Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

H.P.A.L.V.D

“Haeron” - Talking.

“I Am Fire” - Different Language/ Parseltongue.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM”- Verbal Casting.

‘Peverell’ - Thinking.

‘Gaelithox’ - Passive Legilimency/ Telepathy.

‘STUPEFY’- Silent Casting.

Lord Peverell - Letters/ Writing.

WARNING AND DISCLAIMER 

I do not own Harry Potter, A Song if Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones or Any of their Characters.

H.A.L.V.D

The multiverse is vast, its true extent determined solely by the imagination of those who dare to dive into its immense depths. Anything and everything can happen there—especially if you are Harry Potter.

In many worlds, Harry is a wizard in twentieth-century Earth, tasked with saving the world from Lord Voldemort. In some, he fails; in others, he succeeds. In some, he becomes a villain in his own right, while in others, he rises as a hero beyond measure. Yet across these countless variations, certain traits remain the same, and he always carries either the same name or a variation of it. Every possibility unfolds in intricate detail.

In the world of ice and fire, he could have been born into House Stark, becoming the most honorable and fearsome of wolves, or into House Lannister, a roaring lion feared across the land. In any of the great and storied houses, he would have left his mark on history.

But this time, he was born into the house of death and dragons.

House Peverell.

What will his legacy be? How will he play the great game? Or will it play him?

H.P.A.L.V.D

109 BC

Valyrian Peninsula,

Beneath the Fourteen Flames.

Deep beneath the Fourteen Flames, in the heart of Valyria, the air was thick with the acrid scent of sulfur and the earth shaked beneath the power of the volcanoes, the Valyrian dragon breeders gathered. They were tasked with creating a new breed of dragon, something more powerful, more dangerous than any creature the world had ever known. The project was shrouded in secrecy, funded by House Baelerys, and fueled by a twisted blend of ancient magic and sacrifice.

In the center of a cavernous chamber, a large egg, dark and smooth like a rock, lay on a bed of heated stone. The black egg shimmered faintly with veins of gold running through it, a sign of the powerful magic within it. Around it, dragon breeders, clad in black robes adorned with symbols of fire, chanted in a language older than the Freehold, invoking ancient powers to wake the creature within.

With a violent crack, the egg split open. The force of it shook the chamber, and from the fractured shell emerged a dragon unlike any other. His scales were smooth and black on his upper body, but golden and rough on his underbelly. His wings, wide and powerful, stretched out, and his serpentine neck was adorned with golden frills and black spikes. His long, narrow face was framed by five golden horns on each side, and two larger horns curved above his brow. His eyes, deep crimson and serpentine, blinked open, revealing an intelligence beyond any creature born of this world.

The breeders stepped back in awe, some recoiling at the sheer size of the creature, which, despite being freshly hatched, already stood at twelve feet from head to tail with a wingspan that stretched nearly forty feet. The dragon, now fully aware of its surroundings, released a growl that reverberated through the stone. His body rippled with power, and as he flexed his claws, his golden frills danced in the air, his tail lashing behind him.

“Gaelithox,” one of the breeders whispered in reverence, though his voice was tinged with fear. “The Hell Spawn, the Winged Death.”

Gaelithox released a roar that filled the chamber, a high-pitched wail, sharp and disorienting, as if the very sound was a weapon. The air around him seemed to crackle with heat. A burst of black fire shot from his mouth, the flames swirling with golden hue, and the intense heat singed the stone at his feet.

“Control him!” one of the breeders shouted in panic, but the creature was beyond their reach.

The dragon turned, unfurling his enormous wings. His eyes locked on the exit, his instincts telling him to escape, to fly free into the skies. But the breeders, in a desperate move, acted quickly. Using ancient chains forged in dragonfire, they managed to restrain him, forcing him toward the vault.

The vault was an immense, circular chamber deep within the volcanic heart of Valyria, designed specifically to contain creatures of immense power. The walls were thick, carved from the very stone of the mountain, and inscribed with ancient runes that would absorb the magic emanating from the dragon. This vault, however, was not merely a prison—it was a containment chamber, designed to prevent Gaelithox from growing too quickly and to hold him until he could be trained or tamed. The runes carved into the stone were said to absorb the very fire and magic the dragon could unleash.

