Ron didn't know what to think about these weird—but intimidating—people.
The man with the stern face and heavy fur cloak had introduced himself as Eddard Stark, and he had a bunch of grim-looking soldiers with him, along with a bunch of boys around his age—his sons, he'd said. And the older boy with the sneer, that was his ward. Student? Apprentice? Whatever that meant.
The names didn't mean anything to Ron, but he knew he needed help. And they seemed decent enough. By decent—he meant they didn't attack him outright, then, and there.
Ron thanked Merlin for the small mercies of being able to communicate the same language. Even if they spoke similarly like old English, and how apparent they seemed to be a little behind or eccentric about certain topics.
What's fifteen? Five and ten? Seriously? They were playing with him, he thought.
Godric, where was he? When was he?
He was doomed. Doomed like the time he broke his old wand.
He took a deep breath, feeling the rough fabric of the cloak—given to him from one of the 'soldiers'—around his shoulders. It was heavier than anything he'd ever worn, but it was warm, and that was all that mattered right now. The men mounted their horses, and he was helped onto one of them, feeling utterly out of place as he clung to the animal's fur-covered back. The group started moving, and the horse beneath him lurched into a trot.
The journey through the woods was quiet and surreal, the quiet only occasionally pierced by the sound of hooves on the ground and the occasional bird call. The trees grew denser, the shadows deeper, and Ron couldn't help but feel like he was being led into the very heart of a fairy tale he'd read about in the Hogwarts library.
But this was no fairy tale, and he wasn't a hero with a destiny to fulfill. He wasn't Harry Potter.
He was just lost, with a wand in a world that he wasn't sure even knew of magic.
Ron decided to hide his magic for now. He wasn't ready to explain magic to these people, not until he knew more about them and their world. What if they were muggles of old? What if he was hunted down like those old witch hunts that happened during ancient times?
Ron shuddered. Yep, he was going to keep quiet until he knew more information about these people.
They rode for an hour, the sun dipping lower and lower until it kissed the horizon, painting the sky with strokes of pink and gold. The castle that eventually came into view was like nothing Ron had ever seen before. Not that he saw any other castle to compare to Hogwarts.
It was made of thick, grey stone walls, massive, foreboding, a bit gloomy, with towers smaller than Hogwarts. A drawbridge was down, and torches flickered in the windows, casting an eerie glow across the surrounding water.
As they approached the gates, the sound of horses' hooves and the clank of armor grew louder. People peered out of the windows, and the gates swung open, revealing a bustling courtyard filled with more horses, men, servants, and the occasional woman in furs, wearing long dresses that were stained with mud from the unpaved or cemented surfaces, where only bare, ungrassed soil turned muddy.
The Stark family dismounted, and Ron slid off the horse, his legs wobbly from the unfamiliar ride.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Eddard said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The gates creaked shut behind them, sealing out the open courtyard.
Ron looked around in amazement, his eyes wide as he took in the castle.
It was nothing like Hogwarts, with its magical grandeur and whimsical towers. This place was more like the Hogwarts dungeons had mated with a medieval fortress—solid, sturdy, and unwelcoming.
He shivered, not just from the cold that seeped through his unfamiliar cloak, but from the realization that he was in a world where magic was probably feared, if not entirely unknown. For he saw no magical properties or similar applications of it among the castle or its inhabitants.
He watched as Eddard Stark was met by a lady with a kind smile and a warm embrace. Probably his wife, Ron thinks.
She had the same stern look in her eyes as her husband, but there was a softness to her that spoke of a gentle heart pointed towards her husband. Her fur-lined cloak was a stark contrast to her husband's armor, but she carried herself with the same authority. The sight of a family, even if it wasn't his own, brought a pang of homesickness.
"This is Lady Catelyn Stark, my wife," Eddard introduced her, his voice a rumble of pride.
"A pleasure to meet you, Ma'am," Ron nodded towards her, remembering his manners.
He felt his stomach twist into knots as he finally realized the gravity of the situation.
He was in a place where he didn't belong, surrounded by people who were likely to be wary of his very existence. But he had no choice but to play along.
Eddard Stark turned to the kind-faced woman, Lady Catelyn, and spoke in hushed tones.
Ron couldn't make out the words, but considering how she was glancing at him…he knew what it was about.
She nodded, her gaze kept flicking over to him with curiosity and concern.
"Boys, take the pups, and young Ronald here and introduce him to the rest of your siblings," Eddard said, his voice firm but not unkind. "And show him the keep, let him get acquainted with the place."
The boy with auburn hair nodded solemnly, before Eddard and his wife walked away, talking too low for Ron to hear until he was left alone with four other boys and their pups.
"I'm Robb," the one who nodded just now said, extending a hand.
Ron took it, feeling the firm grip. "Call me Ron," he requested.
The one with the stern expression and the brooding aura, stepped forward next. "Jon," he said, his voice gruff.
Ron took his hand, noticing the stark difference in their skin tones. "Pleasure to meet you," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The boy with the insufferable smirk was next to introduce himself as Theon Greyjoy.
"Nice to meet you, Theon," Ron lied, his voice strained, not knowing whether to trust him.
Theon's smirk grew wider. "Likewise, I'm sure."
Bran, the smallest of the bunch, stepped closer to Ron with excitement in his eyes. "I'm Bran Stark," he said eagerly, his voice high and clear. "You've got red hair like my sister, Sansa! Do you have siblings too? How many? Are you the oldest?"
Before Ron could even start answering his rapid questions, Theon rolled his eyes. "Leave the poor lad alone, Bran. Wait until tonight to interrogate him," he said, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
Robb, the one who seemed to be the most in charge, stepped forward. "Let's go," he said, turning to lead
them through the castle.
The corridors of Winterfell were vast and echoed with the sound of their footsteps. The walls were adorned with weapons and furs, the floors cold and hard under his feet.
"What breed are they?" Ron blurted out, his curiosity getting the better of him. He had seen the way the Stark children held the pups with such reverence, and he had to admit, they were rather adorable. The scene reminded him of Pigwidgeon. Hopefully Ginny adopts Pig, now that he's gone. She was the one who named the bloody owl after all.
Jon looked at him, his expression unreadable. "They're direwolves," he said simply, as if that explained everything. Which it didn't, thank you very much.
"Direwolves?" Ron repeated, his mind racing. "I've never heard of them."
Bran's eyes lit up. "They're seen only from the North of the Wall, or so everyone thought," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "But we found them, didn't we?"
"You make it sound like we've discovered dragons," Theon quipped.
Ron raised an eyebrow at that, do they have dragons here too? Those magical beasts? Does that mean there's wizards here too?!
Bran shot Theon a look that could freeze a Dementor. "Direwolves are special," he said fiercely. "They're the Stark's sigil."
Ron nodded, pretending to understand. "Ah, so they're like... family pets?"
Theon snorted.
Robb glanced at him, his expression growing a little amused. "No, dire wolves are dangerous. Much larger, more fierce, and incredibly rare. Their mother died and they're just pups, so we can train them to be loyal," he said, his eyes lingering on the pups.
"But how did you get them?" Ron asked, still trying to piece together this strange world.
Robb's expression grew solemn. "We found them after a hunt. Our father had executed a deserter, and we stumbled upon their mother, dead, with these six pups around her. It's said that finding a litter of direwolves is a sign of dark times, but we couldn't leave them to die," he said, his voice filled with pride and solemnity.
Ron gaped like a loon.
T-Their father executed someone?! Bloody hell! That would make their father a murderer! They must be joking!
But the grim looks on their faces told him they weren't.
Ron wanted to go home.