02-Ours is the Old Way

Disclaimer: I do not own HP, GOT or ASOIAF.

Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon and Old man of the mountain.

Author's Note: Hello, here's another chapter. I've also posted the current ages of the younger characters at the end.

*

Jon

"Bloody fucking hell!" Jon swore angrily. His dragon familiar threw him a sour look after being woken up by the loud swearing. After hours of trying every single branch of magic he knew in his chambers, he was left with a very unsatisfactory conclusion. First, he no longer had his gigantic reserves or control of magic from his original body. Second, magic simply didn't work outside of his body. The ambient magic of the world was incredibly volatile, and as soon as a magical spell construct appeared in the air, it would get twisted and simply fade away.

Calling the Deathly Hallows didn't yield any results either. He felt a deep echo and a slight connection, but none of them appeared.

At least he could cast the less complex spells directly on himself, but only the simplest self-transfiguration was possible with great difficulty. His magical Animagus form of a thunderbird was now lost. Most likely he had a new form, since he couldn't find his inner thunderbird anymore. However, just the technical process of becoming a magical animagus would take around fifteen months and require an insane amount of magical power – something he lacked, as Jon Snow had not used his magic until now. After Harry's wife and children had died, the story of Merlin being a dragon animagus fascinated him. He spent around 60 years researching, experimenting, and travelling the world, searching for every little bit of magic and lore about animagi or shapeshifters before finally succeeding.

Fire elemental magic worked a bit too well in comparison to everything else. But it would be months of practice before he could build up reserves and control to do anything remotely useful in combat. He had summoned a mundane flame and felt winded after holding it for a minute. And summoning a more powerful magical fire exhausted him in five seconds.

Blood magic worked without any problems. Runic inscriptions worked fine... and Harry Potter was reasonably skilled at them, but not as good as he was at combat magic.

He shortly contemplated potions, but the necessary tools and the vast majority of magical ingredients were either missing or near impossible to find. Any potion mainly made from mundane ingredients was generally weak or trivial. Nor was he very good at brewing potions, and he had no idea how to develop and research new ones.

Jon was now free of the Night's Watch vows, but he was screwed, and there wasn't much he could do about it. Combat magic, his biggest strength, was almost completely useless. In his previous life, he had defeated three entire civilizations in total war alone through his mastery of magic. As much as he disliked Voldemort, he ended up admitting he was correct long ago.

Magic was might.

And he didn't feel all that mighty at all right now.

The feeling of weakness grated upon his very soul. He was used to being in complete control of his destiny. Yes, he had made many mistakes, but they were his and he had learned from them one way or another. But nobody could push him around or ignore him. He had only grown further magically and mentally after vanquishing his first dark lord, and he had cleanly bested and crushed every new enemy that appeared in his way. At this moment, however, he had many foes and no way to lay complete waste to them ... for now.

To the north, there was an eldritch ice elemental necromancer with far too many inferi, or wights as they were called here. To the south, there were the Boltons and the Lannisters who would see him killed just on principle. His sweet and kind sister had been repeatedly abused, beaten, and raped. Her body was a gruesome map of scars and wounds. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of her family – him. And when that last family was gone, she simply decided to join him on his funeral pyre. Just thinking about it made his blood boil.

Jon Snow remembered every slight he received in his life. Harry Potter was no different.

Nobody even knew what lay beyond the vast sea expanse to the west. Either another continent or simply the eastern parts of Essos. And to the east, were the free cities – which, from what he had heard about Daenerys' deeds, would hate dragons with a passion. There, he'd either be butchered or taken control of.

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He'd make a plan, but he had no information whatsoever. He knew House Bolton held Winterfell, but not which houses answered to them, nor how many men they could field. Hopefully, his sister would wake up soon and shed some light on the happenings in the south.

