When the truth spread through Winterfell's great hall, it did not arrive as a proclamation or a trumpet call, but in a whisper — carried from servant to knight, from squire to lord — until every cup paused halfway to every mouth.
The boy from Wintertown — the one who had stared down princes, snatched a ball from Ser Arthur Dayne's hand, and walked away as if kings were no more than farmers —
was Sirius Gryffindor, the Crown Prince of Narnia, son of Queen Lyanna of the North and her fabled husband, King Gryffindor.
A stunned hush fell across the great table.
Viserys Targaryen was the first to speak, voice barely above a whisper.
"That boy? The one who refused to kneel?"
Loras Tyrell swallowed hard, remembering the moment vividly — the child's fearless green eyes, the careless defiance that had made even the Kingsguard bristle. "If we'd laid a finger on him…" His voice trailed away, pale as the snow outside. "The North would've drowned us in ice."
Across the table, Oberyn Martell chuckled low, his amusement edged with something darker.
"Well, now we know where the lad gets his temper," he said. "From his mother. The wolf's cub has fangs."
Elia Martell said nothing. She sat stiffly beside her husband, her eyes fixed on Lyanna across the hall — the northern queen radiant in her fur-lined mantle, her son seated proudly beside her. Sirius's smile was open, kind, and without guile. When servants came to pour his cup or clear his plate, he thanked them by name. When he spoke to Robb Stark, his young cousin, he used the same warm tone he gave the maids who served him.
Even the coldest hearts at the table felt a flicker of something unfamiliar — admiration.
Prince Aegon Targaryen leaned closer to his father. "He's riding a direwolf, Father," he whispered, awestruck. "A real one. The size of a horse!"
Queen Lyanna's direwolf lay at her feet, head resting on its paws, yellow eyes gleaming beneath the firelight. Another one sat beside the boy — sleek, gray, and massive. The beasts stirred restlessly whenever strangers drew near, yet they obeyed Sirius's hand like hounds trained since birth.
Viserys stared at the wolves with a mixture of terror and envy. "We were meant to ride dragons," he muttered bitterly. "And they ride wolves."
Rhaenys giggled, trying to lighten the tension. "Perhaps they're dragons turned furry."
Daenerys, perched on Elia's lap, squealed in delight when one of the direwolves turned its enormous head toward her. The child's laughter rang through the hall — the first pure sound to break the heaviness that hung there.
But for the adults, it was no laughing matter.
At the high table, Lord Tyrell dabbed his lips with a shaking handkerchief. "Seven hells," he breathed. "We nearly— we could have struck a prince. A foreign prince."
Wyman Manderly's booming voice cut across the murmur. "Aye, and the North would have risen before sunrise. Narnia would not even need to march; the sea would have turned red before dawn."
Lord Tarly, grim as always, nodded once. "Their wolves alone could have devoured half the hall."
Ser Gerold Hightower's gauntleted hands tightened around his cup. "This Narnia… their warriors frighten me more than dragons. No songs, no boasts. Only quiet eyes that measure every soul in the room."
Arthur Dayne glanced toward Sirius, who was helping a servant pick up a dropped platter. The boy smiled, gentle and unhurried, before returning to his seat.
"He is courteous," Arthur said quietly. "Too courteous for a prince that age."
"That is what makes him dangerous," Hightower replied. "Kindness in one so young hides something deeper. The boy is already learning how to rule."
At the center of the hall, Lyanna leaned down to whisper to her son, and Sirius's laughter carried faintly across the tables. "Yes, you may ride after supper," she told him, "but not beyond the forest line."
"Yes, Mother," he said, eyes shining. "Robb wants to race the wolves again."
The two children slipped out moments later, their direwolves trotting beside them, tails sweeping the floor like banners of living fur. The heavy doors boomed shut behind them, and the hall seemed emptier for it.
Elia Martell watched them go, her heart tightening. "Even their beasts obey them," she murmured.
Oberyn swirled his wine lazily. "Be glad they do. If those wolves turned against us, none of your precious guards would live to tell the tale."
Elia shivered, and Rhaegar looked toward the door where Lyanna's son had vanished. His voice was low, distant — filled with something that was neither sorrow nor pride, but the hollow ache of recognition.
