The lady Catelyn Stark nee Tully stood at the windowsill overlooking the whole of Winterfell. Behind her was the Septa, a woman of faith of the seven. She believed in the seven gods. In her hand was hanker chief she was sowing. Down below at the courtyard was a young man supporting long hair that was tied to the back, wearing a brown tunic with dyed blue long-sleeve linen shirt, at the cuffs was blood. Over his shoulder was a large deer. A smile adorned his face as he spoke to some of the guards' men who were asking for his guidance. "Rickard of the cursed eyes." Looking away, she turned around, walked back to her seat, and gathered her sowing things.
Lord Eddard stark warden of the north, the silent wolf they called him, for his silent nature, Rickard was much like his father in that manner. Even as a child., he would exclude himself in things that he found too immature, Jon and Robb would at times play together when the lady Catelyn was not watching. However, Rickard was always distracted, always leaning toward Ser Rodrick; he was a young man of thirty and five when the boy took to him like a second father. And he never once called his true father Lord Stark by his appropriate title of a parent. Jon was willing to call him father; however, Rickard did not. He called him Lord Stark. Unlike most children who resented chores, Rickard enjoyed them. When asked why he loved doing the work, he said something about "Understanding the small things and the humility it brings to him." Even young. He was a wise boy with the mind of an old man. Jon and Robb were given their lessons by measter Luwin. However, when it came to Rickard. The boy opted to spend the time in the library by himself, locking everyone out. He was a secluded child, and it seemed he thrived in it. Lying next to his lady wife. Eddard mentioned how the boys lack of emotional connection to his brothers worried him, Catelyn saw it, at that time as an opportunity to chime in and coax him to send the boy away. It was enough as it was to have him known as the cursed eyes. But this situation presented a danger.
The next day, Rickard was watching the guards fight, and in his small hands was a small journal with a leather cover of a hare. In his hand was a quill pen ser Rodrick looking over him as the boy drew in his journal. Rickard was writing down the forms of swordsmanship and the areas that were seen as weaknesses. For moons, he watched until he came up with his own form. Early in the morning, he would run around the castle of Winterfell; for hours on end, he would do it. And when he was done with that. He would grab a wooden sword and practice his forms. Of course, this had been told to Lord stark, and the man at that time did not think much of it. And allowed for the boy's actions to continue, but one day, a guard found him in the middle of the courtyard, practicing his forms. And challenged the boy to a mock duel. no one that much of it other than to see the progress he had made. At that time, one of the guards by the barracks was Jory, the nephew of Ser Rodrick, the son of the friend of Lord Stark. Martyn Cassel. Rickard had accepted the challenge and had his wooden blade at the ready. The man did the same, though his posture was laxer. He thought that any form of strike the boy would aim at him would fall short. However, that was not the outcome. Rickard was fast; he struck the blade at the side and kicked the side of the man's knee. He fell forward, and the blade was at his throat in seconds. "Dead," the boy whispered. His eyes were a deep red; however, there was a mark in them, a small black mark at the side of the insides of his eyes. To them, it seemed to be a misshaped iris. That is what the measter had said. Lord stark, though different. But he never shared his opinion. The man asked for another round, and he received that round, and so did he receive the coming bruises. Rickard's strikes were fast and hard for a boy of his stature; he was no robust child but a skinny child with little muscle on him. Jory relayed the news to lord stark, and the boy was brought to the warden of the North's solar. Both Jory and Rodrick were told to stay outside. What was said? No one knew; however, when Rickard left the solar, there was a new determination to be close to his father. The boy grew in strength and gained the nickname Wicked Eye Rickard, the one known to the south as the Northern Blade.
Down below in the courtyard, Rickard presented his kill from Wolfwood. His dire wolf, a large thing that had become larger than a stallion, walked behind him with another deer in it, Saliva draining to the side of his large black lips. With one arm, He brought up his kill and hung it upside down as blood rushed to the head.
"Tough kill.?" came an old gruff voice. Rodrick had grown old with large sideburns and greying hair. "Tougher than any of yours," Rickard quipped. The measter at arms of Winterfell feigned hurt with the remark. A smile came to Rickard's face, and a chuckle escaped his lips; he was moving about, searching for the tools he had left behind. And he brought out a large barrel that used to house wine, but now it was an empty thing he had cleaned out. Ser Rodrick walked to the large dire wolf, removed the deer from its maw, and began to help Rickard with the skinning. Opening a small, squared thing, knives lay in their place. Small sharp things that had a single purpose. To cut into flesh and remove what was desired and what was not.
