In the chaotic aftermath of the battle, Stoney Sept was a mess of rebel banners and wounded men. Inside the Peach, in a room that still smelled of cheap wine and blood, Robert Baratheon held court from his sickbed. His thunderous laughter bounced off the walls as he recounted his tale to a grim-faced Eddard Stark and a wary Hoster Tully.
"Not men, Ned! I tell you, they were shadows given form!" Robert boomed, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches in his side. "They didn't speak. Just moved through Connington's best like a butcher through a flock of hens. Gone before I could even thank them."
Eddard Stark, ever the pragmatist, shook his head. "And the fog? Maester Arryk says it was a freak weather pattern, a river mist..."
"A river mist that only blinded the enemy?" Robert shot back, his eyes flashing. "A mist that came and went with the tide of the battle? No. It was them. It was their magic."
An old Northman, a knight from House Manderly who had been at the Bear Island skirmish as a boy, cleared his throat. "My lord," he said, addressing Ned. "The men are whispering. The stories from the old sailors... of silent warriors in black armor who came from the sea. They're calling them the 'Sea Wolves'."
The name hung in the air. The connection was instantly made. The mysterious saviors of the Mormonts, dismissed by many in the south as a fanciful northern tale, had just appeared in the heart of the Riverlands and saved the leader of the rebellion. This was no longer a dismissible legend.
"Sea Wolves," Robert tested the name, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "I like it. Find them, Ned. Find these Sea Wolves of yours. By the gods, with warriors like that on our side, we could take King's Landing tomorrow."
"We don't know who they are, Robert," Ned cautioned, his voice low and serious. "Or what their motives are. They are a power we do not understand. They aided us today, but they are an unknown."
Deep beneath the waters of the Trident, we heard it all. The Odyssey's listening devices brought the conversations of the rebel lords to us with perfect clarity. On the bridge, Torren allowed himself a small, proud smile.
"Sea Wolves," he said. "It has a good ring to it."
"It's a name that will travel," I agreed, watching the holographic display. "And a legend they can rally behind." The pull of the curse was already a heavy chain, dragging my senses back towards our distant sanctuary. The leash was shorter than I'd hoped. Our intervention had to be brief.
The journey home was a silent one. We had danced on the edge of history, felt the heat of the forge that was shaping the future of Westeros, and now we were retreating back to our cold, silent paradise. We returned to the Silent Keep to find it exactly as we had left it, the great eagles soaring over the peaks, the aurochs grazing in their hidden valley, all of it untouched by the bloody chaos we had just left behind.
Days turned into weeks. In the Eye, we watched the consequences of our actions ripple across the Seven Kingdoms. The morale of the rebel army soared, bolstered by tales of divine or magical intervention. The Targaryen loyalists were spooked, their men whispering fearfully about the shadow demons of the Trident. We watched as the war raged on—the Sack of King's Landing, the Battle of the Trident where Rhaegar fell, the end of a dynasty.
We were forced to be spectators to it all. The curse held me fast to Aegis. There were no new summons, no moments the ancient magic deemed pivotal enough to release me. My power was an ocean, but the curse was a lock on the floodgates, allowing only a trickle to pass at its own choosing.
I stood on the highest tower of the Silent Keep, looking west towards a home I could not reach, a war I could not fight, and a family I could not aid. We had given the world a new story to tell, but we were once again prisoners of our own silence, waiting for the world to need its myths again.