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Chapter Text

Winterfell – A Stranger in a Strange Body

Harry knows that his life has always been surreal, but nothing in all of his years had ever prepared him for this— whatever this was, exactly. This body switching, new type of strangeness that had suddenly befallen his already strange and unusual life and had now, somehow, completely and utterly obliterated it.

Not that it necessarily surprised him, exactly— it had been a Halloween night, after all, and he had been told that something huge was going down in the Department of Mysteries. Something which, in all honesty, had only been given the formal go-ahead due to a large twist of a minor technicality; a technicality which, in hindsight, clearly backfired on the entire department, the minute it touched him, a living being.

That much… well, that much Harry understands just fine. Admittedly, at this point, it would have been difficult not to, but still. He understands— logically— what had happened and even to an extent, how it happened. (Soul. Time. Reversal. The Runes had been clearly etched into the ground.) But what he doesn’t understand— doesn’t think he will ever understand, really— is how he ended up here, and not in 1981.

He had expected to wake up in 1981. To see his parents, maybe, or to relive some version of his childhood, at worst. Instead, he was here.

Here, in a time so ancient it felt like stepping into one of Hermione’s history books. Here, in the body of a thirteen-year-old boy named Jon Snow, born to a Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and an unknown mother.

Here, in a castle of stone and frost, with siblings who were strangers to him and a stepmother who, though clearly elegant and composed, carried the sharp, cold judgment of Aunt Petunia.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, really. Of all the absurd things he’d encountered in life, this one was just… on par for the course.

But it didn’t make it any easier to reconcile the facts.

“Jon.”

The voice broke through Harry’s spiralling, sounding deep and steady. It belonged to Lord Eddard Stark—the man who had raised this Jon Snow.

Harry turned, awkwardly adjusting his posture as he faced the man who now called him son.

“Father,” he said in response, the word unfamiliar and awkward on his tongue. His voice was hoarse here, lower and rougher than it should have been for his age.

Lord Stark regarded him with that calm, assessing gaze he apparently always wore. A just man, the servants called him. A man who had taken in the child born of infidelity and raised him alongside his own trueborn children, despite his Lady Wife’s thoughts on it.

That much... well, that much Harry could have somewhat respected for Jon’s sake. But here and now, well, it didn’t erase the awkwardness of standing in front of a man who, by all accounts, loved and cared for this body, while Harry— a grown interloper—inhabited it. The guilt of that lingered, to be honest, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Lord Stark’s gaze softened as he looked him over, though his tone remained steady. “You’ve been quiet lately. How are you feeling as of late?”

Harry swallowed, unsure of what to say, but settled on, “I’ve had… a lot on my mind.”

And it wasn’t a lie. He had. And while Lord Stark didn’t press the matter, his lingering look suggested he understood. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, “You’ll feel better, Jon, even if it takes time.”

Harry swallowed, his eyes stinging, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the thought even if it wasn’t really meant for him.

The first thing Harry noticed upon waking was the chill. It seeped into his bones, sharper and more biting than anything he’d ever felt in England or Scotland. His head throbbed with an ache he couldn’t place, and his body—smaller, thinner—felt wrong to him. For a moment, panic had swelled in his chest. Then, he cracked open his eyes, his surroundings coming into focus and he’d understood: rough stone walls, fur-lined blankets, and a single window letting in pale morning light.

This was not Grimmauld Place. This was not The Burrow. This wasn’t even Hogwarts, or the Dursley’s.

The second thing he noticed was the face hovering over his own. An older man with greying hair and deep-set eyes leaned close, his expression one of concern. “Jon? Jon? How are you feeling, lad?” the man had asked. His voice gravelly, kind yet reserved.

Harry blinked, still struggling to match the name with himself. He wasn’t Jon. He was Harry. Only it turned out he was Jon, wasn’t he. Jon Snow, in the here and now— or at least, who they thought he was.

“Uh, I… I still don’t remember much,” he rasped, his voice weak. “Any news of the Measter?”

The older man’s expression softened, though worry still lingered, and he sat back. “Well, you fell from your horse,” the man said simply. “No idea how you fell, but you did knock yourself on the head. Gave everyone a good fright, but you’ll mend. The Maester says you’ve likely got a bit of a knock to the brain. Memory loss is expected with that, but they should come back in time. He says you're perfectly to rights, besides."

“Ah.” Harry stated mildly, silently noting that memory loss was a perfect excuse, really. He decided right then and there that he would embellish it.

The Maester and the unknown man fussed over him a little longer, checking for fever, inspecting the bandage wrapped around his forehead. Harry remained quiet, letting them draw their own conclusions, while he sat in perfect confusion.

When he was finally deemed well enough to leave, three days had passed, and he was escorted back to what he assumed was Jon’s room: simple, spartan and slightly cluttered.

Breakfast was an event in Winterfell. Harry had learned that much by the time he descended to the Great Hall, escorted by Robb Stark, Jon’s elder brother—or at least, the boy who claimed to be. Robb was all smiles and encouragement, but Harry couldn’t miss the way the older boy’s eyes kept flicking towards him, as if expecting him to do something strange or out of character or wonder off in confusion.

Theon Greyjoy, on the other hand, had no such reservations. The dark-haired youth were slouched against a wall, grinning lazily over at him, with almost mocking cruelty in his eyes. “Memory loss, eh, Snow?” he snorted. “Convenient excuse to get out of training if you ask me.”

Harry frowned slightly at him. There was something in his tone, the way he spoke, that set Harry’s teeth on edge. He glanced at Robb, expecting some sort of rebuke, but Robb just chuckled and clapped Theon on the back.

Harry’s stomach churned a little. So this is the kind of person Robb considers a friend? He filed the information away, keeping his face impassive.

Lady Stark—Catelyn—watched him with open suspicion, and he wondered if this was Jon’s usual reality. Her eyes lingered on him longer than anyone else’s, her gaze sharp and unrelenting as he entered. Harry met her gaze briefly before looking down at his plate. The food was simple but hearty: bread, cheese, and porridge. He ate slowly, pretending not to notice her scrutiny, while making mental notes about everyone else at the table.

Arya and Sansa, Jon’s younger sisters, sat further down. Sansa was polite, poised, everything a proper lady of this time was supposed to be. Arya, by contrast, looked bored out of her mind, fidgeting and sneaking glances at the door as if she couldn’t wait to be anywhere else. The younger two siblings, Bran and Rickon, were much of the same, though Rickon was barely at a toddling age.

By the time the meal ended, Harry felt he’d learned enough to start piecing together the dynamics of the family— and the place Jon Snow held within it.

It wasn’t a really a pretty picture. 

“Come on, Jon!” Robb called as they entered the training yard, where the crisp morning air bit at Harry’s face. The cold had a sharpness to it that even Jon furs couldn’t protect him from. “Let’s see if that memory loss knocked any sense into you.”

Theon laughed at Robb’s friendly barb, already swinging a wooden practice sword with practiced ease. “Or knocked out what little skill he had.”

Harry didn’t bother retorting to either of them, focusing instead on his surroundings. The yard was bustling with activity: squires sparring, stable hands tending to horses, and seasoned warriors barking orders at younger swordsmen. Harry’s mind raced. He didn’t know the first thing about swordplay or archery, and the last thing he wanted was to reveal himself as an imposter or an odd magical anomaly.

Robb handed him a practice sword, grinning though clearly still concerned. “Ready?”

Harry hefted the weapon awkwardly, its weight unfamiliar in his hand. Robb came at him fast, swinging wide, and Harry barely had time to react. He ducked, the sword whistling harmlessly over his head.

“Well, you're still quick on your feet then.” Robb laughed, circling him almost relieved.

Harry’s lack of skill became obvious almost immediately, but what he lacked in technique or “memory” he made up for in instinct. He dodged and weaved, narrowly avoiding each of Robb’s strikes, until the boy finally called a halt.

“I suppose you’re not much of a fighter,” Robb said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you’ve got a talent for staying alive."

Theon snorted. “More like a talent for running away.”

The training guard-- at least, Harry assumed it were a guard-- watching from the side-lines stroked his beard, as he stepped up to them. “Well done,” he murmured to Jon. “Memory gone or not, we can work with quick feet ”

By the time the day ended, Harry was exhausted.

The physical exertion of training, combined with just being here, had left him drained; emotionally and mentally, too. He returned to his room-- to Jon's room-- longing for a hot shower, only to be met with a basin of lukewarm water and a rough cloth.

He sighed, scrubbing at the sweat from his skin as best he could.

He couldn't help but think that the unspeakables had better correct their mistake, and quickly.

As he lay in bed that night, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, his mind churned with unanswered questions. Where was he in time? How had this happened? And most importantly: what was he going to do now?

He supposed all he could do for now was watch, learn, and wait.

Chapter Text

The days in Winterfell were long, cold, and gruelling.

Harry— now Jon Snow, as he reminded himself constantly— kept his head low and his eyes sharp. Every moment was a lesson, and Harry absorbed as much as he could about the new people around him.

He quickly discovered that daily life here was nothing like Hogwarts or Privet Drive, or even his few year at the Ministry as an Auror. Mornings started early, with the castle bustling before dawn. Meals were simple and almost practical, eaten quickly before the day's tasks began.

For Jon, that meant training—endless hours of training. The Captain of the Guards proved invaluable in those first few days. Jory, an older man, was a patient teacher, guiding Jon through the basics of swordplay with quiet precision. He corrected Harry’s grip, adjusted his stance, and drilled him on defensive maneuvers until his muscles screamed.

“You’ve a natural instinct for survival,” Jory observed one afternoon as Harry dodged another strike from Robb. “But instinct alone won’t protect you forever. You must learn discipline, and with it skill will come.”

Harry nodded, swallowing his frustration. Discipline. Rght. He could do that. After all, he’d spent years honing his spell work, surviving Voldemort, and navigating the chaos of his own time. This was just another challenge.

Harry couldn’t help but think, though, how much easier wielding the sword of Gryffindor had been. How Goblin made swords had appeared to be so much lighter than this heavy, wooden contraption.

The Greyjoy boy, who trained with him and Robb, often found his lack of conditioned strength amusing, regardless of his new age he ahd found himself in.

Of all the people in Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy... well, he was the hardest for Harry to endure, and it had only been a view days yet.

He was cocky, self-assured, and entirely too comfortable with cruelty and delusions of superiority. Harry couldn’t stand the way Theon spoke to the "servants", his entitled tone grating against Harry’s nerves. The only thing that infuriated more was the way he leered after any of the girls who had the misfortune of walking by him.

And then there were his jabs at Harry himself-- at Jon-- always subtle, but enough to remind him of his "bastard status”.

“Careful, Jon,” Theon sneered the third day in, as Harry stumbled during a sparring match. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the girls. Not that most of them would want a bastard as a fuck anyway, but...”

Harry ignored him-- as was becoming his usual-- focusing instead on his footwork. Still, the growing tone of disdain in Theon’s voice gnawed at him, especially mixed with his... well, everything.

