Snow whispered against the collapsed roof and spiraled into the open ruins like ghostly breath. Harry sat cross-legged beside the fading flames, his cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, eyes still flickering with thoughts.
Lyanna Stark sat across from him, wrapped in a fur blanket, her face pale from cold and fear, yet her eyes burned with stubborn defiance. Around them, the wildlings lounged like wolves after a fresh kill, picking meat off the remains of her horse, sharpening stolen weapons, or swigging stolen wine.
Harry's gaze drifted from the toothless man who had grabbed Lyanna earlier to the others—men and women hardened by frostbite, famine, and exile.
Then something clicked.
"So… when you called them wildlings," Harry said slowly, turning back to Lyanna, "you mean the ones the Night's Watch guards against? The ones beyond the Wall?"
Lyanna stared at him, perplexed. "Of course. Who else?"
Harry blinked in confusion. "I… I thought they were monsters. Creatures. Something… inhuman. But they're just people. People like you and me."
At this, all eyes turned toward Harry—Lyanna's, the wildlings', even the old man sharpening a sword in the corner raised an eyebrow.
Lyanna's voice was cold with disbelief. "You really know nothing of the North."
"Apparently not," Harry admitted. He gestured toward the group. "They're dangerous, yes. But… they're hungry, hunted. I get it now. They can't grow food in those frozen lands, can't trade. So, they raid. What other choice do they have?"
One of the older wildlings, a bearded man with braided grey hair and a scar down his face, grunted. "At least one kneeler gets it."
Harry tilted his head. "How did you get here, though? Aren't there soldiers on the Wall to stop you?"
The old man nodded. "Some of us crossed the sea in small boats. Others scaled the Wall. Like spiders. Like fools. Lost two men on the way down."
Harry's eyes lit with admiration. "That's… impressive. Risky, but impressive."
One of the younger wildlings, tall and angry-eyed, spat to the side. "Enough chatter. Let's kill the kneeler and take the girl." He eyed Lyanna hungrily. "Claim her properly, like warriors."
Lyanna recoiled, her face twisting in disgust.
Harry raised his hand gently, palm open in a gesture of peace. "You don't have to kill me. I'm not like the others from the North."
The leader frowned. "Why not?"
Harry shrugged. "Because they'll be hunting me soon, too, and I would like to come with you to the land beyond the wall."
A ripple of interest passed through the wildlings. Lyanna looked up, startled.
"Why would they hunt you?" the bearded one asked.
Harry exhaled slowly, staring into the fire. "Because I killed someone."
Silence.
"Who?" the tall wildling asked warily.
"Lord Bolton."
Lyanna gasped audibly, clutching her cloak tighter.
The entire room burst into noise. Some cheered, others barked laughter. The old scarred wildling gave a hoarse cackle. "You killed Bolton? Ha! That flayed bastard had it coming!"
"Aye," another growled. "Skinned my cousin alive for stealing a sheep. May his corpse rot in the snow."
"Drank wine from a skull, I heard," said another. "Serves him right."
Harry merely nodded, watching the sparks rise from the fire like fleeting spirits.
Then one of the wildlings pointed at Lyanna. "But what about her? We can't let her go. She's a noble. If we let her live, she'll bring the wolves down on us."
Harry looked up, calm as ever. "Then make it fair. A contest. Your way. Let her fate be decided by strength and skill."
Several wildlings muttered in agreement. Another added, "Aye, the old way."
Jarl stood. "Then an axe-throwing contest."
They liked that. Axes were drawn, targets were arranged: a blackened plank of old oak hung on the far wall, marked with a rough red "X" in blood. Each man who desired to claim the girl took their place in line.
Harry was the last.
They began one by one, hurling heavy iron axes into the board. Some stuck near the center, others thudded into the walls. Lyanna watched, stone-faced, gripping her blanket tightly.
Then came Harry's turn.
He stepped forward, calm and composed. His axe gleamed under the light of the firepit. With a small flick of his finger—barely noticeable—he whispered, "Impervius" under his breath. A tiny enchantment to guide the axe true.
He threw.
The axe split the center of the X cleanly in two.
A perfect throw.
A silence fell. Then cheers erupted.
"The kneeler wins!" someone called.
"Never seen a throw like that!"
"Aye, he wins the girl!"
Harry turned to Lyanna and offered a faint smile. "Come with me."
He stepped forward and handed her the reins of his horse. "Go. Ride to the road."
Lyanna stared at him. "You won. They'll let you have me."
"I didn't want to win you," Harry said quietly. "I wanted to save you."
She looked at the horse, then back at him. "I… I can't go back," she whispered. "I ran away. I'll bring shame to my family. I'm… I'm not married and carrying a child."
Harry's expression softened. "Then come with me."
"To the lands beyond the Wall?" she asked, searching his face.
He nodded. "You'll be safe there."
A long pause. Then Lyanna nodded slowly. "Alright. Let's go."
The wildlings, for once, made no protest. They were already starting to pack their things, preparing to move again.
"She's with you now," the old scarred one said to Harry. "She's one of us."
