A week later the sky above the open ocean was broken by the beating of two enormous wings.
Below them stretched nothing but the Shivering Sea—endless, black, and cruel. The water looked like hammered iron beneath a pale winter sun, waves rolling in slow, heavy swells that crashed against nothing but more water. No ships. No birds. No land. Just miles upon miles of freezing ocean that seemed to swallow the world whole.
And above it flew two dragons.
Their scales burned red against the cold sky, twin streaks of living fire cutting across a place that had not seen warmth in ages.
Caraxes and Meleys.
The Blood Wyrm and the Red Queen.
They looked almost like siblings in flight—two vast scarlet shapes carving through the northern winds—but anyone who knew dragons could see the difference immediately. Caraxes was long, lean, serpentine, his body twisting through the air like a living whip of muscle and scale. Meleys, by contrast, flew with controlled power, her wings wide and steady, every beat measured and strong like the heart of a war drum.
Yet even these ancient beasts were beginning to tire.
Their wings moved slower now than they had when they left Dragonstone.
The journey had pushed them far beyond anything they had ever been asked to endure.
They had flown from King's Landing to Braavos first, cutting across the Narrow Sea in a long red arc of fire and wind. Even that flight had been taxing, but manageable. Dragons were made for distance, and the cities of Westeros and Essos were rarely far enough apart to truly test them.
But the Shivering Sea was something else entirely.
There was nothing here.
No islands to land on.
No cliffs to rest upon.
No warm air currents rising from the land to help lift their weight.
Just cold wind and endless water.
For a full day and a half the two dragons had been flying almost without pause. The riders had pushed them forward again and again, urging them on through the biting northern winds. Normally even the strongest dragons would fly no more than seven hours before landing somewhere to rest. Even that was considered pushing their limits.
But here there was nowhere to land.
And so the dragons kept flying.
Their wings cut through the air with heavy, rhythmic beats, each one stirring spirals of frost and mist from the freezing wind.
On the back of Caraxes sat Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince himself, his silver hair whipping wildly behind him as the dragon surged forward through the cold sky. His legs gripped the saddle tightly, one hand resting against the ridged scales of his dragon's neck.
Behind him rode Bellatrix Black.
Unlike Daemon, she seemed almost energized by the harsh wind and violent flight, her dark hair snapping around her face like a storm banner. There was a wild grin on her lips, eyes glittering with excitement every time Caraxes dove slightly before climbing again.
She looked completely at home on the back of a dragon.
Above and slightly ahead of them flew Meleys.
The Red Queen carried a heavier burden.
Princess Rhaenys sat firmly in the saddle near the dragon's shoulders, her posture calm and controlled despite the brutal journey. Years of dragonriding showed in every movement she made, her body shifting subtly with each powerful wingbeat.
Behind her sat Regulus and Sirius Black.
Both boys looked far more exhausted than they would ever admit.
Their faces were pale from the cold, dark circles hanging under their eyes from the lack of sleep. For nearly a week they had been guiding the expedition north, navigating a sea so vast it swallowed all sense of direction.
And beside them—bound tightly with rope and cloth—sat their unwilling passenger.
Garric Harlowe.
His wrists were tied behind his back, thick rope wrapped several times around his chest to keep him secured to the saddle. A gag stuffed into his mouth muffled any attempt at shouting over the roaring wind. His eyes burned with fury and fear as the dragon carried him farther and farther away from any hope of rescue.
The Blacks were the only reason any of them had made it this far.
At first, Daemon and Rhaenys had believed they could manage the journey alone. Dragons could fly almost anywhere, after all. What need had they for navigation from a handful of teenagers?
But that confidence had evaporated quickly.
The Shivering Sea was impossibly vast.
Once they left Braavos behind them, the world became nothing but water and sky. There were no landmarks. No mountains on the horizon. No coastline to follow. Just miles of shifting waves that made every direction look exactly the same.
It was only then that the two seasoned dragonriders realized how foolish their assumption had been.
Without the Blacks guiding them—using strange maps, stars, and something else entirely that neither Daemon nor Rhaenys fully understood—they would have been hopelessly lost within hours.
