The storm blew itself out in the early hours before dawn, leaving Potter Castle cocooned in silence. Snow lay in deep drifts along the outer wall and piled high against the windows.
Inside, the great hall glowed golden from the banked embers. The wildlings had slept deeply, sprawled across rugs and benches with the peaceful exhaustion of people who had not known safety in many seasons.
Harry had woken once in the night to check the fire. He moved quietly among them, pulling a blanket over the youngest—a boy no more than six—and tucking a fur cloak over a woman who'd fallen asleep sitting up.
When he finally slipped into his own room, the air felt warm and still. He lay in bed thinking of Lyanna asleep in the next chamber, of Winter curled somewhere above them in his hidden cave, and of what it meant to build something lasting in a world that devoured everything.
For the first time in a long while, he felt at peace.
Morning came soft and gray. The fire had been coaxed back to life by the time Harry stirred and pulled on a wool tunic. He heard the rustle of movement and quiet voices in the hall.
When he stepped out of his room, several of the wildlings were already awake. The bearded man who seemed to lead them was squatting near the hearth, rubbing his hands together over the flames. Two women were cutting up the last piece of meat to share among the children.
One by one, the others began to sit up, blinking as they remembered where they were.
Harry offered them a calm nod. "Good morning."
They watched him warily, as though expecting he'd demand something now that the storm had passed.
A woman with a long scar across her cheek spoke first. "You have our thanks," she said gruffly. "If not for this place…"
She trailed off, gesturing helplessly toward the white wilderness beyond the window.
"You're welcome," Harry said simply. "No debt owed."
Lyanna emerged from her room a few moments later, her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. She smiled at the sight of the children gathered near the hearth.
"Did everyone sleep well?" she asked gently.
One of the boys nodded shyly.
The bearded man—he hadn't yet offered his name—rose to his feet, towering over Harry by a hand's breadth. "I am Borren of the Flint Foot," he said. His voice was a gravelly rumble. "These are my kin."
"Harry Potter," Harry replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "And this is Lyanna."
Borren's brows lifted faintly at the name, but he only inclined his head. "It's been long since any south of the Wall showed kindness."
Lyanna folded her hands over her belly. "You're running from someone," she guessed.
Borren's jaw tightened. "Aye. A Cannibal tribe called the Shattered Teeth."
She glanced at Harry. "I've heard tales—men who eat the flesh of their own kind."
"They came down on us when the first snows fell," Borren went on, voice low. "We lost our tents. Most of our stores. Those who stayed to fight…" He swallowed. "Not many lived to run."
Harry's mind began turning, swift and precise.
"So you need a place to rebuild," he said.
Borren eyed him warily. "Aye."
Lyanna stepped closer. "There's room on this land," she said softly. "And Harry… he built this place himself. He can help you."
Several wildlings shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.
"Why would you help us?" demanded the scarred woman. "What do you gain?"
Harry met her gaze without flinching. "I don't need anything from you. But if you stay here, you can work, trade, and live without fear of the Crows or other tribes hunting you down. And without needing to steal to survive."
He hesitated, then added carefully, "In time, you can build something better for your children."
Borren looked around the hall—at the thick walls, the steady fire, the simple comforts his people hadn't known in their life.
"What would you have of us?" he asked finally.
"Nothing you wouldn't give freely," Harry said. "Help me with the land. Hunt. Share your knowledge. I'll teach you other skills—ways to make life easier. And I swear by earth and sky, no one here will ever be forced to bend the knee."
Lyanna rested her hand on Harry's arm, her touch warm. "We built this place with the goal of people living peacefully," she murmured.
He nodded. "A community."
Borren drew a long breath. His shoulders slumped a little, the weariness in him visible now that he knew there would be no demands of tribute or oaths.
"We will stay," he said gruffly. "For now. When the weather eases, we'll help you hunt and see how this… arrangement suits."
"That's all I ask," Harry said.
While Lyanna gathered a meal—thick broth with smoked fish and onions—Harry showed Borren and two others around the small settlement.
"This is the smokehouse," he said, gesturing to the stout round building of stone. "You can preserve meat here if you have more than you can eat."
He led them past the sheep pens. The sight of the animals drew startled sounds from the wildlings.
"You have livestock," Borren said, wonder threading through his voice.
"Animals thrive here," Harry said. "If you help tend them, there'll be milk, wool, and meat enough for everyone."
At last, he guided them to the watchtower. From the top platform, they could see the frozen Antler River winding past the pines, the white plain stretching beyond to the foothills.
Borren was silent for a long time as he looked out over the land.
"You could hold this place against a thousand men," he said quietly.
Harry turned his face into the wind. "Perhaps. But I'd rather not have to."
When they returned to the hall, Lyanna had laid out bread and salt on the table, the old rite renewed. The Flint Foot clan looked from her face to Harry's and slowly approached the offering.
One by one, they broke bread, dipped it in salt, and ate in solemn silence.
Lyanna smiled at them.
"You're our guests," she said. "But if you wish it, you may be our neighbors."
Harry felt something shift in the room then—a softening of suspicion, the first fragile roots of trust.
As the wind sighed along the eaves, he thought of the first time he'd stumbled into this frozen land with nothing but desperation and a stolen dragon.
Maybe, he thought, this really is the start of something.
