Jeanyx didn't hesitate.
He leaned forward in the saddle, one hand braced on Nyx's neck, the other tightening instinctively around Arya as he redirected her descent. They came down hard just outside Wintertown's outer edge, the heat rolling over them in suffocating waves. Embers drifted through the air like dying fireflies.
"Fog," Jeanyx said, sharp and controlled. "Not the fire."
Nyx answered with a low, understanding rumble.
She lifted her head and exhaled.
Not icefire. Not flame.
A vast, rolling fog poured from her jaws, cold and heavy, spilling outward in thick waves. It crawled across the ground, smothering flames as it went, swallowing sparks and choking fires until they hissed and died. Burning rooftops darkened, timbers groaned, steam screamed into the night as heat met cold. Where moments ago fire had ruled, only damp ruin remained.
Jeanyx dropped from the saddle before Nyx had fully settled, boots hitting the ground hard. He lifted Arya down immediately after, keeping a hand on her shoulder as they moved.
The silence that followed was worse than the flames.
They walked through the streets together.
The ground was slick beneath their feet, ash and water mixing into blackened mud. The air stank of smoke, blood, and something metallic that made Jeanyx's jaw clench. Doors hung open. Walls were scorched. Some buildings still smoked faintly, but the danger had passed.
The people had not.
The first body lay near the marketplace.
A man Jeanyx recognized. A cooper. He'd laughed too loudly, always smelled faintly of ale. Now he lay on his side, eyes open, throat split cleanly. The blood had already cooled.
Jeanyx didn't stop.
Arya did.
Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp, panicked sound, and Jeanyx felt her fingers dig into his sleeve. They passed another body. Then another. Some burned so badly it was hard to tell who they had been. Others bore stab wounds, clean and deliberate, nothing like the wild desperation of a riot. These were soldiers' strikes.
Purposeful.
Arya's eyes darted everywhere now, too wide, her face pale in the firelight. She shook her head slowly, as if refusing to accept what she was seeing.
"Papa…" Her voice trembled. "What… what happened?"
Jeanyx stopped.
He knelt in front of her, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him instead of the carnage behind him. His face was hard, but his eyes were steady.
"Someone betrayed us," he said quietly.
Arya swallowed, tears pooling but not falling. "Why?"
Jeanyx closed his eyes for half a second.
"Because they thought I was gone," he said. "And because some men mistake kindness for weakness."
Behind them, Nyx growled low and deep, her body coiling protectively as her gaze swept the ruined streets. Somewhere in the distance, survivors cried out, voices breaking through the smoke and silence.
Jeanyx stood, pulling Arya gently but firmly back to her feet.
"We'll find the others," he said. "All of them."
And as he turned toward the heart of Wintertown, stepping into the wreckage of the life he'd built, something inside him shifted—cold, deliberate, and utterly merciless.
Whoever had done this had made one fatal mistake.
They had chosen to act while he still had something to lose.
Jeanyx stopped so suddenly that Arya nearly walked into his back.
The street ahead opened into a wider square, one that used to hold stalls and laughter and music on festival nights. Now it was lit by firelight and screaming. A group of men stood there in unfamiliar armor, their cloaks marked with the sigil Jeanyx had seen only a handful of times before.
Stormwatch.
He recognized them instantly. The cut of their gear. The way they moved in formation instead of panic. These weren't raiders. These were men who thought they were claiming something.
Arya's breath hitched.
A family was trying to flee across the square. A man dragging his wife by the hand, a child stumbling between them. One of the Stormwatch men laughed and drove his spear forward without breaking stride. The man fell. The woman screamed. Another blade flashed.
Something inside Jeanyx snapped so cleanly it felt almost peaceful.
"Oh," he said softly. "So it was you."
Arya felt it before she saw it. The air around her father changed, thickening, pressure rolling outward like the moment before a storm breaks. His eyes ignited, violet light bleeding into something darker, colder. He stepped forward, placing Arya behind him without looking back.
"Do not move," he told her, his voice calm in a way that terrified her more than shouting ever could.
He drew the blasphemous blade.
The sword answered him eagerly.
Veins along its surface pulsed, glowing crimson as magic poured into it. Heat bled into the air, not the wild heat of flame, but something deeper, heavier, like the inside of a furnace fed by hate. The Stormwatch men finally noticed him. One of them opened his mouth to shout a warning.
Jeanyx raised the blade.
Then he brought it down.
The impact shook the street.
The blade struck stone, and for a heartbeat nothing happened—then the magic detonated outward. Fire erupted in a perfect downward arc, a violent bloom of burning force that tore across the square. The ground cracked and buckled as if struck by a god's hammer. Flames rolled forward in a tidal wave, consuming armor, flesh, and screams in an instant.
Men vanished.
Not fell. Not burned slowly.
They were erased.
The ones closest were vaporized outright, their outlines briefly etched in fire before collapsing into ash. Those farther back were hurled into walls, bodies breaking against stone as flame wrapped around them. The shockwave shattered windows, tore doors from hinges, and sent embers spiraling high into the night.
Arya screamed despite herself, clamping her hands over her mouth as heat washed over them. Jeanyx stood unmoving at the center of it all, coat whipping violently in the blast, hair snapping behind him like a banner.
When the fire died down, the square was silent.
Nothing remained of the Stormwatchers but scorched armor fused to the ground and blackened shapes that had once been men. The stone beneath Jeanyx's feet glowed faintly, cracked in a perfect spiderweb radiating outward from where the blade had struck.
He exhaled slowly.
The blasphemous blade hissed, veins retracting as the magic settled, satisfied.
