The Bay of Seals was restless that day, its steel-grey waves surging and breaking with the force of an ancient beast. Overhead, clouds hung heavy, their bellies swollen with snow. The wind howled down from the Shivering Sea, carrying with it the sharp bite of winter and the promise of a storm.
Yet the five Narnian ships cut through the turmoil as though the sea itself bent to their will.
Each vessel bore Harry Gryffindor's enchantments — sails that could not freeze, hulls that no storm could splinter, and keels that sliced through the water faster than any ship had a right to. Foam burst against the bows and swept back in glittering sprays, but the Narnians aboard stood steady, wrapped in thick furs, their breath misting in the cold air.
On the eastern coast of Skagos, the cliffs loomed like watchmen — jagged grey walls that plunged into the roaring surf. Their bases were littered with rockpools, teeming with rooks, crabs, and mussels, while beyond them, the treacherous currents swirled and spun.
The Sea-Tooth was the first to turn toward the shore, her prow swinging to face a stretch of shingle beach sheltered between two jutting arms of rock. Behind her, the other four ships followed suit, dropping anchor in the churning waters.
"Lower the boats!"
The order rang out over the crash of the waves, and soon the crews were heaving long, narrow rowboats into the frothing sea. Oars bit into the water, cutting paths toward the shore.
Four hundred men in all — warriors, craftsmen, and sailors — landed in groups, boots crunching on the icy stones. The wind tore at their cloaks, but their armor gleamed dark and polished, their iron swords and axes at their sides.
They had not come to conquer Skagos. That much Harry had made clear before they set out.
"This is a foothold," he had told them back in Telmar's great hall. "A place to work from. Build your port, take the sea's bounty, and if the Skagosi wish to deal in peace, so be it. If not—" He had let the silence speak for him. "Defend yourselves. Nothing more. That time will come."
For many of these men, it had been too long since they'd felt the thrill of battle. The Narnians were no longer the untamed wildlings they once were — years of training under Essosi captains had forged them into disciplined fighters. They wore chainmail over padded tunics, bore shields painted with the silver dragon of Narnia, and carried themselves with the measured confidence of men who knew their worth.
On the beach, Commander Ragnar stood with his lieutenants, scanning the coastline.
"Good ground here," he muttered. "High cliffs to shield us from the wind, deep waters close enough for a pier… we can work with this."
Beside him, old Toren — once a hunter beyond the Wall, now a seasoned harbor builder — squatted to examine the stones. "Solid. Good footing for the posts. We can raise the first dock in a week."
A younger man, Halrik, was less interested in harbors. His eyes were fixed on the distant treeline. "Think they're watching us?"
Ragnar followed his gaze to the pine-covered slopes beyond the beach. "Aye. They'll be there. Skagosi don't take kindly to strangers."
"Will they attack?" Halrik asked, almost hopefully.
"Maybe," Ragnar said. "If they do, remember your training. Formation. Shields up. And no man runs unless I say so."
The work began immediately. Groups split off — some to clear a space above the tide line for a storage yard, others to begin cutting and shaping timbers from the driftwood and pine that littered the shore.
By midday, fires burned in great stone circles, sending up thick plumes of smoke. The smell of roasting crab and lobster drifted across the camp. A handful of men had waded into the shallows with nets and come back with baskets brimming with the island's bounty.
But not all were content to fish.
A scouting party of ten men, armed and alert, headed inland. Their orders were clear: look for signs of ore, especially iron, silver, and gold. It was said that Skagos' people had no use for such things, relying instead on bone, stone, and the horns of beasts for their tools and weapons. But to a growing civilization like Narnia, those metals were a foundation for power.
As evening approached, the air grew sharper, the wind slicing through even the thickest furs. The Narnians huddled around the fires, speaking in low voices.
"I've heard they eat their enemies," said Rell, gnawing on a lobster claw.
"That's an old tale," said Maevor, the armorer. "They eat goats. Plenty of 'em here. Big ones too."
"Goats or not," Halrik said, eyes gleaming in the firelight, "if they come for us, we'll give them a fight worth remembering."
