General POV
At Greywater Watch, the air always smelled like wet earth, moss, and a bit of swampy mystery—the kind of place that made you feel like the land itself knew more secrets than you could ever hope to uncover. Howland Reed, the man who practically lived in this swamp, stood at the water's edge, hands on his hips, eyes squinting at the horizon like he was waiting for someone to pop out of the muck with a new riddle for him to solve.
"Meera, Jojen," he said, his voice low and steady, like someone who'd had more than his fair share of weird things happen to him and just... accepted it. "You two are going to Winterfell. The Starks sent word, and it's an opportunity to see more of the world beyond our swamps." He paused, letting that sink in, like he was delivering an epic speech. "You'll be learning things, making alliances, and—" he gestured dramatically toward the vast, murky landscape "—getting away from all this."
Meera was already bouncing on her heels, her eyes practically glowing with excitement. "Winterfell!" she grinned. "I've always wanted to see the North! Snow, direwolves, more snow—what could be better?"
Jojen, standing beside her, was much less enthusiastic. He crossed his arms, his brows furrowed in the way he always did when he was thinking about something that everyone else was avoiding. "Less mud," he muttered, staring out at the marshes like he was hoping they'd somehow disappear. "Definitely less mud."
Howland chuckled, the sound rumbling out like an old tree creaking in the wind. "You'll find it... different. Not sure if you'll like it, but there's much more to the world than just Greywater Watch. Your mother and I... well, we never got the chance to see beyond these swamps. You'll have that chance now. Learn what you can. Make your mark. And don't forget who you are."
Meera, ever the optimist, was practically bouncing with excitement. "I can't wait! I bet they have all sorts of things up there—books, and people to meet, and—"
"Jon Snow," Jojen interrupted, cutting her off in that soft, serious tone he always had, the one that made you feel like he was seeing something you weren't. "Jon will be there. He's at Winterfell now, too. Remember, Jon Snow isn't just some Stark bastard. He's... well, he's Jaecaerys Targaryen by blood. That secret has to stay buried, and it has to stay with us."
Meera blinked at him, then grinned. "Oh, right. Don't tell anyone that Jon is actually a Targaryen." She put her hands up in mock surrender. "Got it."
Howland shot them both a look, one of those fatherly glances that said I'm serious, don't make me repeat myself. "You'll be careful with Jon's secret. It's not something to play around with, Meera. You understand, right?"
"Yeah, yeah," she said, already waving him off as if she were too busy mentally preparing for an epic adventure to bother with being serious. "But still, Jon's pretty fun. It'll be good to see him again. I'll just... make sure no one overhears anything, right, Jojen?"
Jojen, who was already ten steps ahead of everyone else, nodded solemnly, as he always did. "Understood," he said. "We'll be careful. It's not just about protecting Jon's secret. It's about the larger picture. The alliances you form, the relationships you build—those will matter when things get difficult."
Howland gave Jojen a proud look. "Exactly. This isn't just a trip for the sake of a trip. It's about what you can learn, what you can bring back. Relationships, alliances, information—those things will matter in the future. The North needs strong ties. You're part of that."
Meera, looking like she was already planning to break a few rules (and probably have some fun in the process), winked at her father. "No promises about the rules part. But I'll make sure to keep an eye on Jojen here. He'll probably want to get all broody and mysterious, so I'll help with that."
Jojen rolled his eyes. "I don't brood," he muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I just... think."
Meera snorted. "Sure, sure, broody genius. You'll be the one staring off into the distance, contemplating the meaning of life, and I'll be the one actually having fun."
Howland raised an eyebrow, the tiniest glint of amusement creeping into his eyes. "You two are going to be a handful, I can already tell. But remember, you'll be representing our house. I trust you both. Don't forget who you are."
"Don't worry, Father," Meera said, flashing a grin that could light up the entire marsh. "We've got this. And hey, if things get too serious, we can always just—"
"Just stay focused, Meera," Howland cut in with a mock warning, though his lips twitched in a smile. "Make the best of this. You never know when a seemingly simple visit to Winterfell will turn into something bigger."
Jojen gave a small nod, already lost in thoughts of all the things that could go wrong. "We'll be careful, Father."
Howland's smile softened, his gaze taking in both his children. "I know you will. Don't let me down."
And with that, the Reed family stood together, staring out at the marshes, each of them aware that the future was waiting—and it was going to be an adventure, whether they were ready or not.
