the black depths

(Jeanyx's POV)

I let out a slow sigh, absentmindedly twirling my dagger between my fingers as I watched the tunnel walls pass by, their rough, ancient stone illuminated by the dim glow of lanterns hanging from the sides of the ship. The underground river carried us deeper into the forgotten depths, its waters silent except for the occasional ripple against the hull. Only minutes ago, we had gotten past the guardian—a feat that still had my blood humming with adrenaline. But now, as the darkness pressed in around us once more, my thoughts wandered to what other secrets this place held.

From everything we had seen, this passage hadn't been used in centuries. Not since the fall of House Mudd. That alone made it an enigma, a piece of history untouched by time, and I couldn't help but wonder if we were the first to set foot here in a thousand years.

"Hey, Jeanyx," Ragnar's voice broke the silence. I turned my head slightly as he stepped toward me, skillfully avoiding the crew members sprawled out across the deck, resting after our battle. "You think those merchants tried to open the box?"

I smirked at the thought, my mind flickering back to our short stop in Saltpans. "No," I said, leaning back against the railing. "I made sure they followed orders."

(Flashback – Saltpans Dock)

The salty breeze of the harbor mixed with the stench of fish as our ship cut through the waters toward the docks of Saltpans. The sun was beginning its descent, casting a golden hue over the quiet town. It wasn't a major port, nothing like White Harbor or Gulltown, but it was perfect for our purposes—discreet, out of the way, and filled with merchants eager to make a quick deal.

Before we docked, I turned toward my most loyal companion, the monstrous crocodile Tyrasith, whose dark, scaled body lay half-submerged at the edge of the deck. His glowing yellow eyes fixed on me, unblinking, awaiting my command. Nyx, the small bat-like creature perched on my shoulder, let out a soft chitter, also sensing my intent.

"Tyrasith," I said quietly, running a hand over his massive snout. "Go inside."

With a low, rumbling growl, the beast obeyed, his body twisting as he lumbered toward the hidden doorway embedded in the ship's lower deck—a portal leading to the Room of Requirement, concealed from all but those who knew its presence. The shadows seemed to shift as he disappeared into its depths, Nyx fluttering after him without hesitation.

With that done, I adjusted my coat and stepped onto the docks, my eyes scanning the scattered merchants and travelers moving about the town. I needed someone who was already heading toward Winterfell—someone who wouldn't question a sudden shift in cargo. It didn't take long before I found my target.

The merchant was a stocky man with graying hair, his cart loaded with supplies that would be welcomed in the North—furs, grains, barrels of salted fish. He was negotiating with another trader when I approached, my presence making him pause. Before he could question me, I struck.

"Imperio."

The man's eyes clouded instantly, his will bending beneath my control. I stepped closer, lowering my voice as I issued my command.

"You will take a chest, filled with gold, and hide it in your caravan. When you leave Saltpans, you will travel directly to Winterfell. When you arrive, you will tell Lord Rickon Stark that you have a personal delivery for him. The chest is meant only for his hands—no one else may touch it."

The merchant nodded blankly, his mind shackled to my will.

But I wasn't done. Raising my wand slightly, I whispered another enchantment, weaving an intricate layer of magic into the chest itself.

"Anyone who tries to open the chest—anyone who is not of my blood—will fall under the Imperius Curse. They will be compelled to carry the chest straight to my brother."

The magic pulsed through the air as I finished, sealing the fate of any fool who dared tamper with it. Satisfied, I released the merchant, watching as he blinked rapidly before shaking his head, as if waking from a daze.

"You were saying?" his trading partner asked, seemingly unaware of my intervention.

The merchant hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Apologies. I must make preparations for my journey to Winterfell." He turned on his heel, already moving to do exactly as I had instructed.

I smirked to myself as I walked back toward the ship. Everything was in place. The gold would reach its destination, and no one but Rickon would be able to claim it. Anyone else who tried? Well… they'd find themselves on an unplanned journey north, their will no longer their own.

I boarded the ship once more, glancing toward the hidden portal where Tyrasith and Nyx waited. With one last look at the distant hills beyond the port town, I murmured under my breath, "Let's see how long it takes before someone tries to test their luck."

