Harry lingered at the harbor longer than necessary, standing quietly beside Sirius as they watched the crowds gathering near the Narnian ship. Even from a distance, the ship drew attention like a beacon. Its carved hull, polished timbers, and elegant proportions made it look almost alive compared to the bulky Westerosi vessels surrounding it.
Smallfolk stared openly. Sailors whispered. Merchants craned their necks for a better view.
To them, it was exotic. Foreign. Powerful.
Harry preferred not to be associated with it publicly just yet.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
Sirius nodded, though his eyes still sparkled with curiosity.
Harry led him away discreetly. Before leaving their own ship, he ensured Sirius's direwolf remained safely below deck along with the horses. Bringing them through King's Landing streets would invite attention — attention Harry didn't want.
Once ashore, they blended into the bustling harbor crowd.
Almost immediately, Sirius wrinkled his nose.
"Gods… what is that smell?" he muttered.
Harry suppressed a smile. "King's Landing."
"It smells like something died… then rotted… then got cooked."
"That's actually quite accurate."
The deeper they moved into the city, the worse it became. Rotting fish, unwashed bodies, horse dung, stale ale, smoke, sewage — all mixing into a heavy, suffocating stench.
Sirius gagged outright.
Harry stopped and gently touched his shoulder.
"Hold still."
A brief whisper of magic later, a mild scent-filtering charm settled around Sirius's senses. Not strong enough to remove all smells — just enough to dull the worst of the smell.
Sirius exhaled in relief.
"That's better. Still awful… but survivable."
"You grew up breathing northern air," Harry reminded him. "Clean snow. Pine forests. Cold winds…"
Sirius grinned faintly.
"Hot baths. Clean clothes. People who actually care about hygiene."
Harry chuckled. He had insisted on those standards from the beginning. Regular bathing, heated water systems, waste disposal — small things, but they shaped civilization.
King's Landing had none of that.
As they walked, Sirius began noticing other things.
Gold Cloaks openly accepting bribes.
One guard pocketed coins while ignoring a merchant dispute happening inches away. Another laughed while shaking down a street vendor.
"No one even hides it," Sirius whispered.
"They don't need to," Harry replied calmly. "Corruption becomes invisible when everyone accepts it."
Further down the street, a group of rough-looking men blocked their path. Not soldiers — thugs. Local gang types.
One stepped forward, attempting intimidation.
"Well now… travelers? Toll road here."
Harry didn't slow.
A subtle magical pulse radiated outward — barely perceptible, like a pressure wave. The men staggered back instinctively, suddenly uncomfortable without understanding why.
Their bravado evaporated.
Harry walked past as if nothing happened.
Sirius glanced back once, impressed.
"You didn't even touch them."
"I'm not here to fight," Harry said. "And honestly… I wasn't in the mood."
Eventually, the surroundings began to change.
Streets widened. Buildings improved. Waste disappeared. Guards looked more disciplined. Silk banners hung from windows. Jewelers displayed glittering merchandise. Perfume replaced rot.
Sirius breathed easier.
"This part feels… different."
"Nobility district," Harry said. "Where money lives."
"And safety?"
"Usually."
Expensive shops lined the roads — silk traders, spice merchants, goldsmiths, wine sellers. Wealth radiated from every doorway.
At the corner stood a respectable inn. Clean façade. Polished brass fittings. Discreet but vigilant guards posted nearby.
Harry nodded toward it.
"That'll do."
Inside, the innkeeper greeted them cautiously — until Harry produced few gold dragons.
The man's demeanor changed instantly.
"A month's stay?" he asked.
"A week with meals," Harry replied.
The innkeeper practically beamed.
"Of course, my lord. Best room we have."
Within minutes, they were shown upstairs to a comfortable suite. Not extravagant by Narnian standards, but clean, warm, and private.
Sirius immediately collapsed onto a cushioned chair.
"Well… that was an adventure."
Harry poured water into two cups.
Sirius looked thoughtful.
"It's strange. Powerful city. Rich. Important. But… it feels fragile."
Harry nodded slowly.
"Because it is."
Silence settled for a moment.
Then Sirius grinned again.
"So… what now?"
Harry smiled faintly.
"Now? We rest. Observe. And wait."
"For the ceremony?"
"For whatever comes next."
The entire city of King's Landing seemed to tremble with rumor before the spectacle even fully revealed itself.
Word traveled fast through crowded port, taverns, markets, and alleyways. By the time the Narnian ships began unloading their passengers, the docks were already overflowing with curious onlookers. Sailors abandoned work. Vendors left stalls unattended. Even Gold Cloaks drifted closer under the pretense of maintaining order.
Then the cloaked figures stepped ashore.
They moved in tight formation — silent, disciplined, faces mostly hidden beneath heavy cloaks. Yet what truly captured attention was not the humans among them.
