Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Dagon Greyjoy – Pyke, Seastone Chair

Salt wind clawed through the broken towers of Pyke, thick with the scent of brine and rot. Dagon Greyjoy sat brooding atop the Seastone Chair, the black coral throne cold beneath his skin. His fingers drummed across the ridges of the armrest, eyes fixed on the waves battering the cliffs below.

Dagmer Black-Tide was dead.

The fool's dream of carving the North from within had died with him—alongside ten longships, three hundred reavers, and the silence of the Drowned God.

"He said it came to him in a dream," Dagon muttered. "A pact with snow-walkers and Wildlings... a Fool !!."

He spat into the flames.

Now the tales spread faster than his longships could sail. They called him the Demon of the North. Said he'd carved through wildlings like a man threshing wheat. Sank Ironborn ships by stomping the earth.

Dagon's lip curled.

"Superstitious filth," he growled.

He stood, the iron weight of his cloak settling against his shoulders.

"No more prophets," he said to the waiting captains.

His voice carried through the hall, echoing off cold stone.

"We strike now. The Arbor. The coasts of the Reach. We rip the wine from their throats and the timber from their homes before they ever think of marching north."

""And the rumors?" Garric Salthand asked, arms crossed in the dim light of the war room.

Dagon didn't look up from the map.

"Not enough," he said. "Exaggerate them."

He tapped a finger on the North.

"Say the boy commands more than men — that every house loyal to Stark is raising blades again. Say the bannermen follow him without question."

He looked up, calm and cold.

"Say Winterfell's gates haven't closed in months. That riders come and go by night. That no one sees what happens inside."

He straightened.

"Say Rickard Stark is gathering swords. Men thought buried with snow and shame. Broken knights. Outlaws. Wildlings."

Garric nodded slowly. "And the bastard?"

Dagon's mouth twitched.

"Say nothing certain. Just enough to make them ask who leads the black banner now. And why he's never seen in daylight."

He turned away.

"Let the South chase ghosts. We have work to do."

POV: Oldtown – Novice at the Citadel

In a narrow alcove lit by green candlelight, Novice Lewys dipped his quill with trembling fingers. Around him, maesters whispered of false omens, wildling uprisings, and burnt Ironborn.

He'd heard one in the dining hall laugh at the tales.

"A bastard boy besting 10 grown men, Foolery."

But Lewys remembered the voice from the docks: an old sailor whispering to a hedge knight over wine.

"They say a man walks the snows who can silence a man within a breath."

That night, Lewys penned a message with no name—only a seal marked in wax and folded in black.

To Archmaester Marwyn. Urgent.

Re: disturbances in the North, dragonglass, and unnatural appearance of events related to the person "Arthur Snow".

Advised to monitor this individual .

POV: King's Landing

The tavern near the Gate of the Gods buzzed with low voices and the scrape of chairs on wet stone. Rain hammered the shutters, and the fire spat in the hearth, burning more smoke than heat.

Three men sat at a corner table, cloaks dripping, cups half-drained.

"You lot hear the name 'Arthur Snow' before?" one asked, a merchant's guard by the look of him — square-shouldered and road-weary.

The others shook their heads.

"Some northern bastard?" the younger one asked, uninterested.

The guard leaned in. "Heard it from a sellsail out of Eastwatch. Said there's a man up past the Last River — cold eyes, quiet as a grave. Men say he doesn't blink, doesn't bleed."

"Right," the younger man scoffed. "And I suppose he rides an ice dragon too."

The third man — older, quiet, with a watchman's stare — said nothing.

The guard went on. "Heard he killed a band of poachers in the Wolfswood. Left them hanging from trees — but clean, not a scratch on 'em. Just... gone inside."

The younger man frowned. "You sure it's not just Stark's men roughing up deserters?"

"Maybe," the guard said. "But this name's come up twice in one week. Once from a black brother, once from a Riverlands rider passing through Rosby. Neither one said much, but both had that look. Like they'd seen something they'd rather forget."

"Arthur Snow," the older man finally spoke, voice rough. "Doesn't sound like much."

"That's the thing," the guard replied. "No one knows where he came from. But he's moving. North to south. Quiet. Fast."

The younger man leaned back. "So? One more cold bastard in the snow. We've seen worse."

The guard drained his cup. "Maybe. But if even half of it's true, he's not just some outlaw. He's cutting through places we thought dead. And men are starting to follow him."

Just then, the door creaked open. Wind swept through the room, and heads turned.

A knight in white armor stepped through the smoke — cloak damp from rain, armor pale and unmarred. He crossed the room without a word, slow and steady, like a man with nothing left to prove. At the bar, he paused, tossed a silver stag onto the counter, then turned and walked back into the storm.

He moved with the stillness of trained killers.

No one spoke for a long while after that.

"Reckon he's heard the name," the guard said softly.

The others said nothing. The fire crackled on.

