Hello, Aisligean here!
It's been thousands of years since I've given any signs of life in Fanfiction at the time of writing, in the least, but I think this experiment would be worth it. This is a crossover of Harry Potter and the world of Westeros, using reincarnation as the basis.
This story is based on the trope of the reincarnation of a character (almost always Harry) in Westeros, however this story is expected to deviate from many clichés used in this theme. We're going to move away from the idealistic, good-natured protagonist Harry or the poor guy who died and is now a cynical and tough person but has a big heart (and a harem by the way, because people seem to love harems). This story deviates quite a bit from what is the canon of both literary franchises. I've adapted a lot of ideas from the canon to make it more logical in this world and explain some useful details that are likely to be of interest to you.
Warning: violence, strange and dark themes, and a much more medieval Westeros than in canon.
Complete summary: It is said that suffering souls will receive their reward in another life. They are promised a full and happy life in the afterlife. They are promised so many things, and it turns out that everything is a lie. Life is not based on honesty or who is more honorable than the other, none of that can change reality. There is only one truth: the one who changes everything is the one who has strength, physical or of will. Harry wanted to do what he thought was right but he died. Now, he gets another chance, in another world and under another name...yet what is the right thing to do and who says it is?
Sometimes the methods don't matter if you want to accomplish something. Sometimes everyone has their own concept of good and evil. Sometimes everything is too gray, too subjective. Sometimes the sane have crazy ideas and the insane is the wise.
Sometimes the gods are just bored and want to have fun at the expense of the people.
Too many variables.
Chapter One.
It all started with a dream.
297 After the Conquest
Catelyn
Catelyn dreamed that she was in the largest and darkest forest on the face of the Earth. The trees were enormous and their leaves covered the starry sky, sentencing the world to absolute darkness. She dreamed that she was walking nervously, together with a group of people, and that she had a torch in her hand that lit up her path a little.
A man, the one who was organizing the march, ordered them to stop and dig. "Dig until you go through the deep ground and let the magic flow" he ordered them, "may the magic of the night envelop us!"
"What magic?" she thought of her dream, marveling at the fact that the land had magic. Magic did not exist for long centuries, although the providence of the Seven could be invoked through symbols and holy signs. In Riverrun, it was believed that the best way to help bring blessing to oneself was to use sacred symbols and then throw them into the river—such as a rabbit's foot that a pregnant should had to carry for seven days so that the birth would be good, and then throw it into the Red Fork' waters—, or the northern customs, more primitive.
Never, yes, she heard that the ground (the earth) kept magic. Yes, the weirwood trees were 'magic', but not the land itself.
Still, she obeyed.
She cut down tree roots along with her hooded companions and dug up the earth, but the leader still wanted it deeper. He wasn't satisfied until he fit completely inside it—which was a lot, because the man in Catelyn's dream was huge— and from inside he couldn't see the edge. Then, they installed a ramp that led to the bottom of the pit, next to which was a huge mound of dug up earth.
The dream grew obscure, weird.
Catelyn now held a pitch-soaked torch in her hand, which shot green fires into the dim darkness, casting shifting shadows that melted into the surrounding darkness. Nobody had a hood anymore, there were only men dressed and armed as if they were going to war. Still, she didn't recognize any faces... their faces were like dark abysses.
However, she did notice the massive figure at the bottom of the ramp. He had black hair, worn long and loose. He also was extremely tall. Ned had always seemed too long for her, which amazed her because of the pure Northernblood that her lord husband carried in his veins, but this individual would probably be the same size as Greatjon Umber. His features were fine, green eyes deep and calm, with a lazy smile painted on his lips.
Behind the blackhaired man, were two men armed with mallets.
Suddenly, the dark-haired man began to sing. His words were, his voice strong and deep, enveloping, but Catelyn understood them. It was an epic poem, or at least she assumed such a thing.
The poem was very long, murky. The words hard and rhythmic like the beating of a drum. They described how the great Goddess of chaos, the one who dominated time, created everything from the corpse of the corruption of the World, being that she asked to the Universe -which was a beautiful one-eyeless woman from which an enormous crystal came out of one of her sockets and it turned around inside itself, looking at creation- regency over time.
As Cartimandua, the warrior Goddess of death, gouged out both of her eyes to create the moon and the sun (and two worlds) and that this action allowed her to know magic and gave power to the Peverells and Valyrians. The Peverells, a house that never heard that name, received the duty of ordering and guiding the different worlds under their hand.
