Morning crept slowly into the Mourning Keep, pale gold sunlight slipping through tall frost-rimmed windows and settling over the guest chamber. The room was warm, the fire crackling softly in the stone hearth, but there was a sharpness to the air—fresh, clean, mountain-cooled. A feeling Ragnar had never known before.
He stirred.
At first, everything was blurry. His limbs felt like iron. His mouth was dry, his skull pounding with the unmistakable ache of surviving when he shouldn't have. Death had been close—closer than ever. He could still taste the salt of the sea in his throat.
Then his vision sharpened.
And he froze.
A stranger sat across the room in an armchair, legs casually crossed, a thick leather-bound book open in one hand. A thin plume of blue smoke curled upward from a strange curved wooden object held between his lips—a pipe, elegant, darkly polished, unfamiliar in style. The figure's hair was silver-white, long, falling in soft waves over pale shoulders. Their features were impossibly fine, almost ethereal. Androgynous. Beautiful in a way Ragnar rarely attributed to men.
For a heartbeat, Ragnar's gut reaction was simple:
Woman…?
Then the figure exhaled a slow breath of smoke and turned a page.
Definitely a man. A very strange man.
Ragnar's eyes darted to the weapon rack placed neatly beside his bed. His axe. His pride. His anchor in this world. He reached for it—
—and his entire body screamed in protest.
Pain shot through his arms, chest, back—so violently he grunted and collapsed back onto the furs. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. The small movement, the little struggle, was enough to catch the stranger's attention.
The book snapped shut with a soft thump.
The pipe-wielding stranger tilted his head, silver hair sliding off one shoulder. His violet eyes—unnatural, inhuman, impossibly bright—fixed on Ragnar with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern.
"Well now," he said, voice smooth as chilled wine. "That felt familiar."
Ragnar blinked. "What…?"
The man smiled slightly, removed the pipe from his lips, tapped the ash neatly into a small iron bowl, then leaned forward with a gentleness Ragnar did not expect from someone dressed like a noble mage out of a saga.
"Welcome back to the world of the living."
Ragnar stared at him, disoriented. This man's presence was… strange. Calming. Dangerous. Something deep inside Ragnar stirred—instinct, warrior sense, the part of him that always recognized power when it stood before him.
"If I'd found you even ten minutes later," the silver-haired man continued, "you and your crew would have crossed into Valhalla. Or whatever place your gods drag bold fools to."
Ragnar's breath caught.
Crew.
Brother.
His memory slammed back into him—storm, hunger, thirst, the endless sea swallowing their longboat, Rollo collapsing beside him—
"Rollo," he rasped, adrenaline spiking through his veins so sharply it burned. "Where is my brother? Where is he?!"
He forced himself upright, ignoring the agony ripping through his muscles. Jeanyx didn't stop him—only lifted a brow, calm to an almost eerie degree.
"So that's his name," Jeanyx murmured. "The bearded one, yes? The one who nearly crushed my spine when I carried him out of your lovely boat?"
Ragnar didn't even process the joke.
His eyes followed Jeanyx's hand as he pointed toward the far end of the room.
Ragnar's breath caught.
Rollo lay on another bed, wrapped in blankets, chest rising and falling slowly. His hair was cleaned, his wounds bandaged, his face no longer grey with death but flushed with sleep.
Ragnar was on his feet faster than should have been physically possible.
He stumbled across the room, falling to his knees beside his brother. His hands shook as he grabbed Rollo's shoulders.
"Rollo! Rollo, wake up! Brother—wake up!"
Rollo did not stir.
Ragnar's fear spiked—too raw, too loud. He shook him harder.
"Rollo! Do not leave me again!"
Still nothing.
Panic surged, primal and vicious. Ragnar's palm flew before he even thought about it—
SLAP!
The crack echoed across the chamber.
Rollo jerked awake with a violent snort. "WHAT—?!"
Ragnar exhaled a breath so heavy it nearly collapsed him. Then he grabbed Rollo and pulled him into a fierce, almost painful embrace.
"You idiot," Ragnar whispered, voice trembling. "You stubborn, hard-headed bastard… I thought I lost you."
Rollo, confused and half asleep, groaned. "Gods… Ragnar… what did you hit me with? A shield?"
"No. My hand."
"That makes it worse…"
Across the room, Jeanyx watched the reunion quietly, pipe resting between his fingers, his expression unreadable. His violet eyes softened just enough to reveal the faintest hint of warmth.
"So," Jeanyx said finally, voice dry, "I take it the waking-up process was a success."
Ragnar slowly turned his head, still supporting Rollo, still breathing hard. His eyes narrowed at Jeanyx with renewed scrutiny—wariness, confusion, gratitude, and a growing curiosity.
"Who are you?" Ragnar asked. "What is this place? Why would you save men you do not know?"
Jeanyx rose from his chair with a liquid grace that felt inhuman. His long coat shifted like shadows. The air around him seemed to ripple just slightly—as if magic followed him like a loyal hound.
He walked toward them, steps slow, deliberate.
"My name is Jeanyx," he said. "And as for what I am…" He smirked faintly. "That depends on who you ask."
He stopped a few paces from Ragnar, violet eyes meeting icy blue without flinching.
"And I saved you," Jeanyx said softly, "because fate dropped you at my doorstep. And I have learned not to ignore fate."
Ragnar's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
Rollo slowly sat up beside him, rubbing his cheek. He glared at Jeanyx, confused but grateful… and deeply suspicious.
Jeanyx only lifted his pipe to his lips again, lighting it with a small spark of violet flame that danced at his fingertip.
"One thing at a time," the silver-haired man added, exhaling smoke like a lazy dragon. "You've survived death. You've earned answers."
Ragnar exchanged a long, heavy glance with his brother.
Whoever Jeanyx was… he wasn't a simple healer. Or a noble. Or a mage.
He was something else.
Something dangerous.
Something powerful.
And Ragnar could feel—to the deepest instinct of any warrior—that meeting this man would change their fates forever.
Narcissa and Elsera entered the chamber quietly, each woman carrying a wooden tray filled with clean cloths, ointments, vials of bright green potions, and steaming bowls of broth. The mood in the room shifted—the warmth of brotherly reunion settling into something heavier, something watchful.
