The first snow of spring dusted the black stone of Potter Castle in a silver shimmer. The morning air still held the bite of winter, but the valley of Narnia stirred with life as smoke curled from chimneys and children chased one another down packed paths of snow. Atop the tallest turret of the castle, a new construction rose—a tower of smooth stone and high arching windows, designed not for watchmen or guards, but for birds.
It was Harry's idea—a piece of Hogwarts reborn, carved into the wild northern frontier.
"It's called the Owlery," Harry told Lyanna as they climbed the winding stairs, Sirius snugly wrapped to her chest in a sling of soft fur.
"Owls?" Lyanna asked with a soft laugh. "You mean like messenger ravens? But… I thought only the Maesters trained those."
Harry grinned. "Owls are much more elegant. And faster. Witches and wizards used owls, and I always liked them better." He paused, then added, "And these owls are... special."
When they reached the top, Lyanna gasped.
Dozens of snowy owls, grey owls, even a few barn owls, perched quietly on carved beams and perches built into the circular walls. Some were sleeping with heads tucked beneath wings, others preened or blinked curiously at the newcomers. The scent of clean straw and feathers filled the air, and through the open arches, the wind danced in, ruffling feathers but never disturbing the calm order of the place.
"They're beautiful," Lyanna whispered.
"They're intelligent now," Harry said proudly. "I found the ritual in one of the Black family grimoires. Dangerous stuff, but it worked. Gave them just enough sentience to understand names, places, even sense emotions. Now they're not just birds—they're partners."
One of the owls—a large silver-and-white one—fluttered down and perched on Harry's outstretched arm.
"This one's Mistral," Harry said. "He's been to Braavos and back already. Took a letter to Orlino."
Lyanna smiled, brushing Sirius's cheek with her hand. "And you did all this just so I could write to my family?"
"I want you to be able to talk to your father," Harry said quietly. "And Eddard. And even Brandon, if he comes around. They've all forgiven you now, and I thought it was time you had the choice."
Lyanna's expression turned tender. She turned to the owl on Harry's arm. "Do they really understand us?"
"To a degree," Harry said. "Watch."
He whispered, "Mistral, take this to White Harbor. Find Lord Wyman Manderly."
Mistral gave a soft hoot, took the letter from Harry, stretched his wings, and launched into the morning sky with power and grace, gliding down the spiral of the tower and vanishing into the sky.
Lyanna blinked. "Seven hells…"
Harry chuckled. "It's quite a sight, isn't it? I've been testing them for a few weeks. They're smart. I can even charm letters to burn after reading, or to whisper instead of being read."
Lyanna shook her head in wonder, then said softly, "This is… more than I ever thought I'd have. A home, a son, and now a way to reach my family."
Harry smiled. "The North needs you. You're still Lyanna Stark in their eyes. Let them hear your voice. Remind them you're not lost."
She nodded. "I will."
Later that day, the castle workers were abuzz with curiosity. Many had never seen so many birds in one place. When the kitchen staff brought up trays of raw meat, grain, and fresh water, they gawked at the silent owls sitting in perfect rows.
"I swear one of them bowed at me," muttered a stable hand, wiping his hands on his tunic.
"They do that," Harry said as he passed by. "It means they like you. Or they want food."
"Gods," murmured one of the women. "I thought this was a castle, not a place of sorcery…"
"Why can't it be both?" Harry replied with a grin, then clapped the man's shoulder. "Keep them fed, and you'll find they're better than any raven."
The sun had just broken over the snow-laced mountains when Lyanna Gryffindor stepped into the Owlery with a thick stack of letters in her hand, her breath misting in the cold air. The owls were already stirring, their sharp eyes following her as she walked to the central perch where a wide wooden table stood—smeared with ink stains, bits of parchment, and tiny claw marks from impatient birds.
Lyanna placed the letters down and whispered, "Let's begin."
She had spent the entire night writing, her heart poured into every word.
The first letter was addressed in elegant Northern script:
To Brandon Stark
My beloved brother, wherever the winds have carried you…
She held the parchment close for a moment, brushing a tear from her cheek. "I was the first to break free, wasn't I, Brandon?" she murmured. "Now you heve followed me... but in a different way."
