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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 63
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 15:10:39 +0000 UTCThe raven’s message from the King's landing had changed everything.
Within a day of the news spreading through Winterfell, the entire castle seemed to tremble with movement. Servants hurried to air unused chambers, polish silver, and heat new bathhouses for the royal guests. Hunters were sent into the Wolfswood for fresh game; the kitchens smoked with preparations that would last for weeks.
But the greatest change of all fell upon Benjen Stark and Daecy Mormont, whose long-awaited wedding was suddenly postponed.
“It would be disrespectful to wed before the King arrives,” Lord Rickard declared in council, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The dragon comes north for our honor. We’ll not give him reason to claim we rushed our vows like smallfolk.”
Benjen tried to hide his disappointment, though Lyanna saw it plainly. “Then we wait,” he said simply. “But I’ll not have half the North think I’m trembling at the sight of a crown.”
Rickard gave him a rare smile. “No one who’s met a Mormont bride will ever accuse you of fear, my son.”
That earned laughter, easing the tension — but only for a moment.
For the delay meant time — and time meant talk.
In the days that followed, Winterfell filled with voices. Every lord who had come early for the wedding now used the postponement for politics.
Old rivalries were rekindled, grievances brought forth, and alliances whispered in corners. The Great Hall became a sea of murmured conversations and clinking goblets.
Lord Umber thundered complaints about taxes on timber shipments; Lord Glover argued about fishing rights near the Rills. Even Lord Ryswell found reason to flatter and threaten in the same breath.
And through it all, Lyanna Gryffindor moved among them like a quiet storm.
The lords bowed when she passed, their words courteous, their eyes calculating. More than once she was stopped by a well-dressed nobleman or his lady wife, each carrying the same polished smile.
“Your Grace,” said one Riverlord whose name she forgot the moment he spoke, “your son must be quite the prodigy. To think — a prince of Narnia, heir to such a realm. My granddaughter is of noble birth and gentle nature. Perhaps, in time—”
Lyanna cut him short with a polite smile. “Narnia does not bind its children before they can speak for themselves. When Sirius chooses his heart, it will be his own choice, not his mother’s.”
The lord blinked, taken aback. “You mean… no betrothals?”
“It’s not our way,” she said, and continued walking before he could stammer another word.
But the questions kept coming. Every lord with a daughter or niece of suitable age tried his luck. Even the proudest northern houses — the Karstarks, the Ryswells, the Tallharts — spoke of it quietly, as though Sirius were a treasure to be bartered.
Sirius, of course, remained blissfully unaware of most of it.
The boy had quickly become the darling of Winterfell. He had his mother’s charecter and his father’s energy, and none of the restraint of either. By dawn he was out in the yard, climbing the battlements with Robb Stark at his heels, or leading a gang of children through the courtyards on grand “expeditions.”
When the lords came to speak with Lyanna, they often found their sons and daughters laughing in the yard with her boy — hair tousled, cheeks red from the cold.
One morning, Lord Wyman Manderly watched Sirius running across the snow, a wooden sword in one hand and a direwolf trotting beside him. The great old lord shook his head in wonder.
“That one’s got more life in him than half the realm,” he said.
Lyanna smiled faintly. “He’s his father’s son. The gods help me.”
It wasn’t long before Sirius became the most talked-about child in the North.
When he told the gathered men at supper that his wolf, Godric, was not the only one of his kind — that six direwolf pups still lived in Narnia — the entire hall had gone silent.
“There are more?” Lord Glover asked incredulously.
Sirius nodded, grinning. “Six. They’re all still young, though — my father says they’ll grow into hunters soon.”
The lords exchanged glances. To them, the direwolf was a sigil, a symbol older than kings — and here sat a boy of five who spoke of them as household pets.
Robb, sitting beside him, could barely contain himself. “Could I have one?” he blurted out.
Sirius looked uncertain. “You’d have to ask Father first. He says the wolves choose who they want, not the other way around.”
