The first light of dawn seeped through the narrow window into my chamber, painting the stone walls in shades of gray. I lay motionless beneath the furs. The dull throb in my temples had faded overnight, but a deeper ache lingered—a gnawing certainty that this was not the fever dream I thought it to be, nor was it a trick of the mind. I was here, in Robb Stark's body, in Winterfell, in a world I'd once pored over in books and watched flicker across a screen. I clenched my fists, the unfamiliar roughness of my callused palms pressing into Robb's skin that was now mine.
I rose, the cold floor biting at my bare feet as I crossed to the small table. A basin of water sat waiting, and I splashed it over my face, letting the icy sting jolt me awake. In the rippling surface, my reflection stared back at me—young, broad-shouldered, with auburn curls and piercing blue eyes inherited from the Tullys. I ran a hand over my unfamiliar jaw, stubble prickling my fingertips. Not my face. Not anymore. Yet memories surged beneath the surface: Ned's stern voice drilling lessons into me, the thrill of racing Jon and Theon across the yard, the softness of Sansa's tiny hand in mine when she was small. They tangled with my past—lecturing students at Oxford, the thunder of artillery in France, the sound of mining as I waited in another tunnel for the enemy to break through, the hum of my television as I'd drifted off to "Game of Thrones" on more than one occasion in my late retirement, realization allowing me to see myself in Robb's face.
I dressed with care, pulling on a rough wool tunic and leather breeches, the coarse fabric scraping my skin. I noticed my sword leaning against the bedpost and fastened it to my waist, the motion fluid and instinctive, guided by a muscle memory that wasn't entirely mine. I was a soldier again, thrust into a war I hadn't chosen, but this time, at least, I knew the battlefield and strategies ahead of time.
The courtyard echoed with the clash of steel as I stepped outside, the air sharp with frost and the stench of horse dung. Jon Snow—my brother and cousin—stood across from me, practice sword in hand, his dark hair flecked with snow. I tightened my grip on my own blade, testing its balance. It was lighter than the rifles I'd once carried, but it felt right in my hands.
"Ready?" Jon asked, his voice steady, though his stance betrayed his alertness.
I nodded, knowing I would give it my all and train as if it were a matter of life or death. We lunged at one another, wooden swords slamming into wooden swords with a heavy thud, the jolt shooting up my arm. My reflexes kicked in—I sidestepped, parried, and struck back in a smooth arc. But my mind layered its own instincts atop the motion: keep your guard up, watch his footing, hit where he's weak. I ducked Jon's next swing, quicker than I'd expected, my body humming with a strength and agility that still felt foreign.
Jon laughed, breathless as he stepped back. "You're quick today. Thought that fall you had would have scrambled you for longer."
I grinned, masking the truth with a flicker of charm. "Maybe it woke me up."
We traded blows until the sun climbed higher, sweat mixing with the cold on our skin. My muscles burned, but the effort anchored me—this was real, not ink on a page or shadows on a screen. When we finally lowered our swords, Jon clapped my shoulder, his smile brief but warm.
"You'll recover well, it seems," he said, his tone light, but his eyes shadowed with something deeper—maybe the fear of losing me, his closest brother.
My throat tightened. He didn't know what awaited him at the Wall—betrayal, blood, a knife in the dark. "In thanks to the old gods, it would seem they have need of us Starks," I said, patting his shoulder, weaving that thread of faith into our bond. Jon's place in my plans loomed large, even if he couldn't see it yet.
The solar glowed with firelight, its hearth casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. Ned Stark stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over Winterfell's snow-draped expanse. The room smelled of wax and old parchment—a haven of duty and memory. "You wanted to see me, Father?" The words felt clumsy on my tongue, but familiarity smoothed them over. Ned turned, his grey eyes cutting through me. "Aye. Sit."
I sank into the chair across from the desk, my hands settling on its arms. Memories painted the scene—the direwolf carved into the wood, the scratch of Ned's quill—but I sized it up like a tactician. It felt almost as if I were bringing to life the builders who, alongside giants, constructed these walls and gates thousands of years ago—the very place that reported to the lawyers when they defeated the dark night the first time before the Wall was built. Ned folded his arms, his stare unwavering. "Maester Luwin says you're recovering, and in some instances seem more focused. No dizziness?" he asked.
