The ramp of the Odyssey lowered onto the stone quay of Aegis, and the Darklyn family took their first hesitant steps into their new world. The air was clean and carried the scent of pine and sea salt, but it was the sounds that first struck them—the distant cry of a great eagle, the murmur of unfamiliar languages, and the faint, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. This was no empty island.
Awaiting them at the end of the quay was Torren, alongside a man who seemed carved from the very rock of the island. He was tall and broad, with a long, grey-streaked beard braided in the fashion of the First Men. His eyes were the color of a winter sky, and he wore a simple tunic of dark leather.
"Lord Rudr," the old man said, his voice a low gravelly rumble. He gave a respectful nod, his gaze taking in the newcomers with a stoic, unreadable expression. "Welcome back. The harvests in the western valley were strong. A new griffon hatched in the aviary three nights ago. And there was a minor dispute over water rights between the Mudds and the Shells, but it is resolved."
Rudr nodded, absorbing the report. "Thank you, Oric. Are our guests' chambers prepared?"
"They are," Oric confirmed.
Rudr turned to the bewildered Darklyns. "Lord Denys, Lady Serala, this is Oric, one of the first sons of this island. He will see to your immediate needs. First, allow me to show you the nature of this place."
What followed was not an escort to their chambers, but a tour that systematically dismantled their understanding of the world. Rudr led them through the thriving community at the base of the Silent Keep. They saw children with the violet eyes of Old Valyria playing a game of stones with boys and girls who had the dark, earthy features of the First Men. They passed a forge where a descendant of the Marsh Kings was working the bellows, his family's sigil proudly displayed on a leather apron. In a vast, sunlit garden, a woman with a garland of flowers in her hair looked up from her work and smiled; Lord Denys felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the sigil of House Gardener, a house he believed had been utterly destroyed by dragonfire three centuries ago.
The tour culminated at the great, crystal-walled conservatory. Inside, the myths of Westeros lived and breathed. A herd of shaggy aurochs grazed peacefully. In a deep, cool grotto, a pair of true direwolves, their coats the color of snow, watched them with ancient intelligence. And high above, on a rocky ledge, a young griffin stretched its magnificent wings, its cry echoing through the cavern.
Lord Denys stared, his personal tragedy, his lost city, his defiance—it all seemed like a small, petty thing in the face of this impossible reality. He looked at Rudr, who stood watching his reaction.
"How?" the former Lord of Duskendale whispered.
"The world outside is a storm of fire and blood," Rudr said, his voice quiet but resonant. "Kings and conquerors burn the great libraries of history to the ground. I simply refuse to let all the books be lost. Every life here is a library I was not willing to let burn."
That evening, after the Darklyn family had been settled into their new life, Rudr and Torren stood on the highest battlement of the Silent Keep. The unfamiliar stars of their hidden sea glittered overhead. For a long time, neither man spoke, listening to the sound of the wind and the distant cries of the creatures in the conservatory.
It was Torren who broke the silence, his gaze fixed on the western horizon, where Westeros lay. "Seeing them," he said quietly, "Lord Denys, his wife, their sons... a whole family, together and safe. It reminds you what all this is for." He paused, turning to face Rudr. "But it also reminds me of what we left behind. The vision... you saw Lord Eddard. Your kin. We build this refuge for Gardeners and Mudds, but what of our own blood?"
Rudr looked out at the dark water. "He is the descendant of my brother, Torren. But what am I to him? A ghost from the Age of Heroes? A sorcerer with a private army of the extinct? My presence in his life could bring more danger than any war."
"Or it could bring salvation," Torren countered, his voice firm. "The vision was a warning that their house will face a great war. We can't stand here polishing the relics of the past while their future burns. We gave the Mormonts a myth. We gave the rebels a ghost. It's time we gave our own family a man."
The words struck home, cutting through centuries of self-imposed isolation. Torren was right. The ark was safe. The past was secure. The curse felt weaker now, the tether longer than it had ever been, granting him the freedom to choose his own path for a time. The future was what mattered now.
A slow smile touched Rudr's lips. "You always were the wise one." He clasped his friend's shoulder. "You're right. Oric and the council can manage Aegis. The time for waiting is over."
He turned and led the way from the battlements, his steps filled with a new, decisive energy. "Come," Rudr said, a fire in his eyes that Torren hadn't seen in years. "To the command center."
They made their way to the heart of the keep, to the dark, circular chamber that housed the holographic map of Westeros. They called it 'the Eye,' for it was their only window to the world they had left behind.
Rudr stood before the shimmering continent, his gaze fixed on the North. He reached out, and the map zoomed in, the ancient and unmistakable silhouette of a castle resolving in the glowing light.
"I have neglected my own blood for too long," he said, his voice low but clear. "It is time I had a proper look at the home of my brother's descendents. It is time to look at Winterfell."