Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.
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[Cycle - June, 288 AC]
"...but if the children of the forest could shape stone and command the beasts, why does every text say their magic was lost after the Pact? Wouldn't it have just... evolved?"
Maester Luwin set down his quill with the careful precision of a man who'd done so a thousand times before, but his grey eyes held that particular mix of wonder and exasperation that Harry had grown accustomed to seeing. The old maester was a good man, patient and learned, but five years of Harold Stark's questions had worn grooves in his composure.
"That's... that's a very sophisticated question for a boy of five namedays, Harold." Luwin adjusted his chain, the links catching the afternoon light streaming through the library's tall windows. "Most scholars believe the magic didn't simply vanish, but rather became... dormant. Integrated into the natural world in ways we no longer understand."
Harry nodded, filing the information away while his mind raced ahead to the next logical question. The Winterfell library was extensive for a Northern keep, but he'd already absorbed most of its useful content. Histories, genealogies, treatises on warfare and statecraft—all of it devoured by a mind that could process information far beyond his apparent years.
[Skill Increased: History (Level 47)]
[Skill Increased: Lore: Ancient Magic (Level 23)]
The blue boxes flickered at the edge of his vision, as familiar now as breathing. Five years of careful cultivation had transformed him from a helpless infant into what everyone at Winterfell considered a prodigy. He could outride boys twice his age, had memorized the lineages of every major house in Westeros, and could hold his own in conversations with knights and lords who forgot they were speaking to a child.
But for all his accumulated knowledge and skills, there was something else. Something that had been growing stronger over the past few weeks—a pull, an itch at the back of his mind that the System couldn't identify or classify. It drew him toward the godswood like iron to a lodestone, and today it felt stronger than ever.
"Maester Luwin, may I be excused? I promised Ser Rodrik I'd practice my sums in the courtyard." The lie came easily. Harry had learned that adults were more willing to let him wander if they thought he was pursuing some educational activity.
"Of course, my boy. But don't let Ser Rodrik work you too hard. You're still—"
"Still just a child, I know." Harry flashed the guileless smile that had served him so well over the years. "I'll be careful."
He left the library with purposeful steps, but instead of heading toward the training yard, he turned toward the older parts of Winterfell. The pull was stronger now, a constant pressure behind his eyes that made his skin prickle with anticipation. Whatever was waiting for him in the godswood, it had been patient. But patience, Harry had learned, was a finite resource.
The godswood of Winterfell was older than the castle itself, older perhaps than the North. Ancient sentinel trees stretched toward the sky like the pillars of some primordial cathedral, their thick trunks scarred by centuries of wind and weather. The air was different here—heavier, charged with something that made the hair on his arms stand up.
Harry's small legs carried him past the familiar paths, deeper into the heart of the wood where the shadows grew thick and the sounds of the castle faded to whispers. He'd spent countless hours here over the past five years, drawn by some instinct he couldn't name. The godswood felt like home in a way that even Winterfell's stone walls didn't.
The heart tree stood alone in its clearing beside the black pool, its pale bark gleaming like bone in the dappled sunlight. The carved face was ancient beyond reckoning, its features worn smooth by time, but the red sap that wept from its eyes seemed fresh as blood. Harry had stared at that face a thousand times, but today it seemed different. More aware.
The forest had gone silent.
Not the comfortable quiet of a peaceful afternoon, but the absolute stillness that preceded a storm. No birds called from the branches. No insects buzzed through the warm air. Even the wind had died, leaving the ancient trees motionless as statues.
Harry felt eyes upon him.
A raven landed on one of the heart tree's lower branches without so much as a rustle of feathers. It was larger than any raven Harry had ever seen, its black plumage so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. But it was the eyes that made him freeze in place—intelligent, ancient, filled with a knowledge that no mere bird should possess.
The raven stared at him for a long moment, and then Harry heard a voice. Not through his ears, but directly inside his skull, dry as autumn leaves and cold as winter stone.
The little wolf with the old soul. We have been watching you, Harold Stark.
Harry's hand moved instinctively toward the practice sword at his belt before he caught himself. The Gamer's Mind kicked in automatically, suppressing the spike of fear and replacing it with cold analysis. This was magic. Real magic, not the hedge wizardry of charlatans or the half-remembered rituals of dead religions. And if magic was real...
Who are you? Harry thought back, projecting the words with the same mental energy he used to interface with his System.
One who has waited long years for one such as you. One who remembers when the world was young and the children of the forest danced beneath stars that have since died.