Jeanyx turned his head slightly.
"Stay behind me," he said again, not louder, not harsher. Just absolute.
Arya nodded, tears streaming down her face, fear and awe twisting together in her chest. She had seen her father fight before. She had never seen him like this.
Somewhere deeper in Wintertown, horns sounded.
More were coming.
Jeanyx smiled—not wide, not cruel, but cold and knowing.
"Good," he murmured, tightening his grip on the sword. "Let them all see."
Jeanyx didn't slow.
They moved through Wintertown like a blade through cloth, Arya tight at his back, her small hand fisted in his coat as he cut a path forward. Stormwatch soldiers rushed them in twos and threes, then in larger knots once word spread that something had gone terribly wrong.
It didn't matter.
The blasphemous blade carved through armor as if it were wet parchment. Every swing burned. Every strike left men screaming as heat and corruption tore through them from the inside out. Jeanyx barely had to look where he struck; the sword guided itself, hungry and eager, veins glowing brighter with every life it took.
Too bright.
Halfway through another street, Jeanyx felt it—the pull. Not exhaustion in his muscles, not breathlessness, but something deeper, a gnawing drain behind his ribs. The blade drank greedily, not just blood but him, siphoning magic and intent alike. He snarled under his breath and slammed the sword back into its sheath across his back before it could take more than he was willing to give.
"Behind me," he said again, sharper this time.
His hand dropped to his hip.
With a snap-hiss, the crossguard lightsaber ignited.
Black core. Dark magenta edge. The hum alone sent a vibration through the air that made Arya's teeth buzz. Where the blasphemous blade burned and consumed, this was clean. Precise. Absolute.
Stormwatchers charged.
They didn't get close.
Jeanyx moved like he'd been waiting for this all night. The saber sliced through steel and flesh alike, cauterizing as it cut, leaving men collapsing in smoking halves. Blaster bolts of force slammed into charging lines, flinging bodies into walls hard enough to crack stone. Arya watched in stunned silence as her father became something else entirely—calm, ruthless, efficient. There was no anger in his face now. Just focus.
It took nearly an hour to push through the outer streets, clearing ambush after ambush, before the buildings opened up into the heart of Wintertown.
That was where they saw them.
Torrhen stood near the shattered remnants of the marketplace pavilion, axe red to the haft, breathing hard. William was beside him, blood streaking his brow, one arm hanging uselessly at his side as he barked orders. Two giants loomed over them, battered but still standing, while a knot of dwarves fought at their feet, shields locked tight.
They were surrounded.
Thirty Stormwatch soldiers pressed in from all sides, disciplined, coordinated, confident in numbers.
Jeanyx didn't stop walking.
He raised his hand.
Lightning tore from his fingers.
Not wild, not scattered—focused. A single violent arc that split midair into branching forks. It struck the clustered Stormwatchers head-on, bodies jerking violently as the force ripped through them. Armor glowed white-hot. Men collapsed where they stood, smoking and twitching, most never even screaming.
When the light faded, only a handful remained standing.
Jeanyx stared at his hand for half a second, flexing his fingers.
"…Still rough," he muttered.
Then he was moving again.
The remaining traitors barely had time to react before he was among them, lightsaber flashing. One fell. Then another. A third tried to flee and lost his legs mid-step. It was over in seconds.
Silence crashed down around them, broken only by labored breathing and the crackle of dying fires.
"Jeanyx," Torrhen rasped, leaning heavily on his axe. He looked exhausted, wounded, but alive. "We need to move."
William nodded grimly. "I heard them talking. Their main force isn't here."
Jeanyx turned toward them, saber still humming softly at his side.
"They're heading for the Keep," Torrhen continued. "Gold. Vaults. Artifacts. Everything."
Jeanyx's eyes flicked instinctively toward the distant silhouette of the Mourning Keep, its towers looming through smoke and embers.
"Then we're late," he said quietly.
He reached back without looking and rested a hand on Arya's shoulder, grounding her.
"Stay close," he told her. "This isn't finished."
And as they turned toward the Keep, the night around them felt heavier, like the island itself was holding its breath, waiting for what Jeanyx would do next.
Jeanyx didn't hesitate. He turned sharply and led them away from the main approach, cutting through a narrow passage between half-collapsed storage buildings and scorched stone. He pressed his palm to a section of wall that looked no different from any other, murmured a word under his breath, and the stone slid aside with a low grinding sound.
A hidden shortcut. One of many.
He'd built them deliberately over the years. For emergencies. For escape. For days when laziness outweighed pride. Right now, it was all three.
They slipped inside, the passage sealing behind them, and the heat and smoke of the burning village vanished into cold, echoing silence. The tunnel opened into the Mourning Keep through a concealed panel hidden behind a massive painting of a night sky—stars rendered in crushed silver and deep blues, constellations only Jeanyx and the children knew by name.
The smell hit them first.
Blood. Smoke. Iron.
Bodies lay scattered across the hall.
Maids.
Women who had braided Arya's hair. Who'd snuck her sweets. Who'd sung to her when nightmares came. Their dresses were torn, their hands still clutching brooms, trays, anything they'd tried to defend themselves with.
Arya broke.
She let out a sound that wasn't quite a scream and wasn't quite a sob, collapsing to her knees as tears poured down her face. Jeanyx was beside her instantly, kneeling, pulling her into his chest as her small fists beat uselessly against him.
"They were family," she cried. "They didn't do anything—why—why would they—"
Jeanyx held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles into her back, grounding her even as something inside him went ice-cold.
"I know," he said quietly. "I know."
