Chapter 12

"Father!"

Ned was jolted out of his thoughts by the sight of his daughters, Sansa and Arya, standing before him in matching dresses. It was a rare and unexpected sight, considering Arya's usual aversion to such attire. Despite her discomfort, Arya seemed eager to show off her dress, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Ned.

"How do we look, father?" Sansa asked, her eyes bright with expectation.

Ned smiled warmly at his daughters, taking in their appearance. "You both look lovely," he replied, his pride evident. "Sansa, Arya, your individuality shines through even in matching dresses. I appreciate the effort you've made."

He reached out to adjust Sansa's dress and ruffled Arya's hair affectionately. "Thank you for showing them to me. You both honor our family with your grace and spirit." His heart swelled with love and gratitude for his daughters, each unique and cherished in her own way.

As the day of the royal party's arrival drew near, Ned felt the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. With not one, but two Targaryens hidden under his roof, the stakes were higher than ever. Every step he took, every decision he made, felt like walking on a tightrope stretched over a chasm of uncertainty.

His mind buzzed with thoughts of how to ensure the safety of his family and guests while keeping Jon and Dany's true identities hidden from prying eyes. He knew that any misstep could have dire consequences, not just for Winterfell, but for all of Westeros.

Despite the calm facade he presented to the outside world, inside, Ned's mind churned with worry and apprehension. He could only hope that his preparations would be enough to safeguard those he held dear and navigate the treacherous political waters that lay ahead.

Despite his confidence in Harry's abilities, Ned couldn't shake the discomfort of relying on magic to fulfill his promise to his sister Lyanna. As a man known for his unwavering honor, the idea of deception weighed heavily on his conscience. Yet, he knew that in the game of thrones, sometimes one must use every tool at their disposal to protect those they love.

With a heavy heart, Ned steeled himself for the challenges ahead, reminding himself of the solemn vow he had made to Lyanna all those years ago. He would do whatever it took to keep his family safe and uphold his sister's memory, even if it meant venturing into the murky waters of secrecy and subterfuge.

Arya tugged on the collar of her dress, a garment from the Riverlands that Lady Catelyn had brought up from Riverrun just for her – matching Sansa's dress stitch for stitch except smaller. "Gods, this thing is itchy."

"Just put up with it, Arya," Sansa groaned, shaking her head.

Arya glared. "Go be graceful and perfect somewhere else, Princess Sansa," she retorted, her tone almost a sneer.

Jon, listening from the side, was almost grateful for their bickering. It was much sweeter than before Harry and Dany came to Winterfell. Sansa would've called Arya 'Horseface,' and Arya would've then pushed her into the mud. Now it was far more endurable banter.

"Maybe if I have Nymeria rip it up a bit…"

"Don't do that, Arya," Dany remarked, shaking her head as Harry tried hard not to chuckle.

"And why not? I can't stand this just for some stupid King and stupid Prince."

Those were words that Jon thought were far too tame to describe Robert Baratheon, the man who laughed in glee at the butchered bodies of his brother and sister, and his father's first wife Elia. However, Sansa's reply made him both angry and mournful at the same time.

"Don't say that about Prince Joffrey! I've heard he's the dreamiest young man, all golden like a lion." She sighed, while Dany and Jon locked eyes. "I hope father betroths us; it's all I've ever wanted."

Harry spoke first. "Sansa, you shouldn't put your trust in appearances," he cautioned. "There's more to a person than meets the eye, especially when it comes to the royal family."

Dany nodded in agreement, her expression mirroring Jon and Harry's concern.

Sansa defended Joffrey, her eyes shining with adoration. "But he's a prince, Harry," she insisted. "He's going to be king one day. I've dreamed of being a queen since I was a little girl." Her words carried a sense of longing and naivety, causing Jon, Harry, and Dany to exchange a knowing glance.