"And even if I die here, if those of Light and Dark side kill me, I will return to the world, even if it be the Other one" the blackhaired intoned, "I'm the messiah of Cartimandua, the herald of the order that brings chaos and pain. I'm the Apostle".
The poem continued, and the men gathered around the pit seemed to sway to the beat of the ode, sometimes repeating a phrase. The figures of the men, of the man in the pit, began to change. One moment they were wolves, and the next women, and then men, and then eagles.
Catelyn found that they were neither alive nor dead but were creatures of the underworld. Perhaps they were wargs?
Even after she wakes, Catelyn remembered the fear and anxiety that ran down her throat. The most terrible nightmare... especially when the man finished and she heard a loud moan, a wail, that made her focus.
A strange procession was coming through the darkness. They were a group of women, all naked and sobbing. Also, there were several men. They all also had a rope around their necks.
The first victim had the rope removed from his neck. The first blow was taken by a woman directly in her face, causing a wild scream among the captives. The woman's face split open from the force of the blow, and tumbled down the ramp into the pit. The men armed with mallets waited at the bottom of the well for the body, before attacking the unfortunate woman.
She heard the woman's skull crack and blood splatter into the pit.
"Geogaegeogaegeogaegeogaegeogae!" those around Catelyn intoned loudly, a little above the screams and tears. "Geogaegeogaegeogaegeogaegeogae!"
Blackhaired's next victim was hit in the chest, slashing her vulnerable breasts and incidentally the hands with which she was trying to protect herself from the night cold (from the horror). She fell backwards to the floor. The victim's head bounced off the ground at the first blow's mallet, and at the second something from inside her head spattered onto the ground.
She began to move between spasms and proceeded to urinate and defecate on top of herself, dying.
Catelyn felt sick, scared, but at no time did she stop screaming, although it wasn't her mouth, the psalm:
"Geogaegeogaegeogaegeogaegeogae!"
Blackhaired's third victim offering took the ax to his belly, and he doubled into a triangle on the ramp, screaming. The blackhaired kicked him and the guy rolled down the ramp, hitting his whitish head before falling. The mallets welcomed the newcomer with pleasant animosity: their blows collided violently against his wrecked body, causing the victim's guts to come out with each brutal blow as if his belly were too full and they wouldn't fit.
"Geogaegeogaegeogaegeogaegeogae!"
The fourth offering received the ax blow to her face, with a wet sound. The ax had landed on her forehead and split her left eye neatly in two. A viscous liquid slipped out mixed with her blood, and the part of the blade that was inside her mouth reflected a luminous light blue. The blood slipped down the blade and stained the blackhaired's face. He pushed hard, unsuccessfully at first. The ax had lodged so deeply in the poor victim's face that it seemed as if she had been born with it embedded in her skull.
With his right hand, the murder yanked on the axe, causing a horrible gurgling as the blade finally broke free, blood flowing freely across the offering's face. Split in half, the head of the offering was now lopsided.
It seemed too unreal.
"Geogaegeogaegeogaegeogaegeogae!"
Then, to add insult to injury, the last offering went... mad.
Catelyn saw that the captive with the long reddish hair had been calm, not crying or screaming unlike the other offerings. Suddenly, the ginger let out a scream, one too savage to seem human and it chilled Catelyn's soul, before lunging for the neck of the man ahead of her in the line of victims. The man screamed as blood spurted out, causing more chaos among the victims. He fell flat on his face, drowning in his blood.
The redhead went back to bite, now another offering's throat.
Nobody of the cultist did anything.
They let her kill those behind, who couldn't run away, while the dark-haired man threw those in front to the ramp with ax blows.
The screams, the praises to the unknown goddess Cartimandua and the smell of blood, made Catelyn gag.
Finally, both -murder and cannibal- were face to face.
Both were bloodied and covered in offal (if Catelyn could use that word), looking at each other face. The ginger lunged at the blackhaired man, in a moment that Catelyn assumed was crazy, but instead of ripping a piece off the man... she leaned over her body. The blackhaired held her before kissing her lips, and they both laughed.
The blackhaired then looked at the pit full of blood and bodies, and then… at Catelyn.
With his left hand, he raised the axe.
"Glory to Cartimandua and the Potters!"
All the men raised their arms to her, even Catelyn, and repeated the same thing.
