The Northern wind was biting cold that morning, but Harry didn't mind. He had grown accustomed to the chill, wrapped in his enchanted cloak, his gloved hands loosely gripping the reins of his horse as they trotted along the damp path veering off the Kingsroad. The snow had long melted at lower elevations, giving way to stretches of misty hills and pine-covered ridges. Every so often, he glanced up into the sky, where a pale white shape circled lazily above the clouds—his dragon, Winter, gliding with effortless grace.
It had been nearly two months since he had last seen Dorin and Oliver. He realized he owed them more than just silence. They had taken him in when he had nothing—strangers who had treated him like kin. And he hadn't even left a proper farewell.
"The Starks can wait," Harry muttered under his breath, guiding the horse off the main road. "I've got time."
The ride took most of the day. By late afternoon, familiar signs appeared—the forked tree with the iron nail embedded in its trunk, the moss-covered stones leading to Dorin's cottage. But what Harry saw next brought him to a halt.
The cottage had changed.
The old thatched roof, once sagging and patched with tar, was now fully re-thatched and neatly braced with new timbers. A fresh layer of whitewash brightened the cottage walls. There was a carved wooden eagle perched on the doorframe, and two flowerbeds lined the path leading to the porch.
As Harry dismounted and walked toward the home, the front door burst open.
"Lord Gryffindor!" cried a voice.
Two girls ran toward him, laughing and beaming. It was Elsa and Nina—Dorin's daughters—only now they looked very different. Elsa, tall and graceful for her age, wore a deep blue woolen dress trimmed with silver thread, her long dark hair braided with red ribbons. Little Nina, perhaps even more cuter now, wore a fur-lined green cloak and clutched a carved wooden fox in her hands.
"Lord Gryffindor! You're back!" Elsa squealed, grabbing his arm.
"I missed you!" Nina added, hugging his waist tightly.
Harry smiled, genuinely touched. "It's good to see you both. You've grown."
Elsa stepped back, eyes wide. "Did you come for the wedding?"
Harry blinked. "Wedding? Whose wedding?"
"Uncle Oliver's! He's marrying Beth tomorrow!" she announced proudly, like it was a royal event.
"Beth from the market?" Harry asked, his smile widening.
Elsa nodded rapidly. "Yes! She's going to be our aunt!"
"Well," Harry chuckled, "I suppose I arrived just in time."
The door to the cottage opened again and Dorin stepped out, beaming from ear to ear. He looked younger than Harry remembered—clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back neatly, and his tunic freshly laundered.
"Well, well," Dorin said, striding forward and clasping Harry's forearm. "I told Beth he'd show up, didn't I, girls?"
"You did," Elsa said, giggling.
Dorin's voice was warm. "Come inside, Milord. Come in. My wife just baked honey oat bread."
"I'll come by," Harry said, "but first I want to see Oliver."
"He's at the mill. Still pretending he can fix things without breaking them," Dorin said with a grin. "It's just down the path, you remember it."
"I remember."
The girls clung to his arms as he walked, asking questions all at once.
"Did you go to White Harbor?"
"Did you see a bear?"
"Did you meet the Starks?"
Harry laughed as he gently pried them off. "One at a time! I'll tell you everything at the wedding feast, alright?"
They agreed, reluctantly, and ran off to help their mother.
The mill hadn't changed as much as the cottage, but even here there were signs of improvement—new tools stacked neatly on the side, a reinforced wooden awning over the door, and a sturdy new wheel turning slowly in the stream's current.
Harry pushed the door open.
Inside, the scent of sawdust and oil filled the air. Oliver stood by a large wooden table, hammer in hand, muttering curses at a plank that wouldn't settle flush.
"You're holding the chisel upside down," Harry said from the doorway.
Oliver froze. Then he turned, slowly, and a smile broke across his face.
"Lord Griffindor ?," he laughed, walking over and wrapping Harry in a one-armed hug. "Where in the hells have you been?"
