Stark SI with Stark changes Stark fantasy and Stark realism

The courtyard of Winterfell hummed with life, the crisp northern wind softened by a rare hint of warmth. I stood at the head of my family, hands behind my back, eyes locked on the gate. Arya fidgeted beside me, barely containing her excitement, while Sansa stood poised, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. Theon lingered nearby, his smirk in place but his eyes restless. Jon stood to my right, tense and silent. Mother had wanted him tucked away when our guests arrived, but I'd overruled her. He belonged here—not just for show, but because I had plans brewing. Dacey Mormont's arrival could be the key to pulling him into something bigger, and I wasn't letting that slip away.

Hooves clattered beyond the gate, and three riders appeared, flanked by guards bearing the banners of Manderly, Mormont, and Umber. I felt a smile tug at my lips. This wasn't just a visit—it was the start of something stronger, a North more united under my watch. These fosterlings were the first stones in a foundation I meant to build, proof that my presence was already bending the tale I knew.

Father stepped forward as the riders dismounted, his voice steady and warm. "Winterfell welcomes you. Your presence honors us, and this keep is yours for as long as you stay."

A maid hurried over with salt and bread for guest right. Smalljon Umber snatched the loaf, tore off a chunk, dipped it in salt, and crammed it into his mouth. "By the old gods," he said, chewing loudly, "Father wasn't lying—Winterfell's a bloody marvel. Hold it with a handful of men, I'd bet. Though I don't see much to test an Umber's mettle."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he continued speaking. "Are there any Starks worth sparring with? My father claims you can swing a sword decently, but I've yet to meet a wolf who could topple a giant. Though my father also said that no mere fighter could best the Sword of the Morning, I would like to hear that story, milord," he said, looking at my father, while I noticed my father's face grow solemn.

Dacey Mormont cut in before I could challenge him, her voice sharp and sure. "The Starks were kings here for a reason, Umber. I'd bet even the half-Stark could knock you flat." The guards chuckled, and Smalljon grinned, unbothered, though Jon shifted beside me, discomfort plain on his face.

Wynafryd Manderly stepped up next, curtsying to Mother. "Your castle is beautiful, Lady Stark." She turned to Sansa, smiling brightly. "And your dress is lovely—did you embroider it? Grandfather sent me with cloth and trimmings. Maybe we could sew together?" Mother's face softened, a rare sight.

Sansa beamed, smoothing her skirts. "I'd like that."

Father laughed as Arya tugged his sleeve, her patience fraying. "Alright, Arya," he said, indulgent. "Show Dacey to her rooms—they're ready. Winterfell will treat you all well, and I trust you'll settle in." His eyes flicked to Smalljon. "The guards will be eager to spar with you, Umber, once you've rested."

Jory Cassel, near the stables, grinned. "Aye, the men could use a real test."

Smalljon's grin widened, but my focus shifted. I nudged Jon, voice low. "See how Dacey looked at you? Go with Arya—help her show Dacey around."

Jon's face flushed, his gaze darting to Dacey, who was already joking with Arya as they headed inside. "I don't—"

"Go," I said, firm but quiet. "She's sharp, like Arya. You'll get along."

He nodded stiffly and followed. Watching him, a flicker of triumph stirred in me. If I could tie Jon to Dacey—with Arya as the bridge—I might keep him from the Wall. He was too valuable to lose, not just as my brother, but for what he might mean to the North's future. A wild thought struck me then—those fan theories I'd once laughed off, whispers of dragon eggs buried in the crypts with Lyanna's statue. What if they weren't just tales? If there was truth to it, Jon's place here could be more crucial than anyone knew. I filed it away, refocusing on the moment.

As the group headed for the Great Hall, I fell into step with Theon, who had been quiet. "You're thinking hard," I said, trying to keep the tone light.

He glanced at me and shrugged. "Just wondering about my place. You're gathering new allies, making moves. I'm feeling a bit adrift from the Ironborn—my roots. Grandfather had big ideas; he nearly made us more than raiders. I want to do something of my own, something significant, while still staying connected to the Ironborn, even if my father has basically disavowed me. I wrote to him last week for the first time in years, but there's been no reply, just like all the others I've sent," he said, his tone laced with venom. 

I liked that my plans for him included hating his family while still respecting the Ironborn and his grandfather's vision. That felt like the best outcome for Theon this time around. If all goes as planned, he might earn his title by taking Casterly Rock, but that is years away yet.

I gave his shoulder a friendly clap. "You're still my brother, Theon. I'll change the North hopefully for the better and you might just change the islands like your grandfather tried to as well as carve out something worth bragging about."

He smirked, nodding. "Maybe so."

The feast filled the hall with warmth—roast fowl, fresh bread, mutton stew. Smalljon heaped his plate, Dacey swapped barbs with Arya, and Wynafryd charmed Sansa with talk of sewing. I sat by Father, my mind churning. These fosterlings were allies to win: Smalljon's strength, Dacey's wit, Wynafryd's ambition. They'd shape what came next.

Later, I slipped to the godswood. The weirwoods stood silent, their red leaves vivid against the grey. I knelt by the heart tree, its carved face staring back. I wasn't pious, but the stillness cleared my head. Bonds—with these fosterlings, with the North—were my goal. The Old Tongue was a start, but there was more to dig into: the magic, the warging dreams.

Jon joined me, his face thoughtful. "You were right about Dacey. She's… not what I expected. Doesn't treat me like a bastard."

I smiled. "She sees the Stark in you, name or not."

He frowned. "I'm not sure what I am."

"You're my brother," I said, firm. "You belong here."

He nodded, doubt still in his eyes. I stood, clapping his back. "Let's see if Smalljon's all talk."

In the courtyard, Smalljon hefted a practice sword, grinning as I approached. "Thought you'd chickened out."

I grabbed a blade, spinning it. "Let's see."

Steel rang out, the crowd buzzing as we traded blows. Smalljon was strong, his strikes heavy, but I was quick, ducking to land a hit. He grunted, stepping back, still grinning.

"Not bad," he said, rubbing his side. "But I'm not finished."

We clashed again, and with a twist, I sent his sword flying. The courtyard erupted, and Smalljon laughed, slapping my shoulder. "You're a wolf, alright."

I grinned. "You'll do fine yourself."

Wynafryd approached as the crowd thinned, smiling. "That was impressive, my lord. You wield a sword well."

I nodded politely. "Thank you, Lady Manderly. Glad you think so."

"Winterfell's lord interests me," she said, eyes bright. "I'd love to hear more."

I chuckled. "I'll show you around sometime."

Night fell, and I stood on the battlements, the Wolfswood stretching dark below. Laughter drifted from the hall—the fosterlings were settling in. It was a start, fragile but real. Theon joined me, leaning on the stone.

"You're turning into a proper lord," he said, casual. "Me, I'm still puzzling out my bit. The Ironborn stuff—Grandfather's dreams, Father's messes. I want something big, something mine, but still tied to home."

I smiled slightly. "You're like a brother to me, Theon. You always will be. The North will change, and winter will come. You'll find your place—either that or I'll find some feat for you to accomplish to earn the respect of the Ironborn."

He smirked, easy. "Aye, we'll see."

He wandered off, and I turned back to the horizon. The game was new, the threads mine to tie. But a shadow lingered in my mind: Ramsay Bolton. His threat was growing, and it was time to set a plan in motion to deal with him.