Now, even the navigators were beginning to fade.
Regulus leaned forward slightly against the saddle, eyes half-lidded as he studied the horizon through wind-reddened lashes. Sirius sat behind him, one hand gripping the saddle strap while the other rested loosely on the rope holding Garric Harlowe.
Neither of them had slept properly in days.
The cold gnawed at their bones.
The constant wind dried their throats raw.
And the endless ocean below created a creeping sense of isolation that made even seasoned warriors uneasy.
Daemon glanced upward toward Meleys, squinting through the icy wind.
Caraxes released a low, rasping roar beneath him, the sound rough with fatigue. The Blood Wyrm's long neck twisted slightly as if testing the air, his wings beating harder to maintain altitude.
Even he was reaching his limit.
Daemon leaned forward slightly, running a gloved hand along the dragon's neck.
"Easy, old boy," he muttered against the rushing wind.
Ahead of them, Meleys dipped her wings briefly before stabilizing again. Rhaenys felt the strain through the saddle, her dragon's powerful muscles working harder with every passing mile.
They had pushed too far.
But there was no turning back now.
Somewhere out there, hidden within the frozen vastness of the Shivering Sea, was the island of Jeanyx Targaryen.
And every mile closer meant the dragons had to fly just a little farther.
Ten minutes later the wind had grown even harsher.
It tore at cloaks and hair, bit through leather and wool, and howled endlessly across the empty sky. The Shivering Sea stretched beneath them like an iron graveyard of waves, the dark water shifting endlessly with no sign of land anywhere on the horizon.
Daemon Targaryen had finally reached the end of his patience.
For the past hour Bellatrix had been lounging behind him on Caraxes as if she were reclining in a garden instead of riding a dragon through freezing northern winds. One leg hooked lazily around the saddle strap, chin resting in her hand, violet eyes casually scanning the endless horizon like someone watching clouds drift by.
Daemon twisted in his saddle, irritation flashing across his face.
"How long until we reach this damn island, girl?" he shouted over the wind.
The words were half impatience, half genuine concern. Even Caraxes beneath him was beginning to show strain now, the long red dragon's wings beating heavier as fatigue set into his powerful muscles.
Bellatrix didn't answer immediately.
Instead she slowly turned her head toward Daemon with exaggerated calm.
Her expression was relaxed.
Far too relaxed.
Then a wicked smile slowly spread across her face.
"He's herreeeee," she said.
Her voice came out in a playful sing-song tone that Daemon instantly disliked.
But what truly unsettled him was the fact that he heard her perfectly.
The wind had vanished.
One moment the air had been roaring past their ears like a storm.
The next moment there was nothing.
No wind.
No rushing air.
Just silence.
Daemon's instincts screamed that something was very wrong.
And then it came.
A roar split the sky.
Not the roar of a normal dragon.
This sound was something far worse—an ungodly scream that seemed to carry the voices of thousands layered inside it. A sound that echoed like tortured souls howling through a frozen cavern.
The noise vibrated through bone and air alike.
Every rider flinched.
Even the dragons reacted.
Caraxes jerked his head upward with a sharp hiss, wings stuttering for a moment. Meleys shifted violently in the air, her powerful wings beating harder as her rider instinctively fought to steady her.
A massive shadow swept across the sky above them.
It moved too fast to see clearly.
Daemon whipped his head upward, eyes searching the clouds.
"What in the Seven—"
Rhaenys was already scanning the sky as well, her calm composure cracking slightly as Meleys let out a warning roar.
Even the ancient Red Queen looked uneasy.
The shadow passed again somewhere above the clouds.
Then the sky split.
A beam of black energy shot downward from the clouds above.
It was edged in ghostly white light that crackled like frozen lightning. The beam screamed through the air with terrifying speed and slammed down directly between Caraxes and Meleys.
The two dragons had been flying roughly twenty meters apart.
The beam struck perfectly between them.
It plunged straight into the ocean.
For half a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the sea froze.
The black water instantly turned to solid ice, spreading outward in a jagged white explosion across the waves. The surface of the Shivering Sea hardened beneath them like a newly forged glacier.
