Morning sunlight streamed through the vast crystal windows of Gryffindor Castle, spilling gold and warmth across the marble floors. The air was alive with quiet laughter, the clatter of silverware, and the mingling scents of fruit, bread, and something sweetly spiced that Oberyn Martell could not name.
From the upper balcony, Queen Lyanna stood watching the training courtyard below. Her husband was still sparring — a whirlwind of motion and light — and beside her, Oberyn and Ser Lewyn Martell were leaning forward, their eyes fixed on the same sight.
Harry was fighting twenty men at once now. Sweat glistened across his bare shoulders as his twin swords danced through the air. The blows that came against him were parried with impossible precision — a sweep here, a twist there, a strike so fast it left streaks of white in the air.
Lewyn muttered lowly, "He's still at it. Since dawn. I thought kings slept past sunrise."
Lyanna's lips curved slightly. "My husband doesn't rest while the sun does. He trains until he finds silence in his body."
Oberyn gave a low whistle. "Then the gods help his enemies, Your Grace. I've never seen a man move like that — and I've fought in every pit and palace this side of Essos."
Lyanna turned toward him with a gentle smile. "He was never meant to be ordinary, Prince of Dorne. Come — leave the battlefield to him for now. You and your uncle must be starving."
Oberyn's stomach betrayed him with a growl, and Lyanna laughed softly. "See? Even your body agrees with me."
Lewyn nodded politely. "We would be honored, Your Grace."
They walked through the luminous corridors — walls alive with color, sunlight shimmering through enchanted glass. The doors to the Great Hall stood open, carved from oak and laced with veins of silver.
Inside, hundreds of people — warriors, blacksmiths, craftsmen, servants — sat together at long wooden tables. There were no separate seats for nobles or commoners. Everyone ate together. The air was filled with conversation and music from a group of bards at the corner, their instruments playing a tune that seemed to weave into the very stones.
"This is… unexpected," Oberyn said, his eyes darting over the hall. "No high tables. No thrones."
Lyanna smiled. "In Narnia, a king eats beside his people. And they, beside him. Power divides kingdoms, Prince Oberyn — but unity feeds them."
They took their seats among the crowd, and immediately a servant — a young boy with soft brown eyes — approached with a tray laden with bread and fruits glistening like jewels.
Oberyn leaned closer, intrigued. "I'm not sure I recognize a single thing on this plate."
"Try them all," Lyanna encouraged, pouring him a golden drink that sparkled faintly. "That's honeyfruit from the Eastern Orchard, and those rolls are baked from sunflour — grain that grows only under Narnia's greenhouses."
Oberyn took a cautious bite of the bread — then another, larger one. "By the gods," he muttered, "it melts in the mouth."
Lewyn, more disciplined, cut a slice of roasted meat that smelled faintly of herbs and spice. He closed his eyes, savoring. "I may never return to the South," he said quietly. "There's no flavor like this in all the Seven Kingdoms."
Lyanna laughed lightly. "You are welcome to stay, Ser Lewyn. Many who come here never wish to leave."
When their hunger began to settle, Lewyn's thoughts turned, as always, to duty. "Your Grace," he said carefully, setting down his knife, "what of my niece? Elia — has she woken?"
Lyanna nodded, her expression kind. "One of my healers fed her at dawn. She is still resting, but her color has returned. The treatment is working. Harry will see her soon."
Lewyn let out a long breath — relief mixed with disbelief. "Then the gods favor us indeed."
Oberyn smiled faintly. "Or perhaps your husband has replaced them."
Lyanna tilted her head. "He would not like you saying that, Prince Oberyn. In Narnia, magic serves the people, not the divine. But… yes. He is remarkable."
Oberyn chuckled. "That's one word for it."
Then he looked around suddenly. "Wait — where's the little dragon girl? Daenerys? I haven't seen her since last night."
Lyanna's eyes softened. "She's with Sirius."
"What?" Lewyn stiffened. "Alone?"
Lyanna took a sip of her drink, utterly calm. "They went to explore the city together. Sirius wanted to introduce her to his friends — the children of the craftsmen, the shipbuilders, and the students of the Tower. He's quite proud of them."
Lewyn looked alarmed. "Your Grace, she's a princess of the realm! She should not walk the streets without guards!"
"Guards?" Lyanna arched a brow, amused. "Here? Ser Lewyn, in this city, every man, woman, and child would defend them if harm came near. Sirius knows every alley of Telmar. Even if they wandered off, Narnia would watch over them."
Oberyn smirked, half teasing, half amazed. "You say that like the whole kingdom's a living creature."
Lyanna's smile didn't fade. "Perhaps it is."
