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Dawn broke over Winterfell as the commonfolk began their daily tasks and the smell of baking permeated the lower reaches of the castle. Horses whickered in their warm stables, and dogs barked as they played in the wide castle grounds. Lord Eddard Stark, oft called Ned by his dearest friends and wife (and mayhaps his enemies) broke his slumber. Today was the day he executed the man of the Night's Watch that had run from the Wall- William. It was not often that Lord Stark was forced to mete out this sort of justice, for the North held a deep respect for their Lord, and crime was the furthest from most folk's minds.
Lord Stark dressed in silence, leaving his wife to sleep the sleep of the unburdened. He wrapped his long cloak lined with the finest wolf fur in the North, a gift from his vassal House Karstark, around his shoulders and reached for Ice. The greatsword passed from father to son since the founding of House Stark, and was created in the great foundries of Valyria before the Doom. Lord Stark froze in his picking up his greatsword, in utter bewilderment as the Valyrian steel began to glow as it had never before.
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The militarist House of Tarly, of which the Lord of Horn Hill stood as Lord, was quiet on this dawn. Silence reigned in the great hall that sat at the castle's heart, until it was disturbed but briefly by the turning of a page of a great tome. Samwell Tarly, a round boy of seventeen- in another life he would be considered a man, but to his father's eyes, the eldest of Lord Randyll Tarly was but a boy. As the sun rose this dawn, Samwell's eyes were blinded in the dim hall by the suddenly incandescent greatsword Heartsbane upon the wall. The bow-shaped hilt and fletched pommel could barely be made out before the young lordling had to avert his eyes. Samwell knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that change was coming to Westeros, if such a thing was happening now.
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In King's Landing, a dagger of exotic design and questionable history glowed in its wrappings of heavy leather and cloth. Not one person noticed it, as the dagger changed many hands in the time the sun took to rise. All across Westeros, in Essos, and even in the Summer Isles, bright points of light welcomed the new day, the new dawn for this world so different to our heroes' own. Many eyes grew in wonder at such a thing, some running to the godswood to pray, others to the sept. Others, those studying the techniques of reworking such legendary steel, the maesters of Oldtown and even the Warlocks of Qarth felt something unlike they ever had before. Change was coming. And with it, winter.
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Albus Dumbledore sat back in his comfortable, overstuffed armchair in his office. His face was wracked with misery, and his shoulders burdened with sorrow and sobs. He blamed himself, if only he hadn't treated the boy as a liability, but as his friend, things would not have happened this way! To lose such noble and innocent souls so young served to remind the old man of the tribulations of the last Blood War with Voldemort. One ended by a prophecy- or rather, one man's undeniable obsession with one. With Neville and Harry both beyond the Veil- and no telling when or if they would return- there was no such thing as the prophecy anymore. His back straightened, and Albus Dumbledore, Leader of the Light, wiped his runny nose and pink and yellow spotted handkerchief. Harry would be happy wherever the Gateway took him. You see, he Veil of Death was no such thing. An ancient transportation device, left behind by an ancient civilisation. Like all intensely magical devices left alone for millennia, it gained a sense of humour. The Seven would find happiness in this new world, but boy, would they have to work for it! The old man pulled himself together, and wandered over to his rather large collection of duelling tomes and grimoires. If he was going to sort out his mess, he'd need to brush up on his duelling. Maybe Minerva, Severus and Filius would aid him in his endeavours…
The thing is, at that moment, Magic herself gave a little chuckle. Harry's ability, and to a lesser extent, Neville's too, to inspire was what would win the coming Second Blood War for the Light, and bring an end to the comings of Dark Lords for centuries to their old world. That chuckle would have even further-reaching comments than her already light-hearted meddlings…
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A/N: OK so, this second chapter is again, as ever, unbetaed, written at like 4am, after a long shift and a stressful week of hospital visits. Luckily, no more hospital visits for the foreseeable future :) Not much happening, but soon build-up will end and the fun can begin... hehehehHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH