HARRYN II
"Merlin's beard," Harryn said, then caught himself—those weren't words anyone in Winterfell would understand.
They'd found Robb on the riverbank north of the bridge, Jon still mounted was hovering beside him with an unusual excitement for the normally sullen boy. Robb stood knee-deep in white, his hood pulled back so the sun shone in his hair. He was cradling something in his arm, while the boys talked in hushed, excited voices.
The riders picked their way carefully through the drifts, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Greyjoy was laughing and joking as he rode until Harryn saw that casual swagger vanish in an instant.
"Gods!" Theon gasped, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.
Jory had already drawn his blade, the steel glinting in the cold light. "Robb, get away from it!" he shouted as his horse reared under him.
Robb just grinned, looking up from the bundle in his arms. "She can't hurt you," he said. "She's dead, Jory."
Harryn strained to see past the clustered riders but could only make out something moving in Robb's arms. Before he could think better of it, he nudged his horse forward only to be stopped by a firm hand on his arm.
His father.
Lord Stark's grip was steady, not harsh, but enough to hold him back.
Harryn swallowed down the instinct to argue. While not particularly obedient, he never had been, even as Harry Poter, this was his father. It was an odd feeling—familiar yet still foreign. He'd never had this before. James Potter had died before he could remember him. Vernon Dursley… the less said about him, the better. And Sirius, his godfather, the one person who might have filled that role, had been ripped away just as quickly as he had appeared.
Eddard Stark was the first solid and present role model Harryn ever had, offering not just authority but care.
So instead of protesting, instead of feeling the frustration that he might have felt as a teenager in his old life, he simply nodded and they swung down from their saddles, leaving the horses beside the bridge.
Harryn dropped almost waist-deep into a snow drift. Winter was coming, as the Stark words promised, and the late summer snows had been growing heavier leaving scattered snowdrifts that made the ground treacherous for horses.
By then Jon, Jory, and Theon Greyjoy had all dismounted as well. "What in the seven hells is it?" Greyjoy was saying.
"A wolf," Robb told him.
"A freak," Greyjoy said. "Look at the size of it."
Harryn pushed past Jon to see for himself. Half-buried in bloodstained snow, was the biggest wolf he had ever seen. It was monstrous, twice the size of the largest hound in his father's kennel. The paws alone were larger than dinner plates, with claws that could disembowel a man with a single swipe.
Now it was dead, with blind eyes crawling with maggots, and a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of decay clung to it.
"It's a direwolf," Father said. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body and reached under the wolf's head with his hand. "Tough old beast," He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler wet with blood.
"There are no direwolves south of the Wall," Robb said. Harryn tore his eyes away from the wolf. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb's arms. It nuzzled blindly against Robb's chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound.
"Now there are five," Jon said. He picked up another pup still trying to drink from its dead mother's teat. "Do you want to hold it?"
Harryn held out his arms as Jon handed the pup over. Its fur was all black and soft and warm against his cheek.
"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," muttered Hullen, the master of horse. "I like it not."
"It is a sign," Jory said.
Father frowned. "This is only a dead animal, Jory," he said. Yet he seemed troubled.
A sudden silence descended over the party. The men looked at the antler uneasily, and no one dared to speak.
Harryn wanted to roll his eyes at the superstition. His father was right. This was just a dead animal. He didn't know if Divination existed in this world, but even if it did, he doubted anyone here had been trained to read signs.
His father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. "I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp," he said. His voice broke the spell.
"Maybe she didn't," Jory said. "I've heard tales… maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came."
"They don't belong down here," Rodrik Cassel, Jory's father put in.
Father nodded. "Better a quick death," he said. "They won't last without their mother."
Theon pulled a dagger from his belt and reached for the all-black pup in Harryn's arm. "Right, give it here," he said.
Harryn batted the squid's hand away and his brother Robb glared at Theon. "Put away your blade," Robb said. For a moment he sounded as commanding as their father, like the lord he would someday be.
"I take orders from your father, not you," Theon said.
"Lord Stark," Jon said. It was strange to hear him call their father that, so formal. "There are five pups," he told Father. "Three male, two female."
"What of it, Jon?"
"You have five trueborn children," Jon said. "Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."
Harryn saw his father's face change, and saw the other men exchange glances. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who had the surname Snow.
