The cold morning air stung sharply as Lyanna Griffindor, wrapped in thick furs, emerged from Potter Castle next to her brother Brandon. The castle courtyard buzzed with activity—skin-changers honing their skills, blacksmiths pounding metal, and guards shouting to each other, as if the city were ablaze with war rumors.
Two councilors, Koll and Jorund, accompanied them down the stone steps. Koll, shrouded in fine Essosi furs, grumbled about the chill, while Jorund, burly and weathered, appeared invigorated by the conversations of impending conflict.
Brandon inhaled deeply, surveying Gnome City, and for the first time since arriving in the north, he laughed heartily. "By the gods, Lyanna, I prefer this place to your Telmar. Look at it—homes haphazardly thrown together, streets crooked like an old blade, alleys so twisted you could lose a dog. This city has life, unlike those meticulously planned by a mason."
Lyanna gave a faint smile, although a hint of worry lingered in her eyes. "It was our first home. Born from chaos, as you noted, but made out of necessity. Telmar reflected Harry's vision—a city for all time. Gnome City… it truly belongs to the people."
They passed a group of round stone homes clustered together, smoke wafting from crooked chimneys. Laughter echoed from children running between houses, while women stretched hides over wooden frames. Everywhere Brandon looked, men sharpened axes, hammered spearheads, and young boys tested oversized bows.
Jorund spat on the cobblestones. "The word is out. The border clans are growing restless. Ten thousand blades are gathering beyond our wards, and these fools are sharpening their weapons as if preparing for a feast of war."
"They're eager," Brandon remarked, half in admiration. "The wildlings live for the thrill of battle. You can see it in their eyes—they desire blood, even at the cost of their own lives."
Koll adjusted his silks with a frown. "Excitement may benefit the market, but it's perilous for discipline. If Lord Gryffindor doesn't return soon, we might see rash actions lead to folly, and folly, dear friends, bleeds silver faster than war."
Lyanna tightened her cloak and spoke firmly. "Harry will return. Until then, it's our duty to maintain Narnia's integrity. If these people crave battle, we must choose whether to give it to them or teach them patience."
Brandon scanned the rough houses and eager faces sharpening steel, chuckling quietly. "Patience? Sister, patience has never been in a Stark's blood—and it certainly isn't in theirs."
Lyanna borrowed two horses from the stable and gave one to Brandon as they prepared to ride out. Just before they left, Jorund stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching the snow.
"Should I prepare the men?" he asked, gripping the hilt of his axe. "If the clans approach, we should march with strength instead of waiting for them to strike first."
Lyanna shook her head resolutely. "There will be no talk of battle. Not until we know their intentions. Words must come before bloodshed."
Koll leaned against the stable post, his fur cloak heavy on his broad shoulders. "What about an escort? You know as well as I do we're unfamiliar with these people. If you approach them with just your brother, they may not see a queen—but rather, weakness."
Lyanna shot him a sharp look, her eyes steady. "Who said I'm going without protection?" she replied calmly. "I've already chosen who will accompany me." Turning in her saddle, she fixed Brandon with a pointed gaze. "And you, brother, will ride with me."
Brandon tightened his grip on his horse's reins, the animal snorting against the cold. "Me?" he asked, a half-smile forming. "And here I thought you were bringing an army. I suppose one Stark will suffice."
Lyanna smirked faintly and nudged her mare forward. "Follow me," she commanded, leading the way into the thick snow. Brandon muttered under his breath but followed her, the two of them vanishing into the white expanse.
Although it was a short ride, Brandon felt exhausted, as the bitter air sliced through his lungs and the cold seeped deep into his bones. He had never acclimated to Narnia's weather, having only lived in Telmar and Gnome City, both shielded from harsh conditions where snow rarely piled high and the winds were manageable. Here, beyond the safety of wards, it was as if the land itself sought to freeze him alive. His fur cloak felt insufficient, and each breath left a white mist in the air.
In contrast, Lyanna rode with ease, as if born to the snow. Her black hair streamed behind her, her cheeks flushed from the cold, yet she didn't falter. Even in heavy snow, her riding skills were unparalleled, and Brandon had to grit his teeth and spur his horse to keep pace.
"Slow down, Lyanna!" he shouted through chattering teeth. "You're going to kill me before I meet these… clans of yours."
She merely smirked over her shoulder. "You're a Stark, Brandon. The cold should not deter you."
