When Lyanna Stark first set foot inside the finished cottage, she stopped dead in the doorway.
"Gods," she whispered, unable to help herself.
It was not a simple cabin, not really. The walls were thick and solid, built from carefully fitted stones that still held the earthy scent of riverbanks. The high wooden beams overhead met in a sturdy peak, the roof lined with thatch Harry had layered in precise, overlapping rows. Light poured through the front windows—actual glass panes, not made out of wood—making the place glow golden in the afternoon sun.
She turned slowly in the entryway, taking it all in.
The wide main room had a great fireplace in the center, its hearth framed by smooth river stones. A broad wooden table stood nearby, with mismatched chairs that Harry had carved himself. Every piece was slightly uneven, the surfaces imperfect, but to Lyanna they felt more genuine than any polished furniture she had known in Winterfell's halls.
Off the main room were several other chambers—two bedchambers, a storeroom already lined with sacks of flour, salt, smoked meat and dried vegetables, and a smaller room that Harry explained would one day serve as a study. There was even a trapdoor leading down into a cool, dark cellar lined with stone shelves.
She climbed back up, brushing dust off her skirts, and met Harry standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching her reaction.
"You built all this," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the vast, echoing space.
He shrugged, though a faint flush colored his cheekbones. "You're a noblewoman. I thought it wouldn't do to have you living in a glorified shed."
Lyanna shook her head slowly. "This isn't a cottage, Harry. It's… it's a hall. A proper house."
"It'll do," he said, almost shyly.
She turned to face him fully, searching his eyes. "And you built it with your own hands."
"Mostly," he admitted. "Magic helped."
He said it like it was nothing. Like he hadn't labored day after day, hauling stones and timber, shaping every beam, laying every brick, until his hands were raw and his voice hoarse from explaining what he was doing.
Lyanna felt her throat tighten.
"You didn't have to do all this," she said, softer still.
"I did," he answered simply. "I wanted a place you'd feel safe."
Her gaze dropped to her hands, which she twisted in the fabric of her skirt. No one—not her father, not Brandon, not Rhaegar—had ever worked so tirelessly for her comfort, for her dignity. And this man—this stranger from a world she couldn't fully comprehend—had built her a home.
When she looked up again, Harry was watching her carefully, as though worried he had overstepped. She swallowed hard, summoning a shaky smile.
"I suppose I'll have to learn how to keep it clean, then," she said, trying to sound light.
He chuckled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "That part I can help with. Though I was hoping you'd do less work than more. You should rest."
"I've done quite enough resting," she said firmly. "I can't just sit here watching you build everything."
"You're with child, Lyanna. You don't have to—"
"I want to," she interrupted. "Maybe I can't haul stones or cut timber. But I can learn to cook, and I can tend the hearth. You can't be expected to build a settlement and feed us both singlehandedly."
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. We'll do it together."
The next morning, Lyanna woke to the sound of hammering outside.
She dressed quickly and stepped into the cold dawn, wrapping a fur cloak around her shoulders. Winter lay curled nearby, his white body blending so perfectly with the snowy slope that she nearly missed him. He cracked open one eye as she passed, then settled back to sleep.
Harry was already at work, standing beside a circular stone foundation that had appeared overnight. He straightened when he saw her approach.
"You're up early," he said.
"I could say the same," she replied, eyeing the half-finished walls. "You finished the house yesterday. What is this?"
He wiped sweat from his brow. "A smokehouse. We'll need to preserve meat if we're going to stay through the next winter. Once the rivers thaw, we'll have fish to dry, too."
"You never stop," she murmured.
He smiled faintly. "Someone has to keep busy."
"And what would you have me do while you build another house?"
"Whatever you like."
She hesitated. "I'd like to help."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You mean that?"
"I do," she said. "I may not know how to build anything, but I can learn to cook. I can keep the hearth. I can—" She looked away, voice lower. "—I can be useful."
