Two weeks—that was how long Daemon and Rhaenys stayed on the island, though neither of them measured it the same way by the end. It didn't feel like time spent in a foreign land so much as time spent stepping into something… ahead of the world they came from. Strange, yes. Unsettling at times. But there was no denying it—both of them found themselves more engaged, more alive, than they had been in years.
It began with the festival.
Three days of it.
At first, Daemon expected noise, drinking, maybe some overblown tradition meant to impress outsiders. What he got instead was something that felt almost… natural. The entire village moved as one, not in rigid order, but in rhythm. Fires burned in controlled circles, their flames shifting in color subtly, almost like they were breathing with the people around them. Music carried through the air—not the kind he recognized, but something deeper, layered, almost hypnotic if you listened too long.
Then came the food.
Whale meat.
Daemon didn't think much of it at first—just another heavy meal after a long journey—but the moment he bit into it, he froze for half a second. The taste hit first, rich and deep, but what followed was something else entirely. It spread through his body like warmth, like something waking up inside him. His muscles loosened, then filled with energy, his breathing deepened without effort.
Rhaenys felt it just as clearly.
It wasn't subtle. It wasn't imagined.
It was real.
"You feel that?" Daemon muttered under his breath the first night, already reaching for another piece.
Rhaenys didn't answer right away, but the way her shoulders relaxed said enough.
Even sleep changed.
That surprised them more than anything.
There was no tension here—none of the quiet weight that followed them in Westeros. No politics lingering in the back of the mind, no sense of needing to stay alert even in rest. When they slept, it was deep. Clean. The kind of sleep that left them feeling sharper the next day, like something had been reset.
By the time the fourth day came, they were already beginning to understand why Jeanyx had stayed.
That was when he showed them the village properly.
Walking through it instead of flying above it changed everything. The details became clearer—the way everything was built with purpose, the way people moved without urgency but never without direction. There was no decay, no overcrowding, no desperation hidden behind walls like in King's Landing.
And then they reached the plaza.
The statues.
They stood tall, impossibly detailed, carved with such precision that for a moment neither of them spoke. Alyssa Targaryen. Alysanne Targaryen. Not just likenesses—but something closer to memory brought into stone.
What truly struck them wasn't the craftsmanship.
It was what lay at their feet.
Flowers.
Fresh ones.
Placed carefully, not as a one-time gesture, but regularly. Weekly, Jeanyx explained. Children. Adults. People who had never met them, who had never even seen Westeros, honoring them as if they had.
Rhaenys' expression shifted slightly then, something soft breaking through her usual composure. Daemon didn't look at the statues for too long—just long enough for it to settle in, then he glanced away, jaw tightening slightly.
They were remembered here.
That lingered.
By the fifth day, the tone changed.
Garric Harlowe's punishment.
They expected something contained, something controlled. Instead, it became a gathering—large, deliberate, almost ritualistic in its presence. People came from across the island, filling the space not just with numbers but with variety.
That was when Daemon noticed them.
Elves.
Or what Jeanyx called elves.
They didn't look like any stories Daemon had ever heard—taller, sharper, their movements quieter, more deliberate. Then there were giants, massive figures whose presence alone shifted the air around them, and dwarves—though not the kind Westeros whispered about.
These were something else entirely.
"They're not what we call dwarfs," Daemon muttered.
"They're dwarves," Jeanyx corrected casually. "Named after similarities to stories tied to the Old Gods."
That only made things worse.
"The Old Gods don't have stories like that," Rhaenys said, frowning slightly.
Jeanyx just gave a small, knowing look.
"They do. You just don't know them."
He didn't explain further, and something about that made it sit heavier than if he had.
Then they reached Stormwatch.
And everything changed again.
The ground itself told the story before anyone spoke. Skeletons lay scattered across the land—too many to count at a glance. Armor twisted, weapons broken, the remains of what had clearly been an army left where it fell. The earth itself was marked—cracked, torn, scorched in places that hadn't fully healed.
