Chapter Text
Winterfell hummed with urgency as preparations commenced for the imminent arrival of the King and his court. A fortnight had passed since word of their journey swept through the Riverlands, and they were expected to reach Winterfell within the next four to six moons. Catelyn and the servants moved tirelessly through the castle, ensuring every detail was perfected for the royal visit.
For Ned, the anticipation of reuniting with his old friend Robert filled him with an eager, if tempered, excitement. Their last meeting had been during the Greyjoy Rebellion, a time of war and duty, but now, he hoped, they could speak as friends once more.
Striding through the grand halls and into the bustling courtyard, Ned observed the preparations in full swing. Servants and guards moved with purpose—huntsmen mounted their horses, ready to track game for the welcoming feast, while maids carried fresh linens to the royal chambers. Ser Rodrik drilled the guards with measured precision, his gruff voice cutting through the crisp northern air.
Seeking a moment of quiet, Ned made his way to the Godswood, his thoughts drifting to his children. Robb was growing into a strong and capable young man, a true heir to Winterfell. Sansa, once lost in dreams of chivalry and southern splendor, had turned to the Godswood for solace since Jon's disappearance, forging a deeper connection with the North and its traditions. Her excitement for the royal visit, especially at the prospect of meeting the Queen and the Prince, was evident in every word she spoke. Brandon, too, was eager—his mind filled with tales of knights and tournaments, thrilled at the chance to lay eyes on the legendary Kingsguard. Young Rickon, still a toddler, possessed the untamed spirit of the Wild Wolf, relentless in his energy. But it was Arya who troubled him most. Wild and willful, she rejected every attempt to shape her into a proper lady. Yet beneath her defiance lay a sorrow that had never fully healed. Ever since Jon vanished, a part of her had been lost, a light dimmed in her fierce grey eyes. Only the arrival of their direwolves had rekindled some of her fire.
The thought of Jon was a wound that never truly closed. Nearly eight years had passed since that terrible day, yet the memories remained as sharp as a blade. Chaos had erupted in Jon’s chambers—an unnatural disturbance, a shattering of the quiet that once filled Winterfell’s halls. Ned still heard the sound—a strange, sharp pop, unnatural and final. By the time he had reached the room, it was empty, disordered, and utterly devoid of answers. Jon was simply… gone.
They had searched for months, sending riders across the North and beyond, scouring every road, every village, every shadow. But no trace of his nephew remained. It was as if he had been swallowed by the wind.
Ned had wept bitterly in Catelyn’s arms when the last search party returned empty-handed. He had failed his sister’s son. Failed Lyanna. And in that moment of grief, something in Catelyn had changed. The long-standing resentment she harbored toward Jon had faded, replaced with shame at her actions.
Yet Ned knew—Jon was not forgotten. Not by him. Not by Arya. Not by the North.
With a heavy sigh, Ned settled into his cherished spot within the Godswood, lowering himself onto the gnarled roots of an ancient weirwood. Ice rested across his lap, its steel catching the soft, dappled light filtering through the crimson leaves above. As he methodically polished the greatsword with a cloth, a sense of calm settled over him. It was a ritual passed down through generations—one his father had undertaken after executions or in the wake of long, wearying days. A tradition, a moment of quiet reflection amidst the burdens of duty and memory.
The Godswood was silent, save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. But then, the earth trembled.
A violent tremor shattered the stillness, sending ripples through the ground beneath him. The deep roots of Winterfell groaned, and a startled flock of crows took flight from the trees. Ned was on his feet in an instant, his heart hammering as he raced toward the courtyard.
The castle was in chaos. Guards barked orders, servants huddled in confusion, and the men stationed atop the walls pointed frantically beyond Winterfell’s borders. Without hesitation, Ned ascended the battlements, searching for the cause of the disturbance.
What he saw left him breathless.
Where there had been nothing but open field mere moments before, now stood an imposing three-story structure of striking red brick. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—arched stained glass windows shimmered with intricate designs, their colors vivid even from a distance. A patio of smooth, dark stone stretched before the entrance, resembling the fabled fused stone of Valyria. Lush greenery adorned the rooftop, spilling over the edges in a cascade of vibrant life.
It had appeared out of nowhere.
Ned wasted no time. He descended swiftly, snatching a sword from the nearest rack and calling for a unit of guards to form up.
With caution, they approached the structure, drawing to a halt some twenty paces from the entrance. The air was thick with uncertainty. Then, the heavy doors swung open with startling force.