He kissed the top of her head, voice dropping to a vow rather than comfort.
"Vengeance will be ours."
They didn't stop long enough for grief to settle. Jeanyx lifted her gently and set her back on her feet, keeping one arm around her shoulders as they ran through the halls. The Keep echoed with distant shouts and clashing steel. Somewhere above them, something exploded, stone dust raining from the ceiling.
Then Jeanyx froze.
He tilted his head, listening.
Shouting. Screams. Familiar voices.
He moved to a tall window overlooking the courtyard and looked out.
The sight made his breath hitch—not in fear, but in fury edged with pride.
Sirius stood at the center of the chaos, wind screaming around him as he fought like a living storm, blade flashing as he danced between enemies too slow to keep up. Regulus moved beside him with terrifying precision, every strike calculated, shadows clinging to his movements like memory made flesh. Bellatrix was laughter and lightning, hurling herself into the fray with reckless joy, her weapon crackling as she tore through soldiers twice her size.
They were children.
And they were holding off over a hundred Stormwatch soldiers.
Jeanyx didn't wait.
He climbed onto the sill and jumped.
The fall should have shattered bone. Instead, he landed like a falling god, slamming his hand into the stone courtyard with a force that cracked the ground outward in a perfect circle.
Ice erupted.
Dozens of jagged black-blue spikes burst from the stone, spearing upward with brutal speed. Men were impaled mid-charge, lifted screaming into the air before going still. Some spikes skewered two, three bodies at once, freezing them solid where they hung.
It wasn't enough.
The remaining soldiers turned toward him, eyes alight with greed and desperation. They'd seen the gold. The Keep. The dragon. And now they saw him.
They charged.
Jeanyx straightened slowly, igniting his lightsaber with a familiar snap-hiss. The black core sang as he stepped forward, calm and utterly untouched by the chaos around him.
He didn't get hit once.
Blades glanced off invisible force barriers. Spears were sliced clean in half. Men fell in smoking pieces as he moved through them with effortless precision, saber flashing in tight, efficient arcs. Where others fought to survive, Jeanyx fought like he was cleaning up a mess he'd grown tired of tolerating.
Sirius saw him and let out a breathless laugh. Regulus's eyes widened just slightly. Bellatrix grinned like she'd just been given permission to go all out.
And in the center of the courtyard, amid ice, fire, and broken bodies, Jeanyx stood at last with his children at his side.
Home.
And anyone who had thought to take it was about to learn just how badly they'd miscalculated.
The courtyard didn't go quiet so much as it emptied.
Bodies steamed where they hit the frozen stone. The air tasted like ozone and blood and scorched iron. Snow drifted lazily through the open sky above, settling on armor and skin alike, already beginning to erase evidence the way winter always did.
Sirius wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, chest heaving, eyes still wild with adrenaline. "You took your time," he said, trying to sound casual and failing badly.
Jeanyx turned toward him slowly. One look at his face shut Sirius up instantly.
Regulus stepped forward instead, posture straight despite the exhaustion tugging at him. "Stormwatch," he said, voice tight. "They coordinated the attack. Garric Harlowe wasn't here, but his banner was everywhere."
Bellatrix kicked a fallen helm aside and laughed once, sharp and bitter. "Coward sent dogs to do his work."
Arya stood just behind Jeanyx, gripping his coat with one hand. She stared at the carnage with wide, shining eyes—not afraid, not anymore. Something harder had settled in her gaze.
Jeanyx deactivated his lightsaber and clipped it back to his belt, then crouched so he was level with her. He brushed soot from her cheek with his thumb, careful, grounding.
"Stay with Regulus," he said quietly. "No matter what."
Arya nodded immediately. No argument. No questions.
That worried him more than anything else.
A horn sounded from deeper within the Keep. Not a rally. A signal.
Jeanyx's head snapped up.
"Vault," he said flatly.
Regulus inhaled sharply. "If they get in—"
"They won't," Jeanyx replied, already moving.
He took three steps and vanished.
Not a teleport. Not magic as most understood it.
The air folded.
Jeanyx reappeared halfway down the inner corridor in a burst of frost and shadow, boots skidding against polished stone as he launched himself forward. His breath came slow, controlled, even as rage coiled tighter in his chest.
The vault doors loomed ahead—rune-etched obsidian reinforced with Valyrian steel bands. In front of them, half a dozen Stormwatch elites worked frantically, hammers and enchanted charges glowing red-hot as they tried to force a breach.
Jeanyx didn't slow.
He raised one hand.
The temperature dropped.
Black ice crept across the floor like a living thing, racing up boots and legs, freezing men mid-motion. One screamed as his hammer shattered against solid frost. Another tried to turn, only to be flash-frozen in place, breath crystallizing in his lungs.
Jeanyx walked among them.
One swing of the Blasphemous Blade, unlit but heavy with intent, and a frozen head hit the floor, shattering like porcelain.
Behind him, heavy footsteps echoed.
Sirius skidded to a halt at the corridor entrance, eyes widening. "Seven hells…"
Regulus arrived a heartbeat later, already assessing damage, gaze flicking over the runes. "They didn't breach. Not even close."
"Good," Jeanyx said.
He turned back toward the courtyard, jaw tightening as distant screams echoed from the lower terraces.
"This isn't over," Bellatrix's voice crackled from behind them as she caught up, blood splattered across her sleeves. "Stormwatch didn't commit everything. They never do."
Jeanyx's eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
"No," he agreed. "This was a test. A probe."
He looked at his children—bloodied, exhausted, standing anyway.
"They wanted to see if the god was gone," he said quietly. "They wanted to see what happens when I'm not here."
