The pain hit him like a spear.
One moment Jeanyx stood admiring the runes pulsing faintly on his new blade, the next his knees gave out and he was on the cold stone floor of the ritual chamber, breath ragged and shallow.
His vision blurred. The hum of the waterfall faded to a distant roar.
Nyx reacted instantly. The dragon let out a low, keening growl and pressed her snout against his shoulder, her breath frosting the air around them. She nudged him again, confused and worried, a sound like thunder rumbling from her chest.
"Easy, girl…" Jeanyx rasped, clutching his chest. The pain wasn't physical—it was deeper, like a thread of his soul had been yanked taut across worlds. His heart hammered once, twice, then stuttered. Images flooded his mind in flashes, too fast and too clear to be a dream.
A chamber. Black and red silks. Gold trim on high windows. The scent of old incense and salt from the sea.
And on a bed of woven velvet lay a woman—silver hair braided down her shoulder, skin pale and luminous even in weakness.
Alysanne.
His grandmother.
The one person in Westeros who had ever truly seen him.
Her eyes fluttered open in the vision, and he felt her breathing falter.
"No…" Jeanyx whispered. "Not yet. Please."
Nyx growled again, circling him protectively, her tail curling inward like a wall of scales. He could feel her pulse through the floor—steady, grounding. He forced himself to breathe in rhythm with it, ignoring the agony twisting through his chest.
Something in him knew: this was no memory. She was dying now, across the sea, in a room lit by dragonfire and silence. His link to her bloodline—thin as it had become—had reawakened the instant her life began to fade. The old magics of Valyria didn't forget their kin.
Jeanyx shut his eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. "Nyx, circle me. Protect the perimeter."
The dragon obeyed without hesitation. She coiled her enormous body around him in a perfect ring, head low, eyes glowing with protective violet light. The air hummed faintly with power as she lay down, wings tucked tight.
Jeanyx drew in a deep breath and settled cross-legged on the floor, palms open. His sword lay beside him, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He closed his eyes and reached into the stillness.
"The Force is my breath… my blood…" he whispered.
The world narrowed to a single point of focus. His heartbeat slowed. The pain dulled. Space folded inward like ripples converging in water. He visualized Alysanne's chamber—the black walls, the red silk curtains, the dying light of dusk filtering through tall windows. He poured everything into that image: memory, emotion, and the will to be there.
Force projection was one of the most advanced techniques known to exist. Even the strongest Jedi of legend struggled to maintain it. For Jeanyx, it was a gamble. He had never tried to bridge worlds with it before—but blood called to blood, and the Force answered.
Minutes bled into half an hour. Nyx's steady breathing was the only sound. Energy built around him, threads of violet and gold weaving through the air. His outline began to shimmer, his form turning translucent as his consciousness detached from the physical.
Then, with a final exhale, Jeanyx vanished.
The pain didn't fade when Jeanyx appeared in his grandmother's chamber—it deepened, growing colder, heavier, until even the air seemed to mourn with him.
The Queen's room was still as a tomb. Curtains of black and red silk swayed gently in the sea breeze, the gold dragon embroidery gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Every corner smelled faintly of roses and myrrh. Alysanne Targaryen—his grandmother, the last warmth of his bloodline—lay on a bed of black velvet. Her silver hair spilled across the pillow like moonlight on snow. Her breaths were shallow, each one a fragile whisper against the silence.
Jeanyx's projection flickered as he moved closer, light bending around him. His voice trembled.
"Grandmother…"
Her eyes opened slowly, clouded but kind, and a smile faintly touched her lips.
"I knew it," she murmured. "I felt you in the wind again."
He knelt beside the bed, trying to steady his voice, but the emotion clawed its way up his throat.
"Please… don't go. Not yet. I can come home—I'll find a way to reach you. Just hold on a little longer. I want to see you… with my own eyes."
Alysanne's pale fingers twitched against the sheet, as if she wanted to reach out but no longer had the strength. Her gaze softened with infinite tenderness.