This one’s dangerous, he thought though. Not in the way Voldemort had been, not even in the way Umbridge had been either, but in a quieter, insidious way. Theon believed he had power here as a Lord’s son, even as a "hostaged" one, and he enjoyed using it to hound and belittle others.

Robb, on the other hand, was more complicated to Harry. He seemed kind, yes, and far more genuine than Theon, but his easy camaraderie with the Greyjoy boy made Harry wary of him anyway. How could someone decent ever overlook Theon’s major flaws and casual harrasment?

Harry couldn’t quite figure him out, honestly, and so he kept his distance with them both, offering polite but guarded responses when Robb tried to engage him in conversation. This didn't seem to go unnoticed either.

Catelyn Stark, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Her disdain for Jon was palpable, and it cut Harry in a way he hadn’t actually expected. She reminded him far too much of Aunt Petunia though—cold, judgmental, and kind only when it suited.

One evening, during supper, Harry caught her watching him with that familiar look of disapproval and dislike that he grew up under. He straightened his shoulders, meeting her gaze head-on, his eyes automatically flashing with a silent but fierce question. Do you need something?

For a moment, something flickered in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or annoyance at his daring. Then she turned away, as if he hadn't been worth her time. She’d never see this Jon as more than a stain on her family, Harry realised then, the thought settling heavily in his chest. But he wouldn’t let her view of Jon, a child— of him, now— effect him.

He’d faced far worse than her in his life and had survived it.

Arya, on the other hand, quickly became his only real source of quiet relief. She was only young yet, but was incredibly brash, curious, and unapologetically herself. Harry found her blunt honesty refreshing and, honestly, brilliant. She asked him so many questions—too many, sometimes—but they weren’t cruel, though often blunt. The very opposite of what this world demanded her to be.

“Do you really not remember anything?” She's asked one morning, following him to the training yard. She had a stick in her hand, and a quietly curious look on her face. It looked both sad and interested.

Harry shook his head. “I don't. Not much, anyway.” he admitted.

She had frowned, considering this. “You seem more confident now and a little different,” she said finally, looking down. “It's not a bad thing, but its... different.”

It was a simple observation, but it stuck with him all the same.

Arya clearly saw more than people gave her credit for and she was clearly fond of Jon. Harry hoped he could get Jon back to her one day, though he couldn’t help but think that he’d likely miss her when he did.

By the end of the first month, Harry had settled into a routine. He trained with the other boys in the morning, had a few instructed lessons with any guard willing in the afternoons, and his evenings were spent observing the dynamics of Winterfell, entertaining Arya and trying to think of ways to get back to his own time period. His slight breakdowns over the lack of ideas had been soley reserved for when he went to bed.

He still felt out of place here— perhaps obviously— and he was constantly missing everyone he knew and loved, but he was learning how to navigate this place and these people. Even this new body was slowly adapting to the increased physical demands of the training he'd been putting in, and while he wasn’t a skilled swordsman yet, his agility and quick thinking earned him grudging respect from the other trainees, and a quieter mind come nightfall.

“You’re not half bad, Snow,” one of the boys remarked— a guards son, no older than 14—after a sparring session.

Harry smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks. I think.”

One cold, quiet night, Harry stood on the roof of Winterfell, staring out at the dark expanse of the North. The stars above were brighter than he’d ever seen, their earily familiar light reflecting off the bales of water below. He thought of his own time, of Ginny, Hermione and Ron. Of little Teddy and Andy. Of the Weasley’s and his dead, buried in a graveyard so far away from him now.

A part of him ached to go back, to just try find a way and fix whatever had gone wrong. Here though, he had no wand, no runes and no books on magic, which centuries of witches and wizards had perfected— not like thoses in 2003 had. Here, if he was being truly honest with himself, he didn’t even know if he had magic at all.

This wasn't his body, after all— was magical ability tied to the body or to the soul? Voldemorts assisted raise from the dead implied the soul, and that was hopeful, but still.

He couldn’t help but acknowledge, if only in the quiet of his mind, that he were likely be here for a while, at least.

Harry's integration into Winterfell continued, but it was far from seamless. His personality—distinct in odd ways from Jon Snow’s—began to emerge enough to draw notice, but not outright suspicion.

He walked a fine line between fitting in and being himself, but some traits were impossible to suppress, even with mild attempts to do so. For one, Harry was not the type to sit idly by when something was wrong— or when someone was in the wrong.

It began during another early morning in the training yard.

The crisp air bit at Harry’s cheeks as he practiced with the wooden sword under Jory’s watchful gaze, who had begun watching over them more seriously. Robb and Theon sparred nearby, laughing and shouting as their mock blades clashed. The younger boys— clearly young— mimicked their movements, their faces eager and determined.

“Keep your feet grounded, Jon,” Jory instructed, “And your attention on your movements.”

Harry nodded mildly and adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth as the wooden sword grew heavier in his hands. His muscles ached— always seemed to be aching now— but he pushed through the discomfort. He wasn’t really a natural with a sword, but his quick reflexes and ability to adapt had clearly caught Jory’s attention.

“Good,” the Captain said, nodding in approval.

Nearby, a smaller boy— no older than ten—stumbled during their own mock drill, dropping his practice sword, and taking a painful wack to the face.

Theon’s abrupt laughter rang out. “Gods, he’s pathetic,” Theon said to Robb, non to quietly, while watching the boys opponent kick the boy’s sword further out of reach, holding his own to his neck. “Maybe you should stick to mopping floors.”

The boy flushed, his hands trembling as he scrambled away and quickly moved to retrieve the wooden weapon. Harry, on the other hand, froze, his grip tightening on his own training sword.

Theon’s words brought back sharp memories of Dudley and his gang, of smaller and younger kids cowering under cruel taunts. Something inside him snapped and his temper flared.

“That’s enough,” Harry said, his voice calm but cutting, not even bothering to look back over at Theon. He imagined Theon's eyebrow raising and Robb’s smile slipping.

“What’s that, Snow? Didn’t catch it.”

“I said" Harry repeated, turning finally and stepping forward, "that’s enough,” His grey eyes— Jon’s eyes —hardened as he stared Theon down. “You’re not helping him learn by humiliating him. Or is that the only way you feel powerful?”

It felt like the whole the yard fell silent. Robb looked at him, his expression caught between surprise, slight amusement and guilt. Theon’s expression flattened, becoming something darker.

And there you are, Harry thought .

“You’ve grown a spine, haven’t you?” Theon said, his tone mocking but laced with irritation. “Careful, Snow. You’re sounding awfully bold for a bastard.”

Harry shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe other people gaining boldness is what you need to learn some empathy.”

The tension was thick enough to cut with an actual blade, but before Theon could respond, Jory intervened.

“That’s enough from both of you,” the Captain said sternly, his sharp gaze moving between them, though Harry didn’t think he imagined the look lingering on himself. “Back to your drills— all of you.”

Theon glared at Harry but said nothing, stalking off to re-join the older boys, while Robb stayed where he was, staring at him oddly. Harry merely returned to his practice, his heart pounding but his face calm.

The boy he’d defended shot him a grateful look and a small smile, before hurrying back to his own group. Another guard eyed him too, but said nothing.

He did his drills twelve more times, as instructed, and then he left without looking at Theon or Robb.

Later, after a cold wash, Harry found himself lingering in the stables, where he had somehow found himself lingering when the roof was off limits. The earthy smell of hay and the warmth of the horses were oddly comforting, reminding him of Hagrid’s hut in the strangest of ways. It brought back fond memories and calmed his mind.

It also helped that most people would leave him be here. Arya, admittedly, being the only exception.

She found him there, as she often did.

“Everyone’s talking about it, you know— even Father and Mother.” she said, leaning against the stable door. Harry glanced at her, raising an eyebrow, and could just imagine what Caitlyn Stark was saying about it. Stepping out of his place, maybe.

“Is that so?” He asked blandly, letting the nearest horse eat out of his hand.

“Yes, it is.” She tilted her head, studying him with those sharp Stark eyes— their eyes. “You never used to speak up like that, you know? Not to Theon.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his dark curls. At least, he had one familiar physical trait

“Maybe I got tired of staying quiet.” He said in the end and Arya grinned, a mischievous light in her eyes.

“Good. Someone needed to shut him up.”

The next few weeks tested Harry’s resolve. He noted each day as it passed and marked it as another day he hadn't returned to his own body, his own time.

He poured himself into his training, determined to improve not just for appearances but because he needed to distract himself. He also needed a way to protect himself— especially if he ended up being here indefinitely and couldn’t access a wand or any magic.

Swordplay was coming easier because of it, though he still relied heavily on his agility and ability to anticipate his opponents’ moves.

Jory continued to guide him, offering corrections and advice with an almost fatherly patience. “Your mind is your greatest weapon,” Jory told him one afternoon. “Use it. A clever fighter can outmatch a stronger opponent if they know how to think.”

Harry took the words to heart. He began to approach each sparring session like a lesson in strategy, analysing and attempting to predict moves before they could even be utilised.

“You’re improving,” Robb said after one session, clapping Harry lightly on the shoulder, looking a little hopeful as Harry hadn’t immediately left. “Soon you’ll be giving the guards a run for their coin.”

Harry managed a small smile at that, though he doubted that would be true.

He still wasn’t sure how to feel about Robb, if he were honest with himself, but he appreciated the boy’s encouragement and what had ended up being his near constant looks of concern. The only thing that had been more distracting than the attempts to include him in conversations was Catelyn Stark's response to it.

She rarely spoke to him directly, but her presence was always heavy, her disapproval palpable, and if he spoke to Robb it annoyed her and if he didn’t speak to Robb it infuriated her.

One evening, as they passed each other in the corridor, she even stopped abruptly, her gaze cold and cutting. “Do you think you are to good for me son?” she had said, her tone almost accusing. Harry met her eyes, refusing to shrink under her scrutiny, even as the comment hit him. “No. Sometimes people just change,"

"Jon" certainly had.

She studied him for a long moment, her lips pressing together, before turning away without another word. Harry had exhaled, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t and didn’t need her approval, but the weight of her disdain still lingered— and Robb... well, Robb had noticed and had spent the rest of the night attempting to take his mind off of it.

As time passed, Harry carved out a tentative place in Winterfell. He still felt out of place, still longed for the familiar comforts of his own time, but he was adapting.

More importantly, he was making his own presence known— his own personality, little by little.

The passing months in Winterfell were a strange mixture of routine and reflection for Harry. Each day began with the chill of the northern air seeping through the stones of the castle, the scent of wood smoke curling in the halls, and the steady rhythm of life carrying on as it always had. At first, Harry clung to the hope that this was temporary—that whatever magical mishap had brought him here would sort itself out, and he’d wake up back in his own world, in his own body.

But as the weeks stretched into months, and those months had become three, then four,  then six... that hope had began to wane and now... now, he had somewhat accepted the possibility that it might never happen. That he might be here for years, if not for good.

This is clearly your life now, he thought often as he stared up at the stars above Winterfell, their brightness untainted by the lights and pollution of modern cities.  The understanding was a heavy one to carry.He missed his friends desperately—Hermione’s sharp intellect, Ron’s easy humour—and the world he’d left behind.

