The wind over the Bay of Tusk was warmer than anything Harry had felt in Seven Kingdoms. It rolled in from the open water in long, steady breaths, carrying the sharp scent of salt and the distant cry of unseen birds. Yet beneath it—subtle, almost hidden—was something far more important. The smell of soil. Living soil. Rich, dark, and untouched by the relentless cold that choked the lands beyond the Wall.
Harry stood alone on a low ridge overlooking the bay, his cloak shifting lightly with the wind. His eyes moved slowly across the horizon, not in idle observation, but in careful study. Every detail mattered. Every curve of land, every line of water, every shadow cast by distant hills—it all had purpose now.
He had been here before.
Many times.
For two months, Harry had worked in silence.
There had been no proclamations, no announcements, no grand declarations of intent. Even in Narnia, only a handful of people knew where he had gone during those long stretches of absence. He had made sure of that.
Lyanna knew. She always knew, even when he said nothing. No one else had dared to ask.
Because when Harry moved like this—
It meant something important was being built.
The land stretched wide before him.
But scattered.
Small settlements dotted the plains—clusters of rough tents, wandering flocks that moved like drifting clouds across the grasslands. Shepherds, mostly. People who lived by movement rather than permanence. They followed their animals, followed the seasons, followed instinct more than any structured design.
Harry had watched them for weeks.
From the sky, high above on Winter's back.
From a distance, where he could observe without being seen.
They were survivors.
That much was undeniable.
But they were not builders.
And that—
That would change soon.
A river cut through the land like a silver vein, its waters glinting beneath the sunlight as it flowed steadily from the great lake and emptied into the Bay of Tusk. Harry had traced its path himself, flying low, following every bend and curve, noting where it narrowed, where it widened, where the current slowed into calm stretches and where it deepened into something far more substantial.
Water.
Enough to sustain not just a settlement—
But something far greater.
He had walked along its banks, boots sinking slightly into the damp soil. He had crouched at its edge, letting the cool water run through his fingers, feeling its strength, its steadiness.
Fertile land fed by a dependable source.
It was everything a kingdom required at its foundation.
Harry gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"This will hold."
Behind him, the land rose gently into rolling hills before opening into two wide lakes that shimmered beneath the afternoon light. He had spent days there, measuring distances, marking potential farmland, estimating how much land could be cultivated and how quickly.
There had been no guesswork.
Harry did not rely on hope.
Narnia did not need vast lands yet—not immediately. Their numbers were not large enough to justify it.
"We could live within a single city," he murmured, his voice barely carried by the wind.
It would be easier that way. Safer. More efficient.
But as the thought settled, Harry felt a quiet resistance rise within him.
"No," he said after a moment, more firmly this time.
"Narnians need more than that."
A single city created dependence. It created people who relied too heavily on walls, on structure, on the illusion of security that came from being surrounded by others. It bred complacency.
Harry had seen that before.
In Oldtown.
In King's Landing.
People packed together, cut off from the land that sustained them, unable to grow their own food, unable to survive without the systems built around them.
When those systems failed—
They collapsed.
That would not be Narnia.
"Narnia will be spread," Harry decided, his voice quiet but resolute.
Villages.
Farms.
Herders.
Fishermen.
Craftsmen.
People who understood the land because they lived with it, not above it. People who worked it, respected it, depended on it.
People who could survive even if the city fell.
That was how kingdoms endured—not through walls, but through resilience.
To the east, a dense woodland stretched endlessly, its dark canopy forming a jagged line against the horizon. Harry had walked that forest as well, moving through its shadows, studying its resources.
The trees were massive, their trunks thick and strong, their roots deep and unyielding.
Perfect for construction.
He had marked the area carefully.
Not as something to be stripped bare—but as something to be used wisely.
"We take what we need," he murmured, his gaze steady.
"And no more."
For a brief moment, Harry closed his eyes.
And felt it.
The magic.
Ward stones.
Hundreds of them.
Placed over weeks of careful planning and precise execution.
Buried deep beneath the soil, anchored along the riverbanks, near the lakes, at the edges of the forest—and most importantly—
Around the bay.
Each one positioned with purpose. Each one connected to the others.
A network.
A silent shield waiting to awaken.
Harry opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening.
The ancient kingdom of Sarnor had once stretched across vast lands, powerful but overextended, too large to defend, too exposed to survive.
Harry had no intention of repeating that mistake.
"This…" he gestured slightly to the land before him, "…is enough."
Something that could grow—but did not need to defend itself from every direction at once.
He stepped forward slowly, his boots pressing into the soft earth.
Beneath him, the wards pulsed faintly, responding to his presence like something alive. They remained hidden, dormant, waiting.
If fully activated, they would cloak the entire region—mask it, distort it, erase it from the sight of those who did not know where to look.
And that—
That was necessary.
If they revealed themselves now, the consequences would be immediate.
The Dothraki would come.
Drawn by the promise of something new. Something worth conquering. Worth destroying.
Harry understood that reality all too well.
