The wind changed as they approached the colossal northern gate.
Even among the Narnians, even among giants and mammoths, Frostshield stood like a fortress carved by ancient gods. Its walls rose higher than Winterfell's tallest towers, black stone fused with ice until the structure gleamed like a cold sunrise. The gates themselves — two slabs of blue-black granite — were thick enough to stop a dragon's fire.
When the horns atop the battlements sounded, the gates groaned open, revealing a well-defended city beyond.
Lyanna urged her direwolf forward, and the beast padded smoothly into the city. Oberyn Martell followed on horseback, his gaze sweeping over everything.
He was humbled.
He had never expected to see settlements beyond the Wall — no one had — and certainly none imagined this.
The inside of Frostshield was alive with movement. Houses of carved stone lined wide roads engineered with shocking precision. Smoke curled from chimneys. Men and women sharpened weapons, hauled carts, and trained in open courtyards. Children ran barefoot in the snow without fear.
The Narnians cheered as Lyanna entered. Some beat their fists over their chests in salute, others raised spears glowing faintly with dragonglass tips.
Oberyn felt as if he were riding beside some legendary war-queen of old.
And then a man broke through the crowd — tall, broad, and with the unmistakable Stark features: long face, grey eyes, and a mane of shaggy brown hair.
Brandon Stark.
"LYANNA!"
His voice echoed in the stone corridors of Frostshield.
Lyanna slid down from her direwolf and laughed as Brandon rushed forward and seized her in a crushing embrace.
"Bran," she breathed. "Are you alright?."
"I am fine," he replied, holding her by the shoulders. "I wasn't expecting you to join the war, command armies, bring giants behind you—gods, Lyanna, I barely recognize you!"
Lyanna smirked. "I'm the same sister you tormented as a child."
Brandon barked a laugh. "You're a queen of a damn kingdom, that's what you are."
Oberyn watched from a distance, awed. In Westeros, royalty never greeted family so casually. No bows, no kneeling, no stiff formality. Here, affection outweighed rank.
A burly Narnian whispered beside Oberyn, amused, "Here, blood comes first, titles later. Better remember it."
Oberyn hummed. "Clearly."
Brandon finally noticed Oberyn watching. The Stark lord gave him a quick nod of recognition.
"I remember you," Brandon called out, approaching. "Harrenhal melee — you nearly skewered that Stormlander brute with a broken spear."
Oberyn grinned. "And you nearly knocked me senseless when I wasn't looking."
"Aye," Brandon laughed. "Good days."
Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Men. Every conversation must turn into who hit who harder."
But then her face hardened as she remembered why she was here.
"Bran. Report."
Brandon's smile faded. "Inside the hall."
He turned sharply, leading them deeper into Frostshield.
"We were attacked three nights ago," he began. "Cold Ones came out of nowhere — not in dozens, Lyanna. In hundreds."
Oberyn's blood ran cold.
Lyanna did not flinch. "Casualties?"
"Too many." Brandon's jaw tightened. "We saved most of the civilians by getting them inside the walls. Harry's protective runes held — thank the gods — but the Cold Ones are gathering again."
A silence fell heavy over the city.
Oberyn swallowed. "Your… land is beyond my understanding. Giants. Magic. Undead monsters. How do you even prepare for such a war?"
Brandon smirked grimly. "The same way we prepare for winter. Together."
He clapped a hand on Lyanna's shoulder.
"And thank the gods you came, little sister. Your dragonglass saved us once, but we'll need strategy now."
Lyanna nodded, her voice was calm, steady, queenly.
"Every settlement should be sending reinforcements," she said. "We'll consolidate here. Giant forces will join us. Then we march."
Brandon exhaled in relief. "Then the North truly stands united."
Lyanna corrected him softly.
"Not the North, Bran."
"Narnia."
Oberyn watched her — this woman whom Dornish tales once mocked as a wild wolf girl. Now she commanded armies, resolved crises, and stood as the backbone of a nation.
And she did it all without dragons, without inherited power… simply with will.
He understood now why her people adored her.
And why Rhaegar Targaryen had never been able to forget her.
As soldiers unloaded carts of provisions behind them, Oberyn leaned closer to Lyanna.
"Your brother loves you fiercely," he said. "I envy that bond. And this city — Frostshield — it is more astonishing than any work in Westeros."
Lyanna gave him a small smile. "You will see more."
Oberyn's eyes drifted to the giants preparing their weapons outside.
"I fear Westeros is not ready for the world you are building here," he murmured.
Lyanna looked at him then — truly looked — her grey eyes sharp as winter steel.
"Then pray Westeros never crosses Narnia," she said quietly.
