Peaceful times

40 AC

Winterfell

Third Person Pov

The biting cold air nipped at exposed skin as Theon and Jonnos Stark traded blows in the training yard of Winterfell. The ground crunched softly beneath their boots, a stark contrast to the rhythmic clang of steel on steel. Jonnos, his breath misting in the frigid air, pressed his attack with fierce intensity, his youthful energy driving a relentless flurry of strikes. His brow was furrowed in concentration, every muscle in his body straining with the effort of his assault.

Jonnos roars, charging forward with an overhead swing aimed at Theon's head. Theon, his expression serene, takes a small step to his left, easily deflecting the blow with his own sword, the force of Jonnos's strike carrying his momentum forward slightly.

Jonnos immediately follows with a quick horizontal slash aimed at Theon's ribs. Theon smoothly brings his sword down in a parry, the two blades meeting with a sharp clang. In the same fluid motion, Theon pivots slightly and delivers a swift, low thrust towards Jonnos's exposed thigh.

Jonnos, reacting quickly, leaps back just as Theon's point reaches him, narrowly avoiding the strike. He uses the momentum to launch a diagonal cut aimed at Theon's shoulder.

Theon raises his sword in a diagonal block, meeting Jonnos's blade. Instead of simply deflecting, Theon twists his wrist at the point of contact, attempting to hook Jonnos's sword and disarm him.

Jonnos, relying on his raw strength, manages to wrench his sword free from Theon's attempted disarm, though his grip loosens slightly. He follows up with a wild, powerful swing aimed at Theon's side.

Theon ducks low, allowing Jonnos's swing to pass harmlessly overhead. Simultaneously, he drops his sword lower and executes a swift, sweeping motion with the flat of his blade against Jonnos's leading leg, just above the ankle.

The unexpected sweep throws Jonnos off balance. His footing gives way, and he stumbles forward, his sword arm flailing momentarily.

Seeing his opportunity, Theon rises smoothly, his sword now pointing directly at Jonnos's chest. Jonnos, off-balance and disarmed of his momentum, can only stare at the cold steel inches from his heart.

Jonnos, recognizing the inevitable, lowers his practice sword and lets out a frustrated breath. "Yield," he concedes, his earlier ferocity gone, replaced by a grudging respect.

Theon lowers his own sword, his calm expression never wavering. "Well fought, brother. Your intensity is commendable, but remember to maintain your balance, even in the heat of the attack."

The clang of steel faded as Theon lowered his sword, the tip resting lightly on the snow-dusted ground. Jonnos, his chest heaving, dropped his own practice blade with a dull thud. The crisp winter air carried the sound of their ragged breaths.

They walked in unison towards a rough-hewn wooden bench that sat against the wall of the training yard, the snow around it having been cleared by diligent stable hands. Theon picked up a skin of water that lay on the bench and offered it to Jonnos first.

Jonnos took a long, grateful draught, the water gurgling down his throat. He lowered the skin, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. "Gods, I thought I had you that time," he said, a hint of frustration still in his voice, though tempered with a grudging admiration. "You move like a shadow, Theon. How do you see everything?"

Theon took the waterskin as Jonnos offered it back, taking a smaller sip. "Years of practice, brother. And perhaps… a different way of seeing." He didn't elaborate, his gaze drifting towards the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. The early morning sun, though weak, glinted off the ice that clung to the ancient stones. The sparring match was over, but the lessons, as always, lingered in the cold winter air.

Jonnos leaned back on the bench, a playful smirk spreading across his face, the earlier frustration of the spar already fading. He nudged Theon with his elbow. "So, brother," he began, his voice laced with teasing, "has there been any… interesting parchment arriving from the icy shores of Bear Island lately? Any missives sealed with the sigil of the she-bear?" He raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his grey Stark eyes.

Theon took another slow sip of water, his gaze remaining fixed on the distant battlements. A faint hint of color might have flickered across his cheeks, but his expression remained resolutely neutral. He simply rolled his eyes at Jonnos's teasing, offering no verbal response. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken understanding and the familiar camaraderie of brothers. Jonnos chuckled softly, knowing he had struck a nerve, but respecting Theon's quiet reticence on the matter. The she-bear of Bear Island was clearly a topic Theon preferred to keep to himself, at least for now.

Jonnos, undeterred by Theon's silence, shifted the conversation to more general matters. "Did you hear about Lord Manderly's latest endeavor in White Harbor?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Apparently, he's attempting to breed larger, hardier pigs for the winter stores. Says the current stock isn't 'sufficiently plump' for a proper Northern feast."

Theon finally offered a small smile. "Aye, I heard whispers. Leave it to Manderly to concern himself with the girth of his swine even with… other matters at hand."

