Harry Griffindor stood atop the watchtower of Potter Castle, the wind tugging at his black robes as he surveyed the bustling village below. Narnia had grown beyond his wildest expectations. What had once been a scattered settlement of wildlings and displaced Essosi families had transformed into a village—no, a fledgling city—with schools, roads, workshops, and even an organized council. But today, Harry's emerald eyes were fixed on a new group of people trudging through the snow-laced pass from the east.
A clan—nearly five hundred strong—had arrived at the border, bringing with them their tent, crying children, and tired, angry adults. The guards that Harry formed to patrol the village, mostly wildlings who had once lived lives much like these newcomers, watched with tense faces.
Down below, Lyanna stood wrapped in her thick winter cloak, Sirius bundled in her arms. A few elders from both the wildlings and Essosi stood beside her. Jonmar, once a war-chieftain of the Frostfang wildlings, now wore a tailored tunic and spoke Valyrian with ease. Beside him stood Illyra, an Essosi herbalist who had married into the wildling community.
Harry descended the tower steps swiftly, boots echoing in the stone stairwell. He met the crowd at the gates just as the newcomers were ushered in.
Their leader, a burly, scar-faced man with a matted beard, stepped forward. He was wary, prideful, and clearly used to being in charge.
"You the lord here?" the man asked gruffly.
Harry nodded. "I'm Harry Griffindor. This is Narnia. You are welcome here—but you must follow our rules."
"Rules?" The man spat into the snow. "We don't follow rules made by strangers."
The tension rippled like lightning through the gathered Narnians.
Illyra stepped forward calmly. "Then you'll leave. We have food, shelter, schools. But everything here is earned through cooperation, not intimidation."
The man looked at her, sneering, until he noticed the calm faces of the wildlings behind her—men who once might have looked like him. Men like Jonmar.
Jonmar stepped forward. "I used to be like you. I thought rules were weakness. But I was wrong. Without them, we were little more than wolves fighting over scraps."
"You're still wildlings," the man scoffed.
"No," Jonmar said firmly. "We're Narnians now."
That word—Narnians—carried weight. The newcomers muttered among themselves, confused. Some looked around at the village—its stone houses, the smell of fresh bread wafting from bakeries, children laughing in the snow near the schoolhouse—and a flicker of longing crossed their faces.
Harry motioned gently. "Let me show you what we've built."
Harry led the newcomers through the village. They passed the massive hall used as a school where dozens of children—wildling and Essosi alike—read aloud from charcoal-written boards. They walked by the central kitchen, where steaming cauldrons of stew fed anyone who came. They passed the Owlery tower where owls perched peacefully, awaiting letters.
And all the while, the wildlings who had once resisted structure now held their heads high, guiding, teaching, and organizing. The newcomers saw with their own eyes what civilization looked like—because it had been built by people just like them.
Lyanna joined them halfway through, cradling baby Sirius.
One of the women from the new clan approached her shyly. "Is it true… people like us live in stone houses here? That you teach your children to read?"
Lyanna smiled gently. "Yes. And soon, your children can too. If you're willing to learn."
That evening, a fire was lit in the central square. Food was served freely to the newcomers, and many wildlings—now Narnians—sat beside them, eating together, exchanging stories.
Harry stood near the fire with Jonmar, watching.
Jonmar said softly, "I never thought I'd live to see this day."
Harry glanced sideways. "What day?"
"The day I looked at someone like me, and didn't see myself anymore."
Harry smiled faintly. "They'll learn. Just like you did."
"It's strange," Jonmar murmured. "They remind me of who we were. And I almost don't recognize it anymore."
Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. "That's the point of progress."
The next day, without fuss or announcement, Harry began the real work.
He didn't assign the entire clan to one corner of the village. He made no speech about unity or breaking down walls. Instead, he did what he always did: he acted with quiet precision. One family was sent to the northern ridge, between an Essosi baker and a wildling mother whose sons attended school. Another family settled by the southern fields, beside a stonemason and a quiet healer.
Every new family received a plot. Each was neighbored by those who had already embraced the Narnian way. Some had already raised their tent. Others who didn't have their own tent received sturdy tents, warm blankets, and tools. And though no one questioned the pattern, none could deny the result.
Brugh, a hardened warrior with a voice like gravel and a temper to match, found himself waking to the sound of children's laughter rather than warhorns. His son, Korr, played each morning with a mix of children: an Essosi boy named Darel, a wildling girl named Mira, and a lad named Hobb, who Brugh don't know which group he belonged.
