Chương 2: Weight of the North

When I woke, the first light of dawn seeped through the narrow window, painting the stone walls in shades of gray. I lay motionless beneath the furs. The dull throb in my temples had faded overnight, but a deeper ache lingered now that I had known this not to be a dream, no 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 callused palms pressing into skin that was now mine. I rose, the cold stone 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 jolt me awake. On the rippling surface, my reflection stared back — young, broad-shouldered, auburn curls, piercing blue eyes, the Tully and Stark blood plain in my new body's features.

I ran a hand over my unfamiliar jaw, stubble prickling my fingertips. Not my face. Not anymore. And yet memories surged beneath the surface: Ned's stern but warm 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, the joy of holding newborn Arya.

They tangled with the memories of my old life — lecturing students, the roar of artillery, the sound of a mine tunnel collapsing somewhere close, the hum of a television as I drifted off to Game of Thrones late at night. Somehow, in Robb's face, I could still see myself. I dressed with care, pulling on a rough wool tunic and leather breeches, the coarse fabric scraping my skin. My practice sword, dull and meant for little more than drilling, leaned against the bedpost.

I fastened it to my waist, the motion fluid and instinctive, guided by muscle memory that wasn't entirely mine. It seemed I was to be a soldier again, thrust into a war I hadn't chosen — but this time, at least, I knew the battlefield and the strategies ahead of time. The courtyard echoed with the clash of steel as I made my way outside, the air sharp with frost and the slight stench of animal dung.

Jon Snow — my brother, though truly my cousin — stood across from me, practice sword in hand, his dark hair flecked with snow. I tightened my grip on my blade, testing its balance. Lighter than my old Garand rifle, but it felt right in my hands.

"Ready are you?" Jon asked, his voice steady, though his stance and face betrayed his alertness mixed with a bit of concern. I nodded, meaning to give it my all, to train as if it were a matter of life or death, and in a medieval world like this, physical fitness and skill were major factors in winning combat. We lunged at one another, wooden swords slamming together with a heavy thud, the jolt shooting up my arm.

My reflexes kicked in — I sidestepped, parried, struck back in a smooth arc, my mind layering its own instincts over the motion. Keep your guard up. Watch his footing. Hit where he will be. 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, stepping back.

"You're quick today. Thought that kick you had gotten would've scrambled you for longer." 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, not 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, Stark," he said, his tone light, though his eyes shadowed with something deeper — maybe the fear of losing me, his closest brother. My throat tightened. He didn't know what waited for him at the Wall: betrayal, blood, knives in the back.

"In thanks to the old gods, it would seem — they still have need of us Starks," I said, playful and brotherly, patting his shoulder, weaving another thread of faith into our bond. Jon's place in my plans loomed large, even if I couldn't see it yet. The solar glowed with firelight, the 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 expanse.

The room smelled of wax and old parchment, a haven of duty and memory.

"You wanted to see me, Father?" The words felt clumsy on my tongue, though familiarity smoothed them over. Ned turned, his grey eyes cutting through me.

"Aye, please sit." I sank into the chair across from him, my hands settling on its arms as I studied the desk, dire wolves carved into the wood as if chasing each other in a pack. It struck me, not for the first time, that I was sitting in the seat of men who traced their line back to the builders of these walls — back to the battle fought here at the dawn of an age of heroes, the one that had given Winterfell its name. Ned folded his arms, his stare unwavering.

"Maester Luwin says you're recovering, and in some ways seem more focused. No dizziness?" This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"None," I lied, brushing aside the faint pulse behind my eyes. He watched me, then nodded.

"You've been quieter since the accident. More… thoughtful." My pulse quickened. He's sharp. Stay steady, old boy.

"Maybe I'm starting to see my future, and what's at stake," I said.