He was nothing if not resilient though, and so he did what he always had: he adapted and he survived.

Winterfell, for all its cold and its challenges, was beginning to feel like something close to home by the ninth month.

He had learned the rhythms of the castle, the way life ebbed and flowed with the waning of the moons. He learned to appreciate the warmth of a fire after hours in the cold, the simple pleasure of a well-cooked meal, and the strength of a community that looked out for one another (mostly)— even if it didn’t always look out for him. Hadn’t always looked out for Jon.

And he learned to value the few bonds he was forming here, particularly with his new "sister".

He had always dreamt of siblings, and Arya— a precocious and fierce child— was one of the only Stark’s he’d risk kidnapping and taking back to his time with him, if could and if she agreed.

“Teach me,” Arya said one evening, her voice cutting through the quiet of the training yard, after hours of running from her mother and her sowing lessons.

Harry turned from where he’d been practicing his parries against a wooden dummy, previously alone.

Arya stood a few feet away, her arms crossed and her expression stubbornly determined. She was dressed in plain breeches and a tunic, her hair half-tied and windswept. “Teach you what?” Harry asked, though he already had a good idea.

“To fight,” she said, stepping closer. “and properly. Not whatever boring nonsense Septa Mordane goes on about— fighting temptation or whatever. I want to learn how to use a sword.”

Harry... hesitated. He wasn’t much of a swordsman himself— still learning, really —but Arya’s eyes shone with the same fierce determination he saw in his own reflection some days. And Merlin knows his life might have progressed easier if someone had taught him how to use a sword at eight.

“It’s not exactly proper for a lady,” Harry said carefully, testing her resolve. Arya’s face twisted in disgust. “I don’t care about being proper.”

That made Harry smile. “Good. Because fighting isn’t proper, Arya. It’s hard, messy, and it hurts when you get it wrong— and sometimes when you get it right. But if you’re serious, I’ll teach you what I can.”

Her face lit up with excitement and Harry felt something warm settle in his chest— almost a moment of almost happiness.

They started that night and in secret.

Arya was clever enough to know her lessons wouldn’t be approved of by her mother— or likely anyone else, for that matter. So they met in the evenings, each night, long after the castle had quieted, and the roof was accessible if you knew when to sneak.

Harry began with the basics: stance, grip, and balance. Arya was quick to learn— faster than Harry, he thought— though her impatience sometimes got the better of her.

“You’re rushing,” Harry said one evening, stepping back as Arya lunged too wildly with her practice sword. “Slow down. Focus on your footing first.”

“I’m trying!” she huffed, brushing her hair out of her face, her youthful temper flaring.

“I know,” Harry said, his tone gentler. “But fighting isn’t just about strength or speed. It’s about control. If you lose that, you lose everything.”

Arya nodded, her frustration giving way to determination. She adjusted her stance, her movements, and followed the steps more deliberate this time.

“Better,” Harry said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

As the weeks went on, their lessons became more than just swordplay as well. They talked— at first, about memories that Arya thought Harry needed to have, and slowly about everything else and nothing at all. Arya shared stories about her dreams of adventure, her hopes for her future, her favourite colour and spoon, and her frustrations with the expectations placed on her as a Stark daughter.

“They want me to be like Sansa,” she said one, after a nasty fight with a teacher, her voice tinged with bitterness. “But I’m not her. I’ll never be her and I’ll never get married.”

“And you shouldn’t have to be her.” Harry said firmly. “You’re Arya. That’s more than enough, and you should only marry if you want to.”

She looked at him then, her expression softening, even as she leaped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re not that different, you know. People say you are, but you’re not.” she said into his cloak. “You’re still you. Before you fell and afterwards. With your memories or not.”

Harry looked at her surprised, but tried to keep his voice light. “People think I’m different?” You think I’m not? He added silently.

Arya shrugged. “You’re... stronger. You hold mothers and Theon’s gaze. You don’t care when people whisper— you used to, even if you thought what they said were stupid. But you’re still you where it counts. You’re still kind and my brother.”

The words honestly caught Harry off guard, though more warmth spread through him and he hugged her back. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear someone speak of him with affection or care— but still, he wondered what Jon must have been like, how similar they really were, and he hoped wherever he had found himself that he knew that Arya loved him.

Chapter Text

Life in Winterfell carried on, and so did Harry’s life as Jon Snow.

The days had grown predictable, folding into one another like pages in a book he’d read one too many times. Wake before dawn. Eat. Wash. Train until exhaustion. Wash again.

Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

He’d been here for ten months now. Long enough to fully settle into the routine that wasn’t his, surrounded fully by people who called him by a name that wasn’t his, either.

And still, in the quiet moments, when the castle walls seemed too vast and the shadows stretched too long, he felt like an outsider— a ghost haunting someone else’s life.

Because he was, wasn’t he?

The training yard was coated in a thin layer of frost that morning, the ground hard beneath Harry’s boots. Robb and Theon were already there, their wooden swords in hand, their breath misting in the air.

Harry moved through his drills automatically, the weight of the wooden sword familiar now, though he doubted it would never feel natural to him. He wasn’t a swordsman, after all. He was an Auror, a wizard—or he had been.

But here, there were no wands. Just steel, muscle, and bone.

Jory watched from the sidelines with Ser Rodrik, his arms crossed against the chill.

“Your footwork’s improved,” he called out as Harry dodged another of Robb’s strikes with ease, raising the sword to block. The clang echoed into the morning air.

“But don’t rely on your speed alone. A blade can be faster than any man expects. Your defense is good, Jon—but an attack is better.”

Harry didn’t respond. He knew better than to argue with an expert, especially one weathered in blood. But in his mind, he still thought wryly, not faster than magic.

Surprisingly—or perhaps not, really—Jon's father had arranged for Harry to have lessons with Maester Luwin.

“A mind needs training as much as the body does,” Ned had said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You may have forgotten much, Jon, but that doesn’t mean you cannot relearn.”

Harry had nodded, not trusting himself to say much. He appreciated the gesture more than he could admit. He’d tried to read the scripts here before and failed. Imagining Hermione’s reaction to it, to his illiteracy, had been devastating. The lessons gave him something new to focus on too.

Catelyn Stark’s reaction, however, had been less than generous, though Harry found it a little amusing.

He often caught her watching him from across the hall, her gaze sharp, cool and disapproving. She never voiced her objections outright—her Lord husband had spoken, after all—but her silence was as loud as a scream.

Why waste time on him? her eyes often seemed to say, hardening even more when he was praised.

Maester Luwin was a patient, though occasionally strict, teacher. He guided Harry through the basics of Westerosi history, language, and even numbers—skills he’d mastered in his own world as a child but struggled with here due to the difference in alphabets and number shapes.

“It’ll come back with practice,” Luwin often assured him.

If the lessons with Luwin sharpened his mind, it was Arya who kept his spirit alive.

She found him in the training yard one evening after the day’s drills had ended. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed from running.

“You’re brooding again,” she announced, hands on her hips.

Harry glanced up from where he was cleaning the blades of other men. “I’m thinking,” he said.

“Same thing,” she shot back with a grin, plopping down beside him.

She didn’t waste any time on small talk. “Teach me something new. I’m getting bored of the same moves.”

Harry laughed softly, placing the sword down delicately. “Fine. Get up, then. I'll race you to the rooftop.”

They sparred in the fading light, the sounds of wooden swords clashing, blending with the distant noise of Winterfell settling in for the night. Arya was quick, reckless, but always determined. She fought like she lived—without hesitation.

By the end of the session, they were both out of breath, and Harry—as always—felt somehow lighter.

Birthdays.

The next morning, Harry woke to the quiet stillness of his room, the cold seeping through the stone walls of his chamber. He stretched, his muscles aching in a way that had become familiar. Sword training, long hours studying, and working with Arya had left him stronger, sharper, and far more disciplined than when he’d first arrived in Winterfell.

Today, he realized with a start, he turned fourteen summers—or at least, Jon Snow did. Harry himself would be twenty-four by now. The date hadn’t slipped his mind entirely, but he hadn’t expected much from the day.

At least, not really.

Birthdays for the Stark children were marked with small feasts and music, gifts and laughter. For Jon, things were different. Apparently always quieter, more understated. And Harry's birthdays had rarely been anything other than small and quiet, even with the Weasleys.

But that didn’t mean it went unnoticed here.

Breakfast was a quiet affair for him. The Great Hall was warmed by roaring fires, the long wooden tables laden with bread, porridge, the odd fruit and vegetable, and many smoked meats. Harry sat in his usual place near the end of the table, listening to the familiar hum of conversation.

It wasn’t until they were leaving the hall that Arya caught up to him, a wide grin on her small face.

“Happy birthday,” she said with fanfare, pulling something from her pocket.

Harry blinked in surprise as she handed him a small wooden carving of a wolf. It was rough and uneven, but the effort was obvious.

“I made it,” Arya said quickly, her cheeks flushing. “It’s not great, but—”

“It’s perfect,” Harry interrupted, smiling as he turned the carving over in his hands. “Thank you, Arya. I love it.” And he did. It was small and perfect, and Harry could guess at how much time this had taken her.

"Thanks." She beamed. "I'll give you the second part of your present later!"

Throughout the day, Harry received other small tokens of recognition too.

Robb presented him with a new pair of gloves. “For the training yard,” he had said, clapping Harry on the back. “You’ll need them if Ser Rodrik takes any more interest in your skills with a blade.” There was no jealousy in his grin, just warmth and amusement, and Harry hugged him hard in thanks.

Later in the afternoon, Jon's father called Harry to his solar. The older man handed over a small but finely crafted dagger—made of real steel—in a simple leather sheath.

“A man should always carry a blade,” Ned said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve earned this.”

Harry accepted it with a nod of gratitude, running his fingers over the smooth hilt. The weight of the dagger had felt heavier than its size—solid, real, grounding. This was what protection looked like here, he thought. Not wands, but blades.

For a fleeting moment, he remembered the first time he’d held his wand, the warmth of it, the way it felt like an extension of himself. The dagger wasn’t the same. It was cold, but it was something.

“Thank you, Father,” Harry said quietly. And, for once, the word didn’t catch in his throat.

Even little Rickon, still so small and unsteady, toddled up to him during the evening meal, offering a piece of wood he had clearly been chewing on.

“For you,” he said proudly, his small face beaming.

Harry laughed lightly, accepting the gift with mock solemnity. “Thank you, Rickon. It’s beautiful.” And it was—the baby tooth marks and all.

Arya found him again soon after.

She was convinced she would make him a marksman.

Jon had apparently been skilled with a bow before his "memory loss"— or so she claimed— and she had taken it upon herself to ensure he regained that talent. In Arya’s mind, all he needed was to be taught anew, as if muscle memory could be coaxed back into place with sheer determination and stubbornness alone.

Who knew though, really? Maybe she was right.

