The Warrior Mage of Westeros

Heads Up!

This story has been completely rewritten—new scenes, improved storytelling, and possibly 100% more sarcasm. Because of that, the old version is being removed, and this fresh, upgraded edition is taking its place.

If you've read the previous version, welcome back! Things might look familiar, but expect plenty of changes. If you're new here, you're getting the best version right from the start.

Thanks for sticking around, and I hope you enjoy the new and improved ride!

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The wind howled through the dense expanse of the Wolfswood, biting and cold, like the ghosts of a thousand lost souls roaming the forest. Harry trudged along, his feet sinking into the snow with every step, his red-and-gold armor offering little protection against the biting chill. He could almost hear the crunch of the frost beneath his boots as a harsh reminder of the long journey ahead, the weight of his past still heavy on his mind. The phantoms of his previous battles seemed to whisper in the wind, taunting him as they circled in his thoughts.

"Damned forest," he muttered under his breath. "Reminds me of the Chamber of Secrets, for some reason."

The memory rushed back to him. That cursed chamber, so suffocating with its dark stone walls that seemed to close in on him. Fawkes' fiery song was a beacon in that abyss, but even the phoenix's flames couldn't quell the horror of the basilisk's venomous gaze or the whispering voices of Tom Riddle that had once danced through his thoughts like shadows in the corners of his mind. The weight of Riddle's diary, like an anchor, dragging him deeper into despair, still haunted him.

Harry paused in his steps, glancing up at the figures moving ahead. Eddard Stark, leading the way with a quiet and purposeful stride, the air of a man who bore the weight of a thousand secrets. His sons, Robb and Jon, followed closely, both seemingly at ease in this harsh terrain. But Harry couldn't shake the feeling that their lives, much like his, were entangled in a world of pain, loss, and betrayal.

"Is it always this cold up here?" Harry asked, attempting to break the silence as they moved through the darkened woods.

Robb Stark, glancing back over his shoulder, gave a half-smile, though there was a hardness in his eyes. "Aye. This is the Wolfswood. It's cold enough to freeze the very soul if you let it."

Jon Snow, who had been walking in silence beside him, nodded in agreement, his face set in that familiar brooding expression Harry had already come to recognize. "The North isn't kind to outsiders, but we endure. It's what we do here."

Harry couldn't help but admire the simplicity of it. To endure. To survive. He had often wondered how much longer he would be able to do the same.

The silence between them stretched again until it was broken by Theon Greyjoy, who had been trailing behind, casting a glance toward Harry with a raised eyebrow. "So, you're telling me that this 'Fawkes'—what is it, a giant bird?—is your companion?" His voice was laced with mockery, the same tone that had grated on Harry ever since he first laid eyes on the Ironborn.

"Phoenix," Harry corrected him, his voice steady, despite the rising frustration. "Fawkes is a phoenix, not a bloody giant bird. He's not some mythical beast; he's just... rare."

Theon snorted, not in the least bit impressed. "A flaming bird, right. What, does it sing you to sleep?"

"Be careful," Jon warned him, his tone sharp. "You may not want to test him."

Eddard Stark, who had been leading the group with a quiet determination, turned to face them. "Enough, Theon." His voice carried the weight of a father's reprimand, steady and unforgiving. Theon immediately fell silent, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance but not daring to argue further.

"Do you ever let the boy speak without biting his head off?" Theon muttered under his breath, though not loud enough for Eddard to hear.

Harry watched the exchange with a quiet amusement. He'd dealt with much worse in his time, but the dynamic between the Stark men was strangely familiar. They were a family forged through hardship, loyalty, and a hard-earned understanding of each other. Something Harry could relate to, having been raised in a similar, though far more volatile, environment.

After a few more minutes of trudging through the snow, Harry glanced around, noticing the towering trees surrounding them. The woods were eerie in their stillness, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the crunch of snow beneath their boots.

"This doesn't feel like home," Harry said softly, as if to himself.

Jon Snow, who had been walking beside him, looked over, his gaze thoughtful. "It doesn't. But it's ours. Winterfell's just beyond those trees, and you'll see what it means to be part of something, even if it's nothing like what you're used to."

