As the last of the former slaves stepped through the glowing ring of the portkey, vanishing into the northern sky with a soft shimmer of blue light, Harry lowered his wand and exhaled slowly. The rope he had enchanted lay limp in his hand now, the magic drained from it with the final jump. Around him, the small clearing near Braavos' coast was silent once again—just the gentle rustle of salt-kissed grass and the murmur of distant gulls.
He looked around to ensure no one had seen what had transpired. The Braavosi had eyes everywhere, and though Harry had taken every precaution, caution was still his closest companion.
Before sending them off, he had outfitted each person with bags filled with essentials—dried food, cookware, warm cloaks, even tools. Many carried packs of livestock—chickens, goats, and even ten pregnant cows. The men and women had been armed with simple weapons too, nothing extravagant, just blades and bows that wouldn't draw attention in Braavos. With 120 people now safe inside Winter's magically protected cave, Harry felt a quiet sense of accomplishment, but also the tug of responsibility settle deeper into his bones.
He could see the cave in his mind's eye—lit with glowing runes, warmed with enchantments, and filled now with murmurs of awe and questions. Many had stared in confusion as the portkey took them, unsure whether they were being whisked to freedom or death. But they had trusted him. That trust, earned with words and kindness, now bound them to him more than any oath could.
"I'll return soon," Harry whispered under his breath, eyes on the fading horizon.
With a flick of his wand, he removed all the traces of people travelling towards Winter and began the slow ride back to the city gates of Braavos. His pace was calm, but his mind raced. There was still much to learn, and the Free City held secrets he hadn't yet touched.
He passed by the towering statues of faceless gods and narrow canals lined with stonework houses. The scent of sea air mixed with spice and fish as he reached the bustling central market. Braavos pulsed with life. Musicians strummed lutes on bridges, mask-wearing courtesans whispered invitations to nobles, and merchants called out with exotic goods from Lys, Volantis, and beyond.
But Harry wasn't here to revel.
He passed through the crowd with purpose. There were places still to visit—temples of forgotten gods, magical apothecaries, even whispered rumors of a glassmaker who had once crafted mirrors that revealed more than reflections. The magic of the old world still lived in Braavos, buried beneath its canals and coin.
Before nightfall, he intended to find it. And then, he would return to the North—with knowledge, power, and people who believed in him.
The sun was setting over the canals of Braavos, casting a molten gold reflection across the water as Harry stood upon the terrace of a quiet inn, watching from the shadows. Below, in the merchant quarter near the slave pens—an illegal trade, yet barely hidden—there was unrest brewing. He could see it in the sharp gestures of the slavers, the way they barked at their guards and waved at dockside sellswords, slipping them coin pouches and whispers behind cupped hands.
"They think they can track me," Harry muttered under his breath, fingers resting on the wooden rail of the terrace. "They think they still own what I've taken."
He'd seen the look in their eyes the moment he had bought over a hundred skilled artisans without so much as blinking. Not one coin bartered. Just a nod, and an outstretched bag of shining gold pieces. Of course the slavers would grow suspicious. No one parted with such wealth without a hidden motive. And now that he'd vanished with their finest slaves—blacksmiths, leatherworkers, potters, cooks, healers—they were reacting exactly as he predicted.
From his high vantage point, Harry spotted a group of hardened sellswords boarding a small galley—iron helms and fur collars, the mark of Norvoshi cutthroats. One of the slavers below pointed east, and shouted something across the docks. The implication was clear.
"They're fools," Harry murmured, shaking his head. "Greedy, grasping fools."
He turned from the view, retreating into his private chamber, where a mirror hovered midair, revealing the snowy haven beyond the Wall. One by one, the freed men and women were settling inside the warmth of Winter's cave, lighting lanterns, feeding livestock, setting up sleeping rolls. Children laughed as a goat chased one of them, slipping on smooth rock.
They were safe. Thousands of miles away. And untouchable.
With a flick of his wand, Harry dismissed the scrying mirror and whispered a command. The enchanted coin bags he had left with the slavers—illusionary gold formed from transmuted leaves and gilded stone—were now beginning to unravel. One by one, the coins would fade from solid to mist, the illusion breaking just as he willed it.
He smirked.
"That's why I didn't haggle, you bastards."
Back at the docks, chaos was erupting. Cries of alarm echoed from the merchant vaults as gold dissolved like dust in water, and enraged voices screamed for guards, for scribes, for sorcery. One of the slavers, his face red with fury, was pounding his fists against the wooden crate where he'd stored his fortune, now filled only with gray ash.
"They'll send more men," Harry whispered, conjuring his wand into his hand. "But they'll find nothing. Not the people, not their gold, not even my trail."
And with that, Harry pulled the hood of his traveling cloak over his head and walked out into the Braavosi night—just another face in the crowd.
Harry had just exited a Braavosi wine shop—his arms full of exotic bread, soft cheese, and fruit soaked in honey—when he heard his name echo across the cobbled street.