"Speaking of other matters," Jonnos continued, his tone turning slightly more serious, "have you had any further word from the wildling settlements? Are they holding to their agreements?"

"Thus far, the reports have been… stable," Theon replied, his gaze becoming more thoughtful. "There have been minor disputes, as expected when two vastly different peoples try to coexist, but nothing they haven't been able to resolve. Ragnar seems intent on keeping his word, and the giants… well, they mostly keep to themselves around Moat Cailin, surprisingly helpful with the canal work."

"And the Children of the Forest?" Jonnos inquired, his curiosity evident. "Have they integrated at all within the godswood? Do they… interact with the castle folk?"

"Leaf and a few others occasionally venture into the outer yards," Theon explained. "Mostly to observe the flow of life here. They are… quiet. Their ways are not our ways. But they have offered their knowledge of the old ways, of the land itself, to Maester Cassen. He seems both fascinated and utterly perplexed by their understanding of the natural world."

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant calls of the guards on the battlements and the gentle sigh of the wind through the bare branches of the godswood.

"Uncle is still grumbling about the free folk on the Stony Shore, isn't he?" Jonnos said after a while, a hint of a smile returning. "Says they're scaring away all the game."

Theon chuckled softly. "Uncle would grumble if the sun rose in the west. He'll come around. Necessity, as they say, makes strange bedfellows. And we need every hand, every axe, every bit of knowledge we can muster for what lies ahead." The earlier levity in their conversation was now tinged with a shared awareness of the looming threat, a constant undercurrent in all their thoughts in the long winter of the North.

As their conversation about the happenings of the North continued, the heavy wooden door to the training yard creaked open, and a figure bundled in furs stepped out into the cold. It was their sister, Lyrra Stark, her dark brown hair peeking out from beneath a thick hood, her blue eyes bright and full of energy despite the winter chill.

"Theon," she greeted, offering him a warm smile. Then, turning to Jonnos, a playful glint entered her eyes. "Jonnos," she said, her voice carrying a teasing lilt, "I've been watching your drills. You seem to have some energy left. How about a round with your little sister?" She gestured towards the practice swords stacked against the wall, a challenge clear in her stance.

Jonnos scoffed, though a hint of apprehension flickered in his eyes. "Fight you, little sister? Whatever for?" he asked mockingly, puffing out his chest slightly. "I've already bested Theon this morning – almost! – surely my skills are far too advanced for a mere girl's practice." He winked at Theon, hoping for some brotherly support.

Lyrra's smile didn't waver. "Oh, I don't know, Jonnos," she said, her voice dangerously sweet. "Perhaps so that Mother doesn't hear about your… rather frequent late-night visits to Wintertown? Specifically, the establishment with the particularly cheerful serving girls and the surprisingly potent ale? I wouldn't want her to worry about you would I?" Her gaze was unwavering, the playful tone laced with a clear threat.

Jonnos's bravado deflated like a punctured wineskin. He shot a betrayed look at Theon, who merely offered a small, knowing smirk in return. With a heavy sigh, Jonnos picked up his practice sword again, the earlier energy of his spar with Theon now replaced by a sense of weary resignation.

"Fine, Lyrra," he grumbled, stepping into the training yard. "But if I end up with a bruise the size of a Dornishman's fist, you're explaining it to Mother." He hefted the sword, his stance less enthusiastic than before. "Come on then, little sister. Let's get this over with." He knew better than to underestimate Lyrra; despite her age, she was quick and surprisingly fierce with a blade. The price of his nocturnal pleasures was about to be paid in sweat and likely a few well-placed strikes.

The clang of steel rang out once more in the training yard, though this time the rhythm was different. Jonnos, initially reluctant, found himself engaged in a spirited bout with Lyra. She was indeed quick and agile, her smaller stature allowing her to dart in and out of his reach, forcing him to rely on his longer reach and strength. He held back somewhat, mindful of not actually hurting her, but Lyrra pressed her advantage, her movements sharp and determined. They traded blows for a good while, the winter air filling with their grunts and the scrape of steel on steel. Finally, their stomachs began to rumble in unison, a more pressing concern than sibling rivalry.

Lyrra, panting slightly but with a triumphant glint in her eyes, lowered her sword. "Well fought, brother," she conceded, though the tone suggested she felt she'd held her own quite admirably.

Jonnos wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, despite the cold. "Aye, you're getting faster, little sister," he admitted grudgingly. "But I was clearly holding back."

Theon, who had watched their spar with an amused expression, stood up. "Excuses will not fill empty bellies. Midday meal awaits. Let's see what delights the kitchens have conjured today."

