Chapter 124
The change did not come like a storm. There were no roaring winds, no thunder rolling across the skies to warn the people of what was coming. There was no single moment that could be pointed to and named as the beginning. Instead, it came quietly—so quietly that most of Narnia did not even realize it had begun.
At the docks of Telmar, life moved as it always had. Ships arrived with goods and news, and ships departed carrying both away again. Merchants shouted over one another, dockworkers hauled crates with practiced efficiency, and the scent of salt and timber lingered in the air. It was a place of constant motion, and so when ships began leaving more frequently, no one paid it much mind.
“Essos,” a merchant remarked one afternoon, watching another group of workers board a vessel. “Plenty of work there now.”
“Aye,” another replied with a shrug. “Good pay too, from what I hear.”
It made sense. Essos had already gained a reputation as a land of opportunity—a growing colony where roads were being carved out, where walls were rising stone by stone, and where merchants tested the waters of new trade routes. It was only natural that ships would carry people there. No one questioned it.
But the numbers continued to rise.
What began as a steady trickle soon became something far greater. Dozens turned to hundreds, and then hundreds to thousands. The docks grew busier, the departures more frequent, the ships larger and more organized. It was no longer a simple migration of workers seeking opportunity—it was something else, something larger, though few yet named it as such.
From the highest tower of Gryffindor Castle, Harry watched it all unfold.
Evening had settled over Telmar, the sky painted in deep gold and fading crimson as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Another fleet departed, their sails catching the wind in perfect unison. The ships moved with practiced precision, cutting through the water as though guided by a single will.
“They’re leaving faster than I expected,” Lyanna said beside him.
Harry nodded, his gaze following the fleet as it moved toward the horizon. “They’re ready.”
Lyanna turned slightly, studying him. “Or eager.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “There’s no difference.”
The truth was simple—Narnia had grown, and growth changed people.
There had been a time when survival was enough. Food, shelter, warmth—those were the pillars upon which life had rested. They had been hard-earned and fiercely protected, and for a long while, they had been all that mattered. But that time had passed.
Now, the streets of Telmar told a different story. Merchants spoke of spices from distant lands and fine cloth woven with care. Children walked to schools instead of fields, carrying books instead of tools.
Families discussed not whether they would eat, but what they would eat, and how it might be better than before. Clothing had become more than necessity, tools more than crude instruments, and comfort more than a fleeting luxury.
It was no accident.
Years earlier, during a council meeting that had stretched long into the night, Harry had set a rule that none had truly challenged.
“Food stays cheap,” he had said, his voice calm but unyielding.
Ragnar had leaned back slightly, raising a brow. “And the rest?”
“They earn it.”
That had been the end of it.
Basic necessities would always remain within reach. No one in Narnia would starve, and no one would freeze. But comfort, luxury, and progress—those would not be given freely. They would be earned through effort, through skill, through contribution. It was a simple rule, but it changed everything.
And the people had embraced it—not with reluctance, but with eagerness.
“They want more in life,” Lyanna said softly, her eyes still on the distant sea.
“They should,” Harry replied.
It had only taken one announcement to set everything in motion.
The call for builders had spread quickly, and the response had been immediate.
“I’ve worked on the roads!” one man had shouted at the registry hall, pushing forward through the crowd.
“I built part of the harbor!” another had insisted.
“We know stonework!” a group had declared together.
“We want to go!”
They came in numbers that surprised even those who had expected enthusiasm. They came with experience, with skill, and with a hunger that had nothing to do with survival. It was ambition, pure and simple.
Frostfang Village became the center of preparation. The mines, once steady and predictable, roared with renewed life. The sound of chisels striking stone echoed through the mountains as workers moved with disciplined precision. Blocks were cut, measured, and stacked with care, ready to be transported south.
Brandon Stark stood at the edge of the quarry, watching the organized chaos unfold before him. There was something almost exhilarating about it.
“This is madness,” Barbara muttered beside him, though her tone lacked any real disapproval.
Brandon smirked. “This is opportunity.”
Richard Stark crossed his arms, his expression more reserved. “You’re are very happy.”
Brandon glanced at him. “You’re not?”
Richard hesitated, then allowed himself a small grin. “Maybe a little.”
Frostshield had grown too quiet in recent years. Too comfortable. The routine had settled in, predictable and unchanging. For men like them, that kind of peace became its own kind of stagnation.
“This changes everything,” Brandon said.
“New land. New position,” Barbara added.
Brandon’s grin widened. “Exactly.”
When Harry approached them, the shift was immediate. Conversations stilled, attention sharpened.
“You’re leading this group,” Harry said without preamble.
Brandon straightened. “To Essos?”
“Yes.”
Barbara’s eyes lit with excitement. “Finally.”
