Chapter 3
126, Winterfell:
The years passed, and the North did what it always had, endured.
Winters came and went, harsh and unforgiving, yet through every hardship, through every sickness and every wound too deep to mend, there were whispers. A figure appeared, they whispered, whenever all hope was lost. A shadow moving through the snow, leaving behind warmth where there had only been cold.
No one knew his name. No one knew his face. Some swore he was a man, others a woman. Some claimed he walked with the weirwoods, stepping from tree to tree as the Old Gods willed. Others said he was a spirit, untouched by age, watching over the North since time began.
But the Starks remembered.
They remembered the battle against the giants in the Haunted Forest. Walton Stark, though expected dead, was inexplicably whole and unbroken, they recalled. They remembered the bright green eyes of the healer who had saved him, unchanging, untouched by time, even decades later.
The stories spread beyond Winterfell, carried in the voices of those who swore they had been saved. A fevered child left for dead, who woke one morning with cool hands soothing his brow. A hunter, crushed beneath a fallen tree, who awoke in his own home without a mark on him. A woman who swore her child had been stillborn, until a stranger’s hand passed over him, and he took his first breath.
No one saw him come. No one saw him leave.
The faithless called it madness, stories for frightened children and desperate men. But to the North, to those who had seen miracles where there should have been none, the truth was undeniable.
The Old Gods had sent one of their own.
And the Starks never forgot.
Harry, in all his clueless brilliance, had absolutely no idea that a full-fledged religion had formed around him.
It wasn’t like he went out of his way to be mysterious, he just had no interest in dealing with people. The only reason he helped anyone at all was because he couldn’t just not help if someone was dying in front of him. It wasn’t his fault that people made a big deal out of it.
As far as he was concerned, he was just a recluse with a love of maps and plants. The politics of Westeros? The noble houses? Regarding their past: What about their history of squabbles? He had bothered to learn none of it. Unbeknownst to him, the Stark family had kept his existence a secret and revered him as the Child of the Old Gods. He didn’t even know that the North had entire stories dedicated to his supposed divinity.
Sure, the whole “mysterious god that heals people while never revealing their face” thing did sound familiar... but that was just a coincidence. Right?
Right?
Harry strolled through Winter Town, hood drawn low over his face, a minor Notice-Me-Not charm subtly bending attention away from him. He had long since learned that walking around without it tended to draw... unwanted attention.
For reasons he couldn’t quite figure out, people with sharp grey eyes and solemn faces, ones who carried themselves with a quiet strength, wrapped in thick furs to guard against the cold, kept approaching him whenever he forgot to shield himself. Their expressions were always a mix of respect and something else, something almost reverent. It was unnerving.
The first time, a woman had simply bowed her head as he passed, murmuring something he hadn’t caught. The second time, a man had outright thanked him for “his blessings,” which had been weird enough. By the third, he had started to get suspicious. By the fifth, when one particularly determined man had tried to chase him down, Harry had decided he wasn’t dealing with this nonsense.
Thus, the hood and the Notice-Me-Not.
He just wanted to drop his wares and leave. Was that too much to ask?
Harry made his way toward the maester’s turret, moving carefully through the lightly packed snow. He had been stopping by for the past year now, always keeping his hood up, always ensuring his identity remained hidden. The maester didn’t ask questions, likely assuming him to be some wandering healer or merchant of rare herbs, and Harry preferred it that way.
The arrangement was simple: the maester purchased small vials of Essence of Dittany from him, no questions asked. It was a useful potion, capable of healing wounds without a trace if applied quickly enough, and though Harry wasn’t interested in coin, he found that having some local currency on hand made acquiring supplies easier.
The turret loomed ahead, smoke curling from the narrow windows, a sign that the maester was in. Adjusting his cloak, Harry stepped forward, ready to conclude his business and slip away before anyone noticed him.
The exchange had been quick and simple, just as it always was. Harry handed over the vials of Essence of Dittany, the maester nodded in approval, pressed a pouch of coins into his palm, and that was that. No unnecessary words, no lingering gazes, just the quiet transaction of goods before Harry turned to leave.
