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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 95
🕑 Added 2026-01-13 17:39:21 +0000 UTCThe Red Keep had never felt so suffocating to Oberyn Martell.
It was not the heat—Dorne had taught him long ago how to live with that—but the whispers. They clung to the walls like mold, seeping through corridors, curling around pillars, slithering beneath doors. Servants spoke in hushed tones, septas muttered prayers too loudly, and guards shifted uneasily whenever Queen Elia passed.
Magic.
That was the word that poisoned the air.
Elia of House Martell and Targaryen had been healed by magic, and everyone knew it. The Faith of the Seven might pretend otherwise in public sermons, but behind closed doors the High Septon’s displeasure was an open wound. The smallfolk whispered that the gods had been angered. Some claimed the Stranger had been cheated. Others said darker things—that demons from the Narnia had touched the queen’s lungs and left their mark upon her soul.
And as if that were not enough, Princess Daenerys Targaryen had made matters worse.
She no longer prayed in the sept.
She prayed to Odin, to Thor, to Frigga.
Oberyn had seen it with his own eyes: the girl kneeling with serene certainty, whispering strange names with reverence that could not be faked. It terrified the court far more than Elia’s healing ever could. A queen touched by magic was dangerous. A princess who embraced it was unthinkable.
Change frightened the Seven Kingdoms.
And Narnia represented change.
Oberyn had felt the tension tightening, until that morning when a liveried servant informed him, with stiff politeness, that he was invited to a private luncheon.
Royal family only.
The words alone set his instincts screaming.
The luncheon was held in a smaller hall, away from the usual pomp of the Great Hall. Heavy curtains muted the sunlight, and the long table was set with exquisite restraint—no minstrels, no banners, no spectacle. Just polished silver, simple dishes, and guards posted at every entrance.
Oberyn entered beside Queen Elia, immediately noticing how many eyes followed her. She walked with strength now, shoulders straight, breath steady. The woman who had left King’s Landing pale and fragile was gone.
That, too, unsettled people.
They took their seats.
To Elia’s right sat Rhaegar Targaryen, composed as ever, his silver hair tied neatly back, his expression unreadable. Viserys lounged nearby, restless and sharp-eyed. Princess Rhaenys sat quietly, while Daenerys looked almost eager, as though expecting something marvelous to unfold.
At the far end sat former Queen Rhaella, dignified, watchful, saying nothing—but missing nothing.
And then Oberyn saw her.
The woman seated directly across from him.
Golden hair, pale skin kissed by the sun, blue eyes that did not flicker with uncertainty but burned with conviction. She wore a gown of Westerosi make, yet there was something unmistakably foreign about her posture. Not timid.
She met Oberyn’s gaze and smiled as if she already knew him.
He knew that face.
He had seen it on the ship from Braavos. The mysterious woman who had boarded with guards from Braavos, who spoke little and observed everything. He had dismissed her then as another noble traveling under protection.
The woman rose gracefully as the servants finished pouring wine.
“My name is Astrid Gryffindor,” she said, her voice clear, unshaken. “Second wife of King Harry Gryffindor of Narnia.”
The room went very still.
Oberyn did not move. He did not speak. But something inside him cracked sharply, like ice under sudden heat.
Second wife.
Impossible.
He had walked the halls of Gryffindor Castle. He had seen Harry Gryffindor with Lyanna Griffindor. He had watched them exchange looks forged by shared battles and unbreakable trust. That was not a man who took wives lightly. That was not a man who collected crowns—or women.
Elia stiffened beside him.
Rhaegar’s fingers tightened around his goblet.
Astrid continued, unbothered by the silence.
“I am Narnian by blood and by custom,” she said. “Married under the old ways, beneath the stars. A bond recognized by my people—even if ignored by others.”
Oberyn’s mind raced.
This was no coincidence.
This was not some wandering woman seeking recognition.
This was a weapon.
Slowly, carefully, he studied her guards—two men standing behind her chair. They moved like warriors. Their eyes tracked every motion in the room, weighing threat and distance. Narnians.
Rhaegar finally spoke.
“You claim to be queen.”
Astrid turned to him without fear. “I claim to be wife. What title that gives me is for Narnia to decide.”
Oberyn felt a cold realization settle into his bones.
This was Rhaegar’s plan for Narnia.
Astrid spoke again, her tone sharpening.
“Many Narnians question why a foreign woman sits on Narnia’s throne. Why our king took a bride from the South instead of honoring our own ways. I do not question Lyanna Stark’s strength—but I question her place.”
Elia inhaled sharply.
Daenerys looked confused. Viserys looked intrigued.
Oberyn’s jaw clenched.
This was not rebellion of steel and blood. This was far worse.
This was rebellion of belief.
If Astrid succeeded—if she convinced enough Narnians that custom outweighed choice—then Narnia would fracture from within. And if Harry resisted, the blame would fall squarely on Lyanna Stark.
On the foreign queen.
On the woman Oberyn now realized was standing at the heart of every fear in Westeros.
Rhaegar is playing a dangerous game, Oberyn thought grimly.
Because if Narnia broke, it would not be quiet.