"Down with Dumbledore!" Down with Voldemort!" he cried then. "Long live Lord Potter! Eyes open!"
"Long live Lord Potter!" all the men echoed, pointing their swords, spears, or axes at the smoking pit. "Long live Lord Potter!"
All the corpses were taken out of the pit and hung from the branches of the black trees. Their blood had been given to the creatures under the earth and now their flesh was offered to Cartimandua, that goddess who had never been heard of in the land of Westeros.
Catelyn didn't understand what was going on, not really, except for one detail.
Potter was preparing for war against his enemies. And, sure, he wasn't the good guy in that story.
Robb
Leaving his tent, Robb thought that the day had dawned bleak. Nothing new, with that raw cold that slipped indiscreetly under the armor. Robb stretched, pulling on the furs he was wearing to keep warm, before making his way through the camp.
It was still too early, the sun hadn't even risen, but that probably didn't matter, seeing where they were. Beyond what was the Wall, in that desolate area known as Starrold's Point, where there was only snow-and-trees, and the sun didn't rise until after ten or eleven in the morning.
Despite such conditions, however, most of the soldiers were getting ready, preparing for the day's work.
Another day on the road.
It was fine like that.
Winter is a weak breeze for the one who is going to fulfill his duty, once his uncle Benjen had told him, in one of those rare situations that they could see it.
Northerners were tireless because the North never tired.
The soldiers greeted him as he passed, and he nodded back to them as he continued on his way. The tent in the middle of the camp—the one with the direwolf symbol fluttering on a white flag that was limp from lack of wind—was surrounded by two guards, which meant his father was in a meeting with his commanders.
He sighed and walked over to one of the nearby bonfires, catching a glimpse of Greyjoy's reddish-brown hair.
"A beautiful morning," Theon said by way of greeting when he saw the Stark heir, looking up for a few seconds, before going back to sharpening his sword. "Maybe, a good morning which we probably have action, it seems. We are going to prepare to leave soon, again".
The Greyjoy gave him a space by the fire. Robb took it without hesitation, and rubbed both hands against the faint flames that flickered in front of them. "My father didn't send for me from the meeting," Robb said a few minutes later, falling silent, more focused on running away from the cold. "He still treats me like a lad"
"You are a lad, Robb." Theon pointed out, giving him a smirk for a few seconds before returning to his usual calm face, "yet your father will only trust any information to his commanders, he won't even allow me to attend all the meetings. You, in this campaign, have attended three."
"I should attend more. I am his heir."
"And that's why he took you to war with him. Lord Eddard thinks you're ready to show yourself to his vassals as the future lord of the North, which you will be one day. Your fatherlord wants you to learn your duties but he doesn't want to overwhelm you either. Calm down, Robb".
Theon had been Robb's father's student since he was eight, since lord Balon Greyjoy had lost in his bloody rebellion. Already seventeen years old —three years older than Robb—, Theon was quite seasoned in Northern politics; also, Theon had been his pseudo-teacher (and his best friend aside from Jon) in swordplay and history.
Theon was a strange mix of the calculating, savage demeanor of the Ironborn with the icy, indestructible demeanor of the Northerners. Robb sometimes wondered what Lord Balon would think of his son being more Northerner than Ironborn..
"Fine. You're right" the Stark snorted.
"Besides," continued Greyjoy, earning Stark's attention, "the conversations that are taking place are too complex and tricky, things that Lord Eddard needs to analyze well. That's why he called only specific people. Lord Umber is not at the meeting either."
Robb looked surprised. "Greatjon, the leader of the Winter Horde, the man who has the most loyalty to my family, isn't he?"
"Only Lord Reed, the Thenn heir, and Lady Mormont. They are discussing what to do with Torvug's house, thoroughly."
That made sense, now that he thought about it.
One hundred and forty years ago, lord Jonnel One-Eye began the so-called Winter Unification Wars, which were focused on further expanding control of Winterfell throughout the so-called Lands Beyond the Wall (which was currently known as the Far North). It had been a totally violent and difficult event, and seven houses were extinguished during the deed. The destruction from the Northmen to the wildlings' ancient style of life, the disinterest of Aegon III and his successors in the matters, and the internal turbulence within the North, characterized one of the most brutal conflicts in the entire history of Westeros. The conflict had ended sixty years or so ago, when lord Edwyle the Mighty Wolf years defeated a confederation of savage tribes in the Land of Always Winter.
