The wind was sharp that morning, biting at Lyanna's cheeks as the two direwolves padded side by side through the snow. The beasts moved like shadows, silent and sure, their breath rising in white plumes. Ahead of them, Winterfell stood waiting—gray and immense, its twin outer walls crowned with frost, its towers rising like fingers of stone.
When the gates opened, every man on the wall froze. The sight that met them was one that belonged to legends—two riders on direwolves, cloaked in fur and gold, moving through the snow like ghosts from the old tales.
"Gods preserve us…" one of the guards whispered. "Direwolves. Two of them."
His companion's hand went to his sword. "No one's ridden wolves since the Age of Heroes."
The horn sounded once, then again, echoing through the courtyard. Steel flashed as men rushed to the walls, and by the time Lyanna reached the first gate, archers were already in place.
"Hold your ground!" she called out, her voice carrying easily across the cold air. "They mean no harm."
The sound of her voice—steady, commanding, unmistakably northern—made the guards falter. No invader spoke like that. The wolves slowed their pace, ears twitching but calm as their riders passed through the first gate, then the second.
The bridge over the moat creaked under the direwolves' weight, but they crossed without pause. When Lyanna passed beneath the inner arch, the scent of woodsmoke and iron filled her lungs. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until her boots touched the familiar ground.
The courtyard of Winterfell spread before her, crowded with people who had come running at the sound of the horns. They stood in stunned silence, unsure whether to kneel or flee.
And there—at the base of the steps leading to the Great Keep—stood her family.
Lord Rickard Stark was just as she remembered him, though the last few years had laid frost upon his beard and lines upon his face. Yet his eyes—gray and piercing—softened the moment he saw her.
Beside him stood Eddard, calm and somber, his expression unreadable but his eyes glistening. He was taller than she remembered, broader, a warrior through and through, while Benjen, still youthful and smiling, could not seem to stop staring.
Lyanna slid down from her direwolf, the cold biting through her boots, and for a long moment, no one moved.
Then her father took a step forward.
"Lyanna," he said softly, his voice breaking halfway through her name.
Her throat tightened. The air left her lungs as the years between them crumbled away. "Father," she whispered.
Rickard crossed the courtyard in heavy strides, and before she could take a step toward him, his arms were already around her. The embrace was strong and shaking, a man holding his daughter as if she might vanish if he let go.
"Gods," he murmured into her hair. "I thought I'd lost you forever."
She laughed through her tears. "You should have known better. Nothing could ever keep a Stark from coming home."
Rickard pulled back just enough to look at her face. "You're still the same wild wolf. I heard you are wearing a crown now."
She smiled faintly. "I wear it for the world I built, not for the one I left."
Behind them, Benjen finally found his voice. "You built a whole kingdom, and didn't even send for your little brother? Seven hells, Lyanna, you could've at least written me a royal invitation!"
Lyanna laughed and pulled him into a fierce hug. "You'd have turned it into a hunting trip halfway across the world."
Eddard's deep voice rumbled behind them. "You've grown sharper with age, sister. Father always said the North made its women strong—but I didn't think it meant strong enough to ride wolves and rule kingdoms."
She turned and smiled at him. "You'd be surprised what a woman can do when men stop telling her what she cannot."
That made even her father smile. "We've missed you," he said simply.
"I've missed all of you," she replied, her eyes glistening once more. "More than I ever knew I could."
For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. The only sound was the low growl of the direwolves and the hiss of the wind over the walls.
Then Sirius, still astride his direwolf, cleared his throat. "Is this where I say something?"
Lyanna turned, tears still on her cheeks but laughter in her eyes. "Come here, Sirius."
The boy slid down and stood beside her, looking up at the family he'd heard stories about all his life. His green eyes gleamed as he bowed slightly, though his voice was calm and steady when he spoke.
"My name is Sirius Gryffindor," he said. "It's an honor to finally meet my mother's pack."
Benjen let out a bark of laughter. "He's got your spirit, Lyanna!"
Rickard's hand came to rest on the boy's shoulder, his expression filled with something between awe and pride. "Then he'll do well in this house," he said. "A wolf by blood."
Lyanna looked around her—the walls she had once fled, the family she thought lost to time—and felt her heart ache with warmth and memory.
After all the worlds she had crossed, all the crowns she had worn, nothing compared to the feeling of standing here again, snow beneath her feet and the sound of home in the air.
Winterfell had never changed. And neither had the wolves who ruled it.
