Tomb of the First Men - Chapter 1 - sifshadowheart - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter Text

The Tomb of the First Men

For StarLight Massacre

Warning! This story contains SLASH and MPREG

Introduction: This takes place in an altered timeline for GoT/ASoIaF. I’ve changed a couple of things around, most notably do to with Jon Snow. Most but not all events of the first season/book will be the same up to Ned’s execution except as they pertain to Jon. The changes should be rather self-evident but if there’s any confusion feel free to comment or review your question and I’ll be sure to clear it up.

The story as it stands, (canon and non-canon events): Robb Stark is currently Lord of Winterfell following his father’s beheading by the bastard-boy-king Joffery Waters (Baratheon, Lannister, etc.) but has not yet been crowned as king as he is waiting for Jon to return before holding a Council. Dany has killed the witch responsible for Drogo’s illness and her son’s death, bringing about the birth of the three dragon eggs. Aegon is still masquerading as a sell-sword with his minder Jon Connington, Arya and Gendry are on the Northern Road, Sansa is trapped in King’s Landing. Bran and Rickon are still safe in Winterfell along with their mother who has not joined her eldest son on his campaign. Theon is still at Robb’s side and Jorah has not been outed as a spy for the Spider. Tywin is Hand of the King and hasn’t yet marched North while Jaime lays siege to Riverrun in fury over Catelyn and Lysa’s treatment of Tyrion, Stannis and Renly are both raising armies to snatch the Crown. Jon was not sworn into the Night’s Watch but was at the Wall and saved the Lord Commander. The reason for his being at the Wall will be discussed later in the story. He has convinced the Lord Commander Mormont to have a Ranging into the Far North in search of Benjen and the truth of the Others. We join Jon and the Black Brothers at the Fist of the First Men. For convenience sake, this is the first happening of the second season rather than taking place later in the story. Harry has yet to appear.

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire and Harry Potter belong to their respective authors, publishers, etc. This is merely a work of fan-authored fiction with no claims to anything except for original characters and storylines used.

There is a portion of dialogue that comes almost word-for-word from the ASoIaF books. Kudos to whoever catches it first.

***This is a story told in several long acts. I’ve changed up a lot of things from both the show and the book, making it so this starts right after Ned Stark’s death and moving up the Ranging Mormont orders. I hope you enjoy this first installment of the Tomb of the First Men

Edited December 2016 for minor errors and continuity issues. Unedited word count: 23,770; updated word count: 23967.

Act I: The Warrior Who Waits

Jon pulled his white fur-lined cloak tight around his strong swordsman’s body, trembling inside from the bitter, soul-stealing cold of the Far North or Beyond-The-Wall or the Land of Eternal Winter or a dozen other names, depending on who you asked. He refused to show the weakness, giving away no sign of his bone-deep chill before the men of the Night’s Watch – including their sharp-eyed and grizzled-cheeked Lord Commander who owed him a life debt. It was his idea for this Ranging – and only by putting pressure on said Lord Commander had Jon been able to talk his way into their company, as Mormont had originally refused to allow Jon passage beyond the Wall, which had held him up for several turns at Castle Black as he tried to make the Old Bear see reason.

Men of the Night’s Watch were naturally suspicious, few if any ever joined of their own choice, most being disgraced sons of noblemen and the high born while the remaining numbers were swelled with the thieves, rapists, and sundry criminals from the prison cells of Westeros.

To bring along Jon who while highborn was rumored to be a bastard – though his status was frustratingly unclear to much of Westeros with only the Lord Commander and the Maester Aemon among the Watchmen having any idea of his true station – grated on most of the seasoned members of their party. An irritation and cause for grumbling that worsened with each and every night they spent in the unforgiving Far North.

He wasn’t about to give them any reason to strike out at him.

Not when such an encounter may very well cost his life and sunder his chances at fulfilling his purpose for leaving Winterfell and coming North in the first place.

Lifting his torch higher, shining a meager few sparks of light on the foreboding carved-rock wall of the cliff’s face located flush against the mountainside known to most as the Fist of the First Men, Jon lifted a gloved hand and delicately brushed away the fat flakes of new snow that attempted to shield the sigils and runes he spied from his sight. Such carvings were common-place this far North, where the remnants of the First Men were able to be found by those who knew how to look – those such as the Starks who were of the direct bloodlines of the First Men and the Age of Heroes. More than that, they also remembered their beginnings when others of their same kind – Lannisters, Arryns, etc. the oldest bloodlines of the noble houses of Westeros – forgot them in the wake of time.

Oh, they still sung songs about Lann the Clever or Bran the Builder, but they had slowly and surely forgotten their true origins in the test of time.

Leaving only the Starks to remember and to warn the others: Winter is Coming.

And hell follows with it.

Bran was too young and Theon not of their bloodline so neither recognized the danger of the deserter’s tale. A story and a warning to those canny enough to listen. There was a reason outside of fear for his life that had led that Black Brother to venture into the lands of the Starks.

The North Remembers.

Robb had had – and still does at that despite the awful turn their paths had taken – duties to Winterfell and the North and couldn’t be spared.

Lord Stark himself had planned this journey that Jon had undertaken but had been called to King’s Landing before he could set out – a delay that ultimately cost him his head.

Jon had gone to the Wall in his stead, and now with news of his murder – for that was what it truly was – was trying to succeed in the duty his uncle had given him.

A gust of fogged breath was the only sign of his relief and jubilation as he finally deciphered the riddle cut into the stone.

Wincing as he peeled off his glove, Jon quickly nicked his palm open on Longclaw as Ghost bounded over to his side with a warning growl, a moment later shouts sprang up around the camp.

“We’re under attack!”

Cursing, Jon slammed his palm down onto the “key” portion of the riddle, nerves wracking him for several long seconds as he heard the men surrounding him bellowing in pain or anger or death, the Lord Commander calling for them to form up and head off the attack.

“Stark!” Mormont cried out, swinging sword and torch in unison. “Where are ya lad? We’d best be usin’ that sword of yours I gave ya about now!”

Jon’s knees almost buckled in relief when the raucous “SNAP!” of ancient locks and mechanisms releasing reverberated across the snow, temporarily drowning out the sounds of the skirmish.

“Quickly!” Jon shouted back, shoving the door open with his shoulder and waving his torch, signaling to the Watch, Ghost bounding in and leading the way. “Into the tomb!”

Mormont paused for a split second eyes wide with shock at the sight of the gaping chasm where shear solid rock had stood mere seconds before.

“Aye!” He called, beheading another wraith with glowing eyes. “You heard the lad, boys! Into the tomb!”

…

With help from Samwell Tarly – who’d shockingly enough survived the attack – and a few others of the remaining number, Jon shoved the massive rock wall back into place, gusting out a sigh of relief when he heard the unmissable sound of the locks clicking back into place.

“Well, lad.” Mormont’s gruff voice sounded in the weak half-light of the torches. “Where, exactly, have you brought us?”

Jon grimaced. That was why he’d been hoping to undertake a Ranging North alone, without the sharp eyes of the Night’s Watch on his back. There were things House Stark kept secret with reason – and this secret was at the top of that list.

Face stony, Jon remained silent, walking over toward the far wall, searching with his sharp eyes and torch as Ghost did the same.

“Well?!” The Lord Commander barked when it seemed like no response was forth coming. Don’t mistake him, Mormont was happy to have lived through that little skirmish. That didn’t however mean that he was happy to be trapped in a tomb of all things in the middle of the Far North.

Under a gods-be-damned mountain no less.

A yip from Ghost had Jon loping a few yards down the deeply-black corridor, nearly disappearing into the darkness despite the torch he was carrying. The black brothers followed at his heels, none of them eager to be abandoned in the dark when Jon was the only one who had any information about their current location – such as how to get back out again.

Jon spun on his heels, Mormont and Sam easily making out the co*cky smirk and the devilment dancing in the younger-man’s eyes as he spoke with grand drama.

“Welcome, Lord Commander,” he gave a short bow. “And honorable members of the Night’s Watch. I humbly present: The Tomb of the First Men!” And without further ado, Jon plunged his torch into the hidden niche in the wall – and setting alight the precious oil waiting for just such a moment.

“By all the gods.” The Lord Commander breathed in awe as Jon turned to take in the spectacle as well, the rest of their company stunned into silence. “What - ?”

Jon shook his head in wonder. He’d read descriptions and heard the tales all passed down by Bran the Builder of this place but never thought he would see it for himself. Only one member of House Stark made pilgrimages here every generation – in fact Benjen joining the Watch was to carry out the maintenance of the tomb, beyond the vastly more urgent reason to him taking the Black. It outstripped every expectation he’d had of it.

With the first spark of flame, fire had rushed all along the hidden track inside the walls – illuminating a massive man-made cavern shaped like an elongated D with the massive cliff-face doors occupying the flat of the shape. The cavern was long – longer than the Great Hall of Winterfell or the hall of Castle Black. Perhaps bigger even than the catacombs beneath his Northern home. And spaced evenly all along that great length were statues finely carved and hewn from rock of all kinds and colors – largely untouched by age as they were protected from harm inside the Tomb.

Marching all down the chamber in pairs of two facing each other across the wide aisle were the visages of long-forgotten heroes and kings from before the days of the Seven when the Olde Gods ruled Westeros – some even, Jon thought, were older still than that.

And it was one of those that he had come to seek.

Huddling together, the men of the Night’s Watch followed as their Lord Commander kept pace with the strange Stark (or Snow?).

Jon pointed out a few of the more notable – or recognizable – figures.

“Bran the Builder,” he waved a hand at a sober-looking edifice with painted storm-grey eyes. “Lann the Clever, Garth Greenhand, Symeon Star-Eyes,” and on and on it went.

The Lord Commander – and former Lord of House Mormont – cursed under his breath as he saw a familiar jaw-line here or a brow-ridge there. Forged in stone for all to see were the very beginnings of the great houses of Westeros.

But the farther in they went, the less he recognized, for the warriors and heroes of the Age of Heroes – a time shrouded in more myth and legend than facts – were only at the very beginning of the Tomb.

With an exception.

He’d noted – but made no mention – of the newest member of the statues placed closest to the mouth of the chamber.

A statue with an extremely familiar if not infamous likeness, depicted in modern tools and stone with white-silver hair and purple gemstone eyes.

Now what, Mormont couldn’t help but wonder. Was a statue of Rhaegar Targaryen doing in the Tomb of the First Men?

The company came to a stop at the very far end of the chamber opposite the doors – and the first sign of an actual tomb in the Tomb of the First Men.

“Long ago,” Jon spoke softly in reverence for where they were. “Before Winterfell or the Wall were built with might and magic or Lann the Clever won Casterly Rock, the Epoch of Ice and Fire began from the ashes of the last Epoch – one where magic and technology warred, eventually ending their world in a series of disasters beyond what any of us alive today could fathom.”

He gestured to the series of carvings on the walls above the clear diamond tomb – a tomb that contained more than dust and bones.

“But before that epoch ended – or was even close to doing so – a Prophecy was given.”

Mormont arched a furry brow. “Like that of the “Prince Who Was Promised?”” He asked warily. The Lord Commander had no tolerance for witchcraft, sorcery, or soothsaying. Unless he could see it and touch it, he had no truck with it save for his belief in the Warrior and the Stranger.

“Nothing so benign.” Jon scoffed, nearly rolling his eyes at the mention of that bit of drivel. “That prophecy set up a young child as the nemesis of a Dark Lord of Magic seventy years his senior. In the end the child defeated the monster and became Lord of two Houses. A warrior and more powerful than most, the love and adulation of his people swiftly turned to fear.”

“They killed him.” Samwell Tarly whispered, caught up in his friend’s tale. “Didn’t they?”

The men of the Watch winced, feeling for the child though Jon had told them nearly nothing about him. They knew what it was like to be hated and cast out.

Jon shook his head, violet eyes tracking across the tomb, searching.

“Again,” his voice was a bare whisper. “Nothing so benign. His people were a distinctly cruel people, and selfish with it. They feared him, yes. But they feared more what might happen if they had need of him once more and they’d done away with him. They’d gotten fat and complacent knowing the child-turned-warrior would solve their problems for them, fight the battles they weren’t able or willing to risk themselves to fight. So,” he drawled, eyes alighting on the object of his search. “They came up with a new idea. Or an old one depending on how you look at it. There was a legend in that era of a great king who had been encased in a crystal tomb in a magical cave and left, sleeping and unaging, until it was time for him to rise again and lead his people once more.”

“Gods be good.” The Lord Commander leaned in closer to the tomb. “You’re not suggesting…?”

He shrugged. Honestly, Jon had no idea if the story was true or a pack of riddles and half-lies. But he did know that his ancestors had believed it – and that was enough for him in these dark days.

“Perhaps.” Jon allowed, tracing several symbols carved into the stone with a blooded finger. “Perhaps not. We’ll have to ask him – once he’s been awoken.”

“What are you about lad?” The Lord Commander barked in demand of an answer.

“Whether he is the child of that prophecy left to sleep forever unless needed or simply an early king under an enchantment – I have no idea.” Jon stared up at Mormont with dark eyes filled with a curious combination of fire and ice. “But my Lord uncle – may he rest – believed in this the way he did little else when it came to things of legend and myth. This is why I’ve come. To wake a subject of a Prophecy that my family has held sacred and secret since the beginnings of this Epoch.”

“Prophecy?” Samwell’s ears pricked up. “You mean a new prophecy, not the one from his childhood?” If it was the same warrior and defeater of Dark Lords of Magic as Jon had spoken of.

“Yes.” Jon stepped back, done with tracing the symbols and runes and drawing Longclaw. “One given to the very first Stark of the North when he found this very tomb in the Age before that of Heroes – from the time of the First Men:

When the comet burns red across the sky –

And the Red God rises;

When the Long Night knocks upon the Wall –

And the Dead are once more Walking;

When the innocent blood spilled is dead no more –

And Fire is enjoined in Winter;

When the stallion is struck down by slave –

And the Dragons are born anew;

When the Lion Roars alone upon the Throne –

And Winter comes a-hunting;

When the Red Stag flounders -

And the Little Stag is sundered;

Here these words!

