(One Year Later)
A year passed, and Jeanyx's life looked nothing like it had before. Wintertown had grown, the Mourning Keep now a proud skeleton of black stone reaching toward the clouds, and Nyx had become a shadow streaking across the island skies. But beneath all that progress, things in Jeanyx's personal life began to shift.
The first change came quietly—an evening when Mira and Torrhen sat him down by the hearth. The firelight flickered over their faces, full of both warmth and anxiety. Torrhen cleared his throat first, his calloused hands folded like he was preparing for battle.
"Jeanyx," he said carefully, "you've done more for our family than we ever could've hoped for. You've built this town, fed its people, brought it life again. So Mira and I… we were hoping you'd consider something."
Jeanyx arched an eyebrow. "Which is?"
They exchanged a glance, and Mira smiled nervously. "Our Lyra. You've known her since she was a child. She admires you—and truthfully, there's no one on this island more worthy to marry her."
Jeanyx leaned back, exhaling slowly. The words hung in the air, hopeful and heavy. He didn't want to hurt them, but he couldn't lie either.
"I appreciate the thought," he said finally, his tone softer than usual. "But I can't. I'm already married."
The room fell silent. Mira blinked in confusion, while Torrhen's brow furrowed. "Married? You never said—"
"I didn't see the point," Jeanyx interrupted quietly. "It was arranged before I left home. I never wanted it, but I made a vow." His gaze drifted toward the flames, his voice lowering. "In my family, taking another wife is allowed under the Old Gods of Valyria. But in Westeros, my name still carries weight. If I ever return, I can't dishonor the bloodline. My pride won't allow it… and neither would my ancestors."
Mira looked disappointed, but she nodded with understanding. Torrhen, on the other hand, leaned forward, his expression oddly serious. "Then at least," he said bluntly, "give us grandchildren."
Jeanyx blinked, caught off guard. "Grandchildren?"
Torrhen nodded. "Lyra's of age, and—well…" He sighed and rubbed his face. "Last month I caught her kissing the baker's daughter. The one you introduced her to. Mya, was it?"
Jeanyx stared, then broke into a quiet laugh. "Huh. Didn't see that coming."
Mira's mouth dropped open, scandalized, but Torrhen just groaned. "It's not funny!"
"Oh, it's a little funny," Jeanyx muttered, still grinning. He looked toward the window, where the night air carried the sound of distant waves. "Fine. If you want grandchildren that badly, I'll see what I can do. But don't expect me to start a family just to fill a ledger."
And true to his word, Jeanyx kept his promise—though his reasons were his own. Partly for their happiness. Partly for his own curiosity. But mostly because some part of him—buried deep beneath centuries of reincarnated memory—wanted to know if his bloodline still held the power it once did. So he had a threesome that lasted a full day and night thanks to jeanyx force and arcane enhanced stamina and endurance but both the poor girls couldn't handle being fucked non stop for a whole day and enetered a 3 day long coma much to the worry of their parents.
About a month after that agreement, Jeanyx began working on something far different: a sanctuary only he would know about.
Deep beneath the northern cliffs, he found a network of caverns that echoed like ancient cathedrals. He spent weeks alone there, clearing paths and carving chambers, using both raw strength and subtle Force precision to shape the stone. When he was finished, it looked like something torn from a dream—a dark, sacred space built in secrecy and shadow.
He modeled it after the Dark Brotherhood's hideout from the old legends of Skyrim he once loved—narrow hallways illuminated by flickering candles, black stone walls veined with silver, and a grand central chamber marked with carved runes that pulsed faintly with arcane light.
At its entrance, he placed an enchanted door that only opened to a specific phrase—spoken in the old Valyrian tongue, tied to his soul through blood and breath. For authenticity, he went as far as diverting an underground river to create a cascading waterfall that flowed over the entryway, its roar masking the sound of his movements. It took months of digging, rerouting, and chiseling, but when the final drop of water fell through the rock, he stood there in the dim glow, drenched and smiling.
It wasn't just a hideout. It was a reflection of himself—half temple, half tomb.
Inside, Jeanyx filled the space with pieces of his mind: alchemical tools, shelves of potions, a large table scattered with maps and notes of Westeros and Essos. Etched into the far wall was the sigil he once bore with pride—the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen—now surrounded by runes of the Old Gods of Valyria, glowing faintly crimson and violet.
