Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The library tower of Winterfell stood cloaked in predawn gloom, its narrow slits of windows spilling weak, ashen light onto shelves bowed under the weight of centuries. Erik Haugen prowled the aisles, his boots scuffing dust into lazy swirls that caught the faint glow like spirits rising from the earth. The air was thick with the musk of old parchment and cracked leather, a scent that tugged at half-remembered days spent hunched over texts in another life. His fingers grazed the spines—some smooth, some rough with age, a few carved with sharp, unfamiliar runes that prickled his curiosity. The Old Tongue, he mused, a thrill stirring beneath his ribs. Once, he'd deciphered dead languages for scholars; here, those runes promised more than lectures—they hinted at the North's soul, its hidden strength.

A soft rattle of chains broke the stillness. Maester Luwin stepped from the shadows, scrolls cradled in his arms, his keen grey eyes catching Erik's silhouette. "Robb," he greeted, voice mild but edged with surprise. "What draws you here so early?"

Erik turned, flashing a grin borrowed from Robb's easy charm but weighted with his own restless purpose. "Sleep's a stranger tonight. Thought I'd hunt some old tales instead."

Luwin's gaze flicked to the shelf. "Those are relics, even among our records. Histories, mostly, though some bear the Old Tongue. Few can read it now."

Erik's heart quickened. "Who still can?"

"Wildlings beyond the Wall, a handful of mountain clansmen," Luwin said, easing his scrolls onto a table with a muted thud. "It's a fading echo, lost to time."

Erik traced a rune with his thumb, mind racing. If I could wield it—wildlings might bend, secrets might unravel. He kept his voice steady. "Anyone close who could teach it?"

Luwin's brows arched. "You wish to learn the Old Tongue?"

"Aye," Erik said, shrugging as if it were a whim, though his intent burned hotter. "Winterfell's built on old bones—maybe there's power in knowing them. Besides…" He leaned in, lowering his tone. "What if we used it for messages? Something only the North could ken, a tongue no southron spy could break?"

Luwin's eyes widened, a spark of intrigue flaring. "Secret messages? That's a sharp thought, Robb. The Old Tongue's rarity would cloak words well—southerners wouldn't even know where to begin."

Erik nodded, pressing the idea. "Ravens get snared, parchment burns. But if our lords and bannermen spoke a tongue the North alone holds, we'd bind ourselves tighter. A shield of words."

The maester rubbed his jaw, chains clinking faintly. "It'd be slow—teaching even a few would take months. But it could work, a cipher of sorts, rooted in our blood."

"Do it," Erik said, his tone firm but laced with Robb's warmth. "Find that tutor. Start with me—I'll carve out the time."

Luwin studied him, a smile ghosting his lips. "You're full of notions lately, Robb. Fortifying the wards, now this. What's stirring in that head?"

Erik chuckled, slipping into Robb's lightness. "Maybe I've just got too much time before breakfast."

The maester's amusement lingered as he turned to his scrolls. Erik's grin faded, his thoughts coiling inward. The Old Tongue could sway clans, shield plans, unearth prophecies. He'd claim it, cost be damned. The North's survival hung on such edges.

The forge roared with life, a furnace of heat and noise that swallowed the morning's chill. Flames danced in the hearth, throwing jagged shadows across racks of steel—blades and spearheads glinting like fangs in the firelight. The air bit with the tang of molten iron and sweat, a scent Erik knew from battlefields past. Mikken, Winterfell's weathered blacksmith, loomed over his anvil, hammer striking sparks from a glowing blade. His soot-stained face barely twitched as Erik approached, eyes fixed on his craft.

"Lord Robb," Mikken rumbled, not pausing his swing. "Come to check the steel?"

"Something like that," Erik replied, his voice cutting through the clangor. He lifted a spear, testing its heft with a practiced grip. "Armory holding strong?"

Mikken snorted, dragging a sleeve across his brow. "Strong as Winterfell's walls—been so for ages. We've blades aplenty, and I'm forging more. Need better hands, though—these lads are soft."

Erik scanned the forge, counting swords and axes. Enough for raiders, not legends. He kept his tone easy. "You've been here long, Mikken. Your kin have hammered for the Starks since… what, the First Men?"

The hammer stilled. Mikken straightened, squinting through the haze. "Aye, since the old days. My line's Northern to the marrow, same as yours, Lord Robb. Served Winterfell since the stones were laid."

Erik's lips twitched. Loyalty's bred in. "So your craft's old too—passed down like the Starks' oaths. Know any tricks from before the Andals?"

Mikken's chest swelled faintly. "Some. Tales say my great-grandsire stoked fires for Brandon the Builder himself. We've kept the ways—iron's our blood."

Good, Erik thought. Roots that deep don't snap. He stepped closer, voice low. "Ever worked Valyrian steel?"

The blacksmith's eyes lit with a flicker of awe. "Once—your father's Ice. Light as a whisper, cuts like a scream. Why ask?"

"Curiosity," Erik said, though his mind churned. It slays the dead. We'll need more. "What of dragonglass?"

Mikken scratched his matted beard. "Obsidian? Tricky stuff—shatters easy. Good for arrowheads, maybe a dagger. What's this about?"

"Old stories," Erik deflected, offering a half-smile. "Might be wise to stock some. Quietly."

Mikken grunted, resuming his pounding. "Can ask traders—Dragonstone's got it. Won't be cheap."

"See it done," Erik said. "No noise about it." His gaze snagged on a plain dagger cooling by the forge, its edge sharp despite its rough state. "That claimed?"

"Yours if you want it," Mikken muttered, focused on his anvil. "Needs wrapping, but it's sound."

Erik slid the blade into his belt, its weight a cold comfort. For bastards who bite too close. He stepped into the courtyard, the forge's din fading, his thoughts already shifting.

The godswood stretched wide and silent, a cathedral of twisted roots and snow-dusted earth. Erik knelt before the heart tree, its white branches clawing the dusk sky, its carved face weeping red beneath hollow eyes. The air carried pine and wet loam, a stillness that pressed against his skin. He held no faith—Robb's gods were shadows, and Erik's old world had little use for prayer—but this place offered solace, a space to wrestle his own mind.

He sank to his knees, the frost biting through his wool, and shut his eyes. Robb's echoes flickered—boyish vows, whispered fears—but Erik shoved them aside. Reach for it, he urged himself. Warging danced in the tales, Bran's gift threading through beasts. If it slept in Robb's blood, Erik would wake it. He steadied his breath, stretching his senses into the dark.

Minutes bled into haze. A leaf rustled, then—a jolt. The reek of fur, the crunch of snow under paws, a grey streak darting through trees. His pulse leaped. Grey Wind? He clawed after it, but the thread snapped, leaving only his ragged breathing. It's there, he growled inwardly, anger flaring. I'll damn well find it.

He opened his eyes, meeting the weirwood's stare. "I'll be back," he rasped, a promise to the tree, to himself. "Every day till it bends."

Standing, he brushed off his cloak and caught a stableboy's fleeting bow at the grove's edge. Erik squared his shoulders, aware of the image: Robb Stark, praying like a true son of the North. Let them whisper, he thought. It ties them to me.

A wolf's howl keened on the wind, faint but sharp. Erik's hand settled on the dagger, his jaw tightening. Ramsay's plots, wildling blades, the dead beyond—they're closing. In this ancient wood, he'd sharpen himself—scholar, warrior, warg. The North demanded nothing less.