The city of Telmar did not impress at first glance, and that was what surprised them the most. Ellaria Sand had expected something grand—towering like Oldtown or chaotic like King's Landing, a place where power announced itself in stone, height, and noise. Instead, what she found was something far quieter.
Telmar was orderly. Clean. Almost modest in its design. Two-story buildings stretched in careful rows, each one practical rather than decorative. The streets were wide and uncluttered, filled with wagons that moved with purpose instead of chaos. There were no shouting crowds, no overflowing filth, no desperate press of bodies fighting for space. Even the air felt different—carrying the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and sea salt instead of rot and waste.
At first, it felt lacking. There were no grand monuments to demand attention, no overwhelming displays of wealth or dominance. But that impression did not last. Within days, they began to understand that Telmar was not built to impress visitors. It was built for those who lived in it.
And that made all the difference.
Obara was the first to fall in love with it.
She stood at the edge of a training field, arms crossed, watching with sharp intensity as Prince Sirius moved across the training yard. He was fast—too fast for someone his age—and there was nothing careless in the way he fought. He didn't fight like a boy learning discipline; he fought like someone who had already chosen it.
Steel clashed, and wooden weapons cracked against one another as another boy lunged at him. Sirius sidestepped with ease, twisted his body, and brought his blade to the boy's throat in a single, fluid motion.
"Dead," he said calmly.
Obara grinned, clearly pleased. "I like him."
Beside her, Nymeria laughed softly. "You like anyone who hits hard."
"And wins," Obara added without hesitation. "Mostly wins."
Nearby, Tyene sat quietly, her attention less excited and more thoughtful. She watched the rhythm of the fight, the way Sirius moved, the way he ended each exchange before it could turn into chaos.
"Why does he fight like that?" she asked.
Nymeria shrugged. "Because he can."
But that wasn't the truth.
Sirius fought like that because he had chosen to. He no longer wandered the city freely as he once had. There were no more careless adventures or long disappearances filled with laughter. Now, he stayed close—always close—to Queen Lyanna Gryffindor.
Because of a promise.
"I'll protect her."
And Sirius Gryffindor did not break promises.
"You're boring now."
Daenerys Targaryen stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him as he wiped sweat from his brow.
"I'm training," Sirius replied, raising an eyebrow.
"We used to explore," she shot back. "We used to climb rooftops and sneak into kitchens."
A faint smirk touched his lips. "You still can."
"But you don't," she said sharply.
For a moment, Sirius didn't respond. When he did, his tone was quieter, steadier.
"I have something more important to do."
Daenerys crossed her arms. "And I don't?"
He looked at her directly. "You're safe to do whatever you pleased."
That only made her more frustrated. "I don't want to be safe. I want to live."
Sirius understood what she meant—but understanding did not change his decision. And when it became clear he would not bend, Daenerys adapted.
If Sirius would not roam, she would.
With Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene at her side, the city became theirs. They walked through markets without guards, ate from street vendors, and laughed openly without fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention. No one stopped them. No one threatened them.
In Telmar, safety was not enforced through fear or authority. It simply existed, woven into the structure of the city itself.
Obara found her favorite place quickly—the fighting rings. They were not arenas of death, but controlled spaces where skill was tested and refined. Warriors fought to prove themselves, not to destroy one another.
Leaning over the railing, she watched two fighters circle below. "I want to fight," she said suddenly.
Nymeria snorted. "You always want to fight."
"And I always win."
A voice behind them interrupted. "Winning isn't everything."
They turned to see a tall man wrapped in furs, a wolf sitting calmly at his side. There was something in his gaze—something old, something sharp—that made him stand out immediately.
"What matters then?" Obara challenged.
"Control," he said simply.
"You're one of them," she said, nodding toward the wolf.
"A skinchanger," he confirmed.
"Teach me."
He laughed softly. "It doesn't work like that."
"I'll learn fast."
"Everyone says that."
"I mean it."
The wolf huffed quietly, as if amused by the exchange.
Obara leaned forward, her eyes bright. "I want to fly. Like Sirius."
