There are many things that made Lyanna Stark shocked. In the fifteen years she lived, a few had left lasting impressions: the death of her mother when she was still a child, the first time she stole Brandon's horse and fell trying to ride it across the frozen stream near Winterfell, the moment Prince Rhaegar Targaryen placed a crown of blue winter roses on her head at the tourney of Harrenhal, and more recently, the discovery that she was pregnant with Rhaegar's child. Then, of course, there was her near-assault at the hands of wildlings. But what she saw now easily made it to her top three most shocking moments.
A massive white dragon descended from the sky.
It appeared from the pale clouds like a phantom, its wings slicing through the air in silence, only the roar of wind announcing its approach. The dragon landed before them, snow billowing around its gigantic claws as it touched the earth. It was enormous—larger than any warhorse, larger than a hall—with scales as white as snow, sleek and unblemished. Its wings folded with a graceful rustle, and its large, slitted eyes gleamed like polished ice.
Lyanna gasped, stumbling a step backward.
"What in the name of the Old Gods..." she whispered, instinctively pressing herself behind Harry.
Harry stood calmly, as if he hadn't just been met by one of the most fearsome beasts known to man. He looked at the dragon with quiet fondness, no fear in his posture.
"Lyanna," he said, turning slightly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "this is my dragon. His name is Winter."
Lyanna blinked. "You have a dragon?"
Harry smiled. "Yes. He's been following us forever. Quietly. He always keeps an eye on me."
Winter exhaled through his nostrils, and the warm steam from his breath wafted into the freezing air.
Lyanna felt like her knees might buckle. The stories of dragons were just that—stories. Tales sung by bards and whispered by old crones around hearths. Everyone knew the dragons had died out with the last Targaryens during the Dance of the Dragons.
And yet here stood a living legend.
The dragon lowered its head slightly, its piercing gaze fixed on her.
Harry nudged her gently forward. "Winter wants to meet you."
"Meet me?" she hissed. "It's a dragon!"
"He's more than that," Harry said. "He's intelligent. He understands us."
Winter shifted again, flicking some of the snow from his wings as he adjusted his position. The dragon stared at Lyanna, tilting its massive head as if waiting for her to do something.
Lyanna took a shaky step forward.
"Hi... Hi, Winter," she said awkwardly, raising a hand in the air. Then she added, in a whisper, "Don't eat me."
Harry laughed behind her. "He won't. He will protect you."
Winter gave a slow, deliberate nod, and the sight made Lyanna freeze in place.
"He understood you?," she said in disbelief.
Harry nodded. "Of course. Dragons are connected to their rider. But Winter... he's more than just a beast. He's seen worlds beyond this one. He understands fear, anger, even sorrow."
Lyanna turned to look at him. "Where did you get him?"
Harry hesitated. "That's a long story. One for another time."
They stood in silence for a few moments, the snow falling gently around them, and Winter's breath steaming in the cold air.
Then, Harry asked, "Would you like to fly with him?"
Lyanna's mouth dropped open. "What?"
"He can carry us both. He won't drop you. I promise."
She looked at Winter, then back at Harry. "Is he safe?"
"He's the safest place you could be."
Winter lowered his massive body to the ground, wings splayed slightly for balance. A low, rumbling sound emerged from his chest—not a growl, but something softer.
Harry climbed up first, expertly gripping the dragon's spine ridges. He held a hand down to her.
Lyanna hesitated for a moment, then took his hand.
The moment she settled behind him, Winter lifted into the air.
The earth fell away beneath them as the wind rushed past, and Lyanna clutched Harry tightly. The sensation of flight—true flight—was like nothing she had ever known. The cold air slapped her cheeks, the snowflakes stung her eyes, but the feeling of freedom was overwhelming.
They flew high above the nearby glazier lake, over forests, mountains, and frozen rivers. From this height, Lyanna could see the world stretched out below her like a map. She let out a laugh, wild and free.
And Harry, seated in front of her, smiled.
When Winter landed again, it was in a clearing near the edge of a glacier, far beyond the reach of any wildling settlement. The air was sharp, the silence profound.
Lyanna stumbled slightly as she dismounted, her legs weak from the thrill of flight.
"You're insane," she said breathlessly. "Do you know that?"
Harry grinned. "You liked it."
She did. But she wasn't about to admit it.
Winter moved behind them, curling into a resting position, wings tucked close. Lyanna looked at Harry, still trying to piece everything together.
"Who are you, really?" she asked.
Harry looked up at the sky. The clouds were parting, revealing the pale blue of the northern morning.
"A boy who grew up in a cupboard," he said softly. "A boy who lived. A man now trying to live on his own terms."
She furrowed her brow. "A cupboard?"
He chuckled. "Another story for another time."
They made camp there, with Harry conjuring a small magical shelter—nothing that would arouse suspicion, just a windbreak and heat charms for their blankets. Lyanna sat beside him, the silence between them no longer awkward.
"I'm not sure where we go from here," she admitted.
Harry looked toward the north. "Further. Until we find a place where no one can find us."
"And what then?"
He turned to her, his voice steady. "Then we build something new."
And far above, circling silently like a guardian in the sky, the white dragon Winter watched them, unseen by any soul save his bonded.
The morning air was biting cold, crisp with the scent of pine and the faint tang of frost. Lyanna Stark had begun to grow used to waking among snow-laden boughs and canvas covers, but what greeted her that morning made her sit up with such suddenness that the blanket slid off her shoulders.
