The savory scent of roasted elk drifted across the clearing between the old mill and Dorin's humble stone cottage. Smoke rose from the chimney in soft spirals, promising warmth and a full belly. Inside, the cottage was transformed. A rough wooden table stood adorned with whatever cloth Dorin's wife, Marya, could find, and a modest spread of food was being prepared. Though the furnishings were plain, tonight the air brimmed with joy.
Marya bustled around, setting down carved chunks of meat and boiled roots she had brought from the small marketplace. She had even managed to purchase a small bottle of honeyed wine, something she hadn't tasted in years. Her face, usually worn with care, was lit with a joy she hadn't felt in a long time.
Dorin raised a wooden mug filled with warm broth and smiled at Oliver, who sat beside him on a low bench. Across from them, Harry, still somewhat stiff from his journey, sat quietly but observant.
"We haven't eaten like this since before the long frost," Oliver said, tearing into a piece of steaming meat. "The last stag we caught was near dead from the cold, and half rotten by the time we skinned it."
Harry offered a faint smile. "I'm glad I could help. I couldn't have made it through the storm without you both."
Marya, serving more stew into wooden bowls, gave a grateful nod. "It was no trouble, milord. And you've paid us more than kindly."
Harry blinked at the honorific. "Please, don't call me 'milord'. I'm just—well, Harry. Just Harry."
Oliver and Dorin exchanged glances, then Dorin chuckled, "Well, Lord Harry, we're still going to be grateful."
Laughter broke out among them, even from the children. Elsa and Nina were curled near the fire, happily munching on dried fruit Marya had bought for them, their cheeks rosy and round.
After a while, Harry leaned forward, his tone turning more serious. "I've been meaning to ask you both something. I don't know much about this land. About… this land. Could you tell me more about the rulers here? The kingdoms?"
Oliver scratched his beard. "You're not from here?"
"I… traveled far," Harry replied carefully, not ready to reveal too much. "Very far."
"Well," Dorin began, "King Rhaegar Targaryen rules now. Took the throne after the old king, Aerys, passed. Not many mourned the mad king, truth be told. He insulted too many lords and burned more bridges than he built."
"The Targaryens," Oliver said, "are dragonlords from Valyria. Or were. Some say the blood still flows in their veins, though no one's seen a real dragon since—well, forever. Rhaegar's not like his father though. Folk say he's calm. Thoughtful."
Harry listened intently, his brow furrowed. "And… where are we right now?"
"You're in the North," Dorin said. "The land of the Starks. Good folk, if a bit grim. We're a few days south of Winterfell, though only those with horses and coin visit there often."
"And where is Valyria?" Harry asked.
Oliver nodded slowly. "Across the sea. Valyria's long gone though. Burnt in some great doom, they say. Now it's just ruins and haunted ash. Essos has cities—Braavos, Pentos, Myr—but most of us'll never see 'em."
Harry leaned back slightly, stunned.
He had suspected something ever since hearing the names. But now, hearing them all together—Targaryen, Winterfell, Valyria—it finally clicked.
This wasn't Earth.
This wasn't his world.
He hadn't traveled through time. He'd somehow crossed into an entirely different realm altogether. A different dimension, perhaps.
And yet—thank the stars above—they spoke English.
He exhaled deeply, overwhelmed by the enormity of it. He had left behind Hogwarts, Britain, everything he knew. And now, he was in a land of lords and kings, dragons and ancient magic. A place of honor, steel, and fire.
Oliver noticed his silence. "You all right, Harry?"
Harry nodded slowly. "Just… adjusting."
"Well," Dorin said, raising his cup again, "wherever you came from, you're welcome here. You saved our lives, and gave us enough gold to last us years. With what you gave us, we can buy firewood, salt, wool, and grain. Maybe even fix the roof come spring."
Oliver grinned. "Aye. I'll even get new boots that don't leak."
Harry chuckled softly. "Glad I could help."
As laughter returned to the room and the fire crackled bright, Harry felt a strange warmth settle in his chest. It wasn't home. But it wasn't hostile either.
