Disclaimer: This fanfiction is a creative work of fiction crafted by a fan of both the Harry Potter and Game of Thrones series and is not officially sanctioned by J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, HBO, or any related parties. All characters, events, and settings from both universes are utilized in a transformative manner and should be interpreted as such. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or deceased, or real-world events are coincidental. The views and interpretations presented in this fanfiction are the sole responsibility of the author(s) and do not necessarily align with the established canons of either Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. Reader discretion is advised as this fanfiction may explore crossover themes, character interactions, and storylines not found in the original works.
—
"Father!"
Ned was jolted out of his thoughts by Sansa and Arya, who were standing before him wearing matching dresses. It was an unexpected sight, considering Arya's usual aversion to such attire. Despite her discomfort, Arya seemed eager to show off her dress, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Ned.
"How do we look, father?" Sansa asked.
Smiling warmly at his daughters, Ned admired their attire. "You both look absolutely lovely," he replied, his pride evident in his voice. "Sansa, Arya, your individuality shines through, even in matching dresses. Your effort is truly appreciated."
He reached out to adjust Sansa's dress and ruffled Arya's hair affectionately. "Thank you for showing them to me. You both honor our family with your grace and spirit." Ned's heart swelled with love and gratitude for his daughters, each unique and cherished in their own way.
As the day of arrival for the royal party drew near, Ned felt the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. With not one, but two Targaryens hidden under his roof, the stakes were higher than ever. Every step he took, every decision he made, felt like walking on a tightrope stretched over a chasm of uncertainty.
His mind buzzed with thoughts of how to ensure the safety of his family and guests while keeping the Jon and Dany's true identities hidden from prying eyes. He knew that any misstep could have dire consequences, not just for Winterfell, but for all of Westeros.
Despite the calm facade he presented to the outside world, inside, Ned's mind churned with worry and apprehension. He could only hope that his preparations would be enough to safeguard those he held dear and navigate the treacherous political waters that lay ahead.
Despite his confidence in Harry's abilities, Ned couldn't shake the discomfort of relying on magic to fulfill his promise to his sister Lyanna. As a man known for his unwavering honor, the idea of deception weighed heavily on his conscience. Yet, he knew that in the game of thrones, sometimes one must use every tool at their disposal to protect those they love.
With a heavy heart, Ned steeled himself for the challenges ahead, reminding himself of the solemn vow he had made to Lyanna all those years ago. He would do whatever it took to keep his family safe and uphold his sister's memory, even if it meant venturing into the murky waters of secrecy and subterfuge.
Arya complained, tugging on the collar of her dress, a garment from the Riverlands that Lady Catelyn had brought up from Riverrun just for her - matching Sansa's dress stitch for stitch except smaller. "Gods, this thing is itchy."
"Just put up with it, Arya," Sansa groaned, shaking her head.
Arya glared. "Go be graceful and perfect somewhere else, Princess Sansa," she retorted, her tone almost a sneer.
As Jon listened from the side, he was almost grateful, for they were much sweeter to each other than before Harry and Dany came to Winterfell. Sansa would've called her Horseface, and Arya would've then pushed her into the mud. Now it was far more endurable banter and bickering.
"Maybe if I have Nymeria rip it up a bit…"
"Don't do that, Arya," Dany remarked, shaking her head as Harry tried so very hard not to chuckle.
"And why not? I can't stand this just for some stupid King and stupid Prince."
Those were words that Jon thought were far too tame to describe Robert Baratheon, the man that laughed in glee at the butchered bodies of his brother and sister, and his father's first wife Elia. However Sansa's reply made him both angry and mournful at the same time.
"Don't say that about Prince Joffrey! I've heard that he is the dreamiest young man, all golden like a lion." She sighed, while Dany and Jon locked eyes. "I hope father betroths us, it's all I've ever wanted."
However, it was Harry who spoke first. "Sansa, you shouldn't put your trust in appearances," he cautioned"There's more to a person than meets the eye, especially when it comes to the royal family."
Dany nodded in agreement, her expression reflecting Jon and Harry's concern.