"None," I lied, brushing aside the faint pulse behind my eyes. "I'm stronger than before." He watched me, then nodded. "You've been quieter since the accident. More… thoughtful." My pulse quickened. He's sharp. Stay steady. "Maybe I'm starting to see my future and what's at stake. If I don't take my duty seriously, I could die from a simple horse kick in the stables. I know that being a Stark isn't just a name." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Good. The North needs that from you. There's trouble always brewing—wildlings pressing south, the Night's Watch faltering, and winter is always coming. We, as Starks and lords of the North, can't turn a blind eye. It's our honor and duty to lead and serve the North, despite its troubles."
I seized the opening. "What if it's worse than regular trouble with wildlings? The Watch is weak and underfunded. If something bigger comes…" He frowned. "Bigger?" I almost slipped up right at the start; I needed to choose my next words with care. No mention of White Walkers not yet. "The old records speak of threats beyond the Wall—kings and tribes rising if we let the wildlings or the Wall go unchecked. The Watch can't manage a great ranging—not with what they have. Maybe the houses near the Wall could muster a thousand men," I said, planting the seed for battle-hardened allies before the real war hits. "We should be ready at any moment. Winter is coming, and the North does not need another Raymun Redbeard so soon."
Ned rubbed his brow, weariness etching his face. "Your words make sense. Our house words ring true. I'll think on it, Robb." I swallowed my impatience. His caution was a wall I'd need to wear down slowly. "Then let me ride to the Wall. I can see it for myself. If it's nothing, we lose only time." He shook his head. "You're my son and I want you here. Winter's close, and the North must stand united. But…" He paused.
"I'll write to Lord Commander Mormont about their straits." A small win, but I'd take it. "Thank you, Father." As I stood, his voice stopped me. "Robb." I turned.
"Robb Whatever's weighing on you, you can tell me." For a heartbeat, I ached to confess—the truth of who I was, the doom creeping closer. But love for him and my own wariness held me back. "I'm just trying to be the man the North deserves." His face softened.
"You already are."
The godswood sprawled before me, vast and silent, the weirwood's red leaves stark against the snow. I knelt at its base, damp earth soaking through my breeches. Faith wasn't my anchor—not in this life or the last—but the stillness here honed my thoughts, especially since my last meditation at this spot had given me such clarity.
I had gained ground. Ned's trust was a lever; Jon's loyalty, a bedrock. But time was slipping away, and the threats multiplied. My mind churned with plans:
The Wall. I would prod Ned again—call it a hunt, maybe. Meeting Mormont could secure early warnings, and tracking down Mance Rayder might turn the wildling tide.
Ramsey Bolton. Young, but already a beast. Roose's shadow unsettled my gut. A quiet exile—whether the Wall or a grave—could work, but Roose's shrewdness demanded finesse.
Alliances. The North's houses needed binding—Umbers with oaths, Manderlys with trade. My youthful charm and daring actions would sway them in time, especially with cannon, if my foresight could bind them together.
The Long Game, using Tyrion's path into Casterly Rock, was years off but worth noting. For now, my priority was strengthening Winterfell—grain, men, giants, and deeper loyalty.
I stood, snow clinging to my knees. The North was a stronghold, a somewhat magical place I would compare to a great Norse settlement from my past, begging to be forged into a thriving nation of myth and legends. I envisioned giants and children of the forest once more, with a Stark leading them, and I, as Robb, would be its maker. My scars from a war in another world whispered to me a truth I had learned: victory lived in the planning, not the charge. Though I knew Robb would excel in tactics and combat, my meta knowledge would allow me to strategize for the future, especially since I had more than a little time on my side.
A rustle snapped me alert. I whirled, hand on my hilt, but it was only Arya, small and fierce, her grin wide as the sky.
"Robb! You're supposed to be resting!" she exclaimed.
I chuckled, easing into the warmth of brotherly affection. "And you're supposed to be sewing."
She scrunched her nose. "Sewing's dull. Let's ride instead!"
"Not today, little wolf." I ruffled her hair, her laughter a brief salve. Saving her, saving them all—this was why I was here, I thought.
As she darted off, the wind cut deeper. Winter loomed, and beyond it, the dead. Two years, maybe less. I would make every moment count, for I knew how much preparation for future events could change this story.