Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The wind howled through Winterfell's turrets, carrying the scent of snow and pine from the Wolfswood beyond. Jory Cassel strode across the yard, his boots crunching the frost beneath, his cloak snapping behind him. The morning was raw, the kind that bit at a man's bones, yet he found his gaze drawn not to the shivering guards at their posts but to the figures moving through the castle like threads in a tapestry grown strange.

He'd served House Stark since he was a lad, first under Martyn Cassel's stern eye, then as captain after his father fell beside Ned at the Trident. Winterfell was his blood and breath, its people as known to him as the weight of his sword. But these days, he scarce recognized the currents shifting beneath its stone walls.

Robb Stark emerged from the armory, his hair tousled by the wind, his step light despite the hour. Jory paused, narrowing his eyes. The young lord wore little more than a wool tunic and breeches—no furs, no heavy cloak—yet the cold seemed a stranger to him. The other lads, Jon and Theon among them, huddled in their layers, their breath puffing white, but Robb moved unburdened, his cheeks barely pinked by the chill. Like the North itself bends for him, Jory thought, a shiver tracing his spine that had little to do with the weather.

"Jory!" Robb called, spotting him. He crossed the yard in a few strides, his pace swifter than Jory remembered—swifter than any lad his age ought to be. "The lads are sparring. Join us?"

Jory forced a grin, shaking his head. "Duty calls, my lord. I'd only slow you."

Robb's laugh rang out, bright and sharp, but Jory's gaze lingered as the young Stark returned to the training yard. There, among the clash of steel, Robb danced—a blur of motion, his blade striking true while others faltered. Jon Snow, steady and grim, kept pace for a time, but even he tired, his swings slowing. Theon Greyjoy, all flash and taunts, lasted less, his breath ragged as he leaned on his sword. Robb pressed on, tireless, his endurance a quiet marvel. Jory had seen seasoned men flag sooner, yet Robb fought as if the cold fueled him rather than drained.

The whispers had begun weeks ago—soft at first, from the kitchens and stables, now bolder. The Old Gods spared him, they said. Watched over him when he fell, gave him their strength. Jory wasn't one for gods or tales, but he couldn't unsee it: Robb was touched, marked by something beyond a captain's ken.

In the great hall, the midday meal brought the Starks together, and Jory lingered near the door, his eyes tracing the changes writ plain. Lady Catelyn sat straight-backed, her hands folded, but her gaze darted like a hawk's—watchful, wary, especially when it fell on Robb. She'd softened since agreeing to Bran's fostering, yet a new edge honed her, as if she braced for losses yet to come. Jon sat beside Theon, quieter than usual, his dark eyes tracking Robb with a mix of pride and something unreadable. Theon's jibes were sharper, his smirks tighter, as if he felt the ground tilting beneath him.

Lord Eddard stood by the hearth, his broad shoulders hunched as he spoke with Maester Luwin. Ned had always carried Winterfell's weight, but now his silences were heavier, his gray eyes clouded with thoughts he kept close. Jory knew that look—Ned was a man peering into a storm, measuring its strength.

"Jory," Ned said suddenly, turning. His voice was low, a command cloaked as a request. "Walk with me."

They stepped into the Godswood, the air thick with the scent of earth and ancient trees. The heart tree loomed ahead, its red eyes watching, and Jory felt the old stillness settle over him. Ned stopped beneath its branches, his breath misting in the cold.

"Catelyn's agreed to Bran's fostering with the Karstarks," Ned said, his tone measured but laced with a father's ache. Bran's of an age now. He needs to see the North beyond these walls, to learn its ways from Rickard Karstark and his sons." His tone is firm but tinged with a father's concern.

Jory nodded, his mind already on the task. "Rickard Karstark's a hard man, but loyal. His boys'll sharpen Bran, teach him steel and spine."

"Aye," Ned murmured, his gaze on the heart tree. "He'll need it he dreams too much of knights—tales of valor and shining swords. Those stories fill his head, and I fear he believes them all true.

Not all knights are what the songs make them out to be. Gregor Clegane wore that title, yet he was no hero. He butchered Elia Martell and her children in King's Landing—babes who'd done no wrong. That's the truth Bran needs to see.

Jory, ever practical, nods in agreement. "Aye, my lord. Karhold's a hard place—Rickard's boys know steel's weight, not just its gleam. They'll show Bran what's real."

 I want him safe, Jory. Pick your best for the escort—men you trust."

"Wyl and Alyn," Jory replied without hesitation. "Steady hands, good heads. They'll see him to Karhold and back if need be."

Ned's nod was slight, but his eyes softened—a rare crack in his lord's mask. "Good. And Jory…" He paused, his voice dropping. "What do you make of Robb these days?"

Jory shifted, the question catching him like a blade's edge. He met Ned's gaze, choosing his words. "He's stronger, my lord. Faster than he's any right to be—lasts longer than the others, too. And the cold… it don't touch him like it should."

Ned's jaw tightened, pride warring with unease. "The fall changed him. I see it, the men see it. The Old Gods spared him for a reason, I reckon."

"Aye," Jory said, though doubt gnawed at him. "The folk say he's blessed. He leads like it, too—the lads follow him without question now."

Ned glanced at the heart tree, its sap like blood against the white bark. "They'll need to. Hard days are coming, Jory. I feel it in my bones."

Jory said nothing, but the weight of Ned's words sank deep. He'd guard Robb, guard them all, as he always had—though he wondered what storm could shake a man like Ned.

The North was changing, and the Starks with it. Jory gripped the cold stone, his breath clouding. The Old Gods may watch, he thought, but it's my sword they'll need when the winds turn foul. He'd sworn his life to this house, and he'd keep that oath—whatever the gods or the North demanded.