The Wall loomed before him, stretching endlessly across the horizon like a frozen mountain range carved by giants. From a distance, Harry had thought he understood its scale—after all, he had seen it from the sky atop Winter's back. But now, standing at its base, the truth of it hit him like cold steel. It was not just tall. It was colossal. The sheer breadth of the Wall made his neck ache as he craned upward, watching the icy surface shimmer in the pale northern light. It stretched into the clouds and beyond his comprehension—an ancient monument of magic, frost, and time.
Castle Black stood in its shadow, stark and functional, a gathering of timber buildings and black stone rising from the permafrost like bones from the earth. Crows walked its courtyards—some young, some old, all wearing the black cloak of the Night's Watch. Their eyes followed him with curiosity, but none approached. Strangers were rare here.
Harry dismounted Shade and led her through the gates, nodding respectfully to the guards. He requested an audience with the Lord Commander, and after only a few moments, a gruff man with wind-burned cheeks and steel-gray eyes appeared at the keep's door.
"You must be Lord Gryffindor," the man said, extending a gloved hand. "Jerald Fisher, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. We were expecting you."
"You were?" Harry raised a brow, shaking his hand firmly.
"The Maester received a raven. Someone down south—White Harbor, I presume—wrote ahead. Said you were a scholar. Interested in the Wall."
"I'm... many things," Harry said with a slight smile. "But yes, I came to learn."
Lord Fisher nodded and gestured toward the tower. "Then let's get you warm. The wind bites deeper than a sword up here."
Inside, the stone halls were lit with flickering torches and the scent of woodsmoke clung to every corner. They settled beside a hearth where a meager fire crackled. Fisher poured two cups of hot mead and sat heavily in a chair opposite Harry.
"So," Fisher began, "you want to know about the Wall."
"I want to know about what lies beyond it," Harry said. "What it was built for. How it was built."
Fisher exhaled through his nose. "You'll want to speak with Maester Aemon. He's blind, but there's no sharper mind in all the Seven Kingdoms. He'll tell you stories that'll make your blood freeze colder than the Wall."
He paused, studying Harry carefully. "You're not like the usual highborn lads we see. You've got the look of someone who's seen stranger things than this wall."
Harry only nodded. "More than once."
Fisher didn't press. He only rose and gestured for Harry to follow.
They entered a quiet chamber, warmed by a larger fire. An old man sat beneath a heavy blanket, skin thin as parchment and eyes white with blindness. Yet his face bore wisdom that time could not erase.
"Aemon," Fisher said softly, "you've a guest."
"Ah, I heard the steps," the old man replied with a faint smile. "Come closer, young man. Let me look upon you with my ears."
"I'm called Harry," he said, stepping forward. "Lord Gryffindor, by title."
"Gryffindor," Aemon repeated, tasting the word. "A noble name. You're not from the South, are you?"
"No," Harry replied. "Farther than that. Another kingdom, perhaps."
Aemon chuckled. "I once dreamed of other kingdoms—of places where dragons still soared and the dead stayed buried. Perhaps your tale is not as mad as it sounds."
A younger man entered behind them—a scribe, perhaps no older than twenty, with bright eyes and a soft-spoken manner. "Maester Aemon," he said, "shall I read to our guest?"
"Please do," Aemon said. "The volumes on the Long Night. The ones I marked."
The young man retrieved a heavy tome from the shelf and began to read aloud. Harry listened intently as the voice carried through the chamber.
"In the age of the First Men, before the Seven Kingdoms, there came a darkness that swallowed the sun and froze the world. From beyond the Frostfangs, the Others came—creatures of death and cold, who raised the dead to serve them. They marched on the realms of men, leaving ruin in their wake."
As the words poured forth, Harry felt something stir deep inside—a familiarity. A sense of dread and purpose. This wasn't just legend. He had fought such creatures before: Dementors, Wraiths, shades conjured by death and hate. And here, in this world, those stories had taken flesh.
"They built the Wall with magic," Aemon said when the reading paused. "Not just stone and ice. The Children of the Forest and the First Men worked together, binding spells into its foundation—wards of old power, forgotten by most."
"Can anyone still use that magic?" Harry asked.
