Strange new places
Harry’s body slammed against something hard. Ground, tree roots, stone? It was a confusing blur of sensations before he came to a halt, gasping for breath. His mind raced, still disoriented, still spinning from the magic that had just shattered his world.
He blinked rapidly, shaking his head to clear the fog of dislocation. The wind rustled through the leaves above, but the air felt oddly still, as though the very world around him was holding its breath. An unfamiliar, earthy, old scent filled the air, hinting at something ancient, as if time had stood still for centuries. The surrounding trees, their twisted trunks gnarled with age, their branches stretching high into a canopy of deep green.
Where was he?
His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn’t from physical injury. No, he was more confused than hurt. He’d been expecting, well, something, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. The ground beneath him was soft, mossy even, and as he pushed himself up, he felt the weight of his body shift, the subtle crinkle of glass against his skin.
He checked himself over, as methodical as ever, but there were no immediate injuries. No blood, no bruises. Just a few scrapes on his hands and knees from the fall. He looked down, still disoriented, and saw shards of glass glittering in the palm of his hand. The charm.
He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded. It had broken, but it wasn’t supposed to, he’d expected... what exactly? Time to reverse itself? A shift in his reality?
A flicker of frustration passed through him, and he rubbed his thumb against the shards, feeling their jagged edges cut into his skin slightly. The sand. The sand was still there too, in small specks, sticking to his fingers. He brought his other hand up to brush them off but paused, feeling the weight of the magic, the strangeness, settle on him.
Where the hell am I?
He considered his options.
For a moment, the thought of summoning the sand back to him with an Accio crossed his mind. But then he scoffed. What was the point? He had no idea where this was. He had no idea what this was.
And frankly, he didn’t care.
If it killed him, well, so be it. At least he would finally get some peace, wouldn’t he? The eternal sleep he’d never been able to reach, because immortality was far less glamorous when you were the only one left.
A small, bitter laugh escaped him.
Instead of summoning the sand, he simply allowed the glass and sand to remain in his hand, letting them settle there as he reclined against the nearest tree trunk, sinking down with a sigh.
His eyes drifted closed for just a moment, and he leaned his head back, letting the cool shadows of the vast trees settle over him. If this was it, if this was the end, then he would embrace it. It wasn’t like he had anything left to fight for.
Maybe a nap would do him some good.
Harry woke with a start, his body refreshed, as though the sleep had washed away more than just his exhaustion. His mind was clearer than it had been in ages, the fog of confusion and frustration starting to lift. He blinked, adjusting to the light filtering through the strange, thick canopy above. The air felt thick with magic, more potent than anything he had encountered before.
The surrounding forest seemed alive, vibrant in ways that went beyond the usual magical forest he was used to. The trees twisted and turned, their roots sprawling in intricate patterns, the leaves shimmering in the dim light. He felt as though the very ground beneath him was watching, breathing, waiting for something he didn’t understand.
There was no immediate danger. He could sense that. But something about this place, the silence, the heavy pull of ancient magic in the air, made him hesitate. The woods felt sacred, a place too delicate to disturb with brute force. No, if he was going to survive here, he’d need to tread lightly, to respect the strange power in the air.
Start small. Make camp, then figure out where I am, Harry thought as he checked his surroundings.
His moleskin pouch, a trusty companion that had saved him more times than he could count, was still with him. He reached in, feeling for the familiar weight of his supplies. The pouch shifted slightly under his hand, as if it had a life of its own, a reminder of the magic that lived within it.
After a moment, his fingers closed around the object he was looking for.
With a quick, practiced motion, he pulled out his portable tent. It was a clever piece of magic, an outwardly small object, deceptively light, yet when opened, it expanded into a fully furnished space. He had used it on several occasions during long trips, particularly during the summer after the war, when he’d needed somewhere to hide away and recover from everything.
He cast a quick glance around to make sure the area was clear, then set it down on the mossy ground. The tent unfolded with a soft, satisfying whoosh, growing larger as the magic took hold. The outer shell was modest enough, nothing to draw attention, but inside… inside, it would be warm, safe, and fully stocked for his comfort.
As the tent settled into place, Harry took a deep breath, appreciating the familiar weightlessness that settled over him. It was strange, finding peace in this simple act. But after everything he had been through, it was the little things that grounded him, his own personal space, his own refuge.
He stepped inside the tent, the entrance easily widening at his touch. Inside was exactly as he remembered: a cozy, neat room with a small hearth, a couple of chairs, and his basic supplies. There was a bed in the corner, a wooden chest at the foot, and even a shelf of books that would help pass the time.
