The ancient boughs of the Wolfswood stretched endlessly overhead, their gnarled branches weaving a tapestry so dense that even at midday, the forest floor remained shrouded in perpetual twilight. The air hung thick with the scent of pine sap, damp earth, and something else—something older, wilder, that spoke of depths and mysteries that had existed since before the first men crossed the narrow sea. Leaves carpeted the ground in a patchwork of amber, crimson, and gold, crunching softly beneath the boots of the Stark party as they moved deeper into the heart of the woods, their breath misting in the cool air.
Lord Eddard Stark led the procession with the measured stride of a man who had walked these paths since boyhood, when he and his siblings had played at being knights and explorers among these very trees. His grey cloak, emblazoned with the running direwolf of House Stark, billowed gently in the cool breeze that carried whispers of winter's approach. Ice, the ancient Valyrian steel greatsword of his house, rested across his back—a constant, reassuring weight that spoke of duty, honor, and the weight of centuries. His weathered face bore the lines of a man who had seen too much, fought too many battles, and buried too many friends, yet his grey eyes remained sharp as the steel he carried, missing nothing in the shadowed depths of his ancestral woods.
Behind him, his sons moved with the easy confidence of youth tempered by Northern upbringing and the harsh lessons that came with being born to the ruling house of the largest kingdom in Westeros. Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North, carried himself with the unconscious authority of one born to lead, his every gesture speaking of noble breeding and natural charisma. His auburn hair—Tully red that marked him as his mother's son—caught what little light filtered through the canopy, and his blue eyes, so like Catelyn's, scanned their surroundings with the keen interest of a young man eager to prove himself worthy of his birthright.
Beside him walked Jon Snow, bastard-born but no less a Stark in all but name, his presence a constant reminder of Ned's only acknowledged moment of dishonor. Where Robb moved with the casual assurance of acknowledged legitimacy, Jon's steps were quieter, more measured, his dark eyes—grey like his father's—holding depths that spoke of a soul older than his years. The weight of bastardy sat on his shoulders like an invisible cloak, teaching him to be more observant, more careful, more aware of the subtle currents that flowed beneath the surface of every interaction.
Theon Greyjoy brought up the rear with the Stark guards, his cocky grin never far from his lips despite the solemn atmosphere of the deep woods. The ward of Winterfell—though some might whisper 'hostage' when they thought none could hear—moved with the fluid grace of one raised on the swaying decks of longships, his sea-green eyes darting about with barely contained restlessness that spoke of his islander heritage. His bow hung across his back with the easy familiarity of a master archer, and his confidence in his own abilities was written in every line of his posture.
Behind him, Jory Cassel and a handful of Stark men-at-arms followed in comfortable silence, their hands never straying far from their weapons despite the familiar territory. These were seasoned warriors, men who had followed Ned Stark through Robert's Rebellion and earned their lord's trust through blood and steel.
"Tell me again why we're tramping through the deepest, darkest, most gods-forsaken part of the Wolfswood instead of taking the perfectly serviceable King's Road like civilized people?" Theon called out, his voice carrying that particular brand of irreverence that had earned him countless reproving looks over the years. "Because I distinctly remember someone mentioning breakfast this morning, and I'm fairly certain we've missed it by now."
"Because," Robb replied without turning around, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice, "some of us actually listen when the scouts report strange lights dancing through the trees like will-o'-wisps, instead of spending our time in the kitchens charming serving girls with tales of our prowess with a bow."
"First of all," Theon protested with wounded dignity, "I was in the armory, not the kitchens. There's a significant difference—one involves actual skill, the other involves you getting flour in your hair. Second, the serving girls appreciate my attention far more than your sanctimonious lectures about duty and responsibility."
"They appreciate your gold more than your attention," Jon said dryly, his voice carrying just enough amusement to take the sting out of the words. "And they mock your stories the moment you leave the room."
"Snow!" Theon clutched his chest in an elaborate display of wounded pride. "Your words cut deeper than any blade! And here I thought we were friends."
"We are friends," Jon replied with a slight smile. "That's why I'm telling you the truth instead of letting you continue to make a fool of yourself."
"They'd have to cut pretty shallow to wound that thick hide of his," one of the guards muttered under his breath, earning barely suppressed chuckles from his companions.