The Night King, the white walkers, and the army of wights weren't something he could deal with right now either. He knew that In a year or two, when the dragons and his magic grew, he could most definitely torch all the wights. but he wasn't sure if he even had that much. And if he couldn't think of conventional ways to deal with the horde of ice zombies, the rest of the world stood no chance, except maybe Daenerys Targaryen and her three fully grown dragons. She, however, was on the other side of the world, and, knowing his luck, would most probably not give a fuck or would use this whole thing to make him agree to things he otherwise wouldn't. Just like usual, if he wanted to end the Night King and his army of the dead, he would have to do it himself.

The only upside was that he had completed the body refinement and enhanced his body further with the extra magic. His body was brimming with energy, and he had the feeling that he could smash everything in his way.

His body had also changed quite drastically - he had gained a few inches, and his muscles, bones, and organs had become denser. His centre of gravity had been shifted, and he would probably have to retrain his fighting style. Over his long life, Harry had actively used the sword of Gryffindor as a weapon, especially against certain highly magically resistant demons or magical beasts. Jon Snow was also a skilled and gifted fighter who had been trained to wield arms from the tender age of 7. The problem was that now his body was completely different, and Longclaw felt far too light in his arm.

Thankfully, it was not all bad news. Theoretically, if the Valyrians hadn't magically protected the forging process of Valyrian steel weapons, he could figure out the crafting process via a complex rune matrix.

It took him around two hours to calculate and create a functioning rune matrix. The results were very interesting. Valyrian steel weapons were made of eight parts crucible steel and one part dragonglass, melted by magical flame. The dragonglass was not only actual obsidian but also had the dual properties of fire and earth elemental stones. The resulting alloy was folded repeatedly. Each time, a spell was woven directly into it and anchored by a human sacrifice - sharpness, lightness, and invulnerability. It was rather crude but quite effective. He had tried to find out the creation process of goblin-wrought silver multiple times, but to no avail. That had been their best-protected secret, and when the goblins were destroyed, the secret went with them to their graves.

While Harry had never really done any forging, Jon Snow had been helping Donald Noye in the smithy almost every day. He had been an apprentice smith in all but name and knew the ins and outs of the general process. He entertained the thought of trying out forging, but decided to test his body first.

After another half an hour, he realised that none of the conventional bodyweight exercises challenged him in any way. Which meant that his body had gotten very strong, but it would be extremely difficult to push his body further. Being faster and stronger than his opponents meant that his skill in swordplay would stagnate or even regress. After centuries as someone who had prided himself on being at the pinnacle, that was unacceptable. He grabbed a pair of vambraces made out of boiled leather and carefully etched a runic cluster on both of them with a knife. He then cut his thumb deeply and carefully smeared both clusters with his blood while pushing his magic inside as well.

This particular runic inscription was something he had found in the same place where he had gotten the body refining manual. Whoever had created the refinement followed a similar thought process to him and had created the inscription to be able to push himself further. Activating the runes would simply increase resistance to all his movements, making it difficult to exert strength and speed.

With runes, you could practically do almost everything you'd ever want, and oftentimes in more than one way. However, it took time, creativity, knowledge, and experience to get the desired effect. Jon was about to head out when he suddenly froze. A myriad of rushed thoughts and feelings flooded him, despite the rather solid control of his mind and feelings. Longing and bitterness gripped his mind. Jon Snow had been assimilated into his mind and soul, so his desires were still there.

He could find out who his mother was with the correct runic matrix. He already knew an inheritance runic matrix like that. He quickly grabbed a parchment and started gently carving runes on the back with the tip of the knife, trying to not pierce the other side. He ruined two parchments out of excitement before he finally finished the bloodline ancestry test matrix.

He nicked his thumb with the knife again and squeezed seven drops of blood onto the parchment, causing reddish text to slowly appear.

"Bloody bugger me fucking sideways! "Jon could barely express in words what he felt after looking at the results, but a stream of curses that would make even a seasoned sailor blush continued pouring out of his mouth.

