The final battle had been raging for hours.
Harry Potter's heart pounded in his chest, the rhythmic beat almost drowned out by the chaos that swirled around him. The castle of Hogwarts had become a battlefield, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood. The walls that had once stood tall and proud now lay in ruin, shattered by curses and curses alone.
He could feel the weight of destiny pressing down on him, heavier than it ever had before. He had known, deep down, that this moment would come. The prophecy had all but sealed it. But standing face-to-face with Voldemort—there was no fear in his heart anymore. Just the certainty that this would be the end. One way or another, it had to be.
The Dark Lord stood before him, his pale, serpentine face twisted in a cruel smirk, his wand pointed directly at Harry's chest. The battle raged behind them, but it was as though time had frozen for just this moment.
"You think you can defeat me, Potter?" Voldemort's voice slithered, each word more venomous than the last. "You, who had to rely on your friends, your luck, and your stupid, weak, sentimental little heart. You think you can be the one to end me?"
Harry's gaze never wavered. He was bruised, battered, and bloody, but his resolve burned brighter than ever. He had faced this man so many times before. But this time, there would be no running, no hiding, no chance of survival for the Dark Lord. It was him or me.
"Then it's time to end this," Harry said, his voice steady, every word an echo of his certainty.
The wand in his hand felt heavy, but it wasn't the wand that would determine the outcome. He knew that. It was his will. It always had been.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort bellowed, sending the green jet of light toward Harry.
He dodged with a quick roll, his heart pumping faster as the curse narrowly missed. He was already moving before the curse even hit the ground, diving behind a pillar for cover.
Voldemort's laugh was cold and cruel, a sound that reverberated through the ruins of the castle. "Run, Potter. You can't escape me."
But Harry wasn't running. He wasn't hiding. He was waiting.
"Expelliarmus!"
Harry's spell tore through the air, forcing Voldemort's wand out of his hand, but the Dark Lord was quicker than Harry had anticipated. Voldemort countered with a series of dark, slashing curses that Harry had only ever heard of in whispers.
A cutting curse, sharp and powerful, slashed through Harry's side before he could even think to react. The pain exploded across his ribcage, the wound deep and jagged. Blood poured from the gash, warm and sticky, as his knees buckled beneath him.
He gritted his teeth, struggling to stay upright. The force of the curse burned like fire. His vision blurred with the sudden rush of agony, but there was no time for weakness. He couldn't afford to fall now. Not when the end was so close.
Harry raised his wand with shaky hands, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the world spun around him.
"Harry!" Hermione's voice rang through the air, panic lacing her words. She was beside him in an instant, her hands frantically pressing against the wound, but the magic was too strong. Even with her skill, even with all her knowledge, the curse had left a wound that no healing charm could close.
The blood wouldn't stop. The magic was too dark, too ancient.
"No… Hermione, you can't fix this," Harry whispered, his vision starting to fade.
He had known, deep down, that this might be the price of victory. He had never expected to walk away from this battle unscathed. It was just another part of the war, another sacrifice.
"Stay with me, Harry," Hermione urged, her voice a mixture of desperation and fear. "Please—don't leave me."
But Harry only nodded, the cold seeping into his bones, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He could feel the darkness pulling at him. His body was failing him. The pain was overwhelming. But still, he fought to stay awake, fought to make sure that Voldemort couldn't escape.
He had to see this through.
From somewhere deep within, Harry found the strength to push through the haze, lifting his head just in time to see Voldemort advancing. His eyes were wild, crazed. The Dark Lord was almost close enough to strike the fatal blow.
But Harry had no intention of letting him win.
With a final surge of magic, Harry summoned what he could—what he had left. He reached for his side. Aiming for the Sword of Gryffindor from its hiding place in its sheath. The blade gleamed in his hands, its ruby-encrusted hilt reflecting the dim light of the castle.
The sword was ancient, imbued with the magic of the Founders themselves. It had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, and now it was Harry's. It had come to him when he had needed it most, as it always did for those who were brave enough to wield it.
