The time had finally come for Harry Gryffindor and his family to leave Westeros.
For all the spectacle of his arrival, for all the miracles, the arguments, the rituals, the tourney, and the endless political conversations that seemed to stretch from dawn until midnight, Harry had never truly belonged in King's Landing.
The city had welcomed him with curiosity, feared him for his power, respected him for his restraint, and, in its own uneven way, grown attached to him. But it was never home. He felt that truth keenly as he stood in the pale morning light outside the city, near the edge of the Kingswood, where now the air was fresher and the noise of the capital faded into a distant murmur.
Winter had been hidden there for days, far enough from the city that panic would not spread, close enough that Harry could call the dragon when the moment came. The white beast had remained unseen by most, curled in a secluded clearing beneath the cover of trees and magic, watched over by Harry's own careful wards and by no one else. It was better that way. Harry trusted very few men in Westeros around his dragon.
Too many in that land had been raised on tales that taught them dragons were birthrights, symbols, inheritance. He had no doubt that some Targaryens, some lords, some foolish dreamers, had already wondered whether Winter could somehow be claimed.
They would not get the chance.
And yet, even as he prepared to leave, Harry could not deny that his presence had changed the city.
King's Landing looked cleaner than it had in living memory. The difference still startled him when he looked toward the distant walls. Streets that had once been stained by years of filth and neglect now gleamed in the morning light. Market lanes were swept. The harbor, though never capable of smelling truly pleasant, no longer reeked like a wound left open.
Even the poorest districts had changed. People washed more. Clothes were mended and cleaned more often. Water carriers had found new importance. And perhaps most remarkable of all, the smallfolk had begun to take pride in what they had been given. It was no longer merely a miracle from the old gods; it had become a standard.
Some in the city were overjoyed at his departure. Harry could sense it in the careful smiles of certain nobles, in the relieved glances of certain merchants, in the guarded calm of men who had spent weeks living beneath the knowledge that dragonfire might at any time become a political argument. It was difficult to live comfortably when a foreign king with a dragon and sorcery beyond understanding walked your streets as if he feared no one.
But many more were quietly sad to see him go.
He had given them too much for indifference. He had given them wonder. He had given them healing. He had given them cleaner streets, cleaner air, and a memory that would outlive kings. And he had done it without asking for taxes, allegiance, or kneeling.
That sort of generosity stayed in people's minds.
Of course, not all change came peacefully. Since the temple ritual, since the weirwoods had taken root, and especially since the cleansing of the city, open arguments had broken out between those newly drawn toward the old gods and those loyal to the Faith of the Seven.
Most were small at first—shouted insults in the market, fists in alleys, broken prayer charms, overturned offerings. But Harry knew human nature well enough to understand that the tension would not remain small forever. The Faith had lost control of the story, and men who lost power rarely accepted it quietly.
Only the dragon had kept things from becoming worse.
At least for now.
Harry was certain that once he and his family were gone, matters would grow uglier. The Faith would test the edges. The newly converted would grow bolder. The city would fracture in small ways before it did in large ones. But that was no longer something he could prevent by simply standing there. A kingdom, like a child, had to learn how to hold its own weight eventually.
He stood in his travel cloak with Lyanna beside him, Sirius a little ahead of them, and several members of the royal household and northern lords gathered nearby. There was no courtly arrangement to the farewell. It was too real for that. Too important.
The first to approach him that morning was Willas Tyrell.
The heir to Highgarden moved slowly, leaning on a beautifully carved wooden crutch, but he moved. That alone made several onlookers stare every time they saw him. His leg was healed—healed enough that the people no longer whispered pity whenever they passed him—but Harry had been honest from the beginning: newly regrown bone was not the same as old seasoned bone. It would need time. Strength. Patience. Even so, Willas's face held the brightest smile Harry had seen on him yet.
"I wanted to thank you before you left," Willas said as he came to a stop before them. "Properly this time. Without a crowd and without my grandmother glaring at everyone."
Lyanna smiled faintly. Sirius grinned. Harry simply inclined his head.
"You've thanked me already."
"Not enough," Willas replied. "A few days ago I thought my life was over. Now I can stand. I can put weight on my leg. I can… imagine the future again."
His hand tightened slightly on the crutch.
"That is not a small thing."
Harry studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You'll be stronger than you were before. Not today. Not tomorrow. But you will be."
Willas laughed softly. "That sounds suspiciously like a command."
"It's a warning," Harry said. "If you waste the gift, I'll be offended."
That earned real laughter from Willas, and even Lyanna's expression softened.
Behind him, Margaery hovered a few paces back with the rest of her family. Olenna stood like a thorn wrapped in silk, watching everything with sharp old eyes. She gave Harry the smallest nod—respectful, practical, unsentimental. Mace Tyrell was nowhere to be seen, and no one spoke of him.
Then the Targaryens approached.
It was Rhaella first who drew Harry's full attention, because she moved toward him not like a queen or former queen, but like a mother surrendering something precious and trying not to show her fear. Beside her stood Viserys and Daenerys, both dressed for travel, both with small packs already prepared and attended to. Daenerys looked eager, almost shining with anticipation. Viserys looked exactly as Harry expected a boy his age should look: excited, proud, and utterly terrified beneath the excitement.
Rhaella stopped before him.
"Take care of them," she said, and though her voice was calm, Harry heard the plea beneath it. "Both of them."
Harry met her gaze steadily. "I will."
Behind her, one of the older courtiers shifted as if to speak, perhaps once again to argue for a Kingsguard escort, or servants, or some arrangement of protection that would make the royal family feel less exposed. But Harry had already ended that discussion the day before.
"They will be protected," he had said then, with enough finality that no one misunderstood him. "If my word is not enough, they are free to remain in Westeros. I am not begging for their company."
