By the time the Sea Maiden dropped anchor in White Harbor, word had already begun to spread across the North like wildfire on dry pine.
Lyanna Stark is back.
Alive—and more than that, she was no mere lady in exile or hermit beyond the sea. She had a throne of her own.
Every hall from Barrowton to Deepwood Motte hummed with the news. Maesters carried ravens with sealed letters, and travelers brought rumors thicker than snowflakes in winter.
She had written to her brothers, to her father, and even to a few old friends from in the North. And as every lord and lady in the North read those letters, one thing became clear: Lyanna Stark was not some lost fool or vanished maiden. She was a queen.
But the mystery of her new home only deepened the fascination.
No map showed Narnia. No sailor could say exactly where it lay. Yet its ships were seen in every great port of Essos—painted in white and black, crewed by pale men and women who spoke the a mix of Essosi and common tongue.
Narnia's influence was vast. Their merchants brought rare steel, clear glass, and fine fabrics that shimmered like liquid light. Their gold flowed through the Free Cities, buying favors, ships, and silence.
And now the secret was out—the Queen of Narnia was a Stark of Winterfell.
Lords across the Narrow Sea sent letters to the North, hoping to gain trade or alliances through Winterfell, but none received replies.
Only one lord in all Westeros had ever traded directly with Narnia—Rickard Stark.
For years, ships had arrived quietly at White Harbor under Manderly's protection, bearing gifts and goods from the east: blades that never dulled, spices unseen in the Seven Kingdoms, and barrels of fire whiskey that warmed body even in the coldest blizzard. Few questioned it at the time.
Now, all understood.
Winterfell's silent connection to that strange, distant kingdom had not been mere trade—it was blood.
[ Flash Back - Start ]
Lord Wyman Manderly himself nearly choked on his breakfast porridge when he heard Lyanna is the Queen of Narnia from his spy in Braavos.
"By the gods," he wheezed to his son Wylis, slamming a meaty hand on the table. "The Queen of Narnia—Rickard's own daughter—is standing in my harbor, and I've no feast ready to greet her?!"
"She came unannounced, Father," Wylis replied, trying not to laugh. "No ravens, no warning—only the captain's report that she travels with wolves the size of horses."
"That's no excuse! No northern lord will say that House Manderly failed to welcome a Northern Queen!"
He turned to his servants with urgency rarely seen in White Harbor. "Send word to the kitchens—fresh bread, meat pies, roast mutton, everything we have! Fetch the musicians, the banners, the silver goblets! The feast must be ready before she reaches the gates!"
The servants scattered, half in panic, half in excitement.
Within the hour, White Harbor began to transform. The streets were swept clean, banners hung from every tower, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air.
[ Flash Back - End ]
When Lyanna rode through the city gates later that day, Sirius by her side and the direwolves padding silently at her heels, the entire harbor had gathered to see her.
The Manderly guard flanked her escort, their armor shining under the pale northern sun. The crowd parted in reverent silence.
For most, she was a legend made flesh—the lost wolf-maid returned, crowned with dignity instead of sorrow.
Lord Wyman himself stood at the steps of his great hall, his face red with excitement and tears in his eyes.
"My lady Lyanna!" he boomed, dropping to one knee despite his girth. "House Manderly welcomes you home, and all White Harbor with it!"
Lyanna dismounted gracefully and took his hands. "Lord Wyman, your welcome warms the heart. It has been long since I walked northern soil."
"And the North is better for it, my queen," Wyman said, voice trembling with emotion.
Sirius blinked up at him curiously. "You don't have to kneel," he said simply. "Father says you only kneel infront of the Gods."
Wyman chuckled, rising with effort. "Then your father is a wise man, young lord. You have your mother's courage, I see."
Lyanna smiled faintly. "He has his father's stubbornness too."
Laughter broke the tension, and the gates of New Castle opened wide.
As Lyanna and Sirius stepped inside, the banners of House Stark and House Manderly fluttered side by side. And above them, a new standard—red and gold with the Gryffindor lion—snapped in the northern wind.
The Queen of Narnia had returned to the North, and the North was ready to honor her as one of their own.
Lord Wyman Manderly was not a man easily astonished, yet the day Lyanna Stark walked into his hall with wolves at her side, the old lord felt the ground shift beneath him. He had welcomed kings and envoys before, but never a legend.
After the initial greetings and feasting, he could barely contain his curiosity. When the musicians fell silent and the servants withdrew, Wyman leaned forward on his cushioned chair, his pale eyes fixed on Lyanna.
"Forgive an old man's nosiness, my lady, but tell me—why now? After all these years, why return to the North?" Lord Manderly asked.
