For generations, neither Essos nor Westeros had seen a living dragon. The creatures had passed into memory, into songs, into the fading pages of dusty chronicles. Yet no one had truly forgotten them. The Valyrian dragonlords had carved empires with flame, and the Targaryens had conquered Westeros and ruled for two centuries on the strength of three beasts alone. Even those born long after the last dragon's death could describe one — wings like storms, scales like armor, eyes like molten judgment.
That was why, when the white shape appeared above Andalos, no one mistook it for anything else.
At first it was only a distant speck against the pale sky. Then it grew, wings stretching impossibly wide, sunlight glinting off scales white as winter snow. The creature circled once, slow and deliberate, as if letting the land see it clearly before descending.
Panic spread faster than wildfire.
"Dragon!" someone shouted from the harbor.
Within moments the streets emptied. Market stalls were abandoned, fishermen dropped their nets, and mothers dragged children indoors. Doors slammed. Windows shuttered. Old instincts, buried but never gone, took control. Dragons meant conquest. Dragons meant fire.
Even among the Narnians, particularly the recently settled wildling clans, fear rippled through the crowd. Many had heard stories of Winter — King Harry Gryffindor's dragon — but few had seen it. Seeing the immense beast descend toward the clearing where the new city was planned made even seasoned warriors step back instinctively.
Brandon Stark reacted faster than most.
He had been overseeing foundation work for the future harbor district when the alarm spread. One glance at the sky was enough. Without hesitation, he mounted the nearest horse — one of the strong northern breeds recently brought from Narnia — and spurred it hard toward the landing site.
The dragon touched down with a thunderous gust of displaced air. Snow-pale wings folded slowly, deliberately, revealing the rider seated confidently upon its back.
Brandon slowed his horse as realization dawned.
"Gods… not Harry," he muttered. "Lyanna?"
Sure enough, Queen Lyanna dismounted with practiced ease, landing lightly despite the height. She wore a heavy travel cloak, wind-tossed hair framing a face calm enough to contrast sharply with the chaos around them.
Winter lowered its head beside her, exhaling a plume of warm vapor that curled lazily in the cool Andalos air.
Brandon approached cautiously, though not from fear of the dragon. It was Lyanna's unexpected arrival that unsettled him more.
"What in all the old gods' names are you doing here?" he demanded as he dismounted. "And on a dragon, no less. Did something happen? Is Harry alright?"
Lyanna offered a small smile, almost too casual.
"Nothing's wrong," she said. "I'm heading to King's Landing for the temple ceremony. Ships would take too long, and I was late already. So… I borrowed Winter."
Brandon stared at her.
"You flew halfway across the world because you were late?" His tone was flat. "Lyanna, I've known you since you were born. That explanation wouldn't convince a stable boy."
She didn't answer immediately.
The wind stirred her cloak. Winter shifted slightly behind her, as if sensing the tension.
Finally, she sighed.
"Fine," she admitted quietly. "You always could see through me."
Brandon crossed his arms, waiting.
"It's about Astrid," Lyanna continued. "You know the story."
Brandon nodded slowly. "Harry rescued her beyond the Wall. Protected her. Brought her to Narnia. That much I know."
"And that rescue," Lyanna said, "according to some wildling customs, could be interpreted as marriage. Harry ignored it — he thought honor mattered more than appearances. He never intended anything beyond helping a woman in danger."
"And Astrid?" Brandon asked.
"She never let go of the interpretation," Lyanna replied. "She's been claiming she's his wife. Gathering sympathy. Trying to build influence."
Brandon frowned. "Harry told you it wasn't serious."
"He still believes that," Lyanna said softly. "Harry trusts loyalty. He assumes no one would turn against me. Against us. But Astrid… she's ambitious. And now she's aligning herself with Rhaegar Targaryen."
"They want leverage. A claim. A reason to meddle in Narnian affairs. Maybe even to undermine our rule indirectly."
She turned slightly, looking back at Winter — the great white dragon standing silently behind her.
"So I decided to remind them of something," she continued.
"And that would be?" Brandon asked carefully.
"That dragons are no longer theirs."
The words hung in the air.
Lyanna's voice grew firmer, colder.
"With three dragons and three thousand soldiers, the Targaryens conquered Westeros. History worships them for it. But look at us, Brandon. We have Winter. We have giants. Thirty thousand soldiers. Skagos, Narnia, Andalos… growing stronger every season."
