Harry did not linger in Highgarden.
The gardens were as beautiful as ever—too beautiful, perhaps. Carefully shaped hedges, flowers arranged with almost obsessive precision, the air rich with perfumes that spoke more of design than nature. It was a place that thrived on appearances, on quiet politics wrapped in courtesy.
His conversation with the Tyrells had reflected that perfectly.
They had fulfilled their promise. The weirwood saplings stood rooted in southern soil, pale bark stark against the vibrant greens of the Reach. Already, their unnatural growth had begun—faster than any tree.
That was all he needed.
There was no warmth in Highgarden for him. No true welcome—only acceptance, cautious and calculated.
And Harry had no interest in remaining where he was merely endured.
Winter rose with a powerful sweep of his wings, the force of it scattering petals into a storm of color. Birds burst into flight, startled by the sudden upheaval, their cries echoing faintly as the dragon climbed into the sky.
Highgarden shrank beneath them.
The golden castle, the endless green fields, the winding roads—it all blurred into insignificance as distance swallowed detail.
Harry did not look back.
"Next," he said quietly.
Winter did not need more.
She angled north.
The change came gradually at first.
The warmth faded.
The wind sharpened.
The scent of flowers gave way to salt.
Below them, the sea darkened, losing its gentle blues for something deeper, colder. Waves grew harsher, more violent, crashing against unseen rocks with a force that spoke of a different world entirely.
By the time Skagos came into view—
There was no trace of the Westros left in the air.
Skagos did not greet visitors.
Jagged mountains tore into the sky like broken fangs, their slopes barren and unforgiving. The coastline was a constant war between land and sea, black cliffs battered endlessly by roaring waves that showed no mercy.
Smoke curled from Narnian settlements, thin lines of gray against the harsh sky. Paths carved into stone revealed movement, purpose, stubborn persistence. Figures moved across the land, small against the vastness, but undeniable.
It was a place that refused to die.
And Narnia had taken root within it.
Winter descended.
His shadow swept across the land like a herald.
The reaction was immediate.
Cheers broke out, echoing between stone and wind, growing louder as more people emerged from homes and work sites. Children pointed toward the sky, their excitement unrestrained, while adults followed, their expressions carrying something deeper.
Pride.
Expectation.
Because here—
The dragon was not an omen.
She was their future.
Ragnar stood at the heart of it all.
He did not rush forward.
But he was already there when Harry landed, as though he had known the exact moment Harry would arrive.
Arms crossed at first, then opening as Harry stepped down.
"My King!" Ragnar's voice carried easily, cutting through the noise without effort.
Harry met him halfway.
"You look the same," he said.
Ragnar's grin came easily, unforced.
"So do you."
"You've been gone long," Ragnar said, stepping back.
"Three months."
Ragnar shook his head once.
"Too long."
Harry's lips twitched faintly.
"I was working."
"I figured."
Ragnar studied him for a moment longer, something sharper settling behind his eyes.
Then he turned.
"Walk with me."
On the ground, Skagos felt different.
Not smaller in size—but smaller in possibility.
Harry saw it clearly now, without the distraction of distance.
The land was harsh in ways that could not be overcome.
The cold bit through even the thickest furs. The soil resisted growth, thin and stubborn, offering only what it was forced to give. Every structure, every path, every breath of survival came at a cost.
Once—
That had been enough.
Now—
It wasn't.
"How is it?" Ragnar asked, his tone direct.
Harry did not pretend otherwise.
"The land is good."
Ragnar's gaze sharpened instantly.
"Good how?"
"The river flows straight into the bay," Harry said as they walked. "Strong current. Clean water. Enough to support farming, expansion—everything."
Ragnar nodded slowly.
"And the soil?"
"Fertile."
The word alone carried weight.
"Better than Andalos."
Ragnar exhaled, the breath visible in the cold air.
"And the sea?"
Harry glanced toward the distant horizon.
"Calm. Protected."
Ragnar stopped walking.
"Protected?"
"No storms like this," Harry said, gesturing toward the crashing waves behind them. "Fishing will be easy."
For a moment, Ragnar said nothing.
Then he laughed once, low and almost disbelieving.
"Easy fishing…"
He shook his head.
"You don't know how long we've wanted that."