Head my warning!

There is no hope but that of Mourning!

An Age shall End in with a Roar and Fury –

And none shall bar the way;

But, a Word of Caution to this tale –

Should the Warrior Fight –

The Usurpers shall Fail.”

Samwell and the Lord Commander rolled this new – and strange – Prophecy around in their heads. Not unexpectedly, Samwell broke first.

“Dead walking?” His voice was nearly a whimper as his eyes were the size of dinner plates. “The White Walkers?”

“Aye, laddie.” Mormont’s voice was grim – a stark contrast to the boy’s whimpering he thought. He knew now what the Stark lad was about. If he were another man he would try and stop him. But he was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch – and the concerns and squabbles of the Seven Kingdoms were no concern of his. If the lad had joined like his Bearer before him that would be another thing.

But he hadn’t.

And with his current course he never will.

If he even lives long enough to consider it.

“And the red comet, the stags, and lions, and dragons.” Samwell continued. “That’s all happening now, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sam.” Jon spared his friend a glance over his shoulder. “It is. All of it – it’s happening right now.”

“And what of the Usurpers your words spoke of?” A grim voice spoke up as one of the men of the Watch shouldered his way through the remaining men of the Ranging. “Who might they be, exactly?”

“Hard to say.” Jon said nonchalantly. “But if I had to level a guess – I’d bet on it being the bastard who decided to lop off my uncle’s head, as word has it he’s the product of Queen,” he all but spit on the title. “Cersei’s great affection for those of Lannister blood.”

Making Joffery the Evil c*nt a Usurper in any way you chose to look at it.

Jon truly feared for what sweet, naïve spoiled Sansa was going through caught in the clutches of the Lannisters.

Without another word, Jon took his Valyrian steel sword and thrust it into one of the braziers that had lit along with the fuel for the oil-light track in the walls, setting the sword aflame. Bracing himself, he sliced the flaming sword across his hand, the fire cauterizing the wound once his blood had marked the blade. Angling it downward, he centered it on the well-concealed sigil at the base of the diamond tomb, speaking his words in High Valyrian:

“Fire and Blood.”

And struck down, burying the sword to the hilt in the bedrock of the tomb.

The tomb surrounding them quaked and shook, a crack forming around the sigil and instantly branching out, racing towards the diamond tomb.

As it hit, fire leapt up from the seven symbols Jon had traced in his blood, six symbols separated from the casket and shooting outwards with a dizzying spin and a hiss of releasing pressure and air. The flames in the braziers and tucked along the walls sprang higher – though those who might’ve witnessed it were blinded to it by their focus on the diamond tomb as a thin, elegant hand reached out and curled around the edge of the now-freed lid of the coffin. Before their disbelieving eyes the hand flexed and the next thing they knew the lid – which had to weigh at least a half-tonne – was flung away and crashed against the near wall.

“By all the gods…” Mormont gasped, his knees giving way along with those of all his men as that hand now wrapped tightly around the edge of the tomb, its owner using it to leverage himself – and it was definitely a male though not like one he’d ever seen before – up and out of the tomb, landing with a cat-like grace in a half-crouch before the stunned Jon.

Jon sucked in a startled breath as he caught his first glimpse of the man (mage? Warrior?) that his family had kept secret for century upon century.

One only thought made any sense in the muck his jumbled thoughts had become:

Green.

The man had green eyes, like none he’d ever seen, outshining even the fabled green-eyes of the Lannisters, comparing the two like comparing emeralds to first green of spring shoots – both beautiful but one infinitely more precious than the other.

A smirk crossed what could only be described as a “pretty” face, the green-eyed man raising to his full height – smaller than Jon’s or most grown men he’d ever met – after having clearly cataloged them all and dismissed them as threats.

He co*cked his head and spoke in High Valyrian to the shock and surprise of his audience.

“You summoned me, Master?” There was a definite heated drawl on the last word, making Jon gulp.

…Well. Jon decided after a moment. That was unexpected.

…

Harry James Potter-Black could not believe the very f*cked-off detour his life had taken.

Or was this more of an after-life, he was a little fuzzy on that considering the many times he was supposed to have died already.

After, after-life?

Who knew but not really the point.

First, first, came the revelation that he had to f*cking die to kill Voldemort.

Okay.

Fine.

He could – and did – deal with that, including making sure that all the Horcruxes went down.

Then he woke the f*ck back up after one twisted version of The Five People You Meet In Heaven. Only he didn’t get to meet his five people. No. Not Harry James Potter. He only got to meet one.

And it had to be the one that had consistently manipulated him and set him up for abuse his entire life after his parents died.

Honestly, he’d rather have met literally anyone other than Dumbledore.

Although, he could see the purpose in that particular mind-f*ck at least. If they’d sent anyone else to him he’d probably have decided to stay and move on rather than go back and finish off Tommy-Boy. After all, who would want to risk being stuck in a damn train station with the architect of their abuse for their afterlife?

Not him, that was for sure.

Get presented as dead to all his friends, enemies, and allies?

Check.

Jump up and kill the megalomaniac when he was busy with his stereotypical-batsh*t-insane-villain speech?

Check, check.

Be glorified for killing Voldemort…again?

Check, check, check.

Have said friends, enemies, and allies turn on him?

Yep.

That happened too.

He couldn’t even say it was a surprise. The track record wasn’t exactly stellar in the Wizarding World for treating him with anything approaching respect or as a sentient human being. Nope. Heroes aren’t real in the minds of the Wizarding World.

And Merlin forbid they do anything outside of the expectations of the general populace or the ruling establishment or there would be hell to pay.

Literally.

In his case it was years incalculable spent trapped in his own mind and a box that was too much like a coffin for his comfort with only the highlights of current events being transmitted to his half-awake and half-sleeping consciousness.

And the reason why he was cast into what any reasonable person would consider hell?

Because the Mrs. Minister of Magic a.k.a. Molly Weasley nee Prewett was pissed that instead of “settling-down” with her darling-daughter-dearest and making Ginny Lady Potter-Black (and wasn’t he pissed to find out about that) thereby giving her daughter and his in-laws access to his vaults and holdings…Harry wanted to travel.

See the world.

Sample the fare in far off places.

But the kicker – and what knocked her right off her rocker and launched the vendetta that would ultimately end in his imprisonment – was when he decided he liked blokes as much as birds…if not more.

Apparently Mrs. Weasley had not taken the pictures of him snogging Blaise Zabini on the Amalfi Coast well. At all.

Which kicked off the series of unfortunate events that led him to the here-and-now: alive, somehow, in a strange age and era far removed from that of his own birth, and in service to the amethyst-eyed teen-warrior before him.

Fan-bloody-tastic.

The teenager wasn’t alone, having been accompanied by a group of men all in black, The Night’s Watch his mind whispered.

Thank god for the spell Teddy had cast when he found him trapped. His wolf-cub hadn’t been able to free him from his tomb in the bowels of the Chamber of Secrets but he was able to make it so when or if he truly awoke he wouldn’t be completely lost and at sea in a new time. His cub was a miracle and the only reason Harry still had anything even resembling sanity left.

None of them however save for the teen who set him free and the massive white wolf he spied lurking in the shadows was a threat.

Small blessings.

Arching a brow, he smirked ready to tease.

“You summoned me, Master?”

…

Harry waited patiently for the amethyst-eyed teen to respond while mentally cataloging everything he knew about the current Age.

It was odd.

For one, he seemed to know more about this Age than he did many others since he’d been locked away like the weird love-child of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.

Minus the kiss-of-love to wake him.

His eyes sharpened as he studied the whispering group behind his new…well…parole officer for lack of a better term.

They were injured, some of them quite badly.

Hissing under his breath, he strode around the pretty one and up to the most injured of the men, summoning his wand from the holster with a flick of his wrist. In the aftermath of the Final Battle, his “friends” had pushed for him to return the Elder Wand to Dumbledore’s tomb…but that had never sat quite right with him. A hunch that was proven true when the tomb was broken into…again…mere days after the Final Battle once it’d been bandied about that that was where he’d hidden it.

Idiots.

He was occasionally oblivious and ridiculously hard-headed, not a total tool.

On leaving the battlefield he’d gone straight to Gringotts to make amends there – something that hadn’t been necessary after all since he’d both attempted to *cough* return *cough* the Sword of Gryffindor to the goblins and been able to make it through their venerated security. Apparently the Goblin Nation appreciated that. They waved off his attempts to pay for repairs, telling him that since Bellatrix had violated the account-holder bylaws by storing a soul-leech in their vaults that they’d taken…reparations…from both her personal holdings and that of House LeStrange.

What didn’t go to her and her husband and brother-in-law’s victims went straight into the pockets of the goblins.

And all was well in the land of Gold.

They’d been the ones to reveal the entirety of his estates, holdings, and titles in the wake of his attempt to buy their forgiveness; before ushering him to Siri’s personal vault upon hearing what he was after. One appropriated Hit-Wizard-Grade wand holster in Hungarian-Horntail Dragonhide later and he’d been set to conceal the Elder Wand for the rest of his life…no matter how short that time in the Wizarding World had turned out to be in the end.

The Elder wood and Thestral heart-string wand in his hand felt…warm…comforting…

It felt like coming home as his wand and magic reconnected after centuries beyond measure of being parted.

With a flick he diagnosed the bleeding man who had been lowered to the cold stone floor by his companion. Reading the parchment that popped into being after the spell was finished, he ignored the gasps and shocked glances – even the frightened stumbles back and away from him – his entire focus on the dying man he was now kneeling beside. Rocking back on his heels, he cast a glance over towards the bear-like older man who had that air of “in-charge” about him, seeking consent.

There was no way his erstwhile patient was capable of giving it, someone would have to in his stead.

“If I don’t heal this man he will die.” Harry said plainly, then at a sudden thought cast a wide-area diagnostic that made the gathered watchmen light up to signify various stages of health. He grimaced at the results.

Not one of them was in the green or “healthy” zone.

Gotta love the toll living in the equivalent of his former society’s Dark-to-Middle Ages had on the human body.

Not.

“Those two as well.” He said, pointing to the two that had lit up red, though a milder shade than the man he was beside. With a swish he had them unconscious and in stasis – the most he could do without some form of consent since these were men bound by Vows and Oaths, not the everyday man. Their bodies and lives were not their own.

The leader-ish older man turned to Harry’s pretty purple-eyed (Targaryen his mind whispered) rescuer, the bear-like man speaking in a language that was familiar and complete gibberish all at the same time.

Teddy’s translation spell wasn’t working on the chamber anymore now that he was awake and aware.

That might be a problem.

Sword-teen snapped out of his semi-trance (shock, magical overload?) and spoke in a heavily but sexily accented voice:

“You have the Lord Commander’s leave to treat his men.”

Harry grinned, wand already moving in patterns familiar to his post-Hogwarts training he’d undertaken in the guise of country-hopping.

“Brilliant.” He said absently, eyes focusing back on his work. “Then at least this time I landed around someone in authority that has half a brain.”

Jon choked at the shear irreverence coming from the warrior-of-old when he wasn’t busy healing the men, an act that had most of them semi-hypnotized due to never having seen magic performed before. The closest thing Westeros had anymore that even came close was when the Red Priest Thoros of Myr lit his sword on fire during the melee at tourneys.

To see a man who mere minutes before had been as if dead, rise and walk around and heal?

Even for these men of the Night’s Watch who had seen the White Walkers it was a bit much to process.

…

While the Warrior of Old – who had yet to give his name – healed the watchmen; Mormont, Samwell, and Jon inspected the Tomb, searching for anything that might be of use.

There wasn’t much of anything to be found. After all it was a tomb. Magical beings waking from an enchanted sleep or not, the Tomb of the First Men wasn’t equipped to billet a squad of watchmen for however long it would take the White Walkers to get bored and wander off – or if Jon’s suspicions were right to be ordered away.

They would have to make do with what they had – for as long as they could.

That was, unless the Warrior of Old had a better idea.

Jon meant to ask him…as soon as he wasn’t wobbling on his feet.

Spying the nearly-exhausted and sweating form as the Warrior of Old climbed shakily to his feet after treating the last of the more-serious wounds – there were still a handful of men who had minor wounds that could use a cleansing if nothing else – Jon rushed to his side from where he was examining the diamond coffin and slipped his arm around the smaller man’s waist, tucking him into his side for support.

“Thanks,” the Warrior of Old breathed out still in High Valyrian. It had been moderately entertaining for Jon watching as the smaller man managed to communicate with the watchmen using mimes while Jon was occupied elsewhere and unable to translate for him. “Not quite used to being…alive…again yet I think.” He smirked up at Jon and shrugged. “Overdid it as usual.”

The Lord Commander watched out of wary eyes as the Stark boy led the risen sorcerer over towards the pair of cots the Stark had cobbled together out of his own supplies and heavy-fur cloak as well as the few expensive-looking silken-velvet pillows and blankets that the sorcerer had laid upon in his stone coffin. Making a decision he walked over as Benjen’s boy lowered the smaller boy onto the cot, reaching into his own pack and digging out some salted dried meat and his skin filled with stout.

“Here.” Mormont offered the handful of things to Jon. “Give him these and thank him for saving my men.”

Jon nodded, carefully hiding his surprise at the action. They’d brought little-enough supplies with them – and Mormont was a bigger man than most. Jon had assumed – wrongly it appeared – that he’d be the one sharing his rations with the Warrior.

Harry looked up at Jon with steadfast patience, waiting for the teen to translate.

“The Lord Commander thanks you for looking after his men and has given you a small form of payment towards that debt.” Jon said handing him the meat and skin as his curiosity took hold of him. “What is your name? I am Jon Balerion of the Houses of Targaryen and Stark.” He figured it would be safe enough since with Robert dead and armies marching there were worse things to be than the son of the much-beloved Prince Rhaegar – at least much-beloved by the smallfolk.

“Give the Lord Commander my thanks for the meal.” Harry said with a small smile and polite nod towards the much-larger man. “My name is Harry James, Lord of the Houses of Black and Potter, last of the House of Peverell, Jon Targaryen-Stark.”

