HARRYN I

Harryn hated leaving the warmth of Jez's body. He had left her standing in his chambers, her thighs slick with his seed, looking exactly like what she was—a woman well-fucked and satisfied. The sight of her standing there, milk leaking from her swollen tits, sweaty and face-flushed after their kiss. Gods, he could have stayed in her all day, but duty called.

The summons had come before dawn, and now he found himself stepping out into the predawn chill to find his horse already saddled, his father and brothers mounted and waiting.

Despite still being summer, he wore thick brown gloves and a heavy fur cloak with a hood that covered his ears. The morning had dawned crisp and cold, with a thin veil of mist clinging to the ground, curling around the hooves of the horses as they set out at first light, twenty in all, to see a man beheaded.

Harryn's mind was still back in Winterfell. His thoughts of Jez, the warmth of her body and the sounds she made when he was inside of her. In his previous life as Harry Potter, he had died without ever knowing a woman's touch. The Boy Who Lived had died The Boy Who Never Got To Have Sex. A virgin who spent all his time fighting dark wizards and hunting Horcruxes, never once getting to experience one of life's greatest pleasures.

Now, in this new life, after having tasted that pleasure, he couldn't get enough. Had he known what he was missing in his previous life, he might have been more reckless, might have found time between hunting Horcruxes to take Ginny to bed, or perhaps even Hermione when Ron had abandoned them.

At least this time around, he'd learned to take his pleasures where he could find them. His horse trotted steadily beneath him, each step jostling him and reminding him of where he'd rather be—buried deep inside Jez, her milk-heavy tits in his hands, her cries in his ears as she rode him.

Instead, he was riding out to witness his father execute some poor bastard. The injustice of it all made him scowl. He'd spent his first life fighting for others, sacrificing his own happiness and ultimately his life for people who'd barely appreciated it. And now he was born into another life of duty and honor and politics.

Harryn let out a long sigh, watching as his breath steamed in the cold morning air, a faint ghost that drifted away before vanishing altogether. When he had taken his last breath as Harry Potter, he wasn't expecting his next adventure to be quite like this. He hadn't known what would happen after he boarded the train at King's Cross. Eternal sleep maybe, or the chance to talk with his parents and the friends he lost.

Instead of the peaceful afterlife he'd imagined, he found himself blinded by light so bright it made his eyes water. It had been unbearable at first, but gradually shapes began to form in the blur, and soon enough, the bright haze gave way to a clearer picture and Harry found himself staring up at a face hovering above his. Not just any face—the kind that stops you dead in your tracks. She was all sharp angles and soft features somehow working together—high cheekbones, thick auburn hair falling in a curtain around her face, to roughly frame her cheeks, and deep blue eyes that were soft and kind. By her side was a young man with long brown hair and dark grey eyes looking down at him.

The woman had leaned closer to him with a warm smile, her lips moving as she spoke.

"I thought perhaps Sansa for the girl," she had said.

The man considered this, his hand gently stroking his beard. "Sansa Stark," he said, testing the name, and then nodded. "And the boy, Cat?"

Cat? Was that the woman's name? Harry had wondered, at the time still not sure what was happening. He had assumed it short for something, Catherine, or maybe Kathy, and he was right.

Cat was short for Catelyn Stark, his new mother.

"I thought perhaps you would like to name your son," Catelyn said softly. "You were still at war when Robb was born, Ned."

Again, at the time Harry was still confused. Son? Whoever this 'Ned' guy was, he was not James Potter, so Harry couldn't possibly be his son. He had opened his mouth to tell them that they had made a mistake, but when he opened his mouth, the words he wanted to say came out as nothing but garbled babbling.

"Ahh…Waah…"

Harry's cheeks had burned with humiliation. What was wrong with him? And what were they talking about names for? He had a name, it was Harry!

Harry!

Harry!

Ned's eyes seemed to grow foggy for a split second and then he said, "Harry,"

Harry saw the tired woman blink in surprise. "Harry?" she repeated the name.

