Complete summary: It is said that suffering souls will receive their reward in another life. They are promised a full and happy life in the afterlife. They are promised so many things, and it turns out that everything is a lie. Life is not based on honesty or who is more honorable than the other, none of that can change reality. There is only one truth: the one who changes everything is the one who has strength, physical or of will. Harry wanted to do what he thought was right but he died. Now, he gets another chance, in another world and under another name...yet what is the right thing to do and who says it is?

Sometimes the methods don't matter if you want to accomplish something. Sometimes everyone has their own concept of good and evil. Sometimes everything is too gray, too subjective. Sometimes the sane have crazy ideas and the insane are the wise.

Sometimes the gods are just bored and want to have fun at the expense of the people.

Too many variables.

N/A: The dates of some events were slightly changed to fit certain story needs. Lyanna Stark was born in 266 AC and her abduction (and subsequent birth leading to her death in the Tower of Joy) happened between 281-282 AC just like Robert's Rebellion.

Robb was born in the early months of 282 AC in Winterfell while Jon was born a couple of days after him (although, as shown in the previous chapter, everyone believes they are twins); Daenerys is the same age as both of them. Sansa and Arya were born a year later, at the end of 283, being that she and Arya are twins. This makes the characters' ages in the 297 AC are 15 (Robb, Jon, Daenerys) and 14 (Sansa, Arya) years old.

Bran's birth is the same as the canon (290 AC) so he is seven years old right now. Rickon, however, has not been born yet.

Chapter Two

Here is your glory, take it, fool!

297 After the Conquest

Daenerys

"This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric," Viserys told her, holding the gown up for her inspection.

Daenerys touched it.

The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. Her delicate face slightly wrinkled for a few seconds, pulling her hand away.

"A gift from the Magister Illyrio, I guess, brother".

"The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess." Viserys said, smiling.

Her brother was in a high mood tonight.

A princess, she thought. The mere thought amused her and made her think how stupid her older brother was.

Foolish Viserys.

For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister's house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. That such gifts seldom come without their price in the free city of Pentos. "Illyrio is no fool," Viserys continued, very sure of himself. "The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne."

She said nothing.

Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. The Magister had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he had never had a friend he wouldn't cheerfully sell for the right price.

Illyrio was a politician after all, and a merchant; he thought of profit only. The only reason he would agree to care for the young Targaryens was because of their high value, especially Daenerys's: she was the last woman with full Targaryen blood in her Magister probably, before even accepting both of them in his home, had already thought with whom to commit Daenerys in the future. She always thought that he would choose a barbarian as her husband. Viserys would agree to her sister marrying a dirty savage as long as that savage provided him with a large army to invade Westeros.

Invading Westeros, what a stupid idea.

In the end, she wasn't the least bit wrong in learning about her older brother's plans.

Her brother hung the gown beside the door.

"Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount." He studied her critically. "You still slouch. Straighten yourself"

He pushed back her shoulders with his hands, "let them see that you have a woman's shape now." His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and he would have tightened on her nipple if she hadn't pushed him away.

"Touch me again, and you will die, dear brother." Her voice was calm but also strangely imposing, as if she were an adult scolding a small kid. She was smaller and softer than Viserys but her brother didn't hit her back.

He just stood there, his hand stupidly outstretched in the air—as if he were holding something still invisible. His purple eyes were tinted with the purest hatred that could exist. She saw him curse her and beat her in a thousand ways in his mind. The dragon awakening. However, despite everything, the miserable 'dragon' didn't make any abrupt gesture or attempt to avenge Danerys' impoliteness.

Viserys just looked at her, and she looked at him.

Her eyes had been colored with an inexplicable hardness, a raw dominance that no girl should have. One of the hanging candlesticks, which spread its incense around the room, trembled. It seemed to sob, as if something was squeezing it hard. It was subtle but an even deeper glow ran over Viserys's face. "Don't fail me today" his voice was tight, tense, filled with hate.

There was a certain hesitation that Viserys tried hard to hide but could not.

Daenerys didn't say anything.

There was a sudden shrill sound of the metal bending as if it were being hammered. The candlestick fell to the floor with a thud. Viserys clenched his jaw before turning and leaving the room.

Daenerys turned around, ignoring the slam of the door, and walked to the window.

The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate... A strange feeling of disgust ate at her insides. Was it perhaps the envy of a little girl who wanted to get out of her golden prison, to be a girl away from any inconvenience... or was it the desire to burn everything in her path?

She imagined herself with a dragon.

A dragon as great and powerful as Balerion, one that would allow her to be its rider and soar through the sky to the ends of existence. A dragon to fly, to enjoy the world... a dragon to conquer as her ancestor Aegon did. Unfortunately the dragons had died after the stupid Dance.

Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords.

Dothraki folk called it Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals. In the Free Cities, people talked of Westeros. Her brother had a simpler name: our land.

Our land.

That was simply pathetic, in Daenerys' mind. The words in Viserys' mouth were like a desperate prayer. Perhaps the poor idiot believed that if he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear.

"Ours by blood right, Daenerys. That is our land, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours forever. You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers."

However, you aren't a dragon. You simply are a fool.

Daenerys smiled at the comment.

Yes, Viserys was.

Her brother was an inadequate person who would never possess a throne. Greedy lords were just going to use him, take advantage of him, and then kill him when he was useless. Even if he were to set foot in Westeros, no one would follow a king like him. Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms because he had dragons and rulership, because he brought order. Aegon made his bannermen believe that Westeros was strong because the Crown was strong. He led them to believe that it was the right of the Targaryens to rule because they were the cornerstone that united Westeros.

