The newcomers found bundles laid neatly on their beds—soft wool tunics dyed in the rich reds and deep browns of Narnia, cloaks lined with fur against the northern chill, boots of toughened hide that would not split in the mud. Marya gasped when she lifted Nina's little dress, finely stitched with lion embroidery. "We cannot—" she began, but Lyanna only shook her head.
"You're Narnians now. Every Narnian must be clothed against the cold, and no one goes wanting here."
Dorin laughed as he tugged on a heavy cloak. "Better than anything I've owned since I was a boy."
By sunrise, work already began. Master Rorik, a square-shouldered man with mortar in his beard, clapped Dorin on the back and shoved a trowel into his hands. "We'll see if you can cut a straight line in stone," he said gruffly, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed approval. Dorin threw himself into the work, hauling stones, laying mortar, and laughing with the crew as if he had belonged for years.
Oliver found his place in the mill, the great wheel turning steadily under his guidance. Two young boys, apprentices barely into their teens, were assigned to him. "Load the hopper slow, lads," Oliver told them, "and keep your ears sharp. A stone will tell you when she's had enough." Flour dust clung to his hair and beard before the first hour was done, but he wore it like a badge of honor.
Meanwhile, Sirius had other plans for the children. "Come with me," he told Elsa and Nina with a wolfish grin. "If you're to live in Thelmar, you should see more than stone walls and kitchens."
The city unfolded before them in a rush of sound and color. Narrow streets brimming with stalls of fruit, cloth, and trinkets; bells clanging from the smithies; the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through the crisp air. Sirius cut through the crowds with easy confidence, a hand on Nina's shoulder when she lingered too long at a toy stand.
He led them to the heart of Thelmar, where a wide park stretched like a green jewel amid the stone. It had been Harry's idea to give the city's children a place that was theirs, and the park was alive with laughter. Wooden climbing towers and rope bridges swayed with scrambling boys and girls; a wheel contraption spun shrieking children round and round; smooth-planked slides ended in piles of soft straw.
Elsa and Nina froze at the sight, wide-eyed. "Go on," Sirius urged with a chuckle. "It won't bite you."
Nina bolted first, scrambling up a ladder while Elsa more cautiously balanced across a log beam. Soon enough both were laughing, swept into the tide of children. Sirius sat himself on a bench under a tall ash tree, watching with folded arms. Several parents nearby recognized him and offered nods of respect, but Sirius only grinned and waved them off.
When the games ended, Sirius gathered the girls and marched them toward the far side of the park, where soldiers trained in neat ranks. The clang of steel rang out, sharp and proud. Elsa's mouth parted at the sight of armored men and women sparring, their blades flashing in the sun.
"They're amazing," Elsa whispered.
"They are," Sirius agreed. "Every man and woman here trains to protect this city. And one day—if you wish—you might hold a blade yourself. Not to kill, but to defend what's yours."
The girls listened with rapt attention, clutching his words as tightly as they had clutched the ropes on the playground.
Later, as the sun slanted low, Sirius spotted a familiar horse cart rattling past. He waved and called out, "Kellan!" The driver pulled to a stop, laughing as Sirius helped the girls onto the cart.
"To the harbor?" Kellan asked knowingly.
"Aye," Sirius said. "They've never seen a ship."
The cart rumbled through the streets, down toward the smell of salt and tar. The harbor unfolded in a sweep of masts and sails, gulls wheeling and crying overhead. Elsa and Nina gasped aloud. Dozens of ships, from stout merchant cogs to sleek fishing vessels, bobbed at anchor, their rigging singing in the wind. Sailors shouted to one another, barrels rolled across planks, and nets heavy with silver fish glittered in the fading light.
Nina gripped the railing with both hands, her eyes wide. "They're like castles… but floating!"
Elsa said nothing at first, simply staring at the tallest mast as if trying to measure its height against the sky.
Sirius stood beside them, his tone softening. "Ships are freedom. They can take you to lands you've never dreamed of. But they're dangerous too. The sea doesn't forgive fools."
He let that lesson hang a moment, then smiled again. "Next time, I'll bring Daddy. When he's with us, you'll be allowed to board. For now, you look, and you dream."
The girls nodded solemnly, clutching the memory tight.
With Lyanna's guidance, Elsa was enrolled into the school just like the rest of the children in Thelmar. Every morning, a sturdy horse-drawn carriage rolled up to the gates of Gryffindor Castle. Painted with the crest of Narnia, it was large enough to carry more than a dozen children, its benches lined with laughing faces. The children of stewards, masons, soldiers, and kitchen hands all piled in together, and now Elsa joined them, clutching her small satchel with excitement.
Nina watched her sister with wide eyes, still too young to attend but eager for the day she could. She would follow the carriage until it disappeared down the road, waving until Elsa waved back from the window.
For Dorin, Oliver, Marya, and Beth, this simple routine was nothing short of astonishing. They had grown up in the North with grim tales of the "wildlings" beyond the Wall—barbarians who lived in skins, who stole and killed, who raised their children like wolves. Yet here, in Harry's kingdom, those same people had schools greater than any they had seen in White Harbor. Children were not left to run wild but were gathered together each morning, taught to read and write, to count numbers, to learn stories of history and songs of courage. And every afternoon, the same carriage brought them safely home again.
When Elsa returned from her very first day, she came bursting into the hall with a wide smile, clutching her new school supplies as if they were treasures.
