Harry Potter: A Typical Man(SI OC)

The air in the North bit with a sharpness that only those born of it could breathe in like comfort. It was a chill that wrapped around bones and kissed every exposed inch of skin, but for Jon Snow, it felt like home.

From atop the highest rampart of Winterfell, the banners flew not only the direwolf of House Stark but the dragon of House Targaryen, the lion of House Lannister, the sun of House Martell, the golden rose of House Tyrell, the falcon of the Vale, and the stag of Storm's End. The greatest army Westeros had ever known rolled like thunder across the icy plains. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers—Dothraki screamers, Unsullied phalanxes, Southern knights, archers from the Vale, spearmen from Dorne, Tyrell cavalry, Stormlanders under Lord Gendry Baratheon, and gold-cloaked Lannister warriors led by Jaime himself—marched north under the banners of peace.

And above them soared the dragons. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion split the sky like living gods, their shadows casting awe and terror below. For once, they were not harbingers of fire and conquest—but of unity.

Jon Snow rode at the front, flanked by Daenerys Targaryen and his ever-loyal companions—Ghost prowling beside him like a walking winter storm, Jon Bonds armored in direwolf steel, Tormund cracking jokes about how his giant's blood wasn't made for southern weather, and Ser Davos Seaworth murmuring prayers under his breath.

They were home.

The gates of Winterfell groaned open, and standing there, wrapped in furs and authority, was Sansa Stark. Behind her stood the entirety of Winterfell's remaining strength—archers lining the walls, blacksmiths halting their work, smallfolk gathering to witness history. Her face, usually carved in frost, broke into a warm smile as her eyes met Jon's.

"Welcome home, King in the North," she said, her voice soft and strong.

Jon dismounted and walked forward, embracing her. She held him tight, a silent acknowledgment of the impossible made real. Her lips brushed his ear.

"You brought the world with you."

He stepped back, eyes bright. "And we'll need it all."

As the Southern hosts were given quarters and dragons circled to their designated roosts, Jon slipped away from the overwhelming tide of strategy, noise, and duty. There was one face he hadn't seen. One soul he needed.

He found her in the Godswood.

The heart tree's red leaves rustled with the wind, the carved face ancient and still. Arya Stark stood before it, blade sheathed at her hip, arms crossed. She didn't turn when she spoke.

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

Jon took slow steps forward, his voice caught somewhere between laughter and a sob. "You got taller."

She turned.

Her smile was sharp as ever. "And you got more dramatic. An army? Dragons? Couldn't just write a raven like a normal brother?"

He reached for her, and she ran into his arms.

They held each other like the last two pieces of a shattered world. It had been too long, and yet it felt like no time at all.

"Sansa told me," Arya whispered against his shoulder.

Jon froze.

"About your parents. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

He pulled back, ashamed, but she shook her head.

"You're still my brother. You always will be. Doesn't matter whose blood you have. You're Jon. My Jon. And the only man who ever treated me like I wasn't just a girl with a sword."

He laughed, swallowing the emotion. "You were always more than that. You are Arya Stark of Winterfell."

"And you're Jon Snow. The King in The North. Savior of the living. White wolf. Don't ever forget that."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves.

Winter had come.

But so had hope.

The wind howled against the ancient walls of Winterfell, carrying with it the scent of snow and steel. Fires crackled in the hearths, their glow casting dancing shadows across the stone halls where the greatest lords and warriors of Westeros had gathered. This was no ordinary council—this was the planning of the greatest war Westeros had ever seen.

Jon Bonds stood at the long table in the great hall, surrounded by faces hardened by battle and sharpened by loss. Beside him, Ghost loomed like a living myth, his alabaster form rippling with restrained energy, frost trailing his breath as he silently scanned the room. Jon Snow stood across from him, his arms folded, eyes stern and filled with weighty purpose.

"We all know why we are here," Bonds began, his voice calm but commanding. "The Night King is not a myth. He is real, and he's coming."

Bran Stark, seated to the side with a firelit glow behind him, spoke next. "He has found the Horn of Winter. He can bring the Wall down. I have already sent ravens to Eastwatch and Castle Black. Evacuation is underway, but we must prepare for the worst."

Tormund grunted. "The worst is exactly what we'll get."

Jon Snow stepped forward. "All non-combatants—women, children, the elderly—are being moved to White Harbor and Moat Cailin. We'll defend them with every man and woman we can spare."

Sansa nodded beside Bran. "The logistics are underway. Stores are being packed. Livestock are already on the move. We have the North behind us."

Arya, arms crossed, added, "We'll need scouts on every flank. We can't be surprised again."

Jon Bonds unfurled a massive map of the North across the table, held down by stone daggers. "We'll divide our forces like this."

He pointed to the outermost ridge around Winterfell.

"The Unsullied will take the outer trench. They are disciplined and can hold a firm line. We'll build a perimeter of fire—trenches lined with wildfire from the capital. When the dead push in, we light it."

Davos interjected, "Wildfire is dangerous. Even to us."

Bonds nodded. "That's why Theon, and the best of our spies will man the triggers. Light only when the line's about to break."

He moved his hand to the ramparts.

"The Vale knights will hold the walls. Their heavy cavalry will be the second wave, positioned behind Winterfell's main gate."

Brienne of Tarth spoke up. "I'll lead the wall defense myself."

"Good," Jon Snow agreed.

"The Stark archers will remain behind the walls," Sansa added. "They're well-trained, and they know this terrain."

"The Riverlands forces, under Lord Edmure Tully, will reinforce the flanks," Bonds continued. "They'll respond to any breaches. Yara Greyjoy's Ironborn will hold the left flank near the godswood. Their axes and spears will keep anything that sneaks around from surprising us."

