Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The first light of dawn seeped through the narrow window, painting the stone walls of the chamber in shades of grey. Erik Haugen—no, Robb Stark—lay motionless beneath the furs, his breath visible in the frigid air. The dull throb in his temples had faded overnight, but a deeper ache remained: the realization that this was no dream, no fevered hallucination. He was here, in Robb Stark's body, in Winterfell, in a world he'd once studied and watched unfold on a screen. He clenched his fists, feeling the unfamiliar roughness of Robb's callused palms. Robb's hands. My hands now.

He rose, the cold floor stinging his bare feet as he crossed to the small table. A basin of water waited there, and he splashed it over his face, the icy bite snapping him fully awake. In the rippling surface, Robb's face stared back—young, broad-shouldered, with auburn curls and piercing blue eyes inherited from the Tullys. Erik ran a hand over the unfamiliar jaw, the stubble prickling his fingertips. Not my face. Not anymore. Yet Robb's memories surged beneath his own: the echo of Ned's stern voice during a lesson, the rush of racing Theon across the yard, the warmth of Sansa's tiny hand in his as a child. They intertwined with Erik's own past—lecturing students at Oxford, the roar of artillery in France, the quiet hum of his television as he'd fallen asleep to Game of Thrones.

He dressed deliberately, pulling on a rough wool tunic and leather breeches, the fabric coarse against his skin. Robb's sword rested against the bedpost, and he fastened it to his waist, the motion smooth and instinctive, guided by Robb's muscle memory. He was a soldier again, thrust into a war he hadn't chosen—but this time, he knew the battlefield before the first horn sounded.

The courtyard rang with the clash of steel as Erik stepped outside, the air sharp with the scent of frost and horse dung. Jon Snow stood opposite him, practice sword in hand, his dark hair dusted with snow. Erik tightened his grip on his own blade, testing its balance. It was lighter than the rifles he'd wielded, but the weight felt right in Robb's hands—his hands.

"Ready?" Jon asked, his voice calm but his stance alert.

Erik nodded, and they lunged. Wood met wood with a heavy thud, the jolt reverberating up his arm. Robb's reflexes took over—he sidestepped, parried, struck back with a fluid arc. But Erik's mind layered his own instincts atop it: keep your guard up, watch his footing, strike where he's weak. He ducked Jon's next blow, faster than he'd anticipated, his body moving with a strength and agility that still felt foreign.

Jon laughed, panting as he stepped back. "You're quick today. Thought that fall scrambled you."

Erik grinned, hiding the truth behind Robb's easy charm. "Maybe it woke me up."

They traded blows until the sun rose higher, sweat mingling with the cold on their skin. Erik's muscles ached, but the exertion grounded him—this was real, not a page in a book or a scene on a screen. As they lowered their swords, Jon clapped him on the shoulder, his smile fleeting but genuine.

"You'll lead Winterfell well," Jon said, his tone light but his eyes carrying the weight of something unsaid.

Erik's throat tightened. Jon didn't know the fate that awaited him—the Wall, the betrayal, the blood. "And you'll be there with me," he replied, the words slipping out, born of Robb's loyalty and Erik's resolve. Jon's role loomed large in his plans, even if the boy couldn't see it yet.

The solar glowed with the warmth of a fire, its hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Ned Stark stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the snow-dusted expanse of Winterfell. The room smelled of wax and old parchment, a sanctuary of duty and memory.

"You wanted me, Father?" The title felt awkward, but Robb's familiarity smoothed it over.

Ned turned, his grey eyes piercing. "Aye. Sit."

Erik settled into the chair across from the desk, his hands resting on its arms. Robb's memories filled in the details—the direwolf etched into the wood, the faint scratch of Ned's quill—but Erik assessed it like a tactician. Strong walls, but too far from the gates. Needs a faster route for defense.

Ned crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "Maester Luwin says you're recovering. No dizziness?"

"None," Erik lied, ignoring the faint pulse behind his eyes. "I'm stronger than before."

Ned studied him, then nodded. "You've been quiet since the accident. More… thoughtful."

Erik's pulse quickened. He's sharp. Stay in character. "Maybe I'm starting to see what's at stake. Being a Stark isn't just a name."

A faint smile tugged at Ned's lips. "Good. The North needs that from you. There's trouble brewing—wildlings pressing south, the Night's Watch struggling. We can't ignore it."

Erik seized the chance. "What if it's worse than wildlings? The Watch is weak, underfunded. If something bigger comes…"

Ned frowned. "Bigger?"

He paused, choosing his words. He couldn't mention the White Walkers—not yet. "The old stories warn of threats beyond the Wall. We should be ready."

Ned rubbed his brow, weary. "You've been listening to Old Nan too much. The North has enough to face without chasing shadows."

Erik swallowed his frustration. Ned's practicality was a wall he'd need to chip away at slowly. "Then let me ride to the Wall. Assess it myself. If it's nothing, we lose only time."

Ned shook his head. "You're needed here. Winter's close, and the North must stand united. But…" He hesitated. "I'll write to Lord Commander Mormont. See if he needs men."

It was a small victory, but Erik took it. "Thank you, Father."

As he stood, Ned's voice halted him. "Robb."

He turned.

"You're my son. Whatever's weighing on you, you can tell me."

For a heartbeat, Erik wanted to spill it all—the truth of his identity, the doom marching toward them. But Robb's love for Ned, and Erik's own caution, stopped him. "I'm just trying to be the man the North deserves."

Ned's expression softened. "You already are."

The godswood stretched before him, silent and vast, the red leaves of the weirwood stark against the snow. Erik knelt at its base, the damp earth seeping through his breeches. He wasn't a man of faith—neither Robb nor Erik had ever sought the gods—but the quiet here sharpened his thoughts.

He'd gained a foothold. Ned's trust was a tool, Jon's loyalty a foundation. But time was short, and the threats were many. His mind churned with strategies:

The Wall: He'd nudge Ned again, maybe frame a trip as a hunt. Meeting Mormont could secure early warnings—and finding Mance Rayder might shift the wildling tide.

Ramsay Bolton: The boy was young but already a monster. Robb's unease around Roose lingered in Erik's gut. A quiet removal—Wall or worse—might work, but Roose's cunning demanded precision.

Alliances: The North's houses needed binding—Umbers with promises, Manderlys with trade. Robb's warmth could win them, Erik's foresight could hold them.

The Long Game: Tyrion's passage into Casterly Rock was years away, but worth remembering. For now, Winterfell's defenses came first—walls, grain, men.

He stood, snow clinging to his knees. The North was a fortress waiting to be tested, and he was its architect. His WWII scars taught him one truth: wars were won in the planning, not the charge.

A rustle broke his thoughts. He whirled, hand on his hilt, but it was only Arya—small and fierce, her grin wide.

"Robb! You're supposed to be resting!"

He chuckled, slipping into Robb's ease. "And you're supposed to be sewing."

She wrinkled her nose. "Sewing's dull. Let's ride instead!"

"Not today, little wolf." He ruffled her hair, her laughter a fleeting balm. Saving her—saving them all—was why he was here.

As she scampered off, the wind bit deeper. Winter loomed, and beyond it, the dead. Two years, maybe less. He'd make every moment count.