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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 76
🕑 Added 2025-11-18 17:39:21 +0000 UTCElia Martell had grown used to waking in agony.
For thirty years, her first breath of every morning had been a knife—sharp, thin, and cold, slicing from the base of her lungs to her throat. It was her curse, her companion, her prison.
But this morning—
She woke to warmth.
To softness.
To silence.
Her eyes drifted open slowly, and she found herself cocooned in a bed so comfortable that her body sank into it as though it wished to claim her forever. Silken sheets—real silk, finer than anything woven in Lys—embraced her skin. A breeze carrying the faint scent of citrus fluttered across the room.
Elia blinked.
For the first time in her life, her chest did not hurt.
She took a deep breath.
Air rushed in—full, rich, cool—and she gasped out loud. Another breath. And another. Each one deeper than she had ever managed as a child. Her lungs expanded like bellows, wide and powerful. Her ribs did not ache. Her throat did not burn.
Tears filled her eyes. She pressed a trembling hand over her heart, marveling at the steady, painless rise and fall.
“So this… this is what breathing feels like?”
She laughed—actually laughed—and the sound was clear, strong… nothing like the breathless wheeze she had known all her life.
Slowly, reluctantly, she swung her legs from the bed. Her feet sank into a fur rug so soft she wondered if it had come from a creature that only existed in myths. The room around her glowed with gentle morning light—carved wooden beams polished to reflect warm amber hues, stained glass windows depicting runes she did not understand, and a polished stone floor inlaid with golden patterns.
This was not Westeros.
This was Narnia.
And she… she was alive.
Her gaze fell upon a crystal pitcher and glass on a side table. The liquid inside was golden, glimmering like the sun trapped in water. She lifted it carefully, sniffed—and froze.
“Mango?”
The scent was unmistakable. But mangoes were a rarity even in the Free Cities, and she hadn’t tasted one since she was a girl in Sunspear.
She poured a glass and took a sip.
Sweet. Cold. Fragrant.
Her eyes fluttered closed as the flavor flooded her senses. For a moment she forgot sickness, politics, fear—everything but the taste.
A single tear slid down her cheek.
“So this is life,” she whispered. “Real life… after so long.”
Gathering courage, she walked toward the chamber door, barefoot and lighter than she had ever felt. She hesitated a moment, hand resting on the carved handle.
Then she opened the door.
Waiting just outside was Ser Lewyn Martell—her uncle, her sworn shield—leaning against the wall with his spear planted beside him. He looked exhausted, his hair tousled, his armor loosened, a man who had slept only in snatches.
The moment he saw her standing upright and breathing easily, his eyes widened. His spear slipped from his grasp and clattered against the floor.
“Elia?” he breathed.
She smiled—bright and full. “Good morning, Uncle.”
He stared as though looking at a ghost.
“Your color…” he murmured. “Your posture… gods, child, you are standing without any tiredness—without pain—without…” His voice cracked, something she had never heard from him.
He stepped forward, hands trembling slightly, not daring to touch her until she nodded permission. He placed his palms on her shoulders, feeling her strength.
“Elia…” He swallowed. “You are healed.”
She nodded gently. “Yes. Completely.”
“I watched you choke on your own breath as a babe,” Lewyn whispered. “I feared you would die within the week. And yet—here you stand—stronger than you ever were.”
She took his hand, squeezing firmly. “I feel as though the world is new, Uncle.”
Lewyn exhaled as though releasing decades of fear. “Elia… I— Seven save me, I nearly lost myself when King Harry began that ritual. I thought it was killing you.”
She laughed softly. “I thought so too.”
“And your color is returned,” he said, studying her in disbelief. “Your eyes are bright—your cheeks full—and your breath—” He stopped, voice thick with emotion. “Never have I seen you breathe easily.”
Elia squeezed his hand again. “Where is Oberyn? He must be told at once.”
“Already awake and half mad with worry,” Lewyn said. “He has not left the hallway since yesterday. The healers said you might sleep for days.”
“I slept enough,” Elia said lightly. “I wish to see my family.”
Lewyn bowed slightly and moved aside. “He will be overjoyed. And then… Your Grace, we must thank the King of Narnia.”
Elia’s gaze softened.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Harry Gryffindor… the sorcerer who gave me back my life.”
Elia had forgotten what hunger felt like.
Real hunger—not the weak, trembling ache of a failing body, but a healthy, eager emptiness that demanded to be filled. As she and Ser Lewyn stepped through the polished corridors of Gryffindor Castle, she felt it for the first time in years. Her stomach growled loudly enough that her uncle gave her a small, amused smile.
“That,” Lewyn murmured, “is the most beautiful sound I have heard since your first breath this morning.”
