Five years passed in the unbroken silence of Aegis. The seasons turned, the sea mists rolled in and out, and our fortress became a home, filled with the comfortable routines of two people who knew each other's thoughts before they were spoken. The desperate, driving energy of our first years here was replaced by a patient, focused discipline.
We were no longer just building; we were studying. In the heart of the Silent Keep, I fashioned a new room, a chamber of polished black stone without windows or doors, accessible only by a hidden panel. We called it the 'Eye.' Inside, a perfect, shimmering hologram of Westeros floated in the air, a living map created from the Odyssey's constant, passive surveillance of the continent. From our sanctuary, we watched the world turn. We saw the movements of ships, the changing of seasons in the North, the growing decadence of King's Landing under Aerys Targaryen. We watched my cousin Brandon Stark grow into a fiery young man, his brother Eddard more reserved and solemn. We were ghosts, observing a life we were meant to have.
This knowledge shaped our training. It was no longer just about survival. We studied statecraft, military history, and logistics. Torren, using the vast library, became a master tactician, devouring the histories of the world's greatest commanders. My power, too, turned towards more delicate work. Deep within the island's central mountain, I carved out a vast cavern, a conservatory lit by a soft, artificial sun. Here, I began my work of preservation, recreating creatures from the lore of two worlds: great shaggy aurochs grazed on lush grass, and in the high crags, a pair of northern eagles, larger than any living man had seen, made their nest.
Yet, the silence was a constant companion. The loneliness was a quiet but heavy cloak. One evening, I found Torren on the battlements, staring west into the endless ocean, his expression hard. He had been sparring for hours, a relentless, punishing pace that spoke of a restless mind.
"You miss it," I said, not as a question.
"I miss the noise," he admitted, not looking at me. "The smell of a crowded hall. The laughter of men sharing a drink. The feeling of belonging to something more than just… this." He swept his arm out, indicating our perfect, empty kingdom.
"What we are doing here is for them, Torren," I said softly. "So that one day, halls like that won't fall silent forever."
He nodded, the tension leaving his shoulders. "I know. But the waiting is a war in itself."
He was right. And it was a war that was nearing its end. A few months later, I was in the conservatory when the pull came again. It was not the sharp, urgent tug of the Bear Island summons. This was a deeper, stronger, and more insistent call. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and the very air seemed to hum with significance. The leash had been let out again, and this time, it felt significantly longer.
I met Torren in the Eye, my hand on my chest where the curse's mark lay dormant. He knew at once. On the holographic map, a specific region glowed with a faint, pulsing light, the epicenter of the summons.
It was not the North.
"The Riverlands," Torren breathed, his eyes wide. He pointed to a location where the great river Trident branched. "There. Near a town called Stoney Sept."
We didn't know the cause, only the location and the overwhelming sense of impending, historic conflict. We moved to the Odyssey, our preparations swift and silent. We were not the same men who had sailed to Bear Island. Five more years of training, study, and shared purpose had hardened us. Our armor was improved, our strategy refined, our resolve absolute.
As the Odyssey slid once more into the cold, dark sea, Torren stood beside me on the bridge. "The whispers of the Sea Wolves have faded into legend," he said. "People have begun to doubt they were ever real."
I looked at the glowing map, at the distant conflict that had summoned us from our isolation.
"It's time to give them a new story to tell."