Ned blinked, then nodded. "Short for Harryn," he said, "after Jon Arryn."

Cat smiled brightly. "Robb and Harryn," she said, "strong names from strong men."

Then suddenly Ned leaned down and reached for Harry.

"Wait, what are you—hey! Don't—"

Harry was trying to tell the guy to back off and not touch him. Again, what came out was nothing like what he wanted to say:

"Waah…Ahh…!"

Ned scooped him up. Effortlessly. Like Harry weighed nothing at all. How the hell was this guy so strong? Harry had never been overweight and was certainly not close to Dudley or Vernon in size, but he was still a grown man. No one should've been able to pick him up this easily, not without being part giant.

A minute later, it became clear to him: he was a baby.

Harryn adjusted his grip on the reins, his fingers curling against the worn leather as they rode. Life as a baby had been a special kind of hell. Trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn, he had spent the first months of this new life a prisoner in a jail of soft flesh and uncoordinated limbs. His brain remembered exactly how to do everything—walk, talk, use eating utensils—but his body? The traitorous little meat puppet couldn't even scratch its own nose.

The worst part was the complete and utter lack of control over literally everything. Need to take a shit? Too bad, he was doing it right there in his diaper. And the cleanup? Merlin help him, getting his ass wiped by someone else was one of the most embarrassing things that had ever happened to him. Lying there helpless while one of the Stark's servants, who was younger than he was in his past life wiped places he'd rather not think about, all while cooing, "Who's a handsome little lord?"

Speaking of speaking—Harryn hadn't been able to. It was hard to put into words how frustrating it was having his vocabulary reduced to "goo-goo" and "ga-ga" because his stupid baby mouth couldn't form proper words. When he tried to tell his new parents he was hungry he ended up blowing a spit bubble. His parents thought it was adorable. Harryn thought it was mortifying.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for breastfeeding. The first time it happened, he felt like a creep violating a boundary. Face-to-breast with a set of pale, veined, swollen breasts, the areola dark and stretched, with tiny bumps, he could feel against my tongue because apparently that's a thing babies can sense to help them feed. Every time his wetnurse, Jez, had unbuttoned her shirt, he tried to dissociate into another dimension. Sometimes a drop of milk beaded at the tip before he latched, and his baby brain flooded with dopamine and pure satisfaction, while his adult mind screamed in horror. What was the proper etiquette when he was literally sucking milk from a stranger's breast? Should he close his eyes? Maintain eye contact? Pretend this wasn't the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to him.

The rhythm of it—suck, swallow, breathe—felt completely involuntary. Harryn's new body knew exactly what to do, and sometimes he drifted off into a milk-drunk haze. The warmth, the closeness, the pure animal satisfaction of hunger being met.

For a few blissful moments, Harryn forgot about the absurdity of it all. It was terrifying how quickly you could adjust to something so fundamentally weird. Eventually, Harryn found himself looking forward to it when he was hungry and accepted his body's desperate, primal need for milk. The moment his stomach started growling, he became just another screaming infant, dignity be damned.

"…beyond the wall?"

Harryn blinked as he suddenly realized someone was talking to him. His older brothers Robb and Jon had slowed their horses to trot beside his. Robb had been the one who spoke and was looking at him, waiting for an answer to the question Harryn hadn't even heard.

Jon noticed and explained, "Robb thinks it's a wildling they caught, sworn to Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall."

The thought made Harryn's skin tickle. He remembered the tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

Harryn didn't believe Old Nan's tales. They were fun stories to scare Arya and Sansa with, but that was all they were, stories. Uncle Benjen had been North of the Wall, so Harryn believed what he told them when he visited. The wildlings were no different from them, if a little rougher maybe. They were hard people, who lived hard lives beyond the wall.

But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king's justice was no wildling. He was young and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He dressed all in black, the same as Uncle Benjen, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

Harryn sat tall and still on his horse as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them. He had seen justice done before. There was no nervous excitement in him now, no childish eagerness to prove himself to his new family. Just quiet acceptance.

