The Wolf Of The North

Four years had now gone by and Torrhen was now fifteen years old. His dark, grey eyes gleamed and his facial featured had become far more prominent and sharp, like a wolf's. His black hair came down to his shoulders and his body had developed a more defined layer of muscle, which gave him a lot more confidence in himself. After all, he never had muscles in his last life. Not like these.

Torrhen sat in the library, staring out at the sunset through a window, his brows knitted.

"What seems to be the matter, Torrhen?"

Maester Luwin appeared at the door and looked at him with concern. The wrinkles on his forehead bunched together and formed lines.

Torrhen looked at him and couldn't help but recall Luwin's future, as he bled out by the heart tree. Not wanting to worry him, Torrhen relaxed his expression and smiled.

"Nothing much, just thinking about something irrelevant."

Before Luwin could say anything else, Torrhen dashed out of the room and ran down the stairs that led to the courtyard.

Outside, he found Robb and Jon practicing archery as Ser Rodrik watched over them from the side. He was laughing at something his son Jory had said, who was also laughing next to him. He heard the familiar hustle and bustle that was usually heard.

He could hear Mikken at his forge hammering at iron and steel. He could hear the barks of the dogs in the kennels as kennelmaster Farlen played with and fed them. He could hear the clash of swords in the distance as the guards trained.

Over the past 4 years, he has been living in Winterfell as Torrhen Stark and has watched the family grow and develop. When he compared the family now to what they became in the story and TV show, he felt a pain in his c.h.e.s.t.

He could see the glimmer of hope, energy and wild fervour in Arya, a d.e.s.i.r.e for heroism in Bran, dreams of royalty and glamour in Sansa, aspirations for truth and legitimacy from Jon and a calm happiness in Robb. Ned was a loving father to all six of them and raised them well. Everyone was always smiling and joyful and the atmosphere felt warm and welcoming.

He felt a sense of family and belonging from the Starks, something Torrhen didn't think he would ever experience again. But it tore him apart to think of their future. He clenched his fists until his knuckles became white.

'I must change everything.'

"Torrhen! Tell us more stories!"

He turned around to find his sister Arya running towards him with Bran and Rickon in tow. All three of them seemed to gaze up at him with a fervent gaze in their eyes.

"Guys, not now. I really do need to go." He gave the three of them a pleading look, but they were having none of it.

"No!"

"Tell us stories!"

"Stowies!"

'They even got Rickon to protest against me. He's only four! Why is he protesting!'

"Can we please do this later? I really do need to go right now." He put his palms together and begged the three of them.

"Only if you promise to tell us more stories later." Bran stared me in the eyes with those bright blue eyes of his filled with his resolute conviction.

"Yes! You will tell us more stories! Like the one about Princess Elsa!" Arya through her fists in the air, unable to contain her sudden excitement.

Over the past four years, Torrhen had been frequently telling them the stories he remembered from his past life, whether they be stories he was told as a child, from movies, from anime or from anywhere else.

He regretted doing it, as now Arya, Bran, Rickon and sometimes Sansa would always ask him to tell them stories. They couldn't be blamed though, as they had lived their entire lives within the walls of Winterfell and wanted something exciting.

"Alright, fine. I'll tell you lot more stories later, okay? How does after supper sound?"

"Lunch!" Rickon shouted out.

"Yes, it must be after lunch." Arya now had her arms folded as she nodded with her eyes closed.

"I agree." Bran said, looking up at him expectantly.

"After lunch it is. Would you three let me leave now?" Torrhen seemed exasperated at this point.

Without even answering, the three of them just ran off laughing and squealing with happiness as they continued playing in the courtyard.

"They really do love your stories, Torrhen."

He turned around to find his mother Catelyn looking at him with a beaming smile on her face, as if she had just seen the greatest thing there could be.

"Yes, but now they demand it every moment of the day. It's enough to drive me crazy."

"They're your younger siblings. If they weren't supposed to annoy you at times, what else would they be doing? Besides, you really do tell them fascinating stories. It's not surprising that they want to hear more."

"I understand, mother. But I'm only human. I can't come up with infinite stories."

'I'm running out of material. I've gone through all the folklore and legends, all the Disney and Disney Pixar movies and all the other children movies too. What do I tell them next time?'

"It's alright. You're very good to them, and they'll understand where you're coming from. But they're still children, so you will have to bear with them."

"Thank you mother. By the way, do you know where father went?"

"He's in his study doing some work. It's best if you don't disturb him now."

Torrhen watched her walk away with a smile on her face as he deliberated on her words.

'I guess she isn't wrong. If my younger siblings don't annoy me to some extent, are they really my younger siblings? Especially Arya, that wild little thing.'

Walking past the well, Torrhen walked over to the smithy to check on Mikken's progress with his request.

As he walked to the smithy, the sounds of hammering and sparks grew louder and louder. He found Mikken stooped over an anvil, hammering at a red hot blade, perspiration dropping from his balding head and his grey hair clinging to his scalp from all the sweat.

Not wanting to disturb him, Torrhen stood by the side and waited for him to finish.

After a few minutes, Mikken put his tools down and looked up at Torrhen.

"G'day Torrhen. What brings ya here?" He walked over to a table on the side as he spoke and pcked up a flagon of water, gulping great amounts of it down.

"Is it finished yet?"

All of a sudden, he put his flagon down and his demeanor became very serious.

"They're finished." He said.

"Great. Show me." Torrhen replied.

"Just a moment." Mikken went to the wall at the back that was lined with swords and spears and pulled out a box from under a stack of boxes. He opened it and inside were nine throwing daggers, all with a dark tint to them.

"Boy, I dunno what'ya gonna do with 'em. Seems too small to use, but here they are." He said.

"I have my own purposes for them. I'll be on my way then."

Torrhen walked away with the box in his hand and looked for somewhere discreet within the castle grounds and ended up in a corner of the godswood. He picked up one of the daggers from inside the box and stood about ten paces from the tree before him.

It was time for training.