At Floki's docks the morning was a cacophony of shouts and the creak of timber as men hurriedly loaded the longship with supplies. The air was brisk and salt-tinged, and every gust carried the scent of adventure and impending peril. Amid the controlled chaos, Jeanyx lingered at the edge of the activity, his dark eyes fixed on a more intimate scene unfolding away from the bustle.
He watched as Lagertha, resolute yet tinged with sorrow, bid farewell to Ragnar. Their parting was quiet—a few soft words exchanged, a lingering glance full of unspoken promises—and it tugged at the heart of the warrior who had long admired his sister's strength and beauty. Yet as she turned and walked toward the waiting boat, Jeanyx's thoughts took a darker, more personal turn.
Slipping silently through the shadows of the dock, Jeanyx approached Lagertha. In one swift, almost predatory motion, he reached out behind her, intent on resting a hand upon her shoulder—a touch meant to convey a secret intimacy. But before his fingers could land, Lagertha whirled around, her eyes flashing like cold steel. With lethal precision, she swung a dagger toward him.
Jeanyx parried the thrust with his sickle, the clash of metal echoing against the backdrop of clattering crates and creaking wood. A sardonic smirk played across his face as he addressed her, his tone laced with both mockery and a bitter sense of reproach.
"It seems, dear sister, that your instincts have not been clouded by lust," he murmured, the words sliding out in a low, sardonic cadence.
Lagertha's eyes blazed with anger as she recovered, her voice a hiss so soft that only Jeanyx could hear, "What are you talking about?"
But Jeanyx's next words were as sharp as the dagger she'd just wielded. "Don't try to lie to me, sister. We come from the same mother, and we are proud members of House Stark. Imagine my surprise when I learned you'd had an affair with Rollo more than once—so you can't now claim it was nothing but a fleeting fling."
Her face contorted in a mixture of shock and indignation. "How did you—" she began, but her protest was cut short by a sudden, sinister hissing sound.
Both their eyes darted to the ground. Emerging from the shadows, a massive basilisk, its scales as black as midnight and its body as long as thirty feet, slithered upward along Jeanyx's leg. Its sleek, sinuous form moved with unnerving grace until it coiled around him, finally resting its cold, unblinking head upon his shoulder.
Jeanyx's smirk faltered into a grim set of determination as he regarded the creature. "The reason I have told Ragnar all this is because we are family, and because I respect you—as both a warrior and my sister. But I will not allow this to happen again. Know this, dear sister: one day, the gods will punish you. You will watch as the very thing you cherish vanishes before your eyes."
Without waiting for her response, Jeanyx turned and strode toward the waiting longship. The basilisk's presence, as ominous as it was, did nothing to slow his determined pace. The murmurs of the dockside men and the distant cry of gulls filled the air as he joined the others, leaving Lagertha to grapple with a tempest of anger, betrayal, and foreboding as the ship's crew prepared to set sail into an uncertain future.
Floki had been lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the gleaming boat bobbing gently in the harbor, when suddenly a dagger pressed against his neck. He didn't even need to turn to know who it was—Ragnar's familiar presence was unmistakable in the dim light.
"Where is my anchor?" Ragnar demanded, his voice low and measured, yet edged with impatience. "It was promised for today. Perhaps your blacksmith is a liar."
Floki's lips curled into a wry smile as he met Ragnar's silent gaze. "I don't think so," he replied coolly. "This hair," he gestured with a slight shake of his head, "is from his daughter's head. I promised him that if he ever went to Earl Haraldson, I'd find a way to kill her."
A short, bitter laugh escaped Floki, and Ragnar's eyes narrowed. "I still don't see Knut," he continued, scanning the dock as if expecting the missing man to emerge from the shadows.
"Well, that's because he isn't here," Floki said, shrugging with an air of resigned inevitability. "He hasn't sent word either."
Ragnar's expression grew troubled, the lines of worry deepening on his weathered face. "That troubles me."
Floki's gaze softened into a tired smirk as he murmured, "We live in a sea of troubles, my friend. But look—some are ended." The sound of a cart rattling nearby blended with the steady drip and splash of water against the wooden dock, as if nature itself echoed his words.
Without breaking the moment's tense intimacy, Floki stepped aside and gestured toward a neatly arranged pile of supplies. "Here, this is yours," he said, lifting an object wrapped in coarse cloth. "And this is mine," he added, handing over a roughly hewn iron anchor whose surface caught the waning light.
