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A Wand of Weirwood - Chapter - 87
🕑 Added 2025-12-22 16:22:38 +0000 UTCThe sea lay calm beneath the Narnian ship, as if the waters themselves had chosen reverence over resistance.
Queen Elia of House Martell and Targaryen stood upon the forward deck, her hands resting lightly against the carved rail, fingers brushing wood so smooth and warm it barely felt like a ship at all. The great vessel moved without groan or protest, cutting through Blackwater Bay as though it glided upon glass. No creaking timbers. No pitching deck. Only a steady, dignified advance.
Beside her, Daenerys Targaryen leaned over the rail, silver-gold hair caught in the breeze, violet eyes wide with wonder.
Ahead, King’s Landing rose in familiar chaos.
Stone walls. Crooked towers. Red-tiled roofs pressed together like nervous conspirators. The city smelled of salt and smoke even from afar, and yet—something was different.
Fire.
At the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, the winch towers burned.
Thick columns of smoke climbed skyward, dark against the pale blue, signal flames roaring bright and unmistakable. Those towers were meant for war—meant to scream invasion to the Red Keep, meant to warn of iron fleets and dragonfire.
Now they burned for her.
Elia’s breath caught.
“They’ve lit the towers,” she murmured.
Daenerys straightened at once. “Is that bad?”
“No,” Elia replied, after a moment. “Not today, the Red Keep will have seen those fires already. Half the city will be running to the docks.”
Lewyn Martell explained to Daenerys. “They only light in case there is an attack on the capital.”
Lewyn Martell, Kingsguard of the Iron Throne and her uncle by blood, stepped closer, his white cloak stirring in the breeze. He squinted toward the harbor, then nodded.
“They would have seen this ship,” he said. “The port masters must be panicking.”
Elia smiled faintly. “That's true.”
She inhaled deeply.
The air filled her lungs without pain. No familiar tightening that had once made every breath a careful negotiation with her own body.
She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring it.
Once, such a breath would have left her coughing behind a silk handkerchief, her ladies rushing to steady her. Now it steadied her.
When she opened her eyes again, the ship was already drawing close enough that she could see movement along the docks.
People.
Hundreds of them.
Word had spread faster than fire.
“That’s them!” someone shouted from the quay.
“The Narnians—gods, look at the size of the ship!”
“They say Queen Elia went there to be healed!”
Elia straightened her spine.
She wore no crown, no heavy jewels to weigh her down. Her gown was simple by royal standards—deep red and gold, cut in a style she had learned in Narnia, elegant yet free, allowing her to move without effort or pain. Her hair was braided loosely at her shoulders, her face unpainted.
And yet, as the ship slowed and the gangplank unfolded with smooth precision, the noise below faltered.
Someone gasped.
“That’s her,” a woman whispered.
“The Queen is back.”
Daenerys’ fingers curled into Elia’s sleeve.
“They’re staring,” she whispered.
“They always do,” Elia said gently.
Golden Cloaks flooded the docks, their captain barking orders as guards formed a protective cordon. Merchants abandoned stalls. Sailors froze mid-task. Children clambered onto barrels and crates for a better look.
Elia descended the gangplank slowly, deliberately, letting the city see her.
Every step felt like new.
The last time she had left King’s Landing, she had been carried very conflicted and angry. She was very worried about Rhaegar and his obsession towards North.
Now stone met her feet, solid and welcoming.
The captain of the Gold Cloaks dropped to one knee.
“Your Grace,” he said, awe unmistakable in his voice. “Welcome home.”
Elia inclined her head. “Thank you. Please—rise.”
The man obeyed, eyes flicking between Elia and Daenerys. “We… we received word of your return. The Hand has been informed. The Red Keep awaits you.”
“It will have to wait a moment longer,” Elia said calmly.
She turned, gesturing back toward the ship.
“The crew of this vessel are guests of the Crown. They are to be given water, food, and whatever supplies they require while they are in port.”
The captain hesitated. “Your Grace, the Council—”
“The Council may debate later,” Elia said, voice still gentle but unyielding. “This is my command.”
Lewyn smiled behind her.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the captain said quickly.
As they moved through the crowd, Daenerys’ eyes darted everywhere.
“They know me,” she whispered. “They’re saying my name.”
Elia glanced down at her. “You are a princess of the realm. And you walked out of a land they call myth.”
Daenerys lifted her chin, suddenly proud.
As they moved through the crowd, whispers followed her like a tide.
“She looks healthier.”
“She’s glowing—Seven save us.”
“Is it true they used sorcery?”
Elia heard them all.
