The King in the North

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Missed a chapter on Saturday, so this one is longer.

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Henry pulled his woolen tunic close, breathing in the crisp pre-dawn air. The clothes from Winter's Kitchen still carried the faint scent of soap and warmth - a stark contrast to the tattered rags he'd arrived in days ago.

Through Winter Town's empty streets, his footsteps echoed against cobblestones. No merchants called their wares, no children darted between buildings. Even the taverns stood silent. Only the occasional guard's torch flickered in the distance.

He flexed his fingers, remembering the iron grip of his father's sword as they fought the ironborn. The raiders had taken everything - home, family, hope. But here, in the growing light of dawn, Henry found purpose again.

"Hold the line, son!" His father's voice echoed in his memory. Henry could still see his father's face, determined yet afraid as the ironborn longships appeared on the horizon. The village bell had rung frantically that morning, just as it had for generations - but never before to signal an attack. By sunset, that bell lay silent, half-melted in the ashes of the village sept.

Soon, the training yard came into view, its wooden gates already drawing clusters of recruits. Some wore fine leather boots and pressed tunics, others wore worn but warm clothes like his own. Their breath formed clouds in the cold morning air.

Henry straightened his back and squared his shoulders. The path ahead would test him - he'd seen the exhaustion on returning recruits' faces, heard tales of the ruthless drills. But he'd survived worse. The gnawing hunger during his journey north. The biting cold that nearly claimed his fingers. The nightmares of screaming villagers that still haunted his sleep.

He adjusted the rough-spun breeches one final time, making sure the ties were secure. Whatever challenges lay ahead in the Northern army, Henry would face them. He would earn his place here, same as any northerner.

The first rays of sunlight crept over the yard as Henry strode toward the gathering recruits. Behind him, a rooster finally crowed out to greet the dawn.

Henry found himself in the third row of recruits, wedged between a lanky youth with straw-colored hair and a broad-shouldered man whose beard showed the first traces of grey. The morning chill bit through his clothes as they shuffled into formation.

"First day?" the lanky youth whispered, eyes darting nervously around the yard.

"Aye," Henry replied. "You?"

"Third. Name's Tormund. Baker's son from Winter Town."

"Henry. Fisherman's village near Old Oak."

Further conversation was cut short as a gruff-faced man with iron-grey hair stalked before them, his weathered leather armor creaking with each step. Scars marked his face and arms - testament to battles won and lost.

"I am Ser Willem, your training master. You stand here dreaming of glory, of earning your place among the North's finest." His voice carried across the yard. "But first, you'll learn the meaning of discipline. Thirty laps around this yard. Now."

The formation dissolved as recruits surged forward. Henry's legs moved before his mind caught up, falling into rhythm beside the grey-bearded man. Their boots thundered against the packed earth, kicking up small clouds of dust.

Henry matched his stride to the steady drum of feet around him. The yard stretched longer than expected - each corner forcing him to adjust his pace. His village had been small enough to circle in half the distance.

By the third lap, the initial cluster had spread thin. Those who'd rushed ahead now gasped for breath, their proud shoulders slumping. The grey-beard beside Henry wheezed but maintained his pace.

"Pace yourself, lad," the older man grunted. "Northern battles aren't sprints. We hold the line against wildlings for hours in knee-deep snow."

Sweat began to bead on Henry's forehead despite the morning chill. His legs settled into a familiar burn, like the long days spent hauling lumber with his father. He focused on the back of the recruit ahead, counting each lap under his breath.

The sun climbed higher as they ran. Some recruits had already slowed down to a walk, earning sharp glares from Ser Willem. But Henry pressed on, one foot after another, the rhythm of his breathing keeping time with each step.

Henry's legs burned with each step, his weakened body protesting the strain. The weeks of near-starvation had taken their toll - muscles that once easily hauled timber now trembled with exhaustion. His lungs felt like they might burst.

The day the ironborn came flooded back to him - running through burning buildings, searching for his mother. His lungs had burned then too, filled with smoke and fear. He'd run until his legs gave out, only to be dragged to safety by his father. His father who had gone back for the others and never returned.

He dropped from a run to a steady jog, focusing on the rhythm of his feet against dirt. Other recruits passed him, their faces red with exertion. More fell behind, some doubled over retching.

When his legs threatened to give out, Henry slowed to a walk. The grey-bearded man who'd run beside him earlier now stumbled past, determination etched into his weathered face. Henry matched his pace, one foot dragging after the other.

His vision blurred. Sweat soaked through his tunic despite the morning chill. But he wouldn't stop. He couldn't. Each step brought memories of his father's words. "A man finishes what he starts."

