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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 88
🕑 Added 2025-12-24 13:33:18 +0000 UTCBy the first day after Queen Elia’s return, the Red Keep no longer buzzed with questions.
The Small Council had come to an understanding—an uneasy, reluctant one—but an understanding nonetheless. Whatever magic had touched Elia Martell, Lewyn Martell, and Princess Daenerys, it was precise. Clean. Surgical. It did not erase memory. It did not muddle thought. It merely closed doors.
They could not speak of Narnia’s location.
They could not speak of its rulers’ true strength.
They could not speak of the things that would truly shake the realm.
But they could speak of everything else.
And so they did.
It began in council chambers and spilled outward like ink dropped into water.
From Daenerys, the youngest and least guarded of them all, the stories flowed most freely.
She spoke of snow that never truly melted, of city that warmed by unseen forces, of bathhouses where steam rose even in the heart of winter. She spoke of schools—where even the children of dockworkers learned to read and count, where meals were given freely and knowledge was not hoarded like gold.
“Everyone goes,” Daenerys had said brightly one afternoon, perched on a cushioned bench while her mother listened with half-closed eyes. “Even the children who don’t want to. They complain, but they still go.”
That alone had startled half the maesters into silence.
She spoke of streets carved from stone, of lamps that glowed like captured stars, of ships that sailed through ice as if it were mist. She spoke of people who did not bow to her because she was a princess—but smiled all the same.
“They call themselves Narnians,” she said once, very seriously.
And then there were the gods.
It was Daenerys who gave them names first, pronouncing each with careful reverence, as though afraid they might hear her even here.
“Odin,” she said.
“Thor.”
“Loki.”
“Frigga.”
Strange names. Heavy names.
“They tell stories about them all the time,” she explained. “In temples. In taverns. Even when they eat.”
“What kind of stories?” Princess Rhaenys had asked, eyes wide.
“Happy ones,” Daenerys replied after thinking hard. “Sad ones. Funny ones. Sometimes scary. But mostly… brave.”
That, more than anything, unsettled the court.
The gods of Westeros were distant things—judges, watchers, forces to appease. But the gods of Narnia, as Daenerys described them, walked. They argued. They failed. They loved. They bled.
And Frigga—
Frigga had healed a queen.
That fact spread faster than wildfire.
It was spoken first in hushed tones among the septas and servants. Then in the kitchens. Then in the city beyond the walls. By the time the story reached the inns of Flea Bottom, it had grown wings.
They said the Queen of Westeros had been healed in a Narnian temple.
They said a goddess had reached down and remade her lungs.
The Faith bristled.
The smallfolk listened.
Curiosity spread where fear did not.
And Lewyn Martell—damned by his oath and freed by it in equal measure—only fueled the fire without meaning to.
He could not speak of where Narnia lay, nor how its armies moved, nor what enchantments guarded it. But when asked about its warriors, he had answered honestly—too honestly.
“There are men and women there,” he had said quietly in the White Sword Tower, “who would make knights of the Kingsguard sweat.”
“How many?” Viserys had demanded.
Lewyn had paused, then shrugged. “More than twenty whom I personally faced.”
“There are those in Narnia,” he said, “who could easily defeat Ser Arthur.”
The silence that followed had been thunderous.
Arthur Dayne was legend made flesh. To suggest such a thing bordered on heresy.
From that moment on, interest in Narnia sharpened into something else.
Awe.
Fear.
Desire.
Prince Viserys became obsessed with their warriors, pestering Lewyn with endless questions about weapons, formations, duels. Princess Rhaella—quiet, thoughtful—listened to Daenerys speak of Frigga and Odin with growing fascination, a longing in her eyes that had not been there before.
“I wish I had gone,” she admitted once, softly. “Just to see.”
Rhaegar said little.
He listened.
He watched the way the stories spread, the way the court leaned forward when Narnia was mentioned, the way the foreign kingdom began whispering prayers not found in septs.
And somewhere, far beyond the reach of ravens and vows, the name Narnia took root in the soil of Westeros.
While the court fretted over foreign gods and whispered of northern magic, Rhaegar Targaryen found himself trapped in a far more private storm.
It did not rage in council chambers, nor echo through the streets of King’s Landing. It lived in his thoughts, coiled tight around a single name.
Sirius.
The name followed him through the Red Keep like a ghost. It was there when he walked the galleries at dawn. It lingered when he stood at the windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. It returned every night, sharper than before, when sleep refused him.
Elia had been radiant since her return—stronger, healthier, glowing in a way that left no room for doubt. Whatever had been done to her in Narnia had worked. Completely.
And yet, that miracle only deepened the ache in Rhaegar’s chest.
He waited until the children had left Elia’s solar, until the servants withdrew, until the fire burned low and the room belonged only to the two of them. Elia noticed at once. She always did.
“You want to ask,” she said gently, folding her hands in her lap, “so ask.”
