Disclaimer: I don't own HP, GOT or ASOIAF.

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon.

Author's Note: Hello guys and gals. I will generally try to update the story once a week, any more chapters would be a bonus if I do have free time and motivation. Review, favourite and follow if you like the story.

Castle Black

Great magic was at play. A grand ritual of fire and blood bound by magic and fate was happening.

Aemon Targaryen left the world with a smile, as if he knew a joke nobody else did. An experienced and wise man, who declined kingship for duty. Even when his eyesight left him, his wits were still sharp, and he kept attending to the Night's Watch to the best of his ability. There was not a single man in the order that did not respect him. He lived a life of sacrifice. There was power in kings' blood and even greater power in self-sacrifice and duty.

Life of the ancestor, willingly given.

The Starks had manned the Wall for millennia and had ruled over this land for just as long. As long as the Starks were here, the Wall and the North stood strong. Brandon the Builder, founder of House Stark, built the same wall. The same ancient magic that ran through the North and the Wall flowed in the blood of the ancient Winter Kings. The people of the North respected House Stark and relied on it. Some even said that House Stark had powers over ice, seeing how their founder managed to build the giant structure made of ice, even with the help of the giants and children of the forest.

For eight thousand years, people swore a lifetime of servitude and sacrifice for the Wall. They lived on the Wall, they died on the Wall, and they bled for the Wall. This served to not only preserve but add power to the ancient structure. After many millennia, it was infused with enough magic and blood to become quasi-sentient.

Jon Snow died because of betrayal. He was the first man to slay a White Walker in single combat since the first Long that was done in a desire to save lives, in the service of others, and not for his personal glory. His brother, Robb Stark, had even decided to legitimise him and name him his heir, but he died before word got to Jon. An unknowing Jon Snow was, meanwhile, elected as the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and, technically, also the King of the North. What nobody knew was that he was also a child of a Great Prophecy. The magic coursing through the Wall and flowing through the lands of the North was stirred by the combination of vows given willingly and life forcibly taken. An angry ancient voice could be heard rumbling through the gigantic ice structure.

Winter is coming!

Where is the sword in the darkness?

Where is the fire that burns against the cold?

Where is the light that brings the dawn?

Where is the horn that wakes the sleepers?

Where is the shield that guards the realm of men?


The dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold had done both great and terrible deeds. Valyrians were notorious for their dabbling in blood and fire magic, and the Targaryens were undeniably part of that. They had also united the Seven Kingdoms and commanded the respect and fealty of their people.

The three-headed dragon was the sigil and totem of House Targaryen. Some would say that the dragons were fire made flesh. Three was also the first magically significant number.

Those bloodlines were unknowingly mixed in the body of Jon Snow, who had also chosen the life of duty and self-sacrifice. He had even been chosen to be the leader of the Watch by his men.

Only death can pay for life.

Maester Aemon's life of duty and sacrifice – the power of blood from one who willingly declined kingship. Jon Snow, whose deeds were great and his life- short. This would be more than enough to bring the son of Lyanna Stark back to life. Mighty magic ran through the blood in his veins.

The process would unleash more than enough magic to hatch all the eggs, which also served as three anchors. Melisandre's ritual was not successful because R'hllor had little power in the North compared to the ancient magic of the First Men, all of which ran through the blood of Jon Snow and even through the Wall itself.

Hardwin 'Harry' James Potter, Demonslayer, Vanquisher of Dark Lords, Master, and Herald of Death, had willingly stepped through an ancient portal that led to an unknown destination. What he didn't know was that the portal arch on the other side had been long gone. By forcibly activating and entering the portal with no destination, he had destroyed his body. and would have shattered his soul and mind had they not been protected and refined by death already. Instead, they had been cast across the Abyss between plates of existence, another child of another Great Prophecy. His soul had been drawn near Planetos when the funeral pyre was lit.

