A Wand of Weirwood

Three months changed Viserys Targaryen more than ten years in the Red Keep ever had.

At first, the changes were subtle—so slight that even he had not noticed them. His steps grew steadier, no longer stiff with the weight of inherited pride but grounded in something firmer, something earned. His voice softened in ways that surprised him; the sharp edge of entitlement that once slipped so easily into his words had dulled, replaced by thought and restraint. Even the way he looked at people had shifted. No longer did he measure them by birth or blood alone, but by what they did, what they built, what they endured.

But the greatest change was not in how he walked or spoke.

It was in how he thought.

Telmar had become familiar to him now—not merely its streets or its markets, but its rhythm. He had come to understand the quiet patterns that governed the place. He knew when the harbor would swell with life, when the fishing boats returned heavy with their catch, when the larger trade ships cut through the horizon and anchored with groaning wood and creaking ropes. He knew which taverns the sailors preferred, where laughter came easiest and fights came quickest. He knew which merchants could be trusted and which would cheat a man blind if given the chance.

And more often than not—

He was at the harbor.

Watching.

Listening.

Learning.

The docks stretched far into the sea, long wooden piers reinforced with iron bands and stone foundations where the largest vessels anchored. The scent of salt hung thick in the air, mixed with oil, tar, and the ever-present odor of fish. Once, it would have repulsed him. Now, it no longer did. If anything, it felt… natural.

Viserys stood beside a stack of coiled ropes, his gaze fixed on a crew unloading heavy barrels from a recently arrived ship. The men moved with practiced efficiency, shouting to one another, their voices blending with the cries of gulls and the crashing of waves.

“You’re back again,” a voice called.

Viserys turned at the familiar tone.

Captain Halvor approached, broad-shouldered and weathered by years at sea. His beard was thick and unkempt, streaked with gray, and his hands bore the marks of rope burns and blade work. There was something solid about him—something unshakable—that Viserys had come to respect.

“I like it here,” Viserys said simply.

Halvor snorted, though there was no real mockery in it. “You like stories.”

“That too.”

The captain leaned against a wooden post, watching his crew with the easy attention of a man who trusted them but never stopped observing.

“What is it today?” he asked. “Essos? The Summer Isles? Or do you want to hear about the northern seas where men freeze before they drown?”

Viserys considered for a moment before answering.

“Tell me about the eastern coast,” he said. “Beyond the Free Cities.”

Halvor’s brow lifted slightly, a hint of surprise crossing his face.

“Ambitious.”

Viserys met his gaze without hesitation. “Curious.”

The captain chuckled, shaking his head. “There’s a difference, boy.”

For a moment, he studied Viserys more closely, as if seeing him anew.

The stories came as they always did—slow at first, like waves gathering strength, and then deeper, richer, pulling him further in. Halvor spoke of distant cities where wealth and betrayal walked hand in hand, of ports where gold flowed like water and lives were spent just as easily. He spoke of slavers and mercenaries, of storms that rose without warning and swallowed entire fleets, of lands so vast that a man could sail for months and never see the same shore twice.

Every word etched itself into his mind.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and bathed the harbor in a warm orange glow, Viserys sat at the edge of a pier, his legs dangling over the water. The sea stretched endlessly before him, its surface shimmering with fading light.

“You’re going to fall in one day,” Eric said as he approached.

Viserys didn’t turn. “I won’t.”

Eric dropped down beside him anyway, stretching his legs out. “You say that now.”

They sat in silence for a time, watching ships drift and sway with the tide.

Then Eric spoke again.

“We leave in a week.”

Viserys nodded slowly. “I know.”

There was no excitement in his voice.

Eric glanced at him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“Yes.”

“You should come.”

Viserys let out a slow breath, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. “I want to.”

“Then come.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Eric frowned. “Why not?”

Viserys turned his head slightly. “Because I’m not just anyone.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that like it’s a good thing.”

A faint smile touched Viserys’s lips. “It usually is.”

“Not here,” Eric said bluntly.

The words lingered between them.

Because they were true.

Here, being a prince meant nothing.

It gave him a name.

But not a purpose.

And Harry’s words echoed in his mind once more.

If you want to be remembered… build something.

Viserys closed his eyes briefly, the thought settling deep within him. Aegon the Conqueror. His name endured because he had done something. Created something. Changed the world.

But the kings who followed?

Names written in books.

Remembered by maesters.

Forgotten by the people.

Viserys clenched his hand slightly.

“I don’t want to be forgotten,” he said quietly.