Ser Rodrick looked to the Antlers of the stag. They were sharp things and would be well used for the handle of a dagger or a blade or a sword. Peering over to Rickard's waste. He saw the Black blade. Rickard made that blade when he was ten; it was around that time that he was given the monicker, the northern blade. Rickard was a man who liked to read everything and even invent many things. "Are you going to watch me all day, old man?" said he.
"Youngster these days," quipped ser Rodrick. "Have you heard of the news? The king is bound for Winterfell any day now."
"That he is... but I don't see how that is my concern," said the young man. Rodrick slapped the back of his head. "It matters because you are your lord father's left hand; it is important to know this information. And the king is practically your uncle." he went back to his skinning while throwing some spare parts at the wolf lying down on the ground. "You know I was in the war," began Rodrick, "Aye I was. At that time, I had just come into the position of master at arms, and your uncle Benjen was a young lad. I remember when young lord stark came from the south with a small host from the eyrie. He called the banners and instructed your uncle to stay in the keep. 'There must always be a stark in Winterfell.' I went with him with my brother Martyn. God bless his soul.
We fought in so many battles, so many cold nights and weary ones too. Imagine fearing your throat being sliced by spies or an arrow with your name on its shaft. I dreaded that day would come for me. It was not until I was instructed to return by my brother and your lord father to the north that news came from the raven of his..." He stopped himself. "My brother was a good man and your uncle the king; he was a warrior worthy of praise."
"Thank you for the tale, Ser Rodrick," Rickard said as he washed his small blade in a basin of water and wiped his hands with a small towel. "But I am a man who judges not on what I hear but what I see. However, there is one thing that you cannot deny. The war did not serve or gain anything for Lord starks house, as a friend the man could have offered the starks a great deal of things, reparations for the war, for he fought in the name of vengeance for my dead aunt but no he married the southern woman and forgot about the brotherhood he held with lord stark. Yes, the king is the king, and nothing can change that. But there is one thing I don't respect about Robert Baratheon: his character. Words travel about that day in the red keep. His deer has been skinned, and the best parts were placed nearby. A woman from the kitchen would soon come pick them up. Walking away from the old warrior, Rickard walked to the main keep, and in the halls were the children of Jory playing tag. However, they were all down below looking above to the ceiling, jumping up with their arms raised to catch something, and that was it. A small girl of ebony light skin with dark curled hair had her legs sprawled at the ceiling. She hung on the ramp's upside down, teasing with her hand to the ones below, and they would go just inches, and she would feign. Running down the hall, Rickard held his arms around her, hugging her. The little girl yelped in excitement."Aah papa, put me down," she said. However, Rickard had other plans he held up in the air and tickled her; she began to laugh hysterically. When he placed her down, the girl was disheveled, and her face beat red, matching her eyes. "You girls being safe?" he asked Beth and the others. "Yes, m'lord," they answered. Looking down at his daughter, Rickard sneakered and then rubbed her hair. "Do you have your blade?" he asked. With a quick flick of her hand, she showed the blade Rickard had made. It was for her a silver-like dagger that was light as a coin and sharp enough to kill a man in regular throw. "How do you like it?" he asked. "I like it very much, but Bran keeps asking to look at it. And wanting to throw it, so I told him to get his own, but he said I had to ask you papa."
"Well, my little one, if Bran wants a Kunai, then he will have to ask your dear old dad himself," Rickard answered back and then began to walk away to his chambers. Rickard was given one of the largest chambers of the castle, which was as large as lord starks. When he became Lord Uchiha, not everyone was happy, especially Catelyn. Nonetheless, Rickard was rewarded for his courage and his prowess. His chamber was adorned with paintings of his small family. Laria was a woman from the summer isle with dark black hair and golden-brown skin. She was a short woman and of a smaller size. In weight, her hair was long and would go down to her knees. He had done this a myriad of times, painting her the family of three. When lord stark was presented with a bastard child of Rickards when he was but twelve, he fumed in anger, but it seemed to do no good for him nor earned him any favors to the boy before him. Rickard moved his recovering woman in the keep and took great care of her. She was a woman of ten and seven when he took her to bed. A woman of dark complexion was walking from one of the rooms connected to the chamber. "Husband," she greeted
"Wife," he said to her as he came close, hugged her, and kissed her soft lips. Sitting down on the bed. He began to take off his shoes, and Laria stopped him halfway. "Let me," she said. Placing his hands down to the side of the bed, he extended his legs out, and she began to take off his shoes. "I am guessing you met our little one's friends outside," said Laria. "Aye, and she seems to be the ringleader. Do you know where I found her? At the top of the ceiling hanging off of it," said he. Looking at him, she studied him; Laria could always understand him; he could be himself. He could be Rickard, not the warrior, not the cold killing machine he allowed himself to become and be consumed by. Laria was the baker's daughter, a man who was old and had one foot in the grave. If he died, she would sell herself to the brothels, and Rickard could not allow that. He took her to bed. And with his strength, title, and protection he could offer, she took his hand, and they married one another. She came heavy with pregnancy, and so too did the lady of Winterfell, though she never liked Laria; she hated her because she had given birth to a daughter of her husband's son, the bastard. The shoes came off easy enough, and she settled them on the carpet on the cold ground. There was a sadness in her face; she didn't look him in the eye; it was a tell of hers; he could always tell when something was wrong with her or bothered her. Patting the side to him, she came to sit beside him. "What's wrong?" he asked her.