He spent countless nights there in silence, listening to the waterfall's rhythmic crash. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could almost hear whispers—voices of people long gone, fragments of past lives. But the sound that haunted him most wasn't the whispers. It was the emptiness. The strange, hollow ache that had followed him for nearly a year, a quiet reminder that despite everything he'd built here—the castle, the town, the loyalty—something essential was still missing.
He couldn't name it.
But deep down, he felt it was coming.
Deep within the sanctuary carved into the mountain's heart, the ritual chamber pulsed with violet light. The walls were of black stone, slick with condensation and carved with the faint patterns of the old Dark Brotherhood sigils Jeanyx had copied for aesthetic perfection. Candlelight flickered in iron sconces shaped like skeletal hands, each flame tinted faintly purple from alchemical oil. The air smelled of incense, blood, and damp earth.
At the center of the room lay a vast two-layered ritual circle, etched into the stone floor. The outer ring was written in the Old Tongue, the language of the First Men, while the inner ring burned with fluid, curling High Valyrian script. Between the two, a lattice of connecting runes shaped the symbol of the Deathly Hallows—triangle, circle, and line merged into one perfect, glowing pattern.
Jeanyx stood barefoot at the center, his coat hanging open, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair caught the candlelight—silver streaked with black—and his eyes reflected the runes like mirrors of violet fire. Around him, bound at the points of the symbol, were the surviving masters and guards of Astapor—men he had kept barely alive for an entire year. Their bodies trembled; their skin was pale from starvation, their eyes wide with terror.
In one corner of the chamber, a massive tunnel curved through the rock—large enough for a dragon to crawl through. From its shadowed mouth, Nyx emerged, her presence dimming the candles as if she drew the light toward herself.
She was enormous now—two and a half times the size of Drogon in his final days. Her scales were blacker than volcanic glass, veined with streaks of violet that shimmered like liquid starlight. Each slow movement of her body carried weight, power, and intelligence. Her wings brushed the edges of the chamber ceiling, and her triple rows of teeth gleamed when she exhaled. Frost hissed where her breath touched the stone.
Over the last year, Jeanyx had carved tunnels throughout the sanctuary so Nyx could move freely, and the ritual chamber was the largest of them all. Her diet of whales and giant squids had accelerated her growth beyond anything known in Valyrian history. Where other dragons burned the sky, Nyx froze it.
She settled behind him now, her head low, pupils narrowing to slits as she watched.
Jeanyx knelt and ran his fingers along the outer ring of the circle, double-checking every mark. The runes were flawless—each one carved, inked, and reinforced with alchemical resin. He whispered to himself, half-chant, half-habit.
"Old Tongue, for the flesh… Valyrian, for the soul… balance through pain."
He had spent a full year perfecting this spell, crafting it word by word until it bridged both languages without collapsing. One mistake could unravel the circle—or worse, consume him entirely. But the risk didn't matter. The reward was worth it.
If it worked, he would finally uncover the secret that had haunted every smith and alchemist for millennia—the truth behind Valyrian steel.
He took his position in the center, closed his eyes, and began to speak.
The words rolled off his tongue like thunder wrapped in silk—ancient syllables resonating with power. The runes flared to life, first red, then violet, then a violent mix of both. Energy crackled up through the stone, humming in his bones.
The masters and guards screamed as the symbols beneath them blazed white-hot. The circle began to drink from them—pulling the agony from their bodies, the very essence of pain distilled into light. Their cries echoed through the chamber, rebounding off the stone until it sounded like the weeping of ghosts.
Jeanyx didn't flinch. He watched with detached focus, notebook-precision in his eyes. He had long suspected that the secret of Valyrian steel lay not in dragonfire alone, but in suffering—in the metaphysical alloy of will and agony. The Valyrians had built their empire on that principle, though they'd never written it down.
It was gruesome, yes—but it was art in its purest form.
He felt the ritual reaching its crescendo. The circle's light turned almost blinding, and cracks of violet lightning tore through the air. Jeanyx raised his voice, reciting the final verse—
"Valyrha zōbrie ēdruta—Aeksion rhaenor ēdruta!"
("Fire and shadow, merge and awaken!")
The energy peaked. The bound men arched, their screams blending into a single, inhuman note. Jeanyx turned to Nyx.
"Now," he commanded.