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Then Ragnar spoke again.
"I'll go first."
Harry glanced at him.
"You're volunteering."
"I am."
"Why?"
Ragnar did not hesitate.
"There's nothing left here."
He gestured toward the land, the mountains, the distant mines.
"The metal's gone. Every vein we depended on—it's dry."
Harry had seen it himself.
"And the people?" Harry asked.
Ragnar let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
"They're tired."
He looked toward the sea again.
"Many already left. Went to Andalos."
"And?"
"They stayed."
A grin returned, sharper this time.
"They didn't come back."
Harry nodded.
"They found something better."
"They found comfort," Ragnar said. "And we deserve that too."
Harry did not argue.
Because there was nothing to argue.
"The sea here…" Ragnar continued, his voice quieter now, more reflective. "It takes more than it gives."
He turned back to Harry.
"You're offering a place where it gives."
Harry met his gaze.
"Yes."
Ragnar nodded once.
"Then there's no reason to stay."
They climbed the ridge in silence, the wind pressing hard against them as it always did in Skagos. Loose gravel shifted beneath their boots, and the cold bit through even the thick layers they wore, sharp and unrelenting.
When they reached the crest, Ragnar stopped first, planting his feet firmly as though he had done so a hundred times before. Harry stepped beside him, his gaze following the line of the land below.
The valley stretched wide, rough and uneven, carved by time and weather into something that felt more endured than shaped. And across that expanse, they moved.
At first, it seemed like scattered motion—isolated shapes drifting across the terrain. But as Harry's eyes adjusted, the scale revealed itself. Not dozens. Not hundreds.
Thousands.
The creatures roamed in great herds, their bodies built for survival in a place that gave nothing freely. They resembled mountain goats, but larger—broader in the shoulders, heavier in muscle, their coats thick against the cold. Each bore a single curved horn that arched forward, catching what little light broke through the clouds and reflecting it in faint, dull glimmers.
"Unicorns," Harry said, his voice thoughtful rather than certain.
Ragnar gave a short shake of his head, though a hint of amusement touched his expression. "Not your kind."
Harry's lips curved faintly. "I know."
He watched them longer, studying the way they moved. There was no panic in their herds, no wasted energy. They climbed steep inclines with ease, navigated broken ground without hesitation, and shifted direction as one when needed. These were not creatures that survived by chance.
"These ones survive," Ragnar continued, his tone carrying quiet pride. "They're not delicate like the southern tales say. They work. Farming, hauling, pulling loads that would break horses. They've kept us going when nothing else would."
Harry nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on the herd. "They'll adapt."
Ragnar's grin deepened slightly. "They already have."
That was all the confirmation Harry needed.
He exhaled once, the breath vanishing into the cold air. "Then we start now."
Ragnar did not question it, did not hesitate or ask for more time. He simply turned, already moving down the ridge with purpose.
"I'll gather them."
The announcement spread faster than any rider could have carried it.
Word moved from one settlement to another, carried by voices, by runners, by the simple urgency of something long awaited finally becoming real. By the time Ragnar stood before the gathered people, most of them already knew—or at least believed they did.
Harry watched from the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable as he studied their reactions.
He had expected resistance.
Some hesitation.
Questions about the journey, the risks, the uncertainty of leaving behind everything they had built, however harsh that life had been.
Instead, what rose from the crowd was something else entirely.
"We're leaving?"
"For better land?"
"Real crops?"
"Fishing without losing half the boats?"
The questions came quickly, overlapping, voices rising not in fear but in disbelief that bordered on excitement.
Hope.
It spread through them like fire through dry brush, impossible to contain once it had taken hold. Faces that had long been hardened by survival softened, not with weakness, but with the sudden possibility of something more.
Because Skagos had never been loved.
It had been endured.
Every stone carved, every structure raised, every life lived here had been built against resistance, not with it. They had survived the land, but they had never belonged to it.
Ragnar stood before them, unmoving, waiting until the voices quieted. He did not need to shout to command attention. When he spoke, the weight of his words carried far enough.
"We go," he said simply.
A pause followed, not of doubt, but of anticipation.
"And we build something better."
The response was immediate.