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Later, in a nearby brothel, a matron whispered to her client between sips of arbor gold:

"They say the North's got the greatest fighter alive. Killed ten men with his bare hands. They say his blade bears the mark of the Stranger himself. His name's Arthur."

Her client—lean, blue-eyed—nodded. Said nothing. But when he left, his gait quickened.

POV: Dreadfort – Maester's Scribe (Revised)

The air in the Ravenry stank of mildew and melted wax.

Maester Tharmund's scribe—Jeren, a boy of fourteen—counted five sealed letters laid out before him. Three bore the Kraken seal of Pyke. One came from the South, sealed in plain wax—no crest, no origin.

He frowned at that one.

"Another ghost message," he muttered, noting it in the ledger. "That makes four this month."

Down in the yard, through the tower's narrow slits, he spotted a traveling wine merchant arguing with the steward. She was lean, cloaked, her red hood drawn low—just another peddler, Jeren assumed. Nothing unusual.

But when he looked again, she was gone.

---------------------------------------------------

Hours later, in the upper solar, Jeren delivered the reports.

Roose Bolton stood beside a brazier, shadows licking his pale cheeks. He read the summaries with cold detachment.

"Four unsourced ravens," Jeren said quietly. "All with southern dialects in the phrasing. No identifying marks. Each mentions 'Stark's shadow rising.'"

Roose nodded once. Slowly.

Roose spoke without turning.

"The Bastard of the Ridge makes things... more difficult than expected. The Starks grow bold under his shade."

He turned to the fire and said nothing else for a long time.

POV: The Red Keep – The Iron Throne

The throne room stank of ash and fear.

King Aerys II sat slumped on the Iron Throne, his eyes fevered, breath short, nails bloody.

"Rebellion in the North," he hissed. "They raise bastards now."

Across the chamber, Varys stood motionless.

"My king," he said softly, "these tales come from Greyjoy's lips. Squids twist truth to lure you into rashness."

Aerys trembled. "They call him Reaper. Demon of the North."

"They also say he walks with wolves and sings to trees," Varys replied amused. "Lies sharpened by fear."

Rhaegar stood nearby, face unreadable.

"The people says he has the strength of a hundred, men" the king raved. "But I— I am fire! I am dragon! I will burn the sky and the north!"

And then—to Varys' horror—Aerys snapped his fingers.

Two gold cloaks dragged a stableboy across the floor, his bare feet leaving smears of blood on the flagstones. He couldn't have been more than ten — dirt-smeared, thin as a reed, eyes wide with terror. He clutched a crust of stolen bread, now crumbled to nothing.

King Aerys II leaned forward on the Iron Throne, the jagged blades behind him catching the light like broken promises. His eyes gleamed with something feral, and his cracked lips curled upward in delight.

"Bread from the royal stables," Aerys said. "A thief in my house. A traitor to the crown. To steal from dragons is to spit on fire."

The boy collapsed to his knees. "Please, Your Grace," he whimpered, voice shaking. "I—I was hungry. I didn't mean—please don't burn me. I didn't know it was wrong, I swear. I was just hungry."

Prince Rhaegar stood at the base of the steps, his silver hair gleaming in the half-light, his face calm but taut with unease. He stepped forward, his voice steady but soft.

"Father," Rhaegar said, "he is only a boy. Likely an orphan. Let him work to repay the theft, or send him to the dungeons. There is no justice in burning a starving child."

Aerys's head snapped toward his son. "You would have me coddle a thief?" he snarled. "Is this what you've learned from your books and songs, Rhaegar? Mercy for vermin?"

"He meant no harm," Rhaegar replied. "He is not our enemy."

"He is not mine," Aerys hissed. "But he may be yours, since you are so eager to defend him." He turned to the pyromancer waiting at the edge of the hall. "Light the brazier. Let the flames speak justice."

The brazier was wheeled forward, green flame already licking the edges of the iron basin. The guards dragged the boy, screaming now, toward the fire.

"NO! PLEASE!" the boy shrieked. "NOOOOOO! I'M SORRY! PLEASE, NO! NOOOOOOOOOO!"

His cries echoed through the hall, ricocheting off stone and steel. One final, piercing wail tore through the air as the fire engulfed him.

AAAAAAGGGHHHHHHH!

SCREEEEEEAAAAAMMMM!

The stench of charred flesh drifted up the hall, curling around the stone steps of Maegor's Holdfast.

Rhaegar turned his face away, eyes closed, lips pressed in a grim line.

Varys, watching from beneath the banners, said nothing. His expression was unreadable.

From behind the Iron Throne, hidden in the deep shadows, Queen Rhaella clutched a strip of her sleeve and whispered a prayer too soft to reach the ears of any god.

The pyromancer bowed. "Justice is done."

Aerys leaned back in his throne of swords, smiling as the scent of ash settled thick around him.