(End of Flashback – Underground River)

Back in the present, I chuckled at the memory, flipping my dagger effortlessly between my fingers. Ragnar raised an eyebrow at me, waiting for more details.

"They didn't try," I said simply. "And even if they did… they wouldn't be trying for long."

Ragnar let out a low whistle. "You and your damn mind tricks."

I smirked but said nothing, my gaze shifting back to the endless dark passage ahead. The river carried us deeper into the forgotten past, and while the fate of the chest was sealed, the mysteries waiting for us in this ancient underworld were still unknown.

And something told me… we had only just begun to unearth them.

The underground river carried us in eerie silence for what felt like an eternity, its inky-black waters slithering through the forgotten depths like a serpent. The only sounds were the rhythmic strokes of the oars and the occasional hushed whisper among the crew, their voices swallowed by the yawning darkness around us. The lanterns flickered, casting long, distorted shadows along the tunnel walls, making it seem as if unseen figures lurked just beyond the light.

Then, finally, the current began to slow. The walls widened, opening into a cavernous chamber where the river came to a gradual end, pooling into a shallow, glassy expanse. The men, grateful to be on solid ground, moved swiftly, securing the boat as they stepped onto the stone landing.

I was the last to rise, running a hand along the boat's sleek wooden surface before withdrawing my wand. With a flick of my wrist, I muttered the incantation. Reducio.

The effect was instantaneous. The boat shrank before our eyes, compressing into a miniature version of itself, no larger than a loaf of bread. A murmur of shock rippled through the crew.

"What in the seven hells—" one of the men blurted, eyes wide as he stumbled back.

"How—how did you do that?" another whispered, as if afraid speaking too loudly would undo whatever magic had just unfolded before them.

I merely smirked, palming the now-tiny boat before placing it inside a reinforced chest. "Magic," I said simply.

Eric, one of my more seasoned men, took the chest without question, hoisting it onto his back with practiced ease. The others, still murmuring among themselves, turned their attention to the passage ahead.

The tunnel leading onward was a labyrinth of ancient passageways, its very air thick with forgotten history. Narrow corridors twisted and turned between towering stone walls, their surfaces adorned with faded murals depicting long-forgotten battles and ceremonies. The faces of kings and warriors, gods and monsters, stared down at us with hollow, unseeing eyes, their stories obscured by centuries of dust and neglect.

The only illumination came from the dim torchlight we carried and the faint phosphorescent glow of ancient runes embedded in the walls. The runes pulsed softly, as if whispering secrets to those who knew how to listen. Their glow reflected off the damp stone floors, creating shifting patterns that danced with every step we took.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, aged stone, and something else—something more elusive. A scent that carried the weight of time itself.

Drip.

A single droplet of water fell from the ceiling, splattering against the stone floor with an echo that seemed to travel for miles.

Drip.

The men tensed at the sound, their hands drifting to their weapons. The silence between each drop stretched uncomfortably, making it impossible to tell whether the echoes that reached us were our own footsteps or something else moving in the dark.

"We're not alone down here," Ragnar muttered, voice low.

I didn't reply. He wasn't wrong.

The occasional distant noises—soft scuffles, whispering winds that had no right to exist underground, and what might have been the faintest of whispers—made the crew uneasy. It was the kind of silence that wasn't truly silence. It was the silence of something watching, waiting, just beyond the edge of perception.

I tightened my grip on my dagger, my instincts prickling. This place had been undisturbed for centuries—perhaps longer. Yet the air still felt… inhabited.

Whatever secrets lay ahead, one thing was certain.

We had entered a place of forgotten gods and lost kings. And they did not welcome intruders.

The labyrinth stretched before us like the coiled intestines of some ancient beast, its winding paths twisting and turning in ways that defied logic. Every corridor seemed to shift under the dim torchlight, the towering stone walls narrowing and widening at odd intervals, as if guiding—or misleading—us through its depths.

The air was thick with dust and the weight of forgotten history. Every step we took sent small clouds of debris swirling into the damp air, particles of time itself disturbed by our intrusion. The floor beneath our boots was uneven, broken by fissures and scattered remnants of a civilization long past.

