Twenty minutes later, the night filled with movement.
They came in waves through the treeline and over the hills. The Marauders first, breathless and wide-eyed, blades still drawn even as their steps slowed. Then the able-bodied men of Wintertown, farmers with axes, smiths with hammers, hunters with bows still strung. Behind them came the dwarves in tight formation, armor smeared with soot and ash, and last of all the giants, looming silhouettes carrying entire trees torn from the earth as if they were clubs.
No one spoke at first.
They stood there, staring at the hillside, at the frozen ground, at the bodies scattered in unnatural stillness. Some were impaled where they had stood. Others lay twisted mid-step, expressions locked in terror or disbelief. Frost coated everything, even the blood, which glittered faintly under the moonlight like spilled rubies trapped in ice.
More than one man swallowed hard.
A few crossed themselves.
Others simply stared at Jeanyx.
He stood where they had last seen him, unmoving, pale hair loose down his back, moonlight catching on the strange bracelet wrapped around his right wrist. The blasphemous blade rested nearby, half-buried and sheathed in ice, as if the land itself had decided it would rather not let it move again.
Narcissa was the first to break from the group.
She didn't run. She moved quickly, controlled, skirts gathered in her hands as she crossed the frozen ground toward him. Her healer's eye took everything in at once, the blood, the stillness, the posture of his body.
She stopped directly in front of him.
Her hands hovered for half a second before she touched his arm, then his shoulder, fingers pressing lightly, checking for warmth, tension, injury. Her brows knit together in confusion.
"You're… untouched," she said quietly, almost to herself.
She looked down at his hands, at the dark red staining his sleeves, the splatter across his chest.
None of it was his.
Jeanyx didn't react to her touch. He didn't look at her at all. His gaze remained fixed on the pond, on the moon's reflection rippling faintly in the water as if nothing here mattered.
Behind her, Sirius approached.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
This wasn't the Jeanyx who dueled him in the mornings or laughed dryly at mischief gone too far. This wasn't even the cold strategist who spoke of power and debt. This was something else, something quieter and far more frightening.
Sirius stopped a few paces away.
"Jeanyx," he said, and hated the way his voice shook. "What… what do you want us to do?"
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Jeanyx turned his head just enough to acknowledge Sirius's presence. His eyes were calm. Empty. Detached in a way that made it worse.
"Capture them," he said.
The words were flat, almost bored. "Every man. Every woman. Every child in that village."
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. Shock, yes, but also something else.
Relief.
No burning. No slaughter. No command to wipe Stormwatch from the map.
Sirius felt his shoulders loosen despite himself. Around him, others exchanged looks, some nodding grimly. Giants shifted their weight. Dwarves tightened grips on their weapons, already thinking in terms of routes and resistance.
Jeanyx continued speaking before anyone could act.
"Bring them to me alive."
The relief held.
Then shattered.
"I'll give them a fate worse than death," Jeanyx went on, voice still calm, still distant, "and I'll keep them breathing through every second of it. Long enough that they beg me to let them die."
The night seemed to recoil.
Narcissa's hand tightened on his arm, her breath catching sharply. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, then stopped. She could feel it now, the cold beneath his skin, the kind that didn't come from ice.
Sirius swallowed.
"…All of them?" he asked quietly.
Jeanyx finally looked at him fully.
"Yes."
There was no rage in his eyes now. No madness. Just certainty.
The order spread quickly after that.
Men moved. Giants turned toward the southern path, trees dragging furrows through the frost. Dwarves began barking instructions in sharp, efficient bursts. The Marauders regrouped, faces hardening, fear giving way to grim resolve.
As they disappeared into the dark toward Stormwatch, Jeanyx remained on the hill, still staring at the water, still breathing evenly.
Nyx shifted beside the pond, massive head lowering until her snout brushed the frozen surface. She let out a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the ground.
Jeanyx rested one blood-stained hand against her scales.
"Not yet," he murmured, barely audible. "Soon."
The moon continued to shine, indifferent, as the island moved to carry out his will.
Stormwatch did not fall like a fortress taken by siege.
It unraveled.
It unraveled the way rot spreads through old timber—quiet at first, hidden beneath polished grain, then all at once the structure gives way and the collapse is total, inevitable, and irreversible.
The first screams rose just after midnight, when the moon hung high and cold enough to turn rooftops silver and frost the breath in men's lungs. Later, survivors would swear there were no horns, no warning bells, no shouted commands echoing through the streets. One moment there was drink and firelight and laughter carried too far into the night. The next, shadows moved where shadows should not move, and the earth itself seemed to draw a slow, ominous breath.
Then the ground began to shake.
Giants came first.
Not charging.
Not roaring.
Walking.
Each step pressed deep into the frozen soil, leaving impressions that would not fade by morning. Whole trees lay across their shoulders, not raised like weapons but carried like tools, like extensions of their own massive bodies. Firelight reflected off their eyes as they leaned down to peer through shattered doorways, expressions closer to disappointment than fury, as though Stormwatch itself had failed some unspoken test.
Men broke at the sight.
Some dropped their weapons and ran. Some fell to their knees, hands raised, mouths working in silent prayer. A few—too proud, too desperate, or too foolish—chose to fight.
Behind the giants came Wintertown's fighters, disciplined and relentless, and at their heart moved the Marauders.
Jeanyx's order echoed in every mind, sharper than steel.
Alive.
That single word shaped the night.