In that brief exchange, the weight of promises, betrayals, and uncertain futures hung in the salty air, as the two men—bound by loyalty and haunted by the relentless pull of destiny—prepared to set forth into the unknown.
(Jeanyx's POV)
As I approached the boat, Ragnar and Floki were already there, watching me with curiosity. They were eyeing me with a mixture of anticipation and skepticism. Ragnar, ever the strategist, was the first to break the silence.
"So, my friend, how are you going to bring Nyx along with us? She's magnificent, but she can't possibly fit on the ship, can she? The Black Siren might be an option once it's finished, but this one..." Ragnar trailed off, looking toward the vast expanse of the ocean.
I gave him a smirk, knowing the answer already. Reaching into my cloak, I drew out the Elder Wand—one of the many gifts from my past life, a token of the magic that had transcended death itself. I raised it high, pointing it toward a runic circle near the front of the ship. My mind focused, and with steady hands, I spoke the incantation, letting the magic flow through me.
"Transitus Requiria!"
The words, rich with power, left my lips, and as they did, a bolt of red magic shot from the wand. It struck the circle, which immediately began to glow with an ethereal light. A swirling portal formed within the circle, its edges crackling with energy. The men stood in awe, their eyes wide as they watched the phenomenon unfold before them.
I whistled sharply, and within seconds, the ground trembled. A deafening roar echoed through the trees, causing the men to stagger back, their eyes darting around in fear. Then, from the shadows of the forest, a massive shape appeared—Nyx, my black and purple ice dragon, emerging from the trees with an imposing presence that made even the most battle-hardened men step back in reverence. Her scales shimmered like dark crystal, her wings unfurled in a slow, deliberate motion, and the air itself seemed to grow colder as she landed before us. Her eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence, fixed upon me as if she were the queen of this domain.
I pointed toward the portal, my voice commanding but gentle. "Through there, my friend."
Without hesitation, Nyx flapped her wings, sending a gust of icy wind through the air. She soared toward the portal, her massive form slipping through it like a shadow in the night. Moments later, the rumbling of her landing on the other side echoed back from the portal, and with one last sweeping motion of her wings, she curled up on the other side, settling into the snow-covered land to sleep.
The portal remained open, a reminder of the magic I had wielded. "Transitus Requiria," I muttered under my breath. The spell had taken me five years to perfect, to craft the intricate formula that allowed me to open a portal to the Room of Requirement, now hidden in two places: my chamber of secrets within the mountains and, now, this ship. It would serve as a place of rest for Nyx—and a sanctuary where we could store our treasures, hidden from prying eyes.
Before I could speak, I whistled once more, a command that would signal the next part of my plan. The water beneath the ship began to bubble violently, the surface rippling with strange energy. The men took several steps back, fear creeping into their expressions. Eric, gripping his axe tightly, advanced slightly but was halted by my hand on his shoulder.
"No," I said, my voice calm but firm, "stay back."
A hiss pierced the air, like a serpent's warning. The men's eyes grew wide as the water continued to churn. Eric almost collapsed from the pressure in the air, his grip loosening on his axe, but I steadied him. "Watch closely," I whispered.
And then, emerging from the depths of the water, something massive began to surface. A grotesque, mutant crocodile, far larger than anything in this world. Its scales were thick and uneven, dark green and almost slimy to the touch, but there was an unnatural, steely glint to them as if forged in the depths of hell. Its jaws were massive, each tooth as sharp as a blade, and it hissed as it dragged itself from the water, its huge claws scraping against the ship's hull.
The creature was a monster, larger than anything the men had ever seen—its size rivaling that of the largest dragons and the fiercest beasts of the wild. Its body was a twisted blend of muscle and sinew, its tail whip-like and dangerous. The air around it seemed to freeze, the cold mist rolling off of it like steam rising from a furnace, yet its breath exuded an unnatural warmth that radiated from its scaled hide.
The men stood frozen in terror, watching as the crocodile clambered onto the ship's deck, its massive form causing the ship to creak under the weight. It hissed again, and I spoke softly, my voice barely audible over the creature's guttural growls.
"Do not fear. This is only a show of power. The beast is mine to command."
The creature's eyes locked onto me, and I nodded to it in acknowledgment. The beast lowered its massive head, its bared teeth glinting dangerously in the sunlight. For a moment, it seemed like it could strike at any second, but it remained still, awaiting my next command.
