King's Landing had not known a day like this in generations.
The news had spread like wildfire — faster than the cries of fishmongers at dawn, faster than tavern gossip at dusk.
The King of Narnia has arrived.
The Boy Prince with emerald eyes has come.
By the time Harry Gryffindor and Prince Sirius made their presence known openly near the Dragonpit, the northern lords had already gathered in force. Stark banners snapped in the breeze beside those of Karstark, Mormont, Umber, and Glover. Their presence alone changed the tone of the capital.
Lord Rickard Stark stood at the forefront when Harry approached. Age had not diminished the old wolf's bearing. His hair had silvered, but his back remained straight, and his eyes were sharp as winter frost.
For a long moment, the two men regarded each other.
Then Rickard inclined his head.
"King Harry Gryffindor."
Harry returned the gesture respectfully. "Lord Rickard Stark."
There was no hostility between them. Only understanding.
Rickard's gaze shifted to Sirius.
And something softened in the old lord's face.
"So this," he said quietly, "is my grandson."
Sirius stepped forward immediately, no hesitation, no courtly stiffness.
"Grandfather," he said, voice bright, proud.
Rickard did not bother with formalities. He pulled the boy into a firm embrace.
"You have grown," the old lord muttered. "Too quickly."
Sirius grinned. "Father says that about everything."
A ripple of subdued laughter passed through the northern men nearby.
Robb Stark stood slightly behind Rickard, watching with eager eyes. He was only a little younger than Sirius, but carried himself with the quiet seriousness of a Stark child raised among duty.
Sirius turned immediately when he saw him.
"Robb!"
The formality shattered instantly.
The two boys clasped forearms like warriors before dissolving into the kind of laughter only cousins could share.
"I kept my promise," Sirius declared.
Robb blinked. "Promise?"
Without another word, Sirius grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the docks where the small Narnian vessel was anchored.
The northern guards moved instinctively.
"Follow and protect them with your life ."
Harry trusted the North more than the capital.
Inside the magically expanded vessel, Robb stopped in stunned silence.
The interior was vast — far larger than the exterior hull suggested. Crates of supplies lined one side. But what drew Robb's full attention was the kennel enclosure.
Within it, one direwolf pup shifted restlessly.
Sirius crouched beside it and gently lifted the cub.
"He's yours."
Robb stared as if handed a crown.
"You… you brought him here? Across the sea?"
Sirius nodded proudly. "Helga's litter. Father said I could choose. This one watched everything. Didn't whine. Didn't back down."
Robb reached forward slowly. The cub sniffed him once… then settled against his chest.
"What will you name him?" Sirius asked.
Robb thought for a moment.
"Shadow."
Sirius grinned. "That suits him."
Rickard Stark turned slightly toward Harry.
"You have honored my house again."
Harry's voice was calm. "He is family."
Rickard nodded once.
That was enough.
The mood remained warm until the sound of approaching hooves shifted the air.
Golden cloaks cleared space as a royal carriage rolled toward the gathering.
King Rhaegar Targaryen stepped out first.
Behind him came Queen Elia.
The Kingsguard formed a disciplined line — Arthur Dayne among them, hand resting lightly on Dawn.
Rhaegar approached with measured grace.
"King Harry Gryffindor," he said smoothly. "You honor our capital."
Harry inclined his head slightly. "King Rhaegar Targaryen."
There was no bow. Only sovereign acknowledgment.
Rhaegar's gaze then shifted to Sirius.
And the moment lingered.
For years, a silent doubt had haunted within him. Whispers. Questions.
But standing here, seeing Harry and Sirius side by side…
The resemblance was undeniable.
Same sharp jaw.
Same dark hair.
Same piercing emerald eyes.
Sirius looked as though carved from the same mould as Harry himself — only smaller.
Arthur Dayne's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
The last of that suspicion died quietly.
Rhaegar, too, could not deny it any longer.
Elia had spoken truth.
The resemblance was uncanny.
Rhaegar exhaled slowly.
"So the prince favors his father," he said at last.
Harry's eyes flickered faintly. "So I have been told."
Elia stepped forward with warmer sincerity.
"We are honored by your presence. The temple's foundation will carry more meaning with you here."
Harry inclined his head toward her. "You show courage, Queen Elia."
Elia did not miss the layered meaning.
"It would be improper," he continued, "for a foreign king and his heir to reside in an inn while guests of the Crown. The Red Keep stands open to you until the ceremony concludes."
The offer was public.
Refusal would be political.
Harry paused only briefly.
Then he nodded. "We accept your hospitality."
A flicker of satisfaction passed through Rhaegar's eyes.
Later that evening, as arrangements were made, Harry pulled Sirius aside near the docks where northern banners fluttered.
"You may stay with your grandfather," Harry said quietly.
Sirius blinked. "At the inn?"