However, just as he was stepping out of the turret, a blur of movement caught his eye. A servant, young, flushed from exertion, and looking slightly frazzled, rushed up to him before he could react. Without so much as a greeting, she shoved a wooden tray into his arms, nearly upsetting the bowls of cold stew and rough-cut bread stacked upon it.
“Here! Take this to the prisoners!” she blurted out, barely giving him a second glance as she wiped her hands on her apron. Before Harry could even begin to protest, she gestured vaguely toward a heavy wooden door down the corridor.
And then, just like that, she was gone, hurrying off down another passage without waiting to see if he obeyed.
Harry let out a long sigh, shifting the tray to balance its weight properly. He hadn’t planned on sticking around, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do at the moment. Besides, he supposed, feeding prisoners was hardly the worst task he could be stuck with.
Turning on his heel, he made his way toward the door, boots echoing softly against the stone floor.
The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase that descended into the cold, musty depths beneath the keep. A chill rolled up from below, carrying the scent of damp stone and stale air, tinged with something else, something faintly metallic. Harry frowned but stepped forward, the wooden tray balanced carefully in his hands as he made his way down.
The stairs ended at another door, this one heavy and reinforced with iron bands. With a slow, steady push, he eased it open. The hinges groaned in protest, and as the dim torchlight from the corridor spilled inside, Harry’s breath hitched at what he saw.
Three children.
They sat huddled against the farthest wall, shackled both at their wrists and ankles, the iron chain looped through heavy rings bolted into the floor. The youngest, small and thin, no older than three or four, was curled into himself, barely more than a bundle of rags. Their thin arms formed a weak but determined barrier between the youngest child and the outside world.
Harry couldn’t see their faces properly in the dimness, but the flickering light revealed enough. Their dark, tangled hair was unkempt and matted, their skin so pale that it was clear they hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, perhaps even months. Their clothes were little more than filthy scraps of cloth, barely enough to keep out the cold.
His stomach twisted.
Slowly, he placed the tray down on the nearest flat surface, the clatter of the bowls echoing through the otherwise silent chamber. Then, without thinking, he moved toward them, only for the smallest child to flinch violently at his approach.
Instantly, the older two reacted, dragging the little one behind them as they tensed, their shackles rattling sharply against the floor.
Harry froze.
He raised his hands, palms open, in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, gentle, careful, the way one might speak to a spooked animal.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Harry remained crouched, his knees bent so he could get on their level, never taking his eyes off the three children. The older two glared at him, their grey eyes cold and guarded, but there was a flicker of something else, a glimmer of hope, of recognition, buried deep beneath their defenses. Harry’s gaze softened, and he kept his hands open and steady, trying to convey the only thing that mattered: trust.
The youngest had shrunk back, curling tighter into the older child’s embrace, but the other two children seemed to study him intently. The silence hung between them, thick with uncertainty. Harry could feel the weight of their fear, but he was undeterred. He had seen enough of the world’s cruelty to understand. They didn’t know him, and he didn’t expect them to.
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, toward the oldest child, who was still glaring at him with suspicion. Harry had seen this look before, on a child desperate to protect those they cared about, even when they didn’t understand why or how to accept help.
He gently reached for the boy’s shackled ankle, feeling the cold iron under his fingers. Without a word, Harry focused his magic, keeping his hand steady as he silently cast a wordless Alohomora.
The lock clicked, the heavy iron falling away with a soft thud.
The boy’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and confusion flashing across his face as he looked down at the now-free ankle. He quickly met Harry’s gaze, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.
After a heartbeat, the boy cautiously stretched out his left ankle, silently offering it. Harry’s heart clenched. He didn’t need words from the child to know that this minor act was a fragile step toward trust.
With a quiet flick of his fingers, the second lock clicked open. The boy’s expression shifted to something brighter, an emotion Harry couldn’t quite place, but it looked almost like relief.
Then, as if the weight of their shared bond was finally understood, the younger of the two older children hesitated for only a moment before offering his wrists, the shackles clinking softly and mournfully.
