The Frostfangs roared more loudly than the ocean.
Iron clanked against stone, sledges thudded, sleds glided over packed snow, and the immense, icy faces of the mountains observed everything with the stoic patience of deities. Harry stood on a ledge carved into the slope, his fur hood pushed back despite the biting wind, hands resting on the handle of a pick dusted with chalk as the foremen below debated the lengths of timber.
"Eight cubits," Thoren Stonehand shouted, a burly figure with a beard reminiscent of winter moss. "If it's shorter, the crown will sag."
"Six gives us two extra frames before dark," Seara of Norvos countered, her breath visible in the cold. She was petite, wrapped in a patterned Essosi styled scarf, always counting with her sharp eyes and hands. "Do you want speed or sermons, Thoren?"
"I want men alive by dawn."
Harry couldn't help but smile. They had learned to collaborate—wildlings renowned for their toughness and Essosi artisans skilled in measurement—but the mountains punished errors harshly. He jumped down from the ledge with a thud, interrupting their argument. People looked up at him; some made the sign for Odin, a gesture that had become customary in Narnia.
"Frames at eight," he announced, his voice carrying. "Braces at six. We'll do both."
Thoren grunted his approval. Seara rolled her eyes but began marking the additional cuts. Orders spread quickly. Axes swung, and the fresh scent of pine mingled with the metallic odor of ore and sweat.
Below them, the entrance to Vein Seven gaped like a wolf's maw: neatly squared timbers marched into the darkness, and someone had chalked a horned helmet above the entrance for good fortune.
Harry stepped inside with Thoren and three safety personnel. The air was cool and humid, and the lamplight was steady. They had learned—through painful experience—to set vents, to make the shafts wide enough for two people to pass, and to lay down duckboards to prevent boots from sinking into the muck. Back home, magic could accomplish in an instant what a crew achieved in a day; here, he decided, magic would teach first—and then step back.
As they walked, Thoren's knuckles grazed the timbers. "She sang this morning," he said quietly. Miners often referred to the rock as a woman—proud and fickle. "The stone cracked twice, like knuckles before a fight."
Harry paused, extending his palm towards the mountain. He felt its subtle vibrations—the pressure, the weight stacking upon weight, the faint resonance signaling tension. He could silently cast a spell to interpret the lines or reinforce the roof with a word; he chose not to.
"Pull the face crew back," he instructed. "We'll set a second crown and shore up the posts."
Thoren didn't hesitate to comply. He whistled, and the face crew—Hild with her silver chisel and grim Ros with a scar on his lip—lowered their picks. The mountain demanded patience; it was to be courted, not rushed.
A boy's shout echoed down the tunnel. "Foreman! The west gallery!"
They sprinted before the echo faded. Air rushed past them. Dust billowed like a living thing. Upon entering the gallery, the lamps flickered, and a section of the ceiling groaned. A timber had fractured; the next crown sagged, pins shrieking.
"Out!" Thoren shouted.
Harry raised a hand. He didn't need a wand for this. He summoned an invisible force, lifting the sagging crown just enough to allow two trapped miners to scramble on their hands and knees. The crack widened with a sound reminiscent of tearing cloth. Stone dust settled over Harry's hair.
"Now!"
They dove as the roof collapsed, a rush of debris that slammed against the tunnel floor, sending up a cloud of grit. For a brief moment, only the ringing in his ears and the chalky taste lingered. Harry blinked the gray from his lashes. Thoren was swearing. The two trapped miners—Ked and Borsa—sat dazed, their faces pale through the dust.
"You insane fool," Thoren said hoarsely, gripping Harry's shoulder. "One more moment, and it would've—
"We don't abandon our own," Harry replied.
He knelt to examine Ked's leg, relying more on touch than sight. No broken bones—lucky. He whispered a charm to reduce the swelling and another to calm Ked's racing heart. The man sagged but managed a weak smile.
"Thought I'd be heading to Valhalla early," Ked rasped.
"Not today," Harry said. "Back to the barracks for both of you. Fresh air and warm broth."
By noon, the dust had settled. They reinforced the break with new pine, thicker pins crisscrossed like a ladder, and attached a cord to signal for help in the dark. Seara measured each timber carefully with her knotted rope and tapped any that fell short. Ros lined the walls with woven brush to capture loose grit, a simple method learned from an old fisherman who had trapped sand on coastal dunes. No magic involved—just cleverness.
In the afternoon, their careful work was rewarded.