Their father understood as well. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" he asked softly.
"The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark," Jon pointed out. "I am no Stark, Father."
The lord weighed his sons long and carefully with his eyes. "Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants' time with this. If you want these pups, you will train them yourselves. Is that understood? The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that."
Harryn nodded eagerly. The black pup squirmed in his arms, licking at his face with a warm tongue.
"You will feed them yourselves," their father continued. "and if they die, you will bury them yourselves."
"Yes, Father," Robb said.
"Yes," Harryn agreed.
"Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."
Harryn carefully tucked the black pup into his leathers, making sure it was snuggled against his chest, warm and safe for the ride home. He was wondering what to name him when halfway to the bridge, Jon suddenly stopped. His half-brother stood rigid, head tilted as though listening to something only he could hear.
"What is it?" Robb asked.
"Can't you hear it?"
Harryn could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, and the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.
Jon walked down closer to the river. He knelt and reached into a drift near the base of a tree, arms disappearing into the white powder. When he straightened, he held something in his hands.
A sixth pup.
This one was different from the others—its fur as white as the snow it had been buried in, with eyes that were blood-red.
"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.
"The runt of the litter," Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. "That one is yours, Snow."
Harryn watched as Jon's jaw tightened, but instead of responding to Theon's taunt, Jon simply tucked the white pup into his own cloak and mounted his horse.
The ride back to Winterfell was slower than their journey out. Harryn kept the black pup against his chest. Occasionally, he felt the tiny creature squirm against his chest, seeking warmth and comfort or making soft whimpering sounds when jostled too much by the horse's movements.
Ahead, Robb rode beside their father, no doubt discussing the deserter. Behind them, Theon was laughing at something with Jory. Jon rode alone, several paces behind Father and Robb, as he often did when he was brooding.
Harryn nudged his horse forward until he was riding alongside Jon. His half-brother glanced at him, surprised.
"You've got proof now," Harryn said, nodding at the white fur peeking from Jon's cloak.
"Of what?" Jon asked, sullenly. He was in one of his broodier moods.
"That you're as much a Stark as any of us," Harryn said.
Jon's jaw tightened, and he looked straight ahead. "I'm a Snow," he said simply.
"You're our brother," Harryn insisted. "Mine and Robb's and Arya's and—"
"Not in the eyes of the realm," Jon cut him off, his voice tight. "Not in the eyes of your mother."
"Not in the eyes of the realm," Jon cut him off, his voice tight. "Not in the eyes of your mother."
The words stung, though they weren't directed at Harryn himself. But it was the truth, wasn't it? As far as bastards went, Harryn knew Jon had it better than most. Their father had brought him home after the war and raised him alongside his trueborn children in Winterfell. Jon attended the same lessons with Maester Luwin, trained in the yard with Ser Rodrik, and sat at the same table as the rest of them—though never at the high table when there were guests.
But it wasn't the same. It could never be the same.
As much as Harryn wanted to pretend otherwise, Jon was always held at a distance. Lady Stark made sure of that.
Harryn didn't like thinking ill of his mother. She was everything he had wished for as a child—loving, protective, and fierce in her devotion to her children. She would brush his hair when he was younger and sing to him when he was ill.
Harryn loved her deeply. How could he not? She was the mother he had always wanted. But the way she treated Jon reminded Harryn too much of Petunia.
It wasn't the same, of course. Catelyn Stark was no Petunia Dursley. She never locked Jon in a cupboard, starved him, or called him a freak. But that cold distance, the subtle but deliberate exclusion as if afraid his bastard status might somehow contaminate them.
Harryn had lived with that for eleven years, and then for every summer after until his death. He knew what it felt like to be unwanted in your own home, to be reminded daily that you didn't belong.
Once, when he was six, he had asked her why she was always so cold to Jon.
"He is not my son," she had said simply as if that explained everything.
"But he's my brother," Harryn had insisted.
Her face had softened then, but only for him. "Half-brother," she corrected gently. "And you are too young to understand, my sweet."
But he wasn't too young. He understood perfectly. Jon was living proof of his father's infidelity, a constant reminder of the one time the honorable Eddard Stark had broken his vows. And Catelyn Stark could not forgive that.
