AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for taking the time to read the Prelude. I know it was short, but it was just that, a prelude. I will go into more details in the actual chapters, and there will be much more backstory about the Potters, and everything else.

I said this chapter would be posted a few days after the Prelude, and it took longer than expected. Sorry about that. I started making my plan as I was writing it and I kept adding stuff, which caused the delay. I now have everything planned for up to ten-ish chapters, which is very exciting. For the rest of it, I have a vague idea where I am going, but it's all coming together very nicely.

With the exception of this chapter, everything else will be seen from Harry's point of view. I think if you've seen the show or read the books you know very well what the other characters think about the events, so I figured there is no need to repeat what is already known. However, there will be little interludes here and there in the story, allowing you to glimpse certain events from other characters' points of view when necessary, or allowing me to include a flashback or extra information.

Finally, the few verses of the Potter song included at the end of the chapter were based on the poem "The Phoenix again" by May Sarton, although I changed some of it.

I hope you will like this chapter, and don't hesitate to review and let me know what you think.

HEART OF WINTER

THE PHOENIX

Lord Eddard Stark received the sombre news on the cold, cloudy morning of what would otherwise have been just another day in Winterfell.

It started with his family breaking fast in the long and airy Great Hall of the Keep. The bright, happy voice of his son Robb echoed in the vast and mostly deserted room as the boy recited for his parents what he had been learning from Maester Luwin for the past three days. The old maester was teaching Ned's heir about the noble Houses of Westeros, and every time Robb heard one of them mentioned in conversation, he took it upon himself to remind everyone present of the history of that particular family. Jon had been allowed to attend the lessons, too, but years of dark glances from Catelyn across the table had taught him to keep his mouth shut during meals. Little three-year-old Sansa sat next to her mother, ignoring them as she gracefully picked at the contents of her plate, muttering softly to a little wooden doll on her lap.

It was upon this scene that Maester Luwin stumbled, apologetic. "Pardon me for disturbing your meal, my lord, my lady," he said with a distraught look on his face. "But I am afraid a matter of great importance has arisen."

Robb fell silent and ate sulkily, slightly annoyed at having been interrupted. Jon raised his head to stare at the maester with his dark, ever watchful eyes, looking quite solemn for a seven-year-old boy.

"What is it, Maester?" Ned Stark asked, frowning as he put down his knife.

The maester withdrew a parchment from the sleeves of his woollen robes and handed it to Ned with a pale, wrinkled hand. "A raven has come in the night," he explained.

Ned took the message and unfolded it, immediately recognizing the red seal of House Umber. He was aware of his wife's eyes on his face as he read. She saw his expression change from curious to troubled in a matter of seconds, and his fingers trembled when he set the parchment down on the table.

"Ned?" Catelyn asked, reaching out to put a hand on his arm.

"Dark wings, dark words," Ned muttered, as his father used to say. He stared in silence as the message folded back on itself slowly, following the crease of the parchment. "A message from Lord Jon Umber," he announced.

"House Umber!" Robb exclaimed from his place on his father's left. "Seat, the Last Hearth," he recited. "Sigil, a roaring giant. Words…"

"Not now, Robb," Catelyn said gently.

Ned was quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath and spoke. "Greatjon writes that he went hunting in the Wolfswood on his son's nameday. Some of his men chased game all the way to Long Lake, and there, they found Godric's Hollow in ruins. Some walls are completely fallen, and the whole eastern wing destroyed. It seems it was ravaged by fire." He fell silent, staring back at the message. The red string that had held it closed fluttered softly in a draft of air that coursed through the large room.

"Did anyone…?" Catelyn started asking, but she trailed off, surely horrified by the answer.

"They have searched the grounds but could find no survivors. The ruins were still smoking," Ned said weakly. He allowed his eyes to sadden for only a moment before looking up, confused. "This makes no sense. Fire could never burn a wall in Godric's Hollow, let alone destroy a whole wing."