Her eyes met his directly.
"If Rhaegar keeps plotting against me, against us, I want him to understand the consequences. Whether Harry chooses war or not, Westeros should know we are not weak."
Brandon studied his sister for a long moment.
"You're sending a message," he said finally.
"Yes."
"And Harry knows?"
"No," Lyanna admitted. "He'd try diplomacy over threats. And I respect that. But sometimes diplomacy needs… reinforcement."
Brandon rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"You realize what this looks like? A queen arriving on dragonback in Essos? Half Essos is already nervous about Narnia's expansion."
"I'm not threatening Essos," she replied calmly. "Only reminding Westeros not to mistake kindness for weakness."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally Brandon chuckled softly.
"You always were the stubborn one."
"And you always supported me," she countered.
"That hasn't changed," he said. "Just… be careful. Power displayed too openly invites challengers."
Lyanna smiled faintly.
Behind them, townsfolk slowly began emerging from hiding. Fear still lingered, but curiosity was stronger. Some Narnians bowed respectfully. Andal locals watched wide-eyed, whispering in awe.
A dragon, alive and obedient to their queen — it was the kind of sight that reshaped political realities overnight.
Lyanna glanced toward the unfinished city foundations.
"You've done well here," she said quietly. "Better than most expected."
Brandon shrugged modestly.
"People build quickly when they're fed, safe, and hopeful."
"That's exactly why this place matters," Lyanna replied. "And exactly why others will want it."
Winter let out a low rumble, almost like agreement.
Brandon looked from his sister to the dragon and back again.
"So what now?"
Lyanna pulled her cloak tighter.
"Now I rest briefly. Then I head to King's Landing. And when I arrive…"
She paused, a slight smile forming.
"…I suspect Rhaegar Targaryen will listen much more carefully."
The white dragon shifted its wings as if anticipating the journey ahead.
The people of Andalos recovered from their fear surprisingly quickly. Once it became clear that the beast was not there to destroy them, relief spread like warm sunlight after winter.
Protection was something they had learned to value above all else. Pirates, raiders, slavers — for generations their coast had known little peace. Having soldiers guard them was one thing. Having walls and patrol ships was another.
But a dragon?
That was protection beyond anything they had ever imagined.
"No pirate will come now," one fisherman was heard saying in the market square. "Not when fire can fall from the sky."
"And no Essosi lord will dare claim this land either," another replied. "Dragons make kings."
Small groups began approaching the clearing where Winter rested. They came carefully at first — farmers, fishermen, traders, even children clinging nervously to their parents. Many carried gifts: baskets of fruit, carved wooden trinkets, jars of honey, and, most notably, livestock.
Goats, sheep, even a few young cattle were led forward hesitantly.
Winter watched them all with quiet intelligence, head lowered but eyes alert. The dragon radiated restrained power rather than menace, which seemed to calm the crowd.
Lyanna stood beside the beast, cloak rippling in the sea breeze. She accepted the gifts with grace, though she immediately made it clear they would not go unpaid.
"You offer kindness," she told them in fluent Valyrian, her pronunciation precise from years of study. "Kindness must be answered with fairness."
Coins were distributed. Brandon's stewards hurried to record names and ensure everyone received proper payment. Some villagers protested.
"It is an honor, Your Grace," an older woman insisted. "No coin needed."
Lyanna smiled gently.
"And I accept the honor," she said. "But your children still need bread tomorrow. Take the coin."
That practical wisdom endeared her to them instantly.
Winter, meanwhile, accepted its share of the livestock with evident satisfaction, though Lyanna ensured feeding happened at a controlled distance. Even a friendly dragon was still a dragon.
Over the next several hours Lyanna walked through the growing settlement. She inspected the docks Brandon had begun expanding, the newly cleared farmland, the simple but sturdy houses rising across the plain. Everywhere she went, people greeted her warmly.
Some bowed. Others simply smiled in gratitude.
"This place… it's thriving," she remarked quietly to Brandon.
"It is," he said. "Security changes everything."
Lyanna nodded. "Security — and hope."
They passed the new schoolhouse where children practiced letters under a teacher sent from Narnia. Further along, a half-built temple to the gods stood beside a communal hall.
The transformation was unmistakable.
It was during this tour that Lyanna finally encountered Astrid.
The woman stood near the kitchens, speaking with workers. She froze the instant she saw Lyanna approaching, color draining from her face.