"We will not be ready yet."
Not for open war. Not against numbers like that. Not without structure. Without defenses. Without time.
"So we wait."
Narnia would not arrive here as a spectacle. It would not announce itself with banners and armies.
It would arrive as a secret.
Growing. Building. Preparing.
And only when it was ready—
Would it reveal itself.
Harry turned back toward the ridge where Winter waited.
The great dragon lay coiled against the dark stone, his massive form blending almost seamlessly with the landscape. His eyes were half-lidded, but there was no mistaking the awareness behind them.
"You're getting impatient," Harry said, a faint smile touching his lips.
Winter responded with a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air.
Harry huffed softly.
"Soon."
He paused once more, looking out across the land.
In a year, this place would be unrecognizable. There would be roads carved through the plains, fields stretching toward the horizon, homes built with permanence. Ships would anchor in the bay, their sails catching the same wind that now brushed against his face.
Children would run across land that no longer feared raids.
And above all—
There would be order.
Harry exhaled slowly.
"There's still work."
There always was.
He had told Viserys he could move entire cities across the sea.
That had been…
An exaggeration.
"I can't move a city," he admitted quietly.
Not whole. Not intact.
But that did not mean he was without options.
Everything they had already built.
They would not abandon it.
They could not afford to.
The Bone Mountains held vast reserves of marble—white, strong, and perfect for construction. Harry had seen it himself.
And Narnia had already shaped thousands upon thousands of stones into walls, into roads, into foundations.
To leave that behind—
Would be foolish.
"No," Harry said firmly.
"We take it."
It would not be easy.
The process would be slow, difficult, and frustrating. People would complain—he had no doubt about that.
Rebuilding always brought resistance, even when it led to something better.
"They will hate it at first," he admitted.
Taking apart homes. Moving stone by stone. Rebuilding from the ground up.
It would test them.
But then he looked again toward the river.
Toward the fertile land.
Toward the possibility that stretched endlessly before him.
"They will understand."
Because this—
This was better.
Harry walked back toward Winter, placing a hand against the dragon's side. The scales were warm beneath his palm, steady and alive.
"We're done here," he said quietly.
Winter shifted, then rose, his massive form unfolding with quiet power.
As Harry climbed onto the saddle, he cast one final look over the land.
The land.
The river.
The bay.
The forests.
The empty space waiting to be filled.
"This will be Narnia."
Winter spread his wings, vast and powerful, the air shifting with the force of it.
Harry's voice was calm. Certain.
"We go back."
Because now—
The real work begins.
With a single, thunderous beat of wings, they rose into the sky, leaving behind a land that did not yet know—
It was about to become the heart of a kingdom.
Harry did not turn Winter north.
The wind shifted beneath them as the dragon carved across the skies of Westeros once more, his vast wings cutting through the currents with practiced ease. The rhythm of his flight was steady, almost effortless, each beat carrying them farther from the harsher lands Harry had surveyed and deeper into something altogether different.
Below, the world began to change.
The rigid, unyielding plains softened into rolling hills, their slopes rich with life. Rivers wound lazily through fertile valleys, catching the sunlight like strands of silver. Fields stretched outward in every direction, cultivated and orderly, yet abundant in a way that spoke not of struggle, but of prosperity.
The Reach.
Even from the sky, it was unmistakable.
"Still as beautiful as I remember," Harry murmured, his voice quiet against the wind.
Winter gave a low, dismissive rumble, far more interested in the shifting thermals than the view below. The dragon adjusted slightly, catching a rising current that lifted them higher with minimal effort.
Harry allowed himself a moment—just a moment—to observe.
Because this land…
This was what prosperity looked like when it was allowed to flourish.
And soon—
He would build something greater.
Highgarden appeared gradually, rising from the horizon not as a looming fortress, but as something altogether different.
It did not intimidate.
Its pale walls gleamed softly beneath the sun, surrounded by vast gardens, orchards heavy with fruit, and waterways that curved naturally through the grounds. Its towers did not rise in harsh, defensive lines, but in elegant arcs, shaped with intention rather than necessity. Green and gold banners fluttered lazily in the warm breeze, and even from this height, Harry could see movement—servants, guards, nobles, life in all its layered forms.
"A luxury seat," Harry said quietly.
There was no contempt in his tone.
Highgarden was not weak.
It was secure in a way few places in Westeros could afford to be.
"Let's see if they kept their word," he added.
Winter responded by angling downward, his massive wings shifting as he began a controlled descent.
The weirwood grove came into view before the castle itself fully claimed his attention.
Harry's gaze sharpened instantly.
"They did it."
There was no mistaking it.
The tree had grown—but not by the slow, natural passage of time. Their pale bark gleamed faintly beneath the sunlight, smooth and unblemished, while crimson leaves whispered softly despite the still air.
Magic had touched them.
The dragon's shadow swept across the gardens first, stretching wide and dark over carefully tended flowers and winding paths. Then it moved across the outer grounds, swallowing light and drawing attention long before the dragon himself touched the earth.