"My sweet boy," she whispered, "it's all right. Death is not a punishment—it is part of the same song as life. I'll see those I've lost again. That is enough for me."
Jeanyx shook his head, eyes burning. "No, you don't understand. We'll never see each other on the other side. I'm not going where you're going."
Her breathing hitched, but she smiled through it, her voice barely audible. "If you're truly my Jeanyx, you'll find a way. You always have."
His projection wavered violently. He reached forward, desperate, wanting to touch her—just once. Her frail hand lifted, trembling, and she tried to cup his cheek, but her fingers passed straight through the shimmering image. Still, she held her hand there, only an inch away, the space between them glowing faintly with pale gold light.
"Listen to me," she whispered, her eyes fixed on his. "I love you. I always have. And I accept you—no matter what the world calls you, no matter what sins you commit. As long as you are true to yourself, I will be proud of you."
Jeanyx bit his lip until he tasted blood. "Please… don't—"
But her voice was fading, gentle as the tide. "My dragonling… be free."
Her eyes fluttered closed. Her lips curved into a small, peaceful smile—one last expression of love that would outlive her body.
Jeanyx stared, unable to breathe. Then the truth hit him like a collapsing world.
"NO!"
His cry tore through the chamber as the projection flared with blinding light. The Force surged outward in a single, uncontrolled wave of grief. It burst from him like a storm, invisible yet all-consuming, sweeping across the Red Keep, across the city, across the sea itself.
Every Targaryen within King's Landing froze as a chill ran through their blood. Every dragon in the pits and cliffs roared in anguish, their cries echoing over the bay. Far to the North, across frozen forests and ancient ruins, the First Men's descendants on Jeanyx's island lifted their heads, feeling a sorrow they could not name.
Even Nyx, far away in the sanctuary beneath the Mourning Keep, threw back her head and screamed—a roar so deep that the mountains themselves trembled. Her scales flashed violet and red, reflecting her master's grief.
When the echo finally faded, Jeanyx was gone from the chamber. Only the Queen's still body remained, her face serene, the faintest hint of a smile frozen in time.
Back in the darkness of his hideout, Jeanyx's eyes snapped open. He was on his knees, shaking, tears cutting silent trails down his face. Nyx pressed her snout against him, rumbling low and mournful. He rested a hand against her head, his voice hoarse.
"She's gone…"
Outside, the Mourning Keep's unfinished towers howled as the wind passed through their hollow frames. It sounded like the mountains themselves were weeping—echoing the sorrow of a grandson who, across worlds, had just lost the only warmth his blood had ever known.
(A/N: i cried writing this. It's confirmed jeanyx has the power to effect the real world)
Three Months Later — The Mourning Keep
Wintertown had grown accustomed to Jeanyx's brilliance—the man who built roads where there were none, who taught smiths to shape steel like gold, who commanded a dragon that blotted out the sun. But now, his absence felt like a wound that refused to heal.
Three months had passed since the day the sky itself wept. The dragons had roared without reason, the mountains had cried through their hollow peaks, and every villager on the island had felt an unexplainable sorrow. No one knew what it meant, only that Jeanyx had changed afterward.
He no longer came to the forge or the council meetings. The bathhouse lights no longer burned at night. The gardens he had cultivated were overgrown. And when people passed near the mountain, they sometimes heard faint echoes—soft whispers, brushstrokes, and the quiet murmur of a man speaking to ghosts.
Mira had tolerated it for as long as she could. She loved him like a son, even when his moods darkened into silence. But three months was enough.
So, one gray morning, she marched straight up the narrow mountain path toward the hidden entrance of his sanctuary. The villagers had whispered warnings, saying no one returned from that place without their soul feeling colder. Mira didn't care.
She reached the black stone door carved with runes and symbols she couldn't read. "Jeanyx," she said aloud, "open this damn thing or I'll find a way to melt it down."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the runes glowed faint violet, and the door opened with a slow, echoing hiss. Mira stepped inside.
