Lord Rickard Stark
Winter was a strange mistress, especially in the north. Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North had seen his fair share of winters, though there had been none as confusing and as turbulent as this one. This winter had set in almost a year to the day that the war of the Dragons in the south had ended six moons to the day that Lyanna and her daughter had died. It had not gone since, six years it had been and still winter reigned supreme over all. There was snow on the ground, and snow on the trees, Winterfell, the north hells the whole kingdom was just one big mass of white.
There was the cold as well, it was not the bone chilling cold that would hearld the long winter, nor was the bone chilling cold that his father had written of so many years ago that could claim the lives of thousands and wakes the dead. No this cold was simply the cold of a winter that had lasted longer than previous ones, still Rickard Stark was not a young man anymore and he felt the cold more so now than he had done some years ago. He knew his time on this planet was coming to a close, his wife sweet beautiful Arya had departed some two years ago, and since then he had felt as if he was simply drifting by.
The north had been relatively peaceful in the past seven years since Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen had been slain. There had been very few disputes over land or shelter, and no conflicts so to speak of. Rickard's old friend Jeor Mormont had joined the Night's Watch shortly after the northerners had returned home, telling Rickard that he no longer wished to stand in the way of his son and Bear Island. Jorah Mormont was a good lad, someone who was skilful in the battlefield and with his mind, and so far had given Rickard no cause for complaint. Though Jeor had written about four times since becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch asking for more men to be sent to the wall, and he wrote more often of the wildling raiders who were growing in number and presence.
Wildlings had once tried to cross the wall in force when Edwyle Stark still lived, but Rickard had summoned the banners of Winterfell, Cerwyn and Torrhen's Square and along with Lord Umber had thrown the wildlings over and back to beyond the wall. Still these increasing reports had Rickard slightly on edge, for the words he had read in his father's journal all those years ago continued playing in his mind. This increasing wildling presence was a mere feint before the true invasion came, and when it did Rickard wondered whether or not the north would be ready for it.
Rickard's eldest son Brandon had wed Catelyn Tully on the eve of battle in the sept at Riverrun, and had so far been blessed with three children, a boy they had named Robb and two girls named Sansa and Arya. Robb reminded Rickard of Brandon at that age, full of bountiful energy and a never ending barrage of questions. Sansa, was the spitting image of her mother and was already showing signs of being the perfect lady, whilst Arya, at only one year old was a spitfire reminding Rickard so much of the daughter he had lost to a madman's prophecy that sometimes it ached to look at her.
Brandon had himself matured somewhat from the hot headed youth who had demanded they ride for King's Landing at once. Though there were times when the wolf's blood still showed itself most predominantly in his eldest, Brandon had with age become much more calm and cautious, less willing to take fatal risks though his anger when roused was a sight to behold. Catelyn Tully had done wonders for his son, making him more mature, and even if there was no love between the two, there was at least a fondness and respect.
Rickard's second son, Eddard had wed Barbrey Ryswell, a move done by Rickard to appease his own guilty conscience and to ensure that his bannermen were kept happy, Ryswell in particular. Eddard and Barbrey had just the one child, named Jon after Eddard's foster father Rickard supposed. His second son had always been quiet and withdrawn, something Rickard could understand considering he himself had been like that as well as a youth. It also seemed as if Barbrey Ryswell was trying to eye up Brandon and Catelyn's spot as Lady of Winterfell as well, for though she had borne Eddard only one son, there were rumours Rickard knew that the girl was hungry for what was not hers.
Benjen had joined the Night's Watch last year, stating that he needed to repent for sins committed, what sins these were Rickard did not specifically know though he suspected they had something to do with Lyanna. He had not pried though, the Night's Watch was an honourable profession despite what the southerners in their flowery courts thought. He knew that his youngest son had been named to the rangers and was quickly rising through the ranks, that were Benjen alright whatever he set his mind to he would accomplish.
Of Lyanna Rickard tried to think as little as possible for the thought of his daughter still brought grief all these years later. It had been his insistence that the betrothal to Robert Baratheon go ahead that had driven Lyanna to run away with Rhaegar Targaryen. His little wolf girl had always been very strong minded and as such it had led to her death, Rickard could still see her lifeless body sucked dry of all it had, as she lay in that bed of blood a crown of roses on her hair.
He shook his head and looked down at the raven that had arrived a few days ago. The Ironborn were invading, a force had burnt the Lannister fleet at anchor and another had attacked Seagard some days ago only to be destroyed by Jason Mallister and his men. Rickard had called his banners and so far Lords Umber, Karstark, Bolton, Hornwood, Dustin, Tallhart, Cerwyn and the mountain clans had responded. Rickard looked at the lords gathered before him and he knew then what arguments would crop up.