Brandon led Lyanna through the inner corridors of Frostshield, past great stone pillars carved with runes and scenes of Narnian gods. Torches hissed along the walls, casting warm gold light across her snow-crusted cloak.
Behind them, Oberyn Martell followed quietly, his boots sinking slightly into the fur-lined carpet. He had seen war rooms before — in Sunspear, in King's Landing, even at the Citadel — but the weight in the air here felt different. Colder. More ancient than any council chamber in Westeros.
Brandon pushed open the heavy oak door.
The Council of Frostshield was already gathered.
A long stone table dominated the center of the room, spread with maps inked in red and blue — the entire land beyond the Wall laid flat before them. Pins marked settlements. Lines indicated planned marches. Darkened spots indicated villages already overrun.
Around the table sat the leaders of Narnia's frontier:
Jarl — tall, broad, with braided blond hair and a heavy fur cloak.
Jorund — older, sharp-eyed, a man whose every movement seemed carved from discipline.
Lazar — wiry, clever, his fingers drumming across the table as if already calculating solutions.
Renaro — dark-skinned, statuesque, once a slave in Essos, now one of the most formidable commanders in Narnia.
Thorin — massive, stoic, with shoulders wide enough to block a doorway, his voice a thunderous rumble.
When Lyanna entered, every head lifted.
Conversation ceased instantly.
Even Oberyn felt the stillnes. Brandon bowed his head slightly. "Queen Lyanna of Narnia has arrived."
Oberyn blinked. No titles. No speeches. No trumpets. Just a simple acknowledgment — and yet the room seemed to shift, as though a tide of command had just walked in.
She sank into the empty chair beside Jarl, and Brandon took a seat at her right. Oberyn sat near Lazar, trying to absorb everything without appearing overwhelmed.
Jorund leaned forward, voice low and heavy.
"Why now, Queen Lyanna?" he asked. "Why did the Cold Ones wake? What stirred them after all these years?"
The tension in the room tightened like drawn bowstring.
Lyanna inhaled deeply. "Because they think Harry is dead."
Every man in the room stiffened.
Lyanna continued, her voice calm but hardened by worry.
"He performed a ritual in Telmar — a powerful ritual — one that drained him more than expected. His magic flickered. The Cold Ones… must have felt it. They have been under the hold of his runes and wards for years. Harry's presence is what drove them deep into the Winterlands."
Jarl nodded grimly. "He told me that he killed hundreds of them once. Drove their king back into the far north. No creature like that forgets fear."
"Exactly." Lyanna tapped the map. "For the first time in years, they sensed weakness. So they tested our borders. And when they believed Harry no longer watches… they attacked."
A heavy silence followed.
Oberyn swallowed. In the Citadel he had read old fragments of tales about Cold Ones. Frozen demons. Walkers made of frost. But he had dismissed them as primitive superstition.
Now he sat in a room where battle strategies against them were drawn in painstaking detail.
Renaro let out a slow breath. "Do we know their numbers?"
Thorin answered. "More than a six thousand. And growing. The dead gather their own."
Oberyn gripped the table edge.
"Gods…" he whispered.
Lyanna did not soften. "Oberyn, this is the enemy we face here. Not raiders. Not wild tribes. The dead. Winter incarnate."
Oberyn nodded stiffly, humbled.
Jorund turned to Lyanna again. "Will Harry awaken? Soon?"
"I hope so," Lyanna said firmly. "In a few days, perhaps a week. But in this time… we cannot simply wait. We must push them back ourselves."
"And if he does not wake?" Lazar asked carefully.
Lyanna's eyes flickered, but her voice remained hard as ice.
"Then we will fight without him. We are not helpless children. Harry wants Narnia to stand on its own. This is our chance to prove it."
Jarl slammed a fist onto the table. "Then we march tomorrow at dawn."
Renaro nodded. "Agreed."
Thorin grunted, approval in the sound. "My warriors are prepared."
Jorund traced a line on the map. "We'll converge here—Frostshield's northern pass. That's where they'll come again."
Oberyn watched Lyanna, fascinated.
In Westeros, a council would have argued for hours, perhaps days. Here, decisions were swift. Unified. Efficient.
Lyanna rose to her feet.
"Prepare the giants, reinforce the gates, distribute every dragonglass weapon we have. If the Cold Ones return tonight, Frostshield must be ready."
"Aye," the council echoed.
Lyanna then turned to Oberyn.
"You may stay and observe, Prince of Dorne… or you may ride with the healers when they go to the outposts. It is up to you."
Oberyn exhaled. "I wish to see the truth of this land with my own eyes. So I will stay."
