Oberyn Martell had not come to Narnia expecting grandeur.
He had seen too many courts, too many people draped in gold and false importance, to believe that true power needed to announce itself. From what he had known this land did not bend for titles, nor did it care for the games of status that ruled places like Dorne or King's Landing.
So when he stepped onto the docks of Telmar, with Ellaria Sand and his daughters at his side, he was not surprised to find no heralds waiting for him. No guards stepped forward to announce his name, and no crowd gathered to witness the arrival of a prince.
There was only movement.
Men worked along the docks, hauling crates from ships and shouting instructions to one another as ropes were tightened and goods were unloaded. The air was filled with the scent of salt and fish, with voices raised not in respect, but in urgency.
"Move that crate!"
"Careful with the rope!"
"Watch your step!"
No one spared them more than a passing glance. The city did not pause for their arrival; it did not even acknowledge it.
Oberyn's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.
"I told you," he said lightly, glancing toward Ellaria, "this place does not care who you are."
Ellaria did not answer immediately. Her eyes moved across the harbor, sharp and observant, taking in every detail with quiet intensity. It was not the lack of welcome that caught her attention, but the certainty of it—the way the indifference felt natural.
Nymeria, however, was far less convinced.
"This is it?" she asked, her tone carrying clear disappointment.
She turned slowly, studying the city around them. The streets were clean and well-kept, the stone beneath their feet worn smooth by constant use. The buildings were modest, rising no higher than two stories, their designs uniform and practical rather than grand or decorative.
There was no towering palace to dominate the skyline, no glittering display of wealth or power.
"It looks like any other city," Nymeria continued, frowning slightly. "Cleaner, perhaps. Less crowded."
Her gaze shifted back to her father. "You made it sound like something more."
Oberyn chuckled softly, his eyes following the steady movement of the people around them. "It is."
Nymeria crossed her arms. "I don't see it."
"You will," he replied, his tone calm and certain.
A man carrying a massive fish slung over his shoulder nearly collided with them as he passed, his voice sharp and impatient. "Out of the way!"
Ellaria blinked in surprise and turned slightly, watching him disappear into the crowd without so much as a second glance in their direction.
"In Dorne," she said slowly, "he would have lost his tongue for that."
Oberyn let out a soft laugh. "And here, he keeps his fish."
That, more than anything, unsettled her.
They moved further into the city, blending into the steady flow of people. Wagons rolled past them, loaded with goods from the harbor, while workers moved quickly and efficiently, speaking in short, practical exchanges. No one bowed as they passed. No one stepped aside.
It was not disrespect.
It was something else.
Equality.
Ellaria approached a man securing cargo onto a wagon, her posture straight and her voice firm. "This is Prince Oberyn of Dorne."
The man did not respond at first. He continued tying a rope around a crate, pulling it tight with practiced ease before finally glancing over his shoulder. His eyes moved over them, measuring, unimpressed, and then he returned to his work as though nothing of importance had been said.
Ellaria's expression tightened slightly, but she continued. "We require a wagon to take us to the castle of your king."
The man finished his knot before straightening, his expression unchanged. "This one's not going that way," he said plainly.
There was no apology in his tone, no hesitation in his refusal. He simply jerked his thumb toward the street behind them. "But if you want a ride, try that."
They turned to look.
A large wagon stood nearby, drawn by four sturdy horses. It lacked elegance or decoration, but it was solid and practical—and already crowded. People climbed aboard without ceremony, taking whatever space they could find.
Oberyn's smile widened.
"Perfect."
Obara blinked. "We're not—"
But he was already moving, stepping toward the wagon with easy confidence. With little choice, the others followed.
Inside, the wagon was packed with people—men, women, and children, along with a few who were clearly foreigners. No one made space for them, and no one acknowledged their presence. They simply existed among the others, another group of travelers sharing the same journey.
Tyene looked around, her expression caught somewhere between irritation and curiosity. "How is this even moving?" she muttered, glancing at the sheer weight it carried.
Oberyn leaned slightly toward her. "Magic."
The answer came to her almost immediately after, and she huffed quietly under her breath. Of course.