A man emerged.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and bare-chested, he carried himself with a natural confidence. His curly black hair was neatly trimmed, and in one hand, he held a slender white stick. His eyes locked onto Ned’s, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to stop.
Ned’s breath hitched. The man’s face—his features—were achingly familiar.
It was like looking at Jon, grown into adulthood.
Recognition flickered in the stranger’s eyes. His mouth parted slightly, disbelief warring with hope.
“Father?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The world stilled. Ned could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart. His gaze swept over the young man—pale skin, dark curls, and when the light caught them just right, not black eyes, but deep, unmistakable purple.
He swallowed, his voice failing him at first. But then, in a whisper:
“Jon?”
Relief and joy flooded the young man’s face. “Father!”
Jon rushed forward, but the guards reacted instantly, their blades ringing free from their scabbards.
“Hold!” Ned commanded, raising a hand to stay them. He barely registered the action as he dismounted, closing the distance himself.
Jon barely had time to brace before Ned pulled him into a fierce embrace.
“My boy,” Ned whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He gripped Jon’s face, searching it for proof, for certainty, for truth.
Jon laughed, his own eyes wet with unshed tears.
Before Ned could fully process the moment, another voice called out behind Jon.
“Uh, Jon… last I checked, Grimmauld Place wasn’t in the middle of a bloody forest.”
Ned turned sharply.
Another young man had stepped forward, shorter than Jon but still well-built, with untamed dark hair and striking green eyes framed by peculiar spectacles. A faint scar marred his brow, but his expression was one of wry amusement.
Jon chuckled, brushing the back of his hand across his damp eyes. “Yeah, looks like we’re not in London anymore.”
“You know where we are, then?” A new voice joined the exchange, this one belonging to a young woman. She was of similar height to the two boys, her bushy brown hair pulled back, her deep brown eyes sharp and alert. In one hand, she clutched a heavy tome, in the other, a slender stick like Jon’s companion held.
Jon turned, his smile growing. “Winterfell,” he said, pride evident in his voice.
The girl’s breath caught. “This is where you grew up?” she asked, her excitement barely restrained, her gaze sweeping the looming towers and rugged walls of the Stark stronghold.
Jon nodded and turned to Ned. “Father, these are my friends—Harry Potter,” he gestured to the green-eyed boy, “and Hermione Granger.”
Ned studied them both before offering a respectful nod. “Well met.”
Hermione gave an awkward curtsy. “No need for formalities, my lord. We’re just—”
“Ordinary people?” Jon finished for her, smirking.
Hermione huffed. “I was going to say travelers.”
Jon chuckled before turning back to Ned. “There’s a lot to explain, Father. We should talk inside.”
Ned hesitated for only a moment before nodding.
“M’lord,” one of the guards muttered warily, eyes darting between the strangers and the impossible building. “Are you certain—?”
Ned’s gaze softened as he looked at Jon, standing before him, alive and real.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I promise I’ll return before sunset.”
And with that, they stepped inside the strange new home that had appeared on the outskirts of Winterfell.
The moment Ned stepped inside, he sensed an eerie weight in the air—something ancient, something unnatural. It reminded him of the foreboding halls of Dragonstone, the seat of the Targaryens, where legends whispered of dark sorcery and restless spirits.
His boot nearly caught on something. Glancing down, he found a peculiar skull resting at his feet. It was too small to be human but too strange to belong to any familiar beast. His gaze lifted to the walls, where elaborate tapestries adorned with intricate symbols and unknown faces hung in solemn stillness. The craftsmanship was remarkable—the deep greens and greys of the walls melded seamlessly into the rich wooden floors, all fashioned as if from a single, unbroken stone.
As they moved further inside, they entered what appeared to be a well-appointed sitting room. An elegant wooden table stood at its center, surrounded by four black leather chairs. Jon and Harry had already taken their seats, with Jon now dressed in a simple grey tunic. Moments later, Hermione entered, balancing a tray of steaming tea and biscuits before settling into the last open chair.
Ned took a cup, savoring the warmth as he watched Jon and Harry whisper urgently to one another. The quiet hum of their conversation only deepened his need for answers.
At last, he set his cup down and spoke.
“Where did you disappear to, Jon?” His voice was even, but the weight behind it was undeniable. “We scoured the realm for you—for years. It was as if you had simply ceased to exist.”
Jon exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish look. “That’s exactly what happened, Father,” he admitted. “I vanished from this world entirely.”
Ned leaned forward, his gaze sharp and searching, urging Jon to continue.
