Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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Flashback

The council chamber was quiet. Not solemn — careful.

Lord Owen Merryweather set a folded letter down at the center of the long table. Unsealed, no sigil. Just ink, and what it carried.

"We've verified it," he said. "Seven separate accounts, none related. Same name. Same pattern. No lordship, but authority all the same."

Grand Maester Pycelle shifted his weight and narrowed his eyes. "The North has always liked its ghosts. Who calls him what — the Snow Reaper, was it?"

Varys stepped forward from the shadows near the wall. His tone was measured, almost bored.

"Arthur. That's the name. Bastard-born, with no house behind him. But they speak of him in Dreadfort markets. In White Harbor port cells. In the woods outside Barrowton. Not loud. But steady."

Ser Jonothor Darry frowned. "The Starks say nothing?"

"There's no statement. But Lord Rickard tolerates his presence at Winterfell. That alone says enough."

Pycelle scoffed. "A steward, maybe. A glorified sellsword. We're stretching."

Merryweather gave a tired glance. "He's training men. Smallfolk, landless squires. Organizing trade. New drill routines. Road fortifications. Simple, sharp reforms that are bypassing the old houses. He's not asking for power. He's building it."

"Quiet power," Varys added. "Which is the most dangerous kind."

The doors opened. Aerys entered, alone.

No one stood. They only lowered their eyes.

The king walked to the table and glanced at the letter, untouched.

"So the North is stirring again. And this time, it isn't a Stark at the center."

Merryweather said nothing.

"He has a name?"

"Arthur, Your Grace."

Aerys ran his fingers along the edge of the table.

"Invite him. Do it without ceremony. A request for audience. Nothing more."

Pycelle adjusted his robes. "Your Grace, if this man is already embedded at Winterfell, we may be stepping into house politics—"

"We are the realm," Aerys said, his voice flat. "We do not step around. We summon, and they come."

He looked toward Varys.

"Ensure word spreads. Let the court prepare."

Then, to no one in particular:

"Let's see what sort of man comes when called."

He turned and left.

__________________________________________________________

Across Westeros

The invitation had gone out quietly — no royal seal, no banners. But Westeros listened. And Westeros had eyes.

Some learned of it within a day. Others, by the third. But all of them heard.

At Casterly Rock

Three days later, a courier arrived under the guise of trade audit papers. Hidden inside a ledger of grain shipments from King's Landing was the real report.

Tywin Lannister read it alone in his solar — a bastard of the North, invited by the king himself, with no title and yet with whispers surrounding his name like fog.

"A northern nobody with a following," he murmured. "And Aerys treats him as something worth summoning."

He passed the ledger to Maester Creylen with only one instruction:

"Tell Ser Kevan. No one else."

That evening, at supper, his children were present. Jaime, back from the Golden Tooth. Cersei, coiled like a viper in silk. Tyrion, seated lower than he should be, but listening more than most realized.

"The king has summoned someone from the North. No lord. No lands. The name is Arthur," Tywin said, coldly.

Jaime glanced up. "A knight?"

"Not officially," Tywin replied. "But he trains men. Commands some form of loyalty. Aerys doesn't summon nameless men unless he seeks a leash… or blood."

Cersei's lip curled.

"If he's clever, he'll kneel. If not, he'll die screaming."

Tyrion sipped his wine.

"Or worse... he'll survive and learn. That would be most dangerous."

Tywin didn't respond. Ignoring him.

At Pyke

News of Arthur had reached the Iron Islands before the royal summons — and not through whispers. Through failure.

Balon Greyjoy already knew the name. Two quiet raiding operations to the North had failed in the past year — not crushed by lords, but by northern patrols organized under one bannerless bastard.

"Arthur," Balon spat, standing over a salt map. "He ruins our plans and earns the king's favor for it. May the dragon tear out his throat."

Quellon, older, wheezing but watching sharply, merely nodded.

"He fights like a demon but serves starks as per the rumours. A dangerous man indeed. I'd keep your eye on him."

Balon's fists clenched.

"I hope the rumors are true. Let the South devour him."

At Storm's End

The raven arrived five days after the summons, just ahead of Lord Steffon's preparations for his doomed voyage east. It carried more than just names — it brought frustration.

Steffon Baratheon read the parchment aloud, then frowned.

"Arthur. That's the name they whisper. But still no word from Winterfell about Lyanna."

