The towers of Winterfell rose from the landscape like ancient guardians carved from the very bones of the earth, their weathered grey stones speaking of eight thousand years of Stark rule and Northern pride. As they approached the massive gatehouse, Harry found himself genuinely impressed by the sheer solidity of the fortress—this was a castle built for war, designed to withstand sieges that could last for years, yet there was something welcoming about it as well, something that spoke of home and hearth and safety hard-won.
"Well," Harry murmured, his green eyes taking in the massive walls with an appraising look that spoke of someone who'd seen his share of fortifications, "I have to admit, this is considerably more impressive than the ruins I was expecting to find in medieval Scotland." His tone carried that particular brand of dry wit that had once driven Snape to distraction and now seemed to be his default response to the impossible. "Though I suppose 'medieval' is rather relative when you're discussing castles that predate Stonehenge by several millennia."
Robb's auburn eyebrows rose at the casual mention of Scotland, filing that geographical reference away with all the other strange details about their mysterious guest. His blue eyes, so like his mother's, held the sharp intelligence that would one day make him a king. "Scotland?" he asked with the easy confidence of someone born to command. "Never heard of it. Though Maester Luwin always said there were lands far to the east that we know little about."
"East, west, up, down, sideways through dimensions that don't technically exist yet," Harry replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, his tone so casually matter-of-fact that it took a moment for the words to sink in. "At this point I'm fairly certain I've managed to violate several fundamental laws of physics just by being here. Though I suppose that's nothing new."
Theon shot him a sideways look, his grey-green eyes sharp with the particular brand of skepticism that came from being the hostage son of a conquered house—he'd learned early to spot lies and boasts. "Right," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "because dimensional travel is just something people do on Tuesdays."
"Thursdays, actually," Harry replied without missing a beat, his expression perfectly serious. "Tuesdays are reserved for time travel. Different department entirely. Bit more paperwork involved, and they're frightfully particular about the forms being filled out in triplicate."
Lord Stark—Ned to those closest to him, though few dared use the familiarity—found himself fighting back a smile at the easy banter. There was something refreshing about someone who could make jests in the face of the impossible, though the steel beneath the humor wasn't lost on him. "The outer walls are eighty feet high," he said, steering the conversation back to safer ground, "and twenty feet thick in places. The Great Keep has withstood everything from wildling raids to the dragons of Aegon the Conqueror."
"Dragons," Harry repeated thoughtfully, his hand unconsciously moving to rest on Ignis's pommel in a gesture so natural it spoke of countless battles fought and won. "How wonderfully familiar. Though I suspect your dragons were rather larger than the ones I'm used to dealing with. Also probably less interested in being kept in a school groundskeeper's hut and fed ferrets."
Jon's dark eyes studied Harry's face carefully, looking for signs of deception or boastfulness and finding neither. The bastard son of Winterfell had learned early to read people—it was a survival skill when you lived on the edges of legitimacy. "You've actually faced dragons?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than challenge.
"Hungarian Horntail, Chinese Fireball, Common Welsh Green, and a Norwegian Ridgeback," Harry listed off with the casual air of someone discussing the weather, each name delivered with the sort of precision that spoke of personal, unpleasant experience. "Oh, and there was that rather unpleasant business with a basilisk that was technically a dragon's cousin, though I suspect that's splitting hairs at this point. Hermione would have opinions about the taxonomical classification, but seeing as it was sixty feet long and had fangs like broadswords, I was rather more concerned with the 'how do I kill it before it kills me' aspect of the encounter."
"That sounds..." Jon started, then stopped, clearly struggling to find words adequate to the concept.
"Absolutely barking mad?" Harry suggested helpfully. "Suicidally dangerous? A sign that I should have chosen a nice, quiet career in accounting? Yes, I quite agree. Though I should point out that in most cases, the dragons came to me rather than the other way around. I'm not nearly brave enough to go looking for that sort of trouble on purpose."
Theon snorted, his sharp features twisting into something between amusement and disbelief. "Right, because dragons just pop 'round for tea in whatever mystical land you're from."
"Well, not tea specifically," Harry replied with the sort of deadpan delivery that suggested he was being absolutely literal. "More of a 'let's see if we can barbecue the teenage boy' sort of social call. Dragons have notoriously poor social skills. Something about being apex predators with a hoarding complex, I suspect."
