Names Day Celebration

36 AC

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with a vibrant energy that cut through the usual stoic atmosphere of the ancient castle. Banners bearing the sigils of the great Northern houses – the direwolf of Stark, the bear of Mormont, the axe of Cerwyn, the gauntlet of Glover, and many more – hung from the rafters, their colors adding warmth to the stone walls. A long trestle table groaned under the weight of a feast fit for kings: roasted meats, steaming stews, freshly baked bread, and flagons of ale and wine flowed freely.

The lords and ladies of the North had gathered in force to celebrate a joyous occasion: the ten names day of Lyrra Stark. Lord Torrhen Stark, his silver hair a testament to his long years, sat at the high table, his gaze filled with grandfatherly pride as he watched his granddaughter. Beside him sat his son and heir, Lord Brandon Stark, his stern features softened by familial affection, and his wife, Lady Gilliane Stark nee Umber, her strong presence radiating warmth.

The twins, Theon and Jonnos Stark, stood near their sister, their faces mirroring the festive mood. Theon, now a young man of six and ten, possessed a quiet intensity, his gaze often thoughtful and observant. Jonnos, ever the more boisterous of the two, moved through the hall with an easy charm, exchanging greetings and laughter with the assembled guests.

Lyrra herself, a vibrant young girl with the keen grey eyes and determined spirit of a Stark, was the center of attention. Dressed in a gown of deep forest green, embroidered with silver direwolves, she moved with a youthful exuberance, accepting well-wishes and gifts from the gathered lords and ladies. The air was filled with music, laughter, and the hearty cheer of Northerners celebrating one of their own. Even the long shadow of winter seemed to recede, if only for a day, in the warmth of the Stark family's joy.

One by one, the lords and ladies of the North approached Lyrra, their voices booming or soft with well wishes as they presented their gifts to the young Stark girl.

Lord Manderly, his considerable girth preceding him, offered a beautifully crafted silver locket in the shape of a snowflake. "For a fair flower of the North," he boomed, his eyes twinkling.

Lady Mormont, her gaze stern but kind, presented a sturdy bow crafted from heartwood and a quiver of finely fletched arrows. "May your aim be true, young Stark," she said, her voice carrying the weight of Bear Island.

Lord Glover gifted a length of the finest wool cloth, dyed in rich forest greens and blues. "To keep you warm in the coming winters, Lady Lyrra," he offered with a respectful nod.

Lord Cerwyn presented a finely carved wooden direwolf, its eyes inlaid with polished amber. "May it remind you of your noble lineage," he said. Even Lord Bolton, a rare sight so far inland, offered a unique gift: a set of daggers. 

Lady Dustin, her expression cool yet polite, offered a length of exquisite Myrish lace, its delicate patterns shimmering in the torchlight. "A touch of southern elegance for a Northern lady," she said, her tone carefully neutral.

Lord Ryswell presented a delicate silver necklace, its pendant a single, intricately carved snowflake, echoing Lord Manderly's gift but with a more refined style. "May it grace your neck for many years to come, Lady Lyrra," he offered with a bow.

Lord Flint, his features rugged, gifted a pair of sturdy leather gauntlets, reinforced with steel studs. "For strong hands, fit for riding or… other pursuits," he grunted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Lord Locke offered a set of finely balanced throwing knives, their blades gleaming wickedly. "May you always be swift and accurate, Lady Lyra," he said, his gaze sharp.

Lord Umber, Lady Gilliane's brother, presented a magnificent recurve bow, crafted from weirwood wood and sinew, along with a quiver of arrows fletched with the feathers of snowy owls. "May your aim always be true, niece," he boomed, his voice filled with familial warmth.

The variety of gifts reflected the diverse nature of the North, from delicate finery to practical tools of survival. Each offering, however, carried the unspoken message of respect and well-wishes for the young Stark's future.

Theon and Jonnos rose, a familiar camaraderie between them. Jonnos, with a proud grin, stepped forward first. He presented Lyrra with a magnificent bear pelt, thick and glossy, the claws still impressively intact. "Hunted him myself, Lyrra! Biggest bear in the northern woods. May it keep you warm and remind you of the North's strength."

Lyrra's eyes widened in genuine appreciation. "Oh, Jon, it's wonderful! Thank you!" She ran her hand over the soft fur, clearly touched.

