The Red Keep had always been a place where whispers traveled faster than ravens. Servants carried gossip from corridor to corridor, guards exchanged rumors in hushed voices, and courtiers pretended not to listen while absorbing every detail. In recent months, however, one subject dominated nearly every conversation: Princess Daenerys Targaryen and her devotion to the strange gods of Narnia.
It was no longer a secret. Anyone who had ever passed near her chambers knew about the small shrine she maintained — a carefully arranged alcove filled with painted wooden carvings, bronze talismans, and woven cloth bearing unfamiliar runic patterns. A statue of a one-eyed god with a spear stood at its center, flanked by smaller depictions of a golden-haired goddess and a hammer-wielding warrior. Candles burned there almost constantly.
Daenerys spoke of Odin, Frigga, and Thor with the innocent enthusiasm of youth, recounting their stories to her handmaidens, companions, and anyone willing to listen. She described battles in the heavens, wise ravens whispering secrets, and a goddess whose love could heal kingdoms.
To many, the tales sounded exotic rather than threatening. After all, she was far from the line of succession, a young princess with little political influence. Most lords chose to ignore it, dismissing her fascination as childish fancy.
But Queen Elia Martell's transformation was an entirely different matter.
Before her journey north, Elia had been known as gentle, quiet, and accommodating — a woman who rarely asserted herself against the heavy currents of court politics. Many at court had privately assumed she would remain forever overshadowed by her husband, King Rhaegar Targaryen. Yet the queen who returned from Narnia was not the same woman who had departed.
She carried herself differently now. There was strength in her posture, certainty in her voice, and a calm confidence that unsettled even seasoned courtiers. The chronic illness that had plagued her since childhood was gone, replaced by a vitality that seemed almost radiant. More striking than her health, however, was her faith.
Elia no longer prayed at the sept with regularity. Instead, she spoke openly of Frigga, crediting the goddess — and the ritual performed in Narnia — for saving her life. She did not apologize for it. She did not soften the claim. She simply stated it as fact.
Naturally, the Faith of the Seven reacted poorly.
The High Septon had not yet condemned her outright, but the murmurs among septons and devout nobles grew louder with each passing day. Some feared religious unrest; others feared political consequences. A queen openly honoring foreign gods was unprecedented in Westeros.
Elia, however, seemed untroubled by their discomfort.
One morning, in a move that stunned the entire court, she announced her intention to construct a grand temple dedicated to Frigga. The location she chose was even more shocking: the vast open grounds surrounding the Dragonpit.
When the news reached King Rhaegar, he summoned her immediately.
The meeting was tense from the outset.
"Elia," Rhaegar said carefully, standing beside the tall window of his solar, "the Dragonpit is not merely empty land. It is a symbol of our heritage. Our ancestors' dragons lived there. It reminds the realm who we once were."
Elia met his gaze steadily. "And what are we now, Rhaegar? We have no dragons. The pit stands empty, a monument to loss. Would it not be wiser to give that land new purpose?"
"It reminds people of Targaryen strength."
"It reminds them of Targaryen failure," she countered softly. "Symbols should inspire hope, not nostalgia."
For a long moment, neither spoke. Rhaegar's frustration was evident, yet so was his reluctance to confront her too aggressively. The queen he faced now was not easily swayed.
Finally, he exhaled. "You may build your temple… but not inside the Dragonpit itself. The surrounding grounds are vast enough. Let it stand there."
A small smile touched Elia's lips. It was not triumph, exactly — more the quiet satisfaction of someone who had expected resistance and prepared for it.
"That is acceptable," she replied.
The concession did little to calm the Small Council. Hand of the King Jon Connington voiced his concerns bluntly during the next council session.
"Your Grace," he began, addressing Elia with careful respect, "this temple risks provoking the Faith. Religious unrest could destabilize the capital."
Grand Maester Pycelle nodded vigorously beside him. "Indeed, Your Grace. The Seven have guided Westeros for centuries. Introducing foreign worship at the heart of the realm may cause… complications."