So, when Sansa Stark jumped, fully intending to die alongside her brother and reunite with her family, the ritual lost its delicate balance and exploded. The magical vortex expanded and started sucking in the ancient ice magic weaved into the Wall, further amplifying and unbalancing the ritual. The strength of the flame would have turned her into ash in seconds if she wasn't related by blood to Jon Snow and if not for the ancient magic from the Wall pouring into her body and protecting her from the ritualistic fire. Harry's soul was also pulled from the abyss by the strength of the magical vortex. A being who had been one step short of godhood in terms of magical prowess.

In the northern sky, a red falling star could be seen.

Across the world, the glass candles burned furiously, and whoever could look into them at this moment would see what was happening at the Wall. The amount of magic could be felt all the way to Asshai by the Shadow, and the magical shockwave even disturbed the unholy silence of the city of Stygai.

In Skagos, the island's overlords were gathered around an ancient crone, all of them looking grim. When the falling star tore across the sky, the isle was filled with shouts of reverence.

In the city of Mereen, Viserion and Rhaegal grew restless and started spewing fire in the air, scaring away everyone in the vicinity. Their bigger brother, Drogon, did the same in the middle of the Dothraki Sea.

In the ruins of Valyria, a twisted colossus awoke from its slumber and screeched angrily.

On the island of Toads, amidst the ancient ruins of an unknown civilization, stood a giant toad statue that looked incredibly malignant. and was made of a greasy black stone. Suddenly, a vile black liquid started flowing out of the toad's mouth.

Back in Castle Black, Brienne had fallen on her knees with a despondent expression. She felt like an absolute failure. This was the second person she had sworn to protect that died under her watch.

The brothers of the Night's Watch and the free folk could only step back from the increasingly stronger fire and watch with awe. Melisandre of Asshai was looking reverently into the fire, convinced that it was a sign or a blessing from R'hllor.

The falling snow became thicker and thicker, but the flames only grew in strength. Soon they twisted and turned into the form of a roaring Dragon. A strong wind blew and the snow in the air also whirled and twisted into the giant form of a Direwolf. The flaming dragon separated itself from the pyre, and snow and fire twisted and danced in the air. The spectators looked in awe as the snowy Direwolf and the fire dragon were chasing each other.

This continued for some time. When the funeral flames were slowly dying out, the wind blew strongly one last time, and the Direwolf and dragon both abruptly dived into the pyre.

From the pyre, screeches broke the silence, and a seemingly misshapen figure emerged from the thick smoke.

Jon Snow was back, gently carrying Sansa Stark in his arms. His eyes, however, were a valyrian dark purple instead of the grey of House Stark. He was also covered by dragons – two of them, to be precise. A dark purple hatchling was perched on Jon's right shoulder, and the second and larger dragon was dark blue and black. It was nesting in his hair and was screeching at the surrounding men.

Both he and his sister were naked but left untouched by the flames. Her body and limbs were almost completely covered in scars and wounds. A third, crimson-red dragon was standing protectively on top of Sansa's chest, covering her bare breasts with his wings.

His thoughts were completely jumbled. He had no idea who he was or what was happening. Episodes of random events kept flashing in front of him. Slowly but steadily, they began to make sense. He instinctively kept trying to force them into chronological order. After an unknown amount of time, they complied. A name finally appeared – Hardwin 'Harry' James Potter. Named after his ancestor, but everybody had called him Harry instead. As soon as he remembered the name, his memories started arranging themselves at lightning speed. He finally remembered what had happened. Harry tried to get a feel of his limbs, but for some reason, he couldn't feel his body or magic at all. It did not bode well at all.

Suddenly, he could feel a pleasant heat around him. More images and voices appeared in his head – this time not his own.

A long face with grey eyes, dark brown hair and beard, and a kind smile.

Winter is coming.

A young girl, almost a mirror image of the man.

Stick them with the pointy end.

A young man with deep blue eyes and red-brown hair.

Next time I see you, you'll be in black.

Fiery red hair.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

More images began to appear rapidly and assemble into another set of memories – Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. His last memory was the cold sting of betrayal as the knives of his brothers plunged into his chest.

