Morning came quietly to Telmar, dawn that seemed to settle gently over the land rather than arrive. Within Gryffindor Castle, sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows, spilling across the stone floors in long bands of gold. The light reached deep into the chamber where Harry Gryffindor sat alone, casting half his desk in warmth while the rest remained in shadow.
He had not yet begun his work.
A cup of tea rested near his hand, steam curling lazily into the air, untouched. Beside it lay a stack of reports—petitions, updates, logistics—each one waiting for his attention. Normally, he would have already started, moving through them with quiet efficiency. But today, for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself stillness.
It was broken by the sound of wings.
Harry looked up just as an owl slipped through the open window. It was not the graceful glide of a well-rested messenger. The bird struggled, its wings faltering before it dropped onto the edge of his desk with a heavy thud. Dust clung to its feathers, and its breathing came in sharp, visible bursts.
Harry leaned forward immediately, concern replacing the calm neutrality on his face.
"You've flown far," he said quietly.
The owl gave a weak hoot, barely lifting its head.
Carefully, Harry untied the parchment from its leg, his movements gentle. Once the letter was free, he signaled to one of the servants waiting at the far side of the chamber.
"Take it to the owlery," he instructed. "Food, water… and make sure it rests."
The servant bowed deeply. "Yes, my king."
Harry watched as the bird was carried away, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the letter in his hand.
The seal told him everything before he even broke it.
Ragnar.
He opened it without hesitation.
At first, the contents were as expected. His eyes moved steadily across the lines, expression composed. Reports of progress filled the opening paragraphs—the temple of Odin rising stone by stone, the foundations laid with care and precision. The pillars had already been carved, each one a testament to the pride of the people building them.
A faint smile touched his lips.
The settlers led by Rulf the Redbeard had arrived and integrated smoothly into the growing settlement. Their experience had proven invaluable, accelerating construction in ways even Ragnar had not fully anticipated. Beneath the surface, quite literally, the sewage systems were being laid out according to the plans.
That drew a small, approving nod from him.
It was the sort of detail most rulers ignored, yet it was the difference between a thriving city and one doomed to rot from within. Strength above meant little if weakness festered below.
He read on.
"Food supplies are running low."
Harry's fingers stilled against the desk.
He continued reading, slower now.
The population was growing faster than expected. The current reserves would not sustain them for long, and additional shipments were required—urgently.
That was manageable. It had always been part of the risk. Growth demanded resources, and resources demanded foresight. This could be addressed.
But the next section caught his full attention.
Nomadic shepherd tribes had begun arriving.
Harry leaned back slightly as he read, a glimmer of satisfaction returning to his expression. They were coming willingly, bringing livestock, bringing knowledge—bringing roots to a land that needed them. Even more promising, they had begun guiding other tribes towards Narnia.
More would come.
That was how a kingdom should grow.
Not through conquest or fear, but through opportunity—through the quiet pull of something better.
For a moment, Harry allowed himself to appreciate that.
"We are under constant watch."
A khalasar had taken notice.
He read every word with careful attention. They tested the borders daily but could not breach the wards. His magic held firm—nothing with hostile intent could pass through.
That, however, was not the problem.
They gathered outside.
And then—
"They have begun attacking travelers."
Harry closed his eyes briefly, the implications settling in with quiet certainty.
"They can't challenge us directly, but they block the road."
"They kill or capture those trying to reach us."
Harry's hand tightened slightly around the parchment.
"And without new people, we cannot grow."
The final line was simple.
"We need your help."
Harry folded the letter carefully and placed it on the desk, aligning it neatly with the others. For several seconds, he did not move, his mind already working through possibilities, outcomes, consequences.
Then he spoke, his voice low but resolute.
"Of course you do."
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
Lyanna stepped inside without hesitation. She carried herself with the same quiet strength she always had. It took her only a moment to notice the shift in him—the subtle tension, the focus.
"What happened?" she asked.
Harry handed her the letter without preamble.