From lord Edwyle, the titles of the Stark were Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the Unified North, and Protector of the Near and Far North', denoting their might over the great region.
However, it had been Lord Rickard who had brought order to the Unified North: he created cities at various points in the Far North and began the process of 'civilizing' the wildings, creating various houses of wild origins by mixing them with northern blood; as if that were not enough, Robb's grandfather created the so-called Rickard Code - a compendium of laws and rules that applied to all the lords and peasants who inhabited the vast region. Furthermore, lord Rickard had also created two lesser Warden titles for defense: the Warden of the Frostfangs, under the hands of House Thenn; and the Warden of the Shivering, under the command of the lords of Barren Oak.
The Far North had helped the North—now called 'Near North' as opposed to the 'Far'—quite a bit in food production, especially because of the fertile land even when there was frigid weather (Robb still couldn't believe that before Lord Edwyle, the ancient savages did not even know agriculture), and the immense resources that were in it, from wood to precious stones. The North, while still undergoing some tribulations in the bleak winter, had become quite an important and noteworthy administrative region in all of Westeros, although most southerners did not recognize that because they never saw the northerners as anything but savages who worshiped the weirwood gods.
Unfortunately, not everything was rosy.
The Far North was still a troubled land: occasional rebellions by tribal chiefs reminiscent of the time when they were free and did not obey Stark laws were not uncommon. They called themselves Free Folk, and they were a nuisance to both trade and regional unity.
Lord Torvug of Barren Oak, a land beyond Hardhouse, had declared himself in full rebellion and executed the southern lovers (as the Free Folk called the pro-Stark factions) who were in his land, proclaiming himself King- Beyond-the-Wall. Lord Thenn had been holding him back until now, harassing him relentlessly with his army.
Lord Eddard, in his duty as Lord Paramount, had intervened: he had taken three thousand six hundred men from the North, joining more on the way, and had called upon all his vassals to stop the traitorous rebel. Much to Robb's happiness, his father had taken him with him… but he had left Jon at home. Robb had vehemently protested but Lord Eddard had been adamant: there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
"You are the heir, and you must do your duty," his brother had growled at him, in that sullen, serious tone when Robb was stubborn. "Father is right. Also, someone has to take care of mother and our siblings."
In that Jon was right. His mother had also told him. However, that did not make him happy. Having to leave his brothers for several months and not seeing his mother either. How would Jon, Sansa, Arya and Brandon be? And her mother, and the child that was waiting in her womb?
He had too many doubts in mind.
But well, moving away from how much he missed his people, Torvug's situation was complex and had to be dealt with wisely.
A lord like Torvug needed to be punished, certainly, but Lord Eddard had to solve that situation without seeming an insult to the vassals of the Far North. The lords of Barren Oak had been loyal to the Starks since their founding and had deep roots that needed to be removed without creating an uproar that would lead to further rebellion or other wild-lords canonizing Torvug as a martyr.
Robb's grandfather, the late lord Rickard, would probably have burned these traitors to the ground and destroyed even the merest hint of dissent, but lord Eddard was different. His father had loosened the weight of the vassals in that region; he wanted a peaceful government.
We would give them a message, they will understand nothing more than force. Tthe voice slipped into his head like a raw whisper, his own voice. I would impale all the soldiers from Hardhome to the Neck, so that people would see what would happen if they rebelled.
Robb felt a sudden hollowness in his stomach at those words. Cold suddenly scaled his bones, as if he were naked in the middle of the forest.
Father is a good man, but he is weak, don't you think so? So does Sirius, so does Remus, and all of them. And those people die. We would rule better than him. We would rule the North to make it the rightful place of purity.
Robb seemed even more flustered.
"Something happens?" Theon snapped him out of his thoughts. His eyes were fixed on Robb, waiting for a clear and direct answer.
Robb blinked, his blue eyes confused for a few seconds, "I..."
Don't tell him anything. He'll doubt us, he'll think we're crazy.
"I think how to solve this situation if I were the Lord," he told Theon. He thought that Greyjoy would realize his lie, he really hoped that, but his friend just nodded.
Good boy, Robb.
"We'll see," Greyjoy calmed him down before looking at the tent, where the strong tattooed body of the Thenn heir and later lord Eddard came from, "it seems that it's time to continue."
—
The Haunted Forest was infested with wildlings, mostly rebel gangs, though at first the Winter Horde—which split into three flanks to cover more ground—saw none as during the march. Sometimes the army encountered the still hot campfires of the rebels, and on one occasion they came upon a settlement of peasants that had been looted and burned. Rebels had also hung the bodies of the leaders.
