The door shut with a soft, final click, the sound settling into the room like a quiet seal upon whatever words would follow.
For a few moments, there was nothing but the faint, steady scratch of quill against parchment. Each stroke carried a rhythm as though the man writing understood that ink, once set, could shape more than mere words. It could decide futures.
Prince Oberyn Martell stepped forward into that quiet, his boots making little sound against the polished floor. His sharp, observant eyes settled immediately upon the figure behind the desk, taking in every detail with the ease of a man who missed very little.
King Harry Gryffindor did not look up.
He continued writing, shoulders relaxed, posture unguarded, as though he had expected this interruption long before it came. The quill moved swiftly.
Then, without lifting his head, Harry spoke.
"Come on, Oberyn," he said, his tone casual, almost conversational, as though they were not about to discuss matters that could shape kingdoms. "Sit. Give me a few minutes."
A faint smile tugged at Oberyn's lips as he moved to the chair across from the desk. He lowered himself into it with an ease that suggested patience, though his eyes betrayed a sharper curiosity. He leaned back slightly, one arm resting against the armrest, studying the man before him as one might study a puzzle worth solving.
He watched.
Harry's writing did not falter under scrutiny. The quill dipped into ink with perfect timing, never blotting. This was not a king idly scribbling correspondence. This was someone crafting something with care.
"What is it?" Oberyn asked at last, his voice light, curiosity slipping through naturally.
Harry did not stop writing.
"Nothing important," he said, almost dismissively. "Just letters."
That answer, of course, only deepened Oberyn's interest.
His gaze shifted, drawn toward one of the completed parchments resting to the side. The ink had dried enough that the symbols stood clear—dark, intricate, unfamiliar.
He leaned forward slightly, just enough to glance—
And frowned.
He could not read it.
Not a single word.
It was not the Common Tongue. Not High Valyrian, nor any of its fractured descendants. It carried none of the flowing elegance of Valyrian script, nor the grounded structure of Westerosi writing. The symbols were different—sharper in places, curved in others.
"What language is this?" Oberyn asked, his curiosity now unmistakable.
Harry dipped the quill again, continuing his work without pause.
"Our own."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his expression sharpening.
Harry finally glanced up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as though he had been waiting for the question.
"When you don't have a past language tying you down," he said, "you get to build one properly."
A soft chuckle escaped Oberyn as he leaned back once more.
"So you made one?"
Harry shrugged, returning his attention briefly to the parchment.
"Mixed what worked. Dropped what didn't."
Oberyn tapped the edge of the parchment lightly with a finger.
"And no one outside Narnia can read it."
"Exactly."
Oberyn's gaze lingered on Harry a moment longer, studying him more carefully now. This was not merely about language. This was about control—of information, of communication, of who knew what, and when.
Harry finished the last line with a final, precise stroke. He set the quill aside and sealed the letter with practiced ease, pressing the wax firmly before setting it aside with the others.
Almost as if summoned by that motion, the door opened silently, and a servant entered. Without a word, the tray was placed between them—cool drinks, light food, modest in appearance but prepared with clear care.
Oberyn reached for one of the cups, lifting it with casual ease before taking a sip.
His eyes widened, just slightly.
"That's…" he paused, considering the taste more carefully.
"…good."
Harry smirked faintly.
"We don't poison our guests."
Oberyn laughed softly, setting the cup down.
"Shame. I was hoping for a little excitement."
Harry leaned back in his chair, finally giving Oberyn his full attention. The ease remained, but now it carried weight.
"So," Harry said, his voice even, "did you come for pleasure… or business?"
Oberyn met his gaze without hesitation.
"Both."
That earned a small, approving nod.
Oberyn placed the cup down slowly, his posture straightening just enough to signal the change in tone.
"I come as an envoy," he said, his voice now measured, deliberate. "From the Seven Kingdoms."
Harry did not react.
"Sent to speak," Oberyn continued, "on what is happening in the Iron Islands."
A brief pause followed, the air shifting almost imperceptibly.
"To prevent things from escalating."
Harry leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together atop the desk.
"Too late for that."
Oberyn did not flinch. If anything, his expression remained calm, almost expectant.
"I expected that answer."
Harry's eyes narrowed, just a fraction.
"You should have expected more than that," he said calmly.
Oberyn tilted his head slightly.
"Then tell me."
Harry held his gaze, unblinking.
"I'll make it simple."
His voice was quiet. Controlled. Not raised, not sharpened—just certain.
"We weren't attacking anyone."
Oberyn listened, saying nothing.
"We were trading. Building. Expanding." Harry's fingers tapped lightly against the table, once, twice. "Your Ironborn ships attacked us."
A pause.
"They killed our people."
The weight of that statement landed harder than the tone itself.
"And then," Harry continued, "they ran back to your shores."
Oberyn nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of it, if not the implications.
"And now," Harry said, leaning back again, "you come to talk about peace."