Harry didn’t hesitate. His magic moved, an almost silent gesture, as the shackles on the boy’s wrists fell open.
A soft gasp of joy escaped the younger child as he pulled his arms free, rubbing them gently, wincing slightly as he worked the stiffness from the long hours of shackling. The cold, iron constraints had left angry red marks, but there was no longer any weight holding him back. His eyes, dark and filled with sorrow only moments ago, now held something brighter, something Harry hadn’t seen in the boy before: the first glimmer of freedom, the fragile spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t lost everything.
The boy looked up at Harry, his lips parted as though wanting to speak, but no words came. He held Harry’s gaze for a moment, searching, before he simply nodded, a silent thanks so powerful that it nearly left Harry breathless.
Harry’s heart tightened, but he remained still, watching as the boy worked to adjust to his newfound freedom. He could see it in the way the boy looked at his hands, almost in disbelief that they could move without restraint. Harry’s gaze shifted to the older boy, the one with the protective air about him, his sharp eyes still cautious but now softened just slightly. Harry didn’t rush them. There was no need. He knew the boys would come when they were ready.
He took a quiet step back, then knelt down to work on the younger children’s feet. His hands moved expertly, unlocking the chains around their ankles one by one. As he worked, he kept his movements slow and deliberate, careful to ensure they felt safe, this wasn’t just about breaking chains; it was about undoing the scars that came with them. With each click of a lock opening, the boys’ faces brightened more, a slow but steady transformation that was too precious to rush.
Once the younger boys’ shackles were removed, Harry paused and looked up at the three of them. The older boy had his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes now, a hint of gratitude beneath the layers of caution. The two younger boys, their hands now free, stared at their wrists as if they were still trying to comprehend the change.
Harry, seeing their hunger, reached behind him where he’d left the tray of food. He grabbed the loaf of bread and held it out to them, his gaze soft and patient.
The oldest boy didn’t hesitate. He snatched the bread from Harry’s hands with a quick motion, breaking it into pieces with a practiced hand. He handed the larger portions to the younger ones, keeping the smallest piece for himself. The boys’ eyes lit up, and Harry could see their relief, this was more than just food; it was a sign that things were changing. A simple act, but it meant so much.
The older boy sat down cross-legged, already tearing into his small piece, but not without ensuring the younger ones were settled first. His protective instincts were strong, as if he’d spent years taking care of the others. The youngest one, barely more than a toddler, clutched the piece of bread with both hands, his eyes wide as he chewed eagerly.
Harry stood back, watching them, an overwhelming feeling of warmth spreading through him. It wasn’t just about the physical chains anymore. The freedom he had given them had unlocked something more, something that couldn’t be taken away, something they would carry with them from now on. The joy of the simple, shared meal, the light in their eyes, it was a small miracle in itself.
“Take your time,” Harry said quietly, still watching them, his voice gentle. “No one’s rushing you.”
They didn’t answer, but their eyes spoke more than enough, thanks, relief, and a deep, overwhelming trust. Harry could feel his chest swell with something he didn’t often let himself feel, hope.
Harry’s gaze flickered over the children, noticing the threadbare state of their clothes, ripped hems, stained tunics, and shoes that had seen far too much wear for children so young. His heart ached at the sight, and without a second thought, he pulled off his cloak and gently draped it over their shoulders, hoping to provide some warmth, or at least a sense of comfort, in their moment of newfound freedom. The fabric felt soft against their skin, a welcome contrast to the rough, harsh material they’d been wearing for who knew how long.
The older boy looked up at him, confused, the change in Harry’s demeanor making him pause. But it wasn’t just the cloak that was drawing his attention, it was something else. Something more subtle, but no less significant. Harry’s aura, his very presence, had changed. As he stopped focusing on the notice-me-not charm that had cloaked him for so long, allowing his true appearance to be revealed for the first time, the boys looked at him in pure shock.
The man before them was no longer the indistinct figure they’d first seen. The features they’d once struggled to recall now burned bright in their memory, though perhaps not for the reasons they might have expected.