"You say that like it was routine," Jon observed, his bastard's instincts picking up on the subtle tension that underlied Harry's casual tone.
"Sadly, it rather was," Harry replied, and for just a moment the mask slipped, revealing something raw and tired in those impossibly green eyes. "I've had what you might charitably call an eventful life. The sort of eventful that makes bards weep with joy and mothers lock their children indoors for fear of giving them ideas."
The weight of centuries seemed to press down on them as they passed through the gatehouse, and Harry's expression shifted, becoming something more thoughtful as he took in the ancient stones. "It has the feel of a place that's seen history made," he continued, his voice gaining a note of genuine reverence. "Like Hogwarts, in a way. Ancient, enduring, full of stories that the stones themselves remember. Though hopefully with fewer attempted murders per academic year."
"Attempted murders?" Robb asked, his voice sharp with alarm.
"School wasn't exactly what you'd call conventional," Harry replied with characteristic understatement. "Though I suppose when you're dealing with the magical education system, certain adjustments to the curriculum are inevitable. Defense Against the Dark Arts, for instance, had a rather more practical application than most subjects."
Ned nodded approvingly at Harry's observation about the castle, recognizing in the young man's tone someone who understood what it meant to stand in the shadow of history. "Aye," he said simply, his grey eyes holding depths of memory and loss. "The stones remember, even when we forget. Eight thousand years of Starks have walked these halls, and each one has left something of themselves behind."
"Eight thousand years," Harry repeated, clearly impressed. "That's... actually rather humbling. The oldest parts of Hogwarts only go back about a thousand years, and we thought we were doing well for longevity. Though I suppose when your founding motto is 'Never forget,' you're rather committed to the long view."
As they passed through the gatehouse, the bustle of the courtyard enveloped them—servants going about their daily tasks with the efficient bustle of a well-run household, guards drilling with wooden swords under the watchful eye of a grizzled master-at-arms, the rhythmic sound of hammers from the smithy creating a steady counterpoint to the general organized chaos of a great house in motion. Several people stopped what they were doing to stare at the strange procession, their eyes widening as they caught sight of Fawkes perched regally on Harry's shoulder like some herald of legend come to life.
"Word travels fast in a castle," Lord Stark observed with dry amusement as he noticed the gathering crowd, his grey eyes crinkling slightly at the corners in a way that transformed his stern features. "I suspect half of Winterfell will know about our guest before we reach the Great Hall."
"Only half?" Harry replied with raised eyebrows, his own amusement evident as he took in the growing collection of curious faces. "You clearly run a much more disciplined household than Hogwarts. At school, the entire population would have known before I'd made it through the front doors, complete with wildly inaccurate details about my personal life and at least three different rumors about my imminent death. And that was without anyone having a phoenix for dramatic effect."
He glanced at Fawkes, who preened slightly under the attention, clearly enjoying being the center of admiration. "Though I suppose Fawkes does rather make subtlety a lost cause. He's about as inconspicuous as a house fire at a library dedication."
"At least they're being polite about their curiosity," Harry continued, noting how the servants and guards maintained respectful distances while still craning their necks to get a better look. "I've been places where crowds were considerably less... civilized. Nothing quite like a mob of teenage girls armed with quills and demands for autographs to make one appreciate proper Northern reserve. Though I did once have to deal with a group of overly enthusiastic Ministry officials who wanted to award me medals for services I'd rather forget. That was almost worse than the teenage girls."
Theon's sharp features twisted into a grin that was equal parts amusement and disbelief. "Autographs? What are you, some kind of traveling minstrel?"
"Something like that," Harry said vaguely, his tone suggesting there was a much longer and more complicated story behind the casual dismissal. "Though the songs they wrote about me were generally more concerned with property damage and casualty counts than artistic merit. Bards have no appreciation for the finer points of structural engineering when it comes to dramatic battle scenes."
"What sort of casualty counts are we talking about?" Jon asked quietly, his bastard's instincts picking up on the darkness that lurked beneath Harry's casual tone.
Harry was quiet for a moment, his green eyes focusing on something the others couldn't see. "The sort that make you wake up screaming," he said finally, his voice so matter-of-fact that it somehow made the words more chilling. "The sort that make you understand why some victories feel an awful lot like defeats."