An old sagely voice, which he immediately recognized as maester Aemon's, echoed in his head.

Kill the boy, Jon Snow, and let the man be born!

Jon Snow/Harry Potter

His senses returned to him with full force. His body was very weak and his chest ached painfully in all the locations where he remembered getting fatally stabbed. There was also a certain weight pressing down on him. Around him, elements of fire, ice, and ritualistic magic were intertwining furiously. He was in the middle of a very wild and out-of-control ritual. The Magic around him was twisting and rippling, making all of his senses tingle. Even threads of divination magic could be felt in the ritual, making the whole thing even more volatile than it already was. And he despised divination magic. He slowly managed to clear his mind despite all the cluttered memories running amok in his head and focused on examining his body, mind, and soul.

He had somehow not only entered the body of Jon Snow, but merged with him. And because Harry had lived far longer and had far more experience, power, and mental fortitude, Jon's personality, memories, and soul simply absorbed into his. and became, at most, an echo.

Jon Snow's body was also very much supposed to be dead. but he could feel the magic of the ritual somehow sealing and healing his mortal wounds and repairing his heart. He could also feel three faint familial connections inside the ritual circle that were linked with his mind and soul. One of them was much stronger than the rest. He carefully reached out to them and received a mild headache because he was suddenly seeing things from three different points at the same time. His mind was incredibly resilient but still jumbled from the previous events.

He quickly cut the connection and this time, he only tried to connect to the strongest link. He realised now that he was looking at himself through the flames, but he surprisingly had another red-haired body draped across his still form and two dragon hatchlings that were slowly crawling towards his body.

He now had 3 dragons, but before he could do anything, he felt that the ritual magic was quickly spiralling further out of control. Jon Snow's body was now revived and restored, three dragons were hatched, and he was even connected in some rather unconventional way to them. The problem was that the leftover magic was most probably about to cause either an implosion and turn everything into meat paste or an explosion and destroy everything nearby, including himself. Both results weren't desirable at all. Shuffling through his memories for something that would help him deal with such an amount of wild ritualistic magic, he realised that only using an old body refining method would be effective. Harry discovered it in a very old and well-protected tomb that predated Ancient China and used vast amounts of wild magic to refine the body.

He decided that he had nothing to lose at this point. He focused his mind and felt the wild magic around him. Concentrating to his utmost limit, he started pulling parts of the raging stream of energy into himself by the method described in the body reforging formulae. He braced himself for the bout of insane pain that was supposed to accompany refining one's body. His senses were overwhelmed by a pleasant feeling of warmth and coolness at the same time. The raging current of magic suddenly calmed and started whirling and entering every part of his body through his pores. He carefully cycled through every part of his body according to the refinement technique. He could also feel the magic in his bloodline itself being strengthened and simulated.

His bones, muscles, organs, blood, marrow, and even skin were all being cleansed and strengthened by ritualistic magic. Even his connection to the dragons was somehow amplified. The process of body reforging was demanding, but when it was finished, there was still leftover wild magic in the air. He decided to channel it inside himself to improve magic reserves. Jon Snow was by no means a squib, but his magic was very undeveloped from lack of use.

Apparently, magic had fallen out of favour long ago, and most people who had the gift for it never knew it, or explored it, or were even killed. This time, he directly pulled some of the remaining wild magic into himself. Even his freshly strengthened body felt like it was burning when he poured wild magic into it directly, without any aim. It was wreaking havoc on his insides. Every organ and muscle felt like it was on fire, very similar, but substantially weaker compared to the cruciatus curse. However, his mind stayed detachedly focused, and he started channelling self-healing with all the new magic inside of him. Once the rampaging magic inside him ran out, he simply grabbed more from the outside. This torturous exercise continued relentlessly, making his body get used to using and controlling magic and further strengthening his body in a cycle of destruction and healing.

The ritual itself was over. Now that the volatile energies were reduced to a low enough level, they began to dissipate harmlessly in the air, signalling the end of this danger. The flames, no longer fed by magic, started to die out as well.

