The storm-gray road stretched endlessly before them, vanishing into the pale horizon. Snow drifted steadily from a sky the color of hammered iron, coating horses, armor, and cloaks until they all looked like white phantoms marching through a world of silence.
Queen Lyanna of Narnia rode ahead, astride her massive direwolf. The beast's paws thudded softly in the snow, its golden eyes sweeping the landscape with a predator's calm assurance. Behind her, banner bearing the silver wolf fluttered harshly in the wind.
Oberyn Martell rode near the front, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, though it did little against the biting cold. His breath came out in frosted plumes as he watched the men and women of Narnia march with a confidence that unsettled him more with each passing mile.
He already knew—by now, everyone knew—that the Narnians were once wildlings.
The same savages who raided the Gift, who ambushed travelers, who stole and burned and fought like barbarians in the night.
But these people were not the chaotic raiders of legend.
They marched in formation.
They carried dragonglass blades and shields.
They spoke to their King with unwavering loyalty, not the selfish pride of free folk.
They had been reforged.
And that frightened Oberyn more than the knowledge of monsters lying ahead.
Oberyn had lived many years.
Warrior. Lover. Wanderer.
Young scholar in the Citadel, forging chains because he hungered for knowledge the way others hungered for wine.
But nothing in all his studies—not even the tales of Valyria—prepared him for what he saw now.
A kingdom carved from the frozen wilderness, ruled by a magician-king and a wolf blooded queen, populated by people who once defied seven thousand years of kings.
If they decided to march south, the Wall would not hold.
The Night's Watch would crumble.
The North would burn.
And then the South.
King's Landing.
His sister.
Little Aegon.
His heart clenched painfully.
The next King of Westeros would be his nephew.
A boy with a bright smile, eager eyes, and dreams of dragons.
How would that boy survive a war against this?
Oberyn swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the cold.
If Narnia turns its gaze south… the Seven Kingdoms will fall.
He rode closer to Queen Lyanna's direwolf—careful not to appear afraid of the beast, though every muscle in his body screamed.
He watched the Narnian queen as she led the army—confident, composed, commanding.
He whispered to himself, "If she could do this with the wildlings… what could her husband do? What could her son become?"
He thought of the vow he had taken—the magical vow that bound his tongue forever.
He could not warn anyone.
Not Rhaegar.
Not Dorne.
Not the Citadel.
But he could act.
The Watch must be strengthened, he thought fiercely.
Arm them. Fund them. Fill their ranks with Dornishmen—even if I must convince them with lies.
He exhaled slowly, his breath a plume of frost.
If war ever came, Westeros would need every blade.
Even if no one knew why.
If they ever turned south…
Seven save them.
Even Dorne, proud and unconquered Dorne, would fall.
When the sun dipped below the horizon far too early, Lyanna ordered the camp set. Fires sprang up across the snow-covered field, sparks rising like fireflies into the dark.
Oberyn dismounted his horse. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved toward the nearest fire, rubbing warmth back into his fingers. Lyanna was crouched beside Helga, fastening the beast's saddle straps more tightly.
"Your troops are eager," Oberyn observed, settling across from her, hands extended toward the flames. "Most armies dread battle. Yours seem almost… excited."
Lyanna smiled faintly, wind-shadows playing across her face. "You forget what they once were. Fighting is in their bones. But battle without purpose is slaughter. They are Narnians now. They fight to protect their home."
"Home," Oberyn echoed softly, tasting the word. "An entire kingdom built beyond the Wall. Impossible."
"And yet here we stand," Lyanna said, tightening the last strap. "Beyond the Wall, and alive."
"Alive," he murmured. "For how long?"
Lyanna's eyes flicked up—sharp, knowing. "You fear us."
He stiffened. "I fear what any kingdom might become with power unchecked."
Lyanna's smile faded. "We did not make ourselves your enemy, Prince Oberyn. And we did not ask to fight this war. The dead forced our hand."
Oberyn exhaled slowly.
He did not disagree.
But he could not silence the fear gnawing in his chest.
Later, after supper had been eaten and the cold reinforced its grip, Oberyn found himself walking beside Lyanna again, their breath turning to mist under the moonlight.
"Your people…" he began carefully, "if they wished it, they could march south. Nothing would stop them."
Lyanna looked ahead, toward the distant Frostfang peaks. "Why would they? Narnia is enough."
"I hope it remains so," Oberyn whispered.
She stopped, turning to face him fully. "You fear what we may do. I fear what we must do. The Cold Ones have already slaughtered hundreds. If we fail, it won't matter whether we march south. There will be no realm left to conquer—only corpses."
