The cold wind blew hard across the northern woods as silence fell around the mill. The snow whispered beneath Harry's boots as he stood alone before the Bolton men—four soldiers in boiled leather and mail, swords drawn, eyes wary. Behind them, Lord Roose Bolton stood motionless in the back, watching with unreadable eyes.
Harry held the Sword of Gryffindor loosely in one hand, its ruby-studded hilt gleaming in the moonlight, its blade shimmering with a faint, wicked sheen.
He remembered it all too well—the bite of the basilisk, the rush of venom on the fang, and how he drove that fang through the mouth of the beast. The sword had drunk deep that day, had absorbed poison no healer could cure.
A single cut, Harry thought grimly, and they'd be dead within minutes.
But he didn't want that.
These men weren't monsters. They weren't Death Eaters. They weren't even the cruel sort. They were smallfolk raised to be soldiers—servants of the Boltons. They were following orders. That didn't make them blameless—but it didn't make them deserving of death, either.
So Harry let the first sword strike come—and he blocked it cleanly, sparks flaring where steel met magic. Then he pivoted, ducked under the second man's swing, and drove his fist into the soldier's ribs with a bone-jarring crack.
The man fell, wheezing, clutching his side.
The third soldier came in fast. Harry spun low and swept his leg beneath the man's stance. The soldier dropped like a felled tree.
Another blade came for his shoulder. Harry twisted and stepped close, too close for the sword to matter, and struck the attacker with an open-palm blow to the chest that sent him sprawling back into the snow.
Punch after punch. Kick after kick.
No magic. No swordplay. Just raw, honed instinct—Reflexes sharpened by fighting Death Eaters, training with Sirius and Moody, fighting a war before he turned seventeen.
One soldier tried to rise again.
Harry didn't hesitate. He turned and elbowed the man in the temple.
He went down and didn't get back up.
All four men lay groaning in the snow, bruised, bloodied—but alive.
A sharp gasp came from the porch of the mill. Oliver and Beth, hand in hand, stared in disbelief.
Harry slowly turned his eyes to the only man remaining, and now he is on horseback.
Roose Bolton.
The Lord of the Dreadfort looked down at his fallen soldiers, his thin mouth trembling at the corners. His pale eyes darted from Harry to the Sword of Gryffindor—and in a single, pitiful motion, he spun his horse around and kicked it hard.
"Coward," Harry murmured.
But he was already moving.
With speed no knight could match, he lunged forward and caught the reins—and with his other hand, grabbed Bolton's wrist and pulled.
Roose screamed as he tumbled off the saddle, hitting the frozen ground with a crunch and a low groan. His cloak sprawled around him, his ornate boots flailing. Harry stood over him, eyes cold.
"You came here to ruin a wedding," Harry said. "You came to hurt an innocent woman. Now don't beg for salvation?"
Roose grunted, his hand reaching for the dagger at his belt.
Harry kicked it aside.
Then he knelt, one hand still holding the sword, the other pressing against Bolton's chest.
"Let's see," Harry said quietly, "what kind of man you really are."
And he looked into Roose Bolton's eyes.
Legilimency flowed.
The world blurred.
And Harry saw.
He saw a younger Bolton, face pale and emotionless, ordering a man's wife taken to his bed as punishment for a late harvest. He saw servants flayed for disobedience. A boy hanged for hunting a hare without permission. He saw women screaming behind locked doors. Children crying. Fields salted. Crops burned to teach lessons.
Bolton didn't feel guilt. He didn't feel anything.
He enjoyed it.
The cold, surgical delight of inflicting pain.
When Harry withdrew, his face was set like stone.
Roose opened his mouth to speak, but Harry gave him no chance.
"I've seen enough."
The Sword of Gryffindor pierced cleanly through Roose Bolton's chest.
The man choked once, blood on his lips, and then fell still.
Harry stood in silence, breathing heavily, the sword dripping crimson into the snow.
Behind him, Beth gasped.
Oliver stepped forward, face pale. "You… you killed him."
Harry turned slowly. "I did."
