The roar of wings split the winter air as Winter descended over the eastern coast of Skagos. The dragon's scales shimmered like polished obsidian, his vast wings throwing shadows across the half-built harbor below.
The settlers cried out in alarm. Men dropped tools and women clutched children, scattering from the docks as the enormous beast landed with a bone-shaking thud. Snow flew in all directions, the very timbers of the newly built port groaning under the tremor.
From Winter's back, Harry Gryffindor dismounted, his emerald eyes taking in the sight before him. What had once been an untouched coastline now bustled with life. Fishing boats bobbed on the water, huts and stone houses rose in haphazard rows, and the air was filled with the sound of hammering, sawing, and shouting.
Harry murmured softly, almost to himself.
"Four hundred men were sent. But this—this looks like four thousand."
"Lord Gryffindor!"
Ragnar pushed through the crowd, his fur cloak clasped with a bronze brooch. His hair was braided, his arms thick with muscle, and his axe hung at his side. There was a grin on his face wide enough to split stone.
"My lord, you honor us with your presence. Skagos itself trembled when you arrived upon your dragon."
Harry studied him carefully. "You were sent with four hundred men, Ragnar. Now I find a city. Tell me—how?"
Ragnar laughed, the sound booming across the dock. "Ah, it is a tale worth telling."
He gestured toward the hills beyond, where dark figures moved with carts of stone. "The House of Stane—the last noble blood of this cursed island—came to drive us into the sea. They still had warriors, though their halls crumbled to ruin. Their leader, Hegg son of Higg, challenged us. He demanded blood."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Ragnar placed a heavy hand on the hilt of his axe. "He asked for single combat. I answered." His grin grew sharper. "I beat him bloody before the eyes of his people. And when I left him broken on the snow, Hegg… laughed. He called me the stronger wolf, and he gave me his daughter, Inga, as wife. Through her, the Stane bent knee to Narnia."
From behind Ragnar came a tall woman with long blond hair braided with bone beads. Inga. She carried herself with the dignity of a queen, though her smile was shy as she bowed before Harry.
"My lord," she said softly. "Our hearth is yours."
Harry inclined his head politely, though his eyes flicked toward Ragnar's with amusement. "So you defeated a Skagosi warlord and married his daughter in the same night?"
Ragnar's booming laugh rolled again. "What can I say, Lord Gryffindor? Fortune favors the bold."
He led Harry through the settlement. What Harry saw surprised him—stone houses rising with mortar and skill, fishing boats being carved from pine, pelts and goat hides brought down from the mountains by traders. The Stane had not merely surrendered; they had joined.
Inside Ragnar's hall—modeled shamelessly after Potter Castle itself—Harry was received with feasting. Inga wore a fur-trimmed dress in the new Narnian style, her father Hegg seated nearby, draped in a cloak finer than any he had known. Hegg raised a horn of ale when Harry entered.
"To the dragonlord of Narnia," Hegg said gruffly. "May your fire burn our enemies, and may Skagos rise with Narnia."
Harry accepted the toast with a nod, though he said nothing of titles. He had no wish to be king. But seeing the thriving port, the loyalty of Ragnar, and the eagerness of the Skagosi to work under the Narnian banner, Harry felt a rare flicker of satisfaction.
When Ragnar leaned close, speaking in a voice meant only for him, Harry listened.
"This place grows swiftly, my lord. Already four thousand souls call it home. We have stone for building, timber from the mountains, and the people are strong. But we need more ships. If Stane Port is to guard the Bay of Seals, it must have a fleet."
Harry considered, his gaze turning to the horizon where the icy sea met the sky. "Five ships shall come from Telmar," he said at last. "Let them anchor here. Skagos will be more than a port—it will be our northern shield."
Ragnar's grin widened, his voice thunderous. "Then Stane Port shall be the pride of Skagos and the gate of Narnia!"
Cheers filled the hall as horns clashed and cups spilled ale across the tables. Outside, Winter raised his head and released a roar that echoed through the mountains, sealing the pact in fire and thunder.
The harbor of Telmar rang with the clamor of hammers and voices as three ships slid into the docks, their holds filled with treasure not of gold but of iron and stone. Dockworkers hurried down the gangplanks with bundles of iron rods, the metal gleaming faintly in the pale northern light. Behind them, teams of men strained to heave massive granite blocks from the ships' bellies onto wagons.
Harry stood at the quay, his cloak snapping in the sea wind, Sirius perched on his hip with wide eyes. Winter circled lazily above, his great wings scattering gulls and sending men scurrying faster in their work.
Ragnar himself had sailed with the convoy, and he clasped Harry's arm in greeting.