—
Tobho Mott arrived at White Harbor looking like he was on a mission—and, considering the fact that he was, that made perfect sense. He was the sort of guy who could talk a tree into walking, and if anyone was going to craft a masterwork out of this ragtag group, it was going to be him. Standing beside him was his ten-year-old apprentice, Gendry Waters, who was doing his absolute best not to look like a kid who had just been dropped into the biggest, weirdest harbor he had ever seen. Spoiler alert: he totally looked like that. His eyes were as wide as the harbor itself, and if there was a "new kid in town" sign on his forehead, it was flashing in neon.
Trailing behind them like a cool breeze in armor was Ser Daemon Sand, ex-squire to Oberyn Martell and the man whose presence screamed, I've seen everything, and it still doesn't faze me. Daemon, leaning casually on his sword (because of course he did), gave everyone around him a look that said, If anyone's going to start trouble, I'm probably the one who'll make the first move.
When they reached the docks, a loud, booming voice greeted them. Lord Wyman Manderly—larger than life in every possible way—was waiting for them with his arms spread wide. I mean, it wasn't so much that he could wrap his arms around you, but more like his arms wrapped around the entire dock. "Master Mott!" he called, his voice warm and welcoming, like he was giving you a hug and a hearty meal at the same time. "You've arrived! Lord Stark sent word about your coming. You'll be heading to Winterfell with my granddaughters."
Tobho Mott gave a respectful bow. "Thank you, Lord Manderly. We're honored by your hospitality."
Meanwhile, Gendry, clearly distracted by all the new sights (ships, sailors, and oh my gods, did that guy just jump into the water?!), couldn't quite remember the whole "politeness" thing. "Is Winterfell far from here?" he blurted out, his voice more innocent than he probably realized.
Daemon Sand, with his casual smirk and the air of someone who'd been to places Gendry didn't even know existed, grinned and leaned in. "Far enough that you'll be wishing you packed more than just water." He winked. "But not so far that you'll freeze before you make it."
Lord Wyman laughed—a hearty ho ho ho that made the docks feel a bit warmer. "Winterfell is worth the trip, lad. A fine place, full of history. You'll learn a lot there." His eyes twinkled. "And Master Mott—your skills will be most welcome in the North. We're famously bad at fixing things ourselves."
Gendry frowned. History? The only thing he knew about history was that it usually involved a lot of dusty old books, which was not exactly his idea of a good time. "Uh, yeah, sure," Gendry mumbled, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "More learning. Great."
As they made their way through White Harbor, the ever-energetic Lord Wyman continued his unsolicited tour of the place. "You'll be traveling with my granddaughters, Wylla and Wynafryd," he boomed. "They're preparing for the journey now. The road to Winterfell has its challenges—snow, wolves, and that cold wind that'll freeze the smile off your face. But we'll make sure you're well supplied."
Tobho Mott, the man who had braved enough storms to make a ship captain blush, simply nodded. "We're grateful for your care, my lord."
At the Manderly keep, Wylla and Wynafryd were already waiting—looking ready for adventure, or at least trying to look like it. Note: When you've grown up in a place like White Harbor, looking like you're ready for adventure probably just means making sure your cloak isn't tangled up in a fishnet.
Lord Wyman placed his giant hands on their shoulders—like he was going to squeeze them into dust, but in a very loving way. "Wylla, Wynafryd, this is Master Tobho Mott, and his apprentice, Gendry Waters. They'll be traveling with you to Winterfell."
Wylla, the older of the two, stepped forward first with a smile that could melt a bucket of snow. "Welcome! It's nice to meet you both. I've never seen a smith at work before—maybe you can show us sometime?"
Gendry, completely not used to people treating him like he was important enough to be seen at all, turned as red as a hot coal in a forge. "Uh, sure," he stammered, glancing nervously at Tobho for backup. Help me, master. She's cute and I don't know what to do.
Wynafryd, a little quieter but just as kind, nodded. "We're glad for the company." She gave Gendry a look that suggested she was already trying to figure out what was going on in his head. Hint: not much. Gendry's brain was busy trying to avoid turning into a human furnace.
Lord Wyman squeezed the girls' shoulders one last time—gently, but it still felt like being hugged by a bear. "Remember, girls, this is a great opportunity. Learn all you can. Represent our house with honor."
Both girls nodded—Wylla a bit more enthusiastically than Wynafryd. Then, as if on cue, Wylla leaned in to whisper something to her sister that made Wynafryd crack a grin. Gendry, being the ever-curious (and slightly paranoid) lad that he was, had a feeling they might've been talking about him. He just wanted to disappear into a pile of coal and stay there forever. Please let them not be talking about how weird I look. Please let them not be talking about how weird I look.
