The sky tore apart with thunder as Winter, cloaked in shimmering invisibility, raced across the clouds above the Shivering Sea. With wings that carved through the wind like blades, the great dragon soared with unmatched speed, his instinct pulling him home. Harry sat astride Winter's massive back, hood drawn low and one hand steady on the saddle. The cold bit into his cheeks, but he didn't mind. He was returning—not just to Narnia, but to something far more important.
Winter roared once as the mountains of ice and shadow came into view, and then without a command, he veered toward his cave.
Harry didn't expect what happened next.
A scream echoed through the entrance of the cavern. Then another. Panic surged inside the cave as the men and women Harry had rescued ran for shelter, hiding behind crates and stone outcroppings, clutching each other in terror. Some drew rusted knives, while others stood paralyzed in fear. One man—a former leatherworker from Myr—shouted, "He brought us here to feed us to a beast!"
Winter landed with a ground-shaking thud, causing a few crates to topple and a baby to cry out. His claws dug into the stone, eyes glowing like twin lanterns in the dark, and his breath steamed the air. His wings folded slowly, and he stretched his long neck toward the entrance, where dozens of frightened faces were frozen in fear.
Harry dismounted swiftly and raised both hands. "Stop! All of you, please listen!"
The frightened crowd fell silent, their eyes locked on him, breath shallow.
"This is Winter," Harry said calmly, stepping between the dragon and the people. "He's mine. My bonded dragon. He will not harm you. Not now, not ever."
A dark-skinned woman with tightly braided hair stepped forward, trembling. "We've only heard tales of dragonlords. That they're cruel. Tyrants. That they feed the weak to their monsters."
Harry shook his head. "Not this one. Not here. I brought you here for freedom. Not fear."
Winter lowered his head until his snout nearly brushed the ground beside Harry. Slowly, the beast let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through the stone floor. The sound was oddly comforting.
Harry turned to the group. "I won't ask you to trust me today. But I will ask you to watch. And decide for yourself if I am the kind of man who would betray you."
The tension in the cave eased, slowly, like frost melting from glass. A few people straightened. Others still clutched their makeshift weapons but did not raise them again. A child peeked out from behind a barrel and whispered, "He's beautiful."
Harry smiled. "Yes. He is."
By the next hour, the former slaves had settled again, and Harry could see signs of order in the cave—makeshift sleeping areas, stacked supplies, fires burning within stone circles. They had adapted. They had survived. That was enough.
And then it was time.
Harry led them from the cave, wrapped in thick cloaks of fur and wool, many gifted from the stores he had prepared. The journey toward Narnia began as the wind howled overhead. Snow fell in flurries, and even though they had warm clothes, the bitter chill sank into their bones. Some of the women from warmer lands whimpered with each step. The men squinted into the wind, gripping packs and baskets tightly.
Still, they marched.
When Narnia's great wooden palisades came into view, a silence fell over the new arrivals. And it wasn't just awe—it was hesitation. Fear.
The wildlings were gathered on the other side of the settlement, standing in lines or leaning out of stone cottages. They had come to see the strangers. To watch the new blood enter their land.
Murmurs spread.
"Look at their skin…"
"Not from any tribe I know."
"Foreigners. Essosi."
Harry walked at the head of the procession, his boots crunching over snow and ice. Lyanna was already waiting by the gate, her hair braided into a tight plait, her fur-lined cloak clasped at the neck. Her eyes searched the crowd behind Harry and then locked onto his.
She stepped forward.
"Who are they?" she asked, voice low and sharp, but not unkind.
"Free folk," Harry replied. "From another part of the world."
Lyanna looked past him, her expression unreadable. "You brought them here?"
"They had nowhere else to go."
The wildlings had fallen into complete silence. Men with spears leaned on their weapons. Children peeked from behind the legs of their mothers. And then a tall wildling man with red hair stepped forward.
"They look soft," he said gruffly.
Harry met his gaze. "They're not."