"My lord, Skagos gives her bones to Narnia. Iron for blades, granite for castles as you ordered."
Harry's eyes glittered. "Iron as rods will line our coffers with little profit. But once it is shaped into swords, chainmail, and tools… that is where our wealth will be made. Our smiths will work, and our people will eat from their labor."
He gestured toward the wagons creaking beneath the granite. "And as for the stone… it will pave the halls of Gryffindor Castle. Smooth and polished, fit for a lord's seat."
Ragnar laughed. "The Skagosi quarried it as if it were bread from the earth. Now they shall see what you can do with them."
Harry followed the iron down the narrow streets of Telmar where forges roared and anvils rang. The blacksmith quarter was a living furnace, heat shimmering in the air even in the cold of the North. Men and women—wildlings once—now stood as smiths, hammering red-hot metal with skill learned from Essosi masters.
"Chainmail first," Harry ordered the smiths. "Then spears, axes, plows, saws. A city cannot eat iron, but it will live by it. Tools will build us; weapons will defend us."
The smiths nodded, sweat glistening on their brows. Sparks flew as hammer struck steel, and Harry felt a strange pride in their transformation. From lawless raiders to disciplined craftsmen—it was civilization itself being forged in fire.
The granite, however, posed a greater challenge. Harry watched as the workers wrestled the massive blocks into the courtyards of Gryffindor Castle. The stone gleamed dark and speckled, hard as the mountain itself.
He frowned, muttering to himself. "No machine… no saw sharp enough… but magic may suffice."
The first attempt left the stone cracked, jagged. The second left it scorched and brittle. The third, after careful runes etched along its surface, yielded a slice as smooth as glass.
Lyanna came upon him late one evening, Sirius toddling at her side, and found Harry bent over a block of stone, wand in hand, lips tight in concentration.
"Two days, and you haven't eaten with us once," she chided gently. "Will you build a city and starve yourself in it?"
Harry looked up, eyes bright with triumph. A polished slab of granite gleamed behind him, flawless. "It works. Lyanna—it works. These floors will last longer than men's memory. When Sirius's grandchildren walk these halls, they will walk upon this very stone."
She touched the cool surface, her reflection wavering across it. "I hope that nothing bad happens before that."
Two weeks later, the great hall of Gryffindor Castle shone with polished granite floors, smooth and gleaming like black ice. The people who entered stopped to gape, their boots echoing as though in a temple.
And Harry, watching quietly from the dais, thought of what Ragnar had said—Skagos gives her bones to Narnia.
Now those bones had become part of his dream.
The taverns of Telmar were full of noise and song that night. The sailors had returned from Braavos, Pentos, and even distant Asshai, their holds brimming with exotic silks, carved ivory, painted masks, and crates of strange wines. For the Narnians, this was the taste of their new freedom—a life beyond hunger, beyond the cold of the wilderness.
The great hall of Gryffindor Castle smelled of spiced wine and honeyed mead as Harry sat at the high table, watching the men drink. Tankards clattered, and songs rose, but his lips curled with faint distaste after sampling a golden wine from Volantis.
"It tastes like sweetened vinegar," Harry muttered, pushing the cup away.
Lyanna raised a brow. "You don't like it? They brought it halfway across the world."
"It's not drink," Harry said flatly. "It's colored water. In my world, we had drinks that burned through your chest like fire, that warmed you on the coldest nights and made kings laugh and cry in the same breath."
Sirius, sitting on his mother's lap, giggled. "Fire?"
Harry ruffled his son's hair. "Yes, fire, little wolf. Fire in the cup."
Later, when the hall quieted and the last of the sailors stumbled out, Lazar, the Commander of the Navy joined Harry by the embers of the hearth.
"My lord," Lazar said, "our men love these foreign drinks, even if you do not. They boast of them, they trade them in the streets. It makes them feel rich."
Harry shook his head. "We should not settle for poor taste simply because the world says it is good. Narnia deserves better."
Lazar frowned. "And where will we find better?"
Harry's smile was sharp. "We will make it."
The next few weeks, the lower chambers of Gryffindor Castle were filled with the smell of brewing grain. The Essosi brewers stared in awe as Harry instructed them, showing them the proportions, the way to let the barley rest, the oak barrels charred with fire, the delicate timing of distillation.
"This is not wine," Harry told them, his wand sparking flames under the still. "This is firewhisky. Each drop carries warmth enough to banish the winter from your bones."
One of the brewers, a stout man from Lorath, tasted a finger's worth and coughed until his eyes watered. Then he laughed, slapping the table.