"The dragon's heir has no dragon," he said softly. "But the wolf's son has found his pack."
And as the fire crackled and the northern wind howled outside the walls, every southern lord at that table understood one thing with icy clarity:
If war ever came again to Westeros,
it would not be dragons they feared most—
but wolves born under a foreign sun.
While their elders whispered politics and war over cups of hot wine, the children of the royal entourage found Winterfell far more fascinating than frightening.
It was a land of snow, of endless halls and echoing stairways, of firelight flickering against gray stone. Cold, yes—but alive. The hearths burned bright, and the air carried the scent of pine and roasted meat. Even Prince Viserys Targaryen, who had spent the journey north complaining about frozen air and thick furs, found his breath catching with wonder.
"This castle," he said, his voice echoing through the long gallery, "is older than King's Landing itself."
Beside him, Loras Tyrell, fellow squire and companion, rubbed his gloved hands together and grinned.
"And colder than the Seven Hells' teeth," he muttered. "How do they live here?"
Viserys smiled proudly, as though the chill itself were a test of bloodline. "The Starks are born with ice in their veins. But a Targaryen—" he drew himself taller "—a Targaryen's fire burns through anything."
From behind them, Prince Aegon, a boy of seven, hugged himself against the cold. "I'd rather have a blanket," he said softly. "My fire feels very small."
"Your fire will grow," Viserys said in what he believed was a regal tone, and Loras barely suppressed a snort.
"You sound just like our King."
"Good," Viserys replied. "One day I'll wear his crown."
They wandered deeper into Winterfell, accompanied by a handful of guards who trailed at a polite distance. The corridors twisted like a labyrinth, with sudden turns and hidden doors that seemed to breathe secrets. Even the walls themselves murmured faintly with the hum of hot water running through the pipes beneath—Winterfell's ancient, mysterious warmth.
Princess Rhaenys Targaryen skipped ahead, her black hair bouncing, Daenerys toddling beside her hand in hand. "Do you hear that?" Rhaenys whispered. "It's like the castle is sighing."
"That's the heat from the springs," said a Northern guard patiently.
"The castle's built on them."
Viserys's eyes gleamed. "Hot water running beneath the ground… dragons sleep under fire too."
Loras raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying there's a dragon under Winterfell?"
Viserys turned to him, lips curving into a conspiratorial grin. "Perhaps. My mother told me once that long ago, during Aegon's reign, one of our dragons flew north and never returned. She said it was wounded, that it landed near Winterfell and… laid an egg."
Aegon's eyes went wide. "An egg? Here?"
"That's just a story," Loras said, though a spark of curiosity flickered in his own eyes. "Your mother probably made it up to make you feel brave."
Viserys ignored him. "If a dragon's egg truly lies hidden here, imagine what it would mean! I could hatch it—tame it. A dragon of my own! Then everyone would have to kneel when I speak."
They explored the courtyard first, then the armory, then the empty kennels where old wolf bones hung as trophies. Winterfell's vastness seemed endless—its towers, its cellars, the silent godswood where red leaves shivered in the wind.
When they came across a narrow stairway spiraling down into the dark, Viserys halted.
"What's down there?" he asked the nearest guard.
"The crypts," came the quiet reply. "Only Starks are permitted."
Viserys's grin turned sly. "Then we'll go quietly."
Loras hesitated. "We'll be in trouble if we're caught."
"Then don't get caught," Viserys said, already descending. His golden hair glimmered faintly in the torchlight as he led the way down.
Aegon followed reluctantly, clutching his cloak. The air grew colder, older, heavier. The flickering torches revealed statues of men and women in stone, their faces solemn, direwolves carved at their feet. Shadows pooled between them like breathless ghosts.
Daenerys whimpered softly. "I don't like it."
"It's just statues," Rhaenys said, though her voice shook. "They can't hurt us."
Loras muttered, "I'd rather fight a real knight than walk here alone."
Then, from the far end of the corridor, came a deep rumble—soft, but unmistakable.
All the children froze.
"What was that?" Aegon whispered.
Viserys's heart pounded, not with fear but delight. "You heard it, didn't you? A dragon's breath!"
"Viserys, no," Loras hissed. "We should go—"
But the prince was already striding toward the sound, torch held high, his breath forming white mist. "It's down here. It must be!"
