Harryn Starkn Ch.7

HARRYN III

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king. Harryn, his auburn hair neatly combed for the occasion, sat rigidly at the high table among his siblings and the royal children beneath the raised platform where his mother and father hosted the king and queen. His fingers kept straying to the collar of his formal grey and white doublet, tugging at the stiff fabric.

This was, without question, the most elaborate feast Winterfell had hosted in Harryn's memory. Serving women hurried between the tables with platters of steaming food and drinks while a singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, that was all but drowned beneath the roar of the fire, the clangor of plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

I'd rather be with Jez right now, Harryn thought miserably, staring into his barely touched cup of summerwine. Father had allowed them each one cup for the occasion, but Harryn had barely sipped his, finding the sweetness sour tonight.

"Sit up straight," hissed Sansa beside him, her sharp elbow digging painfully into his ribs. "The royal family is watching."

"They're hardly looking at us," Harryn muttered, but he did as she asked anyway and straightened his spine.

Sansa had been absolutely unbearable since the raven had arrived announcing the king's impending visit. Harryn had never seen her so excited, especially after learning that Crown Prince Joffrey would be accompanying his royal parents. For weeks, she had talked of nothing else, trying on dress after dress, practicing her courtesies until Harryn was thoroughly sick of hearing about it.

Across the table sat the object of Sansa's admiration. Prince Joffrey Baratheon was younger than Robb and Jon, but taller than either, a fact that irritated Robb immensely. The prince had his mother's golden hair and deep green eyes, with lips that seemed permanently fixed in a pout and a gaze that held nothing but disdain for Winterfell and its inhabitants. Every so often, he would smile indulgently at something Sansa said, sending his sister into a flutter of delight that made Harryn want to gag.

"Isn't the prince handsome?" Sansa whispered, her eyes never leaving Joffrey's face.

"If you like that sort," Harryn muttered, taking a reluctant sip of his wine. In truth, looking at Joffrey reminded him uncomfortably of Draco Malfoy—the same entitled sneer, the same pale, pointed features.

Really the entire royal family was not what he was expecting. Harryn had never met royalty before. He knew there had been a queen for the muggles; Aunt Petunia had kept a portrait of her in the living room of Privet Drive, but he had never paid much attention.

Father had told them stories about King Robert for years, Tales of a fierce warrior, the demon of the Trident. "The fiercest warrior in all the Seven Kingdoms," his father had said, his eyes distant with memory.

Harryn had been genuinely interested until he saw the man. The reality was a profound disappointment: a fat, red-faced man who sweated through his silks and could barely walk straight as he escorted Lady Stark into the hall. He reminded Harryn of Vernon, just with a beard and a crown.

Now the king sat red-faced and loud, pawing at serving girls and drinking himself into a stupor. This was the great Robert Baratheon? This was the man his father had fought a war for?

The Queen, Cersei Lannister at least looked the part. She was beautiful, that couldn't be denied, with golden hair and emerald eyes that matched her jeweled tiara perfectly. Harryn glanced at her southron dress, thin and tight, pushing her tits up and out for all to see.

All but her husband.

Queen Cersei barely touched her food, her lips occasionally pressing together in thinly veiled displeasure whenever her husband roared with laughter or slapped a passing serving girl on the ass. She sat as rigid as a statue, her eyes occasionally flicking to her brother Ser Jaime, who stood guard behind her chair. Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back.

Harryn found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself.

"Stop staring," Sansa reprimanded him. "It's rude."

Harryn sighed again. He looked down at the end of the hall where Jon sat among the squires on the lower benches. Unlike the rest of them, Jon had been permitted to drink his fill, and it seemed he was taking full advantage. Ghost lay at his feet, a silent white shadow among the many dogs wandering the hall. Lady Stark had insisted Jon not sit with the family tonight, claiming it would insult the royal guests to have a bastard among them.