Another wildling woman—gray streaks in her hair, but strength in her stance—asked, "Will they work?"
"They already have," Harry said. "Some are smiths. Carpenters. Healers. They can help us. If we let them."
Lyanna stepped beside him, her voice cool. "Then let them prove it. And we'll see."
There were nods. Suspicious glances. But no weapons were drawn. No voices raised.
Harry turned to the people behind him. "This is your new home. Not all will welcome you right away, but that will change. You'll earn it."
He raised his voice for the whole village to hear.
"And let it be known: Narnia welcomes any who work, who learn, who build. And who do no harm."
From the edge of the crowd, a young wildling boy approached and held out a piece of bread to one of the Essosi children. The child took it shyly.
It was a small moment.
But it was the beginning of something vast.
At first, the snow-covered village of Narnia stood divided—not by fences or walls, but by silence. The free folk of the North, the wildlings, stood warily at the edges of the settlement, watching the new arrivals from Essos with guarded eyes. These former slaves, strangers with sun-kissed skin and foreign tongues, came with little but their skills and their loyalty to Harry Gryffindor. And that, at first, was not enough.
The wildlings were proud. Hardened by the brutal winters beyond the Wall. Suspicious of outsiders. Especially ones who dressed in strange fabrics, cooked unfamiliar meals, and spoke a dozen different dialects, few of which included the common tongue.
But Harry was patient. He gave no orders, only opportunities.
He walked through the village each morning, checking on both groups—never choosing sides. He brought the two blacksmiths, both towering men from Tyrosh, to the village forge, which had stood cold and unused for weeks. With a nod from Harry, they set to work. Sparks flew, hammers rang out on steel, and smoke curled into the frosty air.
One of the blacksmiths, a bald man named Korran, spoke little Westerosi but knew how to speak through demonstration. He summoned a few curious wildlings with a sharp whistle and held up a newly forged axe—sleek, well-balanced, the metal gleaming.
"Strong," he said with a thick accent, handing it to a young wildling boy named Halrik.
Halrik hefted the axe, eyes wide. "Sharp as the Crow's steel," he murmured.
Korran simply smiled and pointed to the anvil. "You. Learn?"
Halrik glanced toward Harry, who gave him a nod. "Aye," the boy said, stepping forward.
And just like that, the first thread of connection was made.
Soon, others followed.
A husband-and-wife pair from Lys, once renowned carpenters before their enslavement, began to gather wildlings who enjoyed fishing. With broken words and hand gestures, they showed how to carve smooth wooden curves, waterproof boat frames, and bind the pieces tight with pitch and sinew. Within a week, two new fishing boats floated proudly on the icy river, and the wildlings who helped build them beamed with pride.
"They don't just talk," said a wildling named Jorra, watching the boats sway in the water. "They teach."
Harry, standing beside Lyanna as they overlooked the activity from the porch of the stone house, smiled quietly. "Because they want to belong. Just like anyone else."
Lyanna glanced at him, then back to the bustling village. "They're not soft like we thought. They've lived hard lives… just not in the cold."
In another part of the village, beneath a long shelter of wood and canvas, several Essosi women sat weaving, spinning, and stitching cloth. Their nimble fingers danced across looms, creating garments warmer and finer than any the wildlings had seen. Curious wildling girls crept closer until one of the Essosi women, an older lady with silver rings braided into her dark hair, looked up and smiled.
"Come," she beckoned gently, patting the space beside her. "We make for all."
Though the girls hesitated, one of them—a bold child named Yma—stepped forward and knelt beside her. The woman handed her a ball of yarn and showed her the pattern with patient, deliberate movements. Yma's fingers fumbled at first, but she watched closely and mimicked the weaving.
That evening, Yma ran to her mother holding a half-finished scarf and laughing with delight.
"They know how to make the thread sing!" she said.