She dragged him to the archery range, her small frame bustling with excitable energy, her brow furrowed with the same fierce focus she carried into everything. She stood beside him, correcting his stance with dramatic hand gestures and exaggerated sighs when he—expectedly and a little intentionally—missed the target.

“You’re holding it wrong,” she declared loudly, snatching the bow from his hands to demonstrate, even if her form was only marginally better with the too large bow. “It’s about the grip and the pull. You have to feel it in your shoulders, remember? Not just your arms.”

Harry bit back a smile, watching her tiny form straighten with authority, her wild hair half-tamed by a crooked braid.

“Yes, Ser,” he replied with mock seriousness, earning a glare that only made him grin wider.

But the truth was, she wasn’t wrong. Under her relentless instruction, he improved slightly. His aim steadied, his arrows flew truer, and though he’d never admit it aloud, her faith in him—the fierce, unyielding belief that he could be good at this—meant more than the target practice itself.

“Thank you, Arya,” he said softly, lowering the bow after a near-perfect shot. “You’re the best sister a man could ask for.”

"Obviously." She responded, with a wry grin and bright eyes.

Harry was in the training yard again, sparring with Robb under Jory’s watchful gaze. Arya sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, shouting unsolicited advice that made Robb laugh and Harry roll his eyes. The clatter of wooden swords echoed, mingling with the rhythmic thud of arrows hitting distant targets where Bran practiced under the stern eyes of Ser Rodrik.

It was almost peaceful-- and that, Harry thought, was dangerous.

When had Harry ever had peace that lingered?

The sharp snap of a bowstring echoed through the crisp Northern air.

Bran’s arrow sailed through the frost-kissed breeze, but it missed the target by inches, embedding itself awkwardly in the wood beyond the straw dummy.

Theon Greyjoy’s laughter was immediate, sharp, and grating. “And that, my young lord,” Theon drawled with smug satisfaction, “is how you miss.”

Harry stood to the side with Robb, arms crossed, leaning casually against one of the wooden posts that framed the archery range. His breath misted in the chilly air, mingling with the faint scent of old leather and sweat.

Bran’s face flushed with frustration as he retrieved another arrow, determined but clearly disheartened.

Robb clapped him on the shoulder with an easy grin. “Don’t worry. It’s just practice.”

“Exactly,” Harry added dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Besides, Bran, I miss all the time. Arya’s been trying to fix my aim for days.”

Arya, who leant against the fence behind them, snorted loudly. “That’s because you’re nearly hopeless, Jon.” Her grin was fierce and bright, all wild and playfull.  “Bran’s already better than you.”

Robb chuckled, and even Bran managed a small smile, his shoulders relaxing just a bit.

Up above, standing on the rafters overlooking the yard, Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn watched over Bran's attempts, their expressions fond. Jon's father's presence was like Winterfell itself—solid and unyielding.

Harry caught the movement out of the corner of his eye as Jory Cassel approached from across the yard, his breath misting in the chill. He didn’t head toward the boys. Instead, he climbed the steps leading up to the walkway, his posture stiff with urgency.

Harry’s instincts prickled, and he watched every step the man took.

Jory spoke quietly to Lord Stark, but even without hearing the words, Harry could read the shift in Ned’s demeanor—a subtle tension, the set of his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Something had clearly happened.

Jory descended the steps not moments later, his face grim but composed. He crossed the yard with the ease of a man who carried the weight of expectation.

“Robb,” Jory called, his voice carrying effortlessly and Robb straightened, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.

“Jon. Bran,” He added, briefly glancing at Harry, and he stepped forward without hesitation, falling into stride beside Robb.

“Prepare your horses. Your Lord Father states we are to leave within the hour."

No explanations were given, but none were really needed. The gravity in his voice was enough.

The air was as sharp and biting as ever, cutting through layers of fur as Harry rode alongside Robb, Bran, and Theon.

Lord Stark led the small party, his expression carved from stone, grim and resolute as they tracked the deserter of the Night’s Watch. The landscape stretched endlessly around them—rolling fields hardened by frost, with dense clusters of dark trees standing like silent sentinels in the distance. The steady rhythm of their horses’ hooves against the ground was the only sound, a quiet, hollow beat that matched the weight settling in Harry’s chest.

The tension among the group was palpable; even Theon, usually so smug and quick with sharp remarks, was uncharacteristically quiet. This wasn’t a hunt. It wasn’t even a patrol.

It was an execution. It was an execution they had been commanded to witness.

“This isn’t a hunt,” Lord Stark had said earlier, when Bran had asked why they were being brought along. “This is a lesson each of you needs to learn. You’re old enough to understand the weight of the law—and the consequences of breaking it.”

Harry hadn’t known what to say to that. So, he hadn’t said anything. Just followed Robb in silence to the stables, noting the way even Robb’s usual ease had been replaced with something heavier. The ride out had felt endless, the cold biting deeper with every mile, but it was nothing compared to the cold that settled in his chest when they finally found the deserter.

The man stood surrounded by Stark men, his posture slumped, face gaunt with fear. His eyes darted from face to face, as though hoping to find mercy among them.

Harry sat stiff in the saddle, his fingers clenched around the reins. This was meant to be a lesson about honor, duty, and justice in the North. A display of what it meant to uphold the law. But as Harry looked at the man—trembling, broken, terrified—he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t justice they were witnessing.

It was survival. It was fear. And it felt wrong to kill for it.

The party formed a loose circle around the deserter, silent witnesses to what was about to unfold. They remained in that formation even an hour later, when the deserter was forced to his knees, his head pressed against the rough bark of an old tree stump. The wind had picked up by then, carrying with it the faint scent of mud and something metallic—blood, maybe, though none had been spilled yet.

Harry hated that he was here. Hated that he could see the man’s breath—uneven, shallow—mist in the cold air. Hated that not even three hours ago, he’d felt something close to happiness here. A warmth amidst those stone walls and the people who weren’t really his.

But worst of all, he hated that interfering now would be classed as a crime in itself. That mercy, here, was a supposed weakness. And that Lord Stark— Jon's own father— would be the one to see it through, as the Warden of the North.

The man didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Whatever words he’d had, he’d used them earlier, speaking of shadows in the woods, of creatures with blue eyes and the cold that never stopped chasing him. White Walkers, he’d called them. His voice had been raw with fear, his eyes wide and desperate—not the fear of a coward, Harry thought, but the fear of someone who had seen something.

Something real.

Harry felt every word of the man’s terror dig into his chest, like splinters pressing just beneath the skin. Whatever the White Walkers were, he would find out. He had to.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” Ned had said. It was supposed to be a lesson in honor. A demonstration of justice.

But to Harry, it felt like cruelty wrapped in the cloak of tradition. A ritual dressed as righteousness.

A cruelty that he was now complicit in, just by witnessing it.

The Stark blade-- ice-- came down in a single, fluid motion and Harry looked away.

Robb stood beside him, his expression composed on the surface but not quite untouched—his jaw set, his gaze fixed on Harry. “Father says it’s important to watch,” he said quietly after a long pause.

Harry turned his head slightly, the metallic tang of blood still sharp in his nose. His voice was low, threaded with something heavier than simple curiosity. “Why?”

Robb frowned, his brow creasing with thought. “Because it’s justice. If we’re going to lead one day, we have to understand what it means to carry out a sentence. We can’t look away.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. Justice. The word felt sour, foreign, warped by what he’d just witnessed. His mind flashed back to the deserter’s voice, the raw, desperate fear in his eyes—fear that spoke of horrors beyond the Wall, of things no one here seemed to believe in.

But Harry believed him.

There was something about that fear, something too real to be faked. He’d seen it before—in the haunted expression in his mirror after watching Cedric die and Voldemort rise.

“That wasn’t justice,” Harry said finally, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “It was punishment. And an unnecessary one. There’s a difference.”

Robb glanced back at him sharply. “He broke his vow. He ran. That’s the law.”

Harry’s frustration flared, sharp and sudden, the wind picking up around him, almost shockingly so. He turned to face Robb fully now, his grey eyes darkened by something fierce. “And what’s the point of a law that kills a man for being afraid?” he snapped. “What good is honour if it demands blood for fear?”

Robb didn’t have an answer to that. His lips pressed into a thin, tense line, his gaze dropping to the ground as if the frost-crusted earth might offer clarity.

Ahead of them, Lord Stark stood silently, his posture as rigid and unyielding as the sword he’d just wielded. Harry stared at the man’s back, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. How could a father so gentle with his children wield death with so much ease? How could kindness and cruelty live in the same man?

How do you justify this? Harry thought bitterly. Killing a man for running away?

As if Ned Stark hadn’t broken his vow of his own when Jon, himself, was conceived.

Harry swallowed hard, his anger simmering beneath the surface. You’re supposed to help people, he thought, his chest tight, not watch them be murdered in cold blood.

And yet, here he was.

Complicit and drenched in the quiet horror of it all.

The party slowed as they approached the carcass of the stag, its once-majestic form twisted unnaturally in its death. Its antlers were tangled in a thicket, its dark eyes glassy and unseeing, and blood pooled beneath it, stark against the ground.

Harry’s breath caught in his chest.

A stag.

Not just any animal—his animal. His true father’s. The Patronus that had once been a beacon of hope, of protection, now lying broken and lifeless before him. It was as though the universe had reached across time and space just to twist the knife a little deeper.

He stared, unable to look away, his chest tightening with a grief he couldn’t explain to anyone here. It was just a dead animal to them. But to him, it was a symbol of something far more personal, far more profound.

“Come on,” Robb called softly, already dismounting.

Harry didn’t move.

The others began to follow Lord Stark as he led the way beyond the stag, toward something unseen further down the incline. Their figures grew smaller, their voices fading into the distance. He wanted to stay, to linger here, to breathe through the ache, but then he caught sight of Bran hesitating, glancing back at him.

The boy’s small figure, framed against the winter-barren trees, was enough.

With a sharp inhale, Harry swung his leg over his horse and dropped to the ground, his boots crunching against the frost-hardened earth. He gave the stag one last look, swallowing the lump in his throat, and forced his legs to move.

Following Bran felt easier somehow, as if protecting him anchored Harry to the present.

The forest grew denser as they walked, branches clawing at the grey sky above. When they reached the clearing, Harry stopped in his tracks.

The direwolf was enormous, its massive body sprawled in the snow, streaked with blood. Its fur was thick, dark, and matted around the wound where the antler had pierced through. Its eyes were still open, glassy and distant, like the stag’s.

The weight in Harry’s chest shifted from grief to something else entirely—recognition. A predator brought down by prey. A symbol devoured by another.

It felt like a warning.

“A freak,” Theon muttered nearby, his voice breaking the fragile silence.

“It’s no freak,” Lord Stark’s voice was low but firm, his sharp gaze lingering on the dead beast. “It’s a direwolf.”

The pups were scattered nearby, small bundles of fur, mewling softly. They crawled over one another, unaware of the loss that surrounded them.

“They won’t survive without their mother,” Lord Stark said after a moment, his tone heavy with finality. “It’s kinder to give them a quick death.”

