Hogwarts, Earth
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was a scene of utter devastation. The enchanted ceiling, once a beautiful reflection of the night sky, was now marred by storm clouds, lightning flashing in furious streaks across the dark expanse. Shattered tables and benches were scattered across the floor, mingling with the rubble from the crumbling walls and the bodies of those who had fallen in the desperate struggle. Spells flashed in every direction—red, green, blue—each one more lethal than the last.
In the center of this chaos stood Harry Potter, his breath ragged, his body aching from the countless blows he had endured. His clothes were torn and bloodied, his glasses askew, but his green eyes burned with a fierce determination. He tightened his grip on his wand, the familiar weight in his hand a small comfort in the midst of the madness.
Across from him, separated by only a few yards of bloodstained stone, was Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord's serpentine features twisted in a mixture of fury and disdain, his red eyes glowing with a malevolent light. Around them, the battle continued to rage, but to Harry, it felt as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only him and his mortal enemy locked in a deadly standoff.
"Is this it, Tom?" Harry called out, his voice carrying over the din of battle. He forced a smirk, though his heart pounded in his chest. "All these years, all that planning, and here we are, just you and me. A bit underwhelming, don't you think?"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his lip curling in a sneer. "You dare mock me, Potter?" His voice was a cold hiss, filled with the promise of death.
"Why not?" Harry replied, shrugging as though they were discussing the weather. "I mean, after everything you've put me through, I think I've earned the right to be a little cheeky, don't you? Or is that against some Dark Lord code of conduct?"
For a moment, Voldemort said nothing, and the tension between them grew thicker, almost suffocating. The air around them seemed to crackle with dark energy, and Harry could feel the weight of the prophecy pressing down on him, the burden of his destiny like a vice around his chest. This was it—the final confrontation. The end of everything.
But even as the reality of the situation bore down on him, Harry couldn't help but feel a strange, reckless defiance bubbling up inside him. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the fear, or maybe it was just who he was, but he wasn't about to go down without a fight. Not without having the last word.
"I've been thinking," Harry continued, his tone casual, almost conversational, "if you'd just taken a holiday or, I don't know, tried knitting or something instead of this whole murder and mayhem gig, you could've saved us all a lot of trouble."
Voldemort's sneer deepened, his grip on his wand tightening. "You're a fool, Potter. Do you think your insolence will save you now? Do you think your pathetic attempts at humor can deflect what is to come?"
Harry's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look of cold resolve. "No, Tom. I don't think anything can save me now. But it's not about me, is it? It's about everyone else. And I'm not going to let you win. Not now, not ever."
Voldemort's face contorted with rage, and he raised his wand, the tip glowing with an ominous green light. "Then die, Potter," he spat. "Die knowing that you failed, that all your sacrifices were for nothing!"
Harry felt his heart skip a beat, but he held his ground, his own wand raised, his mind racing. This was it. The endgame. He had to be faster, smarter—he had to end this, once and for all.
"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted, his voice ringing out with all the force he could muster.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort's curse echoed in the Great Hall like a death knell.
The two spells collided in midair, the golden thread of light connecting their wands once more. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath. The force of their magic reverberated through the hall, the light growing brighter, more intense, as the two wills clashed in a final, desperate struggle.
Harry could feel the strain, the power of Voldemort's curse pushing against his own spell. His hand trembled, every muscle in his body screaming with the effort, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to give in. He had to hold on, had to push back, had to—
And then, without warning, the connection broke.
The Killing Curse, that sickly green light, surged forward with unstoppable force, breaking through Harry's defense like a tidal wave. He had no time to react, no time to even register what was happening before the curse struck him squarely in the chest.
Pain. It was the first thing he felt—an all-encompassing, searing pain that shot through his body like a bolt of lightning. But it was over in an instant, replaced by a strange, numbing cold. The world around him blurred, the colors fading, the sounds of battle growing distant, as if he were being pulled away, submerged in deep, dark water.
Harry's thoughts raced, fragments of memories flashing before his eyes. His parents, standing in front of him as Voldemort raised his wand all those years ago. Sirius, falling through the Veil, his last words a cry of Harry's name. Dumbledore, calm and wise, telling him that it was love that made him strong. Ron and Hermione, their faces filled with determination as they fought by his side. Ginny, her eyes filled with love and fear as they shared their last kiss.
This was it, then. The end of the road. And yet, despite everything, Harry felt a strange sense of peace. He had done his best. He had fought with everything he had, and now… now it was over.
As he fell, his body crumpling to the ground, Harry's last conscious thought was a fleeting hope—that maybe, just maybe, his death would mean something, that it would make a difference.
The ceiling of the Great Hall filled his vision one last time, the stormy sky beyond a mirror of the turmoil within him. And then, the darkness closed in, the world slipping away, leaving only silence.
Harry Potter was dead.
Or so it seemed.
The Void, ?