"Indeed, it would not be possible," Maester Luwin said quietly. "Not with natural fire…"

"Natural fire?" Catelyn asked, frowning. "What else could it be?" Ned heard something akin to fear behind her voice.

"Dragonfire?" suggested Robb, who was paying more attention to the conversation now that it concerned the great mystery of some horrifying event that took place north of Winterfell. "Like in Harrenhal?"

"The dragons are all dead," Jon intervened. "Could it be wildfire?"

"I doubt it," Ned said, rubbing his chin as he thought. "Wildfire spreads so rapidly it would surely have destroyed the whole castle, not just the eastern wing."

"That is right," said Maester Luwin wisely, although he seemed at a loss when it came to finding another hypothesis.

"Something queer has happened there. I must go and see for myself," Ned added decidedly, standing up. "Maester Luwin, tell Jory he is to accompany me, and Ser Rodrik as well. We should leave in an hour."

"Yes, my lord," the maester said before leaving the Great Hall.

"Can I come with you, Father?" Robb asked, sitting up eagerly in his chair.

"No, Robb," Catelyn said immediately. "Not this time."

Ned smiled at his son's enthusiasm, but he shook his head. "Your mother is right, Robb. Not this time. It is a long way to Godric's Hollow. We might be gone for a week's time, and we will travel too fast for your pony."

"Can you see the Wall from Godric's Hollow?" Jon asked quietly, inquisitive.

"No, Jon. It is not quite near enough. Now, I have some things to prepare before I go. Boys, take care of your sisters while I am away," he said, looking gently at Sansa and thinking about one-year-old Arya, still with her wet nurse. He ruffled both his sons' hair and walked out of the hall.

He paused outside, leaning against a wall, pondering the news he had just received. Robb's words echoed in his head. From what he knew of Greatjon's report of the scene, he would also have been inclined to blame dragonfire, but Jon was right. There were no more dragons. And wildfire would have spread and consumed the whole structure, leaving no ruins behind. But if it wasn't either of those, what kind of fire could have been unleashed on Godric's Hollow? The castle was deep into the Wolfswood. You could hardly glimpse it from the Kingsroad, and travellers were scarce in that region, even in the summer. A dull pain settled in his chest at the thought that the Potters had burned alive without anyone knowing…

When he looked up, he found that Catelyn had joined him, and she grasped his hands in hers. "I am sorry, my lord," she said softly. "I know Ser James was like a brother to you."

"I did not know him as well as Benjen did, but my father raised him as one of us," Ned said. "Ser James was as much a Stark as he was a Potter. I owe it to him to find out what happened in Godric's Hollow. And Benjen should be informed of this. I forgot to…"

"I will tell Maester Luwin to send a raven to the Wall for your brother, worry not. I have asked the servants to pack enough food for a week. Will that be enough?"

"More than enough. We will ride fast, and there are still inns along the…" Ned started to say, but he was suddenly preoccupied.

"What is it?" she asked.

He put a gentle hand on her bulging stomach, where, he hoped, another healthy son had been growing. "I don't like the thought of leaving you now, when the little one could come any day," he said. "If you ask me to stay, I will."

Catelyn smiled and he saw love in her eyes. "Maester Luwin is here if I have need of him, and I know your son will wait until you return to come into the world. You have to go, Ned. It is like you said. You owe it to James."

"His children…" Ned said, his throat tight with grief. "His eldest son was only a year younger than the boys. The youngest was only two… To die like that at such a young age, having barely known life…"

"Yes, it is terrible," Catelyn said firmly, looking deep into his eyes. "And if someone is responsible for that terrible fate, you will find them, my love, and justice will be done." She gripped his hands tightly to give him courage, and he stared back at her, determined.

"I will, he said. "On that you have my word."

The riders left Winterfell before midday under a grey sky thick with clouds. As planned, Ned rode with Jory and Ser Rodrik, accompanied by three men from the household guard that Jory had insisted they bring along in case they came upon some trouble on the road. If Catelyn hadn't been with child, Ned would have asked Maester Luwin to accompany them. His knowledge and wisdom would surely have been useful to determine the nature of what had occurred in Godric's Hollow, but Ned would not take the risk. He would do his best to solve the mystery with the help of the men available to him. Catelyn needed the maester more than he did.