His hand clenched.
"Now they know."
Somewhere in the distance, Nyx roared—low, furious, echoing across the island like judgment rolling in.
Jeanyx straightened, shoulders settling, mind already moving past rage into cold, deliberate clarity.
Stormwatch had drawn blood.
Which meant Wintertown would answer.
For the first time since the fighting began, something broke through Jeanyx's control.
He turned on Sirius so fast the air cracked.
"Where are they," he demanded, voice low and shaking in a way that scared Sirius far more than shouting ever could.
Sirius swallowed, eyes wide. He'd seen Jeanyx angry. He'd seen him cold. He had never seen him like this. "They're safe," he said quickly, words tripping over each other. "James, Remus, and Narcissa took them to the throne room. They barricaded it. No one's gotten close, I swear."
Jeanyx didn't wait for anything else.
He was already moving.
The corridors blurred as he ran, boots barely touching the floor, breath steady but chest tight like a vice. Blood and smoke smeared the air, the Keep echoing with distant cries and the groan of settling stone. Every step without his children in sight felt wrong, like the world itself was misaligned.
The throne room doors loomed ahead, massive and reinforced, runes faintly glowing where Regulus had strengthened them months ago.
Jeanyx reached them and shoved.
They didn't budge.
That snapped the last thread of patience.
He exhaled once, slow and deliberate, then pressed his palm to the seam between the doors and pushed with the Force—not violently, not explosively, but with the same inevitability as a glacier grinding a mountain flat.
The doors swung inward.
Light flared instantly.
"Protego!"
The word left Jeanyx's mouth on instinct as red and blue spells streaked toward him. The shield snapped into place just in time, magic splashing harmlessly across it like rain on glass.
"STOP—!"
James's voice cracked mid-cast.
The spells died in the air.
For half a heartbeat, no one moved.
James stood frozen with his wand half-raised, Remus beside him breathing hard, eyes wide with shock. Narcissa lowered her hands slowly, frost still clinging to her fingers.
Then the children saw him.
Alysanne was the first to break, her small body ripping free from Lyra's arms as she ran. Thor followed with a shout, Loki tripping over his own feet in his hurry, Arya already halfway across the room.
"Papa!"
The word hit him like a blade to the chest.
Jeanyx dropped to one knee just in time to catch them as they slammed into him, small arms wrapping around his neck, his shoulders, his waist. He pulled them in tight, one arm around all of them, the other braced against the floor as his breath hitched despite his effort to keep it steady.
They were warm.
Alive.
Shaking.
Alysanne buried her face in his collar and sobbed. Thor clutched his sleeve like he might vanish again. Loki pressed his forehead against Jeanyx's chest, quiet but trembling, fingers fisted in fabric. Arya wrapped herself around his neck from behind, clinging hard.
"It's okay," Jeanyx murmured, over and over, voice rough. "I've got you. I'm here. I'm here."
Only then did he look up.
Lyra was standing a few steps away, hands clenched, eyes wet and furious and terrified all at once. For a heartbeat she looked like she might hit him.
Instead, she crossed the distance and pulled Arya into her arms, holding her so tight it bordered on painful.
"You don't ever do that again," Lyra said, voice shaking. "You don't leave and vanish and come back to this."
Jeanyx didn't argue. He didn't deflect.
He just nodded once.
James finally exhaled, shoulders slumping as the adrenaline drained out of him. "We thought it was another push," he said quietly. "They almost got through the west wing."
"You did good," Jeanyx said, meeting his eyes. "All of you."
Narcissa swallowed hard. "Stormwatch didn't expect resistance like this," she said. "They thought the island would fold without you."
Jeanyx's gaze drifted back to his children, still clinging to him, to Lyra holding Arya like she was afraid to let go.
A thin, dangerous calm settled over him.
"They won't make that mistake again," he said softly.
Outside, Nyx's roar rolled across the Keep once more, closer this time, vibrating through stone and bone alike.
Jeanyx tightened his arms around his family just a little, grounding himself in their weight, their warmth, the simple undeniable truth that they were still here.
Then he lifted his head.
"Stay here," he said, not as a suggestion but a promise. "No one gets past me."
Minutes later, the Mourning Keep, Wintertown, and every settlement scattered across the island felt it in their bones.
Nyx's roar tore through the night sky, not the warning cry she used to scatter beasts or announce her presence, but something raw and furious, a sound that carried intent. It rolled over the land like a storm front, rattling shutters, silencing voices, driving animals to ground. People stopped where they stood and looked south, hearts pounding, because they knew what that roar meant.
Jeanyx was already in the saddle.
Nyx launched herself into the air with a violence that cracked the stone beneath her claws, wings beating hard enough to flatten grass and throw loose debris into spirals. She didn't climb lazily this time. She charged south, cutting through clouds, the wind screaming past them as Jeanyx leaned forward, one hand buried in her scales, the other clenched tight enough that frost crawled across his knuckles.
It took less than ten minutes.
Stormwatch came into view as Nyx banked sharply, the village lights scattered and uneven, clustered too close together, walls too thin, fires still burning where they hadn't bothered to put them out. Jeanyx didn't tell her to descend. Instead, he guided her higher, then angled her toward a low hill overlooking a small lake just beyond the settlement.
The water below was still, mirror-smooth, catching the moonlight perfectly. Silver spilled across its surface like liquid glass, broken only by the faint ripple of insects skimming the edge. For a fleeting moment, the sight tugged at something distant in Jeanyx's chest, a reminder of how beautiful the world could be when left untouched.