Harry sensed the weight of the impending confrontation bearing down on Jon and Dany. Their shared history, their shared loss, all converged into this moment of reckoning. Despite the turmoil within them, they stood tall and resolute, prepared to face the man responsible for their family's tragedy. As they braced themselves for what lay ahead, Harry offered a silent word of support, standing by their side as they prepared to confront their past and forge a path forward together.

Harry grabbed Dany's hand and squeezed it. She said nothing, only inched her way closer to him, melding to his side. "Je t'aime," she murmured, finally looking at him, biting her lip.

"Je t'aime aussi," he whispered back. "We'll be alright."

In that tender moment, as they exchanged words of love in their shared language, Harry and Dany found comfort in each other's presence. Their silent communication spoke volumes, reinforcing their bond and determination to face whatever trials awaited them. With a simple gesture of holding hands and leaning into each other, they drew strength from their connection, ready to confront the challenges ahead with unwavering resolve and love.

The gates began to open as hornblows sounded, and then Ned's voice rang out.

"All hail the King!"

With tight lips and hate in their hearts, Harry, Jon, and Dany put on their mummer's farce and slowly fell to one knee just as the first knights of the Stag King's party entered Winterfell.

—

King Robert of House Baratheon, First of his Name, was known as the Demon of the Trident. He was the mighty vanquisher of the Targaryen Dynasty, victor of two dozen tourneys, and the man who had crossed the sea to take the war started by the Greyjoys to Pyke itself, slaughtering scores of Ironborn with his Valyrian steel warhammer, Stormbreaker. This same warhammer had faced Rhaegar Targaryen in the shallows of the Ruby Ford of the Trident.

According to the stories and songs, they fought for two hours with boundless strength and fury. Robert fought relentlessly for his dishonored and violated betrothed, Lyanna Stark, carrying him against the natural skill of the Last Dragon. Steel crashed against steel until finally, Rhaegar's blows slackened, and Robert drove Stormbreaker through Rhaegar's royal armor, shattering the rubies that made up the Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil. The glittering stones settled along the riverbed, providing the ford its name.

Rhaegar fell, and Robert emerged victorious. House Baratheon usurped the Iron Throne, leaving Dany and Jon as orphans, forced to live either as people they weren't or in the shadow of the loss and trauma they suffered.

Dany had never borne witness to Robert Baratheon. Her brother Viserys only ever spoke of him as the Usurper, but the stories and rumors of the war had trickled down to her during her stay in Winterfell.

All the stories spoke of the Demon of the Trident, and Jon's accounts were quite similar. She imagined a haughty, powerful brute descending from a massive steed like the manifestation of the Warrior, ready to crack heads as he did in the wars of the past. He had ripped their family off the throne forged by their ancestors and become King.

The sight before them was unexpected. Instead of the imposing figure they had imagined, a dirty, fat man with a beard, just as grey as it was black, struggled to dismount from his horse. His belly bulged, and his thick arms were more meaty than muscular. He walked with a slight waddle in his gait. Far from powerful and fierce, this man's eyes were ruddy and wary.

This was the Demon of the Trident? Looks like he traded his warhammer for a meat pie!

Beside her, Jon's voice, barely a whisper but dripping with disbelief, perfectly echoed her own incredulity. "That? My father was defeated by that?" Not known for his eloquence, her nephew's blunt observation packed a mighty punch.

Harry leaned in close to Dany and Jon, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with biting wit. "So that's the man who beat Rhaegar," he muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like he's spent more time at the feast table than the training yard. By the looks of him, I wouldn't have been surprised if he mistook a Valyrian steel warhammer for a sausage."

Dany stifled a chuckle, nodding in agreement with Harry's observation. Jon's lips twitched, struggling to maintain a stoic expression. "Seems like the stories exaggerated his prowess," Harry continued quietly. "I half expected him to dismount and roll toward us."

Dany's eyes sparkled with mirth despite the gravity of the situation. "The Demon of the Trident indeed," she whispered, barely containing her amusement.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open, and hornblows announced the arrival of the royal party. Ned's voice rang out, formal and commanding.

