Brandon Stark stood against the ship's railing, feeling the cool sea spray on his face as the vessel sliced through the waves. He observed the sailors—both men and women—navigate the deck with remarkable skill, tying knots, adjusting sails, and issuing crisp commands.
Initially, he had been taken aback. In Westeros, women aboard a ship were deemed unlucky. However, in this place, they shouted orders, scaled rigging, and even wielded spears without any complaints from the men. They worked together harmoniously, like a familial crew of the sea.
Brandon frowned, muttering to himself. "In Winterfell, half of these women would have been mocked. Yet here, they are practically captains."
His wife's soft voice came from behind him. "You see it as well, don't you?"
Startled, Brandon turned to find Barbara awake, wrapped in a warm fur cloak gifted by a sailor. Though her face was pale from the journey, her eyes sparkled with life. "At first, I thought we were doomed. Taken from our bed and thrust into the ocean… but these women, Brandon. They have families here. They speak of their homes with pride, not fear."
Brandon blinked in surprise. "You've spoken to them?"
Barbara nodded. "They claim that no woman goes hungry here, and no husband can beat his wife without facing consequences. Even a widow can own land if she tends to it. Can you imagine such a thing? In Westeros, we are merely daughters, wives, or widows for sale to the highest bidder. Here, they are treated as equals."
A low whistle escaped Brandon. "Seven save us. A place where women are free and independent… Lyanna would've loved it."
He listened as the crew sang while working, their voices merging in an intriguing blend. Some words were from the Common Tongue, while others flowed like Valyrian or sounded harsh like the Old Tongue. It was unlike anything he had experienced yet somehow felt right.
"Do you hear it?" Barbara asked, tilting her head. "It's a mix of three languages—Common, Valyrian, and Old Tongue."
Brandon nodded. "Indeed. They switch back and forth as effortlessly as breathing. These people aren't from one place; they come from everywhere."
He studied the diverse faces of the sailors—light-haired men with icy blue eyes, dark-skinned women adorned with beads, and copper-haired giants, all working side by side without disputes over race or background.
"That's the most remarkable thing," Brandon admitted. "Whether as pale as snow or dark as coal, they see themselves as one. In Westeros, we would kill each other for less."
In the nights that followed, Brandon and Barbara sat around the fire with the sailors, sharing food, drinking strong spirits, and listening to their stories.
They learned about Gnome City, the first Narnian settlement built from stone, and Telmar, the grand harbor city with paved streets, running drains, and the illustrious Gryffindor Castle. They even heard of Skane Port, where mountain goats and walruses were brought in by the hundreds.
Barbara leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with amazement. "It sounds like something out of a song. Even King's Landing lacks proper drains. Could it really exist?"
One of the sailor women grinned, revealing a gap in her teeth. "It's real enough. I gave birth to my first son in Telmar, and he sleeps in a loft more comfortable than any lord's hall down south. And he eats three meals a day."
Brandon felt a lump in his throat. "Three meals a day," he echoed softly. "Half the smallfolk in Winterfell barely eat that often."
That night, as Barbara lay beside him, Brandon stared at the wooden ceiling above their bunk. His mind was restless. He thought of his sister, Lyanna, who had been as wild as the northern wind and despised the thought of being tied to Robert Baratheon. She longed for freedom, adventure, and a life beyond being a pawn in their father's schemes.
Listening to the tales of Narnia, Brandon felt a profound truth resonate within him.
"She would have loved it," he whispered. "A realm where women fight, lead, and are treated as equals. Where even the poorest have work and food. Gods, Lyanna… if only you could see this."
Barbara stirred. "What do you mean?"
He turned to her, shadows crossing his face. "I mean… perhaps this is where we truly belong. Maybe we were destined to discover it."
Barbara clasped his hand tightly. "Then let us hope their Queen will accept us. If even half of what they say is true, I would happily leave Westeros behind."