It didn't dull the rage.
He snapped his fingers once.
Nyx exhaled and roared again, but this time it was different. The sound was deep, controlled, and focused, pitched low enough that it didn't carry far beyond Stormwatch's borders. The air vibrated with it, a pressure that pressed into lungs and set teeth on edge. It wasn't a threat meant for the island.
It was a summons.
Jeanyx dismounted and walked to the edge of the hill, boots crunching softly over frost-kissed grass. He sat down, calm to the point of being unsettling, eyes fixed on the moon's reflection in the lake. Nyx settled beside him with a heavy thump, folding her wings and lowering her massive head until it rested near the water, steam curling from her nostrils.
Behind him, the night began to fill with sound.
Footsteps.
At first only a few. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Armor clinked softly. Boots scraped over stone and dirt. Mutters died quickly as men realized who they were being called to face. Jeanyx didn't turn. He didn't acknowledge them. He simply watched the moon tremble in the water as ripples spread outward from Nyx's breath.
Time stretched.
The footsteps kept coming, funneling toward the hill from every path Stormwatch had to offer, until the sounds grew dense enough to feel like a presence pressing at his back. Some men stopped farther away. Others crept closer, curiosity and greed warring with fear. Jeanyx could feel them all through the Force, their thoughts loud and messy, stinking of panic, hope, and calculation.
After half an hour, the last pair of boots came to a halt.
Silence fell.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that waits.
Jeanyx finally moved.
He rose to his feet slowly and turned, silver-blond hair catching the moonlight, eyes reflecting it coldly. Nyx lifted her head beside him, one glowing eye opening just enough to remind everyone present what sat at his side.
Jeanyx looked out over the gathered Stormwatch men, taking them in without hurry, committing faces to memory he had never bothered to learn before.
"Good," he said quietly, voice carrying without effort across the hill. "You all came."
Jeanyx took his time looking them over.
Row after row, ranks stacked deeper than Stormwatch had ever fielded before. Men and women shoulder to shoulder, shields locked where shields should be, spear lines staggered correctly, archers spaced with discipline instead of bravado. Their weapons gleamed in the moonlight, steel of every make and length, blades he recognized, alloys he had personally refined, edges sharpened in forges he had designed. Armor fitted well enough to allow movement, not the slapdash scavenged junk of desperate rebels.
Two thousand, at least. Maybe more.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing on Jeanyx's face.
Then he laughed.
It started low, a breathy sound that barely carried beyond Nyx's flank. A private amusement. A ripple. But it didn't stay small. The sound climbed out of his chest, louder with every second, sharper, unhinged. His shoulders shook. His head tipped back. The laugh cracked and twisted until it became something feral, echoing off the hill and the still water below.
People flinched.
Some took a step back without realizing they'd moved. Others tightened their grips on weapons that suddenly felt far too light.
"Oh, that's beautiful," Jeanyx said between laughs, wiping at the corner of his eye as if something had genuinely amused him. "Absolutely beautiful. The same steel I pulled from the mountain for you. The same metal I gave freely, refined freely, taught you to shape freely." His voice rose, laughter threading through every word. "And now you stand there thinking it might put me back into the weeds."
The laughter spiked again, sharp and wild.
"Oh, I love many things in this world," he went on, voice carrying effortlessly across the hill. "My children. My dragon. Quiet nights. Good work well done." His eyes slid over the army like a blade. "But irony? Oh, irony will always sit near the top of that list."
The laugh died.
Not gradually. It stopped like a blade cutting silk.
Jeanyx turned away from them, slow and deliberate, and raised his right hand toward the full moon hanging fat and pale above the lake. His fingers spread slightly, as though he were feeling the air itself.
"You know," he said softly, almost to himself, "it's been years since I heard these words in my head. I never thought I'd speak them again." His lips curved, not quite a smile. "But maybe they need… adjusting. I'm not worthy of them anymore."
His eyes flared.
Violet burned into something brighter, deeper, edged with magenta. The air dropped. Not gradually. Instantly. Breath fogged. Metal creaked. Grass blackened beneath boots as frost raced outward in spiderweb patterns. Trees shuddered, leaves curling inward as life was pulled from them, not violently, but absolutely.
Magenta energy bled from the land itself.
It seeped from bark, from soil, from the twitching bodies of animals caught too close, drawn upward like mist toward Jeanyx's outstretched hand. The lake at the hill's base began to freeze in perfect, concentric rings, ice spreading faster than the eye could track.
Far beyond Stormwatch, the island answered.
Water along the southern coast stiffened, waves locking mid-crash. Fishermen screamed as their boats lurched against suddenly solid seas. Villagers miles away felt it like a pressure in their bones, looked south, and knew. Those who had already heard of Wintertown's burning dropped to their knees and prayed, not for mercy, but that whatever judgment was coming would be thorough.
Back on the hill, soldiers were shaking.
Some sobbed. Some dropped weapons that clattered uselessly against frost-slick stone. A few, unable to bear the sensation pressing into their minds, pressed blades to their own throats, stopped only by terror or the inability to move.
Jeanyx lowered his hand slightly and finally faced them again.
"Ah," he murmured, as the energy condensed around him, dense and humming. "So it was you."
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
"There from the very beginning. The quiet constant." His gaze lifted to the moon again, reverent now, something almost intimate threading through his tone. "My true consort. The light that guided me through every shadow."
The pond below erupted into motion.
A magic circle bloomed across the ice, vast and intricate, runes burning with cold violet light. Moonlight poured into it, brighter than it had any right to be, as if the sky itself were leaning closer to listen.