With the strength of desperation, Harry rose to his feet. The bleeding from his side was nearly unbearable, but his resolve burned like fire within him. He could feel the power of the sword in his hands, the weight of it reminding him of all the times it had helped him through impossible situations.
Voldemort sneered, clearly expecting Harry to falter. But Harry only met his gaze, and with all the strength he could muster, he lunged forward, driving the sword deep into the Dark Lord's chest.
Voldemort's expression shifted from smug confidence to shock and then to agony. A ragged scream escaped his lips as the sword buried itself in his heart, the magic of the blade stripping away the last of his power. His body twisted, convulsed, and then—like all things dark and twisted—he fell to the ground with a final, deafening thud.
As Voldemort's body crumpled to the ground, Harry stood above him, the Sword of Gryffindor still lodged in the Dark Lord's heart. Blood seeped from Harry's side, his world dimming as he took in one final breath.
The battle was over, but at what cost?
He collapsed to his knees, the sword falling from his grasp as his vision went black, his body giving in to the wounds he had suffered.
his body broken, his side torn open from the cutting curse that had slashed through him. Blood soaked his robes, his vision swimming with darkness. He had been in this position before—too many times, in fact—but this time, he knew it was different.
Ron and Hermione fought fiercely alongside him, their faces grim with determination. Ron's red hair was matted with sweat, and Hermione's eyes flashed with fierce urgency, casting protective spells as they moved to shield him. But Harry knew, deep in his gut, that he was past the point of no return.
"Harry!" Hermione shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos of the battlefield. She cast a healing charm on his side, but it wasn't enough. The curse was too strong, the magic too dark for her to undo. Harry's breath hitched in pain, but he forced a smile.
"Hermione," he rasped, voice weak but steady. "You can't fix this. It's... it's my time."
"No, Harry, don't say that!" Hermione's eyes welled with tears, and she moved to kneel beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for his wound again, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood.
But Harry shook his head. He placed a hand on hers, his fingers cold against her warm skin.
"Hermione, listen to me," he said softly. "You've always been there for me. You've always had my back. But this... this is something I have to do alone." His voice was quiet, the weight of his words sinking into the air around them like the ashes of the fallen castle. "This is the end, Hermione. I don't want you to be sad... I want you to remember me for the good things. For the victories."
Ron dropped to his knees beside Harry, his face ashen, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No, mate. We've been through this together. We're not doing this without you. You—you're not going anywhere."
Harry met Ron's gaze, seeing the depth of his friendship and the pain in his eyes. He swallowed thickly, gathering what little strength he had left.
"I'm sorry, Ron," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I wish I could do more. I've fought with everything I had... but... it's over. Its finally over"
Ron's lips trembled, but he didn't speak. He didn't have to. The bond between them, the unspoken understanding, was enough.
Harry turned his gaze toward Hermione, his heart breaking at the sight of her sorrow. "I've always admired your brilliance," he said, a faint smile pulling at his lips, even through the agony. "Your heart, your courage. You've always believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. And I want you to know, Hermione, that I love you. In my own way... I always will."
Tears filled Hermione's eyes as she whispered, "Harry, don't leave us. Please."
But Harry only closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of his fate pressing down on him. He knew that the fight was done, and though it had been a long and painful journey, he had made peace with it. Voldemort had been defeated, the prophecy fulfilled. The battle had ended, but the cost was steep.
He took a slow, painful breath. His body was failing him, but his mind was clearer than it had ever been. His hand gripped the sword of Gryffindor once more, the legendary blade that had come to him when he needed it most. It had served him well, slaying the Dark Lord, but now... it was time for him to let go.
"Ron… Hermione," he said, his voice softer now, as the darkness began to close in. "Tell everyone I'm sorry. But it's time. You're going to be okay. I know you will be. You've always been the best of us."