Robb’s eyes widened. “Then I’ll make one choose me!”
Laughter rolled through the room. Even Eddard smiled.
Lord Rickard watched the exchange with quiet amusement but also with something deeper — a spark of pride and worry intertwined. The boy was more than his grandson; he was proof that the blood of Winterfell ran through far-off lands, that even across the sea, the wolves endured.
As the days passed, Winterfell’s courtyards transformed into the domain of the children.
Sirius taught them strange Narnian games. The northern children adored him, his confidence and curiosity winning them all over.
He was clever, mischievous, and far too bold for his age. Once, when a lord’s son boasted that no child could hit the target dummy with a bow, Sirius simply smiled and sent the arrow flying dead-center — then shrugged when they stared. “If you want I can hit it again,” he said.
Lyanna tried to scold him, but she could never quite hide her smile.
The days in Winterfell had grown slower now that the wedding was postponed. The great lords spoke politics in warm halls, but Sirius, restless as the wind, preferred the courtyards and the open road.
He had explored every tower, every stairway, and every secret passage his sharp eyes could find. Even the kennels, the blacksmith’s forge, and the old crypts beneath the castle had not escaped his curiosity. But once he had seen everything worth seeing, boredom crept in like frost through stone.
So one morning, when the air was crisp and the snow only ankle-deep, Sirius saddled his direwolf and slipped out through the gates. His guards trailed close behind, half in amusement, half in panic, for no one in Winterfell dared stop the Queen of Narnia’s son when he declared he was going on an adventure.
They followed him all the way down the sloping path to Wintertown — the small, lively village nestled at the castle’s base.
Word spread fast that morning: the little prince from across the sea was walking the streets of Wintertown. The smallfolk peeked through shutters and doorways as Sirius rode through the snow-dusted lanes, his cheeks pink from the cold, his black hair whipping about in the wind.
When a baker offered him a sweetroll, Sirius slid from his wolf and bowed slightly, as if greeting a noblewoman. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said sincerely before taking a bite. “This is better than the honey cakes back home.”
The woman blinked, startled. “Back home?”
“In Narnia,” he said proudly.
The baker only gaped, but her young son tugged at Sirius’s cloak. “Are you a prince, ser?”
Sirius crouched down until they were eye to eye. “Something like that,” he said with a grin. “But princes are boring. I’d rather be a hero.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Like in the songs?”
“Better,” Sirius whispered. “Like in Narnia.”
By afternoon, half the children of Wintertown had followed him into the square. Some carried wooden swords, others snowballs. The mothers tried to shoo them home, but even they lingered near the doors, smiling as the foreign prince sat cross-legged on a bench and began to tell stories.
He spoke of Thor, the hammer-wielding god who made thunder sound like laughter, and Loki, who turned into a fish just to steal one of Thor’s boots - and the children listened as if the sky itself had opened to let them dream.
When one boy asked, “Do your gods have faces carved in trees, like ours?” Sirius smiled softly, "I think the old gods here can hear them, if the wind’s right.”
When his guards finally caught up, Sirius was standing in the middle of the square, drawing shapes in the snow with a stick.
“This,” he declared to the gathered children, “is the greatest game ever played.”
The others crowded closer as he drew a rough rectangle, then smaller squares inside it. “It’s called football. My father made this up! There are twenty-two people in a team. Some throw the ball, some run with it, and others crash into them to stop them.”
The children gasped. “Crash?” one girl echoed.
“Not real fighting,” Sirius assured quickly. “Well, sometimes real fighting — but with rules.” He tapped the stick against the snow. “You’ve got the quarterback, who throws the ball, and the linebackers, who protect him. Then there’s the offense trying to run, and the defense trying to stop them. You score when you reach this line here — the end zone.”
No one truly understood, but they loved how excited he became explaining it. His hands moved wildly; his words tumbled over one another. Even the blacksmith’s apprentices leaned from their windows to listen.
Then Sirius clapped his hands. “We can’t play football here — we need too many people — but I’ll teach you another one!”
