The night on Skagos was as dark as an enclosed cave, with the wind howling between sharp rocks and hills. The Narnians rested in their tightly-knit tents, their campfires reduced to glowing embers. The only sounds were the restless waves crashing on the shore and the quiet snores of weary men.
Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the silence.
It emanated from the camp's western edge—a primal cry followed by the sound of breaking wood and a tent collapsing. Ragnar was already half-awake, instincts sharpened by years of fighting. He rushed out of his tent barefoot, the cold stones stinging his feet. In his right hand, he gripped his hefty axe, its blade glinting faintly in the firelight, having no time to don his armor.
From the darkness, figures appeared—nearly two hundred Skagosi warriors, rushing forward in a wave of rough fur cloaks and face paint. They bore stone maces, chipped axes, and heavy, nail-studded planks. Their assault was sudden, brutal, aimed at overwhelming the Narnians before they could organize.
"TO ME!" Ragnar shouted above the chaos like the sound of a war horn. "REGROUP! FORM UP!"
Men stumbled out of their tents, some still wrapped in blankets, others snatching shields and spears. Though the Narnians were accustomed to the cold and to battle, the unexpected attack caused hesitation.
A Skagosi warrior charged at Ragnar with a stone axe. He dodged, the blade grazing a wooden tent pole, and struck back with a two-handed swing of his axe. The Skagosi's head jerked back, and he fell silently.
By that point, the Narnian warhorn sounded. Archers raced up to the rocky elevation in the camp's center, firing arrows into the darkness. The dull thuds of arrows hitting flesh and the groans of the injured filled the air.
"They attacked us in the night," Ragnar growled to a nearby captain, "so we will drive them out of the dark. Light it up!"
Two Narnians dashed to the supply stacks, igniting torches on the embers. Flames quickly consumed the tarred wood, reaching eagerly upward. Soon, flickering light split the night, casting sprawling, monstrous shadows over the fighters.
The Skagosi hesitated, caught off guard. The element of surprise faded; they now confronted four hundred well-trained, armed Narnians ready for retribution.
"Forward!" Ragnar commanded, and the Narnians advanced. Shields locked together to form a wall, spears thrusting out like a great beast's teeth. The clang of combat rang out—iron meeting wood, steel striking stone, amidst the struggle of bodies against one another.
The clash was brief. Though the Skagosi fought fiercely, their poor equipment could not compete with Narnian steel. Ragnar carved a path through their ranks, his axe cleaving through shields, limbs, and morale alike. Soon, the remaining Skagosi began to break, retreating into the shadows among the rocks.
Once the last Skagosi had disappeared into the cold night, the Narnians stood among the remnants of their camp, breathing heavily.
"Count the dead," Ragnar said grimly.
By dawn, the tally was completed. Forty-three Narnians lay lifeless, their faces pale in the soft light of morning. One hundred and twelve Skagosi bodies were gathered from the rocky terrain, with others having fled into the night.
The mass cremation began at midday. A large pyre was constructed, fueled by pitch and oil from the whales they had brought. Ragnar stood at the front, his axe resting before him, as the bodies of his fallen comrades were brought forward.
"Harry says," Ragnar began, his voice steady despite his raw emotions, "that those who die fighting do not simply fade away. They journey to a hall far beyond our construction, where the brave feast eternally. He calls it Valhalla."
The Narnians whispered the name. Most were unfamiliar with its meaning, but they respected Harry's belief—and that was sufficient.
As the flames roared and smoke spiraled high into the grey Skagos sky, the warriors raised their voices in a deep, fierce song—a vow to remember the deceased and to repay blood with blood.
Harry had long recognized something that many leaders overlooked: while armies could be constructed through conflict and strength, true civilizations were built within the minds of their people. The Narnians displayed courage, diligence, and unwavering loyalty, but they were also profoundly superstitious. The majority worshipped the Old Gods of the forest, while the rest consisted of Essosi settlers from far-off lands, each with their own deities—R'hllor, the Many-Faced God, the Mother Rhoyne, and many more.
