Robb Stark(SI) - Winterfell - 298 AC
I scribbled across the parchment, careful to remember my new body's handwriting. I wrote as quickly as I could, trying not to snap the delicate quill clenched tightly in my hand.
After some time I finished. Stacking the parchments I called for Maester Luwin. One of the two guards I had posted outside my father's solar immediately departed to fetch him.
Father.
No matter how hard I tried not to, I kept thinking of the fictional, cool but foolish, and most importantly soon-to-be-dead, Ned Stark rather than my actual father.
I threaded my fingers through my red hair, Hah I'm a soulless ginger as well, twisting at it in frustration.
I sighed as the color of my hair and the pain from gripping it once again proved that, no matter how much I wished otherwise, this was not a dream.
After getting hit by a truck I had been placed into Robb Stark, the teenage war hero destined for death, just before all of Westeros went straight to the Seven Hells.
And if that wasn't enough, my very being had been twisted, fused, and amalgamated with the original Robb Stark.
The bond ran so deep that even entertaining the thought of hightailing it to the Summer Isles sent a wave of nausea and self-loathing crashing over me so profound that I was briefly tempted to kill myself for even imagining abandoning my family and the North to their grim fates.
Since awakening in Westeros four days ago I had spent most of my time in isolation, acclimating to my new body and memories, and forcing myself to accept who I now was.
And when it became clear that this was my new reality and I could not run from it I went to work.
Robb's memories informed me that this world was more in line with the books. Truly disheartening for the books were filled with eldritch horrors and unfinished besides.
The letter that had arrived two days ago, detailing how Ned Stark had been attacked by Jaime Lannister after Catelyn took Tyrion into custody, combined with Osha's wildling attack yesterday, finally anchored me in the timeline.
With the where and when settled I got to planning.
Despite what the Robb part of my body whispered I knew it was too late to save my father for he was too deep into his investigation and, from the story and my new memories, was not the type of man to stop.
Ned Stark would not overlook treason even at his son's plea.
Any attempt to save him was an attempt made worse than in vain for it could have the unintended effect of further endangering Sansa and Arya.
I weeped for him and buried him in my heart already.
After thinking through my options and solidifying my plans I acted.
I had quickly sent 20 mounted riders off to hunt down Ramsey Bolton, or rather Snow now, and Reek. They had strict orders to catch them alive and bring along victims and witnesses, including Ramsey's mother.
That order was only the first stone cast.
With the realm already sliding toward war, I would make sure the North entered it united and burning with purpose. Jaime Lannister's attack on my father, and the blood of Stark bannermen spilled alongside him, gave me all the cause I needed.
So, I called the banners. All of them.
Unlike the original Robb, I did not rely on tradition alone. I tailored my letters carefully, especially to those with reason to hesitate.
A personal missive went to the Skagosi, promising aid for the coming winter and a share of plunder for their warriors.
Another went to Lady Barbrey Dustin. I acknowledged the wrongs done to her by my family and informed her that men had been dispatched to retrieve her husband's bones from Dorne, so he might be laid to rest in accordance with Barrowlands tradition.
I also promised vengeance against Ramsay Bolton, the murderer of her nephew, Domeric Bolton.
And, just in case sentiment failed, I included a not-so-veiled warning that if the full might of Hose Dustin and Ryswell were not levied the first stop before marching south would be to raze and exterminate both houses for oath breaking.
Each call to arms also included a request to gather all willing greybeards. Winter was coming, and with it their deaths. Better they meet it with steel in hand and glory earned, sparing their families another mouth to feed.
The response was enthusiastic. Harsh as it was, the practice was a tradition thousands of years old that the men participating took pride in.
All houses were also instructed to raise as many troops as possible for I knew well enough that the North's enemies did not end with the Lannisters.
I was pulled from my thoughts as Maester Luwin entered.
The old man seemed tired, no part thanks to all the things I had him doing and my decision to ignore his advice and send out the call to arms. I pushed down the tinge of guilt I felt at handing him another literal mountain of tasks.