"Lord Gryffindor! Seven hells, it is you!"
Harry turned sharply, his wand instinctively brushing his palm beneath his cloak before recognition dawned. Striding toward him with a beaming face and a richly embroidered green cloak flapping behind him was none other than Wyman Manderley, heir of White Harbor and the son of Lord Wylis. The man was broad-shouldered and ruddy-cheeked, a northerner to his bones, though he wore Essosi silk like a second skin.
" Lord Wyman!" Harry grinned, genuinely surprised and pleased. "Didn't think I'd be seeing anyone from the North this far east."
Wyman clasped Harry's hand firmly, shaking it with both of his. "You're damn right I'm here. On my father's orders—trade negotiations with the Sealord. But I'd rather talk about you, Lord Gryffindor." He lowered his voice, a glint of admiration in his eye. "Word of your... deed reached us months ago."
Harry's smile faded into something more neutral. "You mean Roose Bolton."
"Aye," Wyman said, tone dipping into something more serious, but not unfriendly. "The man was a butcher of the worst sort. No one wept for him in the North. You know what they found beneath the Dreadfort?" He leaned closer. "Wildlings. Skinned and strung like meat. The dungeons reeked of blood and rot. My father said it's a miracle the gods allowed him to live that long."
Harry exhaled slowly. "I didn't know about the dungeons. I acted because… well, let's just say justice needed doing."
"To hell with the law," Wyman said bluntly. "We're in Braavos now. Westerosi law doesn't stretch across the Narrow Sea."
The two men began walking down the street together, the Braavosi pedestrians parting for them as Harry's quiet presence and Wyman's noble swagger turned heads. "Still," Harry said, glancing sideways at the heir of White Harbor, "you're aware that I've made a lot of enemies by doing what I did."
"Aye," Wyman replied with a smirk. "But you've made more friends. Don't let the silence of noble houses fool you—plenty of Northern lords are grateful. The Boltons were feared, not respected. Now the Dreadfort lands are divided up between Houses Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Umber. No one mourns the leech-lord."
Harry nodded, lips tight in a thoughtful line.
"I know a about politics," Wyman added, "and I know this: men rally behind those who do what others dare not. You may be young, Gryffindor, but you're making a name for yourself. Careful, though—names echo longer than swords swing."
Harry chuckled. "Thanks for the warning."
Wyman slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink. And then you can tell me what in the seven hells you're doing here, with the Braavosi saddlebag, and enough food for a wedding feast."
Harry smiled. "Only if you promise not to ask about the how Lord Bolton squealed."
Wyman paused, blinked, then burst out laughing. "Gods help me, I like you already."
Wyman Manderly leaned back on the cushioned bench outside a Braavosi café, a half-unwrapped chocolate bar in his thick fingers and an expression of bliss across his face. "By the gods, Harry," he said between bites, "I don't know what sort of sorcery goes into this confection, but I'd marry whoever made it."
Harry chuckled as he sipped a mild tea brewed with spices from Yi Ti. "It's called chocolate. From far away. I figured you might like it."
"Like it?" Wyman gave a hearty laugh. "I'd trade a whole barrel of Arbor Gold for a basket of these bars. You might cause a war if you start handing them out freely."
Harry grinned, pleased by the reaction, though he kept his usual caution behind his eyes. "I'll make sure to ration them, then."
Wyman's jovial tone faded slightly as he set the wrapper down and looked toward the busy canals. "So, what brings you to Braavos? Thought you'd be gone deep into Dothraki Sea."
Harry shrugged. "Trade. Learning. Travel. I've been… exploring."
"Wish I could do the same," Wyman muttered. "Things back home are difficult. The winter has hit hard. Snow lies heavy on the roads, and grain stores are thinning. Only the coastal holds are managing, and even that's barely."
Harry nodded in sympathy, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Wyman leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone might overhear. "And the Stark name has been in enough scandal to fill a bard's scroll. Have you heard about Brandon?"
"You mean Brandon Stark?," Harry said carefully.
"Aye," Wyman nodded grimly. "Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell, once married to Catelyn Tully… threw it all away. Eloped with Barbrey Ryswell three months after the marriage. Disgraced the North. You know how proud the Tullys are. Hoster Tully nearly died of the shame."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "So what happened?"
"Rickard Stark disinherited him, of course. Passed the lordship to Eddard. And Catelyn… well, she was still needed for the alliance. She married Eddard instead, though no one would call it a happy union. I've spoken with them both. It's… cold."
Harry sipped his tea again, his expression unreadable. "And Brandon?"
"Gone. Fled to Essos, with his Ryswell lover. Haven't seen or heard a thing since they left White Harbor. There are whispers he's working as a mercenary, others say he's built a new life somewhere under a false name. Who knows? A man like him could thrive anywhere—if he can keep that reckless heart of his in check."
Harry looked out at the water, thoughtful. "What about Lyanna?"