"It doesn't scare me," he grumbled, pulling his cloak tighter, "it just absolutely freezes me."
As they ventured further north, the white wilderness enveloped them, and Brandon sensed they could ride forever into the void. But then he spotted it—a massive cave opening before them, dark against the snow. His horse snorted nervously, stamping its hooves, but Lyanna urged hers forward without hesitation. Brandon followed, despite a knot of unease in his stomach.
Inside, the air was warmer, filled with the earthy scent of dampness and beasts. Brandon's eyes widened as shapes emerged from the darkness—towering giants. Nearly fifty hulking figures roamed within the cave, their eyes glowing like lanterns. Some sat around enormous fires capable of roasting an ox, while others honed swords longer than Brandon's body.
And further in, he beheld them—mammoths. Massive, shaggy creatures with tusks resembling carved ivory, swaying their trunks as they shifted within their stone and snow pens. The ground trembled beneath their weight.
Brandon froze, jaw dropped. He had heard tales all his life, sung by minstrels and whispered by Old Nan back at Winterfell. But stories were one thing; witnessing living giants and mammoths firsthand shook him to his core.
"Seven hells," Brandon whispered, unable to tear his gaze away. "They're real… gods be good, they're actually real."
Lyanna dismounted smoothly, boots crunching on the packed earth. She glanced at him, calm and slightly amused.
"Did you think I was lying?" she asked.
Brandon awkwardly slid off his horse, still mesmerized by the giants conversing in their deep, booming voices. "I thought you were mad. But this—" he pointed at the mammoths, hand trembling slightly. "This is the stuff of songs, Lyanna. No one in the south would believe it."
Lyanna placed a steadying hand on his arm. "Welcome to Narnia, Brandon. You've only begun to see what we've built."
Brandon followed closely behind Lyanna as she pushed aside the flap of a massive tent erected deep inside the cavern. The canvas was stitched from hides larger than any beast he had ever encountered, and the poles holding it up resembled stripped tree trunks. He quickly stepped inside, not wanting to linger outside among the giants, whose immense presence stirred his stomach uneasily.
Inside, warmth enveloped him, thick with the scent of smoke and unfamiliar herbs. A single fire crackled in a pit at the center, and beside it stood a giant unlike the others. His hair was braided, his face weathered as stone, and his eyes sharp like flint. He towered over his kin, immediately indicating he was the clan's chief.
The giant spoke first, his booming voice resonating in the air. Lyanna responded fluently in a language Brandon didn't recognize—deep, rolling, ancient, and harsh, as if ice were cracking on a frozen lake. They exchanged words, voices echoing in the cavern, leaving Brandon feeling useless as he stood rigid while his sister communicated with a creature from legends.
At last, the giant nodded solemnly and stepped away, ducking his head to exit the tent. Brandon exhaled, surprised by the breath he hadn't known he was holding, turning to Lyanna immediately.
"What in the Seven Hells was that about? And how in the name of the old gods can you speak to them? That wasn't any language I know."
Lyanna regarded him calmly, dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she tightened her cloak. "It's the old speech of the Free Folk," she explained. "The ancient tongue. I learned it from a wildling woman years ago when Harry first brought me here. The giants trust no one who can't speak their language; they remember being hunted and betrayed."
Brandon stared at her, astonished. "You mean to say you learned their bloody language? Lyanna—these are giants! And you talk to them as if it's nothing."
She smiled gently, though her expression was serious. "If Narnia is to endure, we need more than walls and soldiers. We need allies. The giants have agreed to accompany us when we meet the clan camped outside our borders. Their presence will remind the newcomers we are not to be trifled with."
Brandon shook his head slowly, struggling to comprehend. "So, you plan to march out there with a horde of giants? Gods be good, Lyanna… no wonder the stories of this place sound so mad."
"They're not stories," Lyanna asserted, striding past him toward the cave entrance. "They're Narnia. You've only just begun to see what we're building here."
Before long, Brandon could only stare in disbelief. The giants, once bare-armed, were now clad in massive armor. Iron plates covered their towering frames, fastened with thick leather straps, each piece crafted by Harry himself. In the torchlight, the metal gleamed, blackened and polished to endure the harshest blows.
Their weapons were even more imposing—swords longer than the giants themselves, yet still manageable in their enormous hands. Some wielded iron-tipped spears with blades that shimmered like ice, while others brandished broad axes wider than a man's chest. The sound of shifting steel filled the air as the armored giants moved.