Hermione tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Ron sat silently, his shoulders shaking with grief. The world around them seemed to fade, the sounds of battle distant now. Harry's breaths grew shallower, his vision growing dimmer.
He reached out with his trembling hand, gently grasping Hermione's hand once more.
"I'll see you on the other side," he said, his voice a quiet promise. He gave them both one final, loving look before he closed his eyes, the darkness taking him.
His eyes shot open, heart racing, as his surroundings came into focus. The low, flickering light of a fire, the cold stone walls, the faint smell of pinewood and wet earth—all of it felt so real. He sat up abruptly, his breath still shallow, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Jon Snow was standing beside him, a concerned expression on his face. "Hadrian," Jon said softly, his hand on his shoulder. "You were shaking. Bad dream?"
Hadrian blinked, still lost in the fog of his own mind. Jon's presence was familiar, but Hadrian wasn't the boy who had once relied on the warmth of this place anymore. His eyes flitted around the room—Winterfell. The Stark family home. It was his home.
Jon's voice broke through the haze. "Are you alright? You looked like you were in pain."
Hadrian's gaze snapped to Jon, trying to make sense of the boy standing before him. He couldn't shake the feeling that this place, this life, wasn't where he was supposed to be. His past life—his real life—felt like it belonged to someone else. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the master of Death. It was as if those memories had belonged to a stranger, not to the boy who sat here now, shaking in his skin.
"I'm fine," Hadrian said, waving Jon off. His voice came out hoarse, strained, as though it, too, was trying to wake up from some deep slumber. "Just a bad dream."
Jon didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded. "Alright. If you need anything, you know where to find me."
Hadrian gave him a tight, forced smile, but the truth was, he wasn't fine. Not by a long shot.
Hadrian was not a Stark by blood, and he had never truly been given a name. He had been known as Hadrian the Nameless, a child found at the gates of Winterfell, with nothing but the cold to claim him. No family, no name—just a boy who had wandered into the Starks' care and stayed there. And they had taken him in, raised him alongside their own children, never asking about his past. To them, he had always just been Hadrian, and that was enough.
But now, that name—Hadrian the Nameless—felt like a weight he could no longer carry. He had once accepted his anonymity, but now the absence of his true self gnawed at him. He had been someone else, someone who had been loved, fought battles, and lost everything, including his life. He had died in another world, in another time, and somehow, impossibly, he had ended up here.
But why?
The cold stone of the walls felt too real. The warmth of the fire too... alive. Hadrian ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his thoughts.
Jon took a step back, glancing at him with a look of quiet understanding. "We have a long day ahead," he said. "But you know you can talk to me if you need to."
Hadrian nodded, but the words lodged in his throat. He didn't know what to say. How could he explain what he didn't even understand himself? He wasn't sure if he could ever explain it.
"Thanks, Jon," Hadrian replied, forcing another smile. "I'm good now."
Jon gave him a look that said he wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't push it. "I'll see you later, then."
As Jon left the room, Hadrian leaned back against the wall, his mind spinning with the weight of everything. His past, his future—it all felt like a blur. A disconnected jumble of memories. He had been Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, who had fought for a better world. But here, in this world, he was Hadrian. No magic. No name. Just a boy caught between two realities.
Hadrian's fingers brushed the fabric of his tunic, and something cold pressed against his skin. He paused, confused for a moment, before pulling out a small, polished stone that was nestled beneath his shirt. The Resurrection Stone.
He had found it among his things when he had first arrived at Winterfell, tucked away in a small pouch, buried deep within his belongings. The stone had always been a mystery, something he had never truly understood—yet, somehow, he had always felt its pull, even in the depths of the nightmare. In his past life, it had been one of the three Deathly Hallows, a symbol of mastery over death itself. He had used it once, not to bring back those who had fallen, but to seek guidance from those who had gone before him.
But now, in this world, it was simply a ring. A dull, black stone set in a silver band. He had never dared to use it again, afraid of what it might bring. Hadrian's mind was already full of ghosts, and he didn't know if he could handle bringing back more.