Jon nodded, as though bracing himself. “It all began that night. The storm howled outside, rattling my chambers. I was frightened, hoping someone would come—but no one did. Sleep took me eventually, and when I woke, I was no longer in Winterfell.” He paused, his expression distant. “I found myself in a forest unlike any I’d ever seen. It was alive with creatures out of a madman’s fable—beasts with horns, creatures that shimmered and vanished, things that did not belong in this world. I had no idea where I was… until a man found me.”
“A man?” Ned asked, his grip on the table tightening.
“A giant of a man, larger than even the Mountain,” Jon said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “His name was Hagrid. He told me I was in the Forbidden Forest, just outside a place called Hogwarts—in Scotland.”
Ned’s brow furrowed. “Scotland?” The name meant nothing to him.
“I had no idea where it was, either,” Jon admitted. “I assumed Hogwarts was some lord’s keep, a place where I could seek help to return home. I was wrong. Hogwarts isn’t a castle in the way we understand it—it’s a school. A school for wizards and witches.”
Ned stiffened. “Magic?” His voice carried the full weight of his skepticism. “That’s absurd. Magic has been dead since the fall of the dragons.”
Jon only smiled in response. Reaching for the slender white stick at his side, he gave it a flick.
The table lifted into the air.
Ned’s breath caught. His heart pounded as he watched the table hover effortlessly before gently returning to the ground.
“That was my reaction, too,” Harry said with a smirk. “Turns out, magic is very much alive.”
Jon nodded. “I was lucky. I arrived just a month before the school year began. Otherwise, I’d have been left to fend for myself. The magical world has been hidden from ordinary people for centuries, yet it shares many similarities with our own—titles, noble houses, traditions, even political scheming. But their Muggle world—the non-magical one—is another matter entirely.” Jon’s eyes darkened slightly. “It’s more advanced than both their world and ours. Had I found myself in it instead, I would’ve stood out immediately.”
Ned absorbed his words, silent as Jon continued.
“One of the professors—a sort of Maester, but for magic—took me to their market to buy supplies for school. I had no coin, but they ran a blood test… and that’s how I discovered my connection to the House of Black.” Jon exhaled. “That’s how I inherited this home.” His voice softened. “And that’s how I learned who my mother was.”
The words struck Ned like a blow.
Jon met his gaze. “The parchment revealed her name—Lyanna Stark. And my father…” He swallowed, his voice quieter now. “Rhaegar Targaryen.”
Ned felt his breath leave him. He had prepared himself for this moment countless times, rehearsed what he would say should Jon ever learn the truth. But now that it was here, the words felt hollow.
Jon’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a storm within. “I finally understood why you were so distant. Why you never looked at me the way you looked at Robb. After all, who would embrace the child of the man who supposedly raped his sister?”
A soft hand found Jon’s—Hermione’s. She gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
“No,” Ned said firmly, shaking his head. “No, Jon, that isn’t the truth. We were wrong. The world was wrong.” He took a steadying breath. “Your mother was not taken. She went willingly. Lyanna loved Rhaegar. They married in secret on the Isle of Faces, in the presence of the Old Gods and a Septon.” His expression was grim. “It was not the wisest choice, but it was not an abduction.”
Jon’s lips parted, stunned.
Ned continued. “Rhaegar took your mother as his second wife because Elia could bear no more children, and also because the three had formed a relationship during the tourney of Harrenhal. Rhaegar believed he needed more children for the prophecy he followed. But Aegon still remained his heir. Lyanna… she died bringing you into this world. With her final breath, she named you Lucerys.”
Jon inhaled sharply at the name.
“I couldn’t keep it. You would never have been safe,” Ned admitted. “I named you Jon, after my foster father. I claimed you as my own, for my honor demanded it. I did what I had to—so you could live.”
Jon was silent, absorbing the weight of it all.
Harry, in typical fashion, broke the tension. “You know,” he mused, “now that I think of it, you do kind of look like a Lucerys.”
Jon let out a short, breathy laugh. Hermione, however, smacked Harry lightly on the back of the head. “Not the time,” she scolded.
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve always admired the tales of the Sea Snake. To be named after his grandson… that is an honor.”
Ned smiled faintly. “Your mother loved the stories of the Black Queen. The North always held good ties with House Velaryon.”
Jon’s expression softened. “She truly loved me, didn’t she?”
Ned’s throat tightened. “More than life itself.” He took a deep breath. “She left behind letters, keepsakes. Rhaegar entrusted them to her. They’re in the crypts.” He met Jon’s eyes. “When we return to Winterfell, I’ll show you.”
