I wanted to share this teaser as a proof of concept. It's still subject to change, but it offers a glimpse into the story's essence. The song featured is a reimagining of GRRM's I Am the Last of the Giants, which has always resonated with me and serves as the main theme of this tale. I hope you enjoy it!


Prologue:

The skies had once burned a crimson haze, fractured by lightning and choked with the acrid scent of smoke. Odin's lone eye, fierce yet brimming with sorrow, had met the storm of rage in Loki's. Around them, Jotunheim lay shattered, the earth splitting beneath the weight of the fallen. The final clash of Ragnarok had come and passed, leaving a fragile, bitter victory for the Aesir in its wake.

Odin's voice had cut through the stillness, sharp as a splintered branch. "Loki, it doesn't have to end like this." Blood and sweat streaked his rune-inscribed robes, the weight of his words pulling him down, stripped of fire and pride—just a plea.

Loki stood rigid, fingers curled into fists so tightly his nails bit into scarred palms. Skadi's lifeless eyes stared from the corners of his memory, their winter's brilliance extinguished. She had fought for Asgard, against him, and she had paid for it with her life. Another bond severed, another heart lost to the abyss.

"Save your breath, All-Father," Loki spat, the frost in his voice cutting deeper than any blade. "My people are gone. Genocide, brother—that is your legacy." His rage was ice, splintering yet brittle. Odin's face shifted, the grief deepening in lines etched by centuries.

"Her child lives," Odin said, each word heavy as stone. "You are not the last of the Jotun. She is part Vanir, part Jotun. Sent away before the nine realms fell to madness, the first new life among us since Thor's sons were born."

The flame of Loki's fury faltered, the storm in his eyes flickering as he searched Odin's face for a lie and found none. Around them, the spectral presence of warriors and gods seemed to draw closer, their silence heavier than battle's roar.

"There must be more than ashes and ghosts, brother," Odin's voice fell to a whisper, an edge of desperation to it. "This cannot be all we leave behind. Unite, for her, for what remains."

A silence settled, thick and suffocating. Loki's shoulders fell, the tempest in him quieted, if only for a heartbeat. "She comes with me to Jotunheim," he said, his voice a hollow echo of what it once was.

Odin's brow creased, pain too deep for words shadowing his face. "Jotunheim is no more. Asgard is her rightful place."

Weapons rose, Odin's Gugnir gleaming, Loki's Laevateinn vibrating with restrained power. Before the clash erupted, Loki's voice cut through the tension. "Midgard," he said, a single word carrying a fragile hope.

A silent pact sealed in the tension between them, obvious in its simplicity.

So it was that Sylfrid grew in the harsh, untamed wilderness of Alaska and the frozen expanse of Northern Canada. The trees whispered tales of gods and giants, while waves broke with secrets older than mankind. Uncles came and went like shadows, shaping her spirit—the child born of frost and sea, a goddess of the hunt and tides, heir to a shattered legacy, and sister to royalty.

Sylfrid grew up in the wilds of Alaska and Northern Canada, where towering evergreens stretched endlessly beneath skies of deep, piercing blue. She roamed the dense forests and carved paths along icy rivers, her laughter mingling with the rush of water and wind. The sea called to her, its frigid embrace familiar and soothing, while the snow whispered old secrets as it fell. Her childhood was marked by the watchful eyes of her uncles, who came and went like shadows, guiding her, teaching her to harness her power as the Goddess of the Hunt and Sea—an embodiment of frost, ferocity, and untold wealth.


Sylfrid Njordsdottir's PoV:

For the first time, I would step beyond the lands claimed by my uncles—their realm upon Midgard—and my heart pounded with exhilaration. The forest enveloped me, familiar yet charged with the thrill of leaving. I sprinted through the trees, my feet dancing as roots and stones seemed to yield under each stride. The wind raced behind me, but I was faster, an untamed goddess of the wild. My destination lay far to the east, on the rugged coast of Canada. Only once had I ventured that far, and beyond it, the sea—my sea—awaited, ready to carry me south.

"Caution, Sylfrid," Uncle Ode had warned, his gaze stern, carved with the weight of worry. "There are gods there, older than you, ancient in their power. Your strength will not match theirs, not here in Midgard." His words clung to me like a shadow, but I shook them off with the recklessness of youth. He didn't understand—I wasn't just the daughter of frost and sea; I was the wild north itself. I had no intention of heeding the warnings of gods who lived by rules I had never known.

This would be the first time I left my northern dominion, save for the two rare times I had ventured beyond Midgard. Once to Asgard's gilded halls, where Uncle Ode's regret resonated in songs that drifted through the sparsely populated chambers; and once to the wild expanse of Jotunheim, where Uncle Lok's laughter masked an unspoken grief. Each journey etched itself into my being, as indelible as any birthright.

The north had become my kingdom, vast and cold, molded by frost and the restless sea. My only encounters with Midgard's gods had been with Boreas, the mighty lord of the northern winds, and his daughter Khione. She was my only friend—a sister of ice and solitude.