"All hail the King!"

With tight lips and hate in their hearts, Harry, Jon, and Dany put on their mummer's farce and slowly fell to one knee just as the first knights of the Stag King's party entered Winterfell.

Robert Baratheon, with his face flushed from drink and scowling, approached Lord Stark.

"Rise," he commanded, his voice gruff and commanding.

Lord Stark stood up, meeting his old friend's gaze. They were of the same height, but the tension between them was palpable.

After a moment of silence, Robert snorted. "Ned... you've grown fat," he remarked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

Almost immediately, the Usurper erupted into laughter, his belly shaking with mirth. Despite the tension, Lord Stark couldn't help but crack a smile in response to his friend's boisterous laughter.

Harry couldn't help but find it ironic that Robert Baratheon would call someone fat, considering he was roughly the size of his Uncle Dursley.

"It's damned good to see you, Ned!" The two embraced as the King clapped his back. "What's it been, ten fuckin' years?!"

Harry couldn't help but observe that the king seemed to have the eloquence of a sailor.

"Something along those lines, your Grace," Lord Stark replied. He broke the embrace, but the King still had his meaty arm wrapped around his shoulder. "Shall I introduce my family?"

"Aye, I've never even seen your kids. Fuck." He laughed. "Kids, Ned! How did we get so old?!"

King Robert passed by Robb. "Ah, the proud heir to your House. Mayhaps you and my son will be just as much friends as Ned and I!"

Behind King Robert, there was the Crown Prince, a short, blonde boy with dazzling green eyes. His features hinted at potential handsomeness, but there was an unmistakable air of arrogance about him. The way he carried himself, with a proud and confident swagger, suggested a sense of entitlement that seemed to come from being born into royalty.

Their shared understanding was palpable as Harry murmured to Dany, "He'll be trouble." Despite the weight of the situation, Dany couldn't help but smile in response. It was as if their minds were connected, a silent bond that only strengthened their connection.

As he walked along the line of Stark children, Robert left comments for each, his gaze lingering on Arya especially. He remarked how she looked much like her late aunt, Lyanna.

Robert Baratheon spotted Harry and Dany, and with a boisterous laugh, he turned to Ned. "Ned, my old friend, have you been keeping secrets from me? Another bastard?"

"This is Lord Hadrian Peverell and his lady wife Fleur Peverell," Ned introduced, gesturing towards Harry and Dany. "They hail from the distant lands of Avalon to the west of Westeros. They left their land after a devastating war destroyed it, but were shipwrecked and ended up seeking refuge here in Winterfell."

The royal party's reaction varied. Some expressed sympathy for the couple's plight, while others seemed skeptical. Robert Baratheon, in particular, looked intrigued. Overall, there was an air of curiosity and uncertainty surrounding Harry and Dany's presence.

Cersei Lannister's envy was palpable as she cast her gaze upon Dany. Green with jealousy, she couldn't help but feel threatened by Dany's beauty, which seemed to outshine even her own renowned attractiveness. As the most beautiful woman in Westeros, Cersei's pride was wounded by the presence of someone who could potentially rival her in allure and charm.

Cersei approached Lady Stark, offering her greetings, which was met with a terse response from Lady Stark, who clearly had little patience for pleasantries with the queen. Despite Cersei's attempt at civility, Lady Stark's demeanor remained cold and distant, indicating her lack of warmth towards the Lannister queen.

"Ned, I would like to visit the crypts," he announced with determination. "I wish to see her."

The King's announcement fell heavily upon the gathering, his words carrying a weight that silenced any other conversation. His desire to visit the crypts, to pay homage to Lyanna Stark, commanded the attention of all present. It was a solemn request.

"We've only just arrived," Cersei remarked, her tone coated with a thin layer of politeness that barely concealed her inner frustration. "Surely, paying respects to the dead can wait for a more opportune moment?"