A strange sense of unease washed over Harry. He had never known a place like Winterfell, never been in a land so far removed from everything he'd ever known. Yet something about it felt... right, like it was calling to him, much like the whispers of Fawkes' song had during darker times.

As if on cue, the sudden flare of fire made him stop in his tracks. With a quiet murmur, Harry called to his companion, Fawkes, who appeared with a burst of flames, his golden wings unfurled in all their fiery glory. The phoenix hovered above them, casting a glow that warmed the surrounding air.

Robb, still walking ahead, stopped and turned, eyes wide with wonder. "By the gods... it really is true."

Jon stared as well, though his expression was far more reserved. "A phoenix. I thought they were just stories."

Eddard's hand moved instinctively toward the hilt of his sword, but his eyes betrayed only curiosity, not fear. "What manner of creature is this, then?"

"This is Fawkes," Harry replied, stepping forward, his voice calm yet firm. "He's a phoenix. My companion."

Theon, always quick with a sarcastic remark, let out a low whistle. "A flaming bird. Brilliant." His tone was sharp, but there was a hint of awe he couldn't entirely conceal.

Eddard's gaze shifted from Fawkes to Harry, the weight of his scrutiny not lost on the young man. "You have brought much with you, young Hadrian," he said, the use of his given name carrying a gravitas that felt heavy in the air. "It seems the world has sent you a very... unusual gift."

Fawkes fluttered his wings once more, sending a ripple of warmth through the air, before settling on Harry's shoulder.

Robb finally stepped forward, his usual seriousness replaced by a spark of curiosity. "What exactly are you, Harry? You've come from so far, and you carry a history that's far heavier than any I've seen."

Jon's eyes flicked between his father and the stranger. "Aye, and why come here? What's your purpose?"

Hadrian Potter—Harry—exhaled slowly, looking between the Stark family, their faces marked by years of conflict and loyalty, and something inside him shifted. They weren't so different, these people, from those he'd known. There was a bond here, even if he couldn't yet name it.

"I'm not sure," Harry admitted quietly. "I was just following the path that fate—or whatever it is that guides me—set me on."

Eddard Stark nodded, the weight of his words settling into the quiet of the forest. "Then you are welcome here, Hadrian Potter. Winterfell will be your refuge, if you'll have it. But we have much to discuss."

As they continued on, the cold of the North biting at their heels, Harry felt something new stir inside him—a fragile hope. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't alone. And perhaps, just perhaps, this new world would offer him the refuge he so desperately needed.

—

As the cold wind bit into Harry's skin, the memories of his time at Hogwarts, particularly those spent in the dimly lit Headmaster's office, came flooding back. It was the weight of those memories, the unanswered questions, and the broken trust that gnawed at him now, as he traveled alongside Ned Stark and his men through the barren wilderness of the Wolfswood. The familiar crunch of boots on snow was a far cry from the silent steps he'd taken within the hallowed walls of Hogwarts, but in his mind, the echoes of those darkened halls still lingered.

It had been after the harrowing battle in the Chamber of Secrets, after the venomous basilisk was slain and Tom Riddle's memory had been reduced to ash, that Harry had first felt the creeping disquiet. He had returned to the castle, wounded but alive, to face a different kind of danger—one that hid in plain sight, wrapped in robes of wisdom and old magic.

Harry could still see Dumbledore in his mind's eye—his hands clasped behind his back, his every movement slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The way he had studied Harry with those piercing blue eyes, always so calculating. Those same eyes, once a source of comfort, now seemed to peer into the depths of his soul, measuring, weighing.

"I trust you are feeling better, Harry?" Dumbledore had asked that night, his voice smooth as silk, yet Harry had sensed the subtle undercurrent of something else—something unspoken.

"I'm fine," Harry had replied, his voice hoarse from the battle. "Just... a little shaken."

"Understandable," Dumbledore had said, his voice filled with an almost maternal kindness. "The Chamber of Secrets is not a place for the faint of heart. But you've proven yourself, Harry. You've done well."