Elia listened without interruption. When they finished, she leaned slightly forward, her expression composed but unmistakably firm.
"I recall," she said, "advising this council not to involve itself in Narnian affairs. Yet I continue to hear whispers of plans, alliances, and schemes that suggest otherwise."
An uncomfortable silence followed.
"You ignored my counsel then," she continued calmly. "So forgive me if I choose not to heed yours now."
No one responded. Even Connington seemed to realize further argument would accomplish little.
Construction preparations began almost immediately. Surveyors measured the land near the Dragonpit. Stonecutters arrived. Craftsmen from Dorne volunteered their services, intrigued by the queen's vision. And quietly, almost imperceptibly, some smallfolk began expressing curiosity rather than hostility toward the Narnian gods.
Stories spread quickly in King's Landing. Tales of Elia's miraculous healing circulated through taverns and marketplaces. Some exaggerated, others embroidered with imagination, but all shared one common thread: the Narnian gods were powerful.
Meanwhile, Princess Daenerys became something of an unofficial ambassador for this new faith. She spoke eagerly with children in the courtyards, explaining Odin's wisdom, Thor's strength, and Frigga's compassion. What began as innocent storytelling gradually became something more influential.
Not everyone approved, of course. Septons preached caution. Certain nobles whispered about heresy. Yet open opposition remained surprisingly muted. Perhaps people feared the queen's newfound authority. Perhaps they were simply curious.
Within the Red Keep, Oberyn Martell watched these developments with sharp interest. He understood politics well enough to recognize a shifting power balance when he saw one. Faith, influence, foreign alliances — they were all threads in a larger tapestry.
And somewhere beyond the Narrow Sea, in Andalos, Brandon Stark's growing settlement added another layer of complexity. Westeros was changing, whether its rulers liked it or not.
The temple of Frigga had not yet been built, but already its shadow stretched long across the politics of the Seven Kingdoms.
The family dinner had been Rhaegar's idea.
In earlier years, such evenings had been almost routine. Elia would sit beside him, Rhaenys would chatter happily, little Aegon would try to imitate the adults, and the atmosphere — though never entirely relaxed in the Red Keep — carried a sense of warmth. Those days felt distant now.
Elia rarely spent time with him anymore.
Her days were consumed by preparations for the grand ceremony — the laying of the first stone for the temple of Frigga. It was to be an event unlike anything King's Landing had seen before. Invitations had already been dispatched across the Narrow Sea, including formal letters to Narnia requesting priests of the northern gods to attend and bless the ceremony. Craftsmen, scholars, musicians, and even storytellers were being gathered. Elia wanted the occasion flawless, memorable, impossible to ignore.
Rhaegar knew this was not simple religious devotion.
Elia was too perceptive, too politically aware for that. She was redirecting attention. The Faith of the Seven had been growing increasingly alarmed about Andalos — about wildlings settling there, weirwood trees being planted in what they considered sacred Andal lands, and rumors of northern gods spreading beyond the Wall. That was where their focus had been.
Elia was deliberately shifting that focus back to Westeros.
If the Faith feared losing influence in King's Landing itself, they would have less energy to interfere elsewhere. It was a calculated move, one Rhaegar both admired and resented.
And so he had called for this dinner — perhaps hoping to reconnect, perhaps hoping to remind her of family before politics consumed them entirely.
It did not work.
The dining hall felt colder than usual, despite the roaring hearth. The long table was set lavishly: roasted meats, Dornish wine, fresh bread, fruits imported from the Reach. Servants moved silently along the walls, careful not to intrude on the tense atmosphere.
Present were nearly the entire royal family.
Rhaegar sat at the head of the table, Elia beside him but noticeably distant. Their children, Rhaenys and Aegon, sat quietly — unusually subdued, sensing the strain. Queen Rhaella observed everything with the calm reserve of someone who had witnessed too many royal storms. Viserys lounged with restless impatience, Daenerys sat thoughtful and serene, Oberyn Martell appeared outwardly relaxed but watchful, and several Kingsguard, including Ser Arthur Dayne, stood at their customary posts.