Elsera, Wintertown's prodigy healer with her copper-brown hair tied in a practical braid, immediately went to Rollo, her eyes flicking over every bruise, every bone, every vein as if she were reading the man like a scroll. Narcissa, pale-haired and elegant even in her healer's apron, moved toward Ragnar, her expression politely blank but her movements precise and practiced.
Neither spoke at first.
They checked pulses, lifted lids, pressed gently against ribs, dabbed salves over cracked skin.
The only sounds were soft breaths, shifting blankets, and the scratch of Jeanyx's pipe as he leaned against a carved stone pillar, watching like a quiet shadow.
Ragnar tried to hold still, but the silence—the scrutiny—the weight of these strangers' eyes—finally pushed him past his breaking point.
He cleared his throat.
"Where… exactly are we?"
His voice echoed awkwardly through the high-ceilinged chamber.
Both women paused.
Narcissa exchanged a look with Elsera—wide-eyed, silent, as if neither wanted to answer for fear of saying something wrong.
Jeanyx didn't bother hiding his smirk. He pushed off the pillar and approached, pipe dangling lazily between his fingers.
Instead of answering, he rested a hand on the edge of Ragnar's bed and asked calmly:
"What race do you belong to?"
The question hit the room like a thrown spear.
Ragnar frowned. Rollo's brow furrowed. Both brothers glanced at each other, silently asking what sort of madman questioned a man's race before telling him where he was.
But Ragnar answered.
"Scandinavians."
He said it plainly, but the word struck Narcissa like a slap—her breath caught. Elsera nearly dropped her clay jar of poultice.
Neither of them had ever heard that word. Yet hearing it… something in their bones responded to it.
Jeanyx nodded, not surprised in the slightest.
"As I expected."
Ragnar blinked. "As you—what?"
But Jeanyx wasn't done.
His violet eyes sharpened, glimmering with that unnerving cold intelligence he always carried.
"If you truly are who you claim—if your people really call themselves Scandinavians—then that means you hail from the second home of the First Men."
Ragnar stiffened.
He didn't understand, but the way Jeanyx said it—the certainty, the weight—made his skin prickle.
"Second home?" Ragnar repeated. "What are you talking about?"
Jeanyx sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a way that suggested he'd had to explain things to people far less educated than he preferred.
"You're on an island with no official name. No maps. No records. No banners." He gestured around them, to the carved walls and warm fire and stone architecture. "But this place, for all its lack of titles, is the true ancestral birthplace of the First Men. Not the land your ancestors crossed into. Not the mainland you might have claimed later."
He tapped his pipe lightly against his palm.
"This island is where your kind began before they traveled to Westeros."
Elsera inhaled sharply.
Narcissa blinked, stunned.
Ragnar's expression slowly shifted—disbelief battling curiosity, logic wrestling with instinct. Rollo stared at Jeanyx as if trying to see whether the man was bluffing or spouting religious nonsense.
"Lost to time," Jeanyx continued. "Buried under wars, migration, fading languages, and the usual human carelessness. So the world stopped calling your people Scandinavians."
He gave a dry little shrug.
"And replaced it with a much… lamer name."
Silence stretched.
Jeanyx raised a brow.
"The First Men."
Rollo snorted despite himself. "That is… a bit on the nose."
Ragnar shook his head slowly, trying to piece together meaning from myth, memory, and the stranger's confidence.
"So you're telling me," Ragnar said carefully, "that our homeland—our true homeland—is this place? This island?"
Jeanyx's lips curled faintly.
"If it makes you feel any better, you're not the first to be surprised. Every person on this island is a descendant of your people—your ancestors' blood made pure by isolation. No Andal mix. No Rhoynar blood. Just old magic still clinging to their bones."
Narcissa folded her hands gently behind her back.
Elsera whispered under her breath, "That explains the similarities… the bone structure… the northern runes…"
Jeanyx gestured toward Ragnar, then toward Rollo.
"You two? You're relics of a world that forgot where it came from. Which means—" he paused, pipe resting at his lips again "—your arrival here is… interesting."
Ragnar swallowed hard.
Something deep inside him—older than his memories, older than his name—stirred.
"Are you saying," he murmured, "that we have returned home without knowing it?"
Jeanyx didn't answer immediately.
He simply exhaled a long ribbon of smoke that drifted toward the rafters.
Then he met Ragnar's eyes with a quiet, knowing look.
"Exactly that."
Dinner stretched long into the night—warm, loud, smoky, and alive in a way only halls filled with warriors, hearth-fire, and good food could be. The long tables were crowded now, Vikings shoulder-to-shoulder with Wintertown families, jeering and laughing and tearing into the feast like starved wolves. The air smelled of roasted boar, browned butter, mead that Mira insisted was "barely strong at all," and the smoky sweetness of Jeanyx's pipe drifting lazily from the head of the table.
What surprised the Scandinavians most was not the food, not the dragon above them, not even the strange castle glowing like something shaped from myths—but the people.
The Frost family spoke the same way they did.
Told stories the same way they did.
Laughed, prayed, lived, and cursed the same way their own families had back home. Nothing sounded foreign. Not the names of their gods, not their customs, not the drinking chants they burst into when ale ran warm in their blood.
Ragnar sat stiffly across from Torrhen Frost at first, studying every movement, every word. But each minute that passed loosened him a little more. By the time Mira slapped a loaf of golden honey-bread into his hands and told him to "eat like a man, not a frightened hawk," Ragnar was smiling into his beard.
Rollo, meanwhile, was arm-wrestling one of the Wintertown lumbermen while Loki clapped and shrieked with laughter from Jeanyx's lap. Arya tried climbing onto Nyx's tail before Mya grabbed her by the back of her tunic with the smooth, tired efficiency of a mother who had done this many times.
Drinks were passed. Meat was carved. Children played under the table while Nyx ripped the bones of her fourth cow with a rumbling, satisfied growl.
Eventually, the conversation drifted—first into stories, then into shock.
The Vikings, in awe, asked question after question about this place. At first quietly. Then loudly. Then with drunken reverence when they realized no one in the hall judged them for not knowing.
