When the lists emptied and the nobles began their feasting, he gathered his own.
The Narnians moved as a single body, slipping away from the noise of the tourney and toward the ground near the Dragonpit—where the five weirwood saplings had been planted and where the Children of the Forest kept their quiet vigil. The Northern lords had already relocated there days ago, trading inns and soft beds for cold earth, simply to stand closer to the trees, to watch the ritual carving, to hear the faint, strange chanting that made the hairs rise on a man's arms.
It was there that King's Landing felt most uncertain.
Even in the late evening, smallfolk still came, drifting like moths toward the pale trunks. Many knelt. Some wept. Some simply stared, as if the trees might open their faces and speak a judgment.
Harry stood among them without ceremony, a tall man in simple clothing, his presence somehow sharper than any crown. Sirius kept close, bright-eyed and restless, though even he fell quieter here, as if the air itself demanded it.
Then a carriage arrived.
Not a royal wheelhouse, not gilded and grand—but still rich enough to draw attention, its horses sleek, its doors lacquered with the green-and-gold of the Reach.
The Tyrells descended into the torchlight.
Lord Mace Tyrell came first, proud even when he tried not to be. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed as he took in the crowd. Behind him came his wife, tense and pale, and then two younger children—too young to fully understand why they were here, but old enough to feel fear in the way adults spoke in whispers.
And last came Lady Olenna.
She stepped down like she owned the ground, like the Dragonpit and the city and the Seven Kingdoms themselves had been built to hold her temper. Her face was composed, but the set of her mouth said she was already tired of everyone and everything.
As the Tyrells approached the nearest weirwood, the crowd shifted. Northerners watched with hard eyes, hands drifting unconsciously toward sword hilts. Narnian guards stiffened. Even the smallfolk held their breath.
Mace Tyrell did not slow.
He looked at the weirwood as one might look at an insult carved into stone.
And then—quick as contempt—he spat.
The sound was small.
The reaction was not.
A ripple of outrage ran through the gathered Northerners like fire through dry grass. A murmur rose, angry and sharp, and several men stepped forward with murder in their eyes. One of the Narnian guards made a move that suggested he would gladly drag a Lord Paramount face-first into the mud.
Sirius's head snapped up.
Harry's hand rose.
The air seemed to still.
"Enough," Harry said, his voice quiet—and yet it cut through the crowd like a blade.
It was not magic that stopped them.
It was authority.
The Northerners, who would have bled for him, halted. The Narnians, who would have killed for him, held.
Only Olenna moved.
Her cane struck Mace's shin with a crack.
"You stupid oaf," she hissed, low enough that only those close could hear. "Did you come here to heal your son, or start a war?"
Mace's face darkened.
"They drowned our people," he muttered back, fury hot and childish all at once. "Half the men who sailed from the Reach never returned. And now—"
Olenna's eyes narrowed.
"Now you spit on their faith," she said, "because you cannot spit on the sea."
Harry watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. When he spoke again, his gaze shifted—past Mace, past the wife, past the children—and settled directly on Olenna.
"You came for Willas," he said.
It was not a question.
Olenna lifted her chin. "We did."
Mace opened his mouth, perhaps to speak with pride, perhaps to demand, perhaps to threaten without realizing it.
Olenna spoke over him.
"My grandson is injured," she said. "We were told… you healed the queen."
Harry nodded once. "I did."
"And we were told you can heal that maesters cannot."
"I can," Harry agreed, and then—without raising his voice—he let the silence sharpen. "When I heal, I do it without coin. Without bargaining."
Relief flickered on Willas's mother's face, brief and fragile.
Then Harry continued.
"But I do not heal while our faith is mocked," he said calmly. "And I do not heal while men spit at the roots of our beliefs."
Mace stiffened. "You—"
Harry didn't look at him.
He kept his eyes on Olenna, as if Mace were merely noise.
"So," Harry said, "I will not heal Willas."
The words struck like a thrown stone.
Willas's mother went pale. One of the younger Tyrell children clutched at her sleeve.
Olenna did not flinch—though her knuckles whitened on her cane.
"Your Grace," she said carefully, "Mace is—"
"A fool," Harry supplied.
Olenna's lips twitched. "Yes. That."