For a time, only the clink of cutlery filled the room.
Finally, Rhaegar broke the silence.
"Elia," he said, voice measured but edged with frustration, "your temple preparations are causing considerable unrest. The Faith is agitated. The council is uneasy. You are making my rule more difficult."
Elia did not look at him immediately. She finished cutting a piece of meat, set down her knife, and then met his gaze steadily.
"I am trying to prevent the extinction of House Targaryen," she replied calmly.
The bluntness of the answer made several people shift uncomfortably.
Rhaegar frowned. "Extinction? That is melodramatic, even for you."
"No," Elia said softly. "It is pragmatic. Your… enthusiasm for involving Westeros in foreign affairs — especially where Narnia is concerned — is dangerous. You underestimate them."
A flicker of irritation crossed Rhaegar's face.
"I do not underestimate anyone. But I refuse to accept that some kingdom, built very recently, could threaten Westeros. If war came, our armies would crush them."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow but wisely remained silent.
Elia's expression hardened slightly. "Long peace breeds arrogance, Rhaegar. Our warriors have not faced a true existential war in decades. They believe themselves invincible because they have never truly been tested."
"And you believe Narnians would test them?"
"I believe provoking them unnecessarily would be foolish."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Rhaella cleared her throat gently, attempting to ease the tension, but neither her son nor daughter-in-law acknowledged it.
Rhaegar leaned forward. "Regardless, the temple — its timing, its symbolism — is causing instability. The Faith feels threatened."
"That," Elia replied, "is precisely the point."
Silence fell again.
"The ceremony will happen," she continued. "The invitations have been sent. The smallfolk are already speaking of it. If I cancel now, I lose credibility. Worse — you lose credibility. People will think the Faith rules Westeros, not the Targaryens."
That argument struck home. Rhaegar knew it.
A king could not appear subordinate to religious authority. Not publicly.
Still, pride prevented him from conceding easily.
"You place me in an impossible position."
"No," Elia said gently. "I am preserving your position. Whether you see it or not."
Across the table, Daenerys watched with quiet fascination. She clearly sided with Elia, though she said nothing. Viserys, on the other hand, looked restless, almost eager for conflict. Rhaenys clutched Aegon's hand beneath the table, sensing tension beyond her years.
Arthur Dayne remained motionless near the wall, but his eyes tracked every exchange. He understood politics less than warfare, yet even he sensed the magnitude of what was unfolding.
Rhaegar finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
"The temple will proceed," he said at last. "But know this, Elia — I will not allow Westeros to appear weak."
"And I will not allow it to act recklessly," she replied.
For a brief moment, their eyes met — not as political rivals, but as two people who once loved each other deeply and perhaps still did, beneath layers of duty, ambition, and fear.
Then the moment passed.
Conversation resumed cautiously. Rhaella spoke with the children, Oberyn cracked a mild joke, servants refilled goblets. Yet the warmth never returned. The dinner remained formal, restrained, more political summit than family gathering.
Harry never truly worried about intelligence gathering.
Unlike most kings, who relied on webs of human informants, coded letters, and bribed merchants, Harry possessed something far more subtle — skinchangers. Powerful ones. Men and women capable of slipping into the minds of animals and seeing the world through their eyes. With such gifts, secrecy in the Seven Kingdoms had become almost an illusion.
He did not need hundreds of spies.
One strong skinchanger in each region was enough. Through rats in castle walls, crows on parapets, stable cats, harbor gulls, even insects when necessary, they could observe conversations, movements, councils, private quarrels — things even the most skilled human spy might miss. Walls could stop men, but not animals.
And Harry had three of his best operating across Westeros.
One in King's Landing itself, quietly embedded among traders. Another in Oldtown, where maesters gathered and information flowed like wine. A third moved constantly between the Vale, Riverlands, and western coasts, rarely staying in one place long enough to be noticed.
Their reports came regularly.
Sometimes by coded owl messages. Sometimes through enchanted mirrors.