Over time, these newcomers began to subconsciously adopt the beliefs of the Old Gods without any formal orders or coercion. Perhaps it was the striking heart trees with their blood-red leaves or the rustling branches that seemed to communicate, giving them the feeling of being watched by the forest.
To Harry, however, the Old Gods were more like passive observers than active instructors. Their few laws—guest rights, the sacredness of home, and a handful of ancient traditions passed from parents to children—were honorable, but they lacked a comprehensive structure to guide a developing society toward strength, unity, and resilience.
Thus, Harry resolved to provide that framework.
He began with education. Children were taught to read and perform arithmetic, to craft metalwork and hunt whales. Interwoven in these practical lessons were the stories Harry shared from another realm. He recounted tales of Odin All-Father, who sacrificed his eye for knowledge; of Thor, who battled giants with his hammer; and of Loki, the clever trickster whose antics were both dangerous and cunning.
These stories were not delivered as sermons, but as engaging fireside tales filled with epic battles, joyous mead halls, and valiant warriors rewarded in the afterlife. He described Valhalla—not as a place of worship, but as a grand hall where the brave would feast for eternity.
Importantly, he eliminated the darker aspects of these traditions. There were no sacrifices or grim ceremonies to uphold. Harry intertwined the sagas with the reverence of the Old Gods so that the Narnians felt a continuity with their ancestry rather than a rejection of it. They perceived these tales as rediscovering long-lost passages of their own faith.
And they embraced it wholeheartedly.
In taverns, fishermen enthusiastically recounted Thor's battle with the World Serpent over drinks. Children pretended to be Loki, playfully tricking one another. Blacksmiths engraved runes symbolizing Odin's wisdom into their spear shafts. And as warriors lifted their shields, they spoke of Valhalla—not out of fear of death, but because Harry had instilled in them the notion that dying honorably was a form of triumph.
Gradually, story by story, the Narnians evolved into more than mere followers of the Old Gods. They transformed into a people of those Old Gods, reimagined through the lens of Asgard.
Lyanna emerged from the newly constructed Temple of Frigga, the crisp air bringing a hint of salt from the far-off shore. The morning sunlight reflected off the white marble facade, giving it a brilliance akin to freshly fallen snow beneath a clear sky. Behind her, the echo of women's voices filled the air—quiet prayers and gentle blessings offered within the sacred walls.
Frigga, as recounted by Harry in numerous tales, represented fertility, prosperity, and health. The temple quickly became cherished by the women of Narnia, with expectant mothers visiting to pray for safe deliveries and wives seeking blessings for strong, healthy children. Newborns were brought here shortly after birth, wrapped in warm blankets, so the goddess could watch over them throughout their lives.
Inside, the artistry was stunning. Dominating the main hall was a fifteen-foot marble statue of Frigga, poised and dignified, her robes appearing to flow as though in a breeze. She held a sheaf of golden grain in one hand and a small child in the other. At her feet lay offerings of flowers, carved tokens, and bread, resting on a smooth stone altar.
As Lyanna made her way down the temple steps, the women in the courtyard greeted her with smiles and kind words. She replied graciously, her long cloak brushing against the frost-kissed stones.
Beside her, Sirius fidgeted from foot to foot, struggling to contain his enthusiasm.
"Can we leave now?" he asked for what seemed like the third time, his dark eyes sparkling with eagerness.
Lyanna suppressed a small smile. "If you keep stamping around like that, you'll make a hole in the ground."
"I've been waiting all morning," Sirius groaned, glancing toward the other end of the square where another magnificent hall stood—equally impressive but far more austere in its architecture. "I want to see Odin's Hall before it gets too crowded."
