The brute's body lay half-buried in the snow, steam rising faintly where his blood met the frost. Harry exhaled a long breath, his muscles loosening at last. He let the club fall aside with a dull thud, the fight finished.
Turning, he saw the girl still frozen at a distance, her chest heaving, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"It's over," Harry called gently. "You can go back to your people."
The girl's eyes darted around the empty snowfields. The shadows of the trees seemed darker now, the silence heavier. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She simply shook her head, trembling.
Harry frowned. He had spoken too quickly. Sending her off into the night would be condemning her to risk—wolves, more raiders, or worse. He had just pulled her from death; to abandon her now would be cruelty.
"Listen," he said, softening his tone. "It's dangerous out here. I don't know if there are more of his kind nearby. Or worse. Come with me to my camp. In the morning, you can go back safe."
For a moment she hesitated, torn between fear of him and fear of the dark. Finally, she nodded. The smallest, quick tilt of her head, but enough.
"Good," Harry said, relief flickering in his eyes. "Come on then. It's not far."
The fire was still alive when they returned, flames licking warmly at the stones Harry had stacked. The tent stood solid against the ridge, plain and unremarkable. Harry had chosen it precisely because it blended in, but when the girl saw it, her brows knit.
Her gaze slid past the canvas shelter almost without interest—then caught sharply on the iron pot still steaming beside the fire.
Harry noticed it immediately. Her eyes lingered there, wide and hungry.
"You've not seen a cooking pot before?" he asked.
She shook her head, stepping closer as if drawn. "We… roast on spits. On the fire."
Harry smiled faintly. "Well, tonight you'll eat from a pot. There's stew left. Sit."
He ladled what remained into a wooden bowl and passed it to her. She sniffed once, uncertain, then took a careful bite. Her eyes widened at the taste, and she quickly ate more, her hunger overtaking her caution.
Harry sat across the fire, watching quietly. There was something striking about her—something beyond her youth. She was no older than fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most. Her furs were torn, her face pale with fright. But when she looked up at him, he noticed her teeth first. Straight, even, almost perfect. Among wildlings, Harry had rarely seen that. Most bore crooked smiles, gaps, or jagged edges worn by hard living. But hers—hers was different.
And when she allowed herself the smallest smile at the taste of the stew, it was beautiful.
When the last of the food was gone, the girl set the bowl down carefully, as if it were something precious. She licked her lips and finally found her voice.
"You… saved me."
Harry inclined his head. "No one deserves to be dragged off into the night."
She hesitated, then straightened her back a little, trying to appear braver than she felt. "My name is Astrid"
Harry gave a small nod. "I am Harry Gryffindor."
At that, her eyes widened, shock breaking through her fear. "Harry… Gryffindor?" she repeated, almost stumbling over the name. "Are you a kneeler? Are you from the Night's Watch?"
Harry's lips curved faintly. "I am not from the Night's Watch. And I am not a kneeler."
Astrid frowned, confused. "Then why such a name? Only kneelers have names like that. Fancy names. We have Astrid, Skor, Edda… but you—" she shook her head. "Harry Gryffindor sounds like a lord."
Harry chuckled softly, stirring the embers of the fire with a stick. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. But I promise you this—I'm no kneeler. I stand where I choose."
Astrid tilted her head, still staring at him with a mixture of awe and suspicion. She pulled her furs tighter, though Harry noticed her shoulders had eased a little. The worst of her fear was ebbing away.
The fire burned low, and the night grew colder. Harry rose and gestured toward the tent. "The night's too dangerous to sleep outside. Wolves hunt, and worse things than wolves."
Astrid glanced at the shelter. Her brow furrowed, but she nodded faintly.
Harry went in first, ducking beneath the flap. The inside was plain and enough space to two people, little more. He set his knife aside within easy reach, then stepped back to allow Astrid in. She hesitated at the threshold, then followed.
Harry gestured to one side. "That's your area. I'll take the other."
