Nyx glided low over the pines as Mourning Keep's shadow gave way to the broad valley below. The morning light spilled across Wintertown—its new stone houses, smooth concrete roads, smoke curling from chimneys, and the distant clatter of the forges.
The children stared over the dragon's side in silent awe. To them, it looked nothing like a village; it looked like a rising kingdom hidden in the wilderness.
As Nyx curved past the town's heart, something in the center caught Narcissa's eye—a structure of carved stone towering above the square, easily three times the height of a grown man. It rose proudly among the buildings, surrounded by a small garden of winter blooms, where several villagers knelt in reverence.
Narcissa reached out and lightly tugged Jeanyx's sleeve.
"Prince Jeanyx… who is that?" she asked softly. "The statue… she looks… familiar."
Jeanyx followed her gaze.
For the first time that morning, something in him softened. The sharpness in his face eased, and the violet glow in his eyes dimmed into something gentler—warmer.
"That," he said quietly, "is my grandmother. Queen Alysanne."
The children blinked—some out of surprise, others out of recognition.
Jeanyx continued, voice steady but threaded with something deeper.
"She was the one who taught me to imagine things not yet real. To question what is, and what could be. Everything these villagers have—the roads, the forges, the harvests, the heat in their homes—it all began from the foundation she built inside my mind."
Nyx's wings dipped slightly, allowing them a clearer view.
The statue was carved with astonishing detail:
Alysanne standing tall, draped in flowing robes that swirled like wind-blown silk. Her face was kind, gentle, and strong—the sort of expression that seemed to listen even in stone. One hand rested over her heart. The other reached outward as if offering protection to the people below.
Fresh flowers lay at the base—winter roses, blue blossoms from the riverbanks, sprigs of pine—and tiny hand-carved wooden charms hung from the pedestal, offerings left by families and wandering travelers.
"When the villagers learned she was the reason I became the person who built all of this," Jeanyx said, "they began to pray to her. Not because they think she's a goddess in truth… but because she feels like one in spirit."
He brushed a thumb against Nyx's scales as if grounding himself.
"She's the reason they never starved," he said softly. "The reason they don't freeze through winter. The reason they live easier lives than their ancestors did. All because she told a lonely boy, once upon a time, that imagination mattered."
Bellatrix stared at the statue, uncharacteristically quiet.
Narcissa spoke barely above a whisper. "She must've been wonderful."
"She was," Jeanyx murmured. "More than anyone in Westeros ever deserved."
Nyx curved gracefully around the square. Below, villagers paused mid-task—women carrying baskets, men chopping wood, children chasing stray dogs. They waved toward the sky, cheering Jeanyx's return. Some bowed. Others shouted blessings.
A group of older men lifted candles toward the statue as Nyx passed, whispering prayers for good hunting, warm nights, and healthy children.
Regulus leaned forward. "They really pray to her."
"They do," Jeanyx said. "Because the old gods of this island aren't distant figures in trees or sky. They believe gods can be the souls of people who changed their lives."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"And she changed mine."
Nyx climbed again, wings spreading wide as she lifted them away from Wintertown and toward the rising path to Mourning Keep. The statue faded into the distance, but the warmth of the villagers' devotion lingered in the air like an unspoken blessing.
Remus hugged his knees to his chest. "I think… she'd be proud of you."
Jeanyx's breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Nyx roared above the town—a sound of strength, of presence, of guardianship—and the villagers cheered back.
And Jeanyx, eyes fixed on the path ahead, allowed himself a single, quiet moment of peace.
Nyx landed on the upper terrace of Mourning Keep with a thundering sweep of her wings, sending plumes of snow dancing across the stone. Jeanyx slid down first, motioning for the children to follow. One by one they climbed off, shaky but exhilarated, still dazed from everything that had happened.
Jeanyx didn't give them time to wander or bombard him with questions.
"Come," he said. "There's something you need before anything else."
His tone was calm, but there was a kind of underlying gravity to it—like he had already decided they were staying, training, becoming something more.
He led them through the Keep's main hall, past massive pillars carved with ancient runes, past flickering braziers that burned with cold blue fire, past walls hung with Jeanyx's own paintings — landscapes, dragons, strange realms the children didn't recognize.
Finally they reached a long iron-bound door.
Jeanyx pushed it open.
The training room was enormous — a cavernous chamber lit by shard-like crystals embedded into the ceiling. Racks of weapons lined the walls, from steel to obsidian to Valyrian shapes the children didn't even have names for. The floor was polished black stone, cold as night.
But the centerpiece wasn't any sword.
It was the long table in the center of the room.
Laid neatly across its entire surface were dozens of wands.
Thin ones.
Thick ones.
Curved ones.
Black, white, rosewood, bone-white, silver-threaded, vine-twisted, runic-etched—
Some were as simple as polished sticks.
Others looked like artifacts from another world entirely.
The children froze at the sight.
Sirius whispered, "What… what are those?"
"Wands," Jeanyx replied. "Tools to channel your magic."
The word felt foreign to them—wrong in the mouth but right in the air.
