The harbour of Telmar had never known chaos like this.
From the high stone balconies of Gryffindor Castle, the sea itself had vanished beneath wood and sail. Where blue water once shimmered, there was now only a forest of masts, crude rigging snapping in the cold wind, hulls pressed so tightly together that one could cross from ship to ship without ever touching the quay.
Shouts echoed across the harbour.
Children cried. Dogs barked. Smiths hammered final nails into planks that were still warm from the forge. The smell of tar, wet rope, salt, and unwashed bodies mixed with smoke from a hundred cookfires hastily built along the stone piers.
Ten thousand people.
Harry had known the number in theory. He had approved the lists, signed the permissions, watched the councils argue over who would go and who would stay. But standing now at the edge of the quay, cloak snapping behind him, he felt the weight of it settle fully onto his shoulders.
Ten thousand lives, stepping into the unknown because he had asked them to.
"These ships are going to sink, they do not look comfortable for long voyages," Brandon Stark said in worry beside him, arms crossed as he surveyed the harbour.
Harry snorted. "They won't sink."
Brandon raised a brow. "You enchanted them."
"Obviously."
The ships were… ugly.
There was no other word for them.
They were long and narrow, inspired by half-remembered Viking designs Harry had seen in another life—dragon-headed prows carved crudely from pine, uneven planks hammered together without polish or pride. Sails were rough wool dyed in dull browns and greys. Nothing gleamed. Nothing boasted elegance.
To an outsider, they looked like the desperate fleet of a starving people fleeing ruin.
Which was exactly the point.
"These don't look like the ships of a rising kingdom," Brandon said. "They look like wildlings running from winter."
Harry smiled thinly. "That's the plan."
Below them, families gathered at the edge of the piers. Men and women wore old furs pulled from storage—cloaks they had not worn since before Narnia had taught them needlework, dyeing, embroidery, pride. Children clutched wooden toys and leather bundles tied with string. Faces were nervous, yes—but also bright.
Hope had a look to it, Harry had learned.
And this was it.
A woman approached hesitantly, a toddler on her hip. She bowed—not deeply, but sincerely.
"My king," she said. "Is it true we'll have land of our own?"
Harry stepped down from the stone edge and knelt so he was level with her child.
"Yes," he said simply. "Fertile land. Rivers that don't freeze solid. Soil you can sink your hands into."
The woman swallowed. "And… if the Andals come for us?"
Harry met her eyes. "Then they'll learn Narnians don't die quietly anymore."
The woman nodded once, fiercely, and turned away.
Behind Harry, Brandon exhaled. "You're really doing this."
"I should've done it earlier," Harry replied.
At first, the plan had been nothing more than misdirection—a way to pull the eyes of Westeros and Essos away from the land beyond the Wall while Narnia consolidated power. But plans changed when reality set in.
Narnia could not feed itself forever.
The land was harsh. Winters long. Even with Harry's magic bending rivers and warming soil, abundance had limits. But Essos—Essos was wide and fertile, scarred by wars that had emptied whole regions.
"Why Andalos?" Brandon asked quietly.
Harry watched as a group of children climbed aboard one of the ships, laughing as if this were an adventure rather than exile.
"Because it will hurt," Harry said.
Brandon frowned. "The Faith."
"The Faith was born there," Harry continued. "Their gods, their stories, their sense of divine ownership. When wildlings settle Andalos, when they plant weirwood saplings in the soil the Seven claim as sacred, it will shake them."
Brandon's lips curved slowly. "You're attacking belief."
"Belief is harder to kill," Harry said. "And far more dangerous."
A horn sounded—low and long.
The crowd quieted.
Harry stepped onto a raised platform hastily built from timber and shields. His voice carried without magic; the harbour itself seemed to lean closer.
"People of Narnia," he began.
Thousands turned toward him.
"You are not being sent away," Harry said. "You are being trusted."
Murmurs rippled.
"You will build homes where none expect you. You will farm land long claimed by others. You will live, and your children will grow strong in soil that feeds them."
He lifted a hand.
"Half of you will sail," he said. "Half will arrive by magical means."
A few gasps. Brandon grinned openly now.
"You will not be scattered," Harry continued. "You will arrive together. And when you arrive—ships can be used to build shelter."
Harry let it settle.
"Keep only what you need for fishing and whaling," he said. "The rest—tear them apart. Build houses. Barns. Let the world believe you have nothing but what you carried on your backs."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Because while they underestimate you… Narnia will grow."
Silence followed—then thunderous approval.
Brandon stepped up beside him. "I'll make sure it's done," he said. "Every ship but the bare minimum."
