The fire crackled quietly in the heart of the small clearing, its light casting long shadows against the towering trees surrounding Harry's camp. The cold northern wind howled above the canopy, but inside the wards, it was calm and comfortable. The elves had worked efficiently, as they always did, setting up a modest shelter for the night. The soft glow of the magical fire bathed the campsite in warmth, its flickering flames reflecting off the eyes of the ever-watchful Kreacher, who sat beside Harry.
Harry sat on a rock, staring into the flames, deep in thought. It had been only a few days since they had arrived on this strange island, and he had spent most of his time exploring its terrain from the skies. His phoenix form had given him a bird's-eye view of the land, but even then, it was vast, untamed, and filled with a wildness that reminded him of ancient magical forests in his old world.
But here, there were no familiar landmarks, no magical settlements or hidden enclaves of wizards. This land was raw, untouched by the modern magical advancements he had known, and the people who lived here were nothing like the ones he'd left behind.
Suddenly, Harry felt it—a subtle but unmistakable disturbance in the wards he'd placed around the camp. His senses, honed by centuries of magical practice, instantly snapped to attention. Someone—or something—had triggered his wards. A slight tingling sensation ran through his mind, alerting him to the presence of an intruder who had wandered too close.
Harry stood up, his black cloak billowing slightly in the cold air. His movement was so swift that even Kreacher didn't stir from his seat at first.
"Kreacher," Harry whispered, his voice low but commanding. "Stay here. There's something outside the wards."
Kreacher's eyes widened, and he nodded, rising to his feet. "Master Harry, should Kreacher follow?"
"No, I'll handle it," Harry said firmly. "Make sure the others remain safe."
With that, Harry vanished into the darkness, slipping through the barrier of his own wards with ease. As he moved silently through the forest, the trees around him loomed tall and twisted, their bare branches reaching up to the sky like skeletal hands. He could hear the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, though the sound was barely perceptible. The air smelled of pine and frost, and the only other sound was the distant rustling of wind through the trees.
After a few minutes of walking, Harry saw him—a man, hunched over and armed with a crude bronze weapon, his posture betraying his uncertainty as he moved through the woods. The muggle-repelling charms had done their job, diverting the man away from the camp, but Harry could tell by the man's dazed expression that he had nearly stumbled right into their midst.
Harry's eyes narrowed as he considered the situation. This land was foreign, and he still knew very little about it or its people. What little he had learned from flying over the island and observing from afar wasn't enough. If this man was from here, he could provide valuable information—if Harry could extract it from him.
Making his decision, Harry raised his staff and aimed it carefully at the man. With a quick thud, he cast a stunning spell. The red beam of light shot through the air and hit the man squarely in the back, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Harry approached the fallen figure cautiously, his staff vanishing. The man was breathing steadily, the spell having merely knocked him unconscious. Harry knelt down beside him and took a closer look. The man was dressed in furs and leathers, his face gaunt and weathered from the cold. His crude weapon—a bronze sword—lay beside him in the snow. It was rudimentary, even by non-magical standards, and Harry found it curious that anyone would still be using bronze weaponry.
With a sigh, Harry stomps his staff to the ground once more and a levitation charm took hold of the man. The body rose into the air, floating alongside him as he walked back toward the camp. Once they were within the safety of the wards, Harry gently lowered the man onto the ground. Kreacher appeared almost immediately, his large, bat-like ears twitching with concern.
"Kreacher, keep watch," Harry said quietly. "He's unconscious, but I'm going to search his memories. We need information."
Kreacher gave a sharp nod, his eyes never leaving the intruder. Harry knelt beside the man, taking a moment to focus his mind. He had perfected the art of Legilimency centuries ago, and while he had long abandoned its use for ethical reasons, this situation was different. They were in an unfamiliar world, surrounded by potential enemies, and Harry needed answers.
"Legilimens," he whispered, as he pressed the tip of his staff to the man's temple.
The rush of memories hit him like a wave, swirling around him in a chaotic blur of images and sensations. Harry's mind plunged deeper, sorting through the man's scattered thoughts and emotions until he found what he was looking for—knowledge about this land, about the people who inhabited it.