"I am pregnant," she answered. There was a silence that followed, and Rickard stood up. "Rickard," she called to him. He did not face her; he looked ahead of himself to the painting before him of a family of three. Worried he did not like the news, she stood up to comfort him, but Rickard screamed in thrill and joy. he turned around and picked her up, kissing her face. "Yes, yes, yes," he cried. Kneeling to the ground, he kissed her stomach. "It will be a boy," he said. "A warrior of the Uchiha line." He stood up; he was a head and shoulder taller than her. He grabbed her face and kissed her deeply. There was a sharing smile that came to her face when she was kissed in that manner. By the end of it, Rickard was crying in joy. "You are a wonderful woman, my love," he complimented her. They kissed again. However, one did not seem to sate both of them. They began to remove their clothing. Rickard picked her up and sat on the bed as he laid her down.
Outside of the Keep, Rumi Rickard's daughter played with her bow and arrows at the training yard; the guards of the castle were far too busy to concern themselves with her. She was the northern blades daughter, and she was also known to be like her father in many ways. She was not silent, but she held his reading and weaponry skills. Rumi held a small bow in her hand and pulled at the string with two arrows positioned to hit the grass dummy before her. Releasing a small gap between her fingers and glove, the arrows went loose and hit bull's eyes, as her father liked to call it. At that time, she did not know that lord Stark, her grandfather, was watching her from the parapet. Rumi went on to show her skills with the bow. In lord Stark's hand was an apple he was eating. Now it was all finished, and now all that was left was but the core. He threw it in her direction, and Rumi released her two arrows, hitting the core in the center and finishing off at the dummy. Looking over to where it came from, she saw a man with brown hair and a beard, with grey eyes, and in a brown tunic. "Grandpa," she yelled and ran to him, climbing the stairs that led to the parapet. She was a fast one like her father. Most of all, she was not shy; she was filled with spunk and did not like being a lady. She would run away from the septa as much as she could. "I see you are getting better, Rumi," Eddard said as he laid out his hands to pick her up, but the small child jumped high enough to wrap her small legs on her grandfather's waist and climbed above him pushing his head aside to be at the back of him on his neck. "Papa has been teaching me how to use my knife, do you want to see?" she brought out her sharp Kunai—and stuck it out in display before lord starks' eyes as if she was about to stab him. As Eddard reached for it with nervousness, Rumi flicked her wrist, and the blade danced on her small hand. "No, no, Papa said I can't give it to anyone else, only I am supposed to have it," she said.
Seeing her movement with the blade, one could tell she was seasoned with how to use the blade. Much like Alaric was at this age, he was a boy fond of small knives, and now he was known as the greatest swordsman in the north. However, Eddard knew the real truth: Rickard was the most extraordinary swordsman in the seven kingdoms. And with his Granddaughter having her father's eyes, he figured that the old gods blessed him house stark and the rest of the north. However, his lady wife and her family did not see it as such. They were offended when Eddard had brought his two sons to Winterfell. Catelyn's father did not honor Ned, and he showed it by not reducing the price of grain his merchants sold to the north. Looking down below, Rumi saw that her friends were looking for climbed down from Ned, who was walking with her through the keep.
Come the next day, Rickard and his daughter were at the gates. One look from the men was all that was needed for the guards to open it—looking to her. Rumi has leather boots that were covered with wool at the cusp of them. She wore a large brown leather jacket with a hood to cover her ears and body. The gates were opened, and both of them walked through them. On his back was his long sword, and at his waist was a short sword he had smithed calling it Muramasa." It was sharp as valerian steel; the same steel and iron the short Kunai Rumi held was made of.
