The northern fleet arrived at King’s Landing just before midday, their longships cutting steadily through the waters of Blackwater Bay. Though not warships, their stark wooden hulls and wolf-banner sails drew attention imdiately. Southern sailors paused mid-work, dockhands leaned on crates, and even rchants stopped arguing over coin to watch the northern lords arrive.
It had been years — decades for so — since many northern nobles had ventured this far south. The air itself felt different. Warr. Thicker. Carrying slls that ranged from spices and roasting at to sewage and tar.
Young Robb Stark clutched the railing beside his grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, eyes wide with curiosity.
“So this is King’s Landing?” he asked quietly.
Rickard nodded, though his expression remained stern.
“It is. Rember it well, lad. Cities like this shine bright… but rot often hides beneath the shine.”
Behind them, other northern lords disembarked with their families. Karstarks, Umbers, Manderlys, Cerwyns — proud northern houses stepping cautiously onto southern soil. So had brought wives, so sons and daughters. The letter from Lord Stark’s good-son had been clear:
Sothing important is happening in the south. Co witness it.
None had expected magic.
Whispers t them the mont their boots touched the stone docks.
“Weirwood trees…”
“Children of the Forest…”
“Magic in the Dragonpit…”
“Old gods walking again…”
The rumors spread like wildfire. Every tavern, every alley, every market stall seed alive with speculation.
Eddard Stark approached his father quietly.
“It appears the stories are true.”
Rickard’s jaw tightened.
“We’ll see with our own eyes before believing southern gossip.”
But the urgency in his stride betrayed his curiosity.
Within the hour, the entire northern delegation was riding or walking toward the Dragonpit. Even before they reached the hill, crowds thickened, pressing toward the sa destination.
Robb tugged his grandfather’s cloak.
“Why are so many people going there?”
“Because people are drawn to power,” Rickard said. “Especially when they don’t understand it.”
When they finally reached the Dragonpit grounds, even hardened northern warriors fell silent.
Five weirwood trees stood proudly where barren earth had been only days before. Pale trunks glead softly in the sun, red leaves whispering in the breeze like distant murmurs.
And around them…
The Children of the Forest.
Small, slender figures moved with quiet grace. Their golden-green eyes glowed faintly. They chanted in a language older than kingdoms, hands tracing patterns in the air that shimred like heat ripples.
Magic.
Rickard Stark removed his gloves slowly.
“By the old gods…” he breathed.
For a long mont, he simply stared.
Then, unexpectedly, he knelt.
Not out of politics.
Instinct.
Around him, other northern lords followed suit. So whispered prayers. So simply bowed their heads.
Robb hesitated before kneeling beside his grandfather.
“Are they really… the Children?” he asked.
“Yes,” Rickard replied softly. “And if they are here openly… then the world truly is changing.”
What shocked Rickard even more was not the Children themselves.
It was the crowd.
Southerners.
rchants. Nobles. Septas. Common folk. Even sailors.
Many were praying.
So awkwardly mimicking northern customs. Others simply kneeling silently before the trees. A few offered flowers or food at the roots.
Eddard Stark frowned.
“They follow the Seven. Why would they pray here?”
Rickard gave a low, thoughtful chuckle.
“Because n follow power, Ned. Faith shifts when certainty appears.”
Nearby, two southern rchants spoke openly:
“If those trees grew in a day, what else can they do?”
“Maybe their gods answer prayers faster.”
“And what has the Seven done lately?”
The conversation drifted away, but the implication lingered.
Rickard’s eyes narrowed.
“No war,” he murmured. “No conquest. Yet influence spreads faster than armies ever could.”
Eddard looked uneasy.
“You think this will change Westeros?”
“It already is.”
A Narnian priest approached, bowing politely.
“Lord Stark. The Children welco you. They rember your bloodline.”
Rickard blinked in surprise.
“They… rember?”
“The trees rember,” the priest said simply.
That answer seed to carry weight far beyond its words.
Robb edged closer to one of the trees, fascinated.
“It feels… alive,” he whispered.
“It is,” ca a soft voice.
One of the Children of the Forest stood beside him now. Robb hadn’t even seen her approach.
She touched the bark gently.
“These trees hold mory. Past. Present. Possible futures.”
Robb swallowed.
“Do they… see us?”
“They always have.”
Rickard stepped forward quickly, protective instinct flaring, but the Child only smiled gently.
“No harm, Lord Stark. Your blood is known to us.”
Rickard exhaled slowly.
“I never thought I’d see your kind again.”
“Nor did we expect to walk openly here,” she replied. “Yet the world changes.”
As afternoon faded toward evening, Rickard Stark watched southerners continue arriving.
Praying.
Listening to Narnian priests speak of Odin, Frigga, Thor — stories blending seamlessly with the reverence for weirwood trees.
