Brandon Stark had always been fire to Eddard's ice. The wild one, the proud one, the foolhardy one who once said, "Life is short, and the North is cold—so take what warmth you can." It was that same impulsive spirit that led him to elope with Barbara Ryswell, the youngest daughter of House Ryswell. She had a smile like mischief and eyes that sparkled with secrets. When she whispered, "Let's run," he didn't hesitate.
But Essos was not the land of dreams they had imagined.
Now, Brandon sat on a wooden crate, shirtless, his back glistening with sweat under the cruel sun of Volantis. His hands were calloused, scraped from lifting cargo at the docks—when work was available. Other times, he dug trenches, swept floors, or delivered fish to brothels too dangerous to linger in.
"Northman!" someone shouted from a stall. "You forgot your coin!"
Brandon didn't turn. He didn't have a coin to forget.
They had spent the last of their silver three days ago. Barbara was indoors, sick from the heat and hunger, lying on the thin mattress they called a bed in the upper room of a crumbling tenement by the Black Walls. She never complained—but Brandon saw the weariness in her eyes.
He cursed softly under his breath and glanced up at the sky. "Gods," he muttered. "I used to eat with lords. Now I'd be lucky to smell stew."
And then—wings.
He blinked. A brown owl, sleek and regal, glided down through the market's dust and noise as if it belonged to another world.
It landed on the crate beside him, causing a few onlookers to gape.
"What the…" Brandon whispered.
The owl stared at him with intelligent golden eyes and stretched out its leg.
A letter—sealed in wax.
Brandon hesitated, hands trembling slightly as he broke the seal. The wax bore no sigil he recognized, but the handwriting—
It was Lyanna's.
To my dearest brother Brandon,
I don't know where you are, but I hope this finds you. I've missed you more than I ever admitted. I'm sorry for disappearing. I know how it must have looked. But I found happiness. I hope you will too.
If you're in need, please accept this small gift. I remember how you always tried to protect me. Let me protect you now, in some way. You're not forgotten.
With all my love,
Your little wolf,
Lyanna.
The letter slipped from his fingers.
The owl chirped once and nudged a small leather pouch toward him with its beak.
He opened it. His mouth fell open.
Inside—gold. Not a few coins. Not a small inheritance.
Lots of gold dragons.
Brandon let out a long breath, then laughed. It started as a short bark, then grew louder until he was doubled over.
"You mad little wolf," he said, tears stinging his eyes. "You always did have perfect timing."
The owl waited patiently beside him, its feathers unmoving despite the breeze.
Brandon stood, the pouch tucked under one arm, and looked down at the owl. "You waiting for a reply?"
The owl blinked, then nodded.
Brandon chuckled. "Of course you are. What kind of sorcery have you fallen into, sister?"
He didn't have paper. He didn't have ink. But he had gold now.
He strode straight into the market, past stunned vendors who had seen him scraping for scraps just days ago. At a scribe's stall, he slapped down a gold coin with a smirk.
"Parchment. Ink. And don't give me the cheap stuff."
Ten minutes later, he sat at a shaded bench beneath a fig tree and wrote.
Lyanna,
I don't know how your owl found me, but I suppose magic runs in your veins now. Barbara and I are alive, though that's more than I could say a week ago. Your gift… Lyanna, you saved us.
I was angry when you left. I thought you ran from your duty. But now… I understand. The world is bigger than the North. You made your choice, and from your letter, it sounds like the right one.
Tell me about this husband of yours. Tell me everything. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You always were my favorite sister—even if I never said it aloud.
I'll write again soon.
Your brother,
Brandon
He rolled the parchment, sealed it, and tied it to the owl's leg.
The owl waited until he whispered, "Go," and then took flight, soaring into the golden sky above Volantis.
Brandon watched it disappear, then walked home with lighter feet and heavier pockets. He would feed Barba. They would find a better place to stay.
And most of all, for the first time in months, he felt like a Stark again.
The old tenement by the Black Walls stood empty now—its cracked walls and flea-ridden mattresses forgotten. In its place, Brandon Stark and Barbara Ryswell now lived in a marble-fronted house nestled within one of Volantis' quieter districts, just outside the shadow of the Black Wall but far from the slums of the harbor.
For the price of twenty gold coins, the property was practically a palace. Gold, after all, spoke louder than lineage in Essos.
The house had arched windows, green-painted shutters, and a courtyard with orange trees. The air smelled of citrus and salt, and Barbara stood barefoot on the polished stone floor, gazing at their new home with disbelief.
Brandon wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.
"You're quiet," he murmured.
Barbara leaned back into him. "Just waiting to wake up and find the lice still in our sheets."
He chuckled. "The lice are gone. The mold too. This… this is real."
Barbara turned to face him, dressed now in a blue silk gown that matched the sea. Her hair was clean, braided down her back, and her cheeks had gained a healthy flush since their move.
"We have servants," she whispered. "Two of them."
Brandon smirked. "More if you want."
"No," she laughed, "this is enough. I don't want to turn into a spoilt princess."
"You already are," he teased, lifting her off her feet, causing her to squeal.
They were happy, for the first time in months.
Brandon had kept careful count of their fortune.