With a mutual agreement that further sparring could wait, the three Starks sheathed their practice swords and headed towards the warmth and aromas emanating from the great hall of Winterfell. The brief clash of steel had worked up an appetite, and the promise of food was a welcome respite from the morning's exertions and the ever-present chill of the Northern winter.

The great hall of Winterfell was filled with the comforting sounds of a midday meal: the clinking of goblets, the scraping of cutlery, and the low murmur of conversation. Lord Torrhen Stark sat at the head of the long table, his son Brandon to his right, and his good-daughter Gilliane beside him. The twin grandsons, Theon and Jonnos, sat across from their sister, Lyra.

Brandon Stark cleared his throat, setting down his trencher. "Father," he began, his gaze turning towards Torrhen, "now that the twins have come of age, I believe we should begin considering betrothal offers. Securing alliances for the future of House Stark is a prudent measure."

Torrhen Stark nodded slowly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Aye, Brandon, you speak wisely. It is time we gave serious thought to their marriages. Good matches can strengthen our house considerably."

Lyrra, who had been quietly eating, suddenly piped up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Well, Grandfather, you might find that Theon has already… taken a keen interest in a particular match. Though perhaps not one you have in mind." She glanced pointedly at Theon, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "He seems to be spending a considerable amount of time… observing a certain 'she-bear' on her icy island. It's only a matter of time before he gets caught in her… embrace."

Jonnos, ever quick with a jest, chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Aye, Grandfather! Don't be surprised if Theon returns one day with a bride who has more fur than silk and a roar that could shake the battlements! Though, I must admit," he added, a playful smirk directed at Theon, "a wife who can wrestle polar bears might be rather useful in the coming Long Night."

Gilliane Stark, a warm smile gracing her features as she watched the playful banter between her children, chuckled softly. Turning to Jonnos, she said teasingly, "And what of you, Jonnos? While your brother is braving icy winds for a formidable she-bear, what manner of delicate flower has caught your eye? Or are your affections currently occupied by the… 'cheerful serving girls' of Wintertown?" She raised a knowing eyebrow, echoing Lyrra's earlier implication, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Perhaps we should start looking for a match for you closer to home, before you bring us a daughter-in-law with a penchant for strong ale and late-night strolls."

Lyra, not wanting Jonnos to bear the brunt of their mother's teasing alone, chimed in, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, but Mother, don't fret too much about Jonnos's… local interests. There's also been a rather intriguing correspondence with a certain 'mermaid' from White Harbor. Apparently, she possesses a captivating singing voice and a rather extensive knowledge of maritime trade routes. The letters have been quite… frequent, and filled with rather flowery prose, if I do say so myself." She winked at Jonnos, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. 

Jonnos's eyes widened in mock horror as Lyra revealed his White Harbor correspondence. "Lyra!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in mock indignation. "A 'mermaid'? Really? Must you exaggerate so wildly? It's a perfectly respectable young woman who happens to reside in White Harbor and possesses a keen interest in… poetry! And perhaps a minor involvement in the family's shipping business. It's purely intellectual discourse, I assure you!" He shot a pleading look at his parents and grandfather, hoping to salvage his reputation. "My sister has a… rather vivid imagination when it comes to matters of the heart."

Gilliane chuckled, a warm and knowing sound that filled the hall. She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she regarded Jonnos. "Oh, really, Jonnos? Purely intellectual discourse with a White Harbor 'mermaid' who just happens to know all about shipping? And Lyra's imagination is the wild one?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Of course, dear. Just as Theon is merely 'observing' a she-bear for purely scientific purposes, I'm sure." Her tone was light and teasing, but the underlying message was clear: she saw right through his attempts at deflection and found it thoroughly amusing.

Lord Torrhen Stark observed the playful exchange with a knowing smile playing on his lips. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention back to the matter at hand. "Well, it seems my grandsons have already begun to… explore their options," he said, his eyes twinkling. "However, Brandon, your suggestion remains a wise one. I shall indeed correspond with the lords who have sent betrothal offers. It would be remiss of us not to consider all possibilities, even if certain hearts already seem to be… leaning in particular directions." He gave a pointed, yet fond, look at both Theon and Jonnos, letting them know their youthful inclinations had not gone unnoticed. "We shall proceed with diplomacy, as befits the Starks. And perhaps," he added with a chuckle, "we shall see which 'bears' and 'mermaids' prove to be the most compelling matches."

And with that, the lighthearted banter and the subtle discussions of potential alliances faded into the comfortable rhythm of the midday meal. The Stark family continued to eat, the warmth of the hearth and the familiar company creating a temporary respite from the harsh realities of the Northern winter and the looming threats beyond their borders. The future betrothals of the twins remained a topic hanging in the air, a gentle undercurrent to their conversation, but for now, they simply enjoyed the nourishment and the familial bonds that held them together in the heart of Winterfell.