"What land is this?" one asked a Wintertown fisherman.
"Where are we, truly?" another asked Elsera, who simply shrugged.
"Why does your food taste like the gods blessed it?" a third asked Mira, who blushed at the compliment.
Through all of this, Ragnar kept glancing toward Jeanyx—studying him, weighing him, trying to figure out what manner of creature fate had dropped into their path.
Eventually, Jeanyx spoke up, tapping the ashes from his pipe with a lazy flick of his wrist.
"This island… has no name on any map," he said. "Not in this age, nor the thousand before. It is forgotten. Buried. Left behind by time itself."
He leaned back, letting the pipe hang from his lips as smoke curled around his violet eyes.
"But it is not dead. Not anymore."
The Scandinavians listened like children at a fireside tale.
"This place," Jeanyx continued, "was once the true home of the first men—their oldest home, before they crossed the land bridge into Westeros. Long before their name was even 'First Men.' Your people, Ragnar. Rollo. You are descendants of the same blood."
The Vikings froze. Several looked as if their souls were trying to climb out of their bodies.
"So you claim," Ragnar said slowly, though his voice wavered.
"I don't need to claim," Jeanyx replied. "Your tongue—your gods—your rituals—your way of shaping runes—your funerary customs—your prayer-chants—your songs—your blade designs—your wood-carving patterns—your wedding vows…"
He gestured lazily with his pipe.
"All of it has remained unchanged for more than ten thousand years."
The men exchanged looks of disbelief and wonder.
One whispered, "But why? How?"
Jeanyx shrugged. "Because the world forgot about you. And you forgot about the world."
Ragnar swallowed, his fingers tightening around his cup. "Then… the gods brought us here."
Jeanyx smiled faintly. "Possibly. Or the winds were bored."
Laughter rippled through the room.
Then Jeanyx leaned forward, the smile fading as he asked, "Ragnar. What is your ambition?"
The hall quieted. The Frost family looked at Ragnar, curious. Even Nyx lifted her head.
Ragnar hesitated only a heartbeat before speaking.
"I believe," he said softly, "that there is land west of Westeros. Beyond the Sunset Sea. Untouched. Fertile. Vast. Land where my people can grow."
The hall rustled—shock, disbelief, a few outright snorts. Rollo groaned loudly and rubbed his face.
"For the thousandth time," Rollo muttered, "there is no land to the west. The sea devours all who try."
A chorus of Wintertown voices agreed.
"We sail east or south," a fisherman said.
"The west is death," an elder murmured.
"Only fools chase the horizon," another said.
Even the Blackwood children nodded in agreement; their ancient family had sent ships every year for generations. All had returned empty-handed.
Jeanyx simply lifted a hand.
Everyone fell silent.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm—quiet, but carrying through the hall like a tide.
"There is no evidence that land exists west of Westeros," Jeanyx said. "But there is also no evidence it doesn't."
He tapped his pipe against the table.
"The absence of evidence… is not evidence of absence."
Ragnar's breath caught.
"And look around you," Jeanyx continued. "This very island—lost, unknown, forgotten, absent from the memory of men—is living proof of that truth."
A murmur traveled through the Scandinavians. Hope. Fear. Belief.
Jeanyx leaned back with a thoughtful sigh.
"I support your dream, Ragnar. Not because it is wise. Not because it is safe. But because impossible things are only impossible until someone does them."
Ragnar stared at him as though seeing a god in mortal flesh.
"But," Jeanyx added quietly, "I cannot join you. Not yet."
His gaze drifted toward the table where his children sat—Arya laughing with Thor, Alysanne correcting Loki's grip on his spoon, Loki poking at Nyx's tail.
"I have responsibilities," Jeanyx said softly. "Little ones. And until they are ready, nothing else matters. A man raises his children before he raises his banners."
Every father in the room nodded solemnly.
Ragnar bowed his head. "I… understand."
Jeanyx smiled.
"But in two to three years," he continued, "when I return to Westeros… when I reclaim my place… when my family can no longer deny me…"
He looked Ragnar dead in the eyes.
"If the gods favor it, I will seek you out. And you will have my support."
Ragnar's heart pounded so hard he felt it in his throat.
And for the first time since he washed ashore on death's door, he truly believed his destiny had just begun.
(-timeskip)
A month drifted by after Jeanyx dragged Ragnar's starving crew from death's doorstep, and despite the chaos he expected, the Scandinavians melted into island life with almost unnatural ease. Wintertown—usually quiet, disciplined, and shaped entirely by Jeanyx's routines—suddenly burst into life. Every night, longhalls echoed with laughter, ale sloshed over wooden tables, drums thundered, and the once-muted population rediscovered the kind of joy only a people who survived countless winters could unleash.
Even Jeanyx had to admit it was refreshing at first. He'd grown used to stillness, schedules, discipline, and quiet nights spent teaching his children or tinkering with inventions. But after ten straight days of drinking, feasting, music, and stories, he started to get bored. Worse, the food began to taste bland—painfully bland. He'd eaten northern stew for a decade, and while it was comforting, even he had limits. At first he tried to muscle through it, but by the tenth night he found himself pushing away his bowl of venison stew with a long, irritated exhale.
That was when Elda Reedwynn appeared.
She rarely came to Wintertown. Her presence alone made the vast hall fall quieter, as if the forest itself had stepped into the room. People parted instinctively for her, and she approached Jeanyx with that soft, ghostlike gait of hers—calm, certain, and impossible to ignore.
"You tire of the taste of your own inventions," she said without preamble.
Jeanyx raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "I wouldn't say that. I would say the island's palette is… limited."
Elda's lips curved slightly, something almost like amusement flickering in her moss-green eyes.
"Then it is time you learned a secret most of the island has forgotten," she replied. "Only a few villagers of Emberfen still know it. And only because the forest remembers for us."
Jeanyx leaned back, pipe hanging from his lips, intrigued despite himself.
Elda then spoke of the island's hidden vegetation. Rare plants with properties even Jeanyx's broad knowledge couldn't fully place. Vegetation untouched by Valyria, untouched by Andal steel, and unseen in Essos or Westeros since before recorded history. Many grew only on this island—or in the far north of Westeros where magic still lingered in the soil.
