I didn't sleep much.
Robb's body wanted rest — the kind earned by marching, shouting, and carrying the weight of thousands of lives. But my mind — my mind — was too loud. It kept replaying two sets of memories like dueling tapes. One belonged to Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell. The other belonged to… me.
Whoever I had been before this world — I still wasn't ready to say my old name aloud — had lived a life far less honorable and far more mundane. A cramped apartment. Late nights spent watching strategy breakdowns. Hours lost to documentaries about unifiers and conquerors. Oda Nobunaga's campaigns were burned into my brain, not because he was noble, but because he was relentless.
And now that same relentless voice sat in the back of my skull like a co-pilot.
> The wolves wait too long before striking, Nobunaga's echo muttered. Patience that has no blade beside it is merely hesitation.
I didn't argue. Not entirely.
But I wasn't going to turn into a tyrant overnight. This wasn't Japan in the Sengoku era. This was Westeros — a land of fragile honor, fear, and grudges that lasted centuries. If I bared my fangs too early, even the North would recoil.
I needed to win like a Stark. But think like a conqueror.
Morning came fast. A horn sounded outside, low and deep, telling the camp to rise. Movement crackled across the field like frost melting — soldiers grumbling awake, fires being stoked back to life, horses snorting in protest as they were saddled. I hadn't even given marching orders yet, but they were already expecting them.
That was the dangerous part about momentum. Once it existed, people assumed it would continue. That their king — me — already knew the path forward.
I barely knew where the path was.
I dressed quickly, but that was its own weird experience. Robb's hands moved with muscle memory I hadn't earned. Laced leather, buckled belts, secured pauldrons. The motions came to me like I'd done them for years, because — technically — he had.
And yet when I caught sight of myself in a polished steel shield…
I hesitated.
Robb Stark stared back at me. Wild brown hair. Pale Northern skin. Stark eyes — quiet, steady, the kind made for long winters and sudden wars. But behind those eyes, I could see something new. Something sharper. Something that didn't belong to him.
They won't see it, I told myself. They don't know you well enough to notice change.
That was true. Most of the Northern lords had only just declared me King in the North. They weren't childhood friends — they were allies by circumstance. If I spoke firmly, if I wore confidence like armor, they would simply assume this was who Robb had always been.
I stepped outside.
The cold morning air slapped me in the face, reminding me I was no longer trapped in a soft world of conveniences. No heaters. No electricity. Just frost, fire, and survival.
Good.
A king should feel the cold. It keeps him honest.
The first to approach was Roose Bolton.
Of course it was.
He moved like a shadow pretending to be a man — slow, calm, too observant. Pale eyes tracking every motion. He bowed his head, not low enough to imply true respect, but just enough to avoid insult.
"Your Grace," he said smoothly. "The men await your command. Shall we continue our advance toward the Twins? Walder Frey grows impatient."
Frey.
That name rang alarm bells loud enough to wake the dead.
Canon Robb had made his fatal error there — marrying for love and spitting on a political deal. I refused to be that stupid.
"We march," I said. "But not blindly."
Roose's eyebrow ticked upward, near imperceptible. Waiting.
I gestured for him to walk with me, heading toward the war table beneath a nearby pavilion where bannermen gathered.
"We will not crawl south begging for passage like debtors pleading for scraps," I said quietly as we walked. "Lord Frey will grant us passage — but he will do so believing it is his privilege to aid us, not his leverage."
Roose gave a ghost of a smile. "You mean to flatter him?"
"Nothing so soft," I replied. "We will make him feel essential. No man betrays a king who convinces him he was part of greatness."
Roose said nothing, but I caught the flicker in his eyes — approval. Respect, maybe. Or calculation.
Good. Let him calculate.
Better to be predictable in kindness than in weakness.
We reached the war table. Greatjon Umber was already there, chewing on something that might've once been part of a cow. Rickard Karstark stood arms crossed, eyes stormy. Maege Mormont glared at everyone with equal disdain.
They all fell into silence as I approached.
I didn't sit. I stood at the head of the table and placed both hands on the map.
"We ride for the Twins," I began. "And we will have that bridge without bending knee or spilling blood."
