Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Lyanna Stark & Arthur Snow (Interwoven Perspectives)

Location: Wolfsblood Ridge – The Camp & Dawn Clearing

The Camp (Night)

The fire gnawed at the dark, its light carving hollows into the faces gathered around it. Lyanna pulled her cloak tighter, though the cold that troubled her had little to do with the wind.

It was the memory of Arthur's hands.

Not the touch itself—the weight beneath it. A pressure lingering in her ribs, in the spaces between breaths. She flexed her fingers, testing the truth of it. The sensation hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled deeper.

Real. It was real.

Across the flames, Sarra fed the fire with slow, deliberate movements. Her eyes flicked to Lyanna—not wary, not curious. Just measuring.

"You felt it too," Lyanna said, quiet.

Sarra didn't pretend. "I felt it."

That was all. Words were too blunt for what had passed between them and Arthur.

Redna's dagger tapped against her knee in a restless rhythm. "You two looked like you'd seen ghosts," she said, but the usual bite in her voice was dulled.

Lyanna turned. "And you didn't?"

Redna's smirk faltered. "I don't know what I felt. Don't know if I want to." The blade stilled. "But I'll be damned if I don't learn how to do it."

Near the fire's edge, Garron's voice rumbled. "That wasn't training. That was sorcery."

Thom exhaled, steam curling from his cup. "No. It had rules. Like a river under ice."

"Since when do rivers crack stone?"

"Since always," Thom murmured. "Given time."

Vaeren hovered at the camp's fringe, fingers stained with ink and soot, muttering over a half-scrawled diagram. His gaze kept darting to Arthur—searching, as if the man's silence might spill secrets.

Arthur stood apart.

Watching.

Listening.

Lyanna studied him—the stillness of his frame, the way the firelight seemed to bend around him rather than touch him.

What else do you know? she wondered. And how much will you make us bleed to learn it?

POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Wolfsblood Ridge – The Camp & Dawn Clearing

The Clearing (Dawn)

Morning came like a whetstone drawn across the sky—cold, bright, relentless.

Arthur stood at the clearing's edge, arms folded, the wind clawing at the others but leaving his cloak untouched. He didn't speak. They wouldn't hear him yet.

They had to fail first.

Garron sucked in a breath like a man bracing for a blow. Too high. Too sharp. His shoulders tensed, his throat locked—and the air shattered in his chest. He growled, tried again. Failed harder.

Arthur said nothing.

Sarra coiled her breath low, the way he'd shown her. For a moment, it worked—then she forced it, muscles taut as bowstrings. The energy twisted, recoiled. She staggered, teeth clenched against the dizziness.

Her eyes flicked to him, seeking approval, reproach.

He gave neither.

Thom lay on his back, tracing the Zhoutian paths in his mind. A flicker of warmth, then—Was that right? Should it burn? Is the pulse supposed to—?

Gone.

He cursed under his breath.

Redna mirrored Arthur's stance, but her lungs raced ahead of her body. Within minutes, she was panting, sweat pricking her brow. Sarra's smirk cut across the clearing. Redna bared her teeth in reply.

Lyanna stood apart, still as a winter oak. Her breath rolled deep, controlled—until it struck the wall inside her. The energy pooled, stagnant. Her eyes opened, questioning.

Arthur met her gaze. Held it.

Wait.

Vaeren scribbled in the dirt, adjusted his posture, tried again. "Damn it."

Arthur finally stepped forward.

"Good."

They stared at him.

He let the word hang, sharp as a blade's edge. "You failed. That means you tried." His boots crunched over frost as he passed them. "Now breathe again. Slower."

A pause. A threat. A promise.

"The lesson starts when you stop fighting yourselves."