Wyman sighed, the heaviness of grief touching his features. "Vanished, same as her brother. Left only a note. Said she was running away with her ' mysterious lover,' whoever that was. Some say it was a poetic lie. Others think she was taken. Lord Rickard still has his men scouring all over the world. Young Benjan barely speaks of it. But… I think he knows more than he lets on."
There was a long silence between them, filled only by the sounds of Braavosi gondolas and distant conversation. Then Wyman clapped Harry gently on the back. "Strange times, my friend. The realm is changing, and not always for the better."
Harry gave a small smile. "Then you must be ready for what comes."
Wyman nodded slowly. "And if you ever come to White Harbor again, you'll be welcome. You've got friends there."
"Thank you," Harry replied sincerely. "I'll remember that."
The sellswords returned three days after their hasty departure, faces red from the wind and mouths tight with frustration. Harry watched them from a quiet corner of the port square, sipping his honeyed wine with a casual ease that belied the sharpness of his gaze. Their leader cursed beneath his breath as he threw a satchel onto the cobbles and barked something about "vanishing ghosts" and "wild goose chases." As Harry had predicted, there was no trace to follow, no trail to track—his people were long gone.
It was time to return.
But before he did, Harry found his thoughts turning to the North. He remembered Lyanna's voice—sometimes teasing, sometimes tired—and the wistful way she spoke of home. If she knew her people were starving while she lived in peace, it would crush her heart. Harry would not let that happen.
He found Orlino waiting for him as always, leaned casually against a stone pillar near the fish market. "I have a favor to ask," Harry said, handing him a heavy pouch filled with Braavosi silver. "I need grain. Barley, wheat, oats if possible. Dried fruits. Salted meats. Preserved root vegetables. As much as you can get."
Orlino whistled. "For one of the Free Cities, or a small kingdom?"
Harry smiled. "For the North."
Orlino didn't ask questions. That's why Harry liked him.
A day later, Orlino brought him to a grizzled sea captain named Torvin Marr, who commanded twenty massive whaling vessels—sturdy ships with deep holds and seasoned crews. "He's an honest merchant," Orlino assured him. "And more importantly, he keeps his mouth shut."
"I don't care about silence," Harry replied. "I care about loyalty. And fast shipping."
Captain Marr grunted. "You've got coin. That buys loyalty and speed. Tell me the destination."
"White Harbor," Harry answered simply. "Deliver the goods to Lord Wyman Manderly."
The loading took two days. Barrel after barrel was rolled down the docks, crates stacked high with cured meats and sacks of grain sealed tight against the damp. The ships groaned under the weight, but they were built for the northern waters and the long, cold runs through stormy seas. At dawn on the third day, the sails were raised, and the ships rocked gently in the morning tide, waiting for the signal.
Wyman Manderly arrived at the dock just as Harry finished checking the last manifest.
"Lord Gryffindor," Wyman called, his voice rich with good humor, "or should I call you Braavosi merchant now?"
Harry turned and extended a hand. "Call me whatever you like, Lord Manderly, as long as you accept a gift."
Wyman's eyes went wide as he looked past Harry, at the great fleet behind him. "Seven hells... You didn't just buy food. You bought a harvest."
"Enough to feed the North for years," Harry said. "If it's rationed properly."
The older man's mouth moved, but no words came for a moment. "Why?" he asked, voice lower now. "Why do this?"
Harry paused, then answered with quiet conviction. "Because I owe the North something… someone." He met Wyman's eyes. "I am the one Lyanna Stark ran away with."
Wyman froze, his breath caught.
"She didn't want Robert Baratheon. She didn't want a cage. She wanted a life of her own choosing." Harry smiled faintly. "With me."
"I… Seven gods," Wyman murmured. "I always suspected she ran. But I never imagined…" He took a step closer. "Is she well?"
"She's alive. Safe. Free. And pregnant." Harry's voice was firm. "She goes by Lyanna Gryffindor now. And she's happier than she's ever been."
Wyman let out a slow breath, equal parts astonishment and relief. "Then I'm glad. More glad than you'll know. She was a wildfire of a girl—no man could hold her. But if she's with you by choice... Then you must be something remarkable."
"I don't want her name in the whispers of slavers or sellswords," Harry added. "So I ask only this: if you ever want to speak with me or her again, send word to Orlino's bookshop. He'll know how to find me."
Wyman nodded solemnly. "And the North… we'll never forget this. You've earned our loyalty, Harry Gryffindor."
The two men clasped hands, and then parted without further fanfare. Wyman boarded his ship, and from the deck, he turned once more to see Harry watching from the dock. Then, with the wind at their backs, the ships slipped into the misty Braavosi bay—one after the other, like a silver serpent coiling toward Westeros, bearing salvation.
Harry turned away as the last ship vanished beyond the horizon.
He walked to the same quiet alley he always used, placed a palm against the cold stone wall, and murmured a single word.
Moments later, far beyond the city's edge, a massive shimmer spread in the air. Wind rushed. Snow greeted him like an old friend.
Winter was waiting.
Author's Note:
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Beuwulf