Chapter Text
Sea Dragon Point, Kingdom of the North, Fourth Day of the First Moon, 297 AC
The western shores of the North lay in their usual quiet that evening, broken only by the distant chirp of birds from the Wolfswood and the steady crash of waves against the rocky coast.
Atop a hill overlooking a vast expanse of green fields, dense forests, and the blue ocean beyond stood the ruins of what had once been a formidable castle. This had been the seat of the Warg King, who perished at the hands of the Starks a thousand years before. His lands had been claimed, his name struck from memory, and his stronghold left to rot beneath wind and rain.
The surrounding lands were sparsely populated, home to only a few dozen small fishing villages clinging to the coast. They survived off the bounty of the sea, not because the land itself was poor, quite the opposite, but because it was poorly protected, and that truth had shaped its fate for generations.
Ironborn longships raided these shores several times each year, drawn by the endless forests to build their fleets and the ready supply of thralls to crew them. No villager could pass a year without hearing of the latest raid, the newest village reduced to smoking husks, the most recent salt-wife taken.
Quite simply, there was little hope for those who lived here, and even less for their future.
The wind began to rise as dark storm clouds gathered overhead. Once-gentle waves turned violent, crashing against the cliffs where the Warg King’s seat had once stood in defiance of the sea.
At the heart of the ruins stood a heart tree, its pale bark unmarred by time. Its carved face, once solemn, now bore an expression of grim resolve. Crimson leaves rustled in the growing wind, and equally red sap streamed from its eyes and mouth like tears of blood.
As the gusts strengthened, villagers hurried into their homes, shuttering windows and bracing themselves for the storm they were certain was coming.
But the storm never arrived.
Instead, the wind died all at once, and an unnatural silence fell, until a massive shockwave erupted outward. Clouds were torn apart in an instant, revealing a brilliant, sunlit sky. Trees groaned and bent, nearly ripping free from their roots, as animals scattered in blind panic.
Sunlight poured down upon the base of the cliff, once empty, now utterly transformed.
Where there had been nothing now stood a sprawling village of stone buildings and paved streets, alive with hundreds upon hundreds of people.
One house stood apart from the rest, taller and sturdier than its neighbors. A large greenhouse stretched behind it, while nearby stables housed creatures thought to be nothing more than myth in the lands of Westeros.
The front door creaked open.
A head of messy black hair appeared first, followed by bright green eyes magnified slightly behind a pair of spectacles.
“Jon, ’Mione,” the man said with a nervous smile, squinting at the unfamiliar horizon. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
Two more sets of footsteps followed, one light, the other measured, and the door opened wider.
The woman who stepped out had a tanned complexion, inquisitive brown eyes bright with intelligence, and bushy brown hair falling halfway down her back.
It was the final occupant, however, who faltered.
He stood tall, six feet and a couple inches, with silky black hair brushing the nape of his neck, streaked faintly with silver near the front. His eyes were a deep purple, almost black, set in a pale face marked by sharp, graceful features, as though carved from stone.
He remained rooted in place for a long moment before stepping fully outside. Something about this land tugged at him, familiar in a way that set his heart racing, as if he had seen it before, in dreams or stories long forgotten.
He turned east, eyes drawn to a vast forest that stirred memories of childhood laughter and long winter nights.
Then he turned back toward the cliff. Toward the ruined castle. Toward the pale trunk and crimson leaves of the heart tree.
Understanding struck like a blade to the chest.
This was a place he had believed he would never return to. He had made his peace with that truth, even as he mourned the family he thought lost to him forever.
Now, for the first time in years, hope stirred.
“I think,” the man said quietly, “we’re in Westeros.”
“Your homeland?” Hermione asked, her gaze sweeping the horizon with newfound curiosity.
Jon nodded. “Aye. You see that forest there?” He pointed, and both of his friends followed the gesture. “If I’m right, that’s the Wolfswood, the largest forest in the North.”
He gestured next toward the ocean beyond. “Judging by the cooler air, despite the sunshine, and the shape of the bay… that should be the Bay of Ice.”
Finally, Jon turned toward the ruined castle crowning the hill. “And if my assumptions are correct, that’s Sea Dragon Point, what remains of Castle Warg, home of the Warg King, defeated by King Artos VI Stark.”