Elia laughed softly. Even her laugh felt different—fuller, brighter.
They reached the Great Hall—if it could be called a hall. It was more of a living feast, a place where food was always warm, always waiting, and always replenished by kitchen servants who worked with frightening efficiency. Long tables of polished wood stretched across the room, each laden with dishes from every part of Narnia. The air was rich with the scents of roasted meat, spiced bread, honeyed fruit, and something sweetly foreign that reminded Elia faintly of the Summer Isles.
She inhaled deeply, eyes closing in bliss. “I could live in this room,” she whispered.
Lewyn chuckled. “I suspect Oberyn already plans to.”
But before they could take three steps inside, someone shouted:
“Elia!”
Elia turned just in time for a small body to crash into her legs. Daenerys Targaryen—silver-haired, bright-eyed—threw her arms around Elia’s waist with such force that Elia staggered for a moment before catching her balance.
“You’re awake!” Dany beamed. “And you’re not coughing! And you’re not pale! I told Sirius you’d be better but he said you might sleep for more days but—look! You’re walking!”
Elia bent down and cupped the girl’s face with warm hands. “Yes, sweetling. I’m awake.”
And then she saw him.
Seated cross-legged on the floor beside a low table, green eyes bright, hair messy as ever—Sirius Gryffindor, the prince of Narnia, King Harry’s son.
He raised a hand in greeting, a shy but mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “Hello, Queen Elia.”
She blinked. “Queen Elia?”
“That’s what Mama said I should call you,” Sirius replied with a shrug. “You’re royalty and deserve respect But I still don't understand why someone get respect because of their name not of their actions.”
Daenerys nodded enthusiastically. “He call me Dany,” she added.
Elia nearly laughed aloud. “I see.”
But her attention was quickly pulled to the game sprawled across the table in front of them. A board painted in bright colors, lined with tiny numbered squares, filled with snakes whose tails curled across the board and ladders made of polished wood.
“What is this?” she asked, lowering herself onto a cushion.
“Snake and Ladder,” Sirius replied, handing her a tiny carved figurine. “It’s simple. If you climb a ladder, you go up fast. If a snake bites your piece—you slide all the way down!”
“Which is unfair,” Daenerys muttered, moving her figurine back three squares with a scowl. “I was almost at the top.”
“You stepped in his mouth,” Sirius laughed. “Snakes get angry.”
Elia hesitated for only a breath before picking up a small bowl of fruit and bread from the table. She took a bite, savoring the warmth and sweetness, then set her figurine on the board.
“Show me,” she said. “Teach me how to play.”
Sirius’ eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Really.”
He demonstrated the dice throw with the confidence of a tiny general instructing his army. Elia watched intently, her hunger eased by the food, her heart eased by the children’s laughter.
Soon the game began.
Daenerys rolled first, shouting with delight when she landed on a ladder and climbed half the board. Sirius rolled next, groaning dramatically when he landed on a snake.
“That’s rigged,” he informed the board sternly. “You like Dany more than me.”
“You escaped two snakes,” Daenerys pointed out. “It’s fair.”
Elia rolled last—and shrieked with surprise when she hit the top of the board’s longest ladder.
“A ladder!” Sirius whooped. “Aunt Elia’s going to win!”
Elia laughed so hard her sides ached. She had not laughed like this in years—not without coughing, not without being uncomfortable.
Dany gasped dramatically, clapping her hands. “You’re not sick at all!”
“No,” Elia murmured, brushing a strand of silver hair from the girl’s forehead. “I’m not.”
The moment softened into something tender. Daenerys leaned into her, and Sirius scooted closer, placing his small hand on her knee.
“Queen Elia,” Sirius asked softly, “does it hurt anywhere?”
“No, little one.” Elia stroked his hair. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”
He nodded. “Good. Father said the ritual would work. He always keeps his promises.”
Elia’s smile faltered—just slightly. “Your father… he is still resting?”
Sirius nodded. “He used lots of magic. Mama said he will wake in one or two days. He always sleeps when he does a big spell.”
“But he is safe?” she asked, her voice flickering with concern.
“Very safe,” Sirius assured her. “He’s just tired. Mama’s with him.”
Elia let out a slow breath—not because her lungs were weak, but because emotion tightened her throat.
She had been saved by a man she had never met.
Saved from a life where every step was pain.
Saved from an early grave.
And his child sat beside her, laughing, rolling dice, trusting her completely.
“Will I… be allowed to thank him?” she asked.
Sirius smiled softly. “When he wakes up, the first thing he does is go see everyone he healed. Always.”
Lewyn, who had been standing quietly at her shoulder, touched her arm. “You can rest now, Elia. You are safe.”