A man rushed Sirius with a wood-axe, screaming something about his children and his home. Sirius stepped inside the swing without hesitation, twisted his wrist, and sent the axe spinning away. The pommel struck the man's jaw with a dull crack. He collapsed in a heap, breath knocked from his lungs, eyes staring at nothing. Sirius didn't slow, didn't look back, didn't allow himself to feel.
Bellatrix carved through resistance like a storm barely held in check. A knot of Stormwatch defenders tried to form a line in the street, shields raised, spears braced. She shattered them with a single concussive spell that sent bodies slamming into stone walls, ribs snapping, breath torn away in choking gasps. She laughed once—sharp, wild, electric—before forcing herself still, fingers curling as she dragged her joy back under control.
Narcissa moved behind her, frost creeping across the cobblestones in elegant patterns. Ankles froze solid to the ground, muscles numbed instead of shattered. A woman fell screaming as the cold seized her legs. Narcissa met her eyes for half a heartbeat, jaw tightening, then turned away and moved on.
James wielded motion itself. Spears were ripped from hands mid-thrust. Shields tore free and slammed into walls. Men were pinned flat to the ground by invisible force, lungs crushed under sudden weight. He shouted constantly—drop it, lie down, don't move—voice raw, desperate to keep as many breathing as possible.
Remus followed the trail of destruction. Ember magic flickered softly in his palms as he sealed bleeding wounds just enough to keep hearts beating. A man screamed as a shattered arm was bound in glowing heat, pain blinding, life preserved against its will. Remus murmured apologies he knew would never truly reach them.
Regulus was everywhere and nowhere.
Knives flew from hiding places before hands could reach them. People were dragged from beneath beds, from crawlspaces, from false walls built generations ago for just such a night. His movements were precise, economical, terrifying. He spoke rarely. When he did, it was a single word or command, delivered without emotion.
By the time they reached the inner streets, Stormwatch was no longer fighting as a village.
It was a herd.
Prisoners were driven toward the square, bound, bruised, broken, but alive. Cries echoed into the night, prayers to gods old and new whispered through split lips and bloodied teeth.
Then the mansion came into view.
Garric Harlowe's home loomed over the rest of the village, thick stone reinforced with timber, windows barred, doors bolted and boarded from the inside. Torches burned along the walls, flames trembling in the cold wind.
Bellatrix tilted her head, almost curious.
"Bombarda Maxima."
The spell struck like judgment.
The doors exploded inward in a storm of splinters and smoke. Wood and iron screamed as they tore free from their hinges. The shockwave shattered furniture inside, scattering embers across marble floors. The mansion groaned, a wounded thing laid bare.
The Marauders crossed the threshold.
Inside was chaos.
Garric's wife screamed as she dragged their son toward a hidden trapdoor at the far end of the hall. The boy cried, panicked, stumbling over his own feet as she half-carried him. Garric shouted orders, voice cracking, trying to force them both through the opening.
They were seconds from escape.
"Accio," Regulus said, softly.
The boy was ripped backward mid-step, torn from his mother's grasp and slammed into Regulus's arms. His scream cut through the hall like glass.
His mother broke.
She turned instantly, sobbing, running back toward her son without hesitation or thought for herself.
"Stop!" Garric shouted. "Don't—"
"Incarcerous," Sirius snapped.
Ropes burst from the air, wrapping around her arms and torso, slamming her to the floor hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs. She sobbed openly now, screaming her son's name, clawing uselessly at the bindings.
James and Remus charged Garric together.
For one heartbeat, it looked like they had him.
Then Garric vanished.
He dropped through the trapdoor and slammed it shut from below. The lock clicked.
They reached it seconds too late.
Remus blasted the mechanism apart with a surge of ember-heat. Wood splintered. Cold sea air rushed up from below, carrying the sharp scent of salt and fear.
The tunnel led straight to the water.
"Gone," Remus said, voice tight.
The air collapsed.
Not gradually.
Not subtly.
Collapsed.
Jeanyx stepped through the shattered doorway.
The blasphemous blade hung at his side, dark metal glowing faintly, heat shimmering around it. His eyes swept the room once—taking in the bound woman, the sobbing child, the open tunnel, the broken walls.
"Where," he asked quietly, "is he."
James swallowed. "He escaped."
Jeanyx turned and struck the wall.
Stone detonated outward. The entire side of the mansion collapsed in a thunderous roar, debris raining down as moonlight and sea wind flooded the hall. Beyond the ruins, the ocean stretched black and endless.
A small boat cut across the water.
Garric Harlowe rowed like a man possessed.
Jeanyx stepped into the broken wall, moonlight bathing him, wind tearing at his hair.
His voice carried across the water without effort.
"Run."
Garric looked back.
Jeanyx raised the blade, pointing it toward the sea.
"I swear this on Balerion's bones and Odin's eye," he said, voice trembling with something far deeper than rage, "I will find you."
The wind screamed around him.
"I will peel your life apart piece by piece until you beg the gods you betrayed to end it."
His eyes burned violet.
"You will crawl. You will pray. And death will deny you."
The boat vanished into darkness.
Jeanyx stood there long after, blade humming softly in his grip, waves crashing far below.
Behind him, no one spoke.
Stormwatch had been taken.
But Garric Harlowe still lived.
And that promise had only begun to move.
Two weeks later, the waters south of Blackwater Bay rolled calm and gray beneath a low sky, the kind of morning fishermen liked because it promised a steady haul and no sudden storms.