Harry’s stomach turned. Another death? Another life snuffed out like it was nothing?

“No,” Bran’s voice cut through the air, sharp and pleading. “Please, Father! We can keep them!”

Lord Stark’s face remained impassive, but Harry could see the struggle behind his eyes. Duty. Honor. Tradition. Words that held so much weight here. But Harry had lived another life, one that taught him to question those things.

Before Theon could step forward, sword in hand, Harry moved.

“Father, wait. They’re direwolves,” Harry said, stepping closer. His heart raced, but his voice didn’t waver. “The sigil of House Stark. You told me that youself. Five pups for the five Stark children. What if it’s a gift from the gods?”

A beat of silence passed, heavy as stone.

“They’ll grow into monsters,” Theon muttered, his voice dripping with casual cruelty.

Harry shot him a sharp look. “They’ll grow into what we make them.”

The quiet stretched, broken only by the soft whimpers of the pups.

Finally, Lord Stark sighed, his shoulders easing just slightly. “Very well. But you will care for them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves, train them yourselves, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

Relief washed over Harry, though the tension in his chest remained. As they all prepared to leave, a faint sound—softer than the rest—caught his ear, and his ear alone.

Another pup. Smaller, weaker, nearly hidden in the growth. Its fur was pure white, its eyes a striking red, and clearly it was an explorer.

Harry knelt, his breath hitching as he reached for it. The pup didn’t shy away. It simply stared at him, as if it knew him. A bond, Harry thought. First, Hedwig, and now this little bundle.

“The runt of the litter,” Theon sneered. “Fitting.”

Harry ignored him.

“You’re not a runt,” he murmured, cradling the small wolf against his chest. The pup’s heartbeat was fast and strong. His fingers brushed through its fur, soft as new snow. "You're perfect."

And just like that, something in him settled--- not healed, not anywhere near whole, but suddenly far less haunted.

He wasn't alone.

Chapter Text

The days following the execution passed in a haze of routine, but the memory clung to Harry like frost that wouldn’t melt.

No matter how many hours he spent in the training yard or buried under Maester Luwin’s lessons, he couldn’t shake the image—the desperate eyes of the man kneeling in the snow, the swing of Ned Stark’s blade, the sickening finality of it all.

Harry had seen death before— fought wars, faced monsters— but this was different. This wasn’t a battle, a fight for survival, or justice. This was a man’s life carved away in a heartbeat under the guise of duty. And the worst part was that no one else seemed bothered by it.

The Stark household carried on as if nothing had changed, as if a man’s life was just another name lost to the wind. Even Robb had moved past it with the ease of someone born to this world, shaped by its harsh lessons. Only Bran’s quiet questions lingered, echoing Harry’s own unspoken thoughts.

Was that truly justice?

But he couldn’t voice it aloud again. Not here. Not in Winterfell, where this type of honor was carved into stone as much as the castle walls.

Instead, Harry buried it deep, letting the weight simmer beneath the surface—a volatile mix of sadness and slow-building rage. He poured his frustration into training, letting the sharp clash of wood against wood drown out the echoes in his head. His anger quickened his feet and sharpened his blade, but devastated his mental health.

He also sought out Maester Luwin when he could, and the vast library when he couldn’t.

The Long Night—that’s what he found. A story from the Age of Heroes, of beings made of ice and death, and a darkness that stretched across generations.

A myth, apparently. An ice age.

Winter is coming-- isn’t that what the Starks have always said?

Harry couldn’t help but think—with a growing, gnawing unease, as he looked through book after book— hadn’t there been two ice ages mentioned by his own time?

Two long winters.

Two long nights.

His life was clearly never meant to be peaceful, was it?

Theon Greyjoy.

He was an expert at pressing buttons—especially Harry’s.

It started during a routine training session in the yard. Harry had been working with Robb on his footwork, focused on the rhythm of movement and the steady clash of wooden blades. Theon lounged against the railing, that ever-present smirk plastered across his face, his boredom manifesting in sharp words and sharper grins. Lately, he’d found amusement in Harry’s quiet grief and simmering fury over the deserter’s execution, treating it like a joke— something to poke and prod for his own entertainment.

“You’re not that bad, Snow,” Theon drawled after Harry blocked one of Robb’s strikes with practiced ease. “For a Lady and a runt.”

Harry ignored him, tightening his grip on the practice sword, keeping his focus on Robb. But he felt it—a flicker of heat beneath his ribs, like an ember waiting for breath.

Even Robb’s jaw clenched slightly, though he said nothing.

Theon wasn’t finished though, was he?

“Though I suppose that’s all you’ll ever be, really. A stray, lucky enough to have a place here.” He glanced at the boys gathered nearby, grinning like a wolf with blood on its teeth. “You’d think a bastard would have thicker skin, wouldn’t you?”

Robb lowered his practice sword, frowning. “That’s enough, Theon.”

But Harry had already stopped.

He turned slowly, his jaw tight, grey eyes blazing with a fury that felt too big to contain. He almost felt 15 all over again. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” His voice was low, sharp enough to cut—quiet, but laced with warning.

Theon’s grin widened, clearly amused. “Touched a nerve, did I?”

Harry’s fingers curled into fists, his anger bubbling up—hot, wild, unchecked. He wanted to shout, to tear into Theon with words sharp enough to wound, to tell him exactly what he thought of his arrogance, his cruelty, his pathetic attempts to feel powerful. But before he could speak, before he could even utter a single syllable, something... happened.

The flames in the nearby braziers roared to life, leaping higher with sudden, violent force— as if yanked upward by an invisible hand-- and the wind swirled around him far faster than it had been.

Theon stumbled back, the smugness wiped clean from his face, replaced by flickering unease and... fear. Robb’s eyes snapped to the flames, confusion etched into his features, while the other boys shifted backwards uncomfortably.

“By the gods!" A nearby guard muttered, stepping back instinctively.

And Harry… Harry froze. His rage evaporated in an instant, replaced by something cooler, sharper: realisation.

That was me.

His heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum. It had to be him—the fire had answered. The wind had too. His magic was still there.

A breathless laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous, relief and exhilaration flooding through him like warmth after frostbite.

Robb cleared his throat, his gaze lingering on the flames before turning back to Harry. “Must’ve been the wind,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes unsure.

Theon recovered quickly, masking his unease with forced arrogance. “You’re lucky, Snow. I was just starting to enjoy myself.” He quickly turned on his heel, stalking off, though his steps lacked their usual swagger.

Harry stood there, heart still racing, wide-eyed and quietly exhilarated.

That night, Harry sat alone on the rooftop of Winterfell, long after nightfall.

The cold bit at his skin, but he hardly felt it. His thoughts spun, overlapping in an endless loop of disbelief and awe.

He couldn’t deny what had happened—not that he wanted to. The flames had responded to his anger, as surely as if he’d cast a spell with a wand.

His magic was still with him.

It wasn’t the same as before. Without a wand, it felt raw and untamed, something wild that lived beneath his skin rather than something he controlled. It hadn’t been about precise incantations or carefully practiced spells. It had been instinct— pure, unfiltered power, tied to emotion and will. Like blowing up Aunt Marge had been. Like trashing Dumbledore’s office had been. It felt like love and rage.

It had been seething anger, and it had been there.

For the first time since waking in this strange, ancient world, Harry felt joy— not fragile or fleeting, but very real and solid, burning in his chest like the very flames that had answered him.

His magic.

He stared out over the stone walls of Winterfell, so different from Hogwarts yet eerily familiar in their ancient weight, and grinned.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with the familiar warmth of flickering hearths and the low hum of conversation, the comforting sounds of clattering cups and the occasional burst of laughter echoing against the stone walls.

The long tables were lined with plates of bread, roasted meat, and steaming bowls of stew, but Harry barely noticed any of it.

He sat beside Robb, his fingers absently running over the rim of his cup, his mind still tangled with the memory of the flames from the previous day— the way they’d roared higher, wild and fierce, answering something inside him. His magic.

Across the table, Theon lounged back lazily, a cup of ale in hand but his usual grin was missing. He hadn’t said much since they’d last met, but Harry had felt his gaze flick over to him, sharp, considering and cautious.

“It was odd yesterday, wasn't it?" Robb remarked eventually, his voice casual but quiet, and carrying just enough edge to make Harry glance over.

Harry paused and reached for a piece of bread, tearing at it with deliberate care. “I suppose it was.” he replied simply, his tone level, though his heart raced.

There were scripts of old magic here— he’d looked into them earlier— written with reverence and awe about the Children of the Forest. The brief accounts of ancient Valyrian history, tales of those who had wielded magic alongside dragons before the Doom had swallowed their empire in fire and ash. And, of course, there were legends of Bran the Builder, the Stark who had raised the Wall, his name etched into history like the stones he’d supposedly laid.

Yet, throughout all of it, Harry had found no mention of any witch trials or purges. No tales of magic-wielders hunted, persecuted, or burned simply for what they were. Still, Harry didn't say anything.

Theon hummed softly across from them, but clearly wasn't ready to push it the way Robb was. He took a slow sip of his ale, his eyes lingering almost nervously on Harry for a heartbeat too long before shifting away.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them after that. Harry caught Robb glancing his way though, curiosity flickering in his blue eyes, subtle but persistent. Not with suspicion exactly— just… noticing and inquisitive. Harry hadn't expected it really, but perhaps he should have. 

They had witnessed it, hadn't they?

For the next couple of days, Harry avoided them and-- essentially-- everything else. He focused solely on his recently liberated pup. His little, quiet shadow, that had been kept in the kennels previously.

The white wolf followed him everywhere, padding silently at his heels. His bright little eyes gleamed like embers in the dark, and his ears twitched with every sound Harry made. Unlike the other pups, there was no whining or playful mischief though, just a steady, silent presence that felt both grounding and oddly comforting.

Harry found solace in the wolf’s company, the steady rhythm of soft paws on stone. A quiet reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone in this strange world. The pup was fierce when needed, snapping at Theon’s fingers when he got too close, yet gentle with Arya, Bran and Rickon, allowing them to tug at his ears without so much as a growl. Though Harry did tell them off for it.

Harry hadn’t named him yet. It felt too important to rush— like the name had to mean something, to fit the creature that was destined to be his friend. The pup was like Harry himself in many ways: quiet, observant, surviving in a place where he didn’t necessarily belong.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind Winterfell’s stone walls, casting long shadows over the courtyard, Harry sat with the pup curled beside him, his fingers absently running through its thick fur. The warmth beneath his hand was a small anchor against the cold that never seemed to leave him completely.

“I'll keep you safe," he murmured softly, glancing down into those crimson eyes that seemed far too knowing. The pup blinked slowly, resting his head on Harry’s leg, almost as if agreeing. As if acknowledging that Harry wouldn't allow their relationship to end the way his and Hedwigs had.

“Ghost,” Harry whispered suddenly, the word slipping out like it had always been there, waiting in the deep of his mind. The name felt right— solid, simple and true. A silent shadow in a world that never stopped watching.