At first, Brugh watched from a distance, his brows furrowed.
"He's forgetting where he comes from," he muttered one night, his voice low over the fire.
His wife, Elda, stirred the pot hanging above the flames, the scent of stewed rabbit wafting between them. "Or maybe," she replied, gently, "he's learning where he belongs."
Brugh grunted, saying nothing more. But the next morning, he helped his neighbor, a carpenter, lift a roof beam into place. And when the carpenter offered him a cup of spiced cider, Brugh accepted.
Elsewhere in the village, other newcomers began to shift. Irna, once fierce and proud, was seen learning to knit beside a group of Narnian mothers. Her eldest son enrolled in school. Her youngest, who had never seen a bathtub, now splashed daily in the warm waters of the bathhouse.
No one told them to change.
They simply did.
Weeks passed. The Frostfangs no longer referred to themselves by clan name. When asked who they were, they answered, "We are also Narnians."
And Harry Gryffindor, ever watchful, said nothing.
He didn't gather the village to celebrate. He didn't stand before a crowd and declare success. But on one quiet evening, he returned to his castle, lit a candle, and penned a single line in the great logbook of Narnia:
Five hundred joined. Five hundred now belong.
Outside, the wind howled again, but the fires in the village burned steady. Children slept with full bellies. Elders rested with hope in their hearts. And in the heart of the North, a people once divided had become one.
They were Narnians.
But civilization was never adopted overnight.
It began with whispers of meat going missing. A few salted slabs, nothing grand—but enough to rouse suspicion. Then a goat vanished. Then a pile of pelts drying in the sun. The watchers at the storehouses confirmed what Harry had already guessed.
A group of young men from the new clan had been stealing.
They were caught trying to sell the pelts back to an old furrier—an Essosi woman named Delira—who immediately raised the alarm.
They stood in the great circle at the heart of the village, five of them, shoulders squared and eyes defiant. The villagers gathered in silence, the snow crunching under their boots. From his place atop the steps of the Stonehall, Harry Gryffindor addressed them—not in fury, but in measured, cool authority.
"You were given a home," Harry said, voice echoing across the quiet square. "Given food and safety. And instead of repaying that kindness, you took from your neighbors."
One of the boys spat in the snow. "We take what we need. That's how it's always been."
Harry's emerald eyes narrowed. "Then take your needs somewhere else."
He raised his hand, and a gust of wind swirled around them. Runes carved into the snow began to glow faintly, unseen before that moment. Magic hummed through the ground beneath their feet.
"You are cast out," Harry said simply.
There was no dramatic explosion, no bolt of lightning—only a shift, a pressure in the air. The five young men stumbled back as if pushed by invisible hands. The village gates creaked open, and they were driven past them by nothing but force of will. Behind them, a shimmering red barrier shimmered in the air like glass.
One of them turned to run back, but the barrier repelled him like a stone thrown against steel. He fell into the snow, groaning.
"You cannot return," Harry said from the gates. "Not unless the village calls for you. And they won't."
The crowd dispersed in murmurs. Justice had been swift and clean.
But the next transgression stirred deeper emotions.
One evening, screams rang from the western edge of the village—where the tents were still being replaced by stone homes. Two young women from an Essosi family were dragged from their tent by newcomers, their faces pale with terror. They had been chosen, the wildling men claimed. In their old ways, to steal a wife was a sign of strength. Resistance meant nothing.
Not in Narnia.
By morning, the entire village stood behind the girls. The offenders were chained—not bound in iron, but in enchanted rope that seared when pulled against. They were brought before Harry, Lyanna standing at his side, her eyes cold and proud.
"This is not a land of wolves anymore," she said. "No woman shall be stolen here. No voice silenced."
Harry stepped forward. "You say this is your tradition. Then I say your tradition ends here. Narnia is not the land you crawled from. Here, every person is free."
Some of the new clan's elders stepped forward in protest. "You cannot expect us to change who we are."
"No," Harry said, "I don't expect it. I demand it. Or you may leave."
And leave they did—some willingly, some bound by the same spell that had cast out the thieves. But most remained. The allure of warm hearths, steady meals, and safety from raiders and beasts was too strong.
When the gates shut behind the outcasts, the spell sealed again. Those inside exhaled in quiet relief.
