Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The frost clung to Winterfell's stone walls like a second skin, glinting faintly in the pale morning light. Erik Haugen—Robb Stark, he corrected himself for the hundredth time—stood in the training yard, his breath fogging in the crisp air. The familiar weight of a blunted sword rested in his hand, its leather grip worn smooth by years of use. Around him, 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, watching with a keen eye.

"Two at a time today," Erik called, his 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. Erik shifted his stance, planting his boots firmly in the packed dirt. Assess, adapt, strike, he thought, letting Robb's instincts guide his body while his own mind calculated.

Bennard swung first, a heavy overhand blow meant to overwhelm. Erik sidestepped, the blade whistling past his ear, and parried Tomm's quick thrust from the left. The clash of steel rang out, sharp and clear, drawing nods from the watching guards. He ducked under Bennard's next swing, then drove his shoulder into the man's chest, sending him stumbling back. Tomm seized the opening, lunging low, but Erik twisted, catching the strike on his shield and shoving the younger guard off balance.

"Too slow," Erik said, tapping Tomm's ribs with his blade. "You're dead." He turned to Bennard, who'd regained his footing, and met his charge head-on. Their swords locked, hilts grinding, until Erik pivoted, using the bigger man's momentum to trip him into the dirt.

"Dead too," he 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 Erik on the shoulder. "You're a terror this morning, Robb. What's driving you?"

Erik lowered his sword, wiping sweat from his brow. "The North needs us sharp. Every man." He glanced at the guards, their postures straighter now, their eyes on him. They're starting to see me as theirs, he thought. Good. Loyalty's forged in sweat.

"Let's make it three," he said, loud enough 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. Erik sat at the high table beside Ned, nursing a horn of ale, its bitter tang grounding him in the moment. Across from them, Catelyn spoke softly with Sansa, her fingers smoothing her daughter's auburn hair. Arya, predictably, was absent—likely chasing rats in the stables again.

Ned set down his knife, his gaze settling on Erik. "You were hard on the men today."

"They can take it," Erik replied, keeping his tone light. "Jory's got them disciplined, but they need to be pushed. We're too far from the Wall to let them soften."

Ned nodded, a faint approval in his grey eyes. "You've got a soldier's mind lately. More than before."

Erik's chest tightened. Ned's observation cut close—too close. He forced a smile. "Falling off a horse will do that to a man." Before Ned could press, he leaned forward, seizing the moment. "I've been thinking about the North, Father. About keeping it strong."

Ned's brow lifted. "You've got my ear."

"Our bannermen are loyal," Erik began, his 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," he 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."

Erik pressed his advantage, turning to Ned. "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," Erik conceded, "but it'd channel it. And the Mormonts would see it as an honor." He shifted his 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."

Erik chuckled. "I'd wager she would." And Catelyn's hooked, he noted, filing that away.

Ned leaned back, considering. "And who else?"

"The Umbers," Erik 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," Erik shot back, grinning. "We can handle him."

Ned grunted, a sound that might've been amusement. "You've thought this through."

"Winter's coming," Erik said, the phrase slipping out again. He winced inwardly—too dramatic—but pressed on. "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."

Erik took a sip of ale, hiding his relief. Seeds planted, he thought. Now they need to grow.

The next morning dawned grey and bitter, the wind howling through Winterfell's turrets. Erik was back in the yard, his cloak discarded despite the cold, his tunic damp with sweat. Jory had rounded up three guards this time—Bennard again, joined by Hal, a lanky man with quick hands, and Garth, a bull of a man whose size belied his speed. The four of them circled Erik, their breaths puffing white in the air.

"Ready when you are," Jory said, leaning against a post, his tone half-teasing.

Erik raised his sword, his shield strapped tight to his arm. "Come on, then."

Garth charged first, his blade arcing down like a hammer. Erik caught it on his shield, the impact rattling his teeth, and twisted aside as Hal darted in, slashing at his flank. He parried Hal's strike, then ducked Bennard's swing from behind. The yard blurred into motion—steel clanging, boots scuffing, grunts echoing off the walls.

He fought on instinct now, Robb's muscle memory blending with Erik's strategy. Garth overextended; Erik hooked his leg, sending him sprawling. Hal pressed too close; Erik slammed his shield into the man's chest, knocking him back. Bennard hesitated—fatal. Erik feinted high, then struck low, tapping his knee.

"Out," he barked, spinning to face the others. Garth roared back to his feet, but Erik sidestepped, letting the big man's momentum carry him into Hal. They tangled, cursing, and Erik finished them with quick, precise strikes to their shoulders.

"Done," he said, lowering his blade. The guards groaned, sprawling in the dirt, but their laughter mingled with the complaints.

Jory strode over, clapping slowly. "You're a demon, Robb. Where'd you learn to fight three at once?"

"Had a good teacher," Erik 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," Erik replied, half-serious. "Winterfell's heart beats in this yard."

Jory studied him, then nodded. "I'll see it done."

As the guards dispersed, Erik lingered, his gaze drifting north. The Wall was a faint line on the horizon, a reminder of threats beyond wildlings. The Others are coming, he thought. And the Boltons are closer. His wards would shore up the North's edges, but he needed more—eyes, blades, trust.

That night, Erik stood on the battlements, the wind tugging at his cloak. Below, Winterfell slept, its torchlights flickering like stars against the dark. His hands rested on the cold stone, his mind racing. The Mormonts, Manderlys, and Umbers were a start—fierce, rich, and strong. But Roose Bolton's silence gnawed at him. He'll bend the knee 'til he doesn't, Erik mused. Ramsay's the real poison.

Ned's voice echoed in his head: Don't carry the weight alone. But he had to. He knew the North's fate—Ned's death, Robb's war, the Red Wedding. He couldn't save them all, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

The stars gleamed overhead, cold and distant. Erik tightened his grip on the parapet. "I'll hold you together," he whispered to the night. "Whatever it takes."