Snow fell in a steady hush across the clearing, blanketing the rooftops of Potter Castle in clean white drifts. From the high wooden palisade Harry had built, the wilderness stretched in all directions—endless trees, distant mountains, and the glimmer of the frozen Antler River.
Inside the main hall, Harry crouched beside the hearth, unrolling a large piece of parchment covered in lines and sketched runes. Lyanna watched him from the table, where she was carefully copying Valyrian words onto a scrap of hide.
"You've been studying that for two days," she said, lifting her gaze. "What are you planning now?"
He tapped the parchment with his charcoal stick. "A home for Winter."
She blinked. "Winter already has a home. He sleeps by the woods."
"He deserves better than that," Harry said firmly. "He's too exposed. Sooner or later, someone will see him. And he deserves a place as safe as ours."
Lyanna folded her arms. "You mean to build him a house?"
"Not a house. A proper lair."
She couldn't help it—she laughed. "A lair. You sound like some villain from a bard's tale."
He glanced up, the corner of his mouth quirking. "If it keeps him safe, I don't mind sounding like a villain."
For the next several days, Harry scouted the land around Potter Castle, sometimes taking Winter aloft to look for any natural caves that might suit. But every crag he found was either too shallow, too exposed, or too narrow to hold a creature the size of a small ship.
At last, he came back one afternoon with snow on his shoulders and determination burning in his eyes.
"I'll make one," he announced.
Lyanna straightened from the drying rack where she was hanging fresh fish. "Make a cave?"
"Yes." He began pulling on his thick traveling cloak. "I'll hollow the earth myself. If there isn't a place fit for him, I'll create one."
She watched him strap on his sword—though she doubted he'd need it to battle bedrock—and felt something warm flicker in her chest.
"You never do anything by halves," she said quietly.
He paused, turning back to look at her. "Neither do you."
The site he chose lay half a mile from the castle: a low rise of granite that jutted up from the snow like the spine of some ancient beast. Winter liked it immediately—he circled overhead in slow, curious loops, his pale wings blending almost perfectly with the sky.
"Go on," Harry called up. "Have a look."
Winter gave a soft, rumbling trill before settling atop the rise, tail coiling down the slope.
Harry planted his feet at the base of the granite outcrop and closed his eyes. He could feel the weight of the rock pressing down into the frozen soil, the solidity of it. He drew in a slow breath, raising both hands.
"Excavo."
The air rippled around him. Snow fountained upward in slow motion, like water disturbed by a stone. Lyanna, standing safely back, shielded her face with her cloak as the wind stirred her hair.
Stone cracked and shivered. A deep, hollow groan filled the air as the front face of the rise sank inward.
Harry opened his eyes. A black opening yawned before him—tall enough for Winter to enter, wide enough for him to spread his wings.
Lyanna's jaw dropped. "That's… that's enormous."
"It has to be." Harry stepped inside, his voice echoing. "But this is only the start."
For three days, he worked.
He hauled boulders by magic, stacking them along the walls to strengthen the cave's frame. He smoothed the floors, carving a gentle slope down to a wide resting chamber.
Inside, he conjured layers of insulation—thick mats of woven reeds covered with enchanted furs that radiated gentle heat. High in the vaulted ceiling, he left narrow vents for fresh air.
Lyanna came each morning to watch. At first, she stood uncertainly near the entrance, but by the second day she perched on a nearby boulder with a basket of smoked fish, passing him bites as he worked.
"I can't imagine any creature having a finer den," she told him as he etched a final rune above the entry arch.
"It's more than a den," he said, stepping back to survey his work. "It's a fortress."
Winter tested it himself by squeezing through the archway, his wings folding close to his sides. Inside, he turned in a slow circle before lowering himself with a contented sigh, his tail curling around his body.
Lyanna watched with a smile. "I think he approves."
Harry reached up to rest a hand against Winter's massive shoulder. "He deserves it."