"I heard that, Garrett," Theon called back cheerfully. "And I'll remember it the next time you need someone to put an arrow through a target smaller than a barn door."
"Boys," Lord Stark said mildly, though there was steel beneath the gentle reproach, "perhaps we could save the wit and wisdom for when we're not tracking potentially dangerous phenomena through my woods?"
"Sorry, Father," Robb said immediately, though he couldn't quite suppress his grin.
"Apologies, my lord," Theon added, managing to sound appropriately contrite while somehow conveying that he wasn't sorry in the least.
Lord Stark allowed himself the barest hint of a smile at the familiar banter. These woods had echoed with similar conversations when he was their age, walking these same paths with Brandon and Benjen, with Robert Baratheon's booming laughter echoing off the ancient trees. But those days were long past, buried beneath years of responsibility and the weight of lordship. His expression sobered as he raised a hand, bringing the party to an immediate, instinctive halt.
"Something's wrong," he said quietly, his voice carrying that note of absolute authority that made even Theon fall silent and reach for his bow. "Do you feel it?"
Jon nodded slowly, his hand drifting unconsciously to Longclaw's hilt, the bastard sword that had been his lord father's gift and blessing. "The air... it's different. Heavier. Like the moment before lightning strikes."
"Like the calm before a storm," Robb agreed, though his eyes searched the canopy above for storm clouds that weren't there. His own hand found his sword's pommel, muscle memory and training taking over.
Theon shifted uncomfortably, his earlier joviality fading like morning mist as he nocked an arrow to his bowstring with practiced ease. "The birds have gone quiet," he observed, and indeed, the usual chorus of woodland sounds—the chirping of sparrows, the rustling of small creatures in the underbrush, the distant call of ravens—had faded to an unnatural stillness that felt almost oppressive.
"Even the wind has stilled," Jory noted, his gruff voice carrying a note of unease that spoke of a lifetime spent in service to the Starks and their mysterious North.
Lord Stark's expression grew grimmer, the lines on his weathered face deepening as he considered their situation. "The old gods still walk these woods," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of ancient belief and Northern wisdom. "Best we remember that and show proper respect. These trees were old when the First Men came to Westeros, and they have long memories."
They pressed on, but the jovial atmosphere had evaporated like dew before the morning sun. Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet, each crunch of leaves underfoot echoing like thunder in the stillness. More than one hand had found its way to a sword hilt, and even the most seasoned of the guards found themselves glancing nervously at the shadows between the trees. The very air seemed to thicken with each step, as if the forest itself was holding its breath in anticipation of something momentous.
It was Jon who saw it first—a piercing radiance that cut through the perpetual gloom ahead like a blade of liquid silver and starlight. This wasn't the weak, filtered sunlight that occasionally managed to penetrate the thick canopy, nor was it the warm glow of firelight or torches. This was something else entirely: brilliant, otherworldly, and definitely not natural. It pulsed and shifted like a living thing, casting dancing shadows that seemed to move independently of their sources.
"Father," Jon said quietly, his voice tight with tension and barely controlled excitement.
Lord Stark had already seen it, his keen eyes missing nothing. His hand moved to Ice's leather-wrapped hilt as he raised his other hand, freezing the entire party in place with the kind of gesture that brooked no argument. "Hold," he commanded, his voice carrying the kind of calm, deadly authority that had served him well on battlefields from the Trident to the Tower of Joy.
"What in the seven hells is that?" Robb breathed, his own sword half-drawn, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and wariness that spoke of a young man's eagerness for adventure tempered by his father's training.
Theon had his bow drawn and ready, though his hands weren't quite as steady as usual, and his cocky grin had been replaced by the focused intensity of a predator sensing danger. "Please tell me that's just some wildling shaman playing with pretty torches and trying to impress his tribe."
"When have you ever known wildlings to glow like captured starlight?" Jon replied, his dark eyes never leaving the strange radiance, his voice carrying that particular combination of excitement and caution that marked him as Ned Stark's son, bastard-born or not.
"There's a first time for everything," Theon shot back, but his voice lacked its usual confidence, and his knuckles were white where he gripped his bow.
"Not like this," Jory muttered, his hand on his sword and his eyes scanning the treeline for threats. "I've been in these woods man and boy for thirty years, and I've never seen the like."