A narrow fishing boat cut across the water, oars dipping in a slow, practiced rhythm. The men aboard had been working since dawn, nets heavy with wriggling silver, backs aching in that familiar, honest way.
Hobb leaned over the side first, squinting. He was broad-shouldered, beard stiff with salt, the sort of man who trusted his eyes more than his thoughts.
"Gods," he muttered. "That driftwood's movin'."
Marrek didn't look up right away. He was older, leaner, with the permanent scowl of a man who expected the world to disappoint him. "Everything moves on the water, Hobb. That's what water does."
"No," Hobb said, pointing. "That's movin' wrong."
Marrek followed his finger and froze.
Half-submerged among broken planks and splintered beams was a shape that was very much not driftwood. A man lay sprawled across the wreckage, one arm dangling limply into the sea, dark furs soaked through and stiff with salt. His head lolled as the waves rocked him, pale hair plastered to his face.
Then the man spoke.
It was faint. Hoarse. And in a language neither of them knew.
Marrek's grip tightened on the oar. "Seven hells…"
The words weren't Common Tongue. They weren't Valyrian either. The sounds were rough, clipped, old—like something dragged out of a saga rather than spoken aloud.
"He's alive," Hobb breathed. "He's bloody alive."
Marrek hesitated, eyes darting toward the distant line of King's Landing's towers, barely visible through the haze. "Could be a trick," he said, though there was no real conviction in it. "Could be some Essosi madman."
Hobb shook his head slowly. "Look at him."
Marrek did.
The man's cloak, even ruined by seawater, was unmistakably fine—thick northern fur, expertly stitched. Leather armor peeked out beneath it, dark and supple, the kind that cost more coin than either of them would see in a lifetime. There was nothing common about him.
"Northman," Marrek said at last. "And no small one."
The man coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and muttered again. His hand twitched weakly against the wood beneath him.
Hobb swallowed. "We leave him, he dies."
Marrek scowled, wrestling with the thought. Helping strangers rarely ended well, especially this close to the capital. But leaving a man like that to drown felt worse.
"Row," Hobb said quietly. "Please."
Marrek sighed, long and tired, and dipped the oars back into the water. "Fine. But if this gets us hanged, I'm haunting you."
They drew alongside the debris, careful not to tip it. Up close, the man looked worse—lips cracked, skin ashen, eyes sunken deep in his skull. But when Marrek touched his shoulder, the man flinched.
"Easy," Hobb said, holding up his hands. "Easy now."
The man's eyes fluttered open just a sliver. They were dark, unfocused, and burning with something feral beneath the exhaustion. He spoke again, longer this time, voice breaking halfway through.
Marrek shook his head. "Don't understand a word."
"Doesn't matter," Hobb said. "He's noble. Look at him."
Marrek exhaled through his nose. "Aye. And if he is, best place for him isn't our shack."
He glanced again toward King's Landing, toward the Red Keep rising above the city like a watchful god.
"We take him to the king," Marrek said. "Or at least the city guards. Let them sort him."
Hobb nodded, already reaching out. "Help me get him aboard."
It took both of them, muscles straining as they lifted the unconscious man from the wreckage and laid him carefully in the bottom of the boat. As soon as he was settled, the man went still, breath shallow but steady.
Marrek wiped his hands on his trousers, uneasy. "Whatever gods he follows, they weren't done with him."
Hobb looked down at the stranger, then up at the looming silhouette of the capital. "Aye," he said softly. "And I've a feelin' neither are we."
By the time the boat scraped against the muddy shoreline, the sky had begun to lighten, dawn bleeding pale gray into the horizon. King's Landing was waking in its usual, foul-tempered way. Gulls screamed overhead, dockworkers shouted at one another, and the city smelled of salt, smoke, and things better left unnamed.
Hobb jumped down first, boots splashing into the shallows.
"Gold cloaks!" he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Gold cloaks! We got a man dyin' here!"
A few heads turned. Most ignored him.
One of the city watch finally trudged over from beneath an archway, helmet crooked, spear resting lazily against his shoulder. He looked irritated, sleep still clinging to his eyes.
"What is it now?" the guard snapped. "You lot know better than to—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Marrek and Hobb were lifting the man from the boat between them, arms hooked under his shoulders. The stranger's head lolled forward, pale hair hanging loose, damp furs darkened by seawater. Even soaked and torn, the quality of the leather and stitching was impossible to miss.
The gold cloak straightened slowly.
"Seven save me…" he muttered.
Marrek shifted his grip. "Found him driftin' out in the bay. Still breathin'. Didn't understand a word he said, but look at him."
The guard stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the details. The furs weren't common. The leather wasn't patched or worn thin like a sellsword's. The boots alone were worth more than the guard's monthly pay.
"This ain't some fisher from the North," the guard said quietly.
"That's what we figured," Hobb said. "We want to bring him to the king."
The gold cloak hesitated, glancing back toward the city, then toward the Red Keep rising above the rooftops. Bringing trouble to the gates was never popular, but ignoring something like this could cost him far more.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Alright," he said. "You two, follow me. Slow-like."
He barked a quick order, and two more gold cloaks broke off from nearby patrols, falling into step. Together they began the long walk up from the docks, through twisting streets already filling with noise and life.
The man stirred once as they passed beneath the shadow of the city walls, lips moving in a faint murmur. The guard leaned closer, listening.
Nothing he recognized.