The raven's head tilted, studying him with those impossibly knowing eyes. You are not what you appear to be, young wolf. A second life, born from beyond the void between worlds. A soul wrapped in the blood of the First Men, carrying power this realm has not seen in a thousand years.
Harry's mind raced. The voice knew about his reincarnation, about the Keeper mission. That should have been impossible—Kr'Tall had assured him that his nature would be undetectable to the inhabitants of this world. But then again, Kr'Tall had never mentioned magic users who could peer into souls.
You're Brynden Rivers, Harry realized, the pieces clicking together with sudden clarity. The Three-Eyed Raven. The last greenseer.
Names are wind, young wolf. What matters is what we offer each other. The mental voice grew more urgent, more focused. A great darkness stirs beyond the Wall. The Great Other wakes from his long slumber, and with him comes a winter that will last forever. The dead will walk, and the living will scream.
Images flashed through Harry's mind—bone-white cold, shambling corpses with blue fire in their empty sockets, a tide of death sweeping south like a plague. The visions felt real, immediate, as if he were watching them unfold through someone else's eyes.
We have watched. We have waited. We have searched for one with the strength to stand against the darkness. The raven's mental voice grew stronger, more compelling. You are not of this world, but you are bound to it now. Your fate is tied to its survival.
Harry's analytical mind churned through the implications. The White Walkers were real, and they were coming. That much he'd known from his knowledge of the story, but having it confirmed by someone who could actually see the future changed everything. This wasn't just about playing the game of thrones anymore—this was about the survival of everything.
What do you want from me?
We will give you the sight to pierce the veil of lies that covers this world. Knowledge of your enemies, their plans, their weaknesses. The whispers of the old gods, carried on the wind to wherever you may roam. The offer hung in the air between them like a blade. In return, you will be the sword and shield against the darkness that comes for it. You will gather power, unite the realm, and stand ready when the long night falls.
Harry stared at the raven, his five-year-old face betraying none of the excitement coursing through him. A living god of intelligence gathering. Eyes and ears in every part of the known world, courtesy of the weirwood network and the thousands of ravens that served it. With that kind of advantage, he could outmaneuver every player in Westeros before they even knew the game had begun.
I accept.
The moment the mental words left his mind, the world changed. The System interface blazed to life with notifications that scrolled past almost too fast to read:
[New Main Quest Added: The Long Night]
[Objective: Prepare the Realm for the War for the Dawn. Defeat the Great Other.]
[Reward: ???. Failure: Annihilation of All Life.]
[New Ally Gained: Brynden Rivers (The Three-Eyed Raven)]
[Special Ability Unlocked: Greensight (Passive)]
[Warning: This Alliance may conflict with Keeper Objectives. Proceed with caution.]
The last notification made Harry's blood run cold, but before he could process its implications, the raven spoke again.
Good. You will call this vessel Shadow, and through it we will speak when the need arises. As a sign of our bond, we give you this—
The world disappeared.
Harry was no longer standing in the godswood, but deep underground in a cavern carved from living rock. Massive roots twisted through the chamber like arteries, pulsing with a faint, eerie light. And there, on a throne formed from the roots themselves, sat what had once been a man.
Brynden Rivers was ancient beyond description, his flesh so pale it was nearly translucent, his single eye milky with age. The roots had grown through him, around him, making him part of the tree as much as he was part of himself. When he spoke, his voice was the whisper of wind through leaves.
"The game begins, young wolf. Play it well."
The vision shattered like glass, leaving Harry gasping in the suddenly warm air of the godswood. The raven—Shadow—regarded him with what might have been amusement before hopping down to perch on his shoulder. Its weight was solid, reassuring, proof that what had just happened was real.
Harry took a shaky breath and began walking back toward the castle. His legs felt unsteady, but his mind was crystal clear.
A living god of intelligence gathering. The game just changed. Forget being Lord of Winterfell. With this, I can play for the whole damn continent.
The late afternoon sun felt warm on his face as he emerged from the godswood's shadows, Shadow perched calmly on his shoulder like any noble's hunting bird. From one of Winterfell's upper balconies, he caught sight of Uncle Ned watching him with a curious but proud smile. Harry raised his small hand in a cheerful wave, the picture of innocent childhood.
Ned waved back, probably thinking his ward had simply been playing in the woods like any normal five-year-old boy. If only he knew that the child he'd raised had just made a pact with one of the most powerful magical beings in the known world.
Let's see what secrets you have for me, old man. This world is about to get a lot more interesting.
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Author's note:
Interesting implications… Also, if you haven't noticed already, this isn't like other gamer systems where you just drown in points. It's more about quantifying things and setting a baseline.
Thank you for reading. I'm excited to hear your thoughts.
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