That night, long after the city of Telmar had settled into its steady rhythm of lamplight and distant laughter, Harry Gryffindor stood alone upon the highest balcony of Gryffindor Castle.
The wind was colder here. It always was.
It swept down from the distant mountains in long, whispering currents, curling through the stone arches and tugging at his cloak as if the land itself sought to remind him where he stood.
From this height, the entire capital stretched beneath him like a living tapestry. Streets glowed in winding lines of golden light, oil lamps flickering steadily against the night. Houses were warm with firelight, their windows shining like scattered stars.
Even at this late hour, people still moved through the city—figures crossing bridges, voices rising faintly from open doors, laughter drifting upward from taverns and gathering halls.
Somewhere in the lower districts, music echoed into the night, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of mugs and the rise of cheerful voices. A burst of cheering followed, loud and sudden, then dissolved into shared amusement.
It was alive.
It was thriving.
And yet, Harry's gaze did not linger on the beauty of the city for long. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes lifted beyond the warmth of Telmar, beyond the comforting glow of civilization, toward the distant horizon where the land darkened and hardened into something far less forgiving.
The mountains stood there, vast and silent, their jagged peaks cutting into the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. Beyond them lay endless stretches of cold, unyielding land, where winter was not a season but a constant presence. Snow and frost claimed everything that dared to exist there, and even the strongest of men could be taken by a single careless night.
Harry exhaled slowly, and the cold air burned faintly in his lungs.
He had built this.
Every road that wound through the valleys, every settlement that clung to life in the harsh terrain, every system that allowed this kingdom to stand where nothing should have endured—he had shaped it. It had been nothing more than a forgotten expanse of land before he came here, ignored by the rest of the world.
Now, it had people.
It had strength.
It had purpose.
And yet, a thought had begun to take root earlier that day, spoken in passing, almost carelessly, during his conversation with Viserys. At the time, it had been little more than a provocation, a statement meant to unsettle and challenge.
Now, it refused to leave him.
Why are they still here?
The question echoed in his mind with quiet persistence, growing heavier the more he considered it. At the beginning, the choice had made sense. This land had offered isolation, safety, and the freedom to build without interference. It had been a place where no one watched, where no one cared, where something new could rise unnoticed.
But that was no longer true.
Narnia had power and prestige.
And still, they remained in a place where winter could kill a careless man in a single night.
"Yes…" Harry murmured under his breath, his voice almost lost to the wind. "Why?"
He did not hear Lyanna approach, though he should have expected it. She had always moved with a quiet confidence that made her presence known without ever announcing it.
"You're thinking too much again," she said, her tone light as she leaned against the cold stone beside him.
Harry did not turn immediately, though a faint smile touched his lips. "Am I?"
"Yes," she replied without hesitation. "You only come up here when you start questioning your own decisions."
He let out a soft huff, acknowledging the truth in her words without admitting it outright. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching the city below as if it might answer him.
Harry's smile deepened faintly, though it did not quite reach his eyes. "I told prince Viserys this place is temporary."
That drew her attention fully. She turned her head, studying him now instead of the city. "And?"
"And now," Harry continued, his voice quieter, more thoughtful, "I'm wondering why I haven't acted on that sooner."
The weight of his words settled between them, carried by the cold wind. Lyanna did not respond immediately, because she understood what he was saying, and more importantly, what he was implying.
"That's not a small thought, Harry," she said finally.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
He turned to look at her then, his expression calm but firm, as if the idea had already taken deeper root than he was willing to admit. "Narnia isn't a piece of land."
Lyanna's gaze sharpened slightly.
"It's the people," Harry continued. "Where they go, Narnia goes."
She nodded slowly, her posture straightening as she considered his words. "That's true."
"Then why," Harry asked quietly, "are we making them live here?"
The question lingered in the air, heavier than before. Lyanna did not answer immediately, because there was no simple answer to give.
"Because this is where we started," she said after a moment.
Harry shook his head, his gaze returning to the distant mountains. "That's not enough anymore."
He gestured faintly toward the city below, where life continued as if untouched by the thoughts weighing on him. "They've built something incredible here," he said. "But at what cost?"
"I don't understand " Lyanna said in confusion.
"The cold," Harry repeated. "The isolation. The limitations."
He turned back toward the horizon, his voice steady but edged with something deeper. "I can make it comfortable while I'm here. With magic. With wards. With winter."
He paused, and for a brief moment, the silence between them deepened.
"What happens when I'm gone?" he asked.
Lyanna did not interrupt.
"What happens when there's no one maintaining it?" Harry continued. "When the magic weakens, or fails, or is simply no longer there?"
The wind picked up slightly, tugging harder at their cloaks.
"They'll be left in a place that was never meant to support a kingdom this large," he finished.
Lyanna crossed her arms, her expression thoughtful now rather than dismissive. "And the seven kingdoms?" she asked.
Harry's gaze hardened slightly, though his voice remained calm. "They're not the problem."
