Harry woke to the crackle of dying embers and the sharp, clean smell of mountain air creeping into the longhouse. For a moment he lay still, staring up at the darkened beams of the roof.
No laughter outside.
No soft sounds of bodies shifting beside one another.
The women were gone.
Around him, the massive guest quarters looked very different from the night before. Blankets were folded. Cups were stacked near the hearth. His companions—Ragnar, Jarl, Jorund, and the others—were awake, sitting or standing in low conversation. Every one of them looked… better. More alive.
Ragnar caught Harry's eye and gave a crooked smile.
"Seems the Thenn know how to treat guests," he muttered.
Jarl stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Or how to distract them."
Harry exhaled slowly, pushing himself upright. He felt no shame—only relief that the night had passed without bloodshed. Whatever customs the Thenn followed, they had honored guest right. That alone spoke volumes.
Before anyone could speak again, the heavy hide at the entrance was pulled aside.
Styr, Magnar of Thenn.
He was taller than most men, broad-shouldered, his hair braided and bound with bronze rings. His eyes were sharp and assessing, not hostile—but not welcoming either. Two elders flanked him, both wrapped in heavy cloaks, their faces lined by years of cold wind and harder choices.
"King of Narnia," Styr said, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "The elders are gathered. You will speak."
It was not a question.
Harry rose to his feet. "Then I will."
The elder hall of Thenn was carved into the mountainside itself, stone walls blackened by centuries of fire. A ring of elders sat on carved benches, men and women alike, each bearing symbols of age and authority—bronze torques, bone charms, scarred hands resting on spears.
Styr stood at the center. Harry was given no seat.
That, too, was a statement.
When the murmurs died down, Styr raised a hand.
"You came uninvited before, Harry Gryffindor," he said. "You spoke of unity. Of rules. Of another way of life."
A low rumble of agreement echoed through the elders.
"You were refused," Styr continued. "Why return?"
Harry met their gazes one by one. He did not soften his voice.
"Because this time," he said, "the North is coming."
The words landed like a hammer.
An elder woman leaned forward. "We know of the kneelers. They have come before."
"Yes," Harry said. "In raids. In patrols. This time, they come as an army.
Harry stepped forward, boots echoing against stone.
"Five thousand men crossed the Wall. More will follow. They do not come to claim land. They do not come to negotiate."
Styr's jaw tightened. "They come to kill."
"They come to end you," Harry said simply. "Forever."
Voices rose at once.
"We have fought the North before!"
"They freeze and bleed like any man!"
"The Thenn have never bowed!"
Harry raised a hand—not commanding, but steady.
"And when they win?" he asked. "What then?"
That stopped them.
"When the last spear breaks," Harry continued, "they will not leave children behind. They will not spare the old. They will not take hostages."
An elder spat on the floor. "You speak fear."
"I speak truth," Harry replied. "Because I've seen what happens when armies decide survival requires extinction."
Styr studied him for a long moment. "And what do you offer, King of Narnia?"
Harry did not hesitate.
"Sanctuary."
The word rippled through the hall.
"Not surrender," Harry said quickly. "Not submission. I am not asking Thenn to bend the knee."
That drew interest.
"I offer refuge," he continued. "Temporary. Your children. Your elders. Your women—any who choose—may stay in Narnia until this war is decided."
An elder scoffed. "And after?"
"If Thenn drive the North back," Harry said, "you return. Reunited with your kin. If you lose…"
He let the silence finish the sentence.
Styr spoke slowly. "You ask us to abandon our land."
"No," Harry said. "I ask you to save those who cannot fight."
Another elder, younger, scarred across one cheek, leaned forward. "And your price?"
Harry smiled faintly. "You live by rules already. You will follow ours while you stay. No feuds. No raids. No killing."
A pause.
Then Styr spoke again. "You do not demand we join Narnia."
"No."
"You do not demand we bend knee."
"No."
"And you expect us to trust your word alone."
Harry inclined his head. "I expect you to trust survival."
Styr turned to the elders. Low voices filled the hall—arguments, anger, fear, calculation.
At last, Styr raised his hand again.
"The Thenn will not flee like hunted animals," he said. "But neither will we sacrifice our young for pride."
He turned to Harry.
"We accept."
Relief moved through the hall—quiet, restrained, but real.
"The fighters will remain," Styr continued. "The old, the women who choose, the children… they go."
Harry nodded. "Great."
An elder frowned. "Moving such numbers will be seen by the kneelers."
"It would," Harry agreed. "Which is why you will not walk."
Murmurs of unease spread.
Harry reached into his cloak and drew out bundles of fur strips—simple, unassuming.
"These are portkeys," he said. "They will take you directly to Frostshield. Safe. Warm. Guarded."
Fear flashed openly now.
"Magic steals souls," someone whispered.
Harry's voice softened. "Magic saves lives. I swear it on my crown."