"You called, my lord," Luwin said, sitting as I motioned him to do so.
"Yes. First, I must thank you for your help these past days and for your forbearance. And I must apologize, because I will be asking much more of you."
Luwin let out a resigned sigh, more familial and fond than disrespectful. Helping deliver the boy sitting in front of you certainly earned you at least that much familiarity.
I handed him the stack of parchment.
"At the top are letters I need sent immediately. First to the Twins, second to House Royce, and the third to the Night's Watch."
Luwin glanced at them. "All are sealed, my lord. Should I take that as an instruction not to read them?"
I nodded.
Fiddling with his maesters chain Luwin continued, "I must warn you that with this our number of ravens runs dangerously low. I would advise a pause in use until they return from calling your banners."
As he said the last part sullenly I raised an eyebrow in chastisement. I would not argue again with him over my decision.
Luwin flushed and coughed, wisely dropping the matter.
"The rest," I said, tapping the parchments, "are plans. Some can be implemented immediately. Others will take years. I've already set aside gold, land, laborers, smiths, carpenters, and other craftsmen to assist you."
Luwin flipped through the parchments, eyes growing wide as he read. By the end, his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
After some time his neck snapped upward and with burning and scrutinizing eyes he looked at me.
"How," he demanded almost feverishly at last, voice tight with awe and suspicion, "do you know this? And is any of it accurate? Because if even one-tenth is true, it would change the North, nay the world, forever."
I smiled faintly expecting his reaction.
What I had written was everything I could remember that a medieval society could build and use from improved horse harnesses and plows to increase agricultural output, better crop rotation and storage, sanitation practices that would save thousands, and simple medical tools, like the forceps, that would save many more.
Water, wind, and horse-powered mills to free labor from muscle alone. Centralized manufactories instead of isolated workshops. Standardized measures, written processes, and better construction techniques. Improved metallurgy, the printing press, glassmaking, navigation, and more.
Some entries were detailed. Others were simply sketches and what the item should do.
Raising a hand to forestall any questions I put on my 'lord' face that Ned Stark taught Robb.
"I listed them by priority levels and I want you, no matter your doubts, to immediately get started on the various projects. You are also forbidden to share any of this with another maester or the Citadel. I'm currently busy training myself and the levies so I don't have time to answer your questions."
Luwin looked like a man on the verge of combustion and was filled with energy usually never seen in old men. Robb's memories confirmed how much he loved tinkering and discovery.
I stared at him looking for any dislike of not sharing things with the Citadel, thinking of the Maester Conspiracy that fans theorized about.
I found nothing knowing fully well that Luwin's loyalties lay with the Starks to the point that he would die for them.
Luwin reluctantly settled himself and nodded.
With that I dismissed him.
– – – – – – – – – –
I made my way to the training grounds outside Winterfell, fully clad in armor, with Theon Greyjoy strolling lazily behind me.
I half-heartedly nodded along to his japes until he peeled off to go whoring. It was only during training hours that the brothels weren't packed, and the Ironborn lad exploited that fact to its fullest.
I watched his retreating back and pushed down my anger at what he would one day do, despite knowing the fate that awaited him soon after, and the role he would later play in helping Sansa.
Cynically, I understood that my relationship with him was too valuable to discard, no matter how tangled my true feelings were.
Soon I stood at the head of a wide field where thousands of soldiers milled about. The bulk of the Stark levies and men from the nearer houses had already arrived.
When the soldiers caught sight of me, those who had been present the longest snapped ramrod straight, forming ranks and saluting. The newer arrivals groaned and followed suit a moment later, while the freshest recruits stared about in confusion before hastily copying what they saw.
I returned the salute, right fist clenched over my heart, left forearm set behind my back. Borrowed straight from Attack on Titan one of the few mercies of this accursed world was the absence of lawsuits.
Standing before the now somewhat-straightened lines, I drew a deep breath and bellowed, "ATTENTION!"
The men straightened even more at that.
Grey Wind burst from the brush, bounding across the field in long, ground-eating strides before skidding to a halt at my side. I rested a hand on his head, ignoring the blood staining his jaws and teeth.