For now… that was enough.
The sun broke gently over the snow-dusted hills as Harry stepped outside the mill, his breath curling in the frigid air. The warmth of the feast the night before still lingered in his bones, but his mind was abuzz with questions. This land—Westeros, as they called it—felt ancient, older than anything he'd known in his own world. It bore the texture of a forgotten legend, yet Harry could feel the faint shimmer of something... more. Something magical. If there was magic in this world, he had to understand how it worked—how it differed from his own.
He fastened his cloak and stepped out onto the narrow, beaten path that wound through the cluster of cottages nearby. It was a small village by any standard, barely twenty houses nestled close against the wilderness. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the scent of firewood and simmering broth drifted on the wind. Chickens clucked. Children played with sticks in the snow. Old women sat on stools spinning thread or mending wool.
To Harry's surprise, the villagers greeted him warmly. They'd heard of "Lord Gryffindor," the strange, quiet man who had appeared from the storm and gifted gold and meat to the poor. To them, he was not only a noble but a miracle.
"Morning to you, milord!" called a woman with a missing tooth and a basket of firewood on her hip.
"Blessings upon your hearth, Lord Gryffindor!" a wrinkled man with a crooked back murmured with a reverent nod.
Harry returned the greetings awkwardly, still unused to the title. "Good morning. I'm—please, just Harry."
He spent the day moving among them, asking questions with careful curiosity. When he asked about books, writing, or schools, they gave him puzzled looks.
"Only them fancy maesters and lords know how to read," said one blacksmith, his hands calloused and scarred. "We got no use for letters. We live off the land, same as our fathers did."
No education system. No reading or writing among the small folk. It reminded Harry of tales of his own country from centuries ago, before the invention of the printing press, before Hogwarts had even existed.
So he turned the topic to magic.
"Magic?" said a shepherd with a crooked smile. "Ain't no magic left, m'lord. Just stories."
But the stories came.
An old woman with clouded eyes whispered of the Cold Ones—pale demons with eyes like blue fire that stole babies from cradles and froze the bones of men. Another told of the Children of the Forest, tiny people of leaf and root who spoke to trees and vanished like mist. One man swore that his grandfather had seen a dragon when he was a boy, a shadow that flew over the Dreadfort in silence.
"It was as real as I am, I swear it on my life," the man said. "Wings like sails, teeth like swords. But they're gone now. All gone."
"They say the last ones died out when the Targaryens lost their hold," said another. "Magic's gone too, if it ever was real. Ain't no use dreamin' of it."
Harry listened to each tale with the rapt attention of a scholar, piecing them together like fragments of an ancient tapestry. It soon became clear: magic had once touched this land—but it had faded. Like the wind erasing footprints in snow, the arcane had vanished from daily life.
And yet… not entirely.
That afternoon, he visited the old weirwood tree the villagers had spoken of—a solitary sentinel at the edge of the village, its white bark pale as bone and red leaves rustling in the wind like whispers of blood. A carved face peered out from its trunk: sorrowful, timeless.
Harry stepped closer.
He could feel something.
Not power, exactly—but presence. A subtle hum, a vibration in the air. It prickled his skin, tingled at his fingertips. Unlike the magic he wielded with his wand, this energy was... old. It did not move or answer his will, but it watched. It endured.
He pressed his palm gently to the bark, and something stirred inside him—an emotion he couldn't name. Reverence, perhaps. Melancholy. Hope.
A piece of bark had fallen nearby, half-buried in snow. He bent, picked it up, and tucked it carefully into his pouch. It might be useful—if not for spellwork, then for understanding. For memory.
When he returned to the mill, the fire was already lit. Oliver was hammering at a loose board near the hearth, humming to himself.
"You were gone long," Oliver said, straightening.
Harry nodded, shedding his snow-flecked cloak. "I was just speaking with the villagers. Visiting the weirwood."
Oliver nodded slowly. "Some say they talk, those trees. I can't hear a thing, but old Kess claims the one in Deepstream told her she'd outlive her husband." He chuckled. "She did, too."