He kicked off his shoes and sat down in the nearest chair, rubbing his eyes. The events of the last hours, or was it days?, were a blur. He needed time to think, to recover, to process.
He set the glass shards and sand from the charm down on a table beside him, noticing their faint magical hum. The mystery of it all lingered, but for now, he needed to rest.
After a moment, he grabbed his wand, a familiar comfort in his hand, and cast a small warming charm to light the hearth. The flames flickered to life, casting a soft, inviting glow.
It wasn’t home, not in how Hogwarts had been, not in the way that his previous life had been, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like a beginning.
He could take a breath here. He could survive here.
Tomorrow, he decided, I’ll explore. But for tonight, the forest could wait.
The morning air was cool and crisp when Harry awoke, the soft light filtering through the thick canopy above. He stretched, feeling the weight of the unfamiliar surroundings press down on him, but he pushed the unease aside. Today, he needed answers.
He moved quickly, gathering his things and casting a Tempus spell to check the time. The result made his stomach flip, a sensation he couldn’t quite place. The spell gave him the current time and date: “11:38, 27th day of the 8th moon, 54 AC, Westeros, Godswood.”
The words felt like a blow to the chest, a punch that left him gasping for breath. Westeros? Godswood?
He had no idea what that meant. He had never heard of a place called Westeros, and the term Godswood, though vaguely familiar, meant nothing to him in this context. It certainly didn’t fit into anything he knew.
He let the confusion wash over him for a moment before shaking his head. There had to be a mistake. It was probably just some foreign, ancient magic. Or maybe the Tempus spell had malfunctioned, though that seemed unlikely.
Harry frowned. Westeros... The name rattled in his mind, as if he was supposed to know it. He had heard of so many places in his life, from magical realms to historical regions, but this, this was completely alien.
His next course of action was simple, if time-consuming.
He reached into his moleskin pouch, pulling out the small trunk he had stored his precious books in. These weren’t just any books. They were the ones he had salvaged from the Black Library, the forbidden and heavily protected collection he had raided during his earlier travels. Dangerous, often dark knowledge filled the grimoires, and Harry hadn’t even had a chance to study it all. But if anyone could offer him some clue about where he was, or how to escape, those books might be his only hope.
He set the trunk down, and with a muttered Alohomora, he unlocked it. The top of the chest popped open with a soft click, revealing the neatly organized rows of books. Harry pulled out the first volume, a thick, ancient tome, flipping through the pages with practiced speed.
He searched, carefully scanning for any mention of Westeros, Godswood, or anything that might explain his current predicament. Hours passed as he read through the obscure writings, but each one left him with more questions than answers.
There was no mention of a place by the name of Westeros. No reference to the strange term Godswood either.
Frustration began to build as he moved from book to book, his eyes growing tired, his mind swirling with possibilities. Was this some kind of parallel world? Had he stumbled upon a completely different universe? He couldn’t be sure. But it seemed clear that Westeros was a place unknown to his reality.
With a final, exhausted sigh, Harry closed the last book. He had to stop obsessing over the impossible for now. There would be time for answers later. He had learned enough to know that knowledge didn’t always come immediately, it was something you had to seek out.
And so, after a long moment of contemplation, he packed up the books again and tucked the trunk back into his moleskin pouch.
Exploring first, he decided. Answers will come when I see the lay of the land.
He stood, gathered his supplies, and made his way outside the tent, adjusting to the peculiar stillness of the forest. It was time to see what he could find.
The trees were ancient and thick, their trunks twisted in strange patterns, and the ground beneath his feet felt soft and magical, as if the earth itself were alive. Harry felt a subtle hum in the air, the faintest trace of magic that tugged at his senses, drawing him deeper into the woods.
There was something about this place, something old and powerful, as though the forest itself was watching him. But Harry pushed that thought aside. He didn’t have time for superstitions, not when there was so much he didn’t understand.
His journey through the forest felt almost meditative. The further he walked, the more the landscape seemed to change. What had seemed like a single, vast grove of trees slowly gave way to more varied terrain, rocky outcrops, hidden springs, and narrow paths that seemed to lead deeper into the unknown.
After several hours of wandering, Harry paused to take in the view from a small rise in the land. Below him, stretching far into the distance, was a sprawling wilderness, mountains in the far-off horizon, valleys filled with mist, and winding rivers cutting through the land.
