can handle him."
Ned grunted—amusement, maybe. "You've thought this through."
"Winter's coming," I said, the words slipping out again. I winced inwardly—too dramatic—but pushed forward. "The North stands stronger together."
Catelyn tilted her head. "A fine idea, Robb. I'll write to White Harbor myself."
Ned nodded. "I'll send ravens to Bear Island and Last Hearth. We'll see what they say."
I took a sip of ale, hiding my relief. Seeds planted, I thought. Now they need to grow.
The next morning dawned grey and bitter, the wind howling through Winterfell's turrets. I was back in the yard, my cloak discarded despite the cold, my tunic damp with sweat. Jory had rounded up three guards this time—Tom again, joined by Hal, a lanky man with quick hands, and Garth, a bull of a man whose size hid his speed. They circled me, their breaths puffing white in the air.
"Ready when you are," Jory said, leaning against a post, his tone half-teasing.
I raised my sword, my shield strapped tight to my arm. "Come on, then."
Garth charged first, his blade arcing down like a hammer. I caught it on my shield, the impact jarring my teeth, and twisted aside as Hal slashed at my flank. I parried Hal's strike, then ducked Tom's swing from behind. The yard became a blur—steel clanging, boots scuffing, grunts bouncing off the walls.
I fought on instinct now, Robb's muscle memory blending with my own tactics. Garth overextended; I hooked his leg, sending him sprawling. Hal pressed too close; I slammed my shield into his chest, knocking him back. Tom hesitated—fatal. I feinted high, then struck low, tapping his knee.
"Out," I barked, spinning to face the others. Garth roared to his feet, but I sidestepped, letting his momentum crash him into Hal. They tangled, cursing, and I finished them with quick strikes to their shoulders.
"Done," I said, lowering my blade. The guards groaned, sprawling in the dirt, their laughter mixing with their complaints.
Jory strode over, clapping slowly. "You're a demon, Robb. Where'd you learn to fight three at once?"
"Had a good teacher," I said, nodding to him. "But they need work. Garth's strong but sloppy. Hal's fast but reckless. Bennard's got the head for it—make him lead drills."
Jory's brows rose. "You're sounding like a captain.Maybe I should be," I replied, half seriously. "Winterfell's heart beats in this yard I would like it if you would perhaps give me a few men to train with father's permission, of course I finish saying.
Jory studied me hard for a few moments, then nodded. "I'll see it done."
As Jory and the as guards dispersed, I lingered, my gaze drifting north. The Wall was a faint line on the horizon, a reminder of threats beyond wildlings. The Others are coming, I thought. And the Boltons are closer. My wards would strengthen the North's edges, but I needed more—eyes, blades, trust.
That night, I stood on the battlements, the wind tugging at my cloak. Below, Winterfell slept, its torchlights flickering like stars against the dark. My hands rested on the cold stone, my mind racing. The Mormonts, Manderlys, and Umbers were a start—fierce, rich, strong. But Roose Bolton's silence gnawed at me. He'll bend the knee 'til he doesn't, I mused. Ramsay's the real poison.
Ned's voice echoed in my head: Don't carry the weight alone. But I had to. I knew the North's fate—Ned's death, Robb's war, the Red Wedding. I couldn't save them all, but I'd be damned if I didn't try.
The stars gleamed overhead, cold and distant. I tightened my grip on the parapet. "I'll not fail this chance," I whispered to myself and the dark northern night.