runestone and river of ghosts

It had been two weeks at sea, and for the last three days, we had been adrift from our course. The sky stretched out in an endless gray, clouds hanging low, while the waves beneath us churned with an eerie stillness. The winds whispered against the sails, yet we moved sluggishly, the currents refusing to guide us.

"Jeanyx, we've been drifting for days!" Rollo's voice cut through the salty air, laced with frustration. "Why won't you just use your mystical trinket and fix our course?"

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension creeping into them. Instead of answering, I turned and heaved a large fish into the depths of Nyx's lair within the Room of Requirement. A deep, guttural growl rumbled in response—her way of showing appreciation. The sound resonated through the ship, a reminder of the beast lurking beneath, a force that had grown ever more restless.

Before I could respond to Rollo's complaints, a sound unlike any other cut through the waves—a low, primeval growl from the abyss. It was deep, vibrating through the ship's wooden hull and stirring something in my blood.

I smirked. "It seems we've arrived at our first stop."

I gestured toward the horizon, where the silhouette of a great castle loomed atop a jagged cliff. Its ancient walls were bathed in the pale light of the setting sun, standing defiant against the encroaching night.

Arne furrowed his brow, stepping closer to the railing. "What is that place?"

"Runestone," I answered. "The seat of House Royce. This stop is mandatory."

Their expressions shifted from confusion to curiosity, and I continued, my voice steady. "House Royce has stood since the Age of the First Men. They are famed for their rune magic—inscriptions so old and potent that even the Valyrians once coveted them. And I need those runes."

Ragnar stepped forward, arms crossed, his blue eyes narrowing. "Why? You're powerful enough already. What use do you have for old carvings and dead magic?"

I met his gaze, understanding his skepticism. Few still believed in the power of the First Men's runes. Even the Maesters dismissed them as relics of a forgotten age, little more than decorative etchings on armor and weapons. But I knew better.

"Because the Jarl's time is ending," I said, my voice carrying through the deck, silencing the murmurs. "And with it, the North will change." I let the weight of my words settle. "The time is coming when we will rise, when we will shape our own fate. No longer will we bow to southern kings who do not know our struggles, who do not feel the bite of our winters." I stepped forward, letting my gaze pass over each of them. "This is my duty—as a Stark. To prepare. To ensure that when the time comes, we are not left scrambling in the cold, unarmed and unready."

Ragnar tilted his head, still skeptical. "And you believe these runes will help you achieve that?"

"I know they will," I said firmly. "Runic magic was thought to have perished with Valyria, yet traces of it remain, vital enough that Valyrian steel itself is rumored to have been forged using it. If even a fraction of that power still lingers, I will find it. I will claim it. For the North."

A silence stretched between us, the sound of the waves the only thing filling the space. Ragnar exchanged glances with the others, doubt flickering like embers in the cold.

I exhaled sharply, irritation seeping into my tone. "Do you understand, or do I need to speak slower?"

A pause. Then, one by one, they nodded.

Good.

Now, it was time to take what I needed.

We rowed toward the shore in near silence, the rhythmic splash of oars cutting through the dark waters the only sound accompanying us. The longboat glided smoothly, its wooden hull barely disturbing the surface. My eyes remained fixed on the cliffs towering ahead, their jagged edges standing like sentinels beneath the moon's pale glow.

Runestone loomed above us, its ancient stone walls fused with the very rock it sat upon, an unyielding bastion of the First Men. But I wasn't admiring its architecture—I was watching for movement.

House Royce was no fool. Their patrols were frequent, but not excessive. They had designed them with purpose—enough to appear as a garrison safeguarding a potential invasion point, not an escape route. But I knew better.

Through careful spying and the study of ancient texts, I had uncovered the truth: these cliffs did not merely serve as a defense—they hid something far more valuable. A route, long forgotten by most, one that had once been used in times of crisis. Not for soldiers, but for the family. A secret passage that led not just to safety, but to treasure.

A gust of wind swept in from the sea, rustling through my cloak as I signaled for the rowers to slow. We could not afford to be reckless now. The moment was near, and if we were to claim what I came for, we would have to move carefully.

The four of us moved cautiously through the rocky terrain, keeping low and silent. The sea wind howled behind us, masking any sounds of our footsteps against the damp earth. Our eyes scanned the cliffs, searching for anything that might resemble an entrance.

