Harry Potter: A Typical Man(SI OC)

The Red Keep stood gleaming under the soft orange hue of the setting sun. A cool breeze drifted in from Blackwater Bay, rustling the banners bearing the Targaryen sigil that now flew high above the ramparts. The city below, once filled with tension and bloodshed, now brimmed with something unfamiliar—hope.

The coronation had taken place earlier that day. Lords and Ladies from the Reach, Stormlands, Westerlands, Crownlands, and Dorne had gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to witness Queen Daenerys Targaryen ascend the throne officially. Only one realm had remained silent during the vows of fealty—the North.

Not out of rebellion.

But because the King in the North was already here, standing tall beside the Dragon Queen, bound not by politics or conquest, but by mutual respect and a shared future.

It had been a month since Cersei Lannister's fiery demise in the Dragonpit, a month since the alliances had shifted like tectonic plates across the Seven Kingdoms. The Red Keep had seen more northern boots in its halls than ever before, and the sight of a massive white direwolf casually lounging in the Queen's garden had become almost mundane—almost.

Ghost was, after all, not just a direwolf anymore. With his newfound power, ice bent to his will, and whispers of frozen winds followed in his wake. The guards gave him a wide berth, though he often passed them with little more than a huff and a judgmental glance.

The Northern party had remained in the capital at the Queen's invitation. No longer just allies—they were her honored guests, her shield in the shadows. Jon Snow, King in the North, and his companions—Jon Bonds, Ser Davos Seaworth, and the wildling warrior Tormund Giantsbane—had been given chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Ghost preferred to sleep wherever he pleased, which usually meant in the Jon's solar or near the 3 dragons as for his own word magical creatures should stick together.

The North had not bent the knee.

But neither had it drawn its sword. Instead, what emerged was something unprecedented—an alliance of equals. Jon had made it clear: the North would not be ruled. But it would stand beside the Queen, shield in hand, as long as she proved herself worthy of the realm's loyalty.

And she had.

The houses that had once stood against House Stark and Targaryen found their legacies upended. Tyrion Lannister, pardoned and legitimized, was now Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the Queen. With his siblings gone, he ruled wisely, with justice rather than fear. Yara Greyjoy now held the Salt Throne, having bent the knee to Daenerys, and ruled the Iron Islands with a stern but honorable hand.

News from the North came via Gendry Baratheon, now Lord of Storm's End. He had been traveling to the North when he heard his skill as a blacksmith was needed to forge weapons coated in dragonglass for the war against the dead. He arrived bearing a letter from Sansa Stark, in her unmistakable script, and word of Northern politics.

Petyr Baelish had been executed for treason, his countless manipulations laid bare by the combined testimony of Sansa, Bran Stark—the Three-Eyed Raven—and Arya Stark, who carried out the sentence. Jon's heart had lifted with joy and disbelief. His siblings were alive. His sisters strong, and his brother… something more.

The Reach was now under Willas Tyrell, the crippled but brilliant heir who ruled alongside his sharp-witted grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns. Dorne had bent the knee under Princess Arianne Martell, fiery and fierce. Gendry Baratheon—legitimized by Daenerys as Lord of Storm's End—stood proud and loyal, his hammer slung over his shoulder. Robin Arryn, ever fragile, was Lord Protector of the Vale, guided by a council of advisors. Edmure Tully had been restored as Lord of Riverrun, and the Riverlands had begun to flourish under his quiet, unambitious rule.

Peace, for the first time in years, felt real. Tangible.

Daenerys stood at the balcony of her solar that night, overlooking the city. Behind her, she could hear quiet murmurs—Jon Bonds and Ghost exchanging jests and plans for defense. She turned as Jon Snow entered the room, his expression the same careful mix of weariness and purpose she had come to recognize.

"I still don't like being here," he muttered.

"You mean in the capital?" she asked with a smile.

He nodded. "Feels too warm. Too many southerners staring like they've never seen a Northerner before."

"They haven't seen a king quite like you before."

He looked at her then, and the tension eased. "We'll see how long that crown stays on my head."

Daenerys stepped closer. "As long as you wish it to."

There was peace for now—but the war with the dead was coming. And together, they would face it.

And perhaps, just perhaps, there would be room for love between fire and frost.

That night, under the moonlit sky in the royal gardens, Jon asked Daenerys to join him. The scent of jasmine and citrus hung in the air, the serenity of the place a stark contrast to the storm in Jon's heart.

Ghost lay in the shade nearby, lounging beside Jon Bonds, while Ser Davos and Tormund stood a short distance away, pretending not to eavesdrop. They were all waiting—for something they couldn't quite name.

"I have to tell you something," Jon began, his voice low.

Daenerys tilted her head. "You're not going to declare yourself a Lannister, are you?"

He chuckled dryly, but the amusement didn't reach his eyes. "Worse, maybe. I'm not who you think I am."

And so he told her.

Everything.

His parents. Rhaegar and Lyanna. His real name—Aegon Targaryen. The truth buried beneath years of lies and shadows.

Daenerys stood frozen, her mind grasping at threads she didn't know existed. "That means… the Iron Throne..."

"You have it," Jon said quietly. "I don't want it."

"But it's yours by right."

"I never wanted a crown. I never wanted anything but to protect the North, to protect my family. I thought I'd die with a sword in my hand on some cold battlefield. But now…"

Daenerys reached for him. "You'd share it with me?"

