The chill of late winter deepened over Winterfell. The snows no longer melted at noon; they only gathered, falling softly and endlessly upon stone and field alike. Within the guest tower, Queen Elia Martell lay dying.
Her skin had grown translucent as parchment, her breath shallow, her lips tinged the faint blue of the northern cold. The Dornish fire that once burned in her eyes had dimmed to a flickering ember. The maesters could do little but whisper prayers to the Seven, and even the septa who attended her had lost faith.
Oberyn Martell paced the room, his boots thudding softly against the rushes. His hands — those famous hands once so steady with a spear — now trembled as he poured watered wine into a goblet.
"She cannot stay here," he said at last, his voice low but laced with fury. "This land is killing her. The cold eats her alive."
Maester Luwin hesitated. "Your Grace, the journey to Dorne would be long and perilous. She would not survive the sea winds."
"Better to die in the arms of her own sun," Oberyn said, slamming the goblet down. "Better in the warmth of her home than to freeze in this cursed keep."
Lewyn Martell, standing beside the bed, flinched slightly at his words but said nothing. Elia stirred faintly, her eyes opening. "Oberyn," he whispered. "Do not shout. The cold… already does enough."
He knelt beside her. "We will take you home, sweet sister."
She smiled faintly, turning her gaze toward Lyanna. "The North does not forgive easily, does it?"
Lewyn shook her head, her voice soft." We don't know my dear."
When Maester Luwin approached Lyanna later that evening, his expression was grave.
"My queen," he began carefully, "please help her."
Lyanna looked up from the fire. "Speak, Maester."
"The Narnian medicines you brought — I've seen what they can do. Their touch heals wounds that should not close. The herbs restore breath to those who cannot draw it. Perhaps—"
"You want us to heal your queen?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "I have read many accounts, but none of such arts. They say your king, your husband, is a healer greater than any maester. Perhaps his people can help."
Lyanna thought for a moment. "They are skilled, yes. But not miracle workers."
"Still," Luwin said softly, "what better miracle to attempt than to save a dying woman?"
Oberyn did not hesitate. When Lyanna came to him with the idea, he seized her wrist.
"If there is any chance — any — you will try. I will give you gold, ships, my spear, anything."
Lyanna frowned. "Keep your gold, Prince of Dorne. I need your trust, not your coin."
That night, the chamber filled with strange scents — sharp herbs and incense that burned like honeyed smoke. Two Narnians entered, both cloaked in deep green furs, their eyes pale as the moon. They placed smooth stones upon Elia's chest, murmuring words in a language no one in the room understood. They made her drink strange concoctions.
Oberyn watched every motion, his knuckles white around his sword hilt.
Elia's breathing steadied — just a little. Color returned faintly to her cheeks.
But by dawn, it was clear: she was not healed. Only slowed in her dying.
"She will live," one of the Narnians said. "But not for long in this condition. The cold rejects her. We must take her to Narnia fast."
"Then she must leave it," Oberyn replied. "If Narnia is where she can live, then Narnia she shall go."
Lyanna met with Oberyn later in the great hall, the firelight glinting off her dark hair.
"If we are to bring her to Narnia," she said, "we travel light. No guards. No ladies. The cold will kill her if she must wait for a large escort."
Oberyn nodded. "Then I will come with her. And my uncle, Ser Lewyn. He will not let me go without him."
"And the girl?" Lyanna asked, glancing toward Daenerys, who sat nearby plaiting Sirius's hair into a dozen crooked braids.
"She stays," Oberyn said.
Daenerys looked up immediately. "No! I'm coming. I want to see Narnia!"
Lyanna raised a brow. "You wish to see a world of snow when you've barely survived this one?"
Daenerys grinned. "Sirius said it's not all snow. He said there's a castle with dragons carved in gold and trees that glow."
Lyanna smiled faintly at the thought of her son's wild imagination. "Very well. But you'll obey every word I say."
The little princess nodded eagerly.
By the next morning, the preparations were complete.
A single covered wagon was fitted with layers of fur and lined with enchanted warming stones brought by the Narnians. Horses were yoked, guards posted at the gate, and word was sent to White Harbor for a waiting ship.
Elia was lifted gently into the wagon, pale but conscious, her dark eyes meeting Lyanna's.
"I never thought," she murmured, "that the woman I once hated would be my salvation."
Lyanna adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. "The gods have strange humor, my queen."
Oberyn climbed onto his horse, his face hard but his voice steady. "We ride for White Harbor. And from there, to your land of wonders."
"Narnia," Lyanna said quietly. "is a land of secrets and you will be forced to keep it that way."
Snow began to fall again — soft, endless, merciless — as the small company left the gates of Winterfell.
The snows had not stopped for three days. They fell in soft sheets that blurred the horizon into a gray-white dream, and every hoofbeat sank deep into the frozen earth. The wagon creaked and groaned as it dragged its way south toward White Harbor, wheels half-buried in slush and ice. The journey to Narnia had begun.
