The city of Chroyane shimmered under the light of the setting sun, its marble towers reflecting the golden hues of the sky. The River Rhoyne, wide and majestic, flowed serenely through the heart of the city, its surface dotted with graceful swan boats and merchant vessels. Along the banks, the Palace of Love stood proud, its alabaster walls adorned with intricate carvings depicting the Rhoynar's history—heroes of old, the blessings of Mother Rhoyne, and their unity with the great river.
Inside the palace, Princess Serelitha paced the grand hall. The air was heavy with tension, the distant roar of dragonfire and the cries of the wounded echoing through the city. Messengers rushed in and out, their faces pale as they relayed news of the Valyrian onslaught.
"They've breached the northern gates, Your Grace," one of the guards reported, his voice trembling. "The dragons are burning everything."
Serelitha clenched her fists, her ornate silver bracelets jangling. "Send the river warriors to flank them. Use the mist and the reeds to their advantage."
The guard hesitated. "The warriors… they're falling back. The fire is too great. Even the waters cannot quench it."
Her heart sank, but she masked her fear. "The river has always been our ally," she said, more to herself than to the guard. "It will not abandon us now."
She dismissed the messenger and turned to the council gathered in the chamber. Water priests clad in flowing blue robes stood alongside generals, their faces grim.
"Is the artifact ready?" she asked.
The High Priestess of Mother Rhoyne, an elderly woman with hair like silver reeds, nodded. "The Scepter of Nymeria has been secured in the crypt beneath the palace. It will not fall into their hands."
"Good," Serelitha replied, though her voice faltered. She gazed out the open window, where smoke rose in dark plumes above the city. The cries of her people reached her ears—women and children fleeing as dragonlords descended from the sky, their fire scorching all in their path.
As the Valyrian forces closed in, Serelitha led her council to the sacred fountain of Mother Rhoyne in the heart of the palace. The fountain, a marvel of Rhoynar craftsmanship, was said to be a direct link to the river goddess herself.
The High Priestess raised her hands, chanting in the ancient Rhoynish tongue. The waters of the fountain began to ripple, glowing with a faint silvery light. Serelitha knelt beside the fountain, her hands submerged in its cool embrace.
"Mother Rhoyne," she whispered, "hear the plea of your children. Rise and defend us as you have done in ages past."
The waters responded, surging with unnatural force. Outside, the river itself seemed to awaken, its calm surface turning into a churning maelstrom. Walls of water rose along the city's edges, sweeping away Valyrian soldiers and extinguishing dragonfire.
But the dragons themselves were relentless. One swooped low, its fiery breath scorching the palace walls. Serelitha shielded her face as the heat blasted through the chamber.
Realizing the battle was lost, Serelitha turned to the High Priestess. "Ensure the scepter is hidden. It must not fall into their hands."
The priestess hesitated. "But, Your Grace—"
"There is no time!" Serelitha shouted. "Do it!"
As the priestess and her attendants hurried to the crypt, Serelitha made her way to the balcony overlooking the river. The Valyrians had breached the palace gates. Dragonlords on their scaled beasts hovered in the skies, raining fire upon the defenders.
"Mother Rhoyne," Serelitha called out one last time. "If I must fall, let my death not be in vain. Protect the river. Protect its children."
The river answered. A massive wave rose from its depths, engulfing the lower city and swallowing the advancing Valyrian forces. But it was not enough to stop the dragons.
As the flames consumed the Palace of Love, Serelitha stood tall, her silhouette framed against the inferno. Her final words were a whisper carried on the wind:
"One day, the river will rise again."
The city of Norvos clung to the rocky hills like a stubborn vine, its narrow streets winding through terraces of dark stone buildings. Bells tolled in the distance, their somber tones echoing across the hills and down to the river below, where boats moved lazily along the dark waters. To the Norvosi, the bells were sacred, each one marking the hours of devotion, labor, or reflection. But for the Rhoynish people living in the shadow of the Norvosi priesthood, the bells were a constant reminder of their subjugation.