Still, he felt its weight in his hand, as though it carried the memories of his past—memories that he had left behind in another life, another world. It was a piece of who he was, whether he wanted it or not.
He stared at the ring for a long moment, wondering if he was foolish for keeping it. What was its purpose here, in this world? What did it mean that it had followed him?
With a sigh, Hadrian tucked the ring back into his tunic, away from prying eyes. For now, it would remain a secret.
The fire crackled in the hearth, and the shadows danced on the walls, casting long, eerie shapes. Hadrian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the room seep into his bones. The memories of his past life still lingered at the edges of his mind. The Deathly Hallows, his struggles with Voldemort, his friends—Ron and Hermione. He could still hear their voices, their laughter. But they weren't here. They weren't a part of this world.
He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.
What am I supposed to do now?
Hadrian didn't have any answers. He didn't even know where to start. His magic—gone. His identity—gone. The life he had fought for—gone. All he had now was a new life, a new family that had taken him in.
The Starks.
But what was he supposed to do with that? Was this really where he was meant to be? And more importantly—who was he now?
He stood up, his body still aching from the remnants of the nightmare. His hands trembled slightly, but the fire in the hearth felt warmer now, as though it was trying to ignite something within him. Hadrian glanced toward the door where Jon had exited. For the first time since waking, he felt a little less alone.
Perhaps this was his chance for something new. A new beginning. Something to make up for what he had lost. Or maybe, just maybe, this world had a place for someone like him.
He looked out the window at the vast, snow-covered lands beyond Winterfell. The world stretched out before him, vast and untamed, filled with dangers and wonders. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Hadrian realized something.
He didn't know who he was, or who he was meant to be.
But maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
For now, he was Hadrian The Nameless, Ward of the Starks. And that was all he needed to be.
The breakfast table in Winterfell was loud this morning, with voices raised in the usual bickering and teasing. Hadrian sat quietly between Jon and Theon, who was, as usual, in the middle of some mischief. The sounds of clinking plates and murmured conversation filled the air, but there was no escaping the ruckus at the Stark table.
Sansa and Arya were in the midst of another argument, the noise escalating as they exchanged sharp words.
"Why do you always have to be so difficult?" Sansa's voice was tinged with frustration as she looked across the table at Arya, who was happily chewing on a slice of bread. "Just because you're the youngest doesn't mean you can get away with being rude all the time!"
Arya didn't even glance up from her meal. "Rude? I'm just not like you, Sansa. I'm not going to sit here, be all prim and proper like a doll."
"Maybe if you acted like a lady for once, you wouldn't be the laughingstock of the North," Sansa shot back, her eyes narrowing in irritation.
Hadrian glanced at Jon, who gave him a small, exasperated smile. The dynamics of the Stark children were always lively, if nothing else. It was clear that Sansa and Arya were at odds more often than not. Robb and Bran sat at the other end of the table, trying to avoid getting involved, though Robb's expression was one of amusement as he watched the back-and-forth.
"Can you both please just shut up for five minutes?" Bran said, his voice rising above the noise. "It's just breakfast."
But it was clear that neither Arya nor Sansa were going to stop. Robb, ever the mediator, raised his voice in an attempt to cut through the tension. "Enough, both of you. Save it for later. We've got a lot to do today."
At that, Arya finally put her bread down and shot Robb an incredulous look. "What's the rush? We're just having breakfast. Not like there's anything better to do, except you know, watch Sansa try to marry a prince or something."
Sansa bristled at the jab. "And what's your plan, Arya? Run off and join a troupe of traveling performers?"
"I might, at least they don't make you sit still and look like a stuffed bird," Arya retorted, crossing her arms defiantly.
Hadrian couldn't help but chuckle at the exchange, though he quickly looked down at his plate to hide it. Jon glanced at him with a knowing smirk, his dark eyes sparkling with a quiet amusement.