Daemon slowed.
Then stopped.
"…who did this?" he asked, voice quieter now.
Brandon answered without hesitation.
"Jeanyx."
Daemon turned sharply.
"By himself?"
A nod.
For a moment, disbelief tried to take hold—but it didn't stick.
Not after everything they had already seen.
That was when Jeanyx stepped forward and drew his blades.
The Blasphemous Blade came first—dark, heavy, wrong in a way that made the air feel thick around it. Then the Dark Moonlight Sword, its edge shimmering faintly like light trapped in motion.
"I made these," Jeanyx said simply.
Daemon's gaze locked onto them immediately.
"With mastery of the Force," Jeanyx continued, "and arcane knowledge… an army isn't impossible."
He let the words sit for a moment before adding, almost offhandedly, "Especially with weapons like these. The only things close in Westeros would be Valyrian steel."
That was when Daemon's hand moved.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Resting against the hilt at his hip.
Dark Sister.
He didn't draw it. Didn't need to.
But for the first time in years, he wasn't thinking about what the blade was.
He was thinking about what it could be.
By the time they reached the gates of Stormwatch, the space had already been transformed.
What had once looked like the edge of a battlefield—scarred earth, broken remnants of war—now held something far more deliberate. Rows of carved stone seats had been set into the ground in a wide arc, forming a natural amphitheater that overlooked the open field where the punishment would take place. At the center, slightly elevated above the rest, were the seats meant for Jeanyx and his family—simple in design compared to the rest of the keep, but positioned in a way that made their authority unmistakable.
Jeanyx didn't hesitate.
He walked forward and took his place, settling into the central seat with the same casual ease he carried everywhere else, as if this—commanding a gathering of hundreds—was no more taxing than sitting at a table. Arya moved beside him without being told, climbing up into her seat with that same quiet confidence she had shown in the training grounds. The Black siblings spread out naturally along the row, Bellatrix lounging more than sitting, Sirius leaning forward with interest, Regulus composed but watchful.
Daemon and Rhaenys took their places as well, though neither of them missed the shift in atmosphere. The air felt heavier here, charged with expectation. This wasn't just a punishment.
It was a display.
Jeanyx rested his elbows lightly on his knees.
Then he clapped.
Once.
The sound echoed.
And from the edges of Stormwatch, they came.
A wave of armed figures stepped forward in perfect formation, their movement synchronized without being rigid, like they had trained long enough that discipline had become instinct. Their armor immediately drew Daemon's attention—dark, worn, layered in a way that felt more functional than ceremonial. It wasn't polished like a knight's plate, nor crude like a sellsword's gear. It carried weight, history, and purpose.
Rhaenys studied them just as closely.
"This isn't Westerosi," she murmured quietly.
"No," Daemon replied, eyes narrowing slightly. "It's not."
But even among them—
One stood apart.
At the front of the formation walked a figure clad in armor that looked older than the rest, heavier, shaped in a way that felt almost… ancient. His presence alone shifted the air around him, not through size, but through something harder to define. At his side moved a massive wolf, its body low and silent, eyes scanning the crowd with a quiet intelligence that made even seasoned warriors uneasy.
The man's gait was steady.
Unshaken.
And when he stopped, the entire formation behind him followed without a single command.
Jeanyx leaned back slightly, watching Daemon and Rhaenys take it in before speaking.
"During the invasion," he began, voice carrying easily across the space, "there were… standouts."
His gaze flicked briefly across the gathered warriors.
"People who did more than survive. People who defended Wintertown when it should have fallen."
Daemon's attention sharpened.
"So," Jeanyx continued, "I rewarded them."
He gestured lightly toward the man at the front.
"With an experimental ritual."
Rhaenys' eyes narrowed slightly at that word.
"Experimental?" she repeated.
Jeanyx didn't look concerned.
"It enhanced their bodies. Pushed them to the absolute limit of what a human can become."