Nyra crouched beside a crumbling shrine nestled in the hills outside the city walls, hidden beneath a thicket of tangled vines. The shrine was a relic of the Rhoynar, its weathered stone carvings depicting the flowing currents of the River Rhoyne and the silhouette of a woman's face—Mother Rhoyne, their goddess and lifeblood.
Nyra wiped sweat from her brow as she scrubbed moss from the shrine's surface. The damp green film clung stubbornly to the ancient stone, but she pressed on, her hands raw and aching. The shrine had been forgotten by most, its location known only to a few of the dwindling Rhoynish community who still clung to their faith in secret.
"Why do you even bother?" grumbled Vellon, an elder water priest seated on a nearby rock. His frail hands rested on a crooked staff, his pale blue robes patched and faded. "The Norvosi won't tolerate our traditions much longer. They think us relics of a dead people."
Nyra paused, glancing back at him. "Mother Rhoyne isn't dead. As long as her waters flow, so does her strength." She turned back to her work, more determined now. "And if we don't honor her, who will?"
Vellon sighed heavily, muttering to himself about the stubbornness of youth. He had been Nyra's guardian since she was an infant, taking her in after her parents—enslaved laborers—died in one of the Norvosi quarries. He saw the spark of defiance in her eyes, the same spark that had cost many Rhoynar their lives over the centuries.
Nyra's hands froze as her fingers brushed against something beneath the moss. It felt different—smooth and hard, unlike the rough stone carvings. She leaned closer, scraping away more of the green growth until she uncovered a narrow groove etched into the shrine. Following the groove, she uncovered a series of symbols she didn't recognize, forming a strange, flowing script.
"Vellon," she called softly. "Come look at this."
The old priest hobbled over, peering at the uncovered script. His eyes widened, and he muttered a curse under his breath. "Where did you find this?"
"Here, on the shrine," Nyra said, brushing away more moss to reveal an intricate carving of a river winding through a mountain range. At its center was a faint outline of a scepter.
Vellon's hands trembled as he traced the carving. "This… this is old. Older than anything we have here. It might date back to the time before the Doom." His voice was tinged with both awe and fear.
Nyra leaned closer. "What does it mean?"
The priest hesitated, as if debating whether to share his thoughts. Finally, he sighed. "It's a map, or part of one. And the symbols… they're Valyrian, but mixed with Rhoynish script. It's an ancient language, long forgotten."
Nyra's heart raced. "A map to what?"
Vellon shook his head. "To nothing that concerns us." He straightened, gripping his staff. "Cover it up. Forget you ever saw it."
"What?" Nyra's voice rose in disbelief. "You just said it's ancient. It could lead to something important. Maybe it's connected to the prophecy."
Vellon's face darkened. "There is no prophecy, Nyra. Just old stories meant to comfort a broken people. Don't let your curiosity lead you to ruin."
Nyra stood, anger simmering beneath her calm exterior. "You can live in fear if you want, but I won't. If this map can help us reclaim even a fragment of what we've lost, then it's worth the risk."
Vellon glared at her, but there was no mistaking the pride flickering in his eyes. "You're as reckless as your mother was. Fine, do as you will. But if the Norvosi catch wind of this, it will be your neck on the line, not mine."
Nyra didn't respond. Her mind was already racing, piecing together the fragments of the carving and what it could mean. She spent the rest of the day carefully copying the symbols and the map onto a piece of cloth, hiding it beneath her tunic when she returned to the small Rhoynish enclave in the city.
Nyra lay awake in her cramped quarters, the faint sound of the bells drifting through the window. The map and symbols burned in her mind, filling her with a sense of purpose she hadn't felt before. The prophecy was real. She was sure of it.
The whispers of her people echoed in her thoughts: When the river runs silver under the blood moon, the Rhoyne shall rise again, and the children of the river shall reclaim their lands.
Her fingers brushed against the hidden cloth beneath her pillow. Whatever the map led to, it was meant to be found. And if no one else would take the risk, she would.