"Valyrian, maybe," the guard muttered. "Or somethin' older."
Marrek swallowed. "That bad?"
"That important," the guard corrected.
They climbed higher, stone giving way to polished marble as the city thinned and the Red Keep loomed overhead. Servants stared. Knights paused mid-step. Whispers followed them like a current.
By the time they reached the gates, the gold cloaks were no longer annoyed.
They were cautious.
And somewhere deep within the Red Keep, something old and restless began to stir.
What none of them noticed—too busy with the weight of the man they carried, too focused on the gates ahead—were the three streaks of black cutting through the dawn sky.
They moved high, almost indistinguishable against the thinning night, like smoke torn loose from some distant fire. Thick. Oily. Wrong. They didn't drift the way smoke should. They hunted, bending with purpose as they crossed above the city, slipping over rooftops and towers without a sound.
Then, all at once, they fell.
The black smoke struck the roof of a counting house near the Red Keep and collapsed inward, folding into itself like breath drawn back into lungs. The air rippled, the tiles frosted briefly at the edges, and three figures stepped out of the darkness as if they had always been there.
Bellatrix straightened first, wild hair whipping once in the morning breeze, eyes already lit with sharp amusement. Sirius rolled his shoulders like a man shaking off a long run, boots scraping softly against stone. Regulus emerged last, silent as ever, gaze fixed on the procession below.
They watched the gold cloaks escort the fishermen and their half-dead prize through the outer gates.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Bellatrix smiled.
"Well," she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather, "he's persistent. I'll give him that."
Sirius squinted, jaw tightening. "I was hoping he'd drown."
Regulus didn't look away from the man on the stretcher. "Hope is rarely rewarded," he said. "But this… this works too."
Bellatrix leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she peered down. "You know what the best part is?" she said. "He ran. He thought he got away."
Her laugh was soft, delighted, and deeply unsettling.
Sirius exhaled through his nose. "Jeanyx is going to enjoy this."
Regulus finally turned his head, meeting their eyes. "We don't intervene yet," he said calmly. "Let the city do what it always does. Let him feel safe."
Bellatrix tilted her head. "And then?"
Regulus's mouth curved just slightly. "Then we take him home."
They shared a look, the kind forged by years of blood and loyalty and shared silence. Whatever surprise flickered there—at Garric's survival, at fate's persistence—it didn't last long.
The smoke returned without warning.
It wrapped around them in a single breath, thick and consuming, swallowing sound, light, and presence alike. Roof tiles creaked faintly under the sudden cold, then relaxed as if nothing had ever touched them.
Moments later, the rooftop was empty.
Below, the gold cloaks continued their march toward the Red Keep, unaware that the shadows had begun to move with them.
And unaware, too, that Garric Harlowe was not the only ghost from the past being carried toward judgment.
The Iron Throne loomed above them all, jagged and unforgiving, its black blades drinking in the torchlight as if they remembered every scream ever uttered beneath them. Viserys sat upon it carefully, one hand resting on the arm, the other loose in his lap, wearing a measured smile meant for celebration rather than judgment. Gold and red banners hung from the pillars. Musicians had only just fallen silent. Laughter still lingered in the air, fragile and warm.
Rhaenyra stood near the foot of the throne, flushed from wine and attention, silver-gold hair braided for her nameday. The Velaryons were gathered nearby, Corlys speaking quietly with Arryn, while Stark and Lannister kept to opposite sides of the hall like wolves and lions forced into the same den. Daemon lounged half a step back from the royal line, Dark Sister resting easy in his grip, eyes sharp despite his relaxed posture.
The doors boomed open.
Conversation shattered.
Steel rang as Ryam Redwyne moved instantly, white cloak flaring as he stepped in front of the throne, sword drawn in a single practiced motion. The rest of the Kingsguard followed as one, blades flashing in the firelight as they fanned out, forming a wall of white and steel.
"How dare you," Ryam barked, voice cutting through the hall like a lash, "interrupt Princess Rhaenyra's nameday without leave of the King!"
Murmurs surged. Lords bristled. Hands went to sword hilts across the chamber. Guards bearing sigils of a dozen houses shifted their footing. Daemon's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Dark Sister's hilt, his gaze locking on the doorway.
The gold cloak at the threshold looked very small all of a sudden.
"My lord," the man said, breathless but stubborn, "forgive the intrusion, but this matter could not wait. Two fishermen brought word of a man found drifting near the Blackwater. They claim him to be a northern lord."
That word rippled through the hall.
Northern.
Rickon Stark stepped forward at once, grey eyes hard, voice cold as the lands he ruled. "That is a lie. No lord of the North is missing. I would know."
Several northern bannermen nodded sharply in agreement. The idea itself was offensive. The North did not lose its own unnoticed.
The gold cloak swallowed and lifted a hand. "With respect, my lord… see for yourselves."
He stepped aside.
The fishermen were ushered in, heads bowed low, clothes still reeking of salt and brine. Between them they carried a stretcher.
The body upon it drew every eye.
The man was tall even lying down, broad-shouldered beneath furs and leather now soaked and torn. His hair was dark with silver threaded through it, plastered to his brow. His beard was half-grown, unkempt. Sea-salt crusted his cloak. Blood stained one sleeve, dark and dry.
But it was the cut of the clothes that stilled the room.
Heavy northern furs, worked leather, stitching done by a master's hand. Not a fisherman. Not a raider. Not a common soldier. This was the garb of a man who had commanded others.
