Braavos was never silent. Its harbors bustled at all hours with the cries of sailors, the splash of oars, and the creak of ropes heavy with trade goods. Ships of every shape and sail filled the waters: narrow fishing boats, broad-bellied merchant cogs, and sleek galleys flying the banners of distant free cities. Yet even in such a place, spectacle still had the power to hush a crowd.
When the Narnian ship appeared upon the horizon, the harbor fell into whispers.
It was no merchant's vessel. Larger than any ship that had docked in Braavos for decades, its hull gleamed as though burnished by the sun itself. Golden husks curved along its sides like the ribs of some mythic beast, while gilded pillars rose from its decks, supporting carved arches and banners embroidered with the white dragon of Narnia. At a distance, it looked less like a ship and more like a floating palace, gliding serenely through the waters as if the sea bent itself to its will.
"By the Titan's eyes," muttered a dockhand, his jaw slack. "That's no trader's vessel."
"Nor a warship," said another, clutching his cap. "It's… it's a king's house, sailing."
Already the word spread: a Narnian ship had come. And with it, someone of immense importance.
The ship anchored, casting its shadow over half the port. The murmurs grew into shouts as sailors, merchants, and even curious guards abandoned their work to gather at the docks.
Then, with a groan like thunder, a section of the hull opened outward. A great golden bridge unfolded, its surface etched with sigils that gleamed faintly in the morning light. It extended until it touched the harbor stone with a heavy clang.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
From the mouth of the ship, warriors marched out first—ten men and women in polished mail, their cloaks crimson and gold, swords and axes gleaming at their hips. Their steps were measured, their faces cold and proud, the kind of bearing that spoke of discipline drilled into the bone.
And then she appeared.
A woman stepped onto the golden bridge. Her dress was simple, a gown of dark gray wool, bound at the waist with a leather belt. Yet there was something in her bearing—something regal, commanding—that silenced the crowd in an instant. Her hair was black as a raven's wing, her eyes a stormy gray, and though her garments bore no jewels or embroidery, she radiated the aura of a queen unspoken.
Beside her, holding her hand, strode Sirius Gryffindor, her young son. He wore a dark green tunic embroidered with a white dragon, a small silver dagger at his side more ceremonial than practical. Yet there was something striking about him—something sharp in his green eyes that made the Braavosi pause. The boy walked with the air of someone far older than his years, his head held high, utterly unafraid of the crowd that pressed to see him.
"Gods," someone whispered. "She is like the old Valyrian statues come to life."
But it was not only her presence that turned heads. Two massive wolves padded at their side, their paws striking the golden bridge with heavy thuds. They were nearly as large as horses, their shoulders broad, their eyes bright and keen. The moment their claws touched the harbor stone, they lowered their heads, scanning the crowd with unblinking suspicion. Their hackles bristled, their bodies tense with protective purpose.
"Direwolves," an old Braavosi murmured, his voice shaking. "The legends… they are real."
The crowd recoiled, awed and terrified in equal measure.
Lyanna Stark—once thought lost to the North forever—stood tall at the harbor, with her son Sirius clinging to her hand and the direwolves flanking her like shadows made flesh.
More followed. Apprentices clad in traveling armor, each bearing the mark of Narnia upon their cloaks. Ten of them, warriors all, their eyes watchful, their movements sharp. Each bore an animal at their side: a hawk perched on a shoulder, a fox weaving between boots, a black bear lumbering behind like a sentinel. The people of Braavos gaped. Skinchangers, they thought. The old magics walk again.
Behind them came attendants carrying trunks, casks, and bundles—gifts, supplies, and food enough to sustain a small army.
Forty in total stood with Lyanna, Sirius, and the wolves when the bridge was withdrawn and the golden ship pushed back to sea, its sails catching the wind as it slipped away.
The crowd erupted in shouts and questions.
"Who is she?"
"Is this the queen of Narnia?"
"Why come to Braavos with wolves and steel?"
The guards in purple cloaks approached cautiously, their spears lowered. But the wolves growled low, sending a shiver through the stone beneath their paws. The guards froze, unsure whether to advance or bow.
Lyanna raised her chin, her voice steady, clear enough to cut through the noise.
"I am Lyanna Gryffindor of Narnia," she said. "Daughter of Winterfell. Daughter to Lord Stark. I come seeking passage to White Harbor."
The crowd erupted again, but now the awe was tinged with reverence. For in that moment, no one doubted her. The wolves, the warriors, the golden ship—all declared her words as truth.
And Braavos, city of coin and shadows, bent to listen.
Word of the golden Narnian ship had already spread through every canal and alley of Braavos by the time Lyanna and Sirius stepped onto the harbor stones. People jostled for a glimpse of the direwolves, merchants whispered about the fortune Narnia must command, and whispers raced ahead like wildfire: the Queen of Narnia, daughter of Winterfell, is here.
But it was not only common folk who came. Keyholders of the Iron Bank, richly cloaked magisters, and merchant princes left their counting halls to see for themselves. Each one of them knew what it meant for Narnia to send such a vessel—not trade, but power.
Pushing through the crowd came Orlino, Narnia's agent in Braavos. A sharp-eyed man with a neatly trimmed beard and robes of dark silk, he was nearly breathless as he reached the dock.