For a while, the conversation drifted to lighter things — the food, the city, the strange creatures of Narnia. Oberyn tried roasted serpentvine — a delicacy that sizzled like fire on the tongue — and declared it "worth an army's ransom."
Lewyn was more restrained, but his eyes softened as he watched his nephew eat and laugh with genuine wonder for the first time in years.
When Lyanna finally rose from her seat, the hall quieted slightly — out of respect, not command. She turned to the two Dornishmen, her eyes kind but steady.
"Prince Oberyn, Ser Lewyn — my husband will meet you soon. Until then, explore. Eat, rest, learn. You are safe here."
And with that, she turned and walked toward the sunlight spilling across the hall's great doors. The room seemed a little brighter as she passed — and somewhere beyond those shining walls, Sirius and Daenerys laughed under the morning sky.
Prince Oberyn Martell stood at the castle's grand steps beside Ser Lewyn, squinting into the sunlit courtyards of Telmar. The sparring that had thundered through the early hours was over. The vast stone courtyard that had been alive with the clang of steel now stood empty — only faint scorch marks and broken spears littering the ground where King Harry had trained.
"The king vanishes as swiftly as a shadow," Oberyn murmured, looking around. "Does he always disappear after winning his battles?"
They passed through the great gates of Gryffindor Castle, where two armored guards stood at either side. Beyond the gates lay a city of polished stone. The streets were wide and paved in stone, lined with trees and fountains carved into the shapes of dragons. The people walked freely — no peasants bowing or lords strutting — all dressed well, all clean, all smiling.
Oberyn had been in King's Landing, Sunspear, Braavos, even Volantis — and yet none of them were like this. Telmar was peaceful, but it thrummed with life.
Children ran past them laughing, holding rolls of parchment, and a wagon rolled through the gate, drawn by two shaggy horned beasts. It stopped in front of a group of children waiting by the fountain.
Oberyn frowned, watching as they clambered in. "Where are they going?" he asked one of the guards who stood nearby.
The man, a tall knight with a warm smile, bowed slightly before answering. "To the school, my prince. They're late already — the bell has rung."
"School?" Oberyn repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. "You mean… a place for children of servants?"
The guard chuckled softly. "For all children, my lord. In Narnia, every boy and girl learns to read, write, count, and heal. The king says ignorance is the chain that binds the soul."
Lewyn's brow furrowed. "Even the poor?"
"Especially the poor," the guard replied. "They are fed and taught until they come of age. No child here goes hungry or unlearned."
Oberyn stood silent for a long moment, watching the wagon trundle away down the marble road. "In Dorne," he said finally, "we teach swordplay before we teach words. And in the rest of Westeros… only the lords' children ever learn to read at all."
The guard's voice was calm, almost wistful. "That is why our King built the schools first — before the temples, before the armories, before even the palace. He said a kingdom without wisdom is only a well-dressed beast."
Oberyn gave a low laugh. "Your King sounds like a philosopher with a sword."
Lewyn crossed his arms, watching the street. "Feeding and teaching every child… that must cost a fortune. How does your king sustain it?"
"Trade," he answered simply. "And magic. The land gives more than it takes — when ruled with fairness."
As they walked, the Dornishmen saw more wonders. The houses were carved as if from single pieces of stone, polished to mirror sheen.
Markets bustled with merchants selling fruit that shimmered faintly, tools that shaped themselves to the craftsman's hand, cloth that made for comfort. A one-armed man worked a forge with his left hand while his right — a glowing metal construct — held the hammer and struck perfectly in rhythm.
"Valyria," Oberyn whispered, "must have looked like this once, before the Doom."
Children darted through the streets, their laughter echoing. Cats with jeweled collars dozed in the sun.
Oberyn ran a hand through his hair, overwhelmed. "And all this… carved out of wilderness? Ice and snow, the North said. I expected frostbitten huts, not marble and magic."
As they continued their walk, Oberyn quickly saw how strange and beautiful Narnia truly was. The people they passed could not be defined by one face or one bloodline. Some had the pale skin and gray eyes of Northerners; others were as dark as the Summer Isles, or as copper-skinned as the desert folk of Dorne. Some were mixtures of all—hair streaked gold and black, eyes bright with every shade of the sea.
There was no separation among them. No sneers, no whispers. They greeted the Martells with smiles, and when they recognized them as guests of the Queen, they bowed slightly and offered gifts—small loaves of sweet bread, cups of cider, pieces of fruit dusted with sugar.
A baker pressed a warm roll into Oberyn's hand before he could refuse.
"Welcome, travelers! First taste is for free. All friends of our King eat well in Telmar."
