Lyanna had never imagined herself as a leader. But every morning, when the sun cast golden streaks across the snow-covered roofs, it was Lyanna whom the people came to first. A question about water collection. A dispute over fishing rights. A request for help finding a lost sheep. And always, always, they looked to her as if she held the answers.
She had never been trained to lead. But somehow, she found that she could.
"Lady Lyanna," said Borren one morning, bowing his head with awkward reverence, "the boys from the south field have been throwing snowballs at the sheep again. It's upsetting the lambs."
Lyanna tried not to laugh. "Then let them muck the pens as punishment. If they want to rile the animals, they'll learn to clean up after them."
Borren grinned. "A fair answer, my lady."
That was how it always went. Fairness. Kindness. Steadiness. These were her tools, not swords or commands.
Though she was barely sixteen, no one questioned her word. Not because of fear, but because of trust.
And for the first time since leaving Winterfell, Lyanna was truly happy.
Potter Castle became the heart of learning.
The stone hall echoed with laughter and the scratching of charcoal on parchment. Children and adults alike gathered at the long benches as Lyanna stood before them, chalk in hand, teaching them their letters.
"A is for antler," she would say, drawing the shape. "B is for bear. C is for castle—our castle."
They listened with wide eyes, many holding a writing tool for the first time in their lives. Even the hunters, hardened men with sun-leathered skin, came at night to learn by firelight.
Harry helped, of course.
With a flick of his wand and a few softly spoken words, books multiplied. The children's books—colorful tales of brave rabbits, clever foxes, and magical forests—appeared by the dozen.
"These are gifts," he told the children. "And one day, you'll read them to your own."
Lyanna watched him, heart swelling.
"You know," she said to him one evening as they sat near the fire, "You're more like a northern lord than you think. Except you build with magic instead of stone and sword."
Harry chuckled. "And you, my lady, are the true warden of the north. At least this part of it."
She looked down, modestly. "I don't command them. They come to me because… I think they want someone to believe in them. Someone who doesn't look down on them."
"You give them dignity," Harry said simply. "That's rarer than gold."
Lyanna had always harbored certain prejudices about wildlings. Tales of raiders, of lawless clans and savagery, had filled the hearthside gossip of Winterfell for years.
But those were not the people of Narnia.
These people were eager to work. They learned with zeal. They took to crafts—leatherwork, stone carving, weaving—with natural skill. And many now knew how to read and write.
They built their own homes with their own hands. They shared food, taught each other, watched one another's children. And slowly, the identity of wildling began to fade.
They were Narnians now.
Even Harry was learning.
Late at night, after the children had gone home and the hearth crackled low, Lyanna sat beside him with a book of Valyrian script.
"This is a 'g'," she said, tracing his hand. "Loop and tail. No sharp turns."
"Loop and tail," he echoed.
"And this," she said, flipping the page, "is Old Valyrian. The writing is vertical, like vines."
He tilted his head. "Beautiful language."
"Dangerous too," she warned. "Words carry power."
Harry smiled faintly. "That's true everywhere, Lyanna."
And so the two of them, sorcerer and lady, sat in the growing heart of a new world—one built not just of magic and stone, but of learning, hope, and quiet dreams made real.
Narnia had its leader.
And she wore no crown but snow in her hair and ink on her fingers.
It was Harry who introduced the idea of public baths to the Narnians—one of the many customs he brought from his world, and one he insisted upon with a passion that startled even Lyanna. To Harry, hygiene wasn't a luxury. It was essential. He declared it the cornerstone of civilization, second only to clean water and food. And so, with the help of a few curious volunteers and a great deal of magical finesse, he built the first two bathhouses in Narnia.
One for men and one for women, both made of sturdy stone walls, reinforced with magic runes carved deep into the foundation. These runes stabilized the warmth of the water, funneled from heated underground streams Harry had located through magical divination. Inside, there were wide pools that steamed gently in the cold morning air, lined with smooth stone and warmed to the perfect temperature.
The first time the villagers saw Harry manipulate earth and stone with a wave of his wand, they gasped. Walls grew where there had been none, arches carved themselves into shape, and the very snow seemed to retreat from his presence. When he conjured a glowing rune above the entrance and spoke in an ancient tongue, the entire framework of the bathhouse sealed and glowed with magical energy.
Whispers followed him wherever he walked after that.
"A true sorcerer…"
"I heard he commands all elements to his will."