Dorin came running from the path, breathless. "I saw riders from the woods. Are you all—" He stopped when he saw the corpse. "Gods…"
Harry wiped the blade on Bolton's cloak and sheathed it.
"You need to run," Dorin said quickly. "Now. You don't know what you've done, Harry. You killed a lord. The North won't care why. They won't care about the truth. The Starks won't have a choice—they'll have to hunt you down for justice."
Oliver nodded, grabbing Harry's arm. "They'll send riders, maybe even bannermen. You'll be declared a criminal."
Harry looked down at the body. "He was no lord. He was a monster."
"I know," Dorin said. "We all know. But the law—"
"I understand."
Harry turned toward the forest. The night was still dark, the snow undisturbed.
He summoned his horse from the enchanted pouch and mounted swiftly. He turned back to Oliver and Beth, who stood close together, wide-eyed.
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "For all of it. But no one will hurt any of you. As long as I breathe."
Beth nodded silently, eyes glistening.
Dorin stepped forward. "You'll always have friends here, Harry. But you need to go."
Harry clicked his tongue and spurred the horse forward, galloping into the woods as snowflakes drifted down like falling ash.
Above, circling silently, was Winter.
The white dragon screeched once, low and long, before vanishing into the clouds.
And Harry, the so-called Lord Gryffindor, disappeared into the North once more, leaving behind a mill, a wedding, a grave in the snow—and a legend that would spread across the lands before dawn.
The wind howled across the icy plains of the North like a wounded beast. Snow fell in heavy, silent curtains as Lyanna Stark rode slowly through the storm, her hood drawn low and her furs wrapped tight. Her horse, a sturdy grey mare named Cinder, struggled through the deepening snow with heavy steps. Lyanna patted her neck gently.
"I know, girl. Just a little farther," she whispered, her breath fogging the air. "We're both freezing."
She had ridden through the night since fleeing Winterfell, but even her Stark blood could not ignore the cold much longer. Her fingers ached despite the gloves, her face was red and raw, and Cinder's legs trembled with exhaustion. She needed shelter—and she knew exactly where to go.
Tumbledown Tower.
A crumbling ruin off the King's Road, half-forgotten, half-swallowed by the forest. It had served her family once before, during a short stop on their way to execute a deserter of the Night's Watch. Travelers and hunters still used it now and then, especially in winters like this. If the gods were kind, it would be abandoned.
They were.
The tower appeared through the mist like a ghost, its jagged silhouette rising against the sky. Stones lay scattered around it like the broken teeth of a dead giant. No smoke. No sounds. No movement.
Lyanna led Cinder into the ruin's shadow with a sigh of relief.
Inside, the tower's bones still held—walls that leaned but stood, and a section of ceiling that kept the snow at bay. She tied Cinder in the driest corner and rubbed her muzzle, whispering thanks. Then she moved to the hidden alcove behind the collapsed wall. As she hoped, a small stack of firewood still lay there—dry, wrapped in an old tarp.
She set about making a fire with shaking hands, striking the flint like her brothers had taught her. Sparks flew. Flames caught. Warmth spread.
She sat down, wrapped in furs, and finally breathed.
The meat pie she stole from the Winterfell kitchens was cold, but edible. She chewed slowly, staring into the fire.
Thoughts came unbidden.
Rhaegar.
His voice. His songs. The look in his eyes when he called her "my silver wolf." The promises of escape and freedom.
Her fingers drifted to her stomach.
The secret growing inside her.
Her father's face rose next—stern, proud, perhaps even heartbroken when he read her note. He would search for her. Brandon, too. Even Eddard, from the Vale. All for nothing. She wasn't going south to meet her lover. She wasn't even certain where she was going.
Just away.
The fire crackled, and exhaustion overtook her. She curled up on the stone floor, cocooned in her cloaks, and drifted into uneasy sleep.
The scream shattered her dreams.
Lyanna jolted upright, heart pounding. Her hand flew to the dagger at her belt—but it was already too late.
The tower was no longer empty.
Figures loomed all around her, crouched and growling like wolves. Feral eyes, matted hair, yellowed teeth. Wildlings. At least ten of them.
