The alarm spread through Gnome City faster than a winter storm rolling down from the Frostfangs. Hunters burst through the gates, breath steaming, eyes wide with terror. "They're coming!" one cried. "An army! Ten thousand strong!"
At once the settlement erupted into chaos. Smiths abandoned their forges mid-strike, women seized axes, and even children clutched wooden spears, standing shoulder to shoulder with their elders. The clamor of steel rang through every street as warriors buckled on armor, strung bows, and muttered sharp prayers beneath their breath.
On the walls, Jorund, scarred and grim, bellowed orders.
"Archers, to your posts! Shields forward! If they breach the wards, we cut them down to the last!"
The Narnians were not unaccustomed to danger—raids, wild beasts, and skirmishes had marked their lives for generations—but the thought of ten thousand wildlings marching upon them was enough to chill even the bravest blood. Mothers kissed their children quickly and shoved them behind the walls. Men checked the edges of their axes twice, thrice, until the blades gleamed.
And then came the sight that froze every hand in mid-motion.
Out of the white haze of snow emerged shadows—enormous shadows. As the storm cleared, the shapes grew clearer: giants, twenty of them, riding atop mammoths clad in iron and leather. Their massive swords glittered like walls of steel, each blade longer than a man was tall. Behind them stretched the sea of wildlings: the Hornfoot clan, the Heron clan, and a dozen more, trudging in ragged lines.
But it was not only giants the Narnians saw. High on one of the mammoths sat a figure that made the crowd murmur in disbelief.
"The Queen," someone whispered.
"It's Lyanna," Jorund breathed, his jaw slack.
Children pressed forward, eyes wide as moons, tugging at their mothers' skirts. Many had heard the tales—yes, that Narnia's Queen had been born a Stark of Winterfell—but few expected to see her riding into the city atop a beast out of legend, calm as though she had merely come back from a morning ride.
The mammoth carrying Lyanna halted before the gates. With surprising gentleness, the clan head of the giants lifted her from the saddle and set her delicately upon the snow. Brandon Stark slid down beside her, still pale and stiff from the terrifying ride. His eyes darted about wildly, half-expecting the giants to crush him with one careless step.
Koll and Jorund pushed through the crowd, weapons still in hand, their expressions a mixture of awe and alarm.
"My Queen," Koll began, his voice taut, "why do you bring them here? Who are these people?"
Lyanna smoothed the snow from her cloak and met their stares evenly. "They are the Hornfoot and Heron clans, and others besides. They are not here to fight. They have come to join Narnia."
Her words rippled through the warriors like a stone dropped in water. Some muttered angrily, others exchanged uneasy glances. Children tilted their heads, confused.
Jorund frowned, his brows knitting. "Ten thousand? You would bring ten thousand mouths to feed, here, now?"
"They will not storm our homes," Lyanna replied. "They will set their tents outside the city. There they will see how we live, how we work. They will learn our ways. And we will give them food, and shelter enough to survive the winter. In time, they will either become Narnians or leave. But they are here now, and it is better to meet them with bread than with blood."
One of the warriors spat into the snow. "And what if they refuse our bread and demand steel instead?"
Brandon stepped forward, squaring his shoulders though his voice shook faintly. "I saw them myself. They came not with war cries, but with elders and children. If Narnia is to grow, we cannot turn away hands that seeks shelter."
"You speak as though you know what it means to feed ten thousand," the warrior sneered.
But Koll raised a hand, silencing him. "And who gave this order?" he asked firmly. "You bring them here without council, without Lord Gryffindor. By what right?"
Lyanna's chin lifted, proud and unbending. "By the right that I am the wife of Harry Griffindor. But do not mistake me—I do not act alone. I will write to Harry this very night. It will be his word that decides where they will live and how they will be placed. Until then, they will camp outside our walls. We will watch them, feed them, and judge their worth and don't forget who you were before you became Narnians."
Koll's jaw tightened, but after a long pause, he inclined his head. "Then we wait for the Lord's word."
Behind her, the giants shifted restlessly, the mammoths stamping at the frozen earth. The sight drew gasps from the onlookers. Never had so many giants been seen so close to Gnome City. Mothers lifted children to their shoulders so they could see the towering warriors gleaming in full armor, like mountains come to life.
One small boy tugged at his father's sleeve. "Da… are they our enemies?"
His father swallowed, unable to look away. "No, lad. They stand with us."
The murmurs rose, spreading through the crowd. What had once been fear was slowly turning into awe, into pride. For if the giants walked with Narnia, who in all the world could stand against them?
