Cold kisses gifted from falling snow greet Harry as he opens his eyes.
The dense forest above him makes for a beautiful kaleidoscope of light as the rays break through their towering ancient trunks, encompassing him in all directions.
Hearing the sound of crunching makes him whip his head as the noise disperses the tranquil feeling pulsating from the trees, full of such old, dense magic, magic of the gods.
The sight that greets him is that of an old man. An old man dressed in robes of black, their ends frayed as they drag along the snowy floor.
Looking up into red eyes almost makes him flinch as the afterimage of Voldemort flashes in front of his eyes, only to fade into the visage of a pale-haired, frail man with a wine stain decorating the right side of his face.
"Fool, you fool." The soft but strong voice coming out of the pasty pale lips of the strange old guy surprises Harry as the man repeats that damned bird's words, albeit less mockingly.
Pulling himself off the ground, he hastily wipes the snow off of him, even if it is a dream, habits die hard.
He is dismayed to find the man stands taller than him, though he isn't surprised, as he is only a whopping five foot seven. Hopefully, the few years he has left to grow will allow him to sprout more, but he's not hopeful.
"Birdman, let's cut the small talk and just spit it out." Harry has never been the most respectful person towards asshats with an authority complex, and that won't change.
The old geezer's lip seems to twitch. "Insolent child, you do not realize the horrors that are-" Harry cuts him off.
"Why wait till now?" he asks, genuinely curious. The old man seems caught off guard, but he continues.
"Why wait till it's basically too late? You've been harassing me this whole time, but not once felt it was dire to warn me of this threat?" The disbelief in his voice is evident as he steps closer to the old man, whose stern gaze doesn't affect him as much as he thought red eyes would.
The old man seems to take a deep breath, muttering something about "just like Sheria," before rubbing his aged hand down his face, the pale and bruised veins contrasting against the red stain on his face.
The wind howls as the delicate snowfall becomes a furious flurry as the two seem to clash in a silent battle of raw power, the raven being the first to recede.
"Such power in such a young soul. I fear that such power will corrupt you," the man says. The genuine concern in his voice is the only thing stopping Harry from lashing out.
"Trust me, I didn't ask for this. All I want is my family to be safe and happy. If you're trying to warn me, save your breath." He can't help but quip.
"Haedrian," the stern voice of his grandmother makes him straighten as he watches the approaching procession. Looking to his left, he can see the impatience on Loras's face as the man waits for his secret-not-so-secret lover, Renly Baratheon.
"Sorry, Grandmother, I've got a lot on my mind." He placates. The woman is shrewd, but loves her family. Though anyone with eyes can tell Margaery is her favorite, being the only girl. Harry finds it understandable they'd attach themselves to her.
Death knows his mother isn't the best conversationalist when it comes to the intricacies of politics, which will be a must if his grandmother's and Margaery's wish to be Queen is to become a reality.
Unfortunately, with the betrothal between the Starks and the Lannisters, as anyone with a brain could tell, the children weren't of Robert Baratheon's seed.
Renly sent a message explaining how he's seeking asylum with the king being mortally wounded; he felt he'd be safer under the roof of his dear lover's family than with the cold brother that is Stannis, whom Harry has met sparingly.
The man is beautiful, Harry can admit, with fine features framed by dark brown curls and deep blue eyes shining with a warmth his other brothers lack. The man is certainly charismatic.
Renly reminds him of a more flamboyant Cedric Diggory, with the looks and the charm.
Harry gives Loras a teasing shove as he shifts with impatience while listening in on the conversation as Renly greets his father.
"Well met, Lord Mace. I truly thank you for the hospitality you've graciously gifted to me and my men," Renly says, charming his oaf of a father, who merely smiles as he responds, "It's an honor to be trusted with your safety."
"Please, come. My men will show your men to their new sleeping chambers."
"Gods know we have too many rooms and not enough people," Mace says before looking towards the steward of the castle, commanding the man to prepare a feast in honor of Lord Renly.
Harry watches as Renly takes the opportunity to ditch his father upon seeing Mace get distracted with planning the grand feast he wants to give Renly, most likely an excuse to eat, if Harry can be so callous.
The man gives Grandmother a kiss on the hand before speaking to her in a quiet tone as he leans back from his chaste kiss. The breeze sways throughout the courtyard, drawing the floral fragrance that hangs in the air, billowing around in a typhoon of scents.
Harry watches with mirth as Margaery flushes at Renly's compliments as he graces her with the same treatment he had with Olenna.
Harry knows of the king's death, though he's not sure Renly even knows of it, with him being on the road making haste, the capital sent out ravens proclaiming the death of the King and the succession of it, with Joffrey Baratheon being the new King.
"Oh joy," Harry thinks, but keeps his thoughts off his face as the two lover boys finally reunite, though they don't fall into each other's arms like the maidens in the stories.
Harry hates the bigotry of men.
"Renly," Loras breathes before continuing in a more curt tone, "I'm sorry for your loss. I don't know what I'd do if one of my brothers…" Here he trails off, leaving Harry to rub his shoulder, knowing how much his little brother feels, reminding him of his past—all self-righteous and bullheaded.
"Lord Renly," Willas says, coming towards them after having a few words with their grandmother. "I'm sure you're tired. If Loras would be so kind as to show you to your room…" His tone is knowing, but holds no judgment.