Yet, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Dumbledore's praise came with strings attached. The words were kind, yes, but they seemed hollow, like the fluttering of a bird's wings in the dark, masking something far darker beneath the surface.

After the incident with the basilisk, Harry had spent hours in the hospital wing recovering, but sleep had eluded him. His mind was restless, thoughts swirling like a storm on the horizon. Fawkes, the phoenix, had visited him often in those days, offering a brief moment of warmth amidst the cold. His song, a hauntingly beautiful melody, had been the only thing that calmed the turbulent thoughts in Harry's mind.

That was when Dumbledore had arrived in the quiet of the night. He had been standing by Harry's bed when he awoke, his figure almost ethereal in the candlelight.

"I trust you have made peace with the events that transpired, Harry?" Dumbledore had asked softly, his voice carrying an almost fatherly warmth.

"I don't know," Harry had replied, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "I'm still trying to understand everything. There's a lot that doesn't make sense."

"Sometimes, Harry," Dumbledore had said, leaning closer, "the pieces of the puzzle don't fit until later. And when they do, you may find that the answers are more complicated than you ever imagined."

Harry had wanted to press further, to demand the truth from Dumbledore. But something had stopped him—an invisible wall that Dumbledore had built, brick by brick, over the years. It was in the way the Headmaster spoke, so carefully, so deliberately, as though every word were chosen with a precision that made the air itself crackle with hidden meaning.

"You've always been good at reading between the lines, Harry," Dumbledore had continued, his eyes gleaming with a hidden amusement. "But be careful. Some truths are best left buried, and some questions are better left unanswered."

In that moment, Harry had understood. Dumbledore was not just a mentor, not just the wise old man he had looked up to. He was something more—a figure cloaked in secrets, a man who wielded power not for the sake of good, but for something else entirely.

As Harry sat there, stewing in his thoughts, Dumbledore had stood, turning to leave. The flickering light from the torches cast long shadows across the room, making Dumbledore's figure appear taller, more imposing.

"Remember, Harry," Dumbledore had said over his shoulder, his voice soft but firm, "you are not alone in this. There are forces at play, and they will guide you when the time is right."

The door had closed softly behind him, but Harry had stayed in the quiet, the silence pressing in on him like a weight. His mind had raced, processing the layers of meaning in Dumbledore's words. Harry had felt something snap inside him that night, something deep and instinctual. Trust, once so freely given, was now a currency that had lost its value.

Now, as he rode beside Ned Stark and his men, the weight of those memories felt all the heavier. There, in that cold land, surrounded by wolves and snow, Harry realized that his path was no longer so clear. The manipulation he had felt at Hogwarts was still fresh in his mind, like a wound that had never truly healed. And as much as he wished to escape it, to bury the past and move forward, he knew it would always follow him—just as the snow clung to his boots and the wind howled in the distance.

His eyes flickered briefly to Ned Stark, the man who had taken him in without question, without knowledge of his past. There was a sense of honor about the Lord of Winterfell that Harry admired, a stark contrast to the shadow of doubt that had settled in his chest concerning Dumbledore. But even here, on the edge of this new world, Harry could feel the echoes of the old one—of betrayal, of trust misplaced, and of a man who had used him as a pawn in a game Harry didn't yet fully understand.

"You all right, lad?" Ned's voice broke through his thoughts. Harry looked up to see the Lord of Winterfell watching him, his face a mask of concern.

"I'm fine," Harry replied quickly, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Ned nodded, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment longer before he turned back to the road ahead. "You know, if you ever need to talk, the doors of Winterfell are always open to you."

Harry didn't respond immediately. Instead, he simply watched the snow drift lazily down from the sky, the silence between them speaking louder than any words could.

—

As the days passed, the bond between Harry and Fawkes only deepened. It was a rare connection, one forged in the shadows, yet shimmering with a light all its own. Fawkes, with his brilliant, flame-like plumage and hauntingly melodic song, had become a constant companion—his very presence a solace in the midst of the growing storm around Harry. Whenever the weight of the castle, of the secrets and lies that seemed to press down on him, became unbearable, Harry could retreat to the quiet corners of Hogwarts, where Fawkes would be waiting, offering warmth and understanding that no human could provide.