The walls of Winterfell formed a barrier against the northern winds, but outside, on the vast lands surrounding the Kingsroad, a cold breeze blew. It would only get colder as they headed towards Godric's Hollow, he knew. They could only afford to stop at night, covering the most ground possible by day, and the men wore their best furs for the trip. But they were accustomed to the cold. They were northerners, and they had known worse. This was but summer chill compared to the raw, merciless, biting cold of winter.

"I am amazed that neither of the boys managed to haggle his way into this trip," Ser Rodrik said as they trotted away to warm up the horses, his white whiskers whipping around his chin with the movements of his mount.

"Oh, Robb tried to," Ned said with a smile. "Jon would not dare ask, but I know he was dying to come as well."

"They are both great lads, and they will be great men someday, my lord," remarked Ser Rodrik, who taught them swordsmanship almost every day. "Jon is fast and already strong for his age. Robb is more playful. He doesn't seem to take swordplay as seriously, but he will grow into it. He is only seven. So is Jon, but they say bastards grow faster than other boys."

"That is what they say," Ned said shortly. He disliked speaking of Jon's birth and there was a cold edge to his voice. Ser Rodrik must have noticed because he said no more about it and they rode in silence from then on. Ned tried to push his sons out of his mind for the time being. Thinking about his family when he travelled only made him regret leaving. So instead, Ned found himself thinking about James Potter.

Having spent most of his childhood fostered by Jon Arryn with Robert Baratheon at the Eyrie, Ned had not known his own father's wards very well. There had been James Potter, but also Sirius Black, Lord Orion Black's eldest son. Like the Potters, the Blacks kept mostly to themselves, not because they meant to, but because their seat, Grimmauld Hall, was built in such unfriendly regions that hardly anyone, themselves included, was willing to cross the bogs and the swampy forest west of the Neck that separated them from the rest of the world. They wed close cousins and sometimes siblings in traditions similar to those of the Targaryens, giving little importance to what the realm might think of this practice. But old Lord and Lady Black were so unpleasant that no one really complained about Grimmauld Hall's distant location. Sirius Black was almost a stranger to Ned, but he had gotten to know James Potter during the Rebellion.

Ned remembered a black-haired youth not much younger than himself, not very tall, but lean and strong, with dark eyes shining with wit and rage. James had loved Rickard Stark like a father, and saw in the Stark children – especially Benjen and Lyanna, with whom he had grown up – the siblings that had been taken from him so young. Losing the Starks had been like losing his family a second time, and to avenge them, he had fought proudly by Ned's side under the direwolf banners when the rallied forces had marched south against the Targaryens.

James had fought with all he had, with the daring recklessness of one who has nothing left to lose. When the fight was almost over, James had followed Ned south, all the way to the Red Mountains of Dorne, to free their sister from the tower were Rhaegar Targaryen had been keeping her prisoner. There had been eight men in their party, but only three came out of the fight alive when they faced the three knights of the Kingsguard who kept the tower, and surprisingly, James Potter was one of them. He had seen Lyanna in her final moments, witnessed Ned's grief, and given his word that he would never speak of what he had witnessed there.

Ned suspected that perhaps James had not really expected to survive the war at all. Perhaps he hadn't really wanted to. But when it was all over, he was still standing. And Robert made him a Potter again, gave him back his home, and even put a "Ser" before his name. He seemed at a loss afterwards, unsure what to do with this new, unexpected life he had been given.

The last time Ned saw him, he was sitting casually on the front steps of the Red Keep's entrance while everyone inside celebrated the end of the war. There was a blank, tired look on his face. Ned knew that look too well. It was dawning on him that revenge is vain after all, that the death and suffering of those who have wronged us does nothing to ease the pain, to fill the hole left by what was lost. Ned had felt the same way – bitter, empty, enraged by what terrible things had been done to win the Iron Throne, and still plagued by the loss of his family. James, Ned, and Robert all felt this way. It was a bittersweet victory. Jaime Lannister had killed the Mad King – a task they had all wanted for themselves. Unfortunately, Aerys Targaryen could only die once.

