Harry Potter: A Typical Man(SI OC)

The gates of Winterfell opened before us like the mouth of an old god, yawning wide in the biting chill of early morning. Sansa stood atop the battlements, her auburn hair braided in the Northern style, arms crossed with that same calm, composed gaze she'd grown into. Beneath it, though, I saw it. The storm behind her eyes. She didn't want me to leave.

"Take care of our people," I told her, clasping her forearm in the Stark way. "They're yours while I'm gone."

"You're not just walking into a queen's court, Jon," she said quietly, leaning in. "You're walking into a den of fire and ambition. Keep your wits sharp."

"I've got Bonds. Ghost. Davos. Tormund," I replied, nodding toward the three men—and the massive, ice-cloaked wolf—standing beside our horses. "I'll be fine."

"And yet you were stabbed in the heart once," she muttered, forcing a smile. "Just... don't die again. I'm getting tired of resurrected men."

I chuckled softly and embraced her and kissed her forehead like I always do. Ghost nuzzled her shoulder, low rumble of affection in his throat. She buried a hand in his fur. "Keep him safe, Ghost."

"Until my last breath, Sister," Ghost said, his voice deep, cold, and regal.

We rode out at dawn, five of us—me, Jon Bonds, Ser Davos Seaworth, Tormund Giantsbane, and Ghost. Our destination: Dragonstone. The seat of House Targaryen. Home to the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen.

The great ship from the North cut through the waters like a direwolf through snow, its sails flapping in the harsh wind that whipped along the Narrow Sea. Onboard, Jon Snow stood at the bow, eyes scanning the looming shadow of Dragonstone ahead. Beside him stood Ser Davos Seaworth, quiet and contemplative as ever. Tormund Giantsbane leaned on the railing, already looking annoyed by the lack of snow and the abundance of salt. Ghost, his enormous white direwolf, stood stoic and silent, eyes constantly scanning the horizon. And behind them, cloaked in that same calm unpredictability, was Jon Bonds—the man who had become the North's enigma and their unexpected guardian.

As the ship docked and the gangplank dropped, they were greeted by a welcoming party headed by Tyrion Lannister.

Tyrion stepped forward with a familiar glint in his eyes, his hands behind his back and a faint smile playing on his lips. "The Bastard of Winterfell," he said dryly.

Jon smirked faintly and stepped down the plank. "The Dwarf of Casterly Rock," he replied, meeting him halfway. "Picking up scars along the way, I see."

Tyrion chuckled. "You haven't changed much. Still brooding."

"And you still drink too much."

"At least I've upgraded to better wine. You still drinking Snow water?"

Davos stepped beside Jon, nodding respectfully. "Lord Tyrion. We appreciate the welcome."

"Ser Davos. A smuggler turned knight. There's hope for all of us, then."

Behind them, Tormund stomped down the plank like he owned it. "Where's the food? You Southerners don't starve your guests, do you?"

Tyrion raised a brow. "And who is this walking beard?"

"Tormund Giantsbane. Killed a giant, suckled his wife's teat, and now he's hungry."

"Delightful," Tyrion said dryly.

Jon Bonds finally stepped forward. His silver hair glimmered under the daylight, his smile calm and unreadable. "Jon Bonds. Wizard, traveler, and occasional chaos-bringer."

"Is that a title you gave yourself?"

"Yes," Bonds said without hesitation. "And I've earned every syllable."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes but smiled anyway. Then his gaze landed on Ghost.

The direwolf towered over everyone, his fur a glimmering white cloak of frost. He didn't growl, didn't move—he simply stared with intelligent eyes.

"Ghost," Tyrion said with recognition, surprised. "Last I saw you, you were a little snowball pup nibbling Jon's boots."

Ghost didn't respond.

Jon Snow stepped beside the direwolf, resting a hand briefly on his back. "He's grown."

Tyrion blinked, clearly unsettled by the sheer size of the beast. "Grown indeed. Let's just hope Daenerys has a fondness for... oversized pets."

Davos leaned closer to Jon. "Let's just hope the dragons do."

Tyrion began walking toward the steps leading up to Dragonstone. "Come, the Queen is waiting. And I suggest we don't keep her long. She's very fond of proper introductions."

Bonds chuckled behind them. "So are we."

The great stone doors groaned as they opened, letting in the salty sea air and the echo of booted footsteps. Jon Snow strode into the vast, shadow-drenched throne room of Dragonstone. Black stone rose high above his head, lit only by flickering torches that barely softened the edges of the cold hall. To his left walked Ser Davos Seaworth, his steady presence a quiet source of calm. At the far end of the chamber, framed by two towering braziers, sat the woman they had traveled so far to meet.

Daenerys Targaryen.

She sat poised on her throne, silver-gold hair braided like a crown, her violet eyes watching him like a hawk assessing a stranger on her land. A woman with the blood of dragons in her veins, yet no fire burned in her expression—only the calm calculation of a queen weighing her pieces before the first move.

To her right stood Tyrion Lannister. The last time Jon had seen him, they'd stood atop the Wall—two outcasts trading barbs in the cold. Time had not softened him, but power had polished his words. The familiar glint of sardonic amusement lit his gaze even now.

Missandei stepped forward, her voice crisp and smooth, cutting through the silence with practiced grace.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she said, listing titles like stones into a pond. "Rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. The Breaker of Chains."

Jon blinked. That was a lot of name for one person.

Davos shifted beside me, whispering, "We really doing this?"

"And this is Jon Snow," I said, cutting in, "King in the North."

