Prince Oberyn Martell had long since lost count of the days. The horizon never changed — pale mist by morning, silver-gray sea by noon, and the endless whisper of waves against the hull by night. Yet this voyage was unlike any he had known.
The ship barely moved, or rather, it glided — as if the sea itself bent to its will.
On the second day, Oberyn placed his half-finished goblet of Dornish red upon the table in his cabin. Hours passed. He walked, read, dozed, even sparred briefly with one of the skinchangers. When he returned, the goblet still stood where he had left it — not a drop spilled, not a tremor disturbed the surface of the wine.
He stared at it, brow furrowed, then laughed softly. "Either your sailors are gods," he murmured to himself, "or your ship floats upon the breath of one."
From above deck came the faint hum of Narnian songs — voices layered like the rising and falling of the tide. The ship responded to their tone, swaying ever so slightly, as though guided by invisible hands.
Oberyn had seen wonders before — the forges of Volantis, the temples of Lys, the labyrinthine streets of Oldtown — but this was different. This was alive. Every plank of this vessel seemed aware. The runes etched into its rails pulsed faintly when he passed, as if recognizing his curiosity.
He reached out and brushed a carved sigil near the doorframe. It flickered warm beneath his fingers, then went still.
"Magic," he whispered. "Real, breathing magic."
He remembered his youth in the Citadel — the long, gray years of study.
How the Archmaesters had laughed at him for reading the old scrolls on sorcery.
How they said that magic was "the folly of dreamers and madmen."
He smiled bitterly. "If only they could see this ship. Their chains would feel heavier still."
That night, Oberyn dined with Lyanna in the captain's cabin. The meal was warm — spiced venison, sweet mead, and fruits he had never seen before.
He leaned forward across the table, eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Your Grace," he said, "this Narnia of yours — it is built by magic, is it not?"
Lyanna nodded slightly, cutting her meat with calm precision. "It was born of it. My husband shaped the land, raised its cities. He is the master of what you call sorcery."
Oberyn swirled his wine thoughtfully. "And he teaches it?"
"To those he deems worthy," she replied. "Magic isn't something you take. It chooses who may hold it."
He laughed softly. "Then I will make it choose me. I spent my youth learning what could not be learned. I forged links for knowledge that men fear. But now—" He gestured to the glowing walls, the unmoving sea. "Now I know how blind we all are."
Lyanna regarded him quietly. "Be careful, Prince of Dorne. Curiosity can burn brighter than any flame — and sometimes, it devours."
Oberyn smiled. "Then let it devour me. I would rather be consumed by wonder than live chained to ignorance."
Days blended into nights. The sky changed color, but the sea stayed calm — unnaturally calm. Sometimes, Oberyn thought he saw shapes gliding beneath the water: great silver fins, glowing faintly in the deep. Other times, he heard distant laughter carried on the wind — like voices that belonged to no mortal throat.
He asked a Narnian sailor about it once.
"What lies beneath us?" he demanded.
The man smiled. "Old friends. Guardians of the deep. They carry us safely when the world sleeps."
Oberyn nodded slowly, his scholar's mind racing with questions he could not yet ask.
That night, as the ship sailed north into the pale dawn, Oberyn stood at the prow, his cloak whipping in the wind. The stars above seemed closer now, the constellations brighter, stranger.
He felt something stirring in his chest — not fear, but anticipation. For the first time in years, Prince Oberyn Martell did not crave battle or women.
He craved knowledge.
And as the ship sailed toward the unseen realm of Narnia, he whispered into the cold,
"Show me your secrets, Narnia. Show me what the maesters could not."
The sea mist parted like silk as the Narnian ship glided into harbor under a moonlit sky. The air was crisp, scented faintly with salt and meat, but not cruelly cold as in the North. Here, the chill softened into comfort — the kind that whispered of magic woven into the very wind.
It was midnight when they arrived at the harbor of Telmar, the golden heart of Narnia.
Even at this late hour, Telmar shone like a dream upon the sea. Glass lanterns lit all over the city on iron poles, casting shimmering hues of emerald and gold across streets.
From the docks, they could see the winding terraces that rose toward the city center — homes of crystal glass and black stone, their windows glowing softly from within. Distantly, music drifted from the taverns where laughter mingled with the hum of flutes.
And yet, for all its life, there was peace. The city slept, but it did not slumber in darkness — it breathed in quiet light.
Prince Oberyn Martell, who had seen every city from Sunspear to Old Volantis, could only stare.
"By the Mother's mercy," he whispered. "This… this is beautiful."
Lyanna smiled faintly beside him. "You stand in Telmar — the city built to last. The capital of Narnia."
As the ship anchored, a soft chime echoed — not the creak of ropes or clang of chains, but a musical resonance, as if the sea itself had sung a note of welcome.
On the docks, Narnian sentinels waited — their armor of silver and white steel glinting under the moonlight. Each bore a sigil of a lion with wings, and their eyes shone faintly, like stars reflected in water.
"Welcome home, my queen," said their captain, bowing as Lyanna stepped down from the ramp. "The harbor's wards have recognized your presence. We are honored."
Lyanna nodded graciously. "Has everything been prepared?"
"Yes, Your Grace. The wagons await."
Behind her, Elia Martell was carried gently down by two skinchangers — her face pale but peaceful. Daenerys, wrapped in furs, followed close behind, blinking wide-eyed at the glowing city.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. "Like the stars fell to the earth."
Oberyn chuckled softly. "If the stars fell, little princess, they'd fall here."