What stood before them now was a lean, wiry figure with long, raven-black hair, wild and untamed, flowing far past his shoulders, though it was gathered into a small low ponytail that swung slightly as he moved. His hair was untamed, like a storm caught in the wind, and his eyes, those piercing emerald green eyes, glowed unnaturally in the dim light. It was as though the very color was alive, unnervingly vibrant, like they had been plucked from a forest at dusk, bathed in a strange, almost ethereal glow.
The children blinked, their wide, confused eyes trying to reconcile the person who had helped them with the man standing before them now. The one who had been their savior seemed... familiar, and yet so, so different. As if the stranger before them wasn’t just a rescuer, but something more, a riddle they couldn’t quite figure out.
The older boy’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. The transformation had left him speechless, and the younger ones shared a glance, their gazes flicking from Harry to each other, trying to make sense of what they were seeing. The shadow of fear from moments before had morphed into awe, an awe that was still tinged with hesitation, but it was unmistakable.
Harry’s lips quirked slightly as he noticed their staring. He had never been good at hiding his true self, and now, without the veil of the charm, the children saw the real him, an unknown figure, surrounded by quiet mystery. But their shock wasn’t unwelcome. There was nothing frightening in their wide eyes, just curiosity and wonder. A part of Harry felt almost... fond of these children, drawn to them by something deep within.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice low, but comforting.
The older boy gave a hesitant nod, the weight of Harry’s presence grounding him, though he didn’t yet fully understand what had happened. He seemed to want to ask more questions, but for now, words failed him.
Harry smiled, a small, gentle gesture that softened his sharp features. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his tone light. “You’re safe now.”
There was a silence, a strange quiet that hung in the air for a moment. Then the younger child, the one who had been so timid before, shuffled closer, eyes still wary but now filled with gratitude and wonder. He tugged gently at the cloak around his shoulders, then looked up at Harry with a tentative smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, a gesture that spoke volumes to Harry.
A sigh of relief escaped Harry’s lips, and he stepped back a little, allowing them the space to settle in, still watching them with a protective yet distant gaze. As much as he felt for them, this wasn’t his fight anymore. He had helped them, freed them, but their futures now lay in their own hands. His part was over, at least for now.
Harry looked at the children, the weight of their past still lingering in their eyes, and he felt an impulse to offer them something more. Something beyond just freedom from the chains that had held them.
“Would you like to leave here?” Harry asked, his voice gentle, but with a quiet authority. “I can take you somewhere safe.”
The children’s eyes widened, uncertainty flickering in their expressions as they exchanged looks. Then, in unison, they nodded quickly. Their faces, once filled with fear and confusion, now held a glimmer of hope. They didn’t need to speak; the eagerness in their movements and the shift in their gazes told him everything he needed to know.
Harry gave them a small, reassuring smile, the edges of his lips curling in a quiet acknowledgment of their bravery. “Alright,” he said softly. “This might make you feel sick for a moment, but you’ll be safe.”
He watched them carefully as he slowly began to gather them up, his hands moving carefully, deliberately, as if to assure them that there was nothing sudden or dangerous about this. He didn’t want to startle them, didn’t want to rush them into something they didn’t fully understand. With one hand on each of their shoulders, and his other hand gently pulling them closer, he began to concentrate.
It was an almost effortless movement for him, but he could tell that it wasn’t the same for the children. Their breaths quickened slightly, and their eyes widened as they realized what was about to happen. He paused, giving them one final, reassuring glance.
“Hold on tight,” Harry said, his voice calm but firm. “Just trust me.”
Then, with a soft crack, the world around them seemed to bend and twist, and in a split second, they were no longer standing in the dimly lit room with their chains, but somewhere else entirely. The sensation of apparating hit them like a rush of wind, a sudden, jarring weightlessness that made their stomachs lurch, but before they could protest or react, they were already on solid ground again.
Harry slowly released his hold on them, watching as their faces reflected both confusion and awe. They blinked rapidly, adjusting to the new surroundings, tall trees surrounding them, a clearing with soft grass beneath their feet, and the feeling of fresh air on their skin. There were no walls, no chains, no shadows lurking in the corners. Just an open space filled with freedom.