Tormund slammed his axe against the table. "The wildlings and I will take the front gate. We'll be the first to welcome the dead."

Southern lords murmured at the thought of wildlings manning the front line. Sansa raised a brow. "They're used to fighting the dead. Let them."

Jon Snow's voice deepened. "While the rest of us hold the line, Ghost, Bonds, and I will find the Night King."

Daenerys looked up from her seat. "With my dragons—"

"No," Ghost interrupted in his deep, ancient voice. The room stilled. Even the southerners who had grown used to Ghost's intelligence straightened. "Your dragons are valuable. But the Night King seeks them. You must stay above. Breathe fire. Cut through the wights. But do not engage him. That's our task."

Bonds placed a Valyrian steel dagger on the table. "This is the Blade of Victory. It can harm him. We think it's the key."

"And what of the crypts?" asked Sam, who had returned with Gilly and Little Sam just the day before.

Jon Snow's face grew grim. "We clear the crypts. The Night King can raise the dead. The dead Starks will rise if we leave them there."

Gasps echoed around the room. Even the Southern lords paled.

Sam added, "If he raises our ancestors… we fight our own blood."

Tormund spat on the floor. "Better to burn the bones now than let them fight against us."

Bonds turned to Gendry. "You'll make the armor. The dragons will need protection. Scales aren't enough anymore. Make it light but strong. Dragonglass layered, folded with castle forged steel."

Gendry nodded, energized. "I'll work through the night. I have volunteers from every forge. We'll get it done."

Daenerys reached over and took Jon Snow's hand. "Let's show them what unity can do."

Jon squeezed her hand gently. "Let's make history."

Lord Manderly stood. "You have our support, Your Graces. A Northerner on the throne—and dragons at our side. We'll show the South how the North fights."

Cheers erupted from the Northern lords, wildlings, and even a few Vale knights. The Southern lords looked on, half in awe, half in apprehension.

Tyrion leaned toward Jaime. "Remind me not to bet against Northerners."

Jaime simply nodded. "We're in good hands."

Bonds stepped forward. "We need dragonglass weaponry distributed immediately. Gendry, your forges—"

"Already burning," Gendry said. "We'll craft as fast as we can."

"Lord Jaime will command the western flank with the Lannister forces. Brienne leads the northern shield wall . Davos will manage supply lines and evacuation routes. Gendry's team outfits as many as possible with dragonglass. Arya…"

Arya looked up, calm and unreadable.

"I'll handle infiltration and internal defense."

Wildfire, brought from King's Landing, would be buried around the castle's perimeter—traps for the wights. Runes of warding, crafted by Jon Bonds, would line the walls and towers. The Vale's knights would defend the air, riding on the dragons with Dothraki scouts.

As the council slowly adjourned, Tyrion spoke softly to the remaining lords. "We're not just defending Winterfell. We're defending the last breath of mankind. And we are going to win no matter what."

Later that night, in the godswood lit only by moonlight and fireflies, the last of the war council sat in quiet conversation. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they shared wine, stories, and soft laughter.

Arya leaned back against a tree. "I'm a Faceless Man."

Tormund choked on his drink. "You're what now? Face-- what?"

"Trained in Braavos. I used their faces to wipe out House Frey. Every last one."

Even Daenerys blinked. "You… killed them all?"

"They deserved it," Arya said flatly.

Jon Bonds chuckled. "A Stark by blood, a shadow by training. Fitting."

He stood and handed Arya something—a sleek hidden blade, made of titanium and carbon fiber , engraved with runes of poison and thunder, and coated in dragonglass.

"A gift. You'll know how to use it."

Arya activated the hidden mechanism with ease. Runes flared faintly under her touch.

"I love it," she grinned.

Ser Davos raised his cup. "Well, I'll say this—you're the scariest little lady I've ever met. Gods help the dead."

Jaime chuckled. "Makes me grateful she's on our side."

Princess Arianne smiled. "Remind me not to cross you, Stark."

Tyrion leaned toward Bonds. "What will you do after all this? You could have a place in Jon's council."

Jon Snow nodded. "A keep, a title—anything you want. You deserve it Bonds."

Bonds smiled. "I'm going home. There's someone waiting for me."

Ghost lifted his head. "The white-haired girl. The one with emerald eyes. The one you showed me in the drawing or photo you called it."

Daenerys arched an eyebrow. "You're in love?"

Bonds reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph—a photo, like a living moment frozen in time. In it stood a white-haired young woman with piercing emerald eyes, smiling beside a younger Bonds.

"Her name is Daphne," he said. "The night before I left, we took this. I promised her I'd come back."

Sansa leaned in, astonished. "This painting—how is it so perfect? So alive?"

"Magic," Bonds said simply. "And memory. I haven't seen her in a long time. But to her, it'll be just a couple months. To me, it's been years."

Arya blinked. "How does that even work?"

Bonds just smiled. "A very long story."

Princess Arianne rested her chin in her palm, teasing. "Well, if she ever changes her mind, you know where to find me."

Jon Bonds laughed. "You'll need more than wit and royalty to tempt me, Princess."

Jaime smirked. "You've got good taste, wizard."

Ghost nuzzled his shoulder. "But the ending will be worth it."

Jon Snow looked at his friend. "You'll come back? After?"

"If I do… it's only to make sure the next generation grows up in a better world. Then I go home."

They sat in silence a while longer, stars overhead, the chill of the Long Night drawing closer. And though none of them said it aloud, they knew.

This could be their last moment of peace.

And still—they faced it together.

The fire. The frost. The light of memory.

The last hope of men.