James moved closer, eyes sparkling with awe. "You made these?"
"All of them," Jeanyx said. "Every type of core. Every wood. Every design. I didn't know who would eventually use them, so I prepared… options."
Bellatrix stared like she'd just discovered the world's deadliest toy chest.
Remus looked like he might faint again.
Narcissa touched one of the handles with hesitant fingers. "They're beautiful…"
Regulus turned to Jeanyx. "Why don't you use one? We haven't seen you hold a wand at all."
Jeanyx rested a hand on the table's edge, brushing past a wand carved from black yew.
"I don't need one," he said simply. "Not anymore."
James's eyebrows shot up. "How? You said they help channel magic—"
"They do," Jeanyx said. "But one of my other powers allows me to cast without one. Wandless. Effortlessly."
Sirius blinked. "So we'll be able to do that one day?"
"Yes," Jeanyx said. "But not yet."
He walked around the table, stopping at the far end where the wand carvings became more arcane, more intricate, the wood twisted with silver spirals or etched in violet runes.
"For now," he continued, "you'll need a focus. Something that listens to your magic. Something that accepts you."
Bellatrix smirked. "So we choose one?"
"No," Jeanyx said, shaking his head. "The wand chooses you."
"Now you're sounding like my grandfather's stories," James murmured.
Jeanyx ignored him.
"Magic is a conversation," he explained. "Some tools listen. Some don't. Pick up each wand, one at a time. When you touch the right one, you'll feel warmth. Spreading through your hand. Up your arm. Into your chest. It will feel like recognition."
Narcissa nodded shyly. "Like it knows us."
"Exactly."
Jeanyx stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"No rushing. No grabbing random ones because they look cool."
He shot Bellatrix a pointed glare.
She scowled.
"One at a time," Jeanyx repeated. "Slowly. Carefully."
Sirius was the first to step forward.
He reached toward a sleek ash wand with black iron ribs spiraling up the handle—
Jeanyx snapped his fingers sharply.
"Not that one."
Sirius froze. "Why not?"
"That one blows up if you're not a fire-type caster."
"…Oh."
James snorted.
Sirius glared.
Regulus chose the opposite end of the table, inspecting a pale holly wand with silver veins. Bellatrix ran her fingers along a carved ironwood wand shaped like a twisted thorn. Narcissa picked up a delicate willow wand that hummed faintly. Remus hesitated over every wand like he was afraid to break them.
Jeanyx kept a silent but intensely watchful eye on all of them.
He didn't interfere.
Didn't instruct.
Just let their magic whisper for itself.
One by one, they reached for different wands.
One by one, they waited for warmth. Recognition. Acceptance.
One by one, their lives were about to change.
And Jeanyx watched with a strange mix of anticipation and calculation — because he knew the wand each child bonded with would reveal far more than any Elder's judgement could.
"Go on," Jeanyx murmured.
"Choose."
The children hesitated only a moment before continuing their slow, cautious sweep along the table. The quiet of the training room settled over them—thick, expectant, almost reverent—like the wands themselves were holding their breath.
Sirius ran his fingers along a dark chestnut wand, feeling nothing.
Regulus picked up a vine-wrapped one and immediately put it back, unimpressed.
Narcissa lingered over several pale, gentle-colored wands, studying each like she wanted to hear them whisper.
James seemed incapable of moving silently—every movement accompanied by a gasp, a mutter, or the soft slap of his hand hitting wood.
Remus hovered anxiously, barely touching anything longer than a heartbeat.
Bellatrix touched nearly everything within reach like she was testing daggers at an armory.
Jeanyx remained in the background, leaning against a pillar, arms folded. His expression stayed calm, but behind his eyes he measured every reaction, every flicker of resonance, every shift in the room's magic. He wasn't impatient—he knew this could take minutes or hours—but he watched with the alert stillness of a predator evaluating potential.
Sirius was the first to stop.
He hovered over a wand carved from a pale, moon-colored wood with soft grey spirals curling up its handle. Something nudged at his fingertips—not heat at first, but a presence. A hum. A vibration so subtle he thought he imagined it.
He lifted it.
Warmth slid into his palm, gentle as breath, then wrapped around his fingers and seeped up his arm. His chest tightened—not painfully, but intensely, like someone had clasped his heart and whispered, Finally.
Sirius stared, breath caught. "This one…"
Regulus moved beside him. "You found it?"
Sirius nodded slowly. "I think so."
Jeanyx pushed off the wall and approached with quiet steps. He took the wand lightly between two fingers, tested its balance, then handed it back.
"A good fit," he said. "Ash and moon-silver core. Strong, steady, intuitive. It suits you."
Sirius looked strangely proud.
That pride lasted three seconds before Bellatrix shrieked, "FOUND MINE!"
Every head snapped toward her.
She was holding a wand of dark ironwood, black and jagged, carved like twisted thorn branches. Violet light shimmered faintly along its length, pulsing like a heartbeat. Bellatrix grinned like she'd just robbed a dragon.
