Mid to Late 99 AC, Isle of Faces
The sounds of Mīsaragorn's fleshy wings flapping in the still winds of the night was all he could hear as they veered down towards the lonely isle that sat in the heart of Westeros, the silver light of the unhidden moon illuminating the world around them.
Aegon felt Mīsaragorn's unease, an unease familiar to Aegon whenever they'd roamed the skies over these parts of the Riverlands. It had taken more will than usual to make Mīsaragorn comply with his wishes, almost as much as it took him to convince Mīsaragorn to go through the madder parts of this plan of his.
They banked and turned before Mīsaragorn descended down onto the beach of the Isle, the lake at their backs and their eyes set onto the source of their unease.
He climbed down off of the back of Mīsaragorn who craned his neck ominously as he gazed down the abyssal darkness that lay between the thick tree line, his deep low rumbling growl echoing hauntingly across the dark and misty surroundings.
Where Dragonstone felt like home, this place…this place felt like a thousand eyes were set on him, eyes that touched and poked in ways that felt like they were being hosted by someone, something that considered them to be unwanted guests.
Aegon patted Mīsaragorn's neck with some force, nothing but a feather touch to a dragon and resorted to draw on their bond to get him to focus on Aegon.
Mīsaragorn swivelled his draconic head towards Aegon, half an eye towards the dark corners of the forests that lay in front of them, and the other half firmly set on Aegon as discontent rippled through their bond in discombobulating waves.
'I'm as unhappy as you are about this, brother' Aegon answered quietly to Mīsaragorn 'But you know why I must…I must have answers that they can give me' Aegon answered calmly but firmly, unwilling to waver from the dangerous and desperate path he'd set himself on.
He was at his wits end as to where she could be and he knew that by now, nearly two fortnights later, she could be half way across Essos by now.
He needed to know where she was, if she was alright, if she was safe.
A pang of guilt and sorrow washed over him, their acidic touch borne out from his actions, and it burned a hole in his chest that he knew he could not heal until he found her, until he fixed everything he'd broken for her.
It was the least he could do, the least that he must do. How could he not?
When he'd driven her away to leave everything she knew and loved all because of his actions, because she felt like she had no other choice but to leave?
Days turned to weeks and he found himself realising, amongst many, many other things, that that there was nothing he wouldn't do for her safe return, no crime he couldn't contemplate, and no atrocity he wouldn't consider.
He didn't dare contemplate that she was…
Self-contempt pawed its putrid mitts at his being, the thought that she was dead as a consequence of his actions weighed heavily on his conscience.
'No.' fervently rang in his mind. Denial fortified his being more than anything else could or would. She simply couldn't be. He'd bring her home…whatever it took.
Mīsaragorn lips drew back in deeper displeasure, a throaty growl escaping through rows of several inches long teeth, rows of dagger sharp teeth that glistened under the light of a bright full moon, and it was a frightening sight to behold.
Aegon was stone faced as he reached out to Mīsaragorn snout without fear, knowing that he had nothing to fear from the other part of his soul, a part of his soul that he could command and will towards what he needed it to do. What must be done.
Aegon breathed out and reached to their bond again, pushing against the tides of discontent and unsettlement and reached into the very being of Mīsaragorn.
His bond with Mīsaragorn was a thing of beauty, dragon bonds were a thing of beauty, understanding could flow between dragon and rider in ways words or actions could never replicate and he'd found out that such understanding could pushed even further with enough imagination and partnership with one's dragon.
Images of high worn stone walls with moss climbing up them like ice climbing up dewy wet cliffs during the height of winter, two tall towers that seemed as if they were hewn square by the giants themselves flanked an indomitable gate surrounded by a cradle made out of water, protecting it from aggressors.
Yet, as Aegon's expression turned as cold and hard like Valyrian Steel dipped in the waters by the coasts of the Cold North, those same images of a keep that seemed as if it could last a thousand years more were now replaced by the imagery of burning stones and melting faces by the hundreds, young and old, man and child, nothing was spared by the burning blue fires that raged and thrashed, not even the white-ashy tree that towered over the gate.
It was not the only set of burning imagery.
A three sided castle with red sandstone walls surrounded on all three sides by water would not be safe from the spewing blue fires. A castle that moved and thought the swamps of the Neck to be safe from the eyes peered down from the skies would burn all the same.
Images continued on as Aegon showed Mīsaragorn where to go last in his rampage, images of a city at the mouth of a river that Mīsaragorn was to follow, a river that stretched further and further inland until he reached the greatest castle in all of Westeros, a castle that would not burn entirely but it need not burn completely, only enough to ensure the end of their line.
Mīsaragorn blinked as the images stopped his great serpentine sheening eyes piercing down at Aegon and it was as if the moment lasted a lifetime.
He was asking the impossible of Mīsaragorn…to abandon him to his fate should he find himself unable to bargain and they both knew it. For all the power that Aegon wielded over Mīsaragorn, his dragon was strong enough to push against him if only for a time.
Yet Mīsaragorn would not and did not as he rose to his full height, his great wings disturbing the silent and unmoving waters and earth, and Aegon firmly planted his feet against the earth as Mīsaragorn began to run and take off into the air, leaving him behind and alone for the first time since he was four namedays old.