It was Ragnar who first spotted the remnants.

"Look here," he called, kneeling beside a pile of shattered pottery. His fingers brushed against the jagged edges of what had once been a beautifully crafted vessel, now reduced to brittle shards. The faded remains of intricate carvings hinted at a people who had once thrived in these depths.

Nearby, rusted tools lay abandoned, their metal corroded by time and dampness. Blades dulled, hammerheads crumbling, fragments of weapons and instruments whose purpose was lost to the ages. One of the men picked up a dagger, its hilt wrapped in the remnants of some ancient leather, and tested its weight. The blade snapped in half with a brittle crack.

"This place was lived in once," Eric murmured, his voice reverent. "Whoever they were, they didn't just pass through. They built something here."

I ran my fingers along the walls, feeling the faint indentations of long-worn carvings. Then, beneath a thick layer of dust and grime, I found something more.

Runes.

Not the crude scrawlings of desperate men, nor the simple markings of those merely cataloging their presence. No, these were different. Ancient. Purposeful.

I traced them carefully, my eyes narrowing as I began to decipher the script. The markings were old, older than Valyria, older than the First Men—perhaps even older than the Children of the Forest themselves.

The words spoke of something beyond mere history.

"From the breath of the elder sky, the Frost Serpents were born. Carved from the bones of winter, they drank the cold and exhaled the storm. The oldest of them knew the name of the world before it was shaped. And in their veins, the power of the gods still runs."

Ice Dragons.

I exhaled slowly, my breath visible in the unnaturally cold air. These runes did not merely tell of legends. They were a warning.

Further down the passage, more inscriptions adorned the walls, detailing the powers wielded by the Children of the Forest in their prime. Not just whispers of their connection to nature, but something deeper—something darker.

"From roots deeper than the world itself, the Keepers of the Old Tongue shaped the dawn with their will. Their words were the song of the Weirwoods, their blood the river that bound time and fate. They saw beyond sight, spoke beyond words, and shaped beyond touch."

It spoke of magic unlike anything the world knew now—power that had not been seen since the age before men walked these lands.

I could feel the weight of history pressing down on me, as if the very stones of the labyrinth carried the memories of those who had come before. The men, sensing my tension, stood quietly, watching me with wary eyes.

"This place is more than just ruins," I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's a graveyard of knowledge… and power."

Silence settled over the crew. The faint, distant sound of water dripping echoed through the corridor.

Whatever we had stumbled upon, it was clear now—this place had been forgotten for a reason.

The deeper we ventured, the more the shadows seemed to close in around us. The twisting corridors of the labyrinth swallowed the light of our torches, their flickering glow barely enough to keep the suffocating darkness at bay. The air grew heavier, thick with an eerie stillness that made even the most seasoned of my men glance over their shoulders.

Then came the sounds.

A whisper—soft, indistinct, like the breath of someone just out of reach. It slithered through the passageways, carried on the faintest of breezes, vanishing the moment anyone turned their head to catch its source.

A clatter in the dark—metal against stone, or perhaps bone against bone. The echoing sound sent a shiver down my spine, its origin impossible to place in the twisting labyrinth.

"We're not alone," Ragnar muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on his axe. The others exchanged wary glances, their hands instinctively drifting toward weapons.

I said nothing but kept walking. A wise man knew when to show strength, but a wiser man knew when to conceal fear. Whatever was lurking in the darkness, whether it was something tangible or the restless spirits of this forgotten place, it fed on doubt. And I would not feed it.

Then the ground trembled.

A deep groan resonated through the stone, ancient and unsettling. A moment later, the floor beneath us cracked, and part of the passage behind us gave way in a thunderous crash. Dust and debris filled the air, cutting us off from the path we had come from. A few men stumbled back, coughing, their eyes wide with fear.

"Seven hells," one of them cursed. "We're trapped."

A sudden gust of wind howled through the corridor, bitterly cold and unnatural, as if the labyrinth itself had drawn breath. The torches flickered violently, some nearly snuffing out, and for the briefest moment, the shadows seemed to shift—like figures standing just beyond the reach of the firelight. Watching. Waiting.