Karstark frowned. "Frey's a craven, aye — but cravens cling to spite like armor. He'll want assurances. Hostages."
"He'll get them," I said simply.
Murmurs. Roose watched me carefully. Umber snorted. "You'll send men to be caged like birds?"
"No." I looked them each in the eye. "I will send envoys with gifts. Not gold — Frey has enough coin to rot in. No, we send what he craves most."
Karstark scoffed. "And what's that?"
"Legacy."
They stared.
"Walder Frey is old. Surrounded by sons and grandsons who wait for him to die so they can squabble. He sits on a bridge, not a throne — yet he believes he deserves one."
I leaned forward.
"We offer him glory. We offer him acknowledgment."
The words came instinctively — not from Robb, not entirely from me. This was Nobunaga's logic. If you want loyalty from a vain man, promise him immortality.
"Maege," I said, turning to Lady Mormont. "You will write to him praising his wisdom as elder of his house and calling the Twins the 'spine of the North's victory.'"
She huffed. "That old weasel deserves no such praise."
"True. But his ego does."
That earned a laugh from Umber. Even Karstark cracked a brief grin.
I continued. "Umber — you will challenge his men to drinking contests. Make them love us. Let them boast that Frey's sons can outdrink the North."
Umber thumped his chest. "Gladly."
"Karstark — you will speak to his soldiers about your fallen sons. Remind them what this war costs if men like us fail."
Karstark's stern face shifted, grief flickering beneath rage. He gave a slow nod.
I straightened. "We pull him close. Make him believe we are grateful for his aid. And by the time he realizes we've given him nothing but courtesy—"
"—we'll be through his gate and gone," Roose finished quietly. "Leaving him unable to betray us without looking the fool."
The lords exchanged looks.
Then they nodded.
I hadn't given them fire. I hadn't roared or shouted.
I'd given them a plan.
One that felt Stark in loyalty — yet Nobunaga in execution.
As they dispersed to prepare, Roose lingered.
"You speak differently than before," he said softly.
My muscles tensed.
But then he added:
"Better."
He walked away without waiting for a reply.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
---
The sun had climbed higher by the time I found a moment alone outside the tent. Or almost alone — Grey Wind padded beside me like a silent ghost. The camp bustled with men loading carts and packing gear. Horses stamped. Metal clattered. The scent of damp earth and burning wood mixed in the air.
I crouched, running fingers through Grey Wind's thick fur.
"You know, don't you?" I murmured.
His golden eyes met mine. Unblinking. Ancient.
He didn't growl. Didn't bare teeth.
Instead, he pressed his head gently against my chest.
Something in me loosened.
Maybe it didn't matter who I had been. Robb. A nobody from another world. Or something between. This war didn't need titles.
It needed someone who refused to die stupidly.
I stood.
"Come on," I said. "We've got a bridge to cross."
---
By evening, the army was moving.
Thousands of boots thudded across wet earth. Standards of wolf and bear and flayed man flapped in the wind. The road ahead stretched long, muddy, and unforgiving.
But they marched with purpose. Because I had given them one.
I rode at the front, Grey Wind loping beside my horse. The men watched me. Some with awe. Some with doubt. But none with fear.
Not yet.
I caught sight of Catelyn riding near the middle ranks. Our eyes met briefly. She gave a small nod — proud, but shadowed by loss.
I returned it.
I would bring her justice. Not someday. Soon.
As night fell and we made camp again, I found myself staring into the fire, the crackling flames reflecting in my eyes.
Nobunaga's voice drifted through my mind like embers on wind.
> Conquest is not won in battle. It is won in preparation.
"I know," I whispered.
> And mercy is a tool only when it is yours to give.
"I know."
> So tell me — King in the North. Will you be merciful? Or victorious?
I didn't answer right away.
The fire popped.
Finally, I said:
"Both."
I stood, cloak billowing behind me as I turned from the flames.
"Because a true king," I murmured, more to myself than him, "doesn't choose between fear and honor."
"He teaches the world," I said, eyes fixed on the dark horizon, "to fear his honor."
---
End of Chapter 2