“He thanks you for the meal.” Jon translated quickly. “And says his name is Harry James, Lord of the Houses of Black and Potter, last of the House of Peverell.”

“Highborn then?” Mormont arched a brow, scratching at his beard before giving a nod. “Very well. Once he’s up to it see if that hokum of his can do anything about the walking-bloody-dead outside.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” Jon gave a polite nod as he agreed – though he was under no real obligation to follow the man’s commands, he would do so anyway as long as he was a member of this company.

Harry tasted the contents of the skin with caution that rapidly was undone in the face of the hoppy-grain contents of the skin. He did enjoy a good beer – and with this being the olden days or close to them beer and wine were certain to be a much safer beverage than the water, unless it was water conjured by Harry himself. The meat when he tried it was a tough salted jerky but not bad either. At least it was better than starving now that his systems were working again as he was no longer under the stasis spell.

His younger companion settled down next to him with a skin and meat of his own – though Harry’s nose smelled wine rather than beer.

Nobility then, rather than a watchman. Not that he didn’t know of Jon’s lack of Vows by the white fur the teen wore in place of the all-black attire of the watch. It made sense to him now why the sometimes-visitors to his tomb called the brothers of the watch “crows”, they made him strangely nostalgic for his former Potions Professor.

Then his mind wandered to wondering if potions was even a viable subject in the current Epoch.

He rather supposed he would find out – one way or another.

Much like everything else with his new home.

Including just who it was Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen – and wasn’t the looks on the other men’s faces interesting when Jon had said the latter? - had woken him to fight.

…

The sound of stone grinding on stone snapped Jon from his deep, exhausted slumber. A brief moment of confusion quickly passed as he blinked in the gloom of the tomb, the vague flickers from the lone remaining lit torch casting licks of light on the statues that instantly reminded him of where he had bedded down for the night. Another moment confirmed that the sounds that woke him were coming from behind him towards the back of the tomb not ahead of him where the massive doors stayed sealed thank the gods.

With the knowledge that he wasn’t about to be slain by the frozen-walking-dead, Jon climbed stealthily to his feet, casting his glance around the shadowed tomb, the low light a result of Harry somehow snuffing the flames in the braziers and lit trench along the walls once all were bedded down for the night.

Harry.

Jon’s head snapped around with a crack as his conscious mind caught up with his sleep-hazed images from his first waking.

Harry wasn’t in his pallet.

Jumping to his feet, he padded softly towards the sounds, squinting blearily in the dim light of the braziers, Harry having extinguished most of the oil lights to let the exhausted Night’s Watch sleep. Rounding the casket, he was confused for a quick moment when he noticed that the edge of it was off-center, as if the massively heavy coffin had been rotated. Coming up next to a curious Ghost – the traitor hadn’t woken him whenever Harry had gotten up to do…whatever he was doing – he crouched down, letting out a soft gasp and shooting a worried look over at the sleeping forms of the Night’s Watch.

“Don’t worry.” Harry called up to Jon from the chamber that had been hidden by the tomb where he had wasted away, locked in stasis for an epoch or more. “I cast a ward around them when I woke, they won’t wake or hear anything until I remove it.” Harry moved to stand at the base of the stairs, craning his head up at the man and his direwolf. “Come down, it’s safe enough.”

Shaking off his surprise at the hidden chamber and its golden inset carvings along every surface he could see along the stair and walls – the cause of his initial worry regarding the Night’s Watch awakening, Mormont and a few others had proven themselves honorable, the rest…not so much – Jon rose to his full height and smoothly descended the stairs, Ghost padding softly at his heels.

“When I was condemned to the long night.” Harry’s voice echoed as the warrior-mage led the way down the golden and silvered gilded tunnel that led into the under-chamber of the tomb.

An under-chamber that no one in the long histories of Jon’s two royal Houses had ever known existed.

“It didn’t happen all at once.” Harry said, almost to himself as he told his tale to the man that he was now bound to – if only in the loosest of senses. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the spell Teddy had cast on both him and the tomb, Harry wouldn’t have any autonomy to speak of once woken – it was certainly that outcome the Wizengamot had desired to occur. But thanks to his cub and his cub’s spellwork as well as Harry’s own allies among the magical races, he wasn’t the slave or mindless automaton he should have been.

No.

Now he could make his own decisions about how much – or how little – he would help his, to put it bluntly no matter how it grated at his pride, his rescuer.

Harry knew much of the current generation and their woes thanks to a common visitor named “Benjen” who had come often – more often than any other save Teddy himself – to speak to the statue of his lost lover. It was thanks to this knowledge that he now knew who his rescuer was – the child of Benjen, who must have been a Stark as he visited the tomb, and a Targaryen Crown Prince. Making his rescuer the rightful Heir to the Iron Throne if he understood the way things worked in his new world.

“Your imprisonment?” Jon asked as he studied the various engravings on the walls as he followed at Harry’s heels.

Harry made a vague noise of agreement.

“It took them years to manage it.” He supplied. “More than a decade passed after my glorious,” he rolled his eyes. “Defeat of Tom passed before I was locked in that coffin above our heads. Oh,” he waved a hand. “It wasn’t immediate by any means. There were some rumbles after the shock of the Battle calmed down but – for the most part – people were happy the war was once again over and they could go back to their lives. A friend of mine was in office,” Harry smiled at the thought of Kingsley with his colorful robes sitting in the doom-and-gloom of the Wizengamot chambers trying to herd the cats of the old houses and the department heads into some sort of order. “And things were good.” He shook his head in mourning for that too-brief golden age. “So very good.”

“What happened?” Jon pried as they came around a bend and he lost his senses with a gasp as Harry flicked his wand and sent out a spell illuminating the under-chamber. “By the Gods.”

“No.” Harry laughed, correcting his new friend. “By the goblins. The same who helped prevent the worst parts of the spell I was placed under, with some help from my foster-son and the knowledge he had access to from our family library.”

Jon didn’t know what goblins might be but he knew what he saw – and that was breathtaking indeed.

For this under-chamber that Harry had led him down to – concealed by the very expensive and very heavy casket he had half-slumbered in – was as large as the great Hall of Winterfell. And filled from rough-hewn stone floor to the smooth-worn ceiling that showed signs of a stonemason’s hammer and chisel along with the same gold and silver inlays, with piles and stacks and mountains of gold, silver, copper, and bronze; besides the metals Jon’s eyes didn’t automatically recognize. Weapons were mounted on the walls, the like of which he’d never seen. Bolts and spools were wound with the gleam of silk and the gilt of real-gold and real-silver thread and delicate gauzes, stands and racks draped with fine leather and furs and materials Jon couldn’t even identify.

It was a treasure-trove to beggar even the gold-sh*tting Lannisters and their prosperous mines or the fine material merchants of Myr and Lys, Tyrosh and Volantis, Dorne and the Summer Isles.

There were even casks and crates that held untold treasures, shelves filled with books and tomes and scrolls – even the sparkle and splash of precious stones both cut and uncut.

Jon turned back to his companion when he’d had enough of goggling over the riches no one had ever known existed, only to find Harry was no longer at his side. Rather, while Jon was fiddling with a pile of golden coins and warning Ghost away from a cask of who-knew-what, Harry’d made his way over to a shadowed corner Jon had initially missed in his inspection of the trove. Moving closer, he saw a cloth-and-wood training dummy like those used by young boys just learning the sword or bow or axe.

In the time it’d taken his new royal friend to regain his senses and press for more answers from the enigmatic warrior, Harry had stripped himself down to his skin, giving himself a brisk rubdown with a cotton cloth bespelled both damp and warm, and then washed and re-braided his hair with a flick of his wand, followed by a drying spell.

Jon’s eyes widened at the sight of him, a warm blush hidden by the low light of the chamber – and warming other places hidden by his restrictive leather and wool trousers. Harry was all golden-cream skin and ebony hair, jewel eyes hidden as he was turned to his task of stripping the clothes and armor from the dummy that had spent far-too-many-years waiting for this moment. But he wasn’t perfection, like a pampered princeling such as Joffery nor unmarred by the war he’d fought and won. Jon’s clever purple eyes spotted and catalogued more than one scar marring the otherwise unblemished skin as Harry quickly donned the finely spun wool leggings, undertunic, and socks, hiding himself from view.

For Harry, he welcomed the feeling of his old battle-leathers, untouched by age thanks to the enchantments powered by the goblins’ impeccable spellweaving and drawing on the power of the world for sustenance.

On went his basilisk-hide trousers and shirt along with the mithril under-vest that rested between the undertunic that kept him warm and protected him from chafing at the rub of the armor and the heavy hide. Over that came gauntlets and greaves made of a combination of mithril and dragonhide as well as the heavy – though he’d eventually gotten used to it – dragonhide robe embroidered with his family crests upon the back. Every piece from his boots to the hood of his sleeveless overrobe was done in a combination of black and gray, the only color showing from the silver of the Black crest and the deep ruby of the Potter.

His wand slipped seamlessly into the holster protected by the gauntlet on his right arm, and around his waist Harry buckled a sword-belt of mithril links which had a basilisk hide sheath in black studded with rubies and diamonds hanging from it. Jon watched with cautious eyes – Harry making a much more intimidating figure in his armor than he’d ever thought possible from the smaller man – as the warrior-mage turned to another hidden figure, this one a statue wrought of a stone Jon had never seen before, and picked up the sword held there on the statue’s outstretched palms.

“Hello, old friend.” Harry whispered to himself as he checked the ancient blade, rolling his wrist and rubbing one thumb along the edge to test the cut. A smile lit his face as the blade sliced true, just as razor sharp as ever.

“What kind of blade is that?” Jon asked, no longer able to keep his curiosity in check.

He’d never seen the like of it – though the same could be said of many things he’d seen since entering the Tomb of the First Men – it was made of a dark and menacing metal, without the rippling effect of Valyrian steel or the weakness of old iron.

Nor was it common to set jewels upon the hilt of a sword nor have another for the pommel.

All in all, it was a strange sword for all its dark beauty.

In that way, it was not unlike its master.

“The finest.” Harry said with a knowing smile that showed his humor at Jon’s befuddlement. “We called it Stygian steel.”

Jon tested that new and strange word on his tongue as Harry continued.

“Though the origins of it were lost,” Harry admitted with a shrug as he slipped the sword with its black and white diamond hilt and pommel into its sheath at his hip. “I found it in one of my family’s oldest vaults and have kept it with me ever since – save for the day of my confinement before being sentenced to the waking death.”

“Yes.” Jon shook his head, angry with himself for letting the riches of the hidden chamber distract him. “You were telling me of how that came about.”

“Like every other thing that’s cursed me in my first life.” Harry’s voice and face were bitter at the memory as he turned, bag in hand, to pack a few more things. Now that he was free he would be able to summon things from his vault at will – thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks to the goblins – but there was no need to let Jon or anyone else know that. Not yet. Not while he was still uncertain about the lay of the land. “It began with a prophecy.” He sighed shaking his head at that bit of idiotic irony.

Jon moved to inspect the construct of the statue closer, moving always to be within earshot as Harry collected up things and shrinking them down before stuffing them in his pack – a cask here, a crate there, gold and silver and bronze coins, more weapons, and other things that Jon either missed entirely as he was also looking around or that he simply didn’t recognize.

“There was a Seer in my old world.” Harry’s voice was nearly hypnotic to the ear as his companions – both with and without fur – followed him and listed to his tale. “She made a pair of prophecies that affected me in various ways before I even came of age: one predicting my defeat of the Dark Lord which was the direct cause of my parents’ deaths and the other that a servant of that same Lord would break free and join him, causing the Dark Lord’s second rise: greater and more terrible than ever before. They were the only two true prophecies she ever made…up until she made another on the back of a friend of mine, Firenze, making the prophecy you told your companions just before freeing me.”

“You heard that?” Jon asked in shock, staring over at the mage with wide eyes as he absently played with a dagger he’d taken a liking to.

“Yes.” Harry said drily. “I’ve heard every word spoken in the Tomb since the time of my imprisonment, but more on that later.” He looked over at his friend and smirked at the sight of the dagger in his hand. “You can have that by the way.” He nodded to the goblin-forged weapon with the wolf carving and inset ruby in the hilt. “Matches your sword and that particular dagger never took to me.”

Since it was an heirloom of the LeStrange family…it never would as he’d personally done away with the last of that line.

Better it be used than rust away in the vault.

“Anyway.” Harry got back on topic before Jon could stutter out his gratitude once he got his blush under control at his ill-mannered fondling of Harry’s treasure. “I forget the exact wording but it suggested that a ‘Light-Scion’ was going to turn Dark and lead to the ruin of Wizarding Britain.”

“Britain?” Jon tested out another new and strange word.

“The land I called home.” Was the answer he was given. “By that time I’d refused the bride everyone tried to push on me, refused to join the Aurors – a peacekeeping force.” He explained before Jon could ask. “And had spent the preceding eight or so name-days,” he decided to use rather than years given the strange time-keeping measure of his new world. “Traveling and learning and basically doing as I pleased with my time, power, and wealth. Much of that was spent taking care of my,” Harry struggled for a second with the concept of godson before decided on, “foster-son, whose father was a great teacher of mine and close friend of my late-father’s before he died in battle against the Dark Lord. My so-called rebellion and refusal to do as told made some people in power very angry. One of whom was the wife of the then-Minister who was infuriated when I decided against marrying the bride selected by others for me, without my knowledge or consent – her only daughter.”

Jon winced, thinking of Cersei and the wrath she would have visited upon any man who had done the same to her or her daughter. And had if you consider that Rhaegar’s father had refused to wed him to Tywin’s only girl – the now-Queen Mother Cersei.

Harry gave him a knowing look. He was well-informed thanks to Benjen about just who Jon might be thinking of that would – and had – acted just like Molly.

“I trained.” He said, tucking a familiar and very worn soft pink-and-purple drawstring lady’s bag into his satchel. It had once seen him through awful times before being repurposed as a potion’s kit. It was only right it would go with him on an adventure once more. “And I learned. But I never expected that a woman I had once seen as a mother would use that damned prophecy to convince the Wizengamot and the public that I was dangerous and in need of being put-down like a rabid dog.”