Which was stupid and had really ruined Harryn's perfect image of his mother. She could forgive her husband, who was the one who cheated, but not Jon who had no say in how he was conceived. Why?
Or maybe she hadn't forgiven Lord Stark at all, and she was just directing the anger she felt towards him at Jon.
And the worst part was, it wasn't even Jon's fault. How ridiculous was that? The child was blamed for the parents' mistake. In his old world, if someone's parents weren't married, it wasn't some huge scandal, certainly nothing that would taint a person for life. But here? In this world? A bastard was less than nothing, marked forever, no matter how noble or good or worthy they were.
"It's not fair," Harryn muttered, knowing how childish it sounded even as the words left his mouth.
Jon finally looked at him, a sad smile ghosting across his face. "No," he agreed. "But it's the way of things."
Before Harryn could argue, Jon reached over and ruffled his hair, much as he had done when they were younger. "Don't trouble yourself over it," he said. "I've made my peace with who I am."
Harryn wanted to protest, to tell Jon that he shouldn't have to make peace with it, that it was all just stupid politics and empty traditions. But Jon had already turned forward again.
This would just be one of those things about Westeros that would never quite settle right in his mind. Oh, there were fun parts to this new life he was living—Jez and her big tits, learning to fight with a sword, riding in the wild forests of the North, growing up with a family that loved him. It was more than he had ever had in his first life, and he wasn't blind to that. But underneath the warmth of Winterfell, underneath the laughter with Robb and Arya, there was always that undercurrent of difference. A set of rules and traditions that made no sense to him. Back in his world, being born to the wrong parents might mean growing up poor, or with fewer opportunities, but it didn't brand you. It didn't make you some untouchable thing, fit only for pity or scorn.
Harryn sighed and sat back in his saddle, his fingers absently stroking the black pup in his arms. By the time the high stone walls of Winterfell loomed in the distance, the holdfast standing strong against the pale sky, its towers, and turrets dark against the afternoon light with smoke curling lazily from the chimneys, promising warmth and the smell of roasting meat from the kitchens to break their fast, it was almost midday.
They passed through the open gates, and the sounds of Winterfell greeted them—men calling out orders, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer against steel, the distant barking of dogs from the kennels. The yard was bustling with movement as stable hands rushed forward to take the horses.
Harryn's father dismounted first. He handed the reins of his mount to a waiting boy before turning toward the godswood. He always went there after carrying out an execution.
Theon and the guards moved to unsaddle the horses, while Jon slid from his mount, his cloak shifting slightly as the small white pup beneath it wriggled. He gave Harryn a nod before heading toward the keep. "I'll find Arya, Sansa, and Rickon," he said.
Robb stretched, rolling his shoulders as he turned to Harryn. "We should take the pups to the kitchens. They can nurse from towels soaked in warm milk."
Harryn glanced toward the kennels, a thought forming. "Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," he said. "It was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough."
"She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse."
Harryn hummed thoughtfully, adjusting his hold on the small black pup. The laws of the wizarding world didn't apply here, no one would know if he used one of the Unforgivable Curses, they wouldn't even know.
"Maybe. But I think it will work."
Robb gave him a skeptical look but gestured for him to lead the way.
The kennels were warm and thick with the scent of straw, fur, and damp earth. The sound of barking echoed through the stone enclosure, a chorus of eager, restless hounds.
Farlen, the grizzled kennelmaster at Winterfell, looked up from where he had been tending to a young hound. His weathered face creased in a frown. "Lord Robb, Lord Harryn, what are you boys doing here?"
Robb gestured to the small direwolf pups nestled in their arms. "Their mother died, and Ser Rodrik's bitch just whelped. Harryn thought she might have enough milk to nurse them."
Farlen snorted, shaking his head. "Aye, she whelped, but she won't take kindly to another's pups. Especially not wolves." His gaze dropped to the squirming black pup in Harryn's arms. "She'll tear them apart before she lets them near her own."
Harryn stepped forward, ignoring the warning. The red dog lifted her head as he approached, her dark eyes locking onto his. She was curled in her straw nest, her body wrapped protectively around two squirming puppies. Her ears flattened, and a low growl rumbled deep in her chest.
Robb sighed. "Harryn, I told you—"
The dog's growl faded. Her body relaxed, the tension bleeding from her frame. Her ears drooped slightly, her once-defensive posture turning passive. She blinked up at Harryn, her gaze unfocused but calm.
