Games of Thrones: The Heavenly Demon of North

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POV: Arthur Snow

Location: Wolfsblood Ridge – Inner Grove

The grove held its breath.

No birds called. No wind stirred. Even the ancient sentinel pines stood motionless, their snow-laden branches frozen mid-sway. Arthur knelt at the center of the stone circle, his fingertips pressing into the frosted earth. Around him, his students sat rigid - backs straight, hands on knees, their breath pluming in the winter air despite the sweat beading on their brows.

"You've learned to hold qi," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade through silk. "Now you'll learn to set it free."

Lyanna's fingers twitched against her thighs. Garron's massive shoulders rose and fell like a blacksmith's bellows. Only Vaeren seemed calm, his usual smirk replaced by an eerie, focused stillness.

Arthur drew his dagger and scored a line in the dirt between them. The blade hissed as it parted the frozen earth.

"The first meridian lies here." He tapped his own chest just below the collarbone. "When opened, it becomes a river. Closed, it's a dam waiting to burst." His pale eyes found Thom's frightened face. "Fail to control it, and you'll drown in your own power."

Redna went first.

She crossed her legs and pressed both palms flat against her sternum, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts at first. Arthur watched the pulse jump in her throat - the rabbit-quick flutter of a startled hare.

"Slow," he murmured, moving to kneel before her. "Qi follows breath, not fear."

Her nostrils flared, but gradually her breathing steadied. A flush crept up her neck as the energy gathered beneath her skin. Then—

A gasp tore from her lips. Her back arched like a drawn bow, muscles standing in sharp relief beneath her tunic.

Arthur was there in an instant, one calloused hand bracing her shoulder. "Don't fight it," he commanded. "Let it flow."

Redna's lips peeled back from her teeth in a soundless snarl. Veins stood out along her temples like blue rivers. For three terrible heartbeats, Arthur thought he'd have to intervene—to tear the gathering energy from her body before it tore her apart.

Then—release.

Her body went slack as the energy found its path. When her eyes opened, the whites were briefly shot through with crimson, like cracks in porcelain.

"Good," Arthur said, helping her lie back on the frozen ground. "Now rest."

Garron didn't ask for help.

The big man simply planted his feet, rolled his massive shoulders, and roared as he drove his qi forward like a battering ram. Arthur saw the mistake coming—the brute force approach—but didn't stop it. Some lessons had to be learned through pain.

The backlash hit like a thunderclap.

Garron went sprawling, his massive frame crashing into the snow. Blood trickled from one ear, bright red against his pale skin.

"Again," he growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Arthur shook his head. "Not like that." He placed a hand on Garron's heaving chest, feeling the wild hammering beneath. "You're not forging steel here. You're coaxing fire."

The second attempt was slower. More controlled. Arthur watched as Garron's qi gathered—not in a sudden surge, but in a slow, building warmth. When the meridian finally gave way, the sound that escaped Garron's lips was something between a sob and a laugh, the relief so profound it bordered on pain.

Vaeren's approach was different still.

The alchemist's long fingers danced through the air as if plucking invisible strings, guiding his qi with terrifying precision. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation—just the cold, calculated focus of a man who had spent years mastering delicate compounds and volatile mixtures.

The meridian opened like a flower at dawn—swift, silent, perfect.

Vaeren's eyes snapped open, his pupils dilated black with power. "Fascinating," he breathed, his voice thick with wonder. "It's exactly like—"

Arthur's hand clamped over his mouth before he could finish. "Don't speak," he warned. "Not yet."

A wise precaution—the first words past an opened meridian often carried unintended power. Even muffled, Vaeren's chuckle scorched the air between them, leaving the scent of burnt herbs in its wake.

Sarra attacked the process like she did everything—as if it were a duel to be won through sheer force of will.

Her first attempt failed spectacularly, leaving her gasping. Her second ended with her vomiting bile onto the snow. On the third try, Arthur caught her wrist in an iron grip.

"You're trying to kill it," he hissed. "This isn't an enemy. You have to invite it."

When the breakthrough finally came, it was as violent as the woman herself. A shockwave of heat rolled off her body, melting the frost in a three-foot radius and sending up tendrils of steam.

Arthur simply nodded. "Better."

Thom's hands shook as he traced invisible patterns in the air, his lips moving soundlessly as he recited texts only he could see. "The manuscripts say—"

"Forget the manuscripts," Arthur interrupted.

The boy's first attempt collapsed before it began. His second left him wheezing like an old man. By the third try, his lips had taken on a worrying blue tinge.

Arthur knelt before him, placing both hands on the boy's shoulders. "You're thinking too much," he said quietly. "This isn't a lesson to be memorized. It's a leap to be taken."

Thom's fourth attempt began with a shuddering breath—and ended with a scream that shook snow from the nearby branches. But when the dust settled, his meridian held, the energy flowing through him in visible pulses beneath his skin.

Lyanna waited until last.

Her hands were steady, her posture perfect, but Arthur saw the tremor in her lower lip—the fear she'd never admit to, not even under torture.

"You don't have to—" he began.

"Yes," she cut him off, her voice steel wrapped in silk. "I do."

Her first attempt began like snowfall—soft, relentless. Arthur watched the battle play out beneath her closed eyelids, saw the moment her control slipped. Lyanna's back hit the ground hard as her own qi rebelled, blood welling at the corner of her mouth.

Arthur moved to intervene, but her hand shot up, palm out. "No."

The second time, she changed tactics. Instead of forcing the gate, she... asked.

The opening came not with a roar, but a sigh—a quiet surrender more profound than any victory. Lyanna's eyes flew open, glowing faintly in the gathering dusk, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.

"By the Old Gods," she whispered, the words carrying a weight beyond their meaning.

Arthur helped her sit up, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Now you understand."

As night fell, the grove echoed with ragged breathing and the occasional whimper of pain. Six bodies lay sprawled across the frosted grass, steam rising from their skin in the cold air.

Arthur stood over them, a shadow against the rising moon, his breath curling in the freezing air.

"Tomorrow," he said, the words a promise and a warning, "we begin again."