Harry returned the hug, grinning. "Around. I heard someone's getting married."
"Damn right I am. Beth finally said yes after I got the roof fixed." He leaned back. "Though I think it was the silver necklace you gave me that did most of the convincing."
Harry raised a brow. "So I'm the reason for this wedding?"
Oliver laughed. "Let's just say your generosity put a few stars in her eyes. You staying long?"
"I'll stay for the wedding, of course. Then I've got a trip to Winterfell."
Oliver frowned. "You sure you want to get involved with the northern politics?"
"I've got my reasons."
Oliver nodded. "Well, you've got a place here if you ever need it."
"I know."
That night, Harry stayed at the mill with Oliver. They talked well past midnight, sharing stories by firelight. When the hour grew late and Oliver finally fell asleep in his chair, Harry stepped outside.
Above, the stars glittered like frost scattered across the heavens. And there—like a ghost among clouds—soared Winter, his white scales reflecting moonlight.
Harry gave a soft whistle. The dragon answered with a deep-throated rumble from above before spiraling higher into the night sky.
Smiling, Harry looked toward the distant silhouette of Winterfell.
Soon, he thought. But for now… let's enjoy the calm.
Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and laughter still echoed from the celebration that had rocked the little village all afternoon. The wedding had been a marvel unlike any the smallfolk had ever witnessed. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, honeyed trout, venison pies, and fresh breads. There were platters of wildberries soaked in cream, jugs of spiced ale, and rare wines flowing like rivers—all of it made possible by the quiet generosity of one man.
Harry had discreetly handed Dorin a pouch earlier that morning—twenty more gold dragons, enough to feed the whole countryside and then some. "It's for Oliver," he had said with a smile. "Let him start married life with something worth remembering."
And remembered it would be.
The wedding had taken place before the Godswood tree, an ancient weirwood nestled just beyond the pasture, its white bark gnarled with age, crimson leaves fluttering like bloodied silk in the breeze. It was a sacred spot, and the villagers had decorated it with garlands of mountain heather and bluebells. Beth had worn a crown of flowers, and Oliver stood proud in his best tunic—embroidered for the occasion with tiny gold thread around the cuffs, a gift from Dorin's wife.
When they kissed beneath the weirwood, the crowd cheered loud enough to wake the hills.
That evening, the mill had become a hall of merriment. Lanterns swung from the rafters, casting golden light across flushed faces and swaying bodies. The wine Harry provided seemed enchanted—it never ran out, no matter how many jugs were poured. Villagers drank and danced until their legs gave out, and eventually one by one, the guests staggered home with full bellies and slurred blessings for the newlyweds.
Now, the moon had risen high, silvering the quiet world. The noise had died down. The guests had departed. And Oliver and Beth were given privacy at last, their laughter now a gentle murmur behind closed shutters.
Inside Dorin's cottage, the hearth crackled softly. Harry sat in a simple wooden chair, stretching his legs near the fire, a half-empty cup of mulled wine resting in his hand.
"That was a good day," Dorin said, slumping into the chair across from him with a tired sigh. "We'll be talking about it for generations."
"You deserve it," Harry said with a smile. "So does Oliver. He's a good man."
Dorin chuckled. "He's a stubborn ass, but aye. A good one."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the kind only shared by men who had earned their rest. Then, Harry's ears perked.
A distant clop-clop broke the stillness. Hooves. Multiple riders. Coming fast.
Dorin heard it too. He straightened in his chair. "Who in the hells would be riding this way at this hour?"
Harry rose to his feet and moved toward the window, brushing aside the curtain. The road leading down to the mill was lit by moonlight, and he could see them—six riders in dark cloaks, hoods up, swords on their hips. They weren't moving like farmers or kinfolk. Their posture was too upright, their pace too steady.
Trouble.
"I'll take a look," Harry said, setting down his wine. "You stay inside."
Dorin didn't argue. "Be careful."