That gave the man pause. "Fly?"
"He turns into a bird," she said eagerly.
The man studied her more carefully now. "That power is not a game. If you try and fail, you may lose yourself."
"I won't fail," Obara replied without hesitation.
After a long moment, he straightened. "We'll see."
Elsewhere in the city, Ellaria walked through one of Telmar's temples—not out of faith, but curiosity.
The walls were carved with stories etched into stone: Odin, Frigga, Thor, Loki. The carvings were detailed, alive in a way that felt more like memory than decoration.
The air inside was calm—not heavy with expectation, not demanding devotion.
Peaceful.
"I don't believe in gods," Ellaria murmured.
A nearby priest smiled gently. "You don't have to."
"Then why build all this?"
He gestured around the hall. "Because people need something to believe in. And here, they choose what that is."
Ellaria considered that. There were no rigid rules here, no demands for devotion, no fear of punishment. Faith was not enforced.
It was chosen.
And that, she realized, was more powerful than anything she had seen before.
She explored the rest of the city with equal curiosity. The bathhouses were warm, clean, and luxurious without excess. The clothing was well-crafted and practical, yet beautiful. The food was rich and plentiful.
Everything had quality.
Everything felt earned.
But there were two things she could not achieve—and that irritated her.
The first was Lyanna Gryffindor.
Ellaria had tried everything: charm, suggestion, subtlety, even direct temptation. One evening, she had leaned close and said softly, "You're alone. Your king is far away."
Lyanna had met her gaze without hesitation. "I am not alone."
A pause.
"I carry his child."
That ended it. Not because Ellaria could not continue—but because she understood. That kind of loyalty was not something she could break.
The second frustration was Rhaella Targaryen and her secret.
Ellaria had tried to uncover it in every way she could think of. Casual questions, indirect hints, even using Daenerys.
"Do you know who it is?" she had asked lightly.
"Know what?" Daenerys replied, genuinely confused.
"The father."
"I don't know."
There had been no deception.
Which made it worse.
No one knew—not the servants, not the guards, not even Daenerys herself. And Rhaella had grown tired of the questions.
"Enough," she said one evening, her voice firm in a way Ellaria had not heard before.
"You must understand the curiosity," Ellaria replied.
"I understand it," Rhaella said. "I simply do not care for it."
Ellaria studied her carefully. There was no fear in her expression, no shame—only quiet certainty.
"You're happy here," Ellaria said slowly.
Rhaella smiled faintly. "Yes."
That answer ended the conversation.
Because it was the truth.
And in Telmar, truth did not need justification.
It simply was.
The first letter from Oberyn Martell arrived by owl in the early afternoon, carried cleanly across the skies of Telmar without delay or interference.
It was delivered directly into Ellaria's hands.
In Narnia, letters were not opened by servants, not inspected by guards, not filtered through layers of authority. Even when something might be important, even when it could concern the safety of the realm, people did not violate what belonged to another. It was not law that enforced this—it was custom. Respect. A simple rule taught early and followed without question.
Ellaria turned the parchment over once before opening it, her fingers brushing lightly across the fold. There was no disturbance, no sign of tampering. She slipped a small piece of parchment hidden within the seal loose and checked its placement.
Exactly where it should be.
Exactly as Oberyn always left it.
No one had touched it.
A faint smile curved her lips as she unfolded the letter and began to read.
Oberyn wrote that the king—Rhaegar Targaryen—had departed for the Iron Islands by sea. His intention was not war, at least not yet, but negotiation. He meant to meet the commander, Jorund, face to face and attempt a peaceful resolution before conflict could fully take root.
Ellaria's expression shifted slightly as she read further.
Rhaegar believed he could find a solution.
He believed he could appease Harry Gryffindor.
There was confidence in that belief—perhaps too much.
At the end of the letter, Oberyn had added a smaller note, almost an afterthought, but written in his usual sharp tone.
Do not let the girls waste their time wandering.
Enroll them in the school.
Let them learn everything they can.