Before long, the horses were saddled, the supplies packed, and the group was off, heading northward. The air was colder than Gendry had ever imagined, and he found himself making a mental note to forge the world's best pair of fur-lined boots once they reached Winterfell.
As they rode, the banter began. Wylla and Wynafryd argued (playfully, of course) about who'd get the warmest blanket that night. Gendry, for once, didn't feel out of place. This was a long journey, but it wasn't boring—at least not with Wylla's constant chatter and Wynafryd's dry humor. They weren't the most exciting companions in the world, but they were definitely better than the swampy streets he'd left behind.
And as the snow began to fall, thick and heavy like it had something to prove, Gendry couldn't help but smile. If this was what the North was like, then maybe—just maybe—it was going to be a lot more interesting than he had ever imagined.
—
The ship creaked against the dock, the salty air whipping around the three figures disembarking with all the drama of a well-rehearsed stage play. Thoros of Myr, with his flaming sword (which, let's be honest, wasn't really flaming right now, because it had been a long journey, and the flames just couldn't be bothered), stepped off the gangplank with the grace of a man who'd had a little too much wine the night before. Behind him came the two red priestesses—Mellisandre, with her fiery hair flowing behind her like a living flame (I mean, how was that even practical?), and Kinvara, the younger one, who had all the calm, cool calculation of a predator who could probably kill you with a smile.
Thoros didn't need to be a priest to see the obsession radiating from both of them. If their eyes were any hotter, they'd probably set the whole damn city on fire.
"Winterfell," Thoros muttered to himself, trying to ignore the intense, kind of creepy, side-eyes Mellisandre kept sending him. She had this look, the one that made you feel like maybe you were going to end up sacrificed at the end of the night. "Winterfell's cold. What am I doing with these two lunatics?"
Mellisandre, apparently aware he was having some kind of existential crisis, leaned closer, her voice low and honeyed like it always was when she was speaking about her favorite topic: the Demon Wolf.
"Do you see him in the flames yet, Thoros?" she asked, the question so familiar it could've been a chant. She was practically glowing with anticipation. "Cregan Stark. The Azor Ahai. He is the one we've been waiting for. I can feel it. He's waiting for us."
Thoros's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. There had been so many prophecies, so many 'chosen ones,' so many people who were supposedly going to save the world... and then it all ended in blood and fire. But Mellisandre wasn't going to let go of this one. She never did.
"The flames," Thoros began, with the kind of jaded sigh that only comes from years of watching people lose their minds over things they wanted to see instead of things that were. "Yeah, I see the flames. I see the shadows, too. But I don't see a twelve-year-old boy who's gonna save the world anytime soon."
Mellisandre's eyes narrowed. "You don't see it, Thoros. But I do. And so does Kinvara."
Kinvara stepped forward with a strange, almost predatory look in her eyes. She was always so calm, so composed, but the fire behind her gaze was definitely not just from the flames. "The flames... they speak clearly, Thoros. The Azor Ahai is here. In Winterfell. And when he calls us, when he sees us…" She trailed off, giving him a look that felt like she was undressing him with her eyes, only she wasn't looking at him. Oh no. She was looking at the boy they both believed to be the 'Chosen One.'
"I think we can help him, Thoros," Kinvara purred, her voice smooth like a serpent slithering through the grass. "We'll offer ourselves to him. Every part of us. To do whatever he needs. To show him what we're capable of. It'll be so much more than just words, you know?"
Thoros choked on his own breath. "Gods help us," he muttered, rubbing his face. If he wasn't so tired, he might've grabbed a flask of wine from his bag right now. But no, he had to focus on getting them to Winterfell. Great. This was what he signed up for.
Before he could respond, Mellisandre joined in, her voice a seductive whisper that could've made a stone melt.
"Do you think he'll want us, Thoros?" Her eyes were gleaming with something too fervent to be healthy. "I dream of the day he looks at us. The flames have shown me his eyes—fiery, burning, powerful. His soul will be so... complete when we offer ourselves to him. Do you think he'll accept our devotion? Will he understand the depth of our... willingness to serve him?"
Thoros wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall, but instead, he opted for the best coping mechanism he had: sarcasm.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll be thrilled," Thoros deadpanned, "A twelve-year-old boy, already burdened with the fate of the world, definitely wants to meet two women who are ready to throw themselves at him like his personal servants. I'm sure that'll help him save the world."