Darkness enveloped him, a void so complete that it swallowed all sensation, all thought. For a moment, there was nothing—no pain, no fear, no sound. Just an infinite, comforting blackness that seemed to stretch on forever. Harry floated in that emptiness, suspended between worlds, and for a brief, blissful instant, he felt at peace.
But then, slowly, he became aware of a light in the distance. It was faint at first, a small pinprick in the vast darkness, but it grew steadily brighter, drawing him towards it. The light was warm, inviting, and as Harry drifted closer, he felt a strange sense of familiarity, like he had been here before.
Before he could fully grasp what was happening, the darkness faded entirely, replaced by a soft, glowing light. Harry blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness, and found himself standing in a place he recognized all too well: King's Cross Station.
The station was empty, eerily silent, with no sign of the usual bustle of travelers. The vast, arched ceiling stretched above him, the ironwork gleaming in the soft light. The platform beneath his feet was clean and pristine, and the air around him was still and calm. It was just as he remembered it from his previous brush with death, but there was something different this time—something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He glanced around, half-expecting to see Dumbledore appear from the mist, just as he had before, but the station remained empty. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, confusion and unease mingling with the remnants of the peace he had felt in the darkness.
"Not quite what you expected, is it?"
Harry whipped around, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand—except, he realized with a start, that it wasn't there. His hand was empty, and for the first time, he noticed that he was no longer wearing his battle-worn clothes. Instead, he was dressed in simple, clean robes, the kind he might have worn at Hogwarts.
Standing a few feet away from him was a figure shrouded in mist, their features obscured by the glow that surrounded them. Harry squinted, trying to make out who it was, but the figure remained indistinct, almost as if they were made of the mist itself.
"Who are you?" Harry asked, his voice echoing slightly in the vast emptiness.
The figure chuckled softly, a sound that was neither comforting nor menacing, but somewhere in between. "Does it matter? I'm not here to discuss who I am, but rather who you are—or who you could be."
Harry frowned, stepping closer, trying to get a better look at the figure, but the mist seemed to shift with him, always keeping the figure just out of reach. "What are you talking about?"
The figure seemed to tilt their head, considering him. "You've been given a rare opportunity, Harry. A choice. You can move on, if that's what you desire. Beyond this place lies peace, a world where you can finally rest, free from the burdens of life."
Harry felt a pang in his chest at the thought. The idea of rest was so tempting—no more battles, no more loss, no more pain. Just peace. He could see them again, his parents, Sirius, all the people he had lost. He could finally be free.
But the figure wasn't finished. "Or," they continued, their voice growing more intense, "you can choose a different path. A path that takes you to another world, where your presence could alter the course of history, where you might find a new purpose."
Harry hesitated, his mind racing. "Another world?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why me? Haven't I done enough?"
The figure's voice softened, almost as if they were smiling. "You have, Harry. You've done more than most ever could. But this isn't about what you've done; it's about what you could do. There is a world out there—a world where ice and fire collide, where magic lies dormant in the blood of kings, waiting to be awakened. You have the power to change things there, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, just as you have done here."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. A world of ice and fire. Magic waiting to be awakened. The words stirred something deep within him, a spark of curiosity, of duty, that he couldn't quite ignore. But the doubt lingered, weighing on him.
"What if I fail?" Harry asked, his voice raw with uncertainty. "What if I make things worse?"
The figure's response was immediate, firm. "What if you succeed? What if, by your very presence, you save lives that would otherwise be lost? What if you find a new family, a new purpose? You've always had the strength to face the unknown, Harry. That's what makes you who you are."
Harry closed his eyes, his mind swirling with the possibilities. The thought of moving on, of finding peace, was so tempting. But the idea of starting over, of finding a new purpose in a new world—one that needed him—was equally compelling. His heart ached with the weight of the decision.
He opened his eyes, the figure's words echoing in his mind, and let out a small, wry laugh. "You're really good at this, you know? I don't suppose you moonlight as a career counselor for dead wizards?"
The figure seemed to chuckle softly, a sound like leaves rustling in the wind. "Not exactly, Harry. But I know potential when I see it."
Harry's smile faded into something more serious as he looked into the mist, his resolve hardening. He'd always been the one to run towards the danger, to face the unknown head-on. It was who he was, who he had always been.
"I'll go," Harry said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I'll take the other path."
The figure inclined their head, almost in approval. "Very well. Know that this choice is final. Once you step through, there is no turning back."
Harry nodded, feeling a strange mixture of fear and resolve. He had made his choice, and whatever lay ahead, he would face it head-on, just as he always had.
The figure stepped back, and the light around them brightened, growing so intense that Harry had to shield his eyes. The station began to dissolve around him, the mist swirling and pulling him away from the platform, from the light, from everything he had known.
As the last remnants of King's Cross faded into the light, Harry felt himself being drawn into the void once more. The sensation was different this time, more intense, as though he were being pulled apart and put back together at the same time. The light grew blinding, overwhelming, until it was all he could see, all he could feel.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the light vanished, leaving Harry in darkness once more.