Jon swallowed hard, nodding. “I’d like that.”
Ned leaned back, exhaling. “But for now… tell me more of this world that took you.”
Jon took another measured sip of tea before continuing. “Right. So, after discovering my connection to the House of Black, I initially assumed that a distant relative of ours had somehow crossed into this world and married into the Blacks. That realization… well, it would become significant later. At the time, I was blissfully unaware of its importance. What I did learn was that the Blacks were one of the wealthiest families in this realm, which meant I not only had a home but also enough gold to live comfortably.”
He leaned back slightly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Professor Flitwick guided me through the shopping district to gather supplies for school, and that’s when I truly saw the wonders of magic. The experience was beyond anything I could have ever imagined—far surpassing the Valyrians at their peak. If you can picture a world where technology is ten times more advanced than anything they ever created, you might begin to understand.”
Jon lifted his wand from the table, allowing Ned to get a closer look. It was carved from white wood, with delicate leaves etched into its surface, painted red to resemble a weirwood. “The most fascinating part was acquiring my wand. Ollivander, the wandmaker, had this particular one tucked away for centuries. Weirwood, with a dragon heartstring core. It made me wonder—have travelers from our world crossed into theirs before? Or have wizards from their world ended up in Westeros, only to lose their magic over time?”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Hermione mused, tapping a finger against her chin. “It would explain why you were able to connect with magic so seamlessly.”
Jon nodded. “After that, Harry and I went our separate ways. I found Grimmauld Place in a terrible state, but with Kreacher’s help, I managed to restore it.”
“I wonder if that little schemer came along with us,” Harry muttered, half to himself.
“Who is Kreacher?” Ned asked, just as a sudden pop echoed through the room.
He turned sharply, hand instinctively reaching for his sword, only to freeze at the sight before him—a small, hunched creature, barely a meter tall, with enormous eyes and floppy ears. It wore a black outfit embroidered with a silver snake encircling a raven, its gaze shifting between Ned and Jon with curiosity.
“Master and Master’s friends summon Kreacher?” The creature bowed deeply before straightening, squinting at Ned. “Stranger shares Master’s aura. Are you kin to Master?”
“Yes, Kreacher, this is my father,” Jon answered, his voice laced with pride. “We’re fine here, but perhaps a bit more tea would be appreciated.”
Kreacher nodded before vanishing with another pop , leaving Ned momentarily stunned.
“What… exactly is that creature?” he asked, regaining his composure.
“Kreacher is a house-elf,” Hermione explained patiently. “They serve wizards and sustain themselves through magic.”
Ned exhaled, his mind turning over this new information.
Jon picked up where he had left off. “Eventually, I made my way to Hogwarts, where I reunited with Harry on the train. That’s where we met Hermione, and she became an invaluable part of our group. Hogwarts sorts its students into four houses: Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor. While Harry and Hermione ended up in Gryffindor, I was placed in Slytherin.” He paused, his expression darkening. “It was… difficult at first. I was labeled a ‘mudblood.’”
Ned frowned at the bitterness in Jon’s voice. “I gather that’s not a term of endearment.”
Hermione sighed. “No, not at all. About eleven years before we arrived at Hogwarts, a brutal war engulfed the wizarding world. It was fought between the Death Eaters, led by a dark wizard named Voldemort—one of the most powerful to ever exist—and a resistance group called the Order of the Phoenix. The Death Eaters believed in the ‘Pureblood Movement,’ a twisted ideology that deemed anyone without two magical parents as inferior. They persecuted them, calling them ‘mudbloods.’ That’s the slur they used against Jon.”
Ned’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into a fist. He had seen firsthand how noble bloodlines could be used as a weapon to oppress, but this… this was something else entirely.
“The war escalated when Voldemort caught wind of a prophecy,” Hermione continued. “It spoke of a child who would bring about his downfall. Arrogant as he was, Voldemort sought to kill this child before the prophecy could come to pass. He slaughtered the child’s parents and tried to murder the baby as well, but his own curse rebounded, destroying him instead. That child became a symbol of hope, known as ‘The Boy Who Lived’ throughout the wizarding world.”
Her voice trailed off as her gaze flickered toward Harry.
Ned followed her line of sight, his expression softening. “Harry… was it you?”
Harry exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yeah.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, softly, Ned said, “You survived, but at what cost?”
Harry offered a small, tired smile. “More than I ever imagined.”
Jon placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We fought to end it,” he said, voice steady. “We did everything we could. But even after Voldemort fell, the Pureblood Movement remained. The old families still held power, and they slowly clawed back the rights that had been gained. We tried to stop it. We fought until the end. But… we were losing.”