Harryn absently reached down, expecting to feel Padfoot's reassuring presence, before remembering his direwolf was in his chambers with Jez. Another minor cruelty. Jon had managed to sneak Ghost in, but Lady Stark's watchful eye had prevented Harryn from doing the same with Padfoot.

"Stop brooding," Arya hissed from his other side, her voice barely audible over the din of the feast. "You look like Jon."

Harryn glanced at his younger sister, her dark hair coming loose from its braids despite their mother's best efforts. Arya, with her wildness and determination, often reminded Harryn of Ginny.

"Just thinking," he murmured back.

"About what?"

"I need to talk to Uncle Benjen," Harryn said, half to himself. Their uncle was down at the lower benches talking to Jon.

"About the deserter?" Arya asked, too perceptive for her own good.

Harryn nodded. He had spent the last months trying to find something, anything, other than children's stories about the White Walkers. There was nothing to find. But his Uncle Benjen had spent years beyond the Wall. If anyone would know the truth about what the deserter said, it would be him. The deserter's dead eyes and last words had haunted Harryn's thoughts the past month. There had been genuine fear there, not madness. Fear of something he had seen, something he couldn't explain.

It reminded Harryn uncomfortably of what happened after his fourth year at Hogwarts, after the Triwizard Tournament, when he had emerged from the maze clutching Cedric Diggory's body, babbling about Voldemort's return. They hadn't believed him either. The Ministry, the Daily Prophet, even some of his fellow students—they had called him a liar, attention-seeking, deranged. All because he was saying something they didn't want to hear, something that frightened them too much to believe.

"The wildlings are raiding again, that's all," Theon had said dismissively. "Or the deserter was just mad. There are no White Walkers in the woods."

Maybe not. But Harryn had learned long ago that where there was smoke, there was usually fire. And the deserter's words had left a chill in his bones that had nothing to do with the northern air.

"Pay attention!" Arya kicked him under the table. "Father's finally going to make the toast."

Lord Eddard Stark had risen to his feet, his face solemn as always. He raised his cup. "To King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. My friend and my king."

"THE KING!" the hall roared in response, cups raising in unison.

King Robert grinned, his beard glistening with wine, and drained his cup in one long gulp. "AND TO NED STARK!" he bellowed. "THE COLDEST BASTARD I'VE EVER LOVED!"

Another cheer went up. Harryn dutifully sipped his wine, watching as his father stepped down from the platform with the king to mingle with the guests. There was tension there, hidden beneath the surface. His father had been troubled ever since the king's party had arrived, spending long hours in the crypts beneath Winterfell with Robert, emerging with shadows in his eyes.

The feast continued in earnest, with course after course brought forth from the kitchens. Singers performed, jesters tumbled, and the wine flowed freely. Harryn picked at his food, waiting for the Queen to retire so he could get up too.

Outside, a late summer snowstorm was brewing, the wind howling against the ancient stones of Winterfell. Winter is coming, thought Harryn. The Stark words.

His eyes drifted back to Uncle Benjen, deep in conversation with Jon now. What were they discussing? The Night's Watch? The deserter? The things that lurked beyond the Wall? Harryn itched to leave his place and join them, to ask the questions that burned in his mind, but Lady Stark's watchful eye kept him rooted to his seat.

Suddenly, Jon stood up, his face tight with emotion. Ghost silently rose beside him. Jon stormed from the hall, the white direwolf trailing at his heels like a shadow. Harryn half-rose from his seat, concerned, but a sharp look from Lady Stark kept him in place.

"What's wrong with Jon?" Arya whispered.

"I don't know," Harryn murmured back, watching the door through which his half-brother had disappeared.

His father had noticed, too. Lord Eddard Stark's eyes followed Jon's exit, a troubled expression crossing his usually stoic face.

After a moment, he excused himself from the king's side and made his way toward Uncle Benjen. The king hardly noticed, distracted by the serving girl in his lap who couldn't have been any older than Harryn himself.