They shared many moments in silence, perched in hidden alcoves, or in the eerie glow of the Gryffindor common room long after the others had gone to bed. Fawkes would sing, his voice rising like an ethereal lullaby, and Harry would listen, his mind far away, tracing the troubling patterns that were emerging in the wake of his confrontation with Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets.

Despite the comfort Fawkes gave him, one presence in the castle remained a constant thorn in Harry's side. Albus Dumbledore, the very picture of wisdom and benevolence to everyone else, seemed more distant and unsettling to Harry than ever before. The old wizard moved with his usual grace, robes billowing behind him like the wings of some vast, silent bird, his silver beard gleaming faintly in the torchlight. His eyes, ever sharp, twinkled with their characteristic warmth. Yet, to Harry, there was something in them that no one else seemed to see—a coldness, a subtle shift beneath the surface that never quite matched the warmth of his smile.

It was in the moments when Dumbledore wasn't speaking, when he simply watched Harry, that Harry felt the unsettling weight of those eyes. Sometimes, in the quiet of the Headmaster's office, Harry would catch Dumbledore's gaze lingering on him just a moment too long, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, yet not quite reaching his eyes.

One such night, after Harry had recovered from the exhausting battle with the basilisk, he found himself summoned to Dumbledore's office for what he was certain would be another one of those "fatherly" chats. As Harry entered, the room seemed larger than he remembered, the shadows clinging to the walls like thick cobwebs. The flickering flames of the many torches cast dancing lights on the shelves of ancient books and mysterious trinkets that lined the walls.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore greeted him with that warm, almost too-charming voice of his, standing from behind his desk and walking toward the center of the room. His robes swished with an unsettling grace. "You look well. The days following such... intense events can often leave the mind in turmoil. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Harry replied, though the word felt hollow in his mouth. He was fine, yes—physically. But the weight of Dumbledore's presence, the unnerving way the old man seemed to know exactly how to push his buttons, made Harry's stomach twist. "A little shaken," Harry added, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with the familiar twinkle, but Harry saw it for what it was now—a controlled gleam that never quite reached the depths of his soul. "Understandable," Dumbledore said softly, tilting his head, his fingers steepling in front of him. "The Chamber of Secrets is not a place one should ever venture lightly. But you, Harry, have proven yourself time and again to be stronger than most. A very special boy."

There it was again. That infuriating, suffocating praise. Harry clenched his jaw, trying to keep his expression neutral. "I don't know about that," he said, his voice betraying none of the unease he felt. "I just did what needed to be done."

Dumbledore's smile was both kind and knowing. "Ah, yes. Of course. But there is something in you, Harry. Something... different. A strength you have yet to fully understand." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, though his gaze never wavered from Harry's face. "And I trust you know that you do not stand alone in this."

Harry felt a chill at the words. He had learned to trust his instincts by now, and those instincts were screaming that Dumbledore's words were far from comforting. They were too calculated. Too rehearsed. And Harry was done with comfort—at least the kind Dumbledore was offering.

The phoenix perched on the nearby window ledge, its bright feathers almost glowing in the dim light. Harry looked at Fawkes for a moment, feeling the connection between them strengthen, as though the bird understood the weight of the conversation better than anyone else. Fawkes met his gaze and let out a soft, melodic trill. Harry's mind wandered for a moment, and then he returned his attention to Dumbledore, who was still watching him with that unreadable expression.

"You're proud of me, aren't you?" Harry said, his voice laced with an edge of bitterness that surprised even him. "You think I'm special. A savior, maybe?"

Dumbledore's face remained serene, though his eyes flickered briefly with something—regret? Or perhaps just a moment of something darker. "Harry, I do not believe you understand what you're suggesting," he said slowly, his tone warm but somehow chilling. "The choices you make, the burdens you carry—they are more profound than you realize. But that is why you have me, Harry. I will guide you. I will always be here to help you understand."