Then, her gaze turned expectantly to Theon, who held the intricately carved wooden box. She carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark velvet, lay a slender sword – a thin, smallsword. It was a lighter, more agile blade compared to the traditional Westerosi longswords. The polished steel gleamed in the torchlight, and the hilt was wrapped in supple dark leather, inlaid with delicate silver wire forming the shape of a swift, leaping direwolf.

Lyra gently lifted the smallsword. Its balance felt surprisingly natural in her hands. She drew it a fraction of an inch from its scabbard, the thin blade whispering softly. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of curiosity and delight, met Theon's. "Theon… it's so light," she murmured, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Thank you. Both of you." A genuine smile, bright and full of youthful wonder, lit up her face. The unique sword, so different from the heavier weapons favored in the North, clearly intrigued her.

A thoughtful look crossed Lyra's face as she held the slender sword, turning it over in her hands, the light catching the polished steel. I watched her, a sense of anticipation building. It felt right, somehow, that this particular blade should have a name.

"It's yours now, Lyra," I said gently, breaking the momentary silence. "Every good blade deserves a name. What will you call her?"

Jonnos leaned in, his usual boisterousness softened with curiosity. "Aye, sister. What name suits such a swift and elegant weapon?" The assembled lords and ladies also seemed to wait with interest, curious to see what name the young Stark would bestow upon her unique gift.

Lyrra held the smallsword, her brow furrowed in concentration as she considered its slender form. Her gaze drifted for a moment towards where our mother, Gilliane, sat at the high table, her posture elegant and composed. A small smile played on Lyrra's lips.

"Mother always says I should behave more like a lady," she mused, her fingers tracing the silver inlay on the hilt. Then, looking down at the blade with a newfound spark in her eyes, she declared, "Then this is Lady… Sera."

A chuckle rumbled from my chest. "Lady Sera," Theon repeated, the name fitting the sword's graceful yet sharp appearance.

Beside me, Jonnos erupted in laughter, a hearty bellow that drew the attention of those nearby. "Lady Sera!" he exclaimed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Aye, I reckon any foe who meets this lady in a fight will think twice… right before she pricks them like a startled bee!" His amusement was infectious, and a ripple of chuckles spread through the nearby lords and ladies. Lyrra, a mischievous glint in her eyes, gave Jonnos a playful shove with her elbow, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. The naming of her sword felt like a small but significant step in forging her own identity, a blend of Stark steel and a touch of unexpected grace.

From the high table, Gilliane shook her head, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lady Sera," she murmured, a hint of exasperation in her tone. "If only you applied half the concentration you show with that bow and those… knives… to your ladyship lessons, Lyrra. I swear, the number of times you 'misplace' your embroidery or develop a sudden, urgent need to be in the stables during etiquette instruction…" She sighed dramatically, though her eyes held a fond amusement. "If you showed even a fraction of that focused intensity in learning ladylike skills, I would be the happiest mother in the North."

At the side, Lyra, hearing her mother's gentle chiding, let out a mischievous laugh. Her grey eyes sparkled with playful defiance, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, still clutching Lady Sera. It was clear where her true passions lay, and while she might occasionally humor the expectations of her station, her heart belonged to the thrill of the hunt and the sharp gleam of steel.

Beside our mother, Father, Brandon Stark, placed a reassuring hand on her arm. "She's young, Gilliane," he said, his voice calm and understanding. "Time enough for ladylike graces. For now, let her embrace her spirit." A hint of pride flickered in his steely grey eyes as he watched Lyrra.

Then, our uncle, Jeor Umber, a towering figure with a booming voice, watched Lyrra, who was still grinning mischievously, clutching her new sword. A wide, fierce smile spread across his face. "Show them, niece!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the Great Hall. "Show these soft southrons the power of the North! Let them think twice before they dare approach Lady Sera! Tell them there's a she-wolf in the North, and she fears nothing!" He raised his fist in the air and roared, "She-wolf!"

As if on cue, a chorus of voices erupted throughout the hall. The Northern lords and ladies, their faces alight with fierce pride, echoed his cry. "She-wolf!" they roared, their voices shaking the very rafters of Winterfell. "She-wolf! She-wolf!" The name resonated through the hall, a declaration of the wild, untamed spirit of the North embodied in the young Lyra Stark, her slender sword now a symbol of her burgeoning strength. Lyrra, her eyes wide with surprise and a thrill of exhilaration, raised Lady Sera in acknowledgement, a fierce grin spreading across her face.