They followed him unwillingly, step by step, until they reached the last alcove where an ancient King of Winter lay carved in stone. Beyond him was only a blank wall—and yet the air was warmer.
Viserys pressed his hand to the stone. It was hot.
Aegon gasped. "How—how can that be?"
The wall gave a faint crack, as if something beneath it exhaled.
For a long heartbeat, none of them spoke.
Then Viserys's voice trembled in awe. "It's true."
When they finally climbed back up, pale and shivering, their guards scolded them soundly and marched them toward the main keep. But Viserys hardly heard a word. His mind was ablaze with one thought.
He had touched fire beneath Winterfell.
A dragon's secret waiting for him to claim.
And in the gray light of dusk, as snow fell gently over the courtyard, Prince Viserys Targaryen whispered to himself:
"I will find it… and when I do, I will be the one who wakes the dragon."
Winterfell's training yard had never seen such a sight in living memory.
Snow flurried in thin veils through the cold air, and every strike of steel against steel rang like thunder beneath the walls. The Southern knights, wrapped in layers of wool and pride, gathered near the edge of the yard to watch.
At the center stood Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, his blade Dawn glimmering pale as sunrise.
And facing him — on the frozen ground — stood one of the Narnian skinchangers.
The man's eyes were amber, his breath steaming, a wolf's pelt thrown carelessly over his shoulders. His weapon was no forged knight's sword but two curved Narnian blades, black as obsidian and humming faintly with some power Arthur could not name.
Arthur raised Dawn in salute.
"Begin," he said.
The man smiled, sharp and wild.
"As you wish, southern knight."
The clash was swift — blindingly swift.
Arthur had fought princes, knights, even the Mountain himself in years past, but never had he met such speed. The skinchanger's twin blades blurred like liquid shadow, and Arthur found himself forced back, parrying blow after blow, his breath frosting in the air.
When he countered, it was like striking wind — every movement answered, every angle mirrored.
He landed one clean strike — the flat of Dawn against the man's chest — but before he could step back, the skinchanger grinned and whispered a word that made the very snow tremble.
Arthur froze.
Something pressed against him — not steel, not hand, but a presence.
A voice in his mind.
"I could be inside your head before your next breath, knight."
Arthur staggered back, breaking the contact, heart pounding. The man only laughed and bowed.
"You're fast," he said, "but your mind is still loud."
Over the next three days, Arthur sparred with ten skinchangers.
He bested four — by grit, skill, and the perfect clarity of Dawn.
But the other six humiliated him. One fought blindfolded and still knocked him down with a sweep of his leg. Another disarmed him without touching him, his twin blades shimmered faintly behind his shoulders.
A woman — one of Lyanna's personal guards — fought him with twin knives and whispered runes that made her body blur with speed. He never even saw her final strike before he found himself on his knees, the edge of her blade resting against his throat.
"You are worthy," she told him softly, "but you do not yet understand the sword."
When they finally sheathed their weapons, Arthur was drenched in sweat despite the snow.
He had not been humbled like this since he first held a blade.
One of the skinchangers — a tall man with hawk-like eyes — offered him a hand.
"You are skilled, knight of the south," he said in a deep, even voice. "But skill is only one part of strength."
Arthur wiped his brow. "Then what is the rest?"
The man tilted his head, almost pitying him.
"Bond. Spirit. Soul. Your blade is alive, yet you treat it as a tool."
Arthur frowned. "Dawn was forged from a fallen star. It is pure. It is—"
"Not alive," the man finished. "Not to you."
Arthur's temper flared. "What would you know of my sword?"
The skinchanger smiled faintly. "I know that all things that breathe — beast or steel — can remember."
He crouched, tracing a symbol in the snow — three interlocking circles that pulsed faintly with blue light.
Arthur stared. "That is sorcery."
"It is truth," the man said. "Your Seven are not gods, Dayne. They are memories of men who learned to shape the world and were buried as legends."
Arthur went still.
"What are you saying?"
The skinchanger met his eyes.
"That magic — real magic — is not gone from the world. It was never gone. Your order killed it, your faith burned it, your kings buried it under stone. But it breathes still… in the blood of the old, and in the lands your maesters call myth."
He leaned close, his voice a whisper of wind and snow.
"In Narnia, it thrives."
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