It was Floki who found it first.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue, crouching near an outcropping of rock. "Look at this." He ran his fingers along the rough stone before pushing aside a thick tangle of ivy. Beneath it, hidden from sight, was the mouth of a cave—its entrance almost entirely consumed by nature. Even to a trained eye, it was nearly impossible to notice unless one was standing directly in front of it.

"Hand-carved," Floki murmured, tracing the edge of the opening. "This wasn't made by accident."

I stepped forward, peering into the darkness beyond. The air inside was cold and stale, untouched by the salty breeze outside. My fingers tightened around the Elder Wand as I led the way, ducking through the entrance. The others followed close behind, their movements careful, their breaths steady.

As we ventured deeper, the faint glow from the cave mouth faded until we were swallowed in complete blackness. Without hesitation, I raised my wand.

"Lumos," I muttered.

A small but steady white light flickered to life at the wand's tip, illuminating the tunnel with an eerie glow. Shadows danced along the jagged stone walls, revealing the unmistakable grooves of human craftsmanship. The passage was narrow, forcing us to move in single file. The damp air clung to our skin, carrying the scent of earth and old stone.

"This must be it," Ragnar murmured behind me, his voice hushed in the confined space. "The passageway leading into Runestone."

"Aye," I confirmed, keeping my eyes forward as we pressed on. "And it hasn't been used in a long time."

Eric exhaled through his nose. "Good. That means fewer surprises."

"Or more," Floki countered with a smirk. "Depending on what's been left behind."

I smirked but said nothing. He wasn't wrong.

Step by step, we ascended the winding, ancient staircase, the stone beneath our boots worn from centuries of use. The air grew heavier as we climbed, and the distant sound of dripping water echoed through the tunnel. Every so often, I reached out to brush my hand along the walls, feeling for any traps or hidden mechanisms. The Royce family was old, and old families had secrets.

We moved deeper, the silence pressing against us, broken only by our footfalls and the soft hum of magic from my wand. Somewhere above us, past layers of stone and history, lay the runes I had come for.

We just had to reach them.

The stone stairway we climbed was damp, the chill of the earth seeping through the soles of my boots. The air grew heavier with every step, and I could hear my breath echoing in the silence of the passage. The top of the stairwell revealed a series of six tunnels, each as dark and mysterious as the next.

I motioned toward the furthest left tunnel, where the path seemed to wind deeper into the bowels of the earth. "This way," I muttered, and the others followed without question. We moved cautiously, the creaking of the ladder beneath our feet the only sound.

The air grew colder as we progressed, and the faint scent of dust and age filled the space. I couldn't help but feel that we were trespassing in something ancient, something that had been hidden away for centuries.

We passed through the first few chambers with little to note. There was an eerie stillness about them—no signs of life, just forgotten remnants of a once-grand house. Empty rooms, crumbling stone walls, and the scent of decay filled the air. It seemed that these places had been abandoned long ago, left to rot in the shadows.

"I'm starting to wonder if this was all just a wild goose chase," Ragnar muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Patience," I replied, scanning the darkness ahead. "Not everything shows itself right away."

The longer we walked, the more I began to feel like this was all a test—an old maze designed to hide something valuable. But the deeper we went, the more it became clear that whatever awaited us was going to be worth it.

We came across a trapdoor—an old, wooden hatch set high in the stone walls. The space was small, but the door itself looked relatively intact. My heart quickened, sensing that we were on the cusp of finding something significant.

"This must be it," I said softly, eyeing the ladder that led up to the door.

Without hesitation, I scaled the ladder and pushed the trapdoor open, cautiously peering through. What I saw stopped me cold.

A young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, was slumped over a desk, fast asleep. Her disheveled appearance made her seem almost vulnerable, her long pale hair tangled over her face. She was surrounded by scattered papers—old maps, family letters, and what looked like ancient documents.

It took me a few seconds to recognize her, but then it hit me. Rhea Royce. The Lady of House Royce.

I held my breath, watching her for a few moments longer. She was oblivious to our presence, completely unaware of the intruders just below.

"Is she…" Ragnar began, his voice trailing off, but I silenced him with a quick shake of my head.

"Not now," I whispered, descending back down the ladder. "We'll deal with her later."