Eric didn’t laugh.

He only nodded. “Then don’t be.”

Asking had not been easy.

That, more than anything, had surprised him.

In the Red Keep, he had rarely needed to ask for anything. Here, it was different.

Queen Lyanna had listened to him without interruption, her expression calm, unreadable. When he had finished, she had not refused him harshly, nor had she granted his wish.

“I cannot grant you that,” she had said.

Viserys had frowned. “You’re the queen.”

“I am,” she replied evenly. “But you are not my son.”

That had stopped him.

“You belong to your family,” Lyanna continued. “Not to me. In Narnia, we do not take what is not ours to decide.”

He had stood there in silence, the weight of her words settling over him.

“What do I need to do?” he had asked at last.

Lyanna studied him carefully. “You write to your mother,” she said. “You tell her what you want. Not what you think she wants to hear.”

“And if she refuses?”

Her expression did not change. “Then you stay.”

That had been the end of it.

The letter had taken him hours.

Not because he lacked words—but because he had never spoken to his mother like that before. Not as a prince.

But as himself.

He had written everything.

About Telmar.

About what he had seen.

What he had learned.

The harbor. The ships. The stories. The endless possibilities.

He had written about Harry’s words—about how he no longer wanted to be only Viserys Targaryen, the king’s brother.

He wanted more.

He wanted to build something.

To become something.

Now he waited.

And waiting, he had learned, was harder than any training.

“You’re thinking again,” Eric said.

Viserys exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

“You’ll get your answer.”

“I know.”

Eric grinned. “And when you do, you’re coming with us.”

Viserys glanced at him. “You already spoke to the captain.”

“Of course I did.”

“What did he say?”

Eric’s grin widened. “He said if you can pull your weight, you can stay.”

Viserys raised a brow. “And if I can’t?”

Eric shrugged. “Then you’ll learn fast—or get thrown off at the next port.”

A soft laugh escaped Viserys. “That sounds fair.”

“No special treatment,” Eric added.

“I wouldn’t want it.”

Eric studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

Each morning, Viserys found himself glancing toward the sky. Each evening, he returned to the harbor, drawn by something he could not quite name.

And then—

It came.

A white owl descended from the sky as the first light of dawn spread across Telmar. It landed lightly on the railing beside him, calm and unbothered.

Viserys stilled.

His heart began to pound.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out and took the letter tied to its leg. His hands did not tremble—but they felt heavy, as though the weight of what was to come had already settled upon them.

Eric stood beside him now, silent.

Viserys broke the seal.

And began to read.

For a long moment, there was nothing..

Eric leaned closer. “Well?”

Viserys lowered the letter slowly.

His eyes were brighter now. Alive in a way they had not been before.

“She said yes.”

Eric’s grin broke instantly. “I knew it!”

Viserys laughed—a real laugh, unguarded and free.

“She said… if this is what I truly want… then I should go.” He glanced down at the letter again, his voice softening. “She told me to make something worth remembering.”

Eric clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we’re leaving together.”

Viserys folded the letter carefully.

“No,” he said.

Eric blinked. “No?”

A small smile curved Viserys’s lips.

“We’re not just leaving.”

He looked out across the sea—the ships, the horizon, the endless unknown waiting beyond it.

“We’re starting something.”

For the first time in his life, Viserys Targaryen was not walking a path laid out for him.

He was choosing one.

The day had come for the whaling ship to leave Telmar.

The harbor, which had once been a place of quiet observation for Viserys, now roared with life. Voices carried over the crashing waves, ropes creaked as they were tightened, and sailors moved with practiced urgency across the decks. The great vessel that would carry him away loomed against the morning light, its hull dark and sturdy, its sails still bound as it awaited the final command to depart.

Viserys stood near the gangplank, dressed not as a prince of the Red Keep, but as a young man preparing for a long voyage. His clothing was simpler now, practical, suited for the sea rather than court.

This time, he was not alone.

Sirius stood a short distance away, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the ship and its crew as though committing every detail to memory. There was a faint smirk on his face, but beneath it lay something quieter—approval, perhaps, though he would never say it outright.

Daenerys stood beside Viserys, her silver hair catching the early sunlight, her expression softer than usual. She had come closer than the others, as if unwilling to leave without making certain of everything herself.

And Queen Lyanna stood slightly apart, her presence calm and steady, like a pillar anchoring the moment.

“You have everything?” Daenerys asked, her voice firm despite the concern beneath it.