Lyanna read quickly, her expression hardening as she moved through the lines. By the time she finished, her jaw was set.
"Dothraki," she said.
Harry nodded once.
"They won't attack," she continued. "Not if they see strength."
She folded the letter, tapping it lightly against her palm.
"They're cutting off the flow."
The weight of it hung between them for a moment.
"And we can't build a kingdom," Harry said, "if no one can reach it."
Lyanna studied him closely.
"So what are you going to do?"
Harry leaned back slightly, meeting her gaze.
"What do you think I should do?"
There was no hesitation in her answer.
"Kill them."
A faint disapproval appeared on his face.
She frowned. "You don't want to fight them?"
He turned his gaze toward the window, toward the vast sky beyond the castle walls.
"I do," he said.
He paused, then added quietly, "But not like that."
Lyanna stepped closer. "Then how?"
Harry's eyes hardened, a colder edge settling beneath his calm.
"They're nomads," he said. "They follow strength. They respect power."
Lyanna tilted her head slightly. "And?"
Harry's lips curved faintly.
"So we show them."
The words lingered in the air.
"And make them part of Narnia."
Recognition flashed across her face.
"You're going there."
Harry nodded.
"Yes."
Then Lyanna smirked.
"I am coming with you."
He raised an eyebrow. "You were getting bored?"
She shrugged lightly. "A little. I'll have a ship prepared."
He shook his head.
"No."
She paused. "Then how—"
Harry turned his gaze back to the sky, a slow smile forming.
"We're not taking a ship."
There was something dangerous in that smile now.
"We're taking something faster."
Lyanna's lips curved in response.
"Of course we are."
The decision had been made.
And yet, it did not happen—not immediately, not as cleanly as Harry had intended.
He stood upon the high balcony of Gryffindor Castle, looking out over the vast grounds of Telmar. The morning air carried the distant roar of thousands, a living, breathing wave of sound that rolled through the city and reached him even here.
The Narnian Games were nearing their end.
Fourteen districts had come together beneath fourteen banners, each one representing its people, its pride, its identity. What had begun as a contest of skill had become something far greater. Strength, discipline, honor—these were not just displayed, but proven. The arena outside had become a stage where the spirit of Narnia itself took form.
And Harry—
Was expected to stand at its center.
Behind him, Lyanna leaned against the stone doorway, her arms crossed loosely as she watched him. There was a quiet understanding in her gaze, one that had grown over time, sharpened by shared stories and unspoken thoughts.
"They'll need you," she said at last, nodding toward the arena. "The final day. The awards. The celebrations."
Harry turned then, his expression calm but unyielding.
"And Ragnar needs me now."
Lyanna held his gaze. There was no denial in her eyes, only a weighing of truths.
"They've survived this long," she replied. "Two more days won't break them."
Harry studied her for a moment, then let out a slow breath.
"…Fine."
A faint smile touched her lips.
From the courtyard below, a fresh eruption of cheers broke through the air. Sirius' voice rose above the rest, unmistakable in its energy.
"THAT WAS CLEAN!"
Harry shook his head slightly, a small smile breaking through despite himself.
"That boy," Lyanna muttered.
"He's enjoying himself."
"He always does," Harry replied.
And that—
Was part of the problem.
By evening, the great hall was alive with movement and noise. Torches burned bright along the walls, casting warm light across the stone, while the echoes of conversation filled the space. Yet at the center of it, tension was building.
"I'm coming."
Sirius stood firm, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto Harry with unwavering determination.
"No," Harry said simply.
Sirius frowned, stepping forward slightly.
"I am ready."
"You're not."
There was no hesitation in Harry's voice, no room for argument.
Sirius' jaw tightened. "I've trained. I can fight. I can—"
"You have studies," Harry cut in.
The words struck harder than expected. Sirius paused, his momentum faltering.
"And," Harry continued, his tone quieter now but no less firm, "someone needs to stay."
Sirius' expression shifted, uncertainty creeping in.