Rhaegar hesitated, then spoke.
“The King of Narnia,” he said. “Harry Gryffindor.”
Elia inclined her head. “Yes.”
“What does he look like?”
The question seemed harmless enough. Elia did not tense. She answered plainly, as one would describe the color of the sky.
“He looks like Prince Sirius,” she said. “Only older.”
Rhaegar’s breath caught.
Elia continued, unaware—or perhaps unwilling—to soften the blow.
“Same face. Same hair. Black as night. Same eyes too. Green. Very bright. When he smiles…” She paused, searching for the right word. “It is the same smile.”
For a long moment, Rhaegar said nothing.
In his mind, numbers aligned with ruthless precision. Months. Seasons. The span between Lyanna’s disappearance and Sirius’s birth. Every calculation he had ever made pointed to one truth.
The boy should be mine.
“That is not possible,” he said at last, quietly.
That night, Rhaegar sought Arthur Dayne.
They spoke in low voices, as they had so many times before, in corridors where shadows clung to the walls and secrets lingered like dust.
Arthur listened without interruption, his expression grave.
“At Harrenhal,” Rhaegar said, “I thought the world had already begun to change. Now I know it has.”
Arthur studied the King. There was no accusation in his gaze. Only understanding—and something like sadness.
“You still believe Prince Sirius is yours,” he said.
Rhaegar did not deny it.
“The timing is exact,” he said. “I knew Lyanna. She would not take another man so soon. She would not—” His voice faltered. “There is no room for doubt.”
“And yet,” Arthur said softly, “the boy looks like his father.”
Rhaegar rose abruptly, pacing the chamber. His boots echoed against the stone floor.
“Then explain it to me,” he said, frustration bleeding through his careful composure. “Explain how a boy who should carry my blood looks like another man entirely.”
Arthur exhaled slowly. “If the King of Narnia is not the boy’s father, then something was done. Magic, perhaps. An alteration.”
“You believe that?” Rhaegar demanded.
Arthur met his gaze. “I believe many things about Narnia that I cannot prove.”
Rhaegar stopped pacing. “Sirius is mine?”
Arthur did not answer immediately.
“If he is,” he said carefully, “then speaking it aloud would destroy more than it would save.”
Rhaegar closed his eyes.
Lyanna’s honor. Elia’s dignity. Sirius’s future. Aegon’s claim. The fragile support of the realm.
All of it balanced on a truth that could not be spoken.
“If you pursue this,” Arthur continued, “you will lose everything. And you will gain nothing. Not even the boy.”
Rhaegar knew he was right.
That, somehow, hurt the most.
By morning, Rhaegar had made a decision.
If he could not ask questions openly, he would listen instead.
He ordered a feast.
Not a grand celebration but a generous farewell banquet in the Red Keep, honoring the Narnian crew who had escorted Elia home and would soon sail on to Volantis for trade.
The council approved eagerly. The lords were curious. The city buzzed with anticipation.
The Narnians arrived in simple but finely made attire, unbowed and unafraid beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep. They did not flaunt their strength. They did not boast of their homeland.
They laughed. They ate. They told stories.
Stories of snow-bound cities and warm halls. Of gods who walked among mortals. Of a king who fought beside his people, not above them.
Rhaegar watched every word, every gesture.
He searched their faces for clues. For lies. For cracks.
And all the while, one thought returned again and again, as relentless as the tide against the Blackwater.
If Sirius truly belongs to Narnia…
Then whoever Lyanna found was greater than a crown.
And if he was wrong—
Rhaegar lifted his goblet, smiling for the court, even as his heart twisted painfully.
For years, Varys had listened.
He listened to whispers carried on wine-breathed laughter in brothels. He listened to secrets traded for coin in dockside taverns. He listened to dying men and ambitious women and frightened boys who wanted nothing more than to feel important for a heartbeat.
And yet, of Narnia, he had learned almost nothing.
That absence troubled him far more than any rumor.
A kingdom that traded, healed queens, sailed strange ships, and reshaped the balance of power in the whole world—yet left behind no trail of gold, no loose tongue, no careless boast—was not merely secretive.
It was disciplined.
And disciplined powers were dangerous.
So when the whisper finally came, it arrived not with drama, but with the quiet inevitability Varys had been expecting all along.
It came from Lys.
The man who brought it knelt low, head bowed, voice trembling—not from fear, but from awe.
“There is a woman, my lord,” the spy said. “Golden-haired. Northern accent, but not Westerosi. She arrived three weeks ago with healers and traders. They rent a villa near the Perfumed Garden.”
Varys’s fingers paused in their habitual steepling.
“A woman,” he repeated softly. “And this concerns me… how?”
The man swallowed. “She calls herself Astrid. And she introduces herself as the wife of Harry Gryffindor, King of Narnia.”
The room felt suddenly colder.