Brandon fell silent, gazing out the window at the sea and the stars. He had no inkling that the Queen of Narnia, the very woman whose will had brought him from Volantis across the sea, was his sister—Lyanna Stark.
The sea breeze was calm when Brandon first heard it—a deep, resounding horn echoing from another Narnian ship. The crew immediately stiffened, their conversations dying down as they shifted into a practiced rhythm Brandon had never witnessed before.
"What's happening?" he asked, glancing at a nearby sailor.
The sailor was already donning his armor, not answering.
Brandon turned to the captain, a tall woman with weathered skin and a distinctive scar on her cheek. She appeared unflustered but commanded attention as she issued sharp orders.
"Pirates. Eight ships, headed north-east."
Brandon's throat went dry. "Pirates? By the gods…"
The captain briefly glanced at him before thrusting a breastplate into his hands. "Put that on. You won't have to fight, but no one stands defenseless on this deck when steel is drawn."
Brandon struggled to fasten the armor as he watched the crew don their gear with the discipline of seasoned fighters. Both men and women equipped themselves with swords, axes, and crossbows.
But it was the cannons that truly captivated his attention.
He followed the sailors below deck, curiosity driving him onward. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder. He witnessed Narnians rapidly jam black powder into massive iron tubes, followed by gleaming cannonballs.
One sailor grinned at his astonishment. "Never seen a cannon before, Stark?"
Brandon shook his head. "No… in Westeros, we fight with sword and bow. What are these things?"
The sailor chuckled. "The reason no pirate dares chase us twice."
Back on the deck, Brandon shielded his eyes against the sun. The pirate ships were closing in—eight black-sailed vessels slicing through the waves, their decks swarming with men armed with spears and bows, shouts echoing across the sea.
His heart raced. He had fought battles before but never like this—this felt entirely different.
The captain raised her hand. "Hold…"
As the pirates drew nearer, their hostile expressions became visible, crude weapons glinting in the light.
"Raise the cannons!" the captain commanded.
The sailors below deck complied, maneuvering the giant machines into position.
"Fire!"
The noise was deafening—a bone-shattering roar as the first cannon blasted off. Then another. And another. Smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder engulfed the air.
The nearest pirate ship was struck mid-hull, splintering like a child's toy and sending debris flying into the air, swallowed by the ocean. Another ship ignited, flames consuming it before its mast collapsed, men screaming as they fell into the water.
Brandon clung to the railing, incredulous. One by one, the pirate fleet was annihilated. Cannonballs tore through sails, smashed into ship planks, and cleaved vessels in two. In mere minutes, all eight were reduced to wreckage bobbing in the waves.
Silence returned to the sea, leaving only the calm voices of the Narnians.
Brandon turned to the captain, his face pale beneath his helm. "By the gods… why bother with swords and armor? Those—those cannons destroyed them before they got close!"
The captain smirked, adjusting her gauntlets. "Because this is training. Today it was pirates—fools in rotting ships. Tomorrow, it could be worse. We must always be prepared. If the cannons fail, or if the enemy is clever, we must still fight like warriors."
Brandon shook his head in disbelief. "In the North, we would fight all day for a victory like that. Yet you ended it in moments."
The captain's expression hardened, her voice low. "That is why Narnians dominate the seas now, Stark. Discipline. Order. We prepare, even when the enemy is powerless."
Brandon gazed at her and then at the serene waters where the pirate fleet had been just moments ago. He found himself at a loss for words. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to stand among people capable of transforming the nature of warfare.
As the northern winds howled across the deck, Brandon Stark leaned on the railing, gazing into the hazy horizon. With each passing mile north, the icy winds bit more fiercely at his skin. He tightened the fur cloak he had received. Even after years in Essos, the Northern blood coursing through him rejoiced at the familiar chill. For the first time in ages, he felt closer to home.