Styr watched him carefully. "You will go with them."
"Yes."
"And return?"
"Yes."
A long pause.
"Then it is done," Styr declared.
The valley of Thenn filled with quiet chaos.
Mothers clutched children. Elders leaned on staffs. Tears were shed without shame. Harry moved among them, activating portkeys one by one—bursts of light, gasps of fear, then empty space where families had stood moments before.
Frostshield received them all.
When the last child vanished, the valley felt… hollow.
Styr turned to his warriors. "Stand ready."
Harry met his gaze. "Fight hard. Win if you can."
"And if we fall?"
Harry's expression hardened. "Then your people will live."
As Harry and his men activated the final portkeys for themselves, leaving the Thenn warriors behind, Ragnar exhaled slowly.
"They'll fight like demons now," he said.
"Yes," Harry replied quietly. "Because now they have something worth surviving for."
The light swallowed them.
The world lurched.
For a heartbeat, there was no ground, no sky—only tearing sensation, like being pulled apart and stitched together in the same breath. When their feet struck stone again, the sound echoed sharply, and men and women staggered as if drunk.
Several fell to their knees.
Others retched.
Children cried, clutching at cloaks and skirts, terrified by the violent passage. Elders leaned heavily on those beside them, pale and shaking. Only one among them stood unmoved.
Harry Gryffindor.
He turned slowly, surveying the survivors of the journey, his expression calm, almost apologetic.
"Breathe," he said gently. "The sickness will pass."
Ragnar wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, swearing under his breath.
"I'll take a battlefield over that any day," he muttered.
An elder sat heavily on the stone paved road, head between his knees. "If this is magic," he groaned, "I hate it."
Before any of them could recover fully, a collective hush swept through the Thenn refugees.
They looked up.
And froze.
Before them rose Frostshield.
Stone cottages lined wide, clean streets, their walls solid and well-cut, smoke curling peacefully from chimneys. Massive watchtowers stood at intervals along a towering outer wall of stone reinforced with iron bands. The gates—iron-bound and heavy—loomed tall enough for giants to pass through.
And beyond it all, banners stirred gently in the cold air.
The iron gates began to open.
At first, slowly.
Then fully.
A horn sounded—not a war call, but a greeting.
Guards along the walls leaned forward, disbelief giving way to awe as they recognized who stood at the head of the procession.
"It's the King," someone shouted.
Harry stepped forward, his weirwood staff tapping softly against stone.
The gates parted completely.
The Thenns stared in silence.
They had heard stories.
Thenn warriors had climbed the Wall, returned with tales of stone castles and endless halls—but those were raider's boasts, half-drunken exaggerations told by firelight.
This?
This was beyond imagination.
A woman clutched her child closer, whispering, "This is… a city."
"It's warmer," an elder murmured in disbelief. "How is it warmer?"
Harry did not answer immediately. He gestured instead.
"Welcome to Frostshield," he said. "You are guests here."
The words carried weight.
They were led through the gates, guards parting respectfully. The air smelled of bread, smoke, and clean stone. Children stared openly. Some elders wept.
At the heart of the settlement stood a massive structure of carved stone and timber—the Great Temple of Odin.
It dominated the square, its pillars engraved with runes and scenes of battle, wisdom, and sacrifice.
"This is where you will eat," Harry said. "And where guest right will be honored."
At that, even the most suspicious among the Thenn relieved.
Guest right was sacred.
Inside, long tables had already been prepared.
Jorund stood near the central hearth, issuing orders with practiced authority.
"More bread on the left," he barked. "Warm broth first—slowly. Anyone who traveled sick, bring them water."
He looked up as Harry entered and inclined his head. "We're ready."
Food was placed before them—thick bread, stew rich with meat and herbs, warm drink that soothed the stomach. The first bites were cautious.
Then hunger won.
Children ate ravenously. Elders closed their eyes as warmth spread through aching bodies. The fear that had gripped them since leaving the valley began to loosen.
Harry watched quietly.
He knew this moment mattered.
If they learned comfort, safety, dignity—there would be no easy return to caves and hunger.
Among the refugees stood a woman of bearing and strength, her cloak marked with the bronze symbols of Thenn leadership. At her side was a boy, perhaps ten, dark-haired and sharp-eyed.
Harry approached them.
"You are the Magnar's kin," he said.
She nodded. "His woman. And his son."
The boy straightened at Harry's gaze.
"What is your name?" Harry asked gently.
"Sigmund," the boy replied, voice steady.
Harry smiled faintly.
He turned back to the woman. "You may stay here with your people," he said. "Or—if you wish—you may come to Telmar. To the capital."
She stiffened. "Why?"
Harry glanced at the boy. "My son is close to his age. Sirius. He would benefit from a friend who understands strength."
She was silent for a long moment.
"I must stay," she said finally. "My people will need me."
