I have written more FanFics for ASOIAF than for every other Fandom combined, so far. Here is my Magnum Opus, Nordens Magnans, or, from my version of the Old Tongue of the First Men, Powerful North.

Major changes happen from the main story. Ned is a Polygamist, married to Ashara Dayne Stark, as well as Catelyn Tully Stark (because Old Gods don't say no).

Ned has eight children, four with Ashara and four with Catelyn.

Ashara's children are Jon (14), Arya (12), Fyrth (9), and Helynn (4).

Cateyn's children are Robb (14, seven months younger than Jon), Sansa (11), Brandon (8), Torrhard (5) and Rickon (3).

Torrhen Whitetree

283 AC

The False Spring had come to an end, and war had broken out again. There were no excuses, no shuffling and shifting, the Stark of Winterfell had given the command and called the banners to avenge the kidnapping of his sister, and as far away as Karhold and Last Hearth and Bear Island would the Northmen come to his call. Twenty Thousand men afoot could be expected, maybe two thousand armored lancers and half as many knights and lordlings.

Within two turns of the moon, all had arrived in the Winter Town. Banners flew from every corner, men sat at campfires or trained in formation, yeomen notched, drew and loosed in unison, and camp followers moved from man to man and from tent to tent, spreading gossip and rumors and generally being useful to the men, but a nuisance to the officers.

When the last battalions of the Karstark Pikemen marched into the town, with their black surcoats and shining mail, young Lord Stark ordered that they would begin to move out the next day.

And so they did. Twenty Miles a day they marched, moving rapidly down the Kingsroad, for nearly a moon's turn before they reached Moat Cailin.Where had once been a ruin, now stood a dark, imposing fortress of black stone jutting out from the swamp around it. High in the battlements, under the Direwolf of the Starks, flapped the Lizard-Lion of House Reed, who currently held it in Lord Starks name.

For a day and a night the men marched, six across, in and out of the fortress, passing into the Riverlands on the opposite end.They continued south again, with one goal in mind - find Prince Raeghar, and hand him over to Roose Bolton to "deal with him as he saw fit". While Bolton may not have been much of a pleasant man to be around, from the moment he had been told he would be allowed to skin the crown prince alive, he had become almost a pleasure. He smiled genuine, broad smiles, drank toasts to the Stark and to finding his sister, and could sometimes be heard humming certain tunes to himself.

Torrhen's first taste of battle in this war was a sweet one. Shortly after their arrival in the Riverlands, he had led a party of outriders ahead of the main army to scout for the enemy. While the Stark negotiated an alliance with the Riverlords, Whitetree would take two hundred horse and thirteen hundred footmen and occupy Harrenhal, under the guise of supporting the defense, but also to take it over should the negotiations turn sour.

When Whitetree reached Harrenhal, everything heated up. Four thousand Targaryen Loyalists surrounded the ruined castle, and they had built siege lines to prevent the defenders from sallying out against them. Whitetree, however, also did not fail to notice that they had no protection to the rear.

With a touch of the spurs he was off, his visor down, lance ready to couch. The horsemen followed him, and the infantry followed at a trot. It would be a thousand yards from the road to the siege lines, but he just needed a distraction.

It came. Lord Whent himself led a sortie against the besiegers, or so he found out later. The Loyalists moved to intercept, and Whitetree moved in for the kill.

A double rank of Dornish Spearmen made up the outermost defense, but they were unprepared. By the time they realized that the hoofbeats were behind them as well, it was too late. They were lanced to a man. Torrhen skewered two at once, then tossed the now useless shaft aside and drew his pick.

A knight charged at him, lance crouched under his arm. Torrhen raised his shield, the tough weirwood intercepting the steel spearhead aiming for his chest, and, as the horse moved past him, he swung his pick, hitting hard and driving the point home, though whether he had slain his foe or not remained to be seen, as the pick was ripped from his hand.

Cursing, he dismounted and drew his sword. The infantry were coming in to the fight now. Umber Highlanders drove men from their horses with greatswords seven feet long, and Colliersmen swung poleaxes and hammers heavy enough to crack a skull at any who challenged them.

The Harrenhal men slammed into the Hightower spearmen at full speed, shattering their formation like glass. Whent himself led them, flanged mace in his right hand and the Black Bat Standard in his left.

Within an hour it was all over. Eighty-seven Northmen and One-Hundred-and-Three Riverlanders were dead and four hundred total were wounded, while the Loyalists lost Twenty-Two hundred dead, eight nobles, forty knights and nine hundred men at arms taken captive, and five hundred missing, fled into the Riverlands.

Only two hundred had not yielded. They were Ironborn, and they had stood firm in a ring, under the Skeletal hand of Drumm, in byrnies and halfhelms, longaxes gripped in both hands. Whent's longbowmen rained arrows upon them until they stopped squirming. No captives were taken from them, but they were looted, their bodies were stripped and tossed into the sea for their burial rites.

That night, Whent "feasted" the Northmen in his castle, though to call it a true feast would be a great exaggeration. There was ale and bread aplenty, and a good deal of meat, but there was no entertainment, no special courses, and no drunken rowdiness. It was more a common meal, but the Northmen took it all the same, and they slept in the towers of Harren's great ruin instead of their tents.

In the early morning, Torrhen Whitetree got up to piss off the drinking of the previous night. Six ales and a goblet of wine had done him no favors, merely splint his skull asunder with hangover and filled his bladder near to bursting.

When he returned, a rider in plate-and-mail knelt before him, holding out a scroll.

"Lord Stark sent me," he said. "He said you should understand."

Torrhen read the note. The first few times, it made no sense, but then he remembered something he had learned years back, when he would play with Lord Starks father, Lord Rickard, when they were boys. Translated, it read "Baratheon Besieged at the Sept of Stone, meet us at the Eye of the Gods. The falcon has left the roost with an army and flies with us."

The march resumed later that morning, after the men had thanked Lord Whent for his hospitality and gathered their equipment.

"What is our destination, my Lord?" a younger soldier asked him.

"The God's Eye," he replied.