Harry clapped his shoulder. "You're will be building the future of Narnia."
Brandon nodded, eyes shining. "I know."
The boarding began.
Families filed onto the longships, guided by captains who wore no insignia, no polished armor. Provisions were loaded—barrels of grain, dried meat, enchanted water casks that would never sour. Beneath the decks, hidden rooms hummed softly with Harry's magic, smoothing waves, strengthening hulls.
To any watcher from afar, it would look like madness.
To Harry, it looked like inevitability.
As the first ship pushed off, sails catching the wind, Harry closed his eyes briefly.
Let the world believe the wildlings have vanished, he thought. They will not look for what they think is already gone.
The North waited.
From the frozen fishing villages along the Bite to the stone halls of Winterfell itself, people counted days by the absence of news. Every hearth knew the same unease, every hall the same quiet fear—because this was not an army of faceless levies that had marched beyond the Wall.
These were sons.
Second sons who would never inherit, third sons who had gone seeking honor, nephews sent to prove themselves, cousins bound by duty rather than choice. Lords had ridden south in past wars and lost men they barely knew, but this was different. This time, the banners had carried names that were spoken every night before the fire.
And yet—no ravens came.
No songs of victory. No tales of blood and steel. Only silence.
The land beyond the Wall swallowed sound like a grave. Deep snow slowed even the hardiest ranger, and the Northern host moved at the pace of winter itself—slow, deliberate, cautious. Scouts returned with numb fingers and empty reports.
"No signs of wildlings." "Old camps, long cold." "Tracks, weeks old, maybe months."
At first, the lords scoffed.
"They're hiding," Lord Glover said. "They always hide."
The thought settled like frost in the bones: What if there is no one left to fight?
That was when the ship arrived.
It came into White Harbor on a pale morning, its hull dark with travel, its sails marked with the sigil of Pentos. The harbor bells rang as usual—not for alarm, but for commerce. Since trade with Narnia had begun, White Harbor had grown louder, richer, sharper. Coin moved faster.
Wyman Manderly was not present, but his captains were—and they brought the Pentoshi master aboard with wine already poured.
The man was still thawing when he spoke.
"We saw them," he said, voice tight. "Gods as my witness, hundreds of ships."
The hall quieted.
"What ships?" a dockmaster asked.
"Crude ones," the Pentoshi said. "Long, narrow. Fur-clad people. Men, women, children."
Someone laughed nervously. "You expect us to believe wildlings crossed the Narrow Sea?"
"They didn't cross," the man replied. "They sailed east. Past us. Past Braavos' outer lanes. Like a people fleeing famine."
The room stilled completely.
"They wore fur cloaks," the Pentoshi continued. "Crude work. Looked half-starved. No banners."
"How many?" someone whispered.
The man hesitated. "Enough that I stopped counting."
By nightfall, the story had spread.
By dawn, the North was breathing again.
The wildlings had left.
That was how it was said—in halls, in taverns, in quiet prayers whispered over beds where sons slept uneasily. No one asked how many had gone. No one asked why now. The land beyond the Wall had always been a mystery, a place of stories and exaggeration. If someone claimed the wildlings numbered a ten thousand, who could say they were wrong?
Ignorance made the lie comfortable.
"They're Essos' problem now," a Karstark merchant said with a grin.
"Good riddance," a Ryswell matron muttered.
And yet, the Northern army did not turn back.
Eddard Stark pressed on, jaw set, eyes hollowed by snow-glare and responsibility. The wildlings' absence troubled him more than their presence ever had. Empty land was dangerous land. Snowstorms rose without warning, white walls that erased the world in minutes. Avalanches thundered down mountain faces, blocking passes that had existed for centuries.
Men died—not by blade, but by cold, by misstep, by exhaustion.
"Winter's angry," one soldier muttered.
No one spoke of sorcery.
No one imagined a king far beyond their maps, a sorcerer who bent rivers and warmed harbors, who moved peoples like pieces on a board. They blamed the land, the gods, bad luck.
As Northerners always had.
And somewhere far to the east, sails creaked under unfamiliar stars, carrying a people the world believed had vanished—while the North, for the first time in generations, slept without dreaming of what lay beyond the Wall.
When the news reached the south, it landed like a dull stone dropped into deep water.
It sank. It did not ripple.
Wildlings had never been their concern.
In the taverns of King's Landing, men shrugged over their cups. In the manors of the Reach and the storm-lashed keeps of the Stormlands, lords waved the matter away with bored hands.
"That's a Stark problem," they said, as they always had.
