The announcement didn't land all at once. It spread through Wintertown slowly, like frost creeping across a windowpane, felt before it was fully understood.
Jeanyx didn't stand above them like a ruler delivering a decree. He spoke to them the way he always had—plainly, calmly, like someone explaining the next step in a long road rather than the end of one. Still, the idea of him leaving, even for a few months, unsettled something deep in the bones of the island.
And when he added that Arya would go with him, the unease sharpened.
People shifted, murmured, looked from father to daughter and back again. To them, Jeanyx was more than the man who built roads and halls. He was the reason winter no longer meant starvation. Nyx was proof that the world still bent around him. And Arya—small, sharp-eyed, already carrying something old in her—felt like a promise they weren't ready to see walk away.
"I'm not disappearing," Jeanyx said, as if he could feel the thought forming before anyone voiced it. "Nothing here stops because I'm gone. The systems are built. The people are trained. Regulus knows the ledgers better than I ever did. Brandon knows the land. William knows the people. You don't need me hovering over your shoulders every day."
That earned a few uneasy chuckles, but Lyra didn't laugh.
She stood stiff beside him, arms crossed tight, jaw set the way it always was when she was holding something back. "She's too young," she said, flat and honest. "You know that."
Arya, who had been listening very carefully, lifted her chin and looked between them. She didn't speak right away. When she did, her voice was small but steady.
"I won't be gone forever."
Lyra's eyes softened despite herself, and that almost made it worse.
Jeanyx crouched then, bringing himself down to Arya's height, resting a hand lightly between her shoulders. "Braavos isn't a battlefield," he said, mostly for Lyra's sake. "It's a city that values skill, discipline, and subtlety. She'll learn. Watch. Listen. Train. Nothing more than she's ready for."
"And the Sword of Braavos?" Lyra shot back.
He shrugged slightly. "Wooden blades at first. Blisters. Footwork. Humility."
Arya's mouth twitched like she was trying not to grin.
Behind them, Thor tugged on Jeanyx's coat, clearly offended by the whole situation. "Why does she get to go?"
Loki leaned in too, eyes bright with questions that were already spiraling ahead of words. Alysanne didn't say anything at first, just watched, cataloging everything the way she always did.
"She goes because this is her step," Jeanyx said. "Yours will come. Just not yet."
Alysanne tilted her head. "I don't like boats anyway," she decided after a moment, as if settling the matter for herself.
That earned a faint smile from Jeanyx, and even Lyra let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
Nyx shifted above them on the balcony, massive body resettling with a low, rolling sound that vibrated through the stone. It wasn't a roar. More like a reminder. She wasn't alarmed. She wasn't restless. Whatever was coming, she accepted it as part of the path.
That mattered to the villagers more than any speech.
Later, when the crowd thinned and the air grew quieter, Lyra lingered with Jeanyx at the edge of the courtyard. "You always say things like this are temporary," she said. "Just make sure they actually are."
He nodded. "I've never broken that promise."
She studied him for a long moment, then glanced toward Arya, who was animatedly explaining something to Thor with exaggerated hand motions. "She's more like you than you realize," Lyra muttered.
"I know," Jeanyx said softly. "That's why I'm taking her."
As they turned back toward the Mourning Keep, Arya slipped her hand into his without thinking. The grip was warm, confident, already used to moving forward instead of clinging behind.
"Father," she asked, eyes fixed ahead, "will the canals really glow at night?"
"Sometimes," he answered. "If you know where to look."
She nodded, satisfied, already imagining it.
Wintertown watched them go—not with panic, not with finality, but with the quiet awareness that this was simply another turning of the wheel. Something moving outward so it could come back fuller, sharper, carrying things the island didn't yet know it needed.
(timeskip)
Nyx drifted through the clouds like she belonged there, wings cutting slow, effortless arcs through the sky. Ten minutes had passed since they'd left the island behind, and already the world below felt distant—an endless sheet of dark water broken only by the moon's reflection and the occasional tear in the cloud cover. The air was cold, clean, sharp enough to bite, yet Arya breathed easily, her small hands gripping the ridge of scales in front of her as if she were born for this.
It was the first time she had ever ridden Nyx.
Not just flown near her. Not clung to her father while Nyx passed overhead. This time, she was truly on her back, settled between the great dragon's shoulders, Jeanyx seated just behind her, one arm loose but ready around her waist. Arya's eyes were wide, reflecting moonlight and cloud-glow alike, her mouth slightly open in silent awe as Nyx slipped through the mist.
She laughed when they burst through a cloud bank, the sound snatched away by the wind.
"I can see everything," she breathed, turning her head left and right, silver-blonde hair whipping around her face. "Papa, the clouds look like mountains."
Jeanyx smiled behind her, the sound of it warm in his chest. Nyx hummed beneath them, a low, pleased vibration that carried through her scales. Arya was the only other soul she had ever allowed on her back. No guards. No chiefs. No elders. Just Jeanyx… and now her.
People, Nyx decided, were tolerable in small numbers. Islanders especially. They were quieter than the Andals her partner spoke of, less grasping, less loud in their hunger. Arya felt different, too. Curious without being careless. Sharp without being cruel.
After a while, Arya shifted, her excitement giving way to a frown of thought. She craned her neck slightly, glancing back at Jeanyx, who noticed immediately and leaned forward so she wouldn't have to shout over the wind.
"Papa?" she asked, her voice carrying surprisingly well in the thin air. "You said before that people can't breathe this high. But I'm breathing fine. And you are too."
Jeanyx blinked, then chuckled softly. "Good question, little snake."
He adjusted her gently, turning her a little so she sat more securely against him, Nyx slowing her pace just enough to make conversation easier.
"Long ago," he began, voice steady, "Valyrians were nothing special. Shepherds. Goat herders. Ordinary people who happened to live near fire and stone."
Arya listened like her life depended on it.
"Then they learned magic. Real magic. Not prayers or tricks, but forces that answered will. And with time, they learned how to shape it. Dragons weren't found," he said quietly. "They were made."
Her breath caught at that.
"But there was a problem," Jeanyx continued. "Dragons fly high. Too high. Higher than lungs were meant to work. The first riders suffocated. Fell. Died."
Arya's fingers tightened slightly.
"So they adapted," he said. "They wove dragon blood into themselves. Carefully. Over generations. They thought maybe they'd grow wings. Or breathe fire. Mostly, they didn't."
