Harry stood at the edge of a cliff, his black cloak billowing in the icy wind as he gazed across the vast expanse of Skagos. The island's jagged peaks, dense forests, and rocky shores stretched out before him, isolated and untamed. In the distance, he could just make out the small wooden fortress that marked the domain of House Crowl. The savagery of the Skagosi, their primitive weapons, and harsh way of life reminded him of an era long gone in his own world, yet here, it seemed to have persisted for thousands of years. The longer Harry remained on this island, the more restless he became.
It had been weeks since they had first arrived in this strange world. His elves had settled into the rhythm of life on Skagos, hidden away in the forest under the protection of Harry's powerful wards. They were content to stay close, ensuring the camp was secure and comfortable, but Harry could no longer remain still. The island, as wild and ancient as it was, held little for him beyond its isolation. His curiosity was gnawing at him. There was an entire world beyond these shores, and he needed to learn more.
"Master Harry is leaving?" Kreacher asked one evening, his wide eyes full of concern as he watched Harry pack his enchanted suitcase.
"I need to understand more about this world," Harry replied, his voice calm but firm. "There's only so much we can learn here, and we've already been found once. I can't risk staying in one place too long. I'll return in a few weeks, maybe longer. You'll be safe here."
Kreacher didn't seem entirely convinced, but he nodded obediently. The elves were fiercely loyal, and though they would have followed him without question, Harry knew that they were better off remaining hidden on the island. It was the best way to keep them safe.
With his preparations complete, Harry stepped out into the clearing one final time. His staff, rested comfortably in his hand. It had become his constant companion, more than just a tool—it was an extension of his power, capable of shifting form at his will. Right now, it appeared as a simple walking stick of black wood, its surface smooth and unadorned.
He gave a nod to his elves, who watched him from the shadows of the trees, and then transformed. In a burst of magic, his form shifted into that of a black phoenix, wings of shadow and flame spreading wide as he took to the sky.
The North was as vast and cold as the island of Skagos had been, but as Harry flew across its snow-covered wilderness, he noticed the stark differences. The land here was not as isolated. There were villages, small towns, and castles scattered throughout the region, each one nestled in valleys or perched on hills, surrounded by towering forests or frozen lakes. The people, too, were different. Though many were just as hardened by the cold, their lives seemed less savage than those of the Skagosi.
Flying as a phoenix gave Harry unparalleled freedom. He could move unnoticed through the sky, far beyond the reach of any of the northern men's crude arrows or suspicious eyes. From time to time, he would land near isolated farms or small hamlets, and from the safety of the shadows, he would observe. Harry rarely made direct contact with the people he encountered, preferring to slip into their minds without their knowledge, extracting information about this world without ever speaking a word.
What he learned only deepened his fascination—and his frustration.
The North, and indeed much of the rest of this world, was locked in a state that seemed to mirror the middle ages of his own Earth. Castles, knights, lords, and peasants ruled the land, but unlike his own world, where the magical and non-magical worlds had grown alongside each other, magic here was almost nonexistent. The people spoke of magic as if it were a myth, long dead and buried. They worshipped strange gods and clung to old stories of heroes and legends that had faded into obscurity over thousands of years.
Harry delved into their minds, sifting through layers of thought and memory. He learned of the great families that ruled this land—the Starks, the Boltons, the Umbers, and others. House Stark, the rulers of Winterfell, were held in high regard, seen as fair and just, but also ruthless when the situation called for it. Their motto, "Winter is Coming," seemed to hang over the North like a constant reminder of the harshness of life in this cold, unforgiving land.
Harry found the most surprising revelations when he dug deeper into the legends and myths the people carried in their hearts. Stories of the ancient Wall to the far north—a massive structure of ice that had stood for thousands of years, built to keep out something called the "Others." The Wall itself, Harry discovered, was an enchanted structure, created by magic so old that no one seemed to remember who had built it or how, only ledgend about a Bran the Builder Stark and his magic. The men of the Night's Watch, who guarded the Wall, were spoken of in hushed tones, their order now a shadow of its former self.