Panic threatened to take hold. The men were hardened warriors and sailors, but this place was unlike any battlefield or storm they had faced before. There was no enemy they could cut down, no tide they could ride out. The unknown was far more terrifying than any sword.

I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the rising unease.

"Enough."

The word rang with authority, grounding them, pulling their minds away from the whispers of fear. I met their gazes, one by one, steady and unwavering.

"This place was built to unnerve, to test those who trespass," I said. "But it's not the stone that decides our fate. It's us."

I motioned for Eric to bring the map we had acquired from the ruined archives of House Mudd's last stronghold. Unrolling it against the damp stone wall, I traced our path with my finger, cross-referencing with the faint runes we had passed along the way.

"There's another way forward," I continued, tapping a point further along the tunnel. "The structure here is weak, but it hasn't collapsed yet. We press on, we move carefully, and we keep our heads."

The crew nodded, some hesitantly, others more resolutely. Fear still lingered in their eyes, but they trusted me.

The labyrinth was old, older than our ancestors, older than the kingdoms that now ruled Westeros. Whatever secrets it held, it did not want to give up lightly. But I had no intention of letting this place decide our fates.

With torches held high, we moved forward, deeper into the abyss, where the whispering shadows awaited.

We moved in silence, the only sounds our cautious footsteps and the distant, rhythmic drip of water from unseen cracks in the stone above. The air was thick, damp with the weight of centuries, and it smelled of dust, decay, and something else—something I couldn't quite place. A lingering presence, like the echo of a breath that had been exhaled long ago but never faded.

The walls bore the scars of time, their surfaces rough and cracked. Some sections had collapsed into rubble, forcing us to climb or squeeze through narrow gaps. Others were adorned with murals so faded they were barely visible, yet still, I traced my fingers over them, feeling the indentations where careful hands had once carved stories into stone.

These were not just the remnants of any lost civilization. No, this was something older—something far older than the Andal kingdoms or even the First Men.

As we navigated the twisting corridors, we came across the remnants of those who had walked these halls before us. Shattered pottery, rusted tools, and brittle bones lay scattered in forgotten alcoves. The remains of travelers? Or those who had called this place home?

Eric paused before an inscription etched into the rock. His torchlight revealed the ancient runes, their edges worn yet still decipherable.

"What does it say?" Ragnar asked, his voice hushed, as if he feared the walls themselves might be listening.

I studied the markings carefully. The script was similar to the runes I had seen in the ruins of the Children of the Forest—twisting, curling symbols that carried an eerie, almost musical rhythm when read aloud. But there was something else here, something intertwined with the old tongue.

"It speaks of the Ice Dragons," I murmured, running my fingers over the worn words. "And of something even older—the first bloodlines, the primordial days when magic was raw and untamed."

The men shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances. Ice Dragons were the stuff of legend, creatures whispered of in hushed tales by northern elders and maesters who half-dismissed their existence. But if this place spoke of them, if their memory had been etched into stone… then perhaps they were more than myth.

"These runes…" I continued, my voice barely above a whisper, "they reference the Children of the Forest, their power, their knowledge of things that even the Valyrians never understood."

A cold draft swept through the passageway, carrying with it the faintest sound—like a sigh, or the distant rustle of unseen wings. The flames of our torches flickered, casting erratic shadows against the walls.

"Whatever this place was," Eric muttered, "it wasn't just a passage. It was something sacred."

Sacred. Or cursed.

I straightened, rolling my shoulders to shake off the unease creeping up my spine. "Come," I said, motioning for the others to follow. "We're getting closer."

We pressed on, each step taking us deeper into the forgotten past. The passages wound in erratic, unnatural patterns, as if the very design of the labyrinth sought to disorient those who walked it. The darkness seemed thicker here, pressing in at the edges of our light, almost… watching.

Then, suddenly, the path opened into a vast chamber.

We halted at the threshold, our torchlight spilling across an ancient hall, its ceiling lost to darkness. Towering pillars lined the space, their surfaces covered in carvings that pulsed faintly with a soft, blue glow. At the center of the chamber lay a massive circular dais, its surface embedded with runes that formed an intricate spiral pattern.