None of it looked familiar. None of it felt like home.
But Harry had no other choice. He couldn’t stay in his tent forever.
With a deep breath, he continued onward, hoping that something, or someone, would eventually answer his questions.
Walton Stark tightened his grip on the hilt of Ice, his breath coming out in cold puffs as he scanned the darkened forest ahead. The moment their leader, Olyver Bracken, was beheaded, the mutineers scattered like rats and fled into the Haunted Forest. The snow had swallowed their tracks in minutes, and now he and his men found themselves hunting shadows among the ancient trees.
A gust of wind howled through the skeletal branches, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and something else, something wrong. His instincts, honed from years of war and duty, whispered that they were being watched.
“Stay close,” Walton murmured to the men at his back. They obeyed without question, tiptoeing through the deep snow, their furs blending into the stark white landscape.
Then, a sound, distant at first, but growing closer.
A thud.
Another.
And another.
The ground trembled beneath his boots, sending a shiver up his spine. Whatever was approaching was large.
A shadow moved through the trees, impossibly tall, its outline blurred by the thickening snowfall. Then, with a last step, it emerged.
A giant.
Walton had heard tales of them from the rangers of the Night’s Watch, but never had he seen one with his own eyes. The creature towered above them, easily twice the height of the tallest man, its body wrapped in furs and rough leathers. Snow clung to its wild beard, and its deep-set eyes glowed like embers in the fading light.
The men behind Walton faltered, some whispering prayers to the Old Gods. Others tightened their grips on their weapons.
Walton did neither. Instead, he met the giant’s gaze and held it.
Walton Stark did not break eye contact with the giant. His breath misted in the cold air, his fingers tight around Ice. The beast was a towering force of nature, its fur-covered bulk half-shrouded by the swirling snowfall. A deep rumble emanated from its chest, something between a growl and a breath, as it took another step forward, the ground trembling beneath its weight.
The men behind him shifted uneasily, their resolve faltering.
“Back!“ Walton ordered, his voice sharp as the wind cutting through the trees. “Fall back to the ridge!“
They hesitated only for a moment before obeying, their survival instincts outweighing their desire to stand at his side. The trees swallowed them in moments, their footfalls muffled by the snow.
Walton remained.
He had no intention of running.
The giant roared, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the forest, and charged. Walton braced himself.
It swung at him, a massive, tree-trunk-sized club wrapped in leather and bones. Walton rolled beneath the strike, snow exploding into the air as the club smashed into the ground. He surged forward, Ice glinting in the pale light, and slashed across the giant’s thigh. The Valyrian steel bit deep, cutting through hide and flesh as if they were nothing.
The giant howled in agony and staggered, blood steaming in the frigid air. But it was not dead.
It swung at him again, this time with a fist the size of a small boulder. Walton barely twisted away in time, feeling the rush of wind as it narrowly missed his head. He drove Ice upward, burying it in the creature’s gut. The beast bellowed, stumbling back. Walton wrenched his sword free and, with a swift, precise stroke, severed the giant’s head from its shoulders.
The body crashed to the ground like a falling oak, shaking the forest.
But before Walton could even catch his breath, another giant emerged from the trees. And then another. And another.
Dozens.
They were not alone.
“Gods be good,“ Walton muttered.
The sounds of war erupted as his men, who had begun their retreat, turned back at the sight of more giants charging from the depths of the Haunted Forest. Shouts filled the air as steel met flesh, arrows whistling through the stormy twilight.
Walton had no time to count how many there were.
A second giant lunged at him, its rage-fueled charge shaking the earth. Walton sidestepped at the last moment, slashing at its knee, severing tendons and forcing the behemoth to collapse with a roar. He drove Ice into its throat before it could recover, silencing it with a final, gurgling breath.
Another one came.
This one was faster, its long strides closing the distance before Walton could react. It swung low, catching him in the ribs with a sweeping arm the size of a battering ram.
Pain exploded through him.
He was airborne.
The world spun as he hurtled backward, the white blur of the snow-covered forest mixing with the darkening sky. Then,
Crack.
His back slammed into the trunk of a towering pine with sickening force. Something snapped his spine, his shoulder, maybe both. His head hit the bark hard enough to send stars bursting across his vision.
When he tried to move, nothing happened.
The snow: Lying useless in the snow was his sword, dropped from his grasp. Numbness afflicted his left arm. His legs... they did not respond.
The realization sent ice through his veins, colder than the winter air.