In the pouch beside the letter was a velvet bag—enchanted by Harry to hold more than it appeared. Inside it were a thousand gleaming gold coins, enough to buy a ship, a home, or start a business in the lands of the Essosi. Harry had handed her the pouch without hesitation.
"Your brother might need it," he had said. "Gold gives freedom where loyalty does not."
"I know he'll laugh when he sees this," Lyanna had smiled. "But I also know he'll keep it."
She tied the letter and the pouch to one of the largest owls—Grimclaw, a black-eyed giant—and whispered, "Find Brandon Stark. He's somewhere across the Narrow Sea."
The owl blinked solemnly, then launched into the air, wings slicing the wind as it disappeared into the white sky.
The next letter bore the name of the man who had shaped her life more than any other:
To Lord Rickard Stark,
This letter was carefully written, and slow. She'd rewritten it four times before Harry stopped her and said gently, "He doesn't want your perfection. He wants your honesty."
So she wrote of her life, of the safety she'd found, of her son and the joy of being a mother. She didn't mention Narnia by name, nor the castle or Harry's magic. Only that she was safe, loved, and happy.
Along with the letter, she packed a stack of books—some salvaged from Braavos and others printed through the press Harry had restored. History, philosophy, farming theory. She remembered her father poring over dusty tomes by firelight and hoped these new pages would bring him warmth.
"I know you still light candles for me," she wrote at the end. "But put them out, Father. I'm not dead. I'm alive, and my heart still belongs to the North."
To Eddard Stark, her ever-stoic brother, she wrote with more affection than formality:
Ned, I hope you've forgiven me. I hope you've smiled at least once since I left.
To him, she sent a cloak—thick as a bear's hide, stitched with Essosi designs in pale blue and white. On its back was an embroidered direwolf, running across a field of stars. "To remind you who you are," she added in a note.
Her longest letter was for Benjen—her baby brother, once a lanky boy trailing after her through Winterfell's halls.
Benji, I miss your jokes. I miss your scowl when someone calls you 'boy.' I miss your dancing.
She included a sword, forged by the smiths of Narnia, and personally enchanted by Harry to never dull or break. She'd told him to name it himself.
Try not to stab someone just to test the sword, she teased in the postscript.
Finally, Lyanna turned to the gift Harry created—a massive framed photograph, enchanted to remain still, its edges trimmed in silver and glass.
In the photo, Harry stood with his arm around her shoulders, baby Sirius cradled in her arms, his black hair already growing wild. Behind them were the towering spires of Potter Castle.
"We are a family," Lyanna whispered. "And this is what family looks like."
It took four strong owls, specially fed and rested, to lift the enchanted crate that carried the photo.
When they were released, they flew in unison—beating wings slicing the frosted morning air, as if carrying a message of joy through the winter.
In the following days, Lyanna returned to the Owlery again and again. She wrote to Maege Mormont, recalling their girlhood swordplay. To Jenny Karstark, thanking her for teaching her how to braid hair like a proper lady. She wrote to cousins, distant friends, even old servants whose kindness she never forgot.
But in none of the letters did she say where she was.
Not a word of Narnia, not a whisper of Harry's magic, nor the dragon that watched her child sleep.
She signed each letter the same way:
Your sister,
Lyanna Gryffindor.
At the end of the week, when the last owl vanished into the clouds, the Owlery was nearly empty.
Lyanna leaned on the railing, looking up at the fading trail of feathers and wind.
Harry stepped beside her, resting his hand on the small of her back. "You sent out a piece of yourself with every letter," he said.
"I did," she nodded. "But only so I could stay whole."
She turned to him, eyes shining. "Thank you, Harry… for giving me a way back home, even if I never go there again."
The great dining hall of Winterfell was quiet that evening, but not with the usual brooding calm of the North. It was the kind of quiet born of peace and warmth—an unusual thing in a keep as ancient and cold as Winterfell. The torches crackled softly on the stone walls, casting long shadows behind the banners of House Stark that swayed gently from the rafters.
The fire in the hearth burned low but steady, the scent of roasted venison and fresh bread still hanging in the air.