The air was cold and heavy, tasting faintly of metal and candle smoke. The corridor twisted downward into the earth, lit by dim torches burning blue flame. She followed the faint sounds of dripping water until she reached the ritual chamber—and froze.
Jeanyx was there, sitting on the floor, surrounded by canvases. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Every wall, every corner was filled with paintings—each depicting the same woman.
An elderly woman, silver-haired and regal, her expression warm and wise. The eyes shone with kindness. The smile was soft, radiant. Even through tears of paint, she looked alive.
The sheer love in those portraits made Mira's heart ache. Whoever she was, Jeanyx had painted her again and again, his brush moving with haunting precision. Some paintings showed her young and laughing, others frail but peaceful. One, unfinished, showed her lying on a bed surrounded by shadows, a faint smile still on her lips.
Jeanyx didn't look up. His hair hung over his face, his clothes rumpled and stained with dried paint. His eyes were glassy, distant. His voice was a whisper looping endlessly.
"I'm sorry, grandmother… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
Mira's chest tightened. She stepped closer, realization dawning like a slow burn. The resemblance between the woman in the paintings and Jeanyx—the silver hair, the shape of the eyes—was unmistakable.
So this was it. The reason for the sadness that had blanketed him for months.
Mira exhaled softly. "Jeanyx," she said gently. "Look at me."
No response. He kept painting the same stroke across a canvas already finished, whispering again, "I'm sorry, grandmother…"
Something in Mira snapped. All the patience, the worry, the helplessness of watching someone she cared about wither in front of her boiled over. She strode forward, grabbed his shoulder, and slapped him hard across the face.
The sound cracked through the chamber like a thunderclap.
Jeanyx fell sideways, blinking in shock, one hand pressed to his cheek. He stared up at her, disoriented, as if waking from a dream.
"Enough," Mira said, voice trembling with fury. "Enough of this self-pity! You've locked yourself away for months, painting ghosts and whispering to shadows while the people who love you wait outside!"
He blinked again, the emptiness in his eyes flickering. "You don't understand…"
"Then make me," she snapped.
He hesitated, then his voice cracked, low and hoarse. "She's gone. My grandmother. The only person in the world—besides my brother—who ever loved me. She's gone, Mira."
For a long moment, Mira said nothing. Then she knelt beside him, her anger softening, though her voice stayed firm.
"And do you think she'd want to see you like this? Wasting away in the dark? Is this how you honor her memory?"
Jeanyx looked down at his trembling hands, silent. The words sank deep, cutting sharper than any blade.
Mira took a deep breath and continued, her voice breaking only slightly. "You think loss makes love disappear? No. It gives it a place to live. In you. You have to live for her, Jeanyx. For her, and for the future she'd have wanted you to see. For the children growing in Lyra and Mya's bellies—they need you too."
Jeanyx froze. His head turned sharply, eyes wide, as if hearing a language he hadn't known existed. "Children…?"
Mira nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You're going to be a father, you idiot."
The silence that followed was heavy but no longer hollow. For the first time in months, the light in Jeanyx's eyes flickered—not bright, not yet, but alive. He stared at the floor for a long time, then slowly shifted onto his knees.
He bowed deeply until his forehead touched the cold stone. "Thank you," he whispered, voice raw. "For saving me from myself."
When he looked up, his eyes were wet but steady. "On my name—as Jeanyx Targaryen—I will never forget this."
The name hung in the air like the sound of an unsheathed blade.
Mira blinked, startled. "Targaryen?" she repeated softly.
He didn't answer. He only reached for a cloth and began wiping the paint from his hands. The solemn calm had returned to him, but something else was there too—purpose.
Mira thought about pressing him for answers, but as she looked at the young man kneeling in the flickering candlelight—haunted, broken, but not defeated—she decided to let the mystery wait.
There would be time for questions later.
For now, it was enough to see him breathe again.
Outside, far above the sanctuary, snow began to fall softly over the half-built Mourning Keep. The wind slipped through its hollow towers, but this time, the sound it made wasn't mourning—it was a sigh of relief.