The wedding of Benjen Stark was not meant to be a grand affair. In truth, by the measure of northern custom, it was to be small and solemn—a quiet joining between the last unwed son of House Stark and Daecy Mormont of Bear Island. There were no tournaments, no singers, no extravagant feasts planned. Benjen was the youngest of Lord Rickard's children, not a political heir, and Winterfell had little interest in empty show.
But the rest of the realm did.
Word had spread like wildfire across the North and trickled even into the Riverlands: the Starks were stirring again. The eldest son had fled his name and vanished across the Narrow Sea; the only daughter had run off with a foreigner. For the lords and ladies of Westeros, the youngest Stark's wedding was not about love or celebration—it was a test. A measure of how strong the wolves still were.
And so they came.
From Deepwood Motte rode Lady Glover with her sons. Lord Umber arrived two days later, bellowing laughter loud enough to shake the gates. Even a few Riverlords made the long ride north, feigning friendship but bringing their curiosity instead of goodwill.
They came to see how deep the cracks ran in the pack.
When the guests arrived at Winterfell and stepped into the Great Hall, they found more than they expected.
The banners of House Stark still hung above the hearth, but beside them now fluttered a standard none of them had ever seen before in North—a white dragon in black background, the sigil of Narnia. Beneath it stood Lyanna Stark, the lost daughter of Winterfell, dressed in a cloak of gray fur clasped with a golden brooch. Her presence silenced the room as swiftly as a blade drawn from its sheath.
"She back," someone whispered. "The wolf-maid lives."
"She's a queen now," another murmured. "Queen of a kingdom across the sea."
Lord Wyman Manderly, who had arrived earlier with his full retinue, greeted every lord who came through the doors. "Her Grace has returned home for her brother's wedding," he said with pride. "And you'll find her no ghost nor rumor, but flesh and blood—and stronger than ever."
Lyanna met each of them with a calm smile and a measured nod. The courtiers watched her as one might watch a storm gathering—awed, uncertain, and faintly afraid. Her poise was regal, her bearing unmistakably noble, yet her eyes carried the fierce glint of the North that no foreign crown could dull.
When Lord Karstark bowed, his words were smooth as ice. "It seems, my lady, that Narnia breeds great queens as well as their other merchandise."
Lyanna's answering smile was soft and sharp all at once. "Rumors die in sunlight, my lord. I find it best to walk among them and see which ones survive."
Karstark's smile faltered. "Indeed."
Throughout the day, the halls of Winterfell hummed with whispers. The arrival of so many houses brought color and wealth to the gray stone, but beneath the feasts and laughter ran an undercurrent of scrutiny. The lords watched Rickard Stark as much as they celebrated Benjen's wedding.
They watched to see if the old wolf still had his teeth.
Rickard bore their stares without flinching. His gray eyes were steady, his presence unbent. Yet even he could not deny the subtle shift in power that filled the hall. Lyanna's return had done what no envoy or alliance could—she had restored the house's pride. The sight of her was proof that the Starks were not fading, but rising again, reaching even beyond the known world.
The Narnians, too, had left their mark. Forty of them moved through Winterfell with quiet discipline, their armor gleaming with faint enchantments. When they stood at attention, even hardened northern soldiers could not help but glance twice. Their weapons were strange and beautiful—blades that caught the firelight as if swallowing it whole.
The guests took note.
"Narnia," Lord Glover muttered to his companion, "wherever it lies, has no shortage of steel or gold."
"Or magic," his companion replied, his voice low. "The queen's eyes glow like a storm when she speaks. I'd not cross her."
That evening, as the torches burned low and the feast reached its height, Lord Rickard rose to speak. The hall fell silent.
He turned, gesturing toward Lyanna. "My daughter stands among us again, a queen in her own right, forged not by marriage but by strength. The North does not forget its own. Not even when they rule kingdoms across the sea."
The lords murmured among themselves, but no one dared speak.
Lyanna lifted her cup, her voice clear and cool. "To the North," she said. "To the pack that endures, no matter how far one of its wolves may roam."
Sirius raised his smaller goblet beside her, grinning. "To Uncle Benjen's wedding!"
Laughter rippled through the hall, breaking the tension at last.
Benjen stood, smiling faintly. "To family," he said simply.
And with that, cups clashed, wine spilled, and the Great Hall of Winterfell filled once again with the sound of voices and music. Yet beneath the warmth and laughter, every guest understood what they had witnessed:
House Stark, thought weakened by loss and rumor, stood stronger than it had in decades—its bloodline stretching from the frozen North to the far-off land of Narnia.