Oberyn exhaled softly.
"That is the idea."
Harry studied him for a moment, then spoke again.
"I'll give you two options."
Oberyn's eyes sharpened.
"Go on."
Harry's voice remained calm—too calm.
"Option one," he said. "You claim the Iron Islands are part of your kingdom."
Oberyn did not interrupt.
"That means," Harry continued, "your kingdom attacked mine."
A brief pause stretched between them.
"Unprovoked."
Oberyn's jaw tightened slightly, though his expression remained composed.
"And that," Harry finished, "is an act of war."
Silence filled the space between them, thick and unyielding.
Then Harry spoke again.
"Option two."
Oberyn leaned forward, just slightly now, his interest fully engaged.
"You say they are not yours."
Harry's gaze did not waver.
"And if they are not yours…" he spread his hands slightly, almost casually, "…then what I do to them is none of your concern."
The simplicity of it was brutal.
Oberyn let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.
"You're forcing a choice."
Harry shook his head once.
"You've had three hundred years," Harry continued, his tone sharpening just enough to cut. "Three hundred years to control them. To civilize them. To bring them under law."
Oberyn did not argue.
"You didn't," Harry said.
There was no accusation in his voice. Only fact.
"So now," Harry finished, "we will."
Oberyn leaned back once more, studying him anew.
"You're very confident."
Harry smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "I'm very certain."
Oberyn's fingers stilled.
"And if Westeros chooses the first option?"
"Then we fight."
No hesitation. No doubt.
Oberyn let out a quiet chuckle.
"And if we choose the second?"
Harry leaned forward again, his gaze steady, unwavering.
"Then you stay out of it."
A pause.
"And you watch."
The weight of those words lingered long after they were spoken.
Oberyn rose slowly to his feet, smoothing his sleeve as he did.
"I'll take your message back."
Harry nodded once.
"Do that."
Oberyn turned toward the door, then paused, something in his expression shifting.
"One more thing."
Harry looked up.
"You were expecting this," Oberyn said, his tone curious, almost probing.
Harry tilted his head slightly.
"No," he said.
A brief beat passed.
"If I can bring law and order into the land beyond the wall, just think what I am capable of."
The door opened.
And as Oberyn stepped out into the corridor beyond, the weight of the conversation settled fully into place.
This was not a war that could be stopped with words.
Oberyn knew he can't stay here as long as he had intended.
He knew exactly what must be done, and that clarity should have driven him onward without delay. Yet still, he remained.
It was not weakness.
It was temptation.
Standing on the balcony overlooking the lower courtyards of Gryffindor Castle, Oberyn rested his hands lightly upon the cool stone railing and exhaled slowly. Below him, life moved with an ease that seemed almost foreign. People worked, laughed, argued, lived—without the constant tension that defined courts and cities across the Narrow Sea.
"Stay," Ellaria Sand said quietly from behind him.
Her voice did not carry insistence, only a simple truth spoken aloud.
A faint smile touched Oberyn's lips.
"You say that as if I don't want to."
Ellaria stepped beside him, her presence warm, familiar. She followed his gaze down into the courtyard, watching the same scene, though perhaps seeing something different within it.
"Then why not?" she asked.
Oberyn shook his head, the motion slow, reluctant.
"Because if I don't return," he said, "they'll assume the worst."
There was a pause, the kind that did not need to be filled.
"And in Westeros," he added quietly, "the worst always becomes truth."
Ellaria did not argue. She understood that much better than most.
"I will leave tomorrow," Oberyn said at last.
She turned to him sharply, surprise flickering across her face.
"So soon?"
"There's already too much happening," he replied. "The Iron Islands… the council… Rhaegar will need an answer."
Ellaria studied him carefully, searching his expression for something more.
"And us?"
Oberyn turned fully to face her, and for a moment, the sharpness that defined him softened.
"You stay."
The answer surprised her.
"With the king's permission," he added.
When Oberyn had later raised the matter with Harry Gryffindor, the response had been immediate and without complication.
"They can stay," Harry had said, leaning back in his chair with the same ease he carried into every conversation. "Shelter is free."
Oberyn had smirked at that.
"And everything else?"
"You pay."
The simplicity of it had drawn a quiet laugh from him.
"That won't be a problem."
Gold had never been his concern, and he had not come unprepared.
That evening, the harbor carried a different kind of energy. The air was alive with movement, with preparation, with purpose that ran deeper than simple trade or travel. Oberyn stood with Ellaria and his daughters near the edge of the docks, watching as ships were loaded and crews moved with practiced coordination.
Obara stood with her arms crossed, though the tightness of her posture did little to hide the spark of excitement in her eyes. Tyene observed everything with bright, restless curiosity, her attention shifting from one detail to the next. Nymeria, by contrast, already carried herself as though she belonged, her stance relaxed, her gaze steady.
Near them, Sirius spoke with animated enthusiasm, his hands moving as quickly as his words.