Robb watched as his father, riding at the head of the legion of men, frowned in sullen expression at the sight of the dead bodies. His Father stood solemnly on the back of his horse, his long hair blowing in the wind. He had a very short beard, sprinkled with gray, which made him look older than his thirty-five years. On this day, like all others since the war began, he had a grim expression and was nothing like the man who sat by the fire at Winterfell at night and spoke softly of the age of heroes.
He was not Father now but Lord Eddard, the lord Paramount of the Near and Far North. And as Lord Paramount of the Unified North, Eddard Stark was upset, pretty upset at such crude and disloyal behavior, and he had the dead buried.
He was a good lord, honorable and just, but he did not tolerate treachery.
But he gives too many chances. Robb's voice again. If he gives people too many chances, they'll challenge you."
That made him feel sick, and upset. No, his father was right. Justice was necessary, and people must have free will. If you subdued them too much, you'd be nothing but a madman like Aerys Targaryen.
The smell of death clouded the high morale of the levy—mostly made up of poorly armed peasant men who came at the behest of their feudal lords, leaving their fields. From the gloomy event, the soldiers stood together throughout the journey.
They found the first horde of wild warriors in a wide river valley, where they were building a base. The ratio of men was three to one in favor of lord Eddard, so it was ordered to charge them therefore. Robb, as he had done before, was one of the first to pounce, behind Theon and the men. Six hundred and fifty-seven men were killed that day.
There was no loot as such.
Lord Eddard ordered that the food would be given to the hungry of the levy and the gold and silver collected would be donated to nearby villages to help the poor.
Almost out of the forest, about to rejoin the other flanks, they ran into a band of rebel warriors returning from the opposite direction. The rebels must had run into nearby pro-Stark villages because they were laden with women and requisitioned weapons.
The encounter was surprising for both parties.
Robb was in the middle of the group, next to Theon, when he saw the rebels cross the river. They blew the warhorn and proceeded to battle, completely disorganized.
Robb spurred the horse forward and drew his sword from it. The wildlings only saw armed men in wolf garb raining down on them.
It was a massacre.
And there was loot.
Robb killed five people by himself. Ser Rodrik, the castellan of the castle, and Greatjon used to say that Jon was faster with a sword but Robb was stronger because he had inherited Tully's stocky body. Ser Rodrik wasn't wrong: Robb might not be the most agile, but it was all about slashing. Just a slice. Always to the space located between chin and neck, with the sword at an angle, as lord Umber had instructed him.
Big loot was taken from the wildlings, and Robb won praise from the men who had seen him. Theon hugged him and told him that he was quite a warrior worthy of Cregan Stark. His father had lectured him about not risking in combat, mentioning the importance of staying away from battles to avoid getting hurt because he was so young. However, lord Eddard also praised his demeanor and swordsmanship, noting that he would make a good swordsman.
"Well done, lad, the weirwoods must praise your name" Greatjon had told him, hours later after the army had gathered again upon leaving the Haunted Forest.
Greatjon Umber, as well as other highborn nobles, referred to him as 'lad' but only because he was young in age and had not yet been blood-bathed in a celebrated battle like most of the noblemen in Winters Horde.
Other than that, Robb was taller than his father and quite strong thanks to the Tully blood that ran through his veins. In addition, he was considered a kind of good luck charm because it was told how, during his birth, his hair turned from reddish to black like the Starks and that his blue eyes turned green... and also that on the same day of his birth, a weirwood tree in the Winterfell godswood cried out in joy as it wept blood.
Robb doubted that had ever happened, but many of his vassals and his common people had taken it for granted. Robb the Black Wolf, they called him. The truth, even if the story was probably a lie, was that Robb had very black hair and green eyes (a very strange trait that neither the Starks nor the Tullys had).
Westerosi were superstitious, and northerners believed in superstitions more than anyone else. Every omen was considered and debated. Each and every northerner in the levy carried a hare's foot or a lightstone. All the acts were celebrated with the observance of certain rites: none took off his left boot before his right or sharpened his sword in his own shadow. Whether they were the Manderlys, believers of the Seven, or the traditional Umbers, no one was safe from superstitions.