"Mostly?" Arya echoed.
He smiled. "What they gained was better. The ability to breathe thin air. To survive heat. To endure where others fail. A natural touch for magic. And the ability to go longer without air than anyone else."
He tilted his head closer to hers. "That legacy runs in you too."
Arya looked down at her hands, then back up at the clouds. "So… we're better than everyone else?"
Jeanyx laughed, genuinely this time, the sound lost to the wind. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "We are."
She turned sharply, eyes wide. "But—"
"But," he added calmly, "you never say it aloud."
She frowned, confused.
"Real superiority," he said, "doesn't need announcing. If you have to tell people you're above them, you aren't. When it's real, they feel it the moment you enter the room. Even if you're dirty. Even if you're silent. Even if you're doing nothing at all."
Arya absorbed that in silence.
"But Mama says everyone should be treated with kindness," she said after a moment.
Jeanyx sighed, not in disagreement, but in consideration. "Your mother is right," he said. "Kindness matters. But kindness without wisdom is just naivety wearing a pretty face."
He gestured vaguely downward, toward the unseen island behind them. "I'm kind to Wintertown. To the villages. I share food. Medicine. Knowledge. That kindness creates something stronger than fear."
"Love?" Arya guessed.
"Debt," Jeanyx corrected gently. "Invisible, unspoken debt. People remember who saved them when winter should have killed them. They remember who fed their children. They repay it without being asked."
He paused, then said quietly, "Here's the first thing you engrave into your mind. Power doesn't belong to the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest. It belongs to those willing to do what others won't."
Arya nodded slowly.
"And the second," he continued, "the most dangerous force in the world isn't an army. It's the common people. They outnumber every sword, every banner, every dragon. Keep them fed. Keep them hopeful. Keep them believing their lives are better with you than without you."
Nyx rumbled approvingly beneath them.
"If you have their favor," Jeanyx said, "anyone who moves against you must do it in shadow—or be named a traitor."
He leaned forward slightly. "Now tell me what you learned."
Arya thought hard, lips pursed, then spoke carefully. "That real power is taken, not given. And that if people are happy because of you, hurting you makes someone an enemy of everyone."
Jeanyx smiled and reached forward, resting his hand atop her head, pressing gently at just the right place. She leaned into it instinctively.
"Good," he said. "One last thing."
She looked up at him.
"Family comes first. Always. Anyone who harms the family is an enemy, even if they share our blood. Anyone who protects it is a friend, no matter their name."
Arya nodded, understanding as much as a five-year-old could, the words settling somewhere deep, waiting to grow with her.
Nyx angled her wings, moonlight spilling across her scales as they continued westward, the conversation fading into the steady rhythm of flight, carrying lessons that would follow Arya far longer than the clouds beneath them.
They reached Braavos under a moonless sky, the city revealed in fragments as Nyx descended through the coastal mist. Lanterns glimmered like scattered stars along canals and bridges, their reflections trembling in the dark water. The Titan loomed far off, half-hidden by fog, its silhouette more rumor than monument at this hour. Braavos slept lightly, like a city that never fully trusts the night.
Nyx angled her wings and came down hard and silent in an abandoned district on the city's edge, stone cracked and rooftops sagging with age. Once, this place had mattered. Now it smelled of salt, rot, and old secrets. Jeanyx slid down first, boots touching stone without a sound, then reached up and lifted Arya into his arms before setting her down beside him. She stared around with wide, alert eyes, excitement and caution warring on her face.
Nyx lowered her massive head, breath warm against them despite the cool air. Jeanyx pressed his forehead briefly to her scales.
"Hide," he murmured softly. "A few miles out. Stay low. Stay quiet."
Nyx huffed, displeased but obedient, then turned and melted back into the darkness, wings folding close as she moved inland, her presence swallowed by fog and distance as if she'd never been there at all.
Jeanyx took Arya's hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his own, and together they slipped into the district's narrow streets. Broken windows watched them pass. Shuttered doors creaked in the wind. Somewhere, water dripped steadily, counting time. Arya leaned closer to him without realizing it, her earlier bravado softened by the unfamiliar city.
They walked until the streets slowly came back to life. Light returned first, then sound—laughter drifting from open balconies, music winding through alleyways, the smell of food and smoke and perfume mixing in the air. Masks hung from doorways like silent judges. Braavos had a different heartbeat than Westeros—faster, looser, sharp with coin and ambition.
Jeanyx stopped at a vendor whose stall still burned bright despite the late hour, silks and trinkets spread beneath lanternlight. The man looked up, eyes already calculating.
"Moonsinger Lane," the vendor said after Jeanyx asked, jerking his chin down the street. "You're standing in it. Main entertainment district. You lost, friend?"
Jeanyx nodded slightly, gaze steady. "Perhaps. Tell me where I might find the First Sword of Braavos."
The vendor's expression shifted. His eyes flicked over Jeanyx's hair, his posture, the way he stood too comfortably in a city that ate the careless alive. The sneer came slow and practiced.
"Valyrian," the man said flatly. "You lot usually know better than to ask questions like that."
Jeanyx didn't argue. He reached into his cloak and placed a small gold bar on the counter. Not slammed. Not flaunted. Just enough weight to speak for itself.
The sneer vanished.
The vendor cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the far end of the street. "Near the Sealord's Palace," he said quickly. "Villa tucked behind the eastern canal. You'll see guards who pretend they aren't guards. That's how you know you're close."
Jeanyx took the directions without thanks, slipped the gold into the man's hand, and turned away before more questions could form.
Arya squeezed his hand again as they walked, eyes darting at the music, the dancers, the masked faces watching them pass.
"Papa," she whispered, half-awed, half-wary. "This place feels… loud."
Jeanyx smiled faintly. "That's Braavos. It sings so you don't hear the knives."
They moved deeper into the city, the Sealord's domain drawing nearer, the night thick with promise and danger, and neither of them looked back.
It took them nearly an hour to reach the villa, and by the end of it Jeanyx's patience was worn thin. Three candlemarks, winding canals, bridges that curved back on themselves for no good reason, streets that felt deliberately designed to confuse anyone not born to them. Braavos loved to test strangers. He hated cities like this. Too many blind corners. Too many eyes pretending not to watch.