"By the gods, it's like swallowing your dragon's breath! The sailors will drink nothing else once they taste this!"
Harry smiled grimly. "Good. Let them drink the fire of Narnia, not the swill of Essos. From tonight on, Firewhisky will be our mark upon the world."
That night, Harry unveiled the first casks in the hall. He poured the amber liquid into ironbound cups, and the men raised them uncertainly.
"To Narnia," Harry declared.
"To Narnia!" they roared back.
The drink hit their tongues like flame, smooth and fierce, and soon the hall was alive with laughter, roaring songs, and pounding fists on the tables.
Lyanna leaned close, her cheeks flushed with the fire. "They love it," she whispered.
Harry watched the Narnians cheer, the firewhisky blazing in their blood. "Good," he said softly. "Because soon the Free Cities will love it too. And they will pay dearly for the fire only we can brew."
The very first barrels of Narnian Firewhisky rolled out of the grand factory Harry had commissioned upon the banks of the Antler river. The factory itself was a wonder—massive bronze vats, enchanted cooling chambers, and copper stills that glowed under runes inscribed by Harry himself. The air inside always carried a heat, as though fire itself was being brewed, and each worker wore enchanted gloves to prevent burns.
The ingredients, all bought from Essos—the rich barley from the Rhoyne valley, the volcanic water drawn from the Vale of Andalos, the exotic spices of Qohor, and dragon's breath peppers from far Sarnath—came together into a brew unlike anything the world had tasted. Harry made certain the Narnians were the ones to refine it, distill it, and bottle it.
The first casks sent to Pentos nearly caused a riot. The moment the fiery liquor touched tongues, tongues were scorched and souls lit aflame. Merchants fought to get their hands on more, tavern owners begged for shipments, and even magisters with cellars of fine Arbor gold discarded their wine in favor of the golden-red fire.
At the harbor docks of Braavos, a merchant shouted in astonishment as the price was read aloud.
"Fifty times the coin for one barrel of fire whisky than Arbor Gold?" he gasped. "You mean to rob us blind!"
The Narnian trader, a sharp-eyed woman named Elara, simply smirked and lifted a glass. She let the fire catch her throat, her eyes watering slightly before she swallowed.
"Worth every coin," she said. "Sell one glass of this to a sellsword and he'll give you two days' wages. Sell it to a magister and he'll offer his daughter's dowry for a single cask. You're not buying whisky, friend—you're buying fire bottled by the Narnians."
And so it spread.
By the end of the month, Narnians were seen everywhere across Essos, their white dragon banners fluttering from merchant ships, their coinage accepted even in distant Qarth. It became common to hear:
"Pay me in gold or silver if you wish, but Narnian Sunmark spend in any city."
Their weapons—steel tempered in narnian forges—were sought after by mercenary companies. Their leatherwork, supple yet strong, wrapped warriors from Tyrosh to Volantis. Fish from rivers beyond the wall, smoked and salted, became a delicacy on Braavosi tables. And now, with firewhisky flowing like molten gold into every port, no one could deny the truth.
The Free Cities whispered it first.
"The Narnians are no mere wanderers. They are merchants of kings."
At a private gathering in Pentos, magisters toasted with firewhisky. The liquor burned down their throats, leaving a warmth that settled into their bones, sharper than any Dornish red. One magister coughed, wiping tears from his eyes, and muttered:
"They brew like Valyrians forged steel—perfection and fire."
Another raised his glass and added:
"And they count coin better than the Iron Bank itself."
In his study at the palace, Harry sat with Lazar and Lyanna at a polished oak table scattered with ledgers. Gold coinage piled in neat stacks, scribes bent over parchment recording trade routes.
"Fifty times profit," Lazar murmured, his eyes wide. "We've turned every barrel into a river of gold. At this rate, my lord, Narnians could buy half the Free Cities."
Harry leaned back, rubbing his chin.
"Gold is power, but power is more than gold," he said. "They trust our coin. They crave our steel. Now they burn for our firewhisky. Soon, no lord or magister will dare cross us—for their people will demand what only we provide."
Lyanna giggled softly, sipping from a small cup filled with watered-down whisky.
"And yet, I think you enjoy the game as much as the profit," she teased. "You're smiling, Harry."
He gave her a sly grin.
"Because the board is set, Lyanna. The Free Cities think us merchants. But merchants we are not—we are builders. Every coin they give us builds ships, weapons, schools, cities. Let them drink their whisky. Let them sing of Narnian trade."
Lazar tapped the ledger. "You mean to rule, don't you?"
Harry's green eyes burned with quiet fire as he answered:
"Not to rule but to shape the world, brother. One barrel at a time."
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