The oldest boy, the one who had seemed the most cautious before, took a tentative step forward. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice quiet, full of wonder.
Harry looked around, the world around them peaceful and quiet. “This is my home,” he replied softly. “You’re safe here now. No one will hurt you.”
The young children looked around with wide eyes, soaking in the new environment, their faces brightening as they started to realize what had just happened. They were no longer prisoners. They were free.
Harry watched the children take in their surroundings with wide eyes, the wonder in their expressions so pure, it was almost heartbreaking. They hadn’t seen the sky in who knew how long. Their gazes lifted instinctively toward the blue expanse above, the clouds drifting lazily by, as if they were seeing the world for the first time. It reminded him of when he had been imprisoned during the Muggle War, locked away, isolated from the rest of the world, from the freedom of sunlight. He had been so starved for it that the smallest sliver of light through the cracks in his cell had been more precious than gold.
But as the memories of that time surged back, Harry pushed them down, locking them away deep in his mind. The past was no longer his concern. The children were his focus now. They were free.
He couldn’t help but smile faintly as they stood there, some of them still squinting up at the sky, the sunlight streaming over their faces, their expressions filled with awe. But then, as much as it broke his heart to interrupt their wonder, Harry knew that they couldn’t stay out too long. The sun, so bright and tempting, could damage their eyes if they weren’t careful.
“Careful,” Harry called softly, his voice gentle, but firm enough to get their attention. “You don’t want to stare at the sun too long. It can hurt your eyes.”
The children flinched a little at his voice, then slowly turned to him, their faces confused for just a moment before they understood. They were like baby deer, tentative and cautious, unsure of the safety of this new world. They took small steps, glancing back at the sky one last time before following Harry as he gently guided them inside the house.
Harry led them through the door, his hands steady on their shoulders, ensuring they felt the warmth and safety of the home. They moved slowly, each of them walking as though unsure of their own legs, as if the very ground beneath their feet might give way at any moment. It was clear they had spent far too long in the darkness, confined to places where every step was calculated, every movement restricted.
Their journey inside felt almost sacred to Harry, like watching fledglings take their first steps in a world full of possibilities. He didn’t rush them. He let them move at their own pace, giving them space to adjust to the overwhelming sense of freedom that surrounded them.
“Just take your time,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying a reassurance that had taken him years to cultivate. “There’s no need to hurry. We’re safe here.”
One by one, they stepped over the threshold, their eyes still wide, glancing at the furnishings, the walls, the simple life Harry had created in this space. A far cry from the cold, harsh walls of their previous prison. But Harry could see the tension in their faces. It was as though they were waiting for something, perhaps waiting for the world to flip back, to reveal some trick they hadn’t yet realized.
He didn’t want to burden them with too much at once. “The food’s in the kitchen, and there’s a place for you to sleep in the next room,” Harry said, motioning toward a small room with a simple cot covered in blankets. “You can rest for as long as you need.”
The oldest child, the one who had been most hesitant before, took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen, then turned back to Harry, his grey eyes filled with gratitude and curiosity. He didn’t speak, but his gaze said it all, thank you, for everything.
“Go ahead,” Harry said with a quiet nod, giving the boy permission to explore on his own, but keeping a watchful eye on them. He could sense that they were still processing the enormity of their new lives, and Harry didn’t want to overwhelm them.
He stayed near the door, watching them carefully as they began to settle in. The youngest of the three, who had clung to the oldest so tightly when they first met, hesitated at the threshold before entering the kitchen. But slowly, as Harry remained still, giving them the space to find their way, they all drifted toward their new reality, one small step at a time.
The sound of the children’s footsteps in the house was soft, a whisper of life filling the quiet air. Harry leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes for a brief second, letting the peaceful rhythm of their movements sink into his bones. He had brought them here, but the rest, freedom, healing, learning to trust, was all up to them.
And Harry would be there for each of them. No matter what.
Finally, he spoke softly to the silence, as though sharing the weight of his thoughts with the empty room. “You’re free now. This is your home.”
