Chapter 3

Benjamin woke to the unfamiliar feel of a rough, straw-filled mattress beneath him and the chill of the Northern air creeping into his bones. He blinked against the morning light filtering through the small window, his mind still adjusting to the reality of his new surroundings. The room was sparse, with just the bare essentials—a stark contrast to the opulent accommodations he was used to.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside, carrying a tray. She was plump, with auburn hair and a nervous smile. Benjamin's eyes roamed over her, appreciating her beauty and the simplicity of her attire.

"Good morning, ser," she said, her voice soft and demure. "Lord Stark has invited you to break your fast with his family."

Benjamin's gaze lingered on her a moment too long, his eyes tracing the curve of her figure. She blushed under his scrutiny, looking away quickly.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "What's your name?"

"Alys," she replied, still avoiding his eyes. "I'll show you to the Great Hall when you're ready."

Benjamin swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, towering over her. "Lead the way, Alys."

The Great Hall of Winterfell was bustling with activity as servants moved about, setting up for the morning meal. At the high table, Eddard Stark and his family were already seated. As Benjamin entered, all eyes turned toward him.

Eddard rose to greet him. "Benjamin, please join us," he said, gesturing to an empty seat. "This is my family."

Benjamin was surprised the man didn't hold resentment after his attitude yesterday. He's either different from what he expected a 'lord' to be, or just very forgiving.

Benjamin nodded to each in turn: Lady Catelyn, a woman of regal bearing; Robb, the eldest son with a serious demeanor; Sansa, a girl on the brink of womanhood, poised and proper; Arya, her wild spirit barely contained; Bran, eyes wide with curiosity; and little Rickon, who clung to his mother's side.

"Mornin'," Benjamin said, taking his seat. Lady Catelyn Stark frowned at his lack of decorum. He noticed Arya staring at him openly, her curiosity unfiltered. 

"You're a soldier?" she asked bluntly, ignoring the disapproving look from her mother.

"Yeah, something like that," Benjamin replied with a grin. "I've seen my share of battles."

"Where do you come from?" Robb asked, his tone more guarded.

"Greatest country in the world, America," Benjamin said, keeping his answers vague. "A place.... very different from here."

As they ate, Benjamin couldn't help but notice the simplicity of the meal—bread, cheese, some salted meat. It was a far cry from the lavish spreads he was accustomed to, but he ate heartily, appreciating the effort. He would need to speak with the cooks, or maybe start his very own resturant, hmm.

Eddard watched him closely. "You handle yourself well in a fight," he said. "Roderick spoke highly of your skills."

"Years of training," Benjamin replied, confidently spouting bullshit while puffing out his chest slightly. "And a bit of natural talent."

Sansa, ever the proper lady, tried to steer the conversation to lighter topics, asking about his home and the customs there. Benjamin gave guarded answers, his charm earning a few smiles despite the tension.

Arya, still fixated on him, asked, "Can you show me some moves?"

"Arya," Catelyn scolded gently, "that's not appropriate." Benjamin could only shake his head while glancing at the pair. Her mother had a stick up her ass and around the corner, and her kid has an obsession with fighting. A perfect match doesn't exist, they say.

Benjamin chuckled. "Maybe later, kid. You got spirit." As the meal went on, he observed the family dynamics. Eddard's authority was clear, but it was tempered by the warmth and respect of his children. It made him slightly envious of the children. He wishes he had a father figure like that when he was also a boy, but time moves in one direction. Oh well.

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After breakfast, Benjamin decided to explore Winterfell. The cold air bit at his face as he stepped out into the courtyard. The fortress was impressive, its stone walls thick and imposing. But it was the people who intrigued him most.

He walked through the bustling marketplace, observing the traders and craftsmen plying their trades. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the scent of leather and iron. He saw children playing in the snow, their laughter a stark contrast to the hard lives of their parents.

Benjamin couldn't help but notice the lack of modern conveniences. There were no streetlights, no carriages—just wooden carts and horses. The people dressed in heavy furs and wool, their faces weathered by the harsh climate.

He witnessed the Starks' bannermen arriving, greeted with respect and camaraderie by the Stark household. Men like Greatjon Umber and Roose Bolton, formidable in their own right, commanded attention and deference.

"These people live hard lives," Benjamin muttered to himself. "Tough as nails."

Curiosity led him to a local tavern, the warmth and noise inside a welcome respite from the cold. He took a seat at the bar, ordering a drink and listening to the conversations around him. The room was filled with the sounds of laughter, clinking mugs, and the occasional outburst of song.

As he sipped his ale, he noticed a group of Northern soldiers eyeing him from a corner table. One of them, a burly man with a beard, finally stood and approached him.

"You're the stranger Roderick brought in," the man said, his tone accusatory. "What are you doing in Winterfell?"

"Just passing through," Benjamin replied evenly, not liking the man's tone.

"Doesn't look like it," the soldier sneered. "We don't take kindly to outsiders causing trouble."

Benjamin's eyes narrowed. "Listen shit face, if you're looking for a fight, you'll get one."

The soldier's friends had gathered around by now, forming a semi-circle. "Let's see what you're made of, then," the burly man challenged, cracking his knuckles. "Cunt."

Benjamin sighed, setting his drink down. "Fine. Your funeral."

The first punch was thrown, but Benjamin dodged it easily, his reflexes honed by his enhanced abilites. He countered with a swift jab to the soldier's jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. Another soldier lunged at him with a knife, but Benjamin blocked the attack with his shield, slamming its edge into the man's face, and breaking his nose with a sickening crunch.

Two more soldiers rushed him from either side. Benjamin ducked under one wild swing, grabbing the attacker by the arm and twisting it until he heard a pop. The man screamed in pain as Benjamin kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him crashing into a table. The other soldier hesitated, eyes wide with fear, but Benjamin gave him no chance to retreat. He delivered a brutal punch to the man's throat, dropping him gasping to the ground.

"Come on, boys! Is that all you got?" he taunted, a cocky grin on his face. "The Nazis weren't this pathetic!"

Within moments, the floor was littered with groaning, bloodied soldiers. Benjamin stood over them, breathing hard but unscathed, his shield still firmly in hand. The tavern had fallen silent, all eyes on the stranger who had just bested some of the North's toughest men.

"Anyone else?" Benjamin asked, his voice cutting through the silence. When no one responded, he turned and walked out, leaving the tavern in stunned quiet.