"Where are we going, Papa?" she asked. Looking to her father for answers, Rickard did not answer. He only said. "Keep up." he disappeared like a blur in front of her heading to the Wolfwood, soon after Rumi did the same catching up with the pace of her father. They were running from tree to tree. Rumi was a genius; she had her teaching with measter Luwin, however, when it came to her father Rickard. The man had written hundreds if not thousands of scrolls in his office. And it was there that Rumi would spend most of her time studying.
"You are a smart child, Rumi, and I am sure you have heard of the rumors in Winterfell. My lord father, your grandfather has heard news of brave men in the Wolfswood stealing our game and killing those they encounter." Looking back at her as he jumped from tree to tree, her small face crunched in seriousness. "Good Rumi, you know what must be done." Rickard increased his speed, and soon after, they arrived at the spot. Standing up above them in the trees, father and daughter watched.
"Wildlings," she whispered. She went for her blade to attack, but rickard placed his hand on her shoulder. "Right now, your mind is telling you that you are ready to spill blood, and I am sure you have thought of this moment hundreds of times. However, thinking about something is different from knowing something. The first time I killed a man was in these very woods; I had a friend named Lyra; she was a good girl a cook's daughter, she was brave as she was stupid, she went out alone in the Wolfwood, much like Sansa she believed that the world was a fairyland of knights and lords. It's not, "He exclaimed. he pointed to the far corner of the small camp the bandits had set up in the small clearing by a pond. "You see that tent?" he asked. Nodding to her father. Rickard went on to explain. "In there is a girl just like Lyra, foolish she went out alone. There have been men going in there more than once. For what? I would leave that to your imagination, but you can save her.
I have trained you for two years since you were three. Now you are five, and this is your gift for your birthday. Rumi placed her Kunai away and grabbed out another from her small bag. This one had runes on it, channeling chakra within it. She threw it at the center, and smoke came from it, and after that, one came an explosive tag. " BOOOOM," it exploded, sending limbs in every direction. Seeing the chaos, she jumped down and used Taijutsu to kill them one by one. Rickard stood at the branch looking down below as his daughter massacred twenty men. In this world, chakra was power. The last time he was here, he killed a small militia from the Iron Bornes.
It was thirty minutes later when Rumi was finished. With her killing, she jumped up to the branch, and there was no woman in tow. "She is not there, papa." "There never was a girl," He said, "but you have shown me you have a good heart and merciless one for your enemies. The bodies had been piled up in one large group. All having puncturing wounds. "Fire style: Fireball Jutsu." Flames spewed from his mouth, blue flames that burned the bodies to ash.
"Come on, let's go home, and Rumi, you have done well for your gift. It is waiting for you in your room," he said. They ran back from branch to branch until they entered the clearing of the hunter road, and they began their walk to the gates of Winterfell.
"Is it handled?" asked lord stark, sitting behind his desk as he signed some letter from the northern houses. "Aye Rumi did a wonderful job." lord stark stopped his quill midway and allowed for the ink to pool on the paper he was writing on. "She is a child, Rickard," he said, his voice laced with irrational and confusion. "She is an Uchiha, a child prodigy, a smart and intelligent child that has more potential than I when I was that age," he admitted a bitter pill to slow, but nonetheless, he did and did so with pride.
"How is my granddaughter taking it? I would imagine she is..." "She is scared, and I would imagine having nightmares of what she had done, but she tries to hide it, thinking she would disappoint me. My daughter and I are one and the same in some instances." A nod came from lord stark as he threw away the paper, began a new with another, and finished off the letter. "I have been meaning to speak with you." Eddard took out a letter from the bundles that it was lost in. The letter was one from the watch. "Reports have been coming in from beyond the wall, your uncle and the lord commander wrote to me, saying that there are concerning things occurring beyond the wall." Ned looked to his son, now his left hand, for answers. "The Freefolk are a prideful people. For them to band under this Manse rayder means they have chosen their king beyond the wall; the last time they did so was under "Red beard." He killed one of our ancestors, and his brother drove his sword through him." "You think they're planning to attack the wall?"
"Why not? I would do so, especially if I don't have time. They seem to be doing this quickly. They could be building ships to go to Essos, but I doubt they have enough food to survive that journey. The most plausible thing is attacking the wall, and the reason for that is simple: they have a record low of men on the watch, some hundreds or something, and most of the castles are unused and most of the men are bandits, thieves rapers and murders and foolish noble children who think they can make a difference." Eddard could not help but chuckle. "However, this is a dangerous situation, and your good friend, the king, does not seem to care. The only thing keeping that order alive is a nobleman with honor. Take that away, and you have common men who are hungry and feel left behind.