His spirit was crushed.
And the giant was coming.
It loomed over him, blocking out the weak light of the sky. Snowflakes caught in its thick beard as it raised its massive hand, preparing to crush him like a broken doll.
Walton Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had no fear.
He had spent his life preparing to die.
But he had hoped it would not be like this.
Walton’s vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges. His limbs refused to move, his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and the distant cries of his men seemed so far away now. He knew his body was broken; he felt it in the numbness of his legs and the sharp agony in his ribs.
The giant above him raised its massive arm for the final blow.
Then,
“Diffindo.”
The word was sharp, foreign, spoken in an accent Walton had never heard before.
A strange whistle sliced through the air, the sound of something moving too fast for the eye to follow.
And then, before Walton could comprehend what had happened, the giant’s head lurched forward, completely detached from its body.
It hit the snow with a sickening thud, eyes wide and unseeing, even as the massive body teetered and collapsed backward.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then another whistle.
Another giant fell.
And another.
Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, Walton forced his fading vision to focus.
A figure moved like a shadow among the towering forms of the giants, small, impossibly fast, weaving between them like mist through the trees. Each motion was precise, each strike deadly.
A silver flash, a word spoken in that same strange tongue, and another behemoth collapsed, lifeless, before it could even register the attack.
The snow was painted red.
The dark figure did not stop.
With the grace of a phantom, it ducked beneath a giant’s sweeping arm, flicked its wrist, and suddenly, Ice, no, not Ice, but something just as merciless, carved through flesh like butter. The giant crumpled, its lifeblood steaming in the frigid air.
Walton’s vision swam.
The world tilted.
The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was the shadowy figure turning toward him, emerald eyes glowing eerily in the dim light of the forest.
Walton drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, his body aching with the memory of battle. The sensation of warmth wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the Haunted Forest. He barely registered the softness beneath him, a bed? That couldn’t be right. He should be in the snow, bleeding out beneath the gaze of towering giants.
Through the haze, his unfocused eyes made out flickering light, a fireplace? The warmth on his skin suggested as much, but his fever-addled mind wavered, uncertain of what was real and what was delirium. The air smelled of herbs, faint and earthy, mixing with the distant scent of burning wood.
Shadows danced along the ceiling, their movements hypnotic, blending with the indistinct shapes around him. His men, yes, he could just barely make them out, resting in nearby beds, their bodies bandaged and still. Alive! That realization should have brought him relief, but his thoughts were sluggish, slipping through his grasp like melting snow.
Then a figure appeared at his bedside.
Not a looming giant, nor the cold, merciless specters of his nightmares, no, this one was different. Cloaked in darkness, but not in the way of something cruel. Stars seemed woven into the fabric’s threads, making it shimmer faintly.
Walton blinked, his vision swimming, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.
Hair, dark, unruly curls framed a pale face. Stray strands tumbled over a forehead, half-caught in a thin braid that seemed carelessly done. And the eyes, Old Gods, the eyes. Green. Bright. Too bright. Like emerald fire, gleaming in the dim light of the room.
The figure knelt, or perhaps he was the one sinking, fading into unconsciousness once more.
A hand, warm against his burning skin, pressed lightly to his forehead.
A whisper, soft as a sigh, reached his ears. Words he barely understood, urging him to rest.
And he wanted to.
He trusted her.
Darkness took him once more.
Walton drifted in and out of consciousness, each moment a fleeting glimpse into a world that felt both real and unreal. Fever weighed him down, pressing against his chest like a heavy pelt of wet fur, but each time he surfaced, the same presence was there.
Soft hands adjusted his blankets, her touch careful yet firm, never hesitant. A cool cloth brushed against his forehead, easing the fire burning beneath his skin. Faint murmurs reached his ears, low and soothing, like the whisper of wind through the pines.
Once, in the dim glow of firelight, he caught the gleam of those too-bright green eyes watching over him.
Another time, he awoke to find his bandages being changed, deft fingers working quickly despite the gruesome wounds. He tried to move, to speak, but a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him still.
“Rest,” the voice murmured, and he obeyed without thought.
It wasn’t until a later moment, when he surfaced just long enough to catch the figure speaking, perhaps to himself, perhaps to another, that the realization struck him. The voice, though soft and smooth, belonged to a man.
A beautiful man, not a woman, who had saved his life.