The great hall of Winterfell glowed with firelight. The hearth blazed in the center, throwing warmth across the old stones, and banners of gray and white hung from the rafters. The air smelled of roasted meat, oak smoke, and the faint, comforting damp of snow melting at the door.
Lyanna entered first, her furs dusted with frost, Sirius at her side. Behind them came the Narnian skinchangers, their fine cloaks catching the light and their movements measured, polite but confident. The hall fell quiet when they crossed the threshold.
Lord Rickard rose from the high seat. "Bread and salt," he said, his voice carrying easily across the hall. A servant brought forward a silver platter, and Lyanna broke the crust of warm bread and dipped it in salt before taking a bite. Her son did the same, imitating her solemnly.
"Guest right is invoked," Rickard said, smiling faintly. "Winterfell welcomes its daughter home."
A cheer went up, soft but heartfelt. Lyanna looked around—the faces were older, some lined, some gray, but every one of them was familiar. She saw old servants she'd known since childhood: cook's boys now grown to men, stablehands who still bowed awkwardly, and Maester Luwin standing by the hearth, his chain glinting in the firelight.
"Seven bless us, my lady," Luwin said, tears shining in his eyes. "I never thought I'd see this day."
Lyanna's smile trembled. "Neither did I, Maester. But it seems the gods had other plans."
An old steward hobbled forward, grinning through his white beard. "Your husband should have come with you, my lady. Let us see the man who stole our wolf from her den."
Lyanna laughed softly. "He didn't steal me. I left willingly. And he would have come, but kings have duties that keep them chained to their thrones. Narnia is far, and his people need him."
"Aye," the steward said with a wink. "But tell him the North remembers its sons-in-law. He owes us a visit."
She smiled at that, her heart full.
When the hall began to fill with food and conversation, Lyanna excused herself to visit the one person who had not come to the gates. She walked through the corridors of Winterfell she had known since girlhood—the cold stone walls, the rushes on the floors, the smell of smoke and lavender from the servants' chambers. Sirius trotted beside her, looking about with wide eyes.
"Is it really all one castle?" he asked, touching the gray stone. "It feels like a small town."
"It is," Lyanna said fondly. "A town for wolves."
They stopped before a heavy door, and a maid bowed them inside. The chamber was warm, filled with the soft light of candles. Catelyn Stark sat propped on pillows, her belly round beneath her gown, her auburn hair gleaming in the firelight.
"My lady Lyanna," she said, smiling despite her weariness. "Forgive me for not greeting you at the gates."
Lyanna hurried to her side and took her hand. "Nonsense. You're about to bring a Stark into the world. I'd have been furious if you'd come out in this cold."
Catelyn laughed quietly. "Your brother was the one who fretted. He told me to rest until you arrived."
"And now I have," Lyanna said warmly. "You're family to me as much as any of my brothers. I'm glad to finally meet you."
Catelyn studied her for a moment, curiosity mingling with affection. "You don't look like the songs, you know. They always said you were wild and reckless."
Lyanna's mouth quirked. "They weren't wrong. I've just learned to hide it better."
Sirius had been hovering near the cradle, where a boy of almost three sat playing with a wooden horse. The boy looked up at him with bright gray eyes.
"I'm Robb," he announced proudly.
"Sirius," the other said, grinning. "Do you want to see something?"
Robb nodded eagerly. Sirius reached into his pocket and drew out a small, silver-etched cube. When he pressed one side, it shimmered with blue light and lifted an inch into the air before spinning slowly. Robb gasped.
"It flies!"
"It's magic," Sirius said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "It can play music too, but Mother says not indoors."
Catelyn raised an eyebrow at Lyanna. "Your son is… clever."
Lyanna smiled, pride glinting in her eyes. "Harry says he's the cleverest Gryffindor he's ever met."
Within moments, Robb had taken Sirius by the hand, chattering eagerly about his toys, about the kennels and the yard. "I'll show you the stables! And my little sword! Come on!"
Catelyn laughed softly as the two boys darted from the room, Sirius's cloak fluttering behind him like a banner.
"Your son will lead mine into trouble before long," she said.
Lyanna smiled wistfully. "Or into greatness. That's how Starks are made."
When Lyanna finally left Catelyn's chambers, she paused in the corridor, watching the snow drift down through the courtyard windows. The sound of the boys' laughter echoed faintly through the hall, mingling with the steady beat of the hearth fires.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air of Winterfell was cold and clean, smelling of earth and memory.