Lyanna gave a small nod. "Then stay close. The night beyond these walls is colder than any story Westeros has ever whispered."
Just then, the watchtower horn sounded — low, deep, and terrible.
Every head snapped toward the nearest window.
Brandon cursed. "Already?"
Lyanna's eyes sharpened like a drawn blade.
"Council dismissed," she commanded.
"Frostshield goes to war."
And as the roar of preparation thundered through the fortress, Oberyn Martell realized, with a shudder, that he had stepped into a war that's going to be so epic yet no one from Westros will know about that.
Warmth.
Softness.
A faint scent of pine oil and polished wood.
Harry blinked slowly, his vision blurring into the familiar carvings of the canopy above him. For a moment, he didn't know where he was — not the temple, not the blinding ritual light, not the pounding pain from channeling magic.
His own bed.
In Griffindor Castle.
Home.
He tried to sit up—
—and a violent stab of pain tore through his ribs, down his spine, and into his legs. He sucked in a breath and collapsed back onto the pillows with a groan.
"Father!"
Tiny footsteps thundered before Harry could even gather himself, and in the next heartbeat, Sirius leapt onto the bed, green eyes wide with relief.
"Father, you're awake!"
Harry lifted a trembling hand, brushing Sirius' dark hair aside. His voice was hoarse and cracked when he managed:
"Sirius… where's your mother?"
Sirius' smile faltered. The joy in his eyes dimmed with worry.
"She marched for war," Sirius said quietly, hands tightening on the blankets. "The Cold Ones awoke. They attacked the Frostfang settlement. Mother took the army north, past Frostshield."
Harry closed his eyes.
A deep sigh escaped him — heavy with frustration and resignation.
Of course they had attacked now. Of course they had come when his magic was at its weakest. He had stretched himself too thin in that ritual — more than he had ever done before — and the Cold Ones must have sensed the sudden drop in power.
They always sensed weakness.
Always.
Sirius continued, his voice faster now, as if trying to reassure him:
"But Mother is fine. She wore the armor you made for her. She had Helga protecting her, and all the skinchangers went with her. And—" he swallowed, pride and fear mixed in his tone, "—Frostshield answered her call. Even the giants marched. Hundreds."
Harry opened his eyes at that, despite the pain flaring in his limbs.
"She took the giants?"
Sirius nodded. "They came to her last night."
Harry let out another breath. Relief this time. Giants would hold the line. They were worth a hundred men each, and far more in fear against the dead.
Before he could speak again, the bedroom door burst open.
Healers. Servants. Guards.
They flooded in like a wave — gasps, tears, relieved exclamations.
"He lives!"
"The King is awake!"
"Bring water, bring broth — gently, gently—"
Hands tried to help him sit; others checked his pulse, his breathing, his temperature. Harry felt like he was drowning in fussing. His magic flickered weakly under his skin, as if exhausted from merely existing.
"Enough," Harry muttered, though it came out barely above a whisper.
But Sirius heard him, and Sirius' small voice turned authoritative in an instant — a perfect echo of Lyanna.
"Everyone stop crowding him! He can't breathe!"
The healers paused. Startled. And they obeyed.
Harry managed a tired smile. "Good lad."
A healer approached, older and calm. "My King, how do you feel?"
Harry exhaled slowly.
"Weak. Like I've been trampled by a dozen mammoths."
"That would be an improvement from how you looked yesterday," the healer muttered under his breath, then cleared his throat. "We will give you time. Your magic needs to restore itself. A few days, maybe more."
Harry already knew that. He could feel the hollowness inside him — the empty well where his power usually roared like a storm.
He would not be marching anywhere.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Perhaps not at all during this battle.
The realization twisted something in him, cold and sharp.
Lyanna was out there.
Fighting winter itself.
And he was here, barely able to lift his head.
He forced another breath. "She'll be fine," Harry said softly, almost to himself. "She's strong. Stronger than anyone gives her credit for."
Sirius nodded with fierce confidence. "She promised she'd come back. And Mother never breaks promises."
Harry reached out, brushing Sirius' cheek with the back of his knuckles.
"I know."
But inside, a knot of worry coiled tighter.
He hoped Lyanna had enough strength.
He hoped the Cold Ones did not sense just how weak he truly was.
Sirius nestled close beside him, the warmth of the child easing the ache in Harry's heart.
"I'm glad you're awake, Father," Sirius whispered.
Harry, despite the pain, managed a small smile.
"I am too, my son."
And outside the chamber doors, the healers whispered, guards hurried, and Telmar buzzed with the news:
The King had awakened.
But his power was not yet his to wield.
And winter marched without waiting.
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