A quiet cultural shift was happening.
No swords.
No banners.
No bloodshed.
Yet influence spread.
Rickard finally spoke to Eddard again, voice thoughtful but heavy.
“Mark my words, son… this is bigger than politics. Bigger than crowns.”
Eddard nodded slowly.
“You think the old gods will spread south?”
Rickard looked at the weirwoods, their carved faces already seeming ancient.
“There may co a day,” he said quietly,
“when the Seven Kingdoms aren’t ruled by the Seven at all.”
He paused, then added:
“And not a single battle will have been fought to make it happen.”
While the crowds gathered daily at the Dragonpit — awestruck by the Children of the Forest, the miraculous weirwood saplings, and the quiet but undeniable aura of ancient magic — another kind of work was unfolding across King’s Landing. Silent. Invisible. Carefully asured.
And at its center was Harry.
To most, he was simply another northern noble sowhere in the city, perhaps even still traveling. Only a handful knew he had arrived. That was exactly how he wanted it.
Under layers of concealnt charms and subtle illusion magic, Harry moved through the capital like a ghost.
One evening, he stood atop a narrow rooftop overlooking Flea Bottom. Smoke from cookfires drifted upward, mixing with the salty breeze from Blackwater Bay. Below, the chaotic city lived its usual life — hawkers shouting, children running, gold cloaks arguing over bribes.
Harry slipped a small, rune-etched stone from his cloak.
The stone pulsed faintly with magic.
“Thirty-seventh,” he murmured to himself.
Sirius, who had insisted on accompanying him on so nights, leaned against the chimney nearby.
“You’ve buried so many already. Are you sure no one will notice?”
Harry smiled faintly.
“They won’t. Not until I want them to.”
He knelt and pressed the stone into a small cavity beneath a loose tile. The mont it touched the surface, faint silver lines spread briefly before vanishing.
Another node completed.
Another connection made.
These were not ordinary wards.
They were part of sothing far larger.
Every stone Harry placed ford a network — a web stretching across King’s Landing. The lines of magic all converged toward one place:
The five weirwood trees.
The symbolism was deliberate. Powerful.
And risky.
Harry knew exactly what he was doing.
“This city believes magic is superstition,” he told Sirius later as they walked through a darkened alley. “Or worse — sothing to fear. The Faith suppressed knowledge of the Children of the Forest, of the old gods, of everything that ca before.”
“And you’re going to remind them?” Sirius asked.
Harry nodded.
“Not with words. With experience.”
They moved next through the Street of Silk, where lantern light painted the night gold and red. Laughter and music spilled from pleasure houses, masking the faint hum of magic only Harry could feel.
Another stone went into the base of a marble column.
Another beneath a market stall.
One hidden near the Mud Gate.
One near the Red Keep’s outer walls — that placent required exceptional care.
Each ti, Harry adjusted the alignnt carefully, ensuring the energy would flow cleanly toward the Dragonpit.
Sirius finally asked the question that had been nagging him.
“What exactly will happen when you activate it?”
Harry paused.
For a mont, he looked almost solemn.
“King’s Landing will feel the presence of the old gods.”
“And the Narnian gods?”
“They won’t be diminished,” Harry said quietly. “But people need to understand that all these beliefs — Old Gods, Narnian gods, ancient magic — they aren’t enemies. They’re parts of the sa truth.”
Sirius absorbed that in silence.
Days passed like this.
Hidden labor while the city obsessed over visible miracles.
Harry barely slept, maintaining concealnts while ensuring no ward stones interfered with existing city enchantnts — ancient protections left from Valyrian tis, minor wards placed by Red Keep maesters, even lingering septon blessings.
Nothing could be allowed to clash.
Precision mattered.
Timing mattered even more.
Harry stood once more overlooking the Dragonpit. From this distance, the five weirwoods seed small — but he could feel the power radiating from them, amplified now by the hidden network beneath the city.
The web was complete.
When activated, it would channel ambient magical energy through the weirwoods, letting every sensitive soul in King’s Landing feel sothing ancient, comforting, awe-inspiring.
Not a spectacle.
A revelation.
Harry exhaled slowly.
“It’s ready.”
Sirius grinned.
“So… now we stop sneaking around?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Enough shadows. Ti to step into the light.”
The next morning, they prepared properly.
Not as hidden travelers.
As who they truly were.
Harry dressed simply but regally — dark northern fabrics, subtle Narnian craftsmanship, the quiet authority of soone used to command. Sirius wore similar attire, though his excitent showed in the way he kept adjusting his cloak.
“Do you think Uncle Eddard and Robb are already here?” Sirius asked.
“Most likely.”
“And Queen Elia?”
“Certainly.”
“And King Rhaegar?”
