The Free City of Braavos looked like a city submerged in water, its streets narrow canals and its buildings rising above shimmering channels, bridges strung between towers like threads of lace. From the sky, atop the invisible form of Winter, Harry was breathless. The sun glinted off the rooftops, and the deeper he gazed, the more intricate the city seemed. Braavos was a maze of beauty and elegance, unlike anything in Westeros. The salty wind whipped past him, and his eyes locked on the Titan of Braavos—an immense colossus standing guard at the mouth of the harbor, its raised sword seemingly splitting the clouds.
Even from such a height, the Titan inspired awe. Its massive stone limbs straddled the entrance to the lagoon, its eyes ever watchful. Harry had seen wonders in his life—castles built by magic, creatures of fire and shadow—but nothing made him blink like the Titan. It was a marvel of mortal hands, not magic, and that impressed him even more.
Winter flew silently, gliding above the scattered clouds. When Harry found a thick patch of forest and rocky shoreline outside the city limits, he gave the command through thought, and the great white dragon descended, its wings stirring the sea-spray and pine boughs. When Winter's claws touched down, Harry slid from the saddle with practiced ease. The dragon remained invisible, crouching low behind a thicket of trees and mist, letting out a low, rumbling breath as if to say, Hurry.
"I'll be back before sunset," Harry whispered, placing a hand on Winter's neck. "Stay hidden. If anyone comes near, vanish into the sea."
The dragon huffed, its golden-slit eyes blinking once, slowly.
Harry removed his fur-lined cloak, now far too warm for the coastal humidity. He reached into his enchanted satchel and drew out a fine outfit of Essosi silk—deep blue robes trimmed with silver, light boots suited for cobblestones and boat decks, and a thin traveling sash woven with protective runes in the thread. He took a moment to adjust his hair, now longer than it had been when he first left his world, and wiped the travel dust from his face using a conjured cloth.
With a sigh and a sense of quiet anticipation, Harry began the slow walk toward Braavos. The road was quiet, lined with olive trees and flowering bushes, the sea always to his right. Seabirds cried overhead, and the air smelled of salt and spice. He could already see the domes and towers of the city rising over the water, and the sound of distant bells carried faintly on the wind.
As Harry approached the great gates of Braavos on foot, he was immediately met with scrutiny by the guards stationed at the entryway. The gatekeeper, a tall, weatherworn man with a halberd and a chainmail vest glinting under the sun, squinted at Harry with disinterest. Travelers passed through all day—noblemen in polished carriages with armored escorts, foreign merchants boasting fine cloaks and guarded by sellswords, and even temple emissaries robed in the hues of their gods. Harry, dressed well but walking alone and unannounced, barely warranted a glance.
The gatekeeper stepped forward with a grunt. "Entry fee. Two silver moons," he said, holding out a gloved hand.
Harry raised a brow but did not protest. Causing a scene at the gates would do nothing but delay him, and besides, he had enough wealth hidden in the depths of his enchanted trunk to buy half the street if he wished. He reached into his coin pouch and handed over the fee without a word. The guard inspected the coins briefly, grunted again in approval, and waved him through.
Inside the city, Harry was immediately swept up in the breathtaking beauty and chaotic energy of Braavos. Stone bridges curved over sparkling canals, gondoliers called out to pedestrians, and domed rooftops gleamed under the sun. The streets bustled with richly dressed merchants, masked courtesans from the Moon Pool, sellswords advertising their steel, and children darting through narrow alleys. The scent of spice, sea, and fresh bread mingled in the air, and every turn revealed something new—painted walls, hanging lanterns, minstrels playing flutes beside the canals.
Realizing quickly that the city was far too large to explore on foot, Harry found a stable and purchased a sturdy Braavosi horse—a strong gelding with sleek gray fur and a steady pace. With saddle bags enchanted to lighten the load, he mounted and began his slow, curious exploration of the free city.
His ride eventually brought him to a modest-looking bookstore nestled between a tailor's shop and a perfume vendor. The sign above the door read "The Quill and Lantern." It was not much to look at—no glass windows or elaborate decorations—but something about it tugged at Harry's curiosity. He dismounted and stepped inside.
The scent of old parchment and lamp oil filled the narrow space. Shelves made of dark oak lined the walls, filled with only a few dozen volumes. In total, the store couldn't have held more than fifty books.
Behind the counter stood an older Braavosi man with graying hair and intelligent eyes. He eyed Harry with mild suspicion and curiosity.
