Rickard I

Waking up in a fictional land, as the child the man you most mocked while reading through the book, is not a pleasant experience. Take into account the sheer magnitude of change in society and location, and you might be able to better understand my frustration, rage and most of all, confusion, at my circumstances. To read about a hapless fool being forcibly flung from one world to another, likely for some Eldritch being's amusement, is entertaining when you're convinced of its falsity. Not so much when you find yourself in that very position. This coupled with a teenager's body being forced into one of a child's, and a deep-rooted fear of death borne of my previous body's murder, culminated into one large pile of hatred, fear and a viciousness bought forth by the cold.

I was born 285 years after Aegon's Conquest, to Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. The night of my rebirth was marked by the coming of a particularly malevolent blizzard. While the birth of a Lord Paramount's son was usually treated as a large event in Westeros, the land had made sure no such celebration was to be bestowed upon me. Rather, it seemed as though nature itself had conspired against me, desperately attempting to keep me isolated from the world in an icy prison. These were the thoughts that ran through my head during those first few months of my life as I desperately tried to stave off the dreadful boredom that permeated damn near every part of my new existence, to say nothing of the sheer misery I heaped upon myself when thinking of my passing. For a boy who had been so lauded his entire life for his intellect and sporting abilities, I was as helpless as a baby in the front of real danger. A measly, craven boy with a gun who had taken it upon himself to 'clean out the school', as it were. While I was in no position to influence what happened after my death, I sincerely hoped the bastard was electrocuted at the least and hung drawn and quartered at best. Regardless, my inherent weakness at a moment of danger, real danger, meant that I was never going to allow myself to be caught in that position in this chance I had received. I would force my body to ascend the peak of physical perfection, and my mind to be as sharp as the edge of Valyrian Steel. And last of all, I would never be weak again. Come what may, whatever sacrifices I would have to make, I would never allow myself to be weak again.

In all honesty, I was extremely lucky that the language spoken here was similar to remarkably English, apart from a few discrepancies. The written word and alphabet were far more irritating to fully comprehend and assimilate, what with my sixteen and-a-half years of learning and practising the modern alphabet. But it was just that. An irritant. Of course, my formal education under Maester Luwin wouldn't begin until I was six, but I could ill-afford to wait that long. With that in mind, a large part of my childhood was spent in the library of Winterfell, trying to learn as much as I could about this absolute waste of a country. It was not uncommon for the maids, or my mother herself to rouse me from an inadvertent nap I had been forced to took, enslaved as I was by my physical age. This was not to say that I'd ignored my martial training. Taking walks around Winterfell was a way in which I forced myself to both get used to the weather, and to get myself used to moving large distances. While I was far too young to even enter the yard, I would do my best to increase my stamina, utilizing methods that I had stored in my head from my first life, most of which I'd had to adapt to my body. That was not enjoyable, at all. The simple act of holding my arms straight up in the air was enough to exhaust me within moments, if not less. There were many times when I'd simply wanted to delay. After all, I had years ahead of me to get fit and hone my martial ability. And every time I caught myself thinking of that, I forcibly reminded myself of my sheer inability to do anything about my death, and how weak I'd been. That would be allowed to take place once more. And so, I persevered.

This was not to say that I entirely neglected every other part of a healthy childhood. To only focus on my education and martial ability would mean that I would lose touch with the land in general, something which would cripple me before I could even enter the Game of Thrones. This was the most difficult part of my early youth. Even though both Robb and Jon, my brother and bastard brother respectively, were older than me, their utter childishness drove me to unexpected heights of exasperation. While it was by no means fair to judge by my more adult standards, I couldn't help but do exactly that. This was not helped by the fact that those two would constantly be running across Winterfell, playing at being the heroes of the realm. From Aemon the Dragonknight to Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. They would play at those famous warriors of the realm, clutching sticks and the like, to imitate famous duels from history. The only time I remember finding myself genuinely amused by their antics was when Robb told my father that he was playing Ser Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning. While he started and hurriedly excused himself, it was all I could do to not burst out laughing at the look on Eddard Stark's face when he realized that his son idealized the man he had killed in a treacherous manner. I, of course, considered the victory to be perfectly fair, but that did not mean I could not find the humour within the scenario.

As I grew older, the results of both my time devoted to my education and my combat prowess began to show themselves in an impressive fashion. Even though I was younger than both my brothers, my stamina training and whatever strengthening exercises I could feasibly achieve with my body meant that I could and would simply outlast them in the yard. They should have been stronger than me, but my work made sure that was not the case. They were faster than me, however, and more agile, courtesy of being older. My plan in the yard was simple. I would allow them to charge at me, using their weapon more like a club than a blade, before I would simply move out of their reach, forcing them to come after me, thereby exhausting them. Or I would simply wait for them to overextend, as they did every time, before jabbing my blade in their ribs, winding them and effectively putting them out of the fight. I was first in the yard, and the last to leave. I would happily eat bruises and sprains if it meant I wouldn't get my arm or leg lopped off in a real fight.

I out-classed them in our studies as well, to a far greater extent than I did in the yard. History, geography and mathematics were easy, thanks in so small part to my affinity for those subjects in my previous life. Since we were yet young, we had not begun to study administration and war yet, topics which I was keenly looking forward to. Since I had already studied much of this, albeit, in a different setting, the classes under Maester Luwin were dreadfully simple for me. I spent much of my time in those classes either reading a book from the library or trying to help my brothers. Both were too stubborn to accept the help of one younger than the, despite my repeated efforts. I did all this not because of all familial affection, but simply because I knew that my father would hear about it from the Maester, which in turn would help craft my image as a good son and brother.

My relationship with my mother was always … strained. While Robb, and once Sansa was born, enjoyed a close bond with her, the two of us never really entered any discussion or conversation that was not polite or formal. We spoke at the table while sharing a meal, but that was it. Any attempts of her trying to foster a closer relationship were gently but firmly rebuffed. I did not hate the woman, merely disliked her for her treatment of Jon, and that was not enough of a justification for me to consciously ward her off. And yet I did. I had no doubt that she was most likely hurt by her son's isolation but I simply did not have the time for a mother. My primary goals of becoming smarter and stronger were going along nicely, especially since Ser Rodrik, our Man-at-Arms, recognized my dedication to the activity and desire to become better. That was a boon, one that I had not initially thought to acquire. An oversight on my part. With both my key teachers acknowledging my skill, I was trained ahead of my brothers, even though I was a year younger.

I did not know it then, but my isolation from my brothers and mother, would one day come back to wreak its vengeance.