The last vestiges of night still clung to the sky outside Lyra's window, a soft grey hinting at the dawn to come. The persistent knocking finally roused her fully. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she stumbled out of bed and pulled open the heavy wooden door.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor were Theon and Jonnos, their faces serious in the low light. Jonnos held a flickering candle, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls.

"Theon? Jonnos?" Lyrra mumbled, still groggy. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Theon stepped forward slightly, his gaze intense. "Nothing is wrong, Lyrra. In fact," a hint of a mysterious smile touched his lips, his voice low and conspiratorial, "I'm here to show you something."

He stepped into her chamber, and Jonnos followed. Once they were both inside, Theon gave Jonnos a subtle nod. Understanding the unspoken signal, Jonnos moved quickly to close the heavy wooden door, the latch clicking softly. Then, with a deliberate movement, he placed his sheathed sword against the door, effectively barring it.

Lyrra watched them, her sleepiness now completely gone, replaced by a growing sense of unease and a flicker of excitement. Jonnos then turned towards them, a strange focus in his eyes. He stretched out his hand, palm open, towards his own sheathed sword leaning against the door. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then, with a soft scraping sound against the wooden floor, Jonnos' sword began to slide. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the steel lifted into the air, its surface gleaming in the candlelight, and flew across the small space, the hilt settling neatly into Jonnos' outstretched hand.

Lyra's eyes widened, her jaw dropping in astonishment as Jonnos' sword floated effortlessly into his hand. "How… how is that possible?" she stammered, her gaze darting between her brothers and the seemingly animated steel.

Theon stepped forward, a knowing smile on his face. "That, little sister, is magic." He gestured towards Jonnos' sword. "These blades… they are more than just steel. They are imbued with ancient runes. Runes that make them virtually indestructible, incredibly lightweight, and eternally sharp. They are… special."

Lyra's gaze snapped to her own sword, Lady Sera, resting innocently by her bedside. "Will… will my sword do that too?" she asked, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and burgeoning excitement.

"Yes," Theon confirmed, his eyes twinkling. "It bears the same enchantments. It will answer your call."

"Show me," Lyra urged, her earlier sleepiness completely forgotten. "Show me how to do it."

"First," Theon said, gesturing towards her bed, "bring me Lady Sera."

Lyrra eagerly retrieved Lady Sera, her small hands gripping the slender hilt with a newfound reverence. She approached Theon, her eyes wide with anticipation.

"Now," Theon instructed gently, taking her hand and guiding her index finger to the edge of the blade. "Just a small prick, Lyrra. Enough to draw a drop or two of blood."

Hesitantly, Lyrra pressed her finger against the sharp edge. A tiny bead of crimson welled up almost instantly. "Now, smear that blood along the hilt," Theon continued, his voice calm and steady. "All around it. This will create a bond, a connection between you and the magic within the blade."

Lyrra carefully followed his instructions, smearing the droplet of her blood onto the dark leather, a thin crimson stain spreading across the hilt. She looked up at Theon, a question in her eyes. "Now what?"

"Now," Theon said, his voice hushed with anticipation, "the magic happens. Place Lady Sera on the floor, a few paces away from you."

Lyrra carefully laid her sword on the cold stone floor, her gaze fixed on it. She then took a step back and stretched out her hand, palm open, towards the slender blade.

"Now, Lyrra," Theon instructed softly, "close your eyes. Focus your mind. Feel the connection you just made with the sword. Picture it in your hand. And then… call it to you. Say its name, 'Lady Sera,' and it will come to you."

A gasp escaped Lyra's lips as, with a soft scraping sound against the stone, Lady Sera lifted from the floor. It wobbled for a moment in the air, as if finding its way, then shot towards her outstretched hand, the hilt settling perfectly into her grasp. Her eyes flew open, wide with pure, unadulterated delight. "It… it came to me!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe. "It really came to me! This is… this is magic!"

Jonnos, beaming with pride, stepped forward, drawing his own impressive bastard sword. The hilt was crafted in the shape of a snarling direwolf, its eyes gleaming with inlaid obsidian. "And this, little sister," he announced, hefting the blade, "is Winter's Bite. She's been a good companion." He ran a fond hand along the length of the steel.