Gaelithox was forced into the vault, his massive wings struggling against the chains. His wings, black with golden tints along the edges, flapped once in defiance, but the force of the runes embedded in the walls sapped his strength. His long, serpentine neck arched as he hissed, sending a puff of black smoke from his nostrils. The golden frills along his neck rippled in agitation, but for the moment, the magic held him in place.

The dragon's crimson eyes glowed with barely contained fury. He roared again, his fire sparking in his chest, but when he tried to breathe it, the heat dissipated against the runes, unable to break through. A sound like thunder echoed through the vault as Gaelithox fought against the constraints, but his flames merely danced harmlessly against the rune-covered walls.

His fire, black and tinged with gold, was capable of melting steel and stone, turning flesh to ash. The breeders knew this; they had created him to be a weapon, an unstoppable force meant to reshape the balance of power. But even they could not control the beast they had brought into the world.

For now, Gaelithox was contained.

H.P.A.L.V.D

109 BC

Valyria,

The Grand Hall of the Lords Freeholder

The Lords Freeholder of Valyria gathered in the grand hall, their faces grim as they discussed the progress of House Baelerys’ dragon project. At the center of the room stood the Lord of House Baelerys, his expression unreadable as he spoke to the assembly.

“We have created a dragon unlike any other,” he declared, his voice filled with pride. “Gaelithox is powerful, a weapon that will ensure our supremacy. He is the future of Valyria.”

The lords murmured their approval, some eager, others uncertain. But not all were in favor of this new breed of dragon.

The Lord of House Peverell, a stoic man whose family had a branch located in the Vale of Westeros, nodded in agreement. 

“We are tampering with the natural order,” he said quietly. “We may regret this.”

The others laughed, dismissing their concerns. 

“The Peverells are hardly in a position to speak on such matters,” one lord scoffed. “Perhaps you should join your kin in the Vale if you find yourself so troubled."

Lord Peverell said nothing, but the mockery stung. Still, he did not leave. His thoughts, however, were clear. He would not support the creation of such an unnatural force, but he would not act against his the other Lords.

H.P.A.L.V.D

102 BC

Valyrian Peninsula,

Beneath the Fourteen Flames

The dragon remained locked in the vault, his wings unable to stretch fully, his fire contained by the ancient magic. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and now seven years had passed since the hatching of Gaelithox, as the breeders worked tirelessly to study the creature. Though Gaelithox grew, his power was suppressed by the vault. They knew, however, that the dragon's nature was unpredictable.

The breeders, eager to tame Gaelithox, returned to the vault where the dragon was held. They had prepared a large room for the task, filled with trainers and handlers, but the moment they released the creature from the vault, it was clear they had underestimated him.

Gaelithox roared, his cry piercing the air, shaking the stone walls of the chamber. Flames erupted from his mouth, black with golden swirls, scorching the walls and ceiling. The heat was so intense that it seemed to bend the very air around him.

“Get him under control!” one of the breeders shouted, but the dragon was beyond their reach. His wings flared, sending gusts of wind that knocked the trainers off their feet. Gaelithox's eyes blazed with fury, and his fire turned the room into an inferno.

In a desperate attempt, the breeders rushed to push the dragon back into the vault, but Gaelithox fought them fiercely. His golden frills rippled as he snapped his jaws, sending a torrent of flames that consumed everything in its path. The room was destroyed in moments, and only by sheer force did they manage to push him back into the vault.

But the damage was done.

The Fourteen Flames erupted with catastrophic force. The volcanoes that had once been dormant exploded with fury, sending lava and ash pouring into the sky. The ground split, and the city of Valyria, the greatest empire ever known, was consumed by fire and destruction.

The magic that had created Gaelithox, that had fueled the breeding of such monsters, was undone in an instant. Valyria was torn asunder, and only House Targaryen, who had fled to Dragonstone, and the branch of House Peverell in the Vale of Westeros survived.

Gaelithox remained trapped in the vault, the flames of the eruption not enough to free him. He was contained as the world around him burned, his fury undying, waiting for the day when the chains would break, and the dragon would rise again.

The dragon, though bound, knew his time would come. He would rise, he would fly, and when he did, the world would tremble before him.

H.P.A.L.V.D

285 AC

Peverell Hall, 

The Vale of Ignotus.