Harry stepped out into the night, drawing his sword of Griffindor from his belt. He walked down the gravel path, silent as a shadow, his boots making no sound as he passed between the trees toward the mill.
The cold wind had picked up as Harry moved toward the mill, the moon high and pale behind shrouds of clouds. From the shadows, he had seen the riders dismount—Bolton men, armored and armed, their cloaks bearing the flayed man of the Dreadfort. But it wasn't just soldiers. There was another among them, robed in grey, tall, thin, with skin as pale as frost and eyes that held the chill of death itself.
Roose Bolton.
Harry stayed hidden, crouched behind a low wall of stone and moss, while the lord of the Dreadfort stepped forward and banged his gauntlet against the mill door. When Oliver opened it, rubbing sleep from his eyes, Harry saw the moment fear overtook him.
"You didn't ask for my permission," Roose Bolton said, voice quiet but cruel. "You are my tenant, Oliver. You live on my land. And yet you wed a woman—extravagantly, no less—without even sending an invitation to your liege lord?"
Oliver swallowed hard and bowed his head. "My lord, I—I didn't mean disrespect. It was—"
"Quiet," Roose hissed. "You weren't invited to think. You're a miller, not a knight. And I was not invited. Nor was I asked. That alone is offense. But then I hear rumors—" he stepped forward, his lips curling into a mockery of a smile, "—rumors that your bride is a beauty."
Harry's fingers curled into fists as he watched Oliver step protectively in front of the door.
Bolton's smile grew colder. "Did you forget our customs, boy? In these lands, a lord is entitled to the first taste of the harvest. Be it grain, meat… or women." He looked toward the mill, where Beth no doubt listened in terror from within. "And I intend to collect what is mine."
"No—please—she's my wife," Oliver stammered.
"She's my subject," Roose replied. Then, with a sharp gesture, he ordered his men. "Drag him out."
The soldiers grabbed Oliver by the arms and yanked him into the snow. He fell to his knees, struggling. Beth cried out from within the mill, but another soldier barred the door with his spear.
Roose adjusted his gloves slowly. "I'll be brief," he muttered. "A quick visit. I'm sure the girl will learn to enjoy—"
"That's enough."
The voice cut through the cold like steel.
Every head turned.
Harry stepped out from the shadows, cloak billowing behind him, the Sword of Gryffindor gleaming silver under the moonlight. He walked with calm authority, eyes fixed on Roose Bolton.
One of the Bolton men stepped forward, hand on his sword. "Who in the seven hells are you?"
Harry stopped a few paces away, sword resting at his side but ready.
"I'm the man who's not going to let you touch that woman."
Bolton raised an eyebrow. "You interfere with the affairs of House Bolton?"
"I interfere with rape," Harry said evenly, "no matter who tries to justify it."
From the ground, Oliver shouted, "Lord Gryffindor—run! Please, you can't fight them all!"
Roose Bolton narrowed his eyes. "So you're the so-called Lord Gryffindor. The ghost lord of White Harbor. Hmph. I've studied the lords of Westeros since I was a boy. There's no Gryffindor in the North. Not in the Reach, nor Dorne, nor beyond the Vale. Certainly none in the South."
He circled slowly, appraising Harry. "And your name—it reeks of invention. 'Gryffindor'? A child's tale. A made up name meant to impress simplefolk."
Harry said nothing, letting Bolton talk.
"You think you can flaunt wealth and titles without consequence? That you can hand out gold to peasants and dance through the North like you are a king?"
Roose's mouth twisted. "I know what you are. A fraud. A pretender. And now, a dead man."
With a flick of his fingers, he gave the order.
"Kill him."
The Bolton men advanced—four of them in full armor, swords drawn, their boots crunching through the frostbitten grass.
Harry didn't move. He held the sword low, tip resting in the snow, his breath misting in the cold. He let them come closer. Ten paces. Eight.
Then he gripped the hilt with both hands and stepped forward.
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