"None here," Aemon replied, his voice tinged with sorrow. "The blood has thinned. The knowledge lost."
Harry leaned back, staring into the flames. "Maybe not all is lost."
Outside, the wind howled against the stone, as if in answer.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, slanted shadows over the yard of Castle Black, when the old knight stepped forward beneath the boughs of the weirwood tree. The red leaves rustled in the chill wind, and its face, carved long ago, looked down with ancient solemnity. The gathered men stood in respectful silence as Ser Harwin, the grizzled knight with silver-streaked hair and weathered armor, knelt before the godswood.
Harry stood among the black brothers, arms crossed, watching with quiet reverence. He'd seen many ceremonies in his life, but none like this. There was no pomp, no noble banners or trumpets. Only firelight, snow underfoot, and the presence of something old and sacred.
The Lord Commander stepped forward with a cup of wine and an oath scroll. "Ser Harwin of House Farrow," he said, his voice grave, "do you swear your life and honor to the Night's Watch, to take no wife, hold no lands, father no children?"
"I do," Harwin answered, his voice strong despite the age in his bones.
"Do you swear to wear the black until your death, to stand as a shield against the darkness beyond the Wall?"
"I do," he repeated.
"Then rise, Brother Harwin. You have no family now but us."
As Harwin rose, the black brothers stepped forward one by one, laying hands on his shoulder, welcoming him into their ranks. A quiet strength passed among them—no great celebration, but a solemn binding. Harry felt a strange pride watching it, understanding that the man who had once taught him to swing a sword now belonged to something greater than himself.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped beyond the western sky, Harry was given a tour of Castle Black by a soft-spoken steward named Jonik. The castle's cold bones came alive with stories—the rookery, where ravens nested like shadows; the armory, with its rows of dull, functional weapons; and finally, the pulley system that rose alongside the Wall like a wooden spine, groaning with each ascent.
"Brandon the Builder designed this," Jonik explained as they stared up at the towering lift, which clanked slowly down from the heights. "Said he wanted to make the wall climbable for those who couldn't fly."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Fly?"
Jonik chuckled. "Aye. Legend says Brandon built it with the Children of the Forest—and that once, long ago, dragons flew beyond the Wall. But that's just stories."
Harry smiled, his thoughts drifting to Winter, waiting patiently in the wilderness beyond.
As the tour ended, Maester Aemon surprised Harry with an invitation. The old man had taken a keen interest in him during their talks. "There is a place we rarely show visitors," Aemon said, his voice frail but filled with purpose. "Come. I think you should see it."
They moved slowly, guided by Jonik, through a narrow passage behind the rookery tower. The stone here was older, more worn, carved before the Wall had truly taken form. At the end of the hall was a wooden door, ironbound and marked with faded runes.
"This was where Brandon the Builder worked," Jonik whispered. "Some say he slept here. It's the oldest room in Castle Black."
Inside, it was cold and quiet, the only light coming from a single torch. The room was bare except for a stone slab near the back wall and a long, etched surface covered in intricate symbols—stonework that looked nothing like the rest of the castle. The moment Harry stepped closer, his breath caught in his throat.
The markings weren't Old Tongue. They weren't Valyrian. They were unmistakably… English.
Etched deep into the stone, untouched by time, were the words:
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Harry froze. His heart thudded in his chest as he knelt beside the wall, tracing the familiar sentence with his fingertips. Beneath it, three more inscriptions were carved, smaller but unmistakable:
"Prongs. Padfoot. Moony."
A stunned silence stretched in the room. Jonik, who had been explaining the mysterious carvings, paused. "No one's ever made sense of it. Most say Brandon must've gone mad in his final days. Writing gibberish."
But Harry couldn't hear him. The torchlight danced over the letters, and his mind reeled.
It's impossible. But there it was. A Marauder's joke. Written in a world that should never have known it. And Brandon the Builder—who had helped construct this magical Wall—had somehow known the words of the Marauder's Map.
"It's English," Harry murmured.
"What was that?" asked Jonik.
Harry looked up, swallowing hard. "It's not gibberish. I can read it."
Maester Aemon tilted his head. "What does it say?"
