For several heartbeats after Winter landed, no one in King's Landing truly breathed.
The Dragonpit — once a monument to Targaryen supremacy — now stood as a silent witness to something it had not seen in generations: a living dragon answering to someone other than a Targaryen.
Then, before panic could take shape, Winter moved.
The white dragon lifted its great head, eyes scanning the crowd below — not with hunger, not with aggression, but with intelligence. Its wings unfurled slowly, the sound like heavy canvas catching wind.
Harry's mind reached outward, steady and precise.
Not here, he told Winter silently.
He remembered too well what history recorded.
The Dance of the Dragons.
The storming of the Dragonpit.
Smallfolk with courage born from desperation and hatred, climbing over one another to bring down beasts that once ruled them. Dragons killed by mobs. Fire answered with steel and stone.
He would not let Winter become a symbol to be slaughtered.
Nor would he allow any Targaryen — proud, desperate, or ambitious — to even consider claiming the Winter.
Winter responded immediately.
With a thunderous beat of wings, the dragon rose once more, scattering dust and cloaks. The crowd cried out — some in relief, some in renewed terror — as the white form climbed sharply into the sky.
Within moments it vanished into the clouds.
Gone.
Harry could still feel the distant pulse of the bond — Winter circling high, secluded, beyond reach of any foolish attempt at ropes, chains, or commands spoken in Valyrian arrogance.
Only then did the tension shift.
Because now the dragon's rider stood on the ground.
Lyanna did not wait.
She turned from the empty sky and began walking directly toward the royal platform.
Astrid followed — no, was dragged — beside her.
The woman's composure had shattered during the flight. Her face was pale, hands trembling despite her attempts to hold herself steady. The spectacle of arrival had stripped away whatever influence she had imagined herself wielding.
Now she looked very small.
The crowd parted for Lyanna.
Rhaegar Targaryen descended from the platform to meet her halfway, Kingsguard fanning subtly around him. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes burned with something sharp — calculation, fascination, perhaps even envy.
Lyanna stopped before him and released Astrid's arm.
"Oh," she said lightly, as though returning borrowed jewelry. "I found your guest shipwrecked in one of our colonies. I thought it proper to bring her back."
Astrid nearly stumbled forward.
Rhaegar's gaze flicked briefly to her, then back to Lyanna. He understood.
It was a message.
"You are a dragon rider now?" Rhaegar asked calmly.
Lyanna tilted her head.
"Not really," she replied. "Winter belongs to Harry. But he's generous with rides when I'm in a hurry."
A faint ripple of restrained laughter moved through the Northerners nearby.
Rhaegar's jaw tightened slightly.
"And why did it leave?" he continued. "The Dragonpit is prepared to house dragons. We would have fed it. Protected it. That is where dragons belong."
Lyanna's smile cooled.
"That," she said evenly, "may be where Targaryen dragons belonged."
She gestured subtly toward the open sky.
"In Narnia, dragons belong to the skies."
The implication settled heavily.
Rhaegar held her gaze for a long moment.
Around them, nobles shifted uneasily. The Kingsguard stood stiff as marble statues. The smallfolk whispered.
Astrid stood silent, eyes lowered, thoroughly aware she had just been delivered like a misplaced parcel.
Finally, Rhaegar inclined his head.
"You are welcome in King's Landing, Queen Lyanna."
"I know," she replied.
And then she turned away.
Lyanna walked directly toward her father.
Lord Rickard Stark stood surrounded by Northern bannermen, and for once the old wolf looked genuinely stunned.
"House Griffindor have a dragon," he said quietly as she approached.
"We do."
Rickard's eyes drifted upward, as if expecting the dragon to reappear at any moment.
"Does the boy—" he began, meaning Harry.
"He trusts me," Lyanna answered simply.
Around them, Northern lords whispered fervently.
"We bent the knee to dragons once."
"Aye."
"Aegon had three."
"And now you have one."
The implications were intoxicating.
Hundreds of years ago, dragons had forced Westeros to kneel to House Targaryen. Fire and sky had broken kingdoms that no army alone could conquer.
Now the dragon answered to Gryffindor.
And the heir to Narnia — Sirius Gryffindor — stood there, very visibly half Stark.
The idea spread quietly, dangerously.
If dragons made kings once… what could they make again?
Behind them, Astrid stood under watch of both Narnian guards and a few wary Targaryen retainers.
