Lyanna Stark awoke to warmth.
It was the first sensation she registered—true, enveloping warmth that wrapped around her like a mother's embrace. For a disorienting moment, she thought she was back at Winterfell in her old bedchamber, curled beneath heavy woolen quilts, the fire crackling in the hearth nearby, and her maid gently calling her to wake.
But the silence was too deep, too pure. And the scent was not of burning pine logs or beeswax candles, but of fresh wood, melted snow, and something faintly herbal.
She opened her eyes slowly.
The ceiling above her was smooth and dark, made of polished wood planks that gleamed faintly in the morning light. A soft ray of sunshine poured through the square-paned window to her right, illuminating a corner of the room where a stack of books sat neatly on a carved shelf. The air inside was warm and still, and her breath did not fog before her. For the first time since leaving Winterfell, she had slept without cold biting at her toes or fear clenching her stomach.
She pushed the blanket aside—thick, quilted, and impossibly soft—and swung her legs out of the bed, bare feet touching a rug laid over wooden floorboards. Her cloak had been hung near the fireplace, which now glowed with soft embers. She realized she was still in her shift from the night before, her braid loose against her shoulder.
Then it all came rushing back: the flight with Winter, the snowy expanse of the land beyond the wall, the Antler River, and Harry…
Harry.
She stood and walked to the doorway, rubbing her eyes. The cabin was not large, but it was beautifully crafted. Two beds sat on either side of the room, each neatly made. Between them, a small wooden table stood with two chairs tucked beneath it. Pots and pans hung above a counter where a basin rested, beside a small cabinet that held simple dishes. Near the hearth, a kettle steamed gently, and the scent of something savory reached her nose.
"Morning," came a voice from the far side of the room.
She turned.
Harry was crouched near a small wood-burning stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. He was dressed in a dark green tunic and warm trousers, his cloak draped over the chair beside him. His hair was tousled from the wind and sleep, but his expression was content.
Lyanna blinked. "Where… how…?"
He grinned. "You like it?"
She turned around slowly, still in awe. "You made this with magic?"
"Mostly," he said, standing and ladling something from the pot into two bowls. "I used lot of transfiguration and conjuration. It lasts for about two weeks before the structure begins to fade. But it's stable, safe, and more importantly, warm."
"You made this last night, when I was sleeping?."
"With the help of magic, yes. Still had to gather wood and snow-proof the corners. And I enchanted the hearth so it keeps the temperature stable inside."
Lyanna walked to the table and sat, still staring around. "It's… it's like something out of a dream."
He handed her a bowl. "Try this. Stew with beans, wild carrots, and salted pork."
She accepted it gratefully and took a bite. Her eyes widened at the flavor. "If I had met you before all this mess, I would have begged father to make you my personal cook."
"I'd rather not," he said with a laugh. "Too many rules. Besides, I don't cook for money, I cook for myself."
She looked down at the bowl, then back around the room. "You even made beds. Real beds. I don't remember the last time I slept so well."
"You were drooling slightly," Harry teased, sipping from his own bowl.
She shot him a glare. "I was not."
"You were."
She rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. "You're impossible."
"And you're difficult. But we seem to manage."
They ate in silence for a time, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fire. The peace was welcome, the kind that rarely existed in her old life—before secret meetings, fleeing her home, and being nearly assaulted in the wilderness.
When the bowls were empty, Lyanna placed hers on the counter and turned toward him again. "You said this house won't last long."
Harry nodded, leaning back against the chair. "A week, maybe two. That's the limit for most conjured structures. The magic begins to unravel after that."
"And after that?"
"I'll build a real cottage. Stone, timber, insulation. Maybe even some glass windows if I can melt the sand nearby and transfigure it. It'll take longer, but I want something that lasts. For us, and for the people who'll come after."
She crossed her arms and looked at him curiously. "You think there will be others?"
"There always are," Harry said. "Wanderers. Lost ones. Families seeking shelter. People who don't fit in with the clans. If we build something strong here, a real settlement, others will find their way to it."
"And we'll call it Narnia," she said softly.
He smiled again. "Yes. A land of snow, wonder, and prosperity."
Lyanna walked to the window, brushing the frost away with her sleeve. Outside, the dragon lay curled near a ridge, snow already beginning to dust its pale scales again. Winter lifted his head slowly, glancing toward the cabin as if he could sense her gaze. She quickly stepped back.
"He still terrifies me."
"He's more bark than bite," Harry said. "Unless you're a mammoth."
She turned toward him, voice quieter now. "And me? Why do you keep protecting me? You don't even know me."
Harry stood. "Maybe I don't need to. Maybe I just know you're someone worth protecting."
She looked away, her fingers brushing the edge of the table.
"I'm not the girl from the songs, Harry. I'm not a princess locked in a tower. I'm the girl who ran away. The girl carrying a bastard."
"Then you're brave," he said simply.
Silence settled again.
She finally looked up. "What if we do build this place? What if it becomes real… permanent? Will you stay?"
"Yes," Harry said, without hesitation. "This isn't just a hiding place, Lyanna. It's a beginning."