Caraxes shrieked and twisted violently, wings beating hard as he veered away from the blast. Meleys reacted just as sharply, her powerful body banking away with a furious roar.
Both dragons climbed quickly, instinctively fleeing the unnatural power that had just struck the ocean below.
Then they looked up.
Something was descending from the clouds.
A dragon.
But not like any dragon they had ever seen.
It emerged slowly through the fog, wings cutting through the cloud layer like blades through silk.
The creature was enormous.
Its size rivaled Caraxes and Meleys… perhaps even surpassed them slightly. Its body was covered in scales that looked less like natural armor and more like polished black crystal, each one reflecting faint purple light as it moved.
Mist poured from its jaws like cold breath from a winter storm.
And its eyes—
Glowed purple.
Rows of sharp, unnatural teeth lined its long jaws as it glided downward with eerie control.
Even Caraxes and Meleys hesitated.
The two ancient dragons roared at the intruder, wings beating hard as they instinctively prepared for a confrontation.
But the riders barely noticed the creature itself.
Because their attention was drawn to the figure sitting calmly on its back.
For a moment both Daemon and Rhaenys simply stared.
The rider looked like Alyssa Targaryen.
Not exactly—but close enough to strike the heart like a hammer.
Silver-blond hair whipped behind them in the wind, though a bold streak of black cut through the bangs. Their posture was relaxed, confident, almost playful. Their clothing was darker and more practical than anything a court-born noble would wear—something closer to a traveler, or perhaps a warrior.
It was like seeing Alyssa reborn as something wilder.
Something sharper.
Something dangerous.
Both Targaryens found themselves frozen for a moment, caught in that uncanny resemblance.
Then the rider spoke.
"Well," Jeanyx said casually, voice carrying easily across the air, "aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
His dragon descended smoothly toward the massive sheet of ice it had just created across the ocean.
"How about we talk on stable ground?" he added.
With a small gesture of his hand he guided the black dragon downward.
The beast landed effortlessly upon the frozen sea, claws scraping lightly across the ice it had created.
Seeing this, Daemon exchanged a glance with Rhaenys.
Then both dragonriders directed their mounts downward as well.
Caraxes and Meleys descended carefully onto the frozen surface of the Shivering Sea, their massive bodies settling onto the ice beside the black dragon.
The wind returned.
But now the frozen ocean beneath them was silent.
And Jeanyx Targaryen waited.
When the dragons finally settled onto the frozen surface of the Shivering Sea, the riders were able to see Jeanyx clearly for the first time since the clouds had parted.
Up close, the resemblance to Alyssa Targaryen struck even harder.
Most sons of the Valyrian blood grew sharper and more traditionally handsome as they crossed into adulthood—features hardening, jawlines broadening, the fire of old Valyria settling into something more imposing. Daemon himself had grown into that sort of beauty, the kind that looked dangerous even when still.
Jeanyx had gone in a different direction entirely.
He hadn't become more handsome.
He had become beautiful.
Not soft, not delicate—there was far too much strength in the way he held himself for that—but striking in a way that made people look twice without realizing why. His face carried Alyssa's shape almost perfectly now: high cheekbones, sharp violet eyes, and the same effortless confidence she had been famous for. The streak of black through his silver-blond bangs only made the resemblance stranger, like someone had taken Alyssa's reflection and drawn a darker line through it.
Daemon and Rhaenys both saw it at the same time.
And for a brief moment, neither of them said anything.
Because the same thought crossed both their minds.
This is what Alyssa might have looked like… if the years of childbirth hadn't slowly worn her body down.
The wind rolled across the ice in low, restless gusts, stirring frost around the dragons' massive claws.
Caraxes shifted heavily behind Daemon, the Blood Wyrm lowering his long neck with a tired rasp as the strain of the journey finally caught up with him. The dragon's wings folded slowly against his body, muscles visibly relaxing now that the flight was finally over.
Daemon barely noticed.
The moment Caraxes settled fully onto the ice, he was already moving.