But this time, the darkness wasn't empty. It was filled with the distant sound of a woman's voice, a voice that was filled with pain and desperation. Harry tried to reach out, to find the source of the voice, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. He was so tired, so very tired.
The voice grew louder, more frantic, and Harry felt a surge of something—was it panic?—rush through him. He had to do something, but what? He didn't know where he was, didn't know what was happening.
And then, through the haze, a new sensation emerged: the feeling of warmth, of soft blankets, of being held. The voice was closer now, clearer, and Harry realized it wasn't just one voice—it was two. One was faint, weak, barely audible. The other was strong, firm, but tinged with grief.
"Promise me, Ned… promise me you'll protect them."
Harry's consciousness wavered, the words barely registering, but he clung to them, trying to understand. Who was Ned? Who was speaking? Why did they sound so familiar?
The last thing Harry heard before everything went dark again was the sound of a man's voice, solemn and heavy with unspoken vows.
"I promise, Lyanna. I promise."
And with that, Harry Potter was reborn into a world of ice and fire.
Tower of Joy, Westeros
The chill of dawn had barely lifted when Eddard Stark reached the Tower of Joy. The once-proud stone structure loomed over the barren, sun-bleached landscape, its crumbling walls and shattered windows casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. The tower, a relic of a more peaceful time, now stood as a grim monument to the bloodshed that had taken place here. The blood of his fallen friends stained the ground at its base, a stark reminder of the price paid to reach this place. Ned had lost so much on this journey—Arthur Dayne, his own men, and now, as he climbed the steps of the tower, he feared he was about to lose more.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he ascended the narrow stairway, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword as if to anchor himself to reality. The scent of blood and sweat clung to the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of steel. The sound of his boots on the stone steps echoed in the silence, each step bringing him closer to the chamber where his sister, Lyanna, awaited.
The voice of his sister drifted down from above, weak and trembling. The sound was like a dagger to his heart, piercing through the fear and fatigue that weighed him down. He forced himself to move faster, pushing through the pain in his body, the dread in his heart. He had to reach her. He had to save her.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Ned found the door to the chamber slightly ajar, hanging crookedly on its hinges. He hesitated for a moment, steeling himself for what he might find inside. His hand trembled as he pushed the door open, the creak of the old wood echoing through the quiet tower.
The sight that greeted him nearly brought him to his knees.
Lyanna Stark, his beloved sister, lay on a makeshift bed of blood-soaked linens. Her once-vibrant eyes were now dull with pain, her skin pale and slick with sweat. She looked so fragile, so small, as if the life was slowly ebbing out of her with each labored breath. Her dark hair clung to her damp forehead, framing a face that was a ghostly shadow of its former self.
But it was not just Lyanna who caught Ned's eye.
In her arms, cradled close to her chest, were two tiny bundles. Two newborns—twins. The sight of them took Ned's breath away. One baby was calm, almost eerily so, with dark hair and eyes that mirrored the Stark lineage. The other was different, smaller, with a tuft of dark hair and eyes that shone a piercing, almost unnatural green. They were both so quiet, so still, as if the gravity of their birth weighed heavily on them even now.
Ned felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. He took a tentative step forward, his voice catching in his throat. "Lyanna…"
Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Ned… you came," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. There was relief in her eyes, but also something else—an acceptance, a resignation that tore at Ned's soul.
"I'm here," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he knelt beside her. He reached out to take her hand, feeling the coolness of her skin against his. "I'm here, Lya. You're safe now. We'll go home, back to Winterfell. You'll be alright."
Lyanna's grip on his hand was weak, but she squeezed it with what little strength she had left. "No, Ned… I'm not going home. Not this time…" Her voice wavered, the words spoken with the weight of finality.
"Don't say that," Ned pleaded, his eyes searching her face for any sign of hope. "You're going to be fine. Just hold on a little longer. I'll get you help—"
"Ned," Lyanna interrupted, her voice firmer this time, though still faint. "There's no time… You have to listen to me… You have to promise me…"
A cold dread settled in Ned's stomach as he met her gaze. There was a desperation in her eyes, a fear that chilled him to the bone. "I promise," he said quickly, leaning closer to her. "Anything, Lyanna. Just tell me."
"Promise me… you'll protect them," she whispered, her gaze shifting to the two babies in her arms. "They're… they're not just mine, Ned. They're his. Rhaegar's." Her voice caught on the name, her breath hitching with the effort. "Robert… he'll kill them if he knows…"
Ned's blood ran cold at the mention of Robert's name. He knew all too well what his old friend's wrath would mean for these children. Robert's hatred of the Targaryens was well known—he had vowed to wipe out every last one of them, to end their line forever. The mere thought of what Robert might do if he discovered the truth filled Ned with dread. He looked down at the babies, their tiny faces serene despite the horror of their circumstances, and felt a surge of protectiveness well up inside him.