Lord Stark studied the light for a long moment, his weathered face giving nothing away as he weighed their options with the careful consideration of a man who had learned that hasty decisions often led to unnecessary graves. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of the North itself, the authority of the Stark name, and the wisdom of a man who had survived more battles than most. "We are Starks of Winterfell. We do not flee from mysteries in our own lands, be they natural or otherwise. But we do not charge blindly into them either like green boys looking for glory." He looked back at his sons and ward, his grey eyes reflecting the strange light ahead. "We approach. Carefully. Together. Whatever lies ahead, we face it as wolves of the same pack."
"Should we send a scout ahead?" Jory suggested, his loyalty to his lord warring with his practical concern for their safety. "Better to risk one man than the whole party."
"No," Ned replied firmly, his voice allowing no argument. "We go together, or not at all. A wolf alone dies, but the pack survives. That lesson has served House Stark for eight thousand years, and it will serve us today."
"What if it's a trap?" one of the younger guards asked nervously.
"Then we spring it together," Robb said with the kind of fierce grin that marked him as his father's son, his hand tight on his sword's hilt.
"Comforting," Theon muttered, but he adjusted his grip on his bow and fell into formation without further complaint.
They moved forward as one, their boots crunching softly on frost-touched leaves and fallen branches. The light grew brighter with each step, until it was almost blinding in its intensity, forcing them to squint and shield their eyes. The air around them hummed with an energy that made the hair on their arms stand on end and set their teeth on edge, while more than one man murmured a prayer to the old gods or made the sign of the seven-pointed star.
"If this turns out to be some elaborate prank by the maesters at Winterfell," Theon muttered through gritted teeth, "I'm going to have very pointed words with them. Possibly involving my bow."
"Since when do maesters have access to whatever in the seven hells this is?" Robb replied, though his attempt at levity fell flat in the oppressive atmosphere.
"Maybe it's one of their experiments gone wrong," Jon suggested. "Maester Luwin is always tinkering with lenses and mirrors."
"Luwin's experiments don't make the air taste like lightning," Theon pointed out.
The forest opened suddenly into a clearing that definitely hadn't been there the last time any of them had walked this path, and there, at the center of a smoking crater that looked like it had been carved out of the earth by the gods themselves, stood a figure that made them all stop in their tracks and question everything they thought they knew about the world.
It was a young man, perhaps Jon's age or slightly older, with unruly dark hair that looked like he'd been running his hands through it in frustration and the kind of sharp-featured handsomeness that would have made half the ladies of Winterfell swoon and the other half challenge each other to duels for his attention. His face was lean and angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw that spoke of noble breeding, but it was his eyes that truly caught their attention—vivid emerald green orbs that seemed to hold depths of experience far beyond his apparent years, eyes that had seen too much and carried burdens that would have broken lesser men.
He wore armor unlike anything they'd ever seen: plates of gleaming red and gold that seemed to capture and reflect light in impossible ways, adorned with the intricate design of a magnificent bird in flight across the chest piece. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, each piece fitting together with the precision of a master's work, and the metal itself seemed to glow with an inner fire. A sword hung at his side, its hilt carved with runes that seemed to shift and dance in the strange light, and his stance spoke of a warrior's training despite his youth.
But perhaps most striking of all was his demeanor. Despite being surrounded by armed men in an unfamiliar forest, despite standing in a crater that suggested he'd arrived in a rather explosive fashion, he stood with the easy confidence of someone who had faced far worse and lived to tell the tale. There was something in his bearing—not arrogance, but a quiet self-assurance born of trials survived and battles won.
Lord Stark stepped forward, Ice's familiar weight a comfort at his back, his grey eyes sharp as the blade he carried as they studied the young man with the intensity of a predator evaluating potential prey—or threat. The stranger met his gaze without flinching, and Ned found himself impressed despite the bizarre circumstances.
"Identify yourself," Lord Stark commanded, his voice carrying all the authority of his position as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. "You stand on Stark lands, and I would know who dares to... illuminate... my forest in such a dramatic fashion."
The young man's lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile, though it held more exhaustion than humor and carried the weight of recent trials. "Well, that's refreshingly direct," he said, his accent crisp and distinctly foreign, carrying hints of nobility and education that even Theon could recognize. "I do appreciate a man who gets straight to the point without dancing around it for an hour first." He inclined his head in a gesture that managed to be both respectful and somehow equal, as if he were acknowledging Ned's authority while subtly asserting his own worth. "Hadrian James Potter, at your service, my lord. Though most people who aren't actively trying to kill me at any given moment call me Harry."