Before anyone could respond to that sobering statement, a commotion near the main keep drew their attention—a woman's voice calling out in a tone that mixed authority with barely controlled panic, the sort of voice that could cut through steel when properly motivated and make grown men reconsider their life choices.
"Eddard Stark, where have you been?" Lady Catelyn Stark emerged from the Great Hall like an avenging angel, her auburn hair streaming behind her as she hurried toward them with the purposeful stride of a woman accustomed to managing both household and husband with equal efficiency. Her sharp blue eyes—Tully blue, unmistakable and penetrating—swept over the group with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned that a lord's wife must be diplomat, spymaster, and guardian all at once. "I've been worried sick! When the guards said you'd ridden out to investigate some sort of disturbance in the Wolfswood, I thought—"
She stopped mid-sentence as her gaze fixed on the obvious stranger in their midst, her maternal radar immediately cataloguing him as a potential threat to her family's safety. The look she gave Harry could have flayed a man down to his essential components in seconds, evaluating everything from his posture to his weapons to the way he held himself with the sort of ruthless efficiency that had kept the Stark children alive and healthy through years of political uncertainty.
"And who might this be?" she continued, her voice taking on the particular tone that mothers everywhere used when they suspected their husbands had brought home something that might track mud through the house or cause diplomatic incidents.
Behind her came a small tornado in the form of four-year-old Rickon Stark, his dark hair wild from play and his grey eyes wide with the sort of fearless excitement that only small children could muster in the face of the unknown. The boy moved with the boundless energy of childhood, completely unburdened by the caution that paralyzed adults when confronted with phoenixes and mysterious strangers.
"Father! Father! Look at the pretty bird!" he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard with the piercing clarity that only small children seemed to possess, each word delivered with the sort of enthusiasm that suggested this was quite possibly the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. "Is it real? Can I pet it? Does it bite? Why is it so red? Is it really on fire? Does it hurt to be on fire? Can it talk like the ravens? Does it know any songs?"
"Rickon, manners," Lady Stark said automatically, her maternal authority asserting itself even as her eyes continued to assess Harry with the sharp intelligence of a woman who had learned to evaluate potential threats to her family quickly and accurately. The correction was delivered without taking her attention from the stranger, a skill perfected through years of managing Stark children who had inherited their father's sense of honor and their mother's talent for finding trouble.
Lord Stark stepped forward, his hand finding his wife's with the unconscious ease of long partnership, twenty years of marriage evident in the simple gesture that spoke of shared burdens and mutual trust. "Cat," he said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken conversations that would need to happen later, "this is Hadrian Potter—Harry. We found him in the Wolfswood under rather... unusual circumstances."
The pause before 'unusual' managed to convey that there was a story involving magical explosions, phoenix appearances, and quite possibly violations of several natural laws, all of which would be explained in private once small ears weren't listening and political implications could be discussed freely.
"Harry, my wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, and my youngest son, Rickon."
Harry inclined his head respectfully, his court manners—learned from years of dealing with the wizarding world's equivalent of nobility and honed by too many formal occasions where a misstep could mean political disaster or, in some memorable cases, actual disaster—serving him well. The bow was perfectly calibrated: respectful without being obsequious, acknowledging her status while maintaining his own dignity.
"Lady Stark, it's an honor to meet you," he said, his voice carrying just the right mix of warmth and formality. "Lord Stark has been extraordinarily gracious in offering hospitality to an unexpected visitor. I do hope my rather dramatic arrival hasn't caused too much disruption to your household."
The words were perfectly correct, properly respectful, and delivered with just enough subtle charm to suggest genuine gratitude rather than mere politeness. He'd learned, sometimes painfully, that first impressions with protective mothers were crucial, and Catelyn Stark had the look of a woman who would gut anyone who threatened her children with a smile on her face and an apology for the mess.
Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly as she took in his appearance with the thoroughness of a woman who'd spent years evaluating potential threats and opportunities. The foreign armor spoke of wealth and quality craftsmanship, the obvious expense of his weapons suggested noble birth or successful mercenary work, and the confident bearing that came from command experience meant he was dangerous whether he was friend or foe. Everything about him screamed importance, which in her experience usually meant trouble of the expensive, complicated variety.
