Not getting the proper respect that a king deserves from a child is tolerable — forgivable, even amusing.
But when an adult refuses to kneel before the crown…
That is something far more dangerous.
The courtyard of Winterfell stood frozen in more ways than one. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the gray skies, but the silence that fell was sharp — a blade drawn quietly in a crowded hall.
Prince Oberyn Martell was the first to step forward. His dark eyes narrowed at Lyanna Stark, who stood tall among kneeling Northern lords.
"Lord Stark, I have always heard," Oberyn said smoothly, his voice cutting through the cold air,
"that Lady Lyanna was a rather wild wolf… But I did not expect her to forget even common manners."
He let his gaze slide deliberately toward the King.
"To bend the knee before the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Murmurs flared like sparks from dry tinder. Heads turned toward Lyanna — the woman who dared stand unbowed before a dragon.
Lord Mace Tyrell stepped forth next, his cheeks flushed red and breath steaming like a boiling kettle.
"If you refuse to show proper respect to your king," he barked,
"even noble blood won't keep your head on your shoulders, girl!"
A ripple of shock passed through the Northerners — swords shifted subtly, hands brushed hilts.
Lord Rickard Stark's jaw tightened, but he held his tongue — for now.
The tension snapped when a voice boomed from behind the Stark line:
"You won't even get to move a muscle before we cut down your King and all of you!"
Gasps shot through the courtyard as one of the Narnian stepped forward — a towering, warrior with a drawn blade. His wolf growled beside him, teeth bared, eyes burning like coals in the snow.
Swords whipped free all around, Kingsguard and Northern guards clashing toward one another like iron waves ready to collide.
Lyanna's voice, sharp as the North wind, cut through everything:
"Wilgo. Stand down."
The warrior — Wilgo of Narnia — froze mid-step. His nostrils flared, his fury trembling in his grip, but when she spoke again, quieter yet firmer:
"Go back."
—he obeyed.
Slowly, reluctantly, he sheathed his sword and retreated, though his eyes never left Lord Tyrell — hatred smoldering beneath the surface.
Princess Elia clutched Daenerys closer. The King's breath quickened — not in fear, but memory.
Lyanna finally moved — stepping forward, and her cloak of white wolf fur swept the snow like a banner of winter itself. Her voice rang clear:
"A Queen never bends the knee to another King."
A collective gasp burst from the King's party. Even Rhaegar inhaled sharply.
Lyanna raised her chin.
"I am Queen Lyanna of Narnia."
The words struck the courtyard like thunder.
Narnia — that mysterious land spoken of in Essosi markets, whose gold filled Braavosi vaults and whose ships frightened pirates from the Stepstones —
was hers.
Elia stared wide-eyed. "Queen…?" she breathed.
Oberyn's eyes widened — intrigue replacing scorn. "Well," he said softly, "the wolf maid did not just survive… she found a throne."
Lord Tyrell's mouth hung half-open, fury and shock warring in his face.
And Rhaegar —
The king who once sang memory into music —
looked as if the wind had stolen his voice.
He could only whisper:
"Lyanna…"
Her eyes flicked to him — cold, steady, unflinching.
"It's been a while, King Rhaegar."
The title hit harder than any sword.
Formal. Emotionless. A wall of ice where once there had been wildflowers and promises.
All around them, breath frosted and tempers smoldered. But no one dared speak over the chill of that moment —
A wolf queen standing unbowed before a dragon king.
The gates of Winterfell closed behind the King's procession with a groaning echo of ice against iron. The North continued about its business—soldiers back to their training, servants back to their chores—as if a royal visit were no more remarkable than another gust of snow.
But within the party of dragons and sun-dwellers, chaos simmered beneath fur cloaks and stiff manners.
Lyanna Stark—Queen Lyanna of Narnia—had walked away without a bow, without a word to the king she once danced with beneath Harrenhal's vaulting rafters.
The North barely blinked.
It was the South that trembled.
Queen Elia Martell's gloved fingers tightened around her daughter's small hand.
Her voice cracked despite the winter in her lungs.
"She… she is a queen."
The words tasted bitter.
Prince Oberyn's eyes gleamed with intrigue.
"A queen of a nation no one in Westeros commands or understands," he murmured.
He gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Your husband's lost lady has done rather well for herself."
Elia shot him a warning look. "Do not provoke me."
"My apologies, sister," Oberyn replied dryly, "but I admire her courage. And that woman is powerful."
He glanced to the Narnian guards standing like statues in the courtyard—each with an animal shadowing their every move.
"I underestimated her," Oberyn admitted softly.
Lord Tyrell was pacing like a caged boar, cloak whipping behind him.
"This—this is an outrage!" he hissed to the other Reach lords.
"She refuses to bend the knee—refuses to acknowledge the King!"
"And the North does not seem to care," another lord muttered.
Tyrell turned redder.
"And House Stark has cut the Reach from trade. Wheat shipments have halted. They have… other suppliers now."
His voice faltered.
Everyone knew he meant Narnia.
"And that means…," a Florent lord whispered, paling,
"…they can choose their alliances freely."
Tyrell swallowed hard.
"No one warned us she was a queen."
"No one in the South bothered to ask what happened to her," Oberyn's voice cut in lazily.
"Perhaps you all assumed she died in disgrace."
Tyrell ignored him—though the hit landed.
Ser Gerold Hightower's white cloak fluttered as he approached Ser Arthur Dayne, his brow furrowed.
"This smells of danger," Hightower growled. "Skinchangers. Magic. Wolves trained to kill on command. A queen who bows to no man."
"If hostility breaks," he muttered, "our numbers will not matter."
Arthur stood calm as moonlight.
His eyes followed Lyanna's retreating form with wordless respect.
"She did not threaten us," he said.
"Not with words," Hightower countered.
Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgment.
"She is a ruler. Treat her as one."
Inside her furs, Elia's heart hammered.
"What is Narnia truly? A city? A country? An empire?" she asked, voice trembling.
Oberyn answered without hesitation:
"A kingdom that trades with Essos through hidden ports.
A kingdom whose coin and inventions have already begun reshaping the world."
He nodded toward the Narnian guards:
"And they have men who speak to beasts as one mind."
Elia shuddered.
"And she expects us to accept her as equal?"
Oberyn took a slow breath.
"She expects nothing."
He smiled faintly.
"And that is what makes her dangerous."
Rhaegar Targaryen said nothing.
He stood apart, silver hair stirring in the northern wind.
His face was unreadable, as though carved from the same cold stone that built the castle around them.
But Arthur—who knew him better than any man—noticed the faint tremor in his gloved hands.
Regret had come north with him.
Queen Elia Martell sat beside the hearth in the chambers Winterfell had granted her. Despite the fire roaring hot enough to roast an aurochs, she shivered — not from cold, but from the memory of Lyanna Stark's arrival.
Lyanna's presence lingered like frostbite: dangerous, beautiful, and difficult to ignore.
Too beautiful.
Her hair, wild and dark like the northern forests.
Her eyes, sharp as a wolf's.
Her grace — unpolished but undeniably regal.
Elia's fingers coiled into the fur blanket around her shoulders, knuckles whitening.
"She is lovelier than the songs," she whispered.
Prince Oberyn Martell, lounging on a carved oak chair, raised a brow.
"I have seduced maidens who would shame the sun," he said lightly. "Yet even I must admit… the wolf-queen is striking."
Elia grimaced. "Do not remind me."
For years, she had lived with the quiet dread that her husband's heart did not belong entirely to her.
Rhaegar spoke of destiny, of prophecy, of chosen ones…
He did not speak of love.
But when Lyanna's name escaped his lips, a softness appeared that Elia wished she could break and mend into her own shape.
"She has a child," Elia said quietly. "And a king of her own. She should not still haunt him."
Oberyn leaned forward, studying his sister's face, voice lowering to something far less playful.
"You fear she will try to reclaim what might once have been?"
Elia swallowed. Her pride tasted like iron.
"I fear Rhaegar may want her to."
The admission trembled out of her.
For a heartbeat, the Prince of Dorne was silent.
Then Elia's eyes glimmered with a fragile, desperate hope.
"Oberyn… You are a charming man. Skilled in persuasion. In… flattery."
She hesitated. "Could you speak with her? Learn her intentions? Perhaps… sway them?"