It started as a small glimmer in the iron—fool's gold, Thoren said—but then the iron cracked open along a fissure wide enough for a man's palm, and gold emerged, shy at first but then bold. It flowed along the wall in rough nodules and sheets, a frozen river, glowing softly in the lamplight.
At first, no one shouted. They just stood, breathing visible in the chill, and stared.
Hild was the first to laugh. She pressed her brow to the gold like a lover and said, "There you are."
Harry swallowed hard. He had encountered treasure hoards larger than banquet halls, glittering like snowdrifts—both legacy and decay. This was different. This was pure. This was a bounty that could sustain a city.
"Slow," he said quietly. "Cross-cut. Leave pillars. We'll take her with respect."
When the cheer erupted, it resonated like rolling thunder, shaking dust from the rafters. Thoren clasped Harry's arm tightly.
By dusk, news spread throughout the ridges. Men and women came from the charcoal pits and sled camps, from the rope-walk and the smithy, their faces bright against the cold. The shift horn proclaimed the end of work, and they lit a fire beside a boulder as large as a cottage. Someone produced a drum, and a pot of stew bubbled over the flames, rich with barley, root vegetables, and yesterday's elk. A steaming jug passed among them.
Harry elevated a hand for silence atop a rock. Gradually, quiet settled over the crowd.
"We found a river within the mountain," he announced. "It will bring many of you wealth in both pride and coin." He let the weight of his words settle—he had promised riches, and he kept his promises. "But remember, gold breeds folly faster than mushrooms grow after rain. Listen to me.
"No one should work alone. No one operates the face without a reinforced crown. Every load must be documented. Every injury reported. Widows and widowers will receive their share. Orphans will be fed. If you're seeking quick riches, there are pirates over by the Shivering Sea who still need convincing. But in my mines, we work responsibly."
Laughter erupted in agreement. Jokes about pirates and swords flew around; camaraderie filled the air. But they were listening. The men and women always did when he spoke of responsibility.
"And one more thing," Harry raised his voice above the discussions. "No more feeding this mountain to portals."
He sensed the stirring of surprise. A portal made life simpler: stones vanished in radiant light and emerged at Telmar's yard, ore whisked from vein to crucible in an instant. He could open one now. But his son would grow up in this world; his people must not learn dependence like a soothing song.
"The Antler flows for a purpose," he continued. "We will create a river road. We will cut and grade a haul route down to the water. Sleds in winter; wagons in summer. We'll craft barges with shallow drafts, oak ribs, and iron nails. We'll construct wharves every ten miles and assemble crews to keep the channel clear. We will fight the river and make it our ally."
Thoren exhaled thoughtfully. "That requires a lot of timber, my lord."
"We've plenty of trees," Salla calculated. "And hands."
Harry nodded. "You'll see wages for those hands and payout for the sawyers. Hild, gather six reliable workers. Teach them to mark slip lines and heed the rock. I'll arrange diagrams to be printed in Telmar—how to set frames, how to ventilate shafts, how to recognize faults. No one descends beneath a crown or enters a cut without signing they understand it. Whether they can read or not, someone will read it to them. There's no disgrace in learning."
A murmur of agreement rose, quieter than the initial cheer but expressing deeper sentiment. Pride, in its rightful place.
"And what about the river?" Ros inquired. "She freezes hard during the depths of winter."
"Then we'll use winter," Harry replied. "Ice roads. We'll pack snow, flood it, smooth it to glass, and drag sledges over it like knives. On the most challenging days, we'll gather by hearths to repair ropes and have children. Laughter filled the air. "And when we need to move, we will. If the ice buckles, we'll lay brush to cushion it. If the wind bites, we'll erect windbreaks. We'll work with nature, not against it."
As the fire dwindled and the stew pot stood empty, they sang. Narnians now sang not only the old wildling chants but also work songs learned in Lorath, a marching tune from Norvos, celebration of black ships, whales, and home. When someone asked for a tale, Harry recounted the story of Thor pulling the great serpent from the sea, highlighting how even gods must work together. The miners responded well to it, as it made their hands feel sacred.
Choosing to sleep in a canvas barracks on a straw mattress, Harry nestled his boots beneath the cot, with his pick resting against his pack. That night, when the wind died down, he walked the ridge alone, gloves tucked into his belt. The stars were like frozen pinpricks. The Frostfangs loomed around him like vigilant ancient beasts.
Though he could have summoned Winter to soar above, with a single sweep of those majestic wings to lift his spirits like a child's, he kept his dragon two days east for good reason. Eyes were still watching the sky. Let the world gossip about Narnians and their swift ships and their plentiful coins; they shouldn't yet count dragons among their wealth.