“Ghost,” he said again, firmer this time, and the pup’s ears twitched as if he understood. From that moment on, the name stuck.

Their pups begun to grow a lot faster than they all expected; their bodies filled out quickly, their legs grew longer and their paws, which looked too large for their bodies at one point, seemed more proportional within weeks.

What started as bundles of fur and newly born whimpers quickly turned into growing wolves with sharp teeth, strong jaws, and an unshakable bond with their chosen humans. 

Harry had been quietly amazed at Ghost’s rapid transformation. The wolf pup had gone from a silent, shivering “runt” to a lean, graceful predator. His fur remained as white as fresh snow, his red eyes shining with intelligence that often felt unnerving to anyone who wasn’t Harry. 

The other Starks were equally captivated by their wolves. Each pup had almost taken on traits that mirrored their bonded in surprising ways, and Harry heard many people in the castle marvelling at how the wolves seemed to reflect the personalities of the children they followed.

Arya’s wolf pup, Nymeria, was growing into a fiercely independent creature, much like Arya herself.

Robb’s wolf pup, Grey Wind, was already the largest of the pack. His size and strength more than evident as he followed Robb around Winterfell, his amber eyes scanning the surroundings with a soldier-like vigilance. 

“He’s going to be a warrior,” Robb said one afternoon as Grey Wind paced beside him in the training yard, only tripping over his feet once.

Bran’s wolf pup, Summer, was become a constant presence by his side. Though smaller than Grey Wind by a bit, Summer was quick and clever, often surprising everyone with his speed and agility. 

Even Sansa’s wolf pup, Lady, followed her gracefully around. Harry often found it amusing that out of all the wolves, Lady often ate almost as delicately as her bonded, eating cuts of meat rather than ravens picked from the skies like Ghost or Greywind.

Even Theon, who had mocked Ghost for being small, couldn’t deny any of the wolf’s transformations.

“You’re lucky, Snow,” Theon had said lowly, as he watched Ghost silently stand, readying himself to stalk another crow in the courtyard. “That one’s grown into a fine killer.”

No one mentioned the flames again, though a few people watched him oddly. It lingered in the unspoken glances, the quick flick of eyes when they thought he wasn’t looking, the slight hesitation in conversations that had once flowed easily. 

Robb seemed to brush it off, treating Harry no differently, but Theon’s smirk held a sharper edge now, as if trying to convince himself that what he’d seen had been nothing at all, while being cautious all the same.

The guards didn’t speak of it, but their silence felt louder than words in the training yard. Even Maester Luwin’s usually steady gaze lingered a little longer when they crossed paths, his expression unreadable, as if he were cataloging Harry in a new, unfamiliar way. His eyes lingering on his face, his hair, his eyes, his every feature.

But they didn’t say anything, and so neither did Harry.

He did practice in secret, though.

After Arya went to bed with the rest of Winterfell-- their lessons in the sword exhausted for the day-- Harry often found himself in the godswood, with Ghost at his side and a brazier of flame in his hand.

It wasn’t a place he had often found himself in, but it almost felt right to be there for this. The towering heart tree stood in silent witness, its red leaves rustling softly in the cold northern breeze, and its carved face weeping crimson sap that glistened like old blood, even in the dark of night.

The godswood felt ancient, older than Winterfell itself, its air thick with a quiet reverence that even Harry couldn’t ignore. Magic clung to the place—not like the polished spells of Hogwarts, but something raw and deep, woven into the very roots of the earth.

Almost like a druids sacred grove.

Harry knelt before the small brazier he’d stolen from the training yard, its flame glowing faintly against the darkness. Ghost sat close, silent as ever, like he understood the sacredness of the space.

Harry held out his hand, palm open, willing the flame to rise— not with a wand, not with an incantation, but with sheer force of will.

Come on, he thought, teeth clenched, trying to summon even the faintest spark of rage— something that had been far too easy to find lately. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, steady and insistent, syncing with the faint crackle of the fire before him.

At first, there was nothing.

Then— a flicker. A spark that leapt, quick and sharp, rising higher than it should have, as if the flame had been waiting for his call.

It wasn't much, really, but still— the fire obeyed.

Harry slipped back into his usual routine, even as Theon avoided him more obviously. His days were filled with training, learning, Arya’s relentless demands for new lessons, and quiet evenings spent with Ghost in the godswood.

But even in the steadiness of it all, something felt… off.

He couldn’t put his finger on it— not quite. It was just a faint shift, like a ripple under calm water. The guards seemed more alert, lingering at their posts longer. Maester Luwin frowned more often over his scrolls, his quill pausing mid-sentence as if distracted by thoughts he didn’t voice. Even the usual din of the Great Hall felt thinner somehow, as though the stone walls were holding their breath.

His Ghost noticed it too. The pup’s ears twitched at sounds Harry couldn’t hear, his gaze often fixed on distant corners, as if something unseen crept just beyond their line of sight.

Harry chalked it up to his own restless mind. Maybe it was just him— this place, this time, this life that wasn’t really his. Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it was a delayed reaction to his magic, though he doubted it.

Harry didn’t really know, and he didn't really feel like asking Jon's father to find out either.

Still— find out, he did.

It started with a raven.

The bird arrived on a cold morning, its black wings dusted with blue. Harry had been sparring in the yard with Robb, their breath misting in the crisp air, when Jory appeared at the edge of the training grounds, his expression grave, a raven perched on his wrist and a sealed letter in hand.

Lord Eddard Stark had been watching them spar as of late, arms crossed and smiling slightly, but now his attention shifted. He took the letter from Jory without a word, his eyes scanning the parchment, the faintest tightening of his jaw betraying whatever news it held. Harry had come to recognise that subtle shift— the Lord of Winterfell’s quiet version of alarm.

“I’ve heard the King is coming,” Robb murmured beside him, equal parts awe and excitement in his voice. “They say he’s closer than Father thought. I bet that’s the raven confirming it.”

Harry’s gaze stayed on Lord Stark, noting the way he tucked the letter away with a sharpness that didn’t match the calm facade. It was more than just a royal visit, Harry thought. There was a weight to it—an undercurrent of something darker, something unwelcome.

Their eyes met briefly across the yard, and Harry didn’t imagine the flicker of concern that shadowed Lord Stark’s usually steady gaze.

Later that evening, Harry found himself alone in the godswood again, only this time Lord Stark followed him in without hesitation.

Jon's father often retreated here to think— Harry had learned that much— but usually long before Harry ventured in. Tonight felt different. The older man’s steps were steady, purposeful, as if he’d been seeking Harry out rather than simply finding him here by chance.

The godswood was quiet, quieter than usual. The rustle of leaves and distant whispers of the winds seemed absent, swallowed by the weight in the air. Harry had come here for the same reason he always did—to think, to breathe, to practice his magic in solitude. But now, with the Lord of Winterfell standing nearby, that solitude felt fractured.

Jon's father would not lie in the godswood. Not here, not under the gaze of the old gods. Harry wondered if the man assumed the same of him. Maybe that’s why he was here now.

Maybe he was finally going to ask the question Harry had expected for weeks.

“The King is visiting.” Harry spoke instead, breaking the silence that seemed too heavy to bear. His voice felt small against the towering heart tree, its red leaves stark even in the night. “Why now?”

The older man glanced at him, his expression thoughtful, shadowed by something unreadable. “Jon Arryn, the King’s Hand, has died. Robert seeks to name a new one.”

Harry frowned slightly. “And he’s coming all this way for that?”

Lord Stark's gaze drifted to the heart tree, his eyes distant, lost somewhere Harry couldn’t follow. “Robert and I fought together in the rebellion. Do you remember learning that? We were brothers in arms. My sister Lyanna was to be his wife.” His voice grew softer, touched with something fragile beneath the usual steel. “He trusts me. Perhaps more than he should.”

The words hung between them, the assumption forming.

Harry hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to be Hand?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tense. “No.”

A simple answer, but heavy with unspoken truths. The finality in his tone was absolute, but Harry could sense the weight behind it— the sense of duty wrestling with something deeper, quieter, perhaps even regret.

Silence settled between them again, thick and uncomfortable. Harry didn’t press this time, though part of him wanted to. There was more to be said, he could feel it lingering beneath the surface like ice beneath snow.

Then Jon's father's voice broke through, low and firm. “Jon.”

Harry turned to face him fully, straight backed and expectant.

“When the King comes,” The man said, his gaze sharp as the chill in the air, “keep out of his sight. No matter what you do, do not let his gaze linger."

Harry’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. That wasn't what he expected. There was something in the tone too— an edge of warning— that made the simple words feel like more than just advice. More than just caution.

A command rooted in something far deeper.

Something like fear.

“Why?” he asked softly, though he already figured he wouldn’t get a straight answer. Ned Stark would not lie outright in the godswood, but he would withhold the truth if he thought it necessary. And like with the Dursley’s, people here very rarely gave Jon Snow straight answers.

"Ask me again once the King has left." The man said softly, his eyes almost begging for understanding.

A grace Harry chose to grant him.

“Of course, Father,” Harry said quietly, and Jon's Lord father's shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his eyes lingered on Harry’s face for a heartbeat longer, as if trying to memorize something. Or, Harry realised, to look for something.

When Harry went to bed that night, his thoughts whirring, he couldn’t shake the question: What was Lord Stark so afraid the king would see if he truly looked at Jon Snow? And why did it cause the man fear?

The castle buzzed with activity in the weeks that followed. Servants scrubbed the halls until the stones gleamed, cooks planned elaborate feasts, and tailors worked tirelessly to ensure the Stark family was properly attired for the royal visit.

Even Harry was gifted new sets of furs—stitched in the usual black that had somehow become his signature. The fabric felt heavier than what he was used to, but he supposed that was fitting. Everything about this life was heavier.

Harry, for his part, threw himself into the preparations, offering help wherever it was needed. He carried barrels to the storerooms, repaired loose fittings in the training yard, and even assisted the cooks when they found themselves short-handed. The work was repetitive, but it kept his hands busy and his mind from wandering to questions he couldn’t yet answer.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Robb said one afternoon, finding Harry stacking firewood near the great hearth, his sleeves rolled up and sweat lining his brow.

Harry shrugged, dropping another log onto the pile. “It needs to be done.”

Robb chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall. “You’re too practical for your own good.”

But it wasn’t just practicality that drove him.

Harry had learned during his time in Winterfell—and long before that—that actions often spoke louder than words, especially for someone like him. A Stark by blood but not by name, and certainly not by status. Helping others, no matter how small the task, helped. It bridged a gap between himself and the servants of the castle.

Arya, of course, hated the preparations.

“Why do I have to sew though?” she grumbled one evening, stabbing her needle into the fabric with more force than necessary. “None of this even matters.”

“It matters to your mother,” Harry pointed out, sitting beside her at the long worktable, his fingers idly tracing the grain of the wood. “And to your family.”

Arya scowled, clearly unimpressed with that logic. “But I’m terrible at it. And you don’t care if I sew.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “You’re right, I don’t.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the direct honesty.

“Why don’t you do something else, then?” he continued. “There’s plenty that needs doing around the castle. Find something that suits you better.”