Walton woke with a sharp intake of breath, his body tense as though expecting pain, but none came. Instead, he felt an unfamiliar warmth wrapped around him, the thick weight of fur shielding him from the cold. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and frost unmistakable. He wasn’t in the haunted forest, or that dreamy home, anymore.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his muscles responding as if the giants had battered and broken them. Around him, his men lay sprawled across the snow-covered ground, bundled in similar furs. Some of them, men he had seen on the brink of death, breathed evenly, their injuries gone as if they had never existed.
His heart pounded. This wasn’t possible.
His gaze landed on Ice, resting beside him, the ancient Valyrian steel blade gleaming in the pale morning light. He reached for it, the familiar weight grounding him. Then, with a deep breath, he did the only thing he could think to do.
“On your feet!” he bellowed.
The men stirred, blinking in confusion, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons that were no longer needed. Murmurs spread among them as they took stock of their surroundings and their unscathed bodies.
“How?!?“ One of them, Brandel, ran a hand down his chest, where an arrow had once pierced him clean through. “I should be dead.”
“We all should,” another muttered.
They shared uneasy glances. None of them had woken during the healing. None of them had seen the figure in the dark, the one with impossibly bright green eyes.
None but Walton.
After recounting everything he remembered, the whispers, the careful hands, the final realization that their savior had been a man, he made his decision.
He could not rest. Not now. Not when the one who had saved them remained a mystery.
When they returned to Winterfell, Walton Stark gathered his kin, and in the Great Hall, before the weirwood throne, he made his choice known.
Alaric Stark would take his place as Lord of Winterfell.
Walton, sword in hand, would search for the healer in the shadows.
Winterfell had changed in the years since Walton had given up his lordship. The walls stood just as strong, the great towers just as imposing, but there was a warmth here now that had not always been. Alaric was a good lord, fair and just, and his children, Walton’s niece and nephew, were the heart of the keep.
He had returned for them, to see how they had grown, to remind himself of the family he had left behind. And perhaps, if he was being honest, to reassure himself that he had made the right choice all those years ago.
The halls bustled with life as he moved through them, nodding to the guards, offering gruff words of greeting to those who had once fought by his side. It wasn’t until he turned a corner, passing through the outer courtyard, that his steps faltered.
There, standing by a stall, casually talking with a merchant by her cart, was a man he had not seen in nearly a decade.
The healer.
Walton’s breath caught in his throat.
The same tangled dark hair, the same bright green eyes, unmistakable, even across the distance. But it wasn’t just recognition that held him in place. It was the impossible.
The man hadn’t aged a day.
Not a single wrinkle. Not a single grey hair. As if time itself had refused to touch him.
For the first time since that long-ago battle, Walton felt something close to fear.
The healer turned slightly, as if sensing the weight of his stare. Their eyes met.
And then, with a soft pop, he was gone.
Walton remained frozen for a moment before his grip tightened around the hilt of Ice. Not in threat, but in reverence.
This was not a man.
This was a sign.
A blessing from the Old Gods, woven into flesh and blood.
When he returned home, he sat before the fire with his niece and nephew, telling them the story of the battle where he had fought against the giants in the haunted forest, of a man who walked untouched by time and had healed him and his men.
His niece and nephew listened with wide eyes, curled close together beneath thick woolen blankets. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across their youthful faces as they hung on his every word.
“The giants were upon us,” Walton recounted, voice low and steady, “taller than any man, their strength enough to crush stone. We fought, blade against bone, steel against flesh, but there were too many. I remember the moment I fell, when the great beast struck me down and I could not rise again.”
His nephew, no more than nine, clenched his fists. “But you did, Uncle. You’re here.”
“Aye.” Walton’s gaze drifted to the fire, lost in memory. “But not by my own strength. I heard a voice, strange words carried by the wind. A sharp whistle, like the bite of a blade through the air. And then the giant that loomed over me fell, its head severed clean from its body.”
His niece, older and wiser of the pair, frowned slightly. “A man did this? Alone?”
“Not a man,” Walton said softly. “A child of the Old Gods.”
The fire crackled, filling the silence.
“He moved like a shadow, striking down giants with ease. When I woke, I was whole again. My men, too, even those beyond saving. And now, after all these years, I saw him once more. Untouched by time, just as he was then.”
His nephew whispered, “Do you think he’s still watching us?”
Walton exhaled, gaze distant. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the gods send him where he is needed most.”
His niece pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “If he is of the Old Gods, then he will always belong to the North.”
Walton smiled faintly, ruffling her hair. “Aye. And may we never forget that.”
Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the whispers of something ancient, something watching.