Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The dawn broke cold and grey over Winterfell, a thin mist curling around the castle's stone walls like the breath of some ancient beast. Eric Haugen—Robb Stark, as the North named him—slipped from the keep before the household stirred, his cloak pulled tight against the chill. He led his horse from the stables, a sturdy bay mare with a steady gait, and passed through the eastern gate without a word to the guards. Their nods were enough; the young lord's rides were becoming a quiet ritual.

The Wolfswood swallowed him as he rode, its pines rising tall and dark, their needles glistening with frost. The air was sharp, laced with the scent of sap and damp earth, and it filled his lungs with a clarity he craved. Here, beyond Winterfell's clamor, he could think—really think—without the weight of eyes or expectations pressing in.

He let the mare set her own pace, her hooves thudding softly against the forest floor. The rhythm steadied him, and his mind unfurled like a scroll, tracing the threads of what was and what might be.

Winter was coming. He'd heard the words a thousand times, felt them in Robb's bones before they were his own. But Eric knew their truth stretched beyond Stark tradition. The snows would deepen, the winds would howl, and beyond the Wall, shadows would stir. He'd seen it unfold on a screen a lifetime ago: the White Walkers, the Long Night, the ruin of the North if no one stood ready. I'll be ready, he vowed silently, his grip tightening on the reins. But I can't show my hand too soon.

The memory of his talk with Mikken flickered through his mind—dragonglass, the black stone that could pierce the dead. He'd asked too eagerly, he realized now. Mikken was a smith, not a merchant with far-flung contacts. The man might hammer steel into blades, but dragonglass was a rarity, whispered of in tales from Dragonstone or the Wall. A misstep, Eric thought, jaw clenching. He'd overreached, and Mikken likely had no leads to offer. Better to let it lie for now—perhaps the smith would mention it later, a passing regret about rumors and dead ends.

He nudged the mare onward, her breath puffing white in the cold. His plans needed patience, layers built slowly like the walls of Winterfell itself. The Old Tongue was one piece, a key he'd pried from Maester Luwin's dusty tomes. The language of the First Men could bind the North in ways banners never would—a cipher for secret councils, a bridge to the wildlings if it came to that. But he'd keep its full purpose close, let others see it as a lord's curiosity, not a soldier's stratagem.

Then there were the mountain clans. Eric's thoughts lingered there, heavy with possibility. In the show, Robb had marched south with his bannermen, leaving the clans untapped—fierce fighters who'd sworn to the Starks since the days of the First Men. A waste, he mused, eyes narrowing. The clans were the North's backbone, their loyalty forged in blood and hardship. If he could call them when the time came, they'd be a wall against Bolton knives and wildling spears alike.

And it wasn't just strategy. Ned's mother—his grandmother now—had been a Flint of the mountains. Lyarra Stark's blood ran in his veins, a tie to the clans he could wield. A tutor, he thought, the idea taking root. Someone from her kin could teach him the Old Tongue, strengthen Winterfell's bond with the hills. It would be a quiet move, a nod to heritage that hid his sharper intent.

The mare snorted, pulling him from his reverie as they crested a ridge. Below, the Wolfswood sprawled vast and unbroken, a sea of green and grey beneath a sky heavy with clouds. Eric reined her in, letting the silence settle. The North was his to protect, but it would take more than swords. It would take roots, deep and unseen, to hold against the storm.

Winterfell's towers loomed as he returned, the midday sun a faint glow behind the mist. Eric stabled the mare and made for the godswood, his boots crunching on fresh snow. He found Ned there, seated on a gnarled root before the heart tree, its red leaves stark against the white. The greatsword Ice lay across his knees, its Valyrian steel gleaming faintly as Ned drew a whetstone along its edge. The rhythmic scrape-scrape filled the air, a steady pulse in the godswood's stillness.

Eric paused at the clearing's edge, watching. Ned's hands moved with care, each stroke deliberate, his brow faintly furrowed. He sharpened Ice to calm his mind, Eric knew—a ritual to sift through thoughts too heavy for words. Today, it seemed, those thoughts were of Robb—of him—and the changes Ned had seen since the fall. Good changes, judging by the faint curve of Ned's mouth, a pride that softened the lines of his face.

"Father," Eric called softly, stepping forward.

Ned looked up, grey eyes steady. "Robb," he said, lowering the whetstone for a moment. "Back from your ride?"

"Aye," Eric replied, closing the distance. "The woods were quiet today."

Ned nodded, resuming his work with a slow scrape. "Good for thinking. You've been doing a lot of that lately."

Eric caught the undertone—approval, warm and unspoken. He seized the thread, keeping his tone light. "I've been wondering about our roots. Grandmother—Lyarra—did she ever talk about the mountains?"

Ned's hand paused mid-stroke, a flicker of surprise in his gaze. "She did. Born a Flint, raised in the high hills. She'd say the wind there carried voices the lowlands never hear."

"Sounds like she belonged there," Eric said, settling onto a nearby root. "Do we still have kin among them? The Flints, or the clans?"

"Aye, distant now," Ned said, his voice low over the whetstone's rhythm. "They're loyal, though—Lyarra's name holds weight. Why ask?"

Eric shrugged, casual but deliberate. "Just thinking about the old ways. The Old Tongue, maybe—it could honor her, the older generations. Or…" He let the words hang, then added, "It could be a way to speak privately, keep our councils close."

Ned's brow lifted, the whetstone stilling. "Privately?"

"A tongue only the North knows," Eric said, his tone soft but edged with intent. "A shield against ears we don't trust. Or a tribute, to show the clans we remember."

Ned rubbed his beard, considering. "It's rare enough to be a cipher. And the clans… they'd take it as respect, a Stark speaking their blood's tongue." He resumed sharpening, the scrape quieter now. "You've grown sharp, Robb. I see it more every day."

Eric's chest warmed at that, Robb's pride mingling with his own. "I'm learning," he said, a half-smile tugging his lips. "From you, mostly."

A low chuckle escaped Ned, rare and rough. "Your grandmother'd say it's her blood in you. Fierce as she was—could've tamed a direwolf with a look."

Eric's thoughts snagged on that. A direwolf. Robb's bond with Grey Wind, the Stark sigil—could it echo in the clans? Is there a ward among them? he wondered. A young noble fostered from the mountains, kin through Lyarra, might carry that old blood—warging, skinchanging, something to bind the North tighter. It was a faint hope, but worth chasing.

He masked it with a grin. "Arya must take after her, then."

Ned's smile deepened, the whetstone moving again. "Aye, she does. Lyarra's spirit, that one."

They sat in companionable silence, the scrape-scrape blending with the rustle of weirwood leaves. Ned's pride hung between them, a quiet strength, and Eric felt it root deeper—this bond, this life he'd claimed.

Later, in his chambers, Eric stood by the window, watching snow drift past the glass. The ride and the talk with Ned had steadied him, but his mind still churned. The Old Tongue was a seed planted, the clans a thread to pull. He'd keep the rest—dragonglass, the dead, the wars to come—locked tight, a soldier's secrets beneath a lord's demeanor.

He was Eric Haugen, forged in another life, and Robb Stark, heir to this one. The North stretched before him, vast and perilous, but he'd meet it on his terms. Winter is coming, he thought, the words a promise. And I'll be ready.