The morning sun poured through tall stained-glass windows, spilling golden light across the Great Hall of Gryffindor Castle. It was one of Harry's proudest creations—a hall built in memory of the school that had shaped his childhood, yet crafted to serve a new world. Four massive oak tables stretched the length of the chamber, their benches crowded with men, women, and children alike.
Here, there were no divisions of rank. Apprentices sat beside stone masons, skinchangers beside kitchen hands, Lyanna's voice mingling freely with that of the seamstress who had brought her bread. Even Harry himself took no special place. He sat with Lyanna and Sirius halfway down one of the tables, his cloak thrown loosely over his shoulders, a plate of steaming porridge and fruit before him.
The hall was alive with sound—laughter, clattering dishes, the deep voices of men telling stories of quarry work, the high-pitched excitement of children comparing their lessons. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the sweet tang of honey cakes, and in every corner, warmth and life abounded.
Harry watched it all with quiet satisfaction. This is what I built for. A kingdom where no man or woman dines alone, where lords and common folk share the same fire.
Lyanna smiled as Sirius eagerly traded bites of sausage with Nina, who sat across from him, while Elsa recounted a dream she had had about flying on the carpet.
Then the sound of wings filled the hall.
An owl swooped down through the high rafters, its feathers pale gray, its flight sure despite the din of the feast. It landed gracefully on the table before Lyanna, scattering crumbs, and held out its leg.
The hall quieted slightly; owls always carried news, and news was a thing of weight.
Lyanna untied the ribbon and unfolded the parchment, her brow furrowing as she read. Sirius leaned forward, curiosity lighting his eyes.
"Is it from Uncle Brandon?" he whispered.
"Or Gnome City?" Harry asked, sipping his cup of steaming tea.
Lyanna shook her head. "It's from Winterfell. From my kin." Her voice carried a note of surprise.
Harry arched a brow. "Your brothers?"
Lyanna's lips pressed together as she scanned the words again. "No. From my father."
At the mention of Rickard Stark, the table around them hushed further. Even those who had no ties to the North knew the name of the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Lyanna's father.
Sirius tugged at her sleeve impatiently. "What does he say, Mother? What does Grandpa want?"
Lyanna's voice softened, though her face was tight with emotion. "He writes of me. Of us. He has heard rumors. Strange stories drifting south—about wildlings disappearing, about a night watch members suddenly forgetting trails that they explored countless time. He fears something happening beyond the wall."
Harry set down his cup slowly. "And what truth did you give him?"
Lyanna folded the letter carefully, her hands trembling just slightly. "None yet. I never told him where Narnia is located, Harry. Not fully. Only how I am living. That I was safe. I wrote only that I am living in Narnia."
The hall erupted into murmurs. Apprentices exchanged curious looks, builders frowned, and children whispered behind their hands. The idea of Winterfell—the ancient seat of the Starks—felt something happening, and now its lord had reached across the frozen miles to touch their lives.
Lyanna's eyes shimmered, torn between pride and old excitement. "He asks if I will come home."
Sirius's fork clattered against his plate. "Home? But this is home! Why would we leave? We built all this, didn't we, Father?"
Harry put a steadying hand on his son's shoulder. "This is home, Sirius. But Winterfell is your mother's home, too."
Lyanna's voice shook with emotion. "It's not that, my Benjen is getting married. My mother told me to look after him before she died."
Harry exhaled slowly, his mind already racing through possibilities. "Then perhaps it's time you go home and meet your family."
The castle of Gryffindor was alive with activity that week, every hall echoing with the sound of boots, armor, and the chatter of apprentices carrying bundles of supplies. Lyanna's return to the North was no small matter. For the first time since she had fled, she would walk the halls of Winterfell again, not as a ghost in rumor, but as flesh and blood.
Harry oversaw the preparations with his usual precision. Maps were unfurled on the war table, candles flickering over inked lines of sea routes and mountain passes. His eyes traced each carefully.
"You will first travel to Braavos," he explained, tapping the map. "From there, take a ship to White Harbor. The Manderlys are loyal to your father—they will welcome you. From there, the road to Winterfell is well kept."
Lyanna's face lit with something he had not seen in her for years—childlike excitement. "White Harbor… It has been so long. And to see Winterfell again…" Her voice softened. "And Benjen's wedding—Harry, do you realize how wonderful this is? Daecy Mormont is Maege's daughter. Maege and I exchanged letters often, even when all else was silence. Benjen and Daecy—it's perfect. He will have a wife strong enough to keep him in line."
Harry smiled faintly, though his eyes never left the map. "Then it seems the North has some joy left to give you."
Sirius bounced in his seat, barely able to contain himself. "We're really going? To Winterfell? To see Uncle Benjen, and Uncle Ned, and Grandpa… and the crypts?"
Lyanna laughed, ruffling his dark hair. "Yes, little wolf. You'll meet your kin. They've only seen your face in portraits I've sent. Now they'll meet you properly."
Harry's expression grew serious. "That's why you must go, Sirius. They need to see you. To know you're real."
But Harry's greatest concern was not excitement, but safety. He summoned ten of his finest apprentices—young men and women he had trained himself from the earliest days of Narnia's rise. Each bore the gift of skinchanging, their animals at their sides as living extensions of their souls. Wolves, hawks, and even a massive bear answered their call.
They stood before him in the great hall, clad in simple but sturdy armor.