We moved quickly through the next few chambers. Most of them were empty, void of any significant signs of life. Dust and cobwebs had overtaken every inch of the rooms, and the stone floors creaked beneath our weight.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching us, though. The shadows felt heavier here, as though they were holding secrets that they were waiting to share at the right moment.

We pressed on in silence, but the tension in the air only grew thicker. I felt like we were being drawn deeper into something far larger than we initially realized. This wasn't just a treasure hunt—it was something more. The question was: what were we really looking for?

The second-to-last tunnel we entered held a surprise none of us had expected.

At first, it appeared to be just another empty room, but as we stepped forward, we froze.

A teenage boy—barely more than a child—was tangled in the embrace of two older individuals. The scene was a bizarre and unsettling one. The boy was caught in a moment of passion with the man and woman, their bodies entwined on the cold stone floor.

It was an uncomfortable sight.

Eric raised an eyebrow, his face twisted in a half-amused, half-disgusted expression. "Poor kid," he whispered with a smirk. "That little thing doesn't belong here. Better off as a eunuch."

Ragnar chuckled softly but didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the scene.

I, however, couldn't waste time on such distractions. We had more important matters to attend to, so I gestured sharply to the others.

"Let's move on," I said coldly. "This is a waste of time."

We didn't linger any longer, quickly retreating down the ladder and heading toward the final tunnel. I felt the weight of the task ahead growing more pressing with every step.

The last tunnel was darker, the walls seeming to close in around us. There was a heavy silence here, more suffocating than the rest. As we walked, the air grew stale, and I felt an odd sense of anticipation building. Whatever waited at the end of this tunnel was the real reason we had come.

And then, at last, we found it.

The stone walls parted to reveal a hidden chamber, its walls adorned with strange markings and symbols. Runes. Ancient, old, and powerful. The very thing we had been searching for.

I felt a rush of satisfaction wash over me as I approached the center of the room. The runes were exactly as I'd hoped—exactly what I needed.

"Finally," I whispered to myself, a grin creeping onto my lips. "It's time to unlock the true power of House Royce."

I stopped in front of a rune-covered door, my eyes scanning the intricate symbols etched into its surface. I tried to push it open, but it wouldn't budge. Not one to waste time, I placed my hand on the door. Ice began to creep out from my fingers, quickly spreading across the door's surface. The frost thickened, coating the entire door in a layer of ice. After a moment, I removed my hand, stepping back to admire my work.

I turned to Eric and gave him a subtle nod toward the door. He understood immediately. With a grunt, he hefted his massive battle axe and swung it into the door with all his might. After five powerful strikes, the door shattered into pieces, crashing to the ground. The echo of the splintering wood reverberated throughout the room as we all stepped inside.

What lay before us was more than I had expected. A vast hoard of gold, shining brightly in the dim light, spread out in all directions. The amount of wealth before us was staggering—more than I'd ever seen, even more than the vaults of Winterfell had on the one occasion I'd visited. My heart raced, but I couldn't allow myself to be distracted. Not yet.

Before the others could even think of taking anything, I held up a hand to stop them. "No. We don't take any gold here," I said firmly. "We are not yet ready to go to war with any house in Westeros or Essos. Just find any runes you can, and any books on runes."

They hesitated, eyeing the gold, but eventually nodded, though reluctantly. I could see the temptation in their eyes, but they knew the importance of the task at hand. They spread out, beginning their search around the room, while I did the same.

As I walked among the treasure, my eyes were drawn to several sets of bronze armor displayed along one wall. The armor itself was worn and tarnished, clearly ancient, but I could feel the residual magic within it. I ran my fingers over the surface, recognizing the faint aura of protection runes. It was clear that the enchantments that once imbued the armor with strength and resilience were long gone, but the knowledge of the runes was still there. That knowledge would be valuable.

I continued my search, my excitement growing as I found more items. After an hour of careful examination, the others and I had gathered an impressive array of runes. I couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction as I laid eyes on three specific runes that I needed: Vala, the strength and toughness rune; Zephra, the wind-manipulating rune, capable of controlling airflow to favor whatever it was attached to; and Vortha, the motion rune that would allow me to manipulate objects' movement.

But there was more—much more. As I sifted through the remaining runes, I recognized symbols that matched ancient reports I had read, mostly originating from the North. The runes here were beyond what I had expected. The vault had more to offer than I could have hoped for.

I surveyed the room, letting out a deep sigh. I already knew this was going to be troublesome.