"No, listen," Sirius said, gesturing broadly. "The games aren't every day."
Nymeria tilted her head, considering that.
"Why not?"
"Because people have work," Sirius replied, as though the answer were obvious. "You can't just celebrate all the time."
Obara snorted softly.
"Here, you'll get one day every week. And when it happens—" he spread his arms wide, as if presenting something grand, "—it's worth it."
Tyene leaned closer, her curiosity sharpening.
"What kind of games?"
"Everything," Sirius said proudly. "Running, fighting, throwing, racing… and food."
That caught all three girls at once.
"What kind of food?" Tyene asked immediately.
Sirius's grin widened.
"You'll see."
Oberyn watched them, something quiet settling in his chest. They were laughing—truly laughing, not the careful, measured kind learned in courts and shadows, but freely, without restraint.
No one here called them bastards.
No one looked at them with quiet judgment.
Here, they were not defined by lineage or politics.
They were simply children.
And that alone made the journey worth it
Then a shadow fell across the harbor.
Oberyn turned, his attention drawn instinctively upward.
Even he paused.
The ship that approached was unlike anything Westeros had ever built. Massive, towering, its sheer scale seemed almost unnatural as it cut through the water with steady authority. It dwarfed every other vessel in the port, reducing them to little more than toys beside it.
"That…" Nymeria whispered, her voice carrying rare uncertainty, "…is not normal."
"No," Oberyn said quietly.
"It isn't."
As the ship settled into place, movement began along its deck. Figures appeared at its edge, their silhouettes enormous even at a distance.
Then they saw them.
Giants.
They descended in the ordered line. The gangplanks held beneath their weight without strain, reinforced for exactly this purpose. Each giant carried enormous packs across their backs, trunks bound with thick straps, weapons hanging at their sides—massive axes, broad shields, armor shaped precisely for their scale.
But it was not their size that struck the deepest impression.
It was their order.
"They're…" Tyene began, her voice trailing.
"Soldiers," Oberyn finished.
Near the docks, Harry stood among them, speaking with several of the giants as though their scale meant nothing. He gave instructions, brief and precise, his presence commanding without effort.
"They're going east," Sirius said casually.
Obara blinked.
"East?"
"To help build," Sirius replied.
Oberyn's eyes narrowed slightly.
Ellaria leaned closer to him, her voice low.
"If he wanted war," she murmured, "it would already be over."
Oberyn did not answer.
Because she was right.
If a man commanded giants, a dragon, and an army built like this—war would not be a matter of uncertainty. It would not be something to negotiate.
The giants began to march, their movement slow but steady. Each step carried weight, yet remained controlled, disciplined. The ground trembled faintly beneath them, a reminder of the power contained within that order.
Nymeria's voice was barely more than a whisper.
"He could conquer everything."
Oberyn exhaled slowly.
"Yes."
And the most dangerous truth of all—
"He doesn't want to."
That made Harry Gryffindor far more dangerous than any conqueror who had ever lived.
Because a man who did not need conquest was a man who chose his battles carefully.
And when he chose—
He would not lose.
Oberyn turned his gaze back toward the ships, the decision settling firmly within him.
He had stayed long enough.
"I leave now," he said quietly.
Ellaria looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"Be careful."
Oberyn smirked, the familiar edge returning.
"When am I not?"
She did not smile.
He turned to his daughters, his tone shifting, firm and unmistakable.
"Listen carefully."
Obara straightened at once. Tyene stilled. Nymeria's gaze sharpened.
"You are not in Dorne."
They nodded.
"Here," he continued, "my name means nothing."
There was a pause.
"And that means no one will protect you for it."
Nymeria smirked faintly.
"We don't need protection."
Oberyn chuckled.
"I know."
His gaze softened, just slightly.
"But don't start fights you don't understand."
Obara grinned.
"No promises."
He sighed, though there was no real frustration in it.
"Of course."
Then he looked at Ellaria.
"Don't drink too much."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Now you sound like a husband."
"Gods forbid," Oberyn said dryly.
They shared a brief smile.
Then he turned.
The ship bound for Braavos was already preparing to depart. It was smaller, ordinary, built for speed and trade rather than power. Nothing like the massive vessels of Narnia that dominated the harbor.
But it would take him where he needed to go.
He stepped aboard without hesitation.
From the deck, he looked back one last time.
Ellaria stood with the girls, Sirius beside them, already speaking again, his voice carrying faintly across the distance.
Behind them, the city stretched outward.
The ship began to move, slowly at first, then gathering speed as it cut through the water. The harbor shrank behind him, its details fading into the distance.
Yet even from afar, the Narnian ship remained impossible to ignore, their size dominating the horizon long after everything else blurred.
Oberyn Martell stood at the railing, watching until Telmar became little more than a distant shape against the sky.
Then, at last, he turned forward.
Back toward Westeros.
Back toward a world that suddenly—
Felt much smaller than before.
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