The sharp clash of steel pierced the stillness of early dawn, ringing through my open window. I stirred awake, blinking against the faint grey light seeping into my chamber. The North's chill hung heavy in the air, though it barely affected me anymore — a strangeness I was still getting used to. In my old life, that kind of cold would have bitten deep into my bones and had me wrap myself in extra blankets, lethargically staying in bed. Now, though, in this second chance with a younger body, it felt like an energizing reminder. A smirk tugged at my lips as I finished sitting up. Early mornings had always been my custom, then and now, and the sound of swords outside wasn't just a call to rise — it was proof the guards were finally heeding the training I'd been pushing on them. Weeks now of rousing myself before the sun, and if they were already at it this early, my efforts to lead by example most days with the routine were bearing fruit.
I swung my legs over the bed, the stone floor cool beneath my bare feet, though it troubled me little. I dressed quickly — leather tunic, breeches, a thin Stark cloak over my shoulders, more for show than need. I didn't want anyone noticing how little the cold touched me these days. As I buckled my belt, my thoughts drifted to the guards. Tom and Bennard stood out among them, their zeal and loyalty setting them a bit more apart from the rest of the guard. Both were built like giants, somewhere around six foot five or six, sturdy as oxen and hardened by the North's harsher ways. Their blood ran bound to House Stark: their father had fallen under Ned's banner in the Greyjoy Rebellion, their mother now served Catelyn as a maid, and Tom's younger brother lent his hands to Mikken at the forge, though without any formal training. That same lad had joined the guards too, trailing after Tom, while Bennard hungered for battle over the hammer and anvil. I was glad to have them both. Strength alone was a fine thing, but their loyalty and trust were worth more, and I had plans for the pair of them.
I wasn't trained as a maester, soldier, or commander in this life — not beyond what my future duties as lord would require. But in my old one, I'd been a soldier, a captain, and a teacher at different turns, and each of those roles had left me with something useful: the knowledge and patience to shape men into something sharper, something stronger, honing their spirit and skill alike.
In that other life, I'd run drills hard enough to break the resolve and image of the faint-hearted that they had of themselves — endurance tests, obstacle courses built for agility, long runs for stamina, push-ups, and pull-ups to build raw strength—the kind of routine exercises that turned hopeful, untested youths or half-pushed men into machines.
When I brought those same methods to Winterfell's guards, I met a fair bit of resistance at first — they were used to a very different sort of training. But the results showed soon enough. Within a few weeks, I watched Tom and Bennard sparring with a new grace and confidence, their endurance clearly outpacing the rest. It put a real smile on my face to watch men already lean and hard grow even harder with better food, gaining an entirely new edge.
Those old-but-new exercises gave them something to compete over, and ignited a bit of rivalry between them. I'd once joked that I aimed to make sure "a horse wouldn't best me, or any of the guards, any time soon." The men laughed heartily at that, none the wiser that under the joke sat something a good deal more serious — a real conviction about resilience, strength paired with self-growth, and what it meant to build both in the men around me. Moments like that reminded me how much power there was in giving men not just new skills, but a sense of purpose to go with them.
Dressed and ready, I made my way to the Great Hall, the warm scent of fresh bread and crackling bacon greeting me at the door. The hall sat quiet at this hour, and only a handful of souls gathered. Ned Stark sat at the table's head, grey eyes tracing over a stack of letters. Maester Luwin lingered nearby, murmuring something about raven flights, while Theon Greyjoy slumped in his chair, prodding his food with a bored hand. I took my place beside Luwin, snatching a chunk of bread, a strip of bacon, and a sausage, folding the bread around the meat into a rough sandwich before biting in and studying my father as I chewed.
Ned's face rose eyes, locking with mine in that calm, unyielding way of his. Before I could speak, he cut through the quiet. "I've had letters from the lords this past week. Their children should arrive this afternoon. For safety's sake, the Mormonts and Umbers sent their fosterlings together, joining the Manderlys at Castle Cerwyn before coming on here. I'd have you greet them when they ride in."
I swallowed my bite and dipped my head. "That's well, Father. I'll see to it." My voice stayed steady, though underneath it, my mind was already humming with eagerness. I remembered Smalljon Umber from another life — broad, fierce, true to his sire in most every way. His loyalty, once given, would still need earning and reinforcing, birthright or not, and as Winterfell's heir, I couldn't afford to falter, not with how the Umbers had turned out in the story I remembered. Then there was Dacey Mormont, wild and quick — a fair match for Arya's own fire. I could already picture the two of them trading quips and laughing through their lessons, hopeful that Arya would learn to be disciplined and wild. And Jon — my thoughts always caught there. I wasn't about to let him vanish north to the Wall this time. I needed him here, as a shield, a lever, maybe something more, depending on how the game unfolded. Perhaps I could try to have Dacey help bind him closer to Arya and the rest of us, nothing permanent, as Jon's future needed to be flexible, and ease whatever pull he still felt toward taking the black.
