Author's Note — Christmas Bonus Chapter
This bonus chapter was uploaded in response to a Ko-fi supporter, Loudpack69, whose message served as a timely reminder of the season.
Reader support plays a meaningful role in the timing of extra releases such as this.
Merry Christmas, and thank you for reading.
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Brandon Stark stood on the half-frozen bank of the Antler River, his eyes fixed on the busy camp before him. Smoke rose from dozens of cookfires, voices carried over the snow, and already men and women were hauling stone blocks into rough lines where the first walls of Frostshield would stand.
Harry's words still echoed in his mind: "These people are the same ones your father told you horror stories about. Now they're your partners. Learn from them as they learn from you."
Brandon had never been given such responsibility before. In Winterfell, his place as heir had been secure, but all true decisions were always his father's. Now, here, in this strange kingdom beyond the Wall, he had a city to raise from the ground.
Lyanna clasped his shoulder before mounting her horse. Sirius was already complaining about going back. Harry tightened the saddle straps on his own steed.
"You'll do well," Harry told him. "But remember what I said. You may know how lords build keeps and halls, but these people know how to survive where no lord ever set foot. Take their counsel, Brandon. Don't dismiss it."
Brandon gave a firm nod. "I understand. I'll not treat them as less."
Harry smiled faintly. "Good. Frostshield will test you, Stark. Make it a home worth fighting for."
With that, Harry and Lyanna rode off toward Telmar, their figures shrinking against the horizon. Brandon turned back to face the waiting mass of Narnians and wildlings, his heart hammering.
Koll and Jorund strode up first, both looking as though they had already been arguing. Koll crossed his arms. "You're the queen's brother, aye? Then it's you who speaks for this work?"
Brandon straightened. "It's me. Harry Gryffindor gave me the charge."
Jorund gave a short laugh. "We'll see if you're worth it. Stone doesn't care whose son you are—it'll crush you just the same if you build wrong."
Brandon held his gaze. "Then show me what you know. I won't pretend I can do this alone."
The tension broke with a grunt of approval from Koll. "Fair enough. Come then, Stark. Let's start with the ground."
The council table was nothing more than a long plank of wood balanced over two barrels, but it served its purpose. Around it sat a mix of seasoned Narnians, Essosi builders, and wildling elders who had agreed to lend their hands. Maps were scratched into parchment and, when ink ran out, directly onto the wood.
Brandon listened carefully as a wiry Essosi stonemason spoke. "The Frostfang stone, it's strong, but brittle when cut too thin. You'll need to stack it wider at the base."
A Hornfoot elder jabbed a finger toward the river. "The current runs fast. Too fast. If we build close, the ice melt will take your walls."
Brandon leaned over the crude map. "Then we'll reinforce with timber from the southern slopes. Double walls near the river, a drainage trench here." He tapped the sketch. "We'll have to cut the path ourselves, but it will save us later."
Koll raised an eyebrow. "Not bad, Stark. You listened."
Brandon gave a wry smile. "A lord who doesn't listen soon finds himself without people to lead."
Not everyone was pleased with Brandon's leadership. On the third day, as workers heaved stone into place, one of the younger wildlings threw down his hammer.
"Why should I take orders from him?" the man spat. "He's never lived hungry, never gone barefoot in the snow. What does a Stark know of building?"
The camp stilled. All eyes turned to Brandon.
He stepped forward, unarmed, and picked up the hammer. "You're right," Brandon said, his voice carrying. "I was raised as heir to Winterfell. I knew warmth and plenty. But look around you now—look at what Harry Gryffindor and my sister built. Look at what you're building. Do you think this city cares if I was raised in a keep or in a tent? What matters is the work of our hands."
He held out the hammer to the man. "If you think I should put stone beside you, then I will. But if you'd rather waste time arguing, then leave it. I'll not beg for your respect—I'll earn it."
Slowly, the man took the hammer back. After a moment, he muttered, "Then prove it, Stark."
"I will," Brandon promised.
In a week, the outlines of Frostshield began to take shape. Long trenches for drainage carved into the ground. Timber frames rising for what would be the great hall. Rows of stones stacked where the first homes would stand.
Brandon walked among them, sleeves rolled up, dirt on his hands. He gave advice when he had it, and when he didn't, he listened. That night, as the campfires burned bright and the air filled with the sounds of laughter and hammers, he felt something stir in his chest.
Barbara came to his side, her hand resting on her rounded belly. "You look happy," she said softly.
Brandon smiled, weary but proud. "For the first time, I feel like I'm building more than walls. I'm building a future."
Barbara leaned her head against his shoulder. "Then Frostshield will be our home."
Brandon looked out at the camp, at the mingling of wildlings, Narnians, and Essosi, all working together. He thought of his father's tales of savages and lawless tribes, and he knew then that those stories belonged to a world already fading.
The sound of hammers striking stone echoed across the Antler riverside, mingling with the creak of timber wagons and the shouts of foremen directing laborers. Frostshield was no longer just a camp—it was slowly turning into the bones of a city.
Brandon Stark walked through the half-laid streets, boots crunching on snow-dusted gravel. Men and women sweated despite the cold, hauling blocks of stone into place, digging foundations, raising the first rows of timber frames. Children carried buckets of water to mix mortar, and elders tended fires where meals of fish and boiled grains simmered for the workers.
Three thousand houses—schools, temples, healing halls, bathhouses. It was a task beyond anything Brandon had ever imagined. At Winterfell, masons built one tower at a time, a holdfast wall across a year. Here, the work consumed thousands.
Jorund came striding up, his beard frosted with snow. "We've sent another three hundred north to Frostfang for stone," he reported. "The quarries there are strong, but hauling it will take time. Telmar is sending wagons of food as well, though the river route will serve us better once the docks are finished."