Rickon Stark took another step forward, confusion etching lines into his face. He searched the man's features hard, the way one memorizes faces for duty. Slowly, his certainty cracked.
"I know every lord of the North," Rickon said, quieter now. "Every bannerman. Every heir."
He looked up, meeting Viserys's gaze.
"I do not know this man."
The hall hummed with unease.
Viserys leaned forward slightly, studying the stranger with narrowed eyes. Aemma's hand brushed his arm, her smile long gone. Rhaenyra stared openly, curiosity tinged with something else she couldn't name. Rhaenys's expression had gone distant, sharp, as if measuring a storm on the horizon.
Daemon's head tilted.
Something about the man on the stretcher pulled at him, faint and unwelcome, like a memory half-buried. His grip tightened again on Dark Sister without him realizing why.
"Bring him closer," Viserys said at last.
The fishermen obeyed, boots scraping softly against the stone as they carried the stretcher forward. The closer the body came, the heavier the air felt, as though the hall itself were holding its breath.
No one noticed, not yet, how the torches along the walls flickered strangely as the man passed beneath them.
And no one yet realized that the past had finally arrived at the Iron Throne, dragged in by the sea, patient and unforgiving, ready to collect what it was owed.
The fishermen shuffled forward another step, boots scraping against polished stone. Their hands trembled as they lowered the man to the floor before the Iron Throne. He hit the ground with a dull thud, water still dripping from his furs, breath rattling in his chest like broken bellows.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the man groaned.
His eyes cracked open, bloodshot and wild, and he lifted his head just enough to see the room. Gold. Steel. Silk. Power. But what caught him—what snapped something deep inside him—was silver hair framed by a crown.
Viserys.
The man screamed.
It wasn't a word. It was a sound torn straight from the gut, raw and animal, and before anyone could react he surged forward, nails scraping stone as he lunged toward the Iron Throne.
"Draugr! Forbannede draugr!"
(Wraith! Cursed wraith!)
The hall exploded into motion.
Ser Ryam Redwyne was on him first, sword flashing free as he planted himself between the man and the throne. Ser Lorent Marbrand followed half a breath later, both Kingsguard crashing into the attacker and driving him hard into the floor. Garric fought them with desperate strength, fingers clawing, teeth snapping as he tried to crawl forward even while pinned.
"Blodlinje av helvete!" he screamed, voice breaking.
(Bloodline from hell!)
Ryam slammed his armored fist into the man's jaw, not hard enough to kill, but enough to stun. Garric spat blood and laughed, a cracked, hysterical sound.
"Selv når jeg flykter… selv når jeg ofrer alt…"
(Even when I flee… even when I sacrifice everything…)
"Enough," Ryam growled, pressing him down. "Silence."
But the damage was already done.
The throne room buzzed with confusion and unease. Lords leaned toward one another, whispering. Northern bannermen stared openly now, brows furrowed. Daemon's grip tightened on Dark Sister, his eyes fixed on the thrashing man with open suspicion. Rhaenyra had gone still beside her mother, watching with wide, unsettled eyes.
No one understood a word.
Except the sound of it felt old. Heavy. Like something dragged out of history.
Grand Maester Mellos stepped forward, robes whispering as he bowed deeply before the throne.
"Your Grace," he said carefully, "while I am no master of the old languages as some of my brothers in the Citadel—particularly those who study the North—I would hazard that this man is speaking the Old Tongue."
That did it.
The northern lords straightened at once. Murmurs grew sharper. Rickon Stark leaned forward in his seat, eyes narrowing as he studied Garric's face again, searching memory and finding nothing.
"The Old Tongue," Viserys repeated, fingers tightening on the arm of the throne. He looked out across the gathered nobles. "Then perhaps one of you can enlighten your king. Is there any among you who speaks it?"
Silence answered him.
Lords glanced at one another. A few shook their heads. Others frowned, uncomfortable.
Then, softly, from somewhere near the back—
"I do."
The voice was small. Steady, but afraid.
The crowd parted slowly, revealing a young woman in plain northern dress, hands clasped tight before her. She swallowed hard as every eye turned toward her.
Viserys exhaled and waved a hand. "Step forward."
She did, carefully, stopping a respectful distance from the throne. She bowed low.
"My dear," Viserys said, gentler now, though his eyes were sharp, "do not be frightened. But understand this—lying to the king is a grave crime. Do you understand?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Then give me your name. And tell me—can you truly speak the Old Tongue?"
"Yes," she said, voice trembling despite herself. "My name is Nadia. I come from one of the villages of the New Gift. My mother was a wildling. She taught me the Old Tongue before she died of sickness."
A ripple went through the northern delegation at that.
Viserys gestured toward the man struggling beneath the Kingsguard. "Very well, Nadia of the New Gift. Tell us what he is saying."
Nadia turned toward Garric.
The moment their eyes met, Garric froze.
His breathing hitched. His face twisted—not with fear, but with recognition, and something like bitter relief.
"Du forstår meg," he rasped.
(You understand me.)
"Yes," Nadia replied softly, in the same tongue. "Jeg forstår."
(I understand.)
Garric laughed again, wet and broken.
"Da skal de også høre," he said, eyes flicking toward the throne.
(Then they will hear too.)
He jerked against Ryam's grip, forcing his head up.
"Han lever," Garric snarled, staring straight at Viserys.
(He lives.)
Nadia stiffened.
"He says… 'He lives.'"