Theon blinked, his bow lowering slightly in surprise. "Most people who aren't trying to kill you? Exactly how many people are trying to kill you on a regular basis? Because that seems like an unusually high number for someone your age."
"These days?" Harry's smile turned genuinely sardonic, carrying the bitter edge of hard-won experience. "Fewer than before, thankfully. I've recently resolved what you might call a rather pressing personnel issue. Several personnel issues, actually, though the main one was particularly persistent."
"Personnel issue?" Robb repeated, his hand still on his sword but his expression more curious than threatening. "You make it sound like you were dismissing servants."
"You could call it that," Harry replied with a casual shrug that didn't quite hide the shadow that crossed his features, the brief glimpse of something dark and painful that he clearly didn't want to discuss. "Though 'genocidal dark wizard with delusions of immortality and a serious obsession with my untimely demise' might be more accurate. He had this rather annoying habit of not staying dead when killed, you see, which made resolving the situation considerably more complicated than one might expect."
The clearing fell silent except for the soft crackle of residual energy from the crater and the gentle whisper of wind through leaves. Even Theon seemed at a loss for words, which was perhaps the most remarkable thing that had happened yet, considering his usual inability to remain quiet for more than thirty seconds at a time.
Lord Stark's expression didn't change, but Jon caught the slight tightening around his father's eyes that meant he was reassessing the situation and the potential threat level of their unexpected guest. "You speak of dark wizards as though magic were commonplace, not the stuff of legends and old wives' tales."
"Where I come from, it is as commonplace as breathing," Harry replied simply, his tone suggesting that this was just another mundane fact about his life. "Though I'm beginning to suspect that 'where I come from' might be a rather more complicated question than it used to be, given the current circumstances and your obvious unfamiliarity with basic magical concepts."
"And where exactly do you come from?" Jon asked quietly, something in the stranger's manner—the way he carried himself like someone who had never quite belonged anywhere—resonating with his own sense of displacement and otherness.
Harry's green eyes fixed on Jon with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable, as if he could see straight through to Jon's soul and understood exactly what it meant to stand on the outside looking in. "Britain. England, specifically. A little Surrey village called Little Whinging, if you want the full postal address, though I somehow doubt that means anything to any of you." He gestured vaguely at the crater surrounding him with casual disregard for the obvious impossibility of the situation. "At least, I think that's where I'm from. The last few minutes have been rather... educational... regarding the fundamental nature of reality and my place within it."
"Britain?" Robb frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration as he searched his memory. "I've studied maps and histories with Maester Luwin since I was old enough to hold a quill, and I've never heard of such a place. Where is it? Across the Narrow Sea? Beyond Asshai?"
"That," Harry said with another of those tired, knowing smiles that seemed far too old for his face, "is becoming increasingly and rather alarmingly apparent. Either I've somehow been transported to a completely different world—which, given my recent experiences with magic that defies all known laws, isn't entirely impossible—or I've been unconscious far longer than I thought and the entire political landscape has changed beyond recognition."
Theon, apparently recovered from his momentary speechlessness, stepped forward with his characteristic swagger only slightly dampened by the surreal circumstances. "So you're telling us that you're from some mystical land that none of us have ever heard of, despite our rather extensive education in geography, you've just finished killing—sorry, defeating—a dark wizard who wouldn't stay properly dead, and you've somehow managed to... what, accidentally teleport yourself into the middle of the Wolfswood in a spectacular burst of light and thunder?"
"That's... actually not a terrible summary," Harry admitted with grudging respect for Theon's ability to grasp the essential points despite the obvious incredulity. "Though I'd strongly prefer 'defeated' to 'killed,' thank you very much. I may have been forced to take lives in defense of others, but I don't make a habit of it, and I certainly don't enjoy it. And the teleportation wasn't exactly voluntary—more like an unfortunate side effect of magical forces beyond normal comprehension colliding in ways that probably violated several fundamental laws of physics."
"Magic," Lord Stark repeated, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes sharp with interest and wariness.
