The sharp clash of steel pierced the stillness of dawn, ringing through my open window. I stirred awake, blinking against the faint gray light seeping into my chamber. The North's chill hung heavy in the air, yet it barely touched me with a strangeness I was still adjusting to. In my past life, that cold would have bitten deep into my bones, but now, in this second chance, it felt like a distant whisper. A smirk tugged at my lips as I sat up. Early mornings had always been my custom, both then and now, and the sound of swords wasn't just a call to rise; it was proof that my guards were heeding the training I had imposed upon them. For two weeks, I had roused myself before them with the sun, and if they were at it this early, my efforts to lead by being an example of dedication to training and improvement were bearing fruit.
I swung my legs over the bed, the stone floor cool beneath my bare feet, though it troubled me not. I dressed swiftly in a leather tunic, breeches, and a thin Stark cloak slung over my shoulders. The cloak was more for show than need; I'd not have anyone suspect how little the cold touched me now. As I buckled my belt, my thoughts drifted to the guards. Tom and Bennard stood tall among them, their zeal and loyalty marking them apart. Both were giants, nigh on six foot five or six-foot six, I couldn't be sure, and built sturdy as oxen, their strength tempered by the North's harsh ways. Their blood was bound to the Starks: their father fell under Ned's banner in the Greyjoy Rebellion, their mother now tended to Catelyn as a maid, and Tom's younger brother lent hands to Mikken in the forge, though he'd no formal craft. That lad had joined the guards too, trailing Tom, while Bennard hungered for battle over hammer and anvil. I was glad for them both. Strength alone was a boon, but their loyalty was a treasure, and I had designs for them. I swung my legs over the bed, feeling the cool stone floor beneath my bare feet, though it didn't trouble me. I quickly dressed in a leather tunic and breeches, then slung a thin Stark cloak over my shoulders. The cloak was more for appearance than necessity; I didn't want anyone to suspect how little the cold affected me now. As I buckled my belt, my thoughts turned to the guards. Tom and Bennard stood out among them, their zeal and loyalty setting them apart. Both were giants, nearly six foot five or six foot six; I couldn't be sure. They were built as sturdily as oxen, their strength shaped by the harsh ways of the North. Their blood was bound to the Starks: their father had fallen under Ned's banner during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and their mother now worked as a maid for Catelyn. Tom's younger brother assisted Mikken in the forge, though he had no formal training. That lad had also joined the guards, following Tom, while Bennard yearned for battle rather than the hammer and anvil. I was glad for both of them. Strength alone was a valuable asset, but their loyalty was a true treasure, and I had plans for both of them.
I wasn't trained as a maester, soldier, or commander in this life, apart from what my future lordly duties would require. However, in my previous life, I had been a soldier, a captain, and a teacher, roles that gifted me with invaluable experience. I knew the art of shaping men into something sharper and stronger, honing their skills and fortifying their spirits.
In that other life, I had conducted rigorous drills that could have shattered the resolve of the faint-hearted. I designed tests of endurance, obstacle courses demanding agility, grueling runs to build stamina, and exercises like push-ups and pull-ups to forge strength. These were the very challenges that transformed innocent, hopeful youths into battle-ready warriors, ready to face the trials of life with unwavering courage.
When I applied those same methods to Winterfell's guards, I encountered some initial reluctance; they were accustomed to a different training regimen. Yet, the results soon became evident. In just a few weeks, I witnessed Tom and Bennard sparring with newfound grace and confidence, their endurance clearly surpassing that of their peers. It brought a smile to my face as I watched men who were already lean and hardened by meager rations and relentless labor given new skills.
Just a little bit of those old yet new exercises provided them with an unexpected edge, reigniting their competitive spirit with one another. I had once jokingly remarked that my intention was so "a horse wouldn't best me or any of the guards in taking care or out the people of Winterfell anytime soon." The men laughed heartily at my jest, blissfully unaware that beneath my light-hearted words lay a deeper truth, a stirring within me that resonated with the very essence of resilience and strength. It was those moments that reminded me of how powerful it was to instill not just skills, but also a sense of purpose and pride in the hearts of those I trained.
Clothed and steady, I strode to the Great Hall, the warm scent of fresh bread and crackling bacon greeting me. The hall lay quiet at this hour, and only a few souls gathered in the hall. Ned Stark sat at the table's head, his grey eyes tracing over a stack of letters. Maester Luwin lingered near, murmuring of raven flights, while Theon Greyjoy slumped in a chair, prodding his food with a bored hand. I took my place by Luwin, snatching a chunk of bread, a strip of bacon, and a sasague. I folded the bread around the meat, making a rough sandwich, and bit into it, chewing slowly as I studied my father.
Ned's eyes rose, locking with mine in that calm, unyielding way of his. Before I could speak or even clear my throat, he cut through the quiet. "I've had letters from the lords this past week. Their children will arrive this afternoon. For safety, the Mormonts and Umbers had sent their fosterlings together, joining the Manderlys at Castle Cerwyn before coming here. I'd have you greet them when they ride in."
I swallowed my bite, dipping my head. "That's well, Father. I'll see to it." My voice held firm, but within, my mind thrummed with eagerness. I'd seen Smalljon Umber in the tales of my past life, broad, fierce, and accurate as his sire. Yet that Loyalty, though given, would have to be reforced and earned, even if it was mine by right; I'd need to claim it, and as Winterfell's heir, I could show no faltering, especially with how the Umbers turned in the show. Then there was Dacey Mormont, wild and quick, a match to Arya's own fire. I could see them clashing blades, laughing through their bouts. And Jon, my thoughts caught on my not truly half-brother. I'd not let him vanish to the Wall this time. I needed him here as a shield, a lever, or maybe even more, depending on how the game unfolded. Perhaps Dacey could bind him and Arya into a Closer bond of friendship and family, curbing his only recent urge to take the black.