Kinvara, clearly missing the sarcasm in Thoros's tone, nodded enthusiastically. "We will serve him. Mind, body, and soul. We will be his shadow, his light, his everything."
"Right," Thoros said flatly. "His everything. Let's just... get to Winterfell before the rest of the world burns down, okay?"
Just then, a large figure appeared in the distance. It was Wendel Manderly, with his weathered face and bulky frame. He was walking with a purpose, his fur-lined cloak billowing behind him. If Thoros hadn't known him from their time together during the Siege of Pyke, he might've been worried about that big sword at Wendel's side.
"Well, well, well," Wendel grunted as he approached. "If it isn't Thoros of Myr, still following fire and flames, huh? And who're these two?" He glanced at Mellisandre and Kinvara, eyeing them with suspicion. "A couple of priestesses? I'd think Thoros would've learned better by now."
"Yeah, well," Thoros said, rolling his eyes. "You can only travel so far with a bunch of fire-worshipping zealots before you start wondering if you've made some terrible life choices."
Wendel snorted. "I'll take that as a yes, then. You're still in the fire-worship business. Good for you." He turned to Mellisandre and Kinvara. "So, what's this about a twelve-year-old boy being the 'Chosen One,' eh? Lord Cregan Stark? I'm not sure the Demon Wolf is as big of a threat as some folks like to think."
Mellisandre's gaze darkened, and she stepped forward, her voice low and intense. "He is more than just a boy. He is Azor Ahai. The flames told me so. The flames never lie."
Kinvara, who had been quietly observing the exchange, smiled in a way that made Wendel take a step back. "We are ready for him. Ready to serve. Everything about us will belong to him. Mind, body, and soul. To help him fulfill his destiny."
Thoros blinked. Was that… creepy? Yes. Yes, it was. He wished he could say it wasn't, but he couldn't.
Wendel looked at Thoros for some kind of explanation, but Thoros could only shrug helplessly. "Don't ask me, mate. I'm just here for the ride."
"Great," Wendel grumbled. "I've got a bad feeling about this. But I'll take you to Winterfell. Just keep your weird fire worship away from the kids, yeah?"
As they made their way through the snowy streets of White Harbor, Thoros couldn't help but wonder if he was really the one making the bad choices here. After all, there were two priestesses completely obsessed with a twelve-year-old.
And Winterfell? Well, Winterfell was about to be home to some real chaos.
The flames might've seen Cregan Stark as the prophesied hero. But Thoros? He was just hoping Winterfell could survive whatever storm was coming.
—
Cregan's POV
It's funny, really, being reincarnated and all. You'd think it'd be like a cheat code for life. A new start! Powers up the wazoo! But no. Cregan Stark—I, Cregan Stark—am living proof that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. I mean, sure, I was Harry Potter in a past life, and yes, I probably saved the world a couple of times. But now? Now, I'm the kid who dreams about wolves and trees and occasionally ends up in the middle of an ancient, cursed forest, which, by the way, is absolutely NOT my idea of a fun Tuesday night.
Let me set the scene for you.
So, there I am, in the middle of the Wolfswood, warging into Padfoot, my trusty (if occasionally grumpy) direwolf buddy. Think about it: seeing the world through the eyes of an enormous magical wolf? Pretty cool, right? Oh yeah, it sounds cool, but it's about as fun as a barrel of angry, three-eyed owls when you realize you're patrolling a spooky forest in the dead of night, and your only companion is a wolf with a permanent scowl.
Anyway, Padfoot and I are trudging through the woods, shadows long like a game of "Hide and Seek" that's way past creepy, when we reach a clearing. And what do we find? A bunch of weirwood trees. You know, the kind with faces. Faces that look like they've been judging people for millennia. I'll be honest, if you've never been judged by a tree, you haven't truly experienced life.
But then? Oh, then the fun starts.
One of these trees—not just any tree—decides to start talking. And by talking, I mean sounding like an old thunderstorm was having a conversation with a giant.
"Cregan Stark," the tree booms, its voice deep and thunderous like Morgan Freeman narrating a nature documentary.
At this point, I do what any sane 12-year-old reincarnated Stark would do. I stumble backward, still a wolf, but somehow also me, because dream logic doesn't care about your sanity. And then, with zero warning, bam—I'm standing there, back in my human form, in the clearing, with this massive, ancient weirwood staring down at me like I'd just spilled my lunch on its roots.
"Oh, great," I muttered. "Talking trees. Because that's totally normal in the land of ghosts and dragons."
The tree's face—no joke, it frowned—and that's when I realized the Old Gods don't have a great sense of humor.