Even kings like Maegor and Aegon IV showed a certain cunning to rule and be accepted by the folk despite their foolishness and outrages. For the love of all the gods, even her father King Aerys had the public's approval until he was too stupid to kill a Lord Paramount. Instead, Viserys…what did Viserys really have that made people gather in great lines to follow him and wave the dragon flag? What lord would risk everything to try to fight for Viserys, the one who was afraid of his little sister?

Not even Dorne.

Nobody would do anything for a weak king. Essosi politicians would kill to put in easy-to-domineer kings, but in Westeros—where lords owed their survival to their Overlords and Kings and needed them strong—this wouldn't do the trick. A puppet king had no value within Westerosi society.

Robert Baratheon killed her stupid brother Rhaegar and did not condemn the execution of lady Ellia and the little princes, but were the people really outraged? Did they hate Robert the Usurper for killing Targaryen people or for killing defenseless children along with their mother? Even if there were nobles really outraged by the first situation, no one would say anything.

The Baratheons were the new cornerstone of Westeros. Even if a civil war breaks out within that land, more cornerstones will emerge. The Targaryens would no longer be relevant, not unless they came up with a dragon again.

Yes.

Daenerys would never think of setting foot in Westeros, not now. Besides, what useful things did Westeros have? Essos, any land in it, had more abundant and important riches, and it was easier to create a strong kingdom as long as you had what was necessary to support and maintain it.

If it were up to Daenerys, she would leave the Westerosi to drown in their own mess and focus on trying to build an empire.

A new Valyrian empire.

However, this was all just guesswork. Daenerys had no dragons nor did she have loyal armies. Even if she could get rid of Viserys—which was really easy—the idea of escaping into nothingness seemed ridiculous to her. She was no raggedy girl. She was a princess, even if she was now in name only.

Very soon we will, Daenerys. Very soon I will take you to the secret. Just a little more. We will both be free and go where we want.

Daenerys walked over to the candlestick on the floor and picked it up. It was completely dented—"maybe like my brother Rhaegar's helmet when Baratheon's hammer hit it", she told herself—and she slowly shook her head.

"I really hope so, raqiros" she muttered to herself. "Will it be enough meat?"

It will be enough. Trust me. You are a true Targaryen. You and Jaehaerys will succeed in taking over the world. You are the blessed one and Jaehaerys will be your Lord.

Trusting the devil who whispered to her at night and sometimes clouded her with nightmares didn't seem very trustworthy... at least to someone ignorant. The Targaryens raved and saw strange things, allies in the soul of the terrors of the night. Her friend was nothing more than a mīsio, a protective spirit who brought her knowledge and guided her. Wasn't Daenerys a true Targaryen? She could see things, she could do things, and she was immune to fire and heat.

What couldn't she do?

How could it not be possible for the gods to send her a mīsio to instruct her?

Although, come to think of it, Jaehaerys was also missing. Her mīsio talked a lot about a certain Jaehaerys, another pure Targaryen. The mīsio always called him our Lord, who will bring us happiness even though she didn't know where he was. Daenerys hoped to find him one day, even if it took her all the way around Essos...because Jaehaerys wouldn't be foolish enough to stay in Westeros, a foul land, obviously.

Was he just as stupid as Viserys? How old would he be? Was it his brother or his uncle? Perhaps some lost brother or son of her late father? Her mīsio did not know how to answer any of that: the spirit's only answer was that their lord was alive even though the monster was close to him.

There came a soft knock on her door. "Come", Daenerys said, placing the dented candlestick on the floor again.

Daenerys hoped that everything would go according to what her mīsio had said.

Robb

You don't have to worry about a thing, Robb. Those were the words of the voice in his head… the ñangarekohára's voice, as he asked Robb to call him. That word, according to the spirit, was the one used in the Old Tongue to refer to a spirit guardian.

That made no sense in Robb's mind, not in the slightest. Not after the nightmares, not after what he saw. Not after the fear he'd felt…and after the fury he'd boiled his blood at the slaughter.

If there were good gods on earth then that couldn't be true. However, there were certain explanations that gave meaning to the words of his ñangarekohára. Robb was born red-haired and blue-eyed, but the stories told by his mother and half of Winterfell were that his hair had turned black-as-night and his eyes turned into bright green orbs like wildfire; besides, as if that were not enough, it was sworn that the weirwood trees had sung of joy.

He felt a cold sweat break out on his body... and the urge to vomit at the thought of it. "I saw you killing people, what ill will have I shown to the gods so that they put a spirit guardian on me to kill people?" Robb had growled, under his breath, into the darkness. Despite the unreality of the situation, he did not dare to shout or raise his voice in the chambers.

The voice inside his head had been silent for a few seconds. Seconds stretched into minutes. Robb glanced sideways for a moment, as if he could make out figures in the dark.

He almost gave up when the voice returned:

"Funny diversity within Westeros, isn't it? Quite interesting."

"What are you trying to say?" Robb frowned in the dark. Sweat ran down his forehead despite the cruel cold that deepened his body. "What does that have to do with my question?"

"The Northmen are descendants of the First Men but they are not the only ones, right?"

"What does it have to do...?"

"Did you know that the Ironborn are also First Men, Robb?" The question took him by surprise, unsettled by the novelty and the fact that it was not expected. "Did you know that the people of the Far North are First Men? That the mountain clans are First Men too?"

"None of them worship weirwood trees. We're not the same" Robb replied, not understanding what the history class was about.

There was a terrible silence... and the room seemed to freeze. Robb felt his heart squeezed into a fist.

He tried to get to his feet but fell to the ground like a broken sack. His head hit the cobblestones and his ears whistled at it. It was fortunate that he had not been passed out by the impact, and it was surprising that no one had come to such a noise.

He tried to get to his feet again.

His fingers burned from the intense cold.