Her eyes lit up at the suggestion, all frustration forgotten. “You mean it?”

“Of course,” Harry replied with a shrug, even though he had no parental right to tell her so. “But don’t tell your mother I said that.”

Arya grinned, her expression full of mischief. “Obviously.”

She bolted from the room, leaving her half-finished— and quite frankly, terrible— embroidery abandoned on the table. Nymeria quickly following her out. Harry chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, and moving to pocket her work. 

He knew she’d find some way to make herself useful— and he didn't really care if Catelyn Stark approved of it or not.

A few days before the royal arrival, the Stark children were fitted for new formal clothes in preparation for the innital “meet and greet.” Seamstresses moved like shadows through the rooms, armed with needles, thread, and sharp tongues, while Catelyn Stark oversaw the process with her usual meticulous eye. Every stitch, every hem, every detail was curated to present the perfect image to the King and Queen.

Harry, by contrast, received little attention—though he found that preferable, all things considered. No one fussed over him, no sharp measurements or critiques, just another folded set of simple black furs left at the foot of his bed.

It didn’t bother him as much as it once might have, had he truly been a boy or a teen. Harry had long since grown used to the quiet dismissals from people like Catelyn Stark and the sneering jabs from the likes of Vernon Dursley or Theon Greyjoy. He knew “Jon Snow’s place” in this household by their view point, but he also knew his own worth— and that was more than enough.

Of course, Harry would only realise much later that that— the very fact of being seen, standing straight-backed, lean, and somber— was the very problem for Jon's father. 

It wasn’t just his presence, but the quiet intensity he carried himself with. The way his grey eyes held both wisdom and weariness far beyond his years. That he apparently came across as a warrior-poet, both intellectual and introspective, honourable and magnetic, and not unlike another man the kingdom had once known well— a man whose legacy was written in fire and blood.

Chapter Text

The morning air was as crisp as usual, carrying the faint scent of smoke and pine as Winterfell buzzed with the final preparations. Rumour had it, the King would arrive tomorrow, and the courtyard echoed with the clatter of hooves, shouted orders, and the rhythmic thud of hammers against wood.

Harry sat on a low stone wall just beyond the stable grounds, Ghost curled at his feet, the early sun casting long shadows across the ground. His dark curls fell loosely around his face, still damp from that morning’s wash, and he absently ran his fingers through them, lost in thought. He felt exhausted.

Since that conversation in the godswood, Jon’s father had grown subtly… attentive around him. Not in the warm, paternal way he was with his children, but with an almost calculated precision. Jon’s new tunics had been re-made with thicker, heavier fabrics that hung just a little too loose, masking the lean muscle Harry had built over the year of training. His new furs were far broader in the shoulders too, the sleeves longer, as if to blur the true outline of his form.

At first, Harry had thought little of it— perhaps a simple change in wardrobe, or the assumption that Harry would grow more than expected. After Ned’s insistence on avoiding the King though, and now, with this looming haircut… it was hard not to see a potential pattern. That maybe Ned Stark wasn’t just trying to include him as a son, but was trying to subtlety reshape him a little.

But it wasn’t just vanity that had him refuse now, not with his hair— though the older guards seemed to think so. It was about necessity, really. His hair had always grown back quickly, unnaturally so, no matter how short it was cut. He’d learned that lesson the hard way as a child when Aunt Petunia had given him one of her “haircuts” only for it to grow back overnight. It had been the first undeniable sign of his magic. Magic that he— thankfully— still had. And here, in a world where magic was whispered about like a ghost story, it wasn’t something he was eager to flaunt.

Better to leave it be, he thought, than to have anyone question him outright if it grew back within the night.

“Jon,” Robb’s voice broke through his thoughts. Harry turned to see him approaching with Theon trailing behind, both freshly washed and smug with the kind of self-satisfaction that only came from a wanted haircut.

Robb’s auburn hair had been trimmed neatly, though a few rebellious strands refused to stay flat. Theon, of course, had taken the opportunity to preen, though there was a tightness around his mouth, a flicker of unease in his eyes when they met Harry’s.

“Your turn,” Theon muttered, as he gestured toward the waiting stool where the barber stood, blade gleaming. “Lord Stark says we’re all to be clean and proper for the King’s arrival, remember? Even the bastards.”

The insult felt weaker than usual, lacking its usual bite.

Harry didn’t move though. “I’m not getting my hair cut.”

Robb blinked, amused and surprised. “I thought you were joking.”

Harry shrugged, ready to elaborate, but Lord Stark’s familiar figure appeared at the edge of the yard. His steps were measured, his face carved from stone, and Harry figured someone had clearly reported his reluctance turned refusal. Sighing deeply, he met the man's sharp grey eyes, looking more focused than usual as they settled on him.

Harry thought he was too tired for this.

“Jon,” The man said evenly, his gaze flicking to the dark curls framing Harry’s face. “You’re to be trimmed. The King will expect—”

“I’d really rather not,” Harry interrupted, polite but firm. He'd taken back his autonomy at eleven, when his Hogwarts letter appeared, and not even Vernon's anger had caused him to give it back up. Being here wouldn't change it.

A brief silence settled over them. Robb shifted slightly, his expression caught between confusion and curiosity. Theon, however, went rigid, glancing from Harry to Lord Stark as if expecting sparks— literal or otherwise— to fly.

Lord Stark's jaw tightened, an expression Harry hadn’t seen aimed at him before. “It’s not a matter of preference. It’s about presenting yourself to the King with dignity.”

Harry met his gaze, unflinching, though irritation was simmering beneath the surface. “I don’t believe my hair defines my dignity. Besides, I won’t be presenting myself to him anyway, right?”

It was an offhand comment, meant to imply that Harry had listened in the godswood. But Ned’s eyes narrowed slightly— not in understanding, but in something heavier, like sadness, as if the words tugged at something buried deep.

After a long moment, the man sighed and then gave a curt nod. “Fine. Leave it as it is— but you will keep it tied back.”

Harry dipped his head in a show of acknowledgment, pulling a leather cord from his pocket and promptly tying his hair back. He could feel Theon’s gaze flickering between them, and Robb almost holding his breath.

As Ned Stark walked away, Robb clapped Harry on the shoulder with a grin. “I don’t know how you get away with things like that, but I don’t think you’ll be missing much, Jon. You’ll still see the King, even if it’s not by our sides.”

"I know." Harry said easily, and he did.

He wasn’t expecting Jon’s father to come and find him later.

The day had been long, the weight of Winterfell pressing in as the place grew louder and more chaotic. But the noise outside didn’t reach him here— not in the small, dim room that served as Jon’s space. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting faint shadows across the stone walls. Ghost lay at his side, silent and sleeping, while Harry absently traced patterns into the fur lining of his bed.

When the knock came, it was soft but firm. Harry didn’t move, didn’t call out. The door opened anyway.

Jon's father stepped inside, his expression unreadable, his presence filling the small space with quiet authority. He wasn’t wearing the heavy furs of a Lord though, just a simple tunic, but the weight of who he was in this place seemed to linger anyway.

Harry sat up straighter, schooling his features into something neutral. Had he done something wrong? The recent tension between them lingered like smoke after a fire— unsaid words, unspoken truths.

The man closed the door quietly behind him and didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, his gaze steady, as if trying to find something in Harry’s face. Eventually, he crossed the room, his steps slow, deliberate, and stopped just short of the hearth.

“You've been distant.” He said finally, his voice quiet. Not sharp like a reprimand, but heavy with something else— concern, maybe. “More so, than usual.”

Harry’s heart gave a small, irritated twist. Of course he had been distant. What else was he supposed to be? He was truly the man’s son. But he didn’t say that.

“I’ve been busy,” Harry replied instead, his tone almost flat. It was a little rude, honestly.

Jon's father didn’t respond right away. He merely shifted, crossing his arms, his gaze flickering toward the low-burning fire.

“It’s about the execution.”

Not a question. A fact.

Harry clenched his jaw, staring down at Ghost’s snowy fur as if it held answers he couldn’t find anywhere else. “I’m fine with it.”

“You’re not.”

The words were simple, but they pierced through the armour Harry had been holding together with stubbornness and thin threads of distraction. He let out a shaky breath, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“Fine. That wasn’t justice,” Harry muttered, his voice sharp around the edges, like glass that had been cracked. “It was punishment. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Ned was quiet for a moment, as if weighing his response carefully. “It was duty.”

Harry’s temper flared, hot and immediate. He shot to his feet, startling Ghost, whose red eyes flicked to him.

“Is that what you call it?” Harry snapped, his voice rising. “Duty? Killing a man because he was afraid?”

Ned’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t meet Harry's anger with his own. Instead, he looked at Harry with something deeper— older— etched into his features. Regret, maybe. Or understanding.

“It’s not supposed to sit easy with you, you know.” Ned said quietly. “That’s part of the lesson.”

Harry froze, thrown off by the simplicity of it. “What?”

Ned’s eyes met his, unwavering. “It’s not supposed to come easy. The weight of it should sit with you— taking a life.”

Harry’s breath hitched slightly. His anger didn’t disappear, but the words almost dulled the edges. “Then why does it seem like it doesn’t weigh on you?”

Ned’s face softened in a way Harry hadn’t seen before, the stone exterior cracking just enough to glimpse the man beneath.

“Because I do not let the weight of it crush me.” He said quietly. “Because he is not the first deserter to meet his end with Ice. I am the Warden of the North, Jon, just as my father before me. It is my duty and I will see it through.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. His heart thudded painfully, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t untangle. Duty.

It is an unjust law, Harry responded silently, from an unjust law-maker.

Jon's father stepped closer, his voice softer now. “I’ve made mistakes with you— perhaps more than I can name— but do not think you can not come to me.”

After a pause, he reached out, his hand resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder. It wasn’t heavy or commanding— just there. A quiet presence, solid and real.

“You are my blood.” The man murmured, his voice rough with unspoken things. “Whatever you believe. Whatever you feel. And I am proud of the man you are becoming, no matter what you think of me.”

The words hit harder than Harry expected. They carved into places he didn’t know were still vulnerable. He wasn't Jon Snow, he thought unsteady, but he supposed the man was correct in a way. He was currently Lord Stark's blood.

Harry nodded slightly, his throat too tight for words.

Hours later, Harry lay in his bed, hands gliding through Ghosts fur, as the words Eddard Stark spoke echoed in the quiet. They'd been simple, steady, and far too heavy for Harry’s chest.

Sleep didn’t come easily— not that it ever really had— but tonight, all of a sudden, his thoughts tangled more than usual, knotting in ways he couldn’t quite unravel.

Why did it feel like the words had mattered?

It wasn’t as if he’d never heard someone care about him before. He’d had Sirius once— briefly, brightly— like a flash of wildfire, burning too hot and too fast. But Jon's father wasn't like Sirius.