And far away, across the Narrow Sea, something answered.
In the Red Keep, a peaceful dinner shattered.
Viserys stiffened mid-bite, color draining from his face as pain slammed into him like a hammer. Aemma gasped, clutching her chest as her chair scraped violently backward. Rhaenyra cried out, dropping her cup as she fell to her knees, breath knocked from her lungs.
Rhaenys collapsed where she stood, one hand braced against the table, eyes wide with recognition and dread.
Daemon swore and staggered, barely catching himself before his knees hit stone. Then he saw her.
The girl beside him, no more than ten, silver hair loose around her shoulders, face pale in a way that had nothing to do with fear. She screamed as the pain tore through her, small body curling inward.
"Aelyssara!" Daemon crawled to her, armor scraping loudly, panic raw in his voice as he gathered her into his arms. "Aelyssara, stay with me!"
Dragons roared.
From the Dragonpit and the hills beyond King's Landing, ancient beasts lifted their heads and screamed into the night, fire rumbling uselessly in their throats, wings shuddering as something old and vast brushed against their senses.
North, on a forgotten island, Jeanyx's children cried out as one, clutching at their chests, magic flaring instinctively around them, frost cracking stone, shadows stretching too long, embers blooming where none should be.
And on a moonlit hill above Stormwatch, Jeanyx stood unmoving, hand still raised, as the spell finished drawing breath.
The air above the lake shuddered as if the world itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go. The magenta tide that had been ripping heat and life from everything around it slowed, then folded inward, threads of it snapping tight like drawn bowstrings. Jeanyx stood unmoving at the hill's edge, one hand still raised toward the moon, his silhouette carved sharp against the silver sky. Around him, the Stormwatch army had gone deathly still. Men who had marched with confidence now felt their knees tremble, not from cold alone but from the instinctive knowledge that something far beyond them was being shaped in front of their eyes.
The magenta energy began to change. It did not fade. It did not weaken. It refined. Pale ice-blue light seeped through it, at first like veins beneath skin, then like moonlight bleeding through storm clouds. The two forces twisted together, not fighting, but aligning, as if they had always been meant to meet. The color drained from the ground beneath the army's feet, frost racing outward in delicate, lethal patterns, while the lake's surface stilled into a perfect mirror, reflecting the moon so clearly it looked like a second sky had opened beneath them.
The shape came next. Long. Broad. Unmistakable.
A blade.
Ice formed not as crude frost but as layered crystal, faceted and ancient, growing outward from an unseen core. The greatsword took form slowly, reverently, as though the night itself were crafting it with patient hands. Runes flickered faintly within the ice, too old to be read, too precise to be random. When the crossguard solidified, it did so with a soft, ringing sound like distant bells beneath snow. The grip followed, darkened and roughened, shaped for a hand that had held too many weapons and buried too many loved ones.
The finished blade hovered for a heartbeat between earth and sky.
Then it moved.
The greatsword drifted toward Jeanyx, gentle as falling ash, and settled into his waiting hand as if it had always belonged there. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the blade answered. Pale blue light surged through its length, and when he lifted it toward the moon, the ice caught that silver glow and magnified it, casting lunar fire across the field. Shadows stretched long and thin. Faces went pale. Somewhere in the ranks, someone sobbed quietly, unable to stop themselves.
Jeanyx did not smile.
He simply looked at the sword, really looked at it, and something old and aching loosened in his chest. This was not rage given shape. This was not slaughter made beautiful. This was memory. Loss. Promise. The truest cold there was, the kind that did not burn with hatred but froze with certainty. Dark cryokinesis, refined not into destruction, but into judgment.
Nyx lifted her head beside the lake, eyes reflecting the same pale blue light. She did not roar this time. She watched, reverent, tail curling slowly in the frost.
Jeanyx lowered the blade just enough that its glow washed over the army before him. Ice crept higher up their boots. Breath fogged in panicked gasps. Weapons slipped from numb fingers. They understood now, too late, what they had chosen to stand against.
Above them all, the moon burned brighter, as if recognizing its reflection below, and the sword in Jeanyx's hand answered with a quiet, humming resonance that sank into bone and soul alike, promising that what came next would be remembered.
Jeanyx shifted his weight forward, boots crunching softly against frost-killed grass, both blades humming in the night like living things that recognized one another. The Blasphemous Blade in his left hand bled heat and hunger, its gems pulsing like twin hearts, while the Dark Moon Greatsword in his right drank the moonlight so deeply the air around it glittered with pale blue motes. Where the two auras touched, steam hissed and froze mid-air, shards of ice and embers hanging together in defiance of sense.
The army hesitated.
They were trained. Well-armed. Thousands strong. Yet something ancient in them screamed that this was wrong, that no man was meant to stand like that beneath a full moon and make the world bend just by breathing.
Jeanyx smiled, slow and sharp, not kind in the slightest.
"Let's dance."
He moved.
Jeanyx moved before the army truly understood that the fight had already begun.
There was no charge, no roar, no dramatic rush forward. He stepped, and the world seemed to rearrange itself around him to keep up. His body flowed into motion with a terrible grace, every movement smooth, unbroken, as if violence were a language he had spoken all his life and only now decided to stop translating.
The Dark Moon blade traced a shallow arc at his side, humming softly, while the Blasphemous Blade hung low in his left hand like an afterthought. He slipped between the first line of soldiers as though they were reeds in water. A spear thrust where he had been; he was already elsewhere, torso twisting, hips turning, his foot landing lightly on a fallen shield without even looking. The shield dipped, he pushed off it, and his body carried forward, spinning, the moonlit edge of his sword passing cleanly through a man's neck with a sound like ice cracking on a frozen lake.