Unlike many in Narnians, Astrid had never seen Winter before. Rumors of the dragon had reached her, of course, but rumors were easy to dismiss.
Reality was not.
"You look pale," Lyanna observed calmly.
Astrid swallowed. "I… wasn't expecting you, Queen Lyanna."
"No," Lyanna said simply. "You weren't."
A tense silence followed.
Then Lyanna spoke again, voice measured.
"Pack warmer clothes. You're coming with me to Westeros."
Astrid blinked in shock. "Westeros? On… that?" She glanced fearfully toward Winter.
"Yes."
"I don't… I don't ride dragons."
Lyanna's gaze hardened slightly.
"Today you do."
Astrid understood resistance would be pointless.
News spread quickly that the queen was departing. Villagers gathered again near the clearing, this time to say farewell rather than offer gifts. Many expressed gratitude openly.
"You saved us," one former Andal fisherman said. "Your people. Your brother. And now the dragon."
Before mounting, she turned to Brandon.
"All these gifts — send them to Narnia," she instructed. "I'll collect them later in Telmar."
Brandon nodded. "Done."
Not everyone watching the departure was Narnian or Andal. The surviving Westerosi expedition members stood apart from the crowd.
Their relief was obvious.
"Seven save us," one knight murmured to another. "If we'd landed ready for battle instead of broken by the sea… that dragon would have burned us alive."
"Aye," the other agreed grimly. "The storm might've saved us."
They watched Lyanna mount Winter with renewed respect — and perhaps a little awe.
Astrid climbed up next, far less gracefully. Her hands trembled as she secured herself behind Lyanna. She kept her eyes tightly shut, knuckles white.
Winter launched skyward with a powerful beat of its wings. The ground fell away rapidly.
Astrid made a strangled sound but did not scream.
The wind rushed past them. Clouds parted. Andalos shrank below into a patchwork of fields and rooftops.
For several minutes neither woman spoke.
Then Lyanna's voice cut through the rushing air, calm but cold.
"You should understand something, Astrid."
Astrid forced herself to open one eye, then quickly shut it again.
"Yes?"
"You are no longer welcome in Narnia. Nor in any Narnian settlement."
Astrid's breath hitched.
"If I hear you're trying again to gather support… to claim a place beside my husband…" Lyanna continued, "…I will leave you somewhere you cannot return from."
Her tone remained almost conversational.
"The Dothraki Sea, perhaps. Or the far north. Either place will end you — by cold, by horse-lords, or by simple isolation."
Astrid's fingers tightened on the harness.
"I… I never meant—"
Lyanna cut her off.
"I still have half a mind to throw you off this dragon right now."
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute.
Astrid did not answer. She couldn't. Fear had stolen her voice.
She kept her eyes shut for the rest of the journey, terrified both of the height beneath them and of the queen before her.
King's Landing had not seen such spectacle in years.
The tourney grounds outside the Dragonpit blazed with color — banners of every great house snapping in the wind, knights gleaming in polished steel, crowds roaring for blood and glory. Merchants shouted, gamblers argued, and musicians played triumphant marches as if the city itself had forgotten its recent religious unease.
Rhaegar Targaryen had announced the tourney with generous prizes: ten thousand gold dragons for the joust, five thousand for the melee, and two thousand for the archery contest. It was enough to draw half the realm south.
And enough to draw attention.
When Harry Gryffindor's presence became known, whispers spread instantly.
"Will the foreign king ride in the lists?"
"Does he joust?"
"Can he even sit a warhorse like a proper knight?"
Rhaegar himself had extended the invitation with a polite smile that never reached his eyes.
"You should ride, Your Grace," he had suggested smoothly. "A king's skill ought to be seen."
Harry returned the smile just as pleasantly.
"There are no knights in Narnia," he replied calmly. "And I was never trained for the lance. I would embarrass myself and your lists both."
Rhaegar studied him carefully. "Then perhaps the melee?"
"That," Harry said simply, "is more to my liking."
The decision pleased the crowd. A king who fought on foot would be seen clearly. Judged clearly.
Measured.
The archery contest came first.
Hundreds gathered as competitors stepped forward one by one, loosing shafts at distant targets. Knights, sellswords, hedge archers — all tested their aim.
When the Narnian archer stepped forward, few took him seriously.
He was broad-shouldered but wore simple leathers, not ornate southern gear. His bow was plain. His expression calm.
