The council chamber of the Red Keep had seen countless debates—wars plotted, taxes argued, and rebellions quelled—but rarely had the lords of Westeros sat so uneasy over a power they could not name, let alone touch.
Heavy dragon banners draped the stone walls, their red and black seeming dim against the torches. King Rhaegar Targaryen, dressed in black silk trimmed with silver thread, sat at the head of the long table. His violet eyes—sharp as dragonflame—moved from one councillor to another, demanding answers that no one yet possessed.
The matter before them was no rebellion of lords, nor a border skirmish with Dorne. It was something new, something that gnawed at the Seven Kingdoms not with swords, but with ships, trade, and stories.
Rhaegar Opens the Council
"Tell me," Rhaegar began, his voice smooth but edged with irritation, "what kingdom rises beyond our sight? Ships of foreign make, coins of unfamiliar weight, and tales of gods unknown to us are spoken in every port. And yet my master of whispers cannot tell me where they come from. Who are these… Narnians?"
The name itself sounded alien on his lips.
Varys, the Spider, bowed his head. His robes of pale lavender whispered as he shifted, his soft hands folding together.
"Your Grace, Narnia is not a guild, nor a band of traders. It is a kingdom—organized, disciplined, and wealthy beyond measure. Their ships arrive in Braavos, Pentos, and Lorath with holds full of goods unlike any other: whale oil of unmatched purity, salted fish kept fresh in clever boxes of ice, walrus leather tougher than boiled hide, and weapons sharper than those forged even in Qohor. Most troubling of all, their firewhisky has become the toast of both Essos and Westeros."
He let the words hang. "Even the Arbor cannot compete. Arbor Gold rots unsold in the casks while Narnian firewhisky spreads like wildfire."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "And their sigil? A white dragon, upon a black field."
"Yes, Your Grace." Varys inclined his head. "It spreads unease, for all know the Targaryens are the last dragonlords. Yet here is a new banner, unfurled boldly across Essos. No merchant hides such a symbol unless he means to be remembered."
Robert Baratheon, Master of War, slammed his goblet down on the table, sloshing wine across the polished wood. His beard was thick, his eyes heavy-lidded from last night's drink, but his voice boomed with his usual blunt certainty.
"Bah! What does it matter where they come from? Their whisky is better than the Arbor's swill. I had it in Lys—burns like dragonfire, aye, but gods, it makes a man feel alive! If they mean no war, let them sell. Why should we care if merchants grow fat?"
He grinned wolfishly. "I'd be glad if half the realm was drunk on their stuff. Fewer swords raised, more skirts lifted."
Murmurs of disapproval rippled across the table. Robert, as always, cared for pleasures more than politics.
Tywin Lannister leaned forward, his golden head gleaming in the torchlight, his green eyes hard as the Rock itself.
"You are a fool if you think this is but ale and steel, Robert. The flow of gold determines power. And gold flows now to Narnia. Ships no longer beg for passage on Velaryon fleets, nor do they clamor for Arbor vintages. Instead, they pay Narnians in Sunmarks and Moondrops, coins crafted so finely that even Braavosi bankers trust them."
His gaze moved coldly to the king. "Your Grace, we must treat with them. Better to bind such power in alliance than to watch them grow unchecked. An embassy should be sent. Perhaps trade agreements, even a marriage if they have a royal house."
Robert snorted. "A marriage? To some shadow king no one's ever seen?"
Tywin's voice was as sharp as a dagger's point. "To power, Lord Robert. Nothing else matters."
Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships, stood abruptly, slamming his hand upon the table. His sea-stained cloak swirled around him as he glared at the gathered lords.
"My fleets rot in the harbor!" he thundered. "The Narnians carry goods cheaper, faster, safer. Pirates who once feared Velaryon steel now whisper of Narnian fire. They say one ship of theirs can outrun ten of ours, victorious against storm and ice. If this continues, Velaryons will be no more than dockside beggars."
He looked at Rhaegar, face flushed. "Your Grace, command me to find their harbors, their shipyards, their source of wealth, and I will. But know this—until we choke their trade, our own fleets will starve."
Grand Maester Myros, white beard tumbling over his chain of office, cleared his throat, eager to add his voice.
"Your Grace, I have seen their works. Tools of ingenious design, books printed with startling clarity, coins of perfect balance. Their craft rivals Valyria in its prime. If the Citadel could but study their methods, all Westeros would advance a hundred years in learning."
