The air around the Dragonpit had changed.
It was no longer simply a gathering place for ceremony. It had become something deeper — something ancient awakening beneath the soil of King's Landing itself.
Harry stood silently near the newly dug foundation as the ritual truly began.
Before him, the Children of the Forest stepped forward.
Their small figures moved with deliberate grace beneath the five weirwood trees. Pale leaves rustled faintly though the wind had died completely. One by one, the Children lifted their hands and began chanting in the ancient tongue — a language older than Valyria, older than the Seven, older even than most of the kingdoms whose banners fluttered nervously around the clearing.
The words rolled like distant thunder.
Beside them, the Narnian priests took their places. Large ceremonial drums were brought forward — thick hide stretched across carved frames of dark northern wood.
Then the first strike came.
Boom.
The sound rolled across the ground like a heartbeat.
Another followed.
Boom. Boom.
Soon the rhythm built into something powerful and primal. The priests struck the drums with practiced force, their movements synchronized with the chanting of the Children.
The rhythm spread outward.
Through the earth.
Through the bones of every person present.
Harry and Lyanna stood side by side, watching.
Lyanna leaned slightly closer.
"Do you feel it?" she murmured.
Harry nodded.
"I do."
Because the ritual was only the visible part.
Hidden beneath King's Landing — beneath streets, taverns, brothels, markets, and castles — hundreds of ward stones lay buried deep in the earth. Harry had placed them quietly over the past days, threading them together like veins beneath a living body.
Now he reached out with magic.
The moment the first temple stone settled beneath the weirwoods, he released the power.
The network awakened.
It flowed outward like a web of light beneath the city.
From the Dragonpit to the harbor.
From the Red Keep to Flea Bottom.
Everywhere.
People felt it instantly.
Dockworkers paused mid-rope pull.
Merchants stopped counting coins.
Gold cloaks on patrol turned their heads in confusion.
Something washed through the air — not fear, not heat, not pain.
A presence.
Something old and watching.
Even those who knew nothing of magic felt the rhythm of the drums beneath their skin.
Back at the ritual ground, the chanting intensified.
The Children of the Forest lowered the first great stone into place beneath the central weirwood.
Northerners erupted in cheers.
Many fell to their knees.
Others wept openly.
For them, this was more than religion.
This was victory without bloodshed.
Harry turned.
Willas Tyrell lay upon a wooden table placed carefully beneath the spreading branches of the nearest weirwood tree. His lower body had been covered with a clean white cloth to preserve dignity, though everyone present knew why he was there.
The crowd watched him as if he were part of the ritual itself.
In many ways, he was.
Among the Northerners, whispers passed from mouth to mouth.
"The boy follows the Seven."
"And yet he seeks the Old Gods' blessing."
"A sign."
"A powerful one."
Harry had chosen the moment deliberately.
If the Faith of the Seven had built their authority upon fear and tradition…
Then today he would answer with miracle.
Harry approached the table.
Willas looked up at him, pale but determined.
"Ready?" Harry asked quietly.
Willas gave a small smile.
"I would drink wildfire if it meant walking again."
Harry chuckled softly.
"Fortunately, this only tastes almost as bad."
The nearby nobles leaned closer.
Lady Olenna watched like a hawk, eyes burning with calculation.
Margaery clasped her hands tightly.
Even Rhaegar Targaryen observed with intense curiosity.
Harry lifted his hand slightly.
With a silent flick of magic, he reached beneath the sheet.
No one saw the spell.
The cloth concealed everything.
Inside Willas's leg, the damaged and undamaged bones simply vanished.
Gone.
Harry felt the limb collapse slightly beneath his hand — soft and loose now, like rubber beneath skin.
He remembered the first time he had experienced it himself.
Lockhart's idiocy.
His arm dangling uselessly like wet rope.
He suppressed a small smile.
"Good," Harry murmured. "That part worked."
Willas blinked.
"That part?"
Harry pulled a small vial from his coat.