"Looking for something specific?" the man asked, his Common tongue tinged with the musical accent of the city.
Harry shook his head, stepping deeper into the room. "No. I'm buying everything."
The man blinked. "Everything?"
"All of it."
The bookseller laughed, thinking it a jest. "That would cost you a thousand gold coins, at least. These aren't common stories for children. Each book is copied by hand. Ink, vellum, labor—it all adds up."
Harry gave a small smile and reached into his enchanted pouch. "What if," he said slowly, "instead of gold, I offered you something better?"
The man narrowed his eyes. "Better?"
Harry pulled one book from the shelf—an old history of the Rhoynar wars—and held it in his palm. With a flick of his wand and a whispered incantation, the book shimmered. One became two. The two became four. And in moments, twenty-one identical copies of the same book lay stacked before them.
"They're permanent," Harry explained, watching the stunned silence on the man's face. "Indistinguishable from the original. They won't rot. They won't fade. They'll last for generations."
The bookseller stood frozen, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief.
"You can keep the originals," Harry continued. "And I'll take one of each copy."
The man staggered back a step, then suddenly rushed forward, examining the books, touching the pages as though expecting them to crumble or vanish. "This is... This is sorcery," he muttered.
"Magic," Harry corrected gently. "And a gift."
The man looked up at him, emotion trembling on his face—fear, awe, and joy all at once. "Who are you?" he whispered.
Harry smiled faintly. "Just a traveler looking to learn."
The bookseller bowed, not out of obligation, but reverence. "Then, my friend, you are welcome here any time. My name is Orlino. And you have just made me the richest bookkeeper in Braavos. No—perhaps in all Essos."
And from that moment forward, Orlino became more than a merchant. Like many before him, he saw in Harry something more than man—powerful, mysterious, and perhaps fated for something greater. And so, he became the first friend Harry made in Braavos.
As the final copy settled softly onto the counter, Orlino let out a long breath and shook his head, still reeling from the marvel he had just witnessed. Books that would have taken scribes weeks or months to replicate had multiplied before his eyes in mere seconds. With trembling hands, he latched the front door of The Quill and Lantern and flipped the sign to Closed.
"Enough commerce for one day," he said with a grin, already rolling down the awning. "You've done more for me in a minute than any patron in a decade. Now, friend, let me return the favor."
Harry raised a brow, amused. "You're closing shop?"
Orlino waved it off. "The books will be there tomorrow. But a sorcerer who can turn parchment into gold? That's rare. And I know Braavos like the lines on my own palm. Let me guide you."
Harry smiled faintly. He could already tell that Orlino's motivation wasn't only gratitude—it was opportunity. It was always wise to be on good terms with a sorcerer, and Orlino, to his credit, wasn't hiding that. But Harry didn't mind. He needed someone like this. Someone who could show him the hidden doors behind the gilded ones.
They began their walk through the heart of Braavos. Orlino, now in better spirits and walking like a man ten years younger, pointed out every important guildhouse, artisan quarter, and known den of thieves with a mixture of flair and caution.
"Don't let the silks fool you," Orlino whispered, gesturing to a group of jewel-cloaked merchants laughing near a wine house. "Some of those men have fingers longer than their ledgers. You flash too much coin there, and your purse will be empty before your glass is."
"I'm not worried," Harry replied calmly, his green eyes scanning the crowd.
"Are you--, like the mages of old?" Orlino asked with a slight tremor of reverence.
Harry simply nodded. What he didn't say was that his skills in Legilimency had advanced far beyond the casual probing of thoughts. With a single glance, he could sift through a man's surface thoughts and dive straight into memories—reading them, copying them, storing them with surgical precision.
And that was the true purpose of his journey to Braavos.
When they reached a respected forge tucked between an old spice warehouse and a marble bathhouse, Orlino stopped and whispered, "One of the finest smiths in Braavos. Makes weapons for Sealords and sellswords alike. Doesn't usually give tours—but you've got me."
The interior of the smithy glowed with the pulsing red-orange of fire and steel. The blacksmith, a muscular Braavosi man named Gualis, stood at the anvil hammering a glowing piece of metal with rhythmic fury. As the two entered, Gualis glanced up but said nothing. His face was hard, his eyes sharp from years of working beside flame and iron.
Harry's gaze settled on the rack at the back. Among the steel blades, daggers, and axes, one item shone differently. A long, dark sword with ripples along its edge. Valyrian steel.
"Is that for sale?" Harry asked, nodding to the blade.