Lyanna turned to Brandon as they began to walk toward Potter Castle. His face was still pale, his breath visible in the air.
"You didn't warn me about this," he muttered under his breath.
"You'd have run," she said simply.
He shook his head, half-smiling. "Maybe. But gods, Lyanna… this is no small thing. Ten thousand more? Can Harry manage it?"
She looked ahead, her eyes shadowed. "Harry will manage. He always does. But this…" Her voice dropped lower. "This is larger than me, Brandon. Larger than both of us."
And as she stepped into the great hall of Potter Castle, the sound of giants shifting outside rumbling like distant thunder, she knew that the next letter she sent to Frostfang would carry more weight than any she had written before.
Harry didn't use apparition like the way others did. He was taught to visualise and concentrate on one specific location you can apparate and let magic do the rest. For him, magic pulled him where he wanted to be. And right now, that was not Frostfang, not Telmar, not even to Gnome City. It was beside Lyanna.
With a quiet crack, he appeared in the heart of the wildling camp.
The snow-stomped ground was crowded with half-built tents, rough fires burning under makeshift spits, women dragging logs for fuel, and children running barefoot over the frozen dirt. A thousand eyes turned at once, and the noise of the camp stilled like a bowstring cut loose.
One moment he wasn't there, the next he was—tall, cloaked in grey fur, emerald eyes bright under the morning sun. For all their talk of a great mage named Lord Gryffindor, most wildlings had taken it for nothing more than Narnian boasting. Now, they saw the truth with their own eyes. A man stepping out of nothingness.
"Gods," a woman whispered, clutching her child to her.
"Did you see—he just… appeared!" another gasped.
Axes were lowered, spears wavered, and mouths hung open in disbelief. Even the Hornfoot chief Goran, who had never bowed his head to anyone, shifted uncertainly.
Lyanna stood near the center of the camp, her cloak rimmed with frost, her hands full of parchment lists as she directed women toward the food tents. When she turned and saw him, her entire face lit up. Relief, joy, and something softer crossed her features all at once.
"Harry," she breathed.
He crossed the space without hesitation, ignoring the stunned wildlings who parted like water before him. His arms went around her, pulling her close, and the camp saw their queen bury her face against his chest like a woman starved of comfort.
"You're back," she said, her voice muffled in his cloak.
"I promised whenever I am needed, I'm here," Harry answered, his tone calm but warm. He held her a moment longer before letting go, though his hand lingered on hers.
Then he turned, facing the staring crowd. He raised one arm, steady and slow, not in threat but in greeting. "I am Harry Gryffindor," he said, his voice carrying across the field. "I am no myth, no shadow. You came here seeking shelter, and you shall have it. But know this: Narnia does not feed idlers or thieves. If you wish to stay, you will work, you will learn, and you will live by our laws."
A ripple passed through the wildlings—some muttered, others exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared raise a voice against him. The image of his sudden arrival was burned too freshly into their minds.
Lyanna's smile was proud as she turned to him. "They didn't believe the stories until now," she said quietly. "Now they do."
Harry clasped her hand firmly, then extended the other to the Hornfoot chief. After a long, tense pause, the man stepped forward and took it. It was no soft gesture of friendship, but a warrior's grip—tight, unyielding.
That handshake, witnessed by thousands, sealed more than words could. It marked the moment the wildlings truly began to believe that the white dragon on black was more than just a banner.
Koll and Jorund approached as soon as they learned Harry had returned. Both men bowed their heads slightly, though it was more respect than formality, and Harry greeted them warmly.
"It's good to see you two still holding the line," Harry said, clapping Jorund on the shoulder. "I knew I could leave Narnia in safe hands."
"Safe, aye," Jorund replied, his eyes flicking toward the sea of Hornfoot tents, "but now the line grows longer every day. This—" he gestured at the newcomers "—will be no small matter."
Before Harry could answer, another figure stepped out from the gathered crowd. Brandon Stark.
It was the first time the two of them laid eyes on one another. For a heartbeat, Harry saw in him everything Lyanna had spoken of: bold features, a wild glint in the eyes, the heir to Winterfell who carried both pride and recklessness like a cloak. Brandon looked him over with equal measure of curiosity and disbelief.
"You must be the Lord Gryffindor my sister speaks of," Brandon said at last.
Harry nodded, offering a firm handshake. "And you must be the brother she speaks of so fondly. We'll have words soon, Brandon Stark. But first—" he turned to the Hornfoot chieftain "—there is work to be done."
