The sea was merciful that morning.
Its glassy surface rippled gently beneath the hulls of the four wildling boats, the tide rolling slow and steady like a sleeping beast. The sky above was cloud-draped but quiet, and the air smelled sharp with salt. No waves, no wind, no storm on the horizon. It was as if the ocean itself had consented to their passage.
The boats, crude but sturdy, had no sails—wildlings had no use for them. They were oar-powered, long and narrow, made for speed and stealth, not war. In each boat, oars dipped and pulled, in an uneven but determined rhythm. Harry sat beside Lyanna Stark in the second boat, glancing at her pale face as she leaned forward, arms wrapped tightly around her knees.
"You're seasick," he said gently, pulling one of the oars from a nearby wildling who gave it up without complaint.
"I don't know if it's the sea," she muttered, "or the child." Her face flushed as she added, "Or both."
Harry gave her a sympathetic look. "Rest. We've got this."
Lyanna nodded and closed her eyes, leaning back against the bundled furs behind her. Her breath came slow and shallow as she tried to will the nausea away.
The wildlings, meanwhile, had no intention of suffering in silence. One of them—a thick-shouldered man with a braided beard and a ragged wolfskin across his back—threw his head back and howled a raunchy tune into the sky.
"Ohhh my wife she's waitin' with a belly and a blade,
Hair like hay and teeth like stone, gods I've missed that maid—
She'll beat me when she sees me, then she'll drag me to the bed,
Where I'll show her how I missed her, till the straw is red!"
The others burst into laughter, slapping the sides of the boat with their oars in a thudding rhythm.
"Oi! That's your wife you're talking about, Ogar!" one of the men in the next boat shouted across the water.
Ogar grinned, showing more missing teeth than whole ones. "Aye, and she's got the strength of a bear and the appetite of three. I hope she's still waitin'!"
Their singing resumed—more like howling than melody, full of vulgar verses, crude laughter, and chest-thumping bravado. But behind the jest, Harry could sense it—longing. Desperation. These weren't just songs. They were prayers hidden behind dirty jokes.
Harry pulled steadily on the oar, matching the rhythm set by the others. It was hard work, but the singing made it easier.
"Your turn, kneeler!" someone yelled from the lead boat.
Harry raised his voice, loud enough for all four boats to hear.
"There once was a man from down in the Vale,
Who wooed a fair lass with a fish in a pail—
He lost the damn fish, but she didn't much care,
For he'd hidden a trout in his breeches right there!"
Laughter echoed across the water. Even Lyanna cracked a smile before covering her mouth to stifle another round of retching.
"She's not used to sea travel," Harry explained to a nearby oarsman. "Or wildling food."
At that, a small piece of blackened meat was tossed into his lap. "Best she start. Tonight it's horse again."
Harry held the piece up and gave Lyanna a questioning look.
She turned her head away. "It was my horse."
"I know." He set it aside without comment.
He would feed her something better later—maybe some dried pears or honeyed bread from his magical trunk. The trunk sat hidden in his coat pocket, magically shrunk. No one knew about it, and Harry had been careful to ensure that its nature remained a secret. The wildlings were not evil—but desperation made men covetous. Even friends.
Lyanna stirred later that afternoon and asked to try rowing. She managed half a dozen strokes before groaning in frustration and handing the oar back. "I can ride a horse through a blizzard and split an arrow with my own… but this? This is torture."
Harry grinned. "It takes time."
"I don't have time," she said under her breath, resting her hand on her belly.
The sun had begun its slow descent when Harry leaned toward her, curiosity in his eyes. "Tell me about your family," he said.
She blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"
"Because I've met lords and ladies, but never a Stark. And I like to know things."
Lyanna sighed and looked out over the water, her fingers tightening around the boat's edge. "There's not much to say. My father, Lord Rickard Stark, is a hard man. Not cruel, but distant. He never remarried after my mother died. He always said the North doesn't need more songs—it needs strong roots."