"I swear it," Ned vowed, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'll protect them. No one will know who they really are. I'll raise them as my own, I swear it, Lyanna."
Lyanna's eyes filled with tears, and she nodded weakly, a look of relief washing over her features. "Thank you… Ned… Thank you…"
Ned watched helplessly as Lyanna's strength began to fade, her breaths growing shallower with each passing moment. The color drained from her face, and her grip on his hand slackened. He wanted to say something, anything that might keep her with him a little longer, but no words came. He could only watch as the life slowly ebbed from her body.
With one final, shuddering breath, Lyanna Stark, the She-Wolf of Winterfell, closed her eyes for the last time.
Ned felt as though his heart had been ripped from his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, as he stared down at his sister's lifeless form. The grief was overwhelming, a suffocating weight that threatened to crush him entirely. But the soft, almost imperceptible sound of a baby's cry pulled him back to reality.
He looked down at the twins, who were still cradled in Lyanna's arms, and felt a fresh wave of determination surge through him. He had made a promise, and he would keep it, no matter the cost. These children—Jon and… Harrion, he decided, honoring their Stark lineage—would be safe, whatever it took. They would be raised as his own, their true parentage hidden from the world.
Ned gently lifted the twins from Lyanna's arms, holding them close as he whispered a silent prayer to the Old Gods. He would keep them safe. He would protect them, even if it meant lying to those he loved, even if it meant living with the guilt of that lie for the rest of his days.
The sun was just beginning to rise as Ned Stark emerged from the Tower of Joy, cradling the two infants against his chest. The early morning light bathed the rocky landscape in a pale, golden glow, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch on forever. Ned stood for a moment at the tower's entrance, looking out at the desolate expanse before him. The wind whispered through the mountains, carrying with it the echoes of the battle that had been fought here, the lives that had been lost.
He cast one last, sorrowful glance at the tower behind him, the place where his sister had breathed her last, where so much had been lost. The weight of it all pressed down on him, a crushing burden that threatened to break him. But he could not allow himself to falter, not now. He had made a promise, and he would carry it with him, no matter the cost.
The road from the Tower of Joy was long and unforgiving, winding through the barren mountains and desolate plains of Dorne. As Eddard Stark began the arduous journey north, the weight of his promise to Lyanna pressed heavily on his heart. The early morning sun had risen higher in the sky, casting harsh light across the rocky landscape, but Ned barely noticed the heat. His mind was consumed by the events of the past hours, the gravity of his new responsibilities, and the uncertain future that lay ahead.
The twins, Jon and Harrion, were cradled securely in Ned's arms, their tiny forms wrapped in the remnants of blankets that had been hastily gathered before they left the tower. Harrion, the smaller of the two, seemed to cling to him instinctively, his bright green eyes occasionally flickering open to peer up at Ned with a curious intensity. Jon, in contrast, remained quiet and calm, as if sensing the gravity of the moment.
Ned couldn't help but marvel at the resilience of these newborns, born amidst such turmoil, yet so serene in their innocence. But their future was anything but certain. The road ahead was fraught with danger, and the world they were being brought into was filled with treachery, war, and bloodshed. It was a world where the truth of their parentage could bring about their death, and where Ned's honor would be tested as never before.
He had not come to Dorne with the intention of returning as a father to two more children. His thoughts drifted to Winterfell, to Catelyn, who waited for him there with their son, Robb. What would she say when he arrived, carrying not just one, but two infants, both bastards in the eyes of the world? How could he explain this? How could he ask her to accept them as her own?
The weight of these thoughts bore down on him, but Ned knew there was no turning back. He had made a promise to his sister, a promise sealed by her dying breath. He had vowed to protect these children, to keep them safe from Robert's wrath and the machinations of those who would seek to use them for their own gain. That was the duty he now carried, as heavy as the sword at his side.
The landscape around him shifted as he continued northward, the stark, arid beauty of Dorne giving way to the rugged terrain of the Dornish Marches. The sun beat down relentlessly, but Ned pressed on, stopping only when necessary to rest and tend to the twins. The journey was grueling, each mile bringing him closer to the familiar lands of the Reach, but also closer to the difficult conversations that awaited him there.
At each small village or settlement they passed, Ned kept to the shadows, avoiding the curious gazes of the locals. He knew word would spread quickly once they reached more populated areas, and he needed to ensure the children remained hidden until he could return to the safety of Winterfell. He spoke little, his usual stoic demeanor masking the turmoil roiling inside him.
As they crossed the Mander River and moved deeper into the Reach, the air began to cool, the oppressive heat of Dorne giving way to the more temperate climate of the southern kingdoms. The rolling green hills and lush fields should have brought some comfort, but Ned found little solace in the change of scenery. Every step north was a reminder of the secrets he now bore, secrets that could shatter the fragile peace that had been won at such great cost.