Ned had approached James, there on the steps, and the newly-knighted young man looked up at him with an uncertain smile.

"I don't quite know what I should be doing now," he had confided in Ned with a shrug before standing slowly, heavily, as if he were still wearing his full battle armour instead of the silk and painted leathers of the end of war.

"You will always be welcomed in Winterfell," Ned had replied. "It will always be your home, no matter what comes."

"Yes, I know," James had said, and they had embraced like brothers for a long time, without speaking a word.

And yet, James had never taken up on his offer. He had left King's Landing the next day and rode for the Vale, where he had met a lovely maiden during the war. She was the youngest daughter of Lord Alderic Evans of Thornfort. When James found himself highborn once again, he rode to Thornfort, and with his titles restored and a castle of his own, asked Lord Alderic for his daughter's hand. Ned remembered her. It was hard not to. She had been a beauty, with eyes shining green like wildfire. If he remembered correctly, she was a distant cousin of Catelyn from her mother's side. She had the bright red hair of the Tullys. They eventually wed and James brought her north to Godric's Hollow.

Since then, Ned had received ravens announcing the birth of the Potter's children, as it was customary for noble Houses to inform their Lord of the arrival of any trueborn offspring, and Benjen brought news every time he visited Winterfell and stopped in Godric's Hollow along the way. But neither James nor his wife had strayed very far from their home in the seven years since the war had ended. They certainly had visitors though. Ned had heard word from many inns and holdfasts near Winterfell that strange folks often stopped by for the night on their way to Godric's Hollow. Most of them spoke foreign languages that the people of the North had never even heard of, wore their hair dyed in bright colours, and looked pitiful as they shivered in their silk clothing. Whatever business James Potter would have with these people, Ned could not even conceive.

At the end of their first day of riding, Ned's party stopped at an inn less than two days away from Godric's Hollow. They had travelled well and if they kept the pace on the morrow, he told himself, they would reach their destination in time. The innkeeper was honoured to host the Lord of Winterfell and his men in his humble establishment and insisted they have his best rooms free of charge, but Ned would have none of it and paid the man despite his protests. Before retiring to their rooms for a well-deserved rest, they headed into the inn's dining hall for a warm meal and were surprised to find there one of Greatjon Umber's men, who introduced himself as Colton.

"I'm heading south to King's Landing," he explained as Ned and his men joined him at his table. "Lord Greatjon is sending me to the King with news of the Potters' deaths. I'd much rather he'd sent a raven, but he wants me there in case the King starts asking questions." Colton was tall and muscular, with long hair and an impressive beard, but his voice revealed him as much younger than he looked. He was soft-spoken and the eyes under his thick, bushy eyebrows were bright blue.

"Were you with the hunting party that discovered the ruins?" Ned asked, curious. "We are heading to Godric's Hollow ourselves."

Immediately, Ned sensed a twitch in Colton's demeanour. "Oh, you don't want to do that, my lord," Colton said, looking relatively calm, but with a tremor in his voice. "I would stay far away from that place if I were you. I've never seen anything like it before in my life."

The men exchanged glances. Apart from the seven of them and the innkeeper behind the bar, the hall was empty. The only sound was the whistling of the wind outside and the crackling of the fire in the large hearth.

"What have you seen there?" Ned asked. "Why should we avoid it?"

"Didn't Greatjon tell you none of it, my lord?" Colton replied, curling his large hands around his cup of mulled wine, as if searching for comfort.

"All I know is that there was a fire and that some of the walls have fallen."