"Quiet, woman!" Robert snapped, displaying his disregard for his wife's input. "It will be now! Ned, lead the way." Ned nodded in acknowledgment, and the King followed closely behind him, implicitly dismissing the rest of the household without uttering a word.

"Harry! Fleur!" Sansa's voice rang out, drawing their attention.

Though heartened by Sansa's call, Dany's blood ran cold when she saw who was with her. "Lady Stark... My Prince," she greeted with a curtsey, while Harry bowed respectfully.

Crown Prince Joffrey, his haughty features amplified by proximity, regarded Harry and Fleur with disinterest. "Is this a brother I haven't met, Lady Sansa?" he inquired.

Sansa replies, "No, Your Grace. This is Hadrian Peverell and his wife, Fleur. They are guests of our father, Lord Stark."

Joffrey's interest was piqued. "Ah, the refugee noblemen." he remarked graciously, eliciting a giggle from Sansa. Dany felt a wave of nausea at his words. "I am tired, so will you show me to my chambers, my Lady?" he asked Sansa, before turning to Dany. "As for you, it was a pleasure... especially with you, Lady Fleur." His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes held a different story.

Dany felt as if she was being molested by his very gaze.

Sansa, oblivious to the underlying tone, nodded eagerly. "Of course, Your Grace. Right this way." She turned to lead Joffrey away, leaving Dany and Harry behind.

—-

Ser Barristan Selmy watched the young man and woman with a lingering sense of unease, a feeling as faint and persistent as a shadow at twilight. Jon Snow stood quietly, his face calm and composed, yet there was a weight in his gaze, a gravity that reminded Barristan of another who had borne the burdens of fate with similar grace. Rhaegar Targaryen had been such a man—a prince of quiet dignity, his thoughts always seeming to be elsewhere, in some distant, unknowable place. The boy lacked the silver hair and violet eyes of his forebear, yet there was something about him, something in the way he held himself, that tugged at the old knight's memory.

And then there was the lady at his side, Lady Peverell, who moved with a grace that Barristan had not seen since the days when Queen Rhaella graced the halls of King's Landing. Her beauty was not the fiery, striking beauty of the dragonlords, but a quieter, more subdued elegance. Her eyes were a soft hue, and her hair fell in gentle waves that were dark as night. Yet, as she turned her head, the knight caught a glimpse of something—an echo of a woman long gone, a memory half-forgotten. It was not in her features, which bore no trace of Valyrian ancestry, but in the way she carried herself, with a dignity that seemed almost queenly.

For a moment, the past seemed to blur with the present, and Barristan could almost see Rhaegar and Rhaella standing before him, their forms overlaid with those of Jon Snow and Lady Peverell. The feeling was fleeting, like a wisp of smoke, and the old knight shook his head, chastising himself for indulging in such fanciful thoughts. The boy was a Stark, through and through, and the lady... well, she was a stranger to him, no more akin to the Targaryens than any other noblewoman who had crossed the Narrow Sea.

He let out a slow breath, dismissing the unsettling thoughts as mere coincidence, the idle musings of an old man who had seen too much and forgotten too little. The world was full of faces that echoed those who had come before, full of whispers that spoke of things long past. Yet, as Barristan watched them, he could not entirely shake the feeling that the past was not as distant as it seemed, that the threads of history were weaving themselves into a new pattern, one that might yet be revealed.

What role, if any, Jon Snow and Lady Peverell would play in the days to come, he could not say. But Ser Barristan had learned to trust his instincts, and those instincts told him that these two were not to be overlooked. The past had a way of reaching out to the present, like the shadow of a dragon stretching over the land, and it was a fool who ignored the signs.