Daemon's lips curled faintly.
"That explains the presence," he muttered.
Jeanyx's expression shifted just slightly as he continued.
"Most of them adapted well."
Then his gaze returned to the one standing at the front.
"But two of them… were exceptional."
The man didn't move.
Didn't react.
But something about him made it clear he was listening.
"I gave them more," Jeanyx said.
"The power of the arcane."
That made Daemon sit forward just slightly.
"And him?" he asked, nodding toward the armored figure.
Jeanyx's lips curved faintly.
"That," he said, "is Sir Artorias… the Abysswalker."
The name settled over the field like something older than language itself.
"He wasn't always called that," Jeanyx added. "Before this, he was known as Merek. The outcast."
Daemon raised an eyebrow.
"Outcast?"
Jeanyx nodded.
"He thought like an Andal. Wanted to be a knight. Something the First Men don't value the same way."
Rhaenys glanced at the figure again.
"And now?"
Jeanyx's gaze lingered on him.
"Now he earned it."
The wolf at Artorias' side shifted slightly, its presence just as imposing as its master.
"And the other?" Daemon asked.
Jeanyx's attention shifted to another figure within the ranks.
"That would be Edmar," he said. "Mya's younger brother."
Rhaenys blinked once, connecting the name quickly.
"The uncle of Thor and Loki?"
Jeanyx nodded.
"He commands them."
His hand gestured toward the formation behind Artorias.
"The Abyss Watchers."
Daemon studied them more closely now, noticing the subtle similarities in their stance, the way they held their weapons, the rhythm in their movement.
"They fight like him," he said.
"A bit," Jeanyx replied.
A faint smirk touched his expression.
"I don't know why they started copying his style."
He leaned back slightly, watching them.
"But it works."
The Abyss Watchers stood silent, unmoving, their presence filling the space in a way that felt far more dangerous than their numbers alone could explain, while the wind rolled slowly across Stormwatch, carrying with it the quiet understanding that what Daemon and Rhaenys were witnessing wasn't just power—it was something being built, piece by piece, into something far larger.
Daemon didn't take his eyes off the formation as he spoke, his mind already turning the moment he understood what he was looking at. There was no hesitation in him when it came to power—only the question of how to claim it, shape it, and use it.
"So this ritual," he said, voice low but sharp with intent, "can it be done in Westeros? On our soldiers?"
Jeanyx didn't even pretend to consider it.
"No."
The answer came too quickly, too cleanly to be debated.
Daemon's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
"It's the same reason I'm as strong as I am," Jeanyx continued, leaning forward just a little, his gaze drifting across the gathered warriors before returning to Daemon. "The island isn't normal. The density of magic and the Force here… it changes things. Bodies adapt to it. Grow with it. Without that environment, the ritual collapses more often than not."
He gestured loosely toward the Abyss Watchers.
"These people survived because they were already close to the threshold. Even then…" he exhaled faintly, "…it took hundreds of failures just to produce fifty successes."
Rhaenys' expression tightened at that, though she said nothing.
"In Westeros," Jeanyx went on, "only a handful might even survive the process. Those with pure northern blood… maybe a few from the older magical bloodlines scattered across the continent. At best, you'd get one or two successes. If you're lucky."
Daemon's fingers flexed slightly at his side.
"And the alternative?" he asked.
"Train them here," Jeanyx replied simply. "Bring those with potential to the island. Let the environment do what it does best. Then decide if they're worth the risk."
There was no arrogance in the way he said it.
Just fact.
Daemon went quiet after that.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because his mind had already moved ahead of the conversation.
For a moment—just a moment—he had considered it.
The ritual.
The strength it promised.
The kind of power that let a man stand against armies alone.
But something else surfaced just as quickly, something that had followed him since childhood whenever he brushed too close to anything truly mystical.
There was always a cost.
Every story. Every fragment of old knowledge. Every whispered tale of magic or power beyond mortal limits carried the same thread beneath it.