Again, Harry used an unfamiliar term to Jon, but he followed the idea this time, not needing help with the phase. Instead, he found nothing in him but sympathy for that betrayal. One he was all-too-familiar with given the Lady Catelyn’s attempts to shunt him off into the Black Brothers despite him being his Uncle Ned’s nephew rather than some bastard by-blow as rumors called him. She simply couldn’t stand the whispers and over time that meant she could no longer stand him when she’d raised him for much of his life in the halls of her husband’s home when he couldn’t be with his bearer on Benjen’s travels.

“It took her time.” Harry had to give the Wizarding World that. They didn’t turn on him overnight. But nonetheless eventually they did turn. “The better part of two namedays. By the time she’d finished her work, I had seen her coming – and I knew that I was likely to lose unless I was willing to live in hiding the rest of my days and condemn those who stood alongside me. But,” he gave a victorious if grim smile, eyes dark. “She didn’t win. I’d learned that I couldn’t make my foster-son my heir – not entirely. And I didn’t want my inheritance and vaults seized. Fortunately,” he gave a chuckle. “Goblins were warlike creature who honored those like them. Like me. They were contracted to set the spellweaving around my tomb – and knowing the place from that built this,” he waved a hand encompassing the chamber. “Spelling it with preservation charms and secrecy charms. Charms that would return Teddy’s inheritance to here once he and his heirs were gone. Others that would funnel gold and artifacts those who shared even the smallest relation to me into this place once they were dead as well. And others.” He shrugged not knowing everything about how goblin magic worked or what all they’d done or otherwise not wanting to share what he did know.

“Question.” Jon held up a gold coin, truly confused. “How is this a gold dragon if it’s a remnant of your old world?”

“Goblin magic.” Harry said in a dry deadpan. Shouldering his pack, he shrugged not having any other answer for the nobleborn man. “Even now it keeps aware of the outside world. Much like the spells layered over the upper chamber where I was kept that allowed me to hear and to know what was going on in the outer world. I slept,” he looked off into the distance, still horrified by the magnitude of what had been done to him. “But it was a half-sleep. One without dreams. Or nightmares. Or rest. Merely locked in my mind and body, unable to move or communicate or even breathe. That,” he said eyes nearly dead. “Was what a woman who I loved like a mother did to me for the sake of a prophecy and petty revenge over a slight.”

…

After calling Ghost back to his side in the echoing silence following Harry’s words, Jon thought over all he’d been told.

He still didn’t know much about the warrior, most of what he’d learned was more from his own inferences from the tale Harry had spun and what he’d seen around the lower chamber that Harry was at that moment securing before waking the others to eat and plan.

But of one thing he was certain.

His Uncle’s final task he’d set him had not been in vain.

If anyone was capable of helping him save his cousins from those Lannister twats in the capitol it was the lithe mage climbing to his feet and dusting off his hands after using his blood to seal the entrance to the lower chamber.

Come what may, the Starks might survive this Long Winter yet.

…

With a look that clearly told Jon to keep silent about the lower chamber – not that he really thought Jon would say anything but it was better to be safe than sorry – Harry slid the lower facing panels on the casket to the side, making it appear that his armor and supplies had been stored underneath, and then took down the warding he’d set around the sleeping watchmen.

After hustling Jon and Ghost back to their pallets and encouraging them to eat and fortify themselves, Harry even dipping into his pack for a haunch of beef for the direwolf which gained him an arched brow from the dark-haired Targaryen, Harry padded on quiet feet around the hunched and sleeping forms of the men, casting diagnostics and healing those with minor wounds he’d not been able to take care of before the exhaustion of being woken and then doing major healing knocked him out for the night.

By the time he made it to the side of the grizzled Lord Commander it was to the sight of watery blue eyes watching him carefully as the older man rested with his back against the wall, sipping from his skein and tearing at salted meat.

Remembering the night before, Harry concentrated and then cast a spell, completing the information-sharing that Jon’s bloodletting had begun when the Stark-Targaryen had broken the enchantments on his tomb.

“Well?” Mormont all-but-barked. “Stark get over here and translate for our newly-risen friend.”

“No need.” Harry said haltingly as he assimilated the rest of the knowledge he’d gained from Jon’s blood.

And what blood it was.

It…tingled…for lack of a better word. Like firewhiskey but with less of a burn and without the literal fire-breath.

This information-sharing was the backbone of the spell that Teddy had cast, altering his imprisonment.

The last of the Blacks had made it not only so that he would hear and assimilate what was spoken in his tomb despite his waking-not-waking sate but also that whoever woke him would unknowingly create a link – albeit a temporary one Harry could sever at any time – allowing Harry to take what information he’d need without being bound permanently to his waker if he didn’t care to be.

And thank god for that.

The thought of being woken by someone like Dumbledore or gods-forbid Umbridge and being stuck to them for the rest of his life was enough to make him nauseas. If such a thing had come to pass he very well might’ve AK’d himself before living as a slave and glorified tool for someone like them to use as they saw fit.

Hours and hours it had taken Harry to learn what he needed and then minimize the connection, but now he had at least the minimum he needed to make a start in this new epoch, keeping the connection as a backup in case he needed it. It wasn’t as if being tethered – at least in part – to Jon Targaryen had been onerous thus far.

Now he knew the common tongue, and that his native tongue was now known as High Valryian. The man before him was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch…and he’d given Jon his impressive sword. Jon’s uncle had been beheaded by a vicious and juvenile false-king. And his cousin had called up an army to first rescue the Starks trapped in King’s Landing.

All this and more Harry now had access to.

Though for the most part he tried to keep from peeking at the more dirty bits he’d found lurking in Jon’s mind.

Like what the outrageously handsome man looked like naked for starters…or his equally impressive cousin.

Harry blinked, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind and focusing on the gaping old soldier before him.

“You can speak the common tongue after all, can ya lad?” Mormont grunted after his shock had passed.

“It’s what Benjen?” He co*cked his head to the side in a gesture of pretend thought. It was as good of an excuse as any for his sudden knowledge. And only talking to Jon would curtail his ability to get to the gritty bottom of the fight going on that he’d been awakened to help with. “Always spoke when he came to talk to Rhaegar?” He shrugged. “And change out the oil in the braziers and such. The Starks have maintained my tomb for more than eight thousand years if I have my counting right.”

“That’s right.” Jon confirmed quietly, nodding from his spot sitting beside Ghost not far from the Lord Commander. His words were nearly hidden under the sound of the men getting up and moving about, seeing to their needs and unwrapping bandages no longer needed and stowing them away, some sharpening their swords or fiddling with wrappings. “A Stark every generation from the first of us has come and taken care of this place. When it was first found by the First Men we were selected to be the Keepers – both of the tomb and of the prophecy that was discovered with it.”

“Prophecy.” Mormont leaned to the side and spit into one of the braziers, the flames sizzling before recovering from the onslaught. “Smoke and hokum for all the good its ever done.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Harry said drily, thinking of how he wound up among this malodorous group. It was as if none but Jon had ever even heard of the concept of bathing.

“Now, lad.” Mormont rose to his feet with a stretch. “You healed my men and me – no small power that. Is there any sorcery in your prophesized self that will help against the white-walkers or will we have to either die in here or die out there?”

“Oh.” Harry said with a half-grin, twirling his wand between his fingers as he thought. “I’ve got a trick or two up my sleeve for them…”

…

“Remember,” Harry commanded Jon and the men of the Night’s Watch. “Stay at my back. What I’m about to do is dangerous – if you get out in front of me I might not be able to pull it back in time.”

“Aye lads.” Mormont nodded, hoisting his sword. He and his men were to watch for stragglers and guard the sorcerer as he did his magic. Naught else. “You heard ‘im.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.” The Watchmen sounded out, Jon giving Harry a nod.

The sorcerer had explained – in detail – just how nasty the spell he was going to use against the wraiths was. And not a man of them were eager to taste it for themselves.

“Good.” Harry breathed, hardly able to believe that not only was he free but that he was once more getting thrown head-long into someone else’s fight. “Now: stay back.”

With that, Harry cast the spell to open the secondary escape hatch out of the tomb. On silent feet, the company strode into the dark stair that led upwards, winding around and around in pitch black, not one of them so much as breathing hard. Harry wasn’t able to guarantee that the tunnel the goblins and Teddy had used – one that used to lead from a bathroom down to another hidden Chamber – was completely intact or that it had remained unbreeched by the White Walkers. Thankfully, save for a few spots where Harry had needed to cast some reinforcement charms at signs of the walls beginning to buckle under the strain of erosion and age, they made it to the end without incident.

Taking a deep breath, he lit his wand and hissed: “§Open§” much to the discomfort of his companions at the sibilant sounds of Parseltongue.

The old marble panel opened into darkness, the snow pack having buried the escape route under several feet of snow and ice. Cancelling the wand-light, Harry used a series of Incendios to melt away the snow, casting another charm over himself and the others to protect them from the sudden downpour as his spell reached further and further out, until the tunnel was bared beneath the harsh Northern sun and they were freely able to venture forth without having to climb up through feet of snow pack.

Stepping out into a new world, Harry paused a long moment, staring at the ice-and-rock-and-snow that made up his current view of his new life. It was a stark as his companion’s bearer’s House name and just as wildly beautiful as Jon himself. He loved it – and hated the bitter cold – in equal measure.

“Harry.” Hissed Jon, reminding him that he was blocking the exit.

“No.” Harry waved for them to stay down. “Stay there a moment. I see them.”

Without further discussion or fanfare, Harry lifted his wand and cast a spell that once-upon-a-time he swore to himself he would never use after seeing its fatal beauty at far-too-close of range:

“Fiendfyre.”

The deadliest of cursed fire shot and raged from his wand, fueled by his own hate of the undead and his view of Jon’s fear of the creatures who only seemed to die by fire. Sweat beaded upon his brow as he stared out at the creatures that were still surging against the door at the bottom of the cliff-face, the escape tunnel having released him at the top of the mountain Jon’s memories dubbed “The Fist of the First Men.” It was a gift, the view his exit had given him, allowing him to rain down a storm of fire on the creatures before most – but not all – were able to react.

All but those at the very back were swept up in the deadly jaws of the great serpent made of naught but fire – and none were there to see it save for a sorcerer long displaced in time and a general on a dead steed with a crown of ice and burning blue eyes.

“Up! Up!” Harry called as the few remaining White Walked raced up the hill at the command – a boney, skeletal finger pointing at Harry’s still form, fire still raining down on them from his wand – of the Other. “On my flank! I can’t use another spell until this one is done!”

As it was it took all his concentration to speak, let alone attempt to break the spell. Fiendfyre was nearly impossible to control, taking a massive among of strength and an iron will to subdue it. And it only took the slightest bit of direction, leading to Harry needing someone to watch his back as he tried to turn it back towards himself and scorch the remaining undead rather than race towards the massive trees of the Far North. If it made the trees, it could very well consume the entire Land of Eternal Winter before sundering against the Wall.

And Harry wasn’t even sure the Wall might be enough to stop it if it raged out of control with the wild magic of the land to fuel it.

“Positions!” Mormont called as they circled the sorcerer backs to him – but none getting between him and the great fire snake he was attempting to control. “Swords away lads! Torches in hand!”

After what seemed like an age of seeing the Wraiths run closer and closer – knowing that some of them may very well die this time – they heard what might as well have been music to their ears:

“Tintreach stalic!” Harry cried out, a burst of lightning striking from his wand and hitting the closest Wraith before branching out and hitting the others close to it.

Harry had been able to stop the Fiendfyre.

Not that the lightning strike spell had done much but put a hole through the Wraith and knock them down…but it had been worth a shot.

Setting his jaw, Harry took hold of his sword and raised it, setting it aflame with a wordless spell as the lead Wraith regained its feet, quickly catching up to the others.

Fine then. He thought, glad he’d traveled and trained after Hogwarts now more than ever. Fire spells it is then.

“Mastix ignatio.” He intoned, calling up a spell favored by his former Headmaster: a lash made of solid fire. Though in his case it was the much nastier mastix curse which created a cat-o-nine rather than the simple flagellum hex Dumbledore had used.

With flaming sword and fire whip in hand, Harry set to work against the Wraiths, the men of the Watch at his back and protecting him from any that would try and take him out at his flank.

The Other that had ordered them up the hill hadn’t seen the Watchmen before having its Wraiths attack the sorcerer, or perhaps it might have favored a withdrawal over losing the rest of its force.

As that was what happened.

Time passed in a blur as Harry faced off with undead after undead, his ears steadily ignoring the battle cries of his company, instead focusing utterly on the task at hand, loping off heads and setting body after body aflame at the kiss of his cursed fire.

When all that remained of the blue-eyed attackers were smoking, burned-out husks, Harry stood on the edge of the precipice and stared down at the Other and its pale, dead horse, letting out a mighty challenging roar not unlike the lion he had spent so much of his teens being compared to.

The Other merely nodded, acknowledging the field as lost, and melted away into the snow and coming storm.

Perhaps the age of magic and dragons wasn’t as gone as the Others had thought.

…

“Damned it we couldn’t use your sorcery at Castle Black, Lord Potter-Black.” Mormont said once the men had recovered and had whatever wounds needed seeing to healed.

Harry had to laugh at that jab over his titles.

“Maybe so.” Harry agreed easily. “But I’m not one to take vows. Especially ones I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep, Lord Commander. I’m rather fond of bed-sport you see...” He laughed with a remorseless smirk. “Not to mention children.”

“That’s a shame.” The old warrior shook his head, resting one hand on his pommel of his sheathed sword. “A damned shame. What’ll you do now that you’re freed from your sleep, lad?”

“Well.” Harry said looking off over the frozen landscape. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a war brewing. Sounds like the place for a prophesized warrior, wouldn’t you say?”

“Aye.” Mormont sighed. “That sounded like the size of it to me. But if you ever decide to take the Black, we’d be glad to have ya lad.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry gave a half-smile. “A word of advice before we set out for Castle Black: I’ve heard many things over the ages between my being bespelled and being awakened. The last Long Night was pushed back by the building of the Wall, and kept away by the coming of the Dragons. But before the Dragons came, and Bran built his Wall, the First Men had to fight against the dead that walked and their generals of blue eyes and dead mounts. They did it with something called ‘dragon-glass’ in addition to fire.” Harry looked over at Mormont from his position beside Jon. “Just something to think about in case I’m not there the next time the Wraiths and the Others attack.”

