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.
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The rhythmic thud of hoofbeats reverberated through the chill of the morning air as Lord Stark, flanked by Harry, Jon, Robb, Theon, Bran, and a contingent of Stark household guards, cut a somber procession through the deep woods surrounding Winterfell. The towering trees, their ancient branches intertwined in a gnarled embrace, cast dappled shadows that shifted and wavered like ghosts in the muted light.
Leading the way was a grizzled Stark guardsman, his cloak snapping sharply in the wind as he guided his horse along the well-trodden path, his gaze piercing through the dense foliage. His horse seemed to glide over the uneven ground, an extension of his practiced skill, as he led them towards the clearing where the Night's Watch deserter had been detained. The forest, dense and brooding, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
At the forefront of the party rode Lord Stark, his face a mask of stern resolve etched with the weight of his heavy duties. Beside him, Harry Potter—now known as Hadrian Stark—sat astride his steed, his posture both vigilant and relaxed. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, Ignis, a subtle reminder of his martial prowess, and his wand, carefully concealed in a wrist holster, hinted at the arcane mysteries he kept hidden.
Jon Snow and Robb Stark rode in their wake, their faces set in lines of determination and youthful ardor. Theon Greyjoy followed closely behind, his demeanor as inscrutable as ever, while Bran and the Stark guards maintained a watchful eye on the encircling forest, ever mindful of the potential dangers lurking in the underbrush.
In the six months since his arrival, Harry had woven himself into the fabric of Stark life with a blend of tactical acumen and carefully measured revelations. His integration had been a gradual process, marked by both his contributions to the household's defenses and his discreet disclosures of his true nature.
He had initially won the Stark's favor through his adeptness in the training grounds and his keen insight into strategy, skills that seemed to draw from a well of experiences foreign to their own. His knowledge of tactics and combat had been invaluable, yet he had been careful to reveal only fragments of his true capabilities.
To Lord Stark, Jon, and Robb, he had eventually unveiled more—his mastery of magic and its profound scope. His demonstrations of wandwork and Legilimency had been carefully staged, each act of sorcery woven seamlessly into their daily life. Lord Stark had received these revelations with a measured understanding, recognizing the advantages such abilities could bring in the turbulent times ahead. Jon and Robb, once skeptical, had come to appreciate Harry's unique gifts as crucial assets in their struggles.
Harry's place at Winterfell had been solidified not just through his martial skills but through his unwavering loyalty and shared burdens. He had participated in numerous skirmishes and drills, his contributions blending into the fabric of the Stark family's efforts to protect their realm. Meals shared with Lord Stark had fostered a sense of camaraderie, and conversations that ranged from mundane to grave had deepened his connection to the household.
Yet, despite the semblance of belonging he had cultivated, a sense of displacement lingered within him, a shadow from a world he had left behind. The magic he wielded, a relic of his former life, served as a constant reminder of the world he had once known, even as it allowed him to forge a new path.
As they rode through the Wolfswood, the forest's ancient gloom seemed to reflect the uncertainty that lay ahead. Despite the sense of camaraderie and trust he had built, Harry remained keenly aware of the tenuous nature of his position. The path they traveled was fraught with the duality of past and present, the weight of old memories pressing against the promise of new alliances. And though he rode with the Starks, bound by loyalty and trust, the shadows of his former life were never far from his mind.
—
As the party drew near the site of the deserter's capture, the forest seemed to close in on them, its shadows thickening with the gravity of the impending event. The air was heavy with an eerie stillness, broken only by the crunch of hooves on the underbrush and the faint rustling of leaves.
Lord Stark halted his horse at the edge of the clearing. The ground was marred with the signs of a fierce struggle—trampled foliage, broken branches, and patches of dark, coagulated blood. The scent of iron and death hung in the air, mingling with the fresh, damp earth.
Harry's gaze swept over the scene with a practiced eye, his hand brushing the hilt of Ignis. His wand was hidden but ever-present, a silent reminder of the power he wielded and the world he had left behind.
Jon and Robb dismounted with grim purpose, their expressions taut as they began to inspect the area for any clues that might reveal more about the deserter's actions. Theon and Bran, their faces pale, remained on horseback, their eyes darting nervously at the encroaching shadows.
The Stark guards spread out, their swords half-drawn, ready for any threat that might emerge. They stood as silent sentinels, their presence a grim reminder of the justice that was about to unfold.
Lord Stark approached the bound deserter with an air of grim resolve. Will, kneeling in the dirt, was a broken figure, his wrists bound tightly behind him and his eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. His face, once defiant, now bore the pallor of impending doom.
"What is your name?" Lord Stark's voice was a cold, commanding rumble that cut through the oppressive silence.
Will's gaze, filled with dread, met Lord Stark's with a mix of terror and resignation. "Will, my lord. My name is Will."