"We should sail from Sea Dragon Point my lord. There are ships there from what the King gave us following the war. Surely if we take those ships we can sail and attack Pyke ourselves." The Greatjon said.
"We have too many men for those ships my lord of Umber. If we try crossing there the Ironborn will know and we will face more difficulties than advantages." Rickard's eldest son Brandon replied.
"We know that the Ironborn were beaten back at Seagard, and that The King is sailing from King's Landing to deal with the Iron Fleet, why not march south and aid the Lannisters in dealing with whatever Ironmen are in the Westerlands?" Lord Willam Dustin asked.
"Aye, what Dustin says is a good plan my lords. March south through the Neck and the Twins and then assail the Ironborn when they drop off at the Sunset Sea. We can drive them back just as Beron Stark did in the days of old." Mark Ryswell said.
Before Rickard could respond, Maester Walys entered the room; the old maester was not as fit as he used to be and was now huffing and puffing, close to death. "My lords, I apologise for the interruption, but a raven came just now and I believe you will wish to all hear its contents." Walys looked at Rickard who nodded and then the maester unrolled the letter and read aloud. "To my lord father, I am sure you are wondering why I have writ this letter so suddenly when all are gearing for war. But it is for this exact reason that I write. My scouts have had reports of Ironborn ships docked to the west of Moat Cailin along the swamps of the Fever River heading towards the Moat. I am not sure how many men they have, but I would be deeply grateful for any help you could send. Your Son Eddard." Walys stopped reading.
Rickard looked at his bannermen then and said. "Well my lords there is your answer we march south."
The march south took hardly anytime at all, 12,000 men marched from Winterfell's gates Rickard his son Brandon and their bannermen. Rickard spent the march south speaking with his eldest son and discussing tactics with him, seeing what sort of military mind his heir had, and found that Brandon had a similar mind set to his own brother Brandon, a thrust here, a parry there draw the enemy out and then attack. Rickard was more conservative then again he was but an old man now, he wanted to wait an enemy out, bore them into action. Still other lords such as Karstark and Dustin favoured Brandon's option whilst Lord Bolton wished for Rickard's option to be the most prevalent.
When they arrived at the northern gate of the Moat they found a battle already heavily into action. Arrows flying from the walls, men fighting on the ground and death, the stench of death was quite prevalent. Rickard Stark drew Ice from its sheath and roared a battle cry and lead the charge. The men crashed into the Ironborn like a thunder clap, hacking and slashing soon enough steel on steel and the sound of dying were the only things Rickard heard. The men in front of him the only things he saw. He hacked and slashed his way through the Ironborn, Ice drinking in their blood greedily.
The Ironborn are skilled fighters Rickard will give them that much, what they lack in discipline they make up for in skill. Making hacks and slashes that are borne from a hundred battles, and yet their lack of discipline is what eventually leads to their deaths, drowning under the weight of their armour in the bogs and swamps of the neck and the arrows continue flying from the walls striking the Ironborn and bringing them down. On the battle went, hacking and slashing Rickard could feel the armour beginning to stifle him, the weight of his wounds beginning to grow.
Still he pushed on hacking through a man wielding an axe, before he came face to face with a gnarled man with a black eye and a crooked grin. Dagmar Cleftjaw this man would be, the man was a fierce warrior who had an even fiercer reputation, still he was attacking Rickard's home and so they engaged in battle. Cleftjaw swung, Rickard blocked, Rickard swung, Cleftjaw blocked. On it went this dance, swinging and blocking until one of them broke through and struck the other, that was when the fighting really got interesting. Swinging and parrying, and swinging and parrying until they were both bone tired, Rickard's hands and arms hurt from the blows and from carrying Ice. Still he fought on. The wounds on his body made him feel like lead on and on he fought, each new blow sending him to his knees though he forced himself to get back up and give as good as he got.
Cleftjaw's arm fell off with a rattle and a groan, Rickard blinked and then felt his arms begin to slide from the handle, his own strength was fast leaving him though battle continued. The roar of it all was pounding inside of his head, he could see his father, strapped to a tree somewhere far to the north or was his father the tree itself? Edwyle Stark's eyes were closed when Rickard saw them but then he knew what needed to be done had been done, and with one last final heave he cleaved through Dagmar Cleftjaw before allowing his grip on Ice to slacken and for the sword to clatter into the marsh.
Rickard Stark died at the age of sixty on the fifth day of the fifth month of the 289th year after Aegon's Landing. With him he took Dagmar Cleftjaw and won the battle of the Marshes.