Oberyn bit into it, humming with delight. "Gods, they'll make me fat before I finish my tour."
Lewyn smiled faintly. "They show more courtesy here than in half the courts of Westeros."
Their wandering brought them before a building that dominated the horizon—a temple of shining stone, its high columns carved with runes that glowed faintly blue. At its gates stood statues of wolves and ravens, each taller than a man.
Inside, the air was heavy with incense. A ring of fire burned at the center, and before it a shaman stood speaking to a gathered crowd. His voice rolled like thunder yet carried warmth.
"Long before man learned to wield steel," the shaman intoned, "the All-Father Odin hung upon the World-Tree for nine days and nights. He gave his eye to see the truth of magic, and from that sacrifice came wisdom that shaped the Nine Realms. In his wisdom, he taught—knowledge must always serve life, not rule it."
Oberyn found himself drawn closer, listening as the man told stories of Thor, Frigga, and the wolves Geri and Freki who guarded the gates of Valhalla.
When the sermon ended, the shaman approached them, smiling.
"You are strangers from the South. Do you seek the Father's blessing?"
Oberyn inclined his head. "Perhaps I seek understanding. Your faith… it sounds less like worship and more like philosophy."
The shaman nodded. "Because it is both. Here in Narnia, the gods walk in wisdom, not fear. The All-Father asks only knowledge."
Oberyn smiled to himself as they left the temple. "A religion that doesn't demand obedience? No wonder this land feels free."
Lewyn chuckled softly. "Careful, nephew. If the High Septon heard that, he'd have your head."
By dusk, the sky burned crimson over the towers of Gryffindor Castle. The two men returned through the gates, tired from walking but strangely exhilarated.
They found the courtyard alive with music again, torches flickering in their silver holders. As they stepped into the great hall, King Harry Gryffindor awaited them.
He stood at the center of the hall, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing simple dark robes embroidered with faint runes of gold. His eyes—bright green, full of calm and purpose—met theirs with the ease of a man who carried no fear in his heart.
"Prince Oberyn, Ser Lewyn," he greeted warmly, his voice rich and steady. "Welcome back to my hall. I trust Narnia has been kind to you?"
Lewyn bowed deeply. "Kinder than any land we have seen, Your Majesty."
Oberyn inclined his head with a grin. "I've been fed, guided, and blessed by your priests. If this is royal hospitality, Your Grace, I might never leave."
Harry smiled faintly. "You would be welcome to stay—if not for what we must speak of."
His tone shifted, calm but grave. "Your sister, Queen Elia Martell, suffers from a disease of the lungs. My healers have confirmed it. It is old, deep-rooted, but it can be cured."
Oberyn stepped forward sharply. "You can cure it? Not ease it—not delay it—cure it?"
"I can," said Harry. "Completely. In two weeks' time she will breathe as freely as a child, and she will never again know sickness. But…"
He paused, his eyes flickering with quiet power. "To do this, I must reveal the inner arts of Narnia—the ancient magic that sustains our kingdom. It cannot be spoken of beyond these shores."
Lewyn straightened. "You mean secrecy."
Harry nodded. "Yes. A vow of silence, bound by magic. What you witness here—what you learn, what you see—must never pass your lips in Westeros. Not to kings, not to priests, not even to your kin."
The torches dimmed slightly, and a hush filled the hall. The weight of the words hung like iron.
Oberyn looked to his uncle, then back to the king. "And if we refuse?"
Harry's gaze was not threatening, only solemn. "Then your sister will not be healed. Magic cannot serve where trust does not exist."
Silence stretched between them. Then Oberyn took a breath, squared his shoulders, and nodded. "For my sister, I would swear to any god—or to you."
Lewyn placed a hand over his heart. "So would I."
Harry stepped forward, lifting his hand. "Then kneel—not to me, but to the truth you are about to bind yourselves to."
The air shimmered as the Dornishmen knelt. Runes glowed beneath their feet, golden circles spinning like constellations. Harry's voice echoed softly, almost like a prayer.
"By light and by shadow, by word and by silence,
you vow to hold in secret what your eyes shall see.
Break this vow, and your tongue shall speak no truth until the end of days."
The glow sank into their skin, vanishing like sunlight into water.
When it was done, the hall brightened again. Harry smiled, the weight lifted from his tone. "It is done. Come—you should see your sister. The healing begins at dawn."
Oberyn rose slowly, awe flickering in his eyes. "I don't know whether to call you sorcerer or saint, Your Grace."
Harry chuckled softly. "Neither. Just a man who accidently became a King."
___________________________________________
Details about bonus content can be found on my profile page.