The crackling of the hearth fire filled the vast library of Peverell Hall, its warm glow casting long shadows across the shelves of ancient tomes and scrolls. The scent of old parchment and ink mingled with the faint traces of lavender that clung to the banners bearing the sigil of House Peverell.

Seated in the center of the room at a grand oak table, Haeron Peverell sat motionless, his young face tight with thought. His hands, still small but steady, gripped the edges of a heavy tome. The pages were yellowed with age, filled with Valyrian glyphs and Common Tongue translations of histories long forgotten by Westeros. But it was not the words of the book that troubled him.

It was the dream.

A dream of Valyria, burning. Of fire and stone, of dragons roaring in agony, of men in long robes chanting over a great beast. He had seen it all as if he were there, standing amongst the Lords Freeholder. He had felt the heat, heard the screams, watched as a colossal dragon, black and gold, raged against his chains deep beneath the Fourteen Flames.

He had felt like he was the dragon.

The sound of soft footsteps made him glance up. His mother, Lily Peverell, stepped into the room. Her long, fiery red hair framed a face that was both regal and kind, her emerald green eyes filled with warmth. She wore a dark green gown adorned with silver embroidery, the three dragons and deathly hallows of their house stitched into the fabric at her breast.

She immediately noticed his expression—furrowed brows, pursed lips, the faintest trace of unease in his normally sharp mismatched eyes.

“Haeron,” she said gently, moving toward him. “You look troubled, my love.”

She sat beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“What is it?”

Haeron hesitated. He was only seven, but his mind was sharp, far beyond his years. He had always been different from other children, his tutors often whispering that he was a prodigy. He learned faster, understood things quicker.

But this dream—it felt real. Too real.

“I had a dream,” he said at last, his voice soft. Lily smiled faintly. 

“Dreams can be strange things, my sweet boy. What was yours about?”

“Valyria,” he said immediately, watching for her reaction.

Lily's hand stiffened slightly on his shoulder. She never spoke much of Valyria, though she had never hidden their heritage from him. House Peverell was an old house, one of the last true Valyrian bloodlines in the known world. But even so, the history of Valyria itself was something rarely discussed.

“Tell me,” she said, brushing a stray lock of his midnight-black and pale-silver hair from his forehead.

Haeron took a deep breath. 

“I was there… in Valyria, before the Doom. I saw the dragonlords, the Lords Freeholder in their great hall, speaking of a powerful dragon. I thin—I think I was one of them.”

Lily's brows knitted together, but she said nothing, allowing him to continue.

“They made something, Mother. A dragon like no other, a beast of black and gold. They called him Gaelithox.” The name rolled off his tongue as if it had always been there.

“He was supposed to be the greatest of them all, but he was uncontrollable. They chained him, locked him in a vault beneath the mountains. And then Valyria burned.”

Lily's lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I could feel it,” Haeron whispered. “Like I was him. Like I was the dragon.”

A long silence stretched between them. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Lily studied her son carefully. She had always known he was different. He learned Valyrian glyphs before he could properly read the Common Tongue, spoke of history as if he had lived it, and carried an air of wisdom beyond his seven years. And now, this dream.

She had heard of dragon dreams before. The Targaryens spoke of them, though their blood had thinned over the generations. The ability to see visions of the past or future was rare, even among the dragonlords of old.

And yet, Haeron had just described something lost to time. Something that even the histories did not speak of.

She took his small hand in hers, squeezing gently. 

“My love, our family comes from Valyria, but you know this.”

Haeron nodded. 

“Our ancestors were among the Lords Freeholder, ruling with dragons before the Doom,” he recited.

“Yes,” Lily said softly. “But there is more to our blood than just history. The Valyrians were not merely rulers of men, they were something else. Something greater. And some say that the blood of dragons still runs in those of us who descend from them.”

Haeron’s eyes, so bright and sharp, met hers. 

“Do you think I have dragon dreams?”

Lily hesitated. 

“Perhaps,” she admitted. “Or perhaps something more. Your mind, your instincts. They are stronger than any child’s should be. It is possible that your blood carries the echoes of the past.”

Haeron's grip on her hand tightened slightly. 

“I felt it, Mother,” he whispered. “I felt like I was there. Like I was him.”

Lily pulled him into a gentle embrace, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Then perhaps you were.”