Now, as the forest thinned and the scent of salt brine seeped into the air, I felt freedom pulse beneath my skin. Caution was for those who doubted their place in the world; I was ready to claim mine. The nine realms had retreated from Midgard long ago, during the reign of the Titans, leaving only whispers and myths behind. I would be no different; I would move like a ghost through a world that had forgotten us.


Where The North Meets The Sea:

I drifted south, carried by the waves. As I left my kingdom of northern seas—the cold, wild expanse that defined me—I felt my control waning. Yet, even this far from home, the sea recognized me as its goddess, bending to my will. I swam amongst the sharks and orcas, their dark eyes reflecting reverence as they followed in my wake. I was their queen, the huntress of the northern sea, and they bowed to my beauty and majesty even here, far from my icy domain.

Days passed as the rocky coasts of Maine emerged on the horizon. I explored their dense forests, running with the moose and hunting them in equal measure. The pulse of the wilderness matched my heartbeat, raw and untamed. From there, I journeyed past New Hampshire and its granite-strewn hills, down into Massachusetts, where I caught my first true taste of mankind's so-called civilization. It was loud and jarring, brash in its movement, yet it held a certain charm that made me linger.

And then, I saw it: a structure that defied the skyline, towering like a palace of kings, as it should, for it was. Olympus in its modern shell, rising above New York. I hesitated at the edge of the city, keenly aware of the power that thrummed there—too close to the Greek gods' reach. Turning my gaze away, I reminded myself of my promise to return north. Yet, even as I willed myself to start the journey back, I felt the pull of a familiar place. I had stopped there on my way down: a beach called Montauk.

The first time, I found nothing tangible, only an unexplainable connection to the sea that seemed to seep into the bones of the earth itself. Now, as I returned to its shores, the feeling was stronger, undeniable. The waves whispered secrets in a language I instinctively understood. I decided to stay, just for a few days. My journey had already extended far beyond its original bounds; what harm could a little more time bring?


Poseidon PoV:

I strode along my favorite beach, the familiar hiss of waves meeting sand soothing my restless mind. This shore had always been my sanctuary when the weight of my duties pressed too heavily on me. But today, the pull that drew me here was different. There was a presence—new and intoxicating—that had been teasing the edges of my awareness. I had sensed it traveling southward, always slipping away just as I drew near, like a playful current evading my grasp. It had been a dance across the Atlantic, elusive and maddening. But now, it lingered here, in this place that was mine. My curiosity had grown too strong, my interest too overpowering to ignore.

I walked with purpose, letting my consciousness unfurl across the sands and sea, searching. The divine aura I sought was close, tantalizing and powerful. That's when I heard it—a song carried on the wind, ancient and mournful.

Ooooooh, I am the last of the Jotun,
My people are gone, like leaves on the breeze.
Ooooooh, I am the fading echo,
Of giants who once stood as tall as the trees.

The Aesir have burned through my forests,
They scorched my rivers and shattered my hills.
They plundered the heart of my magic,
And left me to wander where the frost never stills.

Ooooooh, in their halls they stoke the fires,
On thrones of gold, they feast and sing.
Yet the shadow of my kind still lingers,
A sorrow that clings like the winter's sting.

I haunt them with whispers of mourning,
And they haunt me with the echo of regret.
For gods who were small could never rise tall,
While giants still walked where the heavens were set.

Ooooooh, I am the LAST of the Jotun,
A lament of ice, a grief carved in stone.
When my voice fades, remember my song,
For silence will come when I'm gone and alone.

O Aesir, your thunder still echoes,
Your hammers still strike, but what did you gain?
Your triumph is hollow, your victory bitter,
For you slew your brother, and all that remains.

Ooooooh, I am the LAST of the Jotun,
The price of a kingdom, the cost of a crown.
When my song fades, may the world still remember,
What's lost to the snow when the mighty fall down.

The voice was haunting, a lament woven with power and pain. It resonated deep in the marrow of the earth and in the swell of the sea. I stood still, listening, my breath caught between wonder and sorrow.

And so I went to her.

The waves shifted around me, parting with the reverence reserved for their king. Each step carried me closer to the source of the song, the air thick with salt and the ancient stories it whispered. My senses sharpened, picking up the faint glow of divine energy that pulsed in the distance like a heartbeat. It was raw, untamed—familiar and alien all at once.

There, standing on the shoreline where water met sand, was the source of that mournful hymn. Her hair, a cascade of pale frost, shimmered in the fading light. Eyes that mirrored the northern skies turned toward me, wary yet resolute. She was young, but the weight of her song spoke of lifetimes.

I paused, letting the silence between us deepen. The sea sighed at our feet, as if holding its breath.

"You sing of an old pain," I said, my voice low, laden with the weight of countless tides and tempests. "But why sing it here?"

Her gaze, sharp as winter, met mine. And in that moment, the last of the Jotun and the god of the sea stood face to face, with the echoes of gods and giants whispering in the spaces between.

"A song of regret, taught to me by my uncle—the man who slew my people and shattered my home," the goddess replied.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"My family knows me as Sylfrid Njordsdottir," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. "But I prefer the name mortals have given me: Sally Jackson."