Beuwulf
patreon
A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 70
🕑 Added 2025-11-01 16:01:37 +0000 UTCThe godswood of Winterfell had never looked so alive.
Snow had fallen the night before, soft and clean, blanketing every branch and stone in pale white. Now, in the early light of morning, the weirwood tree stood like a god of winter itself — its white bark glistening, its red leaves whispering in the cold wind. Blood-red tears ran down its carved face, vivid against the snow, as if even the old gods were awake to witness the joining of two great houses.
Every corner of the grove was alive with breath and quiet awe.
The lords and ladies of the North stood in silence, their furs heavy and their voices hushed. Lords of the Riverlands and even the royal retinue from King’s Landing stood close to the edge, breath misting, uncertain of how to act in a ceremony that belonged to no sept, no Faith, and no crown.
At the heart of it all stood Benjen Stark, youngest son of Lord Rickard, his dark hair dusted with snowflakes, his gray cloak clasped with the direwolf of his house. Across from him, fierce and radiant, stood Dacey Mormont, daughter of Lady Maege, wearing a cloak of brown bear fur over deep green wool, her hair braided with silver wire and pine needles. The faintest smile touched her lips — pride, love, and a spark of challenge that matched the cold gleam in Benjen’s eyes.
There were no priests, no crowns, no music.
Only the wind, the snow, and the whispering leaves.
Lord Rickard Stark stepped forward, holding a small bronze goblet carved with runes older than his house. “Before the eyes of gods and men,” he said, his voice deep and steady, “we gather to witness the joining of Benjen of House Stark and Dacey of House Mormont.”
The crowd shifted. The southern lords looked uncomfortable; there were no silks, no jewels, no septons chanting prayers. Only solemnity and stillness.
Rickard continued, “In the North, we do not speak words we do not mean. Here, a man and a woman pledge their lives before the gods who see through all lies.”
Benjen reached into the snow and drew his dagger. He turned the blade to his palm and cut a thin line across it. Blood welled, red against white. Without hesitation, Dacey mirrored him, pressing her palm to his, blood mingling, smoke rising faintly in the freezing air.
Together, they knelt before the weirwood.
“I am yours,” Dacey said, her voice unwavering. “I am your shield and your storm.”
“And I am yours,” Benjen answered. “I am your sword and your silence.”
The old gods heard.
When they rose, Lord Rickard clasped their joined hands and draped Benjen’s gray cloak around Dacey’s shoulders. The direwolf of House Stark now hung over the bear of House Mormont.
“From this day until your last day,” he said, “she is of your pack.”
The northern lords murmured approval.
Maege Mormont wiped a tear before hiding it behind a sniff. “My girl is a Stark now,” she said, half in pride, half in disbelief.
At the edge of the gathering, Lyanna watched with quiet joy, Sirius leaning against her leg, his eyes wide at the beauty of it all. Even the direwolves lay still beside the heart tree, as if they too felt the holiness of the moment.
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen stood apart, his expression unreadable.
“This is their faith,” he murmured to Arthur Dayne. “Raw. Without sept or crown.”
Arthur nodded. “Perhaps purer for it.”
Elia Martell held her children close. Daenerys watched the red leaves falling and whispered, “The tree is crying.”
Elia smiled faintly. “They say the old gods cry only for joy or vengeance. Today, let it be joy.”
Oberyn laughed softly beside her. “Strange wedding. But I like it. No pomp, no lies. A man, a woman, and their blood.”
When the vows ended, the people returned to Winterfell’s great hall.
Fire blazed in every hearth, and the walls echoed with laughter and song. Narnian firewhisky flowed beside Northern ale, and platters of roast elk, bear, and spiced bread filled the tables. The southerners, pale from cold, thawed at last beneath the warmth.
Benjen and Dacey sat at the high table, hands still joined, their cheeks flushed from wine and heat. The room roared with toasts:
“To the Wolf and the Bear!”
“To the blood of the North!”
“To the new pack!”
Sirius and Robb darted between the tables, chased by their direwolves to the delight (and mild terror) of the guests. The royal children watched from afar, laughing, even as Aegon clutched his cup tightly when a wolf padded too close.
Rhaegar raised his goblet, voice calm and clear. “To House Stark,” he said. “May their bonds grow strong as steel.”
Rickard Stark met his gaze across the hall, his reply carrying the faintest edge. “And may all kings remember — even steel bends to winter.”
Laughter rippled through the Northerners. The southerners only smiled uncertainly.