"Hold!" Ser Willem's command cut through the haze of exhaustion.

Henry's legs buckled. Around him, recruits collapsed onto the ground, chests heaving. Some lay spread-eagle in the dirt, others hunched over on hands and knees. They'd done it. They'd completed the laps.

Relief flooded through Henry's aching body - until Ser Willem's voice shattered the moment.

"Thirty pushups! Now!"

A collective groan rose from the recruits. Henry's arms shook as he dropped into position, his stomach clenching at the thought of more exertion.

His arms trembled as he pushed through another set of drills. Around him, faces twisted with determination - a merchant's son from White Harbor, gritting his teeth through sword forms; a shepherd boy whose family needed the army's wages; a miller who'd lost everything to bandits.

Their reasons differed, but their goal remained the same. Each time Henry's muscles screamed for rest, he drew strength from the others. When the shepherd boy stumbled during footwork practice, Henry extended a helping hand. When the miller struggled with his shield positioning, others stepped in to adjust his stance.

Ser Willem barked commands that sent them charging across the yard, ducking under swinging logs, and crawling through mud. Yet none quit. Henry watched a young noble drop his proud demeanor, accepting advice from a fisherman's daughter on proper spear technique.

"Shield wall!" Ser Willem shouted after their brief water break. "Form up!"

Chaos erupted as recruits scrambled to arrange themselves. Henry found his place in the second row, sandwiched between Tormund and a stocky farmer.

"Shields up! Lock together! No gaps!"

Henry raised his wooden practice shield, feeling its weight pull at his shoulder. The edge of his shield overlapped with his neighbor's, creating a solid barrier. Behind him, he felt the presence of the third row, their shields partially covering his back.

"The shield wall is the North's strength!" Ser Willem paced before them. "Not fancy Southron knights with their tournaments and pretty armor. Northern men, standing shoulder to shoulder against wildlings, ironborn, or worse!"

He demonstrated the proper angling of shields, how each man protected not just himself but his comrades on either side. They practiced advancing as a unit, keeping their formation tight despite the uneven ground.

"When the Free Folk come over the Wall, they don't fight fair," Ser Willem continued. "They'll look for gaps, weak points. One break in the line and men die. Your shield protects your brother as much as yourself."

The sun climbed high overhead as they drilled. Sweat soaked through padded armor, turning dust to grime on their skin. Henry's body ached in places he never knew could hurt. But each time his resolve wavered, he caught sight of others pushing through their own exhaustion - the grey-beard from earlier now teaching a stable boy how to properly grip a sword, another sharing tips on keeping balance during shield work.

"Pass that water skin, would you?" Tormund slumped beside Henry during their brief rest. "Gods, my arms feel like pudding."

Henry handed over his water, watching as the baker's son gulped greedily.

"You're handling the drills well," Henry observed. "Better than most."

Tormund wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Kneading dough builds strength. Though I never thought I'd trade my father's bakery for a sword." He passed the water skin back. "What about you? Fisherman's village, you said?"

"Aye. Until the ironborn came." Henry took a small sip, rationing what remained. "Nothing left to go back to now."

The grey-bearded man settled heavily beside them. "Name's Garret," he offered without prompting. "Fought in the Rebellion, if you can believe it. Too old for this nonsense, but my farm's gone fallow."

"Henry," he replied, extending the water. "And this is Tormund."

"I know who you lads are," Garret chuckled, accepting the drink. "Been watching. You've got good form, Henry. Steady. Reliable. The kind men want beside them when arrows start flying."

Before Henry could respond, Ser Willem's voice boomed across the yard once more.

"Break's over! Spear drills!"

When Ser Willem finally called an end to training, Henry collapsed alongside his fellow recruits. Their chests heaved in unison, bodies sprawled in the dirt. But through the exhaustion, Henry saw something new in their eyes - pride, purpose, belonging. Tomorrow they would return, stronger for having endured together.

"Same time tomorrow," Tormund groaned, helping Henry to his feet. "Supposedly tomorrow they teach us the Northern cavalry flanking techniques."

"If we can still walk," Garret added with a wheezing laugh.

Henry nodded, muscles screaming in protest as he stood. But despite the pain, he felt something he hadn't experienced since before the raid - hope. He had comrades now. A purpose. And perhaps someday soon, the skills to ensure what happened to his village never happened again.

*****

As the recruits departed with aching limbs and newfound camaraderie, the training yard gradually emptied. Weapons were returned to racks, shields stacked, and water barrels replenished for tomorrow's session. The day's activities had transformed the space—boot prints crisscrossed the packed earth, while areas near the practice dummies showed signs of intense use.