He shuffled parchments with trembling fingers. "It is not conquest I urge, but knowledge. Imagine iron tools that never dull, or books made swiftly in hundreds rather than painstakingly by hand. These things already exist—Narnia makes them real."
The High Septon, swollen with indignation, rose next. His cloth-of-gold robes glittered, though his face was red with anger.
"And what of their heresies? These Narnians spread tales of false gods—Odin, Thor, Loki! Warriors now boast of Valhalla instead of the Heaven. Smallfolk whisper of a god who wields a hammer, another who spins deceitful tricks. Their stories spread faster than plague. And why? Because our faith has no stories to answer them!"
He slammed his hand on the table. "If this is not checked, the Faith of the Seven will rot from within, undermined by foreign lies."
Robert laughed uproariously. "At least their gods drink and fight. The Seven only sit in septs counting tithes!"
The Septon's face turned crimson, and only Rhaegar's raised hand stopped the argument from descending into blows.
Rhaegar rose slowly, his dark cloak swirling about him, the hall silenced by the weight of his presence. His eyes, deep violet and weary, swept across the faces of his council.
"Gold flows east. Faith crumbles before stories. Ships rot in harbor. And yet we know nothing of the kingdom that causes it." His voice hardened. "This is no mere kingdom's power. This is a powerful kingdom—veiled, unseen, yet mighty enough to bend Essos to its will."
He looked to Varys. "Find them. Root them out, no matter how deep they hide."
The turned to Tywin Lannister, "If they can be bound, then bind them. If they spurn us, we must be ready."
Finally, the King's eyes fell on the master of the ships and ordered. "Strengthen the fleet. Train new sailors. I will not have my realm's seas surrendered without a fight."
Rhaegar's hand curled into a fist. "And mark me well—if Narnia proves false to us, then dragons shall scour them from the earth. No shadow will rival House Targaryen."
The council bowed their heads. The decision was made. The hunt for Narnia had begun.
The heavy doors of the council chamber shut with a thud. The shuffle of boots and silks had faded as lords and councillors went their separate ways. Only two men remained—Rhaegar Targaryen, King of Westeros, and his Master of Whisperers, the ever-serene Varys.
Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, the faint torchlight playing across his pale, thoughtful face. His violet eyes burned with suppressed impatience.
"Stay, Lord Varys," he said softly. His voice carried not with volume but with weight, like the sound of steel unsheathing.
The Spider bowed his bald head. "Your Grace."
Rhaegar's fingers tapped the carved wood of the council table. "This… Narnia troubles me less than another shadow that lingers in my mind. I asked you months ago—what of Lyanna Stark? Have your little birds sung of her?"
Varys' lips curved ever so slightly, his hands folding across his robes. "They have sung, Your Grace. A soft melody, but clear enough if one listens carefully."
"Speak."
"My spies in Winterfell tell me something curious. The Starks claim that Lady Lyanna fled with a lover. Letters were left, words that soothe the pride of her lordly kin. Yet…" Varys paused, savoring the silence. "Owls. Owls, Your Grace, arriving in Winterfell and flying away again, always with small scrolls tied to their legs."
Rhaegar frowned. "Owls? They are no ravens."
"Just so. Owls trained, not for the rookery, but for something else. My little birds assure me that these letters come and go with startling frequency. A sister writes to her brothers, a daughter to her father, and the replies fly back swift as well."
Rhaegar's hands curled into fists upon the table. "Then she has not left Westeros."
Varys inclined his head. "That is my belief. No owl can fly from Braavos to Winterfell. Their range is limited. Which means… she must be hidden somewhere in the North, sheltered by her kin, while the realm whispers of an elopement."
The king rose suddenly, his dark cloak swirling like wings behind him. He paced the chamber, one hand brushing across the dragon-carved chairs as though seeking something to strike.
"They dare," he muttered. "They dare hide her from me, after all that was promised, after the songs, the prophecy…" His voice dropped, almost to a whisper, but sharp with fury. "The dragon must have three heads. She is—she was—meant to be part of that destiny."
Varys watched him calmly, betraying no opinion.
Rhaegar stopped before the great window that overlooked the dark city below. King's Landing glittered faintly, but his eyes were far northward, beyond the Neck, beyond the Wall.
"And yet I can do nothing," he admitted bitterly. "No betrothal was ever sworn. No words spoken before gods or men. Only glances, songs, and a crown of roses. To demand her now would shame me before the realm. They would call me mad, whisper that I dishonor my queen, Elia."
