The King in the North

The morning light, sharp and unforgiving, cast long shadows across the training yard. Robb Stark winced as he watched one of Ser Rodrik's new recruits. The young man, no older than sixteen, gripped his sword like a farmer's scythe, the blade angled dangerously close to his own leg. He shuffled awkwardly in his ill-fitting leather armor, the breastplate several sizes too large, causing it to clank against his knees with each hesitant step. Ser Rodrik, his face a mask of weary patience, attempted to demonstrate a basic sword thrust, but the recruit's eyes darted nervously around the yard, seemingly more concerned with tripping over his own feet than with the lesson at hand. Another recruit, attempting to parry, nearly dropped his shield, the worn leather creaking ominously. The sound echoed across the yard, drawing snickers from a group of seasoned guards drilling nearby. Robb sighed. These are the men who are supposed to defend the North?

Robb turned away from the training yard, his gaze drifting towards Winter Town. Even from this distance, the disarray was evident. The streets, little more than muddy tracks, were rutted and uneven. A cart, laden with firewood, struggled to navigate a particularly deep pothole, its wheels spinning in the thick mud. Near the town's gate, a cluster of ramshackle buildings leaned against each other for support, their thatched roofs sagging precariously. Smoke from poorly maintained hearths drifted lazily into the air, mingling with the stench of open sewers that ran alongside the streets. Even the sound of the town was chaotic – the shouts of merchants hawking their wares, the cries of children playing in the mud, the incessant barking of dogs – a cacophony that spoke of disorder and a lack of planning. Robb frowned. Winter Town had the potential to be a thriving hub, but instead, it languished, choked by its own disorganization. This needs to change.

He returned his attention to the maps and ledgers spread across the table in the solar, the documents a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Each one represented a piece of his vision for the North's future, a future where awkward recruits became disciplined soldiers and muddy tracks transformed into proper streets. Fenrir lay at his feet, the direwolf's green eyes following each speaker in turn. Outside, the sounds of training in the yard filtered up—steel on steel, shouts and commands, the daily rhythm of Winterfell. It was this very contrast, the potential versus the reality, that strengthened his resolve.

"Twenty-one thousand gold dragons," Robb began, his finger tapping the ledger before him. "Sitting in our vaults, growing nothing but dust. The North needs more than stored wealth, Father. It needs circulation—gold flowing through the hands of our people." He paused, watching another recruit nearly drop his shield. "And it needs proper defenders."

Ned Stark studied his son's face, noting the determination in his eyes. The boy he'd raised was becoming a man, and more than that, a leader. "Speak your mind, Robb."

"First, we need a standing army." Robb stood, moving to the map of the North spread across the table. "Our current system relies too heavily on peasant levies—farmers and craftsmen called to war with minimal training and poor equipment. They die in droves while better-armed and trained soldiers survive. I've seen the reports from the last three wars. For every nobleman or trained soldier who falls, we lose twenty smallfolk."

He pulled out a stack of old battle reports, spreading them across the table. "Look here—the Battle of the Trident. Of the thousand Northern casualties, eight hundred were peasant levies. The Battle of Seagard—similar numbers. Even in victory, we lose too many good men simply because they never had a chance to learn proper warfare."

"The lords provide their household guards," Luwin observed, though his tone suggested he was more curious than critical.

"And therein lies another problem," Robb continued, pulling out another document. "I've compiled reports from every major house in the North. The quality of these guards varies wildly. The Umbers maintain a professional force, well-trained and disciplined. The Karstarks do similarly well. But others..." He shook his head. "Some lords can barely afford to equip their men. Others hire anyone who can swing a sword, with little thought to training or discipline."

He moved to a large organizational chart he'd prepared. "I propose creating an army that answers only to Winterfell. Professional soldiers, properly trained and equipped. The proposed army will be organized into a hierarchical structure for maximum effectiveness. At the base, we have squads of ten led by a squad leader. Twenty squads comprise a finger (200 men) commanded by a captain, and five fingers form a fist (1000 men) under a Fist commander. "

Robb pulled out detailed payment schedules. "Five silver stags per day for regular soldiers. Ten for captains, Twenty for commanders. Monthly wages, paid regularly. Death benefits for their families—continued housing, education for their children, pensions for widows."

"The cost..." Luwin began, but Robb was ready.

