Harvest festival

Pics

Torrhen stark

Brandon Stark

Gilliane Stark

Theon Stark

Jonnos Stark

Lyrra Stark( Sister to the twins four names day old)

30 AC

Five years had spun like the turning of the seasons since the momentous discoveries in Lord Stark's solar. Winter had descended upon the North, testing its resilience, but it had also passed, leaving behind the promise of a bountiful harvest. Now, as the late summer sun warmed the ancient stones of Winterfell, the Starks had sent ravens to every corner of the North, inviting all the lords and their households to a harvest festival. The courtyard, usually a place of military drills, was now filled with colorful banners, the scent of roasting meat hung heavy in the air, and the sounds of music and laughter echoed through the castle walls. It was a time for celebration, a moment to acknowledge the land's bounty and the strength of the Northern people.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the boisterous cheer of the harvest feast. Lords and ladies of the North, their voices loud and their laughter hearty, filled the long tables laden with roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and flagons of strong ale. At the high table, Lord Torrhen Stark sat in the seat of honor, a rare hint of satisfaction softening his stern features as he observed the revelry.

Suddenly, a figure of immense size and presence rose from one of the tables. It was Joer Umber, Theon's uncle, a man known throughout the North for his towering height and booming voice. He held aloft a massive tankard of ale, his gaze fixed on Torrhen.

"My lords and ladies of the North!" Joer's voice thundered through the hall, momentarily silencing the merriment. "Let us all raise our drinks to Lord Torrhen Stark, the Warden of the North!" A chorus of agreement echoed through the hall, and tankards and goblets were lifted high.

"Many years have passed," Joer continued, his voice resonating with a deep respect, "since Aegon the Dragon descended upon our lands. Our Lord Torrhen, in his wisdom, made a choice. He knelt before the dragon king, a decision that some, in their foolish pride, whispered was the act of a craven."

A low rumble of disagreement rippled through the hall.

"But I say to you now," Joer boomed, his massive fist clenching around his tankard, "that my Lord Torrhen showed a courage that outshines the bravest warrior on the battlefield! He chose to save the North from fire and ruin. He chose the lives of his people over the empty glory of a lost crown!"

A resounding cheer erupted, shaking the very rafters of the Great Hall.

Joer raised his tankard even higher. "Look around you, my lords! See the bounty of this harvest, richer than we have seen in years, even after the bite of winter! See the light that fills our halls and warms our crops, thanks to the new glass that graces our windows! These are the fruits of the peace Lord Torrhen secured for us. These are the signs of a North that not only endured but now flourishes!"

He paused, his gaze meeting Torrhen's across the hall. "To Lord Torrhen Stark! May his foresight and his sacrifice never be forgotten!"

"To Lord Torrhen!" the assembled lords roared, their voices filled with genuine admiration as they drank deeply. Torrhen Stark, a flicker of emotion crossing his usually impassive face, offered Joer Umber a rare, small nod of gratitude. The feast continued, the giant's powerful words adding a profound layer of appreciation to the joyous celebration.

As the echoes of the lords' toast to him began to fade, Torrhen Stark slowly rose from his seat at the high table. His movements, though deliberate, carried a newfound lightness. He turned to face Joer Umber, his gaze holding a warmth rarely seen. "Lord Umber," he said, his voice carrying a surprising note of emotion, "your words… they are more precious to me than any crown. Thank you."

He then turned his gaze to encompass the assembled lords and ladies, his stern features softening slightly. "And to all of you, my lords and ladies of the North," he continued, his voice resonating with a quiet strength, "thank you for gracing Winterfell with your presence at this harvest feast. Your loyalty and your resilience are the bedrock upon which the North stands strong. Let us enjoy this bounty together, a testament to our enduring spirit." A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips before he gestured for the feasting to continue.

Torrhen Stark then added, "I ask that all lords convene in my solar tomorrow, after breaking your fast. We have much to discuss for the future of the north."

As Lord Torrhen concluded his announcement, the attention of the Great Hall began to shift once more to the joyous atmosphere of the feast. Amidst the lively chatter, at one of the long tables, sat Theon and Jonnos Stark, surrounded by a group of the young lords and ladies of the North – the sons and daughters of the assembled houses. Theon, ever the more serious of the two, found himself drawn into a conversation about swordplay, his hands gesturing as he described a particular parry he had been practicing. Beside him, Jonnos, his eyes bright with enthusiasm, recounted his latest archery practice, boasting good-naturedly about a particularly impressive shot that had split a target at fifty paces. The other young nobles listened intently, eager to share their own training regimens and feats of skill, the camaraderie of shared experience bridging the gaps between their different holdfasts. The air around their table buzzed with youthful energy and the friendly rivalry of those who would one day lead the North.

Brandon Stark, seated at the high table beside his father, watched his two sons amidst the youthful company with a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The animated discussion about sword training and archery drifted up to him, and his mind wandered back to a day, not so long ago, when Theon had first truly surprised him. He remembered the boy, leaner then, his movements still somewhat awkward, yet possessing a fierce determination in his grey eyes. Brandon had been overseeing the training of one of the castle guards, a seasoned veteran known for his skill with the blade. On a whim, or perhaps an unspoken prompting, Theon had asked to spar. Brandon had agreed, expecting a quick lesson in humility for his son. But what transpired had been anything but. Theon, with a surprising agility and an almost intuitive understanding of the guard's attacks, had not only held his own but, to Brandon's astonishment and the hushed admiration of the onlookers, had managed to disarm the seasoned fighter. The memory still brought a flicker of pride and a touch of bewilderment. There had always been something… different about Theon.

A playful grin spread across Theon's face as he turned to Jonnos, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Ah yes, brother," he interjected into Jonnos's archery tale, his voice laced with amusement. "I recall quite vividly your 'impressive shot.' What you conveniently forget to mention is the many arrows that sailed wide of the mark before that lucky strike. And let's not even speak of our last sparring session. You were so soundly defeated, I almost felt sorry for you." He punctuated his words with a gentle nudge of his elbow.

Jonnos's good-natured boast faltered, replaced by a mock scowl. "That was one time, Theon! And you caught me off guard. Besides," he retorted, a mischievous twinkle returning to his eyes, "you forget the time I managed to knock you flat on your back during our wrestling practice. You weren't looking so smug then, were you?" He mimed a triumphant wrestling move, eliciting laughter from the young lords and ladies around them.

"Wrestling is hardly the same as swordsmanship," Theon countered, a wry smile playing on his lips. "There's a certain… finesse, a strategic elegance to the blade that brute strength simply cannot overcome."

"Oh, I see," Jonnos shot back, his tone deliberately exaggerated. "So when you tripped over your own feet and landed in the mud, that was 'strategic elegance' as well?"

Theon's smile widened, and he chuckled, shaking his head. "That, dear brother, was a momentary lapse in… tactical positioning." Their lighthearted banter continued, punctuated by the laughter of their companions, the friendly rivalry between the Stark brothers a familiar and cherished sight amongst the young nobles of the North.

As the evening wore on, fueled by copious amounts of food and drink, the conversations around the long tables began to soften. The boisterous laughter gradually subsided into more intimate exchanges, the clinking of goblets became less frequent, and a comfortable drowsiness began to settle over the Great Hall. Servants moved quietly through the room, clearing away empty platters and refilling dwindling wine skins. The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows on the tapestries adorning the walls, creating an atmosphere of warmth and contentment. One by one, lords and ladies began to take their leave, offering their thanks to Lord Stark before retiring to their chambers, the joyous energy of the harvest feast slowly ebbing away until only a gentle murmur remained.