Colton snorted and shook his head. "Fallen? Those walls weren't fallen, my lord. They looked like they'd been ripped right from the ground all the way to the foundations. Like a giant's hand plucking a tree with the roots still attached. The stone was scorched black, and around where the eastern wing was, it had turned soft. I remember seeing children building sandcastles on the beach once, when I travelled south along the coast, and that's what the stone was like. Greatjon touched it and it crumbled under his fingers like dust before drifting off into the wind…"

Colton might have seemed reticent to talk at first, but now that he had started his story, he couldn't seem to be able to stop. His eyes stared fixedly into the fire as he spoke. It might have been the silence of the room, or the howling of the wind outside, or maybe Colton was just an excellent storyteller, but Ned found himself shivering even as he was safe and warm inside the inn.

"So you see, my lord," Colton continued, "when I say that you shouldn't go there, I mean what I say. It sends shivers down my spine just to think about it. Something dark has happened there, if you ask me. You feel it as soon as you set foot on the castle grounds. I don't know what it is, but it creeps inside your chest and it hides there. I've had those strange dreams ever since I was there. I dream of a man who comes in the night, clothed all in black and without a face. He stands over my bed in silence, staring at me while I sleep. I yell at him to go, to get out and leave me be, and when I finally awake, I am drenched in sweat but frozen to my bones."

Ser Rodrik, who was a sceptical man, cleared his throat carefully before he spoke. "Fire and death can put fear into the heart of any man, lad," he said kindly. "But there is nothing in dreams that a man needs fear."

"I'm not so certain about that," Colton said, turning to stare directly at Ser Rodrik. "My brother was there too, and he's been having the same dreams ever since."

Ned was exhausted after the whole day of riding, but it took him a long time to fall asleep that night. When he finally drifted off, he slept fitfully, in short, confusing bursts of strange dreams. He dreamt that the walls of Winterfell were crumbling like sandcastles as the ghosts of the long-dead Kings of the North escaped from the crypt like billows of smoke. Then he dreamt that a horrendous giant came from beyond the Wall, its footsteps echoing like thunder, and plucked the Heart Tree from the godswood, mocking him in a deep, cavernous tongue as Ned tried to escape its grasp, stumbling away on stiff, heavy legs. The roots of the weirwood were soaked with smelly, crimson blood, and helpless cries came from beneath the earth as it was ripped from the ground. Then he found himself standing in the quiet Wolfswood, soft snow falling around him, thick and silent like balls of cotton. And Catelyn stood before him between the trees, calmly stroking her swollen belly, but drenched in her own blood. She looked at him with Lyanna's eyes and, in his sister's voice, spoke the last words she had ever said to him. Promise me, Ned…

He awoke with a start as someone knocked loudly on the door. They were ready to leave soon, Jory announced, and some food waited for him in the dining hall. For a moment, Ned didn't know where he was, and then he remembered. He was on his way to Godric's Hollow. He was on his way to the ruins of James Potter's life. He dragged himself out of bed, feeling as if he'd hardly slept at all, and dressed slowly. By the time he was downstairs and breaking fast with his men, he couldn't remember having dreamt at all. The innkeeper informed them that Colton had left before dawn.

The day was strange. The howling wind from the night before had died, and the air was cold and still, their breaths coming out in little clouds of mist. They didn't notice the fog until it was all they could see. It wrapped itself around them like a blanket. Soon, it was so thick that they couldn't make out the road before them, and they guided themselves by the sounds of the hooves on the hard dirt. It made their horses nervous and did nothing to ease Ned's growing feeling of dread.

"At this pace, we won't reach Godric's Hollow for another week!" Jory complained around midday as they wound their way slowly through the sinuous path that stretched itself narrowly through the Wolfswood.

"Perhaps we should head back, my lord," said one of the men from behind Ned, apprehension in his voice.

"No," Ned said firmly. "We have come all this way, we will keep going."

In truth, he longed to go back as well, longed for the safety of the inn, or better yet, the familiar warmth of Winterfell. But he had given his word, to Catelyn and to himself, that he would reach Godric's Hollow and find out what had occurred there. The fog was so thick that Ned could have sworn it was almost twilight, but behind all the clouds, the sun was nearing its zenith.