The finality of those words struck Harry like a cold gust of wind. He couldn't shake the feeling that Dumbledore was saying far more than he was letting on, and Harry's suspicions had already taken root too deeply for him to ignore them any longer. The warmth of the Headmaster's office, with its grand windows and tall bookshelves, felt suffocating now. The walls seemed to close in as Harry's mind raced.

"Why do I feel like you're hiding something from me?" Harry finally asked, his voice shaking slightly, though he tried to maintain control. "Why does it always feel like you're keeping things from me—like I'm part of some bigger plan that I don't even know about?"

For the first time that evening, Dumbledore's smile faltered, though it was so fleeting that Harry might have imagined it. "Harry," he said, his voice dropping into something softer, more thoughtful. "You must learn that not all questions should be answered, not all paths should be walked alone. Sometimes, the answers you seek are not yet meant for you."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides. "And when they are meant for me? When I finally see the truth?"

Dumbledore's gaze softened once more, the gleam in his eyes now replaced with a kind of weary sadness. "I have no doubt that, when the time comes, you will understand."

But Harry didn't believe him. Not anymore. Dumbledore's comforting words only felt like chains, and as Harry left the office that night, Fawkes' song echoing softly in his ears, a burning question gnawed at him: What was Dumbledore really hiding?

The answers weren't clear, but one thing was: Harry's trust in Dumbledore was slipping through his fingers, and the darkness that had once seemed far off was now very, very close.

—

The summer sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the towering structure of Gringotts. Its white marble walls gleamed in the fading light, a symbol of both wealth and power, housing secrets buried in the annals of wizarding history. As Harry walked through the grand entrance, Fawkes fluttered gracefully by his side, casting a soft glow in the shadowed corridors. The soft rustle of his feathers provided a comforting sound in the otherwise tense atmosphere.

The goblins at their stations glanced up as Harry entered, their eyes flicking over him with a mix of curiosity and calculation. Their sharp features twisted into knowing expressions as they silently watched him approach the front desk. Harry held their gaze, unyielding, his resolve unbroken. He had come for answers—and Gringotts, the bank of secrets, was the place he would find them.

The head goblin, a towering figure of silent authority, stared at Harry with narrow eyes. His face, carved in sharp angles, was set in an expression that was neither welcoming nor hostile. After a moment of piercing scrutiny, he spoke in a voice that seemed to carry weight far beyond its volume.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin rasped, his voice a soft growl. "What brings you to Gringotts?"

"I need to speak with Ragnok," Harry replied, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "I have questions about my family's holdings—and about things I suspect may have been concealed from me."

The head goblin's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or wariness. He gestured for Harry to follow, leading him down the winding corridors of the bank. The air grew colder with each step, the oppressive silence broken only by the echoes of their footsteps on the stone floor.

The vaults of Gringotts, Harry knew, were not merely vaults of gold and jewels, but of hidden truths—truths that had been buried beneath layers of enchantments and deceit. As they descended deeper into the heart of the bank, the sense of ancient power grew, each chamber resonating with the whispers of the past.

They arrived at a stone door guarded by two goblins, who nodded as the head goblin made a gesture to allow Harry inside. The chamber beyond was dimly lit by the flickering light of enchanted torches. And there, seated at an ancient stone table, was Ragnok—the king of the goblins.

Ragnok was an imposing figure, his tall frame dressed in dark robes that rippled like shadow, his hands folded in front of him in a display of calculated patience. His sharp features were marked with both wisdom and weariness, and his eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. His gaze, when it met Harry's, was penetrating, as if he could see through the young wizard's very soul.

"Mr. Potter," Ragnok said, his voice smooth and measured, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of authority. "I've been expecting you."

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Despite the warmth of Fawkes at his side, there was something about Ragnok's presence that demanded respect—or perhaps fear. Harry nodded, gathering his thoughts.

"I've come to you for help," Harry began, his voice steady but laced with the weight of all he had learned in recent months. "There are things about my family's past—about my inheritance—that I need to understand. Things that may have been hidden from me."

Ragnok's lips curled slightly, though the gesture was more a sign of calculation than amusement. "And you suspect that there has been… interference? That someone has been keeping secrets from you?"