Brandon nodded, forcing the weight of leadership to settle on his shoulders. "We'll build slow if we must, but we'll build strong. No half-work. Every house must stand against the winter."
At night, when the work was quiet and the fires burned low, Brandon returned to the hall where Barbara lived among the wildling women. She refused the comfort of Gryffindor Castle in Telmar, though both Harry and Lyanna had urged her to stay there.
"I won't leave you to face this alone," she told him, one hand resting on her swelling belly. "If you are here in Frostshield, then here is where I belong."
Brandon clasped her hand tightly. "It will be hard. The snow is cruel, and the people harsher still."
Barbara smiled faintly. "They're not cruel to me. Did you not see how the women bring me broth? How the children carry my firewood? They know I carry a child, and that is enough."
Her presence steadied him in ways Brandon hadn't expected. Every time doubt gnawed at his resolve, every time the work seemed too vast, he thought of Barbara laughing with the wildling wives, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and he found strength to continue.
The next weeks turned into months. Not all could remain in Frostshield; thousands traveled elsewhere to support the growing city. Caravans moved back and forth—some to Frostfang, where the mines yielded stone, iron, and the occasional gleam of gold. Others went to Telmar, hauling fish, grain, and salted meat to supply the swelling population.
Livestock were driven in long lines across the frozen plains—bleating goats, shaggy cows, hardy pigs. Hunters ranged the forests for deer and elk, while fishermen cut holes in the river ice, hauling up nets glittering with silver-scaled catch.
And always, the sound of building. Stones stacked, timber raised, mortar spread, smoke rising from the forges where Essosi smiths taught their Narnian apprentices. Slowly, streets began to take shape—crude at first, but growing straighter under Brandon's eye.
Three months into the building of Frostshield, the cries of labor replaced the clang of hammers. Barbara was taken into one of the newly completed halls, its stone walls warmed with roaring fires. Women gathered to tend her, while Brandon paced outside, his breath fogging in the cold.
Hours passed like years until the door finally opened. A wildling midwife emerged, her hands red, her face flushed. She held a bundle swaddled in fur.
"Your son," she said simply.
Brandon's hands trembled as he took the child. The boy squirmed, a shock of dark hair already crowning his small head, his voice a strong wail. Brandon laughed, a deep, raw sound he hadn't made since he was a boy.
Barbara, pale but smiling, reached out from her bed. "Come here, both of you."
Brandon sat beside her, placing the child in her arms. "A son, Barbara. A Stark son, born in Narnia."
Barbara kissed the baby's forehead. "Not just Stark. He belongs to both worlds now. To us, and to this new kingdom."
Brandon looked down at his family—his wife, his newborn son—and for the first time in years, he felt not only purpose, but peace.
The Odin Hall of Frostshield glowed with firelight that morning, the great hearths blazing against the cold that pressed outside. The walls, newly raised of smooth stone and carved with runes, echoed with voices as Narnians gathered. This was the first naming ceremony to be held in the hall—a moment of history, and all knew it.
Brandon Stark stood with Barbara at the center, their newborn son wrapped in fine furs gifted by Lyanna. Brandon had once balked at these halls, at the statues of Odin, Thor, Frigga, and Loki, standing alongside the carved weirwood faces. Yet now he understood. The Old Gods and these gods of Narnia were not rivals, but reflections. The weirwood tree was the World Tree. The stories of the Aesir gave flesh and words to powers unseen.
Brandon looked at his son, then at the people, and spoke loud enough for all to hear:
"This child is Stark by blood, but he is also Narnian by birth. Today, he is bound to both."
Lyanna approached with Harry and young Sirius. The boy carried a bundle of toys—wooden carvings of wolves, a small carved dragon, even a little hammer he insisted was for "when the baby wants to be Thor." Sirius presented them proudly, his eyes shining.
"He's my cousin," Sirius said firmly, puffing his chest. "And he'll need these."
Laughter rippled through the hall. Lyanna kissed Barbara's cheek and whispered, "He looks strong. He will make both North and Narnia proud." Harry, more reserved, placed a small silver charm in Barbara's hand—a protective rune, engraved with care.
The hall quieted as the ceremony began. The high priest of Odin raised his staff and intoned the words of blessing, his voice deep as thunder:
"This child shall be known among us. He shall be shielded by Frigga's hand, guided by Odin's wisdom, and guarded by Thor's strength. Let his name be spoken, and so it shall be."
Brandon stepped forward, his voice steady though his heart pounded.
"I name him Richard Stark, son of Brandon Stark of Winterfell, born in Frostshield of Narnia. Let him be bound to this hall, this people, and this land."
A roar of approval filled the chamber. The name Richard—chosen in honor of his father, Lord Rickard Stark—echoed from stone to beam.
Then came the choosing of a godfather. This was a new Narnian tradition, but one Brandon embraced. He turned to Jorund, who stood tall among the councilors.
"You have been my friend, my advisor, and my brother in this new land. If fate takes me or Barbara, I ask that you guard my son as your own."
Jorund's eyes softened, and he placed his great hand upon the child's brow.
"Then by Odin's name, I swear it. No harm shall come to this boy while I breathe."
The hall erupted again—cheers, chants, the stamping of feet. Richard Stark was named, blessed, and claimed as both Stark and Narnian.
Later, when the feast began, Brandon sat with Barbara, cradling his son. Lyanna leaned close, her smile wistful.
"Our children will grow together," she murmured.
Brandon nodded. For the first time since he had fled Westeros, he felt not like an exile, but a builder of something greater than Winterfell itself.
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