The morning sun rise over Gryffindor Castle, spilling pale gold through the high glass windows, when Harry Gryffindor stepped into the chamber where Queen Elia Martell lay.
The room smelled faintly of herbal steam—the Narnians' lesser healing draughts had eased her fever through the night, but the illness still clung to her like a shadow.
Elia lay propped on soft pillows, her face thin, her breaths shallow but steady. Oberyn Martell sat beside her bed with a hand over hers, pacing in thought every few minutes. Ser Lewyn stood by the window, stern and worried.
When Harry entered, they straightened immediately.
Elia whispered, her voice weak but clear,
"Thank you… for seeing me at once, Your Grace."
Harry gave her the small smile that made him look unexpectedly gentle for a man who could fight twenty armed warriors at dawn.
"You need no thanks, my lady. Your life matters. To your children… and to the world that loves you."
Oberyn exhaled shakily, as if those simple words eased a thousand unspoken burdens.
Harry moved to the bedside, pulling off his outer cloak and rolling up his sleeves.
"First, I must understand the nature of your illness completely. I will use diagnostic spells—don't be alarmed."
Elia nodded; Lewyn stepped closer, watching cautiously.
Harry lifted his wand.
"Revelio Vitalis."
A soft, emerald light spread across Elia's chest, forming a shimmering outline of her lungs—tiny, delicate, underdeveloped. The green glow flickered faintly around the damaged tissues. Oberyn inhaled sharply.
He murmured. "She was born weak."
Harry nodded solemnly.
"Yes. The maesters did their best, but this is a congenital issue. The lung tissue never matured. Every illness you suffered—every fever, every cold—damaged what little strength your lungs had."
Elia closed her eyes. "I… always knew something was wrong. Since childhood…"
Harry continued softly, "But it can be healed."
Lewyn's head snapped toward him. "Truly?"
"Yes," Harry said. "But not with medicines. I do not have the ingredients here. I will need to perform a ritual—an ancient one, from the Black family grimoires."
Oberyn frowned slightly. "Black?"
Harry nodded. "They were wizards once—true sorcerers. Their rituals are complicated, but I spent years studying them."
Oberyn chuckled dryly. "I have thousand question to ask you after you heal my sister."
Harry smiled for a moment, then turned serious again.
Harry summoned a book from across the room with a flick of his wrist. Another—and another—lifted themselves from the shelves lining the walls.
Old, leather-bound grimoires drifted and stacked themselves on the table like obedient birds.
Oberyn blinked.
"Gods… the stories about Narnian magic were not exaggerated."
Lewyn whispered, awed,
"This is beyond anything the Citadel ever dreamed."
Harry ignored the compliments. He was already absorbed in the texts, flipping through pages filled with ancient runes, diagrams of lungs, human silhouettes marked with energy pathways.
Lyanna entered quietly, Sirius peeking around her leg. They said nothing—just watched Harry work, his brow furrowed, lips silently mouthing old words.
At last, he found what he needed.
His finger traced a symbol of three intersecting spirals.
"Here. The Ritual of Renewed Breath. It was used to rebuild damaged organs. Mostly for battlefield injuries, but it works for congenital deformities too."
Elia murmured, "Is it dangerous?"
Harry shook his head. "Not dangerous. But painful. And exhausting—for both of us."
Sirius frowned in worry.
"Father… will it hurt you?"
Harry ruffled his son's hair.
"I'll be fine, pup. But it will take time."
Lyanna stepped forward, placing a hand on Elia's shoulder.
"We are ready whenever you are."
Elia swallowed, eyes brimming.
"If this… if this succeeds, I will owe you more than life."
Harry shook his head gently.
"You owe me nothing. Healing is not a debt—it is a gift. And gifts are given freely."
Oberyn whispered under his breath,
"Seven save me… I am beginning to see why the people of this land follows him like a god."
Harry stood and called out,
"Branwen! Maros! Fetch warm water, towels, and the silver bowl from the shrine room. And bring the stabilizing runes from the healer's vault."
The two Narnians bowed and rushed off.
He turned back to the Martells.
"I will begin at sunset. The ritual's power is strongest when night and day meet. Until then, Elia should rest. You may stay with her."
Oberyn bowed deeply.
"We will. And… Your Grace—"
Harry looked at him.
"If you succeed… House Martell owes Narnia a debt beyond measure."
Harry raised a brow.
"Then repay it by ensuring peace. That is all I ask."
Lewyn inclined his head.
"You may have just gained Dorne's eternal loyalty."
Harry only smiled and said,
"Let's focus on saving Queen Elia first."
Lyanna watched him from the doorway.
"Are you sure you can handle it alone?"
Harry smiled gently. "I've handled worse."
She stepped forward, placing her hand on his cheek.
"You always do."
He kissed her palm softly.
"Stay with Elia. She'll need comfort before the ritual begins."
Lyanna nodded and left.
Sirius stayed behind a moment longer, eyes wide and worried.
"Father… will the ritual make you tired?"