“Aye lad.” Mormont sighed. “And what of Benjen Stark?” He demanded. “What do you know of him?”

“He hasn’t been to my tomb in some time.” Harry admitted taking out his wand. “But there’s one way to know for sure…” He trailed off, looking over at Benjen’s son Jon for permission.

“Point-Me: Benjen Stark.”

The wand laid as if dead, not even moving a hair.

Harry looked up at Jon, the other already guessing as to the result of the spell if the look in his eyes was any clue.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” Harry clasped one hand to the teen’s shoulder, thinking quickly of how to speak his news in a way that wasn’t unfeeling but that Jon would understand, switching between Westron and High Valyrian. “He has been called by the Stranger. His watch has ended.”

Jon bowed his head, as did many of the others who knew Benjen Stark, the Lord Commander included. After seeing what the mage was capable of not one man among them doubt his words.

“His watch has ended.” The others murmured.

“Go on.” Harry motioned towards where he could feel the great magic imbued in the Wall. “No point in stumbling about in the Far North when you have your answers, Lord Commander. Jon and I will catch up.”

“Aye lad.” Mormont nodded his head solemnly. “Aye. You heard ‘im, men! Move out! Back to Castle Black!”

…

Jon was quiet and numb during most of the match back to the ancient castle and garrison of the Night’s Watch, speaking mostly in monosyllables save to Harry or Ghost who could draw him out of the shell created by the confirmation of his bearer’s death. He’d had the idea in his head when Benjen failed to report back that he’d finally fallen prey to a wildling or the bitter far northern dangers or even to a White Walker. But having it confirmed was another thing entirely.

Moreover, Jon knew that this was his only time to grieve.

The second he was back in Westeros proper, he’d have to make a decision about what to do next.

Did he try for the throne that was his birthright?

Did he join Robb in going south to save Sansa and Arya?

Would his cousins even support his claim to the throne?

Questions and questions that he had no answers to, so he set them aside, preferring instead to think of the good times he spent with his bearer and his uncle, learning of his history – and his birthright.

Jon had been raised knowing that someday the time might come where he could make a bid for the throne – if that was indeed what he wanted.

And with the way the Lannisters had shat all over his uncle and half of Jon’s blood, he was leaning more and more towards shoving the Iron Throne right up the Lannisters’ collective arses.

He also knew that if they haven’t already one or both of Robert Baratheon’s brothers would be making bids for the crown now that his uncle’s suspicions regarding Joffery and his siblings had been made public. The Old Gods love his uncle – even in penning that news to Stannis Baratheon he hadn’t betrayed the truth of Jon’s own existence to anyone. No. If there was one thing Benjen and Ned Stark had disagreed on it was that Jon should be able to choose for himself whether to cast his lot for the crown or not.

Benjen had taken steps all Jon’s life to prepare him for such a thing, making sure that the men of the Vale were loyal to his trueborn son as an Heir of the Eyrie through Benjen’s mother, the sister of Jon Arryn. Robert Arryn was known to be a whimpering pup of a boy – and weak and crazed like his mother with it. None of the men of the Vale would support him over Jon, despite the boy and his mother currently acting as Lord and Regent of the Vale.

And by leaving Jon to spend much time with his cousins at Winterfell, Benjen had allowed him to gain strong ties to both the Heirs of the North and of Riverrun as Edmure Tully, his cousins’ uncle, had yet to take a bride or sire a legitimate heir, leaving Bran to be second in line for the Riverlands.

The Martells would support a Targaryen for the Throne, especially after Tywin’s butchery of the Princess Elia and her two children, giving Jon the support of much of the seven kingdoms or at least their neutrality in the case of the Vale and Riverlands.

And then there was King’s Landing and the Crownlands, both of which had suffered greatly under Robert Baratheon and had even less love for the Lannisters.

The Stormlands would be fought over by the Baratheon brothers and in the end would likely be split down the middle, while the West would of course throw in for Joffery out of fear of Tywin if nothing else.

Jon also knew that the Tyrells could throw the support of the Reach behind Renly Baratheon – at least at first. Should he fail, they would likely come crawling to whoever was likely to elevate them the highest. Mace Tyrell had spent more time feasting during Robert’s rebellion than actually supporting Jon’s father Rhaegar after all.

It was a muddle – and that was before you threw in the Lords and Houses who had remained loyal to the Targaryens and the idea of a Targaryen king or queen with the Beggar Prince in Essos.

He didn’t want to fight against his own blood for the throne, but rumor had it there was too much of the Mad King in his uncle Viserys Targaryen for Jon to ever support him to the throne of Westeros.

A moot point since of the two of them – three if he included his aunt Daenerys – Jon as the legitimate son of Rhaegar had the best claim to the Iron Throne, better even than his Baratheon cousins with Joffery being a bastard.

And even after considering all of that…Jon was still no closer to an answer in his grieving state.

…

They returned to Castle Black with little fanfare, bringing with them naught but a new ally and grim news.

Mormont went at once to treat with Maester Aemon while Jon retreated to pack his bags.

He’d made one decision at least: he would join Robb. But first he would speak with his uncle Aemon before anything else. Robb’s council could wait until Jon joined him, Uncle-Maester Aemon’s was much nearer – and more related to Jon’s situation.

Before taking their leave, Jon and Harry stopped by the Maester’s chambers, Harry interested in picking the old man’s brain before spending who knew how long on the road.

Thankfully, Jon had brought a pair of horses with him in case one didn’t survive the journey or died while on a Ranging with his bearer – which had happened in the past leaving him stranded until his uncle Ned sent him another to ride back to Winterfell. A lesson well-learned, especially with the knowledge that this time he might be bringing back a guest.

Though Jon still didn’t know what to think about Harry – a feeling that was all-too-mutual between them.

…

“I know that step.” Aemon said in his craggy voice as the pair entered his solar. “That’s the step of a Targaryen no longer hiding his blood.”

The elderly Maester’s eyes stared blindly at the wall as his apprentice Samwell showed them in before scurrying away to fetch Aemon’s dinner.

“But who comes with him, I wonder?” The scholar mused. “Who’s boots sound unlike any other I’ve heard before, and walks with a stride closer to that of a cat than a man? A stranger, I think.” Aemon observed. “Though not The Stranger just yet, I hope.”

“I’ve been called many things, Maester Aemon.” Harry noted with good-humor. “But never Death himself.”

“And you, young Jon?” Aemon probed. “Are you still denying your blood? Our blood?”

“No, Nuncle Aemon.” Jon gave a bow, knowing the eldest living Targaryen would sense it even if he couldn’t see it. “The Usurper is dead; the kingdoms are fracturing as we speak. If ever there was a time to claim my blood it is now – or never.”

“A usurper is dead, my Black Dread.” Aemon warned. “It seems to be a title growing in popularity according to the ravens at least.”

Aemon felt along the table before him and passed over several sheets of parchment.

“Renly Baratheon has made claim to the throne, while Stannis Baratheon flounders in his thoughts and desires – save to have a bastard born of adulterous incest heaved from the Iron Throne.” Jon summed up as he read. “The Stormlands have split – as you said they would – and the Tyrells have declared for Renly with him taking the girl Margery as his bride and would-be Queen.” The Targaryen Heir shook his head in disgust at the blatant grasping for the crown. Of them all, Renly had one of the weakest claims to the throne, second only to the Lannister bastards. “Cersei has been displaced as Hand in favor of her brother Tyrion.” Jon mused. “Now that is actually a matter for concern. I liked the dwarf well enough when I met him and found him rather cunning and intelligent.”

“The most dangerous of the Lions, is Tyrion Lannister.” Aemon observed. “Though the least respected among them, he’s that much deadlier for being underestimated.”

“Hmm.” Jon hummed under his breath, eyes casting over the letters. “Lady Stark is holding Winterfell secure and Robb is making his way to the Twins with the Northern army to lift the siege at Riverrun where Jaime Lannister somehow captured Robb’s uncle Edmure.”

“Keeping Hoster Tully trapped instead his fortress and unable to strike back at the Lions.” Aemon said. “A good strategy of Tywin’s of that there is no doubt. Now that Joffery has declared your cousin Robb a traitor and demanded his head, Tywin comes North to try and collect it.”

“Well,” Harry spoke at least, watching the two Targaryens plot. “It seems your cousin might be in need of some reinforcements then. Have you decided to try for the throne?”

“A good question, stranger.” Aemon huffed a laugh. “With Viserys killed by Daenerys’s husband and the Khaleesi widowed, there is only one other besides our young Jon here who might have claim to the throne.”

“Who?” Jon all-but-demanded of his great-great-great-uncle. He, like his father before him, trusted Aemon’s council above all others. If Aemon said there was another besides they two and Daenerys who had claim to the throne, Jon believed him.

“A son of a disgraced line, my Black Dread.” Aemon disclosed, referencing Jon’s second Naming for the legendary dragon. “In the East a son of the Blackfyres who wedded with a descendent of Aerion Brightflame has been raised in secret by Jon Connington at the behest of Illyrio Mopatis. He is claimed to be the son of Rhaegar and Jon’s elder half-brother Aegon.” Here Aemon shook his head. “Which is the truth is hard to determine. Is he the son of Rhaegar or the son of the Blackfyres? Jon Connington claims one to me while the Spider claims the other. Regardless his claim is suspect while that of our Black Dread and the Stormborn are both unquestionable.”

“By the gods.” Jon traded a look with Harry. “What should be done about this ‘Aegon Targaryen’?”

“Nothing.” Aemon said at once. “At least – not yet. He is still half the world away and has only the support of an exiled Lord and a cheesemonger besides that of the Golden Company. You, my Dragon, are the true-born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and his second-spouse Benjen Stark. You will have the support of the North and Lords from all over Westeros while young Aegon will have to scrap and scrape for the mildest of welcome here.” Aemon shook his head. “Worry about the Lions at your neck, young Dragon, before the shadows on the other side of the sea. I will do what I can to find the truth of the matter – and news of your aunt. You do what you can to secure your claim and see our blood back on the throne where it belongs.”

“Yes, Nuncle Aemon.” Jon bowed his head.

Harry took his chance to speak up.

“That’s how you view the game afoot?” Harry asked the old Maester. “A Targaryen on the Iron Throne as the only acceptable outcome?”

“Yes.” Aemon said. “All members of the Watch are tested at least once. I have been tested more than that – but none were so grievous as that of knowing my great nephew was betrayed by the Kingsguard – mad or not – and my beloved great-great-nephew, Jon’s own father who’d seen him but once, was dead at the hands of that bastard Baratheon, Elia a Princess of Dorne raped and stabbed in her bed with her sweet children murdered. No.” Aemon shook his head. “A Westeros under Lannister or Baratheon rule is not a place where anything resembling justice or honor will reign. I believe my Black Dread with his Targaryen fire and Stark honor will be the King Westeros needs, if not the one it deserves as well.”

“Thank you for your council, Maester Aemon.” Harry said, rolling that around in his mind. He needed to speak with some others, having already gotten Jeor Mormont’s and Jon’s views on the subject. Until he saw all sides he couldn’t make a firm decision about what was to be done. Or who to support.

“You are welcome, Warrior.” Aemon gave a crooked smile, showing his knowledge of what his young princeling had done. “And, my young Dragon?”

“Yes, Nuncle?”

“Come closer,” Aemon said. “Let me see you one last time, in case the Stranger comes for me in truth before we meet again.”

With that, Jon leaned over, placing Aemon’s fragile but steady hands one his smooth face, having taken the time to rid himself of his beard from the ranging upon reaching his guest quarters along with having a bath – a luxury Harry also indulged in.

“Allow me to give my nephew one last piece of counsel”, the old man said in a bare whisper, “the same council that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne. A man grown with sons of his own, yet in some ways still a boy. Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took the ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”

The old man felt Jon’s face, committing it to his memory.

“You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You may have little joy of your rule, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, my young Dragon. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”

…

Jon thought of his uncle’s words as they rode through the gift down the Kingsroad to Winterfell.

And when he wasn’t thinking of the wisdom of one of the greatest among living men, he was worrying away at how to best make his play for the Iron Throne.

One thing was certain: something had to be done about his missing cousins.

He’d already taken steps to at least secure the alliance of the few holdouts among the Lords of Westeros, using Aemon’s ravens with the Maester’s permission to send out a missive throughout the land that read:

To All the Lords and Men of the Seven Kingdoms and its dominions –

Let it be known that the bastard styling himself as King Joffery Baratheon first of his name, is no more than the product of incest and adultery foisted on the late King Robert the Usurper by his Lannister bride Cersei.

She is henceforth convicted of high treason and line-theft and sentenced to death for her crimes, along with her son the Pretender to the Throne Joffery Waters.

May all the gods Old and new strike them down for their crimes.

Also let it be known this day, that I, Jon Balerion, true-born son of the Crown Prince Rhaegar I Targaryen, First of His Name, and his bound-Consort Benjen Stark, do lay claim to the Throne of Westeros and shall be henceforth known as King Jon I Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

May the gods judge my claim.

Winter is Coming and it brings Fire and Blood.

He signed it: King Jon I Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and beneath it pressed his personal sigil into the wax: a direwolf rampant facing a three-headed dragon.

A second series of letters went out after the first: one to Robb letting his cousin know when he should be joining him, another to the Martells and other Targaryen loyalists still in hiding, a third to the loyal men of the Eyrie who were working behind the scenes to keep Robert in check, and more. One to Varys, another to the Iron Bank of Braavos so that he might have access to the Targaryen fortune there that had been lost to Westeros along with Queen Rhaella’s death, and one to his Aunt Daenerys letting her know of his existence and claim. With the last, he sent it to Varys by the way the Spider used for such things, knowing that it may or may not arrive.

But at least he could say he’d tried.

More letters went out to the Targaryen men who his uncle Ned had hidden among the North, allowing them to watch over him and protect him while remaining dead to all others.