Harry's tone remained even. "If it were only pride, I could ignore it. But contempt spreads. It teaches others that they may spit too. That they may defy what they fear because they are angry."
Mace's face flushed. "The Reach lost men!"
"So did North during last winter did they blame you ," Harry replied, still calm.
Olenna exhaled slowly, then stepped closer.
"What do you want?" she asked. Direct. No embellishment.
Harry's gaze drifted toward the weirwood saplings, their pale trunks already marked with the first careful carvings of the Children of the Forest.
"You will plant one," he said.
Olenna's brows rose a fraction.
"In Highgarden," Harry went on. "Not hidden. Not tucked away where no one sees it. In a place of honor. A living vow."
Mace made a choking sound. "You want me to—"
Harry's eyes flicked to him, and for the first time there was something in them that made even Mace Tyrell hesitate.
"You will protect it," Harry said. "You will nurture it. You will not cut it down. You will not poison it. You will not order some man to do it quietly in the night."
Olenna stared at him, calculating.
"And if we agree?" she asked.
"Then I will heal Willas," Harry said. "Completely."
The tent of silence that formed around those words was almost physical. Even the smallfolk nearby leaned in, hungry for the outcome.
Mace's wife looked at Olenna with pleading eyes.
Olenna's gaze drifted to her grandson's future—unspoken, but present in the tight line of her mouth. Then she looked at Mace.
A long look.
A look that promised pain.
Finally, Olenna nodded once.
"Fine," she said. "We will plant it."
Harry reached into the fold of his cloak and produced a small bundle wrapped carefully in cloth. He held it out.
A weirwood sapling—pale, delicate, impossibly alive.
Olenna took it as though it were both gift and dagger.
When she turned to leave, Harry's voice followed her, mild as snowfall and twice as cold.
"Lady Olenna."
She paused.
"If you are thinking," Harry said, "after I healed Willas, and then throw away the sapling… I won't need to do anything to punish you."
Olenna's eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat?"
"It is a warning," Harry replied. "A weirwood is not just wood. In Narnia, we call it the World Tree. Agreements made beneath it cling to blood and bone. Break your word, and the tree will not let you forget. Neither will your own mind."
Mace swallowed, suddenly less certain.
Olenna's grip tightened around the sapling.
Harry finished quietly, "Think it through. If you still mean it, come to me on the day the first stone is laid for Frigga's temple. Bring the sapling. Bring your vow. And I will bring your grandson back to himself."
Olenna held his gaze for a heartbeat, then dipped her head—not quite a bow, but something close enough to count.
"Very well," she said.
And the Tyrells departed into the torchlit night, carrying a pale sapling that felt heavier than any crown.
Behind them, the weirwoods stood silent.
The news spread through the Northern encampment faster than wildfire in dry grass.
Another weirwood tree was to be planted in the south — not hidden in some forgotten grove, not guarded in secret, but in the heart of the Reach itself.
For the Northern lords, it was almost unimaginable.
They had already been stunned by the five weirwoods growing in King's Landing. Those pale trunks, still young yet already majestic, had drawn pilgrims, skeptics, nobles, and beggars alike. To see southerners kneel before them — men who once called the Old Gods savages' superstition — felt like witnessing history rewrite itself.
Now the Reach, cradle of the Faith's power, would host one too.
Lord Rickard Stark stood among his bannermen near the Dragonpit grounds, grey eyes bright with something dangerously close to pride.
"This…" he murmured, voice thick, "…this is what our ancestors dreamed of."
Lord Umber laughed deeply.
"Seven hells, my lord, it's better than revenge. It's making them remember who came first."
Several other Northern lords nodded. Even the more cautious ones could not hide their satisfaction.
And many of them — though too proud to say it openly — were quietly grateful to Harry Gryffindor.
The very next day, Willas Tyrell arrived.
Not as heir to one of the greatest houses in Westeros.
He came in a covered litter, carefully borne by servants, his injured leg swaddled and supported. Lady Olenna accompanied him personally. Lord Mace Tyrell did not.
Word spread quickly that he had left King's Landing in anger, insulted beyond endurance by the agreement his mother had struck. Few were surprised. Fewer still cared.
Willas, however, seemed far less troubled by pride than by curiosity.