Inside sloshed a thick, cloudy potion.
Skele-Gro.
Hermione had insisted he carry several vials during the mission.
"You're going to hate this," Harry warned.
Willas took the vial without hesitation.
"If it works," he said, "I will drink a barrel."
He tipped the vial back.
The potion touched his tongue.
His face immediately twisted in horror.
"Gods—"
But he forced it down anyway.
The crowd watched breathlessly.
For a few seconds nothing happened.
Then Willas gasped.
"It… hurts."
Harry placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"That means it's working."
Inside the leg, tiny sensations erupted.
Needles.
Thousands of them.
Bone knitting itself together from nothing.
Regrowing.
Reforming.
Willas clenched his fists but did not cry out.
The drums continued.
The chanting grew louder.
Meanwhile the temple construction continued.
One stone after another was carried forward.
The Children guided the placement carefully.
A priest approached Harry.
"Your stone, my king."
Harry stepped forward and lowered the second foundation block beside the first.
The crowd cheered again.
Next came Rhaegar Targaryen.
For a moment the king hesitated.
Every eye in the city seemed to be watching him.
Refusing would look petty.
Accepting would legitimize the temple.
In the end, politics chose for him.
Rhaegar stepped forward and placed the stone.
The drums thundered.
Elia Martell followed next, placing hers with calm grace.
Then Lord Rickard Stark.
The northern lords roared approval.
One by one the great houses stepped forward.
Tyrell.
Arryn.
Redwyne.
Stone after stone formed the beginning of the temple foundation.
And all the while the rhythm of the drums spread through King's Landing like a second heartbeat.
Back beneath the weirwood, Willas gasped again.
Harry leaned closer.
"How bad?"
"Like… knives," Willas breathed.
Harry nodded approvingly.
"Good."
"Good?!"
"That means your bones are growing."
Willas stared at him.
"I hate your optimism."
Harry laughed.
Beneath the sheet, the impossible was happening.
Bone rebuilding itself.
Muscle reconnecting.
Strength returning.
And all of King's Landing watched the spectacle unfold beneath the ancient eyes of the weirwood trees.
The Faith of the Seven had preached miracles for centuries.
Today, for the first time, the people of Westeros were witnessing one with their own eyes.
The ritual did not end with the setting of the sun.
If anything, night only deepened it.
The torches around the Dragonpit burned brighter as darkness spread across King's Landing. Shadows danced against the broken stone of the old dragon dome, and the steady rhythm of the drums never stopped.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
The heartbeat of the ritual continued.
More stones were carried forward. More hands joined the labor.
What had begun as a ceremony had become something else entirely — a collective act.
Smallfolk stepped forward eagerly, some still barefoot, hands rough from years of labor. They carried stones, dug trenches, and packed earth beneath the watchful branches of the five young weirwoods.
Even nobles joined.
Some knights rolled their sleeves. Redwyne sailors hauled foundation blocks with practiced ease. Some Tyrell retainers quietly took up shovels.
The sight would have been unthinkable only days before.
But something about the chanting, the drums, and the living presence of the weirwoods had dissolved the usual barriers.
Tonight, they were simply people building a temple.
Willas Tyrell remained beneath the nearest weirwood tree.
The white sheet still covered his lower body. His face had grown pale from hours of sensation — or lack of it. The Skele-Gro potion worked slowly but relentlessly.
At times he could feel nothing at all.
At other times sharp pricks shot through his leg like thousands of tiny needles stitching him together.
Margaery refused to leave his side.
She returned periodically with cups of water or wine, her young face drawn with concern.
Late in the evening she approached him again.
"Willas," she said softly, lifting a cup. "You must drink something."
He reached for it instinctively.
But Harry's voice stopped him.
"No."
Both Tyrell siblings looked up.
Harry stood nearby, arms folded.
"The ritual is still rebuilding the bone," he explained. "Drink now and it may disrupt the process."
Margaery frowned.
"He hasn't had anything for hours."
