The Small Council chamber of the Red Keep was unusually tense that morning.
A cold rain lashed against the narrow windows, turning King's Landing gray and miserable. Lords and officials gathered around the long table—each man looking more exhausted than the last. Rumors had been spreading like wildfire since the royal family left: whispers of unrest among the Gold Cloaks, complaints from merchants, disputes between lords.
King Rhaegar Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his silver hair tied neatly behind him, his violet eyes distant yet calm. To his right sat Jon Connington, the Hand of the King—stern-faced, red-haired, meticulous, and already flipping through a stack of ledgers.
Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat for the tenth time, while Master of Whisperers Varys quietly scribbled notes. The Master of Coin, Lord Merryweather, looked thoroughly overwhelmed. Seven help them all.
It was then that the door burst open.
A drenched messenger stumbled inside, bowing so fast he nearly slipped on the wet floor.
"A letter, Your Grace," he gasped, clutching a scroll wrapped in pale, unfamiliar parchment. "Delivered by—by an owl."
The room went silent.
An owl.
Everyone exchanged uneasy looks.
Rhaegar's heart leapt in his chest. "From whom?"
The messenger swallowed. "Queen Elia, Your Grace."
Rhaegar rose from his seat so abruptly that half the council jerked in shock.
"Give it to me."
The messenger bowed and placed the letter in the king's hand. The parchment was fine, soft—clearly not from Westeros. The seal was stamped with the sigil of Narnia.
Rhaegar broke it.
Silence fell so deep it felt suffocating.
He read.
His hands trembled slightly. Then he exhaled a long, shuddering breath.
"Elia… is healed."
The council erupted.
"Healed? How?"
"Is it truly from her?"
"Your Grace, surely this is a ruse—"
"Magic!" Pycelle sputtered. "Foreign sorcery! This cannot be trusted!"
Rhaegar silenced them with a look sharper than any sword.
"She writes clearly." His voice shook with emotion. "She breathes easily. She is walking without pain. She says Queen Lyanna of Narnia and her husband have healed her."
Jon Connington rubbed his temples. "This… complicates everything."
"How?" Rhaegar snapped. "My wife lives. There is no complication greater than that."
But the Hand shook his head grimly. "Your wife is no longer in Westeros, Your Grace. She is in a foreign kingdom—a kingdom we know nothing about."
Grand Maester Pycelle croaked, "Your Grace… healing a lifetime disease? Such things only happen through dark means. Sorcery. Old magic. Perhaps blood magic—"
Rhaegar's glare stopped him mid-sentence.
"My wife is cured," the king repeated. "That is all that matters."
"But who cured her?" Pycelle whispered. "And at what cost?"
Lord Merryweather nodded nervously. "Magic is outlawed in every realm. If they can perform such feats—what else can they do? Enslave minds? Turn armies? Spread plague?"
"And they have Princess Daenerys," Qyburn added quietly.
The room froze.
Yes.
Daenerys was there.
In Narnia.
A foreign land of sorcery.
Connington leaned forward urgently. "Your Grace, we must write back. Immediately. Politely. But firmly."
"To say what?" Rhaegar asked.
"That the Queen and Princess Daenerys must return to King's Landing as soon as possible," Connington said. "The realm cannot be at ease while two royals remain under the influence of foreign magic."
Pycelle clutched his chain. "Send guards! Send a fleet! Fetch them!"
"No," Connington said sharply. "A fleet? Against a nation that healed the queen? We cannot afford to provoke… whatever Narnia is."
Rhaegar read Elia's letter again, eyes softening at her graceful handwriting.
"She writes," he murmured, "that the people are kind. That the city is safe. That she has never felt more alive."
Pycelle scowled. "Witchcraft often feels pleasant before it ensnares, Your Grace."
"Enough." Rhaegar's voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "Elia is not a fool. She would not lie."
Jon Connington exhaled slowly. "No one is calling her a liar, Your Grace. But magic is unpredictable. Dangerous."
Then he leaned forward.
"Write a letter, Your Grace. Kindly request that she return. The sooner she leaves Narnia, the better—for the safety of the realm, and for her own."
Rhaegar closed his eyes for a long moment.
He did not want Elia far from him again—not after so many months apart.
And a selfish part of him wanted Daenerys nowhere near the Narnian prince Sirius—the boy who drew the king's own blood to a halt when he realized the truth.
Finally, he nodded.
