Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 5.22: King's Landing

The news came swiftly.

Jon, Arya, and Sansa had fled the North. They had taken with them the most loyal of their bannermen, abandoning Winterfell to those too afraid—or too uncertain—to make a stand. The once-unbreakable unity of the North was in ruins, split between those who still clung to the Stark name and those who now bent the knee to Lyanna, whether out of fear or reverence.

The halls of Winterfell, once filled with the laughter of Starks and the warmth of its great hearth, now lay in silence. The banners of House Stark still clung stubbornly to the walls, their direwolf sigil standing as the last vestige of a dying reign. The North was divided. Some whispered of the true heir returned, the dragon-blooded queen who had felled their rulers with power unseen in generations. Others still held fast to the old ways, pledging fealty to Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, who had fled beyond the walls with their most loyal followers.

Lyanna sat atop the great seat of Winterfell, a position no Targaryen had claimed before. Her fingers drummed against the armrest, her mind churning as she considered her next steps. 

Her fingers drummed against the ancient wood of the high table, the murmurs of divided voices echoed outside. Tom stood at her side, his expression carefully neutral, but something in his eyes betrayed him. He had been restless since the battle, and though he had not said a word, Lyanna felt it—a presence, a weight, something missing from her. Something hidden.

"Something troubles you. You have been quiet, Tom," she said at last, her voice smooth but edged with warning. "Why?"

Tom hesitated. He had spent nights wrestling with this truth.  The last piece of the Heart of Fire, the power Lyanna sought so desperately, was within him. It burned within him like a second heartbeat, and he felt its power thrumming at his fingertips, eager to be wielded. But to tell Lyanna? To admit that he carried what she had fought so hard for? The fear of what she might do gnawed at him.

Melisandre had done it to protect him—no, to protect Lyanna from herself. If she knew, would she take it from him? Would she see him as nothing more than another obstacle to her destiny?

"I'm only thinking of our next move," he lied. "With the Starks gone, the North is vulnerable. It's time to show them who their true ruler is."

Lyanna studied him, her violet eyes narrowing slightly. Liar.

Still, she did not press him. Not yet.

Days passed. With Jon and Sansa gone, Lyanna did not hesitate to make her presence known. She walked among the people, her golden magic sparking at her fingertips. The whispers began to spread—some called her a conqueror, others a goddess. She was fire incarnate, the dragon queen who had come to reshape the North itself.

Towns bent to her will, lords swore fealty, and those who did not were dealt with swiftly. Some executed, others exiled. The old ways were dying, and Lyanna was ensuring the birth of something new.

Yet unrest still lingered in the air. The Starks had fled, yes, but they were not gone. Jon and Sansa would return. They had to.

And they did.

The battle was brutal. The last stand of House Stark.

Jon and Sansa had rallied what forces they could, a desperate attempt to reclaim what had once been theirs. They marched upon Winterfell with fire in their eyes, but Lyanna was waiting.

She met them in the field, her forces standing unshaken behind her. The wind howled as they clashed, swords meeting swords, screams filling the air. Blood painted the snow crimson, and one by one, the banners of House Stark fell. Her golden magic weaving destruction through their ranks. Her forces were overwhelming, her power unmatched.