Jeanyx raised a brow. "Ironwood with a storm-bristle core. Aggressive. Demanding. Beautifully chaotic." He tilted his head. "Be careful with that one."
Bellatrix smiled wider.
Regulus groaned.
Narcissa covered her face.
On the far end of the table, Remus finally built enough courage to touch a wand carved from simple oak. Nothing. He picked up another—birch. Nothing. Another—alder. Still nothing.
He swallowed, cheeks flushing. "Maybe… maybe I don't have one."
"Wrong," Jeanyx said, tone flat. "Magic doesn't skip people. It hides."
He walked over and gently steered Remus away from the lighter woods to a wand nearly camouflaged beneath two elaborate ones. It was plain, thin, almost nondescript—dark brown with faint speckles of gold, simple as river mud.
"Try this," Jeanyx murmured.
Remus picked it up.
Heat flooded his arm like lightning striking water.
His breath hitched. The warmth wasn't gentle—it surged through him like someone had flung open every door in his body. Sparks crackled faintly from the wand's tip, tiny golden flecks dancing around his fingers.
Remus stared at Jeanyx in awe. "It… it's warm."
"Not warm," Jeanyx corrected softly. "Alive."
He smiled faintly—almost proud. "Ironbark and ember-core. Rare. Steady but fierce. Don't lose it."
Remus held it like it was a newborn bird.
James, meanwhile, was grabbing wands like he was choosing sweets. A sleek sycamore one. A curved walnut one. A beautiful redwood wand that nearly exploded in his hand.
"James," Jeanyx warned.
"I just want one that—OW!" James yelped when another rejected him.
"James," Jeanyx repeated.
"One second, I just—AH! This one bit me—"
Jeanyx exhaled and pointed to a simple wand halfway down the table. "That one. Try that before you lose a finger."
James skeptically picked it up.
A blast of warmth shot through him so fast he nearly toppled over.
"Oh," he breathed. "Ohhhh that feels good—like standing near a hearth after freezing."
Jeanyx nodded. "Dogwood with griffon feather. Bold. Loud. Reactive. It likes you."
James puffed out his chest.
Regulus had worked silently the entire time. He picked up wand after wand, each one giving no reaction. Finally, he reached for a slender wand carved from deep black holly, etched in pale silver markings.
The moment he touched it, the room dimmed.
Just for a second.
Shadows tightened around the stone walls. A cold breath swept through the chamber. Not freezing—not dangerous. But old.
Regulus inhaled sharply as a cold-hot sensation rushed up his arm. The wand hummed, faint and eerie, like distant whispers trapped under ice.
Jeanyx's expression sharpened.
He stepped closer, studying the wand carefully.
"Black holly," Jeanyx murmured. "With a core of moon-fang. Ancient. Rare. And temperamental."
Regulus frowned. "Is that bad?"
"No," Jeanyx said. "It's perfect."
Narcissa was the last.
She stood quietly, trying wand after wand with delicate hesitation. Nothing reacted—until her fingers brushed a pale willow wand wrapped with streaks of white-gold thread.
Warmth blossomed instantly—gentle, soothing, like sinking into warm water. A soft glow pulsed from the tip, barely visible but undeniably alive.
Narcissa clutched it to her chest. "It feels… calm."
Jeanyx's eyes softened. "Willow and frost-thread. One of the hardest to craft. It resonates with gentleness. Healing. Quiet strength."
Narcissa smiled—small but bright.
One by one, six children stood holding six wands, each humming faintly with new magic. The air in the room changed—charged, vibrant, awake.
Jeanyx stepped back, hands behind his back, studying them like a commander assessing new recruits.
"Good," he said. "You've found your tools."
He let the words settle.
"Now," Jeanyx continued, voice lowering into something deeper, heavier, filled with promise and warning in equal measure,
"let's teach you how to use them."
(timeskip)
The training room of the Mourning Keep—wide, polished stone floors, high sloped ceiling, and runic lanterns glowing in slow pulses—felt charged even before the lesson began. The children stood in a loose half-circle, each clutching the wand that had chosen them. Nyx lay coiled behind Jeanyx, her massive head resting on her forepaws, watching with the lazy focus of a housecat the size of a building.
Jeanyx stood at the front, arms folded behind his back, looking every bit the calm, collected teacher… even though his left eye twitched every time one of the kids nervously twirled their wand.
"All right," he said, his voice steady and controlled. "Wands respond to emotion. So we start with something simple: release your magic… gently."
He emphasized gently while looking directly at Bellatrix.
No one listened.
They inhaled together, following Jeanyx's example—and the room immediately erupted.
A deafening BOOM shot through the chamber as James flicked his wrist a little too sharply. A blast of compressed air exploded upward, shattering a chunk of the ceiling and sending stone dust raining over everyone.
James stared up, horrified.
"I—I didn't mean—!"
Jeanyx calmly wiped dust from his shoulder.
"It's fine. The ceiling grew back last week anyway."
The ceiling very much did not grow back, but no one questioned him.
Before he could continue, a blaze of bright red fire whooshed across the room. Bellatrix, brimming with excitement, had tried to cast a "spark." What came out was more like a miniature wildfire leaping straight at a training dummy.