The fire she built now roared, and beside it—Cinder.
Her horse lay dead, her throat slit. The wildlings had already begun butchering her, cutting thick slabs of meat and throwing them over the fire.
"That's her awake," one of them rasped, pointing with a bloody knife. "Pretty thing."
A man stepped forward, tall and thin with a face like leather and only three teeth to his name. He grinned at her with a crooked smile.
"Well now," he said, "ain't you a gift from the gods."
Another snorted nearby, drunk off stolen wine. Around them lay crates of supplies—furs, food, even blades marked with castle sigils. Plundered goods. Weapons of noblemen. They had raided someone's caravan, and they were still celebrating.
Lyanna stared in horror. Her voice caught in her throat.
The thin man knelt beside her and sniffed.
"Southron perfume," he mused. "Clean hands. Lashes like a lady." He reached for her face. "What's a fine thing like you doin' out here all alone?"
Lyanna jerked her head away. "Don't touch me."
"Oh-ho!" Another wildling laughed. "She bites!"
"We'll see how long that lasts," said a squat man by the fire. "The lad who found her says she came from the road. Maybe she's runnin'. Maybe a runaway noble girl, eh?"
"Then she don't belong to anyone," said the first man, his grin returning. "And that means she's fair game."
"No, no, no—" Lyanna backed against the tower wall, her hand still on her dagger.
The wildlings were drunk and loud. They passed around bottles, laughed, argued. But the laughter was changing. Turning ugly.
"Who gets her first?" someone slurred.
"She woke in my watch."
"Shut your crooked teeth, Drogg."
"She looked at me. That means she wants me."
Lyanna's stomach turned to ice.
"No," she said aloud, louder this time. "You're not touching me."
They laughed again, but something in her voice made the closest man hesitate. Just a flicker.
"I'm warning you," she said, drawing her dagger. Her hands trembled. "I'm not afraid to kill."
The toothless man leaned in close, face inches from hers. "Oh, I don't mind a little fightin'. Makes it more fun."
Lyanna slashed.
The dagger cut his cheek. He roared and fell back.
"You little whore!" he shouted.
The tension in the ruined tower hung thick as the flames crackled, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Lyanna's breath was shallow, her eyes darting between the filthy faces that circled her like wolves around a wounded doe. Her dagger still trembled in her hand, but the numbers were against her.
Then—the sound of hooves.
A sharp rhythm of iron against stone echoed from the direction of the broken archway that once served as the tower's entrance. The wildlings stiffened, hands drifting toward stolen weapons. One of them spat into the fire and snarled.
"What now?"
A lone rider emerged from the swirling snow, cloaked in heavy furs, the hood pulled deep over his face. His horse, white with ice dusted across its mane, snorted and stomped the frozen earth.
"Greetings, strangers," came a voice from beneath the hood—calm, smooth, and unhurried. "I am a fellow traveler myself, and the night is far too cold to ride further. I see you have warmth. Might I join your fire?"
The wildlings exchanged glances, confused. The man's tone held no fear. No urgency. And he had no blade drawn.
The leader of the wildlings—Drogg, the one with the toothless grin—stepped forward with narrowed eyes. "You must be mad, rider. This land ain't for highborns playin' at adventure."
The man dismounted without comment, brushing snow off his shoulders with a deliberate grace. His boots crunched across the stone floor as he approached the fire, cloak shifting with each step. Beneath the furs, one could just make out fine black boots, a deep red tunic, and the glint of a silver fastener.
He looked like a lord.
Lyanna's eyes widened in alarm.
"No! Don't come closer!" she cried. "These men are wildlings! They'll kill you!"
The stranger paused. His head tilted slightly as he turned to face her. For the first time, Lyanna could see his face clearly: youthful, sharp-jawed, with a quiet intelligence behind his green eyes.
He blinked at her. "Wildlings?" he repeated.
Even the wildlings gaped at him now.
"You don't know who we are?" one of them growled.
Harry frowned. "I thought you were fellow travelers… hungry ones, by the smell of roasted horse. But I suppose I should ask—what is a wildling?"
The tower went silent.
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