The thousand gold coins Lyanna had sent had been counted, sorted, and stacked into a strongbox beneath the bed. He had spent only one hundred—fifty for the house, ten for clothes, twenty for furnishings and daily expenses, and the rest for hiring their three household servants, a reliable guard, and a cook who came highly recommended.
That left nine hundred dragons—a treasure that could build an empire if used wisely.
One evening, Brandon sat at the round table in their small private study, a ledger open before him, quill in hand.
Barbara sat across from him, sipping from a glass of Arbor Gold.
"You're serious about this?" she asked, watching him sketch trade routes.
Brandon nodded. "Gold won't last forever. But trade—that's something that can grow."
Barbara tilted her head. "You, a merchant?"
He smiled wryly. "I know it sounds mad. I can barely add past twenty, but I've been watching these Volantene traders. They're not smarter than us. Just better at pretending."
She laughed. "And what will you sell? Stark words? Ice and snow?"
"I have the gold to start," Brandon said, tapping the table. "I buy spice here—sell it in Lys. Or silk in Myr—sell it to sailors from Westeros who'll pay twice the price. I don't need a fleet. I just need to rent space on someone else's."
Barba raised an eyebrow. "And when the gold runs dry?"
He grinned. "That's why I'll make sure it doesn't."
Over the next few days, Brandon visited docks, merchant squares, and auction houses, learning the trade of trade. He watched as Myrish cloth was loaded into crates, spices weighed and bartered by the pinch, pearls sold in pouches worth their weight in steel.
He made small purchases—twenty pounds of saffron from Qarth, bolts of Tyroshi silk, and a set of jade figurines from Yi Ti.
He rented a spot in a local market square and hired two sellswords to keep an eye on the goods.
In just three days, he tripled the value of what he'd spent.
He returned home flushed with pride, tossing a purse of new gold coins onto the table.
Barbara, lounging on a padded bench with a book in hand, looked up.
"So, merchant prince already?" she teased.
"Not prince," Brandon said, smirking. "But maybe lord of coin in this city of snakes."
She rose, walked to him, and cupped his face.
"You're doing this for us."
He kissed her forehead. "I'm doing this for Lyanna, too. She believed in me. She reminded me who I am."
Barba's eyes softened. "And who is that?"
He paused a moment before replying.
"A Stark. In exile, perhaps—but not defeated."
And with that, Brandon Stark of Winterfell, once a reckless son of the North, took his first steps as a rising merchant in the Free Cities—a wolf among the lions of trade.
The wind swept over the walls of Potter Castle, carrying with it the sharp chill of northern air. The castle stood tall and proud, its dark stones warmed by firelight spilling through narrow windows, and above it all, the new Owlery tower rose like a sentinel. Inside its chambers, dozens of owls flitted from perch to perch, their feathers ruffling softly in the draught.
Down below, Lyanna Gryffindor sat by the window of her solar, wrapped in a fur-lined robe, quill scratching gently across fine parchment. Her letters had become the heartbeat of the castle lately—long, thoughtful notes filled with news, memories, and affection.
Her eyes drifted to the side of the chamber, where little Sirius Gryffindor lay bundled in a crib of weirwood and velvet. He kicked at the air with gurgled delight, dark curls wild on his head and emerald eyes gleaming with curiosity.
She dipped the quill again and whispered aloud as she wrote:
"To my dear brother Benjen,
I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you more than words can carry across the sea of owls and snow. My son grows stronger each day. He has your reckless grin, I swear..."
Lyanna chuckled, her voice soft and wistful. She folded the letter and slipped it into a leather pouch along with a small polished stone charm—a trinket Harry had enchanted to always feel warm in one's palm. A gift for Benjen. She had one for each of them.
In truth, Lyanna longed to see her family, but she couldn't leave—not yet. Sirius was still too young, and there was always the lingering threat that the King's men might come seeking her, or worse, seek to take the child. This place, this hidden land called Narnia, was her refuge—and she would not abandon it.
Meanwhile, Harry spent most of his days below, in the magical vaults of Potter Castle, pouring over ancient books, scrolls, and artifacts inherited from the Potter and Black family vaults. He moved through rituals and enchantments with precision, surrounded by glowing runes, bottled starlight, and books that whispered when opened.
The people of Narnia thrived. The Essosi boatbuilders had completed their first great whaling ship, launching it along the frozen coast. Its sleek hull and reinforced sails made it ideal for Arctic waters, and soon, it returned with lots of walrus and whale meat and oil from the icefields near Skagos.
More settlers arrived each day—wildlings, exiles, and nomads—drawn by the promise of safety and abundance. With every new arrival, Harry expanded his wards farther into the forest and hills. It was a monumental task, but he performed it without complaint, for Narnia was growing into something more than a sanctuary—it was becoming a nation.
Education had begun to reshape the wildlings. With Lyanna's school flourishing, children who once knew only how to hunt or steal were now reading, writing, and speaking in multiple tongues. They learned not just words, but values—cooperation, fairness, and pride in being a Narnian.
As she nursed Sirius later that night, Lyanna whispered into the firelight, "They're changing, Harry… all of them. Even the wildest of them. Sometimes I wonder if we're building a new world here."
Harry, entering the room with soot on his hands and ink on his sleeves, smiled. "Not a new world," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Just a better one."