Lyanna smiled faintly "For the same reasons any woman returns home, Lord Wyman. To see my kin. My brother Benjen weds soon, and I would not have the last Stark son married without me there to witness it. I came to share his joy, and to remind my family that I have not forgotten where I was born."
"A wedding, then. And perhaps more. Winterfell will rejoice to see you. Gods, the songs they'll write!". Lord Manderly looked excited.
The lord's laughter boomed through the hall, though his mind was already turning like the gears of a clock.
A queen of a wealthy realm, here in my hall. He imagined Narnian ships docking in his harbor, casks of fire whiskey stacked beside barrels of salted fish, gold flowing through Manderly coffers. A single parchment signed in her name could change the fortune of his house forever.
"My lady, forgive my boldness—but a trade accord between White Harbor and your kingdom would benefit both our peoples. Narnian steel for northern furs, fire whiskey for grain. The sea could bind our houses tighter than any treaty." Wyman Manderly asked full of hope at the prospect of prosperity to his house.
"We can speak of it at Winterfell, Lord Wyman. I do not come as a queen today, but as a sister returning home." Lyanna looked every bit like a Queen.
Still, the promise in her words made his heart pound.
Lyanna did not linger in White Harbor. The sea voyage had been long, and her heart yearned for the cold air and gray stones of home.
Wyman tried to persuade her to rest, but she shook her head. "Each hour I spend here, Winterfell waits. My family waits. I must go."
The lord frowned, stroking his beard. "Then you shall not go alone. The road to Winterfell is long, and I would not have the wolves of the sea reach the wolves of the snow unguarded. I'll send a hundred of my best men. Swords, archers, riders—all loyal Manderly blood."
Lyanna tried to reject the offer, "Lord Wyman, that is too much. I already have my own guards—trained soldiers from Narnia. We can manage the road."
"Too much?" he bellowed. "Nothing is too much for a Stark! You'll take my men, or I'll ride with you myself."
And so it was settled. Wyman Manderly—round, red-faced, and determined—declared he would accompany her to Winterfell. The news spread quickly, and preparations began at once.
To honor her station, the Manderlys brought out one of their finest treasures: a carriage carved from white oak, its panels etched with silver inlays of leaping fish and roaring lions, draped in blue silk.
"Fit for a queen and her young prince," Lord Manderly said proudly.
But when the time came to depart, Lyanna and Sirius refused.
The courtyard was crowded—guards in Manderly green and blue, servants, sailors, and half the city's folk pressed against the gates to glimpse her one last time.
Then gasps rippled through the crowd as Lyanna stepped toward her direwolf. The beast stood massive and proud, its fur like gray snow, its eyes gleaming gold.
A Narnian skinchanger knelt to fasten a saddle of black leather and gold-threaded straps upon the wolf's broad back. Another carried a smaller seat for Sirius, fixing it securely on the other direwolf.
"My lady," he said, aghast. "Surely you will not—" Lord Wyman began but Lyanna cut him off in mid sentence
"Surely I will." There is no argument after that.
Sirius grinning as he climbed up on his direwolf "Father said it's safer than any carriage."
The direwolves gave a low, rumbling growl—not of anger, but of readiness. Wyman Manderly could only stare, mouth open in wonder.
And then it happened—something the people of the North would tell their grandchildren for generations.
The gates opened, and Lyanna Stark Gryffindor rode forth astride her direwolf, her dark hair streaming behind her like a banner, her son riding beside her, fast and laughing.
The hundred Manderly guards followed, their armor shining in the pale light, but all eyes were fixed on her.
An old woman in the crowd whispered, tears in her eyes, "The wolf kings of old rode like that, when the world was young. I never thought to see the day."
From the walls of White Harbor to the fields beyond, the cry spread:
"The Wolf-Queen!"
And as the hoofbeats and pawprints faded northward, Lord Wyman Manderly wiped his eyes and laughed. "By the gods," he said softly, "the songs will never be the same again."
The journey from White Harbor to Winterfell was long, but the road stretched open and welcoming before them, blanketed by fresh snow that glittered beneath the pale sun. Lyanna led the company from the front, her dark hair whipping in the cold wind as she rode astride her direwolf. The creature moved with a regal stride, silent and sure-footed over the frozen earth. Behind her came the banners of House Manderly and the Narnian escort—two worlds marching together under one banner of wolf and dragon.
Lord Wyman Manderly rode a sturdy mare, wrapped in furs and muttering between gasps of breath, "Gods, woman, I've seen men half my weight collapse after a single mile, and here you are—riding that beast like it was born for you."
Lyanna smiled faintly without turning back. "It was. And so was I."
Wyman chuckled, shaking his head. "You Starks are mad. No wonder the songs never die about your lot."
Sirius, riding the second direwolf beside his mother, grinned. "Father says songs only last if you do something worth singing about."