The villa itself sat quiet, almost modest compared to the surrounding estates near the Sealord's domain. No music. No guards openly posted. Just stone walls, trimmed hedges, and a courtyard half-lit by lanterns that hadn't been replaced yet for the night. The silence was deliberate, disciplined. The kind of quiet that only came from confidence.
Jeanyx slowed, crouching slightly, and squeezed Arya's hand once before guiding her around the side. Slipping past the outer wall was effortless. Years of forest movement, climbing ruins, and the muscle memory of a life where balance mattered more than brute force made the stone feel like nothing beneath his fingers. Arya followed close, copying his steps, eyes bright with focus rather than fear.
They peered into the courtyard.
A man stood barefoot on the stone, his movements smooth and economical, tan skin catching the lanternlight. Early forties, maybe. Broad shoulders worn lean rather than bulky, scars faint but present on his forearms. In his hand was a rapier, plain but clearly loved. Across from him stood a teenage boy, tense with effort, sweat darkening his tunic as he tried to keep up.
"Again," the man said calmly, correcting the boy's stance with the tip of his blade. "Your wrist is leading. Your body should follow."
The boy adjusted, jaw clenched, and attacked again.
Jeanyx let his heel press down on a twig.
The snap sounded like thunder in the still courtyard.
The man moved instantly.
Steel flashed. The rapier came up and leveled at Jeanyx's throat in a heartbeat, point steady, arm unwavering. His eyes were sharp now, assessing, calculating distance, weight, intent. The boy yelped and stumbled back, reaching for a discarded blade near the wall.
"Don't," the man said without looking away from Jeanyx.
Jeanyx raised his hands slowly, palms open, calm as still water. His eyes flicked briefly to the rapier the boy was scrambling for, and with a smooth kick he sent it spinning up into the air. He caught it by the grip, turning it once in his hand.
The metal sang.
Jeanyx blinked, genuinely surprised.
He turned the blade slightly, feeling the balance, the flex, the way it returned to center. It wasn't Valyrian steel. But it was close. Closer than anything he'd touched in years.
"Give that back," the boy snapped, voice breaking despite himself. "That was my father's."
The grief in it was raw. Unhidden. Jeanyx felt it immediately and lowered the blade slightly.
The man exhaled through his nose, then eased his rapier down just enough to show restraint, not trust.
"My name is Syravio Vennaro," he said evenly. "First Sword of Braavos. You are trespassing and before i take you in may i know you name."
Jeanyx met his gaze, unflinching. " you'll have to earn my name."
Syravio's brow twitched, amused despite himself. "Bold words for a man holding my student's blade."
Jeanyx tossed the rapier lightly into the air and caught it again. "Then take it."
Syravio smiled. Slow. Sharp. "Gladly."
They circled.
At first, they both fought left-handed.
It was subtle. Almost polite. Light probing strikes, feints meant to test reactions rather than land blows. Their footwork carried them across smooth stone, over loose gravel, onto patches of grass where traction changed everything. Syravio flowed like water, precise and elegant, his blade whispering through the air. Jeanyx moved like a shadow given weight, angles sharp, balance uncanny, each step placed where it needed to be before the thought fully formed.
"You move like a sellsword who learned discipline late," Syravio observed mid-exchange.
Jeanyx parried, steel ringing softly. "And you move like a noble who learned violence young."
Syravio laughed, quick and approving. "Fair."
They traded momentum. A flurry of strikes pushed Jeanyx toward a stone bench. He leapt, rolled across it, landed low and slashed upward, forcing Syravio back a step for the first time. Arya watched with held breath, eyes darting as fast as the blades.
"You favor distance," Jeanyx said, circling wide. "But you don't fear closing."
"And you," Syravio replied, "fight like you're listening to something no one else can hear."
Jeanyx smiled thinly.
Then, without warning, both shifted.
Right hands came up.
The change was immediate and violent.
Syravio's style sharpened, strikes faster, more assertive, confidence blooming as his dominant hand took over. Jeanyx responded in kind, movements tightening, power coiling behind precision. The courtyard became too small. They used walls, pillars, elevation. Syravio vaulted onto a low ledge, attacking downward. Jeanyx slid under, blade scraping sparks from stone as he rose behind him.
Steel met steel again and again, each clash louder, heavier, the rhythm building into something almost musical.
"You've killed men," Syravio said between breaths.
"Yes."
"Kings?"
Jeanyx twisted his wrist, disarming stroke barely deflected. "Not yet."
Syravio barked a laugh and pressed harder, forcing Jeanyx back across uneven ground, gravel biting into boots. Jeanyx answered with speed, a sudden rush that forced Syravio onto the grass, footing compromised for just a fraction of a second.
That was all Jeanyx needed.
He struck.
Syravio barely caught it, blade shuddering in his grip. They froze, weapons locked, faces inches apart, both grinning now, sweat slick on skin, hearts hammering in mutual recognition.
Syravio broke the bind and stepped back, lowering his blade.
"Well," he said, breathing hard. "That was rude of you."
Jeanyx lowered the rapier as well and handed it back to the boy, who stared at him like he'd just witnessed a god bleed.
"My name," Jeanyx said calmly, turning back to Syravio, "is Jeanyx."
Syravio's eyes widened just slightly.
"Valyrian," he said quietly. "I thought as much."
Jeanyx gestured to Arya, who stepped forward, chin lifted despite her size. "And this is my daughter."
Syravio sheathed his blade and bowed, deep and respectful. "Then welcome to Braavos," he said. "Both of you."
And in the quiet that followed, something shifted, unseen but undeniable, like the opening move of a much larger game.
(keep in mind jeanyx was using peak human strength and not his actual strength or speed which is better then 3 mountains(Gregor Clegane) the norm for those talented with the blade and with years of experience is at least close to peak human)
Jeanyx sheathed the borrowed rapier with care before handing it fully back, then turned his attention to Syravio, posture relaxed now that the edge had been dulled by understanding rather than steel. The lanternlight caught the silver in his hair and the strange calm in his eyes, the kind that came from someone who knew exactly how dangerous he was and saw no need to prove it.
"I came looking for you," Jeanyx said evenly, his voice carrying the weight of intent rather than command, "because I want you to train my daughter in the water dance."