"Do you mind," Harry asked cautiously, "if I stay here? A little longer?"
Oliver looked up, surprised. Then he smiled.
"You're welcome as long as you like, Harry. You gave us a gift we can never repay. This mill's more a home now than it's been in years."
Harry offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."
As night fell and snow thickened outside the mill windows, Harry sat near the fire, turning the weirwood bark over in his hands.
Magic had not vanished.
It had simply gone quiet.
And perhaps—just perhaps—he had come to this world to wake it.
The wind howled across the snow-covered fields as Harry sat beside the hearth, staring into the dancing flames. The warm light licked the walls of Oliver's mill, casting shifting shadows over old stones and stacked firewood. Yet despite the heat, Harry felt a chill coil in his chest—an unease he could no longer ignore.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out the folded bark of the weirwood tree, rubbing it gently between his fingers as he thought.
This world had no magic—not anymore. Its people feared and honored tales of sorcery and dragons like children fearing bedtime monsters. The last embers of power had long since turned to ash. And yet... he had arrived in this world on the wings of a dragon.
A real one.
Not a story. Not a memory.
A creature of ancient fire and sky. One that breathed death with every wingbeat.
Harry's jaw tightened. If the people of this world no longer possessed magic, then they had no hope of stopping such a creature—no spells, no enchanted blades, no protection.
And what if the dragon had already caused harm? Burned a village, devoured livestock, struck terror into an already starving countryside? It would be his fault. His burden. He couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen.
He stood.
The fire cracked behind him. The weirwood bark slipped back into his pouch.
"I have to find it," he murmured aloud, as though confirming it to himself. "Before someone else gets hurt."
The next morning, Harry left the mill at dawn. He didn't say goodbye—he knew Oliver or Dorin would try to stop him, or at least insist on joining him, and Harry didn't want to risk their lives. This was a mission for a wizard.
He walked swiftly, cutting across the frozen fields and into the woods beyond. The memory of the dragon's cave still lingered in his mind—a jagged hillcrest westward, near the place he had first awoken, half-buried in snow.
With each step, he cast his tracking spell again.
"Point Me, Dragon."
The wand jerked slightly in his hand, tilting southwest.
He followed.
Hours passed. The trees grew denser, their black trunks etched with ice. Snow crunched beneath his boots, and the sky remained iron grey above, as if watching. His breath misted in the air, and his hands were numb despite the warming charm he'd cast.
And then—there it was.
The hill rose before him, crowned with broken rock and ringed in shadow. A sharp wind cut across its face, but Harry could smell it now: scorched stone and ash. The memory of fire.
He climbed, boots slipping, wand drawn.
The mouth of the cave appeared like a wound in the hill—jagged, dark, and wide enough to swallow a wagon whole. Harry paused outside, heart pounding. He could feel the heat rising from within, faint but real.
He pressed his hand to the rock.
"Lumos."
The tip of his wand flared to life, casting white light across the interior.
The cavern was massive. The walls shimmered with veins of obsidian and old scorch marks. And there, at the center, half-curled and breathing slowly… was the dragon.
A shadow of terror and beauty.
Its scales shimmered in pale white, its wings folded like crumpled sails, and its head rested on the curve of its tail. It looked bigger than the last time he saw it. Its body radiated heat. Its breaths came low and even.
Asleep.
Harry exhaled slowly.
He could leave.
He could walk away, seal the cave, and let the creature slumber until time buried it again.
But what if it didn't stay asleep?
What if hunger drove it to the villages? What if someone tried to fight it with spears and torches and children?
No.
He couldn't risk it.
He lifted his wand.
But even as he did, something stirred in the dragon.
Its golden eye snapped open, locking on him. No fear. No anger. Just curiosity. Recognition.
And in that gaze, Harry felt it again—that same strange pull, the same resonance that had drawn him to mount it once before. A flicker of understanding passed between them, as if the dragon knew him.
And slowly, it rose.
Not to charge. Not to burn.
To face him.
Harry stood firm, wand still raised, unsure if he was about to fight… or forge something else entirely.