"The Manderlys are northmen who worship the Seven. The Blackwoods are rivermen who worship weirwood trees. The Mountain Clans of the Vale worship their own strange and repulsive gods, as do many northmen. The Ironborn worship a drowned god" the voice came a slow hiss, a raw, deep whisper that drowsed through the room, as if from the very walls, and was so soulless it squeezed Robb's insides. "They all come from the same but they are so different, and you will never fully accept each other. And yet you are all wrong."

He heard footsteps from one of the corners of the room. Slow. Robb turned his head, teeth chattering, and forced himself to his feet. He saw it then.

It was pitch black but still he saw the figure as if it were day, in the brightest, most resplendent sun. The figure was a man, and he was too tall to look human. He was probably over seven feet tall, even taller, and the black suits that covered him made him look bigger. His clothes fell on the floor, dragging blood and mud, like a night veil. His long hair was the color of night but he had bones hanging from it, which tinkled at every little movement of his head. "All are sinners, Robb" spoke the figure, in the middle of the room. His figure dwarfed Robb's, making him feel like a child. "We are all sinners. But in the beginning we were pure. Before we fell from grace, before the Andals, all the First Men shared something in common before the heresy. We had THE MOTHER."

What caught Robb's attention-what scared him the most-was Harry's face. A sudden chill ran down his spine and he felt his body shake even more. Instead of a face, his guardian had a chiseled mask, to the size of his head; an impersonal mask, made of pure gold, with inverted runic symbols and among them ravens that flew over fields of war. The mask had no holes, not even for the nose or the eyes.

It was a completely smooth surface.

Harry was too tall, to the point that he spread out across the room like an evil presence. Hunched over, dressed in all black and strong-looking, cloudy mask and gloomy appearance surrounding him, and voice coming from the walls. The cries of the dead could be heard on the walls, perhaps real or perhaps the product of Robb's frightened imagination.

Give us meat! Robb would think at that moment what the dead would say, stretching their rotting arms across the room. Let us bite him!

Robb felt like was about to drown, his lungs about to explode. It was lucky he didn't fall to his knees. Harry moved forward, and with him the poisoned environment advanced.

"The great goddess, the MOTHER. The one they abandoned and therefore the earth suffers" continued the spirit. "You are still young and you still have a lot to learn... You even have a long way to go to see my face, but trust me. We will be friends because we are one."

Robb stared at Harry, at the mask.

"I killed those people, I don't deny it. It was for a noble cause. You're just looking at the memories of my enemies, which I wanted you to see. No act is punishable under the true law if it means doing the right thing. The Law of Truth, the Law of Cartimandua, the one I follow. The world of peace is false, forgiveness is a sin for those who do not deserve it and refuse to see. Heathens invent false realities where their gods exist. Sacred figures, paradises as heavenly abodes and belief in deities, an eternal goodwill of love and kindness that settles in honorability, are just self-stylized attempts to make death feel comfortable for them and justify their betrayal to Cartimandua".

Robb stiffened. "What's Cartimandua?"

"Don't worry, Robb, brother of mine. That's not going to happen to you. I'll help you Robb."

"Help me?" Robb finally found his voice, totally scared. The ravens etched into Harry's mask seemed to take flight.

"A great evil is coming and only a noble of heart is going to stop it. You need not fear. You and I are the only ones who can unite all hearts under one banner and under one heart, and one god, Robb. The GREAT MOTHER decided that you will be king and that you will ride the ice dragon"

Robb was about to speak, too surprised, when suddenly his brain gave a painful jerk. He brought both hands to his head, clenching his teeth. "We'll talk later, Robb. We've got a lot to go on. You must first mature tomorrow."

Robb screamed and darkness was all he saw as he blacked out.

— —

"You feel good?" Theon asked him, seeing his weary face the next day when they both gathered near the general tent. Robb shrugged as he sat down, began sharpening his greatsword—Taragas—a gift from the Greatjon on his fourteenth day's name.

"I didn't sleep well," he said, blowing cold air into the frigid morning. His head ached and felt completely dizzy. To make matters worse, he had a damn cold in his bones. He was wearing his cloak, holding the edge in his hand so he wouldn't drag it through the mud, but she still felt the cold eat away at his bone.

"The day before a siege is the same. Drinking mead always helps to lighten the head, especially if you mix it with rhubarb and make a prayer to your gods" indicated his friend, always learning the art of combat before and after. He fixed Robb's cloak, to protect him from the cold. "Whenever you are going to besiege a fortress, the spirits of the land visit and raise anxiety. The rabbit and the partridge are good for keeping evils from sleep too."

Robb noticed how the ironborn grabbed the rabbit's foot that he had tied around the neck. Theon was a warrior and as a warrior he was a firm believer in the spells and fortunes that things brought. To tell the truth, he sometimes couldn't tell if Theon was like that because of the influence of the North or if it cried out in his blood.

Maybe they really were all the same. Maybe all the first men were the same.

They were to assault Barren Oak fortress decisively today, in a few hours. It would be a brutal bloodbath, a bloodbath that would make Robb a real man. A real man, worthy to lead, his guardian's voice whispered in his ear. Robb barely made any movement to look or flinch, but his shoulders tensed again.

"Do you think we'll make it in the first time?" he spoke, trying to ignore the voice in his ears that was whispering so many strange and blasphemous secrets that he didn't want to hear.

"Do you know what distinguishes soldiers, Robb?" Theon asked him a question by way of answer as he looked around the moving camp.

"Fight battles for those who deserve them, I guess?"

Theon shook his head, as if expecting such a slow response. "That is what lord Eddard would say, Robb. I want to hear your answer. Why are we going to execute Lord Torvug today?"

Because the bannermen who think they are superior need to be crushed so that they do not disturb order.

Rob frowned. "Because he is dishonorable and he's unfair to his own people."

Theon met his eyes. His expression had become completely serious, analytical, as if he was almost disappointed.

Robb felt foolish.

"Wrong"

"My lord father instructed me what..."