Lord Stark's eyes narrowed. "Why did you abandon your post? What did you see beyond the Wall that drove you to betray your vows?"
Will's voice trembled as he spoke, his fear palpable. "My lord, I saw them—the White Walkers. They came in the dead of night, their eyes glowing like frozen stars, and a cold so deep it felt like it would turn the very bones to ice. We were helpless. They slaughtered us with a merciless efficiency, leaving nothing but death and despair."
As Will recounted his tale, Lord Stark's companions exchanged uneasy glances. Skepticism was evident in their eyes, though Lord Stark's face remained a mask of impassive authority.
Harry, compelled by the weight of Will's story, turned to his own method of verification. Using Legilimency, he plunged into the depths of Will's mind. What he encountered was a harrowing torrent of fear and horror—a relentless vision of undead nightmares advancing through the snow. The White Walkers were spectral horrors, their eyes unfeeling, their presence a suffocating blanket of dread. The memories were a relentless barrage of terror, the screams of the dying, and the cold, inescapable darkness of their relentless advance.
Emerging from Will's mind, Harry felt a cold, uncomfortable certainty settle over him. The truth was more horrifying than any tale spun by firelight.
Lord Stark's gaze met Harry's, and a silent understanding passed between them. The threat described by Will was real, and it was a peril that could no longer be ignored.
Turning his attention back to Will, Lord Stark's voice softened slightly, though the resolve remained unshaken. "Do you have any final requests?"
Will's eyes, though resigned, held a flicker of relief. "If it pleases you, my lord," he said, his voice steady despite his fate, "tell my parents I died bravely. That I died fighting the Wildlings."
Lord Stark's face was a mask of stern determination as he drew Ice from its scabbard. The blade, cold and gleaming, seemed to absorb the light, its edge razor-sharp and unyielding. As Ice was unsheathed, the air seemed to grow colder, the reality of the moment sinking in with each passing second.
"Bran," Jon said, his tone firm yet compassionate, "keep your eyes open. Father will know if you look away."
"In the name of Robert of House Baratheon," Lord Stark intoned with unyielding authority, "King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to death."
The words cut through the clearing like a blade, final and irrevocable. With a grim, practiced motion, Lord Stark raised Ice high. The blade gleamed with a deadly brilliance as it descended in a swift, brutal arc. The steel bit into Will's neck with a sickening crunch, the edge slicing through flesh and bone with relentless precision. Blood sprayed in a dark, pulsing torrent, staining the ground in a grotesque display of red.
Will's head fell from his shoulders, rolling to one side with a gruesome finality. The body crumpled, lifeless, into the dirt, the blood pooling around it in a dark, crimson stain.
Bran, his face a mask of pale resolve, forced himself to witness the brutal execution. The sight was harrowing, yet he understood the need to face the grim reality of the world beyond Winterfell's walls.
As Ice completed its grim task, the group began to move away, the clearing now marked by the brutal evidence of justice served. Bran glanced back one last time, the image seared into his memory as a stark reminder of the harsh realities of the North.
As they rode away, Bran turned to Jon, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "Do you believe what Will told us?"
Jon's gaze flickered to Harry, whose silence was a heavy confirmation of the truth. The weight of Harry's unspoken acknowledgment cast a shadow over Jon's previous skepticism.
With a solemn nod, Jon spoke quietly, his voice laced with a newfound gravity. "There's more to this world than we know," he said, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, where uncertainty and danger awaited.
—
As they rode through the dense, shadowy forest, the silence was broken only by the steady clip-clop of hooves and the occasional rustle of leaves. Harry's sharp eyes scanned the gloom, ever watchful for the unexpected. His vigilance paid off when a glint caught his eye. He reined in his horse abruptly, signaling the rest to halt.
"Look," Harry's voice cut through the quiet with authority. "Over there."
The party followed his gaze, their eyes widening as they beheld the macabre sight before them. Among the tangled underbrush lay a monstrous carcass, its size a grim testament to its once-formidable power. The Direwolf's death was gruesome—a stag's antler had impaled it, skewering the beast with grotesque efficiency. The antler protruded from the Direwolf's midsection, its barbed tip slick with blood and gore. The creature's massive frame was a ghastly tableau of death, its once-proud eyes now vacant and lifeless.
"What in the Seven Kingdoms is that?" Robb's voice trembled with a mixture of awe and horror as his hand moved instinctively towards his sword.
Harry approached the carcass cautiously, his gaze hard as he took in the brutality of the beast's end. The Direwolf's body was a bloody canvas, its entrails spilled out in a vile, grotesque mess, the stag's antler having torn through its innards with brutal force.
"What a freak," Theon sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he took in the sight of the fallen creature.
Robb's face darkened at Theon's words. "It's not a freak," he said sharply, his voice heavy with reproach. "It's a Direwolf."
Theon's expression shifted, a fleeting recognition crossing his face as he processed Robb's correction.