Later that evening, when the sun had dipped low behind the pines, Harry set the final protections in place.
He pressed his palm to the outer wall of the cave and whispered, "Occulto."
The rock shimmered like a pond disturbed by wind. A heartbeat later, the entrance vanished. Where there had been a dark opening, there was now only unbroken stone.
Lyanna gasped. "You've hidden it?"
"I've hidden it from everyone who doesn't know it's there," Harry explained. "Anyone else will see only a cliff face."
"And us?"
He smiled faintly. "We'll always be able to find him."
He walked the perimeter, checking the other wards—heat spells woven into the stone, illusions to hide tracks in the snow, charms to dampen Winter's scent.
When he was finished, he stood back and nodded in quiet satisfaction.
Lyanna slipped her hand into his. "He's safe now," she said softly.
He squeezed her fingers. "So are we."
That night, as the fire crackled in the main hall of Potter Castle, Lyanna watched Harry set aside his tools with a weariness she understood.
"You built a house," she murmured, "a granary, a wall, and a dragon's lair. Is there anything you can't build?"
He glanced up, green eyes bright despite his exhaustion. "I'm still trying to build something else," he said.
"What's that?"
He hesitated, then reached for her hand again.
"A future."
Her throat closed, and she swallowed hard.
"Then I suppose," she whispered, "you'd better keep building."
And in the deep quiet of the northern wilds, a man from another world and the daughter of Winterfell sat together, their shadows dancing on the walls of a place they had built with their own hands.
The days grew colder, the wind more cruel. Even for Lyanna, who had spent all her life in the North, this winter felt deeper, heavier, as though the land itself were trying to swallow the sky.
By then, Potter Castle stood proudly by the frozen Antler River, no longer hidden by Harry's magic. The first time the wards had faded, Lyanna had stepped out onto the front steps and drawn in a sharp breath.
It was strange—after all the months of secrecy—to see their home so plainly visible. The walls of stone and wood, the wide yard where the sheep drifted like woolly clouds, the rising smoke from the chimney.
But even stranger was the feeling in her heart: a hopeful ache she didn't know she'd been carrying.
Maybe, she thought, someone will come.
Lyanna began spending her afternoons in the watchtower Harry had built on the southern corner of the wall. From there she could see the broad white sweep of the river, and beyond it the dark line of forest.
Some days she thought she could almost glimpse the faraway shape of Winter resting atop his hidden cave, his massive form blending so perfectly with the snow that she had to look twice to be sure.
And then—finally—one morning she saw them.
A hunting party.
Eighteen wildlings trudging across the river in single file, their spears held high. A handful pulled a sled loaded with what looked like a freshly killed elk. They were bundled so heavily in furs that she could barely see their faces, but when they looked up and spotted the castle, she knew the moment recognition struck them.
They slowed. They pointed.
Lyanna's heart leapt. She rushed to the battlement and lifted her hand in a bright wave.
"Hallo!" she called. Her voice rang out across the frozen river. "Hallo there!"
For a long moment, none of them moved. She saw them look at one another, saw their expressions darken.
They think it's a sorcerer's keep, she realized. Or worse.
Slowly, they began to move again, circling wide around the Antler River. Some of them glanced back over their shoulders, wary, but none came closer.
Lyanna lowered her arm, feeling her chest tighten.
"They're afraid," she murmured. "Afraid of us."
That night, as she sat by the fire, Harry listened as she told him what she had seen.
"I don't blame them," he said gently. "They've spent their lives mistrusting anything that looks like power."
"I miss people," Lyanna confessed, her voice so small he almost didn't hear it. "I miss hearing voices other than our own."
Harry set aside the book he was reading and looked at her across the hearth.
"I know," he said. "That's why I took down the wards."
She blinked at him. "Truly?"
He nodded. "I think it's time they see that we're not here to conquer them."
Her heart gave a quiet thump of gratitude.
It began at dusk with a low, sighing wind. By midnight it had grown to a screaming gale that rattled the shutters and piled snow high against the walls.
