Caw. Caw. Caw.
Harry opened his eyes to the grating sound of a raven's cry, a sound that felt less like a bird and more like a saw blade dragging across a fabric. It was an annoying sound to wake to.
He found himself lying on an open field of vibrant, emerald grass that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction, a perfect pastoral landscape that felt too saturated to be real.
Above him, the sky was a crystalline blue, devoid of even the smallest cloud, yet the air carried no scent of earth or wind. He was leaning against the thick, gnarled trunk of an ancient weirwood tree, its bark bone-white and its red leaves rustling like drying parchment in a nonexistent breeze.
His gaze shifted lazily to the right. A raven sat on a low-hanging branch just a few feet away, its obsidian eyes fixed on him with an unblinking gaze. It was observing him. Even from his black void eyes, he could sense frustration, annoyance, and anger as he looked at him.
Suddenly, the sky began to bruise into a deep, sickly purple blue. The peaceful silence was shattered as the single raven let out a deafening, metallic shriek. In an instant, the sun was swallowed by a literal storm of black wings. Hundreds, then thousands of ravens erupted from the weirwood's canopy, circling above him in a chaotic, screeching vortex that blotted out the light.
The birds dove all at once, a living carpet of feathers and talons aimed directly at him.
Harry didn't even flinch. An invisible blast of force exploded outward from his body. The ravens were pushed back, they disintegrated mid-flight, their forms unraveling into nothingness.
The oppressive dark sky snapped back into a brilliant blue.
"Get lost," Harry muttered, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
As the last of the black mist evaporated, Harry closed his eyes again, severing the connection. When he opened them a second later, the grass and the weirwood were gone. He was back on the deck of his small, magically propelled ship, the salt spray of the Sea stinging his cheeks and the rhythmic thumping of the hull against the waves.
He snorted, a sharp, amused sound. "Bran," he whispered.
He knew exactly what that was.
An intrusion.
The Three-Eyed Raven or the hollowed-out boy had tried to pry into the mind of the newcomer. It was a foolish, arrogant move. To attempt to invade the dreams of a Campione who held the Authority of Dreams was like a gutter-rat trying to pick the pocket of a god while the god was looking directly at him.
Sure, Bran didn't know who he was dealing with yet, but the boy's curiosity was becoming a nuisance. This was not the first time the boy had tried, and he was getting closer to just killing the boy.
Harry had headed straight for King's Landing, when he came frist before he spent about two days just roaming around, he had left after that seeing nothing to do to be honest, he roamed the kepp and all but he didnt waste his time and even regretted going to the city as at the end they was nothing to see but cersi, she had already even killed the speta and everyone with dragon fire and he didnt really want to meet that stupid woman.
After leaving, he decided to use the sea again to travel since it was soothing, and things moved slowly in this world. The plot showed things going fast, but Harry had come to know that things take days, even weeks, just for things to happen.
A sudden impulse flickered in his mind. He looked toward the northern horizon. He knew exactly where he wanted to go now. He wanted to see a certain performance of vengeance that deserved an audience, and since he had not heard news of it then, it had not yet happened, so he should go and check it out.
The Twins
The Great Hall of House Frey was a cavern of gluttony and celebration, the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, stale sweat, and spilled ale. At the high table sat Walder Frey, cackling with a senile glee as he toasted to his family's "bright future."
Harry sat alone at a side table as He watched the scene with interest. He was genuinely impressed by the disguise Arya had donned. The way the figure held the goblet, the specific, bitter cadence of the old man's speech, the slight, trembling hunch of the shoulders, if Harry couldn't sense the magic around or if he didn't know it was Arya and not the old man, he'd really have believed the act.
Then, the coughing began.
It started with a single man clutching his throat, his eyes bulging as dark, purple blood began to leak from his nostrils. Then another. And another. Soon, the thud of bodies hitting the stone floor provided a macabre percussion to the dying music.
Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, watching with open fascination as the Frey line was erased by a single girl and a bottle of poisoned wine. It was amusing, to be honest.
Arya Stark stood at the head table, her small frame looking tiny amidst the sea of corpses she stared down. She waited until the last of them had collapsed before she reached up and peeled away the face of Walder Frey.
Harry couldn't help it. He stood up in the shadows and began to clap, his laughter ringing out clearly through the silent, corpse-filled hall.
"That was amazing," he said, letting his presence bleed into reality like ink in water. "Truly, a performance for the ages. Bravos would be jealous."