"You see," I said with a dark smile, "nothing is too big or too dangerous when you have the right power on your side."
Jeanyx stood at the bow of the ship, arms crossed as the sea breeze tugged at his dark cloak. The men were murmuring amongst themselves, some sharpening their weapons, others casting wary glances at the portal where Nyx now rested. Their eyes, however, were all drawn back to him as he spoke.
"If we want to sail into the Sunset Sea, we'll have to pass Westeros," Jeanyx explained, his voice carrying over the waves. "But that would take months. We'd have to sail south, past Dorne, and through the Stepstones—waters infested with pirates and slavers. A longer journey means more risks, more enemies."
Eric, standing nearby with his axe resting on his shoulder, frowned. "Then what's the alternative?"
Jeanyx smirked. "I've discovered a way to cut the trip in half."
Floki, leaning lazily against the ship's mast, tilted his head. "And what, pray tell, is this shortcut? Are we to sail through mountains now, Jeanyx?"
A chuckle rumbled through the crew, but Jeanyx only grinned. "Not quite. There is a hidden passage through Westeros itself. An ancient way, long forgotten by most. If we sail up the Trident River, then take the Blue Fork, we'll reach an old, ruined castle called Oldstones. That place once belonged to the House of Mudd, the last of the First Men kings before the Andals crushed them."
Ragnar narrowed his eyes. "And you believe there's a tunnel there?"
Jeanyx nodded. "I don't just believe. I know. The First Men carved pathways beneath the land, some even leading deep into the mountains. The tunnel I seek runs beneath the Riverlands, cutting through Westeros and emerging on the western shores."
Eric crossed his arms. "And where exactly is this tunnel?"
Jeanyx sighed, glancing out toward the horizon. "That, I don't know precisely. But I know how to find it. The ruins of Oldstones hold the key—something buried beneath the foundations."
Rollo, sharpening his sword nearby, scoffed. "And if the tunnel no longer exists? If it has collapsed or never led to the sea?"
Jeanyx smirked. "Then we'll just have to carve a new path."
A tense silence settled over the crew, the weight of Jeanyx's words hanging heavy in the salty air. Finally, Ragnar grinned, stepping forward and clapping a hand on Jeanyx's shoulder.
"Then to Oldstones we sail."
The men roared in agreement, their excitement mingling with the sound of the waves. The journey was set, and the path ahead promised danger, mystery, and glory.
The open sea stretched endlessly before them, a shimmering expanse of blue that seemed to stretch on forever. The longship creaked and groaned beneath the weight of its crew, but the excitement was palpable. The men were on edge, waiting for their first taste of action on this journey that promised both danger and treasure. The wind howled through the rigging, and the sails caught the breeze as the ship glided across the water, leaving behind the land near Ibben where their island had once stood.
Jeanyx stood at the bow of the ship, his dark eyes scanning the horizon. The waters were calm, but his instincts told him that trouble wasn't far off. He glanced over at Ragnar, who stood at the helm, his usual confident demeanor unwavering. But Jeanyx could sense the tension in the air; they were heading into unknown waters, and even the most seasoned of sailors could feel that.
"Jeanyx," Ragnar called, his voice cutting through the wind. "You said there would be no trouble, yet you're still on edge."
Jeanyx glanced over, offering a half-hearted smile. "I trust in my instincts, Ragnar. The sea may seem peaceful now, but there's always something lurking beneath."
Ragnar grunted in agreement, his hand tightening around the ship's wheel. "Aye, I know that feeling all too well."
It wasn't long before their vigilance was rewarded. From the corner of Jeanyx's eye, he saw the silhouette of a ship appearing on the horizon. His senses sharpened instantly, and he turned to Ragnar.
"Ship, straight ahead," Jeanyx said, his voice low but urgent. "We need to approach cautiously."
The men fell silent, their gazes fixed on the approaching vessel. It was a massive ship, much larger than their own. The sails were decorated with strange symbols, and the ship's hull was adorned with the telltale signs of a longship. It had the appearance of a Viking ship, but something about it felt wrong.
Ragnar's eyes narrowed. "Slavers," he muttered. "By the gods, it's a ship from Qohor. And those sails—those are the markings of a Dothraki raiding party."