"And where exactly are you from, Hadrian Potter?" she asked, her voice carrying the particular tone that mothers everywhere used when they suspected they weren't getting the whole truth and weren't particularly inclined to accept evasions. "Your accent... it's not one I recognize. And that armor—the craftsmanship is unlike anything I've seen, even from the finest smiths in King's Landing."
"A fair question, my lady," Harry replied diplomatically, though something in his eyes suggested he was amused by her direct approach rather than offended. There was respect there, the acknowledgment of one tactician recognizing another's skill. "I'm from Britain—England, specifically, though I suspect the England I'm familiar with bears little resemblance to any lands you might know. I'm beginning to suspect it's rather further from here than I initially realized."
He paused, then added with that particular brand of understated British humor that had been honed by years of dealing with bureaucrats, politicians, and the occasional dark wizard, "Considerably further, if I'm being honest. Possibly in ways that would require charts I don't possess and a working understanding of theoretical physics that I definitely don't possess."
"Britain," Catelyn repeated thoughtfully, her sharp mind already cataloguing the implications. "I've never heard of such a kingdom. Are you perhaps from the Summer Isles? Or the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai?"
"Neither, I'm afraid," Harry replied with a slight smile that suggested the truth was far more complicated than she could imagine. "Though I suspect if we drew a map of everywhere I've never been, it would cover most of the known world and several of the unknown bits as well."
Before Catelyn could follow up on that intriguing non-answer, more voices announced the arrival of the rest of the Stark children, drawn by curiosity and the unmistakable sound of something interesting happening in the courtyard.
Sansa came gliding down the steps with all the grace she could muster, her copper hair perfectly arranged despite the speed of her descent and her best dress smoothed carefully into place with the sort of attention to detail that spoke of a girl who took her appearance very seriously indeed. At Firteen, she was already showing signs of the beauty she would become, all Tully coloring and courtly aspirations, and her blue eyes were bright with curiosity and something that might have been recognition from the romantic songs that filled her head with dreams of noble knights and grand adventures.
"Is he a knight?" she asked breathlessly, her gaze taking in Harry's armor with obvious fascination, cataloguing every detail against the romantic ideals that had been shaped by countless songs and stories. "He looks like a knight from the songs—armor of red and gold, and that sword..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed the weapon at his side, something about it catching the afternoon light in ways that defied easy explanation.
Harry shifted uncomfortably under her admiring gaze, recognizing the look of hero worship that reminded him unpleasantly of his early days at Hogwarts when people had stared at him like he was something out of a fairy tale rather than a person with fears and doubts and a distressing tendency to bleed when cut by sharp objects.
"I'm not a knight, my lady," he said gently, his voice carrying the patience of someone who'd had to dash romantic notions before and understood the disappointment that usually followed. "Just someone who's had to learn to defend himself and others, though I appreciate the comparison to your songs. I'm sure they're far more heroic than the reality of muddy battlefields, aching feet, and the occasional moment of sheer terror when you realize you have absolutely no idea what you're doing."
"But you must have had great adventures!" Sansa pressed, clearly unwilling to let go of her romantic notions, her eyes shining with the sort of determined idealism that saw quests and glory where others saw only necessity and survival. "To have such magnificent armor and weapons, to have a phoenix as a companion—surely there are stories worth telling! Stories of noble quests and daring rescues and true love conquering all!"
"Sansa," her mother warned quietly, recognizing the signs of her eldest daughter's tendency to romanticize everything she encountered, a trait that worried Catelyn more than she cared to admit.
"Oh, there are stories," Harry said with a slight smile that held more shadows than light, the expression of someone who'd lived through events that sounded better in ballads than they had in reality. "Though I suspect they're rather different from the ones in your songs. Heroes in stories don't usually spend quite so much time terrified, confused, or trying not to sick up from nerves before a battle. They also tend to have considerably better luck with their love lives and significantly fewer problems with PTSD."
"PTSD?" Bran asked, having appeared from seemingly nowhere with the sort of stealth that regularly gave his parents heart palpitations.
"Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," Harry explained matter-of-factly. "It's what happens when you've seen too much, done too much, lost too much. Makes you jumpy, gives you nightmares, and has a tendency to make you flinch when someone drops a goblet. Not particularly heroic, but rather common among people who've actually lived through the sort of adventures that make for good songs."