"Prepare a response," he said quietly. "Inform her that the council is… concerned for her safety. And that Dany's presence is required at court."
Connington bowed. "At once, Your Grace."
Pycelle muttered in approval. "It is a wise decision. The sooner she returns from that land of witchcraft, the better."
Rhaegar tightened his grip on Elia's letter.
His voice was soft, but filled with iron.
"Send the letter," he said. "But know this—magic or no magic, Narnia saved my wife's life. And for that, they have my gratitude."
He sat slowly, eyes still on the parchment.
"But I will not risk losing her again."
The morning sunlight streamed gently through the great hall's tall windows, spilling warm gold across the long tables where Narnians and their guests ate freely. Platters of bread, roasted meats, milk, and steaming porridges cluttered the tables.
Lyanna sat with Elia, Oberyn, and Ser Lewyn Martell, eating quietly—her mind finally light after days of worry.
Until the owl came.
A great white owl swooped through one of the open glass arches, its wings beating so silently that many did not notice it until it landed directly in front of Lyanna.
On her plate.
Oberyn blinked. "They truly have no manners."
Lyanna ignored him. Her face tightened the moment she saw the seal—black wax pressed with the mark of the Frostfang village.
Ser Lewyn leaned closer. "A reply from Kingslanding? So soon?"
Lyanna shook her head. "No. This… is for me."
She broke the seal.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the page. Her breath caught. Her hand trembled.
Sirius, who had been chasing Daenerys around the table, stopped mid-laugh. "Mother? What's wrong?"
Lyanna did not answer. She kept reading—her face slowly draining of color.
Oberyn's eyebrows drew together. "Your Grace. What news?"
Finally, she whispered.
"The cold ones attacked."
Everything went still.
Sirius froze, understanding instantly—he had heard the stories since his childhood.
Lyanna exhaled shakily and began reading aloud, her voice barely above a whisper.
"My Queen,
Our settlement was struck without warning. The cold ones came at night, in great number, and with them came wights—men we once knew, now risen in frost and shadow. They fell upon us like a storm. Many died.
If not for the wards King Harry wove around the mines and the outer village, we would all be dead. The wards flared blue light, driving back the cold ones whenever they neared, but even so… they broke through in places.
We have retreated into the mines. Many are wounded. Many are still trapped in the collapsed homes. We beg for aid.
Aldgrim of Frostfang Mines."
When she finished, she lowered the parchment with trembling fingers.
A silence heavier than steel spread across the hall.
Elia swallowed. "Cold ones? You mean… the same creatures the northerners speak of in old tales?"
Lyanna nodded wordlessly.
Oberyn frowned. "What are these cold ones? Some kind of northern monster?"
Sirius answered before Lyanna could.
"They are called White walkers," he said quietly. "They're corpses who walk in ice. And the cold ones command the dead."
Daenerys's face paled. "Like… like wights in the old stories?"
Sirius nodded. "Exactly like that."
Oberyn muttered something sharp in Dornish. "Seven hells, is it true?."
Lewyn Martell leaned forward. "Are these creatures threatening Narnia regularly?"
"No," Lyanna whispered. "Not until now."
She folded the letter tightly, pressing it against her chest.
"Aldgrim would not have written unless it was dire."
Sirius climbed onto the bench beside her. "We have to go help them. Right now."
Lyanna kissed the top of his head, though her hands shook. "Yes, sweetling. We must."
Daenerys tugged Sirius's sleeve. "Are cold ones very dangerous?"
Sirius nodded soberly. "Father said they're harder to kill than any man."
Oberyn rose to his feet. "If your people are in danger, then we must assist. Elia is healed. We owe you our lives."
Lyanna shook her head. "This is not your battle. And cold ones are not like any army in Westeros. Steel barely harms them."
Lewyn's mouth tightened. "Magic?"
"Dragonglass," Lyanna agreed softly.
She stood abruptly, pushing her chair back. Her voice was firm, queenly.
"I must gather the council. And we must send riders north immediately."
Oberyn placed a hand on Lyanna's arm. "Tell me what you need. Anything."
Lyanna looked at him—really looked—and the hardness in her eyes made even the Red Viper falter.
"I need you to stay here," she said. "Protect Your sister. Protect Daenerys. And do not leave this castle unless I command it."
Oberyn blinked. "You expect me to sit still while demons march on your land?"
Lyanna's voice softened, but only slightly.
"You are not Narnians. The cold ones would kill you easily. I will not risk you."