He turned back, his violet gaze narrowing. "But I will find her, Varys. I will find her if I must search every castle, every godswood, every frozen village in the North. She is not lost to me yet."
Varys bowed, his voice smooth as silk. "Patience, Your Grace. Secrets unravel slowly. If the Starks guard her, then we must watch the Starks. A letter leaves traces. An owl may be followed. With time, truth will come fluttering into your hand."
Rhaegar exhaled slowly, forcing the fury back into his chest. He seated himself once more, though his knuckles remained white against the table.
"See to it," he said at last. "If Lyanna Stark lives still, I will know where."
Varys spread his hands, serene and spiderlike. "As you command, Your Grace. My little birds shall listen more closely than ever."
The chamber grew quiet again, save for the faint crackle of torches. Rhaegar Targaryen, king of Westeros, sat alone with his thoughts, his dreams of prophecy, and the name of the woman who haunted them all.
Lyanna.
Brandon Stark groaned as the world tilted under him. His head throbbed like a war drum, his mouth dry as ash. The smell of salt, pitch, and wet rope filled his nostrils. When his eyes fluttered open, he realized he was not in his bed in Volantis. The ceiling above him was curved wood, beams darkened with tar and sea air.
"What…?" He pushed himself up, swaying. The floor beneath his feet moved with the roll of waves.
A ship.
"Seven hells," Brandon muttered. His eyes darted about. A cramped cabin, a small bunk, and beside him—Barbara. His wife, pale and heavy with child, sleeping uneasily.
He staggered to the door and shoved it open. The light stabbed his eyes, and the roar of the sea rushed in. He stumbled onto the deck, where men in heavy fur cloaks and thick boots hauled ropes and sang in a tongue he half-knew.
Brandon blinked. They were not Essosi sailors. These men were broad, with hair the color of copper, snow, and pitch. Their weapons gleamed with steel. Their cloaks bore a strange sigil—a white dragon upon a black field.
He knew it. He had heard the whispers in taverns. Narnians.
"What trick is this?" Brandon bellowed, though his voice cracked with the rasp of drink. He marched forward, hands clenched. "Whose ship is this? Who stole me from my home?"
The nearest sailor turned, a burly man with a braided beard and calm gray eyes. He didn't flinch at Brandon's fury. Instead, he raised a hand in easy command. "Be at ease, Stark."
Brandon froze. "You know my name?"
The man smirked. "Aye. We know who you are. You're Brandon Stark, the wolf who thought himself a merchant. You've been seen enough in Volantis, shouting your name after too much wine, to make yourself known."
Brandon's face reddened with anger and shame. "Answer me—why am I here?"
The sailor's gaze sharpened. "Because the Queen wished it so."
Brandon barked a laugh. "Queen? What queen commands Me and my wife to be stolen from our home? Some Essosi harlot who calls herself royalty?"
The man stepped closer, his presence like a wall of stone. "Our Queen. And you will speak of her with respect, wolf. She asked for you, and so you are here. Alive, with your wife and your unborn child. That is more courtesy than most receive when they offend Narnian crews."
Brandon faltered, his bravado cracking. "I… I didn't offend you. I only—"
"You stood on our docks," the man interrupted, "drunk as a fish and cursing our ships. You spat at the name of Narnia, calling us thieves who ruined your trade. You wished us drowned in the sea. That kind of tongue does not go unanswered."
Brandon's fists tightened. "So you drag me onto a ship, against my will? Do you know who I am? I am—"
"A wolf without a den," the man cut him off coldly. "A Stark without Winterfell. You may roar, but your claws are gone. So save your words."
Brandon staggered back, teeth gritted. His pride screamed at him to draw a sword—but he had none. These men were armored and armed, and he was just a drunk, stranded with his pregnant wife.
For the first time in years, fear coiled in his gut. But stronger than fear was confusion.
"Why me?" he muttered, voice breaking. "Why would this Queen want me?"
The sailor finally softened, just a fraction. "That… you will learn soon enough. Hold your tongue, Stark. The sea is long, and anger will not keep you warm."
He turned away, barking orders at the crew. The sails strained, the oars beat in rhythm, and the Narnian ship cut across the sea with unnatural speed.
Brandon remained on the deck, trembling between rage and unease. He looked out across the endless waves, then back at Barbara's swollen belly.
"Seven save me," he whispered. "What game have I been dragged into now?"
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