Prologue

Hello and welcome everyone to my first Game of Thrones story! Before we begin, I wish to note that some of this story is influenced by my Scottish heritage, but if I get anything wrong, I apologize, but just focus on the story. Also, I am using the name of Clan Murry because I am actually a descendant from that clan. As always, please leave a review and/or favorite and follow this story. Now, let's begin!

North of Winterfell…

The Men of the Mountain. Highlanders. Many a legend exists about them among the Northerners, so distinct a group to stand out among the numerous mountain clans of the North. Some say that they are eight-foot tall demons in human form, with human skulls used for goblets, and scalps for napkins. Some that they are Wildlings who had managed to get through the Wall. Others report that they dress using some sort of a patterned, knee-length skirt, and wield large and deadly two-handed swords, or a broadsword, a long thrusting dagger, and a small, round shield. They would eat stuffed sheep stomachs in the winter, and their music was a device called a bagpipe.

However, only a select few know the full truth of the men and women who are all human members of what they refer to as a clan, the lord of House Stark being one of them. For centuries, they had been the secret bannerman for the Warden of the North, a group ready to be mobilized. An event that had rarely occurred. However, it was more often for a few select individuals, either as adults or as children, to be the select personal bodyguards for the daughters of the Warden.

That was the very reason for why Lord Eddard Stark had traveled all the way to the base of the mountain these proud people call their own. Six years previously, his first daughter, Sansa Stark had been born. The days afterwards had seen the Warden of the North travel with only a few select guards to meet with the chieftain of these hardy folk, where the traditional meeting for the obtaining of the bodyguard.

The chieftain had insisted that they wait six years that day in order to begin the training of a group of youth to be raised in the old ways of the mountain, and to be taught their fighting style. Eddard had agreed to this because he was one of the few to know just how capable a true clansman can be in a one-on-one fight. So, the Lord of Winterfell had waited six years, and last week, he had finally received a simple message from a raven. He is ready, the message said.

The high chieftain waits for them, a kilt present and the two-handed Valyrian steel sword passed down to each leader of the Men of the Mountain. He bows his head deeply once the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell halts his horse a few feet in front of him. "Welcome, Lord Stark. The boy is ready to be presented," he says in a thickly-accented voice.

Eddard Stark turns to Jory, his loyal captain of the guard, and the two men accompanying them. "Stay here. I will be back shortly," Eddard says in a tone that clearly indicates to his men to obey and not protest. With disagreement clearly written on their face, his loyal men do not utter their thoughts aloud as they dismount and allow their horses to rest. Eddard turns back to the man in front of him. "Lead on, Moray."

It is a silent trek up the mountain to the cave entrance that is inside. Over thousands of years, generations of clansmen and women had labored hard to carve out the inside of the mountain to make their own castle of sort, and a most impressive one it had become. While there were no towers or true battlements like in Winterfell, Casterly Rock, or King's Landing, there is a simple, rough-cut wall hewn from solid stone, with a thick oaken gate, with slits carved into the rock to serve as murder holes for a handful of archers in the rare event that Deep-Mountain Hold should ever be attacked.

Chief Moray pauses, and Eddard Stark does the same. "Wait," the elderly warrior grunts before speaking up in the unique language that only those in the mountain domain would know. The plain wooden gates swing opens a quarter of the way, and a new figure steps through the gap. "Your daughter's protector. Riley Murray, of my own clan. May he serve your house well, Lord Stark."

Eddard nods his thanks while examining the boy. For a six-year-old boy, he is rather tall. His reddish-brown hair had been cut recently, and he has a decent amount of muscle tone in his body. He wears a plain set of clothes, though over it is a large stretch of colored tartan fabric. He also notes the fact that the youth in front of him already has weapons: a long thrusting dagger known as a dirk, and his left hand holds a small round shield. The latter is covered with a layer of tanned deerskin, an intricate spiral patter drawn, while the former could be used as a short sword of sorts, at least until he finishes growing. Eddard makes a note to himself to start getting the smith to make a custom-fitted arming sword, for only the best would be given to safeguard his daughter. "He will do well. I thank you once more, Moray. I trust that the guard for my other daughter is being trained as well?"

The elderly warrior bows his head once more. "Aye. He is coming along well. We will meet again in two years to this day," he says before turning to the youth. "Remember, young Riley, the words of your clan, and may you bring honor and glory to yourself and us," He says in a solemn tone. "Firth fortune, and fill the fetters." In response, the youth, soon to be a warrior, acknowledges the blessing/command, and steps forward, kneeling before the father of his new lady whom he will fight and die for.

"My sword and shield and dirk are at your disposal, Lord Stark," Riley says to the Warden of the North. Ned Stark offers a hand, instructing the youth to follow him, and that he shall ride his horse.

Winterfell…

The small party has returned. Catelyn Stark had gathered her eldest daughter, having left her two youngest children in the care of Septa Mordane, and was waiting in the keep of the mighty northern castle of Winterfell for her husband and his men to return. Upon seeing the smaller rider sharing his horse, the former member of House Tully appraises, while also thankful that Jon was not present. Her husband's shame was a constant source of anger and distrust for her, no matter what Ned would say to her.

"Who is he?" The question is asked by a pretty young redheaded girl roughly the same age as he. Riley looks up at the fur-covered man he rides with, nodding his head in an unspoken question. Ned looks down and nods his own head.

"Aye, lad," He says quietly, before turning to the assembled family members of House Stark. "This is Riley. He will be staying here. He is your bodyguard for life, Sansa." His daughter wrinkles her nose slightly, showing a faint sign of distaste on her fine features. Already has she become enamored with stories of shining knights and charming princess in the south. So, the fact that her bodyguard, which she had been told about was not such a man, but a northerner wearing seemingly outlandish clothes. However, even at such a young age she is quickly becoming a true lady, and so says nothing.

Riley does take notice, however, and barely manages to refrain from rolling his eyes at her. 'Oh, this is going to be a breeze,' he scoffs as he settles to instead let out a quiet puff of air. He is however, startled, by a light tap from behind as the horses pause near the center.

"Apologies for my daughter. I fear she may have her head in the clouds in some matters. Regardless, I trust you will do your duty?" Ned Stark asks, wanting to ensure that his somewhat negative meeting does not prove to be a hindrance.

"Nay milord. My duty is my honor, and I shall not break either."

"Good. Tomorrow, we will have you give a proper demonstration of just what you are already capable of. Tonight, however, you shall dine with my family. Welcome to Winterfell, Riley Murray, protector of the lady Sansa Stark."

And done! The next few chapters will be covering other pre-Season One events that are relevant to this character. Until next time!