And if Harry Gryffindor ever learned that Westeros had a hand in this…
Oberyn met Elia’s eyes, just for a moment.
She understood.
This luncheon was not hospitality.
It was the opening move of a war that no one had announced yet.
And the most terrifying part was not Astrid’s claim.
It was how calmly she believed it.
Oberyn Martell was not a calm man.
His temper was as famous as his spear, and both were deadly when pushed too far. What kept Oberyn alive was not restraint—but choice. He chose when to unleash himself.
The luncheon had tested that choice to its limit.
Astrid Gryffindor.
The name alone burned like poison on his tongue.
By the time the last goblet had been cleared and the polite masks restored, Oberyn’s jaw ached from how tightly he had clenched it. He had smiled when expected. He had spoken courteously when addressed. He had even laughed once, thinly, at something Viserys said.
But inside him, something feral paced and snarled.
Interfering in Narnian politics, he thought furiously as he strode down the marble corridor.
Using custom as a blade. Using a woman as bait.
It was madness. Calculated, elegant madness—but madness all the same.
The Red Keep’s servants scattered as he passed. They knew the look. Even the boldest stepped aside when the Red Viper of Dorne moved with purpose.
The doors to the Small Council chamber loomed ahead.
Two Kingsguard stood before it, white cloaks pristine, hands resting on their hilts.
“No one is permitted inside,” one said stiffly. “The council is in session.”
Oberyn did not slow.
“Step aside,” he said, voice low, dangerous.
The second guard frowned. “Prince Martell, this—”
Oberyn moved.
There was no flourish, no warning. A palm strike cracked into one man’s throat, stealing breath and dignity in the same instant. His knee came up hard into the other’s stomach, followed by a twist and shove that sent him crashing into the stone wall.
Both men hit the floor gasping.
Oberyn did not even look back.
He kicked the door open.
It slammed against the wall with a thunderous crack.
The Small Council leapt to its feet.
Steel flashed for half a heartbeat—until recognition set in.
Arthur Dayne’s sword slid back into its scabbard. Barristan Selmy relaxed his stance, though his eyes stayed sharp.
Rhaegar Targaryen rose slowly from his chair.
“Oberyn,” the king said, voice measured. “What is the meaning of this?”
The room smelled of parchment, wax, and tension.
Oberyn stepped inside and shut the door behind him with deliberate care. Then he turned, eyes blazing.
“Are you mad,” he said, each word carved with venom, “like your father?”
Silence fell like a blade.
Jon Connington inhaled sharply. Varys tilted his head, eyes glittering with interest. Pycelle clutched his chains as if they might protect him.
Rhaegar stiffened.
“That,” the king said coldly, “is a grave accusation.”
“You invited a snake into this keep,” Oberyn snapped, stalking forward. “A woman you know will tear Narnia apart if given half a chance.”
Rhaegar’s eyes hardened. “You speak of Astrid Gryffindor.”
“I speak of your scheme,” Oberyn shot back. “Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Barristan shifted uneasily. “Prince Oberyn—”
“Stay out of it, Ser Barristan,” Oberyn growled without looking. “You’ve never crossed a border where gods still walk.”
That drew attention.
Rhaegar folded his hands behind his back. “Narnia is not above consequence.”
“No,” Oberyn said sharply, “but you are not above stupidity.”
Jon Connington bristled. “Mind your tongue—”
Oberyn whirled on him. “Mind yours, Hand, before it gets you killed.”
The room froze.
Varys smiled faintly.
Oberyn exhaled slowly, reigning in the urge to draw steel. “You are playing with something you do not understand. Narnia is not a fragile kingdom of bickering lords. It is held together by belief—by loyalty.”
He leaned forward, hands braced on the council table.
“Astrid is not your ally. She is your spark. And when that spark reaches Telmar, it will not burn Lyanna alone.”
Pycelle frowned. “You exaggerate—”
His eyes locked on Rhaegar.
“And you think you can destabilize that kingdom without consequence?”
Rhaegar said nothing.
Oberyn straightened. “If Harry Gryffindor learns that this court meddled in his rule—if he believes his wife is threatened—there will be no negotiations.”
Arthur Dayne spoke quietly. “You believe he would wage war.”
Oberyn laughed, sharp and humorless.
“No. I believe he would end the Targaryens rule like it was nothing.”
That landed.
Even Rhaegar looked unsettled now.
“You are gambling the future of my niece and nephew,” Oberyn continued. “Because if Narnia breaks, it will not fall inward. It will explode outward.”
He turned toward the door.
“End this,” he said over his shoulder. “Or pray that the king of Narnia never learns your involvement with Astrid.”
The door closed behind him with finality.
Inside the chamber, no one spoke.
Varys broke the silence first, voice silky. “Well,” he murmured, “that was… illuminating.”
The small dining hall of Gryffindor Castle was quieter than it ever was.
It was a family dinner.
Harry Gryffindor sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, dark hair loose in a way it rarely was when he ruled. To his right sat Lyanna, calm and composed, though anyone who knew her well could read the sharp awareness behind her eyes. Sirius leaned back in his chair beside her, feet hooked around the rungs, quietly listening instead of speaking—always a sign that he was thinking more than usual.