All in all, Jon was cursing himself and was blessing Harry for being able to cast a copying charm for the first letter, making it so all he had to do was sign them and seal them with his sigil while working on his second batch of letters that could have only been done in his own hand.

At least by using the Watch’s ravens they had a chance of reaching their destinations. He couldn’t say that the Lannisters had eyes and ears in Winterfell – but he couldn’t be certain they didn’t either. And besides that, the last person the now Dowager Lady Stark wanted cluttering up her solar was her late husband’s dragon-born nephew who most called Ned’s bastard in their ignorance of his true parentage – and thank the gods for that.

It was long days and nights on the road to Winterfell, time that Jon spent mulling over plans and talking to Harry.

One such talk had him learning that the sorcerer could disappear and reappear from sight at will as well as travel long distances in a moment – but only if he knew where he was going.

“I need at least coordinates.” Harry told him when Jon asked about the possibility of him popping into King’s Landing and rescuing his cousins. “Besides which from the maps I saw in Aemon’s chambers Westeros is a large country – larger than the one I was born in by far. I could never Apparate from King’s Landing to Winterfell while bringing passengers with me.” The sorcerer shook his head. “Even for me – that’s just not possible.”

Which led to several conversations about the limitations of Harry’s magic, though Jon knew that the warrior wasn’t being entirely forthcoming.

Not that Jon could blame him.

He awoke in a new and strange reality with only Jon to rely on – and even that was only due to Jon’s ability to wake him from his sleep which created a bond of sorts.

In Harry’s place…Jon couldn’t say he would’ve been all that open either.

“Tell me.” Harry said one time. “Tell me all you know about the state of the realms.”

Jon obliged, speaking of the Lannisters and Baratheons, the Martells and Tyrells, his uncle’s murder and his aunt in the East. Through it all Harry simply watched him from calm jewel-green eyes, Jon getting the feeling that Harry was paying more attention to how he chose to say things than what he chose to say.

A feeling that if he but knew it was all too true.

Harry had gotten a crash-course in Westerosi politics thanks to his bond with the Targaryen would-be-King. And more that he’d picked up from picking the brains of Mormont and Samwell Tarly and the common men who made up the Night’s Watch. He’d learned from being silent and hearing what the men didn’t say when Jon was around, and from playing invisible when Jon had his audiences with Mormont and Maester Aemon.

He may not be the best Legilimense ever born but he didn’t need to be in a world with a serious lack of true magic.

In fact, the only two people he’d met thus far who’d had any sort of defenses against his casual mind-sweeps were Jon and Aemon – defenses Harry attributed to either their highborn training to control themselves or their strange blood.

There was magic in their blood.

Magic that Jon had used to free Harry, though he hadn’t known that for certain at the time.

He knew it now.

Jon’s blood was even stronger than Maester Aemon’s from what he could tell without directly testing it.

A dangerous thing as from what the good Maester knew, one of the few remaining forms of magic left in this world relied on the darkest of blood rites.

His new friend’s blood would be a powerful tool to someone like the warlocks of Qarth or the Red priests. A situation that Harry had decided he would try and prevent at all costs. There was nothing more dangerous than someone who’d had a taste of power coming into contact with a tool that could advance them ten-fold.

…

“We’ll make Winterfell on the morrow.” Jon said over the remains of their campfire after they’d enjoyed a brace of rabbits, giving the entrails and bones to Ghost before cleaning up. Harry had just returned from a trip to the bushes and gathered more fuel for the fire from the many trees surrounding them.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to the massive forests Jon had led him through – or the perpetual snow and winter.

At least his underclothes beneath his armor were all charmed for warmth and to deal with sweat and smell. He didn’t even want to know what he would smell like otherwise.

Probably like something had died in his tunic.

“That’s good.” Harry said, tossing a few more hunks of wood on the fire. “We’ll rest a day there before heading South towards the Twins, yeah?”

Jon gave a nod in agreement, fiddling with Longclaw as it laid beside him.

“You have two cousins there still, don’t you?” Harry asked, trying to draw his companion from his shell and find out what was bothering him. “Bran and Rickon? And their mother?”

The uncrowned King gave a laugh at that confiding:

“Robb had to keep her there under guard.” Jon continued chuckling. “After that sh*t she pulled with Tyrion Lannister he wasn’t about to have her with him causing trouble with his bannermen – and good for him.”

“Kidnapped him right?” Harry kicked back on his furs, running one hand down Ghost’s spine when the direwolf came over for a rub and cuddle before returning to his master’s side. “Kicked off this whole mess with the Lannisters and Starks and Tullys?”

“Hmm.” Jon nodded pillowing his head on his arms, the warmth of the fire working on his exhausted bones.

It would be another hard ride south after their day’s respite in the warmed halls of Winterfell.

And sleep was calling for them, Harry’s wards up and enough to warn them of danger without needed to keep a guard beyond Ghost’s excellent ears and nose.

“Should be interesting.” Harry commented as he closed his eyes and tugged his furs up over his shoulders. “Meeting the woman who started a war.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Jon said drily, cracking an eye open to glare at the other man. “Now get some sleep if you want to meet her on the morrow.”

“Yes,” Harry said with mocking gravitas. “My King.”

“Asshole.”

“Twat.”

…

“Your Grace.”

With that singular phrase the captain of Winterfell’s guards stepped forward with a bow to Jon, opening the great door to the hall in a smooth motion perfected over years of practice. At once, Jon knew that in the North at least, his claim to the Throne was being held as legitimate. He’d expected – hoped – as much after being raised there, half-Stark, and having his Targaryen loyalists scattered around the kingdom but here, in Winterfell, where he’d always felt the lash and sting of Lady Catelyn’s disapproval, an attitude that had trickled down through all the layers of the castlefolk as such things do, being greeted as King wasn’t something he’d really counted on.

Though once he stepped into the great hall and noted a most notable absence, he started to get a clear view of just why the folk of Winterfell were being gracious over who they’d long thought was Ned’s bastard boy rising to the Iron Throne.

Lady Catelyn was nowhere to be found.

“Jon!” A pair of young voices called out, the older of the two following up with a sheepish: “Your Grace” after a cough from elderly Maester Luwin.

“Your Grace.” The Maester and Bran’s attendant Osha and the others gathered all murmured, dipping curtsies or making their bows.

“Thank you,” he said after a nudge to the ribs from Harry. He wasn’t used to the formalities yet, so sue him. He would grow accustomed…in time…or so his uncles Ned and Aemon had always sworn. “Please rise.”

“On behalf of your House and family.” Maester Luwin rose and began, Catelyn’s absence all the more obvious for his preparation.

Either she wasn’t willing to bow to the boy she’d spent all her life resenting and had secluded herself in her chambers or she was under house arrest on orders of Robb, the only person, other than Jon himself, capable of making such an order within the walls of Winterfell regarding its Lady and having them obeyed.

He supposed he would discover which it was in due time, gods knew Robb was furious over her running off and starting a war which cost his father his head.

Robb may be a Tully in looks but he was certainly a Stark by blood, and like the rest of them he could carry on in cold and righteous anger for years without giving way.

“We welcome Your Grace to Winterfell.”

“Thank you for your gracious welcome, Maester Luwin.” Jon said with a genial nod, motioning for everyone to sit and return to the evening meal which their arrival had interrupted, quickly climbing to the two spots showing signs of being quickly made up for himself and Harry. When he reached Rickon he stopped and tousled his youngest cousin’s hair, giving him a clap on the shoulder before leaning down and doing the same to Bran. “Good to see you both well.” Jon said, truly happy to see Bran back up – if not hopping around due to his injury.

Motioning Harry forward he introduced him to them before they took their seats.

“Bran, Rickon, this is Lord Harry Potter-Black, last of the Peverells and a friend. Harry these are my younger cousins: Bran, presumptive heir to Riverrun and Winterfell and Rickon who is currently Robb’s secondary heir presumptive of Winterfell.”

“Pleased to meet you both.” Harry gave them a manly hand-clasp, much to the young Rickon’s delight, before taking his seat between Jon and the Maester on Jon’s right, the uncrowned-king’s cousins seated to his left as the table had shifted seats to make room for Jon at the head and center of the table.

“I apologize, Lord Potter-Black.” Maester Luwin said with a frown on his face as the two weary travelers dug into their meals with noble grace barely concealing their pleasure at a hot meal they’d not had to hunt, clean, skin, and cook. “But I do not recognize your family Names, nor have I ever heard of the Peverells.”

“Blast.” Jon cursed under his breath. “We’re going to have to do something about that Harry. As things stand you’re a Lord without lands or vassals or anything.”

“A worry for another day, Jon.” Harry waved him off before turning towards the Maester, well aware of all the ears who were listening closely. No doubt some if not most of them were in the pockets of another who would be most interested in the origins of King Jon, the first of his name’s Lordly friend who appeared out of thin air. “I would have been surprised if you had known my names, Maester.” Harry explained simply. “I’m afraid myself and my origins have been a closely-held secret of the Starks going back beyond the days of the Kings of Winter. I hail from the Far North and the Land of Perpetual Winter. And as the King has already said: I am the last of my kind, come to support Jon as he takes the Iron Throne of Westeros.”

“Speaking of which.” Jon turned towards Bran. “We will only be here this night, we must needs meet Robb and the Northern Army.”

“I wish you could stay.” Bran sighed, looking down at his useless legs. “But I understand.”

“Everyone goes away.” Rickon said with all the solemnity a young child was capable of. “But only Mama came back. And you. Now you’re leaving again.”

“But I,” Jon said with fanfare, delighting his youngest cousin. “Like your mother will come back. As will your brothers and sisters if I have anything to say about it. I promise, Rickon. I’ll send them back to you.”

“That’s okay then.” Rickon decided after a moment’s debate, making his audience chuckle.

Jon lowered his voice so that only Harry and Bran flanking him could hear.

“Where’s Lady Stark?”

Bran winced sucking in a breath and answered in a bare – and embarrassed – whisper.

“She tried to disobey Robb and run off to join the Army making its way to Riverrun, said she needed to support her father and brother. Robb about blew his top. He assigned his best men to her guard and secured her to her quarters.” Bran looked up and then away when he caught sight of his cousin’s shock. “She’s not allowed visitors except for me and Rickon and the Maester to go over accounts. Not even a Septon or Septa. Even the maids can’t enter. Just us and the guards.”

Jon blew out a low whistle. Robb was furious then. He never thought he’d see the day where Catelyn Tully’s pride-and-joy would buck her this way but then…that’s Robb. He tucks it all in and away but when that red-headed temper of his goes it goes. One of the only times he ever saw his Nuncle Ned truly wroth with his heir was when he lost his temper during a spar with Jon and broke his arm in his rage.

“I’ll go speak to her after the meal.” Jon decided. “Has she been allowed ravens at all?”

“No, your Grace.” Maester Luwin answered with a wince of his own. “Lady Stark is truly under house arrest until your Lord cousin sees fit to lift it, though she manages to stay informed nonetheless.”

“Very well.” Jon sighed. This visit was going to be nothing less than delightful. He caught sight of the merriment in Harry’s eyes, biting out a “Shut it you.” After listening to Jon talk about his wonderful relationship with his uncle’s wife, Harry would be entertained by him having to beard her like a lioness in her den.

The prat.

…

“So.”

The voice could have frozen the surface of the sun it was so glacial.

“You have returned – and a King now no less.” Catelyn Stark looked up from her embroidery, blue eyes like the first frost. “But I do not see a crown…your grace.”

“I have returned, milady.” Jon said calmly, with the flat Stark stoicism that he knew bothered her so. “And no, I am not yet crowned. I thought my cousin might like the honor.”

Catelyn scoffed.

Ignoring her – and knowing that nothing he could say would ever endear him to her, the Lady Catelyn hating him with a passion unchanging due to his Targaryen blood and the whispers his presence in his uncle’s house had caused – Jon carried on with the purpose behind his visit.

“I have news.” He said, giving her a simple report before going to join Harry in the baths. “Sansa remains a prisoner in King’s Landing. However, my sources have found that the Lannisters do not have Arya. Indeed, that they never had. She escaped with the help of her Braavosi dancing master who died to give her time to run. Last word was that she’d started making her way North, hidden within a caravan.”

Catelyn gasped as hope filled her anew, rising to her feet and her embroidery frame falling from limp fingers as she strode to stand before him, searching those violet eyes identical to his father that she hated so.

“You speak truly.” Her voice broke as she stared, searching for any sense of cruel entertainment at her raised spirits. For any sign that he planned to dash them back down. “Arya is safe?”

“Safe might be overreaching.” Jon observed drily. “Back she’s away from the Crownlands and – currently at least – free from the Lannisters. At this point…it really is the best we could have hoped for.”

“Yes.” Catelyn sucked in a breath stiffening her spine before striding back to her seat and picking up her sewing once more. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“With your leave, milady.” Jon gave a perfunctory nod and spun for the solar door.

“Your Grace.” Catelyn called after him, causing him to pause at the door. “Thank you.”

A last nod was all the acknowledgement he gave her.

Fitting, as a nod at most was all the acknowledgement she ever gave him once she’d turned bitter against him by his third nameday.

…

While Jon was bearding a would-be lioness in her den, Harry was dealing with a female of another sort – more of a guard-dragoness than a lioness for his part – Osha, the wildling woman who looked after Bran and Rickon.

“I’m one of the free-folk, I am.” Osha declared proudly, arms folded across her ample chest as she studied the Lord before her with a gimlet eye. “From beyond the wall. And I ain’t never heard of no Lord Potter or Lord Black or Peverells from up there, have I? So’s I’m not about to be leavin’ you with one-a my charges, am I?” She snorted in derision and leaned back against the closed door leading to the little Bran’s room. “No matter what you or your King say.”

“You’re right.” Harry said with a quirk of his lips. “You’re from where I came from but you’ve never heard of me or mine. That’s with reason, Osha. And I understand that you don’t trust me: I wouldn’t trust me either under those conditions. But I do need to speak to the Stark boy and I can’t very well do it from out here now can I?”

Osha opened her mouth, likely to let loose another round of scathing denials, only to be stymied by a raised voice from inside the room she was guarding.