Syravio studied him for a long moment, gaze flicking briefly to Arya, who stood straight-backed despite her age, chin lifted, eyes bright and unafraid. Then he looked back at Jeanyx, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"Why?" Syravio asked. There was no insult in it, only honest curiosity. "From what I saw just now, you could teach her yourself. You were holding back. Anyone with eyes could see that."
Jeanyx's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I have been teaching her," he said. "For a year now. Balance. Footwork. Reading intent. When to move and when to wait. But teaching her only what I know would cage her inside my shadow."
Syravio tilted his head, listening.
"She's young," Jeanyx continued. "That's the only time you can truly shape a fighter without breaking them first. I want her exposed to different philosophies. Different rhythms. Different truths. I want her to learn how Braavos fights, how it thinks. Not so she becomes a copy of you—or of me—but so one day she can decide what parts are worth keeping."
Arya glanced up at her father then, something warm and fierce twisting in her chest at the way he spoke about her, like she was already something in the making rather than something small.
Syravio exhaled slowly, a sound halfway between admiration and resignation. "You're asking me to help her become something new," he said. "Not just better."
"Yes."
There was a pause. The night pressed in around them, the distant sounds of Braavos barely reaching the quiet courtyard.
"I already train an apprentice," Syravio said at last, nodding toward the boy, who was still hovering nearby, gripping his rapier like a lifeline. "If I take her on, questions will be asked. The Sealord does not enjoy unanswered questions."
Jeanyx inclined his head. "I wouldn't expect you to do it for nothing."
He reached into his cloak and withdrew a gold bar, setting it gently on the stone bench between them. Not tossed. Not flaunted. Just placed there, heavy and certain.
Syravio's eyes dropped to it despite himself.
He picked it up, turning it once in his hand. The color was right. The weight was right. The feel of it—gods, the feel—was unmistakable. Pure. The kind of gold the Sealord himself prized, the kind that didn't come from cutting corners or mixing metals.
Syravio let out a low whistle. "You know," he said dryly, "most men try to insult me with coin."
Jeanyx met his gaze. "Then it's fortunate I'm not most men."
Syravio laughed, sharp and genuine, and set the gold back down. "That will buy me silence," he admitted. "And excuses. The Sealord understands results, and he understands quality."
He looked at Arya again, really looked this time, at the way she stood, the way her eyes tracked movement even now, how she shifted her weight without thinking.
"But understand this," Syravio said, crouching slightly so he was closer to her height. "The water dance is not about strength. It's about truth. It will show her who she is before she's ready to admit it."
Arya didn't hesitate. "That's okay," she said softly. "Papa says knowing yourself early hurts less later."
Syravio blinked, then smiled despite himself.
He straightened and extended his hand toward Jeanyx. "Very well," he said. "She trains with me. We'll tell the Sealord she's a visiting noble's daughter, here to learn Braavosi tradition. He won't look deeper unless he has reason to."
Jeanyx clasped his forearm, firm and brief. "You won't regret it."
Syravio smirked. "I already don't."
Somewhere in the city, a bell rang faintly, marking another candle slipping away into night, and the courtyard seemed to breathe, as if it knew something had just been set in motion that wouldn't stop easily.
Morning came softly over Braavos, the kind of pale dawn that crept between stone towers and turned the canals into long ribbons of dull silver. The city was quieter at this hour, performers asleep, masks tucked away, only the gulls and the distant slap of water against stone breaking the stillness. In the courtyard, Arya stood with her hands clenched into the fabric of her tunic, eyes red-rimmed and shining as she tried very hard not to cry again.
Jeanyx knelt in front of her, bringing himself down to her height so she didn't have to look up at him. For a moment he just watched her, memorizing the way her brow furrowed when she was upset, the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she was trying to be brave. He lifted his hand and gently poked her forehead with two fingers, right between the eyes.
"I'm here," he said quietly.
Arya sniffed, confused. "But… you're leaving," she whispered, voice wobbling. "What if I mess up? What if I'm not good enough?"
Jeanyx sighed softly and rested his forehead against hers. "If I stay," he said, "you'll push yourself too hard. You'll fight to impress me instead of listening to your body. You'll ignore pain you shouldn't ignore, and that's how people get hurt."
She swallowed hard, tears slipping free despite her effort. "I don't want you to go."
"I know," he said gently. "And that's why I have to."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "I swear on Odin," he said, voice firm now, carrying the weight of an oath he did not take lightly. "I will return. And when I do, I want to see you standing on your own feet. Stronger. Smarter. Still my little girl, but better than you are today."
Arya wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, nodding hard. "I'll do it," she said. "I'll train. I won't break. I'll make you proud."
Jeanyx smiled, a real one, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You already have."
He stood then, turning before the moment could drag on long enough to make leaving impossible, and slipped away into the waking city while Arya watched him go, fists clenched at her sides, heart aching and burning all at once.
Jeanyx crossed Braavos alone, moving through districts most visitors never saw. Past crowded bridges and echoing stone tunnels, through markets that smelled of old fish and rusted coin, and into places where the city frayed at the edges. By the time he reached Ragman Harbor, the air had changed. Saltier. Dirtier. Desperate. This was where the poorest boats docked, where nets were patched instead of replaced, where men worked until their hands bled because stopping meant starving.
The harbor was little more than a cluster of rotting piers and half-sunk boats, the water thick and sluggish with refuse. A fisherman eyed Jeanyx warily as he approached, shoulders hunched, fingers stiff from cold and age. Jeanyx spoke quietly, choosing his words with care, then produced another gold bar, letting it catch the weak morning light.
The fisherman's eyes widened. He bowed deeply, hands shaking as he accepted it, gratitude and fear tangled together in his expression. Without another word, he gestured for Jeanyx to follow and guided him onto a narrow boat, pushing off with practiced ease.
They crossed a short stretch of gray water to a small, unimpressive island, its stone worn smooth by centuries of wind and tide. No banners flew there. No guards challenged them. It was a place that did not announce itself, because it did not need to.
Jeanyx stepped onto the island alone as the fisherman quickly turned back, eager to be gone, and looked up at the stark structure waiting for him. Black stone. White stone. No ornament. No warmth.
The House of Black and White stood silent, watching him as it had watched countless souls before, and Jeanyx felt, for the first time in a long while, the faint prickle of uncertainty crawl up his spine.