Harryn watched his father and uncle exchange words, their expressions serious. Whatever Jon had heard from Uncle Benjen had upset him greatly. Harryn felt frustrated, trapped at this table of strangers he didn't give a shit about.

"Stop fidgeting," Sansa hissed at him from across the table. "Prince Joffrey will think you have no manners."

"And what a tragedy that would be," Harryn replied under his breath, earning a scowl from his sister and a stifled giggle from Arya.

The night wore on. The king grew increasingly drunk and boisterous, his laughter echoing through the hall. Queen Cersei finally excused herself, taking Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella with her. Prince Joffrey remained, surrounded by his Lannister guards, his smirk growing more pronounced when Sansa and Jeyne Poole moved to sit beside him, their cheeks flushed with delight.

Harryn rolled his eyes and slipped from his seat and made his way along the edge of the hall toward Uncle Benjen. He passed his father, who was talking to Ser Jaime. It didn't look like a fun conversation. His father had never liked Ser Jaime. Thought him an oathbreaker for slaying the Mad King. Harryn didn't agree. If what people said about the Mad King was true, and Harryn believed it was, it didn't matter who killed him as long as he died.

"Uncle," Harryn said, sliding onto the bench beside him.

Benjen's face broke into a smile. "Nephew! Escaped the clutches of royalty, have you?"

"For the moment," Harryn said, glancing back to make sure his absence hadn't been noted. "What did you say to Jon? He looked upset."

Benjen's smile faded slightly. "Ah, that. He asked about joining the Night's Watch. I told him to wait before making such a choice." He took a swig of ale. "The boy's too young to understand what he'd be giving up."

Harryn nodded, unsurprised. Jon had spoken of the Night's Watch before, and he had romanticized it as a place where a bastard could make a name for himself. But Harryn suspected his brother's desire had more to do with escaping Lady Stark's cold gaze than any real calling for the black.

"Uncle," he said, "I wanted to ask you about something else. The deserter Father executed... he spoke of White Walkers."

Benjen's expression grew serious. "Aye, I heard."

"Was he mad? Or... could there be some truth to what he said?"

Benjen studied him for a long moment, his eyes searching Harryn's face. "Why do you ask, nephew? Most would dismiss such tales as nonsense."

"I was there when Father executed him. What reason would he have to lie when his head was already on the chopping block?"

"You think he was telling the truth?"

"I think that sometimes when a man seems mad, it's because he's seen something others haven't. Something they don't want to believe."

Benjen stared at him for a long time. He seemed to be debating something, glancing at his brother then back to Harryn. "There are strange things beyond the Wall," he said finally. "Things that have no place in children's stories."

A chill ran down Harryn's spine. "Then you believe him?"

"I didn't say that," Benjen replied carefully. "But the wildlings are leaving their villages, abandoning settlements that have stood for hundreds of years. They're coming south in greater numbers than we've ever seen. They're running from something."

"The White Walkers," Harryn said.

Benjen neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, he placed a hand on Harryn's shoulder. "Winter is coming, nephew. A long winter, if the maesters are to be believed. And when the snows fall and the white winds blow, strange things awaken in the North."

The words sent another shiver through Harryn. They reminded him too much of another life, another darkness rising. Voldemort had returned while the wizarding world buried its head in the sand, refusing to believe until it was almost too late. Would history repeat itself here?"

"I should return," Harryn said reluctantly, noting that Sansa was looking around for him, her expression annoyed. "Before I'm missed."

"Go on then," Benjen smiled, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "We'll talk more before I return to the Wall."

Harryn nodded and slipped back through the crowd. He was halfway back to the high table when he caught the gleam in Arya's eye. That mischievous little spark that always meant trouble. His little sister had a spoon in her hand, loaded with mashed potatoes, pulling it back like a catapult.