On the third night of their journey, as they camped by a small stream in a secluded grove, Ned found himself unable to sleep. The twins lay beside him, swaddled in blankets and sleeping peacefully despite the rough conditions. Ned sat by the dying embers of their fire, his sword across his lap, his thoughts a tumultuous mix of fear, grief, and resolve.
He thought of Lyanna, her final moments replaying in his mind like a bitter refrain. He had done what she asked, but the cost weighed heavily on him. She had entrusted him with her children, and now their lives depended on the choices he made. His honor demanded that he protect them, but the lies he would have to tell gnawed at him, challenging the very core of his Stark values.
As the night deepened and the stars blinked into the sky, Ned found himself whispering a prayer to the Old Gods, seeking their guidance in the silence of the woods. He asked for their strength, for their wisdom, and for the courage to do what was right—even if it meant forsaking the truth.
The journey northward continued the next morning, each day blending into the next as they pressed on. They avoided the main roads as much as possible, skirting the edges of villages and keeping to the cover of the woods. Ned's senses were on high alert, every rustle in the underbrush, every distant hoofbeat setting him on edge. He knew they were being watched—whether by common folk or more dangerous eyes, he could not say. But the feeling of being hunted lingered like a shadow over their journey.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the landscape began to change once more. The fertile fields of the Reach gave way to the rugged hills and dense forests that marked the borders of the Riverlands. Ned could feel the pull of the North, the land of his birth, calling him home. The air grew cooler, and the familiar scent of pine and damp earth brought a small measure of comfort.
But as they drew closer to the Trident, the weight of what awaited him at Winterfell settled heavily on his shoulders. He would have to face Catelyn, explain the impossible situation he had brought upon them. He would have to raise these children, who were born of a war that had claimed so many lives, as his own. And he would have to protect them, not just from the dangers that lurked beyond the Wall, but from the treachery and ambition that festered in the hearts of men.
The journey back to Winterfell was nearly at an end, but for Ned Stark, the real battle was only just beginning.
The journey north had been long and grueling, but finally, after what felt like an eternity, the familiar landscape of the North came into view. The rolling hills and dense forests of the Riverlands gradually gave way to the starker, more rugged terrain that marked the borders of Ned Stark's homeland. The air had grown colder with each passing mile, carrying with it the scent of pine and earth that was so distinctively northern. Ned felt a deep, instinctual pull as they neared the land of his birth, a sense of both relief and trepidation swelling in his chest. He was coming home, but the weight of what he carried with him was heavier than ever.
As they approached Winterfell, the towering walls of the ancient castle loomed in the distance, their dark stones standing stark against the grey sky. The fortress was imposing, a testament to the strength and resilience of House Stark, yet for the first time in his life, Ned felt a pang of anxiety at the sight of it. This was his home, the place where he had been born, where he had raised his own children, where he was supposed to be safe. But now, it felt different—like a place that could no longer offer the same sanctuary it once had.
The twins, Jon and Harrion, had remained mostly quiet throughout the journey, their tiny forms bundled in blankets to protect them from the chill. Harrion, the smaller of the two, continued to watch the world with those unsettling green eyes, as if taking in every detail, while Jon remained calm, his grey eyes reflecting the stoic demeanor that Ned himself had often been known for. They were so young, so innocent, and yet they were already burdened with secrets that could destroy them.
As they crossed the last stretch of road before the gates of Winterfell, Ned felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. His thoughts were a tangled web of worry, regret, and determination. How would he explain this to Catelyn? What would she say when she saw the two infants he carried? How could he ask her to accept them as her own, to raise them alongside their own children, all the while knowing that they were the offspring of another man? And not just any man, but Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince who had plunged the realm into war.
The thought made his stomach churn, and he clenched his jaw, steeling himself for the confrontation that was to come. He had made a promise to Lyanna, and he would keep it, no matter the cost. He would protect these children, even if it meant lying to those he loved, even if it meant living with the guilt of that lie for the rest of his days.
The gates of Winterfell creaked open as they approached, and the sound echoed ominously through the cold air. The guards at the gate saluted Ned as he passed, their expressions a mixture of surprise and curiosity. It was not often that their lord returned with such a small and unexpected party, and the sight of the bundled infants in his arms did not go unnoticed.
As they entered the courtyard, the familiar sights and sounds of Winterfell greeted them. The clang of swords from the training yard, the lowing of cattle from the nearby stables, the chatter of servants going about their duties—it was all so ordinary, so routine, and yet it felt strangely distant to Ned. He dismounted his horse carefully, cradling the twins in his arms as he did so, and handed the reins to a stable boy who hurried forward to assist.
Ned stood for a moment, taking in the scene before him. Winterfell was exactly as he had left it, unchanged by the events of the world beyond its walls. And yet, everything felt different. The weight of the secrets he carried hung heavily over him, making him feel as though he were a stranger in his own home.
"Father!"