My goals and wants kept me thinking as I ate. Progress was steady, but if I truly mastered the Old Tongue the way I meant to, I could call on the mountain clans freely, maybe even open a dialogue with the Thenns beyond the Wall — and through them, with the giants. If I won their trust by speaking their own words, they'd be worth more than allies; they'd be living siege engines and builders both, tearing down walls or raising them as needed. I could picture it: Lannister ranks breaking at the sight of a charging giant, the Freys quaking before they ever yielded the Twins. A vision, and years off yet, but it set something fanciful and wondrous alight in me all the same. For now, I'd have to settle for binding the northern houses through these fosterlings and shaping my guards into a blade of my own making. That much would have to be enough before I could even think about rebuilding the old bond between Starks and giants.
I finished my meal and stood, catching Theon's curious look. "Walk with me," I said, firm but friendly. He paused, shrugged, and fell in step behind me toward the courtyard, the clamor of steel swelling as we neared the training yard. I hadn't kept Theon's company much of late, beyond the yard itself, and I could feel his restlessness simmering under his usual swagger. Time to mend that, and build upon our brotherly bond to make it stronger than just false conviction, as he had in the show.
"Sorry I've been distant," I said, in a low voice, as we walked. "That horse's kick rattled more than my head. Been sorting through my thoughts, finding out what I want for myself." I flashed a grin to lighten it.
Theon smirked, though his eyes stayed guarded. "Aye, you're better than ever in the yard these days. Men reckon you're half a wolf now."
I laughed, but kept talking. "I just want to improve myself even if I'm just a bit better every day, but have you read those books I mentioned — on your father, and your grandsire's rule of the Iron Islands, and its history?"
His smirk faltered, a flash of anger and doubt crossing his face. Balon's silence clearly still stung him. It was a wound I didn't shy from pressing, gently. If I could turn Theon's heart toward Quellon's example — proud, shrewd, capable — instead of his father's, I might plant the seeds of something like a North-Iron pact: the Ironborn harrying the Reach or the Westerlands instead of us, tipping the whole war. And there was Casterly Rock, too — I remembered that hidden path from the show. If I could help Theon claim it himself, it would only raise his standing, even among his own people.
Theon did not answer, jaw locked tight. I let the silence sit for a moment, then clapped his shoulder. "Come on, Kraken of the North. Let's see if this wolf can best you again."
His eyes narrowed at the name, though a grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. "You're on."
We crossed to the training ground, where Tom and Bennard were already trading blows with the other guards. I pulled two practice swords from the rack and tossed one to Theon. "First to three," I said, dropping into a stance.
Theon caught it, tensing. "I'll try not to make it too easy for you, Stark."
"We'll see," I said, grinning.
We circled, the air taut between us. Theon lunged first, a swift thrust. I turned aside, slashing at his ribs as I cleared it. He blocked, but the force of it drove him back a step. I pressed on, feinting high and striking low. He parried just in time, breath already quickening.
"Sluggish today," I teased, focus unbroken.
His jaw tightened, and he came at me harder. I met every strike, my rhythm smooth and tireless. The other guards paused their own drills, voices rising as our bout grew fiercer. Theon's temper flared, his guard slipping for half a second — enough for me to twist his blade free with a flick. It clattered to the dirt, and I tapped my sword to his chest. "One."
He scowled, scooping his blade back up. "Luck."
We reset, and he came in harder, more measured this time. I wove around his strikes, speed grinding him down bit by bit. A quick blow to his side earned me the second point. "Two," I said, stepping back.
His face flushed, breath heaving. "You've trained too much."
"Or you've grown lazy," I shot back.
He charged, swinging wildly with real fury behind it. I slipped aside, let his own momentum carry him past me, then hooked his legs out with a low kick. He hit the ground, and I set my blade lightly to his throat. "Three."
The guards roared, and I dropped my sword to offer him a hand. "Good fight."
Theon gripped it, hauling himself up with a grunt. "You're a bastard."
"Half as much as Jon," I said, laughing, and clapped his back.
He snorted, something in him easing at that. Not a full bond restored, not yet, but a real step toward one. I needed Theon's trust — not only as a friend, but as a piece of something larger I was building. If I could root him to me, make him a brother while still honoring the Ironborn blood in him, it might bear fruit later.
The morning wore on, and I drove the guards through their paces — push-ups, sprints, bouts one after another. They sharpened as the hours passed, their steps surer, their strength deepening. Still, I knew they weren't ready yet for the storm I could see coming. That would take time I didn't fully have.
By midday, my limbs sang with a good, honest ache, and I wiped sweat from my brow as I made my way back to the keep. The fosterlings would arrive soon, and I meant to be ready for them. Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Wynafryd Manderly — each carried their house's weight, and I meant to win them over. But climbing to my chamber, Jon crept back into my thoughts. I hadn't seen him all morning — likely brooding somewhere, torn between honor and his place here. I wasn't about to let him drift. Perhaps Dacey, for now at least, could give him another reason to stay rooted until later with Dany, perhaps.
I reached my window and stopped, looking out. The gates stood open, and in the distance a small group approached, green, white, and black banners snapping in the wind.
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 flickered at the edge of my vision — a lone crow, perched on the sill, dark eyes fixed on me. I went still, a faint pull tugging somewhere in my chest. Then it was gone, off in a single beat, though for half a second I could have sworn it had three eyes, not two. I shook my head. The game had already begun. No time to wait, even if some other players were watching.