At the head of the convoy rode Lyanna Stark, her furs dusted with frost, her eyes narrowed against the wind. Beside her, on a wolf large as a destrier, rode her son Sirius, his dark hair whipping wildly in the gale. Beneath him moved Godric, the direwolf—massive, silent, and sure-footed on the ice.
Lyanna's own wolf, Helga, loped alongside, her pale coat almost invisible against the snow. Between them ran two mounted Narnians, guiding the covered wagon that carried Queen Elia Martell and Princess Daenerys.
From within the wagon came Daenerys's muffled voice:
"Why can't I ride the wolf too? It's not fair!"
Lyanna smiled faintly without turning. "Because your hands are too small to hold on when Godric runs."
Sirius laughed from his saddle. "She's right, Dany. Godric only lets me ride him because he knows I'm the bravest in all the North."
"Then I'll be the bravest in all the South!" Daenerys declared stubbornly, crossing her arms. "When I'm Queen, I'll have a dragon, and I'll ride higher than your wolf ever could!"
Oberyn Martell, riding near the wagon, muttered to himself, "Seven save me, two of them and the castle will collapse before sunrise."
Oberyn had not taken his eyes off the wolves since the journey began. Every time one padded too close to his horse, the Dornish prince stiffened and pulled at his reins.
When Godric turned his golden eyes on him, Oberyn swore he saw intelligence there—cold and ancient. It unsettled him more than any foe on the battlefield.
"Your beasts make me uneasy," he confessed once to Lyanna, as they stopped to rest. "In Dorne, creatures this size would be called demons."
Lyanna chuckled softly. "They are wolves, Prince Oberyn. Children of the old gods, not of hell. You'd be surprised how gentle they are to those who do not fear them."
"I would rather they be gentle elsewhere," Oberyn replied dryly, dismounting. His horse, sweating despite the cold, tossed its head nervously each time Godric prowled near.
The Narnians, meanwhile, tended to the wagon and horses with practiced ease. They spoke little, their pale eyes glinting in the dusk, their hands glowing faintly whenever they prepared Elia's medicine.
Inside the wagon, the Queen's breath no longer came in ragged gasps. The medicine — a strange amber tonic mixed by the skinchangers — gave her color again. She could even speak now without trembling.
Lyanna climbed in during one halt and touched Elia's hand. "You're stronger today."
Elia's lips curved faintly. "If by stronger you mean I can sit up without seeing the world spin, then yes."
Daenerys beamed beside her, clutching Elia's fingers. "When we reach Narnia, you'll get better. Sirius said his father can fix anyone."
Elia smiled at the girl, then looked at Lyanna. "Tell me the truth. Can he?"
Lyanna hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If anyone can, it's Harry. I've seen him heal wounds that would make even maesters weep. He draws from something purer than fire or faith — a magic that listens."
Elia's voice softened. "Then I will put my life in his hands."
Oberyn, standing by the wagon, overheard and muttered under his breath, "He had better have steady hands then."
The path to White Harbor wound like a white ribbon through the hills. Each night they camped by half-frozen streams, the Narnians setting up enchanted lanterns that glowed with steady warmth.
Lyanna's direwolves hunted for the company, returning each morning with fresh deer or hare. Daenerys found it marvelous — "They hunt like dragons!" — while Oberyn called it "a nightly reminder that the gods of the North have sharp teeth."
On the fifth day, the snow lessened, revealing the faint blue shimmer of the river that led to the sea. White Harbor was near.
Lyanna rode ahead with Sirius, her eyes fixed on the gray horizon where water met sky. "Soon," she said softly. "Just a little longer."
Oberyn followed behind, his cloak flaring crimson in the wind. He looked toward the wagon where his sister rested and whispered to himself, "If this king of yours can save her… then all Dorne will owe him a debt no blood could repay."
By evening, the harbor lights shimmered in the distance. Ships swayed gently against the wharf, their sails dusted white. The Narnians quickened their pace, urging the horses forward.
Lyanna looked back once, her eyes meeting Oberyn's. "From here, it will be easier. The sea will carry her faster than any road."
Oberyn exhaled in relief. "Then let us pray your sea is kinder than your snow."
Daenerys peeked from the wagon flap, grinning at the sight of ships. "Is that Narnia?"
Sirius laughed, guiding Godric alongside. "Not yet, Dany. This is just White Harbour."
The direwolves howled as if in agreement, their voices echoing across the frozen water.
The sea was gray and wide, the horizon blurring into mist where sky and water met. The biting northern wind rolled across the harbor, snapping banners and chilling every bone to its marrow. Yet for Lord Wyman Manderly, such cold was nothing compared to the thrill of seeing Narnian sails in his port again.