Benjen Stark didn’t know what to think. The memories of their captivity were still sharp in his mind, a dark and suffocating fog that clung to him like the cold stone of the cell they’d been thrown into. His father, LordBennard Stark, had been forced to surrender as the Regent and hand over the succession rites to their cousin Cregan in a bid to prevent the death of his sons, who had been taken as leverage. Benjen’s heart still twisted at the thought of their imprisonment, the three of them trapped in a small, damp cell where daylight never reached.
Benjen Stark’s mind wandered back to the dark, dank cell where he and his brothers had been held for what felt like an eternity. The cold, suffocating air pressed against their skin, and the scent of damp stone and decay was thick in their lungs. He could still remember the helplessness that had settled in their bones, a sinking feeling that there would be no escape. The distant sound of footsteps, the clatter of metal, and the murmurs of their captors were the only company they had.
He was only six years old at the time, but even through the haze of youth, the grimness of their situation had left a lasting mark on him. Elric, barely four, had cried in his sleep, unable to understand why they were locked away in the cold dark. Brandon, a few months past five, had been frightened but still clung to Benjen, not knowing how to comfort their younger brother.
They had been abandoned by their family, their father being forced to hand over control of the succession rite to their cousin, Cregan. The Starks had been broken, their unity ripped apart. For months, Benjen and his brothers had waited in that cell, helpless and hungry, the weight of their imprisonment growing heavier with each passing day.
But then, one evening, something had shifted.
The air had grown inexplicably warm, the shadows in the cell seemed to deepen, and the very earth beneath them had felt alive. Then he had appeared, the figure from the legends. Benjen could barely comprehend the sight before him as the man entered their dark prison. There was something almost otherworldly about him, as if he were a living embodiment of the very legends his family had passed down.
The man had looked like the descriptions, the Child of the Old Gods, the mysterious figure said to walk the earth and heal those in need. His raven-black hair flowed like a waterfall, slightly tousled, falling past his shoulders. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, were an unnerving but captivating shade of emerald, a green so vivid it seemed unnatural. The mark on his forehead, the mark of the Old Gods, glowed faintly, reminding Benjen of the old tales his father had told him when he was younger.
The man had knelt in front of them, his movements slow and deliberate, the air around him almost humbling. He hadn’t spoken much, but there was a comfort in his presence, something ancient, something wise. His gaze softened as he looked at them, his lips parting only briefly to offer a silent reassurance.
Benjen had been too stunned to speak, but he could see that his brothers, especially the younger ones, had a mix of awe and fear in their eyes. They had heard the stories, of course, but never expected them to be real. The Child of the Old Gods had come for them. The man reached out to touch their shackles, and in the blink of an eye, they had fallen away, as though the chains had never existed.
Benjen could still remember the shock of freedom. It had been a rush, a tidal wave of relief and confusion all at once. His small hands had shaken as they were freed, and the weight that had hung around his neck for so long seemed to evaporate in the face of this mysterious savior.
But the oddest part of the entire experience, to Benjen’s mind, was how the Child of the Old Gods had treated them. There was no grandiose speech, no insistence that they were now his charges or anything of that nature. The man had simply looked at them, as if seeing them for the first time, and then gone about his task of tending to their every need. He hadn’t been cold or detached, but neither had he been overly sentimental. He was like a quiet force of nature, doing what he felt was right without expectation, just an innate understanding of what was needed.
In the days that followed, the Child of the Old Gods had nursed them back to health with patience and care. Benjen could still remember the way the man tended to their bruises and cuts as if they were no different from a simple plant in need of water. There were no airs of grandeur, no awe-inspiring miracles for show. He didn’t need to prove anything. His very presence was enough.
The Child of the Old Gods had made them food, gathered herbs, and cleaned wounds, tasks that any ordinary person could perform, but there was something extraordinary about the way he did it. His touch was gentle, but with a strength that seemed otherworldly. His methods were strange, too. Benjen had seen him speak not a word, and yet things would simply happen. Plants would grow in an instant, wounds would heal faster than should have been possible, and they would feel safe, cared for, even as they marveled at this enigmatic figure.