"Magic," Harry confirmed without hesitation. "Wands, spells, potions, flying broomsticks, talking portraits, moving staircases, the whole perfectly ridiculous business that most people spend their entire lives convinced doesn't exist. Where I come from, it's as real as that magnificent sword on your back, Lord Stark, and considerably more unpredictable."
"You know who I am," Ned observed, his tone giving nothing away.
Harry's smile became more genuine, touched with real warmth for the first time since they'd found him. "Call it educated guesswork combined with basic powers of observation. You have the bearing of a lord—the kind of unconscious authority that comes from a lifetime of command—you're clearly the leader of this rather impressive group, and you mentioned that these were Stark lands. Add in the distinctly Northern accent, the family resemblance that's quite striking when you know what to look for—" he nodded toward Jon and Robb with a slight smile "—and the fact that everyone defers to your judgment without question, and it wasn't particularly difficult to work out your identity."
"Family resemblance?" Theon grinned, apparently unable to help himself from stirring the pot, his sea-green eyes dancing with mischief. "That's rather interesting, considering Jon's a bastard, you know. Bastards aren't supposed to look too much like the trueborn sons. Causes... complications."
"Theon," Robb warned, his voice sharp with embarrassment and anger.
But Harry was already looking at Theon with an expression that could have frozen the Narrow Sea solid, his green eyes glittering with a cold fury that was all the more intimidating for being perfectly controlled. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly polite, cultured, and absolutely deadly. "Is that supposed to mean something significant to me?" he asked, each word precisely enunciated and dripping with disdain. "Because where I come from, we've learned through rather painful experience that blood status and perceived legitimacy have absolutely nothing to do with a person's actual worth, and everything to do with the prejudices of small-minded individuals who need to feel superior to someone."
The temperature in the clearing seemed to drop several degrees. Even the Stark guards shifted uncomfortably, recognizing the particular brand of quiet menace that often preceded sudden and spectacular violence.
"I meant no offense," Theon said quickly, though his pride clearly stung at being forced to back down in front of the others.
"Of course you didn't," Harry replied, his smile sharp enough to cut glass and twice as brittle. "Just like I'm sure you didn't mean to sound like a complete and utter arse when you implied that Jon here was somehow lesser or inferior because of circumstances entirely beyond his control. I'm sure it was just an innocent observation about genetics and family dynamics."
Jon's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, clearly not expecting to be defended by a complete stranger who'd appeared in their forest less than ten minutes ago, especially not with such vehement conviction.
"Now see here—" Theon began, his face flushing red with embarrassment and wounded pride.
"No, you see here," Harry interrupted, his voice still perfectly calm but carrying an undertone of steel that made everyone present very aware that this young man was far more dangerous than his age and apparent youth suggested. "I've just spent the better part of seven years dealing with people who believed that blood purity and birthright made them inherently superior to everyone else. It involved a great deal of unpleasantness, several wars, and an absolutely ridiculous number of people trying to kill me for the crime of existing. It didn't end particularly well for the blood purists, I'm afraid. I'd hate for you to make the same mistake and find yourself on the wrong side of a very short conversation about equality and respect."
The threat was delivered with such polite courtesy that it took a moment for its full import to sink in, but when it did, every man present found himself reassessing their opinion of the mysterious stranger.
Lord Stark stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding attention, and Harry immediately shifted his focus to the Lord of Winterfell, his confrontational stance easing slightly out of respect for the obvious authority figure and recognition of proper hierarchy.
"Peace," Lord Stark said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of calm authority that had commanded men on battlefields and in council chambers alike. "There will be no bloodshed in my woods over words spoken in haste and thoughtlessness. We are all guests in this forest, and we will behave accordingly." His grey eyes fixed on Theon with unmistakable displeasure that promised consequences later. "Theon, you will apologize to Jon for your thoughtless words, and to our guest for your discourtesy. Immediately."
Theon's face went through several interesting color changes—red to white to red again—before settling on a dull crimson that clashed horribly with his dark hair. "I... I apologize, Jon. That was thoughtless and cruel, and you didn't deserve it." He turned to Harry with obvious reluctance. "And I apologize to you as well, Harry. I spoke without thinking, and I gave offense where none was intended."
"Apology accepted," Harry said easily, though his eyes remained watchful and alert. "We all say stupid things sometimes when we're nervous or trying to be clever. The important thing is learning from our mistakes and doing better next time."