The dummy burst into flames so large they licked the rafters.
Bellatrix grinned proudly.
"Oh. It worked."
Jeanyx pinched the bridge of his nose and casually snapped his fingers. A cold gust spiraled from his palm, snuffing out the flames instantly.
"No fire spells inside the Keep," he said gently. "Ever."
Bellatrix nodded with the solemnity of someone who absolutely planned to do it again.
Then Sirius made his attempt.
And his wand didn't spark.
It detonated.
A white shockwave blasted outward from Sirius' chest like a ring of rippling force, sending everyone—including Jeanyx—stumbling back a full five feet. Nyx didn't budge; she simply lifted her head and blinked, mildly impressed.
Sirius stood in the center of the shockwave's aftermath, hair blown upward like he'd been struck by lightning.
"I… didn't mean that, either."
"I know," Jeanyx said, re-adjusting his tunic. "But good power."
Then Remus cried out.
His wand glowed—first warm, then scalding. The entire length of wood pulsed with bright amber light, heating so fast that Remus yelped and dropped it. The wand clattered to the ground, burning a small scorch mark into the stone.
"It burns! Why does it burn?!"
"It's reacting to your core," Jeanyx said, bending down to retrieve it. "You have too much raw energy, not enough discipline."
Remus swallowed, wide-eyed.
"That sounds… bad."
"It's not," Jeanyx said. "It just means you might be terrifying one day."
This did not calm Remus at all.
Meanwhile Narcissa, who had been quietly determined not to embarrass herself, flicked her wand with a small, confident gesture.
A table six feet away suddenly levitated.
Straight upward.
Higher.
Higher.
Higher.
Until it hit the ceiling with a loud CRUNCH and stuck there—wedged like a giant wooden barnacle clinging to stone.
Narcissa gasped in horror.
"Put it down—put it down—put it down!"
"I would," Jeanyx said, "but you're the one holding it."
She shrieked and dropped her wand.
The table didn't fall.
It simply remained plastered to the ceiling like it had grown roots.
Jeanyx blinked.
"…Huh. Interesting."
And then the room went cold.
Regulus, the quietest of them all, stood very still—his wand lowered, shadows thickening around his feet. A dark ripple stretched across the floor like ink dropped into water. The shadows twitched and curled around him, whispering in a language none of them understood.
James whimpered.
"Sirius… why is your brother doing that…?"
Sirius grabbed Regulus by the shoulders.
"Reg! Stop! You look like you're summoning a demon!"
Regulus frowned.
"I just… thought of something sad."
Jeanyx stepped forward smoothly and pressed two fingers to the shadowy wave. It stilled instantly, dissolving into smoke that vanished into the air.
"Shadow affinity," Jeanyx murmured. "Rare. Very rare."
Regulus looked shaken.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Jeanyx said, kneeling to meet his eyes. "Your magic is powerful. You just need guidance."
Then he stood and clapped his hands together.
"Excellent first lesson! No one died. Nyx didn't eat anyone. I only have mild trauma. Now—again!"
All six children groaned in unison.
Nyx, massive head resting on her claws, let out a soft rumbling purr that echoed through the room—her version of laughter.
Jeanyx sighed and set new training wards around the room with a casual flick of his fingers.
"Let's try not to level the Keep this time."
And with that, the chaos began again—louder, brighter, and somehow even more out of control than before.
The first true lesson had begun.
The next morning, the Mourning Keep's training room felt different—not wild and chaotic like before, but focused. The torches burned steadier. The air hummed with the low thrum of expectation. Even Nyx, sprawled across one side of the chamber like a lounging mountain, had her eyes half-open, watching with lazy interest.
Jeanyx stood in front of the children with the patience of someone who expected disaster, but was determined to shape it into something useful.
"Yesterday," he began, "was… educational."
Six pairs of eyes looked away in shame or pride, depending on the child.
Jeanyx continued.
"Magic is not instinct alone. It is structure, discipline, and intent. Wild power is a fire—you don't smother it, you teach it where to burn."
He raised his hand, and the runes etched into the chamber walls glowed faintly.
"Magic needs a focus to express itself correctly. That focus is your wand… and your voice."
He walked down the line of students slowly.
"Spell names matter. Their pronunciation matters. Mess up even one syllable and you may get nothing… or you may set your eyebrows on fire."
He stopped in front of Bellatrix.
"Again."
Bellatrix scowled but nodded.
Then he turned back to the group.
"Magic is divided into categories based on intent and function:
— Charms: adding properties or effects.
— Jinxes: minor harmful magic.
— Hexes: more serious harm.
— Curses: intent to wound, break, or destroy.
— Transfiguration: shaping or changing what already exists.
— Healing: restoring structure and life.
— Counter-spells: undoing or blocking magic."
He made a slow arc with his wandless hand, and a floating sphere of shimmering light appeared.
"Today, we start simple: the Hover Charm.
A levitation spell. Basic, but one of the purest forms of controlled magic."
He looked each of them in the eyes.