"and I am Jon Bonds your Grace with me Ser Davos Seaworth and Tormund Giantsbane and our faithful companion Ghost."

There was a pause—a beat of silence in which the air thickened with expectation. Daenerys studied him, waiting.

"Thank you for traveling so far, my lord," she said at last. "I hope the seas weren't too rough."

Jon dipped his head politely. "The winds were kind, Your Grace."

She offered a nod, then leaned slightly forward on her throne, her eyes still locked on him. "I hope you'll forgive me for not inviting you to sit. The circumstances call for a certain formality."

"Of course," Jon replied simply, standing firm. He felt like a man walking into the heart of a storm and pretending not to hear the thunder. But little did she knows what kind of storm she have invited upon herself.

"You've traveled all this way to bend the knee?" Daenerys asked.

The words were spoken gently, but Jon could hear the weight behind them. He held her gaze. "I didn't."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"Then why are you here?" the Queen asked.

"Because this is the only place anyone's listened to me," Jon answered. "Because you're not like your father."

A flicker—barely there—crossed Daenerys's expression. A shadow of emotion, quickly concealed.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she asked coolly.

Jon's voice was calm. "I'm not here to murder. Or steal. Or conquer. I'm here to fight. Together."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes slightly. "Fight what?"

Jon stepped forward, the gravity of his words tightening his jaw. "The only war that matters. The Great War. It's already begun."

Tyrion stepped in, hands clasped behind his back. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he said, "but I know Jon. He's not a liar. If he says the dead are coming—"

Daenerys raised a hand, her voice calm but firm. "We were all taught to beware the Northern threat. But White Walkers? The Night King? These are stories. Tales."

"They're real," Jon said firmly. "I've seen them. If they get past the Wall while we squabble over who sits on which throne, everyone will die. You'll be ruling over a graveyard."

She considered that. Her gaze didn't waver.

"I am the last Targaryen," Daenerys said. "I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will."

"I'm not asking you to give up your crown," Jon said. "I'm asking you to join the fight. We need to stand together, or we will fall separately."

Davos stepped forward again, his voice rising with emotion. "You want Jon to bend the knee, and what do you offer in return? This man's the reason the North still stands. He's been killed—and brought back—and still fights for his people. He's not here for glory. He's here because he's the only one who truly knows what's coming."

Jon gave Davos a quick, warning glance.

"That's enough," he muttered.

Daenerys was watching him with the same intensity she had begun with. "Then I suppose we'll discuss it later. You've come a long way. You must be tired."

Jon's voice sharpened.

"Are we prisoners here?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Not yet."

Daenery's POV:

The air in the throne room of Dragonstone shifted the moment the words left my lips.

"Not yet," I said to Jon Snow, my voice soft but sure. It was a response meant to both tease and assert control, but the look he returned was anything but amused. Behind him, Ser Davos Seaworth stiffened. Tormund Giantsbane squinted slightly, and the strange man known only as Jon Bonds gave the faintest of smirks.

And then, the Direwolf moved.

Ghost.

He had stood silently this whole time, like a specter carved from snow and wind. But now—before my very eyes—he grew. Not slowly, but like a gust of ancient magic pulled through him, his body stretching, his fur whitening further, glowing faintly like the ice of a frost-covered mountain peak. Runes of blue shimmered to life across his flanks, pulsing with ancient, unknowable power.

His size doubled in seconds, now towering over any horse I had ever seen. The air dropped in temperature so suddenly that even the torches lining the walls flickered violently, some snuffing out altogether. Frost crept across the stones beneath his paws.

And then—he spoke.

"What exactly makes you think you can cage us?"

His voice was deep, layered with a low, rumbling snarl, yet perfectly clear. A beast's voice, intelligent and ancient.

Missandei gasped audibly. Grey Worm stepped forward, hand instinctively going to the hilt of his weapon. Tyrion blinked once, twice, mouth agape.

I stood frozen, unsure if I had heard a voice or a hallucination.

Before anyone could speak, the world changed again.

Jon Snow and Jon Bonds moved. No—transformed.

It was not sorcery I recognized, nor fire nor shadow. Their bodies glowed with pale light, muscles expanding, armor forming from nothing like it had been summoned from the heart of the earth. Their human forms stretched and twisted into something more—something other. Towering half-wolves, clad in ethereal, ancient armor.

Jon Snow's eyes burned with storm-gray fire, his long dark hair whipping around his armored helm like a mane of shadow and ice. Twin Valyrian steel katanas appeared in Bonds' hands, sleek and ominous, while Longclaw glinted at Jon Snow's side, already in his grip.

They stood side by side, guardians of the cold, howling storm.

Davos and Tormund stepped forward, and even their weapons—swords and a massive axe—now gleamed with otherworldly energy. I didn't know how, but I could feel it in my bones: those weapons were enchanted. Magic lived in their steel. The Southerners—my people—had never seen anything like this.

The air crackled. Cold mist billowed across the floor.

Ghost spoke again, sharper this time.

"If any of you even think to call upon the dragons, or raise your hands in threat, I will turn them to ice statues and shatter them to snow."

Spikes of ice burst from the air around him—levitating, spinning lazily like they were his claws made manifest. The temperature dropped further. I could see my own breath. So could everyone else.

Tyrion swallowed hard.

I didn't move.

Because in that moment, one truth echoed louder than any title, louder than any prophecy, louder than any war cry.

These were not ordinary men.

These were forces of nature.

And I had no idea what they were.