He rested his hand against the mountain again and let a thread of magic flow through stone and seam. He murmured a binding word, urging the weight of the mountain to settle. Just a small gesture—a gentle push, not an overwhelming force. Someday, when he was gone, the tunnels must endure because men had learned to uphold them, not because a sorcerer was present in darkness.
At dawn, he shared hot broth with the first shift and walked the new cut. The gold still shimmered—patient and elusive—but the timbers were more assured now, the pins firmly in place. Hild's chalk marks were clear and neat, like letters on a page. Salla's tally board displayed rows of notches, which would translate to wages for bread, boots, dowries, and livestock. Outside, on the slope, men felled spruce under fluttering flags—his flags and a white stripe with a painted hammer. The Miners' Guild would convene that night to elect their leaders; he would allow it and bind those leaders with oaths and responsibilities.
"Lord?" Thoren asked as he fell into step next to Harry. "We'll need to name the vein."
Harry gazed back into the tunnel where the seam sparkled like sunlight trapped in stone. He thought about Lyanna's tired smile turning to laughter when their son finally slept; he remembered Sirius running breathless into his arms; and he envisioned the Antler in thaw, a silver ribbon gleaming over the black hulls at Telmar.
"Let's call her Dawnriver," he suggested.
Thoren beamed, his teeth gleaming against his dusty beard. "Dawnriver it is."
By midday, they began constructing the first barge frames at the bend in the Antler, where the water ran dark beneath a layer of ice. Men cleared a path. Women transported iron spikes and tools. Children compacted snow beneath the sled runners with their feet, then squealed as they slid down the packed slope until Salla chased them away with her rope.
Harry drove the first spike—not with magic, but with a hammer. The sound rang out into the crisp air like a promise. He struck it again and again until the head sat perfectly flush, keeping the frame intact. Taking a step back, he drew in breath, his chest rising.
"Let's build a river road," he declared, and the Narnians laughed and set to work.
The Frostfang village was alive with noise that morning. Children's laughter mixed with the sound of chisels in the far quarries, and the warm smoke of hearthfires curled up from the stone halls. The place had grown beyond recognition—forty great halls of stone, each packed with cots and fires, where children, and old ones lived while their kin mined in the mountains. What had begun as a shelter for the miners had become a village of its own.
Inside one hall, Harry sat at a long table, chalk in his hand. Around him, wildling children leaned forward on rough benches, their eyes fixed on the slate board he had propped against the wall.
"Now," Harry said, pointing to the letter he had written. "This is 'A'. Say it with me."
"A!" the children chorused, some too loud, some shy, but all eager.
Harry grinned. "Good. And this is 'B'. Together, A and B can start a word. Like…" He drew a rough apple. "Apple. See?"
The children murmured, tracing the shapes with their fingers on the table. One boy frowned. "Why we need words, Lord Gryffindor? We got our voices."
Harry knelt beside him. "Because words can travel farther than voices. A voice is heard here, now. But a word written can be carried to someone far away, even across seas. Words make you strong. Stronger than axes."
The boy's eyes widened as if he had been told a great secret. Harry was about to continue when a sudden hush fell over the hall.
At the doorway, an eagle owl landed heavily on the floor, its wings stirring dust. The children gasped and shuffled back. No bird that size came here unbidden. The owl marched straight to Harry, tilting its great golden eyes at him.
Harry reached out calmly, untying the small scroll bound to its leg. "Easy now," he murmured. "This one is a messenger."
The children pressed close again, whispering, "Magic… it's magic!"
Harry scanned the letter quickly, his expression sharpening. It was Lyanna's hand. The Hornfoots, and several smaller clans with them, had arrived at Narnia's borders. They sought to join.
He folded the parchment and tucked it away. "Alright," he said to the children, standing. "Keep practicing. Write the letters ten times. I'll see who's best at it when I return."
They groaned but obeyed. Harry handed the chalk to a young Essosi woman who had been helping with lessons. "Take over for me. They're quick learners."
The owl gave a low hoot as if to hurry him. Harry straightened his cloak, then with a single twist of thought and will, vanished.
The children gasped again, voices breaking into chatter.
"He vanished!"
"Like a shadow in fire!"
"Lord Gryffindor's going to fight giants, I bet!"
But Harry was already gone, reappearing in the cool stone corridors of Potter Castle at Gnome City, the letter still warm in his pocket.
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