“This one’s called baseball,” he said proudly.
Within an hour, the snowy street of Wintertown became the first Narnian playing field north of the Wall.
Sirius split the children into two teams — noble and smallfolk, though he made sure to balance both sides. “No kings, no servants,” he said firmly. “Only players.”
They took turns hitting the ball and running through the snow, laughing, tumbling, and shouting with joy. The ball sometimes vanished into snowdrifts, sometimes smacked against frozen walls, but no one cared.
Even the guards ended up playing — one of the older men trying to swing the bat, missing terribly, and falling backward into the snow as the children howled with laughter.
From the edge of the square, Lyanna watched quietly. She had come searching for her son, expecting mischief, but what she found made her heart soften.
Her boy stood in the center of Wintertown, his laughter mingling with the laughter of peasants and nobles alike. No crown, no rank, just joy.
Lord Rickard had once told her that kingship was born from fear and loyalty in equal measure. But watching Sirius now, she thought — perhaps true kingship was born from kindness.
By nightfall, when the children were called home and the fires burned low, the people of Wintertown spoke of the Queen’s son as if he were a blessing sent from the old gods themselves.
“He said thank you,” the baker told her husband in wonder. “A prince, thanking me for bread.”
“He played with my girls,” said another. “Didn’t care we are smallfolk.”
“He told stories of dragons and gods and magic,” whispered the blacksmith’s apprentice. “Said his father flies through the sky.”
By morning, everyone in Wintertown knew the name Sirius Gryffindor, the wild-hearted prince who rode a direwolf and laughed like spring after a long winter.
And in the halls of Winterfell, even the lords began to speak of him with a kind of amused awe — a child who could charm peasants and nobility alike, who might one day command the love of two kingdoms.
Snow fell quietly over Winterfell, a thick, soft blanket that dulled every sound — until the cry of pain pierced through the stillness like a bell.
The servants rushed through the corridors, whispering anxiously. “Lady Catelyn is in labor,” one said. “The maester’s been called!”
The great hall, once filled with laughter and talk, turned silent. Even the lords who had been drinking paused to listen as the distant cries echoed faintly from the solar chambers above.
Robb Stark, barely two years old, sat near the hearth clutching a wooden wolf. When another scream rang out from the corridor above, his small face crumpled, and he began to cry. “Mother,” he whimpered, burying his face into Lyanna’s cloak.
Lyanna lifted him gently into her arms. “Hush now, little wolf,” she whispered, rocking him. “Your mother’s strong. Stronger than any of us.”
Hours passed. The corridor outside Catelyn’s chamber grew crowded — Eddard pacing silently, Benjen sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, Lord Rickard standing like a statue, every muscle locked in grim patience.
Maester Luwin’s voice came faintly through the door. “Steady, my lady… steady now. One more breath…”
And then — the sound they had been waiting for — a baby’s first cry, shrill and small and beautiful.
Eddard exhaled, half laughing, half sobbing. “A girl,” Maester Luwin called through the door. “A healthy baby girl!”
Cheers rippled through the corridor. Benjen thumped his brother’s back. “A girl! The gods are kind tonight!”
But then the midwife burst from the chamber, pale and shaking, her apron smeared with blood. “My lords,” she gasped, “the bleeding won’t stop.”
The laughter died.
“What do you mean?” Eddard asked, his voice low, dangerous.
“She’s fading,” the woman stammered. “We’ve done all we can — the bandages won’t hold. She’s lost too much blood.”
Before anyone could move, Lyanna was already running. Her furs whipped behind her as she flew down the corridor, her boots pounding the stone. She tore open the door to her chamber, went straight to the chest where she kept her personal stores, and snatched up a small crystal vial filled with a clear, shimmering liquid.
It glowed faintly, like moonlight trapped in water.
By the time she reached Catelyn’s room, two servants tried to bar her way. “My lady, you can’t—”
“Out of my way!” she roared. Her voice, usually calm and melodic, struck like thunder. The guards stepped aside instantly.