The longer she spoke, the more the hall quieted. The Scandinavians even stopped drinking to listen. Mira paused mid-sip. Torrhen turned his head slowly. Even Nyx, lounging above on her stone perch and gnawing on half a cow, cocked her massive black-purple head toward the conversation.
Elda named each plant carefully, reverently.
Frost-Marrow Root.
Winter-Gold Barley.
Veinleaf Mint.
Old Gods' Thistle.
Snow-Pear Fruit.
Ice-Reed Grass.
Moon-Mushroom Caps.
Hearth-Spice Juniper.
Glacial Lavender.
Frost-Husk Beans.
Silverthorn Berries.
Deep-Snow Garlic.
Bitter-Oak Pods.
Winter-Rose Hips.
Frostfire Cherries.
Each one felt like a story, a relic, a forgotten fragment of the world's oldest chapter. Jeanyx listened with growing fascination. His mind raced with culinary possibilities, alchemical potential, and even economic value. But more importantly—they tasted different. New. Exciting.
When she finished, Elda removed a woven satchel from her cloak and placed it on the table. It was full—overflowing—with small samples of every plant.
A gift.
A gesture.
A bridge between Emberfen and Wintertown.
Jeanyx stared at the bundle, then at her, and for the first time in weeks felt the spark of genuine curiosity return to his eyes.
"In exchange," Elda said softly, "I ask for something that will strengthen Emberfen."
Her voice lowered.
"Your potions. The ones that toughen the spirit… and the ones that toughen the beasts."
She didn't smile, but her eyes gleamed with meaning.
Emberfen's wildlife was timid, fragile, shaped by centuries of balance. Now that outsiders had come—and magic had truly awakened—Elda wanted her people to adapt.
Jeanyx didn't hesitate. He reached beneath the table, retrieved a small carved box wrapped in waxed cloth, and pushed it toward her. Inside lay a cluster of vials—potions that strengthened vitality, sharpened senses, and made creatures resilient to the cold.
"A fair trade," he said. "For knowledge worth ten kingdoms."
Elda bowed her head, the closest thing she ever gave to gratitude.
"Wintertown prospers because of you," she said quietly. "Now Emberfen will prosper because of you."
Then she turned and drifted out of the hall like a shadow dissolving into the night. The Scandinavians watched her leave like she was a spirit. The Frost family whispered among themselves. Ragnar muttered something about "witches with good intentions." Nyx snorted, amused.
Jeanyx leaned back in his chair, pipe smoke rising in a lazy curl, eyes drifting toward the satchel of ingredients.
Finally—something new.
And in the back of his mind, a small ember of excitement flared alive.
His children would have new flavors.
His alchemy new frontiers.
His island new strength.
And somewhere, deep in Emberfen, the roots of ancient trees stirred—pleased with the exchange.
ChatGPT said:
Jeanyx should have been suspicious.
Stormwatch was always the problem child of the island.
Garric Harlowe was always too smooth, too polite, too generous in ways that benefitted only himself.
But Jeanyx had lived most of his life on this forgotten island, surrounded by honest workers, loud merrymakers, hotheaded warriors, and children who wore their emotions plainly. He wasn't used to schemes anymore—not like in King's Landing. And the Force, which had never once lied to him, told him clearly:
The boy standing before him meant no harm.
No deceit.
No malice.
Only fear.
Only duty.
Only exhaustion.
So Jeanyx didn't think "spy."
He thought, Poor bastard got forced into this.
That alone softened him.
The hall fell silent as Marcus was ushered in—tall for sixteen, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow, eyes lowered, lips trembling faintly. His clothes were simple Stormwatch wool, stitched with uneven patches. His boots had holes. His fingers were ink-stained, as if he had spent years writing numbers instead of learning to wield a spear.
He bowed deeply and spoke in the Old Tongue—smooth, biting, deeply Norse-accented.
"Eg heiti Marcus, sendr ór Stormvakt til þínar þjónustu."
(I am Marcus, sent from Stormwatch to serve you.)
Jeanyx blinked.
Not at the words—he understood them fine—but at the formality.
Nobody under thirty used that style anymore.
Nyx's head tilted on the balcony perch above, forked tongue flicking out in curiosity. The dragon spoke in her low rumble only Jeanyx understood:
"Þessi er hræddr."
(This one is afraid.)
Jeanyx nodded subtly.
"Marcus," he replied in the Old Tongue, slightly clumsier, vowels too soft from Valyrian influence. "Hví ert þú sendr hingað?"
(Why were you sent here?)
Marcus swallowed and forced himself upright.
"Til að halda reikninga þíns gulls, járns og annarra efnanna."
(To keep record of your gold, iron, and other stores.)
Of all the duties Garric could've chosen…
Vault work.
The job Jeanyx hated most.
Tracking every ounce of ore, every ingot, every shipment he sent to villages, every donation. The one job Jeanyx put off so badly that sometimes Torrhen joked the ores would rot before he ever counted them.
"This is Garric's idea of a gift?" Jeanyx muttered under his breath.
Marcus flinched, assuming he'd spoken too loudly.
Jeanyx sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. You're here. You're breathing. Your heart isn't exploding from fear anymore. Good enough."
He rose, clapped his hands once, and called out—
"Elsbeth!"
A crisp set of footsteps echoed through the hall.
The head maid—Elsbeth Rimehart, a tall woman with ash-blonde hair braided back and sharp ice-blue eyes—appeared instantly, bowing gracefully. She was frighteningly competent and, for reasons Jeanyx still didn't fully grasp, Mya had promoted her herself.
Mya had given him one look when he questioned it.
One.
That was enough to silence even him.
Elsbeth folded her hands elegantly. "My lord?"
Jeanyx jerked a thumb toward Marcus. "Show him the Keep. Give him quarters near the records hall. Keep him away from Nyx unless you want to scrub blood out of the tiles."
Marcus went pale. Nyx rumbled with amusement.
Elsbeth placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.
Her voice softened in the Old Tongue, surprising Jeanyx with how fluidly she spoke it.
"Komdu, drengr. Ek skal sýna þér alt."
(Come, boy. I will show you everything.)