And with that, Lyanna Stark, once promised to a future Queen of the South, once betrothed to the Warden of the Stormlands, left behind her name, her titles, and her fear—riding with a stranger cloaked in firelight, toward the cold unknown.
For nearly a week, they traveled like shadows through the deep pine forests and snowbound hills. The wildlings, skilled in the ways of secrecy and survival, led the group west at first, away from the well-patrolled King's Road. Then, they turned northward, skirting through frozen river valleys and the narrow mountain passes where the mountain clans of the North had long since made peace with silence and solitude. The terrain grew harsher with every league, but the wildlings were sure of their path. They knew the caves that no map recorded, the hunting grounds that bore meat even in winter, and the hidden streams that ran cold but clean.
When the moon rose, they walked. When the sun broke through the clouds, they slept. Sometimes in the open under furs, other times in old, crumbling keeps of forgotten men, or in hollowed rock shelters veiled by snow. And always, Harry watched the skies, knowing that above, his dragon followed.
Winter was never far. Invisible to the eyes of men, the great white beast flew higher than hawks, his scales blending into the clouds, his presence no more than a gust of wind or a flicker of shadow over the tree canopy. When they slept, Winter curled atop distant cliffs or in snowy clearings, silent and watchful.
Despite the hardships, there was laughter.
Harry had a way with people, and even wildlings weren't immune to his charm. He told them stories—not just of his homeland or foreign wars, but tales of impossible castles, talking portraits, flying brooms, and magical beasts that roamed unseen lands. At first, they thought he was mad. Then, they listened more. And then they laughed. Sometimes they demanded a story before setting up camp or made him swear to continue the tale the next night. In their world of ice and blood, Harry's voice became a light.
Lyanna Stark often walked beside him. Wrapped in a fur cloak, her long black hair braided in wildling fashion, her grey eyes no longer cold but curious.
One evening, as they camped in a high mountain cave that looked down upon the distant frost-covered pines, she leaned closer to him near the fire. "You never told me," she said, her voice quiet but not cold. "Why did you kill Roose Bolton?"
Harry stirred the embers with a stick before answering. "Because he was about to rape a woman. My friend's wife. Said it was some ancient custom—'First Night' rights." He spat the words with disgust. "He thought being a lord gave him the right to take what wasn't his. So, I killed him."
Lyanna stared into the flames, silent for a long time. "Then you did the right thing," she said finally. "Not many men would risk death for a smallfolk's dignity."
Harry looked at her. "What about you? Why did you run?"
She took a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the fur at her shoulders. "Because I was betrothed to a man I could never love. Robert Baratheon. My father arranged it. My brother approved. But they didn't know him like I did. He drinks, fights, beds whores… and then smiles like it's all a game."
Harry listened, nodding gently.
Lyanna continued, her voice trembling with memory. "Then I met him—Rhaegar Targaryen. The prince. He crowned me at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Queen of Love and Beauty. Not Elia. Me." She smiled bitterly. "We met in secret, made plans for a life away from court. Away from Robert. But after he returned to King's Landing to claim his throne… he stopped sending letters. Stopped everything."
Harry frowned. "You think he abandoned you?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "Maybe he was caught. Maybe… maybe I was just an escape for him. But I can't go back. Not with a child growing inside me. I won't bring shame to my house. I won't let my son grow up in chains."
Harry placed a hand over hers. "Then he won't."
They said nothing more after that, just sat quietly beside the fire until it died to coals.
On the seventh morning, the trees began to thin, and the cold wind carried a scent Harry had almost forgotten—salt.
They came upon a long cliffside trail and, from its edge, the world opened to a frozen sea below. At the base of a jagged cliff, hidden by an overhang and thick sea mist, lay the mouth of a sea cave, dark and yawning like the mouth of an old god.
They descended the switchbacks carefully, helping each other down slippery rock and icy ledges. The roar of the surf grew louder until it echoed off the stone around them. The cave itself was vast, its interior lined with crates, barrels, bundled furs, and weapons wrapped in oilcloth.
"Loot from our last raid," said one wildling proudly. "Axewood and Bear Island both. A good season."
Harry raised his brow. "How did you get all this down here?"
"Carried it in piece by piece," said another. "And now it's time to take it home."
Four boats waited at the back of the cave, pulled half out of the water and covered in tarps. The wildlings wasted no time. They hauled the boats to the surf, loaded the supplies, and tested the oars.
Harry stood with Lyanna beside the waves, the wind tugging at her cloak, her face pale but steady.
"Once we cross," she said, "there's no coming back, is there?"
Harry looked out over the grey, endless water. "Only if we want to."
She nodded, her voice soft. "Then let's go."
They boarded separate boats—eight people to each vessel—and shoved off from the icy shore. The water was frigid, the sky full of clouds, and the sea swelled angrily beneath them.
But above them, high above the clouds, Winter circled like a ghost. No words were needed. Harry could feel his dragon through their bond. Winter would follow, guarding from the sky.
Together, they rowed toward the lands beyond lords and laws, where the free folk ruled themselves and no oaths bound the will of men and women.
Lyanna Stark and Harry Gryffindor had left the world of politics and noble houses behind—for now.
But fate had not left them behind.
Not yet.
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