Barren Oak was a fenced town, and the people near it were tired. The workshops had been closed for a long time and the walls of their great buildings had signs of great fires caused by the enemies during their raids. Lord Thenn was waiting for the Lord Stark with his men. He feared that he would not be able to hold out with enough food and expressed his dismay clearly.
"The city still does not fall, and more and more surround us. Not only from the city, but to the surroundings" said, grim-faced, Lord Melwas Thenn to Lord Eddard. He was a tall, pale-skinned man with long black hair tied back, looking tired and stressed. He spoke to Lord Paramount in a strange westerosi, a product of the influence of the linguistic mix between the Old Tongue and the Common Tongue.
Eddard liked Melwas.
He was a serious and honest man who could be trusted, and shared Lord Stark's honor in fighting for just causes. He had also been one of Brandon Stark's most loyal men, and was one of the most important lords in the Far North.
The levy, as in all Westeros, was the army of peasants in which every man with good hands and legs had to serve. However, some men had managed to slip away and the wealthier ones had sent servants instead of coming in person.
Regardless, Melwas mustered a force of over a thousand people though he didn't seem very optimistic about it. Most of the levy were unarmored and some had nothing but simple sticks or hoes. They were peasants, many of them hungry because their fields had been burned, and suffering from the horrors of war. Melwas was just as upset and hurt as they were.
"I gave everything I owned to buy my people arms and armor," he told Ned later as they both ate at his house. Robb had been sitting outside the house, but he overheard their conversation. "The ground is bad. The King takes everything from us in taxes, Ned. The South massacres us in everything and takes away our food. They get rich behind our backs."
"He is the king," Lord Eddard had answered, "and things in the North appeal to him, it seems."
"We have fought for the South too long. We have followed you loyally and we will follow you but this must end. And you know. Torvug and his men are starving, looking for an excuse to rebel. This will not be an isolated case, my lord."
"I will send a letter to Lord Arryn," his father said of him, and his tone seemed less than optimistic.
"When Aerys and his cursed spawn offended us, we followed you because it was right, my lord. If you had taken the throne, all the North would have supported you.
"I never had a right to the throne. It would have created a civil war," was his father's evasiveness.
Robb had heard that fifteen years ago, Baratheon and Lord Eddard rode together to seize a throne to avenge the deaths of Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon as well as the crude abduction of Lady Lyanna by Prince Rhaegar. The former lord of Storm's End was said to have been a dashing and honorable young man who at six feet tall towered above all others, and when he donned the armor and great horned helm of his House he became a true giant. He was also said to have the strength of a giant, and his favorite weapon was a spiked iron mace that no one could lift. In those days, it was said, the smell of leather and blood enveloped him like a perfume.
A perfect king he could be. The best candidate for the throne, being the great-grandson of a Targaryen, and therefore having a claim to the Iron Throne.
Now, however, in the North there was talk of the inveterate king who spent lavish tournaments and levied heavy taxes on the Northlands, to the point that the people had to try to survive however they could. Most of the gigantic North's barns emptied quickly and the winters were difficult to support the peasants.
Another lord would have rebelled, but Lord Eddard would not.
He's a coward, the voice mocked, in an amused whisper, we both know it.
His voice had been a problem all day, always noxious and coldly pointing things out to him, harassing him. He wouldn't let him think in the slightest, and Robb was tired of her. He didn't tell anyone, though, for fear of looking crazy. He missed his family though he felt alive...too alive fighting...remembering the dead people, the blood...
His father said that killing a man was always difficult but Robb did not find any shock but an inexplicable pleasure and enjoyment to find himself on the side that removed lifes and not the side that died.
It felt good.
It is in war that we feel alive, and there is no denying it. We are beings who love brawling, the voice in his mind told him. Reluctantly, he admitted that it was a good line...much better than the line the true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him coming from his father.
He decided to go to sleep, after so much work of the day. Tomorrow would be the assault on Barren Oak. Tomorrow it would all end, probably in a bloodbath.
The bloodbath that will make us men, the voice had told him.
Robb, despite everything, agreed.
Catelyn
"Are you all right, mother?" Jon's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, causing her to blink a few times, as if she'd come out of a long doze.
She watched him, noticing how Jon was looking at her from his seat.
Not really. I'm not. I had such a strange dream. A horrifying and violent dream, cruel in the extreme, to the point that she had never slept again. "I am," she lied to him, trying to act as normal as possible, as she ran her hands over her rounded belly, filled with Ned's child.