The wagon jolted forward, moving smoothly despite its heavy load as it rolled through the streets of Telmar. The city unfolded around them in a steady rhythm. They passed bustling markets filled with vendors, massive temples that stood open to all, and workshops where craftsmen labored without pause.
At each stop, people climbed off while others climbed on, the movement constant and effortless, as though the wagon itself were part of the city's natural flow.
A man moved through the crowd with a small pouch in hand. "Fare," he said simply.
Ellaria reached for coin, offering him Westerosi gold. The man examined it briefly before nodding. "Westerosi."
"I can exchange it," he added without fuss.
Within moments, they were handed unfamiliar coins—Narnian currency—and the transaction was completed without delay.
Then he moved on, already focused on the next passenger.
Nymeria leaned back slightly, her gaze shifting between the people around her and the city beyond. "They don't care who we are," she said quietly.
Oberyn's voice was soft, almost thoughtful. "No."
"And you like that?"
He smiled. "Very much."
As the wagon continued, the city began to change. The buildings grew larger, their designs more refined, and the streets widened as they climbed gently upward.
Then, at last, it appeared.
Gryffindor Castle rose above the city, set upon a gentle hill. Its structure was both elegant and imposing, its design unlike anything found in Westeros. It was not merely a fortress, nor simply a seat of power.
It was something more.
Art.
Ellaria's breath caught as she took it in, her gaze fixed upon the castle's form. "It's…" she began, searching for the right word.
Even she, who had seen Sunspear, the Red Keep, and Highgarden, found herself at a loss.
"Different," Oberyn finished for her.
The wagon slowed as it reached the base of the hill, and they stepped down along with the others. They were not alone in their destination. Foreigners, merchants, envoys, and travelers all moved in the same direction.
Toward the castle.
Nymeria glanced around, her curiosity growing. "They all came to see the king?"
Oberyn nodded.
Ellaria's gaze remained fixed on the castle. "They don't guard it like Westeros," she observed.
"No," Oberyn replied. "They don't need to."
Because power here was not displayed through walls or soldiers.
It was felt.
As they began their ascent, Ellaria spoke softly, her earlier uncertainty giving way to understanding. "I see it now."
Oberyn glanced at her.
"This place," she said, "it does not try to impress you."
She paused, her eyes still on the castle.
"It simply… is."
Oberyn smiled faintly.
"And that," he said, "is why it's beautiful."
Ahead of them, the gates of Gryffindor Castle stood open—not for princes, not for nobles, but for anyone who wished to enter.
Ellaria had grown up without a name that opened doors, without a title that bent men's backs, and without the invisible shield that nobles carried into every room they entered.
Because of that, she did not see what Oberyn saw the moment he stepped fully into Narnia.
To her, it was simply a city—clean, orderly, and undeniably strange, but not overwhelming. There was discipline here, a quiet efficiency that she could appreciate, yet it did not strike her as powerful in the way courts and kingdoms often tried to be.
To Oberyn, however, it was something else entirely.
It was freedom.
As they crossed through the open gates of Gryffindor Castle, Oberyn slowed his pace, his eyes moving across the lower halls with quiet, thoughtful curiosity. There were no guards barring entry, no lines of armored men demanding names, allegiances, or reasons for being there. People came and went freely, as though the castle were not a seat of power but a place meant to be used.
Clerks moved between offices carrying scrolls and ledgers, their steps quick and purposeful. Messengers spoke in low, urgent tones, passing instructions from one place to another without ceremony. Citizens—ordinary men and women—walked through the halls with ease, their presence unquestioned.
Because they belonged there.
Ellaria frowned slightly as she took it all in, her gaze sharpening. "This is the king's palace?" she asked, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief.
Oberyn's lips curved faintly. "Yes."
"There are no guards," she continued.
"No fear," Oberyn corrected gently.
She turned to look at him, searching his expression. "You don't feel it?" he asked quietly.
Ellaria hesitated before answering. "Feel what?," she asked.
He gestured subtly around them as they walked. "In Westeros, power is displayed—guards, walls, steel. It has to be." His voice lowered slightly, not out of secrecy, but out of reflection. "Because without it, no one would believe it exists."
Ellaria said nothing, but she listened.
"Men like me," Oberyn continued, "we don't walk freely in our own lands."