Waiting at the base of the pier were two enchanted carriages, carved of pale birch and glass. The wheels gleamed faintly with silver light, and the horses — or creatures that looked like them — had manes of silver flame.
Elia was carefully placed inside, attended by Lewyn Martell and Daenerys. Lyanna gave orders in soft tones, her voice steady despite the long voyage.
"Take them to the upper quarter," she said. "The healers have been waiting. My husband has been informed."
The carriage doors closed with a gentle hum, and as the reins flicked, the creatures drew them forward, smooth as shadow over water.
Oberyn lingered by the dock, still drinking in the sight of the city. "Even your beasts shine," he said in disbelief. "What sort of sorcery keeps this place so bright at midnight?"
Lyanna turned to him, her expression calm but knowing. "The city itself remembers every joy, every prayer, every victory. Magic is not just power here, Prince Oberyn. It is memory."
As the carriages disappeared into the distance, Lyanna turned to the skinchangers who had accompanied her from Westeros. They stood in disciplined silence, cloaked in fur and shadow, their animal companions restless at their feet.
"You know your orders," Lyanna said quietly, though her voice carried authority like thunder in still air. "You have served Narnia faithfully — now you will serve it from afar."
The leader, a tall man with a silver mark upon his brow, bowed deeply. "King instructed us before you left, my queen. We know where we must go."
Lyanna's gaze softened, but her tone remained firm. "Then go. The age of peace will not last forever. The eyes of Narnia must never sleep."
One by one, they knelt, touching their foreheads to the cold stone of the dock — a silent vow. Then they dispersed into the shadows, vanishing like mist.
Lyanna looked toward the sea, her face unreadable. "Knowledge is the truest power. In Westeros, they trade in politics. In Narnia, we trade in truth."
Only the Queen and a few Narnians remained now, their cloaks fluttering gently in the harbor wind. Lyanna turned to look once more toward the horizon — toward the sea that led to the land she had left behind.
"Westeros will soon know we have returned," she murmured. "And when they come seeking alliances, or war, or wisdom — they will find all three waiting."
Ivar smirked, wrapping his cloak tighter around him. "You sound like your husband, my queen."
Lyanna's lips curved slightly. "He says that often."
Then she gestured to the waiting guards. "Come. The healers await us."
The final carriage door closed, and the sound of the wheels echoed against the moonlit cobblestones as they departed from the harbor. Behind them, the sea shimmered gold beneath the glass lamps, and the city of Telmar — eternal, radiant — watched in silence.
Prince Oberyn Martell woke to warmth and silence — a silence so soft it seemed enchanted. He blinked into the golden light spilling through the tall windows of his chamber. The air itself smelled faintly of lilac and fresh parchment, and the bed beneath him… gods, it was softer than any he'd ever known.
The sheets were silk woven with silver threads that caught the light, and the pillow seemed to cradle his every thought. For the first time in his life, the restless Prince of Dorne felt a pull not toward adventure, nor lust, nor danger — but to stay right where he was.
Still, one thought broke through his haze of comfort.
Elia.
He threw off the sheets and stood. The floor was warm beneath his bare feet, smooth marble etched with gold veins. He stretched, his joints popping softly, and looked around — the chamber was vast, its ceiling painted with constellations that seemed to move when he blinked.
He had only hazy memories of arriving last night — faint impressions of glass walls, luminous halls, and a great castle that shimmered like the surface of a dream.
Now, in daylight, it was real — and more magnificent than the Red Keep itself.
As he stepped into the corridor, sunlight poured through crystal panes, casting rainbows across the floor. The walls were alive with moving carvings — not mere paintings, but shifting illusions etched into gold and stone. He saw Lyanna, crowned and smiling beside a young boy with untamable black hair and bright green eyes.
Prince Sirius.
Then, another figure appeared in the wall's story — taller, broad-shouldered, with the same green eyes that seemed to burn through the marble itself. His expression was calm, yet fierce; his hands gripped twin blades that glowed faintly with inner fire.
The inscription beneath the image read in runes:
"Harry Griffindor, King of Narnia, The Dragon of the North."
Oberyn traced the engraved letters, awe flickering through him. "So this is the sorcerer who built an empire out of air," he murmured.
A voice spoke behind him — calm, deep, and touched with humor.
"You're not the first to underestimate him. But most who did… didn't live long enough to regret it."
Oberyn turned. Ser Lewyn Martell, his uncle, stood near the balustrade overlooking the courtyard below. His white Kingsguard cloak was gone, replaced with a Narnian tunic of silver and black, but his bearing was the same — proud, composed, vigilant.
"Come," Lewyn said quietly. "You'll want to see this."
Oberyn joined him, peering over the balcony. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs.
Below, in a vast courtyard paved with ivory stone, twenty men surrounded a single warrior.
That man — bare-chested, his muscles coiled with power — moved like a storm made flesh. In his hands gleamed two swords, one of pure silver, the other wreathed faintly in blue flame. His strikes were precise, beautiful, merciless. Every blow landed like lightning.
The twenty assailants were not weaklings; they were armored Narnian warriors, each strong and seasoned. Yet they could barely touch him. One by one, they fell — disarmed, flung back, or swept aside — and each time one dropped, another rushed in to take his place.
"He's been fighting since dawn," said Lewyn, his voice almost reverent. "And not one has drawn his blood."
Oberyn's eyes narrowed. "That man—those eyes—"
"Yes." Lewyn nodded faintly. "That is the King of Narnia."
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