"Mother is going with you," he said.
Harry nodded once.
"Exactly."
"You want me to stay behind," Sirius said slowly.
"I need you to."
Sirius looked away, his jaw tightening as frustration flared beneath the surface.
"…I don't like it."
"I know," Harry said softly.
The tension lingered for a long moment before Sirius finally sighed.
"…Fine."
But the frustration did not fade.
The next day began like any other.
It started small. Lyanna dismissed it at first as nothing more than fatigue—a slight dizziness, a heaviness that settled in her limbs. By midday, however, it had grown enough to warrant attention.
A healer was called.
Inside their private chamber, the air felt unnaturally still. Harry stood nearby, arms folded across his chest, watching every movement with quiet intensity. Sirius lingered near the door, unusually silent, his usual restlessness replaced by something closer to unease.
The healer worked methodically, his hands steady, his expression focused.
Then he stopped.
When he straightened, something had changed in his face.
"My queen," he said carefully.
Lyanna met his gaze.
"You are with child."
For a single heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.
"…What?" Sirius said, blinking in disbelief.
Harry did not move.
Lyanna stared at the healer, her voice quieter now, edged with disbelief.
"…Say that again."
"You are with child," the man repeated, a small, genuine smile forming. "It is early… but certain."
Then Lyanna laughed.
It was not restrained or measured—it was bright, unguarded, alive.
Harry exhaled slowly, something in his chest loosening in a way he had not expected.
"…Well," he muttered under his breath.
"That changes things."
Sirius broke into a grin, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had come.
"I'm going to have a sibling."
Lyanna reached for his hand, her smile softening.
"Yes," she said.
"You are."
The news spread like wildfire.
Within hours, Telmar erupted into celebration.
Food was brought out in abundance, tables overflowing with more than enough for all. Drink flowed freely through the streets, laughter rising with the music that filled every corner of the city. Fires were lit, their glow dancing against stone and wood alike as people gathered, danced, and sang.
To the people of Narnia, this was more than the promise of a royal child. It was a blessing—something sacred, something that spoke of continuity, of future, of life itself.
Even the Narnian Games lost their place in that moment.
Sirius, for once, forgot everything else.
"I'm going to teach them everything," he declared excitedly.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"They're not even born yet."
"So?"
Lyanna laughed softly. "Let them be born first."
Sirius shook his head. "No. I'll be ready."
For the first time, he truly saw it—not just a boy eager to prove himself, but someone who would stand when it mattered.
And that realization made the next decision easier.
"You're staying," Harry said later that night.
Sirius did not argue this time.
"I know."
His gaze shifted toward Lyanna.
"I'm not leaving her."
Harry nodded.
The final days of the Games passed in a blur.
The fourteen districts gathered one last time. Names were called, champions crowned. Harry stood before them all, placing medals, handing out gold, recognizing not just victory, but effort.
"Strength is not just in winning," he told them. "It is in standing. In trying. In enduring."
The roar that followed shook the ground itself.
On the morning of departure, the sky was clear.
Outside the city, Winter waited.
The white dragon stood vast and still, wings half-spread, its presence alone enough to silence the wind. Power radiated from it, quiet but undeniable.
Harry stood before Lyanna.
"You should rest."
"I'm not weak."
"I know."
He paused, his voice softening.
"But you're carrying something more important than everything in the world."
Sirius stepped forward, standing at her side.
Then Harry stepped closer and placed a hand on Sirius' shoulder.
"Protect her."
Sirius did not hesitate.
"I will."
Without another word, Harry mounted Winter. The dragon shifted beneath him, muscles coiling with restrained power.
With a single beat of its wings, the ground trembled.
Then they rose.
Higher.
Faster.
Telmar shrank beneath them, its towers and walls becoming distant shapes. The sounds of celebration faded, swallowed by the vastness of the sky.
Harry Gryffindor flew east.
Alone.
Toward war.
And behind him—
Narnia celebrated life.
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