It did not take Lyanna long to make herself at ease within Winterfell's stone embrace. The castle had changed little in the years she'd been gone — the same narrow corridors, the same hearth smoke drifting through the air — but now her footsteps carried a different weight. She was no longer the daughter who had once defied her father's word. She was a queen, and her people came with her.
The forty guards who had traveled with her from Narnia soon found their places in the great fortress. Lord Rickard, though wary of so many foreigners within his walls, could not deny their discipline and grace. They bowed with Narnian formality, spoke politely, and worked hard. Within days, the kitchens, armory, and stables had more hands than they knew what to do with.
Lyanna herself moved through it all with quiet purpose. She oversaw where her people would sleep, where the supplies would be stored, and made certain that none would feel unwelcome in her childhood home.
And then came the gifts.
Benjen's wedding gifts from Narnia filled an entire room — crates of shining weapons and polished armor, bolts of cloth from the East, sacks of fragrant spices, and bars of gold wrapped in velvet. There were chests of fire whiskey sealed with the Gryffindor crest, and silver goblets that reflected the light like mirrors.
Benjen stood before the mountain of treasures, mouth half open. "Gods, Lyanna… this is enough to buy half of the North."
Lyanna smiled softly. "Then let it build you a keep. Harry and I thought you should have your own hall — a place to rule beside your wife."
Rickard, standing behind them, stroked his beard and nodded approvingly. "A gift worthy of a king's sister. The room beside the armory will do — keep everything stored there until after the wedding."
Benjen turned to his sister, his eyes shining. "You always give too much."
"And you always deserved more," she said simply.
It was later, as the feast wound down and the last of the servants cleared the trenchers, that the storm began.
Rickard Stark sat in his high seat, hands clasped before him, his gray eyes glinting in the firelight. Lyanna had just finished speaking of the Narnian capital and the wonders of the world when she added, almost offhandedly,
"Brandon sends his regards. He's in Narnia now — helping Harry oversee the construction of new city, Frostshield."
The air in the hall changed.
Rickard's head snapped up. The lines around his mouth hardened. "You mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that my eldest son — the bane of Winterfell — is playing at lordship in a foreign kingdom?"
Lyanna's smile faltered. "He's not a lord, Father. He's building. He's… doing good work."
"Good work?" Rickard's voice rose. "He brought shame on this house, Lyanna! He broke his vows, dishonored his wife, and ran like a coward. There's no good work to wash that away."
Wyman Manderly, who had been listening quietly, shook his head and muttered, "The North has a long memory, my lord, but even the longest winter ends."
Rickard's eyes flashed. "And would you have me forget what he did, Wyman? Forget the laughter of every southern lord when they spoke of House Stark's honor?"
"No one laughs now," Lyanna said, her voice steady but soft. "Brandon lead men stronger than any lord of the South. He's found his peace. He's found a life worth living."
"Not in my hall," Rickard growled, rising to his feet. "I'll not have his name spoken in Winterfell again."
He strode from the table, the echo of his boots ringing against the stone.
Silence fell once their father was gone. The fire crackled. A log split with a sharp pop.
Benjen exhaled slowly. "He'll cool down," he said at last. "He always does."
Eddard frowned. "He hasn't forgiven Brandon in years. I doubt he ever will."
Lyanna lowered her gaze. "Then he'll carry that weight until it breaks him."
Benjen turned toward her. "Tell us, Lya. What's he like now? Brandon, I mean."
Lyanna hesitated, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. "He's different," she said finally. "Calmer. The fire's still there, but it's… tempered. He has a wife — Barbara Riswell — and a son, Richard. He smiles now. I didn't think he remembered how."
Benjen smiled faintly. "So he's a father."
"A good one," she said. "And a loyal man. To his family — and to Harry. He's done things that would make you proud."
"I already am," Benjen said.
Eddard nodded, his expression solemn. "He's still our brother. Father can bury his name, but he can't change that."
From her seat near the hearth, Catelyn stirred, her hands resting over her swollen belly. "He was… kind. And strange. He spoke of the woman Barbara even after he married me. I think he already knew where his heart lay."
Lyanna smiled gently. "He never forgot her. He never could."
Wyman sighed heavily, looking around the hall. "If the gods have any mercy, they'll see the day this family sits together again — all of them."
Lyanna looked into the fire, watching the embers rise and fall. "So will I," she whispered.
And for a long while after, the only sound in the great hall was the crackle of flame and the quiet beat of the falling snow beyond the walls of Winterfell.
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