Arya, meanwhile, had no interest in romantic notions or proper behavior. She'd appeared from the training yard, judging by the wooden sword at her side and the dirt on her clothes that spoke of enthusiastic practice, and was studying Harry with the intense curiosity of someone who appreciated practical skills over pretty manners. Unlike her sister, Arya looked at Harry and saw not a figure from a song but someone who clearly knew how to fight, how to survive, how to win.
Her grey eyes, so like her father's, were sharp as they took in the subtle signs of wear and repair that spoke of real use rather than ceremonial display—the way his armor had been fitted and refitted, the calluses on his hands that came from actual sword work, the unconscious way he positioned himself to have clear lines of sight and easy access to his weapons.
"That's real armor, isn't it?" she said without preamble, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd spent enough time around warriors to know the difference between show and substance. "Not ceremonial stuff. It's been in battles. Real ones."
It wasn't a question—she could see the truth of it in the way he moved, the way the metal had been shaped by use and necessity rather than vanity and display.
"It has indeed, Lady Arya," Harry replied, and something in his tone suggested he was more comfortable with her direct approach than her sister's romantic interest. There was respect in his voice, the acknowledgment of one warrior to another despite her age and gender. "Though I hope those days are behind me now. I've had quite enough of people trying to kill me for one lifetime, thank you very much."
"Why?" Arya demanded with characteristic bluntness, her head tilted in a way that reminded Harry powerfully of a bird of prey evaluating potential dinner. "If you're good at it—and you must be, to be alive wearing gear like that—why would you want to stop? Most people would kill for skills like yours."
"Funny you should put it that way," Harry said with dark humor, "because quite a few people did exactly that. And that, Lady Arya, is precisely the problem."
He was quiet for a moment, his green eyes distant as they focused on something the others couldn't see, memories of battles fought and friends lost playing out behind his eyes like a particularly unpleasant theater performance.
"Because, Lady Arya," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom, "being good at killing people isn't the same as enjoying it. And there's a point where you have to decide whether you're fighting to protect something, or just fighting because you don't know how to stop. Because the killing has become so much a part of who you are that you can't imagine being anything else."
The courtyard fell silent for a moment, even Rickon stilling as something in Harry's tone reached through the words to the truth beneath them—the bone-deep weariness of someone who'd carried the weight of too many deaths, too many choices, too many moments where the only options were bad and worse.
"That's..." Arya started, then stopped, clearly struggling with concepts that were too large and too dark for someone her age to fully grasp.
"That's what war really is," Jon said quietly, his bastard's understanding of being an outsider allowing him to recognize the isolation in Harry's voice. "Not glorious charges and heroic deeds. Just people trying to survive and protect what matters to them, one terrible choice at a time."
Harry looked at him with something approaching surprise, as if he hadn't expected such insight from someone so young. "Exactly," he said softly. "Though I suspect you understand that better than most people twice your age."
"Can we see your sword?" This came from Bran, who had climbed down from whatever high place he'd been exploring despite repeated warnings about safety, his curiosity stronger than any concern for potential danger. At nine, he had the fearless fascination of a boy who found the world endlessly interesting and was determined to understand every piece of it. "It looks different from Father's Ice. The metal seems... wrong somehow. In a good way."
Harry glanced at Lord Stark, who nodded permission after a moment's consideration. Ice was safely sheathed, and this stranger had already demonstrated more restraint and courtesy than many knights twice his age.
"I suppose there's no harm," Harry said, and drew Ignis from its sheath with the fluid motion of long practice, the sort of movement that spoke of thousands of hours of training until the weapon became an extension of his will rather than a separate tool.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The blade that emerged was unlike anything any of them had ever seen—not the dark, rippled patterns of Valyrian steel that marked the finest weapons in Westeros, but something that seemed to capture and hold fire itself. The metal was a deep red that shifted and flowed like living flame, with patterns that moved and danced along the blade's surface as if phoenix fire had been somehow trapped within the steel itself. The golden crossguard was wrought in the shape of phoenix wings, spread wide as if ready for flight, and the entire weapon seemed to radiate warmth even in the cool autumn air.
"Seven hells," Theon breathed, speaking for all of them, his usual swagger forgotten in the face of something that belonged more to legend than reality.
"Language," Lady Stark said automatically, but her voice was faint as she stared at the impossible blade, her mind already racing through the implications of what she was seeing—the craftsmanship, the obvious magical properties, the sheer impossibility of the thing.