Jeanyx stood before the door for a long moment before knocking, letting the weight of the place settle over him. The island was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like sound itself knew better than to linger here. The air smelled faintly of salt and old stone, and something else beneath it—incense, maybe, or memory. He lifted his hand and knocked once, firm but unhurried.
The sound echoed inward, swallowed by the building.
It took several minutes before the door opened.
A figure stood there cloaked in black and white, face smooth and expressionless, yet wrong in that subtle way only someone who had worn many faces could ever truly be. She looked like a woman. She might have been a woman. Jeanyx knew better than to assume anything beyond what was shown.
Their eyes met, and for a brief instant the world seemed to narrow to that single point of contact.
"Valar morghulis," the woman said calmly.
Jeanyx inclined his head slightly, then replied, his voice steady and deliberate, "Valar… omnia servient."
(All things will serve.)
The stillness deepened.
The woman did not flinch. She did not smile. But something changed, something faint and sharp in the air between them, like the subtle shift before a blade leaves its sheath. Her gaze lingered on him a fraction longer than it should have.
"The young prince is correct," she said after a moment. "And far beyond what is considered… normal."
Jeanyx frowned faintly. "That's not usually a compliment here."
"It is not," she agreed. "Nor is it an insult."
She stepped aside, allowing the door to open wider. Jeanyx did not move yet.
"You speak as though you expected me," he said.
"We did," the woman replied. "Not in words. Words are imprecise. But in feeling."
That made him still.
"Our lady told us you would come," she continued. "Not with prophecy, not with command. With a presence. A cold certainty. The same one I feel now."
Jeanyx's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're talking about Death."
The woman nodded once.
"She does not speak often," the Faceless One said. "But when she does, it is not easily forgotten. She told us that one day a man would stand before this door who did not fear the end, nor revere it, nor bargain with it… but understood it."
Jeanyx let out a quiet breath. "That sounds like her."
The woman studied him again, more openly now, as though the rules of pretense had shifted just enough to allow curiosity.
"When a man looks upon you," she said, "it feels the same as when life leaves the eyes. Not because you are death—but because you are close to it. Familiar with it."
Jeanyx met her gaze without blinking. "So. Do I knock again, or am I already inside?"
The woman turned and walked back into the House of Black and White, her footsteps soundless against the stone.
"A man who asks that question," she said over her shoulder, "is already closer than most."
The door remained open, the darkness beyond waiting, patient as it had always been.
The door closed behind Jeanyx with a sound that felt final in a way few things ever truly were. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a deep, settling thud that seemed to sink into his bones rather than echo through the stone.
The Faceless Man led him forward without looking back. The corridor they entered was narrow and unadorned, its walls smooth stone worn by centuries of passing feet. Candles burned low in shallow alcoves, their flames steady, unmoving, as if even air knew to behave itself here. Each step carried them farther from Braavos and closer to something older, quieter, and far less forgiving.
They stopped before a massive door of dark wood and iron. It bore no sigils, no carvings, no warnings. It did not need them.
The Faceless Man placed both hands against it and pushed.
The door opened with surprising ease.
Cold washed over Jeanyx as he stepped inside, not the sharp cold of winter but the hollow, bone-deep chill of stone that had never known sunlight. The Hall of Faces opened before him, vast and cathedral-like, its ceiling vanishing into shadow. Rows upon rows of faces lined the walls, mounted carefully, reverently, as though each were a sacred relic.
Jeanyx slowed without meaning to.
There was the Stranger, pale and faceless, hollow-eyed and eternal, the silent end of all paths from the Faith of the Seven. Nearby hung a weirwood face, carved and living once, red sap long dried, its expression caught between grief and knowing, honoring the Old Gods who watched and waited and remembered. The Drowned God's face followed, salt-cracked and barnacle-scarred, mouth frozen in a silent prayer pulled from black waters.
Further along burned the Fiery Heart of the Lord of Light, its features warped as if forged in flame, devotion and destruction entwined. The Black Goat of Qohor stared outward with heavy-lidded indifference, ancient and demanding. The Lion of Night from Yi Ti loomed regal and terrible, a predator of darkness given divine shape. And there, veiled in sorrow, the Weeping Lady of Lys, her tears carved forever into stone-soft cheeks.
Different gods. Different names.
One truth.
Jeanyx exhaled slowly. "You didn't lie," he murmured. "Death really does wear every face."
The Faceless Man stopped at the center of the hall and turned.
"Many gods," the Faceless Man said. "One gift."
Jeanyx's eyes flicked back to the walls. "And you collect them all."
"A man does not collect," the Faceless Man replied. "A man serves."
Jeanyx gave a quiet, humorless huff. "Funny. That's exactly what Death would say."
For the first time since they'd met, the Faceless Man tilted their head, just slightly.
"A man is glad the prince understands," they said. "Many come here believing they are special. Few are correct."
"And you think I am?"
"A man thinks nothing," came the smooth reply. "But a man feels… recognition."
Jeanyx turned in a slow circle, letting his gaze trace the countless faces, each one a life ended, a story concluded, a debt paid. He could feel it now, clearer than before. The hum beneath the silence. Not fear. Not reverence.
Acceptance.
"So," he said at last, stopping before the weirwood face. "What does a man do when Death sends him an invitation instead of a summons?"
The Faceless Man folded their hands within their sleeves.
"A man listens," they said. "And decides whether he will kneel… or walk his own path beside her."
The candles flickered, just once, as if something unseen had leaned closer to listen.
What Jeanyx believed would be three months of training stretched into five, not because the Faceless Men demanded more, but because they watched and waited and saw that he had not yet reached the edge they required of him. They allowed him to learn their ways without kneeling, without surrendering his name, without becoming one of them, but the price for that mercy was far crueler than indoctrination.
He was given a single condition.
Jeanyx would be sealed inside a chamber of absolute silence, a room flooded knee-deep with still water, stone-cold and unmoving. His sight would be taken. His hearing smothered. His taste and smell stripped away. Touch dulled until even pain felt distant and unreal. He would exist in the closest state to death a living man could endure. And he would remain there until the Faceless Men were satisfied.
If, at any point, he let go of who he was, if his identity dissolved under the weight of nothingness, then a man would leave the chamber and another Faceless Man would walk the halls in his place.
Jeanyx hesitated only once.