The dragon obeyed instantly. Her wings unfurled, scraping against the ceiling as she opened her massive jaws. Her throat glowed with internal light, not flame but a deep, icy violet. She inhaled sharply—and with a sound that shook the chamber's foundations, devoured them all.
The blast of cold wind and the wet sound of bone and flesh disappeared beneath the roar of her satisfaction. Jeanyx sighed quietly and ran a gloved hand over his face.
"You enjoyed that too much," he muttered.
Nyx purred—a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the floor. She licked the blood from her teeth, frost trailing where her tongue passed.
When silence finally fell, Jeanyx drew his golden Valyrian blade from its scabbard. The weapon gleamed faintly, the surface veined with the same faint crimson glow it had before the ritual. He examined it for the last time as it was—flawed, imperfect, incomplete.
He had carved runes into its length the previous day, preparing it for this moment.
"Open your mouth," he said softly.
Nyx lowered her head and obeyed, her fanged jaws parting wide. The glow of her inner frost reflected in her master's eyes. Jeanyx hesitated only a heartbeat before tossing the sword forward. The golden steel disappeared down her throat in a shimmer of violet light.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the circle's glow faded, the air cooled, and only the steady rush of the waterfall somewhere deeper in the sanctuary broke the stillness.
Jeanyx let out a slow breath and rested a hand on Nyx's snout. "Now," he murmured, "we wait."
The dragon exhaled frost that hung in the air like drifting glass dust. The runes along the walls dimmed one by one, leaving the pair bathed in darkness.
The ritual was done—its outcome uncertain, its cost measured in screams and blood.
But for Jeanyx, that uncertainty was the thrill. Power was never gained cleanly; it was earned through the quiet patience to watch, to wait, and to learn.
And so, in the dim chamber beneath the Mourning Keep, as water whispered against stone and the faint chill of magic lingered in the air, Jeanyx sat beside his dragon—eyes half-closed, mind calculating, waiting to see if he had just reforged history… or doomed them both.
(timeskip)
Three months passed before the results of Jeanyx's ritual finally revealed themselves.
Life had returned to its quiet rhythm inside the Mourning Keep. Construction continued above ground, the great black fortress slowly taking shape against the eternal snow. Beneath it, Jeanyx spent most days in his sanctuary, alternating between research, training, and—of all things—painting.
It had started as a distraction. Mira, ever the restless soul, had introduced him to the craft one evening while waiting for Torrhen to return from the fields. She was in her late thirties now, though she still looked startlingly young. Like Jeanyx, she carried that certain spark—the kind of person who did things not out of necessity, but to stave off boredom. One week she'd be baking, the next trying to carve statues, and this time, she had turned her fleeting obsession toward painting.
Jeanyx had picked it up faster than he expected. His strokes were steady, deliberate; he had a sense for shadow, for symmetry, for controlled imperfection. The hobby calmed his mind, gave his hands something to do when his thoughts became too sharp.
That morning, he sat cross-legged in front of a half-finished canvas, brushes and pigments laid neatly beside him. He was working on a portrait of the Mourning Keep as it looked from the valley below—a dark skeleton of towers veiled in mist, the air around it alive with ghostly blue. Each stroke felt meditative, his breathing syncing with the soft hiss of the brush on canvas.
Then, a gust of frigid air swept through the cavern. The walls trembled. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Jeanyx froze, brush poised mid-stroke. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Nyx landed outside the open tunnel entrance with a thunderous impact that made the floor shake. The dragon's massive form blotted out what little light filtered through the upper shaft. She exhaled, and the temperature dropped instantly. Her eyes glowed a fierce violet, brighter than he'd ever seen.
Jeanyx frowned. "You should be sleeping," he said without turning. "You ate an entire semi-grown whale last night, you glutton."
But she didn't move. Her chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm, and then she opened her mouth.
Jeanyx's eyes widened. A rush of energy washed over him—thick, heavy, almost liquid in its density. It rolled through the air like heat mirage, humming against his skin. He felt the resonance instantly: a mixture of the Force and raw Arcane essence, perfectly intertwined. It was familiar, yet alien—like the echo of a heartbeat buried deep in the world itself.
"The ritual…" he breathed. "It's finished."
He set the brush down gently and approached, each step cautious, reverent. When he reached her, he rested a hand on Nyx's snout. Her scales were ice-cold to the touch, her breath misting around his legs. "Open up," he said softly.