Her words chilled him more deeply than the winter wind.
"Prince Oberyn," she added softly, "I do not want this war. But I will fight it. And I will win it. For my people. For my son. For all the living."
Helga growled softly beside her, steam rising from its jaws.
Oberyn swallowed a hard lump in his throat. "And your king? If he wakes?"
Lyanna's eyes softened. "Then the dead should fear him far more than you fear us."
That night, Oberyn lay awake in his tent, listening to the whispering winds outside.
He had seen the way the Narnians looked at Lyanna—devotion, reverence, fierce pride. He had seen the way they trained, the way they fought, the way even the children carried themselves.
This was no scattered tribe.
No band of wildlings hiding in caves.
This was a nation.
A nation forged in ice and fire, by two leaders who commanded loyalty and wielded power unlike anything in Westeros.
He turned on his pallet, breath shallow.
If Narnia ever marched south… the Seven Kingdoms would fall.
Not because anyone wished it.
But because they would not be able to stop it.
For the first time in his life, Oberyn Martell—prince of Dorne, spear of Sunspear, lover of danger and defier of death—
felt true fear.
Not fear of the undead they would soon face.
But fear of the living kingdom marching beside him.
Oberyn Martell was sleeping peacefully inside his tent, wrapped in the warmth of a small fire burning in the center. Four more warriors slept around him, snoring softly, their shadows flickering gently against the canvas walls.
And then the dream came.
A nightmare so vivid he could feel the breath of the enraged husband on his neck as the brute grabbed him by the hair, smashing his face into the packed earth again and again. Oberyn could hear his own bones cracking, could taste blood in his mouth, could feel the world spinning—
He woke with a violent gasp.
For a moment he didn't know if he had escaped the dream at all. His heart was still pounding, his hands shaking, and the roar in his ears hadn't faded.
Then he realized—
The tent was shaking.
Not just swaying gently like it would in a storm.
The entire tent was trembling, rattling like something massive had seized it and was shaking it apart.
The earth beneath him rolled, lifting slightly, and one of the sleeping warriors fell out of his bedroll with a yelp.
"What—? What in the—?" another muttered, scrambling up.
Oberyn didn't answer.
Instinct took over.
He grabbed the spear Queen Lyanna had given him — the weirwood shaft smooth and cold beneath his fingers, the twin dragonglass heads gleaming faintly even in the dim light. He didn't bother putting on his armor. He didn't even think of shoes.
He burst out of the tent—
—and froze.
Oberyn Martell blinked once.
Twice.
Hard enough that his eyelashes scraped against each other.
But the sight before him did not change.
The Narnians had already abandoned their tents, just as he had, rushing into the open field with weapons in hand. And all of them — every last man, woman, and youth — stood frozen in place, staring toward the northern horizon.
Oberyn followed their gaze.
And his breath snapped in his throat.
An army was approaching.
Not an army of men.
An army of Giants.
Dozens… no, hundreds of towering figures marched through the snow, shaking the earth with every step. The smallest of them stood at least fifteen feet tall — the largest nearly twenty. Their bodies were thick and powerful, wrapped in furs taken from beasts Oberyn had never seen. Their weapons were as long as ship masts, made of steel.
And beside them…
Mammoths.
Massive, tusked creatures the size of two houses, their fur shaking with frost, their breath steaming in clouds as they lumbered forward in perfect formation.
Oberyn's knees nearly buckled.
He had read of Giants.
He had studied their myths in the Citadel.
But the books always said the same thing:
They are gone. Only stories remain.
Yet here they were.
An entire army, marching through the snow like a rolling avalanche of ancient legend.
Oberyn whispered, voice hoarse, "Mother above… this cannot be real."
But it was.
The Narnians reacted instantly — not with fear, not with panic, but with trained discipline. Warriors ran to their tents, pulling out cloaks, fastening straps, checking blades. Fires were stoked again, kettles set back onto the flames.
Because Queen Lyanna had already stepped forward.
She sat tall on her direwolf, Helga, the beast's fur bristling in the cold dawn light. Her voice cut through the murmuring crowd like a horn blast.
"Make breakfast. Eat well. Arm yourselves. We march in an hour."
There was no confusion. No hesitation.
Her people obeyed.
They had seen this before.
Oberyn watched, stunned, as she kicked Helga into a steady trot toward the approaching colossus. A handful of skinchangers followed, their animals pacing at their sides — wolves, lynxes, eagles circling overhead.
And then Oberyn saw the Giant leader break from the ranks to meet her.