"Grab a chest and fill it to the brim with gold," I ordered, my voice firm. "But don't get too excited—this is a gift for my brother in Winterfell."

A chorus of groans followed my words, but the atmosphere shifted in an instant. The room grew cold, an almost unnatural chill seeping into the air. Every man present stiffened, their expressions faltering as their gazes slowly turned toward me. They hesitated, taking a step back when they caught sight of my glare—sharp, unwavering, and filled with silent warning.

Arne and Erik, the most perceptive among them, wasted no time. They immediately set to work, hauling over a sturdy chest and filling it with gold and jewels, their movements swift and efficient. Meanwhile, I retrieved a piece of parchment and scrawled a brief message in bold, unmistakable strokes:

"From your lost brother, Jeanyx Stark."

When I finished, I turned back to the men. "Take a pouch of gold for yourselves," I offered, watching their moods shift in an instant.

The once reluctant men were now grinning, stuffing their pouches full of gold as if their earlier complaints had never existed. The sound of clinking coins filled the air, a melody of greed and satisfaction.

Once their pouches could hold no more, we left the vault and made our way back to the ship. The moment we stepped aboard, the crew's eyes were drawn to Ragnar, Erik, Arne, and Floki—but most of all, to the large chest brimming with gold. I noticed one man in particular, his gaze lingering too long, his expression betraying his thoughts. Greed gleamed in his eyes as he stared at the treasure, his fingers twitching ever so slightly.

Without hesitation, I lifted the chest and carried it into Nyx's lair, ensuring it would be under the protection of my most trusted guardian. If anyone was foolish enough to try and steal from me, they would learn—painfully—that some treasures are not worth the cost.

(timeskip)

The rhythmic lapping of the river against the hull mixed with the occasional creak of the ship's wood as we drifted through the Trident's tranquil waters. The full moon above bathed the landscape in silver light, illuminating the banks of the river as they passed like shifting ghosts. Most of the crew had succumbed to slumber, stretched out on the deck or below, letting the gentle current guide us through the night. But sleep was not an option for me or Ragnar—not yet.

We sat across from each other, a small lantern casting flickering shadows over the ornate board of my own creation. A game that should not have existed in this world, yet did, thanks to my own mind. Chess. Not just any chess—the magical kind, inspired by the tales of another world. The pieces, finely carved and enchanted, moved on their own, responding to our unspoken commands with precise, deliberate motion. They did not simply slide; they marched, knights rearing their spectral steeds, bishops gliding like phantoms, rooks shifting as if entire towers had uprooted themselves to do battle.

The game had been fierce. Ragnar was no fool. His mind was sharp, honed from years of war and raiding. He was a man who could predict the movement of a battle before it even started, and that made him a formidable opponent.

He played aggressively, as he fought in war—unrelenting, pressing forward with calculated strikes. His knights had dominated the early game, weaving through my defenses like raiders slipping through unguarded villages, forcing me to react rather than dictate the pace. His rooks controlled the board's edges, caging me in, while his queen loomed like a specter of death, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

But chess was not just war—it was patience, misdirection, and adaptation.

I had sacrificed a bishop early to lure him into overextending. A feigned retreat with my queen had given me the opening I needed, shifting the tempo from defense to offense. Move by move, I unraveled his aggression. His knights, so powerful in the early game, found themselves pinned by my rooks and bishops. His rooks, once dominant, became caged by my advancing pawns.

Yet, despite my counterplay, the battle was far from over. Ragnar was nothing if not resilient. His queen struck deep into my defenses, forcing my king to move. I countered with a knight sacrifice, cutting off her retreat, but not before she had taken two of my own most powerful pieces. The game became a dance of desperation—his king scurrying, my pieces encircling.

Then, the moment came.

His last mistake was an attempt to regain control of the center, moving his remaining rook too far from his king's protection. I seized the chance. My queen, backed by a pawn and a knight, closed in. Ragnar's king found himself trapped, unable to escape.

"Checkmate," I said softly.

Ragnar leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose, before letting out a deep, rumbling laugh.

"By Odin, you crafty bastard," he said, rubbing his beard. "You had me dancing to your tune before I even knew it."

I smirked, cracking my knuckles as I watched the pieces reset themselves, ready for another match.

"A battle is won in the mind before it is fought on the field," I said. "Would you like to test your luck again?"

