Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Rickard Stark

The wind blew cold across the Winterfell yard, though the fires burned bright near the training circle. Rickard stood beneath the arch of the old tower, his arms crossed, his breath silent.

Below, the wards of Northern houses practiced their drills: shield lines, pivots, open-hand counters. Some failed gracefully. Others scowled through bruised pride.

Arthur stood at the center of it all, silent as ever. He demonstrated, adjusted a grip here, corrected a stance there. No commands. Only presence.

The banners of House Manderly, Hornwood, and Cerwyn fluttered faintly nearby. The Bolton banner was absent.

Rickard's gaze moved toward the group of nobles seated behind the practice line. Lord Tallhart whispered with Lady Dustin's younger son. Karstark's cousin, a sharp-faced boy named Harrion, watched Arthur with visible disdain.

"We're breeding wolves to forget their masters," Rickard heard someone mutter.

He exhaled slowly and turned away. He had heard enough.

POV: Manderly Cousin (trainee)

Derran Manderly rubbed his forearm, bruised from a counterstrike. He wasn't ashamed—he'd asked Lyanna for a real spar, and she hadn't held back. That, at least, was honest.

What confused him was the silence. Arthur's kind of silence. It wasn't absence. It was a weight. A discipline. When he fought near Arthur, he found himself calmer, more watchful.

"You think he's strange," Lyanna said beside him.

He blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to." She smirked. "You're watching, not judging. That's rare."

Derran flushed. "He doesn't act like a lord. And the other boys don't know what to make of it."

"They don't have to," she said, stepping forward to help a younger girl adjust her footing. "That's the point."

That night, a small fire was lit in the Winterfell hall—not for warmth, but for gathering. A rare thing.

Arthur entered without ceremony. His cloak was grey, not black. No sword at his hip, only leather bracers. Redna stood near the door. Thom leaned on the stair. Lyanna observed from behind the bannister.

Rickard cleared his throat.

"Young blood fills these halls," he said. "And not all of it beats to the same rhythm."

Eyes turned toward the front. The Karstark boy—Harrion—stood defiantly.

"This man," Harrion said, pointing at Arthur, "is no knight. No lord. No name. And yet we kneel in dust to learn from him as if he were chosen by gods."

Arthur did not speak.

"And yet," Harrion went on, "he defeats noble sons with common drills. He plants seeds in peasants that bear blades sharper than our own. He makes boys forget birthright."

Rickard said calmly, "And does that frighten you?"

Harrion's voice dropped. "It insults us."

There was a long silence. Then Arthur stepped forward, his gaze never rising.

"Honor," he said, "is not in the blood. It is in the blade that does not strike first. In the voice that holds when anger tempts it. In the choice to stand again—not above, not beneath—but beside."

He turned his eyes—calm and full of quiet fire—toward Harrion.

"You may have the name Karstark. But I have trained men who would die for one another. You cannot even lower your chin."

That struck deep. The Karstark boy lunged forward.

Lyanna moved first, intercepting him with a draw-cut that stopped just short of skin. The other boys drew back in shock.

"No duels tonight," Rickard said coolly. "Unless you wish to leave Winterfell without the hand you used to draw."

POV: Rickard Stark – Later That Night

In the solar, Rickard poured himself a measure of watered wine. Across from him sat Derran Manderly, his posture uncertain.

"You spoke no words in the hall," Rickard said.

"I listened," Derran replied. "That's what Arthur teaches us first."

Rickard nodded. "And what did you hear?"

"That fear isn't always loud. Sometimes it's dressed in pride."

Rickard studied him a long time.

"Your house has always kept its counsel. I trust your cousin Wyman to know the tide. Tell me—if I send you back as my eyes and ears, will you know what to say?"

Derran straightened. "Yes, my lord. I believe I will."

Rickard allowed himself a small smile.

"Then perhaps not all noble blood is wasted after all."

POV: Arthur – Training Yard, Later Still

Arthur remained in the yard long after the others had gone. He ran his hand along the grain of a wooden sparring post.

"Divide them," he murmured. "And they weaken themselves."

Redna appeared beside him, quiet.

"They've begun to form sides," she said. "Those who see change... and those who see threat."

"They're the same," Arthur replied.

She tilted her head. "And which are we?"

He said nothing.

POVs: Rickard Stark, Manderly cousin (trainee)

Location: Winterfell – Training Yard, Great Hall, Inner Chambers

The courtyard was quiet now, save for the crisp rhythm of drills. A dull thud. The scrape of boot against packed earth. The occasional grunt of exertion. Young men and women—wards from across the North—drove their bodies through the gauntlet designed by Arthur Snow.

But something hung heavy between them. A division deeper than exhaustion. Pride had begun to fester into quiet hostility.