Harry, or rather, Jon Snow finally regained both feeling and full control of his body. Whether he liked it or not, he was now Jon Snow in this world. Harry's soul had intertwined with Jon Snow's soul, and they had already merged, unable to be separated. The moment he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by soft flames on the side with bright red hair strewn across his chest. Jon gently lifted the body on top of him, still unused to his new body, and immediately recognized her. Sansa Stark, his half-sister to whom he had no idea what had happened at all.

She had somehow found her way to him and even jumped into what he was now certain was most definitely his funeral pyre. The funeral ritual he was undergoing was wildly out of control, and most likely, she was the reason. Not to mention that she was most definitely affected by his crazy handling of the leftover wild ritualistic magic, as she was physically in contact with him.

He quickly but gently probed her with a tendril of magic to check if anything was wrong with her, and he almost exploded in anger. Angry shrieks suddenly surrounded him, making him aware that all the dragons were bonded to him could feel his mood and would easily react to strong emotions. Harry slowly cleared his mind and let his emotions flow around him like a river around a rock, and finally managed to calm himself. The little dragons around him also relaxed.

Sansa Stark was always soft-spoken and sweet, even if she had started to avoid him after she grew up due to his bastardy. Her body was almost completely covered in numerous wounds, scars, and old bruises, some of which were badly healed or not at all. She had clear traces of being violated repeatedly, and all of her recent wounds were either bleeding or infected. Thankfully, her body had unusually strong vitality despite the clear signs of malnourishment, and her blood was infused with magic. This was most definitely a side effect of what happened during the ritual and would most probably help Sansa on the road to recovery. He tried to wandlessly cast a few healing spells, but the magic dissipated before the spell construct was fully formed. He wasn't sure if it was the remains of the ritual itself or if something was fucking with magic in general, but he sighed.

He slowly stood up while lifting his sister in a princess carry, when he finally realised that both he and Sansa were stark naked. And that the very blessed form of a half-sister was way too attractive to him. Her scars and wounds only transformed her beauty into something wilder, as far as he was concerned. As soon as those thoughts wormed their way into his brain, he ruthlessly squashed them with his occlumency and forcibly controlled his body's reaction. Jon Snow had a very strong liking for redheads. He halfheartedly attempted to conjure some clothing but also failed. Because why would things ever be simple? Now that he stood up, two of the dragons flocked to him and started to climb him as if he were a tree.

His skin was tough enough that their talons couldn't accidentally pierce it, so he didn't mind them climbing him. And even if he did, he could heal himself without a problem. He, however, mentally promised heavy retribution if any of them got near Jon junior. And they had gotten the message because they very carefully avoided that certain body part.

The biggest one, the one he had the strongest connection to, was looking very savage. He was covered by more spikes than the others, including his tail, which vaguely reminded Jon of a certain dragon that he had faced during the Triwizard tournament. His scales were shades of dark blue and black, and his eyes were like two deep, dark-blue ponds. While the other dragons climbed their way up to his body, he stood still and watched him carefully. Finally, he spread his wings, and with a few strong flaps, perched on top of his head. Jon sighed amusedly at what he recognized as his bonded familiar. The connection to the other hatchlings was similar to a familiar bond, but far weaker. He felt his stomach grumble with hunger, so he decided it was time to step out and face the world.

He felt a small spike of shame, realising that he was naked, but he ignored it. His sister, however, was another matter, and he had no desire to show her naked body to the scum of the night's watch. He nudged two of his hatchlings via the link to gently cover her privates without hurting her. The red-coloured dragon gingerly hopped onto Sansa and covered her with its wings. Jon contemplated for a moment and mentally signalled to the dragons to prepare to breathe fire because they might be surrounded by traitors the moment they stepped out of the funeral pyre.

Ready to face the world, he stepped out through a curtain of smoke that was surrounding them with his sister in his arms. When he finally got out, he was met by awestruck silence. The inner courtyard was filled with black brothers, the occasional Baratheon man, and free folk. The friendly faces of Satin, Tormund, Val, Dolorous Edd, and Ser Davos were all here, and he could somewhat relax. Then he met the red eyes of Ghost, and instantly he felt another connection as strong as the one with the biggest hatchling rapidly forming. The red priestess was also staring at him with creepy interest, but he mentally filed that for later.