The kennelmaster took a wary step forward. "Well, I'll be damned…" He scratched at his greying beard, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "I've never seen her act like that before."
Harryn shrugged and stepped into the pen. "Maybe she just knows we mean no harm."
Farlen huffed. "Hmph. Not likely. That bitch barely lets me near her when she's nursing."
Still, the proof was right in front of them. When Harryn carefully placed the first direwolf pup near the red dog's belly, she merely sniffed at it before giving the pup a slow, lazy lick. She shifted slightly to allow it better access, then settled back into the straw as if nothing were amiss.
Garth let out a low whistle. "Bloody miracle."
Robb knelt beside Harryn, shaking his head in amusement. "I don't believe it either." He placed another pup down, watching as it instinctively wriggled toward the warmth of the mother dog's belly. "Looks like you were right, little brother."
Farlen folded his arms, still eyeing the scene with suspicion. "I don't know how you managed that, but I won't argue with the results." He jabbed a finger toward the boys. "But if she turns on them in the night, it'll be on your heads, not mine."
The sounds of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor leading to the kennels. Harryn turned just as Jon arrived with the rest of their siblings in tow. Arya was the first to appear, skidding to a stop just inside the kennels, her wild brown hair escaping from the loose braid down her back. "Puppies!" she shouted, knocking into Jon in her excitement.
Sansa was only a few steps behind her, moving with far more grace and poise. She was always trying to copy their mother. Her face lit up with delight when she saw the tiny creatures nestled against the red bitch. "Oh!" she gasped, clapping her hands together. "They're adorable!"
Rickon came last, half-hidden behind their mother's skirts, his little hands clutching the fabric as he peeked into the kennel with wide, uncertain eyes. He was only a small boy, and while the direwolf pups were little more than squirming bundles of fur, they were still strange to him. He pressed closer to his mother, his grip tightening on her dress.
"Where did you even find them?" Arya demanded, shoving past Harryn to get a closer look.
"North of the bridge," Robb answered, crouching down next to the red dog, who remained peacefully curled around her expanded litter. "They were with their mother. She didn't make it."
Arya's expression flickered, but she quickly recovered, reaching out to stroke the soft fur of one of the pups. "Well, they're ours now," she declared.
One of the direwolf pups gave a sudden high-pitched bark. Rickon, still half-hidden behind Lady Stark, was startled before breaking into a fit of giggles. His tiny fingers unclenched from her skirts as he reached out toward the silver and smoke-grey pup that had made the noise.
"You like that one?" Robb asked, crouching down and scooping up the small pup in one hand.
Rickon hesitated before nodding. His fingers twitched, unsure, but when Robb gently placed the pup in his arms, the little boy grinned. The pup squirmed but didn't struggle, licking at Rickon's small fingers.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
Harryn turned to see Maester Luwin entering the kennels, his chain clinking slightly with each step. He held a small scroll in his hands, sealed with wax.
"Lady Stark," he said, inclining his head respectfully. "A message arrived for you."
She turned toward him, still smiling slightly, her attention half on her children as she reached for the parchment. "From whom?"
"King's Landing," Luwin answered.
Harryn watched his mother break the wax seal and unroll the parchment. Her eyes scanned the page, and in the next breath, she gasped softly.
Robb heard it, too. "What is it, Mother?" he asked.
Lady Stark shook her head quickly, rolling the parchment back up. "I must speak with your father."
Without another word, she gathered her skirts and turned, hurrying out of the kennels toward the godswood, where they all knew their father would be.
Harryn watched her go, frowning slightly. What was in that message?
King's Landing was the capital of Westeros. Where three hundred years ago Aegon the Conqueror had first landed his army after sailing from Dragonstone. It could be anything, but Lady Stark's reaction made it clear it was important. Something big.
His thoughts were interrupted by another small bark. The silver-grey pup in Rickon's arms let out a happy yip, making Rickon giggle again.
Robb ruffled Rickon's hair. "Looks like he's yours now," he said. "What are you going to name him?"
There will be a slight change in which direwolf the Starks kids have. 10 points to Gryfinndor if you can guess what the change is and what Harryn will name his direwolf!
Hint: It's a name from Harry Potter!