The Wolf Of The North

John found himself in an open field extending as far as the eye could see. He watched trees grow out of the ground all around him and a large wolf charging towards him as snow began to fall.

The wolf stopped inches before John's face and just stared down at him. It had majestic gold eyes and luscious silver fur. It stood at about 2 meters in height and looked to be around 8-9 meters in length.

John was shaking just from looking at such a beast. He didn't know why it was here, but it couldn't mean anything good.

"Speak. You seem to have questions on your mind." John was flabbergasted. Never did he expect the wolf to start talking.

"Um, w-who are you?" He asked timidly.

"I am you" It replied.

"How could you be me? I'm a human and you're a wolf." It sneered at him, as if he had just said something stupid.

It suddenly seemed to adopt a solemn expression as it bowed slightly.

"Declare your name to me." It said.

"My name is Joh-no, my name is Torrhen of the House Stark."

"Yes. We are Torrhen of the House Stark. Blessed be our name! Blessed be our lineage! Long shall we reign!" The wolf suddenly started flying towards the sky as it grew larger and larger. It opened it's maw and roared, shaking the world and destroying everything around it.

John just stood there with the turbulent winds blowing in his face. He looked up, feeling both fear and awe towards the wolf above him.

From the skies, it turned its head to him, looking down from above. It had an aura of dominance and reverence about it.

"Go forth, Torrhen. We shall meet again."

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He woke up in bed, surrounded by people. His vision was still blurry and he couldn't hear things properly. All he could see was the outline of their bodies; everything else was just a blur.

It took him a few minutes to get his bearings and sit up, after which he saw the man and woman he saw in the Great Hall. At this point, he knew they were his parents, Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully. Lady Catelyn was seated on a chair by his bed and was holding his hand firmly. There was an aging man next to them in plain clothes with a chain around his neck who he assumed to be Maester Luwin. His siblings were surrounding him an all sides of the bed.

"Are you alright, son?" Lady Catelyn looked at him and smiled. He could see the worry in her eyes.

"Yes, mother. I feel fine."

"Ser Rodrik told me you felt like you had forgotten a few things?" Lord Eddard was looking at him with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Hehe, not anymore." John smiled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck.

He then spent the next ten to fifteen minutes trying to calm everyone down and convince them that there was nothing wrong with him and that he was perfectly fine. When everyone left, he lied down and sighed.

'I don't know how much time I have before the plot begins. Given that Rickon is already born by now, there are about three to six years left until Jon Arryn dies and Robert Baratheon comes to Winterfell.

'I have to make sure that I cement father's trust in me within three years so that he would be willing to listen to my input on important matters and tell me things that would otherwise be kept secret. He'll otherwise end up killing us all.'

John knew the events that were to come, and knew that House Stark fell out with the Lannisters when Ned Stark confronted Queen Cersei and said that he knew the royal children were bastards fathered by Jaime. No matter what happened, he knew he must prevent this at all costs, or else everything would begin to go downhill for House Stark.

What vexed him was that he didn't know if the current progression of events would be that of the books or the TV show. They both had very major differences, but for all their differences, he hoped it followed the books instead. In the TV show, House Stark is pretty much extinct, with nothing left but two girls and a cripple, with everyone else dying.

He felt a stabbing pain in his head. It felt like a burning hot stake was thrust inside and was being burned with flames from Hell. His eyes became red from having to endure the pain and his grit his teeth, unwilling to scream out and alert everyone. There would be too many questions otherwise.

Memories started flooding into his brain rapidly, years of events passing by in the blink of an eye.

He realized that they were his memories.

He lay on his bed sweating from head to toe, blood leaking out from his nose and his veins threatening to burst through the skin of his forehead. He was out of breath and had trouble feeling his limbs momentarily. He used a handkerchief by the bed to wife the blood away and stared up at the ceiling, going through his newfound memories.

His name was Torrhen Stark of Winterfell, twin brother of Robb Stark. He was currently eleven years old. Thus far, he had shown a dislike to pretty much everything: he rarely trained in sword fighting or in archery, hated studying and would rather spend his days riding on horseback through empty fields.

The common tongue spoke in Westeros seemed to be English, so there would be no difficulties there. The technological level seemed to be stuck in Medieval Europe, which was annoying. Balon's Rebellion had been three years ago, so there were six years left until the main plot began.

'I can't continue any of this. I must get serious and prepare for what is to come. I don't want to die in any political schemes, nor do I want to die to the dead.

'There were roughly six or seven years from the start of the plot until the Army of the Dead came south of the Wall, which gives me twelve or thirteen years to get everyone prepared. For that, I'll need to become an influential political figure and get everyone to bring their armies north. That's going to be a very difficult goal to achieve.'

He stared wistfully out of the window and clenched his fist as he though of dragons roaming freely through the sky, burning down armies and inspiring both fear and greatness.

'If only I were a Targaryen!'