He never paused.
Jeanyx vaulted upward, planting a foot against a charging soldier's chest, using the man's momentum to lift himself higher. He ran along shoulders and helms as if they were stepping stones laid out just for him, boots touching down for the briefest instants before he was airborne again. Blades swung up at him in panic, but he bent and flowed around them, spine arching, limbs folding and extending with a dancer's control. His balance never wavered. His center never broke.
From above, he struck.
The Dark Moon Greatsword descended in a vertical line of pale-blue light, freezing three men solid in a single breath, their bodies locking mid-motion. Jeanyx landed between them, knees soft, already turning. The Blasphemous Blade followed through in a horizontal sweep, shattering the frozen forms into burning shards that hissed and steamed as they scattered across the ground.
Soldiers screamed. Others froze, uncertain whether to advance or flee.
Jeanyx threaded through them anyway.
He slid under a wild axe swing, palm brushing the earth, then kicked upward, foot connecting with a man's jaw hard enough to lift him off his feet. Jeanyx used the falling body as a springboard, pushing off the man's back, twisting midair to land behind another opponent. His blade punched through armor and spine without slowing, and he was gone again before the body hit the ground.
There was no anger on his face. No snarl. No shout.
Only focus.
Only motion.
The army tried to adapt, closing ranks, raising shields, forming lines the way they had been trained to do. Jeanyx answered by breaking their shape entirely. He ran straight at a wall of shields, planted one foot against the rim of the first, climbed it, then bounded across the line, boots striking metal and bone alike. Each step carried him forward and sideways at once, unpredictable, untouchable. Heads snapped back as his blades passed, moonlight and hellfire weaving together into a seamless rhythm.
When he dropped back to the ground, he didn't slow.
He never slowed.
Jeanyx flowed into close quarters now, movements tighter but no less fluid. He slipped inside swings, blades grazing his hair, cloaks tearing where he had been a heartbeat before. He rotated his shoulders, let a strike pass over him, then answered with a backhand cut that burned straight through a man's chest. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, skirt of his coat flaring, and drove the Dark Moon blade low, freezing legs out from under another soldier before finishing him with a downward thrust from the Blasphemous Blade.
Blood steamed. Frost spread. Fire licked and vanished.
The quiet rage in him never spiked. It didn't need to.
It carried him.
Jeanyx leapt again, this time higher, catching a spear mid-flight with the Force, yanking it toward him just long enough to use it as leverage, spinning around it like a pole dancer before letting go and dropping back into the mass of bodies. He landed in a crouch, blades already moving, cutting, turning, advancing as if the army existed only to give him something to move through.
Men fell behind him, around him, beneath him.
Ahead, they broke.
Some tried to run. Others stood paralyzed, weapons shaking in numb hands, watching the impossible figure glide toward them with unbroken rhythm, eyes glowing faintly violet beneath moonlight and smoke.
Jeanyx didn't chase the fleeing ones.
He simply kept moving forward, step after step, blade after blade, the dance continuing without pause, without hesitation, until the ground beneath him was slick with ice, ash, and shattered resolve—and still, he did not stop.
The rhythm changed.
It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, like a dancer shifting tempo mid-song. Jeanyx felt it before he acknowledged it, a pressure behind his eyes, a heat in his chest that had nothing to do with flame. The quiet rage that had guided his movements began to sharpen, condense, until every breath tasted like iron and frost.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't loud at first. Just a breathy sound pulled from his chest as he ducked under a clumsy swing and slid his blade across a man's Achilles tendon with surgical precision. The soldier collapsed screaming, and Jeanyx stepped over him without looking, laughter spilling out more freely now, carried on the cold night air.
He let the magic in the blades fall away.
The glow dimmed. The moonlight dulled. The hellfire receded.
What remained was steel, weight, balance, and his own body.
And suddenly, every kill mattered.
Jeanyx moved closer now. No more wide arcs meant to cull numbers. No more sweeping destruction. He stepped into men's space, close enough to see their eyes widen, to smell fear and sweat and cheap oil on their armor. He twisted wrists instead of cutting them off, disarming before driving the blade up under a chin, precisely angled to sever spine and artery in one smooth motion.
He began to savor the details.
A sidestep here. A shoulder check there. He used a charging soldier's shield as a wall, ran two steps up it, flipped over the man's head, and drove his sword straight down through the gap at the base of the skull as he landed behind him. The body dropped forward like a puppet with its strings cut.
Jeanyx laughed again, louder now, breath hitching as exhilaration crept in.
"Oh—this is messy," he muttered to no one, voice light, almost delighted, as he ducked between two attackers and drove his blades backward simultaneously. One sword pierced a kidney, the other slid cleanly between ribs and heart. He leaned forward just enough to let both bodies slump away from him before stepping onward.
The army tried to regroup. They always did.
They shouted orders. They tightened formation. They advanced together, shields up, weapons thrusting in practiced unison.
Jeanyx met them head-on.
He ran straight into the line, planted one foot on a shield boss, vaulted, twisted midair, and landed behind them in a roll that brought him back to his feet already moving. He cut hamstrings. He punctured lungs. He slid blades into joints where armor failed, each strike efficient, economical, devastating.
The laughter turned sharp, almost breathless.
He began talking to them as he fought.
"No, no—too slow."
A man lunged. Jeanyx parried, rotated his wrist, and broke the man's arm with a sickening crack before driving a blade into his throat.
"See? You telegraphed that."