Harry nodded, accepting it.
"But Sigmund," she continued slowly. "He may go."
Sigmund's eyes widened.
"He must learn," she said firmly. "See this world and learn. So that when we return home… we could live like this."
Harry placed a hand over his heart. "He will be protected."
Sigmund swallowed, then lifted his chin.
"I will go," he said.
Harry smiled.
Outside, Frostshield settled into the rhythm of a city receiving refugees.
Harry did not linger in Frostshield.
He would have liked to—liked to see the Thenn children settle, to watch the elders grow accustomed to stone walls and steady warmth—but time was no longer a luxury he possessed. The North was moving. The world was shifting. And Telmar waited.
Sigmund followed him everywhere.
The boy moved like a shadow, quiet but attentive, his sharp eyes drinking in every detail. He asked questions endlessly—about the walls, the lamps, the gates, the way people spoke, the way no one carried a weapon inside the settlement.
"Why do the streets curve?" Sigmund asked as they passed a row of stone cottages.
"So wind does not rush straight through them," Harry answered without breaking stride. "Straight roads invite cold and enemies."
Sigmund nodded, filing it away.
His mother's words echoed in his mind: Learn everything.
When Harry told him they were leaving Frostshield, Sigmund did not protest. He only asked, "Will I see it again?"
"Yes," Harry said. "But you will see more first."
The Apparition was… unpleasant.
Sigmund had braced himself, but nothing could truly prepare him for the sensation of being folded through space. When they reappeared, he staggered, clutching at Harry's cloak, pale and sweating.
Harry steadied him immediately.
"Breathe. You're safe."
Sigmund swallowed hard. "I don't like magic."
Harry smiled faintly. "That's a healthy instinct."
Then Sigmund looked up.
And forgot his discomfort entirely.
Telmar rose before him like a dream carved from stone and light.
The streets were wide and clean, laid with pale stone that gleamed even under the overcast sky. Glass lamps lined the roads, glowing softly with flame. Horse-drawn carriages moved in orderly lines, their wheels silent on the stone. Stalls filled the market squares—bright cloth, metalwork, food steaming in the cold air.
Beyond it all, the harbor.
Massive ships rested in the water, their hulls carved with runes and symbols Sigmund had never seen before. Cranes moved effortlessly, lifting cargo as if it weighed nothing.
"This…" Sigmund whispered. "This is better than Frostshield."
Harry inclined his head. "This is the capital of Narnia."
When they entered Gryffindor Castle, the contrast struck even harder.
The servants froze when they saw Sigmund.
Not out of cruelty—but shock.
The boy's clothes were little more than layered furs and stitched hides, serviceable but ragged by Narnian standards. Within minutes, two servants approached Harry.
"We'll take his measurements, Your Grace."
Sigmund blinked. "Why?"
"So you don't freeze," one of them said kindly.
By the time Sigmund had finished gawking at the castle walls—carved with living scenes that shifted when you looked too long—they returned with proper clothing. Woolen trousers, a tunic woven from sheep's fur, a cloak clasped with simple bronze.
He barely recognized himself.
Then came the teeth.
Harry crouched in front of him, wand in hand.
"Hold still."
Sigmund flinched. "What are you—"
A brief flash of magic, warm and sharp.
Sigmund spat reflexively. "That tasted awful."
Harry grimaced. "Your teeth were worse."
The boy ran his tongue along them, eyes widening.
"They're smooth."
Harry straightened. "Hygiene matters. Strength rots without discipline."
Most Narnians had already adapted. Sigmund, Harry decided, would too.
Sirius found them in the inner courtyard.
He skidded to a halt when he saw Sigmund, eyes bright with curiosity.
"This is Sigmund," Harry said. "He's staying with us."
Sirius grinned instantly. "Do you fight?"
Sigmund hesitated, then nodded. "A little."
Sirius clapped his hands. "Good. Come on, I'll show you the towers."
Harry stopped them with a look.
"Sirius."
Sirius turned serious immediately.
"You are responsible for him," Harry said. "He may be older, but this is our home."
Sirius nodded solemnly. "I understand."
They ran off together moments later, already arguing about who would climb faster.
Lyanna was waiting.
She studied Sigmund as he left, then turned to Harry.
"You brought someone."
"I brought a future vassal," Harry replied.
Her gaze sharpened. "And the war?"
Harry sighed. "The Thenn warriors remain. My part there is done."
Lyanna folded her arms. "Eddard will not like that."
"He doesn't need to," Harry said calmly.
As if summoned by the words, a messenger arrived.
"Another ship is ready, Your Grace," he said. "Bound for Essos."
Harry nodded. "Load it quietly. Grain first. Salted meat second."
Lyanna's voice lowered. "Andalos?"
"Yes."
Brandon needed food. And secrecy.
The world was moving faster now.
And Harry was already planning two steps ahead.
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