Sansa once again defends Joffrey, her eyes shining with adoration. "But he's a prince, Harry," she insisted, her voice filled with conviction. "He's going to be king one day. I've dreamed of being a queen since I was a little girl." Her words carried a sense of longing and naivety, causing Jon, Harry and Dany to exchange a knowing glance.
Harry could sense the weight of the impending confrontation bearing down on Jon and Dany. Their shared history, their shared loss, all converging into this moment of reckoning. Despite the turmoil within them, they stood tall and resolute, prepared to face the man responsible for their family's tragedy. As they braced themselves for what lay ahead, Harry offered a silent word of support, standing by their side as they prepared to confront their past and forge a path forward together.
Harry grabbed Dany's hand and squeezed it. She said nothing, only inched her way closer to him. Melding to his side. "Je t'aime," she murmured, finally looking at him. Biting her lip.
"Je t'aime aussi," he whispered back. "We'll be alright."
In that tender moment, as they exchanged words of love in their shared language, Harry and Dany found comfort in each other's presence. Their silent communication spoke volumes, reinforcing their bond and determination to face whatever trials awaited them. With a simple gesture of holding hands and leaning into each other, they drew strength from their connection, ready to confront the challenges ahead with unwavering resolve and love.
The gates began to open as hornblows sounded, and then Ned's voice rang out.
"All hail the King!"
With tight lips and hate in their hearts, Harry, Jon, and Dany put on their mummer's farce and slowly fell to one knee just as the first knights of the Stag King's party entered Winterfell.
—
King Robert of House Baratheon, First of his Name, was known as the Demon of the Trident. He was the mighty vanquisher of the Targaryen Dynasty, victor of two dozen tourneys, and the man who had crossed the sea to take the war started by the Greyjoys to Pyke itself, slaughtering scores of Ironborn with his Valyrian steel warhammer, Stormbreaker. This same warhammer had faced Rhaegar Targaryen in the shallows of the Ruby Ford of the Trident.
According to the stories and songs, they fought for two hours with boundless strength and furor. Robert fought relentlessly for his dishonored and violated betrothed, Lyanna Stark, carrying him against the natural skill of the Last Dragon. Steel crashed against steel until finally, Rhaegar's blows slackened, and Robert drove Stormbreaker through Rhaegar's royal armor, shattering the rubies that made up the Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil. The glittering stones settled along the riverbed, providing the ford its name.
Rhaegar fell, and Robert emerged victorious. House Baratheon usurped the Iron Throne, leaving Dany and Jon as orphans, forced to live either as people they weren't or in the shadow of the loss and trauma they suffered.
Dany had never borne witness to Robert Baratheon. Her brother Viserys only ever spoke of him as the Usurper, but the stories and rumors of the war had trickled down to her during her stay in Winterfell.
All the stories spoke of the Demon of the Trident, and Jon's accounts were quite similar. She imagined a haughty, powerful brute descending from a massive steed like the manifestation of the Warrior, ready to crack heads as he did in the wars of the past. He had ripped their family off the throne forged by their ancestors and become King.
The sight before them was unexpected. Instead of the imposing figure they had imagined, a dirty, fat man with a beard, just as grey as it was black, struggled to dismount from his horse. His belly bulged, and his thick arms were more meaty than muscular. He walked with a slight waddle in his gait. Far from powerful and fierce, this man's eyes were ruddy and wary.
This was the Demon of the Trident? Looks like he traded his warhammer for a meat pie!
Beside her, Jon's voice, barely a whisper but dripping with disbelief, perfectly echoed her own incredulity. "That? My father was defeated by that?" Not known for his eloquence, her nephew's blunt observation packed a mighty punch.
Harry couldn't help but feel a surge of indignation at the sight of King Robert, contrasting sharply with the image of Rhaegar he had formed from the stories and legends. It seemed inconceivable that such a formidable opponent could have been brought down by someone like Robert. The reality of the situation was disappointing, to say the least.
Harry leaned in close to Dany, his voice barely above a whisper. "So that's the man who beat Rhaegar," he muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like he's spent more time at the feast table than the training yard."