"They could become one."
"They always could," he replied. "Here or elsewhere."
He turned fully to face her now, his expression more certain than before. "But here, we are hiding," he said, gesturing back toward the cold lands behind them. Then he pointed eastward, beyond the horizon. "There, we would be free."
Lyanna followed his gaze, her thoughts already moving ahead of the conversation.
Essos.
Warm lands.
Vast lands.
Broken lands waiting to be claimed, shaped, and rebuilt.
"You're thinking of moving everything," she said slowly.
Harry nodded. "Not immediately."
"But eventually."
She studied him for a long moment, searching his face as if trying to measure how far this thought had already gone within him. "And you think they'll agree to that?"
Harry did not answer at once. Instead, he looked back at the city—the people, the homes, the lives that had been built from nothing.
"That," he said quietly, "is not for me to decide alone."
The council was called the next day, and it was nothing like the gatherings of any other courts. There were no thrones arranged in careful hierarchies, no silent halls filled with nobles waiting for permission to speak. Instead, the great chamber filled with movement, voices, and the quiet authority of those who had earned their place through action rather than birth.
Leaders arrived one by one, each carrying the weight of their people with them. Ragnar from Skagos entered with his usual unshaken presence, his broad frame seeming to command space without effort. Jorund and Jarl followed soon after, their expressions already curious, already aware that this meeting was not a simple one. Commanders, ship captains, and representatives from various settlements forming a circle.
Even some of the older settlers came, those who had been there from the very beginning, who had seen Narnia rise from nothing into what it had become.
Harry stood among them, not above them. There was no throne, no raised platform, only a man standing at the center of those he trusted.
"I have a question," he said.
That alone drew attention, because Harry rarely asked questions in such gatherings. He usually brought decisions.
"What is Narnia?"
The question moved through the room, drawing glances and quiet murmurs. Jorund spoke first, leaning forward slightly. "This land we built from nothing."
Jarl nodded in agreement. "Our way of life."
Ragnar leaned back, his voice steady. "Not this land but the people."
Harry smiled faintly. "Ragnar is right, Narnia is it's people."
He took a slow breath before continuing. "Then why are we still here?"
This time, the weight of the question settled fully. The room grew quieter, not because they were unsure, but because they understood what he was truly asking.
"We built this place because we needed somewhere to begin," Harry said, his voice carrying evenly across the hall. "And we succeeded."
There were nods, expressions of pride, silent acknowledgments of what they had achieved together.
"But this land," he continued, "was never meant to hold what we've become."
Ragnar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Speak clearly."
Harry met his gaze without hesitation. "I am asking you all this," he said, pausing only briefly before finishing, "are you willing to leave?"
The silence that followed was complete, heavy with the weight of what had just been said. Jorund leaned forward, his expression sharp with disbelief. "You mean… leave this place?"
"Yes."
Jarl frowned. "Where?"
"Essos."
The word spread through the room like a ripple, drawing immediate reactions from some and stunned silence from others. Ragnar, however, remained still, his gaze fixed on Harry.
"You would abandon Narnia?" he asked.
Harry shook his head. "No. I would take it with us."
Confusion flickered across several faces, followed quickly by curiosity. "How?" someone asked.
"With magic," Harry replied calmly. "Cities, structures, people. We move everything."
Jorund let out a low whistle. "That's not a small undertaking."
"No," Harry agreed.
Ragnar spoke again, his voice deeper now. "Why?"
Harry stepped forward slightly, his expression firm. "Because we are limiting ourselves here," he said. "In Essos, we have space, resources, and opportunities."
His voice hardened just enough to draw attention. "And enemies worth defeating."
That shifted the tone of the room.
"There are slavers there," Harry continued. "Entire regions without order, without protection. We can change that."
Jarl leaned back, thoughtful. "And here?"
"Here," Harry said quietly, "we survive."
He let the words settle before adding, "There, we thrive."
The room erupted into discussion, voices rising as arguments formed instantly. Some resisted, clinging to the land they had built with their own hands, while others leaned toward the possibilities that Essos offered.
Through it all, Ragnar remained silent, watching, weighing every word.
When he finally spoke, the room quieted.
"If we go," he said slowly, "we do not go as settlers."
Harry met his gaze. "No."
Ragnar leaned forward, his voice firm and resolute. "We go as conquerors."
A small, knowing smile touched Harry's lips. "Yes."
The hall fell still once more, because the idea had shifted. This was no longer about leaving something behind. It was about becoming something greater.
Ragnar held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding once. "Then we hear the rest of your plan."
I already have a place in mind," Harry said.
"There was once a kingdom," he continued, his voice steady, measured, "a great one."
He let the words settle, not rushing them, allowing the weight of history to build before continuing.
"A kingdom called Sarnor."
The name moved unevenly through the hall. Some of the studied men shifted slightly, recognition flickering in their eyes. Others frowned, unfamiliar with it, searching their memories or simply listening more closely.