Jon watched her with those deep grays, weighing whether or not his mother was telling the truth. He was too much like Ned, and that was sometimes too painful for her in those months that she hadn't seen her husband. "Thinking of Father and Robb?" He told her, in that tone that seemed willing to change the subject even though he knew she was lying "I miss them".
"You must be dying to want to be with them, Jon. It's always hard having to stay here, while the beloved ones risks their lives."
"However, we do what is necessary. I would have liked to accompany father and Robb, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, mother. How would grandfather's motto say: family, duty, honor," Jon replied.
His answer was short, and to the point, just as Catelyn expected of him. Robb and Bran were the light of her life, but Jon was her favorite son. Jon Stark, her second child. Always so smart and accurate, and skillful with the sword but more with the mind.
"He would be a perfect maester" Luwin had told her but she had denied that horrific idea instantly.
Jon, a maester?
Never.
She reached out a hand and caressed Jon's face, assessing his features. He and Robb were only less than a months apart in age, but they were different. Jon's eyes were a gray so dark they were almost black (...or violet), always scanning the environment, while Robb's greens were more animated, restless. Also, Jon had hair as black as night, but Robb's was even darker.
They were both Starks.
It's my blood, Catelyn, it's my blood.
But he's not your son. Is he, Ned?
They were silent for a few long seconds, in which no one said anything. They just looked at each other. Finally, Catelyn smiled at him and stroked his hair. She was sure he would grow a beard before sixteen, unlike Robb, who was still hairless.
Tully blood coursed through her veins strongly. She had been born and raised in Riverrun, far south of Winterfell, on the Trident. She had been raised there with very deep foundations on honor and integrity, on honesty. Everything was sweet there because the poison was hidden, people gave smiles because they hated you.
In the North, on the other hand, people were more expressive of their feelings, and it didn't take long for Catelyn to take a liking to such abrupt, unrefined honesty. The North was a land where the strongest survived but also one where honor prevailed. Marrying Ned, the man she grew to love shortly after having him as her husband, she knew right away that everything she learned in the South was not going to serve her as Lady of Winterfell. Her father had already told him, as had her uncle, ser Brynden.
Although she was instructed in the lavish life of the southern nobility, she learned from a young age the qualities that a woman should have as a ruler, and the sacrifices that she should make. By marrying Ned, she stopped being a Tully and becoming a Stark; as a Stark she must have learned to do everything possible for the safety of her family.
When they married, Ned had taken her for a shallow, foolish woman, like Lysa. He believed that she was a woman who believed the tales of chivalry, of princesses and perfect princes, and that she saw northerners as weak and ignorant people.
How surprised her Ned was to discover that his wife was the complete opposite.
I think that, with the little I know you, husband, you would not be able to break your vows. Or so I learned. You set off South to rescue your sister, who was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen, and you come back with a baby who is almost the same age as Robb. If he were your bastard, he would only be a few months old and not nearly a year old like your firstborn because you left too recently for whoever was the 'woman'.
My lady, I don't understand...
So bringing a child into your home who looks just like you, bringing him before your wife who barely knows you. Perhaps I could say that you are so concerned about the child's well-being that you want I start to see him as a threat and yell that he is a bastard, which would run through the seven kingdoms and further classify him as one, protecting him from your friend the king?
She thought of the face of pure horror that her husband had given her at that moment. Something so simple and so obvious to guess...
If he's the last Targaryen in Westeros, then he's in danger, Eddard. And telling him that he's a bastard wouldn't help at all. And if I treated him right, it would only raise suspicions, Ned. It's such a stupid plan that everything could go wrong.
What... do you consider more appropriate, my lady?
Write a letter to the king giving him the good news that you have two sons, Robb and Jon Stark. I will write to my father about my sons. I will raise him as mine and we will teach him affection, we will teach him honor and how to rule.
Why would you do something like that? Why would you risk so much?
"Come on, we've got a rough day," she told her son, and stood up. Her head ached a bit. "We have a kingdom to maintain."
Jon nodded, with a smile.
For the family, my lord husband.
And in case of need, a Stark king.
She stopped thinking about his dream and how the Potter looked too much like Robb in physique, and got ready to
The blood runs through the streets of London, like an overflowing fountain. Spells fly as the cloaked figures curse those fleeing.
There is no Aveda Kedavra.
No.
Such a thing would have been considered pious, loving: just since a bolt of lightning and it was over. Painless.