Nyx obeyed. The chamber was flooded with dim, spectral light as her jaws parted. Jeanyx peered inside, squinting against the glow. Her three rows of teeth, each row made of thirty-nine jagged fangs, gleamed wetly. They weren't like the teeth of ordinary dragons—these were sharper, longer, almost serpentine. Her tongue flicked between them, forked slightly, tasting the air. She hissed, and the sound echoed off the walls like steam escaping from a forge.
After a few seconds of careful searching, Jeanyx saw it—a faint metallic glint near the back of her throat.
"There you are," he murmured.
He leaned closer, catching the edge of what looked like a hilt. It gleamed oddly, the texture almost… organic. Still, he reached in, his hand glowing faintly with arcane reinforcement to resist her inner frost.
The handle felt wrong. It was slick, warm, and it moved—as if something beneath the surface shifted against his touch. Every instinct told him to let go, but curiosity overrode caution. Gritting his teeth, Jeanyx grasped it firmly and pulled.
It didn't come easily. Something deep inside resisted, clinging to the blade like roots to soil. He pulled harder, muscles tensing, until with a wet tearing sound the sword finally came free.
A rush of black smoke and red embers burst from Nyx's mouth, followed by a cascade of charred bones that clattered across the stone floor—remnants of the Astapori masters and guards, their skeletons twisted and fused together as if melted by divine fire.
Jeanyx didn't even look at them. His gaze was fixed entirely on the weapon in his hand.
It was… alive.
The blade pulsed faintly, the surface veined with dark crimson roots that twisted and flexed like serpents beneath translucent black metal. The texture wasn't forged steel—it was grown, as if the earth itself had birthed it through agony and time. Every inch shimmered with heat and power, fossilized death molded into something both horrifying and breathtaking.
The hilt was no longer leather-wrapped metal. It had transformed into bone—an actual skeletal hand, the fingers curled tightly around the base of the blade, forever clutching it. From the wrist sprouted writhing cords of sinew that pulsed in rhythm with Jeanyx's heartbeat, faintly wet and breathing.
Two gemstones burned within the crossguard and pommel, alternating their glow like the beat of a heart—one violet, one blood-red. When they flared together, the air around the blade shimmered with waves of heat so intense that frost melted on the floor.
Jeanyx stood there, transfixed. He could feel it—not just power, but consciousness. The sword knew it existed. It hungered. Every few seconds, the veins shifted, reaching outward as though tasting the air, longing for flesh, before recoiling and settling again.
"It… worked," he whispered. "By the gods, it actually worked."
He rotated the blade slowly in the dim light, studying it. When he focused, he could sense faint whispers emanating from it—agonized, distant, but not malevolent. It reminded him of the Blasphemous Blade from his past life's memory of Elden Ring—the weapon born in the maw of the God-Devouring Serpent after merging with the demigod Rykard. That sword was said to burn with eternal fire fueled by the agony of devoured souls.
Jeanyx felt the same essence here. The heat radiating from the steel was both life and death—fire that consumed and healed in equal measure. He tested the edge lightly against his palm; the steel whispered, and a shallow cut appeared. The wound sealed almost instantly, the skin knitting together as if time itself reversed.
A small smile crept across his face. "A blade that burns… and heals its wielder. Perfect."
Nyx tilted her massive head, watching him with what could only be described as pride. Her eyes gleamed like twin suns, violet fire flickering within.
Jeanyx turned to her, lifting the sword slightly. "You did well, girl."
She rumbled, low and approving, frost curling from her nostrils like mist.
He turned back to the blade, admiring how the crimson veins pulsed faintly against the black. For the first time since his resurrection into this world, Jeanyx felt the sharp thrill of creation—not the quiet satisfaction of invention or discovery, but something deeper. This was art born from blasphemy, power born from pain. It was wrong, beautiful, and entirely his.
As the chamber filled with the faint, rhythmic glow of the sword's heartbeats, Jeanyx whispered its name under his breath—something ancient, half Valyrian, half instinct. The syllables curled through the air like a spell.
The veins stirred in response, almost as if the weapon acknowledged him.
And for the first time in months, Jeanyx smiled. Not the cold, polite smirk the villagers saw—but the quiet, dangerous smile of a man who had just taken one step closer to becoming the kind of legend history tries to erase.