"Your lord father is a warrior, and he is old now. He believes in his own ways, and forges his own path. You are still a pup and cannot afford to think like that as heir to the North, my brother" Theon ran a hand through his own auburn hair, stroking it.

Robb watched him carefully.

Theon would never say it outright but that was technically a way of saying that his father's honor code was too dumb and that it would bring trouble, that if Robb followed it he was going to die soon. He was disgusted that she spoke of his honorable father like that but as much as he tried, he found no way to reply to Theon.

Theon Greyjoy continued:

"Fighting battles is done because they bring order. No one really loves them, not in the way you love a woman, but it makes your blood boil and sometimes makes you feel satisfied with what you have done. If we fight, we do it out of duty. The North, Robb, is in turmoil these days. You just have to see it anywhere. The Northerners are in turmoil. Lord Eddard has only two choices: either he demands to his liege the King or he holds back his rogue bannermen. One way or another, he has to maintain control of their region. Torvug attacks North unity, simply put."

They were crude words, too accurate and sincere. The realistic words that you expected to hear from someone although they were not the most accurate.

I told you, Robb, I was right.

"A soldier," Theon finally said, his eyes fixed on the greens of the Stark, "is a soldier because the weak make us so. A peasant grows the grain that feeds us, tans the leather that protects us, and lops the ash trees to make our spears. Torvug threatens North's subsistence, and he threatens your family. There is no true cause that is more just than the one you do for a living. Do you understand?"

Rob nodded. He thought of his mother and of Jon, of Bran. And he thought of Sansa. He especially thought of Sansa. In Sansa... and in Arya, of course. In both of his sisters, not just Sansa.

I told you Rob. You should listen to your friend. And, especially, you should trust me more. We are one.

Robb was frustrated. Yes, Harry was right in a point. And he hated himself for believing that.

Arya

"You seem very distracted today, lady Arya" Val said by way of greeting, with a wide smile, when they met in the clearing where they used to train. Men used to use the courtyard but the Winter's Wives, closer to nature, practiced their arts in the area of the forest, forbidden to men.

Arya dropped the cloak from her shoulders. The cold of the morning passed through her body to her but she ignored it. One of the first lessons Val had taught her was to withstand the raw cold in battle. "A warrior has no problems in combat, no matter how cold everything is. Winter is our husband" Val sometimes pointed out.

Winter is Our Husband was the motto of the Winter Wives. It had been the idea of lady Marna Locke—the wife of lord Edwyle the Mighty Wolf—to create two organizations of specialized warriors for the protection of the Stark family and the North. Lord Edwyle had given the final approval, and thus the Winter Horde and the Winter's Wives squadron were born.

The Winter's Wives were women of Northern and Farnorthern descent (the term 'wildling' was now considered insulting and derogatory) who served the lady of Winterfell and were trained to be the best of the best. When the North marched to war on a grand scale, the Winter's Wives marched with their Warrior Lady in command while the Winter Horde closely followed the Lord of Winterfell.

The Snowsguard—a selected group of men and women dedicated to the protection of the members of the Stark family—also emerged from the two organizations. They were eight warriors—four women and four men—who took an oath never to marry or inherit land but to protect their lords until the end of their days. At the time, many lords of the South—especially Lord Robb Tully of the Trident and Lord Jasper of the Vale—had criticized Lord Edwyle's measure, categorizing it as using the Kingsguard model and that, even, the brute Starks attributed to themselves certain royal rights that did not correspond to them.

Lord Edwyle had taken offense and declared the Second Hour of the Wolf in the year 245: thousands of Northmen flying the Winterwolf banner invaded the Trident on foot while the Sea Ice Spike—the Northman fleet, commanded by the Manderly—besieged the Vale. The war raged for a bloody year, until Aegon V intervened in the conflict and commanded Lord Edwyle to restore peace.

Lord Edwyle had sent a letter, replying that "Your Majesty, your humble servant will listen, no Tully or Arryn blood will be shed". Lord Edwyle complied. He did not kill lord Tully or lord Arryn, he merely brought them in chains before him and asked them if they considered him to be a disloyal vassal who would attempt against the good of the crown. A short time later, the ravens arrived at King's Landing from numerous lords fussing before Aegon about the honest heart of Lord Edwyle and that perhaps His Grace should think about allowing the Starks to create their own guard because they are not a danger or an attempt at rebellion since the Starks are good vassals for the crown.

It was a curious story for Arya, that she didn't like history classes very much but even so she understood that sometimes it was better to remember. Since the Second Hour of the Wolf, the North has quietly kept out of any Southron business, concentrating on its own problems. The southerners, as time passed, forgot what the Northern Fury was, but the Arryns and the Tullys never did.

That was why Hoster Tully—son of Lord Robb—had gone to great lengths to create a marriage alliance that could bind the two regions together: first, his eldest daughter with Brandon Stark, and later, her hand to lord Eddard. From that union had been born Robb and Jon—the first called after the defeated lord, to show that there were no grudges although it was always used as an excuse that he was called that in honor of King Robert and not in memory of the Second Hour; and the second after the Jasper Arryn's son, the lord of Eyrie—, Arya and her brothers.

"I think of my father and my brother," she admitted, frowning slightly, and getting into position with her weapons at the ready. In her right hand she held Needle, which was a long thin sword that Jon had ordered Mikken to forge a while ago, while in her left she held Sigh. Sigh was falchion. Northerners fought with two weapons, a long one for combat and a short one to break through shields.

While in the South it was frowned upon for women to learn the use of the sword or have a say in matters of state, in the North it was always a general rule that children be raised equally and taught in the art of war and defense. One would have thought that Lord Eddard's riberwoman wife would try to bring southern ways to the North when the opposite turned out: lady Catelyn had dismissed the idea of creating a sept at Winterfell or the idea of having septons take charge of Stark children apprenticeship.