Then, Theon stepped forward, and with a fluid motion, drew two swords from sheaths hidden beneath his tunic. They were a matching pair, slender and deadly, their polished surfaces reflecting the candlelight. "And these are my loyal companions," he said, holding them out for Lyra to see. "This one," he gestured to the sword in his right hand, "is On." He then shifted his attention to the blade in his left. "And this one is Theo."

Beside him, Jonnos chuckled, a wide, knowing smile spreading across his face at the names. The shared secret, the magical bond with their weapons, created a new layer to their sibling connection, a thrilling secret just between the three of them. Lyra, still clutching Lady Sera, looked from her brothers to their enchanted swords, her eyes shining with wonder and a dawning understanding of the extraordinary world she was now a part of.

A gasp escaped Lyra's lips as, with a soft scraping sound against the stone, Lady Sera lifted from the floor. It wobbled for a moment in the air, as if finding its way, then shot towards her outstretched hand, the hilt settling perfectly into her grasp. Her eyes flew open, wide with pure, unadulterated delight. "It… it came to me!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe. "It really came to me! This is… this is magic!"

Jonnos, beaming with pride, stepped forward, drawing his own impressive bastard sword. The hilt was crafted in the shape of a snarling direwolf, its eyes gleaming with inlaid obsidian. "And this, little sister," he announced, hefting the blueish tinted blade with black handle, "is Winter's Bite. She's been a good companion." He ran a fond hand along the length of the steel.

Then, Theon stepped forward and, with a fluid motion, drew two swords from sheaths hidden beneath his tunic. They were a matching pair, slender and deadly, their polished surfaces reflecting the candlelight. "And these are my loyal companions," he said, holding them out for Lyrra to see. "This one," he gestured to the sword in his right hand, "is Jon." He then shifted his attention to the blade in his left hand. "And this one is Theo." The blades are opposite in colour, contrasting with each other. Where Jon has a dark grey blade and a light grey handle, Theo has a light grey blade and a dark grey handle with silver snarling dire wolves at the guard of the blade.

Beside him, Jonnos chuckled, a wide, knowing smile spreading across his face at the names. Lyrra, still clutching Lady Sera, looked from her brothers to their enchanted swords, her eyes shining with wonder and a dawning understanding of the extraordinary world she was now a part of.

"And what else can they do?" Lyrra asked, her voice still filled with wonder as she held Lady Sera, feeling the subtle hum of magic within the hilt.

"These swords," Theon explained, his gaze serious, "are bound to our blood. They will only answer our call and our descendants. In the hands of anyone else, even the strongest warrior, the blades will become dull and unresponsive, no better than common steel." He looked pointedly at Lyra. "This magic is a part of us now, Lyra. A secret to be guarded."

He then held up his twin swords, Jon and Theo. "And these two," he said, his voice taking on a slightly different tone, "are bound to each other as well. They are… companions. If one is called, the other will feel it. They always seek each other's presence." He moved the blades, and Lyra could almost sense a subtle pull between them, a silent understanding. "They fight best when wielded together, moving in perfect harmony." The bond between Theon and his twin blades seemed almost as strong as the bond between the three of us. This was more than just magic; it was a connection, a part of their very being.

Jonnos, standing beside Theon, offered a wide, knowing smile as his brother spoke of Jon and Theo's inseparable bond. His eyes flickered between Theon and Lyrra, a silent acknowledgment of the deeper meaning behind Theon's words. It was a cryptic way of speaking about their own unbreakable connection as twins, a bond that mirrored the magic woven into Theon's swords. He understood the unspoken sentiment, the subtle reassurance that just as Jon and Theo were always linked, so too would he and Theon always be there for Lyrra, and for each other. It was a brotherly promise wrapped in a tale of enchanted steel.

The flickering candle in Jonnos' hand was nearing its end. A shared understanding passed between the siblings – the night's wonders had taken their toll.

"We should get some rest, Lyrra," Theon said gently, a hint of weariness in his voice. "The day will soon be upon us."

Jonnos nodded in agreement. "Aye, little sister. But this… this is our secret now. Guard it well."

Lyrra, clutching Lady Sera close, nodded solemnly, her eyes still shining with the magic of the night. "I will," she whispered.

With a final, knowing look, Theon and Jonnos bid her goodnight and slipped out of her chamber, leaving Lyrra alone with her enchanted sword and the extraordinary secret they now shared. The first rays of sunlight crept through her window, illuminating the slender blade in her hands, a promise of the magical path that lay ahead.