A smug smirk tugged at his lips — then faded as he saw the fear behind her request.
"Elia," he said softly, "I do not think seducing her will be so simple."
"You have never failed before," she insisted, clinging to the thought like a prayer.
He sighed, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.
"If I approach her… the King must never know. Rhaegar would take it as an insult — perhaps even a betrayal."
Elia nodded quickly. "Yes. In secret, of course."
Oberyn's gaze drifted toward the frosted window, where moonlight gleamed on the courtyard below.
"She is a wolf," he murmured. "And wolves do not fall for pretty words from desert princes. But…"
His dark eyes sparked with mischief — and challenge.
"I will speak to her. I will watch her. I will discover whether she still yearns toward the dragon."
Relief washed through Elia — but it was laced with guilt.
"I do not wish her harm," she whispered.
"Of course not," Oberyn said gently, rising to press a kiss to her brow. "You only wish to protect what is yours."
Elia closed her eyes.
My husband.
My children.
My crown.
"Yes," she breathed. "What is mine."
Oberyn slipped his spear from where it rested against the wall and slung his cloak over his shoulder.
"I will go," he said, moving toward the door. "And I will return with truth."
As the door shut behind him, Elia Martell pressed a hand to her chest — willing her heart to slow.
Rhaegar Targaryen had never been made to chase a conversation in his life.
People sought him — celebrated him — bent their backs and necks to hear his thoughts, to bask in the light of his crown. Yet here, in Winterfell's ancient stone heart, he found himself shadowing a wolf who refused to look back.
The Queen of Narnia.
From the moment he arrived, he had tried to speak with her privately. Just a few words. A chance to understand what fate — or foolishness — had severed them so cruelly.
But she was never alone.
Northern lords clustered around her like cairn stones around a grave.
Narnian guards flanked her like silent wraiths, their wolves padding close, breath steaming in the cold.
Each time Rhaegar stepped closer, a sworded figure stepped between them.
Once, he had attempted with his usual authority.
"Stand a side I want to speak to Lady Lyanna?" he asked one of the foreign soldiers — a massive man with a bear sigil burned into his leather armor.
The warrior turned his cold eyes on Rhaegar — a king — and replied:
"Fuck off."
Arthur Dayne's hand had gone instantly to Dawn.
Gerold Hightower stiffened like a crossbow string ready to snap.
The Narnian merely stared back, utterly unafraid.
Rhaegar had never known fear until that moment.
He tried again later, when Lyanna rode out of the castle gates on her direwolf.
Rhaegar followed on horseback, thinking the beast would be alone.
But another direwolf — even larger — crashing from the pines, teeth bared, stalking inches from his mount's flank, made his stallion rear in terror.
Rhaegar retreated before the beast could decide king's flesh might taste good.
Behind him, Lyanna didn't so much as glance back.
Inside the heat of Winterfell's great hall, banners shifting overhead, Rhaegar approached Lord Manderly — one of the few Northern lords who spoke frequently with the Narnian queen.
"I would request," Rhaegar said carefully, "that you arrange a private audience with Queen Lyanna."
Manderly's eyes narrowed over his tankard.
When he answered, his voice held no deference.
"Your Grace… a word of caution."
He leaned in, breath smelling of spiced wine.
"This is the North."
Rhaegar stiffened.
"And what of it?"
Manderly's tone dropped lower — sharper.
"You have no dragons at your back. Your banners mean little here — winter eats kings for supper."
His gaze slid toward Lyanna across the hall, laughing warmly with her people.
"And the North remembers who protected us when famine came.
Not King's Landing.
Narnia."
The words struck like cold steel.
"If you try to force the queen," Manderly continued,
"you may find your power melts quicker than snow near a forge."
Rhaegar's jaw clenched.
"You would dare threaten a Targaryen king?"
"Not a threat," Manderly replied, placing his mug down hard.
"A warning."
He stepped aside, dismissing the conversation with a curt nod.
"Best to tread lightly."
Rhaegar stood frozen — not by the cold, but by the revelation pressing down on him:
He was not the strongest man in this castle.
Not the most respected.
Not the most feared.
They have a Queen with Northern blood.
And they would burn the world before letting anything harm her.
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