He ripped the saddle chains loose from his armor with impatient hands, metal clattering against the dragon's harness as he jumped down from the Blood Wyrm's side.
Ice crunched sharply beneath his boots as he crossed the short distance between them.
Jeanyx had only just swung his leg over his dragon's back when Daemon slammed into him.
The impact nearly knocked them both off balance.
Daemon wrapped both arms around his younger brother and pulled him into a crushing bear hug, lifting him half an inch off the ground in the process.
For someone known as the Rogue Prince—arrogant, reckless, and famously difficult to read—the reaction was startlingly unguarded.
"You bastard," Daemon muttered into Jeanyx's shoulder, voice rougher than usual.
Jeanyx made a surprised noise as the air was squeezed from his lungs.
"Good to see you too," he wheezed.
Daemon didn't let go.
If anything, his grip tightened for another second, the kind of silent confirmation only brothers who had thought each other dead could understand.
Behind them, Rhaenys dismounted more gracefully from Meleys, boots touching the frozen sea with controlled ease. The Red Queen folded her great wings behind her, releasing a low rumble as she studied the black crystal dragon nearby with open curiosity.
Sirius hopped down next, stretching his stiff legs with a groan while Regulus carefully guided the bound Garric Harlowe down from the saddle.
Bellatrix had already jumped from Caraxes long before anyone else finished landing, boots sliding slightly across the ice as she wandered off a few paces, casually surveying the frozen landscape like this entire spectacle had been routine.
Meanwhile Daemon finally leaned back just enough to look Jeanyx in the face.
He held him at arm's length for a moment, eyes scanning him from head to toe.
"…you look ridiculous," Daemon said.
Jeanyx raised an eyebrow.
Daemon gestured vaguely at him.
"You vanished for years and come back looking like some wandering ice prince."
Jeanyx glanced down at his own coat, brushing a bit of frost off the sleeve.
"I had time to experiment with fashion."
Rhaenys finally approached the two of them, her expression caught somewhere between relief and disbelief as she studied Jeanyx up close.
For someone she had barely known in youth, the reunion still carried weight. Blood had a strange way of doing that.
"…you truly are Alyssa's son," she said quietly.
Jeanyx tilted his head slightly, amused.
"I've been told that once or twice."
Behind them, the black crystal dragon exhaled another plume of cold mist that drifted across the ice like fog as the two red dragons watched it cautiously, the tension between the three great beasts simmering quietly in the frozen air while the riders adjusted to being on solid ground again.
After nearly five full minutes of Daemon crushing the life out of him in a bear hug, Jeanyx finally managed to pry himself free.
Daemon stepped back with a satisfied grunt, though one hand still rested briefly on Jeanyx's shoulder as if confirming he was actually there and not some illusion that might disappear if he blinked. Rhaenys approached as well, her expression calmer but no less relieved.
For a few minutes the three of them simply talked—short questions, quick answers, the kind of conversation people had when years of distance had to be bridged all at once. Eventually the talk shifted into something more practical as Daemon and Rhaenys began filling Jeanyx in on everything that had happened in Westeros since his disappearance.
Most of it meant very little to him.
Court disputes. Minor bannermen arguing over borders. Trade negotiations between lords who believed their squabbles mattered more than they actually did.
Jeanyx listened, but his attention sharpened only when the conversation turned to his family.
Daemon was the first topic.
Apparently, after years of bitter hostility, Daemon had—while heavily drunk—finally slept with his wife.
Daemon complained about it immediately after saying it.
Jeanyx snorted.
"I can imagine why," he muttered.
Rhea Royce had never been someone he liked, even back when they were younger. In truth, Jeanyx had always suspected the marriage had been doomed from the start. If the rumors he remembered were true, she spent more time with one of her household guards than she ever did with Daemon.
He tried to recall the man's name.
Failed.
And quickly decided he didn't care enough to try harder.
In Jeanyx's eyes that man was nothing more than a pawn—a disposable one at that. If he vanished tomorrow, the world would barely notice. Hell, even calling him a pawn might be too generous.
Over the years Jeanyx's view of people had grown… colder.
Those without magic.
Without the Force.