With him beside me, I inspected the men, meeting as many eyes as I could.
After a moment, I nodded, appearing satisfied, though I was anything but, and shouted, "AT EASE!"
Giving them no time to relax I nodded sharply to the drummers, horn bearers, and messengers, and ordered, "Form battalions."
My command was spread across the field through shouts, drum beats, horn blasts, and flag waves. After far longer than I liked, the infantry and cavalry finished forming into their five-hundred-man units.
For many reasons, I had reorganized the levies from the ground up.
Men unfamiliar with war broke easily, so they needed structure. Every soldier was placed into a squad of ten, led by an experienced man, a veteran of raids or earlier wars. His role was not brilliance, only steadiness, being someone the men would instinctively look to when fear took hold and who could teach them enough to survive.
Ten squads formed a company of one hundred. Each company was commanded by a seasoned veteran, supported by a clear chain of succession so no injury or death could paralyze command.
Five companies formed a battalion of five hundred, led by a man-at-arms, the closest thing the North possessed to a professional soldier.
Three battalions formed a regiment of fifteen hundred, commanded by minor lords, landed knights, masterly house heads, or the most experienced men-at-arms available. These men were supported by a handful of veterans who handled discipline and coordination.
Three regiments were intended to form a brigade of roughly four thousand five hundred, commanded by high lords. In truth, training had not progressed and not all the levies had arrived, so they existed largely as administrative groupings for now.
Above them would eventually sit the army sections: left wing, center, right wing, reserve, longbowmen, and heavy cavalry. These would be commanded by a select few chosen before battle.
Reorganizing non-Stark levies was delicate and time-consuming. Lords were understandably wary of losing control over their own men.
To prevent resentment or outright refusal, I made solemn assurances that no house would lose its levies outright and that any reassigned men would be replaced in full.
Men were shifted only to reinforce understrength units, and experienced soldiers were distributed to provide leadership. Pride was preserved where possible, oaths were respected, and effectiveness was quietly improved.
Once structured, the men were reorganized by battlefield role rather than by origin: light infantry for skirmishing and screening; spearmen to hold ground and blunt cavalry; archers and longbowmen for ranged dominance; light cavalry for scouting, raiding, and pursuit; and heavy cavalry as shock troops and decisive force.
This allowed training to be more focused.
Motivation was required to make the levies to endure the harsh regimen, and it was provided in several ways.
Every man had his name and village recorded so that if he fell or was wounded, his family would be cared for through the coming winter.
That alone was enough for most.
What they did not yet realize was that knowing their names and homes also made desertion far more difficult.
They were further encouraged with an extra meal each day and a promise of fair distribution of loot.
The grizzled greybeards needed no motivation at all. They trained relentlessly, seeking nothing more than a glorious death, but many shed tears when assured that their families would want not if they fell.
The men still cursed the training despite the benefits, but that was acceptable so long as they trained.
Today's training, like usual, emphasized discipline and cohesion.
Men learned to form ranks, respond instantly to shouted commands, hold formation under stress, and move as a unit.
Veteran squad leaders drilled simple movements relentlessly, advance, halt, turn, and brace, until obedience became reflex.
Formations drilled against mock charges. Spearmen practiced bracing techniques. Archers worked on volley timing and accuracy. Cavalry trained mounting, charging, dismounting, and reforming under command.
After that they practiced marching again and again with fatigue being treated as a weapon to be mastered.
Marching order was enforced, teaching the men to move without collapsing into disorder. Camps were then laid out, structured so men learned their place without thought.
The men were then dismissed though watches rotated on schedule, weapons were inspected and cleaned, and other miscellaneous tasks still went on.
No effort was wasted on individual heroics, only on making each man reliable in his place.
A levy that obeyed orders, held formation, and trusted the men beside it could defeat forces twice its number, especially when led by veterans and trained into something resembling soldiers.
And I would need the best force I could muster for the wars to come.
– – – – – – – – –
Comments make the author happy.