Equivalent exchange.
You gained something… and you gave something up in return.
Daemon's eyes drifted briefly toward the Abyss Watchers again.
Their strength was undeniable.
But their movements, their presence—there was a rigidity to it. A narrowing. Like something had been refined so much it had lost a degree of flexibility.
And that made him hesitate.
If that ritual traded versatility—his potential with the Force, with magic itself—for raw physical power…
Then it wasn't worth it.
Not for him.
Not yet.
Rhaenys had reached a similar conclusion, though her thoughts drifted elsewhere—not to herself, but to her children. To what they could become, what they might lose if pushed down a path like that too early.
Both of them were pulled from their thoughts at the same time.
Clap.
Jeanyx's hands came together once.
The sound echoed across Stormwatch.
"Bring them out," he said.
What followed—
Made even Daemon pause.
From the far edges of the field, they came.
Not soldiers.
Not warriors.
People.
Hundreds at first.
Then more.
And more.
Until it was clear—there were thousands.
Men. Women. Children. Elderly. Bound, escorted, forced forward in groups. Their conditions varied, but the signs were there—bruises, restraints, exhaustion. None of it excessive to Jeanyx's standards, but to Daemon and Rhaenys, it was unmistakable.
They had been broken down.
Interrogated.
Punished.
Rhaenys stepped forward without thinking, her voice cutting through the air before she could stop herself.
"What are they doing here?"
Jeanyx didn't look at her immediately.
"They're here for judgment."
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten.
"What crime," she pressed, "could justify this?"
Jeanyx turned to her then, and whatever warmth had been present earlier was gone.
"They tried to kill my family," he said plainly. "And destroy everything I built."
The words landed like a weight.
Rhaenys' expression shifted immediately, horror flashing across her face despite herself. Her sense of right and wrong—shaped by the Faith, by years of court and structure—struggled to reconcile what she was seeing.
This wasn't justice.
This was something else.
"This is too far," she said under her breath, though whether she meant it for him or herself, even she didn't know.
Daemon didn't speak.
Because, unlike Rhaenys, he understood.
Not fully.
Not comfortably.
But enough.
While she had spent most of her time with Jeanyx's children, observing their growth and the strange calm of the island's inner circles, Daemon had gone deeper. He had walked the village. Seen the systems Jeanyx had put in place. The inventions, the structure, the level of stability that shouldn't have been possible in such a short time.
And more importantly—
He understood betrayal.
What it did to people in power.
It didn't just create enemies.
It created doubt.
Paranoia.
Once someone betrayed you, the question never stopped at them. It spread outward, infecting every relationship, every alliance, every face that stood a little too close to the one who had turned.
From the battlefield they had crossed earlier, from the sheer number of bodies that had once stood against Jeanyx, Daemon could already tell—
This hadn't been a small rebellion.
Most of them had been involved.
And that kind of betrayal…
Didn't just demand punishment.
It demanded a message.
Daemon exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the crowd as it continued to fill the field, his mind already tracing the line between what he would have done—
And what his brother was about to do.
The difference between them wasn't intent.
It was scale.
Just as the last of the prisoners were forced into place, a shift rippled through Stormwatch that had nothing to do with Jeanyx.
Movement.
At first it was subtle—shapes gathering along the outer ridges, figures appearing along the elevated paths carved into the mountainside. Then more came. And more. Until it became clear that this wasn't just a gathering from one settlement.
It was the island.
From every direction, people arrived from the other villages, spreading out along different elevations that overlooked the field. They filled the natural tiers of the mountain like an audience drawn to something they already knew was coming. Not chaotic. Not disordered.
Deliberate.
Watching.
Daemon turned slowly, taking it in, and for the first time since arriving on the island, even he seemed caught off guard—not by scale, but by difference.
Races he had only ever heard about in half-remembered stories stood openly among one another.