And from that day forward, even the roughest of the newcomers began to bend.
They learned. They asked questions. They helped rebuild the damaged tents. And those who once snarled and took now shared and greeted with nods and quiet respect.
The people of Narnia were not born civilized. They had been shaped by example, bound by purpose. They were a new people now—not wildlings, not Essosi, not anything from their past.
And they had chosen to stay.
From the highest window of watch tower, Harry stood gazing at the bustling sprawl that stretched beneath him like a wild garden grown from scattered seeds. Smoke billowed from mismatched chimneys. Children played between narrow stone paths carved by years of foot traffic, and carts rumbled along with fish, timber, and salted meats. The heart of Narnia pulsed with life—but it was not the heart Harry had envisioned.
What had begun as a modest refuge, a quiet stronghold for himself and Lyanna had bloomed far beyond his intentions. Families had multiplied. More wildlings settlers arrived by the moon, each bringing tents, stories, and expectations. What was once a sanctuary had become a city of sorts—crude, unplanned, and pressed too tightly against the mountain where Winter slept.
And Winter—his great, white-scaled companion—was becoming restless.
The dragon had taken to flying only at night, cloaked in the invisibility charm that Harry had mastered from the Black family tomes. But even magic had its limits. Wildlings had grown curious. A group of children had wandered too close to the dragon's cave the previous week. If not for Winter's careful silence, they would've seen far more than they could understand.
Harry's emerald eyes narrowed as he leaned on the stone sill.
"It's time," he whispered.
That evening, he summoned the council.
They gathered in the long hall, now filled with carved chairs and stone benches. Lyanna sat beside him, calm and poised, with Sirius asleep against her shoulder. Around the table were faces both old and new—Magister Daron of the Essosi settlers, Ragnor the former wildling chieftain, Lady Delira the furrier, Mern the blacksmith, and a dozen others who had earned the people's trust.
The fire crackled at the center pit, casting shadows against the walls. Silence fell as Harry rose to speak.
"I called you all tonight," he began, voice measured, "because this land has changed."
He gestured to the wall behind him, where a large map of the region had been sketched in magical ink. The Shivering Sea glistened in silver strokes along the eastern edge, while the current Narnian settlement was marked by a golden circle nestled between crags and forests.
"When I built the first home here, I had no vision of what would follow. But now, we are five thousand strong—and still growing. This place has served us well, but it was never meant to carry the weight of a kingdom."
Murmurs swept the table.
Lady Delira tilted her head. "You speak of moving?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. To the coast. To build a new Narnia—one worthy of the future we are building."
Mern scratched his beard. "The coast is quite away. The stone from the cliffs, the lumber from the forests—it will all need to be moved again."
Ragnor scowled. "And what of our homes? Some carved their own stone. My people bled to raise their halls."
Harry raised a hand. "I ask not to erase your work. I ask to evolve it. This land is overcrowded. There's no room for proper roads, for ports, fecilities on the scale we require. We cannot trade from here."
Lyanna finally spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "Harry speaks not from whim but from wisdom. Already, our children speak of crowding. The new families live in tents on icy slopes. Some walk two hours to fetch fresh water. Is that the legacy we want?"
Magister Daron leaned forward. "And the shore… It would give us access to shipping lanes. Trade routes. Salt. Fish. We could build a harbor. Perhaps even a lighthouse."
"And ships," added Mern. "Proper docks. With lumber from the western forests and stone from the quarry."
Harry nodded. "This is not just a relocation—it is a rebirth. We will keep this place for the newcomers, as a stronghold. But the capital of Narnia must be by the sea."
Ragnor looked down at the fire, the flames flickering in his eyes. Then he muttered, "And what of those who refuse to move?"
Harry didn't flinch. "No one will be forced. But those who remain will not receive all the benifits and protection. The enchantments, the wards, the roads—will all center around the coast. Narnia will be built where progress is possible."
Silence fell again.
Then Lady Delira stood. "I will go."
And one by one, the others began to rise, speaking their assent. Some were hesitant, others hopeful. But the decision had been made.
Harry looked out the long hall's narrow window. Snow fell lightly, dusting the rooftops. Change was coming with the tide, and he would meet it with open arms.
Beside him, Lyanna whispered, "You always knew this day would come."
"I did," Harry said. "But I hoped it wouldn't come so soon."
She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. "It means you built something worth outgrowing."