Arya spun instantly, her hand dropping to the hilt of Needle. She had spent months learning to sense the shifting of air, to hear the breath of a cat in the dark, yet this man had been sitting ten feet away, and she hadn't known he was there until he chose to be known.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice cold. She searched his face, her mind racing. He wasn't a Frey. She recognized each of the Freys, so she knew he wasn't one.
"Who am I?" Harry echoed, stepping fully into the torchlight. "Child, I did not expect you to ask me that. After all you've seen in the House of Black and White, after the faces you've worn and the lives you've taken."
Arya blinked, and in that split second, Harry was gone. She spun in a circle, Needle drawn, but the hall was empty save for the dead, the two servant girls, and her.
"Are you looking for someone, little wolf?"
The voice came from directly behind her. She slashed, but her blade met only empty air. She turned again and froze. Standing before her was not the green-eyed stranger, but Jon Snow, her brother. He was dressed in his Night's Watch blacks, a sad, small smile that he always gave to her on his face.
"J-Jon?" she whispered, her heart leaping into her throat.
The 'Jon' smiled wider, but his eyes were cold, the usual warmth that was there when he looked at her was not there. They suddenly shifted from the normal grey to a vibrant, glowing emerald.
He stepped forward, and she thrust Needle at his chest. The blade hit his chest, but instead of piercing flesh, it rang out with the sound of steel hitting an anvil. The vibration traveled up her arm, numbing her fingers.
She pulled back, tripping over a fallen chair, and watched the face shift again. Now it was Robb. Then her father, Ned Stark, looking weary and grey.
"Who are you!" Arya screamed, her breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.
"Are you really asking me that, child?" The figure stopped a few feet from her, settling into a face she had never seen, the stranger from the start, a man with messy black hair and eyes that burned like twin green stars.
"No… no, it couldn't be," she muttered, dropping her sword. The legends of the Faceless Men flooded her mind. The Many-Faced God. Him of Many Faces. Had Death himself come to collect the debt of the lives she had stolen.
"I have been watching you for quite some time, Arya of House Stark," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant hum. He raised a hand, and Needle flew from the floor into his palm. "I remember the girl who used to pray beneath the weirwood with her father, begging the old gods for a sword instead of a sewing needle because the world felt too small for her and she wanted to see more of it."
Arya couldn't speak. She had shared those prayers with no one, not even Jon, whom she was closest to.
"'I do not want a needle, a dress, or a prince,'" Harry whispered, his voice suddenly morphing into a perfect replica of her own nine-year-old self. "'I want to be a knight. I want to fight for the North. I want to be a wolf like Aunt Lyanna.'"
The world seemed to tilt beneath Arya's feet. Those were her words. Private words spoken in the silence of Winterfell's godswood, back when the world was whole. She fell to her knees, not out of fear, but out of a sudden, crushing sense of awe.
Harry smiled gently and handed Needle back to her, hilt-first. "Return to Winterfell, little wolf. Your brother has taken back your home from the traitors and the flayers. The pack is gathering, and winter is here."
Before she could even gasp to speak, he was gone.
Harry stood atop the highest tower of the Twins, his cloak snapping in the cold northern wind. Below, he watched as Arya mounted a horse and began the long ride toward Winterfell, her form a dark speck against the grey landscape.
Why the charade? Why the shifting faces?
The answer was simple, Faith. By appearing as their god without ever claiming a name, he allowed them to fill in the blanks with their own desperation and history.
He activated Odin's Wisdom and the Weaver. The world shifted into a spectrum of glowing threads, a tapestry of fate and belief. He could see the silver energy of faith radiating from Arya as she rode, a thin, shimmering strand of belief that was now anchored firmly to him.
Using Weaver, he reached out and gently tied those threads to him. He had already begun this process in Meereen with Daenerys and others there.
He then activated Afterlife(Hades), the authority he had claimed from the defeat of the death god.
Within his soul, a vast, empty space opened of his own design. He would store the gathered faith there, separate from where he kept the souls. He didn't want all that faith just entering him like that, so he was going to store it. Only he learnt how to channel it or purify it.
He opened a rift in space and stepped through, the cold air of the Twins replaced instantly by the sweltering, humid heat of Meereen. As he walked the halls of the Great Pyramid, the whispers followed him from those who caught a glimpse of him.
He saw some Red Priests in the distance, their crimson robes stark against the sandstone, their eyes full of suspicion and anger. It should be expected that not everyone would believe what happened and that he is a god.
They would try to burn him if they had a chance. They would try to claim their Lord of Light was the only true power.
Harry's smirk widened. He had plans for the followers of R'hllor.
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