Said couple flushes before Loras scowls at Garlan, who lets out a boisterous laugh, having heard the comment. His dainty wife, Lady Leonette Fossoway, follows like a lost puppy, clearly still intimidated by the extravagance that the Tyrells offer.
Garlan had stumbled upon her playing her harp by the river on the morrow, and since then, they've been the maidens' fable.
"Ah, just remember, brother, not to scare the maids away," Garlan shouts as their brother practically drags the potential future king, or claimant.
Speaking of, Harry turns to Willas. "What did Grandmother have to say?"
Willas gives him a queer look before answering. "She's insisting that we let Father do what he will intend to do once he figures out there is a chance to make Margaery become Queen."
At that, Harry gives a quick look towards their ambitious grandmother.
While she is a great plotter, she hasn't really been in a war, and doesn't understand the stone-coldness that he's seen in Stannis through Renly's memories, as if Harry would allow anyone to seduce his family without knowing their intentions, and found more than he had thought the pretty boy would know of when he happens to skim the man's mind.
Renly, the former Master of Laws, knows a lot.
It's how he knew for certain that the children of the Queen are of incest.
"I think it's best to just let things run their course. I don't know what will happen if we change anything, and I feel like this is important for something." Harry admits after a second, feeling in his gut that this is a needed path.
He's not any seer or anything, but his instincts have usually led him right when he actually listens.
"Injuring the Hand in front of everyone," their father scoffs as he reiterates the story of Lord Stark getting assaulted by the Kingslayer, "like he's some common criminal. I always knew that man was no good."
"That dishonorable Kingslayer." The chins on his face wobble under the beard, Harry suspects.
"I can attest to that," Renly, ever the charismatic man, indulges their father like a pro. "I'm just thankful to be out of the capital."
"Gods know it's a dangerous place, even more so for someone who doesn't know the way of the south," Renly muses as he takes a sip of his wine.
Harry can see the byplay of Loras and Renly underneath the table as they play with each other's feet, though he's not going to ruin their fun.
"Lord Renly, what are your thoughts on the future King?" their grandmother inquires, her tone not indicating anything other than curiosity. Though anyone in her family can see the calculation in her gaze.
"Joffrey, he's… He's something." Renly seems to fumble for a moment before taking a deep breath.
"He's not my nephew." His tone is grim, making the hall go quiet before Willas snaps out of it and calls for the music to resume.
Their grandmother hums, a pleased look in her gaze as Renly goes to elaborate but is stopped as Willas, who doesn't seem to want to have this conversation in front of their father, begins to spin an extravagant story about something or another, he wasn't listening as the birdman from earlier is now back, and the same old man appears behind him.
"Now isn't the time, Haedrian." Harry can hear the urgency in the man's tone, causing him to be more alert.
"There will be a time where you must show them. But for now, you must remain patient, even when it seems impossible." Harry meets the eyes of the old man once more.
"Trust no one, but your family, your true family. Be on guard, child. Be on guard, for even your enemies are watching," the man intones, looking towards the open door, where a shadow that hadn't been there before seems to make Harry's mind whirl with suspicion.
What is that?
Before he can ask, the old man is gone, and he's back at the table, laughing at the story Willas had been telling.
Though his laughter is stilted, as his mind whirls with questions.
The night was frigid and dark, the wind howling as it whipped through the trees of the Wolfswood. Sirius, now Benjen Stark, pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the thick fur doing little to stave off the biting cold.
It wasn't the weather that troubled him, though. His thoughts were fixed on his brother Ned and the children left behind at Winterfell.
Jon had been stubborn, as always, insisting that the Wall was the only place he could find himself. Benjen had tried to dissuade him, reminding him of his place in the Stark family, but Jon's resolve had been unshakeable.
In the end, Benjen had taken him to the Wall, hoping the boy would find the answers he was seeking.
Now, as he rode alongside Robb, helping him prepare for the uncertain times ahead, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt.
Had he done the right thing?
Was Jon truly meant for the Wall, or had he led the boy to a fate that would only bring him more suffering?
Robb rode in silence beside him, the young man's face set in a mask of determination. He could see the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He wasn't just the heir to Winterfell now, he was the man who would have to lead the North in his father's absence.
"I worry for them," Sirius muttered, more to himself than to Robb, his voice low.
Robb glanced at him, frowning slightly. "For Jon?"
"For all of them," Sirius replied, his eyes distant. "Ned, the children… Even Jon. Winter is coming, Robb, and with it, dangers we cannot even begin to imagine."
Robb nodded, his expression hardening. "I'll protect them, Uncle. I swear it."
Sirius sighs, placing a hand on Robb's shoulder. "I know you will, just remember you don't carry the burden alone. The North is strong because of its people, its unity."
"Don't forget that."
Robb looks at him, his blue eyes filled with the fierce determination of a Stark. "I won't."
They continue their ride, and Sirius couldn't help but think back to the days when he was just Sirius Black, when his worries were different. Now, as Benjen Stark, he carried the weight of an entire family on his shoulders, a family he would protect at all costs.
The wind howls again, and Sirius tightens his grip on the reins, his resolve is as unyielding as the cold Northern winds.