In that brief pause, his children surfaced in his mind with startling clarity. Arya's sharp curiosity. Loki's watchful eyes. Alysanne's quiet brilliance. Thor's fierce little grip on his fingers. The thought of failing them tightened his chest more than any blade ever had.
Then he forced the thought away.
Failure was not an option.
The door closed. The silence descended.
Days lost meaning first. Then weeks. Time dissolved into something amorphous and cruel, marked only by the rare moments when hands appeared from the dark to feed him food that tasted like nothing at all. Not bitter. Not sweet. Just sustenance without comfort. Enough to keep him alive, never enough to ground him.
At first, Jeanyx tried to survive by looking forward. He thought of the future. Of returning to the island. Of Arya's training. Of finishing his plans. Of going home. He imagined it all with desperate precision, clinging to it like a lifeline.
It didn't help.
The future slipped through his fingers like mist, and all that remained was the past.
Memories surfaced unbidden, sharp and intrusive, replaying themselves in the silence until he could no longer push them away. Westeros. The Red Keep. The stares. The whispers. His wedding. The way his grandfather's eyes never softened when they landed on him. The septon's voice, oily with devotion, speaking of conversion, of the North's gods being wrong, of him being the bridge to fix it all.
That was when Jeanyx finally admitted the truth to himself.
He hadn't left Westeros because of the marriage alone.
He had left because it was a cage.
Jaehaerys had never seen him as a grandson. Only as a piece. A tool to bend the Starks toward the Faith of the Seven. A pawn polished with Valyrian beauty and pushed across a board he never agreed to play on. The septon had only been the voice that made it impossible to ignore.
So he ran.
The day after the wedding, he vanished. Slipped onto a ship bound for Lys, the last place anyone would think to search, the place he and Daemon had whispered about as boys when they spoke of freedom like it was a fantasy. Fate, as it so often did, laughed at his plans. The storm came. The ship broke. And the island took him.
As those memories settled, others rose in their place.
His brother.
Viserys.
For years, Jeanyx had believed Viserys disliked him because of their father. Because of Jaehaerys. Because of expectation and resentment passed down like an inheritance. But in the silence, with nowhere left to hide from himself, the truth became painfully obvious.
Viserys had been hurt.
Jeanyx looked like Alyssa Targaryen.
Too much.
Every time Viserys saw him, it was like seeing a ghost of the mother he'd lost. A reminder carved in flesh and silver hair. Jeanyx's distance. His quietness. His cold detachment. Viserys had mistaken it for arrogance when it was grief wearing unfamiliar skin.
And Jeanyx had never noticed.
The realization didn't bring anger. It brought something worse.
Regret.
As the months dragged on, the silence began to eat at him. It pressed in until it felt loud, until his thoughts echoed back at him distorted and cruel. To survive it, Jeanyx did what the mind always does when left alone too long.
He fractured.
He began to create people.
Lives unfolded in his head with obsessive detail. Different names. Different paths. A smith. A farmer. A king. A nameless man dying in the cold. A father who never ran. A man who never left Westeros. A man who did nothing but leave.
Over time, he realized the truth of it.
They were all him.
Every version carried a fragment of what he was, what he could have been, what he feared he might become. And by letting them exist, by allowing those lives to play out in the dark, he stayed whole.
Not pretending to be no one.
Not surrendering his name.
Just understanding it more deeply than ever before.
When the door finally opened after five months, Jeanyx stepped out thinner, quieter, and unmistakably changed. He had not become a Faceless Man.
He had become something far more dangerous.
A man who knew exactly who he was, and exactly what he refused to lose.
Garric Harlowe sat in his solar with the practiced stillness of a man who believed himself untouchable.
The room smelled of ink, old vellum, and burning peat. Ledgers lay open across a wide oak desk, each page weighed down by carved stone markers etched with Stormwatch runes. Outside the narrow windows, the southern village hummed with distant life, unaware that its chief had not looked up from numbers in nearly an hour.
Gold was obedient. Gold listened. Gold told the truth, if one knew how to read it.
Garric was mid-calculation, adjusting a column of ore shipments—iron, copper, a suspicious amount of silver—when the door creaked open.
A soldier entered.
Garric did not look up at first, merely clicking his tongue in annoyance. "I said I was not to be disturbed."
The man did not answer.
That, finally, made Garric lift his gaze.
The soldier wore Stormwatch colors, clean but unremarkable. His face slid oddly in Garric's mind, as if it refused to be held. Garric felt a flicker of irritation at himself for not remembering when the man had entered his service, but the feeling passed quickly. He was tired. Numbers did that.
The soldier stepped forward and placed a sealed letter on the desk.
No salute. No words.
He turned and left as quietly as he had come.
Garric frowned, then noticed the seal.
His breath caught.
Marcus.
He broke the wax at once.
As he read, the lines around his mouth softened. Then vanished entirely.
The report was thorough. Painfully so.
Jeanyx's vaults were obscene. Not merely rich—obscene. Mountains of gold and raw ore stored beneath the Mourning Keep, more wealth than Stormwatch would see in ten lifetimes. Artifacts Garric did not understand. Metals that resisted classification. Machines that required constant oversight and—most importantly—their creator's presence.
Jeanyx had been gone far longer than announced.
Not weeks.
Months.
No sightings. No appearances. No dragon in the skies.
Nyx was gone too.
That line made Garric's pulse quicken.
The great beast had not been seen since Jeanyx departed. No shadows crossing the sea. No thunderous roars rolling down from the clouds. Patrols had noticed. Builders whispered. Even the Frost family had grown tense.
Marcus suspected—carefully worded, but unmistakable—that Jeanyx and his eldest daughter were dead.
Lost overseas.
And without Nyx, Wintertown was vulnerable in a way it had never been before.
Garric leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as his weight settled. A slow smile spread across his face, one he made no effort to hide.
Dead gods made the best opportunities.
Jeanyx had built everything around himself. His power. His inventions. His dragon. Even his children's authority flowed from him like water from a spring. Without him, Wintertown was a fortress without a general—strong walls, no will.
The Frost family were caretakers, not rulers. Regulus was clever, but young. The others were children with impressive tricks and no real understanding of war. And Nyx—Nyx was gone.
Then Garric reached the final paragraph.
The children's name day approached.
A celebration.
Open gates. Visitors from every village. Food, drink, distraction.