It was a strange sight, this ageless being, whose very existence seemed to go beyond mortal comprehension, doing the most mundane things with a quiet grace. Benjen had always been the one to hold on to the stories, the one who knew the legends of the Old Gods better than the others. But seeing it firsthand, living it, was something far more than he could have imagined. In the presence of this god-like figure, he didn’t feel like a prisoner or an orphan. For the first time in a long while, he felt safe. He felt as if there were no greater force in the world than the calm protection this mysterious figure offered.
He couldn’t remember how many times he had sat by the fire, listening to the stories his father had told him of the Old Gods, wondering if he would ever be truly free. Now, he was sitting in the very presence of the Child of the Old Gods, and it felt… surreal. It was as though the very world had reshaped itself for him and his brothers. The days felt gentler, the nights warmer. The dread of their past seemed to fade with each passing moment spent in this strange place, where the sun’s warmth felt real again, and they could sleep without fear of what awaited them when they woke.
Benjen often caught himself watching the Child of the Old Gods in silence, trying to piece together the mystery of who, or what, he really was. The man never offered explanations, never sought to reveal more than necessary. For Benjen, that only made the enigma even more alluring. He was a creature of myth, a being who didn’t need to explain his actions or his past. He simply was, and that was enough.
What struck Benjen the most was the way the Child interacted with them. There was no hesitation or calculation in his actions. He helped because it was simply what he did. He didn’t care about their names, their titles, or their lineage. To him, they were just children in need of care, nothing more and nothing less. His lack of interest in the material world, so unlike anyone Benjen had ever known, struck him deeply. The man never asked for anything in return, never sought gratitude. His very existence seemed to be a force of healing, not in grandiose gestures, but in the smallest of ways.
After the week had passed and they were finally well enough to travel, Benjen had tried to speak, tried to ask the questions that had been gnawing at him. But every time he opened his mouth, the words felt inadequate. There was so much he wanted to know about this mysterious figure, about his origins, about the powers that swirled around him, but the Child of the Old Gods always answered with silence. And yet, in that silence, Benjen understood something, this being didn’t need to explain himself. He was a presence, an unknowable force, and he didn’t need validation from anyone. The Child’s actions spoke far louder than words ever could.
In the end, Benjen had given up on understanding him. He no longer cared who the man was, or what he was. The only thing that mattered was that he had saved them, without question, without fanfare. The man had given them something far greater than freedom. He had given them a chance to live.
And as Benjen sat now, years later, the memory of that strange, quiet being lingered like a beacon in his heart. The Child of the Old Gods had disappeared from their lives just as suddenly as he had appeared, and though the winds of time had blown him into the shadows of memory, Benjen never stopped believing. Even now, as the Wall stood tall and implacable against the coming winter, he could still feel the weight of that inexplicable encounter, the kindness, the silence, the power that had surrounded the mysterious figure.
They had left for the Wall once they were well enough, knowing it was the safest place for them, at least until they could figure out what their cousin’s next move would be. They would never forget what had happened, what they had seen and felt during that brief, magical reprieve from their suffering. The icy winds of the North and the looming darkness beyond the Wall had brought them a strange sense of calm, a sense of purpose. It was a place of protection, even if it meant enduring the harshest conditions.
But Benjen knew, deep in his bones, that the Old Gods had watched over them that day. Their presence had never left him. The Child of the Old Gods had saved them. That much was certain. He hadn’t asked for anything in return, hadn’t sought praise or recognition. But he had been there, just when they needed him most, and in that moment, Benjen felt his heart stir with something greater than gratitude. It was awe, yes, but also an unshakable conviction that their savior had been something far more than a simple man. He was a legend brought to life.
The Wall loomed over them like a silent sentinel, and in the quiet of the night, Benjen often thought back to the Child of the Old Gods, the mark on his forehead, and those vivid, glowing green eyes. No matter where the winds of fate would take him, Benjen knew he would carry that memory with him always.
The Old Gods were real. Their children walked among them, in the whispers of the trees, the winds of the mountains, and in the hearts of those who believed. The Child of the Old Gods had saved them, and he would never be forgotten. Not by the Starks.