Theon, seated on the other side of Jon, leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "I think it's funny how much time you two waste arguing," he said, winking at Robb. "Why bother, when we all know the only thing worth fighting for around here is who gets to marry a beautiful princess like Sansa?"
Sansa shot Theon a sharp look. "Not every girl wants to marry someone like you, Theon," she said, her tone laced with disdain.
Theon feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "Oh, you wound me, m'lady. But you know, I'd be a great catch. Strong, charming, good with a sword. And I hear I'm quite the dancer as well."
Jon rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "If you call that swordplay last week 'good,' I'm afraid to ask what you'd call your dancing."
Theon gave Jon a playful shove. "Careful, Snow, or I might just show you my moves. Wouldn't want you to be left out."
Hadrian watched with a mix of amusement and slight discomfort. He had learned to adapt to the Stark family's dynamic over the years, but he could never quite shake the feeling that he didn't truly belong. He had no last name, no heritage. He was just Hadrian, an unnamed soul in a house full of blood and honor. But he didn't let it show. Winterfell had become home, even if he didn't have the same ties to it as the others.
"Alright, enough," Lady Stark said, cutting through the banter with a stern voice. She had been listening quietly, but now her eyes flashed with authority. "This is a meal, not a circus. Can we have one morning where no one tries to insult each other?"
Sansa and Arya exchanged glares but said nothing, each of them returning to their food in silence. Robb took the opportunity to shift the conversation toward more pressing matters.
"We've got the preparations for King Robert's visit to deal with," he said, his voice carrying the weight of leadership. "Father's gone to meet with the lords, but we need to make sure everything's ready for tomorrow's feast."
Lady Stark nodded, turning to Robb with a small but approving smile. "That's right. We need to make sure the castle is ready, and the food prepared. We can't afford to make a bad impression on the king."
Lady Stark's gaze hardened at the remark, but she didn't respond. Instead, she turned to Hadrian, her eyes softening slightly. "And you, Hadrian," she said, her tone warmer than it had been for the others, "are you alright? You've been quiet this morning."
Hadrian smiled slightly, though the question left him with a sense of discomfort. It wasn't the first time Lady Stark had asked him if he was okay, but he always gave the same answer. "I'm fine," he said. "Just tired, I suppose."
"More nightmares?" Jon asked, his voice filled with concern. "You looked restless last night."
Hadrian nodded, though he didn't want to delve into the real reason behind his sleeplessness. He didn't know what to make of the dreams—visions of another life, of a world he couldn't quite remember but felt all too real. He had never spoken to anyone about them. "Just some strange dreams," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing to worry about."
Lady Stark, ever observant, looked at him carefully. "You know, Hadrian, I could have Maester Luwin give you some essence of nightshade or anything—"
"I'm alright, Lady Stark," Hadrian interrupted gently. He could see the concern in her eyes, but he didn't want to burden her with questions he himself couldn't answer. "I'll be fine."
The door to the hall creaked open, and Ned Stark entered, his presence commanding the room. His dark eyes swept across his children, pausing briefly on each of them before settling on Hadrian.
"Good morning, all," he said, his voice firm but warm. "Robb, Jon, Theon, Bran—you're with me today. Hadrian, come along. We have something we need to do."
Hadrian stood, pushing back from the table with a quiet nod. He didn't question the command. In Winterfell, the Starks didn't need to say much to be obeyed, and Hadrian had learned long ago to follow without hesitation. He gave a quick glance to the rest of the Stark children, who were absorbed in their own conversations, before following Ned, Robb, Jon, and Bran out of the hall.
The cold air of Winterfell hit him as they stepped outside, the sun barely peeking through the thick winter clouds. Hadrian didn't mind the chill, having grown accustomed to the northern weather. He moved toward the stables, where his horse, Prongs, stood waiting. The large, black stallion shifted its weight as Hadrian approached, nudging his shoulder affectionately.