As night deepened, music filled the hall — flutes and drums, and then, curiously, a strange Narnian harp whose sound shimmered like moonlight on frost. Queen Lyanna sang a soft song in a language few understood, her voice carrying the ache and beauty of distant lands. Even Rhaegar, who once thought himself the world’s only true bard, found himself listening, humbled.
The celebration lasted until dawn.
Snow fell again by morning, silent and pure, as if to bless what had been joined beneath the eyes of gods and men.
The morning after the wedding dawned gray and cold, as if Winterfell itself was weary from too much laughter. Smoke curled from the towers, and frost glimmered across the courtyard like silver dust. The echoes of song and feast had long since faded; only the sound of hooves, wagons, and the clatter of departing men filled the air.
The great houses of the North were taking their leave.
Lord Cerwyn clasped Benjen’s arm and bowed to Dacey Mormont. “A fine match, my lord,” he said. “May your sons be born with the courage of the Bear and the heart of the Wolf.”
Lord Glover followed, his men already mounted. “You’ve bound two proud houses together,” he said to Lord Rickard. “The old gods will smile on this union.”
Rickard Stark only nodded. His eyes were distant, already turning to matters beyond celebration — harvests, fortifications, and now the promise that hung in the air like a northern wind: Moat Cailin.
By noon, the banners of the departing lords flapped against the sky — Manderly’s merman, Tallhart’s pines, Umber’s roaring giant — each disappearing one by one through the gates of Winterfell. The Riverlords too began their long journey home, grumbling quietly about frozen roads and bitter winds. They had lingered far longer than intended, waiting first for the royal procession and then for the ceremony itself. Duty called them south again.
Only the royal party remained, their carriages gleaming darkly against the snow, guarded by the silver armor of the Kingsguard and the ruby cloaks of Dorne.
Inside the great hall, the fire still burned low from the night before.
Benjen and Dacey stood before it, still wearing faint smiles, hands lightly entwined. Lyanna watched them from across the chamber, her heart full — the kind of pride only a sister could know.
When the hall cleared, she stepped forward and drew Benjen aside.
“I made you a promise,” she said softly. “One I intend to keep.”
Benjen frowned. “What promise?”
She smiled faintly. “To rebuild Moat Cailin.”
For a moment, the young Stark lord could only stare. “That fortress has been in ruin for centuries. The marshes have swallowed half the walls. It would take a lifetime to rebuild.”
Lyanna reached into her cloak and withdrew a rolled parchment, stamped with a wax seal of the Narnian crest — a dragon.
“Not a lifetime,” she said. “A season or two, perhaps. My husband commands craftsmen who can raise castles from stone and magic both. You shall have funds, masons, and Narnian steel. The old capital of the North will stand again.”
Benjen took the scroll, his hands trembling slightly.
“Sister… this is too much.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “The North needs its pride. And Moat Cailin was always meant to guard our realm. You’ll make it more than a fortress — you’ll make it a city.”
At her words, Lord Wyman Manderly — who stood close enough to overhear — let out a great booming laugh.
“By the Seven, my lady, if the Queen of Narnia means to rebuild Moat Cailin, the South will shake in its boots!”
Rickard Stark turned from the fire at that. “Enough, Wyman,” he said. “No need to spread fear where there is none.”
But the seed was already planted.
Word spread quickly among the royal guests.
To the North, Lyanna’s promise was a blessing — a return to their roots, a symbol of strength and independence.
To the South, it was something else entirely.
Lord Randyll Tarly, ever the soldier, whispered to Prince Rhaegar that evening as they dined in quiet company. “Your Grace,” he said lowly, “Moat Cailin controls the only pass into the North. If they rebuild it — if they fortify it with foreign gold — no army south of the Neck will ever take Winterfell again.”
Rhaegar set his goblet down, thoughtful. “Perhaps it was never meant to be taken,” he said.
Tarly’s jaw tightened. “Then it will mean the North stands apart. Not just in blood, but in walls.”
Elia Martell glanced between them, her face pale in the firelight. “You think North means to defy the crown?”
“I think,” Tarly said grimly, “ Queen Lyanna means to protect her family. And that is dangerous enough.”
Oberyn Martell laughed softly. “Perhaps we should be grateful. A fortress like that could hold back any rebellion that comes from beyond your icy borders.”
Rhaegar said nothing, though his gaze drifted to the window — to the snow falling against the dark, endless sky.
By the fifth day, the great courtyard was nearly empty again.
The great hall no longer rang with laughter, and the stables, once crowded with northern horses and Riverland destriers, now held only the steeds of the royal escort and a few Narnian mounts with eyes like molten gold. The air had turned colder still — cold enough to bite the lungs.