And beyond that—

A door.

Not an ordinary door of wood or iron, but a monolithic slab of black stone, its surface etched with veins of ice that shimmered in the dim light.

The air was colder here, unnaturally so. Each breath came out in a mist, curling like ghostly tendrils in the torchlight.

"This is it," I murmured.

The heart of the labyrinth.

And whatever secrets it held… they were waiting.

Tension hung thick in the stale underground air, coiling through the ranks like a serpent waiting to strike. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across the damp stone walls, making the hardened men who stood before me appear even more restless, their faces lined with uncertainty.

We had been pressing deeper into the labyrinth for hours, and the weight of the unknown was beginning to take its toll. The narrow corridors, the ghostly whispers, the eerie carvings of forgotten gods—it all played tricks on their minds. The deeper we went, the more the unease festered, spreading like rot through the crew.

"I say we turn back," Roderick declared, his voice laced with frustration. His broad frame was tense, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. "This place isn't right. We've already seen enough to know it's cursed. Look around you! Have any of you seen a single sign that someone has walked these halls in hundreds of years? There's a reason for that."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through a small faction of the crew. Others remained silent, shifting uneasily, their eyes darting toward me, waiting for my response.

Ragnar snorted, stepping forward with a defiant smirk. "Cursed? Or untouched riches just waiting for us to claim them?" He crossed his arms, looking at the doubters with a mixture of disdain and amusement. "You think the legends of Ice Dragons and the Children of the Forest scare me? They should scare the lords in their high castles—not us. We've fought worse, bled for less."

"Aye," Eric added, nodding toward me. "Jeanyx brought us here for a reason. He wouldn't lead us into a death trap."

I could feel the weight of their gazes on me. Some filled with trust. Others, with doubt. The room was divided—those who saw this journey as an opportunity for glory and those who feared we were marching to our doom.

"You think the gold is worth it?" Roderick pressed, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. "Worth what? Losing more men? We almost lost three back there when the ground nearly swallowed them whole. What happens next, eh? A ceiling collapse? A damned demon rising from the depths?" He gestured wildly toward the dark passage ahead. "Look at this place! Every step forward is a step further into something we don't understand."

"The unknown is only dangerous to cowards," Ragnar shot back.

That was enough to set off a ripple of anger. Two men—Dain and Harl—stepped forward, both gripping their weapons. "Watch your tongue," Dain warned. "You don't get to question a man's courage just because he's got the sense to know when a fight isn't worth having."

Ragnar didn't back down. "And you don't get to decide when we cut and run like scared pups."

The air thickened with hostility, hands twitching near hilts, shoulders squared. A fight was brewing, and the deeper truth of it was clear—this wasn't just about the labyrinth. It was about power. About control. About who would lead if doubt in me took root.

I had no intention of letting it.

"Enough." My voice cut through the rising tension like a blade. The men froze, their arguments dying on their lips as I stepped forward. I met Roderick's gaze first, then Ragnar's, ensuring both sides knew who commanded here. "This is no time for petty squabbles. You think this place is cursed?" I turned slightly, gesturing at the winding tunnels around us. "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. But I do know this—fortune has always belonged to those willing to risk everything to seize it. We didn't come here to cower at shadows."

The doubters exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared voice another protest.

I stepped closer to Roderick. "If you want to turn back, you can. But don't expect to be welcomed when we return with riches beyond your imagination. And if you think you can take what I've built, what I've planned, you'd best kill me where I stand." My voice dropped into something colder. "Because I don't forgive betrayal."

Silence. Heavy, weighted, stretching long enough for the torch flames to flicker.

Roderick clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his hilt—then, finally, he exhaled sharply and stepped back. He didn't look pleased, but he gave a begrudging nod. "Fine. We go forward."

The tension remained, thick and unspoken, but the challenge had been settled—for now. I had put down the seeds of rebellion, but I knew better than to think they had been destroyed.

No, this was only the beginning.

Loyalties had been tested tonight. And soon, they would be tested again.