That was how he learned about Astrid.
The Westerosi war galley sailing toward Andalos had not escaped notice. Harry knew exactly who was aboard, why she had been sent, and more importantly — who had orchestrated it. Rhaegar's hand was clear, though cleverly disguised. It was political positioning, nothing less.
Harry did not look pleased when he heard.
But neither was he angry.
More interesting, however, was Elia Martell.
The reports from King's Landing painted a very clear picture. The queen's sudden religious shift was not impulsive, nor born of spiritual fervor. She was redirecting the Faith of the Seven's attention away from Andalos and back toward Westeros itself. A bold move. Risky, but intelligent.
Harry respected intelligence.
"Smart woman," he murmured one evening, leaning back in his chair as one of the enchanted mirrors dimmed after a report. "Very smart. She understands power."
Lyanna, seated nearby, glanced up from her embroidery. "Dangerous smart?"
"Potentially," Harry admitted. "But not hostile. At least not yet."
The announcement of the temple ceremony soon followed.
A grand event. Stone-laying ritual. Priests from Narnia invited. Nobles curious. The Faith anxious. Smallfolk already whispering.
Harry's decision came quickly.
"I'll attend," he said simply.
Lyanna raised an eyebrow. "You haven't stepped foot in Westeros in quite a while."
"Exactly why I should," he replied. "Presence matters. Silence creates rumors. And besides… it's time people remembered that Narnia is not some distant myth."
There was another reason, though he did not say it aloud: observation. Seeing tensions firsthand was always better than secondhand reports.
Then there was Sirius.
The boy had grown restless lately. Telmar, though magnificent, had begun to feel small to him. He needed exposure, experience, perspective.
Harry found him sparring in the courtyard when he decided to ask.
"Well?" Harry called, leaning casually against a stone pillar. "Ready to see more of the world?"
Sirius stopped mid-swing, eyes lighting instantly. "King'slanding?"
Harry nodded.
"That's not even a question," Sirius grinned. "Of course I am."
"Good. Because we leave soon."
Sirius didn't bother hiding his excitement. Travel, new lands, new cultures — it energized him. Harry knew it would shape the boy in ways no castle upbringing ever could.
Preparations began quietly.
Discretion was essential. Harry did not want their arrival to trigger political panic or unnecessary attention. Instead of a grand Narnian fleet, a single well-crafted but modest vessel was selected. It bore no obvious royal markings, though its construction was unmistakably superior to most Westerosi ships.
Time was on their side.
Roughly a month until the ceremony. Plenty for a measured journey.
Before departure, Harry sent formal word north.
A carefully worded letter went to Rickard Stark, inviting House Stark and the northern lords to attend the ceremony. Publicly, it was a religious-cultural event. Privately, it was something far larger — the first visible step in loosening the Faith of the Seven's grip over Westeros.
Temples influenced hearts. Hearts influenced politics.
And then there was the humanitarian angle.
Narnian ships would not arrive empty.
Food stores, warm clothing, blankets, tools — all prepared for distribution among the smallfolk attending the ceremony. Generosity built goodwill faster than conquest ever could. Harry had learned that long ago.
Lyanna watched the logistics unfold with a thoughtful expression.
"You're not just attending the ceremony, you are planning something," she said one night.
"No," Harry admitted. "I'm planting seeds."
"What kind?"
"The kind that make people ask questions. Once they start questioning… influence shifts."
Soon enough, the harbor of Telmar saw quiet activity. Supplies loaded. Crew briefed. Protective enchantments layered subtly onto the ship. Nothing ostentatious — just enough to ensure safe passage.
Sirius spent his evenings pacing excitedly along the docks, peppering sailors with questions, absorbing everything. Harry let him. Curiosity was never a weakness.
Finally, the day arrived.
No grand farewell. No public announcement.
Just a king, his son, a discreet crew, and a ship slipping quietly into open waters — bound for King's Landing, where politics, religion, ambition, and history were beginning to converge.
Author's Note:
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