Brandon nodded. “We won’t waste it.”
Harry studied them for a moment before continuing. “You won’t be building the capital immediately.”
Brandon frowned. “Then what?”
“Preparation. Ragnar is already there—farming, securing food.”
Barbara tilted her head. “And the city?”
Harry’s gaze sharpened slightly. “It will be built… properly.”
There would be no rushed construction, no chaotic growth. Every road, every structure, every wall would be planned.
He handed them a rolled set of designs. When Brandon unrolled them, even slightly, his expression changed.
Brandon’s voice lowered. “This is a capital.”
Harry nodded. “Follow the design. Exactly.”
Brandon rolled the plans carefully. “We will.”
The ships departed soon after, carrying not just workers, but a goal.
In Essos, Ragnar and his people did not wait for walls to rise. They worked the land first. Fields were marked and turned, water channels carved from the great river, and the soil tested and prepared.
“We grow food first,” Ragnar told them.
“What about houses?” a young man asked.
“We survive first,” Ragnar replied. “Then we build.”
The Skagosi adapted quickly, as they always had. Their great, stubborn beasts were put to work plowing and hauling, breaking ground where needed. The land responded well—rich, fertile, promising.
“This is better,” one farmer said, letting soil slip through his fingers.
Ragnar nodded. “Yes.”
They stayed away from where the capital would one day rise, waiting, preparing, ensuring that when the time came, they would be ready.
Back in Narnia, the rumors began to spread.
“They say the king is planning to move east.”
“I heard the land is warm.”
“Fields that grow all year…”
Travelers returning from Andalos brought stories. They spoke of fertile land, calm seas, and opportunities unlike anything in Narnia.
People listened. And they believed.
Sirius, however, had little interest in farming or trade.
“When do we go?” he asked again, pacing.
“When it’s ready,” Harry replied.
“It’s been months!”
Lyanna smirked. “You’ve waited longer for less.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Sirius gestured sharply. “Because there will be war.”
“War?” Harry raised a brow.
“Dothraki,” Sirius said with a grin.
Lyanna shook her head. “You’re too eager.”
“We’ve never had a real battle,” Sirius replied.
Harry studied him. “And you think that’s a bad thing?”
Sirius paused, then shook his head. “No. But this is better.”
Harry smirked slightly. “You just want a fight.”
“Maybe.”
Lyanna crossed her arms. “You are only seven.”
The truth spread through Narnia—not as an official decree, but as something understood.
They were leaving.
That night, Harry stood once more on the balcony, watching the dark horizon where the last ship had disappeared. Lyanna joined him in silence.
“It’s happening,” she said.
Harry nodded. “Yes.”
Below them, Telmar still lived. Lights flickered in windows, voices carried through the streets, and life moved as it always had.
But it was no longer still.
It was moving—piece by piece, life by life, stone by stone—toward something greater.
And soon, there would be no turning back.
In the weeks that followed, as ships continued to depart and the rhythm of Narnia shifted almost imperceptibly, another pattern began to form—one far quieter, yet no less significant.
Letters.
They came from every corner of Narnia.
From Frostshield, where the cold winds still ruled the settlement but no longer dictated the lives of its people. From Gnome City, where the earth itself seemed to hum with industry and invention. From Frostfang Village, where the mines roared day and night under the renewed hunger for stone.
And now—from Andalos.
Each letter carried with it progress, reports, requests, and sometimes concerns. Some were written in careful script, others hastily scrawled, ink still uneven where urgency had overtaken precision. But all of them reached the same place.
Harry.
Every morning and every night, stacks of parchment would arrive, delivered by owls, messengers, or enchanted means. And every time, no matter how many there were, Harry read them himself.
He did not pass them to scribes.
He read them.
Every word.
Lyanna had once asked him why.
“You could have others sort them,” she had said, watching as he unfolded yet another letter late into the night. “At least the minor ones.”
Harry had not looked up as he replied.
“There are no minor ones.”
That had been the end of it.
Not all matters came through parchment.
The most important discussions were held through enchanted mirrors—rare and carefully distributed artifacts that only a handful of trusted individuals possessed. Spies, commanders, key leaders—those who needed to speak not across distance, but across time itself.
The mirrors allowed no delay.
And through them, Ragnar called almost every day.
“You should see the progress we made today,” Ragnar said one evening, his image flickering to life within the glass. The light behind him was bright, the sky wide and open in a way Narnia never was.
Harry leaned back slightly in his chair. “You’ve said that every day.”
“And I’ll say it again tomorrow,” Ragnar replied with a grin. “The soil is rich. The rivers are fresh. We planted once, and it’s already taking root.”
Lyanna, who sat nearby, raised a brow. “You sound like you’ve forgotten the cold entirely.”
Ragnar laughed. “I don’t miss it.”