Three great ships waited at the docks — their hulls of polished blackwood and gold-lined rails gleaming beneath the pale sun. Their figureheads were unlike any Westerosi craft: dragons carved in living enchantment, their jeweled eyes gleaming faintly as if watching.
When the small convoy from Winterfell arrived, the harbor erupted into motion. Guards saluted. Harbor masters bowed. The townsfolk whispered in awe.
Lord Manderly approached the group, his great belly wrapped in thick furs, his smile broad despite the wind biting his cheeks.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing deeply to Lyanna Stark, "White Harbor welcomes you once again. Word travels faster than gulls —
Lyanna cut him off with a gentle but firm voice. "Another time, my lord. I must take to the sea. The Queen's condition worsens by the hour."
Manderly's face fell. "Aye, I understand. The gods watch over her. Still, the people will curse me for not hosting a feast—"
"They will forgive you," Lyanna said, already turning toward the ships. "Tell them their queen carries hope for another's life. That will be feast enough."
The lord bowed again, his voice heavy with respect. "As you command, my queen."
The Narnians were already at work. Tall, fur-clad sailors with braided hair and glinting steel ornaments hauled ropes and unfurled sails that shimmered faintly with runes. Elia Martell, frail but conscious, was carried aboard by two skinchangers, their arms strong and steady.
Oberyn and Ser Lewyn Martell followed, their faces tense.
The moment Oberyn stepped into the ship's interior, his eyes widened.
"By all the gods," he murmured. "I expected a prison of wood and pitch — not a palace on the water."
Indeed, the ship's interior defied reason. The corridors were carved beautifully, the walls lined with deep red wood and polished brass. Chandeliers floated midair, casting golden light. In the Queen's cabin, the bed was draped with silk that shimmered like the desert sands of Dorne.
Oberyn brushed his fingers along the carved doorframe. "Even our greatest Dornish ships would look like fishing boats beside this."
Lyanna smiled faintly. "Narnian ships do not merely sail — they glide upon wards of wind and will."
It did not take Oberyn long to recover his swagger. His shock turned to delight as he discovered the Narnian crew — men and women alike — were strikingly beautiful, their eyes bright with strange colors, their manner calm yet confident.
He began his usual games — a word here, a smile there, offering his title and his charm as freely as breath.
"Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne," he announced to a particularly stoic archer who was tightening a rope. "Poet, warrior, and lover extraordinaire. Allow me to ease the loneliness of this cold voyage."
The archer didn't even look up. "You can ease it by moving out of the way. You're standing on the rope."
Oberyn blinked. "Ah. Practical, I see. I like that."
Moments later, he tried his hand with a dark-haired sailor woman who was oiling a ballista.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked smoothly.
"Yes," she replied without glancing at him. "Someone about to lose if he challenges me."
Amused and slightly offended, Oberyn drew closer. "Lose in what?"
"Anything you pick," she said, standing up and handing him a wooden practice sword. "Try me."
He did.
And he lost.
Badly.
He tried again with another sailor — a tall man with golden eyes and a grin like a wolf's. This time, it ended with Oberyn flat on his back, staring up at the ship's enchanted ceiling.
As he groaned, the sailor offered him a hand. "You fight well, southern prince. But pride weighs heavier than your blade."
Oberyn took the hand, still smirking despite his bruises. "Perhaps. But I'll win next time."
"You won't," the sailor said simply, and walked away.
For the first time in his life, Oberyn Martell found himself surrounded by people entirely immune to his charm — and it stung.
As the sails caught the wind, White Harbor faded into the mist behind them. The Narnians stood tall upon the decks, chanting words that bent the air itself. The sea turned calm, the waves flattening in a corridor of still water that seemed to glow faintly beneath the ship's hull.
At first, Oberyn assumed they were sailing east — toward Braavos, toward warmth.
But after a day, he noticed the sun setting differently. The wind grew sharper, colder. The sky deepened to gray.
He frowned. "We are going north," he said aloud, gripping the railing. "Why in the seven hells are we going north? North is death."
One of the sailors glanced at him with an amused smile. "Not death, my prince. Beyond death."
He blinked. "What does that even mean?"
The sailor only smiled and turned back to his duties.
As the air grew colder, Oberyn finally retreated below deck, wrapping himself in Narnian furs. Yet even through the warmth and comfort of the cabin, a strange unease filled him.
The Narnians were calm — too calm. As if they sailed not into danger.
That night, Oberyn sat beside Elia's bed as the ship glided through the silver fog.
She slept peacefully now, her breathing even, her skin less pale.
For the first time in months, Oberyn allowed himself to hope.
He took her hand and whispered, "We've crossed mountains, war, and snow to keep you safe, sister. If these Narnians can save you, I will give them half of Dorne. And if they fail…" He paused, his dark eyes narrowing. "Then I will burn their magic with my own fire."
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