"A little," Harry admitted.
"Then I'll stay awake tonight," Sirius declared bravely. "I'll watch over you."
Harry laughed softly, pulling him into a hug.
"You are just like your mother. Too brave for your own good."
Sirius grinned.
"And too stubborn."
"That too."
The Temple of Frigga had never been so full.
By midday, word had spread across Telmar and the surrounding lands:
the Queen of Westeros was dying,
and the Goddess Frigga would heal her with divine power.
Every street leading to the temple was clogged with Narnians—shamans wrapped in furs and runic beads, townsfolk carrying offerings, nobles eager to witness a wonder, mothers holding children in their arms. The temple itself—vast, built with white stone carved as if by giants—glowed with soft golden fire from hundreds of glass lamps.
Harry watched all of this from the temple's rear antechamber.
He could have done the ritual in the sealed purity of the Gryffindor Castle's ritual hall.
But this—this spectacle—was deliberate.
Let them see wonders, Harry had told Lyanna.
Let them believe their gods are watching. People who believe are easier to guide… and easier to unite.
He stepped forward into the temple, and silence rolled outward like a wave.
The altar of Frigga was a raised dais of pale marble veined with gold—the oldest stone in Telmar, blessed by shamans of the Wild Lands and keepers of the old runes.
Harry had already prepared it personally.
A circle of runes—far older than Narnia, far older than the First Men—glowed faintly on the altar floor. Nine rings of symbols intertwined and overlapped, each painted with mixtures of crushed gemstones and his own blood. The entire ritual space pulsed with a low hum, like a living heartbeat.
A white mare, calm and beautiful, was tethered near the outer ring.
Animal sacrifice was rare in Narnia, but when divine rituals required a life to empower healing, the people accepted it as holy duty.
Beyond the circle, Frigga's great statue—tall as a small tower—watched over them all with serene carved eyes. Her hands were raised in eternal blessing.
This was the perfect stage.
When the temple bell chimed, Oberyn Martell entered carrying his sister in his arms.
Elia looked frail, paler than moonlight, but her eyes were awake—filled with a mixture of fear and desperate hope.
Behind him strode Ser Lewyn Martell, rigid and protective, his gaze scanning the temple full of strangers.
The crowd parted in reverent silence.
Harry guided Oberyn with a nod.
"Place her in the center of the circle. Carefully."
Oberyn lowered her gently onto the altar, whispering in High Valyrian,
"My sister… be strong. I am here."
Elia looked up at Harry.
"Will it hurt?"
Harry did not lie.
"Yes."
She swallowed. "Then I am ready."
Harry stepped into the first ring of runes. Immediately the circles flared alive, lines of light racing around the altar like veins filling with fire.
A shiver of awe filtered through the crowd.
The head shaman raised his voice:
"Frigga, All-Mother, hear the plea of your children!"
Others joined him, chanting, praying, bowing.
Harry's voice rose above them all, chanting in a language that did not belong to Narnia nor to Westeros—ancient, rough, harsh as grinding stone and yet beautiful.
The runes brightened.
Then moved.
The first ring rotated clockwise.
The second counterclockwise.
The third lifted slightly from the ground as though supported by invisible hands.
Elia gasped as her body rose an inch above the stone, suspended by magic alone.
Oberyn took a step forward, grabbing his dagger in panic.
Lewyn caught him.
"Stop! You fool—this is how sorcery works!"
"She's screaming!" Oberyn hissed.
Indeed she was.
Because the healing had begun.
Harry lifted both hands, chanting faster, the words rolling like thunder:
"Árviðr—sálviðr—endurnýja!"
Light poured from his palms into the circles, and from the circles into Elia's chest.
Her back arched as if pulled by invisible strings.
Her scream echoed through the temple.
Not the scream of fear—
the scream of organs being remade.
The crowd gasped, prayed, cried.
Children hid behind parents.
Warriors gripped the hilts of their blades.
Shamans murmured in awe as the circles spun faster, glowing blinding white.
Harry felt the ritual turn toward him—
burning inside him,
pulling blood, breath, magic, life.
His knees shook.
Pain tore down his spine.
He tasted iron.
But he did not stop.
At the height of the ritual, when the circle's glow was brightest, the head shaman stepped forward with the sacrificial blade.
A swift, merciful motion—
the horse fell, its life flooding into the circle like liquid sunlight.
Elia convulsed.
Harry nearly collapsed, but forced himself upright.
The temple filled with a roar of power, a sound like a storm being born.
Oberyn shouted, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HER?!"
Lyanna grabbed his arm.
"Saving her life! LOOK!"
Suddenly Elia's scream cut off—as if an unseen hand had gripped her throat.
Her eyes flew open, glowing faint gold for an instant.
Harry's chant reached its final crescendo.
He pressed both palms down toward her chest and shouted a last command:
"LÍF—VINDR—ANDA!"
Life—Wind—Breath!
A shockwave burst outward, shattering the lamps nearest the altar.