His purple gaze drifted, distant, drawn into memories best left undisturbed.
“Not that I’m not enjoying the history lesson,” Harry said dryly from behind them, “but how in Merlin’s name did we end up in a completely different universe?”
“Harry,” Hermione snapped, shooting him an icy glare.
He only shrugged. “What? I’m fairly sure that’s what everyone else is thinking.”
He gestured toward the growing crowd, many of the werewolves in Jon’s pack slowly approaching.
“My lord?” Farlan asked. The middle-aged Norseman’s greying hair and thick beard framed a presence that was steady and unyielding. “Is it true, then? Are we truly in your homeland?”
Jon sighed. “I’ve told you before, Farlan, there’s no need for titles. I’m just Jon.”
Farlan smiled anyway, eyes twinkling with stubborn respect. Jon knew the man, and most of the pack, would ignore the request entirely.
“But aye,” Jon said at last, turning back to the gathered crowd. “If I’m right, then it seems the gods have seen fit to return me home.” He offered a small, rueful smile. “I’m sorry they decided to drag you into the chaos that is my life.”
“Bah,” Caelum waved him off. The tall, broad Irishman bore a long scar down his face, one of Jon’s betas, and a voice many listened to. “It’s not like the wizarding world ever gave much of a damn about us. I reckon I speak for most when I say we’d follow you to the ends of the world, m’lord, whether that’s ours or yours.”
A chorus of agreement rose from the crowd, easing the tight knot in Jon’s chest.
“Right,” Jon said after a moment. “Let’s get a headcount. Make sure no one’s missing or injured from the displacement. Most of the farms and livestock seem to have come with us, but better safe than sorry.”
“And from what you’ve told us of this world,” Hermione added, “it wouldn’t do anyone any good if the unicorns or hippogriffs escaped into the forests.”
Harry snorted. “Can you imagine if the Thestrals got loose? These poor people would think demons had flown straight out of the Seven Hells.”
Jon fixed him with a flat stare.
“Would they even be able to see them?” Hermione asked.
“It’s likely,” Jon mused. “Many in this world have seen death far too young.”
He turned to Hermione. “Can you check on Teddy and the creatures while we finish the count?”
She nodded, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze before heading back inside.
Jon glanced at Harry, who was staring up at the ruins of Castle Warg and the heart tree with open fascination. “Care to help? Or are you too busy gawking at the weirwood?”
That snapped Harry from his thoughts. “It’s beautiful,” he admitted softly. “Even more than you described.”
“It is,” Jon agreed. “I can only imagine how beautiful the castle was, once.”
Together, they set off through the village, going door to door, checking on his people.
A year ago, if someone had told Jon he would one day lead over a thousand werewolves from across the world, he would have laughed and called them mad. Yet here he stood, the Alpha of men, women, and children who looked to him for guidance, and sometimes for reverence bordering on worship.
He couldn’t entirely blame them. He had cured their curse with a simple animagus transformation and a ritual, ending an affliction that had plagued the wizarding world for millennia.
The headcount went smoothly, further cementing Jon’s suspicion that none of this had been accidental. Even those who had been away from the village at the time had arrived alongside them.
Still, as he walked familiar stone streets that should not have existed, Jon struggled to accept that he was truly back in Westeros, back in the North.
Questions crowded his thoughts. What year was it? Was his family safe? Did they remember him?
Practicality won out in the end.
Deepwood Motte was the closest keep. From there, a raven could be sent, one that would not immediately raise suspicion. Lord Glover and his brother had known Jon well, having seen him many times at Winterfell, and last when the banners were called to fight the Ironborn.
Once things were settled, he would ride for Deepwood and make his presence known.
For now, his people came first.
High above, a raven wheeled through the sky before landing upon a pale white branch of the heart tree. It regarded the newly arrived village with something like awe… and satisfaction.
If one looked closely, it might almost have seemed to smile.
The Old Gods’ plan had succeeded, and hope that had long since faded stirred once more. Already, Brynden could feel his strength returning, both physical and magical, drawn from the presence of so many magical beings.
Yet he remained wary.
If such a change could be felt this far north, then others would feel it as well, and not all would welcome its return.
The Bloodraven would reach out soon.
For now, he would allow the Prince to tend to his people… and to announce his return to the world.