He exhaled, frustration burning behind his eyes—but he nodded.
Elia touched Lyanna's hand. "Do you think your people will survive?"
Lyanna forced a breath. "If Harry's wards held long enough… perhaps. But the cold ones never come this far south unless something drives them." Her voice lowered. "Something is stirring in the deep north."
She turned, her cloak sweeping around her like wings.
"Forgive me. I must act."
And with that, she strode from the hall—leaving Oberyn, Elia, and Lewyn staring after her, the echo of ancient ice settling into their bones.
Oberyn Martell had expected magic when he came to Narnia.
He expected power.
He expected wonder.
He expected strangeness at every turn.
But he had not expected her.
Queen Lyanna of Narnia moved through the Gryffindor Castle with terrifying efficiency—graceful as a predator, commanding as a seasoned general. She was nothing like the quiet, half-sick girl the South whispered about. She was strength incarnate.
And she was already preparing for war.
Oberyn followed silently as the queen strode into the Owlery, a place alive with wings and soft rustling feathers. At least a hundred owls shifted on their perches as Lyanna lifted her chin and commanded:
"Bring me the lead messengers!"
The largest owls hopped closer, intelligent eyes glowing in the lantern light.
Lyanna dipped her quill and began writing with sharp, purposeful strokes.
"To Frostshield. Frostshield. The Gnome City. The mining villages. Send weapons to every settlements."
A shaman bowed. "Steel weapons, Your Majesty?
Lyanna's quill snapped in her fingers.
"No," she said, voice iron. "Send dragonglass."
Oberyn's breath caught.
A skinchanger stepped forward, wolf cloak falling over one shoulder.
"We have stockpiles. Arrowheads. Daggers. Spears. Enough to arm every man and every archer."
"Then distribute them," Lyanna ordered. "Before sunset."
The Owlery exploded into motion.
Scrolls were tied to talons.
Owls launched into the sky like storm winds.
Shamans rushed to and from the tower with baskets of obsidian arrowheads.
Oberyn stood frozen, astonished.
Westeros argued for months to raise an army.
Narnia moved in minutes.
He had never seen such unity, such discipline—such fearlessness.
Lyanna turned then, eyes blazing.
"Oberyn, I need your help."
He straightened immediately. "Tell me what must be done."
"There is a ship leaving for Volantis at dawn. The captain will take You, Princess Elia, Princess Daenerys, and your uncle. They must be taken far from danger."
Oberyn's jaw tightened. "And you? What of you?"
Lyanna faced him, unwavering. "I will stay. I will command the army. Narnia is my crown—and my home."
He hesitated only a moment.
"Then I will remain as well."
Lyanna shook her head gently. "Oberyn… this is not your war."
Oberyn's lips curved into a dangerously soft smile.
"You saved Elia's life. Narnia sheltered her, fed her, healed her. If this land falls while I hide on a ship, what honor would I have left?"
Lyanna did not argue further. There was respect in her eyes now—deep and quiet.
"Very well."
Hours later, the emergency council gathered in the great hall. Maps of icy planes were spread across a carved stone table, weighed down by obsidian daggers. Shamans, warriors, and skinchangers filled the room.
When Lyanna entered, conversation died at once.
A grizzled chieftain spoke first.
"If the King were awake, this threat would already be crushed."
Another muttered, "One spell from him could destroy the Cold ones."
Lyanna slammed her palm on the table hard enough to make the candles tremble.
"Stop speaking of him as if he were a god."
Silence rippled across the hall.
"Harry is a man," she continued. "A man who nearly killed himself healing Queen Elia. And he will not be here forever. If you rely on him for every battle, you doom this kingdom."
She looked each commander in the eye.
"This land is yours. These people are yours. If you want to live—fight for them."
Oberyn watched the room shift.
Shamans bowed their heads.
Warriors clenched fists over hearts.
Even the youngest skinchangers stood straighter.
Someone called from the back, "If we had time, we could send word to Ragnar—"
"No," Lyanna cut in. "He is needed on the island. Leave him out of this. We fight this battle ourselves."
Oberyn saw it clearly now.
This was not the wild girl everyone wrote stories about.
This was a queen forged in a foreign land, hardened by war, crowned by her people's trust and her husband's legacy.
A woman of ice and fire and iron.
A queen capable of holding a kingdom together.
And Oberyn Martell—Dorne's deadliest spear—felt a rare thing stir inside him.
Respect.
Deep and absolute.
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