There, not far from their makeshift camp, stood the dragon.
Winter.
Massive. Pristine. Wild.
The dragon's white scales shimmered like fresh snow in the rising sunlight. Its long wings folded gently to its sides as it crouched over its meal—a recently slain mammoth. Its tusks were broken, its thick woolen hide ripped open, and steam rose from the open carcass as Winter tore into it with deliberate satisfaction, like a cat that had just found a fat mouse.
Lyanna swallowed hard.
"By the old gods," she whispered. "He caught a mammoth?"
"Yes," Harry said cheerfully from beside her, already crouching down to light a small magical fire near the canvas lean-to they'd raised the night before. "He bring down one last week. They're surprisingly fast for their size. Took me a while to believe the mammoth exist here."
"Yes… mammoths are near extinct in the Westros," Lyanna said, incredulous. "Only ever read about them in Old Maester Wyllen's scrolls."
"They're some mammoth beyond the Wall," Harry said, standing again and brushing the snow from his cloak. "Still, an easy hunt. He's been practicing."
She wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I feel like I'm living in a fever-dream."
Harry smiled and reached into his cloak pocket, pulling out what looked like a tiny wooden box.
"What's that?" she asked, watching him curiously.
Instead of replying, Harry tapped the box with his wand and muttered, "Engorgio." Before her eyes, the box expanded into a large, intricately carved trunk, the kind that looked like it belonged in a nobleman's solar.
Lyanna stepped closer, astonished. "Is that a… trunk?"
"Indeed," Harry said with a grin, kneeling before it. He flipped open the lid and began to rummage inside.
Out came bundles of dried vegetables wrapped in enchanted linen, spice jars with labels in a flowing script she didn't recognize, polished cooking pots that gleamed like silver, and thick slabs of cured meat still glistening with salt.
"Where did you get all this?"
Harry shrugged, setting a pot over the fire. "Collected them. Bought them. Traded for some in White Harbor. Others I brought from… well, far away."
"You're rich," she said, watching him with narrowed eyes. "You're more than a wandering swordsman, aren't you?"
"I never claimed to be just a swordsman," he replied with a wink.
"But then how do you know cooking? Didn't you had servants?"
He tossed a handful of chopped onion into the pot, and a warm, savory smell immediately began to rise. "Because I like it. Food is one of the few ways to bring comfort in a wild place."
When she tasted the stew he prepared—thick with meat, vegetables, and spices that danced on her tongue—Lyanna couldn't help but groan in delight. "Gods… this is better than anything I've had at Winterfell."
"High praise from the daughter of a Warden of the North," Harry said, offering her a slice of crusty bread he had baked over the coals the night before.
She nodded, licking her fingers. "Better than the royal kitchens, I'd wager."
Their moment of calm was interrupted by memory. Lyanna looked toward the woods, toward where the Ice Raven tribe had once stood. "They told us to stay," she murmured. "Said the rest of the free folk wouldn't be so kind."
"I remember," Harry replied, stirring the pot. "But kindness doesn't build a future. I want to offer something else."
"And what is that?" she asked.
"A home," he said simply. "A place where wildlings—or free folk—can live without fear. Where they can work, grow, trade. A real settlement. With walls. With order."
Lyanna studied him as he stood and poured her a bowl. "Do you really believe that's possible?"
Harry handed her the bowl and crouched beside her, gazing out into the white wilderness. "I have a dragon. I have gold. I have magic. And I have you."
That made her cheeks color, and she looked away.
"But more than that," Harry continued, "I have a dream. If we settle near the eastern edge of this land, we can build a port. Not for the Seven Kingdoms—they'll never trade with the wildlings—but for Essos. The Free Cities don't care where the goods come from if the gold is real."
Lyanna frowned. "You'd risk your life for that?"
"I already have."
Later that day, they took flight on Winter's back, soaring high above the frozen forests and ice-covered valleys. The land below was white and ancient, dotted with craggy cliffs, dark lakes, and the occasional herd of elk fleeing at the dragon's shadow.
For three days they flew, stopping only to sleep in shallow caves or among thick evergreens. Harry used his magical compass to orient himself while Lyanna kept watch with sharp northern eyes.
Then, at last, Harry saw it.
The river.
It was a grand and ancient artery of water, winding through the snowfields like a silver snake. The river forked sharply into two distinct branches, creating a natural wedge of land protected on three sides. The perfect spot.
"There," he said, pointing. "That's where we'll build."
Lyanna squinted. "That's the Antler River. I read about it once… only a few ever dared live near it. Floods, harsh winters, and... legends."
Harry grinned. "I like legends."
As Winter descended toward a wide, flat section of the land between the forks, Harry looked thoughtful. "What should we call it?"
"You're asking me?" she said, stunned.
He nodded. "It's our home now. Our dream."
She thought for a moment. "Something northern. Something that speaks of survival."
"I was thinking…" Harry hesitated, then smiled. "Narnia."
She blinked. "Narnia?"
"A place from a story I read as a child. A land of magic, snow, talking animals, and endless wonder. A place where even the most unlikely people can become kings and queens."
Lyanna let the name roll off her tongue. "Narnia…"
And for the first time in weeks, she smiled—genuinely, freely, with hope.
"Narnia," she repeated. "Then let's build it."
Harry nodded, placing a hand over hers. "Together."
And high above them, Winter roared—a cry that echoed across the vast white wilderness, as if the dragon himself was claiming the land.
Their land.
Their future.
Their Narnia.
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