Jon shot Harry a grateful look that spoke volumes about how rarely anyone had bothered to defend him from such casual cruelty, before turning to his father with obvious curiosity about what would happen next.
Lord Stark considered their situation for a moment, his weathered face thoughtful as he weighed duty against caution, hospitality against security. "What do we do now, Father?" Robb asked quietly, voicing the question they were all thinking.
"Now," Lord Stark said finally, his decision made, "we offer hospitality to a stranger in need, as honor demands and Northern custom requires. Whatever brought you to our lands, Hadrian Potter, you are clearly far from home and in need of assistance." He looked at Harry directly, his grey eyes serious but not unkind. "You are welcome at Winterfell, at least until we can determine how you came to be in our lands and how you might return to your own—assuming that's what you wish."
"That's extraordinarily generous of you, Lord Stark," Harry replied, his gratitude clearly genuine and touched with something that might have been relief. "I truly appreciate the offer of hospitality, especially given the rather unusual circumstances of our meeting. Though I should probably mention, in the interest of full disclosure, that I'm not entirely alone in my current predicament."
Every weapon in the clearing was suddenly ready for action, though not quite drawn. The Stark guards tensed like coiled springs, and even Lord Stark's hand moved closer to Ice's hilt with practiced ease.
"Explain," Ned said simply, his voice carrying a wealth of authority and expectation.
Harry smiled, and for the first time since they'd found him, it was completely without guile, hidden meanings, or defensive barriers—just pure, uncomplicated affection. "May I?" he asked politely, gesturing vaguely at the air above them with the kind of casual confidence that suggested this was a perfectly normal request.
After a moment's consideration, weighing the potential risks against his curiosity and the young man's apparent honesty, Lord Stark nodded his permission.
Harry pursed his lips and made a soft, melodious whistling sound, almost musical in its complexity and strangely haunting in the quiet of the forest. The melody seemed to hang in the air, echoing off the ancient trees with an otherworldly beauty that made the hair on their arms stand on end.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the air above the clearing exploded in a burst of flame so brilliant and sudden that every man present either dove for cover or drew steel in one fluid motion, their training and instincts taking over.
From the very heart of the golden fire emerged a creature that belonged in the oldest songs and legends, the kind of tales that Old Nan told by the firelight on winter nights when the wind howled through the walls of Winterfell. It was a phoenix in full magnificent glory, its plumage a brilliant tapestry of crimson and gold that seemed to capture and hold the very essence of flame itself. The bird was larger than any creature they'd ever seen take wing, with a wingspan that could have encompassed a grown man and eyes like liquid amber that held an intelligence far beyond that of any mere animal.
The phoenix circled the clearing once, its flight as graceful as a dancer and as powerful as a storm wind, its song a hauntingly beautiful melody that seemed to resonate in the very bones of all who heard it, stirring something primal and ancient in their souls. Then, with regal dignity that would have put kings to shame, it settled gracefully on Harry's shoulder as if it weighed no more than a sparrow.
Despite the bird's impressive size, the young man showed no strain whatsoever in supporting it, suggesting either that the phoenix was considerably lighter than it appeared or that Harry was significantly stronger than his lean frame suggested.
"Gentlemen," Harry said with obvious affection, reaching up to stroke the phoenix's magnificent head with gentle fingers, "meet Fawkes. He's been my companion, my friend, and occasionally my salvation through some very dark and difficult times." The bird trilled softly in response, nuzzling against Harry's cheek with obvious devotion. "Fawkes, these are the Starks and their people. They've very kindly offered us hospitality, despite the rather dramatic nature of our arrival."
The phoenix—Fawkes—regarded the assembled men with the kind of regal dignity that suggested he was perfectly aware of his own magnificence, then inclined his head in what could only be described as a formal acknowledgment of their presence, complete with the subtle nuances of court protocol.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the clearing were the soft crackling of residual magic in the air and the gentle whisper of wind through ancient leaves.
"A phoenix," Jon breathed, his voice filled with wonder and something approaching reverence. "Old Nan told stories when we were children... tales of great birds of fire that could heal any wound and sing courage into the hearts of heroes... but I never thought... I never imagined they were real."