Name: Aemon Targaryen?/Jon Snow (?Head of House Targaryen), Master of Death

Father: Rhaegar Targaryen (deceased)

Mother: Lyanna Targaryen? nee Stark (deceased)

Bloodline abilities:

Warging

Giant's Strength

Wolfsblood

Dragon's blood

A desire to just go to a corner and brood appeared. But he ruthlessly squashed all the self-pity and shame. As Harry Potter, he had done plenty of that in his very long life and he knew all too well that it only made things worse. He fastened Longclaw to his belt and headed out looking for people to spar with.

His emotions were in disarray and his mind was numb despite his occlumency. He had to get full control of his body and skills if he wanted to survive. The fact that his blood was boiling and he just wanted to hit something - or somebody - was just a sweet bonus.

*

Melisandre, Ser Davos, and Dolorous Edd wanted to speak with him, but he simply brushed them off by saying "not now" or completely ignoring them. He entered the courtyard and started looking around for sparring partners.

It took three days of furiously fighting everyone who entered the practice yard, pushing his body and magic to the limit, to completely calm down and think things over. Longclaw was a reliable weapon, but even with resistance seals, his blood was boiling and it still felt too light. Thankfully, most practice swords were deliberately weighted. He had picked the heaviest greatsword he could find in the armoury. If it weren't for healing magic he'd probably be in bed for a week after the first day. At first, he barely won any of the fights and got heavily bruised. The increased resistance also heavily taxed his joints and ligaments.

Jon was a prodigy with a sword in hand and practised relentlessly from a young age. Harry Potter was a prodigy in combat and killing. With barely two years of serious training, he could resist one of the most dangerous Dark Lords and even kill him by surprise when he had dropped his guard down. After surviving for 300 years and as the sole survivor of a hundred-year-long total war, his instincts and skill in combat were virtually unsurpassed. It was no surprise that it only took him three days to become rather dangerous with a heavy greatsword.

He only knew the official story of how Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen. Yet that probably hadn't happened because they had somehow been married, even though Rhaegar already had a wife and two children. Not to mention that his mother was barely six and ten when she had given birth to him and only four and ten when she was "taken". The whole thing didn't make any fucking sense.

He had no way of actually knowing what had happened, and there was only one person that could tell him anything amongst the living. Lord Howland Reed of Greywatch Tower was the only one who returned from Dorne alive with Eddard Stark.

On the upside, he got completely used to his body. But the only person who didn't avoid facing him in the yard alone after those three days was Tormund, who relished the challenge and simply enjoyed fighting.

He also noticed that he was still growing. He had shot up by half an inch since his rebirth to become a total of 6'1 foot tall. His strength also continued to grow, forcing him to switch runic inscriptions to increase the resistance modifier. His muscles, joints, and ligaments were continuously damaged and healed multiple times per day. He had been successfully cramming months' worth of training into three days. His body also put on muscle very easily, compared to his previous one. If he had any doubt about what Giant's Strength was, it was gone now. Despite his already strong body, he had no problems pushing his physical boundaries further. House Umber was said to be descended from giants. The ancient Stark Kings had taken an Umber woman as a wife more than once or twice over the course of eight thousand years.

It was no surprise that he was almost always hungry, and without devouring enough meat to feed seven grown men, he couldn't satiate his hunger. His dragons also ate only raw meat that was burnt by their flames and grew rapidly. When they hatched, they were only as big as a large domestic cat. In just three days, they had almost doubled in size. All three hatchlings were quite prickly, but they generally listened to any command he sent via the mental link, compared to Ghost, who was naturally quite obedient. The biggest of the dragons, however, simply refused to leave him and followed him wherever he went, never letting him out of his sight for a moment.

Judging from what he had seen beyond the wall and the words of Varamyr Sixskins about his talent, this looked like a very powerful form of warging, enhanced by his magic and control of his mind. Slipping into the minds of his dragons or Ghost temporarily seemed to merge their minds and senses while leaving his body vulnerable. He could in theory, split his mind via occlumency and maybe stay in control of both his body and his bonded animal. In practice, however, all he got was a headache. And while he was sleeping before as Jon Snow, he had subconsciously been warging into Ghost, thus thinking that he had wolf dreams.

