My back was pressed hard against the bark of a pine tree. I opened my eyes. Dirt and pine needles sat under my hands and shoulders "What the...?!"
I pushed myself up to my feet and checked my clothes. I wore coarse brown wool pants, a heavy white shirt, and sturdy leather boots. They fit perfectly, and they were completely clean. I patted down my pockets. Nothing. No phone, no wallet, no keys "The hell did i drink last night ? Where am i ?"
I had no idea where I was, how I got dressed in this, or how I ended up in a forest.
A sharp breeze hit me. The air was cold, but it actually felt good. My stomach rumbled hard, a deep, hollow ache. I was starving. I stepped out from the tree line and looked out over the flat land.
About a mile away stood a massive fortress made of dark grey stone. It wasn't a ruin. It had high double walls, watchtowers, and smoke rising from dozens of chimneys. Outside the main gates sat a dense town made of timber and stone houses. There was movement everywhere on the dirt road leading toward it. Wagons, horses, and people on foot were heading for the gates.
"The fuck is this place ?"
When I reached the dirt road, the smell hit me immediately. A thick mix of wet mud, woodsmoke, horse shit, and sweat. But i got sort of used to it after a minute or so, or at least i didn't want to puke anymore.
I merged into the flow of people heading toward the town. Most of the men i walked past were shorter than me. They looked filthy and underfed, their clothes patched and stained with grease and dirt. I was noticeably heavier and wider than them, my shoulders taking up space as i navigated the road. People glanced at me, mostly staring at my clothes, but no one said a word "Am i in a middle age comic-con festival or something ?"
I followed the crowd straight into the bustling town right until outside the castle walls. It was loud and chaotic. Wagons were jammed together near a staging area by the massive main gates. Men wearing grey cloaks and iron half-helms stood around, shouting orders and trying to keep the carts moving.
Up ahead, a stressed-looking man holding an open ledger was yelling at two skinny peasants. They were struggling, failing to lift a large, heavy-looking wooden crate off the back of a cart.
"Heave it, you useless bastards ! The King's carriage will be here in three days, and Lord Stark wants the cellars full !" the man with the ledger shouted, his face red with frustration.
"Poor guys. they barely can lift it, they look exhausted. i should help, maybe the guy would give me a buck or two for the help." My stomach ached again. I needed food, and i needed money for it. So i walked directly toward the back of the cart, and grabbed the edge of the crate.
"Move." I said. My voice was low, cracking a bit at the end, but the tone made them step back immediately.
I shoved my hands under the bottom edge of the thick wood. I braced my legs, keeping my back straight, and drove upward. The crate was heavy, but my legs took the weight without much problems. I hoisted it up and rested it against my chest and belly.
The man with the ledger stopped shouting. He looked at me, his eyes furrowed.
"Where does this go ?" I asked.
He blinked, then pointed his quill toward the massive open gates of the castle "The lower storehouses. Just inside the courtyard, take a left toward the kitchens. Who are you? You don't look like local muck."
"I'm a guy who needs food and work. The name's Dylan Lenaerts" I said bluntly "Got any more of these ?"
The steward lowered his ledger, looking at my face, then down at my broad shoulders and thick chest.
"Lenaerts ? Sounds foreign. Free City ?" He didn't wait for an answer, waving his quill dismissively "Doesn't matter. The King brings a thousand mouths with him and I need strong backs, not family trees."
He slapped the side of the wooden cart "The King is bringing half the realm with him, and Lord Stark expects us to feed them all. Haul that in. If you don't drop it, come back out here. I'll pay you a silver stag for the day's work and a hot meal from the kitchens."
"Deal." I grunted.
I walked past the man and headed straight for the gates. The heavy crate pressed into my chest, but my thick legs kept me steady on the uneven mud and cobblestone road. As i passed under the massive stone archway of the gatehouse, two guards in iron half-helms and grey cloaks watched me. They held spears, but they didn't stop me. The must think i work here because of the crate in my hands.
The courtyard inside was huge and loud. Blacksmiths were pounding steel on anvils. Grooms were leading horses by the reins. Servants ran back and forth carrying bundles of firewood and linen.
I carried the crate to the left, heading toward a large stone building with smoke pouring out of its wide chimneys. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread hit me so hard my mouth immediately watered "I really need to eat." A few servants were stacking barrels and crates near an open cellar door.
I walked over and dropped the crate onto the pile with a heavy thud.
Before i could turn around to head back out for the next one, a loud voice shouted across the yard.
"Watch your footing, you clumsy fool !"
I looked over. A group of men in padded leather and chainmail were sparring in a dirt ring near the armory. One of them had just been knocked flat on his back into the mud. Standing over him was an older man with a thick white beard and heavy sideburns, holding a wooden practice sword. He looked pissed.
"Get up !" the older man barked "If that was a wildling blade, your guts would be watering the grass right now."
My blood ran cold. Colder than the Northern air.
It wasn't a dream. The castle, these people looking like they come from middle ages or cosplay as that, the guards, the names, it was all real. Stark. Wildlings. The King's arrival. This wasn't some historical reenactment or some bullshit event from a comic-con. This was Winterfell. Which meant the King coming was Robert Baratheon.