It was the smaller figures walking at their center.
Slender. Slitted golden eyes. Skin tinted like bark and moss. Faces ancient beyond human years.
Children of the Forest.
A myth.
Something southern histories insisted had vanished thousands of years ago.
A stunned hush fell across the harbor.
Someone whispered, barely audible:
"They're real…"
Another voice trembled:
"Old gods protect us…"
In the south, the Faith of the Seven had long erased these beings from official teachings. Few southern children even knew the name. Yet instinctive memory lingered deep within human blood — stories older than scripture.
And those who remembered… knelt.
One by one.
Old dockworkers first. Then fisherwomen. Then elderly men who had heard half-forgotten tales from northern travelers decades earlier.
Soon entire clusters of smallfolk were bowing as the procession advanced.
Not from command.
From awe.
From reverence.
Each Child carried five delicate weirwood saplings — pale bark already streaked faintly red, tiny leaves whispering softly in the coastal wind.
No guards tried to stop them.
No official dared question them.
Even Gold Cloaks stepped aside instinctively.
From an upper balcony, Harry watched everything unfold beside Sirius. They had chosen a vantage point overlooking the main thoroughfare leading toward the Dragonpit hill.
Sirius leaned forward slightly, voice hushed.
"I've seen them in Narnia… but here… it feels different."
"It is different," Harry said quietly. "Here they are history returning."
"And people feel it."
Harry nodded.
Crowds swelled behind the procession as it moved uphill toward the Dragonpit. Progress slowed to a crawl. Children ran ahead. Women whispered prayers. Old men reached out as if hoping to touch something sacred.
At one point, several septons of the Faith of the Seven attempted to block the road. Their robes fluttered anxiously as they raised objections.
"This is sacrilege—"
"We cannot allow pagan rituals in—"
But they never finished.
Not because the Narnians intervened.
Because the smallfolk did.
A market woman shoved one septon aside.
"Let them pass! We don't need curses today!"
A blacksmith added bluntly:
"You want to anger forest spirits? Not on my street."
Fear of divine reprisal outweighed religious loyalty.
The septons withdrew quickly.
By the time the procession reached the Dragonpit grounds — the vast open plateau surrounding the ruined structure — anticipation had reached fever pitch.
Then a royal carriage arrived.
Ornate. Targaryen colors. Guarded heavily.
Queen Elia Targaryen stepped down first.
She looked different from how Sirius remembered descriptions — stronger posture, clearer gaze, presence unmistakable. Narnian healing had transformed more than her health.
Princess Daenerys followed, eyes wide with open fascination.
Elia froze briefly when she saw the Children of the Forest.
She approached them slowly.
They spoke.
Not in the Common Tongue.
Not in Valyrian.
Something older.
Something musical yet rooted like earth.
Sirius frowned.
"I don't understand a word."
"Very few can," Harry said.
Nearby priests translated after a respectful pause, repeating the exchange aloud for witnesses.
"Queen Elia greets the guardians of the old woods."
"And the children greet the queen who honors the forgotten gods."
Approval murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Then work began.
Five holes were dug in a straight ceremonial line facing the Dragonpit ruins. Soil was turned carefully, almost reverently. The Children handled each sapling with astonishing gentleness.
Harry crossed his arms thoughtfully.
"That potion better work perfectly," he murmured.
Sirius grinned slightly.
"You brewed it. It will."
The vial — Harry's accelerated-growth elixir — was uncorked. Thick emerald liquid shimmered faintly with runic infusion.
Extremely difficult to brew.
Rare.
Powerful.
It had transformed agriculture across Narnia already.
Now it would change history.
The Children poured the potion directly onto the saplings' roots.
For a heartbeat… nothing happened.
Then the ground stirred.
Gasps erupted.
Roots visibly burrowed deeper. Bark thickened. Branches stretched skyward. Leaves unfurled rapidly, their distinctive red veins glowing softly.
Within moments, five young weirwood trees stood proudly where mere saplings had been.
Alive.
Even skeptics dropped to their knees.
Even hardened merchants bowed.
Even guards lowered weapons unconsciously.
Something ancient had returned.
Beside Harry, Sirius exhaled slowly.
"People will talk about this for centuries."
"Yes," Harry said quietly. "And that's exactly why it had to happen."
Below, Queen Elia stood before the newly grown trees, expression resolute. Daenerys knelt openly beside her.
And King's Landing — city of intrigue, skepticism, and politics — witnessed something none could deny:
Magic.
Ancient magic.
Harry turned slightly away from the railing.
"Come, Sirius. Let's not draw attention."
"But… that was incredible."
Harry smiled faintly.
"And only the beginning."
Together they slipped back into anonymity while the city remained captivated by living history.
Magic had always fascinated Rhaegar Targaryen.