Harry studied the image for a moment. Behind Ragnar, workers moved steadily, fields already taking shape, water channels glinting under the sun.
“You’re ahead of schedule,” Harry said.
Ragnar nodded. “We are. But I keep thinking—should we expand further? There’s more land beyond the ridge. Good land.”
Harry was silent for a moment.
Then, calmly, “Secure what you have first. Expand later.”
Ragnar exhaled, nodding. “Aye. I thought you’d say that.”
Not all correspondence was so immediate.
Some letters traveled longer paths.
Viserys’ letters, for example, arrived tied carefully to the leg of a white owl—a gift from Lyanna before his departure.
They came irregularly, but when they did, they were impossible to ignore.
The first had been written from Pentos.
Harry still remembered the way the parchment had been filled from edge to edge, as though Viserys feared he might run out of space before saying everything he wished.
Pentos is unlike anything I imagined, the letter had begun. The streets are crowded, louder than Telmar, and the markets—Seven hells, the markets alone could feed a kingdom…
He wrote of merchants draped in silks, of towering estates, of magisters who ruled behind quiet smiles and hidden power. He described the smells, the noise, the overwhelming sense of a world far larger than anything he had known.
The second letter had come weeks later.
From the Summer Islands.
This one was different.
Lighter.
You were right, Viserys had written. There is more to the world than thrones and crowns.
He spoke of warm seas and endless horizons, of ships that seemed to glide rather than sail, and of people who laughed more easily than those in Westeros ever had. There was something in his words that had not been there before—something less burdened.
Something… unchained.
Harry had noticed it.
It was late one evening, as the candles burned low and the last of the day’s reports lay open before him, that another letter arrived.
This one was different.
There was no seal.
Only a name written carefully across the front.
Rhaella Targaryen.
Harry’s gaze lingered on it for a moment before he broke the seal.
Lyanna, seated across from him, noticed the shift in his expression.
“Something important?” she asked.
Harry did not answer immediately. Instead, he unfolded the letter slowly, his eyes scanning the words in silence.
Then—
“It’s from Rhaella” he said.
The letter had been written in careful, deliberate script, though there were signs where the hand had trembled—small imperfections that betrayed the weight behind the words.
She had written in secrecy.
That much was clear from the very beginning.
She did not waste time with formalities.
She wished to leave Westeros.
Harry’s expression did not change as he read, but Lyanna could see the tension in his eyes.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
“She’s pregnant,” Harry said.
Lyanna’s brows drew together. “But… her husband—”
“I know,” Harry finished.
There was a brief silence.
“And the father?” Lyanna asked.
Harry folded the letter slightly in his hand. “She doesn’t intend to say.”
Lyanna leaned back slowly, understanding dawning.
“And Westeros…” she murmured.
“They’ll tear her apart for it,” Harry said flatly. “Not with swords. With words.”
That, in many ways, was worse.
Rhaella had written it clearly.
If she stayed, the maesters would discover the truth. Secrets did not remain hidden in courts for long, and once it was known, it would spread faster than wildfire. The whispers would begin, then the laughter, then the judgment.
In Westeros, that was not merely scandal.
It was humiliation.
“She’s asking for asylum,” Harry said.
Lyanna was quiet for a moment.
“And her son?” she asked.
“She doesn’t want to tell him.”
Lyanna closed her eyes briefly. “That won’t last.”
“No,” Harry agreed. “But she’s not thinking about later. She’s thinking about escape.”
Another silence settled between them.
Then Lyanna spoke again, more softly this time.
“Daenerys…”
Harry’s gaze lowered slightly, thoughtful.
Daenerys had changed since coming to Narnia. She was happier—freer in ways she had never been in Westeros. She laughed more easily now, trained with other children, learned skills that had nothing to do with survival or fear.
But even so—
She missed her mother.
And now, with Viserys gone on his own path, that absence had only grown.
He unfolded the letter again, reading the final lines carefully.
Rahela’s request was simple.
Just a place where she would not be judged for what she carried.
Harry reached for a fresh piece of parchment.
“What will you say?” Lyanna asked.
Harry dipped the quill into ink, his voice steady.
“That she’s welcome.”
He wrote without hesitation.
You may come.
Board any ship bearing the mark of Narnia. You will be brought directly to the capital.
No questions will be asked of you that you do not wish to answer.
You will have your place here.
He paused briefly.
Then added one more line.
Your daughter misses you.
When he finished, he sealed the letter and set it aside.
Lyanna watched him for a moment before speaking.
“She’ll come,” she said.
Harry nodded.
“Yes.”
Outside, the night had settled fully over Telmar. The city was quieting, though not sleeping—not truly. Somewhere in the distance, ships were still being prepared, supplies loaded, futures decided.
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