Harry hesitated. Then, with a dry laugh, he recited, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The echo of those old words, spoken in a new world, made his chest tighten. He felt it in his bones—the pull of fate, the sense that something, or someone, had guided him here. That this wasn't just chance.
And for the first time since he'd arrived in Westeros, Harry felt something more than awe, more than curiosity. He felt purpose.
The chamber was quiet—only the low flicker of the torch casting dancing shadows across the ancient stonework. Harry remained frozen, still kneeling before the wall that bore a message from a man long lost to time and memory. A message from his godfather.
Aemon whispered, voice thick with disbelief. "No one could read those words before. Not in all the years I've served here."
Harry stood slowly, his fingers still resting against the letters: Prongs. Padfoot. Moony. His voice was hoarse. "Because it's in English. My language. My world's language."
Aemon turned toward the sound of his voice. "And you… are not of this world, are you?"
Harry hesitated. The secret he had guarded since his arrival now seemed like a fragile thing, as if the stones themselves had whispered it to the old maester. "No. I'm not. I didn't come here by choice… and I thought I was the only one."
Aemon nodded slowly, his mind racing even in his old age. "So you believe that Brandon Stark was from your world as well?"
"I don't believe it. I know it." Harry's voice cracked with emotion. "Brandon Stark or Sirius Black was my godfather. He vanished in front of me—fell through a magical arch during a battle. Everyone thought he died. I never knew where he went. But this—" he gestured at the wall, "—this proves he came here."
Aemon's wrinkled brow furrowed. "But these carvings are ancient. Brandon the Builder lived eight thousand years ago. These stones have not been altered in living memory."
Harry swallowed hard. "Then Sirius didn't just come to this world. He came to its past."
A heavy silence followed as that truth settled between them like dust on ancient stone.
"Then there's no hope of finding him?" Aemon asked gently.
"No," Harry said, voice heavy with grief. "If Sirius lived that long ago… he's gone. But he didn't forget me. He carved my name here. Harry Potter." He turned and pointed at another stone slab, its letters pristine despite their age. "He remembered me. Even after all that time."
Aemon was silent for a long while, then murmured, "That is the kind of love that defies time itself."
Harry turned away, his throat tight. His hands clenched at his sides. "He was always more than just a guardian. He was family. My father's best friend. My protector." He exhaled slowly, tears stinging his eyes. "And now I know… even when he was alone in a strange world, he never stopped thinking of me."
Aemon slowly stood, leaning on his assistant's arm. "Come with me, Harry. There's more."
They passed through a narrow corridor—another ancient part of Castle Black—and entered a vault room filled with crumbling stone inscriptions. The air was cool and still. The torchlight danced across symbols Harry recognized instantly. Not just words, but phrases he'd spoken in the past. Lines from Remus's stories. Doodles of antlers. Even a crudely drawn dog paw.
And at the very back, etched deep into the largest wall, was another message:
"Mischief Managed."
Beneath it, in bold letters, as though it were meant to last forever:
"Marauders."
Harry staggered backward as if struck. His knees buckled, and he sank to the cold stone floor. The words blurred before his eyes, overwhelmed by emotion.
"I thought he was gone forever," Harry whispered. "But he left this… like a trail of stars."
Aemon placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You are not alone, my boy. You never were."
Through his tears, Harry nodded. And a thought grew strong in his heart. If Sirius had lived in this world's past—had left this message for him—then perhaps Sirius's bloodline continued here.
"Maester," Harry said, slowly rising to his feet. "The Starks. They descend from Brandon the Builder?"
"Aye," Aemon confirmed. "They rule Winterfell, the great House of the North. And though the line is long, their name remains true."
"Then I must go to them," Harry said, determined now. "Even if Sirius is gone, I can protect those who carry his blood. It's what he would have done for me."
Aemon nodded, smiling faintly.
Harry stood tall. The pain in his chest remained, but it was no longer hollow. It had weight now—purpose. He would go to Winterfell. He would find the Starks. He would honor Sirius's memory, not in mourning, but in action.
And so, under the ancient sky of the Wall, Harry Potter made a vow: I will protect them. I will stand with them. As long as I draw breath.