She pulled back, cupping his face. 

“No matter what you saw, know this, You are Haeron Peverell, my son.”

Haeron nodded slowly, but deep down, he knew something had changed.

This was not just a dream. It was a memory.

And if the dragon still lived beneath the ruins of Valyria…

Then one day, Haeron Peverell would find him.

FIN

Chapter Text

H.A.L.V.D

“Haeron” - Talking.

“I Am Fire” - Different Language/ Parseltongue.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM”- Verbal Casting.

‘Peverell’ - Thinking.

‘Gaelithox’ - Passive Legilimency/ Telepathy.

‘STUPEFY’- Silent Casting.

Lord Peverell - Letters/ Writing.

WARNING AND DISCLAIMER

I do not own Harry Potter, A Song if Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones or Any of their Characters.

H.A.L.V.D

He stood atop the highest tower of his new home, gazing out over the land below. The wind carried the briny scent of the sea, mingling with the faint aroma of woodsmoke from the city. Beyond the great harbor, the dark waters stretched endlessly to the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight glimmered upon the waves. Below, the city teemed with life—merchants bartered in bustling marketplaces, laborers moved through streets paved with stone, and ships docked in the harbor, their sails fluttering like banners in the fading light.

Peverell Hall was finished.

It had begun as nothing more than a vision, a dream brought across the sea. He had come to these lands with knowledge, warriors, and the last of his kind—men who had once ruled a distant empire of fire and blood. He had brought architects who carved stone with magic, smiths who shaped steel with dragonflame, and scholars who understood the deepest mysteries of the world.

And he had brought a dragon.

He turned his head, his sharp gaze settling on the great beast curled around the base of the keep. Its scales were black as midnight, its golden eyes flickering in the dimming light like embers waiting to ignite. It had helped shape this place—its fire had melted stone, its presence had commanded awe, and its very existence had secured his rule.

Beside him, Wylla stood with quiet strength. Once a princess of these lands, the daughter of a Bronze King, she had chosen to stand at his side when others had doubted, when whispers of conquest and war had spread through the courts of the Vale. Now, she reached for his hand, her grip steady, her warmth grounding him.

“You did this,” she said softly, her gaze sweeping over the city below.

He exhaled slowly, nodding. “We did.”

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

The old king lay in his bed, his breath shallow, his skin pale as milk.

He stood beside him, silent as the lords of the Vale gathered. They had come to witness what they already knew—the end of an era. The Bronze King had ruled long, but in his final days, he had chosen his daughter’s son over his own blood. There had been whispers for years, murmurs of what would happen when he was gone. Some had feared war. Others had predicted the Vale would fracture.

Instead, the king had made his decision.

With the last of his strength, the old man reached out, his wrinkled hand closing around his wrist. His fingers trembled, but his voice was steady.

“The Vale belongs to you now,” the king said. “Rule it well.”

He bowed his head, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon his shoulders. The lords of the Vale watched in silence.

House Royce, the oldest and proudest of the Vale’s noble houses, stepped forward first. They had once been kings themselves, yet now they bent the knee. One by one, the others followed.

The Vale had a new ruler.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

He stood upon the cliffs of the Fingers, watching as the enemy fleet approached. White sails, emblazoned with the seven-pointed star of their god, filled the horizon. Hundreds of ships. Perhaps more.

The Andals had come to claim Westeros—to bring their faith, their swords, and their kings.

They would find none of it here.

Behind him, fire mages stood with their hands raised, their lips whispering incantations older than the gods of the Andals. His dragon, a great silver beast, loomed nearby, waiting for the command.

He inhaled deeply, then lifted his hand.

The sea boiled.

Flaming arrows rained from the cliffs, setting sails alight. The dragon roared, and its breath turned the ocean into a cauldron of fire. The Andals screamed as their ships burned, their wooden hulls splitting apart, their warriors swallowed by the churning, scalding waters.

They had come to take his home. Now they would sink beneath the waves.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

The hall was silent. Aegon Targaryen stood before the gathered lords, the weight of his new crown settling upon his head. His sisters flanked him, their dragons waiting beyond the Sept’s great doors. A new order had begun.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. Others had fought. Others had died. He had bent the knee—not out of weakness, nor fear, but because he understood power.