Garric let out a soft laugh, low and pleased.
A perfect moment.
Stormwatch men could march north under the guise of honoring the children. No banners raised. No open declaration. A swift seizure of the vaults. The capture of the heirs. Control of Wintertown's infrastructure before anyone understood what was happening.
Gold like that could buy fleets. Silence. Allegiance.
He folded the letter carefully, almost reverently, and placed it atop the ledgers.
"So even gods leave their thrones empty," Garric murmured.
He stood and crossed the room to the bell cord, pulling it twice in quick succession.
Footsteps answered almost immediately.
"Summon the captains," Garric said when the first man entered. His voice was calm, measured, already shaping the future in his mind. "Quietly. No banners. No drums."
The soldier hesitated. "Lord Harlowe… for what purpose?"
Garric turned, eyes glittering with naked ambition.
"For inheritance," he said. "And correction."
As the man hurried off, Garric returned to his desk, fingers resting on the sealed letter as the fire crackled behind him.
Outside, Stormwatch slept peacefully.
Inside, a betrayal sharpened its blade.
Jeanyx stepped out of the chamber slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to exist outside still water and silence.
The air felt heavier. Sharper. Real.
For the first time in months, he became aware of himself not as a thought, not as a memory, but as a body.
His reflection caught in the dark glass of a nearby basin, and he stopped without meaning to.
He had changed.
The weeks without sensation, without flavor, without motion had stripped weight from him, but not weakly. His frame had grown slender and curved in a way that felt… deliberate. His shoulders narrow, his waist drawn in, his hips softer. Not fragile. Balanced. The kind of body shaped by restraint rather than indulgence. His face, once sharper with stress and youth, now carried a quiet severity that made his violet eyes stand out all the more.
And his hair.
Silver-blonde, long enough now to brush against his lower back when loose, it spilled over his shoulders like liquid moonlight. He reached up absently, gathering part of it and tying it into a simple knot, leaving the rest to fall freely to the middle of his back.
The sight made something twist in his chest.
He looked like her.
Not just similar. Not an echo.
He looked like his mother, as she existed only in paintings and half-remembered stories. The same delicate strength. The same quiet authority that did not need to announce itself. For a moment, the resemblance unsettled him more than any blade ever had.
A sound broke the silence.
A faceless man stood several paces away, watching him.
Not watching his body.
Watching him.
Men did not move. Men did not breathe. Men simply observed.
A full minute passed.
Then the faceless man spoke.
"A man has passed."
The words were not praise. Not judgment.
A statement.
To test it, the faceless man extended a hand. Resting upon the palm was a flesh-mask, pale and featureless, damp with preserved life. Even after months among them, the sight stirred something instinctual and uncomfortable in Jeanyx's gut.
He did not hesitate.
He took the mask and pressed it to his face.
Cold. Wet. Then—
The world folded.
Bone shifted beneath skin. Muscle thickened. His height increased, shoulders broadening, hands roughening, weight settling into a heavy, grounded stance. When the change finished, the reflection staring back was not Jeanyx at all.
A burly man stood there. Thick neck. Scarred jaw. The face of someone born for labor or war, not thought or craft.
Jeanyx lifted a hand experimentally. The movement felt natural.
Too natural.
He reached up and removed the mask.
The transformation reversed itself smoothly, like breath being released. Silver hair fell back into place. Slender hands returned. Violet eyes blinked once, steady and clear.
Jeanyx exhaled.
Not in relief.
In understanding.
He stepped back and bowed, deep and sincere, something he had never done for a king.
"I am grateful," he said quietly. "Not for the technique. Not for the masks. But for the silence. I came here to learn how to become something else."
He lifted his head, gaze steady.
"And instead, I learned who I already was."
The faceless men inclined their heads in unison.
"A man knows himself," one said.
"A man walks his own road," said another.
Then, as one voice, flat and final, "Jeanyx and his kin will always be welcomed."
The words settled into him like a seal, binding without chains.
Jeanyx straightened, turning toward the exit. His steps were lighter now, but surer. He did not look back as the doors closed behind him.
Somewhere beyond stone and shadow, a dragon waited.
And far away, on an island that believed itself safe, a betrayal had already begun to move.
Jeanyx felt it—not as fear, not yet—but as a quiet tightening in his chest, like the first warning tremor before an avalanche.
And he smiled, just faintly, as he stepped into the night.
An hour later, Jeanyx slipped back into the First Sword's villa the same way he had left it—quietly, deliberately, like a shadow that already knew where every stone would creak.
He moved along the outer wall and eased into the backyard, keeping to the edge of the lantern light. The night air smelled of salt and steel and sweat. He stopped without realizing it, breath catching in his chest.
Arya was fighting.
Not practicing. Fighting.
She faced the First Sword's apprentice—older than her, broader, stronger by every visible measure—and she was dismantling him.
Her rapier moved with confidence now. Not the careful, overthought strikes she used to make, not the hesitation that had once betrayed how badly she wanted to do everything right. Her feet were light, precise. She flowed forward, then back, then sideways, blade snapping out like a living thing. Every motion had purpose. Every step carried intent.
Jeanyx's first instinct was disbelief.
His second was pride so sharp it hurt.
She looked different. Leaner. Longer-limbed. There was something in her posture now—something unmistakably Arya Stark, the kind of feral focus he remembered from stories and screens and memory. Season One, he thought distantly. Before the world had tried to crush her. Only this Arya was sharper. More dangerous.
The boy lunged, overcommitted.
Arya slid inside his guard, twisted her wrist, and flicked his blade aside. Her pommel struck his chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and he went down on his back with a startled grunt, staring up at the sky.
Jeanyx clapped once.
The sound cut clean through the yard.
Both fighters froze.
Arya turned first.
For a heartbeat, she didn't understand what she was seeing. Her face went blank, then confused, then—utterly shattered.
"Papa?"
The word broke as it left her mouth.
She ran.
Not graceful. Not controlled. Just pure, desperate momentum. She slammed into him full force, arms locking around his waist as she bear-tackled him like she was afraid he might vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough. Her face buried into his chest, and the sob came out of her before she could stop it.
"I thought you were gone," she cried, voice muffled, shaking. "I thought—you didn't come back—I thought—"
Jeanyx dropped to his knees with her, one arm wrapping around her back, the other cradling her head. He didn't say anything at first. He just held her and let her cry, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades the way he used to when she was smaller, when monsters were still imaginary.