By the second week, the invisible barrier between the wildlings and the newcomers had started to melt. Children played together in the snow. Wildlings helped build stone cottages beside the Essosi, mixing mortar and setting stones side-by-side. They'd learned how to shape the blocks properly from watching the newcomers work with precision and care.
"I never thought I'd see a wildling build a house that didn't lean sideways," Lyanna muttered as she walked beside Harry, watching a team of wildling and Essosi men work together.
"They're not wildlings anymore," Harry said quietly. "They're Narnians now."
One evening, around a large communal fire, two blacksmith apprentices—Halrik and a young Essosi boy named Daren—sat beside each other, laughing over a poorly made sword one had ruined earlier that day.
"Looks like a weak knife," Halrik said, nudging Daren with an elbow.
"It's for killing very angry bread," Daren replied, making both boys erupt in laughter.
Lyanna stood nearby, watching the firelight dance over the faces of both groups. She didn't say anything, only smiled softly as the warmth of the flames blended with the warmth in her heart.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the stars glittered above like frozen diamonds, Lyanna leaned against Harry on the wooden porch of their cottage.
"You did it," she whispered.
Harry shook his head. "They did. I just gave them the chance."
"You gave them more than that," she said. "You gave them a future."
In the snow-covered village that night, two peoples slept side by side. Not as strangers. But as one.
Life inside Potter Castle had changed in the most unexpected and comforting ways.
The arrival of the Essosi brought more than just skills—they brought structure. Among them was an elderly midwife named Marra, whose hunched back and leathery face concealed eyes sharp as falcon's. She was from Lys, and though her speech in the common tongue was broken, her tone was commanding and her presence reassuring. From the moment she met Lyanna, she took charge of the pregnancy with such gentle authority that even the wildlings began to defer to her.
A few of the younger Essosi women, particularly those who had once served as housekeepers or cooks in wealthy Braavosi estates, remained at Potter Castle alongside Marra. They quickly set to work making the stone halls feel less like a fortress and more like a home. They dusted out the corners, hung thick woolen tapestries, mended the worn cushions near the hearth, and began preparing meals with spices and techniques foreign to Northern palates. The food was simple but rich, and Lyanna found herself growing fond of the tastes of cinnamon and lemon in her porridge.
Though Lyanna still insisted on cooking now and then—claiming she needed to keep busy—the Essosi women gently insisted she rest. "You carry two lives now, my lady," Marra told her one morning, placing a warm, wrinkled hand on Lyanna's stomach. "You must treat yourself as a queen would."
One evening, Harry returned to the castle just as the sun dipped behind the snowy pines. The air was sharp with frost, and a hush had fallen over the grounds. Lyanna stood at the threshold, expecting nothing more than a routine report from Harry's trip to the nearby village. But what she saw instead froze her in place.
Two direwolves padded beside him—massive, majestic creatures with thick, silver-gray fur and eyes that gleamed with ancient, primal light. They were larger than any hound she'd ever seen, larger even than most ponies. Despite their size, they moved with eerie grace, silent as falling snow.
Lyanna's hand covered her mouth in awe. "Gods… Where did you find them?"
Harry dismounted from his horse and scratched behind one of the direwolves' ears. "They came to me," he said simply. "I made a pact with them. A binding ritual. They're not pets—they're guardians. Sacred beasts of the North. I thought…" He hesitated, watching her face. "I thought they should live here. Protect the castle. Protect you."
Lyanna knelt slowly before one of them, who sniffed her hand and then nuzzled into her chest. Tears stung her eyes. "They're beautiful," she whispered. "The sigil of House Stark... and now they're here."
She stood, took one step toward Harry, and kissed him.
It was not a shy kiss. It was soft and slow, trembling with gratitude and something deeper that had long been waiting to bloom. The direwolves circled around them, one lying near the hearth, the other watching over the windowsill like a sentinel.
Harry was quiet after, touched by her warmth, his hand lingering on hers. "I'm glad you like them," he murmured.
"I love them," Lyanna whispered back. "But I love you more."