"If I don't take my duty seriously, I could die from a simple horse kick before I've left my mark and made this family proud. I know being a Stark isn't just a name." A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"Good. The North needs that from you. There's always trouble brewing — wildlings pressing south, the Night's Watch faltering, and winter always coming. As Starks of Winterfell and protectors of the North, we can't look the other way. It's our honor and our duty to lead and serve the North, for all its vast land and troubles." I seized the opening.

"What if it's worse than the usual trouble with wildlings? The Watch is weak and underfunded. If something bigger comes—" He frowned.

"Bigger?" I mentally kicked myself. I'd nearly slipped at the very start. Rome wasn't built in a day — slow down—no mention of White Walkers, not yet.

"The old records speak of threats beyond the Wall — kings and tribes rising, if we let the Wall go unwatched too long. The Watch can't hold a great range with what little they have left. Maybe the houses nearest the Wall could muster a thousand men between them," I said, planting the seed for battle-hardened allies to be gathered before the real war came.

"We should be ready. Winter is coming, and the North doesn't need another Raymun Redbeard so soon." Ned rubbed his brow, weariness etching his face.

"Your words make sense. I'll think about it, Robb." I swallowed my impatience — his caution was a wall I'd have to wear down slowly.

"Then let me ride to the Wall myself. If it's nothing, we've only lost time." He shook his head.

"You're my son, and I want you here, especially after your injury. But—" He paused.

"I'll write to Lord Commander Mormont, ask after their state." A small win, but I'd take it.

"Thank you, Father." As I stood to leave, his voice stopped me.

"Robb." I turned.

"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 saying that speaks volumes of the man I know you'll be, Robb, and please do rest. I have seen many men take a head injury in war or in training, and some take a bigger toll than most realize. He finished with a dismissal." 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 had never been an anchor for me, not in this life or the last, but the stillness here honed my thoughts.

Meditation at this spot had already given me clarity I hadn't expected. I had gained ground. Ned's trust was a lever now; Jon's loyalty, a bedrock. But time was slipping away, and the threats and medieval hindrances would multiply like weeds if I didn't start pulling them. My mind churned through the plans taking shape: The Wall. I'd press Ned again — frame it as a hunt, if I had to.

A meeting with Mormont could secure early warnings, and tracking down Mance Rayder might turn the whole situation with the wildlings into a net positive before it ever came to open war with them. Ramsay Bolton. Young, but already seeping his rot on the North Roose's shadow unsettled my gut. A quiet exile — to the Wall, or a grave — would solve it, but Roose's shrewdness demanded a finesse I didn't have an answer to yet. Alliances. The North's houses needed binding — Umbers with oaths, Manderlys with trade.

My youth and a few daring gestures would sway them in time, especially with foreknowledge to smooth the way. The long game, like using Tyrion's back route into Casterly Rock, was still years off, but worth remembering. For now, my priority was strengthening Winterfell itself — grain, men, and, if I could eventually, giants — while fostering a deeper, more unified loyalty across the North. I stood, snow clinging to my knees.

The North was a stronghold, something not unlike the old Norse settlements I remembered from my past life, waiting to be forged into a nation of myth and legend again. I could picture giants and children of the forest walking free once more, a Stark leading them, myself as their unlikely founding father. My scars from another war, in another world, had taught me one lesson above all: victory lives in the planning, not the charge.

Robb's instincts would carry me through any given fight, but it was my knowledge of what was coming that would let me shape the years ahead. A rustle snapped me alert. I whirled, hand on my hilt, but it was only Arya, small and fierce, her grin wide as the sky.

"Robb! You're supposed to be resting!" I chuckled, easing into brotherly warmth.

"And you're supposed to be sewing." She scrunched her nose.

"Sewing's dull. If you're up already, I'd rather ride with you."

"Not today, little wolf." I ruffled her hair, her laughter a brief salve. Saving her — saving all of them — that's why I'm here, I thought. As she darted off, the wind cut deeper. Winter loomed, and beyond it, the dead: two years, maybe less. I would make every moment count. I knew how much the right preparation now could change everything still to come.