"Easy, Prongs," Hadrian murmured, running his hand over the horse's sleek coat. He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, glancing over at Jon and Robb, who were already mounted, and Bran, who was carefully clinging to his own horse, looking both excited and nervous.
Ned, leading the way, gave a quiet instruction. "We're going to see a deserter from the Night's Watch. He broke his oath, and that's not something we can ignore."
Jon, with his ever-present sense of duty, nodded solemnly. "A deserter? The Penalty is death, isn't it?"
"Whatever is necessary," Ned said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "A broken oath is a serious thing. Even more so in these times."
As they rode through the snow-covered paths, Hadrian's thoughts wandered, his mind always calculating, always wondering what was coming next. He could feel the tension in the air, the same feeling that had gnawed at him since he first stepped foot in this world. It was like a storm waiting to break, and Hadrian couldn't quite shake the sense that he was somehow at the heart of it.
Eventually, they reached the clearing where the deserter was held—a rough, shackled man, kneeling before a small fire. His eyes darted around nervously as the party dismounted, the crackle of the fire the only sound breaking the silence.
"Lord Stark," the man said in a hoarse voice, his eyes flicking to the others with an almost desperate hope. "Please, I beg you—have mercy. I only left to survive. I had to run. They killed them all. ."
Ned's gaze was steady, unflinching. "You took the black, and you swore an oath. There is no forgiveness for breaking that vow."
Hadrian stood off to the side, watching as the scene unfolded. He had seen men beg for mercy before, but the severity in Ned's eyes was not something to be ignored. He knew there would be no pleading his way out of this.
Ned turned to Bran, who was still staring wide-eyed at the scene. "Bran," he said quietly. "Do you know why I brought you here today?"
Bran blinked, unsure, and nodded. "To see... what happens when a man breaks his vows."
Ned's voice softened, just slightly. "Yes. But there is more to it than that. You must learn that justice must be swift, even when it is harsh. A man who passes the sentence must be the one to carry it out."
Ned pulled out his sword, Ice, the massive greatsword passed down through generations of Starks. The blade gleamed in the pale winter light, and a solemn quiet fell over the group. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The deserter dropped to his knees, shaking. "Please," he begged, his voice desperate. "I saw them, I saw the White Walkers. You have to believe me."
Ned's expression hardened. "Your life means nothing now. You abandoned your post. You betrayed your vows, and worse—you failed to protect the realm." His voice was cold, devoid of any sympathy.
Hadrian watched intently, feeling the tension in the air. He knew this was part of the harsh reality of the North—the justice that came swiftly and without mercy. But there was something about this man's claim that made his gut twist.
The deserter let out a pitiful cry as Ned raised Ice. With one swift, clean motion, Ned Stark severed the man's head from his body. It rolled in the snow, leaving a trail of blood in the frozen ground.
The silence that followed was thick with the gravity of what had just occurred. Hadrian stood with his hand resting lightly on Prong's reins, his mind already racing with the implications of the deserter's final words. The White Walkers. Had they truly returned? The thought lingered in his mind like a shadow, but there was no time to dwell on it now.
Ned wiped the blood from his blade, then turned to Bran, who had been watching quietly from his horse. He was the youngest of the Stark children, but there was a weight in his eyes that made him seem older than he was.
"Bran," Ned said, his voice steady, but with a note of expectation, "do you understand why I had to do it?"
Bran looked up at his father, his expression serious, but unsure. "Because... you're Lord of Winterfell?"
Ned shook his head, his gaze firm. "No, Bran. That is part of it, but not the reason."
Bran looked confused, so Ned continued, stepping closer to him. "The reason is because I gave the sentence. Whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword. That is the way of our house, the way of the North. A man who makes the judgment must also bear the weight of the action." His voice was somber, yet it carried a lesson that Bran would carry with him for the rest of his life.
Hadrian couldn't help but feel the truth of those words. It was not just about power—it was about responsibility. He knew that, in this world, every decision came with consequences, and it was the ones in power who had to live with those consequences.