It had been fun at first, and after going through the indignity of being a newborn, Harryn felt like being praised for his intelligence was something he deserved.

"The boy has a mind that comes once in a generation," Maester Luwin had told Lord Stark one evening when they thought Harryn wasn't listening.

Despite how old he was mentally, Harryn's child-like brain had reveled in the attention he'd never gotten as a child in his first life. Walking and talking at a far younger age than his brothers and sisters, picking up his sums faster, and being able to recall anything to do with memorization like geography, history, and house sigils.

Unfortunately, not all good things last.

It had been the third year of summer, and the seventh of Harryn's life, still three years younger than Robb and Jon when they were all deemed old enough to go with their lord father to see the king's justice done.

Harryn had still been too small for a horse and ridden out on a pony with the men of Winterfell to see his first execution. The condemned was a poacher caught hunting on lands that weren't his and who killed one of the men who found him.

A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Two guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump. Frostbite had claimed his ears and a finger, leaving raw, blackened stumps where flesh had once been.

"I know I broke my oath," the deserter said, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and fear. "I know what I did. I know I'm a deserter. I should've gone back to the Wall and warned them, but…" His breath hitched, and for a moment, his gaze flickered over the gathered men, desperate for understanding. "I saw what I saw. I saw them White Walkers."

Harryn's father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. The white threading through his closely trimmed beard seemed more pronounced today, making him look older than his thirty-five years.

The deserter knelt in the dirt, his breath ragged, his body trembling as the guards forced his head down onto the hard black wood. Lord Eddard Stark dismounted and his ward Theon Greyjoy

Ice was the biggest sword Harryn had ever seen. It was as wide across as a man's hand and was longer tip-to-hilt than Robb was tall. The blade was Valyrian steel, spell forged and dark as smoke.

"If you can get word to my family, tell them I'm no coward. Tell them I'm sorry."

His father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of the household guard. He took hold of ice with both hands and said, "In the Name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

Harryn didn't look away as his father lifted the greatsword. In the wizarding world, they'd had Azkaban and for the worst of the worst, the Dementors Kiss. He shuddered slightly in his saddle. Harryn would never forget the strong, clammy hands around his neck, forcing his face upward, the putrid breath, his mother was screaming in his ears.

Was that more merciful than a clean stroke from Ice, his father's greatsword? To have your soul sucked out through your mouth, leaving your body empty but still alive, still breathing... a shell without memory or emotion or self.

His father took off the man's head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine.

The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Theon's feet. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away.

"Locomotor Wibbly!" Harryn muttered, low enough so no one could hear and Theon's legs turned to jelly, giving out beneath him and sending the squid collapsing in the snow.

Theon scrambled in the snow, his arms flailing as he tried to push himself up, but the moment Jory Cassel reached down to help him, his legs gave out once more. He crashed back onto his side with an undignified grunt.

Robb let out a loud bark of laughter, doubling over in his saddle, while Jon pressed his lips together turned his head away in a failed attempt to hide his amusement.

Jory, ever the dutiful captain of the guard, frowned in concern. "Gods, lad, did you twist your ankle?"

"No, I—!" Theon slipped again, flailing in the snow.

Harryn decided twice was enough. Any more, and someone might start to suspect something was amiss. He used the counter-jinx to give Theon his legs back and when Theon carefully planted his hands in the snow and forced himself upright, this time, he stayed standing.

"Oh, laugh it up," he grumbled, brushing the snow off his cloak with stiff, jerky movements and shooting a dark look in Robb's direction. "Probably just some damned ice beneath the snow."

Robb grinned at him, still struggling to smother his amusement. "Aye, Theon. Whatever you say."

Harryn nudged his horse forward as their father signaled for them to begin the ride back. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Magic was something he had to be careful with. He hadn't used much of it in this life, mostly for practice to teach himself wandless magic, and every time he cast a spell, it was like flexing a muscle he hadn't used in years, an itch just beneath his skin, urging him to do more.