Varys dismissed the man with a flick of his hand, already turning the information over in his mind like a gem held up to candlelight.
A second wife.
That alone was explosive.
But Varys did not trust explosions. He trusted confirmations.
Within days, more whispers arrived. Different mouths. Different coins. Same story.
Astrid was no pretender. The Narnians who accompanied her treated her with quiet respect, never contradicting her, never correcting her. They obeyed her orders without question. When asked about Lyanna Stark, they gave no answers—but neither did they deny Astrid’s claim.
That detail interested Varys greatly.
So he brought it to the king.
Rhaegar Targaryen listened in silence as Varys spoke, the spymaster’s soft voice echoing faintly in the solar.
“A second wife,” Rhaegar repeated when Varys finished.
His hands tightened around the armrests of his chair.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Varys said gently. “And unlike Queen Lyanna, this one travels openly. Without an protections.”
Rhaegar stood abruptly, turning away, staring out toward the city. The towers of King’s Landing gleamed in the sun, indifferent to his turmoil.
“So,” he said coldly, “the King of Narnia keeps one wife crowned in snow, and another hidden in silk.”
Varys inclined his head. “That appears to be the case.”
Anger flared—sharp, hot, deeply personal.
“And this Astrid,” Rhaegar continued, voice steadier now, calculating. “She is… vulnerable?”
“Yes,” Varys said smoothly. “She is guarded, but not as one would guard a queen in hostile territory. Lys is familiar ground to her people. They are confident.”
Rhaegar turned back, eyes alight with a dangerous clarity.
“Then she is leverage.”
Varys’s lips curved faintly—not quite a smile.
“An invitation, perhaps,” he suggested. “Or a rescue. Or a misunderstanding that brings her to King’s Landing willingly.”
Rhaegar considered it.
If Harry Gryffindor had truly taken another wife, then the bond between him and Lyanna was not sacred—it was fragile. Exploitable.
And if Astrid stood unprotected…
Then Lyanna’s position weakened.
“She will come here,” Rhaegar said at last. “One way or another.”
Varys bowed deeply. “As you command, Your Grace.”
As he withdrew, the Spider allowed himself a single private thought.
Every web has a center.
And every king, no matter how hidden, leaves something unguarded.
Astrid learned very quickly that belief was harder to win than loyalty.
In Narnia, people changed. They learned to read. They learned to think in years instead of winters. They learned that a warm meal would come tomorrow even if the hunt failed today. Most of all, they learned to trust a king who spoke plainly, who worked beside them, who bled when they bled.
But not everyone changed in the same way.
Some carried the old ways like scars beneath their clothes—customs older than kingdoms, older than crowns. The laws of the First Men did not vanish simply because roads were paved and cities rose from stone. They lived in songs, in marriage rites whispered beneath the stars, in vows sealed with blood and breath rather than ink.
Astrid had been one of those who remembered.
When she first spoke of her plight, many dismissed her.
They said she was bitter.
They said she wanted more than she was owed.
Astrid endured those words without raising her voice. She had learned patience long before she learned power.
But among the crowd were others—men and women whose blood ran deep with the old ways, whose ancestors had knelt to no throne and spoken to no god that demanded temples. When Astrid spoke to them, she did not speak of crowns or titles.
She spoke of promises.
She spoke of a night beneath cold stars, of vows spoken without witnesses because witnesses were not needed when the sky itself listened. She spoke of a king who had taken her as wife by the laws of the First Men—and then walked away into daylight, carrying her oath with him as if it were nothing more than breath fogging the air.
Those people listened.
But they believed.
And belief, Astrid learned, was its own kind of power.
They could not fight Narnia—not openly. Not against a kingdom bound together by prosperity and shared purpose. But they did not need to fight. Not yet.
“If the king will not acknowledge the old ways,” one elder had said, voice rough as frostbitten stone, “then we will make the world remember them.”
That was how Lys entered Astrid’s life.
They did not flee Narnia. They departed openly, with healers and traders, with goods meant to soothe suspicion rather than raise it. Astrid did not wear any crown. She wore simple furs and carried herself as she always had—calm, resolute, unbowed.
In Lys, the air was warm and perfumed, the streets alive with color and vice. It was a city that respected stories—especially scandalous ones. A city where a whispered name could travel farther than an army.
Astrid settled into a modest villa, refusing luxury not because she lacked coin, but because she understood symbols. She welcomed visitors. She spoke gently. She never demanded belief.
She simply told her story.
“I am the wife of Harry Gryffindor,” she would say, without heat or desperation. “By the old laws. If those laws mean nothing now, then let the world decide whether they should.”
The healers who came with her tended the poor. The traders paid fairly. Slowly, attention gathered—not hostile, not friendly, but curious.
That was enough for now.
Comments
Kluvial
TYFTC. Astrid arc looks like it will be fun
AbN
Yes
DarthEmerys
The White Walker Arc should be coming to an end then?