—-

Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, and widely regarded as the greatest swordsman in Westeros, felt a rare flicker of unease as he studied Lord Harry Peverell from across the courtyard. Clad in red and gold armor that gleamed like fire in the afternoon sun, Peverell carried himself with an easy grace that spoke of a man entirely at home in his own skin. Jaime knew that look well—it was the look of a seasoned warrior, one who had faced death and come away stronger for it. Yet, the young lord could not have seen more than twenty summers, his face still holding the traces of youth. 

But there was something in those eyes, something old and resolute, a quiet confidence that Jaime had seen only in a few men—the best of them. Jaime had long prided himself on recognizing talent with the sword; it was, after all, the one thing in the world he truly understood. And as he watched Lord Peverell, a part of him—a part that he would never admit to—wondered if, in this young lord, he was looking at a rival. The notion was absurd, of course. Jaime Lannister feared no man, least of all a boy in a lord's armor. Still, the feeling gnawed at him, persistent as a thorn under the skin.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of his brother, Tyrion Lannister, who, true to form, had already indulged in the pleasures of Wintertown's brothels and arrived at Winterfell a day early. The Imp's steps were light on the cobblestones, and his mismatched eyes twinkled with mischief as he sidled up beside Jaime.

"Ah, brother, you seem deep in thought," Tyrion observed, his voice laced with the dry humor that had become his trademark. He followed Jaime's gaze to where Lord Peverell stood speaking with Lord Stark. "Admiring the young lord, are we? The smallfolk certainly are."

Jaime arched a golden eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Admiring? Perhaps. But I don't think the smallfolk's admiration is what concerns you, Tyrion. Out with it, then. What have you heard?"

Tyrion leaned on his cane, his expression growing a touch more serious as he relayed the rumors he'd picked up in Wintertown. "They say Hadrian Peverell is the second coming of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself. A bit of an exaggeration, I'm sure, but there's no denying the whispers. The smallfolk speak of his prowess as if they'd seen him cleave a man in two with a single stroke."

Jaime's smirk widened into a full smile, though there was something wary in his eyes as they flicked back to Harry. "Ser Arthur Dayne, is it? High praise indeed. If there's truth to it, we may just have ourselves a proper swordsman in Winterfell. And here I thought this journey would be nothing but the usual dullness of court."

Tyrion chuckled, the sound rich and warm, though his gaze remained thoughtful. "A proper swordsman, or perhaps something more. A man like that could prove… useful. Or dangerous."

Jaime did not respond immediately, his gaze narrowing as he watched Harry speak with his lady wife. There was a quiet intensity in their exchange, a bond forged in something far deeper than mere courtesy. "He's young yet," Jaime finally said, though the words rang hollow in his own ears. "We'll see what he's made of soon enough."

Tyrion hummed in agreement, though his thoughts seemed to stray elsewhere, no doubt already calculating the potential advantages—and risks—that such a figure might bring. "Indeed," he said at last, his tone light once more. "But I'd wager this: whether he's the next Ser Arthur Dayne or not, Lord Peverell is certainly a man worth watching. And if nothing else, he might just liven up this dreary northern keep."

Jaime allowed himself a chuckle, though the tension in his shoulders did not fully ease. "Just don't wager too much, little brother. There are always surprises in the game of swords, and not all of them are pleasant."

As the royal party settled into Winterfell, the ancient walls seemed to hum with the weight of secrets, the air thick with the scent of snow and intrigue. Ned Stark moved through the castle like a man burdened by shadows, his eyes constantly darting to the corners where none but he could see. Harry Peverell, with his mysterious origins and the fire in his gaze, trod carefully, ever mindful of the eyes that followed his every step. And beside him, Dany, disguised as Lady Fleur, wore her own mask, her Valyrian blood hidden beneath a foreign name. The King had come to Winterfell, bringing with him the weight of a kingdom's expectations, and beneath the surface, ambition and danger simmered like a winter storm.

As dusk fell over the ancient stronghold, the shadows deepened, casting a long veil of uncertainty over the fate of all who dwelled within its walls. The stage was set, and the players took their places, unaware of the deadly game that was about to begin.

---

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