Another swung wildly. Jeanyx caught the blade between his own, twisted, ripped it free, and shoved it back into the man's gut with brutal force, face inches away as he watched the light fade from the soldier's eyes.
His movements lost none of their grace, but there was an edge to them now. Every step was deliberate. Every strike chosen. He wasn't reacting anymore.
He was hunting.
Jeanyx sprinted, leapt, and rebounded off bodies like terrain, boots finding shoulders, backs, helmets. He used men as platforms, as obstacles, as tools. He vaulted off one soldier's chest to reach another, drove a knee into a face to stun, then finished with a downward thrust that pinned the man to the ground.
Blood sprayed warm against his cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
The battle maniac inside him finally surfaced fully, unashamed, unrestrained. His grin widened, eyes bright and unfocused, laughter spilling freely now as he moved faster, closer, more intimate with every kill. He spun through a cluster of soldiers, blades flashing in tight arcs, cutting throats, severing tendons, puncturing hearts with mechanical certainty.
There was no wasted motion.
No mercy.
Only flow.
Jeanyx slid beneath a spear, rolled, came up inside a man's guard, and headbutted him hard enough to shatter teeth. As the man reeled, Jeanyx drove his blade up through the soft flesh beneath the arm, then yanked it free and pivoted into the next kill without breaking stride.
He breathed deep, steady, controlled, even as laughter bubbled out of him like steam from a vent.
"Run," he called out lightly, almost kindly, as several soldiers broke and fled. "It'll make this last longer."
Some tried.
Most didn't make it far.
Jeanyx chased them down with terrifying ease, body gliding over uneven ground, through fallen corpses, across shattered weapons. He caught one by the collar, spun him around, and slit his throat with a single smooth motion before pushing the body aside and continuing on.
The moonlight reflected off his blades now slick with blood, no longer glowing, no longer magical in appearance—just tools in the hands of someone who knew exactly how to use them.
By the time he slowed, the ground around him was a ruin of bodies, shattered formations, and broken will.
Jeanyx stood amid it all, chest rising and falling, laughter finally tapering off into quiet, uneven breaths. His hands were steady. His stance perfect. His blades rested at his sides, dripping red into the frost-bitten earth.
And still, the fire behind his eyes hadn't gone out.
It simmered.
Waiting.
The last scream didn't echo.
It cut off mid-breath, swallowed by the night, by frost, by the quiet that followed only when nothing living remained to answer back.
Jeanyx stood over the final body, blades low, both infused just enough to keep the man alive through every second of it. He had learned long ago where to cut so death took its time, where pain bloomed but organs held on, how to keep someone aware until their eyes finally dulled. The soldier's fingers clawed weakly at the ground, breath hitching in wet, broken sounds, until at last even that stopped.
Silence settled like snow.
For a long moment, Jeanyx didn't move.
His chest rose and fell, slow and controlled, though his mind was anything but. The laughter was gone now, burned out, leaving behind something colder. Quieter. More dangerous. Blood slicked his hands and arms, steamed faintly in the night air, but he felt none of it. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as if still watching something no one else could see.
Then he turned.
He walked back up the hill at an unhurried pace, boots crunching softly over frost and fallen leaves, past bodies arranged like discarded props from a play that had already ended. Nyx lay near the pond, massive form coiled and still, watching him with glowing eyes but making no sound. Even she seemed to understand that now was not the moment to intrude.
At the crest of the hill, Jeanyx stopped.
He lifted the blasphemous blade in his left hand and drove it point-first into the earth.
The ground hissed.
Heat bled outward from the steel, not explosive, not violent, but relentless. The soil around the blade darkened, then cracked, then glazed as frost and fire met in perfect opposition. Ice crept up the metal in slow, deliberate veins, shaping itself around the blade as if answering a command whispered directly into the world.
A sheath formed.
Not leather. Not metal.
Ice. Clear, pale, faintly glowing, hugging the blasphemous blade perfectly as the heat stabilized beneath it, contained, restrained. The blade thrummed once, almost like a heartbeat, then stilled.
Jeanyx turned his attention to the greatsword in his right hand.
The darkmoon blade pulsed softly, pale blue light washing over his bloodied fingers. He stared at it, head tilting slightly, as if considering a puzzle only he could see. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then he clenched his fist.
The greatsword shattered.
Not violently. Not explosively.
It fractured into shards of moonlight and ice, breaking apart into dozens of glowing fragments that hovered in the air instead of falling. Jeanyx raised his hand, fingers spreading slowly, deliberately, and the fragments obeyed. They twisted, flowed, reshaped themselves like liquid glass under invisible pressure.
The blade was reborn.
Not as a weapon.
But as jewelry.
The shards condensed, weaving together into a delicate yet unmistakably powerful form. A bracelet wrapped itself around his right wrist, cold and solid, studded with pale gemstones that glowed softly like captured moonlight. Thin chains of ice-blue metal draped elegantly across the back of his hand, connecting to rings at his fingers, forming a lattice that was beautiful in the way storms were beautiful.
Power hummed beneath it, restrained, waiting.
Jeanyx lowered his hand and stared at the bracelet, breathing steady now, expression unreadable. Somewhere in his mind, a note was already being made, a problem set aside to be solved later.
I'll need a way to do this for the other one too.
He glanced back at the blasphemous blade, half-buried in the earth, encased in its icy sheath, radiating quiet menace.
Later.
For now, the night belonged to him.
The hill stood silent, the pond reflecting the moon perfectly once more, as if nothing had happened at all. And Jeanyx remained there, framed by frost and shadow, insanity spent for the moment, brutality complete, already moving on to the next problem that demanded solving.