"Look!" she cried, spreading them out on the long table. A neat stack of parchment, two quills with fresh ink bottles, and a small reader bound in thick cloth. "They gave me these, and there's more books at the school, whole shelves of them! And we learned how to write our names, and they taught us numbers too. And—" she stopped only to catch her breath, cheeks flushed with joy.
Marya stared, hands pressed to her mouth. Beth reached out to touch the quill as if it were made of gold. Oliver shook his head slowly, wonder in his eyes.
"In Westros, only lordlings' children got such things," he muttered. "Not a miller's daughter. Not a builder's kin."
Elsa rattled on, describing the massive school in Thelmar. She told them about the high windows that let in sunlight, the rows of desks where every child had their own place, and the great black slate where the teacher wrote letters so big the whole room could see. She described lessons in reading and writing, in numbers and sums, and even in history—though she admitted she had nodded off when the tale of old kings went on too long.
Uncle Oliver chuckled at that, ruffling her hair. "History puts grown men to sleep too, little one. You're not the first."
"And Aunt Beth," Elsa added earnestly, "there were girls there too. Not just boys. All of them learning the same things. They said when we are older, we'll learn other things too—like plants and healing, and maybe music."
Beth blinked, her throat tight. "You'll grow cleverer than all of us," she whispered.
Elsa beamed, hugging her mother and then Nina, who was already tugging at the quill, begging her sister to show her how to write.
From the doorway, Harry and Lyanna watched quietly. Marya's tears, Oliver's stunned expression, Dorin's slow nod—all of it told Harry more than words could. They had come from a land where survival meant hunger and suspicion. Now they stood in a hall where their children would grow with books in their hands instead of fear.
Lyanna leaned toward Harry, her voice soft. "They'll never forget who gave them this."
Harry said nothing, only watching as Elsa bent over the parchment, carefully drawing the first shaky letters of her name while Nina clapped in delight.
With Elsa gone to school during the day, Sirius found himself spending more time with Nina. The two of them were often joined by Hilda, the steward's daughter with quick hands and quicker laughter, and Rorik's boy Edrik, whose father was the master builder overseeing much of Gryffindor Castle's expansion. They were all of an age, and though small, the four carried themselves with the bright energy of children who lived in a city that belonged to them.
What fascinated them most, however, was Harry's training of the skinchangers. From the shadow of a low wall, or peering through the slats of a half-built gallery, the children would sit for hours, whispering to each other as they watched.
Harry now had nearly fifty students under his care. They came from every corner of Narnia—wildling-born, clan-born, even the odd orphan taken in by the new city. All of them bore the gift of skinchanging. Some were teenagers, already lanky and restless, others were as young as Sirius himself, still clutching small stuffed toys when they thought no one was looking.
The training yard was filled with the sound of caws, growls, and hisses. Birds wheeled in the sky, foxes darted between the legs of students, and the occasional bear cub snorted as a child's mind brushed its own. Harry walked among them, calm and certain, his voice steady as he instructed.
"Feel the rhythm of the heart. Let the beast's breath become your breath. Do not force it. Invite it."
The children whispered to each other in awe.
"Did you see that?" Sirius pointed as a boy of twelve closed his eyes, and a hawk perched nearby spread its wings in sudden harmony.
Nina gasped. "It's like magic inside magic."
Hilda folded her arms, trying to sound wise. " Lord Griffindor makes it look easy. But it's not."
Edrik nodded. "My da says only great lords in the old stories had gifts like this. And now—look, they're all in one place."
Sirius's eyes shone, though his tone was thoughtful. "It's more than magic. Father says this will bind Narnia together. If children grow with animals as kin, they'll never be wild in the way our kin used to be."
The four fell silent at that, listening as Harry guided one of the smallest pupils—a girl barely older than them—who was struggling to reach a grey hare's mind. His patience, his encouragement, the way the child finally gasped in delight when she felt the animal stir—all of it seemed like something holy.
Life for the newcomers had quickly settled into rhythm. Each week there was one day when work stopped entirely. It was not wasted idleness but a day set apart. Families dressed in their cleanest tunics and cloaks and made their way into Thelmar. The temples were full on those days, each built in the style of the old gods: high pillars carved with runes, halls filled with flickering lamps and bowls of offerings. Marya and Oliver, Dorin and Beth—all went in hesitation at first, but soon they found themselves comforted by the ritual.
The markets and restaurants bustled with life afterward. Families dined together, trying dishes flavored with herbs they had never known, or salted meats prepared in the southern style. The men often drifted toward the pubs, mugs of foaming ale in hand, while children tugged their parents back toward the parks, the fountains, and the wide plazas where minstrels played.
It was on these days of rest that Elsa and Nina first began to hear the old stories of Odin, Thor, and Frigga. Priests told them in solemn voice within the temples, and old men repeated them by firelight in the public squares. Sirius, who always listened closely, repeated them later to Hilda and Edrik, retelling them in his own sharp, precise way.
Elsa, quick-minded from her new schooling, was fascinated by the sagas. Nina's eyes shone at the thunderous tales of Thor battling giants. Slowly but surely, the children came to see themselves as part of something greater—a people bound not only by walls and work, but by faith.
For Harry, this was no accident. He knew that faith gave shape to a nation. Through religion, through shared belief, even the fiercest wildling could learn to temper their fury and turn it into loyalty. Civilization was not built on stone alone—it needed stories, gods, and the promise that their lives were watched and weighed.
And so, as the weeks passed, the northern newcomers found themselves changing. They prayed in the temples. They sang the songs. They watched their children learning letters and sums, manners and tales. What they once thought barbarism had revealed itself as something far richer, deeper, and more ordered than any hall south of the Wall.
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