The girl obeyed silently, curling up under her fur. Harry lay down as well, careful to keep a respectful distance. For a while, he stared at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the soft rustle of fabric and the distant call of owls.
Tomorrow, Frostfang Village, he thought. Answers will begin there.
Sleep claimed him slowly.
When Harry woke, the sun was only just climbing over the ridge. Cold light spilled through the flap of the tent. He shifted slightly—only to realize something was draped across him.
Astrid.
She was still asleep, her face softened in slumber. One of her arms lay across his chest, and one leg was thrown carelessly over his, as though she had sought warmth in the night without thinking.
Careful not to wake her, he eased himself back against the pillow, eyes drifting upward to the faint patterns on the tent's roof. The day was beginning, and ahead lay the Frostfangs, the quarry village, and perhaps the first whispers of the White Walkers.
But for this moment, he simply lay still, letting the quiet warmth of the tent shelter them both from the chill of the northern dawn.
When Astrid stirred awake the next morning, her first bleary glance was at Harry. She blinked, then quickly pulled her hand back from his chest as if burned. For a moment, Harry thought nothing of it. He sat up, fastening his cloak, already preparing to break camp.
"You should head back to your people," Harry said matter-of-factly. "I've got places to be."
Astrid sat up slowly, furs gathered tight around her shoulders. Her face hardened in a way that surprised him. "No," she said flatly.
Harry frowned. "What do you mean, no?"
Her chin lifted. "You stole me. From Skor. That makes me yours. Your wife."
Harry blinked at her, caught completely off guard. "…What?"
Astrid's eyes narrowed, suspicious of his reaction. "Don't you know our ways? A man who takes a woman become her husband. Always. You fought for me. You won. I am yours now."
Harry dragged a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Astrid, I think you misunderstand. I wasn't fighting to claim you. I was stopping him from hurting you. That's all."
But the girl only shook her head, her expression unyielding. "You can't undo it. It's done. I belong to you."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I already have a wife. And a son."
That only made her lean forward, eyes flashing with disbelief. "Then I'll be another. Many men have more than one wife. You are strong, stronger than any I've seen. You can keep us all."
He sighed, trying to remain patient. "Astrid, I don't want another wife. I want you safe, that's all. Take the tent. Take weapons, trinkets, whatever you need. But go home."
For the first time, her bravado cracked. Her lips trembled as she shook her head violently. "If you don't take me with you, I die. Do you want my death on your hands?"
Harry's chest tightened. He hated the trap the words spun around him, hated that she knew exactly how to twist the knife. He could already see the truth in her eyes—if he abandoned her now, she would not survive.
He cursed softly under his breath. "You're not leaving me any choice, are you?"
A small, victorious smile curved her lips. "No. You are mine now. And I am yours."
They set out together toward Frostfang Village, the snow crunching beneath their boots. The mountains loomed closer, jagged peaks catching the morning sun. Harry kept his pace brisk, hoping silence would dissuade her.
But Astrid was giddy. She walked close—too close—often brushing his arm or peering up at him with bright eyes. Every step she seemed to find an excuse to stay near.
"Your cloak is warm," she said cheerfully.
"It's Narnian wool," Harry replied curtly, stepping a little away.
"You walk faster than anyone I've seen," she tried again.
"I've had practice."
"Your hands are not scarred," she added, peering at them. "But they are strong. How many men have you killed?"
Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. "Enough."
She smiled, entirely unbothered by his tone, as if his irritation rolled right off her. "Good. Then no one will take me from you."
Harry said nothing, staring ahead at the road winding into the mountains. Inside, his thoughts churned. Lyanna is going to murder me when she hears about this…
And yet, he could not bring himself to abandon Astrid. Not when she had looked at him with such certainty, not when the alternative was death.
Uncomfortable or not, Astrid walked beside him as though she had always belonged there, bright-eyed and fearless, as the Frostfang Village came into view in the distance.