Robert was going to die because of wine and a boar. Ned Stark was going to die in about two or three month. Robb was going to die too. This wasn't a story on a screen anymore.
A sharp cramp in my gut pulled me back from the edge of panic. I was a nameless, penniless stranger with one immediate problem, starvation. That silver stag the steward promised wasn't just money for a meal anymore. It was the first step to not ending up as a frozen corpse by winter "Shit ! i wanted to ask my way after eating something then go back home. Seems impossible now."
I turned my back on the sparring yard. The entire world had just shifted under my feet, but the immediate task was the same. Haul cargo. Get paid. Eat. Survive.
I walked back out through the gate. The steward saw me coming and didn't waste a word. He just pointed at the next cart.
"That whole cart. Sacks of flour. Get them to the kitchens. And be quick about it, Lenaerts."
I just nodded.
I grabbed the first sack. It was heavy and awkward. I slung it over one of my shoulders, the weight settling into my frame. I carried it inside, dropped it where a cook pointed, and went back for the next one. Back and forth. I didn't stop, didn't complain, didn't speak. I just worked. My clean white shirt was soon grey with sweat and smeared with flour dust.
'But what do i do ? i can't just do this, all my life, i need to survive, and the only way is to get closer to the lords, i have no choice. If i want to survive this shit i need to go up the ranks and save those i can to prevent the war. Or at least enough to not die myself.' Then i thought about those guards training earlier. I need to join them, or at least show my skill to get closer to the Starks.
The sun was starting to dip behind the high walls of Winterfell, casting long shadows across the courtyard. My shoulders ached and my back was stiff, but I had moved the last sack of flour. My clean white shirt was now a grimy, sweat-soaked rag clinging to my torso.
I found the steward near the main gate, ticking off entries in his ledger. He looked up as I approached.
"All done." I said, my voice a bit rough from breathing in dust all afternoon.
He grunted, seemingly satisfied. He reached into a small leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a single silver coin. He tossed it to me. I caught it reflexively. then looked at it, it has a stag on one side and the name Aegon I on the other. No idea of it's exact value tho.
i looked up at him "Thanks, what about the meal ?"
"The kitchens." the steward snapped, pointing his quill toward the large stone building with the smoking chimneys "Tell Gage that Vayon sent you for a hauler's portion. And don't get underfoot. We have a King coming."
I shoved the silver coin into my pants pocket and walked where he pointed. The heat inside the kitchen hit me like a wall.
'I read they built this castle on top of hot springs but damn that's hot !'
It was a massive room, incredibly loud, with the rhythmic chopping of knives and sweaty men and women rushing around carrying sides of meat and baskets of vegetables.
I grabbed the nearest servant by the shoulder, a scrawny kid carrying a bucket of water. "Vayon sent me. Hauler's portion."
The kid flinched, then pointed to a long wooden table near the back where a fat man with flour on his apron was ladling thick brown slop into wooden bowls. That had to be the cook. I walked up, repeated Vayon's name, and Gage shoved a hot bowl and a hard heel of dark bread into my hands without even looking at my face.
I took it outside, sat heavily on a stack of chopped firewood against the stone wall, and ate. It was some kind of mutton and barley stew. It was basic, under-seasoned, but i was starving. I wiped the wooden bowl clean with the hard bread and swallowed it all down in less than five minutes. My stomach finally stopped burning.
Now for the hard part.
I stood up, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and headed toward the armory.
A few minutes later :
The old man paused, turning his head to look at me. He had thick white whiskers that tied into his beard. He looked me up and down, taking in the flour and sweat staining my shirt, then my broad shoulders and thick neck.
He scoffed "Lenaerts? Sounds like a Braavosi's name. And you look like a baker who ate half his own stock."
A few of the younger men standing around the dirt ring snickered.
Rodrik let out a sharp breath and leaned on his wooden practice sword "The King is coming, so I need meat for the gates and the patrols. You've got the weight for it, I'll give you that. But half the fat fools who come here looking for coin piss their breeches the second someone swings steel at their head."
He turned his head and shouted across the yard "Desmond! Get over here!"
A guardsman jogged over. He was about my height, maybe a bit taller, but noticeably thinner. He wore padded leather armor and a grey wool cloak, holding a battered wooden sword. He looked annoyed that he was being called over to deal with a peasant.
Rodrik reached down, picked up a spare wooden sword from the dirt, and tossed it at my chest. I caught it by the leather-wrapped grip. It was heavier than I expected, but manageable without problems.
"We don't do formal introductions in a real fight, Lenaerts." Rodrik barked, stepping back out of the ring "If you can put Desmond in the dirt, I'll give you a grey cloak and a cot in the barracks. If he puts you down, you can drag your ass back to the kitchens and wash pots. Go!"
Desmond didn't hesitate. He stepped forward quickly, raising his wooden sword high, and swung it straight down toward my left shoulder, aiming to leave a massive bruise and end this fast.