Inside, the scene was a nightmare. Catelyn lay pale and still, her breathing shallow, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. The sheets beneath her were crimson. Maester Luwin was pressing cloths against the wound, his hands trembling.
“She’s slipping away,” he murmured, his voice broken.
“Not yet,” Lyanna said.
She pulled the stopper from the vial and knelt beside the bed. “Hold her steady,” she commanded. The maester obeyed without question — he had never seen that look in her eyes before, the fire of something ancient and unyielding.
Lyanna tilted Catelyn’s head slightly and poured a few drops of the glowing liquid past her lips. Then, with a steady hand, she let several more drops fall upon the wound itself.
The reaction was immediate. The blood stopped flowing as though time itself had frozen. The torn skin began to knit, faint threads of silver light weaving across the wound until no trace of it remained.
Catelyn gasped, her body jerking slightly, and color began to return to her cheeks.
Luwin fell back, his eyes wide. “By the gods… what sorcery is this?”
Lyanna’s voice was quiet but firm. “Not sorcery. Medicine. Narnian craft.”
Within moments, the impossible had become truth. Catelyn’s breathing steadied. Her eyes fluttered open.
Eddard was at her side in an instant, taking her hand. “Cat?” he whispered.
She blinked, confused, but smiled faintly when she saw him. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I nearly did.”
Luwin was still kneeling, staring at the empty vial in Lyanna’s hand. “I’ve read every text in the Citadel,” he murmured, “and I’ve never seen such a thing. It defies every law of nature.”
“It’s older than your laws,” Lyanna said softly, corking the vial. “Made from a plant caller dittany from Narnia. My husband gave it to me for dire need. I never thought I’d have to use it.”
Rickard entered the chamber, his face pale with fear that melted into stunned relief as he saw Catelyn awake. “You saved her,” he said quietly.
Lyanna met his gaze. “No. The gods saved her. I only borrowed their mercy.”
Rickard placed a hand on her shoulder, rough but gentle. “If your Narnia breeds such wonders, then may the gods bless the bond between our worlds.”
Comments
Mage
Loved it. Small folk and all. Excellent chapter . I’m sn American though so 🤷🏾♂️ I loved the sports scene lol Plus he’s a kid. He’s not bound by the things his father prefers. He likely asked his dad to tell him about every sport he could think of and Sirius just chose two that seemed cool to his age group. Loved the chap
Ragnar
Agreed that he would know soccer better. He easily could have known about american football, world league and NFL Europe played thru the 90s. They played the games in the summer and earlier in the day so they could be televised stateside. Not impossible that he could have watched while Petunia and Vernon did their weekend shopping. Especially after he saved Dudley from the dementor and they had a bit of a better relationship.
Omar Syed
This was an absurd chapter. Football?! Harry is British, football is ⚽️. Rugby is 🏉. American rugby is 🏈. No self respecting Brit would ever deign to play ot know the rules and regulations of such a base and uncouth game. And since Harry was basically living in a cupboard and then sent to a boarding school after 11, when the hell would he have had time to learn the rules of American rugby? And teaching American rugby to children who don't have adequate protection for the game is tantamount to child abuse. Especially since such protection would be prohibitively expensive in a medieval world. If you had to add a modern game to the fiction, you should have stayed with one that incurs the least amount of injuries and is simple to understand and easily enacted. You only need to inflate/create a ball for football, while American rugby takes actual rugby adds in convoluted rules and expensive protections, and a "ball" that's not a ball and is harder to create. The only foot in American rugby is when the one guy kicks the ball a few times every game, otherwise its just rugby with stupid rules. And it's an entirely American game. And baseball? That's a game only a few more people know around the world. And none in Britain. Where Harry is from. Having lived in a cupboard for near 11 years and then sent to a Scottish boarding school.
Aeden Emrys
Nice 👍! Thanks for the story so far! I'm looking forward to reading much more!
Noob
Tyftc
