The harbor of Telmar had never been so alive.
Wagons loaded with crates of dragonglass rattled across the stone piers. Black shards glinted under the winter sun as if the night itself had been broken and forged into weapons. Enchanted cranes lifted barrels of obsidian arrowheads onto shallow-draft riverboats. Runners shouted orders. Skinchangers rode past on their war-animals—wolves, bears, great elk—heading northward toward the Frostfang settlements.
And through it all, the river flowed freely.
Its surface rippled with clear, cold water despite the thick ice sheets only a mile beyond the harbor walls. Even the sea itself—frozen into a white desert stretching toward the horizon—was held back by enchantments Harry had laid years ago. The harbor glowed faintly with runes beneath the waterline, melting the ice as fast as it formed.
The ships remained warm, their hulls unfrozen. The air tasted crisp, but not deadly cold. Even in the midst of a looming war, Narnia remained a sanctuary.
At the far end of the harbor, a massive Narnian vessel prepared to depart—its prow tipped with an enchanted iron ram, sharp enough to break through solid ice.
This was the ship bound for Volantis.
And aboard it, the Queen of Westros —Elia Martell—would return home.
Elia Martell stood on the pier, wrapped in thick white fur, looking healthier than Oberyn ever remembered her. Her cheeks had color again. Her breath came easily. Her posture no longer sagged from weakness.
This was a woman restored, reborn by Narnian magic.
And yet her hands trembled when she wrapped her arms around her brother.
"Oberyn," she whispered against his shoulder, "I don't like leaving you here."
He chuckled softly. "Narnia may be cold, little sister…" He glanced at the harbor, at the enchanted waters glowing beneath the sunlight. "But it burns with more life than the Seven Kingdoms combined."
Elia pulled away, cupping his face. "Then why stay? Come home with us."
Oberyn shook his head.
"If this land falls while I fled on a ship, how could I face myself? You owe them your life, Elia. And I owe them my honor."
Daenerys stood a few steps away, clinging to Elia's cloak with wide violet eyes. When Queen Lyanna approached, Daenerys shifted closer to Elia like a nervous kitten.
Lyanna ignored the princess's fear and addressed Elia.
"Your ship will take a detour to Sunspear," she explained. "Our captain has already agreed. You will reach your homeland in twelve days."
Elia nodded, grateful.
"And Sirius?" she asked gently. "Truly, Lyanna… are you certain he should remain?"
Lyanna's expression softened, but her voice was steady.
"He must stay."
"But why?"
"Because when Harry wakes, Sirius must be here. And because Sirius is safest in Narnia, not at sea, not in Sunspear. And…"—her heart clenched—"because I ride to war. I will not leave my son behind without his father."
A hush fell over the pier.
Daenerys tugged on Lyanna's sleeve. "You are going to war?" she asked quietly. "Real war? With swords and monsters?"
Lyanna knelt so she was level with the girl.
"Yes," she said softly. "With monsters. The kind even dragons feared."
Daenerys gasped.
Before boarding, Lewyn Martell placed a hand on his niece's back.
"Have you taken the vow, child?"
Elia nodded. "I swore it last night."
Daenerys lifted her tiny hand with pride. "I did too! It was like a story spell! My mouth felt all warm and glowing."
Lyanna smiled faintly. "You are bound by magic not to reveal anything you have seen here. Not the magic. Not the temples. Not the harbor. Nothing."
Elia held Lyanna's hand tightly.
"You have my word… and my silence."
"And you have our protection," Lyanna answered.
Oberyn said nothing, only watched the exchange. In his eyes burned a deep, private vow of his own.
A horn sounded from the ship.
"Time to board," the captain shouted. "Ice is moving. We leave now!"
Elia pulled Daenerys close and gave one last embrace to Oberyn.
"Come back to me," she whispered. "All of you."
"I will," Oberyn promised, voice steady. "And tell our brother… tell him that I will bring glory to Dorne."
Elia nodded, tears in her eyes.
Then she turned and climbed the gangplank, Daenerys and Lewyn Martell at her side. The ship's deck glittered with golden sigils carved into the wood, and the warm cabin lights beckoned them inside.
As the ropes were loosened and the sails caught the wind, Elia leaned over the railing and called:
"Lyanna! Protect them! Protect him!"
Lyanna raised her hand.
"With my life."
The ship eased away from the pier, its iron ram glowing faintly as it pierced the thinning sea ice. The waters parted smoothly, as if bowing before the enchantment.
Oberyn watched until the vessel became a speck on the horizon.
King Harry did not wake.