Ragnar grinned.

"You barely won, Jeanyx. Next time, I take your king's head."

I chuckled, leaning forward as the enchanted pieces prepared for yet another war beneath the moonlit sky.

Before we could command our pieces, a low, eerie moaning filled the air, crawling into our ears like the wails of the damned. Ragnar's expression hardened in an instant, his instincts taking over as he reached for his axe. I mirrored his motion, my hand tightening around the hilt of Red Rain, the Valyrian steel blade gleaming under the moonlight.

The rest of the crew stirred at the sound of our movements. Groggy murmurs quickly turned into the scraping of metal as swords were unsheathed and shields were gripped tight.

"What is it, Ragnar? Where is the enemy?" Rollo's voice was low, but urgent, the tension thick in the air.

Ragnar did not answer. Instead, he lifted a single finger to his lips, demanding silence.

All eyes darted around the deck, scanning the tree-lined banks of the Trident, the shifting shadows cast by the moon, the gentle rippling of the water. Nothing. Just the night, still and watchful.

Then, the sound of metal clattering against wood shattered the silence.

All heads snapped toward the noise.

Torstein.

His sword lay forgotten at his feet, his body frozen in place. His face was drained of all color, his lips slightly parted as if he were trying to speak, but no words came. His eyes, wide with fear, were locked onto the water.

A cold chill settled in my gut. Without hesitation, we all turned and peered over the edge of the ship.

At first, there was nothing—just the dark, endless current stretching out before us, gently rocking the boat as it carried us along. The surface was undisturbed, as if nothing had ever been there.

But then, the moaning shifted.

It became whispers.

Soft. Faint. Just on the edge of understanding.

The voices twisted and curled through the air like tendrils of smoke, wrapping around our ears but never forming words we could grasp. It was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It was something else entirely—something unnatural.

The whispering grew fainter… fainter… until finally, it stopped.

And the night was silent once more.

The tension lingered long after the whispers faded into the night. Every man on the ship remained still, their breath held as if releasing it too soon would summon whatever presence had stirred the waters. For a long moment, nothing happened. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only the rhythmic lapping of the river against the hull, as if the Trident itself were trying to lull us into false security.

Slowly, our grips on our weapons loosened. The sharp edge of fear dulled, giving way to cautious relief. We began to let our guard down.

The crew moved hesitantly, exchanging uneasy glances but saying nothing. Some of the men shook their heads as if trying to dispel the lingering unease, while others returned to their spots on the deck, attempting to rest once more. The whispering could be explained away—perhaps it was just the wind, the river playing tricks on our ears. It was easier to believe that than to acknowledge the unnatural.

But then the visions began.

It started with a single gasp—a sharp, strangled sound from a sailor near the bow.

All heads turned toward him as he scrambled backward, his eyes impossibly wide, locked onto something only he could see.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice cutting through the quiet.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, his hand shaking as he pointed toward the water. "They're here," he whispered. "Watching us."

I turned my gaze toward the river, and what I saw made my blood run cold.

Figures—pale and ghostly—were forming just beneath the water's surface, their shapes shifting like mist caught in a breeze. They wore the armor of old, the sigils of long-dead houses barely visible against their spectral forms. Some bore the rusted crowns of ancient kings, their eyes hollow, their expressions solemn. Others were warriors, their armor battered, their weapons lost to the depths.

A low murmur spread across the ship as more men began to see them, their fear bubbling into frantic prayers and curses.

Ragnar gritted his teeth, his axe held tight in his grasp. "This is no trick of the light," he muttered.

Then, the river stirred once more.

A young sailor, no older than sixteen, suddenly let out a strangled cry and fell to his knees. His body shook violently as his hands clutched at his temples. "The voices," he gasped. "The voices of Oldstones!"

His breathing became ragged, his body convulsing. The crew rushed to him, but the moment they touched him, he went still—too still.

Then, his lips parted, and a voice unlike his own came forth. "The past does not rest."

A chill swept through the ship. No one dared to speak.

I knelt beside the boy, my fingers barely grazing his skin. It was ice cold.

"Who speaks?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

The boy's head tilted upward, his unseeing eyes locking onto mine. A flicker of recognition passed through me—not of the boy, but of the presence that had taken hold of him.

"You walk the river of kings," the voice whispered. "And their whispers still linger."