Ned turned at the sound of the voice and saw his eldest son, Robb, running toward him across the courtyard. The boy's face was alight with excitement, his red hair catching the light as he sprinted forward. He was still so young, barely more than a toddler, but there was already a spark of the man he would become in his bright blue eyes.
"Robb," Ned greeted him, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the turmoil in his heart. He knelt down as Robb reached him, careful not to jostle the twins as he did so.
Robb's eyes widened as he noticed the bundles in his father's arms. "Father, who are they?" he asked, his voice filled with innocent curiosity.
Ned hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. "These are… your brothers, Robb," he said finally, his voice steady but strained. "They've just come to us."
Robb's face lit up with joy at the prospect of new siblings. "Brothers!" he exclaimed, his excitement growing. He peered at the infants with wide-eyed wonder, reaching out to touch one of Harrion's tiny hands.
"Careful now," Ned cautioned gently, though there was no real danger. He watched as Robb's fingers brushed against Harrion's hand, the baby responding with a small, curious grip. It was a simple, innocent moment, but it filled Ned with a profound sense of unease. How long would it be before Robb started asking questions—questions that Ned might not be able to answer truthfully?
Before he could dwell on the thought, another voice called out, this one filled with warmth and relief.
"Ned!"
Catelyn Stark, his wife, appeared at the entrance to the Great Hall, her face lighting up with a mixture of joy and worry as she hurried toward him. She was as beautiful as ever, her auburn hair framing her face like a crown of autumn leaves. But there was a tension in her features that hadn't been there before, a strain that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry during his absence.
Ned's heart tightened at the sight of her. He had been dreading this moment, knowing that the truth of what he was about to tell her would change everything between them. But there was no escaping it now.
Catelyn reached him, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. "You're home," she said, relief flooding her voice as she placed a hand on his arm. "Thank the gods you're home."
"I'm home," Ned echoed softly, his gaze shifting to the twins in his arms. He saw the moment Catelyn noticed them, the way her expression shifted from relief to confusion, and then to something more guarded.
"Who…?" she began, her voice trailing off as she looked from the infants to Ned, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Ned swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his promise to Lyanna pressing down on him like a vise. He had prepared himself for this moment, rehearsed the words in his mind over and over during the long journey north, but now that it was here, they felt inadequate, hollow.
"These are… my sons," he said quietly, his voice thick with the effort it took to keep it steady. "They are… they are mine."
Catelyn's eyes widened in shock, her hand falling away from his arm. "Your sons?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief and something darker—something bitter. "But… how?"
Ned knew that this was the moment of truth, the moment where he had to tell her the lie that would protect the twins, that would keep them safe from Robert's wrath and the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the realm. He steeled himself, forcing the words out before his resolve could falter.
"They were born during the war," he said, his voice low and measured. "Their mother… she's gone now. She didn't survive."
He saw the pain flicker in Catelyn's eyes, quickly overtaken by anger. Her expression hardened, her lips thinning as she struggled to contain the storm of emotions brewing within her. "You… you brought them here?" she asked, her voice sharp, cutting. "You brought your bastards to our home, to be raised with our son?"
The accusation in her words was like a knife to the heart, but Ned remained resolute. "I had no choice," he said, his tone soft but unwavering. "They have no one else. They are my responsibility, Catelyn. I made a promise."
"A promise?" she hissed, her eyes narrowing further, her voice rising in pitch. "To whom, Ned? To the woman who bore these children? To your mistress?"
The word hit him like a blow, but Ned kept his composure. He could see the venom in her gaze, the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides, trembling with the effort it took not to lash out. She was furious, and rightfully so—he had brought home not just one, but two living reminders of his supposed infidelity.
"To their mother," he said quietly, unwilling to give her more details. "I promised her I would protect them."
Catelyn's face twisted in a mixture of fury and anguish. "And what of me, Ned? What of your wife? Do I not deserve the truth? Do I not deserve your loyalty?"
Her words stung, and Ned felt the weight of guilt settle more heavily on his shoulders. He had known this would be difficult, had known that Catelyn would be hurt and angry, but seeing her pain now, knowing that he was the cause of it, was almost unbearable.
"You do," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You deserve better than this, Catelyn. But I made a promise, and I couldn't—"
"Couldn't what?" she interrupted, her voice cold as the northern winds. "Couldn't leave them behind? Couldn't let them die like the rest of their kind?"
Ned flinched at the bitterness in her tone, at the disdain she directed not just at him, but at the innocent children he held in his arms. "They are still children, Cat," he said, his voice firm despite the pain it caused him. "They did nothing to deserve this."
"They are your bastards, Ned," she spat, her voice filled with venom. "Bastards born of war and treachery, and now you ask me to raise them as my own? To love them as I love my son?"
She gestured toward Robb, who had been watching the exchange in confused silence, his young mind unable to fully grasp the depth of the tension between his parents. Ned's heart ached at the sight of his son, caught in the middle of this bitter confrontation.
"I don't ask you to love them," Ned said quietly, feeling the weight of his own words. "Only to tolerate them. They have no one else."