Jon hesitated. "I'd fight beside you. Rule beside you, if that's what it takes to bring peace."

"You'd marry me?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Jon stood there, blinking as if the concept had never crossed his mind. Mouth slightly open. No answer.

From the shadows, Bonds burst into laughter.

"By the gods, someone hit the man. He looks like he's seen the Wall grow legs and start dancing."

Ghost snorted, eyes gleaming. "Do you accept the Queen's proposal or shall I bite your arse to make you speak?"

Tormund laughed so hard he nearly fell over. "I've seen mammoths with more sense! Say yes, you big snow-covered dolt!"

Ser Davos grinned warmly. "You're perfect for each other. Maybe, after so many years, the realm will finally have a King and Queen who care about more than just power."

Jon finally found his voice, cheeks tinged red. "Yes... yes, I'll marry you."

Daenerys smiled, radiant and relieved.

Ghost muttered, "About time."

Bonds grinned. "And here I thought we'd have to fight another war just to get them to admit it."

Laughter and warmth surrounded them. The war against death was still ahead—but tonight, in the heart of peace, love bloomed under moonlight.

Jon Snow's POV:

I stood atop the battlements of the Red Keep, wind tugging at the Stark furs around my shoulders, and looked out over the horizon as the greatest army Westeros had ever assembled prepared to march north. It was a sight I never imagined I would live to see—banners of houses that had been enemies for centuries now waving side by side under a single cause: survival.

Six kingdoms, united. Not by love, nor by legacy—but by the chill of death creeping south.

Daenerys stood beside me, her hair braided in the Targaryen tradition, her expression firm and regal, but I could feel the slight tremble in her fingers when they brushed mine. Ghost lay at our feet, his massive white body curled like a sentinel, ice mist gently curling from his nostrils.

Behind us, the clamor of war echoed through the capital as armies mobilized. Tyrion oversaw the logistics with Missandei, their voices rising and falling over rosters and supply chains. The Unsullied, precise as ever, fell into disciplined ranks while the Dothraki rode through the outer roads like fire and wind, chaotic and powerful.

And from the south, the lords of Westeros answered the call:

Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End arrived first, hammer strapped to his back, leading a small but fiercely loyal Stormlander force. He clapped me on the shoulder like a brother and swore to bash the skulls of any Wight that dared cross his path. He is a good lad and if the rumors are true he is able to make my little wild wolf sister fall for him. Which is shocking to say at least.

Princess Arianne Martell came from Dorne, her warriors cloaked in sun-colored silks over chainmail, riding swift desert horses and bearing curved spears. Her presence alone gave Daenerys a political strength few would question.

Willas Tyrell, crippled but brilliant, rode in a carriage bearing the rose of Highgarden, flanked by thousands of Reach knights and his grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, who insisted on joining the march. "If I'm to die to walking corpses, I'd rather be useful and bitter until the end," she said with that trademark glare.

Tyrion Lannister, now Lord of Casterly Rock, led the remaining loyal Westerlands forces, Jaime at his side, commanding with silent strength. Despite all that had happened, Jaime's loyalty to the realm had brought him back to the battlefield.

Edmure Tully rallied the Riverlands, and Robin Arryn came down from the Vale with his knights, the falcon banners high.

And at the heart of it all stood Daenerys Stormborn and I, the dragon and the wolf, bound by war, destiny, and soon—marriage.

The day before we left, Sam arrived.

He came through the Red Keep gates just after sunrise, Gilly clutching little Sam to her chest, her eyes wide with awe at the southern architecture. I rushed down the steps two at a time to meet him, Ghost barreling ahead like a storm.

"Jon!" Sam called, breathless as we collided in a hug that nearly knocked him over.

"You came," I muttered, clapping his back.

"Of course I did. I had to see you. And—you won't believe what I found in the Citadel."

"I already know," I said softly.

He blinked, stunned. "How?"

Jon Bonds stepped forward, arms crossed and grinning. "That'd be me. Jon Bonds."

Sam stared at him in disbelief. "You're Jon Bonds? The wizard I heard about."

"In the enchanted flesh." Bonds summoned a sphere of shimmering blue flame in one palm, letting it spin idly in the air.

And then Ghost spoke.

"He didn't take it too well at first."

Sam nearly jumped three feet. Gilly gasped. Little Sam giggled.

"He talks?!"

"I do a lot more than talk now," Ghost said, yawning. Ice fangs shimmered inside his jaws.

The reunion was a storm of laughter and awe. I introduced Sam to Daenerys, who greeted him warmly and offered quarters in the Tower. Sam bowed with a touch of awkwardness, then congratulated us both on our engagement.

"She's not like her father," he whispered to me later. "I can see it in her eyes."

We spent the evening in counsel, making final preparations for the march. Jon Bonds and Tyrion reviewed our routes. The Unsullied would march up the Kingsroad. The Dothraki would sweep ahead in waves. Ghost, Tormund, and I would lead the vanguard.

Daenerys remained at the center, flanked by her dragons, symbols of fire and fear.

And at dawn, the gates opened.

The drums of war beat slow and steady.

The wind carried the chill of the Long Night.

And together, we rode.

For the living.

For the realm.

For the last war the world might ever know.