Harry nodded. "You haven't seen him in years. Spend time while you can."
Sirius hesitated. "But the Red Keep—"
The boy studied his father's face.
Then he understood.
King's Landing was not Telmar.
The Red Keep was not home.
It was a nest of ambition.
Of pride.
Of blades hidden behind silk smiles.
Harry crouched slightly to meet his son's eyes.
"Trust the Northern lords," he said softly. "They would die before harm touched you."
Sirius nodded solemnly.
"I know."
And he did.
That night, while Harry entered the Red Keep under watchful eyes and golden torchlight, Sirius returned to the inn among wolves.
Rickard Stark placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You are under my roof now."
Sirius smiled faintly. "That makes me very safe."
Rickard's eyes hardened slightly as he looked toward the distant silhouette of the Red Keep.
"Aye," he murmured. "Safer than some places in this city."
Inside the Red Keep, Harry walked its ancient halls alone.
Servants bowed.
Lords whispered.
Knights watched.
He felt the currents beneath the surface — fear, fascination, calculation.
They would test him.
Not openly.
But quietly.
And he would be ready.
For now, however, he allowed himself one final thought before entering his assigned chamber.
Let them watch.
The invitation from the Small Council came sooner than Harry expected.
It was not surprising.
Narnia had become a power no one in Westeros fully understood, yet everyone desperately wanted access to.
And trade… trade was always the first doorway politics tried to open.
The council chamber in the Red Keep was warm despite the early morning chill. A long polished table dominated the room, candles burning steadily along its length. Gold, velvet, and authority radiated from every corner.
King Rhaegar sat at the head, composed as always. Beside him sat Queen Elia, calm but observant. Former Queen Rhaella was also present, her dignified posture hinting at experience far deeper than most in the room.
Around them gathered the rest of the council — lords, merchants' representatives, advisers, and a few men whose influence clearly extended far beyond what their titles suggested.
Harry entered alone.
He did not bring guards.
He did not need them.
Rhaegar gestured toward the empty chair opposite him.
"King Harry. Thank you for agreeing to meet us."
Harry sat smoothly.
"I assumed trade would be discussed sooner or later."
That earned a few cautious smiles.
Straightforward.
Dangerous.
Hard to manipulate.
It was Lord Velaryon, Master of Ships, who spoke first.
"Westeros has long admired Narnian goods," he began diplomatically. "Whale oil, smoked fish, refined salt… your fire whiskey especially has gained quite the reputation."
A faint chuckle moved around the table.
Harry said nothing.
Velaryon continued.
"The difficulty, Your Grace, is that we obtain these goods through Essosi middlemen. The cost doubles. Sometimes triples."
"And still you buy," Harry noted calmly.
"Yes," Velaryon admitted. "Because demand outweighs cost."
That was the truth.
Narnian products were superior. Cleaner. Better preserved. Produced under magical conditions that few outside Narnia fully understood.
Another councillor leaned forward.
"If direct trade were established between Narnia and Westeros, both kingdoms would benefit immensely."
Harry rested his fingers lightly on the table.
"We already trade directly," he said.
"With the North."
A few expressions tightened.
Because everyone in that room knew why.
Lyanna.
Queen of Narnia.
Daughter of the North.
Rhaella spoke then, her voice softer but commanding attention.
"Politics often builds bridges where geography cannot."
Harry met her gaze.
"And sometimes politics destroys families."
A brief silence followed.
Those old enough remembered her marriage to Aerys.
A political match.
A disastrous one.
She did not argue.
Instead, she nodded faintly.
"True."
Then came the proposal.
Carefully worded.
"Perhaps," Rhaella continued, "a familial alliance could strengthen trust. My daughter Daenerys… and your son Sirius…"
The suggestion hung gently in the air.
A betrothal.
A royal one.
Harry did not hesitate.
"My son will never be bound by contract before he chooses for himself."
The firmness in his voice silenced the room instantly.
"He will marry the woman he loves," Harry continued. "Not the woman politics assigns."
Unexpectedly, the reaction was not offense.
It was respect.
Rhaella's expression softened deeply.
"You are a better father than many," she said quietly.
Several council members nodded unconsciously.
Even Rhaegar seemed thoughtful.
Harry wasn't finished.
"If Princess Daenerys wishes to spend time in Narnia," he added, "to know Sirius as a person rather than a title, she would be welcomed. Should they choose each other freely… I would not stand in their way."
That balanced diplomacy with principle.
It satisfied honor without surrendering control.
Elia smiled slightly at that.
Rhaella looked almost relieved.
Rhaegar spoke next, voice measured.
"Then perhaps… my daughter Rhaenys?"
This time, the room tensed differently.
Because Rhaenys was closer to the line of succession.
The implications were larger.
Harry gave the same answer.
"My son's heart will decide his marriage. Not crowns."