That made her pause.
He turned to face her fully now, his expression no longer amused but calm and honest. "I am a prince," he said simply.
"And because of that," he went on, "I am always watched. Always measured. Always a target."
There was no arrogance in his tone, only fact.
"When I travel, I think of bandits. When I walk the streets, I think of hidden blades. When I speak, I think of who might take offense."
Ellaria's expression softened as she studied him. There was a truth in his words that even she, who had lived outside noble protections, could not deny.
"And here?" she asked quietly.
Oberyn's gaze drifted across the hall once more—at the people moving without tension, without suspicion, without the constant awareness of danger.
"Here," he said, "no one cares."
And for him, that meant everything.
They continued deeper into the castle, guided not by guards but by an unspoken understanding. Signs marked different sections, and people seemed to know instinctively where to go and what to do.
"This place runs like a city," Nymeria muttered, her eyes moving from one chamber to another.
Oberyn nodded. "Because it is one."
They passed a chamber where scribes handled payments and wages, their desks covered in neatly organized scrolls. Another room housed merchants discussing trade agreements and licenses, their voices measured and practical. Further along, men and women spoke with officials about support for new ventures, their conversations filled with purpose rather than deference.
"It's not the king ruling everything," Ellaria realized aloud, her tone thoughtful.
"No," Oberyn said. "He doesn't need to."
Because the system ruled—and the king guided it.
That realization impressed her more than anything else she had seen so far.
They had nearly reached the stairs when a guard paused in their path, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied them. For a brief moment, there was recognition.
"Prince Oberyn," the man said.
There was no awe in his voice—only acknowledgment.
Oberyn smiled. "You remember me."
"You made an impression," the guard replied dryly.
Ellaria raised an eyebrow at that, but Oberyn only grinned. "I usually do."
The guard gestured for them to follow, and they were escorted upward. The transition was subtle but unmistakable. The halls grew quieter, more refined, the movement less hurried.
When they entered the next chamber, everything shifted.
Rhaella Targaryen sat near a wide window, a book resting lightly in her hands. Beside her, Daenerys Targaryen leaned closer, her silver hair catching the light as she listened intently. Across from them sat Sirius Gryffindor, his posture relaxed but his attention fully focused on the story being read.
Rhaella's voice was soft as she continued, "…and so Robin Hood took from those who had too much…"
Ellaria slowed, her steps quiet as she took in the scene. "Who is Robin Hood?" she whispered.
"No idea," Oberyn murmured back, his lips twitching slightly.
At that moment, Rhaella looked up.
Recognition came instantly.
"Prince Oberyn."
He stepped forward, ready to greet her—but then he saw it.
The subtle curve beneath her gown.
A small rise, unmistakable to a man who had seen enough of life to recognize it at once.
The words left him before he could stop them. "You're pregnant."
They came out too sharp, too direct, cutting through the calm of the room.
Ellaria's eyes widened slightly.
Rhaella froze.
For a moment, silence filled the chamber.
Then Rhaella closed the book slowly, her expression composed but her voice quieter than before. "Please," she said, "do not spread it."
Oberyn straightened immediately, the weight of his misstep clear in his expression. He bowed his head slightly. "You have my word."
Rhaella studied him for a moment, then nodded.
Ellaria stepped forward, her daughters lingering just behind her. Obara, Tyene, and Nymeria soon drifted closer to Daenerys and Sirius, curiosity overcoming any hesitation they might have felt.
"What were you reading?" Nymeria asked, her tone lighter now.
Daenerys smiled brightly. "A story."
Sirius leaned back slightly, a faint grin on his face. "Robin Hood steals from rich people and give it to poor."
Nymeria's lips curved faintly. "I like him."
Oberyn chuckled under his breath.
At that moment, a guard stepped into the chamber once more. "The king will see you."
Oberyn nodded and turned briefly to Ellaria. "I won't be long."
She studied him carefully. "Try not to start a war."
He grinned. "No promises."
With that, he followed the guard toward the inner chambers.
Behind him, the room settled once more into its quiet rhythm. Rhaella reopened the book, her voice soft as she continued, "…and so the forest became his refuge…"
Author's Note:
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