For centuries, the Wall had been the North's burden. The raids, the burned farms, the stolen sheep and stolen daughters—those were tales southerners told with a mix of disdain and relief. Relief that it was not their land being tested by savagery.
If the wildlings had truly left for Essos, then good riddance.
"Essos suits them," a merchant declared loudly in the Street of Silk. "Barbarian continent for barbarian people."
There was laughter at that. Westerosi laughter—polite, smug, secure in the belief that civilization ended at the Narrow Sea.
Even in the Small Council, the first reports earned little more than raised brows.
"They've fled famine," Lord Chelsted said mildly. "Or fear of the Northern army."
"Let them go somewhere else," another councillor muttered.
King Rhaegar Targaryen listened in silence, fingers steepled, eyes distant. He was not a man who dismissed matters easily—but neither was he given to panic. He had read enough history to know that wildlings had always been reactive, never expansive.
Until Varys spoke.
"My king," the Spider said softly, silk slippers whispering against stone, "the matter may deserve… a second look."
That earned him attention.
Varys produced a folded parchment and laid it upon the table. "Confirmed reports from Pentos, Braavos, and Lys. A fleet of crude vessels—hundreds—crossed eastward. They were seen again off the coast of Andalos."
"Andalos?" Rhaegar repeated.
"Yes, Your Grace."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
That was new.
"The wildlings did not scatter upon arrival," Varys continued. "They landed. Together."
"Landed where?" asked the Master of Coin sharply.
"In the hills and lowlands of Andalos," Varys said. "The ancient heartland of the Faith of the Seven."
The room shifted.
Andalos was not just another patch of Essosi soil. It was sacred ground. The birthplace of the Andals. The land from which the Faith had marched west with sword and septon, fire and scripture.
Rhaegar straightened slightly. "Were there survivors?"
"There were not attacked." Varys replied. "Villages. Sparse, poor, but devout. They believed they were under attack at first."
"And?" someone asked.
Varys smiled thinly. "The wildlings brought food. Salted meat. Tools. They offered protection."
That caused open disbelief.
"You're saying barbarians played hosts?" a councillor scoffed.
"I am saying," Varys corrected gently, "that desperate people recognize strength when it arrives—and these villagers were desperate."
"They welcomed them?" Rhaegar asked quietly.
"They did."
The silence that followed was thick.
"They built camps," Varys went on. "Large ones."
"And the Faith?" Rhaegar asked.
Varys hesitated just long enough to make the pause meaningful.
"Your Grace," he said, "three days ago, the first weirwood tree was planted in Andalos."
The reaction was immediate.
A chair scraped violently backward.
"That is impossible," a councillor snapped.
"That is heresy," another said, voice tight.
"Blasphemy," breathed the Master of Laws.
Rhaegar closed his eyes.
The king was not a devout man. He had read prophecy, poetry, forgotten faiths. Gods, to him, were forces—ideas that shaped men, not beings who demanded obedience.
But he ruled men who believed.
And belief, he knew, was power.
"They planted it openly?" he asked.
"Yes," Varys said. "At the edge of one of the older villages. The villagers watched. Some prayed. Some wept."
"To false gods," someone hissed.
"No," Varys replied softly. "To old ones."
That was worse.
Within days, the Faith erupted.
Septs rang their bells for warning. Septons thundered from pulpits, faces red with fury.
"The barbarians have defiled holy soil!"
"They plant demon-trees where the Seven first walked!"
"This is an invasion of the soul, not the sword!"
Pilgrims gathered in King's Landing, clutching seven-pointed stars, demanding action. The streets filled with rumor and fear. Mothers pulled children indoors. Tradesmen whispered of curses, of crops failing, of gods turning their faces away.
In the Starry Sept, the High Septon himself convened an emergency synod.
"This cannot stand," he declared. "Andalos is sacred. It is ours."
"And yet," an elderly septon murmured, "the Andals there accepted them."
"Out of fear," another snapped. "Fear of barbarians."
"Or hope," someone else said quietly.
That voice was ignored.
Back in the Red Keep, Rhaegar stood at the window of his solar, watching smoke drift over the city.
"They will demand war," he said to Elia later that night.
She studied him calmly. "Not war. Purification."
He turned to her sharply.
"They will dress it in righteousness," Elia continued. "They always do. But this is not about wildlings, Rhaegar. It is about belief."
The king exhaled slowly.
If the wildlings had scattered, the Faith could have ignored them. If they had raided, the Faith could have condemned them.
But they had settled.
They had planted roots.
And worse—they had planted a weirwood.
That tree was not just wood and leaf. It was memory. Old Gods. A challenge to the Faith's claim that the Seven had replaced the old gods.
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