Rickard Stark observed from the shaded alcove of the training yard wall. The crack of wooden swords had become sharper lately—not just in sound but in intent.

He turned as Ser Rodrik Cassel approached, helm tucked beneath one arm.

"They're imitating war," Rodrik said quietly, "but learning the wrong lessons."

Rickard frowned. "Not all of them."

"No. But some train to prove blood, not worth."

Rickard's eyes flicked to the Hornwood bastard—Rymer—moving fluidly through drills, his focus steady, expression unreadable. Opposite him, the Karstark heir—Qyle—smirked as he feinted wide, nearly clipping Rymer's temple. Their blades clashed harder than before. Not practice. Challenge.

Rickard said nothing. But his silence was permission enough.

Later, in the great hall…

The meal was subdued. Winterfell's hearth crackled high, but the air held little warmth. The wards sat in pockets—Manderly near Hornwood, Tallhart beside the Dustins, the Karstarks flanked by a pair of uneasy Ryswells.

Qyle Karstark let his voice carry just enough to be heard.

"Strange days. Bastards wearing pride like cloaks. Common-born giving orders."

The Manderly cousin—a bright-eyed, broad-shouldered boy named Elric—set down his goblet and stared. "Strength earns voice. That's what Lord Stark said."

Qyle laughed. "And who taught him that? The bastard who walks like a lord and fights like a ghost?"

No one answered.

A girl from House Norrey murmured something under her breath. One of the Ryswells stood. Tension rippled across the tables.

From behind the Manderly boy, Rymer Hornwood rose slowly.

"Say it plainly, Karstark. Not in half-words. Not when your father's not here to keep your tongue safe."

Qyle stood. "Plain? Fine. This place poisons noble blood. Makes bastards think they're equals. Makes green boys speak to their betters like brothers."

He drew his wooden practice sword from his belt. "Let's see how strong your merit is."

Rickard's voice cracked like thunder across the hall.

"Enough."

He had risen without sound. Now he stood tall above them all.

"You forget whose roof you speak under."

The boys froze. Qyle's knuckles whitened on his sword. Rymer stared ahead, unmoved.

Rickard turned to Maester Walys. "Prepare the lower hall. Tonight, they'll duel—but under Stark law."

Elric Manderly stood, startled. "Lord Stark—"

"It will be a trial of restraint," Rickard said, eyes sharp. "You want to test ideals? Then do it without hate."

That night – Lower Hall, Torchlit Arena

Benches lined the stone floor. Lords, captains, and Arthur's companions watched in silence. Arthur stood in the shadows, arms folded.

Rymer Hornwood bowed slightly—formal, disciplined. Qyle Karstark didn't.

The duel began with precision, but quickly tilted into ferocity. Qyle fought with heat, his strikes wild, forceful. Rymer parried, slipped, moved—not pretty, but effective.

Then Qyle shouted and lunged, blade sweeping for Rymer's ribs.

Too wide.

Rymer twisted, ducked, and struck Qyle's leg with a sharp thwack. The Karstark boy hissed and fell back.

He scrambled upright, face flushed with rage. He swung again—this time recklessly. Rymer met the blow with his guard, then struck hard across Qyle's chest.

The younger Karstark stumbled, dropped his sword, and fell to one knee.

Silence.

Arthur stepped forward, but Rickard raised a hand.

Qyle looked up. "He's no lord."

"He didn't need to be," Rickard said. "You lost. Not to a name. To a man who trained harder."

Qyle looked to his cousins in the crowd, then back at the floor.

Rickard turned to the gathered lords. "Strength is not inherited. Loyalty cannot be bought. I will not rule a North where merit is scorned."

Some lords shifted in their seats. Others averted their eyes.

Rickard looked to Arthur, then to the other trainees.

"This is Winterfell. And in Winterfell, we do not teach pride. We teach survival."

Later, in the godswood

Rickard stood beside the heart tree. Arthur joined him, wordless for a time.

"That division," Rickard murmured, "it's real now. Blood versus earned worth."

Arthur nodded. "It won't stop here."

"No." Rickard sighed. "But now they know they can't win with names alone."

Arthur glanced toward the training yard. "You've made a choice."

Rickard turned to him.

"And so have you," the Lord of Winterfell said.

Arthur didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Final Scene: Lyanna watches from the balcony

The firelight below dances across the faces of nobles and commoners alike—young boys with bruises, daughters learning to parry, bastards standing tall.

Lyanna watches in silence. The world is changing below her feet. The old lords don't like it. The realm will hate it.

But change has already begun.

She sees Rymer limping away from the training hall. Qyle stands alone.

And in the shadows, she catches Arthur watching—not just them, but what they represent.

She breathes deeply and returns to the yard.

Tomorrow, the drills begin again.