Harry exhaled sharply. “We were sent here just before everything collapsed.”
Hermione rubbed his back comfortingly. Ned could see it—the weight of too many battles carried by children who had been forced to grow up too soon.
His heart ached for them. For what they had lost.
“I’m sorry, son,” Ned said, his voice steady but filled with quiet sorrow. “No child should have to endure what you have.” He looked between the three of them. “But hear me now—if Jon calls you family, then you are family. And while there is a Stark in Winterfell, you will always have a home here.”
Harry blinked, clearly taken aback, before a genuine smile broke through his melancholy. “Thank you, Lord Stark. That means more than I can say.”
Ned inclined his head, warmth flickering in his eyes. “It’s the least I can do.”
Jon took another measured sip of tea before continuing. “Right. Back to the story. Our years at Hogwarts were… eventful, to say the least. We gained a lot of experience, knowledge, and a fair share of battle scars. I eventually proved my worth in Slytherin—not just with my scores, but through my magical abilities. Over time, I grew closer with Harry and Hermione, and we became inseparable.”
A small smile played at Jon’s lips as he glanced at Harry. “Our first year was a mess from the start. We fought a troll, witnessed a dragon hatching—which, I have to say, was one of the highlights for me. Maybe it was my Targaryen heritage, but the dragons of the wizarding world always seemed to take well to me. Then, at the end of the year, we found out that the Dark Lord was still alive—though barely. He was possessing one of our professors.”
Jon and Harry both cast a nervous glance at Hermione, who sat with her arms crossed, tapping her foot rapidly against the floor. Her glare was fixed on them, and both boys quickly looked down, avoiding her wrath.
Ned chuckled at the sight. Arya and Bran had worn that exact same expression whenever Catelyn discovered them up to no good.
“Second year was even worse,” Jon continued, shaking his head. “A thousand-year-old, sixty-meter-long snake that could kill with a single glance was loose in the school, petrifying students left and right. By the end of the year, Harry and I ended up in the Chamber of Secrets, facing down the beast—along with a younger version of the Dark Lord, who was draining the life force from a student.”
Ned’s hand tightened into a fist.
Jon sighed. “We had no backup—just a sword, our wands, and a phoenix. Luckily, I had some skill with a blade, and I managed to stab the thing in the brain without getting myself killed. Meanwhile, Harry dueled the Dark Lord.”
Ned exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his cup. “Twelve name days,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
Now it was Hermione’s turn to glare. “Now you understand, Lord Stark, what I had to deal with all these years.”
Ned nodded in solemn agreement.
“Third year was another disaster,” Harry picked up the story. “An escaped convict named Sirius Black—who, as it turned out, was related to Jon in some way—broke out of Azkaban, the wizarding world’s most secure prison. Everyone thought he was coming after me, so the Ministry decided the best course of action was to place Dementors—soulless creatures that drain happiness and force you to relive your worst memories—around the school.”
Ned’s expression darkened. “They placed such monsters around children?”
Jon and Hermione threw up their hands in exasperation, while Harry simply shook his head, as though this argument had played out many times before.
“It’s an ongoing trend in this story,” Harry said dryly.
Jon continued, “Eventually, we found Sirius and learned that he had been framed. The real traitor—the one who betrayed Harry’s family—had been living in the Gryffindor dormitory with them for years.”
Ned’s expression turned to outright disgust. “And yet he was allowed to escape?”
“Of course,” Harry muttered, shaking his head.
“The Ministry refused to listen,” Hermione added bitterly. “They never even gave Sirius a trial. He remained a wanted criminal despite his innocence.”
Ned scoffed. “Were all the adults in this world incompetent?”
“More than you can possibly imagine,” Jon muttered.
Despite the frustration, they had at least managed to keep Sirius safe by convincing him to stay at Grimmauld Place. “That’s when we realized we were blood-related,” Jon said. “But for the longest time, we couldn’t figure out how. Every blood test we ran gave the same result—our connection traced back to ‘Brandon the Stark.’”
Ned frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. If there was a connection, shouldn’t the magic have traced it properly?”
Jon exhaled. “That was the problem. We couldn’t figure out where the link was. But the resemblance was undeniable. Sirius looked exactly like a Stark—pale skin, dark curly hair, grey eyes. And his Animagus form—”
“Animagus?” Ned interrupted.
“When a wizard or witch can transform into an animal that reflects their spirit,” Hermione explained.