But that was dangerous.

Magic didn't exist in this world. At least, not like it had in his old one. There were whispers of sorcery—shadowbinders in Asshai, wildings that could take the body of an animal, the old tales of the Children of the Forest—but nothing like Hogwarts, wands, or spellbooks. If he was caught performing magic, what would they think? Would they see him as some kind of monster? A demon? Would his own family fear him?

Harryn didn't want to find out.

There was a reason for the Statue of Secrecy in the Wizarding World.

As they rode, Robb turned to him, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.

"What do you think, Harryn?"

Harryn blinked. "About what?"

"The deserter," Robb clarified. "Do you think he was telling the truth? About the White Walkers?"

Jon scoffed. "They're just stories, Robb."

Harryn hesitated. He thought of the way the deserter's voice had shaken, the way his eyes had darted, wild with fear. That hadn't been the look of a liar. "I don't know," he said at last. "But what if he wasn't lying?"

Robb frowned, but Jon only shook his head.

"Then the Wall will hold," Jon said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "That's what it's there for."

"True or not, the deserter died bravely," Robb said. "He had courage, at the least."

"No," Jon said quietly. "It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark."

Robb was not impressed. "The Others take his eyes," he swore. "He died well. Race you to the bridge?"

"Done," Jon said, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, the hooves of their horses kicking up showers of snow as they went.

Harryn did not try to follow. After a while, the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.

"I saw them. I saw the White Walkers."

The deserter had spoken them with such raw terror that Harryn couldn't simply dismiss them as the ramblings of a madman.

So, what if he had been telling the truth?

Harryn had seen the return of Voldemort ignored, the Ministry of Magic turning a blind eye, people comforting themselves with lies because the truth was too terrifying to face.

What if the same thing was happening here?

There was no proof the White Walkers had returned, but he also had no proof they hadn't.

And that was enough to worry him.

He needed more information. If the Others—the White Walkers—had returned, there had to be some record of them, something more than Old Nan's bedtime stories.

That meant Winterfell's library.

There had to be something in the records—something more than Old Nan's tales. If there was even a hint of truth to what the deserter had said, he needed to find it.

A small flicker of amusement crossed his face at the thought. Hermione would have loved this.

She would have thrown herself into the research, piling book after book around her, parchment and ink at the ready. He could almost hear her voice, excited and slightly breathless, as she uncovered some obscure passage that no one had thought to read in centuries.

Hermione would have figured this out in half the time it would take him.

But she wasn't here.

Harryn swallowed down the familiar ache and set his jaw. He had accepted his new life, but there were still moments like this—fleeting seconds where he wished, more than anything, that his friends were here with him. That he could talk to them, laugh with them, hear Hermione's exasperated sigh when Ron made a joke, or see her triumphant smile when she knew she was right and everyone else did too.

So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him. "Are you well, Harry?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Yes, Father," Harryn told him. He looked up. Wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse, his lord father loomed over him like a giant. "Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid."

"What do you think?" his father asked.

Harryn thought about it. "Do you think a man can still be brave if he's afraid?"

He had died once, walked willingly to his death in a forest not unlike this one. He'd accepted it then, embraced it even. For the greater good. For his friends. Even then, in the end, he had been afraid.

"That is the only time a man can be brave," his father told him.

That was when Jon reappeared on the crest of the hill before them. He waved and shouted down at them. "Father, Harryn, come quickly, see what Robb has found!" Then he was gone again.

Jory rode up beside them. "Trouble, my lord?"

"Beyond a doubt," his lord father said. "Come, let us see what mischief my sons have rooted out now." He sent his horse into a trot. Jory and Harryn and the rest came after.

Sorry for anyone who liked Bran's character, but Harry will be replacing him in the story. Somethings will be similar, but others will be completely different, so don't expect Harryn to just follow in Bran's footsteps.

Stark Family
Ned
Catelyn
Robb
Sansa & Harryn-Twins
Arya
Rickon