The sharp clash of steel pierced the stillness of dawn, ringing through my open window. I stirred awake, my eyes blinking against the faint grey light seeping into my chamber. The North's chill hung heavy in the air, yet it barely brushed me—a strangeness I was still settling into. In my past life, that cold would've bitten deep into my bones, but now, in this second chance, it felt like a distant murmur. A smirk tugged at my lips as I sat up. Early mornings were my custom, then and now, and that sound of swords wasn't just a call to rise—it was proof my guards were heeding the training I'd pressed upon them. For two weeks, I'd roused them with the sun, and if they were at it this early, my labor was bearing fruit.
I swung my legs over the bed, the stone floor cool beneath my bare feet, though it troubled me not. I dressed swiftly—leather tunic, breeches, and a thin Stark cloak slung over my shoulders. The cloak was more for show than need; I'd not have anyone suspect how little the cold touched me now. As I buckled my belt, my thoughts drifted to the guards. Tom and Bennard stood tall among them, their zeal and loyalty marking them apart. Both were giants, nigh on six-foot-five or six-foot-six—I couldn't be sure—and built sturdy as oxen, their strength tempered by the North's harsh ways. Their blood was bound to the Starks: their father fell under Ned's banner in the Greyjoy Rebellion, their mother now tended to Catelyn as a maid, and Tom's younger brother lent hands to Mikken in the forge, though he'd no formal craft. That lad had joined the guards too, trailing Tom, while Bennard hungered for battle over hammer and anvil. I was glad for them both. Strength alone was a boon, but their loyalty was a treasure, and I had designs for them.
I wasn't schooled as a maester or a scribe, not in this life nor the last, but I'd been a soldier. I knew how to shape men into something keener, harder. In that other life, I'd driven drills that would've shattered frail hearts: tests of vigor, courses of nimbleness, grueling runs, push-ups, pull-ups—the forge that turns youths to warriors. I'd bent those ways to Winterfell's guards, and though they'd grumbled at first, the proof was plain. In mere weeks, Tom and Bennard sparred with sharper grace, their wind outlasting the rest. I near laughed as I laced my boots—in a land where men were already lean from scant fare and ceaseless toil, a touch of those old exercises gave them an edge. I'd jested once, telling them it was so "a horse won't best me again." They'd laughed with me, blind to how that kick had stirred something deeper within.
Clothed and steady, I strode to the Great Hall, the warm scent of fresh bread and crackling bacon greeting me. The hall lay quiet at this hour, only a few souls about. Ned Stark sat at the table's head, his grey eyes tracing over a stack of letters. Maester Luwin lingered near, murmuring of raven flights, while Theon Greyjoy slumped in a chair, prodding his food with a bored hand. I took my place by Luwin, snatching a chunk of bread and a strip of bacon. I folded the bread about the meat, making a rough morsel, and bit into it, chewing slow as I studied my father.
Ned's eyes rose, locking with mine in that calm, unyielding way of his. Before I could speak—or even clear my throat—he cut through the quiet. "I've had letters from the lords this past week. Their children will arrive this afternoon. For safety, the Mormonts and Umbers sent their fosterlings together, joining the Manderlys at Castle Cerwyn afore coming here. I'd have you greet them when they ride in."
I swallowed my bite, dipping my head. "That's well, Father. I'll see to it." My voice held firm, but within, my mind thrummed with eagerness. I'd seen Smalljon Umber in the tales of my past life—broad, fierce, and true as his sire. Yet that trust wasn't mine by right; I'd need to claim it, and as Winterfell's heir, I could show no faltering. Then there was Dacey Mormont—wild and quick, a mirror to Arya's fire. I could see them clashing blades, laughing through their bouts. And Jon… my thoughts caught on my half-brother. I'd not let him vanish to the Wall this time. I needed him here—a shield, a lever, or mayhap more. Perhaps Dacey could bind him and Arya into a knot too strong to sunder.
My schemes twisted further as I ate. If I mastered the Old Tongue as I meant to, I could call to the mountain clans, perchance even parley with the Thenns beyond the Wall. And the giants—by the gods, the giants. If I won their faith, speaking their words, they'd be more than friends; they'd be living siege engines, breaking foes asunder. I pictured it: Lannister ranks fleeing as a giant bellowed, or the Freys quaking ere yielding the Twins. A mad vision, years distant, but it set my blood aflame. For now, I'd tether the northern houses through these fosterlings and hone my guards into a blade of my own. That would suffice.
