Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

Chapter 1: A Stark Awakening

The first thing I noticed was the pain—a dull, hammering ache that pulsed behind my eyes, as if someone had taken a mallet to my skull. Then came the voices, soft but urgent, cutting through the fog in my head.

"My lord, can you hear me?" A man's voice, steady yet laced with concern.

I groaned, forcing my eyes open. The light was harsh, streaming through narrow windows onto rough stone walls. The air smelled of herbs and damp wool, and as my vision cleared, I saw him: an older man with a chain around his neck, his face lined with worry. Maester Luwin. The name popped into my head unbidden, and with it, a jolt of recognition.

Wait—Maester Luwin?

Before I could process that, another voice broke in, trembling with emotion. "Robb, my son, how do you feel?"

I turned my head—slowly, because it hurt like hell—and there she was. Auburn hair, sharp blue eyes, a mother's fear etched into every line of her face. Catelyn Stark. My breath caught. This wasn't a dream or some elaborate cosplay. The stone beneath me, the weight of the furs on my chest, the raw edge of pain—it was all too real.

I wasn't me anymore. I was Robb Stark.

Panic surged up my throat, hot and choking, but I clamped it down. If this was happening—if I'd somehow landed in Game of Thrones, in Robb freaking Stark's body—I couldn't afford to lose it. Not here, not now, not with Catelyn's eyes searching mine and Maester Luwin hovering like a hawk.

"I… I'm alright, Mother," I said, my voice rough and unfamiliar. It was Robb's voice, deeper than mine, with that Northern burr I'd heard a hundred times on screen. "Just a bit dizzy."

Catelyn's shoulders sagged with relief, and she reached out to brush a strand of hair from my forehead. "Thank the gods. You gave us all a fright, Robb. Promise me you'll take more care around those horses."

I nodded, managing a faint smile. "Aye, Mother. I'll be careful."

Inside, though, my mind was a screaming mess. I'm talking to Catelyn Stark. This is insane. But I kept my face steady, years of bluffing my way through awkward situations kicking in. If I was going to survive this—whatever this was—I had to play the part.

Maester Luwin stepped closer, peering at me with those sharp eyes of his. "You were training at the stables, my lord, when one of the horses reared and struck you in the head. We feared you might not wake, but it seems you're stronger than we thought. Still, you should rest. Such a blow can muddle the mind."

So that's it, I thought. A horse kick to the head. That's how I'd ended up here—my soul, or whatever was left of me, shoved into Robb Stark's body after an accident. It didn't explain the why, but it gave me something to work with. A cover, at least. If I acted off, I could blame the injury.

"Thank you, Maester," I said, keeping my tone grateful but firm, like I imagined Robb would. "I'll rest, I promise."

Luwin nodded, though his gaze lingered a moment longer, as if he sensed something wasn't quite right. My stomach twisted, but he turned to Catelyn instead. "He needs sleep, my lady. I'll return in the morning to check on him."

Catelyn hesitated, then leaned down to kiss my forehead. Her lips were cool against my skin, and for a second, I felt a pang of something—guilt, maybe, for pretending to be her son. "Sleep well, Robb," she murmured. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

As the door creaked shut behind them, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Alone at last, I could think.

I sat up, wincing as the room spun briefly before settling. The chamber was small but warm, with a fire crackling in the hearth and a heavy wooden bed piled with furs. It screamed Winterfell—rugged, practical, and a little intimidating. I swung my legs over the side and stood, testing my balance. The dizziness was fading, but my head still throbbed, a reminder of the accident that had landed me here.

Two years before the show, I reminded myself. That's what you'd said. Two years before Robert Baratheon rides north, before Ned Stark takes the Hand's pin, before everything falls apart. I was fifteen, then—or Robb was, anyway. Young, but not powerless. I had time to change things.

But change them how? I'd watched the show, read the books, argued theories online, sure—but that didn't make me a lord. Still, I had one thing Robb never did: I knew what was coming. The Lannisters, the Red Wedding, the White Walkers—all of it. If I could use that, maybe I could keep the Starks alive. Maybe I could win.

First, though, I had to blend in. The North didn't take kindly to oddities, and if I started acting like a stranger in Robb's skin, people would notice. Catelyn would fuss, Ned would frown, and Jon—Jon—might figure out something was wrong. The horse kick was my alibi, though. A rattled brain could excuse a lot.

I shuffled to the window, peering out at the courtyard below. It was dusk, the sky a bruised purple, and Winterfell hummed with life—guards on the walls, servants scurrying with buckets, the distant clang of a smith's hammer. It was beautiful, in a harsh, unforgiving way. But I knew the truth: this place was a powder keg, and I was standing at the fuse.

Two years. Two years to build alliances, strengthen the North, maybe even prepare for the dead creeping south. But where did I start? I couldn't just march up to Ned and say, "Hey, Dad, the Lannisters are going to screw us, and oh, by the way, ice zombies are real." I'd be lucky if they didn't lock me in a tower for madness.

A knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. I turned as it opened, and there he was—Jon Snow, all dark hair and brooding eyes, looking at me like I might keel over any second.

"Robb," he said, stepping inside. "You alright?"

I grinned, aiming for Robb's easy warmth. "Aye, just a sore head. Takes more than a horse to finish me off."

He didn't smile back, but his expression softened. "Good. Arya wanted to gut the beast herself when she heard. Took three of us to hold her back."

I laughed—a real laugh, picturing that wild little girl with a knife in hand. "That's Arya for you."

Jon nodded, then hesitated, like he wanted to say more. "You sure you're well? You seem… different."

My pulse spiked, but I kept my face steady. "Blame the horse. Knocked some sense into me, maybe."

He studied me for a heartbeat longer, then shrugged. "Get some rest, then. We'll spar tomorrow if you're up for it."

"Wouldn't miss it," I said, clapping him on the shoulder as he turned to go. The gesture felt natural, pulled from Robb's memories—or maybe mine, now. Hard to tell where the line was.

When the door shut, I sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Jon was sharper than I'd expected, and that was a problem. But he was also my best shot—him and his secret bloodline. I couldn't tell him yet, not without proof, but I could keep him close, build him up for what was coming.

Tomorrow, I'd start small. Train harder, listen more, plant a few seeds with Ned about the wildlings or the Wall. Nothing big, nothing suspicious—just a young heir stepping up. I had two years to turn Winterfell into a fortress, to rewrite the Starks' story.

It wouldn't be easy. Hell, it might not even work. But I'd be damned if I let the North fall on my watch.

Sleep tugged at me, heavy and insistent, but my mind wouldn't quiet. Winter was coming—I knew it better than anyone. And this time, I'd be ready.