Marcus glanced once more at Jeanyx—part fear, part awe—then followed.
Jeanyx watched them leave, exhaling slowly.
"Spying," Jeanyx snorted to Nyx. "Please. Kid's as threatening as a wet chicken."
Nyx snorted a puff of icy mist.
"Þú ert barnlíkr, jea."
(You are childish, Jea.)
Jeanyx flipped her off affectionately before grabbing his training blade and stepping out toward the yard.
Two small figures were already waiting.
Arya—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, bare feet planted firmly—held her wooden fencing sword in perfect stance, tiny brows furrowed with fierce concentration.
Alysanne—silver-haired, violet-eyed, posture elegant as a queen—mirrored her sister with flawless precision.
Jeanyx's expression softened instantly.
"All right, gremlins," he said, tapping his blade against his shoulder. "Today's training is footwork. Why?"
Alysanne raised her hand primly. "Because Arya fell yesterday when the wind changed."
Arya scowled. "You tripped me!"
"I demonstrated your imbalance," Alysanne corrected sweetly.
Jeanyx wheezed a laugh.
God forbid he deal with spies when he had two daughters trying to kill each other with wooden sticks.
He moved behind them, adjusting their stances with gentle taps of his blade.
"Again," he said. "Left step. Right slide. Pivot—Alysanne, don't overextend. Arya, don't bounce like you're hunting rabbits."
Arya stuck her tongue out at him.
He flicked his blade lightly against her forehead.
The girl yelped. Alysanne smirked.
Jeanyx grinned.
This—this was his world.
Not politics.
Not scheming chiefs.
Not Stormwatch spies disguised as trembling boys.
Just family.
Children.
A future he never thought he'd get to live.
Behind him, deep inside Mourning Keep, Marcus was being shown his room—quietly marveling at the carved stone walls, the warm braziers, the soft beds, the safety he'd never known.
And somewhere far to the south, Garric Harlowe drank wine and smiled to himself, believing he'd placed a piece upon the board.
But Jeanyx?
He had no idea a game had even started.
Training began as it always did—cold morning air, the courtyard dusted with frost, Nyx curled on her perch like a giant cat pretending not to watch, and Jeanyx already half-regretting being awake at this gods-forsaken hour.
Arya and Alysanne stood opposite each other on the training stones, wooden blades in hand. Alysanne held hers with elegant precision, feet aligned perfectly. Arya held hers like she planned on stabbing the air itself into submission.
"Arya," Jeanyx groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We talked about your grip."
"It works," she insisted.
"It works the same way hitting a bear works—you'll get one good moment before something rips your arm off."
Alysanne smirked. Arya stuck her tongue out.
"Alright. Enough sass. Stances." Jeanyx tapped his blade against his palm. "And… begin."
The girls moved—Alysanne with smooth, measured grace, Arya with explosive, feral energy. Their wooden swords cracked sharply. Arya pushed forward aggressively. Alysanne countered with technical masterstrokes that would've made a Braavosi water dancer nod in approval.
It was good.
But then—something changed.
Arya lunged.
Alysanne pivoted, blade sweeping a perfect arc toward Arya's ribs.
And Arya… vanished.
Not blinked.
Not dodged.
Vanished into her own shadow—like her body folded into darkness—and she reappeared two paces behind Alysanne, stumbling forward as if shoved by invisible hands.
Alysanne screamed.
Jeanyx dropped his blade.
Even Nyx snapped her head up, eyes wide.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Frost drifted lazily through the air. Arya looked around in total confusion, then down at her own shadow as though expecting it to scold her.
Jeanyx walked forward slowly, hands raised like he was approaching a wild animal.
"Arya," he said softly, "what did you do?"
"I—I don't know!" Arya sputtered. "I tried to dodge because Aly was gonna hit me and then—then I felt something pull me and then… everything went dark for a second and then I was… there."
Jeanyx stared at her, breath fogging.
Oh gods.
She did it.
A Force-derived spatial displacement. Shadow-stepping. Folded movement. The instinctive bending of darkness to create a half-step outside normal space.
He crouched in front of her, studying the way her pupils still shimmered with faint violet light. Her heartbeat was racing. Her aura crackled with a strange, excited hum.
"Arya," Jeanyx said quietly, "look at me."
She did—little chin lifted, eyes bright, terrified and electrified at once.
"You just did something incredibly rare. Something most Jedi or Sith never achieve. A Force Manifestation—your own unique technique."
Alysanne's mouth dropped. "She can… teleport?"
"Not quite," Jeanyx said. "Teleportation is instant. This… this is stepping into your shadow for a heartbeat and slipping out of it somewhere else. It's called a Force Shadow Step."
Arya blinked. "I—I didn't mean to."
"Instinct." Jeanyx smiled faintly. "Some Force users develop special abilities from emotion, danger, or pure need. And yours awakened because Aly tried to brain you with a stick."
Alysanne huffed indignantly.
Jeanyx patted Arya's shoulder, then stood up.
"So you don't think I'm a freak…?" Arya asked quietly.
Jeanyx turned. "Arya. If you're a freak, then what am I?"
He lifted his hand.
Frost gathered around his fingers—black frost, cold enough to make the air crack. The ground beneath him creaked as it froze over. From nothing, he shaped a lotus flower—petals carved from obsidian ice, edges glowing faint violet, steam drifting off its impossibly cold surface.
The air temperature dropped instantly. Arya and Alysanne's breath fogged.
"This," Jeanyx said, turning the lotus slowly in his hand, "is my manifestation. Dark Cryokinesis. The coldest form of ice that exists—pure entropy. Something not even the old Valyrians had names for."
He knelt and placed the lotus into Arya's small hands. She gasped as frost bloomed across her palms but didn't burn her—just tingled, sharp and electric.
"You're not a freak," Jeanyx said. "You're my daughter. And the Force gave you a gift."
Arya's eyes glowed with pride.
Alysanne stepped closer, awe softening her face. "It's… beautiful," she whispered.
Jeanyx flicked her forehead. "Don't get jealous. You'll get yours one day."
Alysanne scowled, rubbing the spot. "I'm not jealous."
"Uh-huh."
A sudden rustle came from the balcony.