The chieftain spoke a few authoritative words in the ancient tongue, his voice booming like thunder. Lyanna nodded solemnly, as if this were completely ordinary. Brandon, still shivering in his fur cloak, leaned closer.
"What did he say?" he asked hoarsely.
Lyanna cast him a calm glance. "He said horses won't do. The enemies would perceive it as weakness; besides, it's safer this way. We ride with them."
Before Brandon could object, a giant stooped down, seized him with one enormous hand, and lifted him as if he were a mere doll. "Seven hells—" Brandon gasped, flailing his arms, but the giant ignored his protests and gently set him atop a woolly mammoth. The creature's broad back felt like a barn roof, its shaggy fur redolent of musk and earth. The giant climbed up behind him, shaking the ground as he settled into place.
Lyanna was lifted with careful consideration. The chieftain cupped her in both hands as if she were fragile and placed her gently in front of him on another mammoth, where she perched tall and composed, as if born for this moment.
Brandon clung to the thick fur beneath him, still pale and rattled. "Lyanna… you look like a queen from a fairy tale."
She offered him a faint smile but remained silent.
Thus began their procession: twenty armored giants atop mammoths, their tusks glimmering with fitted iron bands. Snow crunched beneath their massive feet, and the air resonated with the deep rumble of beasts and the clash of steel. At the forefront rode the chieftain, with Lyanna before him, her dark hair contrasting sharply against the snow, while Brandon firmly held on to his mount.
Together, they advanced toward the Narnian borderlands, and for the first time in his life, Brandon Stark felt as if he had stepped into a legendary song destined to be sung through the ages.
It was a sight neither side would forget in their lifetime.
For Lyanna and Brandon, it was like staring at a sea of chaos. Tents stretched as far as the eye could see—patchworks of animal hides stitched with sinew, propped up by rough tree trunks. Smoke from countless fires rose in twisting columns, and the air reeked of unwashed bodies, boiled meat, and snow churned into mud. Children ran half-naked through the camp, their hair wild, their laughter harsh. Women carried water in crude buckets. Men sharpened stone blades or argued over scraps. It was the life of the free folk—raw, desperate, and untamed.
But for the clans… it was terror.
Twenty armored giants on the backs of mammoths, tusks gleaming with iron bands, eyes like embers in the frost. Each step of the beasts shook the frozen ground. The giants' iron swords, long as pine trees, caught the pale sunlight. And upon the leading mammoths—two humans, small as children in comparison, sitting without fear.
A cry went up. Panic rippled through the camp like a storm. Men dropped their weapons and fled. Mothers snatched up their children and ran. Even the fiercest warriors, men who had hunted crows and fought rival clans, turned and bolted. The sight of giants marching in war-gear was too much.
But then—one figure stepped forward.
A young woman. She walked out from the milling chaos, her furs patched but clean, her face proud though her hands trembled. She planted herself before the line of mammoths, refusing to flee.
Lyanna signaled, and the giants halted. Their beasts snorted, great clouds of steam filling the air. One by one the giants dismounted, their armor groaning as they moved. The chieftain bent low and lifted Lyanna down, setting her gently upon the snow. Brandon was lowered too, though not nearly as gracefully—he stumbled, clutching at his cloak.
The woman raised her voice, strong and clear. "I am Karsi, wife of Kalf of Narnia."
Karsi continued, "These clans you see—Hornfoot, Heron, and others—they have not come to fight. They have come to seek a better life. To leave behind hunger, lawlessness, and endless war. They wish to join Narnia."
Lyanna stepped forward, her breath misting in the cold. Her voice carried, calm but commanding. "If you come to Narnia, you come not as raiders, but as Narnians. There will be no stealing of women, no killing for scraps, no fighting without cause. In Narnia, you work. In Narnia, you are fed. In Narnia, your children will learn."
The Hornfoot leader emerged then, old scars cutting lines into his weathered face. His eyes flicked from the giants to the young woman who spoke with such certainty. His men wavered, some clutching their crude weapons, others watching the giants with fear.
Brandon, still shaken but finding his voice, muttered near his sister. "Gods, Lyanna… they'll follow you. They'd be mad not to."
Lyanna did not answer him. Her eyes never left the clan leader's, steady as stone. The snow fell silent around them, the only sound the rumble of mammoths and the creak of giants' armor.
A choice was before them. A choice that could decide the fate of thousands.
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