Five years passed like drifting snow.
Each year, the North reminded its people that beauty and hardship walked hand in hand. The pine forests glistened under diamond frost, rivers lay locked in sheets of silver ice, and breath turned white in the air. Yet the wind could slice flesh, and snow buried villages overnight.
Naros grew into that land of quiet extremes.
At ten, he towered above boys several winters older, his shoulders broad, his muscles corded and lean. His parents exchanged worried looks when he thought they weren't watching. People in Winter Town whispered of giants in the blood or strange magics.
But Naros knew the truth.
It was the Senjutsu Bead pulsing deep inside him, a tiny sun feeding his bones and flesh. The same power that had once let him fight gods was now rebuilding him from within. His very cells were changing, becoming something stronger, faster, sharper.
---
The first years had been frustrating.
He'd sat in the woods, breathing slow, trying to coax the bead to open. No matter how he reached for it, it lay dormant, as if testing whether he deserved its power.
He remembered his final moments in Konoha—when the taste of blood filled his mouth, and he'd thrown himself into death's arms. He remembered the cold silence that greeted him instead of oblivion.
It was only in moments of pure stillness that the bead began to stir.
A snow-laden pine forest. A quiet glen where icicles dripped in the thaw. The hush of falling flakes in the pre-dawn darkness.
And then, one silent dawn, he felt it.
A spark ignited.
Orange pigmentation curled around his eyes. His senses exploded outward until he felt the heartbeat of a hare beneath the snow and smelled the crisp resin bleeding from pine bark a hundred paces away.
Sage Mode.
But unlike before, there was no monstrous shift of flesh or toad-like features. No blending into beasts. Only pure, flowing power.
And for the first time in this new world, he smiled—a small, almost guilty smile—as he realized he could sustain the state as long as he wished.
---
In Winter Town, Naros led a life of simplicity.
At dawn, he helped his father split firewood or shovel snow from roofs before they collapsed. Joren was a man of calloused hands and quiet pride, who believed in the dignity of work and the sanctity of family. He seldom spoke more than necessary, but the warmth in his eyes never dimmed when he looked at Naros.
Lysa, his mother, was laughter and gentle scolding in equal measure. She doted on Naros, calling him her "little summer sun," though there was nothing little about him anymore. She mended cloaks, baked dense Northern bread, and could sing so sweetly that men paused outside their door in the street, listening as though enchanted.
They were poor, but Naros never complained. He'd known far harsher days than empty coin purses or thin soup. Compared to loneliness on a park swing in Konoha, the hush of this small Northern home felt like a precious miracle.
---
From the beginning, Naros understood this world demanded caution.
So he listened.
He lingered near taverns, pretending to inspect the stacked barrels outside, while rough-voiced men argued over silver stags and whispered rumors of lords and kings. He crouched beneath market tables while merchants traded secrets about skirmishes, shifting alliances, and rising prices.
He learned the name of King Robert Baratheon, who wore a crown yet seemed more interested in feasting and hunting than ruling. He learned how the Greyjoys had risen in rebellion only a year before, burning Lannisport's docks and staining the sea black with charred wood. But they'd been crushed by the king's armies, and peace had returned—for now.
Each piece of news was another puzzle piece. A world as volatile as the shinobi nations, even if its warriors carried swords instead of chakra.
---
Sometimes, Joren took Naros with him to Winterfell to deliver grain or pay taxes to the Stark household.
Winterfell rose like a fortress carved from eternity. Its gray stone walls were stained dark with centuries of rain and snow, and mist curled from the hot springs beneath the castle, softening the edges of towers like a dream.
Crossing its gates was like stepping into another world.
Guards stood watchful in gray cloaks, eyes sharp beneath iron helms. Servants hurried past with baskets of fresh-baked bread or folded linens. Blacksmiths hammered at glowing iron, the clang echoing through stone courtyards.
And there were the nobles—children with proud eyes, practicing swordplay under the watchful gaze of older warriors.
Naros watched them quietly. A pang twisted in his chest each time. He'd once wanted to stand tall as Hokage, recognized and loved. But he was no longer that boy. Now, he dwelled in shadows, content to observe.
---
It was during one of these visits that Naros first saw Lord Eddard Stark.
Ned Stark was not a particularly tall man, yet he radiated quiet authority. Dark hair streaked with silver framed a face weathered by Northern winters. His gray eyes were cool and steady, weighing everything they saw. He wore a cloak of fur over simple wool, speaking in a voice that carried calm even when it delivered hard truths.
When Joren bowed, Naros followed suit, keeping his eyes lowered. But curiosity got the better of him, and he risked a glance upward.
Lord Stark's eyes lingered on Naros's golden hair and striking blue gaze. For a moment, the Lord's expression softened, as though seeing a mystery he could not solve.
"A fine lad," he said at last. "Keep him safe. The world grows uncertain."
Joren mumbled his thanks. Naros simply nodded, feeling both exposed and oddly comforted by the Stark lord's presence.
---
Naros could not bear to watch his parents struggle.
Late at night, when the winds howled and the moon hung like a shard of ice in the sky, he crept out to the fields. There, he pressed his palm to the frozen earth and let senjutsu chakra seep into the soil.
He felt the roots awaken. He felt the seed's slow hunger for light and warmth. Even beneath snow, life answered his call.
Spring came earlier to their land than to others. Crops stood taller, greener, and heavier with grain. Their neighbors marveled, praising good weather or "the blessings of the Old Gods." Joren and Lysa simply thanked their good fortune, never suspecting the truth.
Thanks to Naros's secret work, they paid their taxes in silver stags and still had enough left for warm cloaks, better boots, and small luxuries like honey cakes. Lysa wore a delicate silver hairpin now, a gift Naros had bought with the family's first real surplus.
He felt both pride and guilt.
---
Joren remained the anchor of their family—a man of simple pleasures and fierce loyalty. He taught Naros how to mend a fence, sharpen an axe, and judge the sky for storms. Though rarely demonstrative, he'd clap Naros on the back or squeeze his shoulder in silent pride.
Lysa was the warmth that filled their home. She scolded gently, sang brightly, and wept soft tears when Naros grew yet another inch taller. She worried over every ache and bruise, calling him her "sunlight in winter."
Sometimes, Naros wanted to tell her everything.
About Kurama. About Konoha. About how his hands were stained with blood he could never scrub clean.
But he couldn't.
This life felt fragile—as though the truth might shatter it like thin ice.
---
At night, Naros lay awake, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling, listening to the soft hush of snow falling outside.
Part of him longed to disappear entirely into this new life. To be only Naros—a boy of the North, with no past, no burden, no monstrous power lurking under his skin.
Yet another part whispered that he owed this world something.
He had brought destruction once. He would not bring it again.
He would watch. He would listen. And if darkness rose—as it always did—he would be ready.
For though he no longer called himself Naruto, the will that once drove him to protect those precious to him still burned like a stubborn flame.
And he knew, in his bones, that Planetos would one day demand he choose who he was meant to be.