She had also attended to go to the Godswood of Winterfell and leave offerings—although Arya was never clear if her mother was doing it because she really believed in the Old Gods or because of political commitment—as well as she had been willing to assume control of the management of the castle and the region. She forced Sansa and Arya to become versed in the management of the castle and to know the peasants and the people of the court, to learn to use swords, but also to know when to mix in the South in case they were. Lord Stark's bannermen loved lady Catelyn—to the point of calling her the Red She-Wolf of North—as much as the smallfolk.

However, that kind of thing didn't really interest Arya, she just wanted to know how to use swords and be able to fight alongside Winter's wives. Sansa was definitely a refined lady who was interested in all the boring things about being a lady, Arya wasn't interested in that. She wanted to be a warrior, cover herself in glory, and fight alongside Robb and Jon.

Val smiled, "there will be more battles, my lady, and more glorious ones." Her nimble hands moved the heavy sword as if it were a wand, while she slowly danced one step back and one step forward as if she planned to pounce on Arya at any moment. "Besides, you have me to forget about the war, my lady."

Val was the Lady Commander of the Snowsguard, a position she had held for five years, and she was also lady Catelyn's sworn sword. As if that weren't enough, she was also Arya's instructor in the art of the sword. Her training with Val was brutal, completely cruel, but it had helped Arya improve with her posture.

"She's just as good as her brothers, maybe more" Val sometimes commented to the Stark lords, "she may never be as tall and strong as her brothers, but she will be more agile and deadlier."

"Let's get started, then," Arya told her, clasping her hands tightly around her weapons.

Val was the first to make the first move. She surged forward, like a huge beast in midair, greatsword raised. Heavy rune-engraved steel slammed down on its head.

Arya, warning it, slipped to the left. The greatsword passed dangerously close to her body, hissing. Both began to dance around the other, turning and looking at each other. Val was smiling fiercely at her, encouraging her. Arya lunged Val using Needle right at her face. It wasn't a polite or trained move, it was angry as if she was willing to hurt her in truth.

Val took a step back, swinging her greatsword like a weight, and intercepted Arya's. Both blades collided with each other, creating a dry sound that burst in Arya's ears. Another sword would have broken, especially one as thin as Arya's, but Needle was made of wildsteel taken directly from the Eagle Mountains in the Far North. Perhaps, after Valyrian steel, there were no better weaponry than wildsteel.

"Good!" Val roared, congratulating her. She whirled the sword in the air, slashing with such fury that if Arya hadn't backed away in time, she would have snapped her arm in two.

Val launched herself at Arya like a huge, terrifying figure, but halfway around the circle, she stumbled in the mud of the morning dew.

Arya charged.

Val straightened up in time and swung his sword forward, swiftly defending herself against another slash that came at her out of nowhere then.

And after that, came another and another and another. From all directions.

Val was defending herself, she was only able to do that, from the savage attacks that came at her, one after another.

Arya was suddenly elated as she lashed out with both blades, trying to penetrate her instructor's defenses. A part of her knew that her instructor was holding back but the other part of her was filled with satisfaction at being able to fight.

She felt fine.

So...

"I see that you know how to defend yourself quite well, my daughter. Although aren't you being very kind, Val?" she heard a voice behind her suddenly. Arya automatically stopped herself, Needle halfway there.

Val punched her in the chest, knocking her to the ground.

Arya let out a choking sound, gasping for air for a second as she sank into the mud. "We were warming up, my lady" was Val's quick reply, sticking her greatsword into the ground, before going to help Arya up "When did you arrive? I didn't hear your mount, my lady"

Arya scrambled to her feet and looked at Val for a few seconds before looking at the figure in the white horse. Lady Catelyn watched them amusedly, her laconic face wrapped in a slight smile. Her mother seemed a northerner: she was wearing black woolen breeches tucked into high boots of black leather, with a black bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved wolf head and a black tunic with bone fastenings. It should also be noted the look of steely blue analytical eyes that gave Catelyn Stark a severe expression that was completed by reddish hair like fire, collected in a long ponytail that fell down her back.

Anyone would say that she was a purebred northern woman judging by her appearance and majesty.

"Mother," Arya spoke up, still a little flustered by Val's punch, "what are you doing here so early?"

Val walked over to the white stallion and helped her lady off the horse, holding her carefully as if she were a precious stone. Val adored lady Catelyn, too much in Arya's opinion: she had an almost fanatical loyalty to the lady of Winterfell that was not lost on anyone.

The black bearskin cloak fell to the wet ground as her lady mother climbed out, one hand on her rounded stomach. She clung to Val, and the blonde woman held her with a wide smile. They both stared at each other for a few long seconds, as if they were absorbed in something that only they both shared. "Thanks, my sword," was all lady Catelyn said, her blue eyes fixing on the woman's pale grays.

Her mother was always kind to her favorites, and Val was one of them.

Arya felt a kind of discomfort in her stomach.

Lady Catelyn then looked at her daughter, her blue eyes seeming to roam over her for a few long minutes before smiling kindly at her. Arya felt embarrassed, as if she was out of place. She was no longer the mighty warrior facing the commander of the Snowsguard, she was Arya again.

Neither said anything to each other, actually, not at the time. Her mother never talked to her much except to admonish her to do her homework and stop complaining about her. "Just because you're a lady from the north doesn't mean you should learn basic principles, Arya" her mother told her enough times that she already knew it by heart.

Lady Catelyn grinned, and messed Arya's hair with her gloved hand. Arya flushed. Despite everything—and having the same stubborn character, according to Jon—both had always been very close, even when her mother was desperate for her rustic behavior. Catelyn called her 'my little wolf' fondly, though most of the time it was 'for the love of all things, Arya Stark, behave!'

Lady Catelyn surveyed her face closely, as if making sure Arya had everything in place, and winced at the drying mud in her hair. Even though lady Catelyn accepted many Northern customs, she was still a Southerner on certain issues.