He had put off naming them for too long. His familiar, the largest hatchling with dark blue and black colouring, he named Winter. The crimson hatchling was named Bloodfyre, and the purple one he named Stormstrider.

The meat reserves of Castle Black were quickly starting to run low. Thankfully, Ghost could hunt for himself, and he managed to get a few men from the Free Folk to hunt for game rather easily.

He had switched to working out on top of the wall. Performing exercises on top of the slippery ice added extra tension. This meant faster results, especially since he always healed himself up when he reached the limit and could ignore the time needed for his torn muscles to heal. Jon had just finished a workout and was heading back to his quarters when Edd approached him.

"Jon, what do we do with the traitors?" Jon froze in his step. He had assumed that all the traitors were dealt with, considering that he hadn't seen any of them. He had lived far too long to make such dangerous assumptions. Jon decided there and then to stop avoiding people and finally get certain things in order.

"Where exactly are they right now?" His voice must have been quite frosty because Edd subconsciously took a step back. He realised that his magic was thrumming dangerously, answering to his emotions. In his over 300 years of his previous life, he spent roughly half of his life fighting for his life, and his kill count had easily reached millions. This was reflected in his magic, demeanour, and mannerisms over time. It took him a moment to get his emotions under control again. Despite his skill in occlumency, his control had almost reverted to the same level he had during his teenage years.

"Er, they're in the ice cells," Edd replied.

Ours is the old way. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

The bittersweet voice of Eddard Stark echoed through his head. While he had mixed feelings about his uncle, he recognized the wisdom of the ancient custom of first men.

"Bring them out in the courtyard and fetch me a block."

A crowd had gathered in the courtyard of Castle Black. The Night's Watchmen and the Free Folk were looking at him reverently and made way for him. Tormund saw him and headed towards Jon.

"They think you're some kind of God. The man who walked out of a burning fire with dragons, instead of staying dead and turning to ash as normal people do." The wildling said with his booming voice. He stopped for a moment and thoughtfully added. "And then after you come back you start fighting like a demon." Tormund leaned in close and whispered in his ear questioningly. "And I saw your pecker while you were dead. When you got out of the fire, it had gotten bigger! Are you sure you aren't some sort of god?!"

"I'm still human. If all it took for someone to be a god was a large pecker, we'd have far too many gods."

They both burst out in merry chuckles and embraced tightly. People called the free folk wild and savage, but Tormund was honest, jovial, straightforward, and loyal to his friends. You couldn't find a finer friend than him even if you tried.

"Can you ask the chieftains of the free folk if any of them are willing to fight for me? Something - or someone - forced my sweet sister, the precious daughter of the North, to escape like a homeless dog all the way to her bastard brother at the Wall. She even tried to kill herself by jumping in the fire. It seems that I have many enemies to the South also."

Stannis had taken a few thousand free folk prisoners after scattering them with cavalry in front of the Wall. Jon Snow had made a deal with some chieftains for safe passage beyond the Wall after he had become Lord Commander. He also managed to save seven thousand more from Hardhome, although the majority of them were women and children. If even half of the fighting force agreed to follow him south, his chances of success against the Boltons would rise greatly.

"I will ask for you, Lord Crow. But I don't think you'll have any problems getting our people following you." Tormund gave him a happy smile. "You fought for us and died for us, and that matters to the people of the true north. Especially after you walked out of that fire. If you call, they will follow. It would be best, however, to speak with them yourself."

Jon gratefully nodded and watched as Tormund walked away.

Soon, the traitors were brought forth. Bowen Marsh, Other Yarwick, Alister Thorne, and Olly got dragged into the courtyard in chains by Edd and five more black brothers. Beheading them one by one would be way too mundane and tedious. He suddenly had a great idea.