Murmurs spread instantly.
"Jeg brente for ham," Garric continued, voice rising.
(I burned for him.)
"Jeg ga ham gull, blod, barn."
(I gave him gold, blood, children.)
Nadia's face went pale as she translated, word by word, the hall growing colder with each sentence.
"Og likevel…" Garric spat, eyes blazing.
(And yet…)
"Likevel kommer hans skygge."
(Still his shadow comes.)
He turned his head, teeth bared in something like a grin.
"Drageblod dør aldri."
(Dragon blood never dies.)
The Iron Throne room had gone deathly quiet.
Viserys leaned forward, knuckles white, heart hammering for reasons he didn't yet understand.
"Ask him," the king said slowly, "who he is."
Nadia swallowed, then spoke.
"Hvem er du?"
(Who are you?)
Garric's smile cracked wider.
"Jeg er Garric Harlowe," he said.
(I am Garric Harlowe.)
"And I am already dead," his eyes seemed to say as the name echoed through the hall.
Nadia hesitated before speaking again. Her hands were shaking now, knuckles pale where they clenched the hem of her skirt. She glanced once toward the Iron Throne, then back to the man pinned to the floor, as if bracing herself.
"Why?" she asked him quietly, in the Old Tongue.
"Hvorfor sier du det?"
(Why do you say that?)
Garric's laughter faded into something brittle. His eyes drifted upward, unfocused, as if he were no longer seeing the vaulted ceiling of the throne room but something colder, darker, far away.
"Fordi jeg kjenner ham," he said.
(Because I know him.)
Nadia's breath caught.
"Jeg kjenner ham bedre enn noen her," Garric went on, voice growing steadier, sharper.
(I know him better than anyone here.)
He turned his head just enough to look at Viserys again, lips curling.
"Kvinnen… nei," he corrected himself with a rasping chuckle, "mannen som sitter på sverdtronen."
(The woman—no—the man who sits on the sword throne.)
A ripple of outrage moved through the hall at the insult, but Garric pressed on before anyone could stop him.
"Min herre snakket om ham," he said.
(My lord spoke of him.)
Nadia stiffened.
"He says… his lord spoke of you," she translated slowly, eyes flicking to Viserys despite herself.
"Min herre," Garric repeated, emphasizing the words, "Jeanyx."
(My lord, Jeanyx.)
The name hit the room like a hammer.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then the whispers exploded.
Jeanyx.
The lost prince.
The ghost.
The one who vanished.
Lords leaned forward in disbelief. Some scoffed openly. Others stared at Garric as if he were mad, or dangerous, or both.
Viserys went rigid.
Nadia swallowed and continued translating, her voice barely above a whisper.
"He says… Jeanyx spoke of you often."
Garric's eyes burned now, fever-bright.
"Han kalte deg kald," he said flatly.
(He called you cold.)
Viserys flinched as if struck.
"Fjern," Garric added.
(Distant.)
Nadia's throat tightened as she spoke the words aloud.
"He said you were… cold. Distant."
Garric turned his head slightly, as if spitting the next thought onto the floor.
"Men han hatet deg ikke."
(But he did not hate you.)
A murmur ran through the court.
"He spoke of you," Garric continued, voice roughening, "som en konge som aldri lærte å elske broren sin."
(As a king who never learned how to love his brother.)
Viserys's face drained of color.
The memory hit him all at once. Jeanyx standing quietly at the edge of the room. Jeanyx watching rather than speaking. Jeanyx leaving early, always leaving. Viserys had told himself it was pride. Or arrogance. Or indifference.
He had never considered that it was hurt.
"And Daemon?" Nadia asked softly, already afraid of the answer.
"Og Daemon?"
(And Daemon?)
Garric's expression changed.
The bitterness faded. Something else replaced it.
"Ah," he breathed.
(Ah.)
"Ham elsket han."
(He loved him.)
The room went utterly silent.
"Han snakket om Daemon som om han var ild," Garric said, voice low, reverent despite himself.
(He spoke of Daemon as if he were fire.)
"Farlig," Garric went on.
(Dangerous.)
"Vill,"
(Wild.)
"Og ærlig."
(And honest.)
Nadia translated each word, her voice trembling more with every sentence.
"He said Daemon was the only one who never lied to him about who he was," Garric added.
(Han var den eneste som aldri løy om hvem han var.)
Daemon froze.
For a long moment, he didn't move at all.
Then, slowly, he sat down.
Not on a chair prepared for a prince. Not with grace or anger or defiance. He simply sat, as if his legs had finally given out beneath him.
The court stared.
Daemon Targaryen did not sit unless he chose to.
Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He dragged a hand across his face angrily, as if furious at his own weakness, but it did nothing to stem them.
"Only one," he whispered, barely audible, more to himself than anyone else.
Viserys turned toward him, stunned.
Daemon had always burned hot. Always loud. Always furious. The idea that someone—anyone—had understood him beneath all that was something the court had never considered.
Garric watched him with a crooked smile.
"Han sa at Daemon var broren han ville dø for," Garric finished.
(He said Daemon was the brother he would die for.)
Nadia's voice broke as she translated.
Daemon bowed his head, shoulders shaking once, hard, before he forced himself still again.
Across the throne room, Viserys closed his eyes.
Too late.
The word echoed in his mind, heavy and unforgiving.
Too late to ask forgiveness.
Too late to explain.
Too late to be a better brother.
When Viserys opened his eyes again, they were wet.