He lay in his chamber as still as carved stone—breathing evenly, but unmoving, his face pale with magical exhaustion. Even unconscious, he radiated something powerful and ancient, like a sleeping dragon beneath a mountain. But for now, he rested.
Narnia could not.
The Cold Ones marched.
And so Queen Lyanna rode to war.
Sirius stood at the gates of Gryffindor Castle, hands balled at his sides, fighting his emotions with all the pride a nearly-six-year-old prince could muster.
Lyanna knelt before him, brushing his cheek with her gloved fingers.
"I will return," she whispered.
"You better," Sirius tried to growl like Harry. It came out as a wobble. "Or I'll… I'll come find you myself."
Lyanna's laugh was soft and warm, even in the biting cold.
"You're just like your father. Threatening when you're terrified."
"I'm not terrified," he muttered.
But he clung to her waist a beat longer than he intended.
Lyanna kissed his forehead and gently pushed his hair aside. "This armor," she tapped the gleaming breastplate Harry had forged for her, "was made by the greatest sorcerer alive. Not even the ice demons can pierce it."
Sirius straightened proudly.
"And," she added, lowering her voice, "even if everything fails… Winter will protect you."
Sirius nodded immediately.
But Oberyn Martell, who stood nearby with crossed arms, frowned.
He leaned toward a Skinchanger and whispered,
"What does a season protect? Is that some Narnian proverb?"
He shrugged stiffly. "You don't want to know what Winter can do."
But he said nothing more.
Oberyn Martell watched with increasing bewilderment as Telmar's warriors assembled in the courtyard.
He had expected grim faces, solemn prayers, trembling hands.
Instead—
Laughter.
Clapping.
Jokes passed around like cups of ale.
A young dark skinned woman in leather armor slapped her spear against her palm.
"A month's wage says I distroy more wights than you do, Jorvik!"
Jorvik—a massive Narnia with braids down his back—roared,
"You? I'll have ten down before you stab the first!"
Nearby, two older men argued cheerfully about who would get the honor of dying first for Queen Lyanna.
Oberyn's jaw went slack.
"Why," he asked the nearest soldier, "are all of you… eager to go?"
The soldier blinked at him.
His nose was crooked from old breaks. His eyes sparkled.
"Because we finally get to fight."
Oberyn opened his mouth. "But these monsters—"
"We've been preparing for this for years," the man said proudly. "Dragonglass arrows. Enchanted wards. Skinchanger scouts. Our Queen leads us. What better day to be alive?"
A cheer echoed through the courtyard at Lyanna's appearance.
Oberyn stared.
In Dorne, men fought because they must.
In King's Landing, men fought because the crown commanded it.
But here…
They fought because they wanted to.
Lyanna mounted her direwolf Helga, whose huge body was built like a monster. The wolf's muscles rippled beneath its fur, and its eyes glowed a soft, eerie blue.
Her armor—silver-white with runes carved along the breastplate—shone like cold moonlight. Even Oberyn felt his breath catch.
"There she is," someone whispered reverently.
"Our Wolf Queen."
Helga growled deeply, and the army quieted instantly.
Lyanna raised her spear.
Her voice carried across the courtyard.
"People of Narnia!"
A ripple of excitement pulsed through the ranks.
"The Cold Ones strike at our homes. They strike at our children. They think we will flee."
A unified hiss of insults and curses filled the air.
"But they forget one thing," Lyanna continued. "We are Narnians."
Cheers erupted.
"We do not bow to fear. We do not kneel to death. And tonight—" she pointed north, "—we hunt the hunters."
A roar thundered through the courtyard.
Even Oberyn shivered—not from cold, but from a thrill he did not expect.
This queen…
She was evening he wanted his sister be.
As the army formed into their loose lines and began marching out of Telmar's gates, Oberyn rode his horse close to Lyanna's direwolf.
"You lead from the front?" he asked.
Lyanna nodded without looking at him. "A queen of Narnia does not hide behind her people."
"You could die."
She laughed harshly. "Death will have to find me first."
Oberyn swallowed.
There was no fear in her.
Not even a shadow of hesitation.
The massive gates opened with a grinding of ancient gears enchanted by Harry long ago. Cold wind swept inside, making banners whip like living fire.
Oberyn inhaled sharply.
The world outside Telmar was white, endless, unforgiving.
A wall of winter.
But Lyanna rode Winter through it without pause.
The army followed.
Drums began to beat.
Spears clattered.
Voices rose in chants.
"Narnia! Narnia! Narnia!"
Sirius, watching from the walls, felt pride burn in his chest like a small sun.
Sirius lifted his chin.