His wives stood beside him—Visenya, proud and unyielding, and Argella, fierce as a storm.

The Targaryens had their throne. House Peverell still had its power.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

The Sept burned.

He soared through the sky, his dragon’s wings beating against the wind. Below, the Faith Militant gathered in the ruins of the Great Sept, defying the king, defying his family. They had called his bloodline an abomination in the eyes of their god. They had taken up arms, spilling the blood of his kin.

Now, they would burn.

There was no hesitation.

Fire erupted from the dragon’s jaws, and the Sept crumbled. The Faith screamed as the flames consumed them.

His wife, Rhaena, rode beside him, her own dragon unleashing death upon those who had dared to curse their name.

The war would end here.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

His wife should have been queen.

He sat in silence, listening as the lords cast their votes. They had passed her over. Ignored her claim. Chosen another.

He said nothing, but the weight of it pressed heavy against his chest.

She placed a hand over his.

“It does not matter,” she whispered.

But he knew it did.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

The war was over. She stood in the Red Keep, watching as a boy was crowned king—Aegon the Third. A child, placed upon a throne shattered by war.

Her house had fought. Her family had died.

And for what?

The world shifted around her.

H.A.L.V.D

The last of their dragons lay dying.

He knelt beside it, his hand resting gently upon its withered scales. It had been sickly from birth. It had never stood a chance.

The dragons were gone.

House Peverell would have to find another way.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

The Trident ran red with blood.

He watched as Robert Baratheon stood over Rhaegar’s broken body. The war was ending. Aerys Targaryen was finished.

The world shifted around him.

H.A.L.V.D

A storm raged as he guided Rhaella, Elia, Viserys, Rhaenys, and the newborn Daenerys onto the ship. The wind howled, and the sea churned, but there was no time for fear. He had to move.

He couldn't let innocents suffer for the crimes of Rhaegar and Aerys

H.A.L.V.D

289 AC

Aboard the Black Phoenix, Sailing for Pyke.

He woke to the groaning of the ship, the rhythmic creak of wood and the steady crash of waves against the hull. The rocking of the vessel was comforting, steadying him in the familiar sway. His eyes fluttered open.

Light filtered through the small, round window, casting faint patterns on the steel of his armor. He blinked, a slow realization settling in as the morning light bathed him in its cool embrace. The low hum of the ship’s movement reverberated under him, but the hum of excitement pulsed through him even more.

Haeron’s fingers brushed the hilt of Shadowfang, his first sword, forged for him upon his eleventh nameday. It was light and swift in his grip, as if the blade had been made just for him. The dark ripples of Valyrian steel seemed to pulse with the same energy he felt in his veins. It was an extension of his will—a force he had yet to fully understand, but one he was eager to prove himself worthy of.

He was eleven, too young to truly be a knight, yet on the cusp of that moment—on the brink of battle. He could feel the weight of it all pressing down on him, and a part of him, an excited, naive part of him, wanted nothing more than to dive into the fray and prove himself, even though he knew better.

A knock on the door, followed by the steady click of it swinging open.

James Peverell stepped into the room, his towering presence filling the space. He had the same sharp jaw, the same high cheekbones, the same black-and-silver hair as Haeron. But where Haeron’s mismatched eyes bore the weight of his mother’s emerald green and his father's mother’s dark violet, his father's eyes were a pale shade of violet—piercing and unreadable.

“You’re awake, Harry?” James’ voice was low and steady, carrying the weight of command. “Get dressed. We’re nearing Pyke.”

Haeron scrambled to his feet, his fingers fumbling with the clasps of his armor. It was an uncomfortable, clanking thing—still too large for him in many places, though it had been forged specifically for him. He had no real practice in armor yet, and the pieces weighed on him like an old promise, full of expectation.

“I’m ready, Father!” Haeron said with too much enthusiasm, a grin spreading across his face as he adjusted his gauntlets in an exaggerated manner. His movements were jerky and unrefined as he clambered into his armor, the pieces clinking and shifting with every awkward motion.

James observed him quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. There was a flicker of approval in his eyes, but it was hidden behind the thin veneer of experience. 

“You still have a lot to learn, son,” he said, voice tinged with the hard truth. “But you’ll learn fast. The Ironborn are savage—don’t let your guard down.”