Ragnar shook his head. "Don't wish for trouble, lad. But if it finds us…" He tapped the rim of his shield. "We'll be ready."
High above, on the cliffs, shadows moved.
Skagosi hunters watched the strangers on their shore, their pale eyes narrowing against the wind. They saw the armor, the ships, the iron weapons — things their own people did not use.
They spoke in harsh whispers, their words lost to the sea.
And then they slipped back into the trees, vanishing into the deepening night.
By dawn, the first posts for the dock would be in the water. The foothold was secure. But everyone on that beach knew the real test had not yet come.
Somewhere in the hills of Skagos, the island's true sons were deciding how to greet these newcomers.
With trade.
Or with blood.
The markets of Braavos had always been a place of wonder — a maze of narrow streets lined with stalls, their awnings flapping in the sea breeze, the air thick with the scents of spiced wine, fried fish, and exotic perfumes from far-off lands. Merchants shouted in a dozen tongues, their calls mixing with the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones and the creak of mooring ropes at the docks.
But in recent months, the talk had shifted.
"Have you seen them? The Narnians?" whispered a fishmonger to his neighbor as they gutted eels side by side.
"Aye," came the reply. "Tall folk. Some pale as snow, others darker, all dressed in fine clothes. They speak the tongue of Westeros and Valyrian both — and they carry themselves like warriors."
The first time they had arrived, they brought with them whale oil, coarse leather, iron ingots, and salted fish packed tightly in barrels. The oil burned cleaner than any other, the leather was supple yet strong, and the fish — taken from the frigid northern waters — had a taste unlike anything found in the temperate seas.
Now, their offerings had grown.
In great carved crates lined with ice, they delivered fresh whale meat and thick cuts of walrus, still red and glistening. Lobsters the size of a man's forearm, crabs with claws like shears, and fish that still glimmered with the silver sheen of the sea. Their salted fish had become a staple in taverns from the Ragman's Harbor to the Moon Pool, and the weapons they carried — forged from their iron — were so perfectly balanced that Braavosi swordsmiths examined them in awe.
Lorath welcomed them eagerly, Pentos with polite caution. But never Westeros.
No one knew where they came from. Their ships would appear suddenly on the horizon, riding low in the water from the weight of their cargo, their sails marked only with the silver dragon of Narnia. They would anchor, trade, and vanish again into the mist.
More than one captain had tried to follow them, hoping to chart their course and uncover their home. They never succeeded. The Narnian ships were faster than any vessel afloat — magic, some whispered — and would vanish over the horizon as if the sea itself had swallowed them whole.
The pirates fared worse.
A fleet from the Stepstones, bold enough to ambush the Narnians in open water, returned neither ship nor man. Word spread of the battle — how the Narnian vessels had turned upon their attackers, their hulls cutting through the waves with impossible speed, and how fire rained down from their decks until the pirate ships were nothing but smoldering wreckage on the tide.
Since then, few dared test them.
In Braavos, their coins became a quiet obsession among moneylenders and collectors.
Gold Sunmarks — heavy, warm to the touch, and stamped with the profile of a dragon on one side and a the weirwood tree on the other. Silver Moondrops — perfectly smooth, marked with a griffin on one side and a ship under full sail on the other side.
Both were prized for their flawless weight and artistry, so much so that some Braavosi merchants preferred them over their own coinage. It was said you could always spot a Narnian coin — they gleamed even in shadow, as if holding a light of their own.
In the taverns along the docks, sailors swapped tales over cups of hot rum.
"They say they come from an island past Ib," one insisted, slamming his cup on the table. "Cold enough to freeze your beard to your face. But rich — richer than any land you've seen."
"Bah," scoffed another. "An island that far north would be nothing but ice. No, they've a hidden city somewhere in the Shivering Sea."
A third leaned in close, his voice dropping. "I heard a rumer that they have a dragon. Big as a galleon, white as winter. That's why no pirate dares touch them."
The others laughed, but not too loudly. In Braavos, strange stories had a way of proving true.
For now, the Narnians remained a mystery. A people of fine goods and finer secrets. And as their ships slipped away once more into the fog beyond the Titan's shadow, the harbor folk watched them go with the same mix of envy, curiosity, and unease that had followed them since the day they first arrived.