Goran, the Hornfoot leader, stood tall as Harry addressed him. Harry's tone carried no arrogance, only certainty. "Your people will not be left wandering in the snow. A village will be raised for you, of stone and fire, by the Antler River to the west. It will be stronger than Gnome City itself, and with it Narnia will grow larger, more secure."
Lyanna moved closer, relief in her eyes. "So you will take them in?"
Harry nodded. "Not here, but westward. A new settlement. One river will tie it to Gnome City, to Telmar. Fresh water, trade, protection—all within reach."
The Hornfoots murmured among themselves, their faces torn between awe and disbelief. Harry lifted a hand, silencing the crowd. "Come. I will show you the place with my own eyes. If you choose to follow me, you'll be Narnians. If not, the gates remain closed."
And with that, Harry, Lyanna, Brandon, Koll, Jorund, and Goran began the march toward the Antler River.
The place for the new settlement was chosen with care. Harry stood upon the frozen ground, the wind tugging at his cloak as he surveyed the stretch of land beside the Antler River. The water gleamed under the pale sun, its current strong enough to carry boats toward Telmar or Gnome City.
"This," Harry said, his voice steady as he turned to face the gathered leaders, "will be your home. It will have the same protection as Telmar and Gnome City. No enemy will enter these borders without the leave of Lyanna, myself, or the council."
The words rippled through the clans. Men and women murmured among themselves, their breath fogging in the cold air. They had lived their whole lives fearing raids, hunger, and sudden death. The idea of walls of protection—magical ones—was something beyond their dreams.
Lyanna placed her hand on Harry's arm and looked to Goran, the Hornfoot chieftain. "You and your people may camp here until the work is complete. No one will starve, no one will freeze. Narnia keeps its promises."
Goran inclined his head, his voice rough but respectful. "We will hold you to your word, Queen Lyanna. My people have known too many empty promises."
"Then watch with your own eyes," Harry replied, lifting his hand.
With a wave, the food storage crates they had brought multiplied again and again, spilling over with bread, dried fish, smoked meats, and barrels of grain. The Narnians who stood nearby gasped aloud. Even Koll and Jorund, who had known Harry's power for years, could not help exchanging startled looks.
"You've been keeping secrets, Lord Gryffindor," Jorund muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Harry gave a half-smile. "Not secrets. Timing. Now is the moment for abundance. No one here will go hungry."
The murmurs of doubt turned to cheers as the wildlings—no, the Narnians—saw the bounty before them. Children clapped their hands, and women pressed palms together in gratitude.
Work began at once. Teams from Telmar and Gnome City marched into the new camp, bringing with them tools, carts of cut stone from Frostfang quarries, and bundles of timber. Blacksmiths set up forges, their hammers ringing through the cold morning air, while masons marked out the foundations for new homes.
"Every house will have a hearth, stone walls, and roofs that will hold against the fiercest storm," Harry declared as he walked with Koll, Jorund, and Goran. "There will be proper roads, not the mud paths of old. Wells, markets, and schools will follow."
"And who will rule here?" Goran asked bluntly, his eyes narrowing.
Harry stopped and looked him in the eye. "A council. As in Gnome City. Your voice will be among them, Goran. But remember—your people are Narnians now. You speak for them, not only for the Hornfoots."
Goran considered that, then gave a slow nod. "I can live with that."
Behind them, Brandon Stark lingered, watching the transformation unfold. He whispered to Lyanna, "I never thought I'd see wildlings building stone houses, laying roads, working as though winter doesn't frighten them."
Lyanna smiled faintly. "That is the promise of Narnia, brother. Here, no one lives off another's back. Here, everyone works, and everyone eats."
Livestock arrived soon after—goats bleating as they were herded from Telmar, crates of chickens, and hardy ponies brought to help haul stone. Farmers from the Antler Valley instructed the newcomers on how to tend to the animals, how to gather fodder, how to fish.
By nightfall, smoke rose from a dozen cookfires, the smell of roasting meat drifting across the camp. The wildlings sat with Narnians, sharing food and stories. Children of both sides ran together, chasing each other between the half-built foundations.
Jorund leaned on his axe and watched the scene, his expression softening. "Maybe this will work," he said to Koll.
Koll grunted. "Aye. So long as they remember the rules."
"They will," Harry answered firmly, his gaze sweeping over the growing settlement. "They'll have to. Narnia isn't a land of tribes anymore. It's a kingdom. And kingdoms endure."
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