The winter winds howled beyond the thick stone walls of Potter Castle, muffled only slightly by the heavy furs draped across the windows. The hearth fire crackled warmly in the sitting chamber, where Lyanna Gryffindor sat curled on a cushioned bench near the flames, her hands trembling slightly as they held the parchment.
She had read it once.
Twice.
Now, for the third time, she mouthed the words in silence, lips barely moving, her eyes glassy with tears that shimmered in the firelight.
My dearest daughter, Lyanna,
I do not know where to begin, nor do I expect this letter to mend the hurt we both carry. But word has reached me through Lord Wyman Manderly—word of your hand, your heart, and your sacrifice.
The food your husband sent has saved lives. The North will not forget.
I was a fool once, too proud, too stubborn to see my children for what they truly needed. I see now that I wronged you, Brandon, and even Eddard in my desire to shape the North's future by my hand alone.
You chose a different path, and while it wounded my pride, it saved countless of our people. For that, I am proud beyond words.
I pray your days are warm and your child grows strong. Should you ever send word… know that my doors remain open, and my heart is no longer shut.
Your father,
Rickard Stark
Lyanna pressed the letter to her chest and sobbed—not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming weight of relief. All these moons she had wondered what her family thought of her. Whether they saw her as a traitor to the North… or worse, a bad daughter.
But now—this letter. These words.
She wasn't forgotten. She wasn't forsaken.
She was loved.
The door creaked open behind her, and she turned, wiping her tears hurriedly. Harry stepped in, his travel cloak still dusted with snow, a basket of foraged roots in one hand.
"Lya?" he said gently, noticing her tears. He set the basket down and hurried to her side. "What's wrong?"
She held up the parchment, eyes wide and shining. "Nothing, I was reading the letter."
Harry's brow lifted. "From your father?"
She nodded, voice trembling. "He… he thanked me, Harry. For the food. For helping the North. He said he's proud of me…"
Harry's lips curled into a soft smile, and he sat beside her, pulling her into his arms.
"I didn't want to burden you with it," he said softly, brushing her damp hair from her cheek. "Lord Manderly and I spoke in Braavos. I made sure to send food enough to survive for couple of years."
Lyanna blinked at him. "The food… how did you send it?"
He nodded slowly. "I hired the ships. Bought every grain, every salted ham, every dried fig I could find. I thought of your people, Lya. I thought of your father and brothers and all those who would suffer. I did it because you love them."
Her lip trembled again, and she buried her face against his shoulder. "You didn't have to do that. You've already given me everything. A home. A future. A name…"
"You are Lyanna Gryffindor," Harry said, holding her tighter. "And this is your home now, but your heart still beats with the North. That doesn't go away."
"I want to go to him," she whispered after a long pause. "To my father. I want to look him in the eyes and say… I'm sorry. I want to ask why he made the choices he did. I want to hold his hand and forgive him. But I can't. Not now…"
Her hand gently touched the curve of her swollen belly.
Harry pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You'll go one day, when you're ready. When the time is right. And you won't go alone."
They sat in silence for a while, wrapped in each other's arms as the fire crackled and the winter night deepened outside. The two direwolves dozed by the hearth—massive, shaggy beasts whose soft snores occasionally filled the chamber. And somewhere above, in the small tower chamber, the old Essosi midwife hummed lullabies as she sorted swaddling cloths.
Lyanna smiled through her tears, still clutching the letter. She wasn't just a runaway daughter anymore.
She was a bridge.
Between past and future. Between North and Beyond.
Between House Stark and House Gryffindor.
The skies above Narnia were cast in pale gray, the snow falling in gentle flurries that dusted the rooftops of the newly built cottages. Smoke curled from chimneys, rising into the sky like slender arms reaching for warmth. The settlement had grown—wildly, rapidly, perhaps too fast.
From atop the ridge where Potter Castle stood, Harry Gryffindor looked down upon his creation with both pride and weariness. What was once a gathering of tents and hovels had become a network of homes, workshops, storehouses, and stone-paved roads. The newcomers—Essosi, wildlings, and Narnians of every shape and tongue—continued to arrive by the week, drawn by the promise of food, warmth, and safety.
But with every new soul, the burden of rule grew heavier.
"They quarrel again," said Mirl, one of the Essosi carpenters, standing beside Harry on the tower balcony. "South quarter this time. Gorn's people struck a boy from Horsa's clan. Claimed he stole an axe."
Harry sighed and ran a hand through his tangled black hair. "Was it proven?"
"No. But the axe was found hidden near the boy's home. It's enough for Gorn's men to demand blood."
Harry clenched his jaw. "Tell them to meet me at the Castle. No blood shall be spilled in my this kingdom without my knowledge."
Mirl nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait," Harry added, his voice lower. "Remind them both that the tools of Narnia are not weapons unless I declare them so. If they use them to harm, they lose the right to wield them."
Later that afternoon, in the center of the castle, the Potter Caste—named after the surname he left behind unexpectedly—was filled with tension. Two dozen men and women stood on either side of the hall, divided by allegiance and ancestry. Gorn's folk wore heavy leathers dyed in dark tones, with frost-bitten faces and scarred hands. Horsa's people, lighter in build, adorned with bone charms and painted cheeks, stood tall with defiant glares.