That had settled it.
Not because it pleased them, but because no one could argue with the truth of it. Viserys and Daenerys were going because they wished to go, because Rhaella believed it wise, and because even Rhaegar, for all his doubts, understood that refusing now would make House Targaryen look fearful and small.
Daenerys stepped forward first.
"I packed my books," she said brightly, as though this were the most urgent detail. "And the carved raven from my room. And the little silver charm from the Frigga shrine. I didn't know if shrines in Narnia would look the same, but I thought—"
"They don't all look the same," Sirius cut in, already smiling at her enthusiasm. "That's the good part."
Daenerys smiled back immediately.
Viserys was quieter. He stood straighter than usual, as if trying to prove his courage before anyone could question it.
"So…" he said, looking not at Harry but at the sky beyond the trees. "We're really going on a dragon."
"Yes," Harry replied.
Viserys swallowed. "I'm not afraid."
Lyanna raised a brow. "You should be at least a little."
That made him blink.
"I am," he admitted after a moment. "Only a little."
"Good," Lyanna said. "Fear keeps people from falling off."
That earned a nervous laugh from him, and the worst of the stiffness eased.
Then came Rhaegar and Elia.
If Rhaegar still resented much of what had happened during Harry's stay, he wore it better now. He had seen too much, and too many of his assumptions had died under open sky and living weirwoods, for him to pretend he understood the balance of power as he once had. Still, he was proud, and pride did not vanish simply because reality corrected it.
"Your stay has altered this city," he said formally. "More than most conquerors alter kingdoms."
"I didn't conquer anything," Harry answered.
"No," Elia said, her eyes thoughtful. "That is what unsettles people most."
Aegon stood near her, young enough to be openly fascinated. He stared at Harry's family with undisguised wonder, especially at Sirius, who seemed to him at once princely and impossible.
"You really rode the dragon alone?" he asked Sirius.
Sirius nodded with complete seriousness. "Many times."
Aegon looked impressed beyond words.
Rhaegar's gaze lingered on his son for a moment before he looked back at Harry. There was something almost resigned in his expression now.
"We will honor the treaty," he said. "Trade will begin with the next sailing."
Harry inclined his head. "Good."
It was not warmth. But it was something closer to honest ground than they had stood on before.
Then he turned to Lord Rickard Stark.
The old lord had come with much of his household and many of his bannermen to see them off. Robb stood beside him with Shadow, the direwolf cub, half-hidden beneath his cloak and already looking more at home with the boy than anywhere else. Rickard's face held the strange, proud sadness of a father seeing both daughter and grandson grow farther beyond his reach and greater than he had imagined.
"You'll send word," he said.
"I always do," Lyanna replied.
Rickard grunted, then pulled Sirius close with one arm in a rough gesture that would have embarrassed any more delicate child. Sirius took it with a smile.
"Learn from your grandfather while you can," Harry said to him. "There are worse teachers."
Rickard snorted. "And plenty better."
"Not many," Harry answered.
That earned the old wolf a look of surprise and, for a brief moment, pleasure.
Then the air changed.
Harry felt Winter before he heard him. The bond was warm and immense in the back of his mind, a presence circling high and dropping lower at his call. A few heartbeats later came the sound—distant at first, then near—the rushing beat of vast wings.
The trees at the edge of the clearing bent.
The horses stamped and snorted.
Several of the southerners took involuntary steps back.
And then Winter descended.
The white dragon landed in the clearing with practiced precision, enormous wings spreading once before folding against his sides. His scales caught the morning light like fresh snow under dawn. The sight still pulled gasps from those who had seen him before. For those who had not, it was almost too much to comprehend.
Viserys went pale.
Daenerys's smile widened impossibly.
Rhaella took one slow breath and held her children's hands for a final moment.
Then it was time.
Winter lowered himself slightly at Harry's thought. One by one they climbed onto his back—Harry first, then Lyanna, then Sirius. Daenerys moved with surprising ease, settling herself beside Lyanna with shining eyes. Viserys came last, much less gracefully, clutching tighter than he wanted anyone to notice.
Below them, the Narnian ship that would carry supplies and priests north was already setting sail, its dark hull cutting through the water beyond the city.
Rhaella looked up, chin lifted despite the tears she refused to let fall. "Take care of them."
Harry looked down at her.
"I will."
Then Winter launched.
The force of the takeoff drove dust and leaves outward in a spiraling burst. Cloaks snapped. Men shielded their faces. The ground fell away almost instantly. King's Landing shrank beneath them, first into rooftops and walls, then into a sprawling patchwork of stone and smoke beside the glittering water of Blackwater Bay.
Viserys made a strangled sound and then laughed despite himself.
Daenerys leaned forward, fearless now, looking down with total delight. "It's beautiful!"
"It always is from the sky," Lyanna said.
Sirius twisted in his place to wave until the figures below were too small to distinguish.
Harry looked ahead.
The clouds were bright before them. The wind was colder now, cleaner. The city behind them already seemed unreal, like a fever dream of stone and politics and prayers. Ahead lay the long return north—to ships and snow and open skies and a kingdom that, for all its burdens, felt honest in a way Westeros never truly could.
Winter climbed higher.
Soon they passed through the clouds and into sunlight so bright it seemed to wash the whole world clean. Below them, the Narnian ship sailed northward like a dark line upon silver water. Above them, only sky.
And just like that, Westeros was behind them.
They were going home.
Author's Note:
Enjoying the story?
Consider joining my Patreon to get early access to more chapters and exclusive fanfictions! Even as a free member you will get one extra chapter and you'll receive early access to chapters before they're posted elsewhere and various other fanfictions.Your support helps me create more content for you to enjoy!
Join here: Patreon(dot)com(slash)Beuwulf