"You will go with Lyanna and Sirius," Harry said, his voice carrying across the chamber. "They are under your protection. You are not only swords and claws—you are eyes, ears, and shields. You are to see them safely to Winterfell, and safely back."
One of the apprentices, a tall boy with the calm eyes of a hawk, bowed his head. "We will not fail you, Master."
Another, a girl with a wolf pacing at her heels, smiled faintly at Sirius. "It will be an honor to guard you, young lord."
Sirius puffed out his chest, pretending not to be flustered. "I don't need guarding. But… thank you."
Harry chuckled, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "Even the strongest need companions, Sirius. Never forget that."
That evening, Lyanna found Harry alone in the solar, adjusting the wards that would alert him if danger touched the Frostfangs. She slipped into the room quietly, her expression softer than it had been in weeks.
"You're not coming with us," she said, her voice low but steady.
Harry looked up, guilt flickering across his face. "No. I can't. The Watchers beyond the Wall aren't gone, Lyanna. They wait, and I must be here to feel when they stir. If I leave, and they march…" He shook his head. "I can't risk it."
Lyanna stepped closer, placing her hands on his. "I know. I don't ask you to. But promise me this—when you can, you will come to Winterfell. You will meet my father and brothers, my family. Not as a man eloped with Lady Stark, but as the man I chose."
Harry's green eyes softened. He kissed her brow, whispering, "I promise."
The harbor of Thelmar was alive with the creak of ropes and the crash of waves when a sleek Narnian-built ship slid into port. Word spread swiftly through the city: Brandon Stark had come.
Though exiled from the North, Brandon was far from forgotten. He had carved a new life here, at the edge of the Antler river, building the city of Frostshield with his own hands and the loyalty of thousands who had followed him. Now, with the news of Lyanna's journey to Winterfell for Benjen's wedding, he could not stay away.
Harry met him on the docks, the two clasping forearms with the respect of brothers. Brandon's dark hair was windblown, his cloak smelling faintly of salt and smoke. Behind him stood his wife, Barbara Ryswell, her eyes sharp but kind, holding their infant son in her arms.
"Lyanna," Brandon called as his sister approached, Sirius skipping at her side, "you'll not leave without me seeing you off. Not when our brother weds."
Lyanna's eyes softened, and she embraced him tightly. "I thought you'd be buried in stone and timber at Frostshield. Yet here you are."
Brandon chuckled. "Even exiles still have brothers, do they not? And if I cannot walk the halls of Winterfell, then let my steel and name travel there in my stead."
Later, in the courtyard of Gryffindor Castle, Brandon unwrapped a long bundle bound in oiled cloth. One by one, he drew out the gifts: two swords, their steel gleaming, the hilts wrapped in leather dyed deep gray.
"I forged these myself," Brandon said proudly, handing them to Lyanna. "Give them to Benjen. One for him, one for his bride. If I cannot stand at his side, let my work do so."
Lyanna traced the blade with reverence. "They're beautiful, Brandon. He'll know it was you the moment he sees them."
Harry, who had been watching quietly, smiled. "It's fitting. Steel forged by one brother, carried by another, given at the joining of two houses. That's a story worthy of the bards."
That evening, Harry led Brandon and his family into a chamber where he kept one of his more beloved possession, the camera. With a flick of his hand and the whisper of a spell, a strange box shimmered into existence. Light burst within it, freezing the family into a perfect image: Brandon, standing tall and proud, Barbara at his side with baby Richard cradled against her chest.
Sirius clapped his hands in wonder. "It's like magic painted faster than a blink!"
"It is magic," Harry said with a small grin. He whispered again, and the image expanded, filling a canvas nearly as tall as the Sirius. The portrait shone with lifelike detail, as though the family might step out of it at any moment.
Lyanna's eyes misted as she studied it. "When I take this to Winterfell, they will see you as you are now. Not as an exile, but as a husband and father. They'll see that you've achieved great deal, Brandon. You've built a life."
Brandon's jaw tightened, though his eyes betrayed gratitude. "Then let them remember me that way."
Sirius, meanwhile, was entirely taken with baby Richard. He leaned over the cradle, his green eyes wide with fascination.
"He's so small," Sirius whispered. "Smaller than my arm! Does he do anything?"
Barbara laughed softly. "He cries, eats, and sleeps. That's what little lords do at this age."
Richard cooed, waving a tiny fist, and Sirius beamed. "I like him. When he's older, I'll teach him to fly the carpet."
Brandon chuckled, ruffling Sirius's hair. "Careful, lad. At this rate, you'll have Richard believing he's half eagle instead of a Stark."
Harry watched the exchange with quiet warmth. My son with a Stark babe in his arms. A moment of peace, even with war looming northward.
That night, the great hall was filled with laughter and feasting. Brandon told stories of Frostshield, of people carving their underground halls, of builders raising towers taller than any in the North. Lyanna spoke of Winterfell, of their childhood beneath its gray walls. Sirius begged for tales of battles and wolves, and even Barbara shared a smile as she recounted Richard's first laugh.
For a brief time, the burdens of exile and duty faded. They were simply family—together again in a hall of fire and song.
And when the night drew long, Lyanna folded the portrait carefully into its frame. "When I walk into Winterfell," she whispered, "they will see you, Brandon. All of you. And they will know you are not lost."
Brandon clasped her hands, his voice rough. "Tell them I am proud. Tell them I live well. And tell Benjen… I am with him, in steel if not in flesh."
Harry placed a hand on both their shoulders, his voice steady as stone. "It will be done."