Lord Stark's experienced eye took in every detail, cataloguing the weight distribution, the perfect balance, the way the metal seemed to drink in light only to give it back transformed. As someone who carried Ice, one of the finest blades in Westeros, he had an appreciation for masterwork weapons—but this was something beyond even that, something that spoke of arts and knowledge that the world had forgotten.
"What is it made of?" he asked, his voice carrying the respect one craftsman offered another's work, though he suspected the answer would be beyond his understanding.
"Phoenix steel," Harry replied, his voice carrying a note of pride and deep affection, the tone of someone describing a treasured companion rather than merely a weapon. "Forged by the goblins of Gringotts according to a metallurgical formula developed by my friend Hermione Granger, and tempered in Fawkes's flames. The process took three years to perfect, involved several small explosions, and resulted in a blade that's literally unique—there's nothing else like it in my world, or any world I've visited."
"Goblins," Jon repeated thoughtfully, his dark eyes studying the blade with fascination. "And your friend... she developed the formula herself?"
"Brilliant witch," Harry said with obvious affection, his voice warming in a way that spoke of deep friendship and genuine respect. "Probably the cleverest person I've ever known, and that's saying something considering some of the company I've kept. She has this way of looking at impossible problems and finding solutions that no one else would even think to attempt. Hermione could probably figure out a way to improve the structural integrity of this castle using nothing but a collection of books and an unshakeable faith in the power of proper research."
"A witch?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. "Like the ones in the old stories? With potions and curses and—"
"Magic wands and an alarming tendency to set things on fire when frustrated, yes," Harry confirmed with a slight smile. "Though Hermione was always more interested in the theoretical applications than the practical ones. She could explain the underlying principles of any spell you cared to name, but ask her to cook dinner without magic and you'd be lucky to escape with your eyebrows intact."
"It's beautiful," Sansa whispered, and for once her romantic sensibilities were entirely appropriate, her eyes wide as she watched the patterns shift and flow along the blade's surface like living art.
"It's deadly," Arya corrected with obvious appreciation, her practical nature asserting itself even in the face of such beauty. "Look at the balance, the way it sits in his hand. That's a weapon made for real fighting, not for show. How many people have you killed with it?"
"Arya!" Catelyn snapped, horrified by her daughter's bluntness.
"It's a fair question," Harry said mildly, seeming unperturbed by the directness. "Though not one with an easy answer. Some fights you win by killing your enemies. Others you win by making them reconsider their life choices. The sword doesn't particularly care which approach you take, but it's remarkably effective at both."
"Both, actually," he continued, addressing Sansa's earlier comment with a slight smile that was clearly pleased by Arya's practical assessment. "Beauty and function don't have to be mutually exclusive. My friend Hermione was quite insistent on that point—said there was no reason something couldn't be both effective and elegant. She had very strong opinions about the artificial division between form and function."
He performed a few casual practice forms, the blade moving through the air with liquid grace, leaving brief trails of light that faded like afterimages. The movements were economical, precise, speaking of a style that prioritized efficiency over flash—the swordwork of someone who'd learned in life-or-death situations rather than tournament grounds. Each cut and thrust was perfectly controlled, the sort of deadly precision that came from years of training under masters who understood that a single mistake meant death.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Robb asked, his own training allowing him to appreciate the skill he was witnessing. He'd sparred with some of the finest knights in the North, and this was something beyond even their abilities.
"Here and there," Harry replied with deliberate vagueness, sliding the blade back into its sheath with the same fluid grace, "bit of formal instruction, bit of trial by fire, bit of 'if you don't learn this quickly you'll be dead.' Surprisingly effective teaching method, that last one, though I can't say I recommend it for general educational purposes."
"Who taught you?" Arya pressed, clearly unwilling to let the subject drop.
Harry's expression grew thoughtful, as if he was deciding how much truth to reveal. "Various people," he said finally. "A paranoid ex-Auror who thought constant vigilance was more than just a catchphrase. A werewolf who understood that sometimes the monster you're fighting is yourself. A half-giant gamekeeper who taught me that size and strength matter less than heart and determination. And a potions master who demonstrated that sometimes the most important lessons come from people who despise you but teach you anyway because they're too professional to let personal feelings interfere with their duty."
"That's..." Bran started, clearly trying to process the implications.