It was soon after that Ser Rodrik called out to them. "Stop, all of you. Listen."

They stopped and listened. They could hear nothing at first. It was as if the fog impaired their ears as well as their eyes. But surely enough, they heard, in the near distance, the sound of hooves along with the hurried whining of cart wheels.

"Should we get off the road, my lord?" asked another of the men. "They are coming nearer and we can see nothing ahead."

"Who goes there?" Ned called out. "Slow your pace!"

They all listened, but no voice answered. The sound of hooves and wheels was getting closer and closer, and their horses were getting restless.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Ned called again, but there was no answer. "Everyone, get off the road," he said urgently.

They parted, half of them heading right and the three others scurrying to the left. The wooden cart that passed by them so hurriedly had seen better days. One of its wheels was loose on its axle, barely touching the ground, and it continued to spin on itself when the cart stopped suddenly on the road, a few feet past their party. It cleared the fog slightly in its path so they could clearly see when the cloaked man sitting hunched at the front of the cart straightened himself and looked around. Ned could not see his face under the heavy hood of his cloak, but he was aware the moment the man's eyes settled on him.

"What were you yelling about in the fog, Ned Stark?" he asked. His voice was that of an old man, somewhat amused, and apparently not at all conscious of almost having caused great damage to their party.

"Who are you?" Ned asked coldly. He didn't like being confronted with someone who knew much more than they were willing to let on, and he was in no mood to play games.

"My apologies if I have offended you, my lord. I mean you no harm," the old man said more softly, letting go of the horse's reins and jumping off the cart gracefully. "In truth, I was heading to Winterfell to find you."

Ned's hands went to his sword as soon as the man started approaching him, but he did not draw it yet. "And why is that?" he asked.

"I come from Godric's Hollow, my lord," the old man said, and the whole party fell silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. "I have recovered something that I would like to entrust you with for safekeeping."

Ned stared at him, furious. "You have been salvaging the ruins?" he snapped. "You had no right. I will make no business with a thief. Ser Rodrik, seize this man!"

But before Ser Rodrik could dismount and obey, the man removed his hood, revealing his face. He was older than Ned would have thought. He looked years past the reasonable age to be roaming the Kingsroad on a broken cart at full speed. He had a long beard tied under his chin in an intricate braid, and equally long hair, both silver with age. His eyes were sparkling blue with wit and wisdom, and around his neck hung a chain forged with rings of different metals. It was a familiar sight that put the party at ease, although Ned had yet to see one so long.

"There has been a misunderstanding," the old man said kindly. "I am no thief, my lord."

"You are a maester," Ned said, confused. "What are you doing, roaming the Wolfswood on your own?"

"It is just like I told you, my lord. I come from Godric's Hollow, where I was maester to the Potters." He looked around him quickly. The fog was closing in on them again, and it seemed to make him nervous. "My lord, please. It is urgent. Come quickly." He headed back to the cart and gestured for Ned to approach.

Intrigued, Ned dismounted, nodding to Ser Rodrik to do the same, and the knight followed him back to the road and towards the old man's cart. Inside, all they saw was a pile of rags and furs in a corner. Ned watched, bewildered, as the maester shook the bundle lightly and pushed aside a fur to reveal the small face of a child. The other men approached curiously for a closer look as the frightened green eyes of a little boy turned to the maester in confusion.

"Fear not, little one," the old man said gently. "These men mean you no harm." And with surprising strength, the maester grabbed the little boy under his arms, pulled him from the cart, and settled him slowly on the ground for everyone to see.

Ned stared. The boy was dirty with soot, his hair dark as night, and eyes strangely familiar. He was slightly shorter than Robb and Jon, but looked only a year or so younger. His clothes were clean but too large for him, and he trembled on his feet under the glance of the whole party.

"Is this… Is this one of James Potter's sons?" Ned asked, astounded.

"Indeed, it is the eldest. This is young Harry, Lord of House Potter," the maester said before turning back to the little boy. "Harry, this is Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He was your father's friend. They were as close as brothers once. You will go with him now, little lord."