Nyx lowered her massive head, golden eyes glowing. She sniffed Arya, then exhaled a puff of icy mist.
"She approves," Jeanyx said. "Probably thinks you're finally worth training."
Arya beamed. Alysanne rolled her eyes.
Jeanyx stood, clapping once.
"Alright. New training rule," he said. "Arya—no Shadow Stepping unless I'm watching."
"But—"
"Nope. Not negotiable. I don't need you slipping into your shadow and accidentally popping out inside the bathhouse when people are naked."
Alysanne choked.
Arya turned bright red.
Nyx made a sound that suspiciously resembled a dragon laugh.
Jeanyx picked up his blade again.
"Back to stances. Both of you. We're not done."
Arya raised her sword with newfound confidence, her shadow curling subtly around her feet like a loyal hound.
Alysanne raised hers with regal determination, already promising herself she'd unlock something just as impressive.
And Jeanyx?
He smiled quietly.
His children were growing stronger… faster… and stranger than he ever imagined.
And that meant their return to Westeros would not just shake the realm—
It would change everything.
ChatGPT said:
Jeanyx stood there in the training yard long after Arya and Alysanne drifted off to join the others, the black-ice lotus melting in his palm until it turned to vapor. His mind, however, was nowhere near the courtyard.
Shadow Step.
A technique instinct-born, raw, unrefined… but real. Tangible. A pathway to something he thought was impossible outside the old stories of his past life.
He leaned his back against Nyx's warm scales, sliding down until he sat in the snow. Nyx lowered her head beside him, rumbling curiously.
"You're thinking too loud," she muttered in her rolling, whispering Valyrian-accented growl.
"I know," Jeanyx said. "I can't help it."
He drew a slow breath. His fingers still tingled from the Dark Cryokinesis. His mind churned like a storm.
Voldemort's flight.
A magic so smooth, so silent, so free of tools or incantations… Jeanyx had dismissed the idea long ago. Who needed to imitate the Dark Lord's eerie gliding when he had Nyx—massive, fast, untouchable?
But now he wasn't alone. He had children. Apprentices. A future army of sorcerers, warriors, shadow-walkers, healers. A family who would travel with him through harsh lands and dangerous politics.
Not all of them would have dragons. In fact—almost none of them would.
He could not rely on Nyx to ferry the world for him.
He needed something else.
A technique that allowed him—and eventually them—to fly.
Not like a clumsy broom. Not like a clunky magic carpet. Not like the Valyrian fire-glide myths.
But something sleek. Instinctive. Shadow-lined. Born of wind, void, and will.
Arya's sudden manifestation had opened the door.
He replayed her movement in his mind. The way her form folded, the second of weightlessness, the subtle tug in the Force. She didn't move so much as slip, her essence riding the boundary between reality and the shadow beneath her.
Shadow Step… was displacement.
What Voldemort used… was suspension.
Two pieces of a puzzle.
But the puzzle was not complete.
Jeanyx rubbed his temples. "Understanding the technique and recreating it are two very different things," he muttered. "Damn near opposite ends of the spectrum."
He could describe the process vaguely, sure—intent, will, Force-flow, magical alignment—but he couldn't teach it yet. He needed more data. More examples. More sources of magic that dealt with form manipulation, weightlessness, or void-channeling.
Shadowbinders from Asshai came to mind.
Their smoke-dancing. Their soul-binding. Their ability to twist bodies and shapes.
But he had no map to Asshai. No knowledge of its roads. And even if he did, traveling there without getting immediately recognized—or executed—was a fool's dream.
He ran his thumb along the melted lotus residue on his sleeve and sighed.
"Too far. Too dangerous. Too uncertain."
Nyx snorted, blowing frost into his hair.
"You fret too much," she said. "You always solve what you put your teeth into."
"Yeah. But even teeth break if the thing you bite is too damn big."
He lay back in the snow, staring at the moon. Then another thought clawed its way in.
Something far older. Far stranger. Far closer than Asshai.
The Faceless Men.
Their magic was nothing like the Force, yet it felt similar. Like they leaned on the edge of reality and rewrote the self. Their ability could blur the lines of weight, shape, presence, identity.
If anyone had secrets about bending the natural laws of movement, it was them.
"Body transformation…" Jeanyx whispered. "Shifting. Unbinding the self from form…"
Nyx lifted her head. "You smell like ideas."
"Because I have one."
He sat up, snow falling from his cloak.
Flight—true flight—was not just a matter of lifting oneself off the ground. It required bending the boundaries between weight and will. Between presence and air. Between what a body is and what it could be.
The Faceless Men's magic could, theoretically, loosen those bindings. Allow movement that wasn't restricted by normal constraints. If he could study even a fragment of their art… imitate the process without stealing faces… it might fill the missing piece.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"That means… eventually… going to Braavos."
Nyx hissed sharply.
"Yeah. I know. Dangerous. Old enemies. Spies everywhere. And they'd absolutely try to recruit me or assassinate me or whatever it is they do when someone walks too close to their secrets."
Nyx bumped him with her snout.
"Danger never stopped you before."
"True."
He stood, brushing ice from his pants.
"First though… I need to refine Arya's technique. Study it. Break it down. Find the principles. If I can understand why it works… then I can build something more stable."
Nyx stretched her wings lazily.
"And the others?"
"We'll train them too. Their affinities might give clues. Wind, shadow, kinetic, frost… all pieces of a bigger puzzle."
He looked toward Wintertown—the faint glow of lanterns, the distant laughter of Scandinavians mixing with First Men, the silhouettes of the four villages across the island.
His home.
But not forever.
Because when the day came to leave—when he stepped foot on Westeros again—he would not be walking in like a forgotten prince.
He would be gliding in like a storm riding the wind, with six children, six prodigies, and a power the world had forgotten.
Jeanyx exhaled, breath clouding.
"Let's get to work, Nyx. We've got a technique to steal from a dead wizard."
Nyx snorted. "And a realm to terrify."
Jeanyx smiled.
"Always."
The morning the Scandinavians departed broke cold and blue, the kind of dawn where frost clung to every surface like a final goodbye. The sea was calm—unnaturally calm—almost as if it, too, understood this was not a farewell born of tragedy but of promise.