The wind beyond the Wall was sharp enough to bite the skin from a man's face, but Harry had grown used to it over the years. Wrapped in his thick white-furred cloak, he stood on the crest of a snow-covered ridge, gazing out across the frozen valley below. From this height, the world seemed still, save for the slow, deliberate movement of massive figures on the horizon.
Giants.
It had taken him three years to reach this day. Three years of careful gifts — sacks of barley, crates of root vegetables, and barrels of dried beans. Three years of hauling great iron cauldrons to their camps so they could boil rice and stew vegetables in quantities fit for their size.
He had been patient. Giants, unlike men, were slow to change their ways. The last giant he had seen before coming beyond the Wall was Grawp — Hagrid's half-brother, more childlike than wise. But these giants were nothing like him. They were intelligent, cautious, and, to Harry's surprise, entirely vegetarian.
And now, at last, their chieftain had agreed. They would move to Narnia.
The sound reached him before the sight fully formed: the deep, rhythmic thump of colossal feet pressing into the snow, the creak and groan of mammoth tusks shifting under the weight of their shaggy owners.
Harry descended the ridge, his boots crunching on the packed ice. The valley opened before him, and there they were — forty-three giants, their thick furs the color of snowmelt stone, and thirty-one mammoths with coats so dense they seemed sculpted from winter itself. Each mammoth's breath hung in the air like a drifting cloud.
Beside Harry trotted a smaller figure, his cheeks pink with excitement.
"Are they really coming to live with us now?" asked little Sirius, his voice muffled by his scarf.
"Aye," Harry replied with a faint smile. "And the mammoths too."
Sirius's eyes widened. "Do you think they'll let me ride one?"
Harry chuckled. "Perhaps, if you ask nicely. But remember — they're not horses. They'll only carry those they trust."
The approach to the old Narnian settlement was unlike anything the people had ever seen. Word had spread quickly, and families abandoned their morning work to gather along the snow-lined road, their breath steaming as they craned their necks for a glimpse. Children clutched at their mothers' skirts, and even the most seasoned wildling elders whispered in awe.
From between the crude stone houses, a murmur swelled into gasps as the first mammoths appeared. Their great tusks curved like pale moons, their eyes deep and calm. The giants walked among them, taller than any wall in the settlement, each step shaking the earth beneath their boots.
Sirius dashed forward, heedless of the cold, waving at them with both arms.
One of the giants — a broad-shouldered elder with braided hair the color of frost — caught sight of the boy and rumbled a greeting in his deep, slow voice. Harry had brought Sirius to visit the giants twice before, and the memory had not been forgotten. The giant lowered a hand the size of a cartwheel, palm up in friendly acknowledgment.
"They like him," Harry murmured to Lyanna, who had joined him at the front of the crowd. "I think they always have."
The chieftain stepped forward — a towering figure draped in a cloak made from the hides of long-dead mammoths, his eyes as pale as winter skies. Harry met him halfway, their gazes level despite the difference in height.
"Your cave is ready," Harry said, his voice carrying over the hush of the crowd. "Near Winter's lair, as promised. Large enough for all your people and your herds. Warm, sheltered, and defended."
The chieftain inclined his head, his heavy braids swaying. "We will live as friends, Gryffindor. You kept your word."
"And I will keep it still," Harry replied. "You'll have weapons and armor, sized for your kind. Should any enemy come north, they will think twice before crossing giants and mammoths."
A ripple of approval moved through the gathered Narnians. Protection was a rare promise beyond the Wall, and the sight of such allies filled them with quiet pride.
The march resumed, the giants and mammoths following Harry toward their new home. Behind them, the snow was churned into deep furrows by the weight of their passage.
As they passed, Sirius ran ahead, keeping pace with the mammoths until a calf lowered its head to sniff him curiously. The boy's laughter rang out like bells in the cold, and the giant leading the calf let out a deep chuckle of his own.
For the people of Narnia, it was a day to remember — the day the legends of the north walked into their lives, not as mysteries, but as kin.