Once settled inside a spacious Narnian pavilion near the weirwood grove, he found himself surrounded not by cold formalities, but by something unfamiliar — easy warmth.
Narnian soldiers greeted him respectfully.
Many asked about the Reach.
His fascination with the Children of the Forest grew quickly.
He had heard stories, of course — every noble child had — but they had always been framed as myths or distant legends. Seeing them walk, hearing their strange melodic speech, watching them carve faces into the weirwoods with patient reverence… it stirred something deeper than curiosity.
"Father forbade me from coming near the Dragonpit," he confessed to Harry one afternoon. "He said it was dangerous… politically, spiritually, everything."
Harry gave a small shrug.
"Sometimes the most dangerous thing," he said, "is seeing something that changes your mind."
Willas considered that.
"Yes," he said softly. "I think that's already happened."
The royal family visited often.
King Rhaegar came with measured dignity, his fascination with magic barely hidden. Queen Elia carried herself with calm assurance, clearly comfortable among Narnians now. Princess Rhaenys asked endless questions. Even young Daenerys lingered near the weirwoods longer than anyone else, eyes shining.
Outwardly, everything seemed smooth.
Preparations for the temple foundation ceremony advanced steadily. Narnian priests established daily rituals beneath the trees. Offerings — usually animals meant for sacrifice and blessing — were brought respectfully. The Children of the Forest led the rites, their chanting haunting yet oddly peaceful.
Each day more smallfolk gathered.
Each day more southern nobles quietly attended.
And each day the Faith of the Seven grew more uneasy.
On the morning of one such ritual, the crowd was larger than ever.
Northerners stood proudly near the front. Narnians formed a loose protective ring. The royal family occupied a modest viewing platform, though even that had been kept intentionally simple — Elia insisted the ceremony remain spiritual, not political.
Willas Tyrell watched from his supported chair, eyes alight with anticipation.
Harry stood nearby, relaxed but attentive.
The Children of the Forest began their chanting.
A white ram was brought forward — today's offering. The air smelled of incense, woodsmoke, and fresh sap.
Then came the sound.
A distant screech.
Harry didn't even need to look up.
He knew that cry.
His shoulders stiffened slightly.
"…Winter," he murmured.
Sirius, beside him, blinked upward instantly.
"What is he doing here?"
A shadow swept across the ground.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The screech came again, louder, echoing off the Dragonpit ruins.
And then the dragon descended.
The landing shook the earth.
Massive white wings folded with a gust that scattered cloaks, banners, and loose dust. The creature's scales gleamed like fresh snow beneath sunlight, its breath steaming faintly in the warm southern air.
Panic surged briefly — then froze into stunned silence.
No living person in Westeros had seen a dragon in centuries.
And now one stood in the Dragonpit again.
Irony thick enough to taste.
The Targaryens stared openly.
Rhaegar's composure slipped for a heartbeat. Rhaella whispered something inaudible. Even the Kingsguard shifted uneasily.
Because dragons were supposed to belong to them.
Then the rider slid down.
Queen Lyanna Gryffindor of Narnia.
She wore a travel cloak dusted with frost from higher skies, hair wind-tangled but eyes blazing with purpose. She landed lightly, as though dismounting a horse rather than a creature of legend.
Her voice carried easily.
"I hope I didn't miss the ceremony," she said casually.
"Ships are slow. I decided Winter would be faster."
A ripple of stunned laughter, disbelief, fear, admiration — all mixed.
Harry rubbed his forehead briefly.
Sirius ran forward first, grinning.
"Mother, you are here!"
She hugged him quickly, warmth replacing regal distance for just a moment.
Then Harry's eyes shifted past her.
And he saw Astrid.
The woman stood a few paces back, pale, visibly shaken from the flight. Her hands trembled. Her gaze flicked between dragon, crowd, and Harry with something like dread.
Harry understood instantly.
Lyanna hadn't come merely for ceremony.
She had come to make a statement.
To Westeros.
To Rhaegar.
To Astrid herself.
Lyanna leaned closer to Harry, voice low.
"I thought it was time everyone remembered who holds the dragon now."
Harry sighed quietly.
"You do enjoy subtlety."
Author's Note:
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