The longboat rested on the shoreline, freshly repaired and reinforced with Jeanyx's runes along the hull. It looked almost reborn, a relic of old religion polished by new sorcery. Ragnar and Rollo stood at the prow with their surviving crew behind them, packs slung over their shoulders, new Wintertown-forged knives at their belts, and expressions carved by both excitement and sorrow.
Jeanyx approached with Nyx lumbering behind him, her enormous shadow falling over the sand. The Scandinavians instinctively bowed their heads—respect, fear, gratitude tangled together.
Ragnar stepped forward first.
He looked healthier than when Jeanyx dragged him from death's door, but there was a solemn pride in him now—someone who had walked with gods and lived to tell the tale.
"You repaired our ship better than it ever was," Ragnar said, eyes shining. "We will speak of this for generations."
Jeanyx huffed a small smile. "You better. I didn't waste three days carving runes into that cursed hull for nothing."
Ragnar laughed, that deep, rolling sound that carried across the beach. But the laugh faded quickly, replaced by something heavier. He looked Jeanyx up and down—this deceptively delicate-looking man with star-lit eyes and a dragon at his back—and suddenly reached out and pulled him into a fierce embrace.
Jeanyx stiffened only a moment before returning it just as tightly.
Ragnar's voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him.
"I will not forget you, Jeanyx Slytherin. Not your home, not your magic, not what you gave us."
Jeanyx's hand lingered on Ragnar's shoulder. "Good. Because this is not the last time we see each other."
Ragnar pulled back slightly, studying him. "You truly believe we'll cross paths again? Across seas and kingdoms?"
Jeanyx's violet eyes hardened—not unkindly, but with certainty.
"In two or three years, maybe less, I'm leaving this island. When I sail west or east or anywhere between, I will find you again. When I reclaim what's mine… when I stand where I was meant to stand… I'll look for your sails on the horizon."
Ragnar inhaled, breath shaky, conviction settling deep in his bones.
"Then I will be waiting for that day," he said. "With a longhouse ready, and a table large enough for your dragon."
Nyx rumbled approvingly behind them.
Rollo stepped beside his brother, nodding once. "And with enough ale to drown an army."
Jeanyx smirked. "Gods, I hope so."
The men climbed into the boat, each giving Jeanyx a nod, some bowing, some pressing a fist to their chest. In their eyes he saw devotion. Respect. Awe. The kind of reverence saved for kings and myths.
Ragnar took the final step aboard, gripping the carved gunwale.
"Farewell, Jeanyx. Prince or not—you will always be kin to us."
Jeanyx lifted a hand. "Safe travels, Ragnar Lothbrok. And remember—don't listen to your brother when he tells you there's no land west of Westeros."
Rollo groaned loudly. "He'll never let that go, will he?"
Jeanyx only grinned.
The Scandinavians pushed off, the longboat sliding across the low tide like a shard of old legend set loose upon the world. Their voices rose—deep, ancient chants that harmonized with the wind in a way that felt older than any house, any king, any Valyrian empire.
Jeanyx watched until the boat became nothing but a shadow breaking the line between sea and sky.
Nyx nudged his back gently.
"You're thinking too much again," she murmured.
"Yeah," Jeanyx whispered. "Because when we meet again… the world won't be the same."
He stood there on the frost-covered sand long after the boat vanished.
Not as a prince.
Not as a sorcerer.
Not as a dragonlord in exile.
But as a man who knew fate had just woven a new thread into his story—one that would return in fire, storm, and destiny.
A full year drifted by, calm and deceptively gentle, the kind of quiet that settles over a land right before the earth decides to shake. Wintertown lived in a strange golden age—children grew, apprentices sharpened, Nyx stretched her wings wider than ever, and Jeanyx… Jeanyx finally finished the one project that had haunted him since the day Death placed the hilt into his hand.
It happened in the workshop deep beneath the Mourning Keep, the one chamber he kept locked behind three rune seals and an oath that would've boiled the blood of any thief. The room glowed purple with sigils burned into the stone, and Jeanyx stood over his workbench, hair tied back, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes sharpened with obsession and exhaustion in equal measure.
The final piece clicked into place—the power module.
It should've been impossible. In his old world, lightsabers relied on dozens of components made with precise, electricity-based technology. But he had no industry here. No factories. No wiring. No printed circuits. Just magic, runes, and a ridiculous amount of stubbornness.
The breakthrough came from a moment of accidental brilliance: a scrawl on the corner of his notes where he had written, almost mockingly, "Rune substitute for power transfer?" He didn't expect it to work. Runes weren't meant to imitate electricity. But combining Valyrian glyphs with Old Tongue channeling symbols created something new—something that forced the arcane into behaving like current.
He snapped the final panel shut, inhaled, and pressed his thumb to the activation rune.
The room exploded with light.
A blade roared to life—three burning wings of black and dark-magenta fire, the main blade a swirling void core, its edges shimmering like a dying star. The crossguard vents spat controlled arcs of violet flame. The room rippled with raw power, the air trembling like a drum.
Jeanyx swung it once.
Just once.
And half the iron block beside him melted like candle wax under a forge.
He stared at the blade, chest rising and falling, stunned, exhilarated, terrified—and proud. So proud. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. A Valyrian-forged, rune-powered crossguard lightsaber that functioned flawlessly, perhaps even better than the ones of his old world.
He kept it ignited until the heat singed the sleeves off his shirt and the stone started sweating.
For the first time in years, Jeanyx laughed—a real, bright, unrestrained laugh.
The joy lasted exactly a day.
Because the moment the high faded, the dread crept in.
He sat there the next morning at his workbench, head dropped into his arms, staring at the flickering notes pinned to the walls. Each one represented an invention he had shelved, abandoned, or shoved into the back of his mind because they required electricity. Real electricity. Power grids. Wires. Batteries. Engineering knowledge he had never truly mastered.
Water pumps.
Metal presses.
Heating systems that didn't rely on magic or sheer manpower.
Tools that could make life easier for everyone on the island.
And—gods above—the rail system he had dreamed of building for the Mourning Mountains.
He stared at the crude train drawing: two boxes, wheels far too small, and in bold letters, underlined three times—
Steam engine?