Harry also came across tales of a figure known as the Last Hero, a man who had supposedly lived during the Long Night, a time of great darkness when the Others—the White Walkers—had nearly destroyed the world. The Last Hero had been a figure of legend, wielding some form of magic and rallying the peoples of the North to defeat the threat.
But magic in these stories was always distant, long ago. The people he encountered had never seen true magic, not like what Harry could perform. The most they spoke of were ancient, enchanted buildings, like the Wall, and forgotten relics that might have once held power.
It was baffling to Harry that in a world so ancient, magic had seemingly faded into obscurity. How could a land with such deep-rooted history have forgotten the power that once existed here?
He also learned of the various gods worshipped in this world. The Old Gods, worshipped by the Starks and the northern men, were connected to the weirwood trees—great white trees with faces carved into them, whose red leaves seemed to whisper in the wind. From what Harry could gather, the Old Gods were tied to the land and nature itself, and while their magic was subtle, it was there—hidden in the earth, the trees, and the old places.
The Faith of the Seven, on the other hand, was a newer religion, dominant in the southern regions of Westeros. Its worshippers believed in a pantheon of seven deities, each representing a different aspect of life. The Seven, however, seemed to hold no power over magic. The tales of their miracles were far more mundane, more concerned with the moral guidance of the people than with actual magical phenomena.
There was also talk of another land, far across the Narrow Sea to the east, called Essos. Harry was intrigued by the little he learned of this place. The North was a land of cold and hardship, but Essos sounded vast, rich, and diverse. It was home to the Free Cities, places where different cultures and people mingled. Essos also had a reputation for harboring strange and powerful magics, though the specifics were vague and muddled in the minds of the people he encountered.
Harry's mind churned with the possibilities. If magic had faded from Westeros, perhaps it still thrived in Essos. He would need to learn more, but first, he had to finish gathering information about the North.
As the days passed, Harry flew farther south, following the memories of the people he had encountered. He finally reached Winterfell, the ancient seat of House Stark. The castle was large, larger than any castle he had ever seen, more impressive than anything he had seen on Skagos or his travels in this world or Earth, but still primitive compared to the magical fortresses he had known in his own world. Its high stone walls were surrounded by a small town, and smoke rose from the chimneys of the many buildings within.
Harry landed in a forest just beyond the castle's view, transforming back into his human form as he approached the towering weirwood tree that stood in the Godswood. The tree's pale bark and red leaves gave it an otherworldly appearance, and Harry could feel the ancient magic pulsing beneath the surface. This was one of the Old Gods' sacred places, and as he stood there, he felt a strange connection to the magic of the land.
There was power here, deep and ancient, but it was different from the magic Harry had known. It was raw, primal, and tied to the very essence of nature itself. The Old Gods, he realized, were not gods in the traditional sense—they were manifestations of the magic of the land, forces that had once been worshipped by the people of the North. The weirwood trees were their eyes, their connection to the living world.
Harry placed a hand on the tree's smooth bark, feeling the power beneath his fingers. For the first time in centuries, he sensed something outside of himself that he couldn't fully understand. The Old Gods, whatever they truly were, held a magic that was beyond even his vast knowledge.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, letting his own magic reach out, merging with the energy of the tree. The world around him seemed to fade away, and for a brief moment, he saw flashes of visions—images of the past, of men and women long dead, of battles fought in the snow, of ancient creatures lurking in the shadows.
And then, just as quickly, the visions vanished, leaving Harry standing alone in the Godswood once more.
Winterfell's walls rose high against the grey sky as Harry watched from the shadows, his black cloak blending into the twilight. He had gleaned all he could from the minds of those in the surrounding villages, but Winterfell was different. It was the seat of House Stark, and though the people spoke of the Starks as fair and just rulers, they were also spoken of with a reverence bordering on worship.