Elia looked between the children—between Sirius’ mischievous green eyes and Daenerys’ beaming joy—and she felt tears she did not expect gather in her lashes.
For the first time in her life… she felt healthy.
Alive.
Home.
“Come on!” Sirius exclaimed, shoving the dice toward her. “Your turn! I bet you’ll land on the biggest snake. Dany always does.”
“No, she won’t!” Daenerys protested.
Elia laughed, wiped her eyes, and rolled the dice.
Elia had barely finished laughing over Sirius’ latest roll—he had landed on the longest snake again—when a soft rustle of fabric and the echo of firm footsteps drew her attention toward the hall’s entrance.
Lyanna Stark—no, Lyanna Gryffindor, Queen of Narnia—stood in the archway, her posture regal and certain. Light from the high windows fell across her dark hair, and her expression was both weary and relieved.
Beside her stood her brother—Prince Oberyn Martell—who took one look at Elia and froze as though lightning had struck him.
“Elia,” he whispered.
Then he moved.
The Red Viper, feared warrior of Dorne, crossed the hall in a blur, falling to his knees in front of her. He cupped her face, his hands trembling violently.
“Are you all right, my sweet sister?” His voice cracked, raw with fear and love.
Elia placed her hands over his, smiling wider than she had in her entire life. “Oberyn,” she whispered. “I am more than all right.”
He pulled her into an embrace so fierce it nearly knocked her from the cushion—but she only laughed, a full, rich sound that filled the hall. Daenerys clapped her hands in delight. Sirius grinned, proud of her recovery, proud of his father’s magic.
“You look—” Oberyn stepped back, eyes scanning her face, her posture, her breath. “You look alive, Elia.”
“I feel alive,” she answered softly. “For the first time since I was a child.”
Lyanna stepped closer, her smile warm but edged with exhaustion. “Both of you,” she said gently, “come with me. There is something you must do.”
Elia rose smoothly—so smoothly that Oberyn stared in disbelief all over again—and followed Lyanna through the airy corridors of Gryffindor Castle. Sunlight filtered through enchantment-lit windows, casting runes in gold against the floor.
Sirius and Daenerys immediately went back to their game, still arguing over who cheated last.
Elia chuckled as their voices faded behind her.
Lyanna led the Martells up a curved stairway of pale stone, their footsteps echoing into the heights of the castle. The tower spiraled upward until they reached a door carved with ornate feathers and swirling patterns.
Lyanna pushed it open.
The room beyond was vast and circular—lined with towering perches, each holding a magnificent owl. Snowy owls, golden owls, dark-feathered owls with ember eyes—hundreds of them. The air was filled with the soft sound of wings and quiet hoots.
“The Owlery,” Lyanna said. “Our messengers.”
Oberyn stepped forward slowly, awe widening his eyes. “They… they are trained?”
“More than trained,” Lyanna replied. “They know every capital, every port, every lord’s seat. Every name. Every hand.”
Elia stared at a great silver owl perched nearby, the creature watching her with sharp, intelligent eyes. “You mean… we can send letters home from here?”
Lyanna nodded. “To anywhere in the world. Every letter arrives safely. Even across seas.”
Elia placed a trembling hand against her chest. “Queen Mother must be beside herself. Rhaenys likely thinks I have vanished into the wind. And Rhaegar…” She hesitated. “…he should know I yet live.”
Oberyn scowled at the mention of the king, but said nothing.
Lyanna gestured toward a stone table near the center of the room. Upon it lay stacks of parchment—thick, soft, high-quality sheets unlike anything used in Westeros—alongside inkpots of deep blue and shimmering black, and quills fashioned from the feathers of Narnian owls.
“Write,” Lyanna said. “Both of you.”
She placed a gentle hand on Elia’s shoulder. “Tell Sunspear you live. Tell King’s Landing you breathe.”
Elia felt her throat tighten. She touched the parchment reverently, almost afraid to crease it.
Lyanna continued softly, “And take your time. The owls will wait. They always wait.”
Oberyn pulled out a chair for his sister, and Elia sat slowly, fingers trembling as she picked up the quill. Lewyn stood quietly behind them, his posture straight and protective.
Lyanna stepped back toward the door.
“When you finish,” she said, “give the letter to the owls they will deliver it fast.”
She paused, her gaze softening. “And Elia… the world thinks you are dying. So tell them you are not dying anytime soon.”
Elia looked up, tears shining in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
Lyanna offered a small, tired, yet radiant smile. “We are Narnians,” she said. “This is what we do.”
Then she turned and left the Martells to their letters and their futures.
Behind her, quills scratched against parchment, and a dozen owls lifted their heads—waiting to carry news of life and hope across an entire world.
Comments
Anthony Russell
come on man need more the one chapter lol.