"His pecker got bigger!" The loud, jovial voice that sounded very impressed cut through the quiet tension in the yard like a knife through butter. This could only be Tormund. A few people, including Jon himself, snickered at his shout.

Edd decided to come near and ask dryly. "Jon, is that still you in there?"

Jon replied sharply, "Of course it's me," and asked, "How did my sister end up in my funeral pyre?"

"When we lit the pyre she started crying and suddenly rushed into the fire before any of us could react. And after she jumped the fire went all mad." Edd took some time but eventually replied sombrely to which Jon nodded.

"Can someone spare me two fucking cloaks?" Jon asked, mindful of his sister's bare form.

"Jon, your eyes are purple now. And...uh... there are dragons perched on you." Edd lamely stated as he unfastened his cloak and handed it over to him. "And I might be wrong but you're quite a bit taller too."

Jon simply shrugged while mentally nudging the hatchling that was covering Sansa's bits to return to him. It quickly climbed back onto him and swiftly settled on his left shoulder. The cloak was quickly thrown over his sister's naked body.

A tall, armoured figure rushed towards him, followed by a young man. He finally noticed that the armoured figure was female. She had a very unconventional body and face type for a woman. She wasn't ugly, nor was she beautiful. Suddenly, all the free folk and black brothers had their hands on their weapons and inched closer.

The woman instantly stopped, raised her arms, and worriedly asked him, "Is Lady Sansa alright?" She sounded sincere, and he could even somehow feel that she was trustworthy and meant no harm.

"And who might you be?" Jon continued curiously.

"I am Brienne of Tarth, Lady Sansa's sworn shield." She introduced herself and nodded toward the young man behind her." And this is my squire, Podrick Payne."

Jon Snow was a bastard. Even though he had mostly the same upbringing as his trueborn siblings, he never really paid much attention to the lessons with Maester Luwin, aside from the few topics that interested him. Maybe if you asked him about those Houses back in Winterfell, he would know. But after nearly six years, he forgot most of the Southern Houses, except maybe Houses Targaryen and Lannister and the more significant parts of history. He had a better recollection of Northern houses, but even those were half-forgotten in the rollercoaster that was his stint on the Wall. He honestly had no idea where Tarth was and knew nothing about House Payne.

The memories of his previous life were well preserved by his sturdy mindscape, but in this life, he could only recall what Jon Snow generally remembered.

He threw a sharp searching glance towards the armoured figure and her squire, but he sighed and nodded. "Aye, my sister is alive, but she needs a healer." For a sworn shield, she had done a shit job, judging by the wounds of his sister and the fact that Sansa had somehow managed to jump into the fire under the nose of everyone in the courtyard. He would deal with her later.

He turned to Edd. "Bring my sister to the Lord Commander's solar. Ghost and some of the hatchlings will watch over her." He carefully handed his sister to him and watched as he gingerly moved back inside, followed by Brienne and Podrick. Ghost happily approached him with a wagging tail, and he softly scratched his neck while the hatchlings hopped from his arm onto the Direwolf's neck and back. All of the bonded whelps were surprisingly receptive to his mind and commands, and they could very clearly sense his intentions.

The one on top of his head, however, seemed to be the most willful of them all and refused to move, even flapping his wings in protest. He shrugged and patted Ghost one last time before sending him away. Covered in squawking hatchlings, the Direwolf happily trotted towards his solar, ignoring the stares of everyone else in the courtyard. Everything of any value to him would be there. and one direwolf, two young dragons, and a female knight of questionable quality and loyalty weren't nearly enough defence in his head.

"Tormund, could you get four of the most trustworthy spearwives to guard my sister?" It would be a cold day in hell when he'd trust the wellbeing of his abused sister to unknown southerners or brothers of the Night's Watch. Tormund happily nodded and walked off. The free folk were honest and straightforward, and whoever Tormund found to guard his sister would do so.