"Is it true he crossed the sky on wings of smoke?"
Harry tried to ignore them. He was used to being talked about, but he didn't like the stares that lingered too long. He especially noticed the way the wildling women looked at him now. It wasn't just admiration—it was hunger. A different kind of hunger than he'd seen when he fed the village after Winter gifted him a whale. This was personal.
Lyanna noticed it too.
She stood outside the women's bathhouse, wrapped in a heavy cloak as steam drifted into the air, and narrowed her eyes at the group of young wildling women giggling in the snow. Their cheeks were red from the heat, their eyes shining, and each of them, it seemed, kept casting glances toward Potter Castle—toward Harry.
"You should have seen him bend the earth," one girl whispered to another. "He made stone dance."
"He smells nice too," another said with a sly grin. "Not like the usual men. Like herbs and firewood."
"And he doesn't even look at us!" came a playful complaint. "He's always with that lady Stark. Maybe he's hers."
Lyanna's face burned hot as fire in the snow. She turned quickly, her cloak flaring behind her as she walked back toward the castle.
Inside, she found Harry in the common room, sitting on the floor beside the fireplace, a book open in his lap, his hair slightly damp from a bath of his own. He looked up and smiled. "You're back. Tried the bath yet?"
"I did," she replied, removing her cloak and folding it neatly over a chair. "It's… lovely."
"I'm glad," he said, nodding to himself as he turned another page. "Makes all the carving and stone-hauling worth it."
She stood watching him for a moment, her hands clasped together in front of her. There were times when she wanted to scream at him—how could he not notice the way she looked at him? How she lingered near when he cooked, or how her heart pounded when he smiled at her that certain way, soft and warm, as though they were the only two people left in the world?
But then her thoughts always darkened. She remembered the night Rhaegar left. The tears. The pain. The feeling of betrayal when Rhaegar never came. She remembered the weight of his crown of roses, the sweet scent that once thrilled her now made her stomach turn.
Sometimes, she dreamed of Harry. In her dreams, he pulled her close, kissed her like she belonged nowhere else. He whispered her name as though it were a song. He made her feel safe. Cherished. Loved.
But the dreams always twisted.
In the middle of their closeness, his face would shift—those warm green eyes replaced by violet ones, Harry's smile distorted into Rhaegar's cold, too-perfect face. She always woke up in tears, furious, ashamed.
Now, she stared at Harry, who was humming softly while he read, completely unaware of the storm raging within her.
"Harry," she said softly.
He looked up. "Hmm?"
"Why don't you… look at the wildling girls?" she asked before she could stop herself. Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"They stare at you. Like you're some… gift from the gods," she muttered, crossing her arms. "You must have noticed."
Harry laughed. "I've been busy building half a village. I don't have time to notice if someone's staring."
"They're… interested in you," she said, turning her face away. "You could have any of them."
Harry looked confused for a moment, then set the book down and leaned forward. "Is that what's been bothering you?"
"No!" she said too quickly. Then, lowering her voice, "Maybe."
Harry studied her face. "Lyanna… I'm not interested in any of them. And even if I were… I wouldn't be someone who shares myself so freely."
Her heart skipped a beat. She didn't dare look at him, but her voice trembled as she said, "I'm not your wife, Harry. You owe me nothing."
"That may be true," Harry said quietly, "but that doesn't mean I don't care. You've been through too much already, Lyanna. I'd never do anything to hurt you."
For a long time, silence hung between them.
Finally, Lyanna gave a little nod. "I know. That's why it hurts."
Harry tilted his head. "Why?"
"Because you're good," she whispered, still not meeting his gaze. "And I'm not sure I deserve that."
He stood and stepped beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Then we'll build something where people do deserve it. Together. For the Narnians. And for ourselves."
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "Promise me you won't leave."
"I won't," Harry said, his voice soft and steady. "I'm here. And I'm staying."
Outside, the wind howled over snow-covered hills, but inside Potter Castle, the fire crackled and warmth lingered. Lyanna stood beside him, her heart still aching—but now, it beat with a little more hope.
The morning was quiet, the snow glistening like silver threads beneath the rising sun. Beyond the settled borders of Narnia, far past the stone cottages and warm fires, Harry saddled a black mare with calm precision. The horse whinnied softly as he adjusted the reins and then turned toward the north, riding alone through the frostbitten forest paths toward a hidden clearing nestled in the rise of a broken ridge.
This was where Winter rested.