Harry's gaze sharpened. "I believe Dumbledore has been intercepting my mail—keeping me in the dark about matters that concern me. It's become clear that his intentions may not be as pure as they seemed."

Ragnok's eyes gleamed with a sharp, calculating light. He regarded Harry for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Dumbledore," Ragnok murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "a man of many faces. Few understand the full scope of his manipulations." He leaned forward, his voice growing more intense. "But you're right to be suspicious, Potter. The goblins of Gringotts have long suspected foul play where your affairs are concerned."

Harry's fists clenched at his sides. He had known—he had always known, on some level—that there was something off about Dumbledore. But to hear Ragnok, a figure of such considerable stature in the wizarding world, confirm his suspicions made the weight of the betrayal all the more real.

Ragnok's expression softened, though not with sympathy. It was the softening of a man who respected the young wizard's tenacity.

"You are not the first to be deceived by Dumbledore's web of influence," Ragnok continued, his voice low and measured. "But we, the goblins, have our own ways of uncovering the truth. If you wish to learn what has been hidden from you, we can help. There is one way to confirm your family's standing—one ritual that will lay bare the truth, no matter how dark."

Harry's curiosity was piqued. "What kind of ritual?"

Ragnok stood, his movements fluid but purposeful, as he approached a nearby table covered in ancient scrolls and artifacts. With a flick of his hand, he summoned a ceremonial dagger, its blade gleaming faintly in the torchlight.

"An inheritance test," Ragnok explained, his voice laced with a quiet intensity. "It is an ancient ritual performed by the goblins of Gringotts. It reveals the true heir to a family's fortune and legacy, exposing secrets buried by time or deceit."

Harry felt a knot form in his stomach, the enormity of what he was about to undertake weighing heavily on him. "What does the ritual involve?"

Ragnok's lips curled slightly as he gazed down at the dagger in his hand. "The process is simple," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "We will bind your blood to the ancient magics of your lineage. With each drop spilled, the secrets of your ancestry will reveal themselves. All that is hidden will come to light."

Harry's mind raced. The risks were immense—if the test revealed things he wasn't prepared for, the consequences could be catastrophic. But in that moment, with the stakes higher than ever, he knew there was no turning back.

"I'm ready," Harry declared, his voice unwavering.

Ragnok nodded approvingly. With precise movements, he gestured for Harry to extend his hand. As Harry did so, the goblin king carefully pressed the sharp blade of the dagger to Harry's palm, his touch delicate but firm.

"By blood and magic," Ragnok intoned, his voice rich with the weight of centuries. "Let the truth be revealed."

The dagger pierced Harry's skin, drawing a single drop of blood that fell onto a waiting scroll. The moment the blood touched the parchment, a surge of energy shot through the room, a pulse of magic that set the very air alight. The symbols on the scroll began to writhe and twist, glowing with an ethereal light.

Harry watched in stunned silence as the ritual unfolded before him. The parchment shimmered and shifted, the magic coalescing into a singular image—a sigil that bore the intertwined crests of the Potter and Black families. Harry's breath caught in his throat as the revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Ragnok's voice, low and reverent, echoed in the chamber. "You are the heir not only to the Potters, but also to the Blacks, Mr. Potter. Your bloodline is more complex than we ever anticipated."

Harry's mind reeled with the weight of the revelation. Sirius Black—his godfather, presumed to be a traitor—was tied to his lineage. The injustice of it all burned in Harry's chest. "But why was there never a trial for Sirius? Why was he thrown into Azkaban without proof?"

Ragnok's eyes darkened, his voice somber. "The circumstances surrounding his imprisonment are… murky. But the lack of a trial is a grave injustice, one that cannot be ignored."

Determination surged within Harry, and his voice was steady with conviction. "I need to find Sirius," he declared. "I need to hear his side of the story and uncover the truth of what happened."

Ragnok's gaze softened, but only slightly. "Be cautious, Mr. Potter. The path you seek is fraught with danger. The truth may not be as simple as you wish it to be."

But Harry's resolve was unshakeable. He had been given the key to unlock his family's past, and with it, the power to unearth the truth that had been buried for far too long.

---

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