Oh gods, he thought, watching as if in slow motion as Arya released the spoon with perfect aim. The glob of potatoes sailed through the air in a beautiful arc, landing with a wet splat directly on Sansa's cheek. Their sisters hand went to her face, touching the potato with trembling fingers. Her eyes widened in horror as she looked down at the mess on her new dress—the one she'd spent hours choosing specifically for Prince Joffrey.

"ARYA!" The shriek could have shattered glass. Sansa's face bloomed bright red, tears welling in her eyes. "You WRETCHED little beast!"

Prince Joffrey's lips curled into a sneer of disgust, and Harryn could practically see Sansa's heart breaking right there at the table. Jeyne Poole was already on her feet, reaching for Sansa's hand.

"Come, let's get you cleaned up," Jeyne murmured, shooting a venomous glare at Arya, who was shaking with barely contained laughter.

Sansa stood with as much dignity as a potato-faced girl could muster, her shoulders trembling with humiliation as she hurried out of the hall.

"Seven hells," Harryn muttered, watching as Robb rose from his seat. Mother must have told him to keep an eye on Arya. Before she could escape, Robb had her by the waist, hoisting her up like a sack of grain.

"You've done it now," Robb said, though Harryn could see the corner of his mouth twitching. "Mother will have your hide for this."

"She started it!" Arya protested, squirming in Robb's grip. "She called me Horseface!"

Harryn watched as Robb carried their kicking, cursing sister from the hall, her small fists pounding ineffectually against his back. The king, meanwhile, was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh and spraying wine from his mouth.

I'm done with this, Harryn thought, suddenly bone-tired of the whole spectacle. Another hour of this feast and he might lose his mind completely. And if all his siblings were gone, he didn't really need to stay either. He turned away from the high table without a backward glance, making for the door. Mother could complain about his absence tomorrow. That was future Harryn's problem.

The corridor outside the Great Hall was blissfully quiet, the sounds of the feast muted behind heavy oak doors. Harryn took his first deep breath in hours, feeling his shoulders relax as he made his way through Winterfell. He climbed the winding stairs to his chambers, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. The castle was a skeleton crew tonight; most of the servants occupied with the feast. By the time he reached his door, the sounds of celebration had faded to nothing.

Harryn pushed open the door to his chambers. Jez lay stretched across his bed, completely bare. His eyes lingered on the generous curve of her arse, remembering how it felt beneath his palm—soft and yielding, yet firm enough to take a good slap. It was an arse made for grabbing, for holding onto while he drove into her.

Padfoot raised his head from the foot of the bed. The direwolf's tail thumped once against the furs, then he settled back down.

"Back already, m'lord?" Jez asked. She sat up making no move to cover herself. Her nipples stood hard in the cool air.

"Couldn't stand another minute it," Harryn admitted, closing the door firmly behind him.

Jez rose from the bed, her heavy breasts bouncing with each step as she padded barefoot across the stone floor to him.

"Worse." Harryn moved to the hearth where a fire burned low, warming his hands against the flames. "The king's fat as an aurochs and twice as loud. The queen looks like she's constantly sucking on lemons, and the prince is such a prick I half expect Sansa to come back pregnant just from the way she's been eye-fucking him all night."

"I caught a glimpse of the queen when they arrived," Jez said, her hands moving to the clasps of his formal doublet. "She's very beautiful."

"Beautiful, yes," Harryn had noticed that himself. Why there were rumors of the king having bastards when that was his wife, he didn't know. "But the way she looks down her nose at Winterfell, at all of us... ruins any appeal she might have. Besides, she's the queen. It's not like I'd ever have a chance with her, so what's the point in pretending she's not a complete bitch?"

"If you says so, m'lord," Jez said. "And the king? Is he truly not as impressive as they say?"

"Robert Baratheon?" Harryn snorted, shaking his head. "A fat, drunk shadow of whatever he once was. He spent the entire feast pawing at serving girls and ignoring his wife or drinking."

Jez moved behind him, her fingers working at the clasps of his formal doublet. "And the royal children?"