The boy looked terrorized, and Ned saw one of his small hands grab at the maester's cloak. "But I want to stay with you, Maester Albus," he said in a whisper.

"You cannot stay with me, child. I have places to go and people to see. Lord Eddard will keep you safe," the maester said, pushing the dirty locks of hair from the child's face, and as he did so, Ned saw a jagged scar marring the boy's forehead. The maester turned back to look at Ned. "I am afraid young Harry has not had anything to eat in a while. Perhaps one of your men could give him some food while we talk," he said.

Ned nodded towards Jory who came forward and held out his hand for the little boy to take. "Come, little lord," he said gently. "I have some sweet bread and honey for you."

They watched as the boy took Jory's hand hesitantly and the man led him to the left, where his horse stood next to the trees. Ned turned back to the maester. "Surely he has some family left," Ned told him in a low voice. "I cannot take him if his mother's sister…"

The maester grabbed Ned suddenly and pulled him to the side. Ser Rodrik drew his sword, but Ned held up a hand to stop him.

"You must keep him by your side, Lord Stark!" the maester said urgently. "It is of the utmost importance. You must bring him to Winterfell and raise him as your own son, just like your own father once raised James Potter. There is nothing left of House Potter's legacy but this little boy. He has no family. His mother's sister is not worthy of raising him. Godric's Hollow is gone. It has been destroyed. The ground it once stood upon is damned. Nothing will ever grow or live there again."

"What has happened there?" Ned asked. "How did he manage to survive?"

The man finally let go and Ned straightened up, nodding towards Ser Rodrik to let him know that all was well. "The castle burned in the night," the maester said. "That is all you must know. Do not go there. Do not seek to find out what has happened there. Godric's Hollow is no more, and that ends the matter. The boy remembers none of it, but one day, he will grow up and seek the truth, as you do now, and you must convince him never to go searching for it."

"Why?" Ned asked again. "He has a right to know what killed his family. Why should he not go looking for the truth?"

The old man looked at him straight in the eyes, and for a long moment, Ned felt as if he were looking directly into his soul. "Because the truth would destroy him. Some things are better left unknown, my lord. Surely you know this, don't you?"

And Ned was hit suddenly with an image of his sister's face, of her fingers soaked with blood as she grabbed his hand. Tell no one… Promise me, Ned…

"You must keep him with you," the maester said again. "He needs you. He needs to be raised in the North with his own people. And most of all, you need him. You need him more than you could understand if I were to try to explain it to you. If you should trust but one person in your whole life, Eddard Stark, trust me in this instant, and trust my words above all others. You need this boy by your side."

Ned turned. Ser Rodrik was looking at him blankly, at a loss for words. Farther away, near the horses, Jory was giving bread to the little boy, who bit through it like a hungry wolf pup. When Ned turned towards the maester again, the old man was fumbling through the furs in the cart and unloading a traveller's bag.

"This is all I could save when the castle burned," he said, putting the bag in Ned's arms. "There is not much in there. The clothes the boy is wearing were given to us by the generous folk who sold us the cart."

"That is all?" Ned asked the maester, irritated, handing Ser Rodrik the traveller's bag. "You will not tell me more about it all? I must take the boy and ask no more questions?"

"That is exactly what you must do, my lord," the maester said, walking around to the front of the cart. "You must ride back to Winterfell as soon as possible. The boy is wounded on the shoulder and I could not save any of my remedies from the fire. There is also that scar on his forehead to look after. I am certain your Maester Luwin will take care of it as well as I could." He climbed back on the cart with the grace and ease of a young man. "Farewell, now, Lord Stark. We will meet again. Have a safe return, and remember my words. Keep him by your side."

With that, he grabbed the reins and his horse started galloping again, the cart disappearing quickly into the thick fog. Ned heard a sudden yell and turned around.

"No!" the little boy cried, dropping his bread and running from Jory and onto the road to follow after the cart. "Don't leave me, Maester! Come back! Please!"