"Ask him," the king said hoarsely, "if Jeanyx lives."
Nadia turned back to Garric, heart pounding.
"Lever han?"
(Does he live?)
Garric smiled.
Not wide. Not kind.
But certain.
"Ja," he said.
(Yes.)
"And the gods help you," his eyes seemed to say, "for he remembers."
Silence pressed down on the throne room like a held breath.
No one dared speak. Not after what had just been revealed. Not after watching Viserys Targaryen sit stiff on the Iron Throne with grief written plainly across his face, nor after seeing Daemon Targaryen brought low to a chair, eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might crack.
The court felt it then.
The shift.
Ambition stirred in the quieter lords. Calculations turned behind practiced smiles. Weakness, even a flicker of it, was blood in the water.
That was when the voice came.
"Oh, yes," it said lightly, almost amused. "He is very much alive."
Every head turned.
"And he is pissed."
The words were feminine, confident, carrying no fear at all. Before anyone could even begin to place the sound, the great doors of the throne room exploded inward—not shattered by force, but blown open as if reality itself had been pushed aside.
Three trails of shadow streaked across the marble floor like living things.
They twisted, folded, and slammed down behind Garric Harlowe.
The shadows solidified.
Bellatrix.
Regulus.
Sirius.
Gasps tore through the hall.
Steel rang as swords were drawn in a single, panicked wave. Kingsguard moved without waiting for orders, spreading into a protective wall before the Iron Throne. House guards followed suit, hands shaking, blades half-raised.
No one had ever seen anything like that.
Viserys rose halfway from the throne, fury cutting through his shock.
"How dare you barge into this hall without leave!" he roared. "Guards!"
Men surged forward.
Sirius sighed, almost bored, and glanced sideways at Regulus.
"Regulus," he said casually, as if asking for the salt at supper, "if you wouldn't mind."
Regulus didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward, movements precise, controlled. He drew his wand with the same ease another boy might draw a quill. His voice was calm. Almost polite.
"Fine. Glacius Maxima."
The wand tip flared pale ice-blue.
The spell didn't explode outward.
It spread.
Frost raced across the floor in a heartbeat, climbing boots, greaves, arms. Guards froze mid-step, faces locked in surprise, weapons trapped half-raised. Thirty men became statues of rime and ice, breath crystallized in their lungs, eyes still wide and alive.
The sound of it—the sudden, absolute silence—was worse than screaming.
Fear rolled through the court like a living thing.
A boy of seven-and-ten had frozen half the throne room with two words.
And he had done it without strain.
Bellatrix grinned.
"Well," she said cheerfully, lifting her wand and aiming it at Garric's head, "now that that's sorted—come on, boys. Let's take this pile of shit back to Papa. Maybe he'll give us something shiny for finishing so fast."
Daemon moved before anyone else could.
Dark Sister slid free of its sheath in a hiss of steel, and he planted himself squarely between Bellatrix and Garric, blade angled forward, eyes blazing.
"No," he said flatly. "He knows where my brother is. No one takes him anywhere until I get answers."
For the first time, the three froze.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
Sirius tilted his head, studying Daemon's face with open curiosity. Then he smiled.
"Huh," he said. "Father really is an artist."
Daemon frowned.
"I still don't know how he got your features right without seeing you for over twelve years," Sirius added, hands clasped behind his back, posture flawless. "Statue's uncanny."
Regulus's eyes widened slightly as realization dawned. He looked around the hall, taking in the banners, the throne, the faces staring at them in stunned disbelief.
"…Ah."
He inclined his head, composed as ever.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I momentarily forgot my manners."
He stepped forward, ignoring the frozen guards, the drawn blades, the sheer weight of the throne room's attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Regulus continued, voice carrying clearly, "I am Regulus Black. This is my brother, Sirius Black. And the enthusiastic one is our cousin, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix waved.
"We are here on official business," Regulus finished, eyes cool as he looked directly at the Iron Throne. "So, respectfully… do not get in our way."
The air felt tight.
Charged.
And somewhere far away, across sea and blood and broken oaths, Jeanyx Targaryen was already moving.
Otto Hightower stepped forward, face hard, spine straight as a rod of iron.
"You stand in the presence of the King of the Seven Kingdoms," he said sharply, voice cutting through the tension. "You will show respect. You will lower your—"
"Move."
The word did not come from the Blacks.
It came from the crowd.
There was a disturbance among the gathered nobles, murmurs turning to startled gasps as a man forced his way forward with none of the grace expected in the throne room. He shoved past silk and steel alike, uncaring of rank or decorum, his breath uneven, his eyes wide and glassy as if he feared that if he blinked, the vision before him would vanish.
Corvin Blackwood reached the open floor of the throne room.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Then his knees nearly buckled.
"Sirius…" His voice cracked on the name. "Regulus…"
His gaze darted to Bellatrix, lingering there with something like awe and horror tangled together. "Bella… gods above…"
He took a step forward, then another, hands half-raised as if reaching for ghosts.
"I thought you were dead," he said hoarsely. "All of you. We searched. I swore I would tear the riverlands apart stone by stone—"
Sirius didn't move.
Not toward him. Not away.
He merely shifted his weight slightly, expression unreadable, eyes cool and distant in a way that would have cut deeper than open hatred.
Regulus inclined his head a fraction, polite in the way one is polite to a stranger at court. Nothing more.
Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
"Well," she muttered, "this is awkward."