And at the center of it all stood Lyanna, the Wolf-Queen, who had returned not merely to visit but to remind the realm that the North was not to be measured by its silence.
Snow fell thick, soft as down but relentless. By mid-day, the trees around Winterfell were heavy with it, their bare branches bowing under the weight. From the watchtower, the sentries saw movement far along the white horizon — banners green and black, marked with the golden bear of House Mormont.
The horn sounded once.
Lyanna stood in the courtyard when the gates opened, her cloak drawn tight against the wind. The Narnian guards flanked her, their armor shining dully beneath the gray sky. Beside her stood Benjen, his expression caught somewhere between nerves and excitement.
"They came faster than expected," Lyanna said, her breath misting.
Benjen smiled faintly. "A bear walks swiftly when there's a wedding feast waiting."
The laughter that followed was short-lived, for the sound of hooves soon filled the yard.
The Mormonts rode in as one — not in silks and banners like southern lords, but in cloaks of fur and leather, every one of them armed. At their head rode Lord Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear himself, his gray beard crusted with snow and his eyes sharp as flint. Behind him came his son, Jorah, tall and broad-shouldered, his jaw set in that mixture of pride and stubbornness that marked all of Bear Island's line.
And then came Maege Mormont, short and fierce, her hair bound tightly behind her head, her daughters following close. Dacey, tall and strong as any man; Alysane, with her wolf-pelt cloak; Lyra, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
The bears had come to the den of wolves.
Jeor swung down from his horse, his boots crunching against the snow. "Lord Rickard," he said, inclining his head as the Stark patriarch came forward.
Rickard clasped the old man's arm. "You've done us honor, Jeor. Winterfell is glad to have you."
Lyanna stepped forward next. "And I'm glad to see you again, Lord Mormont. It's been many years since I last set foot on Bear Island."
Jeor smiled faintly. "Aye, it has. You've changed, Lady Lyanna. The world sings your name now — Queen of Narnia."
"Names matter less than deeds," she said simply.
"Spoken like a true Northerner," Jeor replied, eyes gleaming with approval.
Behind him, Maege was already off her horse, her hands on her hips. "Two weeks you give us, and already you've half the North camped under your walls. I hope you've enough ale to keep my girls from breaking your tables."
Benjen grinned. "If not, I'll have to blame Narnia for the shortage."
That drew laughter from the women. Even Dacey, stoic as ever, cracked a smile.
Jorah dismounted last, his eyes sweeping the yard before settling on Lyanna. He bowed low. "Your Grace. The tales of your kingdom reach even our shores. It's an honor."
Lyanna regarded him with the calm curiosity of one measuring a man's soul. "And your deeds reach ours, Lord Jorah. The bears still stand proud in every song of the North."
His cheeks flushed slightly, though whether from the cold or her words, none could tell.
The courtyard filled with noise as the Mormont men unloaded wagons of gifts — barrels of ale, carved ivory from the frozen coast, and a pelt said to have come from a snow bear that Jeor himself had slain. The servants scurried to make room; the air filled with the scent of pine and cold steel.
At last, Lord Rickard raised his hand. "Let the Mormonts be shown to the guest wing," he said. "The feast begins at dusk."
As the guests dispersed, Lyanna turned to her brother. "You chose well, Benjen. They carry their strength openly."
Later that evening, Lyanna walked alone toward the godswood. Snow crunched beneath her boots, and the faint song of the hot springs echoed through the stillness. The weirwood stood waiting, its pale bark glowing faintly in the dusk, its red leaves like scattered embers.
Soon, it would be the place of vows — where Benjen Stark would speak his oaths before the old gods, and where the pack would grow stronger once more.
Lyanna brushed her gloved hand along the ancient face carved into the heart tree. "You'll see it, won't you?" she whispered. "A wedding for the North, not for power."
The leaves stirred, though no wind touched them.
Behind her, she heard the crunch of footsteps. It was Jeor Mormont, moving slower than he once did but still proud.
"Strange, isn't it?" he said, his voice low. "We fight and build and bleed for so many things… and in the end, it's this — the gods, the trees, the snow — that outlast us all."
Lyanna turned, her face soft. "And yet we keep fighting, because they remember us when the songs fade."
The old bear smiled. "Aye. You've grown wiser than most kings I've known."
"Then may the gods grant me the sense to stay that way," she said.
He chuckled. "If they don't, Bear Island will remind you."
They stood together a while longer in silence, listening to the wind moving softly through the branches. Somewhere in the distance, Sirius's laughter carried faintly from the courtyard, echoing between the towers like a promise of the days to come.