But when he drew the string, something changed.
The first arrow struck dead center.
The second split the first.
The third, fired at a moving target released unexpectedly, pierced cleanly through the painted mark as if guided by fate itself.
A murmur ran through the stands.
By the final round, no one laughed.
The southern competitors began missing under pressure. The Narnian did not.
For him, each arrow meant more than applause.
He had grown beyond the Wall, where a missed shot meant no rabbit, no bird, no meat — and no meal for his family. There had been no second chances in that frozen wilderness. Precision was survival.
So when the final tally was announced, there was no surprise left.
The wildling-turned-sailor had won.
Two thousand gold dragons were placed in his hands.
He stared at the weight of it briefly, almost disbelieving. In Narnia, he lived comfortably as a sailor. He no longer hunted for survival. Yet this purse alone could build him a fine home — perhaps even in the new colony in Essos that sailors spoke of with admiration.
"I'll build something worthy," he muttered quietly to a fellow Narnian. "Maybe near the harbor."
The crowd applauded respectfully. Skill was skill, after all.
Then came the melee.
The rules were simple: armored fighters entered the field at once, and the last standing claimed victory. Blunted weapons, but no gentle mercy.
The stands erupted.
"There he is!"
"The foreign king!"
Across the field, armored knights adjusted grips and exchanged subtle glances.
Harry noticed immediately.
The spacing was wrong.
The body language was wrong.
In a normal melee, alliances formed briefly and dissolved quickly. Chaos ruled. Fighters turned on whoever stood nearest.
This time, however, the formation shifted almost instinctively.
They were not watching one another.
They were watching the Narnians.
Harry spoke quietly without turning his head.
"Stay tight. Expect a coordinated push."
One of his men grunted. "All of them?"
"Yes."
The horn sounded.
And the field erupted.
But instead of the expected frenzy, nearly a dozen fighters surged directly toward the Narnian cluster. Others flanked from the sides.
The crowd roared in excitement, oblivious to the intent.
Harry moved first.
He stepped forward into the charge rather than retreating, breaking their momentum. His sword — though blunted — struck with frightening precision. A knight lunging at his flank found his weapon knocked aside and his balance shattered in a single fluid motion. Harry's shoulder slammed into the man's chest, sending him crashing into the dirt.
To his right, a Narnian veteran blocked a heavy mace and countered with brutal efficiency, sweeping his opponent's legs.
Another knight charged Harry directly, shield raised high. Harry pivoted, striking the edge of the shield and sliding past it, using the knight's own forward motion to hurl him off his feet.
In the stands, Rhaegar leaned forward slightly.
The attack had been deliberate.
And it was failing.
More fighters converged.
"Break them apart!" someone shouted from the southern side.
Harry heard it clearly.
He ducked beneath a wide swing and drove the pommel of his sword into a visor slit. The knight stumbled backward, disoriented.
Two more pressed him simultaneously.
This time Harry did not evade.
He met them head-on.
The clash rang like thunder across the field. Steel struck steel, shields splintered, and Harry's footwork — subtle, efficient — began dismantling their coordination. He used their armor weight against them, forcing overextensions, redirecting blows.
One of the Narnians went down briefly under a dogpile of three knights — but rose again moments later, armor dented yet spirit unbroken.
The crowd's roar shifted tone.
It was no longer mockery.
It was awe.
Gradually, the coordinated assault lost cohesion.
Knights who had expected an easy elimination of the foreigners found themselves battered and winded. Some were already disarmed. Others lay stunned in the dust.
Harry glanced around quickly.
Half the field was down.
The Narnians still stood.
Now the remaining fighters hesitated — and hesitation in a melee was fatal.
"Now," Harry said calmly.
They advanced.
One by one, opponents fell. Not slaughtered — but decisively removed from contention.
At last, only a handful remained.
And for the first time, they turned on one another instead of the Narnians.
Harry allowed it.
He waited.
When the final southern knight staggered toward him in desperation, Harry disarmed him cleanly and sent him sprawling with a controlled strike.
Silence hung for a heartbeat.
Then the horn sounded again.
Victory.
The crowd erupted.
Some cheered wildly. Others stared in stunned disbelief.
Rhaegar's expression remained composed — but his fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of his seat.
The test had been clear.
The result was clearer.
The foreign king was not merely symbolic.
He was dangerous.
Author's Note:
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