The man's name was Brannok, and he was a hunter, one of the many who lived on this island known as Skagos. Harry's suspicions were confirmed as the memories began to coalesce into a coherent narrative. Skagos was a remote, savage place, far to the north of a larger continent called Westeros. Its people were isolated, cut off from the rest of the world by distance and their own fierce independence. They were a hardy folk, accustomed to harsh winters and brutal living conditions.
Harry saw fleeting images of castles—small, ugly fortresses made of stone and wood—each one belonging to one of the three ruling families of Skagos. There was House Magnar in the west, House Crowl in the east, and House Stane in the north. These houses were nominally sworn to a greater family, the Starks of Winterfell, but in reality, Skagos had always been a land only loyal to itself. Its people paid lip service to their overlords, and even that only sometimes, but lived by their own laws, isolated and fiercely loyal to their own customs.
The memories shifted, and Harry saw images of a great castle far to the west—Winterfell, the seat of House Stark. The man had never been there, but he had heard stories passed down through generations. House Stark had once been the Kings of Winter, rulers of the vast northern lands, but that had changed nearly a century ago. The Targaryens, conquerors with dragons, had come from across the sea and subjugated all of Westeros, uniting the continent under one rule. The Starks, like all the other great families, had bent the knee to these new kings, relinquishing their title as Kings of Winter and becoming mere lords.
But Skagos had always remained aloof. The island was so remote, so wild, that even the Targaryens had little reason to bother with it. The people here lived as they always had, disconnected from the politics of the other lands.
Harry's mind lingered on the image of the dragons—great, fire-breathing beasts that rule the skies of this world. They reminded him, in some small way, of the phoenix he could become, though they were far more fearsome and dangerous.
As Harry delved deeper, he learned more about the customs of Skagos. The people here were rough, almost primitive by the standards Harry had known. They followed old ways, worshipped old gods—gods of the forest, the river, and the stone. There was no Ministry of Magic here, no organized magical community. Magic was nonexistent.
Satisfied that he had gleaned all he could from the man's memories, Harry slowly withdrew from his mind. He stood up, feeling the strain of the mental intrusion as a dull ache behind his eyes. Kreacher looked up at him expectantly.
"What did Master find?" the old elf asked.
"This place," Harry said slowly, rubbing his temples, "is called Skagos. It's part of a larger landmass known as Westeros. The people here are isolated, wild, and they follow their own rules. There are three noble houses on the island—Magnar, Crowl, and Stane—and they don't take kindly to outsiders."
Kreacher frowned, his wrinkled face creasing even more. "And the rest of the world, Master?"
" This continent it is ruled by a dynasty of conquerors called the Targaryens," Harry replied. "They've taken control of the continent, uniting it under one crown. The people here still pay some loyalty to a family called Stark, but Skagos has always been a world of its own. The rest of the world is still a mystery to me"
Kreacher's eyes darted nervously toward the unconscious man. "And him?"
Harry looked down at Brannok, considering the options. The man had no idea what he had stumbled upon. The muggle-repelling charms had redirected him, but it was only a matter of time before others came across their camp. They were not as hidden as Harry would have liked, and the presence of an outsider so close to their wards made him uneasy.
"We'll have to let him go," Harry said finally. "I'll modify his memory, make sure he doesn't remember anything about us. It's better that he returns to his people with no knowledge of what he saw."
Kreacher nodded, though he still looked concerned. Harry raised his staff again and pointed it at Brannok. The man's face twitched slightly as the spell took hold, erasing any trace of his encounter with Harry and his elves.
Once the spell was complete, Harry levitated Brannok's body once more, carrying him to the edge of the wards. He set him down gently on the cold ground, just outside the magical boundary. With a stomp of his staff, Harry cast a subtle waking charm, ensuring the man would wake up in a few minutes, none the wiser.
As Harry walked back to the camp, he couldn't shake the feeling that this island, remote as it was, would not remain untouched by the rest of the world for long. They were safe for now, but how long could they remain hidden? The thought weighed heavily on his mind, but for the moment, he pushed it aside. There was much more to learn about this new world, and Harry Potter was nothing if not patient.
Back in the clearing, the fire still crackled quietly, casting its comforting glow over the camp. The elves were busy preparing for the night, their small forms moving about with purpose. Harry sat down beside the fire once more, his mind filled with questions about this strange land called Westeros.