“It’s alright, Osha.” Bran called, having heard every word. The two of them hadn’t exactly been quiet. “Let him in. Hodor will stay with me.”

“Hodor.” The manservant repeated with his vacant smile from his pallet beside Bran’s bed. “Hodor.”

“As he says.” Osha stepped aside with a heavy scowl and sneering lips. “But I’ll wait right out here, I will.”

“As you will,” Harry gave a genial nod to the mother bear guarding her cubs. “Thank you, Osha.” He said pausing with one hand on the door latch. “For taking care of them with what has happened.”

Osha’s face softened into something not quite a smile.

“Saved me life, that boy did.” She brushed his kneeler’s thanks off with a jerk of her shoulder as she settled into the chair between two little lords’ rooms. “Just repayin’ a debt that’s owed is all.”

“Either way.” Harry smiled. “I’ll thank you just the same, as I know the other ‘kneelers’ never will.”

“Do as ya will.” Was his answer. “Kneelers always do.”

Without another word exchanged between the two – a shame he was pressed for time, Harry found Osha quite entertaining and much like a metamorphmagus he once knew – Harry lifted the latch and entered young Bran’s room.

The signs were clear as his gaze swept over the room’s contents. This was the quarters of a once very active child who was now infirm. There were plans for a special saddle up on one wall that would allow for the boy to ride again. His bow was unstrung in one corner, the string and his quiver resting in a pile beside it along with his bracer. A boy’s treasure from his adventures were displayed on his dressing table: a shining stone, an iridescent raven’s feather, an old iron arrowhead. And of course: his direwolf Summer and personal manservant/aide Hodor who made up in brute strength what he lacked in intelligence.

“What did you need, Lord Harry?” Bran asked politely from his reclining position against the head of his bed.

His cousin had certainly returned with a strange companion this time from his travels, Bran couldn’t help but think.

“You fell, or so your cousin told me.” Harry cut to the chase. “And nearly died, surviving but then unable to walk again – is that correct?”

“Yes.” Bran bit out at the reminder of his accident – and the permanent scar it has left behind.

“I see.” Harry nodded once. Spinal damage most likely. Not much else could’ve caused that. In the lower vertebras as only his legs were effected. “Do you have any feeling or sensation at all?”

Bran was startled at this new question. Most, including his parents and the Maester, had only been concerned with whether he could move his legs. Not if he could still feel them at all.

“Some.” He answered honestly. “It comes and goes sometimes. I feel my hips and upper legs the most – my toes almost not at all.”

“Damaged then.” Harry murmured to himself. “Not severed completely.”

Harry paced over, crouching down to be on eye-level with the young boy. This was the heir of Winterfell or even Riverrun if anything happened to Jon’s eldest cousin or the lad’s grandfather and uncle. Having him so hindered by his fall wouldn’t do if there was even the smallest of measures Harry could enact to help him.

“What I’m about to do.” Harry spoke softly, too low for even the manservant to hear let alone the canny-eared Osha with her ears pressed against the wood of the door. “Must never be spoken of Bran: it never happened. Let them think you recovered slowly, gradually healing on your own. Do you think you can do that?”

“You can heal me?” Bran breathed, eyes wide as saucers. “Yes, anything, yes!”

“It might not be a complete cure.” Harry warned, removing the Elder Wand from his gauntlet. “All I might be able to do is restore some small sensation or the ability to curl your toes. There is no telling until I begin. But I need your word, Brandon Stark.” Harry’s voice and eyes pinned the young boy with his intensity. “Not. A. Word.”

“You have it.” Bran swore.

“On your life?”

“On my life.”

“On your family and blood?”

“Yes, yes!”

Harry nodded. “Very well then. Repeat after me: I Brandon Stark, second son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully”

“I Brandon Stark, second son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.” Bran parroted obediently.

“Do swear on my blood and family and life.”

“Do swear on my blood and family and life.”

“To hold secret onto myself the healing done by Harry James, Lord Potter-Black, Last of the Peverell Line.”

“To hold secret onto myself the healing done by Harry James, Lord Potter-Black, Last of the Peverell Line.”

“Telling none, not even the gods of his work.”

“Telling none, not even the gods of his work.”

“From this day, until my last day.”

“From this day, until my last day.”

“In the name of the Stranger and the old gods, So Mote It Be.”

“In the name of the Stranger and the old gods, So Mote It Be.”

As the last word was spoken by the young boy, a flash lit between them, sealing Bran’s vow.

“What was that?” Bran twitched restlessly.

“That was the gods sealing your vow, Brandon Stark.” Harry’s mouth twitched with the need to smile at the child. “Let this be a lesson to you: sometimes your words have more power than you know – if they’re the right words.”

With no more ado, Harry flicked his wand, quickly casting a diagnostic and his intelligent eyes picking out the remaining damage that time and the Maester’s work hadn’t yet healed. And likely never would have.

“I was right.” Harry murmured to himself. “Nerve damage, some mishealed bone shards.” He grimaced thinking of the wounds he saw both during and after the Wizarding War. Unfortunately, the boy’s wounds weren’t nearly as serious as that caused by the Cruciatus or some of the other worst of the Dark curses. He’d seen all too much of curse damage. Harry couldn’t help but be glad that he was unlikely to run into much of it in his new reality.

Taking a deep breath, he set to work, first giving Bran a foul-tasting potion to numb him from the waist down, allowing Harry to work unhindered by the boy flinching or moving involuntarily. With poorly set bone fragments all that there was to be done was rebreak the bone, splint it with his magic, and feed the child Skelegrow.

Merlin bless perseveration charms that are fueled by the land’s magic.

He didn’t even want to think about what he was going to do once his potion stores were exhausted. Guaranteed that ninety-nine percent of the ingredients he’d need to replenish them weren’t available in this new world.

On the bright side though…it was a rather massive stock Teddy and the goblins had laid in for him.

Bran moaned and bitched all the way through his beaker of Skelegrow, not that it mattered with Harry standing there tapping his foot and waiting for the boy to get on with it and “stop being such a ruddy baby, it’s only a potion for the Stranger’s sake!”

And with his spine numbed it wasn’t like Bran was dealing with the pins-and-needles-from-hell that came with having bones regrown or reset.

Harry wished Pomfrey had known how to do that. It would’ve made his frequent stays in the hospital wing a lot better.

He recast his diagnostic, checking for any additional damage from having the shards removed or rebroken and then the vertebras regrown. His Potter Luck must be holding out because there was only some small extra bruising from the first procedure. Nothing that would hinder his spells to heal the bruising and smooth the nerves, allowing them to reattach and realign.

It wouldn’t be an immediate fix, nor an easy one.

Bran would have to do a lot of work to regain his strength and reteach his brain and legs to work together. The boy would likely never be a master swordsman or a knight of the Kingsguard as Jon had told Harry was Bran’s one-time dream.

But he would walk.

And ride.

And most of all, fight.

That was good enough for Harry.

Rolling up his sleeves, the wizard cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

Now the difficult part was at hand.

…

It was an exhausted Harry that strode into the Lord’s bath in the depths of Winterfell, steam rising all around him as the baths, fed by the hot springs, were in full use, Jon having beaten him there by some time judging from his position seated half-submerged in the bubbling water, back to the bath wall and dark head resting back on a pillow with his eyes closed.

“You’re late.” Jon said as Harry began stripping off his armor and underclothes, gently setting his sword and sheathed wand near the edge of the bath across from his new King.

It was an odd sensation – having a King.

Yes, he was British in his old life and “God save the Queen” and all that. But the United Kingdoms of his old world – his former reality – was a constitutional monarchy, a far cry from the absolute monarchy practiced in Westeros.

Here a King had so much more power than any constitutional monarch could claim. A King was a warrior and general who took the field alongside his troops – if he were any kind of King at all – and a diplomat and a lawmaker and, and, and.

Jon had already proven to Harry – knowingly or not – just how different being a King in Westeros was than anything Harry had ever seen before.

Ravens upon ravens, sending out his Claim and his orders to various men and Lords who’d known of him in advance of the death of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. Seeking information from the Targaryen loyalists hidden all over or even those who were sickened by Robert’s rule and the grasping of his Lannister good-family. Displaced men who’d been ignored or replaced in favor of the pride of the foolish whor*monger King and his blonde-haired horde.

“I went to see Bran.” Harry admitted with a sigh as he sank into the heated water.

Now this was more like it. His experience of bathing so far in Westeros had left much to be desired. The hot springs of Winterfell were the first time in the last three to four weeks since his waking that he’d felt clean.

Another new experience for Harry – keeping time in a land that revolved around Summers that lasted ten years and Winters could last as long or longer.

A strange new world was Westeros.

And strangely enough, Harry was quickly finding he liked it.

He felt more…real. More alive, than he had since he was fighting against Tom.

Hermione, damn her, was right after all. Harry just didn’t do well without a battle to fight, in one way or another. He’d been trained all-too-well to be a warrior and mage and man of action. Maybe he did have a saving-people-thing.

But at least in his new life it would be something to admire rather than scorn.

Jon lifted his head up, facing his new friend, violet eyes wide with hope.

“And?” It was just shy of being a kingly demand, much to Harry’s visible amusem*nt.

“It’ll take work.” Harry said then filled his King in on the amount of potions he had left with the wildling woman and Bran, as well as the spells he’d cast, ending with: “If he follows my instructions he’ll be able to walk, run, climb, even wield a sword or a bow. He won’t be a legendary warrior by any stretch, but with his brain and some work he’ll be a fine Lord of Riverrun.”

Jon quirked a brow, gaining him a scoffing laugh and a roll of Harry’s eyes.

“I wasn’t struck deaf or blind when we were visiting your ‘Uncle Maester’.” Harry drawled, scrubbing at his hair with some spicy-scented potion from his satchel, then dipping under the water to rinse and continued. “I saw and heard how things are. The Lord of Riverrun is dying and his Heir is the captive of Jaime Lannister.” He tsked. “Besides which from what I understand, the Tullys were the cause of much grief to your father, the actions of Catelyn and Lysa started a damn war, and Lady Catelyn has never been kind to you. Why would you reward such behavior by keeping Riverrun in the direct line?” He snorted. “You’ll make Bran, who is the secondary Heir to Hoster Tully, Lord or I’ll eat my sword.”

Jon hummed under his breath, following Harry’s example and taking a handful of the offered bottle. It was a different one than Harry had used, smelled more like ice and winter and the sea than the spice and musk Harry preferred. The new King found himself liking it very much, especially how clean he felt afterwards, cleaner than even the nice ladies’ milled soap he’d grown up using as Ned’s nephew.

And much better than the simple tallow-and-lye concoction they used at the Wall – if any at all.

“I think Thanatos is safe enough.” He said, using the name Harry had given his sword when he’d learned of the tradition. Jon frowned. “I wish I knew what became of Ice. That bastard Joffery refused to return my Uncle’s bones or armor or the Stark Greatsword. Vile, grasping creature.”

“Ice?” Harry perked up, peering over at his companion. “Is it the only sword named that in these lands?”

“Of course.” Jon shrugged. “No man would name his sword after another, especially after one of the ancestral swords of the great houses. Too afraid a Lord would be offended and might make them pay in blood. Several of the great Valryian steel swords have been lost, like the Targaryen swords Blackfyre and Dark Sister or the Lannister sword Brightroar. But still, none would try and take the names for their own steel.”

“You don’t say.” Harry murmured to himself, an idea tickling at the back of his mind. “That’s…interesting.” Closing his eyes, he rested back against the wall, his ablutions complete but enjoying the heat of the water and the fragrant steam, not to mention Jon’s company, too much to move and dress.

Lifting his head with a sigh, knowing he would need a good night’s sleep if he was to be of any use on the start of the ride south in the morning, Harry opened his eyes only to let out a little gasp in surprise. Jon had moved silently through the bubbling water and steam and come to stand before him, hands on the bath ledge and arms bracketing Harry’s smaller, lithe figure with Jon’s broad swordsman’s frame and long arms. The new-King’s eyes, a normally lovely and startling combination of his father’s violet and his bearer’s light silvery-grey, looked more like a star-flecked sky the purple was so dark. His ebony hair spilled down his neck and onto his strong shoulders and well-muscled chest in damp waves, his ivory skin clear of stubble and beaded with the remains of water droplets and a sheen from Harry’s potions.

He was beautiful.

And if Harry’s eyes and senses hadn’t been dulled by years locked away and his overuse of magics to heal Bran…aroused.

Hands in Harry’s golden-cream darted up and pressed against pectorals flexing with the need to move, to get closer, leaving the wizard feeling as if he was trying to hold a dragon at bay with a feather.

Peering up through water-clumped lashes, emerald met starry-night in a dichotomous combination of playful and bashfulness.

Jon gave a growl at the look and leaned closer pressing himself firmly against hands that he would give anything to have move lower or even just twine around his neck, anything that was a sign that he hadn’t been misreading the occasional poorly-concealed looks from those jeweled eyes and the heated blushes when caught.

“Did you…need something, your Grace?” Harry asked breathily, then cursed himself. That most definitely wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

“Tell me.” The demand was raspy with desire, as Jon leaned down and nipped lightly at the delicate curve of a golden-cream shoulder, Harry’s bracing hands no more a deterrent than a piece of gauze might be. “Tell me I haven’t been imagining it.” Jon pressed a heated kiss to Harry’s quivering jaw, as the wizard’s pearly teeth worried at one plump ruby lip. “Tell me it’s not just me that feels it.”

“It’s not just you.” Harry whispered, meeting Jon’s burning eyes once more as he lifted his hands and twined them gently in Jon’s ebony hair, running the silky-wet strands through his fingers. “But…you’re a king, or you will be. And I’m…”

“Whoever I say you are.” Jon interrupted, knowing this was coming back around to Harry being Lord-of-Nothing with his world dead and gone, despite his name and titles. “If I say you’re a Lord, you are.” Jon breathed as he moved forward that single step that had separated them, nestling himself between Harry’s sprawled legs, bringing his throbbing co*ck into the cradle of Harry’s silky legs. “If I say you’re a worthy match for any man – or gods forfend woman – you are.”