His voice broke Ned's heart and he reached out to catch the boy before he could fall and hurt himself. "Hush, little one," he said, holding the boy against him as the child started sobbing. "Have no fear. No one will hurt you now. I promise you. No one will hurt you as long as I live," he whispered.

The others stayed silent as they watched him comfort the last Potter heir, unsure what to say or do. Ned closed his eyes and, holding the little boy, thought about what he should do next. Surely it was only because of what the old man had said, but he had the strange feeling that his decision, right in this instant, would determine the course of the rest of his life. He had made a promise to reach Godric's Hollow and discover what had happened there, but the growing feeling of dread in his heart and those of his men was becoming impossible to ignore. And there was Catelyn and the child to come. And this little boy, who needed care and attention.

He stood decidedly, the child still clinging to him. "The boy is wounded and needs healing. We are going back to Winterfell," he announced. The fog was still thick and cold around them, but the faces of his men looked relieved to hear the news. "Ser Rodrik, I seem to remember that you carry a spare winter cloak with you?" he asked the knight.

"Yes," Ser Rodrik answered. "I will fetch it for the lad."

"Shall I have the little one ride with me, my lord?" Jory asked, leading his horse back onto the road.

The boy's sobs had calmed by then, and he was silent now, his cheek pressed against Ned's chest. "No, Jory. I think he will ride with me for now."

They reached the inn again before nightfall and the innkeeper, surprised to see them back so soon, explained that some men on their way to the Night's Watch were also present tonight, and that perhaps the Lord of Winterfell would prefer to spend the night somewhere else. Ned told him that it didn't matter, that the boy travelling with them needed to rest. The innkeeper's wife's heart was softened by the green eyes of the boy and she offered to bring them dinner in their room so that they wouldn't have to eat downstairs with the noisy men. Ned thanked her and led Harry upstairs to tend to his wounds the best he could.

He had wrapped Ser Rodrik's cloak tightly around the boy, but still the garment was so large it made him look years younger. He was quiet as Ned removed it, staring at him now with curiosity rather than fear.

"You are a Stark," he said softly after a while. "You are Benjen's brother."

"I am," Ned said with a smile, pushing back Harry's hair from his forehead to look at the scar. It was shaped oddly, like a bolt of lightning, as if thunder itself had struck him. "Does it hurt?"

"Not so much now," the boy answered with a shrug. "Is it true you can turn into a wolf? Benjen said you could."

Ned laughed. That sounded like something his brother would tell children. "No, I assure you I am but a man."

"Oh," the boy said, sounding almost disappointed. "We are going to Winterfell?"

"Yes, we are," Ned said, raising the boy's arms to remove his shirt so he could examine his wound.

"Are you going to send me away?" Harry asked again.

Ned paused. "No, I think not," he said simply. He knew he should reassure the boy, tell him that he would never send him away and that he would be safe now, but he was looking at the boy's shoulder in confusion.

"Your maester said your shoulder was injured in the fire," he said.

"It was."

"And he has done nothing to heal it?"

"No."

"And that was two… three days ago?"

"Four."

Ned looked at the wound, touched it lightly. "Does it hurt?"

"No. Can I put my shirt back on now? It's cold," the boy complained.

Ned nodded and sat on the edge of a bed, thinking, while the little boy lay down on the other one to rest until the innkeeper's wife would bring their food.

Godric's Hollow had burned four days ago. Half the castle was destroyed, its walls crumbling and scorched, and yet this child had escaped with nothing but a scar and a burn. The skin on his shoulder was rough and pink, but dry and completely healed.

On the bed was the bag the maester had given him. Ned opened it to look inside. The first thing he saw was a large piece of black cloth. He pulled on it slightly to examine it. It was one of the banners of House Potter. The majestic white phoenix had turned grey with soot, the corners frayed by fire.

And Ned remembered the words of the old song of House Potter.

And out of the ashes of death

The phoenix again will rise

For neither old nor young,

The phoenix does not die.

TO BE CONTINUED...