Corvin stopped a few paces away, chest rising and falling as the reality finally settled in. They were real. Flesh and blood. Standing. Powerful.
Alive.
"You're— you're grown," he said weakly, as if that were the strangest part. "You were boys. Gods, Regulus, you barely reached my shoulder. Sirius, you couldn't sit still for a meal without—"
"Corvin Blackwood," Regulus said calmly.
The use of the full name hit like a slap.
Corvin flinched.
"We acknowledge that you share blood with us," Regulus continued, voice even, controlled. "That is all."
Corvin stared at him, stunned. "That's… that's all?"
Sirius finally spoke, his tone flat, almost bored.
"You don't get to act like a grieving father," he said. "Not after what you let happen. Not after what you were willing to let happen."
Corvin's mouth opened, then closed again. His eyes burned.
"I didn't know," he said desperately. "By the Old Gods, I didn't know how bad it was. If I had—"
"You did know," Bellatrix cut in, smile sharp and humorless. "You just decided it was easier not to look."
Silence followed her words.
Corvin swallowed hard, shoulders sagging as if the weight of years finally caught up to him. "You don't understand," he said, quieter now. "The pressure. The alliances. The blood feuds. Every choice was—"
"Made," Sirius said. "By you."
Corvin looked between them, hope flickering despite himself. "Then let me make it right. Let me—"
"No," Regulus said.
The word was gentle.
Final.
"We did not come here for reconciliation," he continued. "We did not come here to reopen graves or mend old wounds."
Sirius met Corvin's eyes at last, and there was nothing in them but distance.
"We came for Garric Harlowe."
Corvin's breath caught.
Bellatrix's grin returned, all teeth this time.
"And trust me," she added lightly, "Papa's very interested in what he has to say."
Corlys Velaryon had been watching in silence for some time now, his sharp eyes moving from face to face, measuring, weighing. He had seen strange things in his life, heard stranger rumors, but nothing quite like three youths walking into the throne room like it belonged to them and freezing half the guards with a word.
When he stepped closer, it was not with a hand on his sword, nor with open challenge, but with the careful curiosity of a man who had survived by knowing when to press and when to pause.
Bellatrix answered that curiosity for him.
The crack of magic against stone was sudden and violent. The bolt struck the floor at Corlys' feet and spiderwebbed the marble, a warning etched in sound and force. The echo rolled through the hall, and every noble present stiffened.
Corlys stopped exactly where he stood.
He did not flinch. Did not shout. Only slowly raised his chin, eyes flicking from the cracked stone back to Bellatrix with renewed interest, not fear.
"Papa," he repeated, testing the word. "You have said it several times now." His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "You would do well to explain who commands such loyalty that even children walk into the Iron Throne unafraid."
Bellatrix smiled, sharp and pleased, as if she had been waiting for the question.
She pushed back her sleeve.
The movement was casual. Almost dismissive.
What it revealed was not.
Ink-black and bone-white marked her skin: a skull entwined with a serpent, the coils forming a sigil both elegant and deeply unsettling. The dragon crowned it, unmistakable even to those who had never studied heraldry. The mark looked burned and branded all at once, not inked so much as claimed.
A hush fell over the throne room.
"That," Bellatrix said lightly, "is my family."
Regulus' voice followed, calm and precise, cutting through the murmurs before they could rise.
"Our papa is Jeanyx Targaryen."
The name hit the room like a dropped blade.
Some gasped openly. Others laughed in disbelief, sharp and nervous. A few went pale.
Daemon's head snapped up so fast the movement looked painful.
Viserys' breath caught, his fingers gripping the arm of the Iron Throne as if it might slip away from him.
Corlys' eyes narrowed, not in anger, but calculation.
"Targaryen," he said slowly. "Adopted, you claim."
Bellatrix shrugged, unbothered by the doubt.
"Adopted. Chosen. Claimed." She tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Call it whatever makes it easier to swallow."
Sirius shifted his stance, hands folding neatly behind his back, posture impeccable despite the chaos.
"He gave us his name," Sirius said. "His protection. His blood in everything but flesh." His gaze flicked briefly toward Daemon, then away. "That is more than most of us were ever given before him."
Regulus nodded once.
"This mark is not symbolic," he added. "It binds. It recognizes. It answers."
Corlys studied the sigil again, longer this time. He had seen dragonlords mark beasts, riders, even cities in old Valyrian tales, but never children. Never with something that felt so… permanent.
"And you expect us to believe," Otto Hightower interjected coldly, "that the lost prince simply… adopted three riverborn children and vanished into legend?"
Bellatrix laughed.
"Oh, you expect far too little of him."
Daemon finally found his voice, raw and low.
"Jeanyx doesn't adopt lightly," he said, eyes never leaving the mark on Bellatrix's arm. "If he claimed them…" His jaw tightened. "Then the world should pray it never gives him reason to come back angry."
Viserys looked at his brother then, truly looked, and for the first time the court saw fear flicker behind the king's eyes.
Regulus' wand lowered just a fraction, though the air around him still felt cold enough to bite.
"We are not here to debate lineage," he said. "We are here to retrieve Garric Harlowe."
Sirius' smile was thin.
"And to deliver him home."
Bellatrix rolled her sleeve back down, covering the mark as if it were nothing more than jewelry.
"Trust me," she said softly, eyes sweeping the room, lingering on Corlys, on Otto, on the Iron Throne itself. "You don't want to be the ones standing between Papa and what's his."