Across from them sat Brandon Stark.
Barbara sat close to him, one hand resting lightly on his arm, her presence steady and grounding. Their son, little Richard, swung his legs under the table, more interested in the honeyed bread than the tension hanging thick in the air.
Servants came and went silently, laying out roasted meats, stewed roots, fresh bread, and wine. Once the last platter was set, they withdrew, leaving the doors shut behind them.
Harry lifted his cup.
“Today,” he said lightly, “no war, no councils. Just food.”
Sirius grinned. “Best kind of night.”
Brandon smiled faintly—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
They ate for a while in relative peace. Conversation drifted from Richard’s lessons to the weather in Telmar, to how strange it still felt to Brandon that winter no longer bit quite as hard here.
Eventually, Harry set his fork down.
“Do you miss the North?” he asked quietly.
The room stilled.
Brandon’s hand tightened around his cup. He didn’t answer at once.
“Every day,” he admitted at last. “I miss the smell of pine and snow. I miss the sound of the wind through Winterfell’s towers. I miss… being someone who belonged.”
Barbara glanced at him, concern softening her expression.
Lyanna did not look away.
“You miss what the North was to you,” she said, voice gentle but firm. “Not what it would be now.”
Brandon let out a humorless laugh. “And what would it be now, sister?”
She met his gaze steadily.
“A place where your name is spoken with disappointment. Where your deeds here mean nothing. Where no lord will trust you with command, no bannerman will follow you without whispering that you ran from your duty.”
Sirius frowned. “That’s not fair—”
“It’s true,” Lyanna interrupted softly. “The North remembers, Sirius. And it judges.”
Brandon pushed his chair back slightly, anger flickering across his face. “So what?” he demanded. “That’s it, then? I live out my days as a forgotten exile while the North changes without me?”
His eyes snapped to Harry.
“Is that what you brought me here for? To remind me of what I lost?”
Harry studied him for a long moment.
Then he said calmly, “No.”
Everyone looked at him.
Harry continued evenly, “I’m kicking you out.”
Silence crashed over the table.
Barbara froze. Sirius’s eyes went wide. Even Lyanna blinked once, sharply.
Brandon stared at Harry as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“…You’re what?”
Harry leaned back in his chair, unperturbed. “You’re leaving Telmar.”
Brandon surged to his feet. “After everything I’ve done—after I bled for this kingdom—”
“And you will bleed again,” Harry cut in, not raising his voice. “Just not here.”
He stood as well, placing both hands on the table.
“You’re going to take two thousand Narnians and sail east. To Essos. To the lands once held by the Andals.”
Brandon’s anger faltered, confusion replacing it. “Essos?”
“Yes. And you’ll dress them like wildlings. Rough leathers. No banners. No sigils.”
Lyanna’s eyes narrowed slightly now. “Harry…”
He glanced at her. “Trust me.”
Then he looked back at Brandon.
“Your task is to build a settlement.”
Brandon swallowed. “And why would I do that?”
Harry’s voice grew colder.
“Because the Wall is melting.”
“The world will turn its eyes north,” Harry continued. “Every maester, every lord, every would-be conqueror will look to the lands beyond the Wall and ask who controls them.”
Sirius leaned forward. “They’ll come sniffing.”
“They already are,” Harry replied.
He straightened.
“So we give them something else to look at.”
Brandon’s brow furrowed. “You want a distraction.”
“I want a shift,” Harry corrected. “What could shake the world more than wildlings settling the birthplace of the Faith of the Seven?”
Barbara’s breath caught softly.
“The Andals,” Brandon murmured. “Their sacred land.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “You will plant weirwood trees there. Plenty. Patiently. You will build houses, temples to the old gods.”
Lyanna understood now.
“You’re exporting belief,” she said slowly.
Harry smiled faintly. “I’m giving the world a new story.”
Brandon sank back into his chair, stunned. “You’re turning me into a… symbol.”
“No,” Harry said. “I’m giving you a future.”
He met Brandon’s eyes squarely.
“You can never go back to the North as a lord they trust. But you can become something greater than what they rejected.”
Brandon’s voice was hoarse. “And if the Faith fights back?”
“They will,” Harry said simply. “And while they argue, while they preach, while they panic—no one will be watching the true border.”
Sirius’s lips curled into a slow grin. “That’s diabolical.”
Lyanna sighed. “It’s dangerous.”
Harry looked at her. “Everything worth doing is.”
Brandon was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he asked, “What happens if I fail?”
Harry didn’t hesitate.
“You will be forgotten from history,” he said.
Brandon let out a shaky breath.
“And if I succeed?”
Harry smiled as a strategist who had already seen the board’s endgame.
“Then you will be the Stark spread Old gods in the birthplace of the Seven,” he said softly, “while Narnia becomes untouchable.”
Brandon looked at Barbara. She nodded once, fierce and certain.
He looked at his son, who was blissfully unaware of the destiny being placed upon his father’s shoulders.
Then Brandon Stark looked back at Harry Gryffindor.
“When do we sail?”
Harry lifted his cup again.
“In five days.”