"Complicated," Harry finished with a slight smile. "Yes, it was. But then, the best teachers usually are. Anyone can teach you technique—it takes someone truly gifted to teach you how to survive when technique isn't enough."
Rickon, meanwhile, had been steadily working up the courage to approach Fawkes, his four-year-old mind focused on the most important question of all while the adults discussed boring things like swords and fighting. "Can I pet the pretty bird?" he asked again, his small voice hopeful and completely unafraid in the way that only children could manage.
Harry looked down at the little boy with something that might have been longing—perhaps remembering a childhood cut short by war and responsibility, or simply recognizing the innocence that he'd once possessed and lost along the way. The expression that crossed his face was complex, mixing grief and hope in equal measure, the look of someone who'd forgotten what it was like to see the world through eyes that hadn't been touched by loss.
"Would you like to meet him properly?" he asked, kneeling down to bring himself to Rickon's eye level with the careful movements of someone accustomed to dealing with children. "His name is Fawkes, and he's been my companion for... well, longer than you've been alive, young lord."
At the child's eager nod, Harry continued, his voice taking on the patient tone of someone who'd once taught children and remembered how to explain complex concepts in simple terms. "Hold out your hand, like this. Let him decide if he wants to meet you. He's very good at judging people—better than most humans, actually. He can sense the good in people, and the bad too. He's never wrong about someone's character."
Fawkes regarded the small boy with those ancient, intelligent eyes that seemed to hold depths of wisdom and sorrow that no mortal creature should possess. The phoenix tilted his magnificent head, studying Rickon with the sort of careful attention usually reserved for matters of great importance. After a moment that felt eternal, the great bird gracefully stepped from Harry's shoulder to his outstretched arm, bringing himself closer to Rickon's eye level. Fawkes trilled softly, a gentle sound that seemed designed to soothe rather than impress, and the warm glow that surrounded him intensified slightly, casting golden light across the courtyard.
"He's warm," Rickon said with delight as he carefully stroked the magnificent feathers with one small finger, his touch reverent and gentle in the way children could be when they sensed something precious and magical. "And soft! Is he really made of fire? Will he burn me?"
"Phoenix fire," Harry explained patiently, his voice carrying the warmth of someone who genuinely enjoyed answering children's questions. "It only burns what needs to be burned—evil things, people who mean harm to innocents, dark magic and the like. For good people, especially children with pure hearts, it's just warmth and light and healing."
"Like you," Rickon said with the startling directness of childhood, his grey eyes meeting Harry's green ones with complete trust and the sort of innocent wisdom that adults spent lifetimes trying to recapture. "You're warm too. Safe warm, not scary warm. Like Father's hugs when I have bad dreams."
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback by the child's immediate acceptance and trust, his carefully maintained composure cracking slightly in the face of such innocent certainty. For a moment, the mask of controlled competence slipped, revealing something vulnerable and raw underneath—the face of someone who'd forgotten what it felt like to be trusted without reservation, to be seen as safe rather than dangerous.
"Thank you, Rickon," he managed, his voice rougher than before, thick with emotions he'd thought he'd learned to control. "That's... that's a very kind thing to say. Probably the kindest thing anyone's said to me in a very long time."
Lady Stark watched this interaction with careful eyes, noting how gentle Harry was with her youngest, how natural he seemed with children despite his obvious military training and the shadows that lingered in his gaze. It was a point in his favor, though she remained cautious—in her experience, the most dangerous men were often those who could win trust so easily.
"Father, I think we should offer Harry bread and salt," Jon said quietly, stepping up beside his father with the easy familiarity of someone who'd earned his place through competence rather than birth.
Lord Stark nodded gravely, understanding the weight of what was being invoked. "Indeed." He looked at Harry seriously, his grey eyes holding the solemnity that marked all truly important oaths. "Hadrian Potter, I offer you bread and salt, and welcome you to Winterfell as our honored guest. You are under our protection, with all the rights and privileges that entails, for as long as you choose to remain beneath our roof."
"And what exactly does that mean?" Harry asked, understanding that this was clearly important but unfamiliar with the specific customs of this strange land he'd found himself in.
"It means you're family while you're here," Jon explained, his bastard's understanding of the forms perhaps sharper than those born to them. "Protected by our house, our name, our honor. No harm can come to you under our roof, and anyone who threatens you threatens the Starks themselves."