"If you cannot lift a feather without blowing the room apart, you cannot wield real magic."
The kids nodded—most looking determined, some terrified, Regulus just quietly absorbing everything like ink on parchment.
Jeanyx set six feathers before them.
"The spell is: Alera Ascendere. Two words. Not one. Not three. No shouting. No panic. You guide the magic—don't let it drag you."
But then, before they tried, Jeanyx raised a hand.
"First, you need to understand your affinity. Core nature shapes magic. It determines what spells come naturally, what grows easiest, and what might be dangerous if mishandled."
He motioned Sirius forward.
Sirius Blackwood
Jeanyx placed a hand over his wand hand. The magic inside the boy surged like wind trying to break free from a stormcloud.
"Wind and instinct magic," Jeanyx declared.
Sirius brightened.
"That sounds… cool."
"It also means you're unpredictable and emotional," Jeanyx added.
Sirius deflated immediately.
"Control the wind, Sirius—don't let it throw your spells sideways."
Regulus Blackwood
Regulus stepped up silently. Jeanyx sensed it immediately—the faint chill, the whisper of something old.
"Shadow and memory magic."
Regulus swallowed hard.
"That sounds… dark."
"It's not," Jeanyx said softly. "It's powerful. Shadows preserve echoes. Memories shape illusions. You must learn to keep your feelings steady—or your magic will reveal more than you want."
Regulus nodded, eyes wide.
Bellatrix Blackwood
Bellatrix came forward with the swagger of someone who expected to explode something.
Jeanyx touched her wand, and a sharp sting of static bit his fingertips.
"Storm and destruction magic."
Bellatrix's grin turned wicked.
"I knew I was amazing."
Jeanyx raised a brow.
"You are also a danger to everyone within thirty feet."
The grin widened.
Narcissa Blackwood
Narcissa approached timidly, holding her wand like it might break.
But when Jeanyx touched it, a cool calm washed outwards—like snow falling over still water.
"Frost and healing magic."
Narcissa blinked in surprise.
"Healing?"
"Compassion and clarity suit you," Jeanyx replied. "But frost magic requires emotional balance. Panic will freeze more than wounds."
She swallowed.
"I'll try."
James Bracken
James stepped up with visible nerves. His magic crackled—raw force, badly contained.
"Kinetic and animal magic," Jeanyx said.
James frowned.
"Animal magic? But my family—"
"Bloodlines are complicated," Jeanyx cut in. "Magic follows strength, not names. Kinetic magic gives you your blasts. Animal affinity… means creatures will respond to you."
James stared in awe.
"…Like dragons?"
Jeanyx smirked.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Remus
Remus approached last. His magic pulsed warmly beneath his skin—like embers waiting for fuel.
"Ember and growth magic."
Remus blinked.
"Growth… like plants?"
"Life," Jeanyx corrected. "Potential. Creation. But ember magic burns hot. You must learn not to overheat your wand again."
Remus nodded vigorously.
When the affinities were done, Jeanyx stepped back.
"These will guide your training. But for now… you levitate a feather."
He paced slowly.
"Alera Ascendere.
Focus on the feeling of lifting—not pushing, not pulling. Lifting."
He gestured for them to begin.
The room filled instantly with effort.
Sirius nearly summoned another shockwave.
James' feather spun so fast it nearly sliced Narcissa's sleeve.
Bellatrix's feather caught on fire.
Narcissa lifted her feather gracefully—then panicked and sent it flying into the wall.
Remus' feather glowed faintly orange.
Regulus' feather floated perfectly—then the shadows under him wiggled in excitement, startling him and dropping it.
Jeanyx watched them all with a slow exhale, rubbing his forehead.
"This," he said, "is going to be a very long day."
Nyx rumbled in approval, like she agreed completely.
But despite the chaos, despite the noise, every feather had lifted at least once.
And that meant something important:
For the first time, they were truly learning magic.
The Red Keep's council chamber was unnaturally tense that morning. The great circular table—polished dark stone carved with the sigils of the Seven Kingdoms—reflected the anxious glances bouncing between each member. Outside, dragon horns echoed faintly across King's Landing, but inside… the air felt heavy, suffocating.
Viserys I Targaryen sat at the head of the table, both hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were the color of bone. Sweat glistened along his hairline despite the cool breeze drifting in through the balcony. His crown—a simple band of Valyrian steel—felt heavier than usual.
To his right sat Aemma Arryn, serene but tired, her eyes tracing the parchment spread before her.
To Viserys' left lounged Daemon Targaryen—long legs stretched out, back slouched, dark violet eyes half-lidded with irritation. He had been dragged here under protest and wasn't trying to hide it. His fingers tapped impatiently along the table's edge.
Further down, Corlys Velaryon stood instead of sitting, both hands planted on the table as if ready to leap into action. Rhaenys Targaryen sat beside him, regal and composed, though her expression showed a sharpened edge of concern.
And at the far side of the table sat the small council: Lyonel Strong, Baelon the Brave's old companions in politics, and the rest of the monarch's advisors—each man stiff, pale, and wholly aware of what the Riverlands could become if left unchecked.