"You will come back. Soon."
Oberyn looked back one last time at Gryffindor Castle, where King Harry slept, unaware that his queen now led thousands into the frozen unknown.
Then he turned his horse to follow her into the white.
Snow crunched beneath the hooves of Oberyn Martell's horse as the Narnian host marched steadily northward. The world beyond Telmar was a wide expanse of white and wind—so cold the breath froze in the air, so silent it felt like the sky itself held its tongue.
Yet despite the brutal cold, Oberyn's blood burned with excitement.
Most people knew Oberyn Martell as the Red Viper—the charismatic seducer, the lethal spear-master, the man who could strike like lightning and kiss like poetry. Few remembered he had once spent years in the Citadel, forging links with as much passion as he had swung a spear.
It all returned to him now.
Every scrap of lore.
Every map.
Every whispered rumor.
For hours he walked and rode beside the Narnian council, invited again and again into strategy meetings because Lyanna Griffindor trusted him.
It was during one such meeting—around a campfire whose flames cracked like bones snapping—when Oberyn leaned forward.
Lyanna pointed at the map drawn on a hide stretched between two stakes.
"—Frostfang reports the largest losses," she was saying. "Dragonglass will be delivered there first. Frostshield will gather reinforcements from—"
"Frostfang?" Oberyn interrupted quietly.
Lyanna glanced at him. "Yes."
Oberyn's mind raced.
Frostfang. Antler River.
These were not the names of some mythical northern island lost to the sea.
These were the names beyond the Wall.
He inhaled sharply.
As sharply as a man stabbed in the lungs.
"This…" Oberyn murmured, gaze widening as understanding rushed in. "This is not an island off the Shivering Sea. This… this is the lands Beyond the Wall."
Lyanna raised an eyebrow, unsurprised.
The others around the fire didn't look shocked either.
But the skinchanger beside her—a man with a great owl perched on his shoulder—snorted with amusement.
"Finally understood, kneeler?"
Oberyn stared at him. "Then all of you—"
He didn't finish.
A warrior woman with a shaved head and scars on her cheek stepped closer, grinning wide.
"We are what you call your worst nightmare," she said proudly. "Aye. Raiders. Burners. Thieves."
Her smile sharpened, like a blade turned on its side.
"But we don't call ourselves that anymore."
Oberyn swallowed. "Then what do you call yourselves?"
She leaned down from her horse, eyes glittering.
"Narnians."
Another man beside her cracked his knuckles. "And you'd best learn it, kneeler."
Oberyn bristled at the insult, but before he could respond, the woman continued cheerfully,
"Call us wildlings, and I'll knock every last tooth out of that pretty Dornish mouth."
The Narnian warriors around her laughed.
Loudly.
Not cruelly—just blunt and proud.
Oberyn blinked.
They weren't joking.
As the host marched onward, Oberyn saw things he had never expected in a land once filled with terror-tales.
Men in thick furs speaking of books they'd read.
Women with braids discussing siege tactics.
Teenagers marching with wooden bows, practicing formation drills Harry had apparently taught them.
Wildlings.
Educated. Armored. Organized.
Not a chaotic horde—
but a kingdom.
A functioning, disciplined, kingdom.
And Lyanna Griffindor had been the beating heart of its transformation.
Oberyn slowed his horse and turned to her as snowflakes drifted down like ghostly petals.
"You built this," he said quietly.
Lyanna glanced at him, brow furrowing slightly. "I helped. Harry built most of it."
"You took a people the whole world feared…" Oberyn shook his head in disbelief, "and turned them into citizens. Into a kingdom."
Lyanna said nothing.
But her silence spoke louder than pride.
Oberyn swallowed, his voice rough. "No wonder no one ever found you. You weren't hiding in anywhere in Essos." He looked around at the disciplined ranks marching through the frozen wilds. "You were rebuilding a world no one dared to step foot in."
Lyanna's eyes softened a little. "The Wall kept people out for thousands of years. No one ever thought to look beyond it."
"And here you became queen…"
Respect—raw and overwhelming—filled him.
As the campfires burned low and the march continued into the pale dawn, Oberyn looked at the Narnian host again.
At the warriors marching without fear.
At the children who would grow up knowing letters and numbers instead of starvation.
At Lyanna Stark, riding ahead on her giant direwolf, armor gleaming like winter steel.
Oberyn whispered to himself, voice soft but certain:
"I would follow her."
He straightened in his saddle.
"This is not a kingdom built by birthright," he murmured. "This is a kingdom built by will."
And his respect for Lyanna—and for the mysterious King Harry—grew tenfold.
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