Inside Potter Castle, the fire roared as Harry checked each room, ensuring the wards held against the cold. Lyanna sat near the hearth, wrapped in a thick cloak, her hands folded over her belly.
Suddenly Harry stopped mid-stride, his head snapping up.
"What is it?" she asked, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes.
He didn't answer right away. He closed his eyes instead, fingertips brushing the carved runes in the doorframe. For a moment he stood utterly still, as though listening to something only he could hear.
Then he opened his eyes and met her gaze.
"There's someone at the outer gate," he said quietly.
"The gate?" She blinked. "You mean—"
"The main palisade," he confirmed. "They're pounding on it."
She swallowed, her heart suddenly racing. "How do you know?"
"The wards," he said, voice low. "When they touch the wall, I feel it."
He turned toward the door, already shrugging on his heavy cloak.
"Harry—" She stood quickly, clutching his arm. "Be careful."
His eyes softened. "I will."
The snow was so thick it felt like walking through a wall of white. Harry crossed the yard to the massive outer gate—a great reinforced door made of black pine logs bound with iron bands.
He rested his palm on the cold wood. The wards hummed faintly beneath his skin: a low, thrumming signal that people waited on the other side.
With a quiet word, he dispelled just enough of the concealment to let his voice carry through.
"Who comes?" he called.
The wind nearly swallowed the answer. But then he heard it—thin and desperate:
"We beg shelter! The storm—"
He turned back toward the castle, saw Lyanna's pale face watching from the nearest window. She nodded once, solemn and sure.
He looked back at the gate.
"Wait," he called. "I'm opening it."
When the great wooden gate swung open on its groaning hinges, a blast of snow poured into the courtyard.
Six figures stood there first—men and women swathed in ragged furs. Behind them, more huddled in the swirling dark—at least a dozen in all, some clutching crude spears, others carrying bundles over their shoulders. Two small boys clung to a woman's skirts.
Harry stepped forward, his cloak whipping around him.
"You're welcome here," he said. "But first—bread and salt."
They stared at him, suspicion mingling with exhaustion.
He raised his hands slowly. "You know the rite. Bread and salt for guest right. No harm to you, no harm to us."
Lyanna came up beside him, carrying a wooden trencher piled with dark bread and a small dish of salt. She offered it to the nearest man—a hard-eyed hunter with frost caked in his beard.
He hesitated only a heartbeat. Then, slowly, he tore off a piece of the bread and dipped it in the salt. One by one, the others did the same.
The rite was old as the North itself. With it, the tension broke like ice underfoot.
Harry stepped aside, gesturing them inside the palisade.
"Come," he said. "There's heat and shelter."
They passed through the courtyard in wary single file, snow falling from their furs in sodden clumps. The last of them—a boy no older than ten—stumbled as he crossed the threshold. Lyanna caught his arm and guided him gently past the door.
Once inside the main hall, they stood in a silent cluster, looking around in disbelief. The high beams, the crackling hearth, the woven rugs—it was more than any of them had ever known.
"You built this?" the bearded man rasped, turning to Harry.
"With my hands," Harry said simply.
"And magic," Lyanna added, her voice soft but proud.
The man swallowed, glancing at his shivering companions. "We… thank you."
"You can lay your things by the fire," Harry told them. "Rest. No one will turn you out tonight."
They did, moving with slow, exhausted purpose. Lyanna went among them with bowls of steaming broth, and Harry laid extra cloaks over the children's shoulders.
Hours later, as the storm still howled beyond the thick walls of Potter Castle, Lyanna watched them drift into uneasy sleep—bellies full, faces thawing.
She met Harry's gaze across the hall.
"I am very happy that I met you," she whispered.
He shook his head. "So am I."
And for the first time in many months, she felt that maybe—just maybe—they had begun to make a home that was more than snow and stone.
It was a refuge.
A promise.
___________________________________________
Details about bonus content can be found on my profile page.