There are Sectumsempra chopping people up, modified confrigos that burst victimis into festering chunks, and there are even magically commanded weapons that rain down from all directions. Fire falls from the sky, the product of a dragon that flies over the skies, burning those who oppose the glorious advance of the Apostle, whom brings the new path of Magic.
People who oppose —muggle or wizard— against the Apostle, will pay the price. Hands, legs, heads, adorn the pavement. The cries of the dying infuse sad, tremulous melody. It is in the middle of everything, in the middle of the madness, that the Apostle observes the scene.
His calm eyes are scanning the scene, while walks calmly, ignoring the festering chaos caused by his followers. There was a moment when the pain filled him inside, running through his gut, consuming his once pure heart. In the past, he felt pure, toxic hatred towards those who made him bleed, his supposed friends who branded him crazy.
A draugr, a beast summoned by his magic, rides past on a djöfullhundur, a hellhound of darkness, black-edged ax glancing in all directions, seeking who will taste stygian steel next.
The slaughter is not over, there are still many people to break, many to send to hell.
He closes the distance between a boy who watches the action, totally scared and afraid. The infernal monster, at each furious step that his devilish mount takes, shouts, throws praises, raising the weapon, thanking the Apostle, the one who brought the path, for being part of the winning side.
"For the Potters!"
And, then, it happens there.
A bolt of lightning, coming from heaven, illuminates the cobbled street, and crashes against the draugr's helmet that covers his rotten face. The wounded monster writhes in pain, convulsing, shaking his limbs, so that, swinging the weapon carelessly, he rams it into the back of the beast he rides.
The hellhound, wounded by his rider, lets out howls that make the night bristle. It staggers, unsteady, now forward, now back, and falls sideways, crushing the rider's body to the pavement, just a meter from the boy.
The infant finds himself watching the spectacle that occurred, without being able to believe all that.
The Apostle is the same. He is enthralled, in love with the massacre. The smell of blood and burning flesh mixes in the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Finally, he looks at the kid and gives him the most peaceful smile in history. His lips part:
"Flee, little one"
And the boy runs away from the Apostle. He goes into despair, and the Apostle considers that he did something right, the only show of mercy of the night. Then, already ignoring the brat, he looks back to where the draugr lies. There is a long-bearded man standing, in a robe. He is furious, to the point that his magic engulfs him with ferocity.
"How could you, Harry?" his voice is strong, clear through the screams of the night.
"I didn't do it for me," Robb says, though he's horrified by the massacre, "I did it for you. It is all your fault."
"You killed your friends, you betrayed us all. You killed your son! What would your parents say?"
"A sacrifice for the truth," Robb laughs, though he doesn't mean to, "wouldn't you sacrifice something for the greater good, Albus? That's what I did. The good, the good.."
He opens his arms, widely, "I am the good one. I brought the Gospel of Magic to England, Albus."
"You're a monster," Dumbledore raises his wand angrily and points it at the Apostle.
Robb opens his arms, cheerfully, and looks sideways. He watches the fire consuming the city; the people locked in combat, and the corpses lying everywhere. The faces are confused. Friends, poor, muggles, wizards, he doesn't distinguish anything.
Only death, and with death rebirth.
"I am the Apostle, Albus and even if I die here, if those of Light and Dark side kill me, I will return to the world, even if it is another. I am the messiah of Cartimandua, the herald of order that brings chaos and pain"
The old man holds out his wand and casts a spell at him, roaring, "Avada Kedavra!"
Robb doesn't say anything, he doesn't defend himself. He just has his arms outstretched.
—
Robb
He opened his eyes, finding himself in bed in the manor of Lord Melwas of Thenn, and looked out the window at the gloom of night. He was sweating all over his bodybut even so, a strange calmness also invaded him.
What had that dream been?
Our story, a voice whispered in his ears. Robb looked to the sides, into the gloom.
"Who are you?"
You. I am you, you are me. We came to help the North and make it powerful. Robb ran his hands over his sweaty face and realized that his hands were shaking. Suddenly, he thought he was going to pass out. We have a lot to talk about, Robb, you're a man now.
"What's your name?"
We're called Robb Stark. But, if it makes you happy to think of me as someone other than myself…tell me Harry.
And it all started from a dream.
So far the first chapter of this story. Tell me the opinions of him and what do you think. What should I improve? Do you have any questions about this lore? Any suggestion? Feel free to comment! I would like to know what you think of my work.