The Narnians moved about the deck with practiced confidence. The silken garments of Braavos and Pentos had long been stowed away, replaced with thick furs and sturdy boots. Even the women wore armor beneath their cloaks, blades shining when the wind pulled the fabric aside.
He repeatedly found himself watching a woman hauling a rope thicker than his arm, her strength matching that of any man's. A place where women could do what men do… Lyanna would have loved it, he thought, remembering his sister's fierce independence and the ache it brought to his heart.
Below decks, the ship was warm, almost unnaturally so. Barbara, heavy with child, spent much of her time there, laughing easily. He visited her often, but restlessness drove him back to the deck, where the biting wind and crashing waves reminded him of the North.
Days passed, and as they journeyed further north, the temperature dropped. Frost formed on the ropes and rails, with the sea turning into a vast expanse of ice stretching toward the horizon. Yet, the Narnian ship surged forward as if enchanted. Brandon suspected magic; how else could they traverse the frozen sea with such ease? Despite this, the lower decks remained warm, and Barbara was comfortable in the chill.
On one evening, Brandon leaned over the prow and asked, "Are we bound for Skane Port? I hear it's the nearest settlement."
The captain shook her head. "No. We will arrive at Telmar."
The name felt foreign on Brandon's tongue. Telmar. A city he had never heard of, built by people no one in Westeros even believed existed. His curiosity gnawed at him.
It took seven long days to reach their destination—seven cold days of biting winds and frozen waters. But when the fog finally cleared, Brandon gasped in awe.
The expansive ice of the sea melted into clear, shimmering water. Small boats dotted the bay, fishermen expertly casting their nets. Ahead rose a port city unlike anything Brandon had envisioned. Ten ships occupied the harbor, their sails furled, while dockworkers moved with meticulous efficiency along paved streets wide enough for wagons.
Barbara squeezed his hand, her eyes alive with wonder. "Brandon… it's stunning."
He could only nod, speechless.
They disembarked and strolled down the stone-paved road, where carriages clattered by, burdened with goods. Children played along the roadside, chasing after one another with wooden toys. The people wore clean, finely crafted clothing; their faces glowed with contentment, their movements intentional. Row houses three stories tall lined the streets, their stone construction so flawless it resembled solid blocks, while some buildings even sparkled with glass windows.
"There's no snow here," Barbara whispered. "How? Look—the air is warm, Brandon. Warm!"
He nodded grimly. Magic. There had to be no other explanation.
The captain offered them a carriage ride, but Barbara eagerly denied the offer. "No. I want to see everything. I wish to walk."
Brandon acquiesced, wanting to feel the stone beneath his feet and witness the city firsthand.
On a hill that loomed over the city stood Gryffindor Castle, its towers glinting in the light, its walls polished and gleaming. It was not the rugged stronghold of Winterfell but something altogether more elegant and commanding.
Approaching the open gates, Brandon noted the absence of guards or suspicious glances. Instead, a great bell tolled, announcing their arrival. He hesitated, feeling uneasy.
Suddenly, chaos erupted.
A boy burst out from the castle, food smeared across his face and bread gripped in his small fists. "I don't want anymore!" he shouted with laughter, as servants scrambled after him, trying to catch him. With surprising agility, the boy twisted, ducked, and slipped past them.
Brandon reacted on instinct, reaching down to scoop him up. The child wriggled, laughing, until a firm female voice called out through the clamor.
"That's it, Sirius! If you don't behave, you won't be allowed outside."
Brandon froze. That voice. He turned, heart racing, and there she was.
Lyanna Stark stood in the doorway, holding a steel plate, her expression tired but stern. Yet her eyes—the same fiery, proud eyes she always had—were unmistakable.
"Lyanna…" Brandon breathed, his voice cracking.
She stood in shocked silence, the plate slipping slightly from her grip. The boy continued to squirm in Brandon's arms, giggling, but neither sibling was aware.
They locked eyes, and in that moment, the years and distance between them faded away completely.
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