I finished my meal and stood, catching Theon's gaze. "Walk with me," I said, my tone easy yet edged. He paused, then shrugged and trailed me to the courtyard. The swords' clamor swelled as we neared the training yard. I'd scarce kept Theon's company of late, and I felt his restlessness brewing beneath his swagger. It was time to mend that rift.
"I'm sorry I've been afar," I said low as we walked. "That horse's kick jarred more than my breath. Been sorting my mind—and these new skills the Old Gods granted me." I flashed a grin to lighten the air.
Theon smirked, though his eyes stayed guarded. "Aye, you're a terror in the yard. Men reckon you're half-wolf."
I laughed, but pressed on ere he could jest more. "Have you read those books I spoke of? The ones on your father and your grandsire's rule of the Iron Islands?"
His smirk fell, a spark of anger and doubt flaring in its place. I knew Balon Greyjoy's silence stung him deep, a wound I'd not shy from using. If I could turn Theon's heart to Quellon—proud, shrewd, and mighty—I might sow the seeds of a North-Iron pact. Steering the Ironborn to harry the Reach or Westerlands, sparing the North, could tilt the war. And Casterly Rock—I recalled that hidden path from the tales. If I could seize it…
Theon gave no reply, his jaw locked. I let the quiet stretch, then clapped his shoulder. "Come, Kraken of the North. Let's see if this wolf can best you once more."
His eyes narrowed at the name, but a grin twitched his lips. "You're on."
We crossed to the training ground, where Tom and Bennard traded blows with other guards. I plucked two practice swords from the rack, tossing one to Theon. "First to three," I said, dropping into a stance.
Theon caught it, his frame tensing. "Growing bold, Stark."
"We'll see," I shot back, grinning.
We circled, the air taut between us. Theon lunged first, a swift thrust I turned aside, stepping clear and slashing at his ribs. He blocked, but my force drove him back. I pressed on, feinting high then striking low. He parried just in time, his breath quickening.
"Sluggish today," I teased, my focus unyielding.
His jaw tightened, and he came at me, blows sharpening. I met each strike, my rhythm smooth and tireless. The guards halted their drills, their voices rising as our clash grew fierce. Theon's temper flared, his guard slipping, and I struck—twisting his blade free with a flick. It clattered down, and I tapped his chest with mine. "One."
He scowled, scooping up his sword. "Luck."
We reset, and he attacked harder, his moves more measured. I wove around them, my speed and power grinding him down. A quick blow to his side won my second point. "Two," I said, stepping back.
His face flushed, breaths heaving. "You've trained too much."
"Or you've lazed," I quipped.
He charged, swings wild with fury. I slipped aside, letting his rush carry him, then hooked his legs with a low kick. He crashed down, and I set my blade to his throat. "Three."
The guards roared, and I dropped my sword, offering a hand. "Good fight."
Theon gripped it, hauling up with a grunt. "You're a bastard."
"Half as much as Jon," I said, laughing as I clapped his back.
He snorted, the sharpness in him easing. It wasn't a full bond restored, but it was a step. I needed Theon's faith—not just as a companion, but as a piece in my greater design. If I could root him to the North, make him a brother while stirring his Ironborn blood, it might bear fruit later.
The morning wore on, and I drove the guards through their paces—push-ups, sprints, and bouts. They sharpened, their steps surer, their strength deepening. Yet I knew they weren't primed for the storm I foresaw. That would take time.
By midday, my limbs sang with a good ache, and I swiped sweat from my brow as I returned to the keep. The fosterlings would soon arrive, and I'd be ready. Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Wynafryd Manderly—each bore their house's might, and I meant to win them. But as I climbed to my chamber, Jon crept into my mind again. I'd not seen him all morn—likely brooding, torn betwixt honor and place. I'd not let him drift off. Mayhap Dacey could tether him, give him cause to stay.
I reached my window and stopped, peering out. The gates yawned wide, and far off, a caravan neared—banners of green, white, and black whipping in the breeze. The fosterlings were here.
I straightened, drawing a deep breath. Time to play my part, to greet these allies-to-be. But as I turned, a shadow flitted at my vision's edge—a lone crow perched on the sill, its dark eyes fixed on me. I stilled, a faint pull stirring in my chest. Then it flew, gone in a beat. I shook my head. The game was begun, and I'd no time for signs—not yet.