"Will be significant, yes. The initial outlay for one thousand men would be approximately 150,000 silver stags per month, or about 7,500 gold dragons per year. But consider the returns." He produced another document. "Every copper we spend on salaries and equipment flows back into the North's economy. The soldiers spend their wages in Winter Town's shops and taverns. Their families need houses, clothes, food. The armorsmiths and weaponsmiths need apprentices and materials."

Robb moved to a detailed blueprint of proposed training grounds. "We'll need proper facilities. I propose building them here," he pointed to an area just outside Winter Town's current limits. "Ten training yards, each designed for different types of combat. Archery ranges, cavalry grounds, even a siege warfare practice area. Separate barracks for each Fist, plus officer quarters, medical facilities, and storage for supplies."

Ned studied the plans carefully. "And the training itself?"

"Every soldier begins with six months of basic training," Robb explained. "Physical conditioning, weapons proficiency, unit tactics. Then they choose a specialization—infantry, cavalry, archery. Another six months of specialized training follows."

He pulled out a training schedule. "Daily routine: Morning physical training, weapons practice before noon, tactical studies after lunch, unit drills in the afternoon. One day per week devoted to maintenance of equipment and facilities. Regular assessments to ensure standards are maintained."

"The equipment?" Luwin inquired.

"Standardized," Robb replied firmly. "No more men going to war with farming tools or handed-down armor that doesn't fit."

"Open recruitment, but with strict standards," Robb answered. "Applicants must pass physical trials and demonstrate basic literacy. We'll accept men from sixteen to thirty-five, provided they meet our requirements. Regular assessments during training—those who can't maintain standards will be dismissed with a month's pay."

Robb moved to the map of Winter Town, now marked with proposed expansions and improvements. "The army is just the beginning. Winter Town needs to grow—not just in size, but in capability. The new wall I'm proposing will encompass this entire area." His hand traced a wide circle that would more than quintuple the town's current size.

"The wall itself will be thirty feet high, ten feet thick at the base, tapering to six feet at the top. Wide enough for defenders to walk four abreast along the battlements. Towers every hundred yards, each equipped with storage and shelter for guards. The foundation will be dug ten feet deep and filled with stone to prevent undermining."

He pointed to various areas on the map. "The town will be divided into districts. Here, the military quarter with the training grounds and barracks. Here, a smiths' quarter with forges and workshops. A merchants' quarter near the main gates. Residential areas will be planned with proper streets and sewerage."

Pulling out detailed street plans, he continued, "Every road will be properly cobbled and graded for drainage. No more mud and ice in winter. Underground sewers will replace the open gutters. We'll need quarries opened for stone, timber harvested for buildings, iron smelted for tools and fixtures."

"The cost of such works..." Luwin began.

"Will be immense," Robb agreed. "But again, consider where the money goes. We'll need thousands of workers—masons, carpenters, smiths, laborers. Each paid a fair wage, each spending their earnings in the town. We'll need materials—stone, wood, iron, clay for bricks. That means work for quarries, lumberjacks, miners, brickmakers."

When the council ended and Luwin had departed with his notes, Ned lingered. He watched his son gathering the various documents, noting how methodically Robb organized everything. Not just a warrior or a lord, but an administrator too.

"You understand what you're proposing?" Ned asked quietly. "Not just buildings and soldiers, but a fundamental change to how the North operates. For thousands of years, our strength has come from the bonds between lords and smallfolk, each knowing their place and duties."

Robb met his father's gaze. "The world is changing, Father. The old ways served us well, but they won't serve our children. The South grows richer and more populous every year. The Free Cities expand their influence. We can either shape our future or have it shaped for us."

"And you believe this is the way?"

"I believe it's a beginning." Robb's voice was firm but respectful. "Look at what the ice trade has already shown us. When we give our people opportunities, they seize them. When we invest in their skills, they exceed our expectations. The North remembers, Father—but it must also grow."

Ned was silent for a long moment, then smiled slightly. "Your grandfather would have opposed this, you know. He believed in the old ways, in tradition above all."

"And what do you believe, Father?"

"I believe..." Ned paused, choosing his words carefully, "that every generation must find its own path. Your grandfather faced his challenges. I faced mine. Now you must face yours." He placed a hand on Robb's shoulder.