Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025

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

POV: Lyanna Stark – The Hollow Vale, Midday

The mountain wind swept through the training yard, sharp but steady. Snow dusted the pine-shaded colonnades. The yard was restless. Too many days of hard training, too many eyes watching each other sideways.

Lyanna moved between rows of young fighters. Most were noble-born, but not all. She adjusted stances, corrected grips, and barked out instruction with measured authority. The movements repeated. Breath misted. Leather creaked. No one laughed anymore.

Tension had been building. Not from cold or bruises—but from whispers.

She heard them behind her back now as easily as the thump of boots on frozen earth.

They said Arthur taught without honor. That he drilled baseborns like knights. That the Hollow Vale was not training soldiers, but something else.

Cregan Karstark had been the loudest. He didn't hide his contempt. Not just for Arthur, but for what the Vale represented—lines being crossed.

Today, he stepped into the yard wearing polished steel, not sparring leather. Two others followed behind him, boys from House Dustin and House Umber.

He called her name.

She turned. The yard went still.

"You've let this place rot," he said. "You teach women. You let lowborn boys strike lords in drills. You reward it."

She met his gaze without flinching. "If you have a grievance, take it to your father."

"I take it to you. Because you allowed it."

Then he drew steel. Real steel.

"This isn't a spar," he said. "This is a reckoning."

Gasps followed. Several of the others stepped back.

Lyanna took a step forward.

Before she could speak, Cregan turned and struck. Not at her—but at a tall boy from Last Hearth. A trainee. The blade hit just above the thigh, slicing deep.

The boy collapsed.

Steel rang out as others surged forward—but Lyanna was already there.

Her blade caught Cregan's with a hard clang. He turned toward her, face tight with anger.

They fought briefly—only three passes.

His strikes were heavy and wild. Hers were deliberate.

She disarmed him without ceremony. He fell back into the snow, breath hard, one hand on his wrist.

She stood over him. "This isn't your yard, Karstark. And strength isn't yours to hoard."

He didn't respond. But his eyes burned.

Then he said, cold and clear: "You and your bastard knight will be judged. Not by blades, but by blood and law."

POV: Rickard Stark – Winterfell, Late Afternoon

The raven arrived with the cold wind. Rickard read the message without expression. Then folded it and called for his household.

By nightfall, banners flew above the great hall.

In the godswood, under fire and frost, Rickard summoned lords and envoys from fifteen houses. Cregan Karstark stood before them, flanked by his steward and two other boys.

He spoke of broken tradition. Of Arthur Snow training those without banners. Of rituals and oaths outside noble order.

He claimed the Hollow Vale had become a place of deviation.

Arthur stood across from him, alone.

He said nothing.

Rickard let the silence grow. Then answered:

"No house was forced to send its sons. No house will be forced to keep them there."

"The North endures because it changes when it must. Not because it clings to what makes it feel safe."

Karstark's steward stepped forward. "Then the Karstarks will recall their blood."

House Dustin followed. Two others gave quiet assent.

Rickard watched as nearly half the tribunal turned from the circle.

The rest remained. Not in loud defense—but by standing still.

POV: Rickard Stark – Later That Night

Rickard stood beneath the main banner, near the old stone gate. Arthur was beside him, arms folded.

"They'll call you heretic," Rickard said.

Arthur didn't flinch.

"They already do."

"They don't fear swords," Rickard added. "They fear that you train people to rise."

Arthur looked up at the wind pulling the banners.

"If that's what frightens them," he said, "then they'll keep coming."

Rickard nodded. "They will. And they'll bring more than words next time."

Arthur's voice was quiet. "Let them. The Vale doesn't kneel. It prepares."