After Riverrun, we parted ways with Daven. I sent him to Casterly Rock with orders to fortify all of the Westerlands and prepare for a possible invasion by the Ironborn. My uncle looked at me in bewilderment—the still-living Lord Reaper Balon Greyjoy continued to seek the friendship of Tywin Lannister and an alliance with him. From Daven's point of view, nothing threatened us at the moment. However, everything was about to change.
Dissatisfied with the overall outcome of the military campaign, the Freys returned to the Twins, and Grandma Genna and her husband accompanied us to their new home, Castle Darry.
When we parted, she kissed me and promised that once she had settled her affairs, she would visit King's Landing. Genna was eager to meet Margaery, see Kevan, Tyrion, and Cersei again, and—if possible—influence Tywin's attitude toward his youngest son.
***
A small boat with ten oars ran merrily over the shallow waves of the Gods Eye. The slanting sail caught the favorable wind and bellied out. The shore behind the stern slowly receded, while the destination of our journey—the Isle of Faces—steadily drew closer.
The boat smelled of resin. The bottom was littered with small fish scales. Beneath the rowing benches lay nets, dip nets, and several fishing rods.
I stood with one foot braced against the base of a small bowsprit, holding the rope that ran to the mast.
Yesterday we reached the village of Dead Heron, found a suitable fishing boat, and today, as soon as the sun lit the distant treetops, we left the bay and headed for the island.
The crew consisted of twelve men—taciturn, stern fellows who smelled of fish and wind.
They went silently about their work, occasionally glancing in my direction with open curiosity and even superstitious apprehension.
The Gods Eye had a grim reputation, and the Isle of Faces itself was even more mysterious and enigmatic. The fishermen preferred not to sail there.
My people—the Kingsguard Balon Swann and Arys Oakheart, Ser Lyle Crakehall, Jacob Liddon, and a couple of officers—also looked, if not puzzled, then at least mildly confused. They did not understand why the king needed to visit such a place.
Only Jaime Lannister, Herald Orm, and Bonifer Hasty took the situation calmly.
That was our entire party. There was no room in the boat for anyone else. And we were not sailing to fight.
"Are you nervous?" Jaime asked, stopping beside me.
"A little," I admitted, studying the commander's impassive face.
Liddon approached us. In a small linen bag, he carried crayfish—boiled, sprinkled with parsley and salt. I took a larger one and began to peel it. The taste was beyond praise. And the alder-smoked fish the locals treated us to yesterday—that was an entirely different story.
The sun rose above the horizon. Its rays gently warmed our faces. The morning was bright and joyful. The fresh air invigorated the body. A flock of ducks flew past the port side with loud quacking, well within bowshot.
The island was drawing closer. We could already make out the jagged shoreline and the many rocks jutting from the water. Above them rose a wall of colossal trees, stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions.
The majestic trees, each and every one, bore bark of white gray, like bone bleached by winds and long years.
Not long ago, in Riverrun, where there was a small grove of weirwoods, I had already seen similar trees. And even earlier, in Harrenhal—though only a few had survived there, untouched by the war.
There was also a godswood in the Red Keep, near the Traitor's Walk—a small courtyard where the royal executioners lived in a squat, semicircular tower and where one of the entrances to the underground dungeons was located.
I had visited that godswood several times, and the weirwoods made a strange, ambivalent impression on me. The carved faces on the trees watched unceasingly, stirring a restless sense of expectation for something unknown. At times, when even the wind fell silent, the leaves would begin to stir as though whispering. The place was undeniably uncanny, evoking vague, elusive associations… I could not understand the whisper of the weirwoods, and none of it inspired sympathy or even comprehension in me.
Now we were approaching the very heart of ancient magic and the Old Gods—an entire island overgrown with these trees.
At my gesture, the helmsman shifted the stern oar and altered course, steering toward a narrow strip of sandy beach that had unexpectedly appeared among the slick rocks.
The fishermen began to furl the sail, and the boat drifted a little farther before bumping softly against the shore.
The Kingsguard leapt into the water, splashing loudly. The water barely reached their knees, and, glancing about with wary eyes, they made their way onto the shore. They paused, surveyed the ground, then with a nod to one another began climbing the slope, where massive weirwood roots broke through the soil.
Once they reached the top, they surveyed the area. Balon Swann waved his hand. I, along with the others, leapt into the water and followed after them.
Once we had scrambled to the top, I stopped involuntarily. It felt as though we were being welcomed. Hundreds of faces stared in silence, waiting, watching the uninvited guests.
Faces had been carved into every tree—some stern, others contemplative, warning, or openly menacing. From the eyes of many oozed red sap. It resembled bloody tears so vividly that I shuddered despite myself.
(End of Chapter)
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