"Tommen and Myrcella seem decent enough—quiet, well-behaved. But Joffrey?" Harryn's lip curled in disgust. "He reminds me of someone I used to know. A bully with too much power and not enough sense."

"Some boys are just born cruel," Jez murmured, easing the stiff garment from his shoulders. "Seen plenty like that in my time."

Harryn rolled his shoulders as the restrictive clothing came off, feeling as though he could finally breathe properly. "Poor Sansa's completely besotted with him. Can't see what's right in front of her face."

"She's young," Jez said with a shrug, draping the doublet over a chair. "Young girls rarely see clearly when it comes to handsome princes."

Harryn turned to face her. Her nipples stood hard in the cool air. "Were you ever that young and foolish?"

"Perhaps. Though the objects of my affection were never princes."

"No?"

"Just a baker's son with kind eyes," she said softly, her hands moving to the laces of his tunic. "Not all dreams need be of castles and crowns."

Harryn moved to the edge of the bed, sinking down onto the furs. Jez knelt at his feet, her fingers working at the laces of his boots, removing them.

Her position gave him a perfect view of her breast, nipples dark and swollen. Once his boots were off, her hands moved higher, to the laces of his breeches, her intentions clear. Her fingers brushed against him through the fabric. Instinctively, Harryn felt himself grow, thickening and lengthening beyond what nature had given him before the laces came undone. He had been below average as Harry Potter. Most likely for the same reason he was so skinny and short when he started Hogwarts—the Dursleys' lack of care for proper nutrition. He couldn't remember how many nights he'd gone to bed hungry in the cupboard under the stairs. Eventually, with proper meals at Hogwarts, he started to grow, but only in height. No matter how much he ate his cock never seemed to grow and hearing the other boys brag about their wand sizes and how witches knew right away which bloke was worth dating always made him self-conscious.

Harryn didn't know if Tonks ever changed her breast size, and he'd never ask if he saw her again, or admit that the first thing he had done was tack on a few extra inches downstairs. That was a mistake. He should have known the people in this world he found himself in would be different from witches and wizards. He had made himself far too big for Jez. So big she hadn't thought she'd be able to take him, and she'd been right. He'd had to slowly change once he was inside of her, just so he would fit without pain, but still be big enough to touch all the right spots.

When he felt Jez hand wrap around him, her fingers not close to touching, and start stroking, Harryn reached down and grabbed her wrist. "Not tonight," he said.

"As you wish m'lord," Jez said. She let go and stood up, climbing onto the bed. On her hands and knees, she dropped her head into his pillows and raised her hips high and ready. Between her legs, she reached down to spread her lips with two fingers.

"Not that either," Harryn said, patting her plump ass. "I just want to sleep tonight. That's all."

Jez glanced back at him, then at the door. "Should I leave, m'lord?" she asked.

"I didn't say that," Harryn said. He crawled under the furs and held them up for Jez to follow. When her back was snug against his chest, he let the furs drop, trapping their heat underneath.

His conversation with Uncle Benjen and the lack of clear answers hadn't put him in the best mood. Sex with Jez, while wonderful and as Dean Thomas once loudly proclaimed when in their sixth year, "the best thing in the world, even better than Quidditch" was the last thing on his mind tonight.

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, Harryn wrapped his arms around Jez's wide hips. I don't know if what the deserter said was the truth. It could be that he was projecting. The White Walkers might be myths. The deserter might have just been a coward.

But what if he wasn't? What if they weren't? What if the deserter wasn't a coward?

Such thoughts were pointless. Harryn cursed himself the thousandth time for not even attempting to use Legilimency before the deserter was beheaded. Even if his wandless and wordless casting still needed work.

He was never going to be able to know the truth of it now...unless...?

Uncle Benjen did say Jon was talking of joining the Night's Watch soon. If Harryn couldn't talk his brother out of throwing his life away, he was sure he could at least talk their father into letting him travel to the Wall with Jon. There he could see the truth for himself.