Lord Stark's brow furrowed in concern as he examined the fallen beast. "There are no Direwolves south of the Wall," he noted, his voice grave with the weight of the anomaly.
Before he could ponder further, Jon's voice broke the silence, his tone charged with excitement. "Father, look!" he cried, pointing towards a thicket.
Lord Stark's gaze followed, his eyes widening at the sight of five tiny forms nestled among the foliage. The Direwolf cubs, their fur a striking white against the dark underbrush, trembled with an innocence that starkly contrasted the death of their mother.
"There are Direwolf cubs," Jon declared, awe mingling with a trace of sorrow. "Five of them."
Lord Stark's stern demeanor softened slightly, though his eyes were still clouded with a mix of surprise and concern. The discovery of the cubs, despite their mother's violent end, offered a glimmer of hope.
As the group approached the thicket, tension crackled in the air. Theon's voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the growing unease. "Hand them over," he ordered, his hand drifting toward his knife in a gesture of barely restrained hostility.
Before Jon could respond, Bran's voice rang out, firm and commanding. "Stop!" he shouted, his tone brooking no argument.
Theon's defiance flared, his voice laced with scorn. "I take orders from Lord Stark, not his Bastard," he retorted, his disdain palpable.
Jon's jaw tightened at Theon's insult, his eyes meeting Theon's with unwavering resolve. Harry's gaze darkened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at the derogatory term used against Jon. He fixed Theon with a steely stare, a silent challenge that spoke volumes.
Theon, feeling the weight of Harry's unspoken warning and recalling past encounters where his overreach had been met with swift retribution, hesitated. Reluctantly, he stepped back, his earlier bravado ebbing under Harry's unwavering gaze.
As the tension subsided, Bran's plea cut through the gloom. "Please, Father," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation. "We can't leave them here to die."
Lord Stark's expression softened slightly as he regarded Bran. "Direwolves are not pets, Bran," he said firmly, yet with a trace of gentleness. "They belong in the wild, where they can fend for themselves."
Bran's shoulders sagged with disappointment, the weight of the decision heavy upon him. The thought of abandoning the helpless creatures was a painful burden.
Jon's voice cut through the tension with a note of urgency. "Lord Stark," he said, his tone imbued with resolve. "There are five pups—three male, two female."
Lord Stark's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What of it?" he asked, his tone skeptical.
Jon continued, unwavering. "You have five trueborn children—three sons and two daughters. The Direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."
The gravity of Jon's words hung in the air like a stormcloud. Bran's eyes glistened with pride for his brother, admiration evident in his gaze.
Lord Stark's gaze softened as he looked at Jon. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.
Jon's response was clear and resolute. "The Direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," he said firmly. "I am no Stark, Father."
An unspoken understanding passed between them, Jon's humility and dedication a testament to his loyalty. His omission from the count spoke volumes of his selflessness and honor.
Lord Stark's voice was firm as he addressed his children. "You'll train them yourselves, you'll feed them yourselves, and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves."
The authority in his words underscored the responsibility that now lay before them. Each Stark child felt the weight of the command, their resolve hardening as they prepared to rise to the challenge.
Bran's gaze lingered on the Direwolf cubs with a determined resolve. He vowed silently to protect and nurture them.
Robb's keen eyes scanned the surrounding area until they fell upon a small, frail figure near the stream. "There," he said, concern evident in his voice. "Another one."
Theon's eyes widened in apprehension as he spotted the sickly albino cub, its fragile form barely moving. "Looks like he's in bad shape," he remarked, his tone laced with worry.
Bran's heart ached as he turned his attention to the weak creature. "We have to help him," he said urgently.
Robb, with a grim expression, carefully cradled the frail cub and approached Jon. Without a word, he placed the albino cub into Jon's arms, a gesture of trust and responsibility.
"It's yours, Jon," Robb said, his voice steady and firm.
Jon's eyes widened with gratitude as he accepted the cub, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. He understood the weight of Robb's gesture, the bond of brotherhood forged in the moment.
Theon couldn't resist a mocking jibe. "Looks like you got the runt of the litter, Jon," he said with a smirk.
Jon's jaw tightened at Theon's comment, but he remained focused on the frail cub. Harry's hand moved with swift precision, delivering a sharp smack to Theon's head. The impact resonated with a sharp thud, startling Theon and shifting his smug expression to one of indignation.
Ignoring Theon's protests, Harry turned to Jon with a softened gaze. "What will you name him, Jon?" he asked gently.
Jon's eyes met Harry's before returning to the cub. The albino's red eyes seemed to reflect a deeper understanding.
"Ghost," Jon said firmly. "I'll name him Ghost."
The name settled over the clearing like a solemn vow, a testament to the cub's spectral appearance and the silent bond that would grow between them. Jon held Ghost close, the small creature a symbol of House Stark's enduring strength and unity.
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