Harry gave a faint, knowing smile.
“He’ll co. Curiosity always wins with him.”
They walked openly this ti.
From the noble quarter inn where they had stayed, through bustling streets, toward the Dragonpit.
Recognition ca slowly at first.
A rchant froze mid-sale.
A gold cloak blinked twice.
A septa whispered sharply to her companion.
Then the murmurs began.
“That’s him…”
“King Gryffindor…”
“The Narnian king…”
“And the boy — Prince Sirius…”
The whispers spread faster than wildfire.
Crowds parted instinctively.
So bowed.
So simply stared.
So looked fearful.
But many — increasingly — looked hopeful.
Sirius leaned closer.
“Feels strange,” he admitted. “Being seen like this.”
Harry placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“You’ll get used to it. Just rember — respect isn’t demanded. It’s earned.”
As they crested the hill toward the Dragonpit, the full crowd ca into view: northern lords, southern nobles, common folk, priests, Children of the Forest, Narnian clergy.
And now…
Harry Gryffindor had arrived openly among them.
The mont hung heavy with expectation.
Because everyone sensed it.
Sothing big was coming.
And the king of Narnia was finally ready to show himself.
Hundreds of miles away from the restless capital of Westeros, deep within the northern kingdom of Narnia, Queen Lyanna Gryffindor stood alone in the high solar of Gryffindor Castle. Snow drifted lazily outside the tall windows, but inside, the fire burned hot — not nearly as hot as the anger building within her.
The letter in her hand trembled slightly, not from cold, but from restrained fury.
Brandon’s writing was unmistakable. Direct. Blunt. Urgent.
She had read the contents three tis already, yet the words still struck like fresh blows.
King Rhaegar Targaryen was ddling again. Not rely whispering rumors or sending envoys — this ti, he had gone further. Using a Narnian woman claiming to be Harry’s second wife as a political pawn. Attempting to influence Andalos. Attempting, in effect, to undermine Narnia itself.
Lyanna exhaled slowly.
“So he hasn’t learned,” she murmured.
Behind her, one of the castle attendants shifted nervously. The servants had long learned that when their queen grew quiet like this, storms usually followed.
“Leave ,” Lyanna said without turning.
The servant departed instantly.
She paced slowly across the room, boots striking stone with asured force.
Years had passed since she left Westeros, yet Rhaegar’s shadow still tried to reach her life. Still tried to dictate outcos. Still tried to challenge her family, her husband, her kingdom.
That realization ignited sothing fierce inside her.
“I will not be threatened again,” she said aloud.
Within minutes, she was moving with decisive purpose.
Her armor remained untouched — this was not a battlefield confrontation. Not yet. Instead, she donned a heavy travel cloak, fur-lined against the biting northern winds, practical riding leathers beneath.
One of the guards hesitated when she crossed the courtyard.
“Your Grace… should I summon an escort?”
“No,” she replied. “I travel alone.”
That alone was enough to silence further questions.
Because everyone in Narnia knew where she was headed.
The path to Winter’s cavern wound through icy cliffs beyond Telmar. It was rarely traveled except by Harry himself or the beast handlers who occasionally left offerings.
The air grew colder as she approached, though not hostile — simply ancient.
When she stepped into the cavern entrance, the great white dragon was already awake.
Winter knew.
The dragon’s massive form shifted slightly in the dim glow of reflected snowlight. Scales like polished ice shimred faintly. Breath misted softly, more contemplative than threatening.
Unlike many beasts, Winter did not roar or posture.
The dragon simply watched her.
Intelligently.
Lyanna walked forward without hesitation.
She had earned Winter’s trust long ago — not as Harry’s wife, but as a warrior, a queen, a presence the dragon respected.
“You know why I’m here,” she said quietly.
Winter lowered its enormous head slightly.
A gesture of acknowledgent.
“They think Narnia is weak,” Lyanna continued. “They think distance makes us irrelevant. They think using that woman… stirring trouble… will go unanswered.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I intend to correct that assumption.”
Winter’s eyes glead — sothing between amusent and approval.
Then Lyanna stepped closer, placing a gloved hand briefly against the dragon’s scaled neck.
“You know where to take .”
The dragon lowered itself fully.
An invitation.
Lyanna climbed onto Winter’s back with practiced ease. It wasn’t her first ti riding the dragon — but it was the first ti she had done so without Harry present.
The wings spread slowly first.
Massive.
Majestic.
Then, with a thunderous beat, Winter launched upward.
Snow exploded outward as the dragon surged from the cavern mouth into the open sky.
Lyanna held firm, cloak snapping violently in the wind as altitude climbed.
Below, Narnia stretched in stark beauty — forests, settlents, ships in frozen harbors, distant torchlit roads.
Her kingdom.
Author's Note:
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