His son Robert looked at him.

"You think Lord Rickard delays because of this bastard?"

"I do," Steffon said. "Why else hold back a betrothal? This boy lives under his roof. Maybe he plans something bold. Quiet."

Stannis, seated at the end of the table, said nothing for a moment.

"If the king summoned him, it means the court is already watching. This won't end quietly."

Steffon tapped the scroll once.

"If this Arthur survives the court, then Rickard Stark may not be the only one who sees value in him."

Renly giggled in his high chair. None of them were laughing.

At Sunspear

Two days after the court whisper had spread, a merchant caravan from King's Landing arrived, bearing a coded letter, which was delivered to Doran Martell without ceremony.

He read the letter once, then again, his expression unreadable.

"The king has extended an invitation to a bastard," he said quietly, "to attend his court."

Oberyn, ever near, poured himself a measure of wine with measured calmness.

"A bastard who fights like a master swordsman — thus begins the forging of a legend."

"Or the ignition of a war," Doran murmured thoughtfully.

"Shall I proceed to observe him personally?" Oberyn inquired.

"No," replied Doran firmly. "We shall await the outcome, then act decisively — striking as a serpent does."

After a brief pause, he added:

"Alternatively, we may seek to recruit him to our cause."

In the Eyrie

Jon Arryn had known of Arthur long before the summons came. He had eyes in the North — and Eddard Stark under his own roof.

The raven from the capital only confirmed what he'd suspected.

"He's in your home, isn't he?" Jon asked.

Ned didn't answer right away.

"Not a lord. But respected."

Jon nodded grimly.

"Then he'll be tested. But not with honor. And not with swords alone."

At Barrowton

Brandon Stark broke from his sparring when the raven arrived. He read it, expressionless.

"He's going," he said flatly.

Lord Dustin raised an eyebrow.

"You knew."

"I guessed. Father's been preparing him. It wasn't random."

"Will he survive?"

Brandon didn't answer. His grip tightened on the wooden training sword.

At Riverrun

Hoster Tully had heard whispers of the bastard from White Harbor. But it was the letter from King's Landing that sharpened the rumor.

He penned a response to Rickard Stark the next morning.

Who is this Arthur? And should the Riverlands be concerned?

He signed it plainly, but included his own suspicions between the lines.

At Oldtown — The Faith

The High Septon read the news not through whispers, but through confession — one of his own septons had spoken with a spy in the city.

"This Arthur teaches steel over scripture," the Septon said. "He speaks little of the Seven. That may change."

The High Septon, a calculating man beneath his layers, simply replied:

"Let the dragons test him. If he passes, we will know how much the realm still listens to gods — or just to men."

At House Hightower

Leyton Hightower received the coded scroll from his informant in the capital.

His daughter, Malora, read over his shoulder.

She looked up at him and asked quietly,

"What does this mean for us?"

Leyton didn't reply. Instead, he wrote a message in return — to Maester Theomore at the Citadel, asking for any previous records on northern bastard named Arthur from the North.

At the Dreadfort

The Boltons had heard of Arthur long before the king did.

He'd disrupted two cycles of their quiet trade — intercepting supply lines, training former thralls into soldiers.

"He breeds loyalty," said Lord Bolton's father. "Which is worse than breeding bastards."

He looked out toward the stormy woods.

"Let the king leash him. Before we must."

At White Harbor

The message came from Winter Town first — by merchant talk and sailor rumor. Then a raven from the capital confirmed it.

Wyman Manderly nodded slowly as his steward read the note aloud.

"The boy has made more noise than half the northern lords — without ever rebelling."

He called for parchment.

"Send word to Lord Rickard. I offer no insult. Only concern. If he goes south, we'll be watching."

At the Twins

Lord Walder Frey was informed last of all. A passing bannerman mentioned it over a strained meal.

"A northern bastard summoned by the king, m'lord."

Frey grunted.

"The king's bored. Or mad. Or both. He summons dogs when he wants sport. Let the North burn its own bones. We've enough bannermen and bastards to mind."

He waved the boy off, already forgetting the name.

In Braavos

A man from Lys let the name slip during a quiet dice game at the Purple Harbor. A Braavosi broker filed it away.

The next morning, a note reached the Iron Bank.

"Arthur. Northborn. Crown interest. Potential deviation from traditional house lines."

It was signed with no name. But those who read it took notice.