In Narnia, education was not reserved for boys. Women were taught. Commoners were taught. Knowledge was not hoarded—it was shared. It was one of the few places in the world where birth did not decide who was allowed to learn.
Lyanna Gryffindor was already busy when Ellaria found her.
Scrolls were spread across a long wooden table, weighed down by inkpots and small stones. Ledgers lay open, numbers filling page after page. The room carried the quiet intensity of work that did not pause simply because the king was away.
Lyanna did not look up immediately when Ellaria entered.
"If you came here to seduce me again," she said flatly, "I have work to do."
Ellaria laughed softly. "Not today."
She stepped forward and placed the letter on the table.
"I come with news."
That was enough to make Lyanna pause. She reached for the parchment, her expression sharpening slightly as she read through Oberyn's words.
Ellaria watched her carefully.
"What do you think?" she asked once Lyanna finished.
Lyanna folded the letter and set it aside without hesitation. "Nothing," she said.
Ellaria raised an eyebrow.
"For now," Lyanna clarified. "We wait."
Then she gestured toward the door.
"You can take your daughters to the school," she added. "They'll help you enroll them based on their abilities."
"Sirius and Daenerys are already learning," Lyanna continued. "Not always in the same way, but they are."
It was true. Sirius did not attend regularly, his training taking precedence over structured lessons. But Daenerys and many others had already begun their education.
"They won't be alone," Lyanna finished.
Ellaria nodded slowly.
"That will please Oberyn."
Without another word, she turned and left.
Lyanna returned to her work almost immediately.
There was too much to do.
Shipments had to be prepared for the new capital in Essos. Supplies needed to be sent across the sea, organized, accounted for, and distributed properly. Andalos required timber—large quantities of it—and the logistics alone demanded constant attention.
She was still working when Rhaella Targaryen entered the room.
"Lyanna," she said gently.
Lyanna looked up, her expression softening slightly.
Rhaella had been in Telmar only a few months, but in that time she had grown close to her. There was a quiet understanding between them, strengthened by something neither of them had expected.
They were both carrying children.
And in that shared experience, they had found something like trust.
"Perfect timing," Lyanna said, setting her quill aside. "I was hoping to come to you."
Rhaella smiled faintly. "For what?"
"I need help organizing food shipments to Andalos," Lyanna replied. "I want it done properly."
Rhaella stepped closer without hesitation. "Then let's do it properly."
In Westeros, Rhaella had been a queen—and yet her opinions had never mattered. She had been heard, perhaps, but never truly listened to. Her intelligence, her insight, had been overlooked because of what she was.
A woman.
Here, that meant nothing.
Here, her thoughts had weight.
They worked side by side for a while, quietly organizing lists, adjusting quantities, correcting errors. It was efficient, seamless in a way that spoke of two minds working toward the same goal.
After some time, Rhaella spoke again.
"Why didn't you ever ask me?"
Lyanna glanced up. "Ask what?"
Rhaella hesitated only briefly.
"Who the father is," she said.
The question hung between them.
Lyanna didn't answer immediately. Instead, she set her quill down and met Rhaella's gaze directly.
"Because it's your secret," she said simply.
Rhaella's expression shifted slightly.
"You came here for safety," Lyanna continued. "From rumors, from enemies, from judgment. It wouldn't be right for me to take that from you."
Rhaella shook her head slowly.
"That's not why I came here."
Lyanna studied her.
"In Westeros," Rhaella went on, "it would have been difficult. For my son. For both of us."
She paused, her hand moving instinctively to rest against her stomach.
"But I could have gone anywhere. The Free Cities would have welcomed me. The Targaryen name alone would have given me comfort, luxury, protection."
Lyanna's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Then why come here?"
Rhaella was silent for a moment.
Then she looked down at her growing tummy.
At the child she carried.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer—but steadier than it had ever been.
"Because this is your sibling."
Lyanna froze.
Rhaella lifted her gaze, meeting her eyes fully now.
"Your father is the father of my child."
For a moment, there was no sound in the room.
Just the weight of what had been said.
And Lyanna—
Didn't know what to say.
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