Rhaegar studied him carefully.
Harry could almost hear the calculations forming.
Privately, Harry understood the deeper layer.
Rhaegar himself had little desire for alliance with Narnia.
But Elia…
Elia understood power.
If Rhaenys ever became Queen of Narnia while her brother ruled Westeros, political leverage would shift dramatically.
It was clever.
Very clever.
But Harry had navigated worse.
Trade discussions resumed after that.
Tariffs.
Seasonal exports.
Westeros wanted whale oil for lamps, fish for winter reserves, timber treatments Narnia had perfected, and above all — fire whiskey.
Narnia wanted grain, fruits, and certain southern luxuries not easily grown in the frozen north.
There was mutual benefit.
But Harry committed to nothing final.
He never did in first meetings.
As the council session ended, Rhaella lingered behind.
"I meant what I said," she told him quietly. "About your son."
Harry inclined his head.
"And I meant what I said about your daughter."
There was mutual understanding there.
Just parents.
Outside the chamber, whispers followed Harry down the corridor.
Some admiring.
Some cautious.
Some calculating.
But one thing was clear:
King Harry Gryffindor was not a man Westeros could manipulate easily.
He was too steady, too principled, too powerful.
And as he stepped into the sunlight overlooking Blackwater Bay, Harry allowed himself a small private smile.
Because while they were busy planning alliances, trade routes, and marriages…
They still had no idea what he was truly preparing in King's Landing.
And when that moment came—
No council in Westeros would be ready.
The trade treaty was signed quietly. There were no grand feasts, no exaggerated declarations of eternal friendship, no theatrical speeches about unity. Just ink, parchment, witnesses, and two kings who understood exactly what they were gaining.
Westeros would receive steady shipments of whale oil, refined salt, fire whiskey, preserved fish, and a handful of northern crafted goods that had already gained almost mythical reputation in Essos markets. In return, Narnia would gain southern grains, fruits, wines, and certain agricultural supplies that could not easily grow in frozen soil.
It was practical.
Balanced.
This was trade — not dependence.
The announcement, however, was anything but quiet.
King Rhaegar proclaimed it publicly from the Red Keep balcony, framing it as a new era of prosperity for Westeros. Smallfolk cheered, merchants celebrated, and noble houses immediately began calculating profit margins.
But Rhaegar did not stop there.
He made another declaration.
A tourney.
"The same day as the laying of the first stone for the Temple of Frigga," the royal herald announced. "A grand celebration of strength, unity, and honor!"
The timing was deliberate.
Ten days remained.
And already the city was swelling with knights, hedge warriors, sellswords, archers, and adventurers hoping to test their skill — or simply win gold.
The prizes were enormous.
Ten thousand gold dragons for the jousting champion.
Five thousand for the melee victor.
Two thousand for the finest archer.
Even seasoned nobles raised brows at the sums.
That was royal-treasury-level generosity.
Or bait.
Harry understood immediately.
Rhaegar was not merely celebrating trade.
He was measuring power.
And possibly removing a rival.
That evening, as the torches flickered along the street of silk, Harry walked with Sirius along the stone pathways. The boy was excited about the tourney — naturally so. Knights, horses, banners, contests… it appealed to him.
But Harry's expression remained thoughtful.
"You think he wants you to compete," Sirius said bluntly.
Harry smiled faintly.
"Not wants. Needs."
"Why?"
"So he can see whether I'm a threat… or an opportunity."
Sirius frowned.
"And the accident possibility?"
Harry glanced at him.
"You're learning fast."
Sirius kicked a small pebble along the path.
"That's cowardly."
"That's politics," Harry corrected gently. "Wars don't always begin on battlefields. Sometimes they begin in celebration grounds."
A pause.
"You won't enter, will you?"
Harry didn't answer immediately.
"Whether I enter or not," Harry finally said, "we prepare as if someone will try something."
Sirius nodded immediately.
Trust earned through experience.
Meanwhile, across the Red Keep, Rhaegar spoke privately with Arthur Dayne.
"The man is powerful," Rhaegar admitted quietly. "Too powerful to ignore."
Arthur did not disagree.
"And yet," the king continued, "he is still flesh. Still mortal."
Arthur's silence stretched.
Finally he said:
"A tourney field is unpredictable."
Rhaegar's gaze hardened.
"Exactly."
The Kingsguard knight did not like the direction of that thought.
But he was sworn to obey.
And politics often required obedience more than comfort.
Back in the city, excitement continued building.
Blacksmiths worked day and night repairing armor. Inns overflowed. Merchants inflated prices shamelessly. Singers composed ballads before the event had even begun.
And everywhere, people whispered about two things:
The foreign king.
And the temple that would soon rise beside the Dragonpit.
Old gods.
New alliances.
And perhaps… new conflicts.
Author's Note:
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