Jon nodded. “Sirius’s form was a Grimm—a massive, black, wolf-like creature. It looked exactly like the stories of direwolves.”
A strange thought passed through Ned’s mind at that revelation, but he pushed it aside as Jon continued.
“Then came fourth year.” Jon’s expression hardened. “That’s when things took a turn for the worse.”
“There was a tournament hosted between the three major schools in Europe,” he explained. “The Triwizard Tournament. A champion from each school was selected through a magical artifact called the Goblet of Fire, which binds them into a magical contract.”
Harry scowled. “The problem? Someone put my name in, even though I was too young to participate. And once the Goblet selected me, the contract was binding. I had no choice but to compete.”
The sheer injustice of it made Ned bristle. “And no one thought to intervene?”
“Nope,” Jon said, voice laced with bitterness. “Instead of figuring out how to remove Harry from the tournament, everyone turned on him. The students. The teachers. Even the Ministry. They all assumed he had cheated his way in.”
Hermione’s hands clenched into fists, and Jon’s glare was as sharp as a blade. Meanwhile, Harry just looked resigned, as though he had long since accepted this as just another piece of misfortune in his life.
Ned, however, was seething. “And no one thought to investigate how his name was entered in the first place?”
Harry gave him a small, tired smile. “Like Jon said, incompetence was a trend.”
Ned’s heart ached for the boy. Harry had been through more than most men could endure, and if not for Jon and Hermione standing by his side, he likely would have faced even worse. He was grateful his son had found such steadfast friends.
Harry took a slow breath before continuing. “The first task of the tournament involved stealing an egg from a dragon. I managed to outfly it on a broom and grab the egg in time. If only I had Jon’s affinity with dragons, it would have been much easier.”
Ned blinked. “Wait—you said fly ? On a broom ?” His tone was thick with disbelief, a sentiment he had found himself expressing far too often throughout this conversation.
“Yes,” Jon answered, amused. “They enchant them to fly at incredibly high speeds. There’s even a sport centered around it, called Quidditch. Trust me, Father, with magic, nearly anything is possible.”
Ned shook his head, still struggling to process it all.
“The second task,” Harry continued, “had me diving into the bottom of a lake to rescue a hostage. The lake was infested with all sorts of magical creatures. I managed to save my hostage and another, since their champion failed to reach them in time.”
A creeping sense of dread settled over Ned. He could see the pattern forming—every year, these children were thrown into life-threatening situations, forced to fight for their survival.
Harry exhaled. “The final task was a maze, filled with deadly obstacles. The Triwizard Cup was at the center, and whoever reached it first would be declared the winner. I got there at the same time as Cedric Diggory, the other Hogwarts champion. We decided to take the cup together.” His voice dropped. “It was a trap.”
Ned leaned forward, his expression unreadable.
“When we touched the Cup, it transported us to a graveyard. Before I knew what was happening, Cedric was murdered right in front of me. My blood was used in a ritual to bring the Dark Lord back to life.”
Ned clenched his jaw.
Harry’s voice became flat, almost detached, as if forcing himself to recount the memories without emotion. “He tortured me in front of his followers. Then we dueled. I barely escaped. My parents’ spirits—they appeared because of our wands—helped me get away. I managed to return with Cedric’s body and warn the world that Voldemort had returned.”
Hermione immediately wrapped Harry in a hug, whispering reassurances in his ear. Jon placed a comforting hand on his friend’s back.
Ned could see it clearly now—these three had been to war. He recognized that hollow look in their eyes, the way they carried themselves. He had seen it in men who returned from Robert’s Rebellion, in the survivors of the Greyjoy Rebellion. His son had fought in a war before he had even reached his eighteenth name day.
Jon took over the story. “Of course, the Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, refused to believe him. The Minister called Harry a liar and painted him as delusional. Worse, he blamed Sirius for everything, keeping him branded a criminal.” Jon’s voice was thick with barely contained rage. “That gave Voldemort time to gather his forces, to consolidate his power in the shadows.”
Ned exhaled sharply, shaking his head. The sheer incompetence of this so-called government was staggering.
“Since the Ministry refused to act, they placed a professor at Hogwarts who wouldn’t let us learn any defensive spells,” Jon continued bitterly. “So, we took matters into our own hands. We formed our own study group—a group of students, most between fourteen and seventeen, training ourselves to fight.”
“Wait,” Ned interrupted. “This professor— she refused to teach you how to defend yourselves?”
Jon nodded grimly. “Worse than that. She tortured students.”