"Bring me three more blocks." He turned towards the traitors. "If you have any last lords, now is the time."

"You shouldn't be alive, it's not right!"

Jon simply snorted and moved to the next man.

"My mother is still living at White Harbor. Could you write to her? Tell her I died fighting the wildlings."

As if he'd waste expensive parchment on a traitor, especially when his mother probably couldn't even read. His face remained a frozen mask as he moved on to Alliser Thorne.

"I had a choice, Lord Commander. Betray you, or betray everything that the Night's Watch has been fighting for millennia. You brought an army of wildlings into our lands. An army of murderers and raiders. And the Bolton Bastard would be upon us with the accursed Baratheon dead in no time. If I had to do it all over knowing where I'd end up, I pray I'd make the right choice again."

Jon was just about to retort when a soft screech and furious flapping of wings were heard. Winter landed on his shoulder and looked at the bound knight carefully. Thorne's face froze in fear for a moment before turning to fury.

"I fought and I lost. Now, I will rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever."

Jon looked at the face of the bitter old man, who had decided to try and verbally spite him one last time before kicking the bucket. While Jon Snow had some softness left on the inside, Harry had long ago snuffed out such useless motions, especially for his enemies.

"You just had to open your bitter old mouth, didn't you? I might fight their battles forever, but you'll see no rest either." He returned with a savage grin. And turned to the night brothers holding him. "Put Ser Thorne to the side for now. And someone bring me some rope."

He looked at Olly. He was expecting some last words, but the kid stared at him unwaveringly. His entire family had been slaughtered by the wildlings, and he had nowhere to go but the Watch. The boy hated them with a passion, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when he chose to betray him. Soon, three more wooden stumps were brought and Marsh, Yarwick, and Olly were forced down on them.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw. It felt too light in his hands. He took a deep breath. One mighty swing later, and three heads rolled down onto the ground at the same time. Jon Snow had executed Janos Slynt, but that was just a memory and this was the first time he had executed people himself. And it felt way heavier than taking a life in battle or ambush. Jon realised that his whole body was tense and he was breathing heavily. Centring himself, he handed Longclaw to Satin for cleaning and spoke to Edd Tollett. " Burn the bodies." He finally turned to Thorne.

"You'll get to hang on the gallows. Then your body will be placed in the ice cells. If the gods will it, you will rise as a wight and help me fight all those battles that await me." Jon grabbed the last traitor and effortlessly dragged him to the gallows. The old knight, struggling in his grasp, tried kicking and screaming, but Jon's grip was iron tight.

He put the noose on Thorne's neck himself, threw the other end of the rope over the wooden crossbeam, grabbed it, and pulled. Alliser continued twitching morbidly while he was slowly asphyxiated. All of the free folk and some of the night's watchmen were looking on in respect. Some night brothers, however, were looking sick. A minute or two later, Thorne had stopped twitching, and he dropped the rope, letting his body collapse like a sack of potatoes.

"Throw his corpse in the ice cells and secure him tightly in chains. Don't forget to close the cell door in case he starts moving again."

With a mental command, Winter flew off him. Jon took off his cloak and unceremoniously handed it over to Dolorous Edd.

"What do you want me to do with this?" asked Edd in surprise.

"Wear it. Burn it. Whatever you want. My watch is ended. Castle Black is yours."

Jon walked back towards his quarters, under the gaze of the rest of the night brothers, leaving Edd stunned with the Lord Commander's cloak in his arms.

Just as he was about to enter his quarters, Satin approached him hurriedly.

"Lord Comm... Snow," his former steward amended himself when he threw him a sharp look. "They sent me to tell you that your sister is awake."

"Thank you, Satin, and you can just call me Jon. I'm not a lord of anything now." He nodded gratefully at his former steward and rushed towards the Lord Commander's Solar followed by the flapping wings of Winter.