A thick silence stretched until Viserys finally let out a deep, trembling breath.
"So," he said, voice low, "Lord Grover Tully has sent a raven claiming four Blackwoods and one Bracken heir have vanished? Taken by the river?"
"Yes," Lyonel Strong confirmed, leaning forward. "And Lord Blackwood has rallied his men. Same with the Brackens. Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall are both making war preparations."
Viserys rubbed his temples.
"This feud has lasted for centuries. They've fought over land, gods, and pride. But this…"
"This is blood," Corlys interrupted grimly. "Children's blood. Real or imagined. And now… they have cause."
Rhaenys nodded.
"And cause is all feuds need. The Riverlands are fragile, Viserys. A spark there can spread far."
Daemon snorted softly.
"So send Tully to handle it. It's his damn problem."
Lyonel shot him a look.
"He's trying. Tully has forbidden either house from marching. But if either side finds bodies—or believes they were taken…"
Daemon rolled his eyes.
"Then let them fight each other. Saves us the trouble."
Aemma's voice cut sharply across the table.
"They're children, Daemon."
Daemon's gaze shifted to her—not in anger, but in that faintly respectful way he reserved for the Queen alone.
"And what would you have me do, sister-by-law? Fly Caraxes to the Riverlands and scare both houses into their keeps? Burn their banners? Roast their cattle?"
Viserys shot him a warning glare.
"No one is burning anything."
Daemon muttered under his breath, "Shame," but fell silent.
Rhaenys leaned forward, fingers interlaced.
"Perhaps it is not about war… but why the children fled at all."
Viserys blinked.
"They fled?"
"According to the raven," Aemma said gently, lifting the parchment, "the children ran into the river out of fear. Fear of punishment. Fear of discovery."
Corlys nodded.
"That suggests something deeper. Something they were hiding."
Daemon raised a brow.
"You're thinking scandal. Or crime."
"Or curiosity," Rhaenys said. "Children wander. Especially children of proud houses desperate to escape expectations."
Viserys sighed again—a tired, defeated sound.
"So you believe they ran away?"
"Perhaps," Rhaenys replied. "But it matters less why they fled and more how we handle their disappearance."
Corlys turned to Viserys.
"You must send a royal envoy. If the Blackwoods and Brackens fight again, it will spill beyond their borders. They'll drag the Tullys in… then the Freys… then gods know who else."
Aemma added softly, "And the people will suffer first."
Daemon leaned back in his chair, arms folded now.
"So what's your brilliant plan, brother?" he asked Viserys with no small amount of sarcasm. "Send Otto? He'll lecture them into killing each other faster."
Viserys ignored the jab.
"I was thinking… of sending a dragon."
The room fell silent.
Daemon's lips twitched into a slow grin.
"Now that is something I agree with."
Aemma frowned.
"Viserys…"
"A dragon need not burn," Viserys said quickly. "It only needs to be seen. A reminder that the crown is watching."
Corlys considered this, nodding.
"Projection of power. Effective."
Rhaenys countered calmly, "Or provoking. A dragon can escalate matters if poorly placed."
Daemon sat upright now, the lazy slouch gone.
"I'll go."
Viserys blinked.
"What?"
"I'll go," Daemon repeated. "Caraxes and I will fly to the Riverlands. I'll find the truth. I'll drag the Blackwoods and Brackens by their ears if I must. But I'll bring back whatever is left of those children."
His jaw tightened.
"And if someone killed them… I will find out who."
Viserys wanted to protest, but he saw something in Daemon's expression—something old, wounded, unspoken.
He nodded.
"Very well. Daemon will go."
The council exchanged glances—some relieved, some uneasy.
Viserys continued, "We stop a war before it begins. We protect the Riverlands. We honor the families who've lost their children—whatever their feuds."
Daemon rose to his feet, cloak sweeping behind him.
"I'll leave at dawn."
As he strode out, Caraxes' distant screech echoed across the city—long, sharp, promising retribution.
Aemma whispered, "Seven save us all."
Rhaenys murmured, "It won't be the Seven who decide this."
Corlys' eyes narrowed.
"It will be blood. Targaryen blood."
And Viserys sat alone at the head of the table, silently praying that somewhere… somehow…
The children were still alive.
Lunch in the Mourning Keep was usually loud, warm, and chaotically peaceful.
The massive dining hall was filled with the scents of roasted venison, honeyed bread, spiced roots, and thick northern stews. The Frost family sat comfortably among the children—Torrhen carving meat for Lyra as she leaned back, one hand on her round stomach; Mira fussing over Mya, who was one month away from giving birth as well. The children ate with the ravenous energy only growing magic-users could muster, laughing and arguing over whose wand had exploded most spectacularly during training.
Nyx lay outside on her personal balcony—now reinforced with carved blackstone columns—devouring an entire cow with the lazy contentment of a well-fed goddess. Every crunch of bone echoed.
Jeanyx sat at the head of the table, relaxed for once, sipping crimson wine from an ornate goblet he'd carved runes into out of boredom. His eyes wandered over the people he'd come to consider family, the laughter, the simple warmth.