From his earliest youth, it was not swords or tournaments that captured his attention, but prophecy, ancient scrolls, Valyrian lore, and the quiet whispers of power hidden in the world.
He had spent years studying dusty tomes, listening to maesters debate the decline of magic, and pondering whether dragons truly died because magic itself faded — or whether the world had simply forgotten how to call it.
So when the news reached him — breathless, chaotic reports about Children of the Forest walking openly in King's Landing, about weirwood trees growing before thousands of witnesses — he could hardly believe he had missed it.
He rushed to the Dragonpit.
Even hours after the planting, the place remained packed.
People refused to leave.
Merchants, beggars, nobles, sailors, servants — all lingered, hoping for another glimpse of something miraculous. The Gold Cloaks were struggling to keep pathways clear, their patience thinning with every passing moment.
"Move along!" one captain shouted. "You'll see them tomorrow! They aren't vanishing tonight!"
But curiosity was stronger than command.
Only when the guards began physically pushing people back — gently at first, then with growing firmness — did the crowd slowly begin to thin. Still, many children refused to leave. They sat cross-legged on the ground, staring wide-eyed at the young weirwood trees as if afraid they might disappear.
Rhaegar barely noticed the crowd.
His gaze was fixed on the trees.
Five pale trunks, already thicker than when planted, their bark smooth as bone, faint red sap glistening where carvings had begun. The Children of the Forest were working quietly, delicate stone tools moving with patient precision.
Faces.
They were carving faces.
Rhaegar recognized the tradition instantly. Even southern histories, stripped of reverence, mentioned how weirwoods bore watching faces — silent witnesses of the old gods.
"Remarkable…" he murmured.
A nearby Narnian priest glanced at him briefly but said nothing. No bow. No acknowledgment of royal status. Just calm indifference before returning to preparations around their temporary camp.
That unsettled Rhaegar more than outright hostility would have.
Queen Elia had offered them rooms in the Red Keep earlier. He knew that much. Yet they had refused politely, choosing instead to erect simple tents near the Dragonpit. Supplies, cooking fires, prayer spaces — all arranged with practical efficiency.
Kings meant little to them.
Gods meant everything.
Rhaegar watched as the Children of the Forest finally finished carving one tree. The face looked ancient already, solemn eyes gazing over the city as though judging it.
Then, to his quiet astonishment, the Children simply lay down at the roots of the trees and slept.
"Do they always sleep like that?" Rhaegar asked one priest.
"Yes," the priest replied calmly. "Close to the trees. Close to memory."
Rhaegar wanted to ask more — dozens of questions crowded his mind — but conversation stalled quickly. The priests neither ignored him nor catered to him. He was simply another man asking questions.
And that was… new.
Across the city, a very different gathering was taking place.
Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, tension hung thick as incense smoke.
Septon after septon had arrived, robes rustling anxiously. The High Septon himself presided, expression grave. Candles flickered across marble walls while murmurs echoed beneath the dome.
"This cannot continue," one septon insisted. "People are already speaking of miracles."
"Miracles?" another scoffed nervously. "They saw trees grow before their eyes. What else will they call it?"
A third voice spoke more quietly.
"Our gods preach faith. But faith without visible power grows… fragile."
Silence followed.
Everyone understood the unspoken fear.
For generations, the Faith of the Seven had relied on tradition, structure, and cultural dominance. They offered comfort, morality, stability — but not spectacle. Not magic.
And now magic had walked into King's Landing openly.
Children of the Forest.
Narnian priests speaking of Odin, Frigga, Thor — foreign gods tied not to abstract doctrine but to visible phenomena.
The High Septon finally spoke.
"Stories we could dismiss. Legends we could reinterpret. But this…" He sighed heavily. "This people can see with their own eyes."
"And they will keep coming," another added. "Pilgrims. Curious minds. Doubters."
Someone suggested cutting down the trees that very night.
The idea lingered briefly.
Then died.
"No," the High Septon said firmly. "Magic retaliates. History is clear on that. If backlash comes, it will fall on the Faith first."
Fear of magical reprisal outweighed zeal.
More troubling still were the theological implications spreading through whispers:
That Narnian gods were connected to weirwoods.
That the trees formed a world network — Yggdrasil, the "world tree," linking realms together.
Such ideas fascinated common folk far more than structured sermons ever had.
And unlike ancient myths, this development could not be dismissed as distant history.
It was happening now.
Back at the Dragonpit, night settled slowly.
Torches flickered around the weirwood trees. Priests sang low hymns unfamiliar to Westerosi ears. The Children of the Forest slept peacefully at the roots, unmoved by the city's tension.
Rhaegar remained longer than he intended.
He felt wonder.
Curiosity.
And something else he disliked admitting:
Uncertainty.
Because if magic truly returned…
Then the balance of power across the world was shifting.
And he was no longer certain Westeros — or even House Targaryen — stood at the center of it.
Author's Note:
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