"My Queen, young prince!" He bowed deeply, his hand pressed to his chest. "Word of your arrival reached me too late, else I would have cleared the entire dock. Forgive me."
Lyanna's lips curved faintly. "No forgiveness is needed, Orlino. We are here, safe, and that is enough."
Sirius grinned. "Besides, I rather like the crowd. They look at us as if we stepped out of a song."
Orlino's gaze flicked to the direwolves, then back to Sirius with a wary smile. "Aye, young lord. Songs indeed."
Before Orlino could speak further, several richly dressed men stepped forward. One bowed low, a chain of gold heavy on his chest.
"My lady, my lord," he said smoothly, "I am Calvados, keyholder of the Iron Bank. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my house. It would honor me beyond words."
Another magister quickly interjected. "My house is larger, and more fitting! Queen Lyanna, please—accept my roof. You and your son will have all comforts!"
Lyanna's gray eyes flicked between them, her expression polite but unreadable. She had grown up amidst the politics of Winterfell, and she recognized the same hunger here—the hunger to be first in Narnia's favor.
The murmurs stilled as a group of finely robed men in blue and silver approached. They wore circlets of hammered steel and bore the sigil of the Sealord of Braavos. The crowd bowed their heads, for no one ignored the Sealord's will.
The eldest stepped forward, his voice resonant.
"Queen Lyanna. Young Prince. Our master, the Sealord, has heard of your arrival and bids me offer his hospitality. His palace awaits you—its doors open, its tables laden. He commands no less than this: that the guests of Narnia rest under his roof."
A hush fell. Even the keyholders stepped back, their lips pressed thin with frustration. No one contested the Sealord.
Lyanna inclined her head, her hand resting lightly on Sirius's shoulder.
"Tell your master that I am honored by his offer, and I accept," she said with calm grace. "But remember—I am not your queen. I am only a wife, a mother, and a sister returning home. All else is Narnia's work, not mine."
The envoy bowed deeply. "Even so, my lady, Braavos honors you."
Behind them, the forty Narnians who had accompanied Lyanna and Sirius stood in disciplined silence, their armor catching the sunlight, their beasts pacing restlessly at their sides. Their presence was impossible to ignore—an army in miniature, standing guard in a foreign city.
The Braavosi looked on in awe and unease. A boy walking beside wolves. A woman who carried herself like a queen yet denied the title. And behind them, warriors whose loyalty burned in their eyes.
Orlino leaned close to Lyanna as the Sealord's men prepared to escort her. "Do you see, my lady? They clamor for you. Every guild, every keyholder, even the Sealord himself. Braavos would bend its knee if Narnia so much as whispered."
Lyanna's eyes flicked to Sirius, who was staring wide-eyed at the canals and the domes glittering in the distance. She smiled faintly. "Then let them whisper. My son will remember this day."
Every shipowner in Braavos wanted to be the one to carry her.
Merchants in silk barged into Orlino's chambers, bowing low.
"Take my galley, my lady," one insisted. "The fastest oars in the Narrow Sea!"
Another offered with pride: "My carrack has cabins fit for queens. You and your son will lack for nothing."
But Lyanna, wise in her caution, accepted none of them at once. She listened, weighed, and deferred the choice to Harry's instructions already set. Sirius, of course, was fascinated. He pressed his nose against windows to watch the ships line up in the harbor, each one with its banners flying, each one vying for their notice.
"They're all fighting over us," he whispered to his mother. "Is this how kings feel every day?"
Lyanna gave him a long look, both amused and weary. "Kings rarely feel anything, Sirius. They learn to wear masks instead."
Far to the south, King's Landing was no less busy. The Red Keep bustled with activity as servants carried trunks, silks, and casks down to the waiting ships in Blackwater Bay.
The royal family was preparing for a journey northward.
The children were alight with excitement. Prince Viserys, still little more than a boy, dashed through the halls of Red Keep, declaring he would see snow for the first time. Princess Rhaenys, lively and sharp-eyed, was already pestering her handmaidens with questions about Winterfell and the wolves of the Starks. Prince Aegon, though still young, was equally eager.
In her chambers, Queen Elia Martell sat watching her ladies fold silks into chests, her expression drawn and weary.
"Do we truly need to go?" she asked, her voice edged with fatigue. "This is the wedding of the youngest Stark son. A courtesy event, nothing more. Must the entire royal household march north for such a thing?"
Rhaegar Targaryen, her husband and king, stood by the window, his long silver hair catching the sunlight. He did not look at her when he answered.
"They sent me an invitation," he said simply.
Elia's brow furrowed. "A courtesy, Rhaegar. Nothing more. They cannot expect the king to trouble himself with such matters. Let us send envoys. Lords and ladies enough to flatter them."
Rhaegar turned then, his violet eyes calm but unyielding. "I am going north. With or without you."
The chamber fell silent. The sound of servants packing seemed distant.
Elia stared at him, her lips pressed thin. She had known, the moment he received the parchment, that his mind would not be swayed. And she also knew there was no changing it now.
Her hands curled tightly in her lap. "Then I suppose I must go as well. For appearances, if nothing else."
Rhaegar's gaze softened slightly, though he did not speak. He returned to the window, looking northward as though he could already see Winterfell's towers rising out of snow.
Elia lowered her eyes to her children, who were laughing and chasing one another between the trunks. She sighed. A journey north… but for what purpose?