The day was gray and cold, the kind of morning when the snow falls softly and every sound seems distant. Lord Rickard Stark sat in the solar above the Great Hall, a half-finished letter to Lord Arryn lying forgotten on the table before him. The fire in the hearth burned low, throwing shadows across the stone walls.
A knock came at the door.
"Enter," Rickard said without looking up.
Maester Luwin stepped inside, his breath visible in the chill air. In his hands was a sealed scroll, the red wax pressed with the unmistakable dragon of House Targaryen.
Rickard's brow furrowed. "From the South?"
"Yes, my lord," Luwin said. "From the King's landings. The raven came in midnight. It bears the king's seal."
Rickard took the parchment, the wax glinting in the firelight. He broke it open with his thumb and began to read.
At first his eyes moved steadily, but then they widened, and his jaw tightened. When he finished, he said nothing for a long while. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth.
Finally, he handed the letter back to Luwin. "Fetch my sons," he said quietly. "And my daughter. Now."
When the family gathered, the mood in the room shifted from curiosity to alarm. Lyanna was the last to arrive, her furs still dusted with snow.
"What is it, Father?" she asked. "You look as though the Wall itself has cracked."
Rickard gestured toward the letter on the table. "Read it."
Eddard stepped forward and scanned the parchment. When he finished, his face turned grave. "The King himself… coming north?"
Benjen blinked. "Rhaegar Targaryen? To Winterfell?"
Rickard nodded grimly. "Aye. The letter says His Grace and his family are traveling north to witness your wedding, Benjen. They must have departed King's Landing a week past. The royal fleet sails to White Harbor, and from there they'll ride here."
The room fell silent. Even the fire seemed to hush.
Rickard leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his beard. "I expected lords from every corner of the North. I expected Manderly, Umber, Karstark, even the Riverlords. But the King? No king has set foot in Winterfell since the Conquest."
"Why now?" Eddard asked. "He never came when Brandon married, or when you held court with the bannermen."
Rickard's voice was low. "Because the realm whispers that House Stark weakens. A runaway heir, a daughter eloped… and now our youngest son weds a Mormont girl. He means to see for himself how the North stands."
Benjen scowled. "He's coming to judge us."
"To measure us," Rickard corrected. "And the South always measures in crowns and coin, not in honor."
Lyanna had stood silent through it all, her gaze fixed on the flames. Only when the conversation lulled did she speak.
"Rhaegar Targaryen," she murmured, almost to herself. The name slid from her tongue like an old wound reopened.
Eddard turned to her, wary. "You've met him before."
Her eyes flicked up, calm but distant. "Once. A lifetime ago. When we were all different people." She lied.
Rickard's gaze sharpened. "If the King comes north, he'll come with his queen and children. You'll greet him as you would any ruler, Lyanna — and nothing more."
"I'm not a child, Father," she said softly. "I know my duty."
Benjen, ever the peacemaker, tried to smile. "Then let him see what kind of wolves the North still breeds. I doubt he expects a daughter of Winterfell who commands an army across the sea."
Rickard sighed heavily. "Perhaps. But this visit will draw every eye in Westeros to us. We must be ready. The kitchens, the guest chambers, the guards — all must be prepared for the royal entourage. The King brings half a court wherever he goes."
Maester Luwin nodded. "At least a hundred attendants, my lord. Knights, singers, cupbearers… and the royal children."
Eddard frowned. "We'll need more food stores. More beds. The godswood itself will need to be guarded during the vows."
Rickard looked around the room, his voice hardening. "Then see it done. The North will not be found wanting before dragon eyes."
When the meeting ended, Lyanna lingered behind. The others departed, their voices echoing down the corridor, but she remained by the fire, staring into its restless heart.
The memory of silver hair and soft music rose unbidden in her mind — a young prince beneath the heart tree at Harrenhal, his voice low as he spoke of destiny, of songs of ice and fire. She had buried those memories long ago, but now they stirred like ghosts.
She didn't hear her father's footsteps until he spoke.
"Are you troubled, daughter?"
Lyanna turned slowly. "No more than I should be."
Rickard studied her face, seeing more than she wished to show. "You'll greet him as the Queen of Narnia," he said. "Not as the girl whom he chose as the Queen of love and beauty."
Lyanna's smile was faint and sad. "And if the queen didn't approve?"
Rickard's eyes softened, but only slightly. "Then she'll remember that the girl died long ago — and the queen took her place."
She bowed her head. "As you say, Father."
When he left, the chamber felt colder. Lyanna stood alone for a long while, the flames reflecting in her eyes like distant stars.
Outside, the snow kept falling — soft, unbroken, and endless — as the North waited for the dragons to come.
Author's Note:
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