"I'm here," he murmured finally, low and steady. "I promised, didn't I?"
She nodded against him, clinging tighter, fingers twisted in his clothes like anchors. Her breathing hitched as the tears slowed, but she didn't let go.
"I was so mad at you," she said after a moment, voice small and raw. "And I tried not to be, but I was. And then I got scared that maybe you—maybe you wouldn't come back at all."
Jeanyx pressed his forehead to the top of her head.
"I know," he said softly. "That's on me."
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes red, angry and relieved all at once. "I got better," she blurted out, like a confession. "I really did. I didn't cry when I got hit. And I stopped freezing. And Syravio says I think like water now."
He smiled, genuine and warm, the kind he rarely showed anyone.
"I saw," he said. "You were terrifying."
That earned a shaky laugh through the last of her tears.
Behind them, the apprentice was still on the ground, staring at the scene with wide eyes, forgotten entirely.
Jeanyx held Arya a moment longer, grounding both of them, before easing back just enough to look her over properly.
She had grown.
And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that leaving her here—even for this—had been the right choice.
Even if it had hurt them both.
They said their goodbyes to Syravio at the edge of the villa grounds, the First Sword standing with his hands folded behind his back, watching Arya with an appraising calm that held more respect than words ever could. Jeanyx pressed another gold brick into his palm without ceremony. Syravio didn't protest, only inclined his head, understanding exactly what it meant. Arya bowed awkwardly, then corrected herself and bowed properly, steel-straight and serious. Syravio smiled at that, just a little, and told her to keep her feet light and her heart lighter. She promised she would, even if her voice wobbled when she said it.
They walked together through the quiet streets back toward the abandoned district where they had first entered Braavos, the city still half-asleep beneath the early morning haze. Arya kept glancing up at her father like she was checking to make sure he was still real, still there, still solid. Jeanyx noticed and didn't comment. He simply let her stay close, her small hand wrapped tightly around his fingers.
When they reached the edge of the forest, Jeanyx stopped and lifted two fingers to his lips, letting out a sharp, piercing whistle that cut clean through the morning air.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the ground trembled.
Arya felt it first through her boots, a deep vibration that made her stomach flip. The trees to the east shuddered, birds exploding upward in a panicked cloud. A shadow swept across the clearing, massive and unmistakable, and then Nyx emerged from the treeline like a living force of nature.
She was bigger.
Not just taller or broader—she had filled out, her wings stretching wider, her neck thicker with muscle, her scales darker and more lustrous than before. At least half again her old size, maybe more. Arya's breath caught in her chest.
Nyx locked eyes with Jeanyx.
And then she moved.
She crossed the clearing in seconds, ignoring grace entirely, lowering her head and slamming it into him with a force that knocked him flat on his back. Arya yelped and stumbled aside just in time as Nyx pressed her snout into Jeanyx's chest and shoulder, huffing, rumbling, practically vibrating with emotion as she rubbed against him like an oversized, murderous cat.
Jeanyx laughed, breathless, one hand coming up instinctively to brace himself while the other buried itself between her scales.
"I missed you too," he said, voice warm and full, fingers scratching along the ridge beneath her jaw. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're enormous now. Show-off."
Nyx huffed again, louder this time, curling her neck around him protectively as if to make sure he wasn't going anywhere this time. Arya stood there in awe, watching the bond between them like it was something sacred, something older than words.
After a moment, Jeanyx pushed himself upright, still laughing softly, and reached for the saddle. He swung it into place with practiced ease, then lifted Arya up and settled her in front of him, arms instinctively wrapping around her to keep her secure.
"All right," he murmured to Nyx, leaning forward to rest his forehead briefly against her scales. "Time to go home."
Nyx stepped back, wings unfurling, and with a single powerful beat she launched them into the air. As they climbed above the trees, she let out a roar that rolled across the land, deep and thunderous, echoing back from stone and sea alike.
Braavos shrank beneath them, lights fading into mist and distance, and within moments the Free City vanished entirely from sight, swallowed by clouds and sky as Nyx carried them away.
Two hours later, the sea below them finally broke apart into familiar shapes.
The island rose from the water like a dark crown, its jagged coastline cutting through the moonlit waves. Even before Jeanyx consciously recognized it, something in his chest tightened. Nyx felt it too. Her wings faltered for half a beat, a low, uneasy rumble vibrating through her throat as she angled downward.
Arya leaned forward in the saddle, squinting through the wind.
"Papa…?" she said softly.
That was when Jeanyx saw it.
At first he thought it was fog. Low clouds hugging the land, drifting unnaturally close to the ground. Then the wind shifted, and the smell hit him—thick, acrid, unmistakable. Smoke.
His breath caught.
As Nyx descended further, the truth came into full view, and there was no mistaking it anymore.
Wintertown was burning.
Not just one building. Not an accident. Entire sections of the village were lit in angry orange, flames crawling across rooftops, licking up wooden beams and stone alike. Smoke poured into the sky in towering columns, blotting out the stars above the Mourning Keep. The great hall's silhouette was still standing, but fire danced along its edges like a crown of wrath. The marketplace pavilion was half-collapsed, embers spilling into the streets. Even from this height, Jeanyx could see figures running below—tiny, frantic shapes moving through chaos.
Arya's grip tightened around his arm.
"No," she whispered, the word barely audible over the rush of wind. "No, no, no…"
Nyx roared.
It wasn't the triumphant roar she'd used leaving Braavos. This one was raw, furious, shaking the air itself. The sound rolled across the island like thunder, answering screams below with something far older and far more dangerous.
Jeanyx's mind went cold in an instant.
Garric.
Stormwatch.
Marcus.
The missing months. The delayed return. The timing of the name day.
He felt it all click together with a clarity that made his hands shake—not with fear, but with rage so sharp it hurt.
"Hold on," he told Arya, his voice suddenly iron.
Nyx didn't need further direction. Her wings snapped tighter to her body as she dove, the ground rushing up fast enough to steal the breath from Arya's lungs. The heat rose to meet them, flames reflecting off Nyx's scales as Wintertown burned beneath them, and for the first time in ten years, Jeanyx felt the island—the home he built, the people he protected—cry out in pain.
And this time, he was not arriving late.