For a moment, it almost felt like peace.
Then Sirius opened his mouth.
He had waited until Jeanyx swallowed a sip of wine.
Until the room was calm.
Until everyone had let their guard down.
"Jeanyx," he said carefully. "Can I ask you something I've been holding in for a while?"
Jeanyx raised a brow, expecting another question about spellcasting or the children's affinities.
"Ask."
Sirius inhaled deeply.
"…When were you going to tell us about your triplets in House Stark?"
The world stopped.
The laughter died instantly.
Mira froze mid-chew.
Lyra and Mya went pale, gripping their stomachs.
Even Torrhen—mountain of a man that he was—stopped breathing.
James and Remus looked between everyone, confused.
Bellatrix went stiff.
Regulus lowered his goblet slowly.
The temperature plummeted.
Jeanyx didn't move.
His eyes slowly drifted down to the goblet in his hand.
Frost gathered around his fingertips.
His breath came out white.
A thin sheet of ice raced across the surface of the wine, turning crimson liquid into dark red glass.
Then the goblet cracked—sharp, violent—like a bone snapping.
Nyx felt his aura before she heard the silence.
Her head lifted.
Her wings flared wide.
A deep growl rolled across the mountains.
Then—
ROOOOOOOOOOOOAR—
The keep shook.
Stones trembled.
Even villages miles away paused mid-step, staring toward the Mourning Keep's silhouette.
Jeanyx didn't blink.
"…What triplets," he said quietly.
Sirius swallowed, but kept going.
He had to. The truth was already out.
"After you disappeared… Lady Aelina Stark gave birth. Everyone knew the children were yours."
The name Aelina struck Jeanyx like a knife—beautiful, fierce Aelina, the Stark niece with black hair, sharp jaw, and curves that could start wars. The memory of her flashed in his mind with perfect clarity—the exact image of the woman in the elegant black dress, stormy eyes framed by raven-dark curls.
His voice dropped lower.
"Names."
Sirius nodded.
"The oldest boy is Eddard. The middle girl is Hela. And the youngest… is Lyanna Stark."
Something inside Jeanyx shattered.
The frost spread across the table in jagged veins.
Narcissa flinched.
James whispered, "Gods…"
Mya grabbed Lyra's hand.
Jeanyx's knuckles whitened.
"…And why," he said slowly, dangerously, "are they not named Targaryen?"
This time Bellatrix answered.
"Well… Lord Rickon Stark was furious that Lady Aelina married you against his wishes. When you vanished the same night she became pregnant—he called it a humiliation."
Jeanyx's jaw flexed.
She continued.
"And then rumors started. Ugly rumors. That Aelina… had been having an affair with one of her uncle's knights. That the knight was the true father."
A sound escaped Jeanyx—half laugh, half snarl.
Bellatrix didn't stop.
"Rickon used those rumors to claim the children 'could not possibly be Targaryen.' And King Jaehaerys agreed. He refused the name."
Ice cracked across Jeanyx's sleeve.
Regulus added quietly:
"He even considered disowning you entirely. Pretending you never existed. Wiping your name from the family record."
Nyx roared again—louder, angrier—and slammed her tail against the balcony stone, cracking it.
Torrhen instinctively shielded the girls.
But Bellatrix wasn't finished.
"King Jaehaerys said granting dragon eggs to 'bastards of uncertain blood' would be an insult to Valyria. He denied Aelina's children their birthright."
Jeanyx closed his eyes.
For a moment, he didn't breathe.
Then Sirius spoke again—softer.
"Daemon fought him. Harder than anyone had ever seen. Your brother nearly challenged the King publicly."
Narcissa nodded, eyes wide.
"And Queen Alysanne… she slapped Jaehaerys across the face in front of the court for suggesting they weren't your children."
The memory hit Jeanyx like a tidal wave.
Alysanne's voice.
Her kindness.
Her fierce love.
Her protection.
His throat tightened.
Bellatrix continued.
"Aelina never denied the rumors… but she also never confirmed them. She didn't defend you. She didn't argue for your children's right to your name."
Jeanyx felt something twist inside him.
A knife of betrayal.
A spark of grief.
A cold hole where affection used to be.
He whispered, "She didn't defend me… or them?"
"No," Bellatrix said. "She didn't."
Jeanyx laughed.
Not loudly.
Not with humor.
It was a quiet, sharp, broken laugh—like glass turning to dust.
He stood slowly.
The room tensed.
Nyx stepped onto the balcony's edge, wings stretching wide.
Jeanyx looked at nothing. He looked at everything. He looked like a man who had finally awakened after years of being half-asleep.
"My children were denied their name. Their birthright. Their legacy."
His voice was soft, but the frost crawling up the walls made every hair stand on end.
"They were punished because I ran. They suffered because Rickon Stark hated me. Because Jaehaerys wanted to forget me. Because Aelina—"
He stopped.
The hurt flickered across his face only once.
Then his expression went calm.
Too calm.
When he spoke again, it sounded like a prophecy:
"I am going back to Westeros."