"Tolerate them?" Catelyn echoed, her voice trembling with anger. "You ask too much, Ned. You ask too much of me."
There was a moment of silence, thick and suffocating, as the two of them stared at each other, the chasm between them growing wider with each passing second. Ned could see the pain in her eyes, the betrayal, but also the cold fury that would not be easily quenched. He knew that this moment would leave a scar, one that might never fully heal.
Finally, Catelyn took a deep breath, her expression hardening as she forced herself to look away from him. "Very well," she said, her voice brittle with the effort it took to remain calm. "I will not harm them. I will not interfere. But do not ask me to care for them, Ned. Do not ask me to look at them, to see them as anything other than what they are—reminders of your betrayal."
Her words were like ice, cutting him to the core, but Ned knew there was nothing more he could say. He had made his choice, and now he would have to live with the consequences.
"Thank you," he said quietly, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.
Catelyn gave him a sharp nod, her face a mask of cold resolve. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the courtyard as she retreated into the Great Hall. Robb hesitated for a moment, his eyes filled with confusion and worry, before he hurried after his mother, leaving Ned standing alone in the cold.
For a long moment, Ned stood there, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He looked down at the twins in his arms, their tiny faces serene and innocent, unaware of the storm they had been born into. He had made a promise to Lyanna, and he would keep it, no matter the cost. But as he gazed at his sons—one born of his blood, the other of his heart—he couldn't help but wonder if the price was too high.
The walls of Winterfell rose around him, cold and unyielding, a fortress that had stood for thousands of years. But within those walls, the seeds of discord had already been sown, and Ned knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges he had never anticipated.
He had returned to Winterfell, but it no longer felt like home.
The Godswood, Winterfell
The godswood was a place of ancient peace, a sanctuary within the walls of Winterfell where the Old Gods watched in silence. The heart tree stood tall and solemn at its center, its white bark gleaming in the pale moonlight, its red leaves rustling softly in the night breeze. The face carved into the tree's trunk stared down with ancient, knowing eyes, witnessing the countless prayers and whispered secrets that had been spoken beneath its boughs over the centuries.
Eddard Stark stood alone before the heart tree, the cold night air biting at his skin, but he barely noticed the chill. The weight of the past days lay heavily on him, more than the Northern winter ever could. He had come here seeking solace, a moment of clarity, but the thoughts that crowded his mind were as dark and tangled as the branches above.
Lyanna's voice still echoed in his ears, her dying words a haunting refrain that he could not escape. "Promise me, Ned… promise me." He had made that promise, had vowed to protect her children, but the enormity of what he had taken on now seemed almost overwhelming. He had brought Jon and Harrion into his home, into his family, but with them had come a burden that could not be shared, a secret that could never be spoken.
The godswood was silent, save for the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant call of a nightbird. Ned looked up at the heart tree, its ancient face impassive and unchanging, and wondered if the Old Gods had heard his sister's plea. Did they understand the weight of the promise he had made? Did they see the path that lay ahead, the trials that awaited him and his family?
His thoughts drifted to Harrion, the smaller of the twins, the child with the unsettling green eyes. There was something about those eyes that had troubled Ned from the moment he first looked into them at the Tower of Joy. They were not the eyes of a Stark or a Targaryen; they were something else entirely—sharp, piercing, and filled with a depth that seemed beyond the understanding of a mere infant. It was as if Harrion could see things others could not, as if he carried within him a power that was both ancient and dangerous.
Ned could not shake the feeling that Harrion was different, that he was more than just a child born of two great houses. There was a sense of… otherness about him, a quiet, latent power that stirred uneasily beneath the surface. Ned had seen many strange things in his life, but nothing like this. What if Harrion was more than just a Stark or a Targaryen? What if he was something entirely new, something the world had never seen before?
The thought both fascinated and terrified Ned. He was a man of the North, practical and grounded, but even he could not deny the mysteries of the world—the magic that lay dormant in the blood of kings, the ancient powers that whispered through the weirwoods. He had no way of knowing what Harrion might become, what his future held, but he could not dismiss the possibility that the boy might carry within him a force beyond his understanding.
Ned shivered, though whether from the cold or from the thoughts that plagued him, he could not say. He turned his gaze back to the heart tree, its ancient face seeming to regard him with a mixture of sympathy and warning. The Old Gods had seen much over the centuries, but could they see what lay ahead for Harrion? Could they see the role the boy might play in the fate of Westeros?
The realm was in a fragile state. Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, but his rule was not as secure as it seemed. The scars of war still lingered, and beneath the surface, old grudges festered. Robert's hatred for the Targaryens burned as fiercely as ever, and if he ever discovered the truth about Jon and Harrion, there would be no mercy. Robert would see them as a threat, a danger to his rule, and he would stop at nothing to see them eliminated.