When he landed, it was with a thunderous beat of wings that sent dust, leaves, and loose petals spiraling outward in a violent gust.
Shouts rang out across the grounds.
Steel flashed as swords were drawn.
Guards rushed forward, forming lines with practiced discipline even as fear flickered in their eyes.
Harry remained seated for a moment, watching.
Formation held.
Spears leveled.
Archers moved into position with surprising efficiency.
There was hesitation—of course there was—but they did not flee.
They did not break.
Harry's lips curved slightly.
"Courage," he said softly.
Winter snorted, unimpressed.
The line of guards tightened as they approached, boots striking the ground in unison.
"Hold!" one of them shouted, voice strained but firm.
Another stepped forward, spear raised, though his grip betrayed the tremor running through him.
"Stay where you are!"
Harry slowly dismounted.
He did not reach for his sword. Did not make any sudden gesture that could be mistaken for aggression.
And still—
The tension did not ease.
Then—
A voice cut through the line.
"Stand aside!"
The command carried authority enough to halt the moment entirely.
The guards hesitated, exchanging glances before parting just enough to allow a man to step through.
Willas Tyrell.
Harry watched him approach with quiet attention.
And what he saw brought a faint, genuine smile to his face.
Willas walked without hesitation.
No trace of the injury that had once defined him.
More than that—
He ran.
The last few steps closed quickly, Willas stopping just short of Harry before bowing deeply, the movement fluid and unrestrained.
"King Harry," he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "It is an honor to see you again."
Harry tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"You're walking well."
Willas straightened, a faint smile breaking through his composure.
"Thanks to you."
He drew a breath, as though steadying himself.
"I have been training every day," he added. "Strength returns faster than I expected."
Harry nodded once.
There was a brief pause, filled with unspoken understanding.
Then Willas gestured toward the castle behind them.
"You honor us with your presence," he said. "Highgarden would be… very pleased to host the King of Narnia."
Harry's gaze flicked briefly toward the guards, still tense, still watching Winter with unease.
Then back to Willas.
"You're inviting a foreign king into your home."
Willas did not hesitate.
"I am inviting an ally."
"Good answer," Harry said.
At Willas's signal, the guards slowly lowered their weapons. The movement was reluctant, cautious, but disciplined.
"Stand down," Willas ordered.
They obeyed.
Even as many of them continued to cast wary glances at the dragon, who had settled into a relaxed crouch but remained acutely aware of every movement around him.
The walk toward Highgarden was… peaceful.
Almost deceptively so.
Harry moved beside Willas, his attention drifting over every detail. The gardens were immaculate, arranged with care that bordered on obsession. Flowers bloomed in carefully chosen patterns, their colors blending in deliberate harmony. Paths curved gently, guiding movement rather than restricting it. Fountains rose at precise intervals, their placement creating not just beauty, but balance.
"This place is well kept," Harry said.
Willas inclined his head.
"My grandmother would accept no less."
Harry let out a soft huff.
"I believe that."
They had not yet reached the main gates when others began to arrive.
At first, only a few figures.
Then more.
The Tyrell family.
Margaery Tyrell stepped forward first, her composure intact but her curiosity barely restrained. Her gaze shifted rapidly between Harry and the dragon behind him, her excitement evident despite her efforts to conceal it.
"Is it truly as large as it looks?" she asked without preamble.
Harry glanced back at Winda.
"Larger."
Margaery's smile widened immediately.
"I knew it."
Beside her, Loras Tyrell stood with far more restraint, though even he could not entirely suppress his interest. His eyes lingered on Winter with open admiration.
"A magnificent creature," Loras said.
Behind them, moving at her own measured pace, came Lady Olenna Tyrell.
She did not stare in awe.
Her sharp eyes moved from Harry to Winter, then to the weirwood grove beyond, and finally settled back on Harry with a clarity that missed nothing.
"So," she said dryly, "this is the king who brings trouble wherever he goes."
Harry met her gaze without flinching.
"I prefer to think I bring opportunity."
Olenna snorted.
"That's what trouble always calls itself."
Willas shifted slightly.
"Grandmother—"
"Oh, hush," she cut him off. "If he wanted to burn us, we would already be ash."
Her gaze returned to Harry, sharp and unwavering.
"So clearly he wants something else."
Harry's smile was faint.
"Conversation."
Olenna's lips twitched.
Lord Mace Tyrell arrived shortly after.
And unlike the others—
He was not pleased.
His expression was tight, his posture rigid, his irritation barely contained.
"A dragon in my lands," he said stiffly.
Harry tilted his head.
"I would have burned this castle down, if I didn't find the weirwood tree in the front."
Mace's jaw tightened.
He did not appreciate the response.
The tension began to ease.
Not entirely.
But enough.
Servants were already moving, their efficiency honed by years of routine. Preparations unfolded without direct command.
Because whether they liked it or not—
A dragon king had arrived and no one wanted to make him angry.
Author's Note:
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