This building faced Frigga's temple, constructed from dark granite and timber beams charred with tar. Its towering, intricately-carved doors could accommodate even a giant, and the heavy iron hinges gleamed in the sun. Above, the fierce wolf-head emblem of Odin was meticulously carved, looking down upon visitors.
Odin, the god of war, wisdom, and Valhalla—the protector of warriors, as Harry had always explained. Men came here before embarking on journeys or going into battle to ask for the All-Father's blessing. Parents brought their children to request strength and martial skill for the future.
As Lyanna and Sirius crossed the square, the sound of hammering resonated from the nearby shrine dedicated to Thor, while the sweet scent of incense wafted from smaller shrines to Loki, Heimdall, and Hela. Each shrine was carefully maintained, with statues standing like silent guardians in the open-air courtyard connecting the various holy sites.
"Do you think Odin will grant me battle powers today?" Sirius inquired as they approached the doors.
Lyanna glanced at him, amused. "If he does, I expect you'll use them for climbing trees and chasing goats."
He flashed a cheeky grin. "And maybe fighting pirates."
They entered Odin's Hall, where the air was cool and still, lit only by the shafts of sunlight streaming through high, narrow windows. Before them loomed Odin's statue—fifteen feet tall like Frigga's, carved from black stone veined with silver. His one remaining eye appeared to watch them, wise and resolute, while he rested a spear in his right hand.
Sirius tilted his head back, filled with awe. "Father said Odin only grants power to those who fight honorably."
Lyanna's voice softened as she gazed up at the stone figure. "Then always ensure you do."
Harry's interest in the ancient Norse deities didn't emerge randomly. Years prior, while exploring the books he got Black family vault, he discovered a worn leather journal that belonged to his godfather, Sirius Black. The pages were filled with stories from Sirius's time at Hogwarts, including tales of pranks, duels, and notably, rituals.
The Marauders had created a secret shrine to Loki hidden within the castle's concealed passages. Sirius wrote about leaving small offerings—coins, carved figures, and bottles of firewhisky—while seeking Loki's favor for cunning and luck before embarking on risky adventures. Regardless of whether the god actually responded, the Marauders believed they were successful.
Amused and intrigued, Harry carried this concept with him to Narnia.
Years later, six grand temples were erected in the kingdom, dedicated to Odin, Frigga, Thor, Loki, and Hela. Each temple was designed in the traditional style of the old sagas, featuring expansive roofs, intricately carved columns, and impressive statues.
Yet, it was Loki's temple that always had the most visitors.
The god of magic, mischief, and transformation captivated the Narnians in ways Harry had not anticipated. In places like Skagos and beyond the Wall, skinchangers—those rare individuals who could merge their minds with animals—were often distrusted and regarded as spies or harbingers of bad luck.
Now, they were viewed as blessed in Narnia.
"Loki grants his chosen the gift of many eyes and many ears," Harry would explain during the festival feasts. "A mind that can run with the wolf or soar with the eagle is one worth nurturing."
Harry's selection process was intentional. Individuals who displayed the gift were brought to Gryffindor Castle to learn not just to master their animal forms, but also to read, write, and fight. It was a significant honor—space within the castle was highly sought after, and the community recognized its value.
Harry preferred recruiting the youth, cultivating their loyalty along with their abilities. In his experience, adults were often harder to work with, burdened by years of distrust and restlessness. Conversely, children could be guided—imbued with purpose, pride, and a sense of home.
The morning after the final harvest feast, he stood in Loki's shrine observing three new initiates—a boy, a girl, and a timid lad of just eight—kneeling before the black-stone statue. A silver fox pelt lay at the base, a gift from one of the elder skinchangers.
"You'll be staying in the western tower," Harry informed them. "Your training starts tomorrow. You'll learn to protect your mind as fiercely as your body. Master this, and one day, you'll safeguard all of Narnia."
The boy gazed up at him, wide-eyed. "Will the Gods watch over us?"
Harry smiled gently. "Always."