And in the upper chambers of the guest tower, Queen Elia Martell lay pale beneath thick furs, her breath shallow and her cheeks burning with fever. The maester said it was the chill of the North that had taken her — too sharp, too sudden for a woman of Dorne’s blood. Rhaegar remained near her side each night, but as the days passed and her fever lingered, he grew restless.
Perhaps it was guilt.
Perhaps it was the snow.
Or perhaps it was the memory of the woman he had once lost, and now stood again within his reach.
It was near sunset when Rhaegar found her.
Lyanna stood alone in the godswood, a cloak of white fur draped across her shoulders, her dark hair fluttering against the red leaves of the heart tree. The air was filled with the faint scent of pine and snow, and the stream beside the tree murmured softly beneath a thin crust of ice.
Rhaegar hesitated at the edge of the clearing.
“Lyanna,” he said at last.
She turned. Her expression was calm — distant, even — and her eyes, gray and clear as winter sky, fixed on him without warmth.
“Your Grace,” she said simply. “You should be with your wife.”
Rhaegar stepped closer, ignoring the frost crunching beneath his boots. “She sleeps,” he said. “I needed air.” He paused, searching her face. “And I needed to speak to you. Alone.”
Lyanna said nothing. She only folded her hands before her, waiting.
Rhaegar’s voice lowered. “Do you hate me?”
The question startled her. “What?”
“You left,” he said, his tone sharp with something between pain and accusation. “You eloped with someone. No word. No letter. Nothing. And now you are queen to a foreign king — a man from lands beyond any map. Did our love mean so little to you?”
Lyanna’s jaw tightened. “You dare ask that?”
Rhaegar’s eyes glimmered faintly. “You were everything to me. I wrote songs for you. I—”
“—promised me a crown of blue roses,” she interrupted quietly. “And then rode south to sit upon a throne of swords.”
He flinched, but she did not stop.
“I waited for you, Rhaegar. I waited for three months after your father’s death. You said you would send word — that you would write to my father, annul my betrothal to Robert, and make our bond right in the eyes of men. But the raven never came.”
Rhaegar’s lips parted. “I had duties. The realm—”
“The realm,” she repeated bitterly. “A convenient excuse for men who forget their oaths. You wanted power. You always did — though you sang of destiny to make it sound noble.”
He looked stricken, as though she had struck him. “You think I enjoyed taking the crown? You think I wished for any of this?”
“I think,” Lyanna said evenly, “that you wanted to rule so much that you forgot what it means to keep your word.”
Silence fell between them. The wind rustled through the leaves, and the heart tree watched with carved eyes, weeping red tears that streaked its white bark.
Finally, Rhaegar whispered, “And now? You love him?”
Lyanna’s eyes softened — not out of pity, but finality.
“Yes,” she said. “I do. He found me when I was broken and made me whole again. He asked for nothing but honesty, and gave me a kingdom built on it. I am his, Rhaegar — in heart, in faith, and in name. You must accept that.”
Rhaegar stepped closer, snow crunching under his boots. “Could you not have waited? Could you not have written—”
“I did,” she said quietly. “I sent ravens to King’s Landing. They never returned. Perhaps they were stopped. Perhaps you burned them yourself.”
Rhaegar’s mouth opened, then closed.
“I would never—”
“You already did,” she said, cutting him off. “You burned what we had long ago.”
Rhaegar bowed his head, the silver of his hair catching the dying light. For a moment, he was not a king, nor a prince — only a man standing before the woman who no longer belonged to him.
Lyanna looked at him with something like sorrow, but not regret.
“You should be with your wife,” she said softly. “Elia needs you. Your children need you. You have a kingdom to rule, and a family to love. Do not waste them chasing ghosts.”
Rhaegar’s voice was almost broken. “And if I cannot forget?”
“Then remember,” she said. “But let it end here, beneath the old gods. What we were was a promise left in snow. I am not that girl anymore. And you… are not the man who sang to her.”
Rhaegar turned away slowly, his breath rising in faint mist.
The last of the light fell across the weirwood’s face, painting its tears crimson.
When he was gone, Lyanna stood for a long while in silence.
The wind moved through the branches, soft as a sigh.
Then she looked up at the blood-streaked bark and whispered, almost to herself:
“Thank you for taking the girl I once was. And thank you for letting the queen remain.”
Comments
AbN
No dragon eggs for Targaryens
Noob
Tyftc
Woolleymammoth
I was going to post this last chapter but now will do, please don’t give the mad rheagar and potentially mad viserys dragons. Especially do t let them find dragon eggs under winterfell
AbN
Maester Aemon 😇
Tobias Rentz
Or something like that
Tobias Rentz
Let the boy inside you die, and the man be reborn