A carriage awaited her, flanked by Kingsguard and city watch alike. As they climbed inside, Elia allowed herself one last look back at the Narnian ship.
For a fleeting moment, her thoughts drifted northward—glass-lit streets beneath enchanted lamps, temples echoing with chanting voices, a laughing boy explaining games she had never heard of, a king lying unconscious yet unbroken in a distant castle.
Narnia, she thought.
The carriage jolted into motion.
The streets of King’s Landing closed around her—heat, noise, the press of bodies, the scent of spice and stone and sweat. It should have overwhelmed her.
It did not.
Instead, Elia felt something she had not felt in years.
Strength.
“They will be waiting,” Lewyn said quietly, following her gaze toward the hill where the Red Keep loomed.
“Rhaenys,” Elia replied, smiling softly. “She always waits by the window.”
“And the King?”
Elia’s smile lingered—but changed. “Rhaegar will have questions.”
Lewyn chuckled. “The entire Council will.”
“Yes,” Elia agreed. “And this time, I don't think I can answer them.”
The carriage began its ascent.
Within the Red Keep, servants froze when she entered. Whispers rippled through corridors. Doors opened, then shut again as eyes followed her passage.
Rhaenys reached her first.
“Mother!” the girl cried, breaking from her septa and throwing herself into Elia’s arms.
Elia caught her easily.
Easily.
She laughed, a sound bright and unrestrained, and held her daughter close. “I’m here, my love. I’m truly here.”
Aegon followed more slowly, eyes searching her face with careful intensity. When he reached her, he bowed stiffly, then hesitated.
“You look… well,” he said.
Elia touched his cheek. “I am well.”
Rhaegar stood apart, silent.
When their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them—shock, relief, disbelief, and something deeper still.
“Elia,” he said at last.
“My king,” she replied, inclining her head—but only slightly.
The Small Council chamber filled quickly thereafter.
Jon Connington leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Your Grace… we are relieved beyond words. But the manner of your healing—”
“—was not sanctioned,” another councilor interjected sharply.
“—was performed by outsiders,” said a third.
Elia listened patiently.
Then she spoke.
“I was dying,” she said simply.
Silence followed.
“I was sick long before I left for North, no maester could save me. I returned alive because someone could.”
Jon Connington swallowed. “You place us in a difficult position.”
Elia met his gaze without flinching. “Then perhaps it is time the realm learned that the world is larger than the Citadel allows.”
Murmurs erupted.
Rhaegar raised a hand for silence—but Elia continued.
“Narnia did not demand tribute. It did not ask allegiance. It healed me—and let me go.”
Then questions came all at once.
“Where is this Narnia, precisely?”
“How large is their army?”
“What banners do they fly?”
“What gods do they worship?”
And beneath it all, quieter but no less hungry, the voices of the maesters.
“What herbs were used?”
“What manner of poultice repairs lungs?”
“Is it sorcery, or merely knowledge lost to us?”
Elia sat through it for a short while, hands folded calmly in her lap, her expression composed. She answered nothing. She did not even look toward the maesters when they leaned forward as one, chains chiming softly, eyes bright with the terrible light of men who smelled a mystery they could not control.
At last, Jon Connington paused, breath drawn as if to restore order.
“Your Grace,” he began carefully, “we understand your fatigue, but the realm—”
Elia simply stood, and the room fell silent.
“My lords,” she said, her voice even, warm, and utterly unyielding, “I have crossed half the world. I have returned from death’s door. And I have answered enough for one day.”
A few councilors shifted uncomfortably.
“I will retire to my chambers,” Elia continued. “If the realm has patience, it may ask again tomorrow.”
No one stopped her.
Rhaegar watched her go, something unreadable in his eyes, as she swept past the table with the grace of a woman who knew—truly knew—her authority.
Rhaenys and Aegon followed immediately.
“Mother,” Rhaenys said as soon as the doors closed behind them, her voice bubbling with excitement, “is it true they have lights that burn without fire?”
“And more wolves bigger than horses?” Aegon added.
Elia laughed—a genuine, ringing sound that surprised even her.
“One question at a time,” she said, sinking onto the cushioned bench by the window. “Come. Sit. I’ve missed this.”
They did, crowding close, and Elia realized with a pang how long it had been since she had felt strong enough to endure their curiosity without exhaustion.
She studied them both—her daughter tall and sharp-eyed, her son thoughtful beyond his years—and felt something settle into place inside her.
This is what Lyanna did, she thought. She did not wait for permission.
She straightened.