Harry stood between them on the stone dais, flanked by the two direwolves, their massive bodies looming in silent judgment. The fire behind him crackled and hissed as if echoing his mood.
"This ends today," Harry said, his voice clear and cutting through the thick air. "No blood feud, no retaliation. You live under one sky now. My sky."
Gorn, a burly man with a braided beard, took a step forward. "He stole from us."
"Prove it," Harry snapped. "Show me the moment, the hand that took the axe, the thoughts behind it. If you cannot, you accuse a child on suspicion alone. Is that justice?"
Gorn growled low in his throat, but said nothing.
Harry turned to Horsa, a tall woman with narrow eyes. "And you. If you knew one of yours stole, would you return it?"
"Yes," she said immediately.
"Then return it," Harry said. "And teach your young to ask, not take."
The boy in question, no older than twelve, stood near Horsa, trembling. Harry approached him and knelt, looking the child in the eyes.
"Do you know what I could do if I was a cruel king?"
The boy swallowed and shook his head.
"I could take your hand. Or your home. Or your mother's home. But I won't. Because this land was not built for vengeance. It was built for change. Will you promise me to earn your tools, not steal them?"
"Yes, milord," the boy said in a whisper.
Harry stood, gaze sweeping across the gathered clans. "This is the last time I will treat a feud like this with words. Next time you raise a tool as a weapon without cause, I will break that hand and cast you into the snow."
The hall was silent.
"No more axes buried in snowbanks," he added coldly. "If you need something—wood, food, stone—ask. Share. Trade. Or walk into the frost and take your chances alone."
He turned and walked down the hall as the direwolves growled and padded behind him, parting the crowd like a blade.
Outside, the snow had grown heavier.
Liana waited near the entrance with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, her hands cradling her growing belly. "Another quarrel?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "And it won't be the last."
"You're doing the best you can," she said, taking his hand.
"I know. But I'm starting to think it's not enough. These people lived their whole lives in hate and scarcity. They don't know any other way."
"Then you have to teach them," she whispered. "Just like you taught me."
Harry looked at her, and for a moment, the weight of rule lifted.
Just a moment.
And then the wind blew again, bitter and sharp, and he remembered that peace was not given.
It was forged.
Even though she was very heavy with child, Lyanna still walked each morning to the school built in the heart of Narnia. It had been Harry's insistence to establish a proper place of learning, and though Lyanna had never imagined herself as a teacher, the task brought her great joy. The school was a wide wooden hall, tall and airy, with large windows that let in the pale northern light. At the front stood a large board smoothed from dark pine, where Lyanna wrote letters and words using charcoal, wiping them away with cloth when needed.
She taught both the children of wildlings and the Essosi who had come to Narnia seeking a new life. Many of them were clever, quick to learn their letters, though there was no compulsion to attend. Any child who wished to learn could come freely, and perhaps even more importantly, they were fed during the lessons. A simple meal—stew, warm bread, or porridge—was often enough to fill the benches.
Lyanna herself took pride in preparing the food each morning, with help from the women at Potter Castle. She enjoyed seeing the children eat with full bellies and then settle down to their slates, scratching out their first letters with grimy fingers and shining eyes.
But on this day, something changed.
As she stood before the children, charcoal in hand, a sudden sharp pain shot through her lower abdomen. It stole her breath away. She gasped and gripped the edge of the table, then slowly sank into the wooden chair placed beside her.
One of the older children, a dark-haired Essosi boy with wide eyes, noticed her discomfort. "Lady Lyanna?" he asked in a nervous voice.
"I'm fine," she murmured through a tight breath, placing a hand over her belly. "Just... fetch help, would you?"
The boy didn't wait. He bolted from the room, his feet echoing down the corridor.
Within moments, the door burst open and two women rushed in—one of them the young pleasure slave girl from Lys, who had lived in Potter Castle since the day the Essosi arrived. Others followed, and soon Lyanna was gently helped up and escorted out of the school, cradling her belly and walking with slow, trembling steps. The castle was close, but even those few paces felt like miles.
Word spread quickly.
By the time Harry arrived at the castle, Lyanna was already in her chamber. The doors had been shut tight, and the thick stone walls muffled the sounds—but not enough. Harry stood outside, pacing restlessly along the corridor, heart pounding. From beyond the door, he could still hear her cries, muffled yet raw with pain.
He clenched his fists, helpless.
One of the castle attendants tried to reassure him. "The midwife is with her, my lord. She's done this many times."
Harry nodded, but didn't speak. He could do nothing. No spell, no incantation, no dragon's fire could ease what Lyanna was enduring.
He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and whispered, "Please be safe. Please…"
Inside the room, Lyanna gritted her teeth and bore down through wave after wave of agony, her fingers crushing the blanket beneath her, her breath sharp and ragged. The old midwife barked steady instructions while two young women moved about the room with towels and hot water.
Through it all, Lyanna thought only of one thing: her child.
And outside the door, Harry waited—praying silently that the woman he loved and the life she carried would survive the night.