"You're already useful," he said gently. "But if you want to learn, I'd be glad to teach you."
That day, Harry taught her to start a fire from nothing but flint and steel.
She nearly took her own eyebrows off three times before she managed a proper spark.
"Don't laugh," she scolded as he covered his grin with one hand.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he said solemnly—though his eyes were bright with amusement.
He showed her how to gut and clean a rabbit, how to slice vegetables without losing the tip of her finger, and how to boil water without scorching the bottom of the pot. Lyanna listened carefully, determined not to embarrass herself further.
In the evenings, she practiced kneading dough and spicing stews while Harry worked outside. She heard the rhythmic thunk of his axe and the creak of ropes as he raised beams into place.
When she peeked out the window, she saw him laboring by lamplight, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair damp with snow and sweat.
Something warm and unsettling curled in her belly.
The nights were growing longer, the air sharper, but the house remained warm. And slowly—so slowly she hardly noticed—the hollow ache of her running, her shame, her fear… began to ease.
One evening, as she sat beside the hearth stirring a pot, Harry came in, dusting snow from his shoulders.
"Smells wonderful," he said, leaning over to sniff the steam rising from her stew.
"Don't flatter me," she said dryly. "I've only just learned not to burn everything."
He chuckled and sat across from her. For a while, neither spoke. The fire cracked, casting golden light over the stone walls. She glanced up and found him watching her with that steady, quiet gaze.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," he said softly. "Just… glad you're here."
And despite everything—her lost home, her uncertain future—Lyanna realized she was glad, too.
Here, in this improbable house, they were building something neither of them had ever had.
A place that belonged to them alone.
The morning had dawned pale and cold, thin sunlight glittering across the hard-packed snow. Harry had been up before dawn, dressing in warm furs and carefully fastening the scabbard of his sword across his back. Lyanna, still sleep-heavy, watched him from the edge of her blanket as he packed his satchel with dried meat, a flask of water, and a small, battered leather book.
When he turned to her, his face was serious.
"I'll be gone most of the day," he said. "Perhaps longer."
Lyanna's heart gave a strange little lurch. "Where are you going?"
He hesitated, just long enough to make her stomach twist. "North," he said at last. "I have things I need to find."
"What things?" she pressed.
"Books," he admitted. "And information. There are ruins, old places where magic once thrived. I need to understand this land if we're to survive here."
"You're going alone?" she asked, unable to hide the note of worry in her voice.
He smiled faintly and reached to brush a stray curl from her cheek. "I won't be alone. Winter will be with me."
Her throat tightened. "When will you come back?"
"Before nightfall if I can." He paused, studying her face. "Lyanna—stay here. Or if you must go out, don't stray far from the house."
"Why?"
"Because until I know what's in those hills, I don't trust what might be watching." His gaze sharpened. "Promise me."
She nodded, though unease coiled in her belly. "I promise."
Satisfied, Harry turned and stepped out into the cold. A moment later, she heard the heavy rush of wings as Winter launched into the sky. When she finally gathered her courage to look out the window, she saw the dragon soaring north, Harry a small figure on his back.
She didn't see them again for the rest of the day.
By late afternoon, Lyanna had exhausted every chore she knew how to do. She'd cleaned the kitchen twice, swept the hearth, and sorted the small piles of vegetables and dried grains Harry had brought from White Harbor. When she tried to read, she found herself glancing up every few lines to peer out the window, as though Harry might appear any moment.
Her thoughts grew darker as the hours passed.
What if he'd left her? What if he'd grown tired of her—of her helplessness, her belly swelling with another man's child? What if he'd flown off to find some Essosi beauty with clever eyes and no burdens?
She pressed her palm against her stomach and closed her eyes, shame prickling hot in her throat.
You fool. You hardly know him. You have no claim on him.
But knowing it didn't stop the ache.