He towered over even the largest of the mammoths. His hair was a tangled mess of gray and white, his beard thick with frost. He carried a club the size of an entire Dornish fishing boat slung casually over one shoulder.
When he spoke, his voice shook snow from the nearby trees.
"Wun Wun," he rumbled, pounding his chest once.
Lyanna smiled up at him despite the height difference, her face calm, almost fond.
"Welcome, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun," she replied. "Your timing is good."
The Giant nodded once. A bow, Oberyn realized — a gesture of respect, ancient and powerful.
The army of Giants quieted as Wun Wun spoke again, pointing toward the distant mountains. His words were too low and guttural for Oberyn to understand, but Lyanna did. Her face hardened.
"They are coming," she said quietly. "The dead have begun their march."
A chill worse than the northern wind washed over Oberyn.
Oberyn stepped back, clutching his spear so tightly his knuckles whitened.
If he had not been terrified earlier, he was now.
Giants.
Mammoths.
Skinchangers.
An unconquerable king with powerful magic.
And an entire nation united under them.
If Narnia ever turned south…
The Seven Kingdoms would shatter like thin ice.
He had come on this campaign believing he could strengthen the host, but after seeing this?
It was laughable.
Oberyn Martell should have been afraid.
Any sane man would be — standing before an army of towering Giants and wool-covered mammoths, creatures torn from the oldest legends. But fear was only half of what stirred in his chest.
The other half was curiosity.
The scholar in him — the young man who once wandered the vaults of the Citadel — refused to stay quiet.
So, gripping his spear, he walked toward Queen Lyanna as she conferred with Wun Wun, the massive leader of the Giants. The snow crunched softly beneath his feet, and when Lyanna turned to him, she raised an eyebrow.
"Prince Oberyn," she greeted. "You look like you have questions."
He let out a soft breath. "Your Grace… I would be lying if I said I wasn't terrified. But Seven help me, I have never seen anything so magnificent. Giants. Mammoths. Creatures that the maesters claim died out centuries ago."
Lyanna's lips curled into a faint smile. "Maesters know many things. But they rarely know the truth of the North."
Oberyn nodded toward the Giants, who were lowering themselves around enormous fires, their rumbling voices shaking the air. "How… how is such a gathering even possible? I have heard tales that giant clans war with each other just as much as they war with men."
"They did," Lyanna replied. "They lived scattered, broken into dozens of rival packs. They fought each other for land, food, survival." She softened, remembering. "But my husband… he saw something they did not. He saw what they could be together."
Oberyn blinked. "He united them?"
"Every last one," Lyanna said proudly. "He didn't use magic. No threats. No tricks. He simply spoke with them — clan by clan — about unity. About strength. About how survival is easier as a pack, not as wanderers."
The Dornish prince stared at her, stunned. "And they listened?"
"They listened," she said. "And when they joined Narnia, they gained land, homes, peace… and food."
Oberyn's brows furrowed. "Food? Large beasts like that must require an impossible amount of meat."
Lyanna laughed softly. "Not meat. Giants are vegetarians."
Oberyn nearly choked on his breath. "Vegetarians?"
"It means they don't eat meat," she confirmed. "They eat roots, leaves, bark, grains. They have no desire to hunt us — or anything else — unless threatened."
The revelation delighted him. He felt like a boy again, discovering a lost page of history.
"Amazing," he murmured. "Truly amazing."
Lyanna tilted her head. "You sound relieved."
"More… fascinated than relieved," Oberyn corrected. "If I return home with even half of this knowledge, the Citadel will turn upside down."
She gave him a long, searching look. "You took an oath. You cannot return with anything."
Oberyn sighed. "A tragedy for scholars everywhere."
Lyanna chuckled, but her amusement faded as she looked at the marching Giants again.
"They came willingly," she said. "Not because we forced them. Because Narnia offered them what they never had. Purpose. Protection. A future."
Oberyn studied her carefully.
"You speak of them like a queen who earned their loyalty," he said.
"I did not. Harry did." Her voice warmed with pride. "They follow him because he treats them with respect. Because he gave them dignity."
Oberyn folded his arms. "It almost sounds as if the man could charm dragons out of the sky."
Lyanna raised an eyebrow, amused. "Could he?"
"Perhaps," Oberyn replied with a sly grin. "At this point, I would not be surprised if you told me the Narnians are hiding a dragon somewhere in these frozen lands."
He meant it as a joke — light, teasing, a Dornish poke at northern mystery.
But Lyanna didn't laugh.
She held his gaze, her expression unreadable.
Her voice dropped, low and cool as the snow underfoot.
"You will never know," she said.
A shiver crept down Oberyn's spine — and it was not from the cold.
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