And somehow, Lyanna believed him.
Lyanna Stark had never seen a man levitate a boulder before. Let alone five.
Yet every day since Harry had begun working on their future cottage, she had watched, often from the comfort of her conjured chair near the cabin, as he waved his hand or wand and summoned massive stones from the forest's edge or riverbank, guiding them through the air like they weighed no more than feathers. They would float and hover in the air with a hum, and with a flick of his fingers, the boulders would gently settle into place with precision and grace that no mason could replicate.
It was mesmerizing.
More so was the man himself.
Harry was shirtless that day, his tunic discarded in favor of cooling off from the work. His back glistened with sweat beneath the pale sunlight, muscles shifting with each movement as he walked across the rising stone foundation. He wiped his brow with a rag and then raised his hand again, guiding a fresh tree trunk—recently felled and stripped of its bark—into position.
Lyanna tried not to stare. She failed, miserably.
It must be the pregnancy, she told herself. That's what it was. Hormones. Wild, unpredictable, treacherous hormones.
But it didn't help that Harry was so… calm. So capable. So unlike the men she had grown up around.
She had known lords and knights her whole life, men full of bravado and sharp tongues, adorned in fine silks or heavy armor. Men like Robert, whose affections came in the form of bold declarations and loud laughter. But Harry—he wasn't loud. He didn't boast. He built. He planned. He cooked, gods help her, better than any castle chef she'd ever known. And he listened. Truly listened when she spoke.
And when he sparred with his enchanted dummies—armored log men that moved, swung, and even insulted him in crude, magically infused voices—she found herself laughing out loud.
"Swing like that again, and you'll drop your own blade, you half-witted goat!" one dummy had bellowed just that morning.
Harry rolled his eyes and jabbed it through the belly with a clean strike.
"Better?" he asked.
"Marginally. Still wouldn't scare a crippled badger," the dummy replied.
Lyanna had nearly choked on her breakfast.
Now, she stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over her chest, one foot resting on a moss-covered stone as she watched Harry shift a pile of stones into a neat row. She bit her lip, cheeks flushing when he turned slightly and caught her watching.
"You're staring again," he said with a teasing grin.
"I'm not," she lied. "I was… just watching your technique. Very graceful."
"Oh? Interested in learning?"
Lyanna looked down at her swollen belly. She was just beginning to show, barely, but her gown had grown snug. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit… preoccupied."
Harry chuckled, lowering himself to sit on one of the partially built walls. "True. But when the baby comes, and you feel ready, I'll teach you. Sword, bow, knife—whatever you want."
She looked up, surprised. "Really? You'd teach me to fight?"
His gaze softened. "Of course. I think every person should know how to defend themselves, especially in a world like this."
"No one's ever offered," she said quietly. "Not even my brothers. Father always said I should learn music and dancing. Not the blade."
"Well," Harry said, pulling on his boots and standing again, "then your father's a stubborn old man."
She smiled faintly, eyes shimmering. "He is."
They fell into silence again, save for the crackle of magic and the occasional thump of a rock settling into place. Lyanna eventually approached him, watching closely as he flicked his wrist and a small gust of wind brushed dust from a newly set joint in the wall.
"I thought you said using magic for construction was a bad idea," she said, folding her arms.
"It is," he replied without missing a beat, "if you're trying to conjure the materials. Magically created things don't last long. But these stones? These trees? They're real. I'm just using magic to move them. Not change them."
"So the cottage won't fall apart?"
"Not unless you plan on hurling mammoths at it."
She snorted. "I'll try to restrain myself."
Harry smiled at her warmly, then turned back to the work. "I'm insulating the walls with clay. Helps trap heat. Once the walls are finished, I'll enchant the roof to be waterproof until I can finish the shingles."
She reached out and ran her hand along the newly stacked stones. They were smooth, well-fitted, mortared with natural earth that smelled clean and cool. "You've built all this in just three days."
"Well, I had help," he said, glancing at the enchanted tools that hovered nearby, brushing off excess debris or smoothing edges.
"And what happens when this place is finished?" she asked, softer now. "Will you keep building?"
Harry paused, turning toward her with a more serious expression. "Yes. One home is a start. But if we want a real settlement—a place people can live, raise children, farm, trade—then we need more. Houses, a forge, storage huts. Maybe even a school."
She looked at him with a strange expression. "You've thought this through."
"I've had a lot of time to think," he said simply. "And people deserve a life with dignity. Not one spent hiding in caves or scavenging off the dead."
She hesitated. "And me?"
Harry turned to her fully. "What about you?"
"Where do I fit in all this?"
His eyes searched hers. "Wherever you want to. I won't cage you, Lyanna. You're not here because I saved you or because of the child. You're here because you chose to be."
She swallowed thickly, a rush of heat and emotion rising in her chest. She nodded and turned away quickly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.
Behind her, Harry went back to work. And she watched him again—this time with something deeper than just admiration.
She was no longer just a runaway lady. She was a woman standing at the beginning of something new.
A foundation being laid—not just of stone, but of trust, of purpose.
And maybe—just maybe—of love.
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