"They're real," Harry confirmed with a gentle smile that transformed his entire face. "Though Fawkes here is rather special, even among phoenixes. He's saved my life more times than I can count, and I've had the privilege of saving his once or twice in return. We've been through quite a lot together, haven't we, boy?"
The phoenix sang a single, crystal-clear note that seemed to hang in the air long after the sound had faded, filling the clearing with warmth and hope that touched something deep in their souls.
"Can it fight?" Robb asked, his practical mind already assessing potential threats and assets with the instincts of a future military commander.
Harry's smile turned predatory, and for a moment, his green eyes held the cold light of someone who had seen far too much combat for his age. "Oh yes. Fawkes and I have quite a bit of experience in that particular area, don't we, old friend? Though he much prefers healing to harming—it's more in line with his nature."
"Healing?" Lord Stark asked, his interest clearly piqued by the practical applications.
"Phoenix tears can heal almost any wound or poison," Harry explained, his tone becoming more scholarly as he warmed to the subject. "Their song can bolster courage in the face of overwhelming odds, their feathers have certain... useful properties for those who know how to employ them properly, and their fire burns only what they will it to burn—it can provide warmth and light without causing harm, or it can incinerate enemies without touching their allies. Rather convenient, really."
"And their strength?" Jon asked, his dark eyes fixed on the magnificent creature with fascination.
Harry grinned. "Fawkes once carried me and two other people out of an underground chamber while we were all significantly heavier than we should have been due to some rather unpleasant magical circumstances. Phoenix are considerably stronger than they appear, and their flying speed is... well, let's just say that conventional rules of physics seem to be more like gentle suggestions to them."
"And when he appeared just now?" Theon asked, having apparently recovered some of his composure, though he was still eyeing the phoenix with a mixture of awe and healthy caution. "I thought we were all about to be roasted alive like chickens on a spit."
"Fawkes would never hurt an innocent person," Harry replied with absolute certainty. "His fire only burns what threatens those he chooses to protect. You could put your hand directly into those flames and feel nothing but warmth and comfort."
"I think I'll take your word for that, if you don't mind," Theon said quickly, earning chuckles from several of the guards.
"Probably wise," Harry agreed with a grin. "Though I promise you, he's completely harmless unless you intend harm to others. Phoenixes are remarkably good judges of character."
Lord Stark studied the phoenix for a long moment, taking in every detail of the magnificent creature with the careful attention of a man who had learned to assess both opportunities and threats with equal care. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Fawkes is welcome at Winterfell as well, as honored guest and companion. Though I trust he'll keep his more... dramatic entrances to a minimum while he's under our roof?"
The phoenix actually seemed to consider this request with the gravity it deserved before trilling what sounded remarkably like amused agreement, his amber eyes sparkling with what could only be described as mischief.
"He says he'll try his best," Harry translated with a laugh that was younger and more carefree than anything they'd heard from him yet, "but he is something of a natural showman. It's difficult for a creature of his magnificence to make subtle entrances."
"Aren't we all," Robb said with genuine laughter, the tension in the group finally beginning to ease as the reality of their situation began to sink in.
As they prepared to leave the clearing, Jon fell into step beside Harry. "That thing you said about blood and birthright," he said quietly. "Did you mean it?"
Harry glanced at him, something understanding passing between them. "Every word. I was raised by people who considered me less than dirt because of who my parents were and what I represented to them. It took me a long time to learn that the only person who gets to decide your worth is you."
"And how do you decide?" Jon asked.
"By your actions," Harry replied simply. "By how you treat people who can do nothing for you. By whether you stand up when it matters, even when it costs you." He paused, studying Jon's face in the dappled light. "From what I've seen so far, you're doing just fine on all counts."
Behind them, Theon was regaling the guards with increasingly embellished versions of their encounter with the phoenix, while Robb peppered Harry with questions about magic and far-off lands. Lord Stark walked at the head of their little procession, his mind clearly working through the implications of their unexpected guest.
As they made their way back through the Wolfswood toward Winterfell, the ancient trees seemed less foreboding, as if the forest itself approved of their newest addition. And high overhead, keeping pace with the party below, Fawkes flew in lazy circles, his song echoing through the branches like a promise of adventures to come.
The North had seen many strange things over the centuries, but something told them all that Hadrian Potter and his phoenix were going to be among the strangest yet. And somehow, none of them minded that prospect in the least.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!