After she forced herself to eat a little bread and broth, she decided she couldn't sit idle any longer. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, stepped outside, and began to walk along the edge of the river that bordered the western side of the property.
The cold wind bit at her cheeks, but it felt good—steadying. She followed the river's curve for a while, boots crunching over crusted snow. When she finally looked up, she froze.
Across the stream, less than fifty yards away, a hunting party moved among the trees.
Eighteen men—wildlings. She counted them automatically, her heart thudding in her chest. They carried long spears and crude bows, and in their midst, they hauled a massive elk tied to a sled. Several of them were laughing, voices carrying across the quiet river.
She stumbled back a step, breath caught in her throat. If they saw her—
But none of them looked her way. In fact, when one tall man glanced directly at her, his gaze slid across the trees behind her as though she were invisible. His eyes didn't even flicker.
Lyanna's pulse pounded in her ears. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see some cover she'd failed to notice—a bush or a tree. But there was nothing. She stood in plain view.
And yet… they saw nothing.
They moved on, dragging their prize, their voices fading into the snow-laden pines.
She waited until the last of them disappeared before she turned and fled back toward the cottage, her heart hammering.
It was well past nightfall when she heard the low rush of wings again. She rushed to the door, pulling it open just as Winter descended like a falling star. The dragon landed without a sound, and Harry slid down from his back, his cloak heavy with frost.
He looked tired. But when he saw her in the doorway, relief softened his expression.
"I'm back," he said simply.
She didn't answer. She only stepped aside to let him in, shutting the door behind him before her voice broke free.
"You were gone all day," she said, her words sharper than she meant them to be. "You said you'd return before nightfall."
"I know." He set his satchel down and rubbed his gloved hands together over the fire. "I found what I was looking for, but it took longer than I planned."
"You didn't tell me where you were going," she whispered.
He looked up at her, surprise flickering in his gaze. "I… I didn't think—"
"That I'd worry?" she said, her voice rising despite herself. "That I'd sit here wondering if you were dead or… or if you'd decided you were done with me?"
Something in her chest cracked, and she swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly. "I never meant to make you feel abandoned."
She hugged her arms around herself. "I saw wildlings. Eighteen of them. On the riverbank. They looked straight at the cottage—and they didn't see it. Why?"
He took a slow breath. "Because I put a ward around this place. An enchantment that bends perception. Anyone who doesn't know it's here will look right past it."
She blinked. "A ward?"
He nodded. "Until I'm ready—until we have walls, defenses, and allies—I won't risk being found. It's not cowardice," he added firmly. "It's caution."
Her anger faded, replaced by something rawer—relief, perhaps, or something closer to gratitude.
"I… I thought you'd left," she whispered.
Harry stepped forward and reached for her hand. His fingers were cold, but she didn't pull away.
"I won't leave you," he said. "Not unless you ask me to."
Her throat tightened, and she looked away before her tears could spill.
Later, after he had warmed himself and they'd shared a quiet meal, Harry set a sheaf of parchment and a quill on the table.
"I have a favor to ask," he said.
Lyanna raised a brow. "A favor?"
He nodded. "I want you to teach me."
"To teach you what?"
"To read and write." He hesitated. "In Westerosi script."
Her eyes widened. "You can't read it?"
"Not fluently. I can speak your tongue, but your letters—they're different. The shapes, the marks… I know some, but not enough to read a ledger or write a proper letter."
Lyanna felt a smile tug at her mouth despite everything. "You're a man who can conjure a house from nothing—and you can't read the local alphabet?"
He looked sheepish. "Not yet."
She laughed softly, the tension easing from her shoulders. "All right, Harry Potter. Sit down. We'll start with the basics."
And as she guided his hand over the parchment, showing him how to form the shape of an A—or rather, an Ash rune, as the Northmen called it—she realized she no longer felt like a guest in his house.
She felt like a part of something.
A teacher.
A partner.
___________________________________________
Details about bonus content can be found on my profile page.