Viserys nodded. “I checked twice.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t forget something.”

A small smile touched his lips. “Then I’ll learn to do without it.”

Daenerys studied him for a moment, then huffed softly. “You’ve changed.”

“I had to.”

She did not argue with that.

Sirius stepped forward then, his gaze settling on Viserys with a look that was both amused and assessing.

“Remember,” he said, “out there, no one cares who you are.”

Viserys met his eyes. “I know.”

“Good,” Sirius replied. “Then maybe you’ll come back with a story worth telling.”

Viserys almost laughed. “That’s the plan.”

Lyanna stepped forward at last.

“You will not be alone,” she said calmly.

Lyanna’s gaze shifted, and from behind her stepped a man few in the harbor had noticed until now.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and silent.

Thorvind.

There was something wild about him—not untamed, but controlled, like a storm held just beneath the surface. His eyes were sharp, observant, and there was a quiet strength in the way he stood.

“He will go with you,” Lyanna said. “To watch. To protect.”

Viserys studied him briefly, then nodded. “I understand.”

“And to train you,” she added. “You asked for it.”

That caught him off guard for a moment.

Then he smiled. “I did.”

Thorvind gave a small nod, saying nothing, but the message was clear enough.

This would not be an easy journey.

Before anything more could be said, the sound of horns echoed across the harbor.

Every head turned toward the horizon.

And what they saw made even the busiest sailors pause.

Ships.

Dozens of them.

Then more.

Hundreds.

They stretched across the sea like a moving forest of masts and sails, advancing toward Telmar in a slow, steady formation. The sunlight caught their hulls, turning them into glimmering shapes against the water.

Viserys stepped forward slightly, his eyes widening.

“They’re back…”

Daenerys followed his gaze, her breath catching softly.

The harbor shifted instantly. Sailors stopped their work, merchants abandoned their stalls, and people gathered along the docks, watching as the fleet approached.

These were not warships.

They were vessels of return.

Every three months, the cycle will continue. Those who had gone to Andalos to work the land returned home, and new groups would take their place. It was a rhythm Harry had set in motion—a quiet but powerful movement that was slowly changing everything.

The first ships began to dock.

And with them came the people.

Men and women, sun-browned and stronger than when they had left, stepped onto the docks with laughter and relief. Children ran ahead of them, shouting, embracing those who had waited for them. Families reunited in moments that felt almost sacred amidst the noise.

But it was not just people who returned.

The ships were heavy with cargo.

Barrels, crates, sacks—massive harvests cultivated in Andalos were carried down the gangplanks. Grain, fruit, supplies beyond what Telmar alone could have ever produced.

Proof that the land Harry had chosen was not just a dream.

It was working.

The mood of the harbor changed.

What had once been doubt—quiet whispers about leaving Narnia, about abandoning the frozen lands for something uncertain—began to shift.

Viserys could feel it.

People talked.

Excited.

Stories were already spreading, carried in the voices of those who had returned. Tales of fertile soil, of growing fields, of opportunity that did not exist in the cold lands they had known.

Daenerys watched it all, her expression thoughtful.

“They’ll believe it now,” she said quietly.

Viserys nodded.

And soon, those stories would spread further—beyond Telmar, into every town and city in Narnia. When the time came, when Harry revealed his full plan, fewer would resist.

Because they would have already seen the truth with their own eyes.

The horn sounded again.

A sharp, commanding note.

The whaling ship was ready.

The crew moved quickly now, urgency returning as lines were secured and preparations completed. The great sails began to loosen, catching the wind.

Viserys turned back to the others.

This was it.

Daenerys stepped forward first.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “That’s a difficult promise.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Then try.”

“I will.”

For a moment, she hesitated—then placed a hand briefly on his arm before stepping back.

Sirius gave him a firm nod.

“Survive,” he said simply.

Lyanna was the last.

She looked at him, not as a queen now, but as someone who had watched him change.

“You chose this path,” she said.

“I did.”

“Then walk it fully.”

Viserys inclined his head.

There was nothing to say.

He turned.

And walked up the gangplank.

Thorvind followed behind him, silent as ever.

The crew moved around them, calling out orders as the ship prepared to depart. The ropes were cast off, the sails unfurled, and slowly—steadily—the vessel began to pull away from the harbor.

Viserys stepped to the edge of the deck, looking back.

Telmar stretched before him, alive with movement, with people, with change.

Somewhere far away, beyond seas and lands unknown, Harry worked in silence, shaping the future before anyone else could even see it.

Author's Note:

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