No one dared argue.
Not with the ice creeping across the stone.
Not with Nyx crouched like a storm given flesh.
Not with the look in Jeanyx's eyes—violet, sharp, burning with a fury older than dragons.
Sirius swallowed.
"Jeanyx… what will you do?"
Jeanyx turned his head just enough for them to see his smile.
It was not warm.
Not kind.
Not forgiving.
It was a smile the world had forgotten a Targaryen could wear.
"…I will reclaim what is mine."
The frost still clung to the walls.
Nyx still crouched like a waking catastrophe on the balcony.
The children still sat in stunned silence.
But Jeanyx… slowly lowered himself back into his chair.
The fire in his eyes dimmed—not extinguished, but swallowed beneath something heavier, deeper, painfully human. He looked left… then right… and his gaze settled on the two young women closest to him.
Lyra.
Mya.
Both resting heavy, swollen with life.
Both carrying his children.
Both breathing quietly, watching him with fear and love mixed together.
Lyra's hand held her belly protectively.
Mya did the same, her fingers trembling.
And Jeanyx realized—
He could not leave.
Not now.
Not when two hearts beat inside Lyra.
Not when two more beat inside Mya.
Not when he felt them through the Force—small, bright, fragile sparks of life.
His children.
Not rumors.
Not half-truths.
Not political pawns.
His.
Jeanyx's jaw unclenched.
The frost melted from his hand.
He exhaled slowly and sank back into his seat, letting his head rest against the high-backed carved stone.
"…It will have to wait," he whispered.
Lyra's breath hitched.
Mya's shoulders sagged with relief.
The children stared, stunned at his change of tone.
Jeanyx rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion slipping through his usually unshakable expression.
"I cannot risk myself—not now. Not until these two," he gestured gently toward Lyra and Mya, "have delivered safely."
He swallowed.
"And not until my children—my known children—are born and raised well enough to stand on their own feet."
Mira let out a long, shaky breath of relief.
Torrhen nodded with quiet approval.
Even Nyx softened her posture, lowering her wings, huffing a rumble of understanding.
Jeanyx continued, voice low:
"And I am not yet prepared. Not truly."
He looked down at his hands.
"The Force… the arcane… I am a master, yes. But mastery is not invincibility."
He flexed his fingers, and the frost dissolved fully.
"I am still mortal. Still too easy to kill."
The children stared. They had never heard Jeanyx admit weakness—not even once.
He continued.
"And the lightsaber Death gave me… I still haven't completed it. I built the frame in my first month here. Crafted the hilt perfectly. Fitted the kyber crystal—magenta, rare as starlight."
He almost laughed.
"But Death forgot to give me a crucial detail—how to properly channel the crystal's power through a stable focusing array."
He shook his head.
"I have the power source—but the weapon cannot ignite. Not yet."
Sirius frowned.
"You're… missing parts?"
Jeanyx nodded.
"Parts from a galaxy that does not exist here. Valyrian steel mixes poorly with kyber energy. The runes distort the flow. I need a stable focusing chamber, new emitters… a perfect channel."
His fingers tapped the table.
"With my laziness… and distractions… it might take a few years."
Nyx snorted as if to say more like ten.
Jeanyx ignored her.
"And I am training apprentices now. You six."
He motioned to the kids.
"That will take years. Decades, maybe. Magic is not a gift—it is a craft. A discipline."
Regulus swallowed.
"You… would stay for us? Instead of going back?"
Jeanyx looked at him—really looked.
Then at Sirius.
Then Bellatrix.
Then Narcissa.
James.
Remus.
Each one, scared but hopeful.
Jeanyx's eyes softened.
"Yes," he said.
"Because you need me now. And my children," he nodded toward the pregnant girls, "need me even more."
Silence consumed the room.
Not fearful silence this time.
Heavy.
Warm.
Overwhelming.
The kind of silence that comes when someone you thought was invincible admits that they care.
Jeanyx leaned back, exhaustion settling over him.
"I will reclaim my name, and my children in Westeros… but not today. Not this year. Not while I have responsibilities here."
His voice grew firmer.
"And if the seer's words are true…"
He placed a hand on Lyra's belly.
"…you carry twins."
His hand moved to Mya.
"And so do you."
The room gasped.
Lyra burst into relieved tears.
Mya covered her mouth in shock.
Mira started babbling about preparing more cradles.
Torrhen laughed the deep laugh of a proud grandfather.
Nyx purred loudly enough to vibrate the walls.
The children stared in awe.
Jeanyx—Jeanyx the Stormborn, Jeanyx the Silent Prince, Jeanyx the Mad Inventor of Wintertown—smiled softly.
"I will go to Westeros when I am ready," he said finally.
"When I am strong enough. When my weapons are complete.
When my apprentices are trained.
When my children are born and safe."
He looked toward the mountains, toward the faint silhouette of his half-built fortress—the Mourning Keep.
"And when I go… I will not be returning alone."
The room shivered—not from cold, but from the promise in his voice.
A promise Westeros would learn to fear.