Dwarves—true dwarves, not the broken mockery Westeros used the word for—stood in clusters, shorter but solid, broad, their presence grounded and unyielding. Giants stood further back, towering over everything around them, their sheer size making even dragons seem… measured by comparison. And then there were the elves.
They stood out immediately.
Not because they tried to—but because they couldn't help it.
Their movements were fluid, almost weightless, their features sharp and impossibly refined, their presence carrying something that felt ancient even in stillness. There was a quiet beauty to them that didn't feel like vanity—it felt natural. Like they were meant to exist in a place like this.
Rhaenys found herself staring longer than she intended.
"…this place…" she murmured, almost to herself.
It wasn't just foreign anymore.
It was something else entirely.
Something older.
Something… deeper.
And then—
Jeanyx stood.
The movement alone was enough to draw attention back to the center.
He stepped forward slowly, the air around him settling into something heavier without effort, as if even the space itself adjusted when he chose to take it. From within his coat, he pulled something free.
A wand.
Simple in shape at first glance—but the longer one looked at it, the more wrong it felt to call it simple.
The wood was dark, veined with faint streaks that shimmered subtly under the light, as if something lived within it. The texture carried a strange contrast—smooth in some places, rough in others, like it had been grown rather than carved. The core—unseen—gave off a faint pressure, something almost imperceptible that brushed against the senses of anyone standing too close.
Jeanyx rolled it once between his fingers, almost absentmindedly.
In truth, it wasn't ordinary.
Crafted from the Shade of the Evening tree, layered with bark and sap from a heart tree, and bound together with a crystallized core of Nyx's blood—something that had taken far more effort than he would ever openly admit—it was less a tool and more an extension of his will.
But none of them knew that.
Not fully.
Jeanyx lifted the wand slightly.
And for a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The air shifted.
Not violently. Not loudly.
But enough.
A subtle ripple spread outward, and when Jeanyx spoke, his voice didn't need to rise. It carried effortlessly, reaching every corner of Stormwatch, every ridge, every ear.
"You stand here today," he began, calm, measured, "because you made a choice."
No anger.
No shouting.
Just clarity.
"You were given a home. A future. A place where you and your children could live without fear, without hunger, without the rot that consumes the rest of the world."
His gaze moved slowly across the crowd.
"And still… you chose greed."
A pause.
Not long.
Just enough.
"You chose betrayal."
The word didn't echo.
It settled.
Heavy.
"You didn't just raise your hands against me," Jeanyx continued, voice sharpening just slightly, "you raised them against everything this island stands for."
He gestured outward—toward the villages, the people gathered, the land itself.
"You tried to tear down a future that wasn't built for me alone—but for all of you."
His tone shifted then.
Subtly.
Not softer—but more personal.
"Do you think I don't understand why?"
That caught attention.
"I do," he said simply. "Power breeds desire. Stability breeds complacency. And when people grow comfortable… they start to believe they deserve more than what they've been given."
His eyes flicked back to the prisoners.
"You wanted control."
Another step forward.
"You wanted to take what wasn't yours."
Then—
He stopped.
And for the first time, there was a hint of something darker beneath his words.
"What happens next," Jeanyx said, voice lowering just slightly, "isn't just punishment."
The wind picked up faintly around the edges of Stormwatch, carrying his voice even further.
"It's a message."
His gaze lifted—not to the prisoners, but to the crowd watching from above.
"To those who think they can hide in the shadows. To those who believe betrayal can go unnoticed. To those who think they can wait for the right moment to strike."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"It won't."
He let the silence stretch just long enough to sink in.
"This island… this future…" he continued, quieter now, but somehow more intense, "does not belong to those who take."
His voice sharpened again.
"It belongs to those who protect it."
Then, finally, he raised the wand slightly.
"And I will protect it."
The words weren't loud.
They didn't need to be.
Because every person present felt the weight behind them—the quiet promise that this wasn't just a declaration.
It was truth.