Ned’s fingers curled into a fist. He had seen rulers who cared little for the people under their charge, but deliberately weakening children and exposing them to danger was beyond reckless. It was cruelty.
Jon exhaled before continuing. “It all came to a head at the end of the year. We were lured into a trap at the Ministry, trying to save someone we thought was in danger. It was an ambush. We fought for our lives, but…” His expression darkened. “Sirius died. He fell through something called the Veil of Death. There was no saving him.”
Ned closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of the loss. He had seen too many sons grieve their fathers, too many fathers bury their sons.
“The only good thing that came out of that disaster was that Voldemort finally revealed himself,” Jon continued. “He and Dumbledore dueled in the Ministry—right in front of the Minister. There was no denying it after that.”
Ned ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. The more he heard of this world, the more he wished Jon had never been forced to live through it.
“Then came sixth year.” Jon took another sip of his tea, his voice quieter now. “Voldemort and his followers were openly attacking the wizarding world. People were dying by the hundreds every month.”
Harry and Hermione, who had remained silent for most of Jon’s recounting, quietly stood and left the room. It was clear that hearing it all spoken aloud—reliving it—was too much.
Jon’s gaze turned distant. “We discovered how Voldemort was staying alive. His soul was anchored to objects—Horcruxes, they were called. Harry and Dumbledore went on a mission to destroy one. While they were away, Voldemort’s forces infiltrated the school. When they returned…” Jon swallowed. “Dumbledore was killed. Voldemort’s followers took control of Hogwarts.”
Ned felt something cold settle in his chest.
“We couldn’t go back,” Jon said, his voice hollow. “We were fugitives, running for our lives. Our only focus was destroying the remaining Horcruxes. One by one, we hunted them down. But while we searched, people kept dying. The wizarding world was in chaos. Entire families were wiped out.”
Jon exhaled, his fingers tightening around his teacup. “And then… came the Battle of Hogwarts.”
He looked up, his eyes haunted.
“We took the castle back. We drove out the Death Eaters who had been stationed there. But Voldemort and his army came soon after, laying siege to it. It was carnage. Thousands fought. Hundreds died. Harry dueled Voldemort and killed him. That ended the war.”
Jon let out a slow breath. “But it didn’t end the corruption. Many of Voldemort’s followers were let off with barely a slap on the wrist. The pureblood supremacists remained in power. The world we had fought to protect still hadn’t changed.”
Ned studied his son carefully. Jon, Harry, Hermione—they had fought. They had won. And yet, the war had left scars. He could see it in their eyes. The same look he had seen in men who had lived through the worst battles of Robert’s Rebellion.
Jon ran a hand through his hair. “On top of all that, Harry and I had to take care of his godson, Teddy. His parents and grandparents all died in the war. Since I was his closest living relative, he fell under my responsibility.” Jon exhaled. “That’s why we moved in together after the war. We were all each other had left.”
He leaned back, a tired smirk ghosting across his lips. “Honestly, ending up here was a blessing in disguise. We had no future in that world. At least here, we have a fresh start.”
He glanced at Ned. “This house is stocked with magical knowledge, so we can continue our studies. And I moved most of our gold into a vault in the basement. I didn’t trust the goblins to keep it safe after we—” Jon hesitated.
Ned arched a brow. “After you what? ”
Jon coughed. “Well… after we broke into their bank to steal one of the artifacts keeping Voldemort alive.”
Ned pinched the bridge of his nose.
Jon chuckled sheepishly. “In our defense… it worked.”
Ned sat in silence, absorbing everything. His son—his boy—had endured so much without him there to guide him. The weight of that realization was unbearable. How different would things have been if Jon had never disappeared? If he had been raised here, in Winterfell, surrounded by family instead of war and suffering? The thought made his heart bleed.
Before he could dwell on it further, a sharp knock echoed from the front door.
“Father? Are you in there?” Robb’s voice rang out, followed by the hushed whispers of two others.
A brilliant smile spread across Jon’s face. “In here!”
The door swung open, revealing Robb, Arya, and Bran, their direwolf pups trailing behind them.
“Jon!” Arya shrieked, sprinting forward before launching herself into his arms. She clung to him tightly, as if afraid he might vanish again. “It’s really you! You’re back!”
Jon laughed, hugging her just as fiercely. “I missed you too, little wolf.”
Bran, practically bouncing on his feet, peered up at him eagerly. “Are you really our brother?”
Jon smirked. “You can’t be Bran. The Bran I remember was a tiny babe, barely old enough to walk.” He ruffled Bran’s hair, earning an indignant huff in response.