And though the world beyond Potter Castle was still harsh and uncertain, within those walls, a new kind of home was taking shape.
In the weeks that followed the storm, the Flint Foot wildlings settled uneasily into life around Potter Castle.
They were cautious at first—eyes wary, hands never straying far from the hafts of their knives. But time and steady kindness were powerful things. Each dawn, as the sky turned from indigo to pale gray, Harry met them by the hall's main hearth and laid out the day's work in calm, clear words.
One cold morning, he called them all to gather near the watchtower. Lyanna stood beside him, wrapped in her heavy cloak, her face bright with quiet purpose.
Harry pointed to the frozen stretch of the Antler River, where the ice lay thick as a castle wall.
"Today," he said, "we fish."
Some of the wildlings muttered in surprise. A tall woman named Ragni, her hair braided in loops around her ears, scowled skeptically.
"The river's sealed," she said. "You think to charm fish from beneath the ice?"
Harry smiled faintly. "No charms today. Just tools and skill."
He bent and pulled back a canvas cloth. Beneath it lay several stout fishing rods he had made himself, and a heavy iron saw.
Borren stepped forward and lifted the saw with a grunt. "Sharp," he admitted grudgingly.
Harry gestured to a likely spot near the riverbank, where the ice had frozen smooth and clear. "I'll show you how."
They watched as he worked—kneeling to mark a wide circle on the ice, then guiding the saw back and forth until a round slab cracked free. When he levered it aside, dark water gleamed below, steam rising into the cold air.
"You drop your line," he said simply, "and wait."
Some of the wildlings looked at each other in doubt.
"You don't need to believe me," Harry said lightly. "You only need to try."
By midday, six of them sat along the river, their lines trailing into the black water. Borren was the first to haul up a thrashing trout nearly as long as his arm. He lifted it in triumph, grinning like a boy.
Ragni caught the second fish not long after.
Lyanna stood with Harry near the shore, hugging her cloak around her.
"They look… happier," she observed.
"They're working for themselves," Harry said. "Not just surviving."
She turned to him, her eyes thoughtful. "Do you ever regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Building this place. Staying."
He considered the question seriously. Then he shook his head.
"No. Not once."
Later that afternoon, Harry led a smaller group to a low ridge half a mile east of the castle. He'd scouted it himself and found a broad seam of gray stone running along the slope.
"This," he told them, "will become your cottages."
Three men stared at the ridge with resigned determination.
"You won't use your sorcery to shape the stones?" one of them asked, not quite meeting his eye.
Harry rested a hand on the cold rock.
"I could," he admitted. "But I won't."
"Why?"
"Because you need to know you did it yourselves," he said. "That this place isn't mine alone—it's yours, too."
They exchanged a look. Then, without another word, they hefted their hammers and began to work.
The ringing of stone striking stone echoed through the trees.
Each evening, when the work was done, the Flint Foot clan returned to Potter Castle.
Harry always met them at the door, guiding the children to the kitchen where Lyanna would be ready with warm broth and thick slices of bread.
He kept to his promise—he showed only a little magic, never enough to dazzle or frighten. If a blade dulled too quickly, he discreetly sharpened it. If a blister bled, he quietly healed it with a touch. But the rest—hunting, quarrying, fishing—he left to their own hands.
When Lyanna asked why, he looked at her with a steady calm.
"Because I'm not here to rule them," he said. "I'm here to teach them to rule themselves."
That first week, Harry assigned the men to work the quarry by day, while some of the women—those who preferred it—gathered brush and firewood or helped mend tools.
He noticed the way they watched him when he moved through the hall or knelt to speak gently to the children. They did not know what to make of him—a man who could conjure fire and stone yet spent his evenings mending fishing nets or building wooden cots.
Lyanna helped bridge the gap. She sat with the wildling women in the evenings, listening to their stories of the far north—the glaciers and hidden valleys, the white bears and the endless stars.
And she shared her own tales: of Winterfell's great hall, of her brothers' sword lessons, of her own longing to see something more than gray stone walls.
When the children were too restless to sit quietly, Harry set them to simple chores—feeding the sheep, carrying kindling, helping Lyanna knead dough for the next day's bread.
By the second week, the children no longer looked at him with fear but with shy curiosity.
One night, after the evening meal, Borren lingered by the fire while the others drifted to their borrowed beds.
"You mean to stay here always?" he asked finally.
Harry poured him a cup of hot water steeped with dried mint. "Yes," he said. "As long as this land will have me."
Borren sipped in silence.
"You're not like the southerners," he said gruffly.
Harry studied the man's weathered face. "I hope not."
Borren nodded, as if that was the only answer he'd expected.
Over time, a quiet rhythm settled over Potter Castle.
At dawn, the men took up their tools and went to the quarry. The women and older children helped with fishing or tending the sheep. The younger children remained in the hall with Lyanna, who taught them letters with the same patience she'd used for Harry himself.
At night, they all returned to warmth and food—three meals a day, every day.
More than once, Lyanna saw the wonder on their faces as they realized the truth:
For the first time in their lives, they were safe.
No hunger clawed at their bellies. No rival clan waited in the dark to burn their tents.
And she thought, as she watched Harry quietly mend a torn blanket or coax a frightened boy to eat, that perhaps this was what hope looked like—quiet and unassuming, growing like a fire from embers.
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