Dany stifled a chuckle, nodding in agreement with Harry's observation. "Seems like the stories exaggerated his prowess," she replied quietly, glancing back at the king as he lumbered forward, oblivious to the whispers and glances exchanged in his wake.
Robert Baratheon, with his face flushed from drink and scowling, approached Lord Stark.
"Rise," he commanded, his voice gruff and commanding.
Lord Stark stood up, meeting his old friend's gaze. They were of the same height, but the tension between them was palpable.
After a moment of silence, Robert snorted. "Ned... you've grown fat," he remarked, a hint of mockery in his tone.
Almost immediately, the Usurper erupted into laughter, his belly shaking with mirth. Despite the tension, Lord Stark couldn't help but crack a smile in response to his friend's boisterous laughter.
Harry couldn't help but find it ironic that Robert Baratheon would call someone fat, considering he was roughly the size of his Uncle Dursley.
"It's damned good to see you, Ned!" The two embraced as the King clapped his back. "What's it been, ten fuckin' years?!"
Harry couldn't help but observe that the king seemed to have the eloquence of a sailor.
"Something along those lines, your Grace," Lord Stark replied. He broke the embrace, but the King still had his meaty arm wrapped around his shoulder. "Shall I introduce my family?"
"Aye, I've never even seen your kids. Fuck." He laughed. "Kids, Ned! How did we get so old?!"
King Robert passed by Robb. "Ah, the proud heir to your House. Mayhaps you and my son will be just as much friends as Ned and I!"
Behind King Robert, there was the Crown Prince, a short, blonde boy with dazzling green eyes. His features hinted at potential handsomeness, but there was an unmistakable air of arrogance about him. The way he carried himself, with a proud and confident swagger, suggested a sense of entitlement that seemed to come from being born into royalty.
Their shared understanding was palpable as Harry murmured to Dany, "He'll be trouble." Despite the weight of the situation, Dany couldn't help but smile in response. It was as if their minds were connected, a silent bond that only strengthened their connection.
As he walked along the line of Stark children, Robert left comments for each, his gaze lingering on Arya especially. He remarked how she looked much like her late aunt, Lyanna.
Robert Baratheon spotted Harry and Dany, and with a boisterous laugh, he turned to Ned. "Ned, my old friend, have you been keeping secrets from me? Another bastard?"
"This is Lord Hadrian Peverell and his lady wife Fleur Peverell," Ned introduced, gesturing towards Harry and Dany. "They hail from the distant lands of Avalon to the west of Westeros. They left their land after a devastating war destroyed it, but were shipwrecked and ended up seeking refuge here in Winterfell."
The royal party's reaction varied. Some expressed sympathy for the couple's plight, while others seemed skeptical. Robert Baratheon, in particular, looked intrigued. Overall, there was an air of curiosity and uncertainty surrounding Harry and Dany's presence.
Cersei Lannister's envy was palpable as she cast her gaze upon Dany. Green with jealousy, she couldn't help but feel threatened by Dany's beauty, which seemed to outshine even her own renowned attractiveness. As the most beautiful woman in Westeros, Cersei's pride was wounded by the presence of someone who could potentially rival her in allure and charm.
Cersei approached Lady Stark, offering her greetings, which was met with a terse response from Lady Stark, who clearly had little patience for pleasantries with the queen. Despite Cersei's attempt at civility, Lady Stark's demeanor remained cold and distant, indicating her lack of warmth towards the Lannister queen.
"Ned, I would like to visit the crypts," he announced with determination. "I wish to see her."
The King's announcement fell heavily upon the gathering, his words carrying a weight that silenced any other conversation. His desire to visit the crypts, to pay homage to Lyanna Stark, commanded the attention of all present. It was a solemn request.
"We've only just arrived," Cersei remarked, her tone coated with a thin layer of politeness that barely concealed her inner frustration. "Surely, paying respects to the dead can wait for a more opportune moment?"
"Quiet, woman!" Robert snapped, displaying his disregard for his wife's input. "It will be now! Ned, lead the way." Ned nodded in acknowledgment, and the King followed closely behind him, implicitly dismissing the rest of the household without uttering a word.