“I have seen a queen who rules when her king cannot,” Elia said softly. “Who does not hide behind councils or let men speak for her. That is the queen I intend to be.”
Aegon frowned. “Father won’t like that.”
Elia smiled gently. “Your father will have to endure.”
Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Daenerys ran.
She nearly collided with her mother as she burst into her chambers, breathless and smiling.
“Mother!”
Rhaella Targaryen surged to her feet, gathering Daenerys into her arms with a sharp, relieved cry. “You frightened us half to death,” she said, clutching her daughter tightly. “Narnia? Gods, child—”
“But I was safe,” Daenerys protested, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Safer than anywhere. Queen Lyanna—she watched us. And Sirius—he showed me everything!”
Rhaella searched her face. “You’re… well.”
Daenerys beamed. “Very.”
Viserys appeared in the doorway then, eyes lighting up when he saw her.
“You’re back,” he said simply.
Daenerys rushed to him, taking his hands. “You won’t believe it. They have games you’ve never heard of. And food with spices that burn and sweeten at the same time. And ships that don’t rock. And schools for everyone—everyone, Viserys.”
Viserys listened, rapt, as she spoke rapidly, telling him of strange board games, of glowing streets, of wolves that listened to children, of a boy-prince who laughed easily and feared nothing.
And not once did she speak of danger.
Not once did she speak of fear.
Back in Elia’s chambers, Rhaenys tilted her head thoughtfully.
“Mother,” she asked, “where is Uncle Oberyn?”
Elia’s smile softened.
“He stayed behind,” she said. “There is… trouble in Narnia. He chose to help.”
Aegon’s brow furrowed. “A war?”
“Yes,” Elia said simply. “He decided to help.”
Rhaenys was quiet for a moment. “Is he safe?”
Elia closed her eyes briefly, remembering Oberyn’s grin, his easy confidence, the way he had watched Lyanna ride into war without flinching.
“He is where he needs to be,” she said at last.
The chamber did not empty with Elia’s departure.
If anything, the air grew sharper.
The doors had barely closed behind the queen when the weight of unanswered questions settled heavily upon the Small Council like an uninvited guest. Parchments lay forgotten. Cups went untouched. Eyes drifted, almost as one, toward the lone white figure still standing near the wall.
Ser Lewyn Martell, Kingsguard of the Iron Throne.
He stood straight-backed, hands clasped before him, white cloak immaculate despite the long voyage. He had not moved since Elia rose from her seat. He had not followed her either. His duty was to the Crown—not to chambers or children—and the Crown was very much still in this room.
Jon Connington was the first to speak.
“Ser Lewyn,” the Hand said carefully, as though approaching a skittish horse, “you traveled with Her Grace to this… Narnia.”
Lewyn inclined his head. “I did, my lord.”
A murmur rippled through the council.
“And you returned,” Lord Chelsted added, “alive and well.”
Lewyn’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Largely.”
Rhaegar leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled. His gaze was intent, piercing.
“Where is it?” the king asked. “This kingdom that healed my queen.”
He swallowed.
“As a Kingsguard,” Rhaegar continued, “you are sworn to speak truthfully to your king.”
Lewyn straightened.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The words were automatic. Habit. Honor.
Tell him, his training urged.
The truth, demanded his oath to the Crown.
Beyond the Wall.
The land beyond the Wall.
The location rose clearly in his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak.
And said—
“Your grace would look very distinguished with a large mustache.”
Silence fell like a blade.
Jon Connington blinked.
Lord Chelsted stared.
Pycelle’s mouth fell open.
Rhaegar froze.
“…What?” the king said slowly.
Lewyn felt his blood turn to ice.
No. No—
“I—” Lewyn began, panic flaring. “Your Grace, I meant—”
“You meant to comment on my facial hair?” Rhaegar asked, one dark brow lifting.
Lewyn’s mouth moved again, mind racing, trying desperately to correct himself.
“Narnia lies in—” he tried to say.
What came out was, “The mustache would inspire loyalty.”
A strangled cough came from somewhere near the table.
Jon Connington rubbed his temples.
Pycelle leaned forward eagerly. “Your Grace, perhaps Ser Lewyn is unwell from the cold—”
“I am perfectly well,” Lewyn snapped, then winced. He took a breath, steadying himself, and tried again—slowly, carefully.
“As a Kingsguard, I swear that Narnia is—”
“—a kingdom of excellent grooming standards,” Lewyn finished helplessly.
For a long, terrible moment, no one spoke.
Then King Rhaegar laughed so hard that he fell from his seat.
Comments
infio
Grooming standards... haven't laughed that hard in awhile. TFTC