"It's an ancient law," Robb added, his voice carrying the weight of eight thousand years of tradition. "Sacred, inviolable. Break guest right, and you're cursed by gods and men alike. Past events proved that, though the lesson came too late for—" He stopped, realizing he was speaking of events that shouldn't be mentioned in polite company.
Harry considered this, his green eyes thoughtful as he weighed the implications of what was being offered. The lawyer's training that Hermione had insisted he acquire was serving him well, even in this strange new world. "That's... extraordinarily generous," he said finally. "And I accept, with gratitude and the understanding that such protection comes with responsibilities on my part as well."
"Wise words," Lord Stark approved, recognizing the careful precision of someone who understood that all gifts came with prices. He gestured toward the Great Hall with the sort of natural authority that made men want to follow him even into the jaws of death. "Come. You must be hungry after your... journey. We'll feast properly tonight, but for now, bread and salt, and whatever other questions my wife has been storing up since she first laid eyes on you."
As they made their way toward the hall, Catelyn fell into step beside her husband, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear. "Ned," she said quietly, "we need to talk. Privately. There are things about this that don't add up."
"I know," he replied just as quietly, his own voice carrying the weight of concerns that had been building since that flash of light in the Wolfswood. "Tonight, after the children are abed. There's much to discuss."
Behind them, Harry found himself walking with Jon and the younger children, Rickon having apparently decided that anyone who traveled with a phoenix was automatically his new best friend and was chattering away about everything he could think of, from his favorite foods to his wooden sword to whether Fawkes could really carry messages like the ravens.
Sansa continued to sneak glances at him with obvious fascination, her romantic heart spinning tales of noble quests and distant kingdoms, while Arya peppered him with questions about combat techniques and whether he'd teach her some sword forms and if he thought women could be as good fighters as men if they trained hard enough.
"I think they like you," Jon observed quietly, his bastard's eye for the undercurrents of family dynamics serving him well.
"Rickon's easy to like," Harry replied with genuine warmth. "Reminds me of—" He stopped, his expression clouding for a moment before he continued. "Well. Children have a way of cutting through all the complications, don't they? Straight to what matters."
"And the others?" Jon pressed gently.
Harry glanced around at the small group surrounding them. "Sansa's looking for heroes from her songs, which means she's likely to be disappointed when she realizes I'm just a man who's made more mistakes than most. Arya..." He smiled, something genuine breaking through the shadows in his eyes. "Arya's going to be dangerous when she grows up. She sees things clearly, without the comfortable lies adults tell themselves."
"You're not what any of us expected," Jon observed quietly, his dark eyes studying Harry's profile as they walked.
"What did you expect?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about how he appeared to these people who lived in what seemed to be a completely different world from his own.
"Honestly? I'm not sure we knew what to expect," Jon replied with the careful honesty that marked his character. "Someone who appears in our forest in a burst of magical light with a phoenix for a companion... could have been anything from a god to a madman."
"And your conclusion?"
Jon smiled, the expression transforming his usually serious face. "Neither, I think. Just someone a long way from home who's been through more than anyone should have to endure. Someone trying to figure out what comes next."
"Perceptive," Harry said approvingly, recognizing a kindred spirit in the bastard son of Winterfell. "I can see why your father values your counsel."
Something flickered across Jon's face at that—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude that someone recognized he might have counsel worth valuing, that his bastard status didn't automatically disqualify him from having opinions worth hearing.
"Does he?" Jon asked quietly, the question carrying more weight than the simple words suggested.
"He looks to you," Harry observed, his own experience with complicated family dynamics allowing him to read the undercurrents. "When decisions need to be made, when he wants another perspective. That's not something you give to someone whose judgment you don't trust."
As they entered the Great Hall, with its massive hearth crackling with welcoming fire and ancient tapestries depicting eight thousand years of Stark history, Harry felt something settle in his chest that he hadn't experienced in years. It wasn't quite peace—he suspected that would be a long time coming, if it ever came at all—but it was something like it.
For the first time since Fleur's death, since that terrible moment when his world had shattered into pieces too small to put back together, he wasn't entirely alone. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to build on.
The phoenix on his shoulder trilled softly, as if echoing his thoughts, and the warmth that surrounded them both seemed to reach out and touch the very stones of Winterfell itself, promising that this ancient place might yet shelter one more lost soul finding his way home.
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