The crowd fell to their knees as if struck by divine presence.
The runes flared—
then dissolved into silver dust.
Elia collapsed back onto the marble, chest rising and falling smoothly.
Breathing deeply.
Evenly.
Strongly.
For the first time in her life.
Oberyn rushed to his sister.
"Elia? Elia—speak to me—"
She opened her eyes.
Not weak, not trembling—
but bright.
"Oberyn… I am alright."
The temple exploded in cries of joy, prayers, and chants to Frigga.
Women sobbed.
Men bowed.
Shamans raised their arms to the heavens.
The moment the ritual light died and the last flecks of silver dust faded into the temple air, Elia Martell slumped backward onto the altar, chest rising in slow, deep breaths. Her eyelashes fluttered, but her eyes did not open.
Harry had told them to expect this—had warned that her body would need time to accept what had been done to it. Her old lungs had been burned away by divine fire. The new ones—whole, complete, perfect—would need hours, perhaps days, to root themselves into her spirit.
Oberyn Martell knelt beside her, brushing a trembling hand across her brow. "She sleeps," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
But before he could speak another word, a collective gasp tore through the hall.
Harry swayed.
His eyes rolled back.
And he collapsed, striking the stone floor with a heavy thud.
Lyanna reached him first, dropping to her knees, gathering his head in her lap. "Harry!" she cried, voice cracking in front of the stunned crowd. She turned him gently, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face. "Harry, wake up—Harry—"
But his breath was steady. His pulse strong. His magic exhausted.
Lyanna exhaled shakily, relief softening her shoulders. "He told me this would happen," she murmured, loud enough for the nearest shamans and the counselors of Narnia to hear. "He warned me he might sleep two to three days. His magic must recover."
A wave of murmured prayers passed through the crowd. Hands pressed to hearts, heads bowed in reverence.
It was not panic in their faces now.
It was reverence.
Faith.
And triumph.
"What of the horse?" one of the elder shamans asked, wiping his forehead. "It has served the goddess. Its body must be honored."
The priestesses moved immediately. They approached the fallen mare—the sacrifice—and whispered blessings over its mane. Then, with blindingly sharp ceremonial blades, they began to portion the sacred animal, carving small crescent-shaped pieces of pale meat.
A line formed.
Men and women who had come at dawn to witness the ritual pressed forward, hands cupped as the shamaness blessed each slice before placing it into their palms. The meat shimmered faintly, warm even in the cool temple air.
"Regeneration," an old shaman whispered. "Its life touched the goddess's light. The sick will be healed. The weak strengthened. The children protected."
Cries of gratitude broke out one by one. People wept openly as they received the blessed offering, whispering vows to Frigga, thanking Harry, swearing devotion to their kingdom.
A mother kissed her child's head.
An old man held his slice to his forehead as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Even warriors bowed their heads.
Oberyn watched it all with wide, stunned eyes, still clutching Elia's limp hand. "This… this kingdom," he breathed, hardly daring to speak, "is unlike anything in our world."
"It is," Lyanna answered softly, lifting Harry's unconscious form into her arms with surprising strength. His head rested against her shoulder, his arm draped across her back. "And now you understand why I never returned to Westeros."
Oberyn looked up sharply.
For the first time, he truly saw her—not as the runaway Stark girl, but as a queen built of confidence, discipline, love, and absolute conviction.
"I see," he murmured.
Lyanna gave him a small, tired smile. "Come. Take your sister. We must return to the castle."
Two skinchangers approached—tall warriors with runes painted across their forearms, each accompanied by a large animal. They lifted Harry from Lyanna gently, carrying him with utmost care as though he were both precious and fragile. Another pair moved toward Elia, helping Oberyn lift her into his arms.
Lewyn Martell followed closely, one hand always on the hilt of his sword, though even he seemed shaken by the divine spectacle he had witnessed.
The crowd parted as they left the temple.
Some bowed deep.
Some pressed their palms to their hearts.
Some followed in silence, reverence on every face.
The walk back to Gryffindor Castle felt like a procession.
Lantern light glowed softly along the stone paths. The night wind carried the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat from faraway homes. Children peered from windows, pointing excitedly at the approaching group.
Lyanna walked ahead, her chin high, her eyes hard with purpose. Behind her, the skinchangers carried Harry—unmoving, pale from exhaustion but peaceful. And Oberyn held his sister protectively, checking her breath every few steps even though it remained steady and strong.
When they reached the great doors, the castle guards bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," one of them said to Lyanna,
Lyanna commanded. "Prepare a chamber. Cool water, fresh linens, and keep the room quiet. He must rest."
"And the foreign queen?" another guard asked, glancing at Elia.
"Another chamber. Warm blankets. No drafts. Her body must not be shocked during recovery."
The guards rushed.
Moments later, Harry was gently placed onto the king's bed, his breathing slow and even. Lyanna tucked the furs around him, brushing her thumb along his cheek before whispering in his ear:
"You saved her life. Now rest. Narnia needs you—but only when you wake."
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