"Did something happen, mother?" she inquired again. Sometimes her mother attended her training but that hadn't happened since her mother was pregnant, what would motivate her to go visit her so early in the morning?

Lady Catelyn shook her head. For some strange reason, her smile didn't seem to reach her haggard eyes. She noticed that her mother was more emaciated. Was she sleeping well? Arya was filled with the unrelenting worry that anything could happen to her mother.

"I just want to watch your training. And make sure Val doesn't beat you up too much" was her mother's response before heading to an area under a tree, under a stone. Val obediently slung her own cloak over the stone for the pregnant lady and gently helped her to a sitting position.

After that, Val resumed training.

Arya struck again and defended herself that morning though without the same wild optimism she had before.

Robb

The final attack on Barren Oak came quite early, and it was certainly bloodshed. Robb joined it in the center ranks commanded by Lord Rickard Karstark, at Theon's side. Even though Lord Stark forbade him to fight on the frontlines, but rather to wait, Robb wanted to fight on the central lines.

Theon tried to dissuade him several times but Robb showed that he was too stubborn at times. Finally, he consented to his staying on the outskirts of the snowy hill, at a respectable distance while the battering rams tried to breach the defenses. Truth be told, Robb had been waiting for this moment. By the time he would become a man. Within the South, the age at which you became a man was sixteen, but in the North that hardly mattered: a man was one who went through the bloodbath, through the slaughter.

That was Robb's chance, and he wouldn't miss it because his father was too honorable.

Which is double standards because three hours ago you defended the right decisions of your father, who do you really hope to convince?

Robb ignored the voice in his head and his cynical thoughts and had thrown himself into the fray. And right now, as the first arrow whistled through the air, like an eagle spreading its wings, and embedded itself in the skull of the soldier to his right, who came close to death.

Robb covered himself with the long shield with the Stark symbol on it and cursed.

Barren Oak was truly a fearsome fortress not only because of its steep hills and outer walls, but because a large army of Torvug's rebels awaited them. The men under Lord Rickard tried to climb the walls with ladders armed with groves, stumbling up the steep snowy hill and carrying ropes with hooks as big as hands.

The boiling oil thrown from the fortress, however, made progress difficult.

A man fell from the stairs, falling into the void with half his face melted. Robb knew that he would have trouble sleeping that night. Two advance guards were repelled too easily so they therefore had no choice but to hope that the battering ram could reach the top.

There was no other, he thought.

Even as a young man, he understood that if Barren Oak was not taken it would only be a matter of time before word spread that Torvug was strong and could defeat the Starks. Most of Stark Far North bannermen would revolt, joining the ranks of the Free Folk bastards.

"They'll make it," Rickard Stark assured him. The imposing man was on his steed watching the retreat, as generals were supposed to do. The soldiers gave their lives, but the generals seemed to think it prudent to wait.

'It's the wisest thing'Theon told him before the brawl though that was in contradiction with his message that the best leaders always let their soldiers see them by their side.

Theon. Where was Theon? He had lost sight of him when the brawl started. Probably among the men who were holding out until the battering ram arrived.

The battering ram arrived after eight intense minutes in which the blood, the burning oil and the screams of the men intermingled in a single symphony. "There it is, my lord Robb, as I assured you" Lord Rickard celebrated.

Do it, Robb.

Robb couldn'thelp it. It was something that took control of him, as if suddenly propelling him. He didn't know he did.

He just did it.

He started running up the steep hill suddenly, shield raised high as his hand gripped the greatsword. His armor grated in his ears with each step. He heard them shouting his name, asking him to come back, calling out to him.

Do it, Robb.

The men seemed to recognize him, seeming suddenly to perk up at the sight of him. Barren Oak defenders started throwing stones but he covered himself as best he could, he and two other soldiers who made sure to raise their long shields. Robb helped with the battering ram. "Hard!" he roared with a fury and command that he never imagined he would have. Was it him speaking or did the ñangarekohára speak through him?

The heavy battering ram—with the head of a wolf—slammed into the thick door gates of the fortress. Again, attackers withdrew the battering ram about two meters and charged. It was the hardest job Robb had ever done in his short life. Even under the rain of arrows, they roared throwing the battering ram to the cry of "forward!". Finally, after long minutes of resisting, they managed to open a breach in the smaller gates.

At that point, several soldiers ended up being shot to death.

He did not want to make a comment about a squire who tried to take refuge under the battering ram, perhaps thinking that he would be safe, and he ended up crushed. Robb forced himself to push—this was the glory you sought, Robb, take it, fool!—looking away from the broken body, the smell of blood in his nostrils, and he kept pushing.

"Hardly! For the North!"

"My lord, the wall!" yelled one of the soldiers.

He looked up, noticing that at last two of the great stairs they were struggling to place had managed to position themselves at the bottom of the wall. It wasn't near the main towers or the entrance, but it might do the trick. He quickly drew his sword as he and four other soldiers ran up the stairs, another taking his place on the battering ram.

Robb would remember his first battle forever. Of the terrible fear he felt, and the adrenaline. He went up so fast, trying to avoid the arrows, seeing others being shot.

A man slipped down the stairs of the left, only to break his neck as he fell on the grass. Robb forced himself to grit his teeth, and struggled up the stairs. Raising his sword, he lunged at one of the crossbowmen.

"For the North!" he yelled, possessed suddenly by a spirit of raging frenzy, and pierced the wretched crossbowman's head clean. Would that man, his victim, be a poor devil? Did he have a family?

It doesn't matter, Robb, he's a traitor.

Robb felt the deepest, most visceral fear running through his soul, a fear that breathed life into him and suddenly became an almost pleasurable feeling. He felt like a worthy monster. He felt like a killer. He felt cruel. He felt good. And he thought of Sansa. He thought of her mother and of Jon, of Bran. He thought of Theon. And again, again, may the Old Gods forgive him, he thought of Sansa. He thought about how his father would feel.