"Harry! Fleur!" Sansa's voice rang out, drawing their attention.
Though heartened by Sansa's call, Dany's blood ran cold when she saw who was with her. "Lady Stark... My Prince," she greeted with a curtsey, while Harry bowed respectfully.
Crown Prince Joffrey, his haughty features amplified by proximity, regarded Harry and Fleur with disinterest. "Is this a brother I haven't met, Lady Sansa?" he inquired.
Sansa replies, "No, Your Grace. This is Hadrian Peverell and his wife, Fleur. They are guests of our father, Lord Stark."
Joffrey's interest was piqued. "Ah, the refugee noblemen." he remarked graciously, eliciting a giggle from Sansa. Dany felt a wave of nausea at his words. "I am tired, so will you show me to my chambers, my Lady?" he asked Sansa, before turning to Dany. "As for you, it was a pleasure... especially with you, Lady Fleur." His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes held a different story.
Dany felt as if she was being molested by his very gaze.
Sansa, oblivious to the underlying tone, nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Grace. Right this way." She turned to lead Joffrey away, leaving Dany and Harry behind. Dany could feel the weight of Joffrey's gaze lingering on her, sending shivers down her spine.
—-
As Ser Barristan Selmy observed Jon Snow and Lady Peverell, he couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu. It was as if he were glimpsing echoes of the past, reminders of the Targaryen dynasty that had once ruled the Seven Kingdoms.
In Jon Snow, he saw the noble bearing and quiet strength that had characterized Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince he had sworn to protect. Despite being a bastard, there was an air of royalty about him, a presence that commanded respect and admiration.
And in Lady Peverell, he saw traces of Queen Rhaella Targaryen, the wife of King Aerys II and mother of Rhaegar. Though her eyes and hair were different, there was something about her that evoked the grace and dignity of the late queen.
As Ser Barristan pondered these similarities, he couldn't help but wonder what role Jon Snow and Lady Peverell would play in the unfolding events of Westeros.
—-
Ser Jaime Lannister, known as the Kingslayer and famed as the greatest swordsman in Westeros, couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease as he observed Lord Harry Peverell. Clad in his red and gold armor, Harry exuded an aura of confidence and poise that belied his youthful appearance.
Despite his age, there was something about Harry's demeanor that spoke of experience beyond his years. The way he held himself, the steely determination in his eyes, all hinted at a seasoned warrior rather than a mere young lord.
As Jaime continued to watch Harry, a sense of curiosity mingled with his apprehension. Who was this enigmatic figure, and what secrets lay behind his calm facade? Jaime couldn't shake the feeling that Lord Harry Peverell held more than met the eye, and he resolved to keep a close eye on him as the events at Winterfell unfolded.
Tyrion Lannister, known for his sharp wit and keen observations, joined his brother Jaime's side at that moment. Having arrived a day early to indulge in the pleasures of Wintertown's brothels, Tyrion couldn't help but comment on the rumors he had heard about Hadrian Peverell.
"I've heard quite a bit about this Hadrian Peverell from the smallfolk," Tyrion remarked, a mischievous glint in his eye. "They seem to regard him as the second coming of Ser Arthur Dayne himself."
Jaime arched an eyebrow at his brother's words, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Is that so?" he replied, casting a sidelong glance at Lord Harry Peverell. "Well, it seems our young lord has quite the reputation. I suppose we'll have to see if he lives up to it."
As the royal party settles into Winterfell, the air is thick with tension and anticipation. Ned Stark, burdened by secrets and obligations, navigates the intricate dance of courtly politics with a sense of foreboding. Meanwhile, Harry and Dany, who is disguised as Fleur Peverell, tread cautiously, mindful of the eyes that watch their every move. With the arrival of the King and his retinue, Winterfell had become a stage for intrigue and ambition, where hidden agendas simmer beneath the surface. As dusk falls over the ancient stronghold, the shadows lengthen, casting a veil of uncertainty over the fate of all who dwell within its walls.
—
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