"Balian, get some men and kindly ask this Brienne of Tarth and her squire to move to the guest chambers for visitors. Post a guard making sure the two of them stay there. For a sworn shield, she did a shit job at guarding my sister." Balian was one of the recruits who joined together with him. As a ranger, he mostly tried to stay out of trouble. The night brother nodded and left with a group of men to complete the task.

He looked questioningly towards Satin and asked, "Where is Maester Aemon?"

"Maester Aemon passed away peacefully in his sleep the night you were betrayed." The young man answered sadly. Everybody liked Maester Aemon, and he was no exception. It was sad, but not unexpected, considering that the old maester was more than a hundred years old. "He was on the funeral pyre with you, and those dragons you hatched came from the stones that he had asked to be put on the pyre with his corpse...I think."

And there is the answer to who played a big role in the ritual. Even though this was probably not done deliberately, Maester Aemon had always helped Jon Snow, and the sagely old man was infinitely better compared to that old bastard Dumbledore. Even in death, he was able to help him. Sadly, he couldn't do anything to heal his sister, so he'd have to get the next best thing. Woods witches from beyond the wall had plenty of hands-on experience with dealing with wounds and were probably the only people who had any idea about non-magical healing in the near vicinity.

"Val, could you find a trusted woods witch to check on my sister?" Jon asked softly. Val was fierce and prideful, even more so than the other free folk. Jon Snow had been naturally attracted to her wild beauty and had many thoughts about bedding her before, but neither was he a raper, and nor was she agreeable - she had promised to geld him if he showed up in her bed, and that had put an end to those thoughts.

"Aye, Lord Crow, I'll find a woods witch for your sister." The blonde wildling beauty replied easily while eyeing him with a surprising amount of interest, before setting off as well.

Satin had unfastened his cloak and handed it to him. Jon looked at him questioningly, but Satin simply glared and nodded his head at his...still naked body. Jon coughed softly and quickly covered himself with the offered cloak. His chest still felt sore from the sting of betrayal, and he was suddenly feeling very unprotected without a weapon and after sending Ghost away.

"Fetch me Longclaw." He ordered Satin. "I'll be in my quarters to grab actual clothes." The cold air didn't bother him at all. All he could feel was a pleasant coolness. He assumed that it was most probably due to body refinement.

He briskly walked towards the Lord Commander's quarters and quickly changed into the most comfortable pair of smallclothes he could find. A terrible realisation finally set in...he had to make do with this uncomfortable mediaeval underwear, and they were still using chamber pots instead of plumbing.

He could only sigh in frustration as he put on a pair of leather breeches and donned a woollen tunic. Soon after he finally got dressed, a knock on the door was heard.

Opening the door he saw his squire in the hallway. "Here's your sword, Lord Commander." The young steward handed Longclaw carefully.

"Thank you, Satin. Can you also bring me some food from the kitchens? The more the better." The young man nodded dutifully and was about to turn around when Jon placed a hand on his shoulder. "Also, don't call me Lord Commander, Satin. I'm no longer a member of the Night's Watch. I died on my post and my watch ended." Jon finished while waving Satin to leave.

From where Harry stood, Jon had made a very uninformed decision by joining the Night's Watch. Thankfully, he was technically free of this obligation now. Only, he had a giant heap of problems to deal with instead.

Author's Endnote: Edited as of 01.11.2022

I know certain people would probably be butthurt because of HP's name not being simply Harry. And at that time, in Britain, Harry is actually a nickname, just like Bill is for William and Ron is for Ronald. James has been raised as a rich and proud pureblood, and I doubt that he would have his firstborn son have a simple nickname for a name. So Harry is named after his ancestor Hardwin Potter (the man who married Iolanthe Peverell, for all you Peverell wankers out there!). It's not uncommon to use an ancestor's family name so the only two previous Potter names that could shorten to Harry and we know of are Hardwin and Henry.