Support me on patreon.com/c/Striker2025
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
POV: Lyanna Stark
Location: Winterfell
The gates of Winterfell opened with a creak, and the chill wind of the south blew in. Black banners fluttered in the snow-specked air—bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
Ser Jonothor Baratheon entered the Great Hall like a storm given form. Broad-shouldered and tall, clad in black plate trimmed with gold, he carried his helmet under one arm and a blunted warhammer strapped to his back. A long scar crossed his cheek like a lightning bolt, and his storm-grey eyes swept the hall with a soldier's wariness.
Before anything else, he approached the dais where Lord Rickard Stark sat in stony silence. The knight gave a respectful bow.
"My lord," he said. "I come from Storm's End, bearing the words of Lord Steffon Baratheon, and the respect of his house."
Rickard gestured. A servant stepped forward, holding a silver plate bearing dark bread and salt. Jonothor broke the bread, dipped it in the salt, and ate.
"Guest right is yours," Rickard said. "You are welcome in Winterfell."
Jonothor gave a curt nod. "Then let me speak plainly. I've heard of a boy here in the North who bested ten knights alone. Some call him the Demon of the North. I've come to see if the tales hold steel… or just hot air."
A quiet murmur spread through the gathered retainers and nobles. Lyanna, seated beside her father, leaned forward, her wolf-cloak draped around her shoulders. She already knew what was coming.
Rickard remained composed. "Arthur Snow is here. If it is a test of arms you seek, name it."
Jonothor grinned. "No blood. No killing blow. A duel of skill and reflex. I'll wield my warhammer blunted, as it should be. Let the boy bring what he will."
From the shadows of the hearth, Arthur Snow stepped into the light. He wore a plain woolen tunic, boots, and a blacksmith's belt—but in his hand, he held the long oak staff that had already become legend in Winterfell. His face was calm. Grey eyes unreadable.
"I accept," Arthur said. "If Lord Stark permits."
Rickard nodded once.
"Then the court shall witness," he declared.
Lyanna watched as the Great Hall stirred to life. Word of the duel spread like fire through the keep. Men and women abandoned their work, children scrambled up onto benches and barrels. Apprentices peeked in from the courtyard windows. Even old Maester Luwin was helped to a seat near the hearth.
Within moments, the Great Hall of Winterfell became an arena.
Ser Jonothor Baratheon stepped forward, drawing the blunted warhammer from his back with a dramatic flourish. It thudded against the stone floor like a drumbeat of war.
Arthur moved opposite him, staff gripped in one hand, expression unmoved.
Lyanna's breath caught.
The duel began.
Arthur stood calm, motionless, like a tree rooted to the stone.
Then the warhammer came.
Jonothor charged like a thunderstorm. The floor shook beneath his steps. But Arthur didn't flinch.
Phantom Tread.
He moved with liquid grace, the staff blurring in his hands. The first strike glanced off Jonothor's shoulder. The second clipped his wrist. The third thudded into his chest and sent the knight stumbling back.
The warhammer hit the floor with a loud clang.
The crowd gasped.
Jonothor wheezed, then barked a laugh. "By the Seven—! You're no boy. You're a damned storm."
Arthur offered him a hand. The Baratheon took it, grinning through bruised pride.
"Aye," Jonothor said, rubbing his wrist. "The rumors didn't lie."
The room buzzed with murmurs. Laughter rippled among the younger squires. The Master-at-Arms raised a brow. A few of the knights nodded with quiet respect.
Even Rickard's lips twitched—just barely.
Lyanna watched Arthur retreat into the shadows once more, staff in hand, calm as ever. No triumph in his eyes. No gloating.
Just control.
Jonothor turned back toward the dais and gave a slight bow.
"My thanks for the honor, Lord Stark. And my compliments—on your steel."
Rickard nodded once. "Winterfell's steel is cold. But it does not bend."
"I'd expect no less," Jonothor replied. "Still… I would speak with you further, in private."
Rickard's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded.
"Later," he said. "In my solar."
(Later that evening – Lord Rickard Stark's Solar)
The hearth crackled low, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. A jug of warmed mead sat untouched on the table. Lord Rickard Stark stood beside the fire, his arms crossed, grey eyes fixed on the man across from him.
Ser Jonothor Baratheon had shed his armor, but not his presence. Even dressed in a heavy traveling cloak, he stood like a statue of war, hands clasped behind his back.
The Master-at-Arms lingered near the door, silent, trusted.
Jonothor was the first to speak.
"My lord, Storm's End sends more than warriors and courtesy."
Rickard didn't turn. "I suspected as much."
"A proposal." Jonothor's voice was steady. "Lord Steffon wishes a marriage between his son, Robert… and your daughter, Lyanna."
The words hung in the air.
Rickard turned, slowly.
"To bind the North and the Stormlands," Jonothor continued. "Before madness spills across the realm. Aerys has filled the cellars of the Red Keep with wildfire. He burns lords for defiance. He mutters to shadows."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"Steffon sees rebellion. Not this year, perhaps not the next. But soon. And when it comes, he wants the North beside him—not across the field."
Rickard's expression did not change. But his jaw tightened.
"And the boy?" he asked."Robert"
"Strong," Jonothor said simply. "A hammer in both name and deed. He'll be Lord of Storm's End one day—and he fights like he's already king."
Rickard nodded slowly. He glanced to the Master-at-Arms, then dismissed him with a motion. Only two remained now.
"One more thing," Jonothor said, voice dropping.
"That boy"
"Arthur Snow," Rickard said.
"Where will his steel fall if war comes?"
Rickard did not answer at once.
"He is loyal. Winterfell raised him."
Jonothor gave a short grunt. "So you say. But that… boy moves like something carved from myth. Storm's End watches. So do others."
Rickard stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
"And if I say he answers only to me?"
"Then I take you at your word, Lord Stark," Jonothor replied with a nod. "But you'd best be certain that word holds."
A heavy silence followed.
Rickard turned back to the fire. "Tell Steffon I will consider the proposal. And the rest… is the will of the North."
Jonothor bowed and left.
Outside, the wind howled through Winterfell's towers.
Later that night – Rickard's Solar
The fire crackled low. Rickard Stark stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard.
Lyanna stepped inside, summoned, but wary.
"You wanted to see me?" she asked, voice calm—too calm.
Rickard turned. "Lord Steffon brings a message," he said.
She said nothing.
"Lord Steffon proposes a union—his son, Robert, for you."
Lyanna's jaw clenched. "A southern lord's son?"
Rickard nodded. "Strong. Well-bred. Next in line to rule the Stormlands. This alliance could bind the North to something stable, before the South collapses."
"And me?" she asked, stepping forward. "What do I get? A husband I've never met and a life far from home?"
"You get duty," Rickard said. "And honor."
Lyanna stared at him. "Is that all I am? A bridge?"
He said nothing.
Her voice rose, sharp now. "I'm not a token to trade."
Rickard's face hardened. "You're a Stark. You'll do your duty."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you shame your house."
Her fists curled at her sides. The firelight danced off her eyes—defiant, wild.
She left before her anger burned holes in the stone.