The cave was massive, like a wound in the earth's bones, and concealed by ancient magic that bent the air and light. No one from Narnia ever wandered here. It was far enough that even the bravest child wouldn't stray so far. Harry rode up the last ridge, dismounted, and walked toward the shadowed entrance with slow reverence.
Inside, the cave opened into a vast domed space, softly illuminated by faintly glowing runes etched in the ceiling stone. And there, resting like a coiled god, was Winter.
The dragon stirred as Harry approached, his white scales shimmering faintly under the glow of the runes. His eyes, like liquid silver with slitted pupils, opened and fixed on Harry. The cold breath that escaped his snout curled in the air like mist.
Harry smiled. "I missed you too, big guy."
Winter rumbled, a low, throaty sound that Harry understood as a greeting. They had no spoken language, but their bond was forged through more than words—Harry's thoughts traveled through their connection like ripples in water. And Winter responded in kind, with instinct, emotion, and clear understanding.
"You've grown," Harry said aloud, walking closer. "Westeros agrees with you."
It was true. Since arriving in this world, Winter's size had nearly doubled. His wings were vast enough to darken a small field, his body coiled with powerful muscle beneath those pale, glistening scales. He was truly a creature of awe now—more legend than beast.
Harry reached into his enchanted satchel and pulled out a bundle wrapped in black silk. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a gleaming silver pendant, shaped like a spiral of interwoven runes, pulsing faintly with power.
"I made something for you," Harry said, stepping close. "It's time you had a little freedom."
Winter lowered his head curiously.
"This," Harry explained, "is a runic pendant. It's linked to your magical core. When you channel your energy through it, you become invisible. Not just your body—your scent, your sound, your heat. Gone. You can fly in daylight now, without anyone seeing you."
Winter blinked. Then, with slow grace, bent his neck further.
Harry fastened the pendant around his massive neck. The moment the clasp clicked into place, the runes flared to life with a white-blue glow.
"Try it," Harry whispered.
Winter focused—and in the blink of an eye, vanished.
Harry stood in the center of the cave, surrounded by nothing but echoing silence. He laughed, lifting his hands. "Perfect!"
A moment later, Winter reappeared, and gave a satisfied huff, his wings shifting in excitement. He activated the pendant again and disappeared, then returned. The joy in his movements made Harry grin.
"You like it," he said. "Good. You're going to need it."
He turned to look eastward, toward where the sun was rising over the frosted treetops.
"I need to go to Braavos," he said aloud. "I've only been in Westeros. I need to know what's out there. If there's magic, culture, ancient knowledge… I have to see it. For both our sakes."
Winter snorted, as if already preparing for the flight.
"But we leave in secret," Harry added. "Lyanna doesn't want anyone to see you yet. Too soon. The people aren't ready. Not yet."
Back at Potter Castle, Lyanna stood near the hearth, her hands resting on the curve of her belly. Her pregnancy was now visible, and despite the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the settlement, a shadow passed over her heart.
She heard the stable doors close softly. She knew what that sound meant.
She turned to see Harry enter, brushing snow from his cloak. "You're really going," she said, not trying to hide the sadness in her voice.
Harry nodded. "Just for a short while. Couple of weeks. Maybe a month. I need to know what the world beyond the Wall, beyond Westeros, is like."
"You'll be flying," she said softly, looking down at her hands. "On Winter."
"No one will see us. I promise. The pendant works."
"I don't want you to go," she whispered. "But I won't stop you."
Harry hesitated, then stepped close and gently touched her arm. "I've made arrangements. Two of the older women from the settlement will stay here. They'll take care of you while I'm gone. I'll come back, Lyanna. Always."
Her eyes met his, and there was a weight behind them she couldn't hide. "Just… come back safe."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You keep things running here. I hear you've become Queen of Narnia."
She managed a weak laugh. "Not queen. Just… someone they trust."
"Well," Harry said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead, "I trust you too."
That night, before the moon rose, Harry vanished into the cave. No one in Narnia saw him leave. Winter curled down low, invisible to the stars. Harry climbed into the new saddle—sleek, wide, reinforced with dragon leather and metal fittings. It could hold six people easily, though tonight it carried only one.
"Let's fly," Harry whispered.
And with a mighty beat of wings and a ripple of magic, Winter soared into the air—vanishing into the sky like a ghost, carrying Harry across the sea, toward the ancient city of Braavos and whatever truths waited for him in the East.
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