Harry swallowed harshly, biting his lip before speaking so softly Jon had to bend his head to hear his words.

“Even…a match for a King?”

Jon laughed, delighted at the return of the irrepressible spirit he’d come to adore about the smaller warrior.

“Especially for a King.” Jon gave a blinding smile at Harry’s transparent pleasure in his words.

Leaning down, Jon lifted one sword-callused hand and gently turned Harry’s face up to meet his, finally taking those ruby-tinged lips for his own. It was gentle – at first. Jon couldn’t believe how soft and pillowy Harry’d managed to keep his lips despite the burning wind and hard riding they’d done almost without pause for more than a moon’s turn. Soft, and gentle, nearly sweet between two strong and hot-blooded men.

Then it changed.

Harry gave a low growl, one that Jon could feel in his own chest as if the predatory sound had been his own. Hands that had been careful firmed in ebony hair, tugging his head and pressing them closer together, as if Harry wanted to climb inside his newfound lover. Harry could feel the rapid beating of Jon’s heart, Jon tasting the spiced apple custard and sweet mead Harry had had for afters while Jon declined in favor of a strong whiskey.

One of them gave a soft moan, or was it both, as Harry’s tongue did battle with Jon’s for dominance, Jon drawing Harry into his own mouth and then trapping his tongue gently with his teeth before freeing it and allowing the wizard to taste him. Jon’s hands were busy while Harry’s played with his hair, one skimming along the wizard’s firm jaw before caressing the length of an arm and tangling their fingers together in the end. The other found Harry’s knee beneath the bubbly surface of the water, lifting his leg to wrap around Jon’s lean hips, letting his arousal slot firmly against Harry’s own erect weapon. Harry’s lungs screamed for air, the wizard dragging his lips away from his lover’s with a gasp, throwing his head back in a moan as Jon immediately attacked his lithe neck with nips and suckling kisses destined to leave a mark, their hips rubbing and grinding against each other in a dance as old as time, racing to completion.

“Say it!” Jon demanded, biting roughly at the curve where neck met shoulder. “Say you’re mine! Vow it!”

Harry’s whine was nearly feral, the warrior-wizard almost insensate as he bucked his hips up, seeking more and harder and more, his words matching his desire-drenched thoughts.

“Say it!” This time the demand was punctuated by a rough pull of Harry’s long hair, Jon’s seeking mouth latching onto where a throbbing vein pressed against the tender underside of an aristocratic jaw.

“Yours!” Harry capitulated. “I vow I’m yours!”

“Mine.” Jon growled, finally pressing harder with his hips, trapping Harry’s co*ck against his own and wrapping one long-fingered hand around them both, jerking them quickly to a hot and furious climax as his mouth reconquered Harry’s own.

The two lovers gasped and growled their completion in near-unison, hot fluid spilling between them and being carried away by the waters of the hot springs as Jon collapsed against his lover’s smaller body, Harry holding him up more on instinct than actual thought.

“Mine.” Jon repeated in a rough whisper as he regained his senses, turning his head on Harry’s shoulder to look over at the emerald-eyed man.

“Yours,” Harry agreed with a roll of those jewel-toned eyes. “You possessive prat.”

“King.” Jon reminded him, with smug self-satisfaction ripe in his voice and an arched brow as he levered himself back onto his feet and out of the baths, lowering a hand to help lift Harry out to join him as they swiftly toweled off, Harry drying and tying back their hair with a few swishes of his wand.

“Yeah, King.” Harry said with a sigh, belting his sword back in place over clean underclothes and bundling his armor into his satchel. He wouldn’t need that until the morning and he wasn’t keen to put it on before then, cleaning and freshening charms or no. “How is this,” he waved a hand between them. “Going to work with that anyway? It’s not like you can marry me or anything.”

Not that Harry was even sure that was what he wanted from the violet-eyed King. Yes, he’d gotten to know Jon, and admired him for his honorable-but-pragmatic nature and desire to do what was best for his rightful kingdom. He knew, now, that Jon wanted to rule not out of some sense of entitlement but rather because he’d seen for himself how Westeros had fared under the joint rule of Baratheon and Lannister – and he wanted better for his people than the deprivations they’d been plagued with under the Stags and Lions.

But he wasn’t in love with the Stark-Targaryen Scion.

Not yet at least.

And he refused to marry for less than that.

For less than what his parents had had: a love to make even death itself take notice and halt.

A love that saved their only son.

And he knew Jon wanted the same.

Not a political marriage like that of his father and step-mother but a love-match like his father and bearer.

A love to defy lords and Kings to have and hold.

In that, at least, they were well-matched.

“Not true.” Jon said nonchalantly as he finished lacing his trousers. “We both know men are capable of bearing children – if they’re from families who have that trait. I’m a product of such a match after all. And if Targaryens are known for anything it’s marrying where and who we please – even if sometimes we choose less-than-wisely.”

Harry nodded knowingly, thinking of the “coin-flip” offspring Targaryen matches were known to produce.

You could get a Rhaegar or Aegon the Conqueror but you were just as likely to get a Mad King Aerys or a Maegor the Cruel.

“Lovers.” Harry said decisively, ignoring the half-wounded look Jon gave him at his pronouncement. “For now.” The wizard shook his head and leaned up on his toes giving him a swift kiss before the King could break into a very un-kingly pout. “I want to wed for love, as I know you do. Tell me true: do you love me already?”

“I think I loved you the moment you pinned me to the floor with those jewel eyes of yours.” Jon said head co*cked to one side teasingly, a half-smile flirting with his lips.

“Be serious, Jon.” Harry chided with a sigh.

“I am serious.” Jon laughed. “Just ask my cousins, they always accuse me of being too dour, too much a Stark.”

“Jon.” Harry drawled, arching a brow as they entered Jon’s rooms in Winterfell.

They were lush for a member of the household that many had thought a bastard son. Nearly the equal of the Lord’s chambers, a sure sign of Eddard’s regard for his brother’s son. Ned wasn’t the kind of man to treat people based on what might be but what was and had been. And from what Jon had been told by his bearer, Ned had respected Rhaegar as a price and a warrior, if not been enraged by the actions of Rhaegar’s father Aerys and the deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark.

Ned never knew if Jon would seek the Iron Throne or not…but he had certainly prepared for the eventuality that he had the right to do so as the true heir to the Throne.

Just as that good man had counseled patience, the sight of Robert stepping over the bodies of babes to mount that cursed chair never far from his mind when he saw his beloved nephew and feared for his death at Ned’s foster-brother’s hands.

“Not yet,” Jon admitted, running one hand down Harry’s hair. “But I could, easily.”

Harry flashed a bashfully-pleased smile at that. After all, Jon was one of the handsomest men he’d ever even, along with the most powerful. To have his high regard was no small matter. Moreover, it was something Harry had earned in his own right, not due to an empty defeat of a Dark Lord or expectations of what Harry might be able to accomplish.

Just him.

Just Harry.

“Lovers.” Harry repeated, crawling into the bedfurs beside his reclining king, placing Thanatos on the floor beside him, Jon echoing his movement with Longclaw.

“Lovers,” Jon agreed, then blew the candle out.

…

The next morning, after another round of frotting due to neither of them truly being ready for more, nor wanting to be sore on the ride despite their hot blood for each other, Harry and Jon broke their fast and were bidding Jon’s youngest two cousins goodbye in the courtyard when the gates of Winterfell opened, allowing a handful of mounted knights to come thundering into the yard.

What was more, one held a banner high: a sable field with a three-headed dragon in blood red.

Jon whooped in joy as the knights reined their horses and dismounted, Harry taking them in as Bran and Rickon burst into excited chatter.

“White cloaks!” Rickon’s eyes were wide with awe.

“The Kingsguard,” Bran breathed in bittersweet pleasure. Harry had been quite clear: Bran’s legs would heal, enough so he could fight and train with his men when he became a Lord. But being a member of his cousin’s Kingsguard was a dream now out-of-reach.

“You’ve made good time.” Jon called out as the four white-cloaked knights strode forward and took a knee before him, their companion wearing the sea-green and silver seahorse of House Velaryon of Driftmark doing the same just behind them. “Rise, loyal men of the Kingsguard, who have you brought with you, Arthur?”

Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Commander of Jon’s Kingsguard and his father’s most loyal friend, rose to his feet and studied the lad-now-king grown that he’d trained and watched over ever since Eddard Stark invited him and his fellows to keep to their vows and protect his nephew. Arthur might not have agreed, save that Ned Stark had borne with him a missive from Rhaegar’s consort Benjen, asking him, pleading with them to let their names die to appease Robert’s bloodlust and in turn protect Jon. It was a hard thing that Benjen had asked of them, but they’d done it nonetheless.

If nothing else, it was easier by far to watch over and train and grow to love the boy with dark hair and Rhaegar’s eyes than to watch as that same boy’s grandfather was burned alive, along with scores of others.

A far kinder order than many the Kingsguard had obeyed under the Mad King.

The Old Bull had chosen to go into exile with Viserys and Daenerys, only to die of a fever in Braavos, leaving the ‘Beggar Prince’ and his sister without protection.

That was the one time Arthur and his friends and brothers-in-arms had felt true regret over their choice. But they couldn’t divide their force once more and send another to watch over the exiled Targaryens. No. It would’ve opened up too much speculation over what had truly happened at the Tower of Joy – and what other secrets Ned Stark might be hiding.

Better by far to stay dead and keep Rhaegar’s boy, the true king, safe.

Now they were proud to once more unearth their white cloaks and take up their duty in honesty and honor, guarding the first king in memory worthy of the office.

Were Arthur a less-contained man he might have shed a tear to see Jon so tall and strong, ready to ride out at the head of an army and take back what was his all these long years.

“Your Grace.” Arthur smiled. “You know my brothers and the rest of your current Kingsguard: Prince Lewen Martell, Ser Oswell Whent, and your own appointment, Ser Mark Ryswell. We bring with us, Aurane Waters, eldest blood-son of House Velaryon, he has news from his father Lord Monford Velaryon, Admiral of the Targaryen Fleet.”

“Very well,” Jon nodded. “Rise, Aurane Waters.” Jon commanded taking in the silver hair and indigo eyes that marked him as being of Valyrian blood. His father claimed him or else he wouldn’t be there and wearing the Velaryon sigil but he hadn’t been legitimized, likely out of sheer bloody-mindedness on the part of late Robert Baratheon.

Robert had to watch himself with the Lords of the Crownlands such as Monford who was the Lord of the Driftmark. Squashing a weak rebellion such as that of “Balon’s Folly” was one thing, having strong supporters of the Targaryens pissed at you and on your doorstep was another thing entirely. But never had he done anything to benefit the Lords of the Crownlands either, a mistake that was now coming home to roost as they moved to support a Targaryen once more, as they always had in ages past.

The men of the Crownlands, save for those Robert had displaced or who had died out during his Rebellion, were to a man the blood of old Valyria, men and families who had followed the ancestors of Aegon the Conqueror in the days before the Doom. And they were loyal to the Targaryens in ways Robert and others like Tywin Lannister could never understand, neither being men who inspired that kind of feeling in their fellow man. Fear, disgust, yes. Both were good at those. But loyalty? Never.

Stannis Baratheon had respect, Renly Baratheon love or laughter for his seeming ‘good-nature’. Tywin fear, Balon hate, but the Targaryens instilled passionate loyalty while the Starks’ honor commanded it. Against the Scion of both those Great Houses, the would-be Usurpers had better hope an assassin gets lucky or an archer has a good day, otherwise there was little that could keep Jon from the Iron Throne.

“What news do you have for me from your father?” Jon asked as Harry came to stand at his side, Rickon ushered inside leaving only Bran and his retainers as well as the Maester and Captain of the Winterfell men-at-arms in the courtyard.

“Your Grace.” Aurane dipped his head respectfully as he dug into his cloak and removed a sealed missive from a pouch. “My father bid me bring you this, as well as the greetings of all of those of the blood of Old Valyria. He bid me tell you that all have acknowledged your Claim and are putting in place the instructions you sent him and the others you trusted.”

“Thank you, young Waters.” Jon said as he quickly read the missive that lined up neatly with the young man’s words. “Well.” He looked over at Harry. “It seems we’ll have company on the way to meeting Lord Stark.”

Turning he spoke to Bran.

“My Kingsguard were accompanied by just over three thousand men-at-arms.” Jon looked at his young cousin with solemn eyes. “By your leave I will leave the majority of them – Targaryen supporters all – for the protection of my kin and of Winterfell.” He glanced between Bran and the Captain-at-Arms. “I know Robb took most of the men and banners south. With the Iron Islands so close, and Balon so unpredictable, I would feel better if you would allow this.”

“Of course, your Grace.” Bran said with a bow. “We are honored by your concern and welcome your protection.”

Jon smiled, gesturing to one of the guards as Aurane ran to the gate and called for someone to advance.

Once the knight had ridden in and dismounted, Jon introduced him.

“This is Ser Crispan Celtigar, Heir of House Celtigar and one of Our most loyal men.” Jon gestured for Crispan to remove his helm. “Cris, this is Brandon Stark, my cousin and Heir of Riverrun, currently holding Winterfell for Lord Stark. These are Maester Luwin and the Winterfell Castellan and Master-at-Arms Ser Rodrick Cassell.”

After they had exchanged greetings, Crispan turned to Jon with a half-woebegone look on his handsome Valyrian features.

“I wish you’d let me ride with you, your Grace.” Crispan smiled, belying his grief. “It’s panning out to be one hells of a fight ahead.”

“You’ll get your turn for bloody glory, Cris.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Just take care of my cousins and good-aunt, will you? And try to keep the number of maids seduced to a reasonable number.” Jon japed as he swung onto his mount, bidding Bran and the others a parting nod and goodbye.

“Reasonable?!” Crispan called to his King’s back. “When it comes to maids to seduce there’s no such thing as a reasonable number!”

Jon laughed and shot a crude gesture over his shoulder as he and his lover and the Kingsguard clattered out of the yard, meeting up with the score of men that were to ride south with them to meet the rest of the Targaryen banners who had been commanded North under Tywin’s very nose, before joining with the Northern Army.

It was shaping up to be a good fight, indeed.