Rhaegar remained standing, eyes still scanning the clouds where Winter had vanished.
He knew the political ground beneath him had shifted.
A foreign king who wielded magic was troubling enough.
A foreign queen who rode a dragon was something else entirely.
The Faith would whisper.
The lords would calculate.
And worst of all—
The Dragonpit, once a monument to Targaryen dominion, had just witnessed another house command the sky.
For the first time in generations, the Iron Throne did not hold the monopoly on awe.
Winter's shadow had lasted only moments over King's Landing.
Its consequences lasted far longer.
When Rhaegar Targaryen summoned his small council the following morning, the tone in the chamber had shifted in a way no decree could undo. The long oak table, carved with dragons and crowned heads, had seen war councils, marriage negotiations, and rebellions whispered into existence — but never had it hosted such naked caution.
The dragon had not burned a single rooftop.
And yet fear lingered like smoke.
Grand Maester Pycelle was the first to speak, voice unusually subdued.
"Your Grace… we must proceed carefully."
Jon Connington, Hand of the King, folded his hands tightly. "Carefully is an understatement."
Rhaegar sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, expression composed. But the fire in his violet eyes betrayed that he was thinking far beyond what the others saw.
"Speak plainly," he said.
It was Lord Redwyne who answered next, surprisingly direct.
"If they intended to conquer us," he said, "they would have done so already."
A murmur of agreement followed.
"The Targaryens only burned Harrenhal," Connington added carefully, "because they meant to rule Westros. They did not reduce every castle to ash. They needed subjects."
"Gryffindor does not," Redwyne continued. "From what we see, they have no desire to sit the Iron Throne."
"Which makes them more dangerous," Pycelle whispered.
Rhaegar's brow lifted slightly.
"If they do not seek to rule us," Pycelle said slowly, "then they do not need us alive."
Silence fell thick and immediate.
"They could burn castles," Connington said quietly. "Crush our armies. And simply leave. They have Narnia. They do not require Westeros to survive."
"And they have a dragon," Redwyne added.
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair.
"Winter," he murmured.
The name tasted like Stark.
It was not Balerion the Black Dread. Not Vhagar. Not Meraxes. It was smaller than the legends of Valyria — but not small.
It had landed in the Dragonpit and made seasoned knights step back.
Queen Rhaella spoke at last, her voice steady.
"We cannot treat them as enemies," she said. "Not now."
"No," Connington agreed. "We need ties."
"Marriage," Lord Redwyne said bluntly.
Rhaegar's gaze sharpened.
"Harry Gryffindor has already refused an arranged betrothal for his son," he reminded them. "He made that quite clear."
"His son is still a child," Pycelle said. "Years from marriage age."
"And so is Daenerys," Rhaella added softly.
All eyes turned toward her.
"I have made a decision," she continued. "Viserys and Daenerys will go to Narnia."
The room shifted.
"Your Grace—" Connington began.
"They will study," Rhaella said firmly. "Learn. Observe. Build bonds. It will not be a hostage situation — it will be an exchange of culture."
She paused.
"And Daenerys already loves Narnia."
That was true. The young princess had spoken often of its clean air, its hot baths, its bright halls. She had been enchanted by the stories of Odin and Frigga and Thor — gods who seemed tangible, not distant marble statues.
Viserys, seated near Arthur Dayne, straightened eagerly.
"They have dragon," he said without hesitation. "And magic."
Arthur Dayne gave him a faint smile. "You are certain you wish to study magic, Your Highness?"
"Yes," Viserys answered at once. "And see Winter again."
Rhaegar studied his younger brother carefully. There was excitement there — not fear.
But not all were satisfied.
Rhaegar turned his gaze toward Jon Connington.
"And you?"
The Hand hesitated only briefly.
"If we do nothing," he said honestly, "we live beneath a dragon not our own. If we provoke them, we risk annihilation. If we bind ourselves to them… perhaps we share the sky instead of fearing it."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened.
He had grown up on stories of dragonlords. He had believed — deeply — that dragons were the birthright of House Targaryen.
Now a foreign king possessed one.
The injustice of it gnawed at him.
"There must be more," he said quietly. "Dragons do not simply appear. Does House Gryffindor have eggs?"
The question lingered.
"If they do," Connington replied carefully, "they have told no one."
Rhaegar's mind moved swiftly now, thoughts threading together.
"If there are eggs…" he murmured, "perhaps they could be… gifted."
"Gifted?" Redwyne echoed skeptically.