The direwolves mirrored their owners’ excitement, yipping and wagging their tails. Ned noted the white pup scratching at Jon’s boots, trying to get his attention.
Jon let Arya go and scooped up the pup, gazing into his red eyes. “Since when did we have direwolves?”
“We found their mother dead in the woods,” Ned explained. “A stag had gored her. The pups were barely alive when Robb and Arya convinced me to let them keep them.”
Jon nodded, his fingers running through the albino pup's soft fur. He set the pup down just as Robb stepped forward.
The two brothers locked eyes for a moment before embracing. Ned caught the slight tremble in Robb’s shoulders, and when Jon pulled back, he noticed the wetness in his brother’s eyes.
“Gods, it’s good to see you, Snow,” Robb murmured, voice thick with emotion.
“You too, Stark.” Jon smirked. “Hope Theon hasn’t been too bad of an influence on you without me here.”
Robb huffed a laugh and punched Jon’s arm. Jon feigned mock hurt, clutching his shoulder dramatically.
Ned watched the scene with quiet contentment. His family, fractured for so long, was finally whole again.
Jon suddenly straightened. “I’ve been a terrible host. Let me show you around, Father. There’s a lot here you’ll want to see.”
With that, he led them through a dark hallway lined with torches. At the far end stood two massive black doors, smooth and unmarked, with no visible handle.
Jon placed a hand against the doors. A soft glow pulsed beneath his palm, and with a deep rumbling, the doors swung open.
Ned stepped inside—and froze.
Mountains of gold and silver coins shimmered beneath the torchlight, their brilliance nearly blinding. Precious gems and intricately crafted jewelry were piled high, glinting like starlight. Finely wrought weapons lined the walls, accompanied by gleaming suits of armor.
Arya and Bran wasted no time darting toward the weapon racks, sifting through an array of beautifully crafted daggers. Robb, meanwhile, gravitated toward a sword that bore rippling patterns along the blade, reminiscent of Valyrian steel.
Jon followed his gaze and grinned. “That’s Damascus steel. Had the same reaction when I first saw it. Most of the weapons here were magically forged and enchanted.”
Robb turned the sword in his hands, studying its weight and balance.
Jon continued, “That one’s one of my first works. I spent some time learning smithing after the war. It’s not as refined as what the goblins or dwarves make, but it’s still strong. Enchanted to never rust, stay sharp, and move with speed and weightlessness. You’ll need to be careful with your swings—not to overextend yourself.”
Arya and Bran rushed over, each clutching identical daggers with polished silver blades.
“Can we have these, Jon? Please ?” Arya begged, her grey eyes wide with pleading.
Jon took the dagger from her, inspecting it carefully. His brows lifted. “Goblin steel. The best in the wizarding world. Rare, because goblins don’t part with their blades easily. Most likely won in one of the goblin wars by some Black ancestor.” He exhaled. “Be careful with it. This metal absorbs whatever it touches—blood, poison, magic. If you use it, make sure it never comes into contact with anything harmful.”
Arya turned her best puppy-dog eyes on Ned, her lower lip trembling.
Ned sighed. He was known as a stern man, but his daughter had always been his greatest weakness. He nodded.
Arya beamed, hugging the dagger to her chest.
Meanwhile, Jon had wandered deeper into the vault, examining various artifacts and trinkets before finally returning with a small sack in his hands. He pulled out a handful of seeds.
“I picked these up when I realized the school we attended had a similar climate to the North.” He opened his palm, revealing different types of seeds. “Wheat, barley, carrots, potatoes, cabbage, onions, leeks, garlic and fruits such as blueberries, apples, and plums to name a few.”
Ned’s eyes widened slightly. If these crops could grow in the North, they could change everything.
Jon wasn’t done. He reached into the sack once more and pulled out a small, light-blue berry.
“This,” he said, holding it up for them to see, “is what I believe will be our greatest moneymaker. Elven berries. Used to make Elvish wine, which is better than any Dornish Red or Arbor Gold I’ve ever tasted.” A smirk played on his lips. “When properly brewed, the wine has a striking blue hue. If we can grow these in the North, we’ll have something no one else in Westeros has. We already have some made. We can serve it at the King’s feast as a demonstration.”
Ned studied his son. Even after everything, Jon had been thinking about the North, about their people. His heart swelled with pride.
For a moment, he had forgotten about Robert’s impending visit. But as he watched his children roam through the vault, their eyes alight with excitement, he decided the King could wait.
Right now, his family came first.