Haeron gave a vigorous nod, but his eagerness made him appear almost childishly unprepared for the gravity of what lay ahead. 

“I won’t let them beat me, Father! I’m ready! I’ve trained!”

James’ lips quirked into a small smile. 

“Ready as you can be. The battle will be different from training, Harry. Keep that in mind.”

Haeron’s heart raced as the Black Phoenix approached Pyke. His excitement began to bubble over, his thoughts whirling with visions of glorious battles and stories to tell. He could hardly contain himself.

The ship docked, and Haeron was the first to leap onto the bloodied shores of Pyke, his sword at the ready. The sound of the battle raged ahead, and his heart pounded even faster as he ran toward the front lines. His movements were a bit too quick, too eager. His stance unsteady.

He lunged forward at the first Ironborn warrior he saw, his sword slashing through the air with all the grace of a novice trying too hard. His blade connected with the man’s shield with a clang that sent a jolt through his arm. The force threw him off balance, and Haeron stumbled, his sword falling out of his grasp for a moment.

A guttural laugh erupted from the Ironborn soldier, who swung his axe down in Haeron’s direction, but Haeron managed to scramble out of the way.

"Too slow!" the man jeered.

Haeron’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but his instincts kicked in. He summoned his sword just in time to block another blow. This time, his movements were a little more fluid, his grip a little stronger. He wasn’t the master his father was, but he was learning fast.

With a grunt, Haeron pushed forward, his sword driving into the side of the Ironborn warrior’s shield. He couldn’t help himself—he let out a loud, youthful cheer as he threw his opponent off balance and delivered a swift thrust to the man’s side, sending him falling to the sand.

It wasn’t a clean kill, but it was enough. Haeron’s chest heaved with excitement, his mismatched eyes glowing with pride. He had done it.

As the battle wore on, Haeron’s movements became a little less erratic. His footwork was still clumsy, but his strikes were growing sharper, more focused. He was no knight—yet—but he fought with the heart of one. Every slash was driven by determination, every swing by a desire to prove himself.

By the time the battle had ended, the Ironborn lay scattered across the shores, and Haeron’s heart was still racing. He wiped the sweat from his brow, grinning like a child who had gotten away with something.

Later, amidst the glow of a roaring fire and the scent of saltwater on the wind, King Robert Baratheon approached. His huge, calloused hand clapped Haeron on the back with a thundering crash. 

“A fine warrior, just like your father” Robert said, his voice booming. “You may be young, boy, but you fight like one of the greatest.”

Haeron beamed with pride, his childish excitement bubbling over. 

“I didn’t mess up too much, did I?”

Robert chuckled.

“Not to much, Kneel,” the  king said, Haeron’s eyes widened in disbelief. He was about to be knighted. A child in many ways, but still good enough for that.

The stag king raised his Valyrian steel Warhammer and  laid it light on Haeron's’s shoulder. 

“Haeron of House Peverell, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

The King moved the hammer from the right shoulder to the left, and said, 

“Arise Ser Haeron, knight of the Vale and Seven Kingdoms.”

Haeron stood slowly grinning like a mad man.

His father stepped forward, his eyes locking onto his son with a mixture of pride and quiet approval. 

“You’ve made your first step, Harry,” James said softly. “But this is only the beginning. You’ve earned your sword, but there’s still much to learn.”

Haeron nodded, his grin still wide. 

“I won’t let you down, Father. I’ll be the greatest knight of them all.”

James’ lips twitched upward. 

“You already have, you’ll foster at Winterfell. Ned Stark   is an old friend.”

Haeron’s eyes shone with eagerness. Winterfell. The North. He had so much to learn, but the thrill of it all surged through him. He had been knighted, proven his worth on the battlefield, and now a new chapter awaited him.

He wasn’t ready to be Lord yet. He wasn’t ready to lead. But he would be. He would learn. And one day, when the time came, he would be the one to lead.

And with that, the child who had fought with the wild, unrefined spirit of youth was now officially a knight of the Vale and the Seven Kingdoms.

FIN 

Chapter Text

As some of you might have noticed, This sucked. It was not very good and I apologize for that. I will admit to having been excited and rushing into the story with guns blazing. So, after taking some time to think more carefully on it, I have decided to abandon and later restart writing a Harry Potter and asoiaf crossover.