At the high table sat Lord Rickard Stark, his features sharp and weathered, yet bearing a contented softness that had been missing for years. He carved a piece of venison with steady hands and passed it to his daughter-in-law.
Beside him sat Eddard Stark, quiet as ever, his dark eyes resting on Catelyn, whose cheeks were rosy with joy. She had just told the family she was with child.
Benjen, seated to their left, was already on his second helping, speaking animatedly about the new patrol routes for the men of the Night's Watch, although nobody at the table truly believed he would leave for the Wall anytime soon.
Then—a sudden rush of wings. Three shapes flew in through the narrow, high windows, their wings sweeping snowflakes into the air.
Three owls—silent, graceful, each different in size and color—glided down and landed directly on the long table, ignoring the startled gasps of servants and noblemen alike.
"What in the seven hells—" Benjen started, mouth half-full.
The owls bore more than just feathers. Each had a letter gripped gently in its beak. One stepped forward and dropped a sealed parchment in front of Rickard. The others followed, laying their messages in front of Eddard and Benjen with remarkable precision.
The room froze.
Rickard reached for his letter first, but it was Benjen who broke the silence. He tore open the seal and unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers. His eyes scanned the page—then widened with disbelief, then softened with wonder.
"It's from her," he whispered, his voice cracking. "From Lya. She wrote to me."
Rickard stood suddenly, his own letter clutched in both hands. "Lyanna?"
Eddard was already unfolding his. "Her handwriting," he said hoarsely, "I would know it anywhere."
The entire hall watched as the Starks read in silence, each of them touched by the same hand, the same ink, the same voice long thought lost.
Rickard leaned heavily on the table, his lips parting to read the final lines aloud:
I ran from duty once. I hope you can forgive me. I did it for love, but I never meant to cause pain. I am safe. I am a mother now. And I want you to know I am happy.
A hush fell again—then a flutter of wings announced more arrivals.
Another owl, larger and slower, swooped into the room carrying a bundle wrapped in soft leather. It landed on the floor beside Rickard and stepped back.
Rickard knelt, old joints creaking, and untied the straps.
Inside were books—fine bindings, foreign titles, histories of the world beyond Westeros. The kind of rare, thoughtful gift that only a daughter who remembered her father's quiet nights by candlelight would send.
Then another owl arrived, this one bearing a massive white-furred cloak, which it dropped in front of Eddard. Embroidered with Essosi designs.
Eddard smiled softly, his voice tight. "She remembered how cold my hands always were…"
And the last owl in the trio glided to Benjen, carrying a sheathed sword with a pommel shaped like a direwolf's head. It was light, perfectly balanced, and very very sharp.
Benjen drew it slowly, the steel glinting in the firelight. "Lyanna… what have you been doing?"
The answer came with the greatest arrival of all.
A shadow passed across the high windows—four owls, straining together, carrying something large wrapped in dark cloth.
Several men ran forward, arms outstretched to steady the load as the birds dropped it gently onto the floor.
Rickard himself stepped down from the dais, his sons following. The cloth was thick, heavy with enchantment. It took two men to unwrap it.
And then—
A gasp echoed through the hall.
Before them stood a life-sized portrait. No, more than a portrait—it was a photograph, still but hauntingly real.
In the image stood Lyanna, her long hair flowing loose over her shoulders, eyes full of a joy none of them had ever seen before. Harry, her husband, stood beside her, his arm gently around her waist. And in her arms—
A baby.
Black-haired, green-eyed, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. He looked straight at the viewer, his tiny mouth curled into a sleeping smile.
Beneath the image, in gold lettering, were the words:
Lyanna Gryffindor. Harry Griffindor. Sirius Gryffindor.
Catelyn pressed a hand to her mouth. Eddard closed his eyes. Benjen stepped forward and touched the edge of the frame, reverently.
Rickard Stark simply stared.
"My daughter," he said softly.
The hall erupted in quiet murmurs, awestruck and emotional.
Benjen broke the silence with a soft chuckle. "She named the boy Sirius. A strange name may be Essosi origin."
Eddard whispered, "And she seems happy with the life she chose for herself."
Rickard didn't speak for a long moment. He looked at the image once more, then nodded.
"Prepare the solar," he said, his voice strong again. "We have a family to write to."