And just like that, the boy collapsed.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The crew stared at him, at me, at the water. No one moved, no one breathed.

I let out a slow exhale, my mind racing. I had always been attuned to arcane energies, to the lingering traces of magic that most men ignored or dismissed as legend. But this… this was different.

This was not just residual magic or lost souls clinging to the world.

This was a warning.

I rose to my feet, casting one last glance at the water, where the ghostly figures had begun to fade back into the river's depths.

The old stories spoke of cursed lands, of lingering spirits tied to the ruins of ancient kings. I had thought them mere tales. But now, as I stood on the deck of my ship with the echoes of the dead still hanging in the air, I knew the truth.

The past was not gone.

And we were not alone.

The ship swayed gently with the river's current, the moonlight casting ghostly silver streaks upon the deck. A damp chill clung to the air, carrying the scent of wet wood and something far older—something forgotten. The crew gathered in a tense half-circle, their faces etched with unease. The moaning had faded, but its echoes still lingered in the minds of every man aboard.

Ragnar stood with his arms crossed, his axe resting against his shoulder. His expression was firm, unwavering. "Enough of this nonsense," he declared, his voice cutting through the night like steel against stone. "Ghosts and curses are the whispers of frightened men. The dead don't rule these waters—we do. Keep your minds on the journey ahead, not on shadows that dance in the river."

The men murmured in agreement, though their eyes betrayed their doubt.

Jeanyx, standing opposite Ragnar, narrowed his gaze. "You're wrong, Ragnar," he said, his voice calm but laced with certainty. He pointed toward the riverbank, where an ancient stone jutted from the earth, weathered by centuries of wind and water. "Look there."

The crew followed his gaze. The stone was covered in runes, faintly glowing under the moonlight—inscriptions left behind by the First Men.

"I've seen markings like these before," Jeanyx continued, stepping forward. "This isn't just some old relic. It speaks of a hidden passage—one carved by the First Men, a secret path meant for those who knew how to find it."

Ragnar scoffed, but curiosity flickered in his eyes. "Does it say where?"

Jeanyx ran his fingers over the worn carvings, tracing each symbol carefully. The stone was eroded, its details lost to time. He frowned, squinting as he pieced together what little he could decipher. "Much of it is lost," he admitted. "But one thing is clear: to find the passage, we must follow the double moon."

Silence fell over the deck.

"The double moon?" Rollo repeated, his brow furrowing. "What in the gods' names does that mean?"

Jeanyx shook his head. "I don't know. Not yet."

Before another word could be said, a sudden wail split the night.

The crew turned just in time to see an older crewman stumble toward the ship's edge, his face twisted in terror. His wide, wild eyes darted frantically around the dark waters, his lips trembling as he mumbled incoherently.

"I can't stay," he choked out, his voice breaking. "The voices… they call for us. This place is cursed, and I won't—I won't die here!"

He lunged toward the edge, ready to hurl himself into the river.

Rollo and Erik reacted first, grabbing the man's arms before he could jump. He thrashed against them, screaming, his fear fueling his strength. "Let me go! I won't be dragged down like my kin!"

"Hold him!" Erik grunted as the man twisted violently. "He's lost his wits!"

Floki, watching the struggle with narrowed eyes, sighed. Without a word, he stepped forward and brought the back of his axe down against the man's skull. The crewman collapsed like a felled tree, his body limp.

Rollo let out a heavy breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Gods, Floki," he muttered. "Did you have to hit him so hard?"

Floki grinned. "He'll wake up with a sore head, but at least he'll wake up on the ship."

The laughter that followed was strained, but it helped to break the suffocating tension.

Still, Jeanyx's eyes remained on the riverbank. His mind raced, turning over the meaning of the double moon. Something was here—something waiting to be uncovered. And he would find it.

His gaze drifted past the stone and onto a boulder further along the shore. Faint carvings stretched across its surface, nearly lost beneath layers of moss and age. Stepping closer, he ran his hand over the engravings, brushing away dirt and decay.

His breath caught.

The carvings depicted creatures unlike any seen in Westeros—serpents with a hundred eyes, great birds wreathed in fire, wolves with twin heads, and figures with elongated limbs and empty faces. Among them, one symbol stood out: two circles overlapping, resembling…

A double moon.

His heart pounded as realization set in.

"The passage exists," he whispered to himself. "And we are not the first to seek it."