The men tensed, their hands instinctively going to their weapons. There was a deep history of hatred between the Dothraki and the northern tribes. The last three raids had left Viking families torn apart, with many taken into slavery, sold to the highest bidder. This was personal.
"Should we attack?" Torstein, one of Ragnar's most trusted men, asked from behind. His voice was low but filled with anger, his eyes flicking to the distant ship.
Jeanyx glanced at the ship once more. The Dothraki were known for their brutality, and their slaving ways had decimated several northern villages in the past. But they were also well-armed and dangerous.
Ragnar shifted uneasily. "We can't just charge in without a plan. They're twice the size of our ship, and their crew looks well-armed. We need an advantage."
"Why not send Nyx after them?" Torstein asked, glancing toward Jeanyx with a raised brow. "If your dragon could just destroy them from the sky, this fight would be over before it begins."
Jeanyx's expression hardened, and he shook his head firmly. "No. Nyx is our last resort, Torstein. She's powerful, yes, but she's still young. She hasn't reached the age where she can ignore everything but another dragon. If we reveal her now, it'll only lead to more enemies. And we don't want that kind of attention unless it's absolutely necessary."
The men looked at each other, some nodding in understanding. Jeanyx's decision was final.
"I have a better idea," Jeanyx said, his voice dropping to a whisper, a glint of cold calculation in his eyes. "We get closer, and I'll make the first move."
The men, curious but trusting in Jeanyx's judgment, began rowing closer. Their ship cut through the water with speed, the tension rising as they neared the larger vessel. As they drew within ten meters of the slaver ship, Jeanyx stood tall at the bow, gripping his Elder Wand. The wind howled around him, but his focus remained unbroken.
"Get ready," Jeanyx muttered under his breath.
With a flick of his wrist and a sharp incantation, he shouted, "Bombarda!"
The air seemed to crackle with energy as a bright red bolt of magic shot from the tip of his wand, hitting the slaver ship's deck with a deafening explosion. Wood splintered, and smoke rose into the air as a gaping hole was blown through the vessel. The crew on board shouted in panic as the ship rocked violently from the impact.
"Now!" Ragnar shouted, drawing his axe. "To battle!"
The crew leaped into action, their weapons drawn as they stormed the slaver ship. But Jeanyx wasn't done yet.
With another wave of his hand, he summoned the power of cold manipulation. The temperature around him dropped sharply, the air turning frigid. His fingers flicked in precise movements, and from the air, shards of ice began to materialize, forming into jagged spears and blades.
Jeanyx's eyes burned with cold fury as he hurled the ice weapons toward the slavers, freezing their limbs and sending them crashing to the ground. The slavers shouted in pain as their bodies were encased in frost, some falling into the icy water below, unable to fight back.
"Keep them occupied," Jeanyx called to Ragnar. "I'll handle the rest."
Ragnar and his men charged into the fray, axes and swords raised, cutting down the slavers with brutal efficiency. But Jeanyx had a different task at hand. He turned to Nyx, his trusted dragon, who had been watching from the portal.
He whistled, and the black and purple dragon let out a deafening roar, her massive form soaring through the sky as she descended toward the ship. The slavers gasped in terror as the dragon's shadow blotted out the sun.
With a single swipe of her claws, Nyx sent several men flying, her jaws snapping shut around a few unfortunate souls, swallowing them whole. The remaining slavers, already shaken by the magical onslaught and the appearance of the dragon, began to break ranks.
Jeanyx didn't let up. He raised his hand, sending a blast of freezing wind that engulfed the remaining slavers. Some of them froze where they stood, their bodies stiffening into ice statues, while others were sent tumbling into the sea.
With a final sweep of his arm, Jeanyx directed Nyx to finish the job. The dragon's cold breath froze the remaining slavers in place, and with a single sweep of her tail, the ship was sent careening toward the rocks.
The battle was over. The slaver ship was crippled, and the crew was either dead or frozen, unable to fight back. Jeanyx stood amidst the wreckage, his ice weapons still hovering in the air around him. Ragnar and his men approached, their faces grim but victorious.
"We'll take their treasure, then head for Oldstones," Ragnar said, his voice low. "But this was a warning, Jeanyx. You didn't just destroy them—you made sure no one will come for us again."
Jeanyx nodded, his expression unreadable. "We'll be ready for whatever comes next."
And with that, the crew turned to loot the ship, knowing that their journey to the Sunset Sea was just beginning.