"He'll survive," Harry replied calmly.
Willas sighed.
"My future rests on this ritual," he said, pushing the cup away reluctantly. "If the healer says no… then no."
Margaery set the cup aside but stayed with him, talking quietly through the night to keep his spirits steady.
The work continued.
Torchlight glowed across sweating faces and rising stone walls. Chanting rolled like distant thunder beneath the endless drumbeats.
By midnight, the foundation trench had finally reached completion.
The last great stone slid into place with a grinding thud.
The Children of the Forest finished their chant with a long, echoing phrase in the ancient tongue.
Then silence fell.
For the first time since dawn, the drums stopped.
The temple's foundation had been laid.
Harry waited until most of the crowd had begun dispersing.
The nobles returned to their lodgings. Smallfolk staggered home exhausted but strangely energized.
The Dragonpit grounds grew quieter.
Only the priests, the Children, and a handful of Northerners remained awake.
That was when Harry stepped toward the central stone.
Beneath it lay the main ward stone — the heart of the magical web he had buried throughout King's Landing.
He knelt beside it.
Lyanna approached quietly.
"You're about to do something ridiculous again, aren't you?" she murmured.
Harry smiled faintly.
He placed his hand upon the stone.
And cast.
The magic surged outward instantly.
The ward stone flared bright silver.
Then, one by one, the buried stones across King's Landing ignited in response.
Invisible lines of power leapt between them.
The entire city became part of the spell.
In the harbor, sailors froze mid-step.
In Flea Bottom, drunkards blinked in confusion.
In the Red Keep, servants felt a strange warmth sweep across the halls.
A wave of magic rolled through King's Landing.
Purifying.
Dirt vanished.
Mud evaporated.
Stains dissolved.
The filth that had accumulated for years across the city simply… disappeared.
Streets scrubbed themselves clean.
Stone walls brightened.
Wood beams lost their grime.
Even clothing transformed.
Rags lost their stains. Cloaks regained their color. Tunics looked freshly washed.
The spell touched everything.
And because it was midnight, thousands of people woke suddenly in confusion.
"What—?"
"Did you feel that?"
"Seven hells—"
But the magic passed quickly, leaving only quiet in its wake.
Morning brought revelation.
The first cries came from the markets.
"Look at the streets!"
Then from the harbor.
"The docks—!"
Within minutes the entire city buzzed with astonishment.
The cobbled roads looked newly laid.
The houses shone as though freshly built.
The air itself smelled… different.
Clean.
Even Flea Bottom, long infamous for rot and refuse, looked transformed. Beggars stared at their own sleeves in disbelief — no mud, no stains, no grime.
A ragged old man laughed hysterically.
"My shirt's cleaner than when I bought it!"
Children ran through the streets barefoot, marveling at the absence of filth.
Merchants stepped outside their shops in stunned silence.
King's Landing had never looked like this.
Not even in the reign of Aegon the Conqueror.
Whispers spread quickly.
"It was the Narnian Gods."
"The weirwoods…"
No one had seen Harry cast the spell.
But the conclusion was obvious.
The miracle had followed the temple ritual.
The Narnian Gods had answered.
And suddenly, no one in Westeros doubted that the powers awakening in King's Landing were real.
Harry watched the sunrise from the Dragonpit ridge.
The city below gleamed softly in the morning light.
Lyanna joined him, arms folded.
"You cleaned the entire capital," she said.
"Yes."
"You could have done that weeks ago."
"I could have," Harry agreed.
She raised an eyebrow.
"So why now?"
Harry looked down at the streets where smallfolk were already sweeping, determined to keep the miracle intact.
"It's best for everyone to believe the gods did it."
Lyanna smiled slowly.
"Once people experience something better…"
"They don't want to go back."
Below them, thousands of citizens began cleaning their own houses and streets — not because they were ordered to.
But because the gods had given them a city worth keeping clean.
And none of them wished to be the one who dirtied it again.
Author's Note:
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