"We know who you truly are," it rumbled, like thunder had a message to deliver.
I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess. Harry Potter. Boy Who Lived. Yada yada. Look, buddy, I've been there, done that, got the lightning-shaped scar to prove it."
The tree's eyes glowed—like, really glowed—and it looked at me like I was an ant that had just cracked a joke about the weather. Smug, ancient tree vibes. Not fun.
"You were Harry Potter," it continued, "but your journey is far from over. A new war is coming, and the Great Other rises."
If you've never heard about the Great Other, it's basically Westeros' version of Voldemort, except he's colder, spookier, and probably likes to eat his breakfast cereal with a side of doom. Also, he's apparently rising, which, naturally, I had to deal with. Great.
"Ah, yes," I said, folding my arms, trying my best to sound unimpressed. "Another dark lord. Because we don't have enough of those floating around. Honestly, it's like they have a factory or something."
The tree's face deepened in its frown. I'm pretty sure it rolled its eyes, but who knows? Ancient tree faces are weirdly subtle.
"To aid you," the tree boomed, "we give you the Resurrection Stone."
And just like that, bam, I'm holding a smooth, black stone in my hand. It's shiny, it has the Deathly Hallows symbol on it, and it feels like a brick of old-school, magical power. Seriously, if this thing had a tagline, it'd be, "For when you need to really get your dead friends back."
"The Resurrection Stone," I whispered, looking at it with a mix of awe and dread. "Round two, huh?"
"You already possess the Elder Wand," the tree continued, like it was handing out magical freebies.
My fingers twitched at the mention of the Elder Wand. Yeah, it's been mine for years—no big deal. It's like having a magic wand that always wants to be in charge. Typical.
"To complete the Hallows," the tree continued, "you must seek the Cloak of Invisibility. It awaits you in Old Valyria. The Valyrian Gods will guide you."
"Old Valyria?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sure, why not? Volcanoes, ruins, probably some fire-breathing monsters. Totally what I had planned for winter vacation."
The tree wasn't impressed by my sarcasm. Big surprise.
But then it dropped the real bombshell. "Beware the Three-Eyed Raven. He is not to be trusted. His path leads to deceit."
Now, I'm listening. The Three-Eyed Raven is one of those figures Old Nan talks about in her bedtime stories, all mysterious and cryptic. But now? He's apparently a liar and a manipulator. Wonderful. This is starting to sound like my high school years, just with more magic and fewer prom dates.
"Wait," I said, blinking. "The Three-Eyed Raven? The creepy old guy who has visions of the past, present, and future? That guy?"
The weirwood's voice dropped to a low rumble. "He is a liar. Not unlike one you remember from your past life."
Ouch. I thought of Dumbledore. The one who kept secrets like they were his favorite hobby. The one who always had a plan. Yeah, the tree wasn't wrong.
"Got it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Trust trees, not ravens. Noted."
The tree's voice grew serious. "Your path will be perilous, young Stark. But with the Hallows and your strength, you can face the darkness."
Before I could ask about my strength—or whether I had any idea what I was doing—I was awake.
I shot up in bed, my heart hammering like a drum solo in my chest. My hand instinctively reached for... nothing. The Resurrection Stone was gone, but I could feel it—its presence was there, like an old friend that had left the room but still had their shoes under your couch.
"Old Valyria," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Great. Just what I needed. A magical vacation spot full of doom."
Padfoot, who had been asleep at the foot of my bed, huffed and lifted his head, clearly not thrilled that he'd been dragged into my dream adventures.
"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled. "Pack your bags, wolf. We're going on a trip. No complaints."
I stood, already making plans—because when ancient gods hand you a magic stone and tell you to go to a lost city to complete some prophecy, you don't exactly take a rain check. The Deathly Hallows were calling, and Old Valyria had no idea what was about to hit it.
But hey, at least facing impossible odds was my thing. And, really, when have I ever backed down from a challenge?
—
It was way too early for this kind of nonsense.
I sat there, perched on the cold stone ledge of my window, staring out at the sleepy snow-dusted rooftops of Winterfell. The sun hadn't even gotten the chance to fully wake up yet, but my brain? Oh, my brain was running a marathon. That's the thing about having been reincarnated into some weird combo of Cregan Stark and Harry Potter: your mind is always running five steps ahead of you, plotting grand adventures, terrible decisions, and—oh, yeah—a trip to a cursed volcanic wasteland that's been dead for thousands of years. Casual.