"A wise man, your father," Wyman said, smiling. "But I hope he also said a man should rest once in a while."
"He did," Sirius replied innocently, "but he never follows his own advice."
The Manderly lord laughed, the sound booming across the cold air.
The Narnians who came with Lyanna were unlike any soldiers the North had seen. Their discipline was eerie—silent, focused, their beasts moving as if bound to their souls. Each of the ten skinchangers carried chests filled with gold, weapons, and gifts for Benjen's wedding. Even their wagons seemed full of gifts, moving smoother than any northern wheel should over the icy ground.
At night, when they made camp, the difference between the two groups showed most.
The Manderly soldiers built rough fires and simple shelters. The Narnians, however, raised smooth black tents stitched with golden thread that shimmered under torchlight, their blades polished until the flames danced across the steel.
It was on one such night, as snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, that Sirius tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Can we train?"
Lyanna looked up from where she was oiling her sword. "You've been riding all day, little wolf."
Sirius lifted his small practice blade. "Then my arms are already warmed up."
Wyman, sitting beside the fire, raised an amused brow. "You train the boy yourself?"
Lyanna rose, drawing her sword from its sheath. The steel gleamed red in the firelight. "Of course. Who else should teach him to fight for what's his?"
"Gods preserve us," Wyman muttered, settling his fur cloak tighter. "This I've got to see."
Steel rang against steel. Sirius darted forward, his strikes light but quick, his movements fluid. Lyanna parried each blow effortlessly, though her eyes softened with pride.
"Better," she said. "But your stance is still too open. You'd lose your footing on ice."
"I won't," he said, adjusting. "Watch."
He feinted left, spun, and aimed for her leg. She stepped aside, turned her wrist, and disarmed him in one smooth motion. The sword clattered into the snow.
Sirius blinked up at her, breathless.
"Never fight to prove your strength," she told him, lowering her blade. "Fight to protect what matters."
He grinned, eyes bright. "Then next time, I'll protect my sword."
Wyman's deep laughter echoed across the camp. "By the Seven, he's got your fire, my lady."
Lyanna allowed herself a small smile. "You are saying that because you haven't met his father."
The next night, five of Wyman's best soldiers—men who had fought pirates and wildlings—came forward, armor glinting in the firelight.
"If it pleases you, my lady," one said, bowing, "we'd be honored to test our skill against the Queen of Narnia herself."
Lyanna only nodded, stepping into the ring of snow the men cleared for her. Her blade sang as she drew it. "Very well," she said. "Come at me as if you mean it. Else it's not worth doing."
The first man lunged, and she sidestepped, knocking his sword aside and striking him lightly on the chest with the flat of her blade. He fell back, gasping.
The second tried to flank her; she spun, parried, and caught his wrist, twisting his weapon away.
The third came in from behind—too slow. She turned, her braid whipping across her shoulder, and kicked his legs from under him.
The last two circled her warily. One swung high; she ducked. The other aimed low; she leapt aside, slashing his belt clean in half.
In less than half a minute, five men were down in the snow.
Sirius clapped from the sidelines, grinning wide. "You missed one!"
Lyanna laughed. "Did I?" She turned, tossed her sword lightly, and caught it again—its tip resting an inch from the last man's throat before he even realized she'd moved.
Wyman's mouth fell open. "Gods be good," he muttered. "You could lead an army yourself."
Lyanna sheathed her blade. "I already do."
Later, as the camp quieted, Sirius sat near the fire, sharpening his small sword while the Manderly men whispered in awe.
"Did you see her move?" one murmured. "Like the wind itself."
"They say her husband killed Roose Bolton and beat up all the Bolton guards," another whispered. "If that's true, then the North is blessed to have them both."
"Aye," said a third, shaking his head, "but I wouldn't want to be the poor fool who makes her angry."
Wyman watched her from across the fire, a mug of ale in hand. "Your mother's a fierce one, lad."
Sirius looked up, smiling. "Father says she's fiercer when she's angry."
The old lord chuckled deeply. "Seven hells, then may the gods keep your father safe."
They rode on through frozen rivers and silent forests, and by the fifth day, the spires of Winterfell rose in the distance—gray against the horizon, ancient as the snow itself.
Lyanna drew her fur cloak tighter, her heart pounding with something between joy and sorrow. She could already feel the pull of home.
Sirius followed her gaze. "That's it, isn't it?" he said softly.
"Yes," Lyanna murmured. "That's home."
And behind them, the soldiers and skinchangers rode on in silence, for even hardened men could sense that this was no ordinary return.
It was a legend coming home—the Queen of Narnia, riding north on a direwolf, her son at her side, to a house that had thought her lost forever.
Author's Note:
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