My plans twisted further as I ate. I was making steady progress, but if I truly mastered the Old Tongue as I meant to, I could freely call to the mountain clans, perchance even parley with the Thenns beyond the Wall and with their connections with the giants by the gods, the giants. If I won their faith by speaking their words, they'd be more than friends; they'd be living siege engines, as well as construction equipment, breaking foes asunder, and taking down and building walls. I pictured it: Lannister ranks fleeing as a giant bellowed, or the Freys quaking ere yielding the Twins. A mad vision, years distant, but it set my blood aflame. For now, I'd tether the northern houses through these fosterlings and hone my guards into a blade of my own. That would have to suffice before I could rebind the Giants to Starks of ages past.
I finished my meal and stood, catching Theon's curious gaze. "Walk with me," I said, my tone firm yet friendly. He paused, then shrugged and trailed me to the courtyard. The swords' clamor swelled as we neared the training yard. I'd scarce kept Theon's company of late, besides the yard, and I felt his restlessness brewing beneath his swagger. It was time to mend that rift and form a stronger bond.
"I'm sorry I've been afar," I said low as we walked. "That horse's kick jarred more than my breath. Been sorting my mind and these new skills the Old Gods granted me." I flashed a grin to lighten the air.
Theon smirked, though his eyes stayed guarded. "Aye, you're a terror in the yard. Men reckon you're truly half-wolf now."
I laughed, but kept talking. "Have you read those books I spoke of? The ones about your father and your grandsire's rule of the Iron Islands, as well as its history?"
His smirk fell, a spark of anger and doubt flaring in its place. I knew Balon Greyjoy's silence stung him deep, a wound I'd not shy from using. If I could turn Theon's heart from Quellon proud, shrewd, and mighty, I might sow the seeds of a North Iron pact. Steering the Ironborn to harry the Reach or Westerlands, sparing the North, could tilt the war. And Casterly Rock, I recalled that hidden path from the tales. If I could seize it or have Theon do so with my help, it would increase his reputation and prestige even amongst the Iron Islands…
Theon gave no reply, his jaw locked. I let the quiet stretch, then clapped his shoulder. "Come, Kraken of the North. Let's see if this wolf can best you once more."
His eyes narrowed at the name, but a grin twitched his lips. "You're on."
We crossed to the training ground, where Tom and Bennard traded blows with other guards. I plucked two practice swords from the rack, tossing one to Theon. "First to three," I said, dropping into a stance.
Theon caught it, his frame tensing. "Growing A bit too bold and overconfident, Stark."
"We'll see," I shot back, grinning.
We circled, the air taut between us. Theon lunged first, a swift thrust. I turned aside, stepping clear and slashing at his ribs. He blocked, but my force drove him back. I pressed on, feinting high then striking low. He parried just in time, his breath quickening.
"Sluggish today," I teased, my focus unyielding.
His jaw tightened, and he came at me, blows sharpening. I met each strike, my rhythm smooth and tireless. The guards halted their drills, their voices rising as our clash grew fierce. Theon's temper flared, his guard slipping, and I struck, twisting his blade free with a flick. It clattered down, and I tapped his chest with mine. "One."
He scowled, scooping up his sword. "Luck."
We reset, and he attacked harder, his moves more measured. I wove around them, my speed and power grinding him down. A quick blow to his side won me my second point. "Two," I said, stepping back.
His face flushed, breaths heaving. "You've trained too much."
"Or you've lazed," I quipped.
He charged, swinging wildly with fury. I slipped aside, letting his rush carry him, then hooked his legs with a low kick. He crashed down, and I set my blade to his throat. "Three."
The guards roared, and I dropped my sword, offering a hand. "Good fight."
Theon gripped it, hauling up with a grunt. "You're a bastard."
"Half as much as Jon," I said, laughing as I clapped his back.
He snorted, the sharpness in him easing. It wasn't a full bond restored, but it was a step. I needed Theon's faith not just as a companion, but as a piece in my greater design. If I could root him to the North, make him a brother while stirring his Ironborn blood, it might bear fruit later.
The morning wore on, and I drove the guards through their paces: push-ups, sprints, and bouts. They sharpened, their steps surer, their strength deepening. Yet I knew they weren't primed for the storm I foresaw. That would take time.
By midday, my limbs sang with a good ache, and I swiped sweat from my brow as I returned to the keep. The fosterlings would soon arrive, and I'd be ready. Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, and Wynafryd Manderly each bore their house's might, and I meant to win them. But as I climbed to my chamber, Jon crept into my mind again. I'd not seen him all morning, likely brooding, torn between honor and place. I'd not let him drift off. Mayhap Dacey could tether him, give him cause to stay.
I reached my window and stopped, peering out. The gates yawned wide, and far off, a caravan neared banners of green, white, and black whipping in the breeze. The fosterlings were here.
I straightened, drawing a deep breath. Time to play my part, to greet these allies-to-be. But as I turned, a shadow flitted at my vision's edge, a lone crow perched on the sill, its dark eyes fixed on me. I stilled, a faint pull stirring in my chest. Then it flew, gone in a beat, though I swear I thought I saw three eyes, not two. I shook my head. The game had begun, and I had no time for signs not yet.