I stepped forward on the right, slipping off his center line, turned my upper body left to catch his swing with my sword downward before turning my wrist to slash to my right, right toward his belly stopping it an inch from his padded leather tunic.
Desmond froze. He looked down at the wood hovering right in front of his belly with wide eyes.
"The fuck are you stopping for ?!" Ser Rodrik roared "I said put him in the dirt, not tap him like a dancing master ! Hit him !"
Desmond's face flushed bright red. Embarrassed that a normal commoner just got the drop on him in front of the others, he snarled. He didn't even try to use his sword. He just swatted my wooden blade away with his left forearm and launched his entire body forward, dropping his shoulder to tackle me around the waist and drive me straight into the mud.
He rushed me like a pissed-off bull. I didn't even try to block him. I just planted my foot and pivoted out of his way.
With all his weight going forward and absolutely nothing to hit, Desmond went flying past me. He hit the ground face-first with a wet smack, sliding a few inches in the mud. I just stepped up calmly and pressed the tip of my wooden sword between his shoulder blades.
For a second, the training yard was dead silent. Then, someone burst out laughing.
"Looks like the fat baker has better footwork than you, Desmond !" a cocky voice yelled.
I looked over. Three young guys about my age were standing by the weapon racks, watching the whole thing. The one laughing had a smug, arrogant grin on his face, Theon Greyjoy. Next to him was a guy with thick auburn hair, studying me with interest, Robb Stark. And leaning against a wooden post, was a guy with dark curly hair and grey eyes, Jon Snow.
'They look just like in the show, i wonder who else does, and if i'm in the book or show version of the universe, hope it's the show as i know almost nothing of the book.'
Ser Rodrik let out a loud, gruff sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose "Get up, you embarrassment."
The guard pushed himself out of the mud, spitting dirty water. His face was practically purple with rage and shame but covered in mud. He glared at me like he wanted to murder me on the spot, but he snatched up his wooden sword and stormed off toward the barracks without a word.
Rodrik turned his attention back to me. He looked a little less dismissive this time, though still grumpy.
"You move light for a man with an arse that big." the old knight grunted, taking the practice sword back from me "Where did you learn to step like that ? That wasn't just tavern brawling."
"i practiced fighting with my fists for about fifteen years, i can barely use a sword but i can't be beaten easily in a fist fight." i smirk.
Rodrik snorted, his thick white whiskers twitching "Fifteen years punching meat? A bare fist won't stop a wildling's axe, Lenaerts. And it sure as hell won't dent a steel breastplate."
Theon barked from the weapon racks "Maybe he plans to wrestle the Kingslayer when the royal train gets here. I'd pay a few copper to see the fat man try and punch through Lannister gold."
"Shut it, Theon." Robb stepped forward. He didn't have a smug look like the Greyjoy. He just looked me over "He put Desmond in the mud without taking a hit. Sword or no sword, he's got instincts. And he's built like an aurochs."
Robb stopped a few feet from me "I'm Robb Stark. This is Jon Snow, and my father's ward, Theon Greyjoy."
i extended my right hand "Nice to meet you my lord, Dylan Lenaerts, traveler from a very far away land. At your service." i do a small bow with my head.
Robb glanced at my outstretched hand for a moment, a brief look of surprise on his face. It wasn't the custom, but he shook it anyway. His grip was strong for his build.
"Welcome to Winterfell, Dylan."
Theon let out a mocking laugh "Getting friendly, are we? Shaking hands with your betters like you're old drinking mates."
"That's enough, Theon." Robb said, his voice holding a tone of command that made the Greyjoy silent, though he still had a smirk on his face.
Ser Rodrik stepped forward "He won the bout. He earned his place. Lenaerts, you're a guard now. You'll get a spear, a steel half-helm, and a spot in the barracks. You'll stand watch on the eastle wall tonight. Don't be late, and don't be found sleeping on your watch, or you'll be answering to me."
"Don't worry that won't happen." i smirk.
He pointed a thick finger toward the armory, the sound of hammering still ringing out from inside "Go see Mikken at the forge. Tell him I sent you for your gear. Now get out of my yard, I've got soldiers to train."
I gave a nod to Robb and Jon, ignoring Theon completely, and turned toward the armory. I had a job. I had a roof over my head. And food. It's a start, but not enough, i need to get closer to them one way or the other, maybe showing my other talents outside of fighting could help.
[Hello everyone, it's been REALLY long since i wrote anything. How are all of you ? I got back to writing, i even got my own real book i'm trying to do, maybe i'll publish a few chapters here in the future. (i'm halfway through it)
For the currency and lore/story i base myself on the show, and on a few things i find in the wiki : https ://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Main_Page (delete the space between https and ://)
For the height of people of the world i based myself on the real height of the actors mixed with what height people during the middle age in Europe were (around 5'7 was average back then for commoners while lords had heights similar to ours)
Also who do you all want as the love interest ? Cersei Lannister, Margaerys Tyrell or Daenerys Targaryen ? (maybe the three at the same time even) or anyone else ? (those three are just my favorite that's all)