Gualis scoffed, setting his hammer down. "Everything is for sale—for the right price."
Harry approached slowly, running his fingers along the blade's hilt. In that moment, with a flicker of concentration, his mind reached forward—just lightly—and skimmed the surface of Gualis' consciousness. Memories bloomed before him: the folding of steel, the whispered forging prayers, the fine oil mixtures, the exact moment when heat and quenching sang in unison.
All of it—copied and filed away into the vault of Harry's mind.
"I'll take it," Harry said. "And a few others. I like your work."
Gualis blinked, mildly surprised, but the weight of Harry's purse was undeniable. When the coins clinked on the workbench, even the hardened smith gave a rare nod of approval.
As they exited the shop, Orlino couldn't contain his curiosity.
"You didn't even haggle."
"I didn't come for bargains," Harry replied calmly. "I came to learn."
The slave market in Braavos wasn't openly advertised, not in the Free City known for its proud declaration that "no man in Braavos is a slave." But Orlino knew the undercurrents—he knew where the boats docked quietly at night, where the masked intermediaries negotiated behind closed doors, and where wealthy patrons went when they sought skilled labor without question.
They walked through the narrow streets of the Drowned Ward, a damp, moss-laced corner of the city where gulls screamed and the stone walls always smelled of sea salt and rusted iron. Orlino glanced behind them before entering a low-ceilinged warehouse guarded by two men in red sashes.
"Are you sure about this?" Orlino whispered, the candlelight flickering on his face. "They won't let just anyone in."
"I'm not just anyone," Harry said, stepping forward with a calm confidence. His presence had grown since he arrived in Braavos. There was a stillness to him—like a storm waiting just beyond the horizon. Even Orlino felt it. The guards parted after Harry whispered a word and brushed his fingers against one of their minds, unlocking the door without needing a coin or permission.
Inside, the air was thick with quiet tension. Rows of people stood behind iron bars—men, women, and children. Not one of them wore chains, but the collar around each neck said enough. Some had scars across their hands from years of toolwork. Others looked clean, scholarly, even calm.
Harry's eyes swept across the crowd. He didn't recoil in disgust, nor did he show pity. Instead, he observed. Who here still held the light in their eyes? Who had skills, and hope, and fire left in them?
A man at the front approached, wearing green velvet robes and a feathered cap. "New to the market, my lord?" he asked smoothly. "You're in luck. I have scribes, sailors, potters, and shipwrights. Strong backs. Quiet tongues. Loyal with the right coin."
Harry turned to Orlino. "You said some of them are master craftsmen?"
"Some are," Orlino whispered. "Indentured. Captured. Sold by their own guilds. It's brutal, but true. Some of the best metalworkers in Norvos ended up here after a war."
Harry stepped forward. "I want the skilled ones. Blacksmiths, architects, glassblowers, carpenters, healers. Bring them all out."
The man blinked, surprised. "You'd take all of them?"
"I'll pay. But they'll leave with me free," Harry said, his voice iron. "No chains. No collars. They'll work for wages, not whips."
The merchant raised his hands, half in surrender and half in greed. "As you wish, my lord. They're yours if the coin is right."
As groups were brought forth—confused, wary, and silent—Harry watched them closely. He used no magic at first. Just his eyes. Then, discreetly, his Legilimency passed over their minds like a breeze. He saw their lives. Their trades. Their loss. Their rage. Their hope.
One woman had been a royal architect in Lys. One man, a blade-forger trained in Valyria's dying traditions. A middle-aged healer had learned from Qarthian monks. A carpenter had built entire ships that once sailed to Asshai.
Harry nodded, feeling the weight of their memories settling in his own.
"I'll take all of them."
The merchant, nearly stumbling in glee, began scribbling notes. "Shall I deliver them to your estate, my lord?"
"No," Harry said. "They'll follow me. As free men and women."
As the collars were unlocked and the doors opened, silence swept through the hall. Many looked at Harry in disbelief. One of them, a young man with callused fingers and soot-stained skin, stepped forward.
"Why?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "Why free us?"
Harry looked at them all. "Because the world needs rebuilding. And I don't want slaves. I want a future. A home. A place where your work is valued."
A quiet ripple moved through the crowd. Hope. Distant, fragile—but real.
As they left the warehouse together, Orlino leaned toward Harry and whispered, "You just bought yourself an army of loyalty."
Harry didn't answer. But deep inside, he knew this was only the beginning.
Narnia was rising. And it would be unlike anything this world had ever seen.