"Sounds like a Stark thing to say."
She smiled faintly. "It is. My eldest brother, Brandon, was the wildfire in our house—brave, reckless, stubborn. He was married to Catelyn Tully." She stopped herself.
Harry nodded solemnly.
"Then there's Eddard. We called him Ned. He's quiet. Thoughtful. I think he would've made a better maester than a lord, but he bears the Stark name with pride."
"Do you look like him?"
She laughed, genuinely now. "No. Ned looks like our father. I look like our mother. Or so I've been told. I was the unruly one—the daughter who climbed trees, threw snowballs at squires, and snuck into the kennels to play with the wolf pups. There is also Benjan my younger brother and I miss him already."
"Doesn't sound like a bad family to me."
"It wasn't. Not until I was told I'd be married off to Robert." She spat the name like it tasted sour.
The boats glided forward, oars cutting the calm sea. The Bear Island patrols hadn't seen them. Or if they had, they hadn't bothered to interfere. That suited Harry just fine.
By dusk, the clouds burned orange along the western horizon. The men grew quieter, the singing faded, and even the tapping of oars slowed as muscles tired and voices faded.
Harry glanced skyward once more.
Winter was up there—he could feel it in his chest. A steady presence. A protective force. No words were needed between them. The bond was enough.
As Lyanna finally curled beneath a fur cloak and fell into a restless sleep beside him, Harry kept rowing, his arms aching but his resolve firm.
They were heading toward freedom.
But freedom, Harry knew, was never free.
It was early morning when the horizon began to shift.
A distant glimmer broke through the lingering mist—a white peak, jagged and glorious, pierced the pale blue sky. The wildlings saw it first. The tallest among them pointed and shouted, "Home!" The others took up the call, and soon the boats surged forward with renewed vigor. The oars dipped faster into the still sea, spurred on by the sight of snow-covered mountains rising like frozen sentinels above the bay.
Harry leaned forward, his breath catching as the land came into full view. The beauty was raw and brutal—steep cliffs draped in frost, waterfalls frozen mid-cascade, and a jagged coastline dotted with black stones and thick pine forests.
But it wasn't the mountains that drew their focus.
It was the narrowing inlet they were rowing into—a bay shaped like a wide triangle, its mouth yawning before gradually tapering into a slender, winding fjord. Towering cliffs stood on either side like walls, and the echo of their oars splashing against water bounced off the stone. There was a haunting quietness here, broken only by the occasional cry of sea birds and the creak of wooden boats.
As the passage narrowed, Harry stood, straining his eyes ahead. "There," he whispered to Lyanna, nudging her gently awake.
She stirred, blinking the sleep from her eyes. "What is it?"
"Look."
And then she saw it.
Nestled in the cradle of rock and pine, tucked just far enough from the sea to be hidden from the shoreline, was a village. Not made of stone or timber like those in the south, but of immense tents—some the size of halls—stitched together from the hides of elk, bear, and mammoth. Long tree trunks had been carved and hammered to serve as support beams, angled in a conical shape to resist the weight of snow. Smoke curled from holes at the tops, rising lazily into the cold air.
Crows circled above the village in great numbers, their cries echoing like sentries sounding an alarm.
Harry turned to Jarl, the broad-shouldered wildling who had guided them since their meeting. "This is it?"
Jarl grinned. "Aye. Ice Raven village. My home. My father is chief here."
They beached the boats on a strip of black sand where the cliffs receded. As the wildlings leapt into the icy shallows and hauled the boats ashore, Harry helped Lyanna down carefully. She clutched his arm for balance, still uneasy from the voyage.
The first to greet them weren't warriors, but children.
Bundles of fur with tiny hands and curious eyes, the children of the Ice Ravens ran toward the returning raiders with shrieks of joy. Some carried wooden clubs; others dragged toys made from driftwood. They stopped short when they saw Harry and Lyanna, tilting their heads as though examining mythical creatures from stories.