The sun began its descent toward the western horizon. Guards changed shifts along the battlements, and the sounds of the evening meal being prepared drifted from the kitchens. It was in this transitional hour that Robb Stark arrived to inspect the training grounds, Fenrir padding silently at his side.

Robb wiped sweat from his brow as he crossed the training yard, his muscles still burning from Ser Rodrik's drills. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the packed dirt where fresh boot prints marked the recruits' earlier exercises.

Ser Willem stood near the weapon racks, methodically checking and organizing the practice swords. His weathered face broke into a slight smile as Robb approached.

"How did they fare today?" Robb gestured toward the now-empty yard.

"Better than expected, my lord. Even the scrawny ones pushed through." Willem set down a blunted blade. 

"No one quit?"

"Not a single one. They're a determined lot." Willem's eyes crinkled. "Give me three months, and I'll have proper soldiers for you. They may not match the Bear Islanders yet, but they've got the spirit for it."

Robb nodded, pleased. "The other trainers reported the same. Though Ser Rodrik had choice words about some of the noble recruits."

"Aye, heard about that mess." Willem chuckled. "But seems the troublemakers have cleared out now. Amazing what a few days of real training will do to sort the wheat from the chaff."

"Good. We need soldiers who'll stand together, regardless of birth."

"You'll have them, my lord. These ones - they understand what they're fighting for. I see it in their eyes."

"What techniques are you focusing on with the new recruits?" Robb asked, examining the worn practice shields.

"Shield wall formations primarily," Willem replied. "The Northern style—tight, disciplined blocks that can hold against wildling charges or ironborn raids. Tomorrow we begin spear work behind the shields." He demonstrated the stance with an imaginary weapon. "It's not the flashy swordplay they hoped for, but it's what keeps men alive."

"And for the recruits showing more promise?"

"Those with natural skill, will train on flanking maneuvers. We will teach them to hit from angles, use the terrain. Your father always says Northmen should fight like the North itself—harsh, unyielding, and full of unexpected dangers."

Robb walked the perimeter of the training yard, Fenrir padding silently beside him. The setting sun painted everything in deep orange hues as he observed the scattered equipment and churned earth from the day's drills.

A familiar figure caught his attention - Lyanna Mormont crossed the yard, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. His heart quickened at the sight of her.

"Your new army's shaping up well." Lyanna fell into step beside him. "Even Dacey's impressed, though she won't admit it openly."

"High praise from a Mormont." Robb's hand found hers naturally now, their fingers intertwining. "How are the Bear Island recruits adjusting?"

"They've taken to teaching the others how to fight with shorter weapons. Useful for when you're outsized by your opponent." Her grey eyes sparkled with pride. "Though some of your noble boys still can't accept being bested by women."

"They'll learn, or they'll leave." Robb squeezed her hand. "We need warriors who care more about skill than status."

Fenrir bumped his massive head against Lyanna's leg, demanding attention. She scratched behind his ears with her free hand, earning a contented rumble from the direwolf.

"Your wolf's grown quite fond of me." 

"He's not the only one." The words slipped out before Robb could stop them. Heat crept up his neck as Lyanna turned to face him.

"Is that so, Lord Stark?" A smile played at her lips. "And here I thought you were just keeping me around for my fighting skills."

"Well, those are impressive too." Robb grinned, pulling her closer. 

Their lips met in a gentle kiss, sweeter than their first in the godswood. When they parted, Lyanna's cheeks were flushed pink in the fading light.

"When this army is fully formed," Lyanna said, her voice turning serious as they continued walking, "what do you plan for it? Your father has kept peace in the North for years without a standing force."

Robb considered her question carefully. "It's not just about fighting. A united Northern army means we rely less on individual house levies, and can take care of bandits and raiders faster. It also gives us strength if—" he hesitated, "—if what that Night's Watch deserter said was true."

"About the White Walkers?" Lyanna's expression grew solemn. "My mother says the old stories always held truth."

"I don't know what to believe yet," Robb admitted. "But I do know the North should be ready for whatever comes—whether it's ironborn raiders, southern threats, or... something worse beyond the Wall. And a trained army can also help rebuild roads, construct fortifications, even assist during harsh winters."

Lyanna nodded thoughtfully. "Bear Island has always trained all its people—men and women alike. It's why we've survived despite being half the size of other houses." She squeezed his hand. 

"We should head in before your siblings spot us again." Lyanna smirked. "I hear Rickon's quite the spy."

"Don't remind me." Robb groaned, remembering the dinner table revelations. "Arya still won't stop making kissing noises whenever she sees me."