"Why does this have to be my life?" I muttered to myself, because at this point, there was no one around to hear my complaints. Except maybe Padfoot, my big, lovable direwolf, who was sprawled out at the foot of my bed like a glorified pillow. He could hear me. He just didn't care.
The Old Gods—yeah, the ones that lurk in the woods and only talk to people when they have a particularly gnarly prophecy to share—had dropped the Resurrection Stone into my hand like it was some sort of consolation prize. "Hey kid, no big deal, but if you're ever interested in going to Old Valyria to pick up the Cloak of Invisibility to complete your trio of epic death-defying artifacts, that'd be great. Also, the end of the world is probably coming. No pressure, though."
Seriously, what kind of messed-up daydreaming was this?
And the worst part? The part that made me wish I could just go back to dreaming about lazy days and stealing pastries from the kitchens? I had to convince Ned Stark to let me go. Yeah. Good luck with that.
I mean, Ned Stark is the guy who once locked me in a tower for three days because I'd skipped out on one of my lessons to go chase squirrels. I'd tried to explain that the squirrels were plotting something—turns out, they were just storing nuts for winter—but no. "Duty, family, and never leave Winterfell" was pretty much Ned's motto. The man was as stubborn as a mule wearing chainmail. If I even suggested I wanted to go gallivanting across Westeros and Essos to get cursed artifacts from a dead city, I'd end up with an extra helping of porridge and a stern talking-to about my responsibilities as the future Warden of the North.
So, I needed a plan. A brilliant plan. Something Ned could actually get behind.
Step One: Sell it as "Education." Because here's the thing: Ned loves learning. In fact, he's all about it. The man's idea of a good time is poring over maps and books, trying to figure out the trade routes to Dorne. He's old-school that way. So I'd start with something like, "Uncle, as Warden of the North, I need to be well-versed in all of the world's ways. You know, trade routes to Essos, and Valyrian steel, and, you know… ancient cultures? I'd come back a much better leader. Think about it—future diplomacy, economic boons, all that stuff. Practical knowledge for the North."
Step Two: Time it Right. I needed a plan with enough time to marinate so that it sounded semi-legitimate. I'd spin it as a "coming-of-age" journey. Everyone loves a coming-of-age story. I'd claim that at fifteen, I'd be just old enough to "broaden my horizons." In other words, I'd turn into the world's youngest diplomat with a mission to bring back exotic goods, stories of strange lands, and maybe, just maybe, a cursed cloak from a destroyed city. But hey, at least it would sound cool. Right?
Step Three: Dangle the Trade Route Carrot. You know what Ned couldn't resist? Swords. Or anything related to the North's economy. So I'd toss in something like, "There's ancient Valyrian steel out there, Uncle. What if I found something that could help the North's economy? Or even better, I could bring back knowledge of the Free Cities' markets. How cool would that be?"
Because, honestly, Ned was a sucker for anything that would improve Winterfell. And if I got him thinking about how a few shiny Valyrian steel blades could help his whole 'House Stark' vibe, I had him hooked.
Step Four: Emphasize Responsibility. Now, here's the real kicker. If all else failed, I'd pull the "I'm a Stark" card. I'd say something like, "Uncle, as the future Warden of the North, I have to be prepared for difficult decisions. I can't be a leader if I don't understand the world beyond our borders. You taught me that." That one was pure gold. The moment Ned hears 'future Warden of the North,' he'd probably get all misty-eyed and say something about duty, and bam, I'd be one step closer to a free pass.
Of course, none of this was guaranteed. Ned was a tough nut to crack, and I knew it. But I had a few things going for me. For one, I had the whole "I was Harry Potter" thing hanging over my head. And hey, it was technically true. If there's anything Harry Potter taught me, it was that life doesn't always follow the script. In fact, it usually makes its own damn rules.
I scratched Padfoot behind the ears, as if asking him for advice. He sighed, probably wishing I would take a nap and forget all about this ridiculous quest. But I wasn't about to stop now. Old Valyria and the third Hallow were calling. I wasn't going to back down just because the path ahead was full of lava pits, death-eating monsters, and—let's be real—a probably-highly-avoidable-but-very-creepy Three-Eyed Raven.
"Alright, Padfoot," I said, pushing myself off the window ledge and straightening up. "Let's get to work."
With a deep breath, I looked down at my hands, feeling the cool, familiar weight of the Resurrection Stone hidden in my palm. This wasn't just a dream. This was destiny. And, of course, destiny had a wicked sense of humor.
"Here goes nothing," I muttered.
---
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Thank you for your support!