Bran nodded slowly, taking in his father's words. Hadrian could see the young Stark boy processing it all, understanding that his journey toward becoming Lord of Winterfell would be marked by such moments of weighty responsibility.
As the group turned their horses back toward Winterfell, Robb Stark, who had been quiet for most of the journey, finally spoke up, his voice steady, but a hint of concern in his eyes. "Father," he asked, looking at Ned, "do you believe the deserter saw the White Walkers?"
Ned Stark's face was unreadable as he mounted his horse. He glanced at Robb, then looked toward the horizon, the wind tugging at his cloak. The question seemed to weigh heavily on him, but he didn't rush to answer.
"I don't know, Robb," Ned said after a long pause. "I've seen nothing to suggest that the White Walkers have returned. But there are things beyond our understanding in the world, and this man's panic was real. We cannot afford to ignore what he said."
Hadrian, riding beside them, felt the tension rise. The mere mention of the White Walkers carried a sense of dread that no one in the group could fully shake. He had heard stories, tales whispered in the dark, about creatures that roamed beyond the Wall, a terror from the ancient past. Could they truly be returning? He could feel the weight of that possibility like a heavy stone pressing down on his chest.
Robb, ever the pragmatic leader, seemed deep in thought. "So, you think he might have been telling the truth?"
Ned's eyes met his son's, his gaze firm. "I don't know, but I've learned long ago that it's better to prepare for the worst than to ignore a danger until it's too late."
As the group rode back toward Winterfell, the sound of hoofbeats crunching in the snow was interrupted by Robb's sharp voice. "Look there!"
They all turned to see a massive stag lying dead in the snow. Its chest had been gored, blood staining the white ground around it. Most strikingly, one of its antlers was broken clean off, jagged and splintered as if from a brutal fight.
Theon dismounted first, circling the carcass. "That's no ordinary stag," he said, nudging it with the toe of his boot. "Something big took it down."
Ned Stark followed, inspecting the wound with a grim expression. "Not something. Someone."
Jon frowned, leaning forward on his horse. "You think it's a poacher?"
"Poachers don't break antlers like that," Robb said, his voice steady but curious.
Before they could deliberate further, Bran called out from a little way ahead, his voice carrying over the quiet forest. "Father! Over here!"
The group spurred their horses forward, finding Bran standing next to a massive dead direwolf. Its size was staggering—larger than any wolf Hadrian had ever seen. Blood streaked its pale fur, and the sight of the animal, frozen and lifeless in the snow, sent a chill through the air.
"It's a direwolf," Jon said quietly, dismounting to get a closer look.
Theon smirked, crouching next to it. "There hasn't been a direwolf south of the Wall in two hundred years."
"And now there are five," Bran said, pointing to the small, squirming pups nestled against their mother's side.
Bran slid off his pony, his wide eyes fixed on the wolf. "Can I keep it?"
Ned shook his head firmly. "No. It's dead, Bran. We can't do anything for it."
"But Father—" Bran started, but his words were cut off by a sharp cry from within the direwolf's body.
"No!" Bran cried, stepping protectively in front of the pups. "Father, please! They're just babies!"
"They'll die on their own, Bran," Ned said, his voice softening but resolute.
Jon, who had been quiet until now, straightened and turned to his father. "There are five pups," he said, his tone calm but firm. "One for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your house. They were meant to have them."
Ned hesitated, his gaze flickering between his son and the pups. The weight of tradition and practicality warred within him.
Jon's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. Ned sighed, running a hand over his face. "Fine," he said at last. "Each of you will take one. But you'll feed them, train them, and care for them. They're your responsibility."
The children's faces lit up as they hurried to claim their pups. Robb picked up a bold and sturdy one with dark fur, grinning at its energy.
The group prepared to leave, the five direwolf pups distributed among the Stark children. Bran held his carefully, cradling it like a fragile treasure.
Ned mounted his horse, his tone firm. "Let's move. We've lingered long enough."