"In alliance," Rhaegar clarified. "In unity."
Arthur Dayne finally spoke, voice calm and measured.
The council ended with no proclamation, no grand strategy — only one understanding shared among them all:
Unless House Targaryen bound itself to Narnia — through learning, alliance, perhaps even affection — they would forever live beneath a foreign shadow.
That evening, as Viserys excitedly questioned Ser Lewyn Martell about Narnia and Daenerys packed small tokens she wished to take north, Rhaegar stood alone on the balcony overlooking King's Landing.
The city bustled below, unaware of how fragile power had become.
He looked upward.
The sky was empty.
But it did not feel empty anymore.
The morning of the ceremony dawned warm and windless, as though even the sky had chosen stillness for what was about to unfold.
By midmorning the grounds near the Dragonpit were unrecognizable. What had once been an open stretch of earth between ruin and weirwood grove now teemed with life. Smallfolk pressed shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks upward every time a shadow crossed the sun, half-hoping and half-fearing the return of Winter. Mothers clutched children tightly; men who claimed to fear no beast whispered quiet prayers beneath their breath.
The dragon had become more than a creature.
It had become a story.
And stories were stronger than steel.
"Did you see it?" one fishmonger whispered to another. "White as snow, I swear it."
"My cousin says it circled the city at dusk," the other replied. "Says its eyes glowed like coals."
Fear and fascination walked hand in hand.
The nobility arrived more formally.
The Arryns came in pale blue, falcons embroidered proudly upon their cloaks. The Tyrells in green and gold, faces composed though their standing in the political game had shifted subtly since their agreement with Harry. The Redwynes brought their sailors' swagger, glancing uneasily at the open sky between conversations.
Even houses known for their unwavering devotion to the Faith of the Seven appeared in numbers.
Curiosity was stronger than doctrine.
Harry stood at the edge of the cleared foundation, watching.
The temple site had been marked carefully — not directly within the Dragonpit's ruins. Workers had cleared the earth to bedrock. Massive stone blocks lay ready, carved with intricate knotwork that merged Narnian symbolism with the branching forms of Yggdrasil.
It would not be a modest shrine.
It would be a declaration.
Across the encampment, another subtle declaration unfolded.
Margaery Tyrell arrived quietly, dressed in soft green rather than elaborate ceremony attire. She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, greeting Northerners politely, offering smiles to Narnian guards, and finally approaching her brother's tent.
Willas looked healthier already — pain still etched faintly in his face, but his spirit steadier.
"You look radiant," he teased weakly as she sat beside him.
"And you look like you need rescuing," she replied lightly.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Sirius, who stood nearby speaking animatedly with a group of common-born children about dragons.
"Is that him?" she asked softly.
Willas nodded. "Sirius Gryffindor."
Margaery observed him for a long moment.
He laughed easily with the children, none of whom bore noble names. He listened as much as he spoke. When a small fisher boy tugged at his sleeve to show him a carved wooden dragon, Sirius knelt without hesitation.
Margaery smiled faintly.
"He doesn't separate himself."
"No," Willas said. "They don't."
It was, undeniably, a political opportunity.
But it was also genuine curiosity.
She approached Sirius soon after, greeting him with effortless warmth.
"Your Highness," she said with a small curtsy.
Sirius blinked.
"Just Sirius is fine," he replied cheerfully. "Are you here for the ceremony?"
"And to see my brother," she said. "And perhaps to see the dragon."
Sirius grinned. "You missed the best entrance."
"I heard," she replied. "I'm told it was unforgettable."
Harry watched the exchange from a distance.
He recognized the maneuver for what it was — House Tyrell weaving threads early, planting seeds of alliance before others thought to. But he did not interfere.
Sirius was not naive.
He was curious, perceptive, and raised in a court far more complex than King's Landing.
By midday the crowd had swelled beyond expectation.
Narnian priests formed a procession line. The Children of the Forest emerged from beneath the weirwoods, their movements fluid and ancient. Their presence still unsettled some, but more people now watched with reverence rather than fear.
The royal family arrived together.
Rhaegar's expression was measured. Elia's calm was deliberate. Daenerys' excitement barely contained. Viserys stood straighter than usual, scanning the sky again and again.
Lord Rickard Stark stood near Harry, pride undisguised.
"Whatever happens next," he murmured, "they will remember this day."
Harry nodded slightly.
"They will."
Author's Note:
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