He thought about many things while he was defending that position, gutting any rival that crossed him.

The soldiers were climbing the stairs and joining him, pouncing on his enemies. He would never admit it but he was silently grateful when one of his soldiers got ahead of him, passing very close to him; The poor man received an arrow in the eye and collapsed against the wall, falling into the void.

Robb roared, avenging the unnamed soldier, severing the crossbowman's hand before slashing him from shoulder to groin. More and more Stark soldiers managed to climb, to reach the top of the wall, but one of the stairs lost its balance and the foundations gave way, breaking.

He was surrounded by noises, screams, moans, wounded and dying, and the clash of weapons. Those of the men still alive on the wall had gathered together like bees swarming on a tree branch. Before he knew it, out of inertia, Robb started shouting orders at them, commanding them.

There was no preconceived plan.

There was no discipline that Robb could give them, only the will to live and the knowledge that they all needed each other at this time to succeed.

Robb made his way along the wall, facing off against several soldiers along the way. He was wounded twice: the first was an arrow that stuck in one of the unprotected areas of the armor, making him scream and clench his teeth; the second was a sword slash that hit his ribs, luckily the armor protected him from being cut in half but not from the pain.

The pain he experienced was intense, making him look all red. He stopped in the middle of the war field, trying to catch his breath. It was a mistake that almost cost him his life.

Moments later, the biggest man Robb had ever seen fell on him, bloody ax in hand. He barely managed to dodge it, raising his sword to defend himself. In the middle of the congested area, space was suddenly focused on Robb and the warrior with the ax.

He wore no armor but had his muscular torso tattooed in the air, powerful arms swinging to fit the ax against Robb's wooden shield. He was a red-haired man with a long beard, his face ravaged by scars—two large, gleaming seams protruding like mountain ranges appeared on the bridge of his nose and on his jaw.

The warrior lunged at Robb again, uttering a war cry like the squawk of an eagle waiting for its fill.

The tables suddenly turned.

Robb no longer had the initiative with the furious, raging attack. He was barely managing to keep his rival at a distance by wildly waving his sword in the air that hissed like a viper, but that was all. He could hardly breathe and his heart was beating hurriedly as if he were going to jump out of her chest. Over and over he felt the impact of man's ax blows on his shield until it simply cracked. Robb took two steps back, exposed.

The ax rose into the air and Robb watched life go by.

You lied to me, he thought to himself. Harry, you lied to me. You said I would be king and I would lead my people. Now I will just die.

Then the barbarian stopped, ax in the high. Blood began to gush from his lips. Robb looked at the bloody sword that was born to the enemy from his stomach. He barely thought about it.

Gathering forward, sword in hand, he did what Ser Rodrik and Greatjon had taught him. Just a slice. Always to the space located between chin and neck, with the sword at an angle. He cried, and the red-haired warrior's head fell to the ground.

The huge body fell to the ground against the side of the wall, and Robb saw Theon standing with sword in hand. Greyjoy was wounded and bloodied but he was alive. quite alive. They exchanged a look before Theon bent down to pick up the dead man's head.

"Lord Robb killed Lord Torvug!" the ironborn roared, rearing his head on the other side of the wall. He didn't seem to care about the arrows flying in all directions. Many of the rebels seemed demoralized to see their commander dead, and the loyalists were filled with renewed impetus.

Robb watched as more soldiers came up the stairs. The gates of the fortress also gave way.

Robb held the sword up in the air. "For the North! For the North! Let's finish them all!" he yelled into the air, before swinging his sword. His body was wounded, but he made up his mind to continue.

— —

The Battle of Oak Barren would go down in history as a simple rebellion that had been crushed at the hands of the then heir to the Starks. It would go on to be one of the many wars Robb the Black Wolf would go through in his lifetime, one of the smallest of his.

However, for Robb it was not like that at the time.

For him, the Barren Oak siege became a nightmare scenario, which would remain embedded in his memory until he died.

The war wasn't just a game, as he joked so many times.

It wasn't like sword training as he thought, it wasn't something to be laughed at, it wasn't something to be proud of.

It was a real slaughter.

Corpses and dying lay everywhere, in the snow, on the walls, confusing its members like driftwood. The ravens had perched on the faces of the corpses and gouged out their eyes with their beaks. The weapons appeared scattered on the ground, as well as the bodies of the men, between the cries of the wounded and the stench of such carnage.

The snowy ground was soaked in blood and everywhere; until where the eye could see the same spectacle was repeated.

"This is glory?" he said to himself, sitting on the top of the hill. His lost gaze wandered across the field. The air was thick with the stench of dead bodies.

There was no heroic grandeur to be seen, only the awful horror of what had happened. At that moment he realized that he would never look at the world with an innocent gaze again: life had changed for him.

This wasn't glory, Robb, you just got your people to have one more day.

He touched the bandages that covered his arms and looked up at the setting sky. He felt tired and dizzy, annoyed with himself. "What was the point of all that?" he growled under his breath to himself. He looked at his hands.

The bloodbath made you a man and taught you that war is one of the crudest paths that can be taken. Still, will you deny me that you are not proud of yourself right now, slayer of rebels?

Rob was silent.

He thought of his family.

On Jon, especially. His brother was more down to earth, down to earth… Jon probably always knew the cruelty that encompassed war and what it brought to the soul of men. War had never been a game. Theon had understood that long ago but Robb...

He muttered under his breath.

Worst of all, he felt bad... and he also felt satisfied, as if every death of the day had increased his self-morale.