But it was not just Robert who concerned Ned. The Seven Kingdoms were a land of intrigue and ambition, where men would kill for power, for a chance at the throne. The peace that Robert had won was fragile, held together by tenuous alliances and old loyalties that could crumble at any moment. If the truth about Jon and Harrion ever came to light, it could ignite a new war, one that could tear the realm apart.
And yet, there was something else, something more ominous that gnawed at Ned's mind. It was a feeling he could not quite name, a sense that the world was on the brink of something terrible, something that went beyond the ambitions of kings and lords. He had felt it growing over the past months, a shadow that loomed ever larger as he traveled north. It was as if the very air had changed, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for some great and terrible event.
Ned looked up at the stars through the canopy of the godswood, their cold light offering no answers, no comfort. The future was uncertain, but he knew one thing for sure: the twins, Jon and Harrion, were at the heart of it. They were more than just children; they were symbols, legacies of a past that refused to die, of a future that was yet to be written. And whatever roles they would play, whatever destinies awaited them, Ned feared that the peace of the realm, the safety of his family, depended on the choices he made now.
He had brought them into his home, into his life, but at what cost? What dangers had he invited into Winterfell, into the North? What would become of them as they grew older, as they began to question their place in the world? Would they be content to live as Starks, bound by honor and duty, or would they seek to reclaim the legacy of the Targaryens, to take what might rightfully be theirs?
The godswood offered no answers, only silence. The heart tree stood as it always had, its ancient eyes watching, waiting. Ned knew that the Old Gods would not guide him, would not tell him what to do. The choices he made, the path he chose, were his alone to bear. But he could not escape the feeling that those choices would have far-reaching consequences, that they would shape the fate of Westeros in ways he could not yet understand.
Ned knelt before the heart tree, the cold earth beneath him a stark reminder of the harsh realities of the North. He bowed his head, closing his eyes, and whispered a prayer to the Old Gods, seeking their guidance, their strength. He prayed for the wisdom to protect his family, for the courage to face the challenges that lay ahead. But most of all, he prayed for the strength to keep the promise he had made to Lyanna, to protect her sons, no matter the cost.
As he rose to his feet, the weight of his responsibilities settled heavily on his shoulders. The future was uncertain, the path ahead fraught with danger, but Ned knew that he could not turn back. He had made his choice, and now he would have to live with it, to bear the burden of the secrets he had sworn to keep.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scent of winter. Ned looked up at the heart tree one last time, its ancient face impassive, and then turned to leave the godswood. The night was cold and dark, but there was no room for hesitation, no time for doubt. Winter was coming, and with it, the storm that would test the strength of House Stark and the fate of the realm.
As he walked back to the castle, his footsteps crunching softly in the snow, Ned felt a deep unease settle over him. The twins were safe for now, hidden within the walls of Winterfell, but he knew that the day would come when the truth would emerge, when the choices he had made would come to light. And when that day came, the world would be changed forever.
Ned lingered at the edge of the godswood, his thoughts still churning as the cold air bit at his skin. The heart tree's eyes seemed to follow him, watching, waiting, as if the Old Gods themselves were silent witnesses to the burden he carried. He knew that the choices he had made would not only shape the future of his family but could very well decide the fate of the entire realm.
As he stepped out from the sacred grove and back into the shadow of Winterfell's ancient walls, a sense of foreboding tightened in his chest. The twins were safe for now, their true heritage hidden, but Ned knew that the truth had a way of surfacing, no matter how deeply it was buried. What would happen when the world discovered who they really were? What forces would be unleashed when Jon and Harrion came into their own, when the blood of dragons stirred in their veins?
Winter was coming, and with it, the promise of a reckoning. The winds of change were beginning to howl, and Ned Stark could feel the chill of their approach in his very bones. Whatever roles Jon and Harrion were destined to play, whatever power Harrion's green eyes concealed, one thing was certain—Westeros would never be the same.
As Ned crossed the courtyard, the shadows of Winterfell lengthened behind him, and with them came the quiet, unshakable certainty that his actions today had set in motion events that would echo far beyond the walls of his home. The fate of the North—and perhaps of all Westeros—rested on the fragile shoulders of two small boys, and the storms that lay ahead would test them all in ways they could scarcely imagine.
The night was deep, the path uncertain, but Ned Stark knew one thing: the story of Jon and Harrion Snow had only just begun, and the winds of winter would carry it to the farthest corners of the realm. The future was dark and full of peril, but for now, all he could do was face it with the honor of House Stark, and pray that it would be enough.
And as he disappeared into the shadows of the keep, leaving the godswood behind, a single, chilling thought lingered in his mind:
What if the blood of the dragon could not be tamed? What if, in the end, it was not the storm that would come to Westeros, but fire—wild, untamed, and unstoppable?
Ned's travel had ended, but the journey had only just begun.
A/N: New story, never written a crossover before but we'll see how it goes. All reviews are appreciated. If you like Harry Potter stories feel free to check out the other story on my profile. Going to experiment with changing POVs throughout the story.