He remembered laughing when he wrote it. Too complex. Needs metalwork you can't replicate yet. Requires engineering beyond your skill level. And above all—why bother? He had magic. He had Nyx. He could teleport, shadow-step, glide through wind if he trained hard enough.
But things were changing. He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't building for himself. He was building for generations. And suddenly "too much work" wasn't an excuse he could hide behind.
He rubbed his face aggressively.
"Damn it," he muttered. "Steampunk. I'm actually considering steampunk."
He leaned back and groaned loudly enough that Nyx, asleep three floors above, rumbled in sleepy confusion.
It made sense though… horribly, annoyingly, perfectly.
A civilization without electricity but with magic, dragons, and advanced metallurgy? This world practically begged for steam engines, brass piping, pressure valves, glowing rune cores instead of boilers. He could fuse magic into engineering the same way he fused it into the saber.
But it meant work. Research. Prototypes. Trial. Error. Sweat. Burnt eyebrows. Explosions. Headaches.
"I should've stayed lazy," Jeanyx muttered.
But inspiration, once it sank its claws in him, rarely let go. He sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. Notes flew around him as he summoned them with the Force, arranging them into floating blueprints. He tapped symbols into the air, steam-coils forming beside sigils, pistons arranged with runes of compression.
A grin tugged at him.
"If I can make a lightsaber without electricity," he said to the empty room, "I can create a damn steam engine."
And beneath his feet, through stone and metal and magic, the Mourning Keep hummed—like it already sensed a new invention was about to reshape the island all over again.
It began the morning after the lightsaber's ignition—when Jeanyx stumbled into the archive chamber still half-asleep, hair a mess, and dropped a stack of blueprints onto Regulus' lap.
"Steam engines," he muttered. "We're doing this."
Regulus blinked once, twice… then his eyes widened in a way Jeanyx had only seen once before—when the boy first cast a perfect memory-lock spell at age ten.
"You mean… actual mechanized engines?" Regulus whispered. "With pistons? Pressure systems? Rotational force?"
He sounded like a young maester discovering dragonfire.
Jeanyx fought a smirk.
"You interested?"
Regulus' answer wasn't words—just a frantic nod so aggressive his hair slapped his cheeks.
Bellatrix, sprawled upside-down on a chair behind them, snorted.
"Engines? Metal screaming, fire hissing—sounds fun."
Then she rolled upright, grabbed one of the blueprints, and frowned deeply.
"This symbol is wrong," she said, tapping the piston diagram. "The heat pressure will crack the chamber."
Jeanyx stared at her.
Regulus stared at her.
Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
"What? I know how metal warps. I forge every day."
And just like that, Bellatrix Black became an irreplaceable part of the project.
It shocked Jeanyx how quickly she understood stress points, rotation limits, and heat tolerances. She couldn't read half the runes involved, but she felt metal the way a singer feels pitch. It made Jeanyx reevaluate her entirely—she wasn't stupid; she simply needed something chaotic, loud, dangerous, and hers to fall in love with.
Just like Daemon.
The next seven months were hell.
Beautiful, frustrating, explosive hell.
They built prototypes that barely sputtered. Others shook themselves apart. One exploded so violently Nyx stuck her head into the workshop, blinked at the smoke, then simply huffed and walked away.
Every failure humbled them.
Every near-success hooked them further.
Jeanyx found himself muttering endlessly:
"The pressure's wrong—again."
"No, Bellatrix, don't hit it with the hammer—"
"Regulus, your rune sequencing is reversed—stop—stop—STOP—"
"WHY IS IT LEAKING AGAIN?!"
And yet…
Late nights turned into breakthroughs.
Breakthroughs turned into a rhythm.
A rhythm turned into mastery.
On the seventh month—after dozens of prototypes—Regulus tightened a final bolt, Bellatrix etched the last heat-control rune, and Jeanyx pulled the fuel lever.
A low hum built in the chamber.
Hot air blasted through the vents.
The pistons pumped—slowly, then faster.
The entire machine roared alive.
Pure, perfect, flawless steam-engine combustion.
Not coal-powered.
Not rune-dependent alone.
A hybrid: heat channeled through Valyrian glyphs, stability enforced by First Men runes, and lava-forged piping that could withstand hell itself.
It wasn't just success.
It was history rewritten.
Regulus screamed in triumph.
Bellatrix laughed like a madwoman.
Jeanyx didn't scream or laugh—he simply leaned back against the wall and whispered:
"…Finally."
Word spread fast.
The celebration Jeanyx threw afterward was the largest since the birth of his twins—a grand display of wealth that made every chief, elder, smith, and villager stare like their eyes might fall out.
Gold plates.
Gold silverware.
Goblets of pure gold set with amethysts, rubies, and emeralds.
Each guest received a solid gold invitation just for attending.
The dining hall glowed like the inside of a treasure vault.
Elda Reedwynn, proud and sharp-eyed, pulled Jeanyx aside after the toasts.
"What of the environment?" she asked cautiously. "Machines that burn fuel will choke the sky. Will your invention blacken the forests? The rivers?"
Jeanyx shook his head.
"We tested coal first. Too much pollution. If used wrong, it will poison the air."
The chiefs murmured in concern—until Jeanyx continued.
"But lava? Lava is perfect. Clean, stable, abundant. And when lava isn't available—" He gestured toward Regulus, who stepped forward with a rune-etched cylinder. "—we can use coal with ninety-percent efficiency, filtered through runic purification. Almost no smoke. What little escapes, the world can cleanse on its own."
Elda exhaled in visible relief.
The other chiefs applauded.
Bellatrix raised her goblet with a grin.
Regulus practically glowed with pride.
And Jeanyx felt it—deep, warm, unexpected:
This was the beginning of a new age for the island.
Steam. Runes. Lava-forged metal.
Not Valyria reborn…
but something entirely new.
Something his children would inherit.
Something that would reshape every future step the world took.
He lifted his own goblet—golden, heavy, ridiculous—and toasted quietly to himself:
"To progress. And to the trouble it will cause."
Nyx rumbled approvingly from her perch.
Because she knew better than anyone—
Jeanyx targeryen was only just getting started.