As everyone began to turn their horses, Jon stopped abruptly. His sharp gaze swept across the snow-covered ground.
"Wait," Jon said, holding up a hand.
Ned sighed, exasperation flickering in his voice. "Jon, we've found all there are."
"No," Jon replied firmly. "There's one more. I can feel it."
Hadrian watched Jon dismount and step toward the tree line, a focused determination in his stride. Something about Jon's certainty stirred Hadrian to act. He dismounted and followed, his boots crunching in the snow.
The others exchanged looks but waited, curiosity overtaking impatience.
Jon paused, brushing aside the snow under a low-hanging branch. His expression softened as he lifted a small, white pup from the frost. Its fur was like freshly fallen snow, its eyes red as burning embers.
Jon turned to face the group, holding the pup gently in his arms. "This one's mine," he said quietly, but with an unshakable tone.
As he spoke, a faint whimper broke through the cold air. Hadrian froze, his ears straining to locate the sound. Another whimper followed, weaker this time.
"You hear that?" Hadrian said, stepping further from the group.
"What now?" Theon groaned. "We don't have all day to go chasing shadows."
"Quiet," Robb snapped, his curiosity piqued.
Hadrian moved carefully, his instincts guiding him. Behind a snowdrift, partially hidden by tangled branches, he spotted a smaller pup. Its fur was jet-black, save for a streak of silver that ran along its spine. Pale, icy eyes stared up at him, unblinking but alert.
Hadrian knelt, extending a hand slowly. The pup sniffed him cautiously before nudging his fingers with its cold, wet nose. Without hesitation, he lifted it into his arms.
"I think I've found mine," Hadrian said, his voice soft but sure.
Jon, holding his own pup, approached and glanced at Hadrian's find. "Looks like they were waiting for us," Jon said with a faint smile.
Hadrian smirked, looking down at the pup in his arms."Padfoot."
"Padfoot?" Jon asked, approaching on foot with Ghost cradled in his arms. His white pup was calm, its red eyes unblinking as it took in the world around it.
Hadrian glanced down at the black pup in his arms, her pale eyes bright with intelligence. "Yeah," he said softly. "It was just meant to be."
The tiny direwolf lifted her head at the sound of her name, tilting it slightly as though understanding. Her ears twitched, and she let out a small, approving bark that made Hadrian's lips curve into a rare smile.
"She likes it," Jon remarked, amusement flickering in his voice.
Hadrian stroked the streak of silver down Padfoot's back, his touch gentle. "She knows it's hers," he replied, a touch of wonder in his tone.
Robb leaned over from his saddle, grinning. "Looks like she already listens better than Theon's going to."
Theon snorted, rolling his eyes. "Very funny, Robb. Maybe we should see if Padfoot can teach Ghost to howl on command. Or is that runt too quiet for even that?"
Jon gave him a sharp look but said nothing, his focus on Ghost, who lay quietly in his arms.
Padfoot let out another soft bark, her tail wagging weakly as if to challenge Theon's remark.
Hadrian chuckled under his breath, meeting Jon's gaze. "Seems like I've got a fighter," he said, cradling Padfoot a little closer.
Jon smirked, nodding. "She suits you."
Ned's voice cut through the moment as he turned his horse toward the trail. "Enough talk," he said firmly. "Let's ride. The day is wasting."
The group moved again, the direwolf pups nestled securely in their arms. Hadrian couldn't help but glance at Padfoot every now and then. She seemed to watch him intently, as if already understanding more than she should.
"She's yours," Jon said quietly as they rode side by side. "Meant to be."
Hadrian nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked out over the snow-dusted landscape. "Yeah," he murmured, his fingers brushing against Padfoot's soft fur. "She always was."
Thanks for reading. This is my first story, that I plan on having more than 20k words. I am a new writer and any and all feedback is appreciated. If you like this idea or this setting, give me some ideas I can incorporate into my later chapters.
- TimeWraith34