One child with a red fox-pelt hat pointed at Lyanna. "Is she a ghost?"
Another giggled. "She's got hair like snow!"
Jarl shooed them away with a laugh. "Go on now. Fetch your mothers."
He led Harry and Lyanna through the outer edge of the village, where furs hung from wooden racks and smoked meats dangled above drying pits. Women emerged from the tents, joy lighting their faces as they ran to greet the returning men. Laughs, tears, and kisses filled the air. But not all shared in the joy. Some women stood alone, eyes searching the arriving boats, finding no familiar face. One woman dropped to her knees when she realized her son hadn't returned.
Jarl's smile faded as he approached the large tent at the village's edge—a towering structure supported by carved pine beams. "My father's hall," he said. "Come."
Inside, it was warm and smoky. A fire burned at the center pit, and seated near it was an older man, his face carved from stone and wind. His beard was streaked with gray, and scars crisscrossed his brow.
He rose when he saw Jarl. "My son," he said, clasping his arm. Then his eyes moved to Harry and Lyanna. "These are your guests?"
Jarl nodded. "The one who killed Roose Bolton."
The chief's gaze sharpened. He stepped forward and studied Harry as one might inspect a weapon. "That alone makes you a friend. You may stay. Both of you."
"Thank you," Harry replied, bowing slightly. "But I hope you don't mind—I may suggest some changes."
That earned a grunt. "Outsiders always want to change what they don't understand."
Harry left it at that, for now.
They spent the day moving through the village. The stolen goods were unpacked—crates of wheat, barrels of wine, axes and boots and rope, all taken from northern settlements. The villagers were efficient and jubilant, but Harry's eyes noted more than celebration.
The tents, even the largest ones, were poorly insulated. Snow crept in through the cracks, and the wind rattled the hide walls. Children coughed from cold air. The camp had no wall, no defense—not even a watchtower. And the location was perilous, hidden only by isolation.
"We can build something better," Harry told Lyanna that night. "But they won't listen yet."
"They don't trust outsiders," she murmured, sitting beside him near a crackling fire. "Can you blame them?"
"No," he said softly. "But I'll earn it."
As the days passed, Harry made himself useful. He healed a child's frostbite using herbs he brought in his trunk, helped repair leaking tents with clever stitching charms, and hunted in the nearby woods, always careful to hide his magic.
But Lyanna… she became the focus of unwanted attention.
Whispers followed her wherever she went. Men stared—some openly, others through narrowed eyes. Her highborn looks, her clean skin, her grace… she was too different. Too desirable. She wasn't one of them, and they knew she wasn't Harry's wife.
One evening, a wildling approached Harry with a grin. "You'll trade the girl? I've got a fine goat. Even fatter than her."
Harry's jaw tightened. "She's not for trade."
Another man, emboldened, offered him a sack of dried fish. "For just one night."
That night, Lyanna trembled as she sat beside Harry. "I can't stay here."
He nodded. "We'll leave soon. Head north. Past even this place."
"Where will we go?"
"To the edge of the world," he said. "And then, if there's nothing beyond… we'll build something."
They stayed two more weeks. Long enough to rest. Long enough to mourn the dead. Long enough to learn what they could of the Ice Ravens, who despite their ruggedness, were still people trying to survive in a world that had forgotten them.
When they left, it was with little ceremony.
Jarl met them at the edge of the village. "You're going into the mountains?"
Harry nodded. "Further north. Maybe east, if the path allows."
Jarl handed him a wrapped bundle. "Dried meat, furs, and bone-knives. Gifts from my father. And from me."
Harry took it. "Thank you."
As they walked away, Lyanna pulled her cloak tighter. "Do you really think we'll find peace?"
He looked back once at the village of smoke and tents. Then forward, into the white expanse.
"If not," he said, "we'll make it."
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