The village at the edge of the Frostfangs was unlike anything Astrid had ever seen. Her eyes widened the moment she stepped into the clearing, where halls of solid stone rose from the earth like the bones of giants. These were not crude huts or half-buried lean-tos. They were long, low buildings with thick walls, each one large enough to house a dozen families. In the center of every hall, great fireplaces blazed, their smoke curling up into the cold air.
The scent of roasting meat drifted out as villagers gathered with bowls in hand, sitting in warm circles. Stores of grain and smoked fish were stacked neatly against the walls, much of it carted in from Thelmar and Gnome City. For wildlings, who once scraped survival from snow and bone, this village was paradise.
Astrid stopped in her tracks, her mouth parting in wonder. "Stone halls… warm fires… and food enough for all?" she whispered. "This is no village. This is heaven, and there are many of them."
Harry gave a faint smile. "It's what happens when people work together, Astrid. When they choose more than just survival."
But before he could say more, Astrid walked straight to the nearest gathering of villagers and boldly introduced herself.
"I am Astrid," she declared, chin high. "Wife of Harry."
The hall went silent. Men glanced at each other, women raised their brows, and children stared wide-eyed. Within moments, murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course she did.
He stepped forward quickly, hands raised. "Listen. This is not what it sounds like. There's been a mistake."
But the villagers crowded close, listening intently as Harry explained. He told them about the brute in the snow, about how he had stepped in only to protect Astrid. How he had meant nothing by it. How she had insisted it made them husband and wife.
"I already have a wife," Harry finished firmly. "And a son. I never meant to claim another."
He had expected understanding. Perhaps even laughter at the absurdity of the situation. But instead, the villagers nodded solemnly, their sympathy falling on Astrid instead of him.
"She's right," said an older woman, her voice edged with iron. "That is our custom. You took her. She belongs to you now."
"She can't go back," another man added. "If you leave her, she'll be shamed. Better she goes with you, as your wife. You're our king—should you not honor our ways too?"
A chorus of agreement followed. Astrid looked up at Harry with shining eyes, as though the village itself had sealed her claim.
Harry's jaw tightened. "In Narnia, stealing women is forbidden. It is against every law we live by."
The elder woman shrugged. "This is not Narnia. Our ways are older than your kingdom. Older than your walls. If you are king of the free folk as well, then you must honor us."
The words struck him harder than he wanted to admit. He could not simply dismiss their traditions—not without alienating the very people he sought to unite.
That night, Harry sat apart from the fire, his cloak pulled close, wrestling with the choice before him. Astrid was only a girl, yet in her eyes he saw no doubt, no hesitation. She truly believed she was bound to him, and the villagers had only reinforced it.
When he returned to Thelmar, Lyanna would not take kindly to this. Nor would Sirius. And yet, if he abandoned Astrid now, her fate would be as good as sealed.
The next morning, Harry found her waiting at the edge of the village, eager to follow him north.
"No," Harry said firmly. "You cannot come with me. I am going further north, to a place where even fire struggles to live. The land of always winter. It is no place for you."
Astrid's face fell, but she stepped closer, desperate. "Then take me with you now. If I stay, I am nothing without you. You promised."
Harry's gaze softened. "I promise you this—when I return, I will take you to Narnia. You will live there, with warmth, with food, with safety. But I cannot take you where I go now. You would not survive."
Her lip trembled, but she nodded at last. "You swear it?"
"I swear it," Harry said.
She let him go then, though not without a lingering glance that burned with stubborn certainty.
Harry left her in the village, knowing it was the safest place for her until his return. Then, with the enchanted carpet unrolled once more, he rose into the pale northern sky. The Frostfangs fell away beneath him, their peaks sharp as knives. Beyond them stretched the endless white—no roads, no forests, no warmth.
The land of always winter waited.
Harry pulled his cloak tighter, the carpet steady beneath him, his eyes narrowing against the icy wind. Somewhere out there, he would find the truth of the White Walkers. And when he did, the fate of all he had built would depend on what he discovered.