In the darkness, Nyra dreamed of a great wave rising from the River Rhoyne, sweeping through the lands of their oppressors. At its crest, she saw herself standing tall, the Scepter of Nymeria in her hands, and the voice of Mother Rhoyne calling to her:
"Find me, child. The river waits for you."
When she awoke, her path was clear.
Nyra walked briskly through the back alleys of the city, clutching the cloth with the map she had copied the day before. She had studied it late into the night, tracing its lines over and over until the image was etched in her mind: the River Rhoyne winding through mountains and forests, a single star marking a location deep within the heart of the riverlands.
Her destination was a hidden gathering place beneath the ruins of an old Rhoynish bathhouse on the outskirts of the city. It was here that the remnants of her people gathered in secret to honor Mother Rhoyne and share whispers of hope, defiance, and survival.
The air beneath the bathhouse was damp and cool, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the cavernous space. A dozen Rhoynish men and women sat on worn benches, their faces lit by flickering candlelight. Vellon stood at the center, leaning on his staff, his expression grim as he addressed the gathering.
"Our people grow fewer with each generation," he said, his voice weary but resolute. "The Norvosi priests tighten their grip on us, forbidding our prayers, tearing down our shrines. We are the last of the Rhoynar here in Norvos, and soon, there may be no one left to carry the memory of our people."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, but the atmosphere was one of resignation. Nyra stepped forward, clutching the cloth map to her chest.
"There's more than memory to carry," she said, her voice clear and determined. "There's a future for us, one worth fighting for."
All eyes turned to her, some curious, others skeptical. Vellon's brow furrowed as she unfolded the cloth and held it up for all to see.
"This," she said, pointing to the map, "is a fragment of a path to something greater. I found it carved into an ancient shrine. It's a map—and it leads to a place deep in the riverlands, where the Scepter of Nymeria might still be hidden."
A hushed silence fell over the group. The older members exchanged uneasy glances, but the younger ones leaned in, their eyes wide with hope.
"The Scepter of Nymeria is a myth," said Adros, a burly stonemason with a scar running down his cheek. "A story to make us feel better about losing everything."
"It's more than a story," Nyra insisted. "The carving was real, and so is the prophecy. When the river runs silver under the blood moon, the Rhoyne shall rise again. We can make it rise—if we find the scepter."
Vellon raised a hand to quiet the murmurs. "Even if the scepter exists, we are few, scattered, and weak. The Norvosi watch us closely, and the Volantenes control the Rhoyne. Seeking this scepter would mean risking what little safety we have left."
Nyra's frustration boiled over. "Safety? Hiding in shadows isn't safety—it's slow death. If we do nothing, the Rhoynar will vanish, and Mother Rhoyne will weep for her lost children. We have to act."
Adros crossed his arms. "And if the Norvosi catch wind of this little adventure of yours? They'll crush us before we even leave the city."
Nyra stood before the group once again, her voice filled with conviction. The map lay unfurled on the stone table in the middle of the chamber. The air was heavy with tension as the flickering candlelight reflected in her determined eyes.
"The Scepter of Nymeria isn't just a relic," she said, her voice rising above the murmurs. "It's a symbol of our past and a key to our future. With its power, we can reclaim what we've lost. We don't have to live in the shadows any longer."
The younger members of the group leaned forward, captivated. Even some of the older ones exchanged glances of cautious hope. But it was Vellon who broke the silence, his tone sharp and skeptical.
"And what then, Nyra?" he asked, leaning heavily on his staff. "What do you plan to do after you find this scepter? Wave it around and expect the world to bow before us?"
Nyra didn't flinch. "No. We will leave this city, leave Norvos, and build a new home—a new city by the Rhoyne. We will restore our people to their former glory."
A scoff came from Adros, the burly stonemason. "And how do you plan to do that? The Volantenes control the Rhoyne, and the Norvosi won't let us leave in peace. We don't have the strength."
"We will have allies," Nyra said confidently. "There are those in Essos who would help us, and one in particular who has already done what we dream of."
Adros crossed his arms. "Who?"
"King Robert Stormrage."
Author's Note:
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