Without power or purpose that could aid him or protect his family.
To him they were tools at best.
Animals at worst.
Creatures that served until they started trying to bite the hand that fed them.
And when that happened, they were discarded.
Few people embodied that irritation more than Otto Hightower.
Daemon's explanation of the current court politics only reinforced what Jeanyx had already suspected—Otto was whispering into Viserys's ear more and more with each passing year.
Jeanyx could already see where that path would lead.
His older brother's kindness had always bordered on foolishness.
Even when they were young Jeanyx had noticed it. Viserys believed people were better than they actually were, and that sort of optimism was dangerous for a king.
Now Balerion was dead.
The Black Dread had been the last dragon Viserys ever rode, and there had been no time for another bond before the old titan died. A king without a dragon, surrounded by ambitious men whispering advice into his ear…
That was not a strong position.
It was the beginning of a slow decline.
Over the years Jeanyx had noticed another change in himself as well.
Living with Nyx had altered him in subtle ways.
He had inherited some of her nature—the greed, the quiet hunger that wanted more of everything. Power. Knowledge. Control. That gluttonous instinct had only sharpened his already harsh view of people who had no value.
Meanwhile Nyx had gained traits from him.
His laziness.
And perhaps his creativity.
For the last few months she had been experimenting with her cold flames, shaping them into crude statues of ice-black fire. The shapes were rough for now, nothing more than jagged silhouettes, but Jeanyx knew with time she would refine the ability.
Dragons learned quickly when they cared enough to try.
One thing Daemon said did genuinely surprise him though.
His daughter.
Daemon had named her after their mother.
Well—almost.
Aelyssara Targaryen.
The name carried Alyssa's legacy but twisted just enough that the girl wouldn't feel forced to live under it.
Jeanyx actually approved of that.
Even more interesting was the dragon.
Aelyssara had hatched one of her own.
The egg had been placed in her cradle like tradition demanded, and the creature that emerged was something unusual even among Valyrian dragons. Its scales were deep blood-red, darker even than Caraxes in some lighting, while the ridges along its spine and the membranes of its wings carried a shade of dark pink.
Daemon had named the dragon Vaelyra.
The creature didn't have an official nickname yet.
But Daemon had already begun calling her Blood Dancer.
Apparently the young dragon moved through the air in tight spins and elegant turns, twisting around currents like she was performing rather than flying.
Jeanyx found himself nodding slightly.
"That fits," he admitted.
A dragon that moved like that deserved a name with rhythm.
The thought lingered for a moment before another idea surfaced in his mind.
"Oh," Jeanyx said suddenly, glancing toward the massive black dragon resting behind him on the frozen sea.
"I suppose introductions are overdue."
He gestured toward the enormous creature whose crystal-black scales reflected the pale light of the northern sky.
"This," he said, "is Nyx."
The dragon shifted slightly at the sound of her name, releasing a slow breath that rolled across the ice like fog.
"Though the people on the island prefer calling her something else."
Daemon folded his arms.
"What would that be?"
Jeanyx smirked slightly.
"They call her the Goddess of Night."
He glanced back toward the dragon, the faintest hint of amusement touching his expression.
"Personally," he added, "I find the nickname ironic."
Neither Daemon nor Rhaenys spoke, waiting.
Jeanyx shrugged.
"She's named after the Mother of Night."
Nyx exhaled another plume of cold mist behind them as the massive dragon shifted her wings slightly across the frozen sea, her glowing purple eyes calmly watching the three Targaryens standing on the ice.
"Goddess of Night?" Daemon repeated, his brows drawing together in confusion. "I've never heard of such a goddess in any religion."
Confusion was an emotion Daemon Targaryen despised.
It was a dangerous state to be in. Confusion meant gaps in knowledge, and gaps in knowledge meant things existed beyond your understanding—things that could grow, twist, and eventually become threats before you even realized what they were. Daemon had always believed that disasters were born in moments like that, when a man didn't yet understand the shape of what stood before him.
Yet confusion also carried something else.
Questions.
And questions could lead to answers, advantages, even opportunities—if you were quick enough to grasp them.