Where Sirius had been laughter and recklessness, a storm wrapped in rebellion, Ned Stark was heartbreak carved into stone— supposed honour, duty and quiet strength. Two incredibly different men, and yet… there was something familiar sometimes. Not in the way they spoke, really, but in the way that they tried. That same stubborn insistence that Harry could reach out if he needed to— if he wanted to.

His chest felt tight in a way he couldn’t explain, and he turned over to face the wall, shutting his eyes. Maybe he’d never had a proper father figure in his life before— not really— but he supposed it was kind of nice to have known two men in the least who had felt compelled to try for him.

The horns sounded first thing in the morning, deep and thunderous, echoing across the ground like a call from the Old Gods themselves.

Harry stood near the gates of Winterfell, the cold biting at his cheeks as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The entire castle had turned out for the occasion— other Lords and Ladies, kitchen boys with flour-dusted clothes, stable hands still smelling of hay and horse, and villagers who’d travelled miles just for a glimpse of the King and Queen. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, necks craned and voices hushed, as if the very air held its breath.

Banners of House Stark snapped in the icy wind— grey direwolves against white— standing proud above the stone walls. Harry’s gaze drifted to where Jon's father and family stood in formal assembly. Sansa looked every inch the presentable youth, her auburn hair gleaming like fire, while Arya fidgeted beside her, restless and bored and waving to him often. Bran stood straight and proud at her side, his face alight with excitement, while Rickon clung to his mother's skirts, too young to really understand the weight of the moment.

Harry, as the bastard, wasn’t expected— or allowed, honestly— to stand with them. Instead, he lingered near the edge of the gathered crowd, a shadow among Winterfell’s people. He didn’t mind, and he figured Ned would have appreciated it to. He preferred this vantage point, if he was honest. It gave him the freedom to observe without the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders.

The distant sound of hooves grew louder, rhythmic like a heartbeat. The royal procession emerged from the treeline in the distance, snaking through the mud covered path like a living banner of colour and motion. The crowd around him erupted. Some cheered, others murmured in awe, while a few— like Harry— just watched. At its head rode King Robert Baratheon-- or so he assumed-- a mountain of a man astride an equally massive horse. His armour gleamed, polished to perfection, but it couldn’t disguise the swell of his belly or the heavy slouch of a man self-burdened by years of indulgence. His black beard was streaked with grey, and his laugh— loud and brash— cut through the crisp air, even at a distance away.

So this is the King? Harry thought, his eyes narrowing. He’d expected someone regal, imposing perhaps. But Robert Baratheon seemed… old. Human. A man weighed down by a crown, and potentially everything else too.

Behind the King rode the Kingsguard, their white cloaks stark against polished steel. Their armours gleamed like spun gold, flawless and cold. Among them, Harry’s gaze snagged on a knight with equally golden hair and an arrogant tilt to his chin— Ser Jaime Lannister, he thought. The Kingslayer. There was an ease in the way he rode, as if the world itself owed him deference. Harry disliked him near instantly, and he didn't think it was due to the North's muttered bias.

Then came the Queen.

Queen Cersei Lannister stepped down from the ornate carriage, once it came to it's steady stop, and her beauty was striking but almost brittle. Like ice that could shatter if struck the wrong way. She was regal, yes, but her eyes were sharp and— Harry thought— calculating. She scanned the gathered crowd not with warmth but with cool assessment. She reminded Harry of people he’d known before— people like Lucius Malfoy— polished on the surface but instinctively cruel underneath.

Following her were the royal children. Prince Joffrey rode with an arrogance too, one seemingly too large for his slim frame but one that matched his family well. His face was sharp and almost delicate, but his not-quiet-smile ruined any potential charm he might’ve had.

An entitled prat, he thought wryly, even as the crowd around him cheered with adoration.

The younger two though, the Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella, seemed too young to carry anything other than sweetness. Similar to Rickon and Bran, they hovered close to their mother's skirts, dressed equally in lavish materials and finery.

Lastly, his attention caught on a small figure— Tyrion Lannister, he guessed. The Queen’s brother. Rumouredly, sharp-eyed and witty; smart and perverted. He stood apart from the others even in the heart of the procession. He still walked with what Harry now thought of as the Lannister swagger.

Well, Harry thought grimly, as the King greeted Jon's father with surprising warmth, the next month is going to be interesting.

 So much for the grandeur of rulers.

The large crowd slowly dispersed, some following the royal procession into Winterfell’s halls, while others drifted back to their duties. The energy of the arrival still crackled in the air, excitement mingling with murmurs and speculation. Harry lingered near the edge of the courtyard, watching as the last of the Lannister banners disappeared beyond the doors.

Ghost pressed against his leg, silent and unmoving, his red eyes following the many figures ahead with the same quiet intensity that mirrored Harry’s own. With a low whistle, he signaled to Ghost and started weaving his way through the thinning crowd, his eyes scanning for familiar faces.

He sought Robb or Arya, mainly, and found them near the training yard, past the lingering guards and servants still murmuring about the King’s arrival. Robb stood with his arms crossed, speaking in low tones with Theon, whose usual cocky grin was noticeably absent. Arya was a few feet away, balancing on the edge of a wooden beam, her face scrunched in concentration as she tried to keep her footing.

“She’s going to break her neck one of these days,” Robb muttered as Harry approached.

“She’s been saying the same thing about you since we started training with live steel,” Harry pointed out, causing Robb to huff out a laugh.

Arya wobbled for a moment before hopping down and brushing the dust from her dress. “I could have done that all the way across if you hadn’t been talking so loud,” she grumbled, though there was no real bite to it.

Harry smirked. “Then do it again. Let’s see if the King’s arrival has suddenly made you more graceful.”

Arya’s eyes lit up at the challenge, but before she could scramble back onto the beam, a new presence approached.

A group of men clad in steel and white moved through the courtyard with quiet authority— some of the Kingsguard and a few of the Lannister men-at-arms, their golden lions catching the morning light. They passed through, their attention fixed on their own conversations and goals.

One stood out to Harry, though, and likely Rob and Theon too.

An older knight, dressed in the white of the Kingsguard, his armour polished but well-worn, his features lined with age but sharp with experience. He moved with a quiet dignity, his eyes sweeping over the yard, taking in every detail in the way only a seasoned warrior would. For the briefest of moments, his gaze settled on Harry and the others.

It wasn’t a glance in passing. It was something else— a flicker of recognition or assessment.

Harry held the gaze, unflinching, as the man's eyes met his own but something about the way the man looked at him sent a prickle of unease down his spine. He couldn't help but wonder if Jon's father had made him paranoid.

Then, just as smoothly as he had begun, the knight turned and continued forward, falling into step with the rest of his company.

“Who was that?” Harry asked, his voice low, casual.

Robb followed his gaze. “Ser Barristan Selmy,” he said, as if that should mean something.

Harry frowned slightly.

“The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Robb clarified. “Some say he’s the greatest knight alive.”

The greatest knight alive.

Harry glanced toward the retreating figure with new intrigue.

“Greatest knight alive?” Theon snorted, shaking his head. “Maybe once, but he was still a Targaryen loyalist then. Stood by the dragons until the very end. Only reason he serves Robert now is because he bent the knee when the war was done.”

Harry’s fingers twitched slightly. A Targaryen loyalist?

His gaze flickered back to Ser Barristan’s retreating form, but his thoughts had already shifted— the dragon lords.

Merlin had been the last dragon lord, at least according to what little history had remained in his time. The records were old, fragmented, and more myth than fact. But Harry hadn't forgotten— the whispers and the legend of the man who could speak to dragons and wielded magic better than any other.

And now, here-- in this time-- there was an entire dynasty built around that bloodline. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots when he'd first heard of them. That their line must have survived and produced Merlin eventually. But to have someone here who knew them? Someone who was sworn to them directly?

Hermione would berate him if he didn't at least try and ask about them— the last of the Valyrian magic.

His gaze flickered back to Barristan, his mind already racing with questions. That meant he had fought for Rhaegar Targaryen-- that he had stood at his prince’s side when the rebellion raged. And yet here he was, wearing the white of Robert’s Kingsguard, serving the man who had killed that very prince.

What had made him bend the knee? Had he had a choice? Was it his life or his loyalty? Had there been regret when he heard of the kidnap of Lyanna Stark?

Harry wasn’t sure what interested him more— the idea that this Ser Barristan had willingly sworn to the man who murdered his former prince… or that he had known the Dragon Prince at all.

“Come on," Robb said, clapping him on the back, scattering the lingering questions Harry had. "Four hours until the feast. Let’s not waste them. Best of three?"

"Best of three." Arya answered for him, grinning wide— and just like that, the weight of history gave way to the familiar pull of the present. Thoughts of dragons, dead princes, and knights who bent the knee to their enemies would wait.

For now, there was only the yard, the familiar cold bite of the air, and the clash of newly trusted steel.

Later, when the sun had reached it peak though, and the scent of roasted meat filled the halls, Harry would find himself elsewhere— beneath the dim candlelight of the library, reaching for possible answers in old ink and parchment. Researching the supposedly extinct dragons and more of the magic that rumouredly died out.

Then, naturally, came the feast.

The feast was everything Harry had expected it to be— it was lavish, noisy, and filled with more food than was probably wise. Servants scurried to and fro, carrying trays of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, cheeses, honeyed fruits, and many flagons of red wine. The Great Hall was alight with laughter and music, but Harry didn’t join in.

He was tired from the noise, the work and the spectacle.

From his place among the "lesser" guests, he watched the royal family with the same careful scrutiny he might have once reserved for dark wizards. It wasn't out of suspicion or irritation, but more of sleepy intrigue. The Queen spoke little, he had noted easily, but drank often, a cup of wine in her pale hand as she ate and surveyed. And the King... Well, the King was loud and boisterous, his attention shifting constantly between his cup, his old friend, and unsuspecting serving girls.

Honestly, within minutes, Harry decided he was everything he couldn’t stand in a leader— everything he had ever helped get out of power in his own time. The man screamed power without purpose. Authority without responsibility or compassion. A crown balanced on a man who had no business wearing it.

He turned his attention back to his plate, though he barely picked at the food. The noise of the hall swelled and dipped, the clash of tankards and the hum of conversation forming a backdrop to the din of music.

Across the room, Arya looked just as unimpressed as he did, nudging at her food with the edge of her fork. Sansa, on the other hand, seemed enraptured by the Prince Joffrey, hanging onto his every word as he spoke— his smile sharp. Harry hoped that either Ned or Robb would put a stop to that. He sighed, doubting it though.

His gaze passed over the other guests; the knights, the lords, the ladies, until it snagged once more on a familiar figure. Ser Barristan Selmy stood among the Kingsguard, composed but present, his attention on the festivities. For a moment, Harry considered approaching him, his curiosity winning out over his exhaustion and boredom. He didn't though— he knew better.

Instead, he waited for the plates to be cleared, the music to be dulled, and for the hall to grow quieter. He waited for nobles to drift away in clusters, their drunken laughter echoing through the corridors as they retired to their chambers or to other, less noble diversions.

Harry stood then, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs before moving toward the doors with a group of other guests. He would return to his room, he decided, and let the night end without spectacle.