"It was ruled by powerful kings," Harry continued, pacing slowly as he spoke, his steps deliberate rather than restless. "Strong enough to resist even the Ghiscari Empire when it sought to expand its reach."
That caught attention.
Jorund leaned forward slightly, interest sharpening his features. "They resisted the Ghiscari?"
Harry nodded. "They did more than resist."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"They stopped them."
A ripple passed through the hall, quiet but undeniable. Respect followed quickly behind it. To stand against the Ghiscari Empire was no small feat. To stop it entirely was something else.
But Harry did not let the admiration linger.
"But…" he said, and the single word was enough to still the rising curiosity, "…they could not stop the Valyrians."
The room quieted as if a shadow had passed over it. Even those unfamiliar with the deeper histories knew that name.
Valyria.
"Dragons," Jarl muttered under his breath, though the word carried.
Harry's expression did not change. "Yes."
"They came with dragons," he continued, his voice calm but edged with finality, "and they burned Sarnor to the ground."
There was nothing to add to that.
It was a story as old as the world itself—kingdoms rising, only to be reduced to ash when something greater descended upon them. Many in that room had lived through their own versions of it. They understood what it meant for a land to be erased so completely that only its name remained.
Harry let the silence stretch.
Not long enough to become uncomfortable, but long enough to settle into them.
"And now," he said at last, "that land is empty."
Jarl's eyes narrowed, his posture shifting slightly as his interest sharpened. "Empty?"
"Not truly," Harry corrected, his tone even. "But broken."
He began to walk again, not aimlessly, but as if mapping the idea into the space around him, giving form to what he described.
"It is a lawless land now," he continued. "No kings. No order. No protection."
His voice hardened, not with anger, but with certainty.
"Only fear."
That word lingered.
"The Dothraki ride through it," Harry said, and a few men in the hall know about the horse lords. "Taking what they want. Killing who they want. Enslaving the rest."
There were those among them who had come from lands not so different from that—lands where survival was uncertain and strength alone determined whether one lived or died.
"Villages live in constant terror," Harry continued, his gaze steady. "Every day wondering if the next sunrise will be their last."
For a moment, he simply stood there, letting them feel the weight of what he was describing.
"There is a place there," Harry continued after a moment, his tone shifting slightly as he moved from history to strategy, "that our ships already know well."
Jorund's head tilted, his mind already working through the possibilities. "The Bay of Tusk," he said slowly.
Harry nodded. "Yes."
A few of the sailors present exchanged glances, subtle but meaningful. They knew the waters he spoke of. They had sailed them, hunted in them, survived their storms.
"We hunt whales there," Harry said. "We know the currents. The coastline. The seasons."
He turned back to face them fully, his presence commanding without effort.
"If we build our capital in the center of the Bay of Tusk," he said, raising one hand slightly as if shaping the vision before them, "we create a natural fortress."
He began to pace again, but now his movements were sharper, more purposeful.
"Enemy fleets cannot approach easily," he continued. "The waters are unpredictable to those who do not know them."
He glanced toward Jorund briefly, acknowledging the sailors among them. "Storms will work in our favor, not against us."
Jorund nodded slowly, understanding the implications. "A naval stronghold…"
"Yes," Harry said simply.
He took another step forward, his voice gaining strength.
"And from there," he continued, "we expand."
The words did not need embellishment.
"There will be Dothraki," Jarl said, breaking the silence that followed.
Harry met his gaze without hesitation. "Yes."
"They will attack."
"Yes."
"They will not kneel."
Harry's lips curved slightly, not in arrogance, but in certainty. "We don't know for sure."
A low chuckle rose from somewhere in the hall, followed by another. The tension shifted, not dissipating, but sharpening into something more dangerous.
Ragnar's grin was slow, deliberate. "We can make them kneel."
Harry's voice hardened just enough to match the shift in the room. "We are not running to a fight."
That was all it took.
"We do not fear them!"
"Let them come!"
These were men who had survived worse and no longer feared it.
Harry raised a hand, and slowly, the noise faded again.
"This is not just about land," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the last of the echoes.
"This is about what we are."
He looked at them, not as a leader addressing followers, but as one of them speaking to equals.
"You are not slaves or wildlings anymore," he said.
"You are Narnians."
The word carried weight now.
Real weight.
It was no longer just a name. It was an identity.
"And wherever you go," Harry continued, "Narnia goes with you."
He turned slightly, pointing toward the east, toward lands none of them had yet claimed but all could now see.
"We will not leave our gods behind," he said.
"We will plant weirwood trees across Essos," he continued. "We will raise temples to the Allfather, to Thor, to Frigga."
He stepped forward again, his presence filling the space.
"We will carry our stories," he said. "Our laws. Our way of life."
His voice deepened, becoming something heavier, something unyielding.
"And we will bring order to lands that have never known it."
Author's Note:
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