Without knowing why, he remembered Lord Hoster's visit to Winterfell, months ago. His fatherlord had thrown a banquet to celebrate the arrival of his father-in-law. Robb remembered the drink, the happy music, the joy... all so far removed from cruelty. Perhaps Robb had spent most of his life blinded by youthful foolishness? Perhaps he had been so absorbed in training that he had forgotten how to get things done?

He felt foolish.

And, foolish as he was, he thought of Sansa.

He thought about what she was wearing that night, less than six months ago. She went as a being of light, the purest thing to be found in the North. Although she was young, and portrayed a certain serious and focused demeanor, she always had such a sweet and endearing look that melted Robb's heart.

That day she wore blue-dyed linen, with tiny stars embroidered around her neck and the hem of her dress. Her red hair was so silky that it shone like crackling fire, and she was so slender and delicate. He felt dirty thinking of her that way. So monstrous... he frowned. Their grandfather, the good Lord Hoster, had brought a bard who had spoken of the joy of courtly love and happiness.

Robb, brooding in the snowy field full of the dead, thought that his kind of love for his sister was far from anything courteous and happy: it was a sin that shattered his insides. A terrible anxiety invaded him.

He admitted that what he missed most about Winterfell was not his mother or his other siblings, but Sansa. He had missed Sansa too much.

Would she missed him?

What would his family say if he knew that he loved her sister, that he loved her since she was twelve?

His father would look at him with disgust, he would disown him. The bannermen would demand his banishment. All Westeros would rush against him... and what would become of Sansa?

What would become of his fiery-haired lady?

There is nothing to complain about, there is nothing that should eat away at your conscience, Robb. You have done no wrong

Robb gave a weak smile and ran a hand through his hair.

Theon found him staring blankly into space. "Your lord father will wish to speak with you tomorrow, today he feels too tired to talk" the Greyjoy said, and handed him an overflowing mug of beer.

The Stark heir watched him and took the mug. His friend was tired, hurt, but he didn't seem really eaten up by the cruelty of the fight. Robb felt a bitter weight on his chest, and nodded slowly.

He didn't feel like talking.

Theon sat down next to him.

None of them said anything, they just watched the battlefield. Inside the fortress, the Stark forces celebrated their victory against the fierce rebels.

"The first time the armies meet, my brother, when the bloodbath occurs, it changes your soul" Theon finally spoke. "Everything you were taught is worthless when you have to fight for your life and what you believe in. That's what makes you a man."

Robb immediately thought of the words of the spirit inside his head. You must first mature tomorrow.

That's what Harry meant then, right?

You must first mature tomorrow, first you must see things as they are. First you have to stop being so stupid. You must think first. You must first be a man before this. You must learn first.

"The rebels weren't monsters," he said then, muttering the words grimly. He dropped the beer mug, spilling the liquid onto the snow. "They were hungry peasants, farmers"

Theon focused his eyes on him, "yes".

"And this war has only served to make us weak, taking away our own reserves even more. Just because we've been fighting too much and we're not really united. There will be more wars to come."

More Torvugs would come, more Free Folks, more hunger would come. Not just for peasants but for virtuous lords like Lord Melwas Thenn and for the Starks. More chaos would come, more separation. More bloodbath, Robb.

Together we can end all wars, all suffering. We can bring unity to this region, we can create a land where your brothers, where Sansa, can live in peace. But it will be a rocky road and there is still much to learn. You have to learn many things and see the Goddess firsthand. Only you can do that. Not the you that you are now but the you that you can become.

Perhaps he was too tired and upset, but suddenly Harry didn't seem so bad. Maybe, just maybe he wasn't the monster he thought he was.

"We'll try to change that" he muttered to himself.

"Sorry?" Theon wiped the beer from his lips and looked at him. Robb's green eyes looked at the ironborn with determination, as if he weighed it.

"Maybe I should stop being so stupid" was his answer.

He didn't trust Harry but he didn't trust himself either. However, he was sure that his mistakes would not be repeated. He was going to do what he had to do.

So far the first chapter of this story. Tell me the opinions of this and what do you think. What should I improve? Do you have any questions about this lore? Any suggestion? Feel free to comment! I would like to know what you think of my work.

So far we have seen how the story has developed and how the worldbuilding of the North and Westeros has been established and the various changes. Certain facts have had more background and certain things could be explained, such as the marriage of Ned and Catelyn.

In addition, we have been developing the North through the eyes of Arya. What do you think of the Snowguard? And what about the situation in the North? And especially, what do you think of this strange Harry? Also, just as importantly, what do you think of Daenerys and her apparent mīsio?

This chapter has been a transition of Robb getting a little deeper into his inner character, developing and falling into the harsh reality of the violence of war. Right now, because of his foolishness, he has almost died and screwed up. In addition, we have seen that he has certain uncomfortable secrets that cook his mind and try to retain. And we will see more of Daenerys, too.

From the next chapter the plot will begin to twist and become more complex and strange, so I warn that there will be many topics that can be uncomfortable or bizarre.

By the way, I'm going to post a new chapter every month to make sure I make them longer and longer (I want the following chapters to be 10,000 to 20,000 words, give or take).

— —

Reviews:

Hadrian Caesar: Robb, as you can see, suffered a very heavy blow from medieval reality and is willing to try to improve things in his own way... even if things don't turn out the way he hopes. Harry will be a very important part of Robb, especially because of his knowledge, but our Stark will do everything possible not to be infected by the fanaticism and madness that he gives off… however, I point out that Robb is too young and inexperienced and in some ways arrogant as only a young man can be.

J: the couples are not yet decided although I have several ideas in mind. Any pairing is possible, however.

ThirdCabinBoy: Thank you for reading! I know that this Harry probably clashes a lot with the idea that many people (I include myself) have embodied in the canon character. I decided to create a completely different dark character than usual, even if he doesn't consider himself a bad person. As the chapters pass, we will see the background and more characteristics of the character.

Foxydope794: Thanks for your review! I hope you love this chapter too :)