Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 5.21: Winter Fell

Lyanna stood before Winterfell, her gaze lifted toward the towering walls. As her eyes scanned the stone battlements, she saw the figures of her father, the Warden of the North, and her aunt, the Queen of the North, staring down at her from above. The distance between them was vast, yet the tension in the air could be felt even from the ground. Her father's face was a mask of unreadable stoicism, while her aunt's sharp eyes never wavered from Lyanna's figure.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words, until Sansa's voice broke through, clear and commanding.

"Lyanna," Sansa called, her tone colder than the northern winds. "This is your last warning. Turn back now, or we will bring you down with the full force of the North."

Lyanna's lips curved into a soft, knowing smile as she met her aunt's eyes. "Ah, Aunt Sansa," she began, her voice honeyed with the same silver tongue that had once charmed every court she had ever graced. "Such threats. I always knew you were not one for diplomacy, but I had hoped you might be wiser."

She let her words linger in the air before continuing, her gaze not wavering from Sansa's. "But fear not, dear aunt. I promise I will bring no harm to the North—if only you will welcome me with open arms, as the Targaryen and Stark I am."

Sansa's expression faltered only for a moment before her eyes darkened. "You should have never been born," she hissed, her voice dripping with contempt. "It's a shame that the Starks should ever be associated with you. You are a disgrace."

The words struck Lyanna like a slap, the sting sharp enough to make her pause for a brief moment. But she didn't flinch. She held her ground, her gaze as hard as stone. Sansa's words could not break her.

"Your words," Lyanna said softly, but with a steely edge, "cannot hurt me. They can do nothing to me. They are nothing but the wind in the trees, Aunt Sansa. So do not waste your breath."

Her eyes burned with quiet fury as she turned her gaze from Sansa, a subtle flicker of her magic swirling beneath her fingertips. She raised her hand, the air crackling with energy as golden light began to seep from her fingertips, flowing like liquid fire. The gates of Winterfell, previously locked and heavily guarded, trembled as they began to creak and groan under the pressure of her magic. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the massive gates began to open.

Sansa's eyes widened in disbelief. "No!" she cried out, her voice carrying over the walls. "Stop her! Do not let her inside!"

With a swift motion, she turned to her soldiers, shouting commands. "Attack! All units, attack!"

Lyanna's men tightened their grips on their weapons, but Lyanna made no motion to engage them. Instead, she raised her other hand, her magic a shimmering barrier that enveloped her forces like a protective shield. When the first cannonball was fired, it crashed harmlessly against her shield, the explosion rippling around them but doing no damage. Her forces remained untouched, but they did not move forward. Lyanna had not commanded them to fight—yet.

Among the ranks of her soldiers, the Grisha stood, uncertain and uneasy. They had never expected to be in such a position. Though they had sided with Lyanna, they knew all too well what the consequences could be if Sansa turned on them. Hiding in the ranks, they exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what the future would hold now that the situation had escalated.

Lyanna caught sight of them but didn't acknowledge their fears. She was already thinking several steps ahead.

"Aleksander, Alexis," she called out to the Shadow Summoners, their names smooth and familiar on her tongue. "Prepare your shadows. Should they make a move, you will be ready." She paused, her voice lowering to a soft, deadly murmur. "But do not strike first. I want Sansa to act rashly, to reveal her weakness to her own people. Let her be the one to make the mistake."