Cheers broke out, loud and unrestrained, echoing against the mountains and carrying across the settlement. Laughter followed, sharp and bright in a place that rarely heard it so freely. It was not reckless excitement, but relief—deep, genuine relief that they no longer had to fight the same losing battle.
Harry watched it all in silence, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to himself.
The decision had already been made.
The ships came soon after.
At first, only a handful appeared along the coastline, their silhouettes cutting through the restless waters. Then more followed, arriving in steady succession until the sea itself seemed to shift beneath their presence.
Dozens became scores.
Scores became hundreds.
By the time they were all gathered, the horizon was filled with them—an armada unlike anything Skagos had ever seen.
They were not ordinary vessels.
Even at a glance, the magic woven into them was evident. Their hulls bore subtle engravings that shimmered faintly, runes layered so precisely that they blended into the wood itself. Space within them stretched beyond what their size should allow, compartments expanding to hold far more than any ship of their build could contain.
What should have carried a few hundred—
Now held thousands.
And still, there was room.
Harry stood at the center of the settlement as preparations reached their peak, his gaze sweeping over the land one last time.
Then he lifted his hand.
The world responded.
Stone shifted with a deep, resonant hum that seemed to come from the earth itself. Roads split cleanly into sections, the cuts precise, as though they had been measured and planned long before this moment. Walls separated from one another without cracking, rising gently into the air as gravity loosened its hold.
Foundations followed.
Entire structures lifted, intact, the ground releasing them without resistance. It was as if the land itself understood and did not object.
Movement slowed around him.
People stopped their work, turning to watch.
Silence fell—not forced, but natural, drawn out by the sheer precision of what unfolded before them.
"Careful!" someone called out suddenly as a section of stone tilted unevenly.
Harry's fingers tightened ever so slightly.
The movement stopped instantly.
The stone froze in place, suspended as though caught between moments. Then, with a subtle adjustment of his hand, it steadied and began to descend, lowering gently into the waiting carts below.
Not a single piece broke.
"Everything goes," Harry said, his voice carrying clearly across the space without the need for volume. "Nothing is wasted."
That was all the instruction needed.
They took everything.
Not just what was easy to carry, not just what was valuable.
Homes were dismantled with care, each piece preserved. Walls were stacked and secured. Tools were gathered, sorted, packed. Storage units, crafted items, even smaller personal pieces—nothing was left behind unless it had no purpose.
This was not abandonment.
It was migration.
The work was slow and relentless.
Hours stretched into days, the effort constant, the cold biting just as harshly as ever. Muscles strained, hands grew numb, and exhaustion settled deep into bones.
But no one complained.
Ragnar was the first to leave.
He stood at the front of the largest ship, his figure steady against the wind, his family gathered close behind him. For a brief moment, he turned back, his gaze sweeping across the land that had shaped him.
Then he faced forward again.
"We'll prepare the land," he said.
Harry met his eyes and nodded once. "We'll follow."
The ships began to depart.
One at a time at first, slipping into the rough waters and pushing forward with steady determination. Then in groups, their numbers growing as more joined the journey. Finally, they moved in waves, the fleet stretching out across the sea as it carried an entire people toward something unknown—but better.
Skagos grew quieter with each departure.
The noise of work faded.
The voices diminished.
Until what remained was only the wind and the distant crash of waves.
Harry stayed.
Alone now, standing where a settlement had once been. The structures were gone, the roads lifted, the land stripped down to its bare, unyielding form.
Only open ground remained, marked by the faint traces of what had once stood there.
He raised his hand again, and more stone rose, the final remnants of Skagos joining the rest of what had already been carried away.
When the last of it settled into place, Harry lowered his hand and reached for the mirror at his side.
Magic flickered softly across its surface.
Lyanna's face appeared.
"How is it?" she asked without preamble.
"At Skagos?" Harry replied.
"Yes."
He glanced around him, taking in the emptiness.
"They're ready."
Her gaze sharpened slightly as she studied him. "No resistance?"
"None."
Harry looked toward the sea, where the last ships were already disappearing into the distance. "Ragnar's ahead of us."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Of course he is."
Harry lowered the mirror after a moment, his gaze returning to the land one final time.
Then he turned toward the horizon.
The ships were already far out, their shapes small against the vast expanse of sea and sky.
Author's Note:
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