He watched Mīsaragorn go, and grim acceptance settled upon him, a kind of acceptance he'd found himself more and more attuned to, an acceptance of the sacrifice he needed to make in the face of the objective reality he was in.
The actions he was taking extreme, and chances were that he'd fail and that he'd end up either extremely dead or extremely damned but he cared not nor did he care about the heinousness of his plan. The veneer of threadbare morality that he bound himself to had broken away in the face of what is and not what once was.
And he'd burn down a thousand castles more if it meant They would give him the truthful answers he'd need, answers that could come to save what was important.
Aegon brought out his sword, the sound of steel unsheathing an eerie discordant bell in the deathly silent night, and for a moment simply held the long sword as he stared for a minute towards the darkness that lay beyond the first row of trees.
He stared for a moment longer before Aegon firmly planted the sword into the sands.
Aegon stepped forward, unarmed and undefended and he waited.
It wasn't long before figures began to creep out of the darkness, men draped in cloaks that seemed to be as dark as the abyss from hence they came from, arms locked into one another, and Aegon merely stood there waiting for them to come to him.
He knew little of the green men and Elysar's acolytes that stayed behind on Dragonstone knew no more except perhaps a few more wives' tales that only comes from being told such stories by mothers and grandmothers, passed down the generations as they were.
Stories told in whispers to frighten children of Green Men that rode hordes of giants, or elks or even a giant breed of shadow cats, Green Men that possessed unnatural powers left behind in trust by vengeful Children of the Forest, and Green Men who sacrificed anyone who dared to trespass onto the Isle of Faces to the weirwood trees.
He knew better than to discard stories passed down the generations, however ridiculous they sounded. Especially here in Westeros where there was more truth in stories than in the words spoken by men.
Stories that resonated with what he had watched actually happen in his first life.
At the very least, he thought this place to be a place of magic like that cave North of the Wall, one of the last remnants of ancient magicks that was rooted in the earth, the rivers and the forests, magicks that transcended the limits of human perception.
If a giant Weirwood tree could sustain a man to live beyond twelve decades and longer still if need to be, all while tapping into the magic of weirwood trees that likely aided in seeing the past and future, then Weirwood trees from the time of the Age of Heroes left untouched, undisturbed had to be a font of magic to match it.
Weirwood trees that bore the oldest eyes and presence of the Old Gods.
He avoided coming here, before, his fears and wariness of the Old Gods trumping his curiosity of magic and perhaps answers to his nature and reason he was here, at least until he was better versed in the matters of magic once he found a starting point to learn the practice himself but he had no such luxuries.
Not anymore.
And if he came to an end, or worse, Hodor'd, Mīsaragorn was too far away now and on his way to the Mountains by the Eyrie – where there were no Weirwood trees – and knew not to respond to his calls any time soon, he thought to himself as he felt the sharp edge of the small piece of steel fixed to his bracelet press against his skin.
He believed he'd have enough time to end his life before he lost that fight, should it come to it.
Aegon walked forward, no more a statue fixed in place, his eyes trailing from one cloaked figure to the other. Finally, they came to a stop and he came to a stop mere a few feet from them, his gaze now catching glimpses of crusted faces that seemed like it might be crusted because of dried paint.
"Son of the Long Summer. Why have you come?" the central figure asked calmly as his head tilted slightly, the top of his hood falling backwards enough for his eyes to catch the light of the moon, a sight that almost made it seem as if his eyes were silver in nature.
'Son of the Long Summer…'
Something clicked in his mind to that phrase…Long Summer…Ah, Aegon realised…it was the name of a region in Valyria that was named the Lands of the Long Summer, a place that was heralded as the most fertile land in all of Planetos.
And it was the true homeland of the Valyrian peoples.
His eyes narrowed slightly, barely enough to be noticeable.
That these people knew such a relatively obscure piece of knowledge was surprising, knowledge that should have been forgotten, even more so that they sought to use that term to name him. Especially since Valyria was long known as simply the Freehold for thousands of years since they were simply sons of the Lands of the Long Summer.
"I have come to seek answers."
"Many have come seeking answers. Few ever find them here." the central figure returned calmly before tilting his head as if he was curious by the sight of him.
"Most never come seeking answers." Aegon replied with cold stoniness, vestiges of familiar feelings rising to the top as he continued. "They seek comforts and escapes, never the truth as it is given."
He only needed to know two things.
"Yes…" the central figure said, the silver light from the moon fading away to reveal startling green eyes "Yet you're no different than those before you who have set foot on this land." The central figure stated calmly.
'You seek comfort. You seek escape' the accusation was heard even if unspoken.
Aegon set his jaw, his eyes never wavering as he met the gaze of the Green Man.
Long moments passed before the other figures stepped away from the central figure stepped away. The central Green Man dipped his head before he also stepped away.
"Follow the path until it stops." The central figure said and Aegon began to walk towards the path that began to show itself slightly through the dark mists.
Aegon walked up the steps of these ancient stones, the eerie sounds of the forests the only companion. Moonlight began to filter through the blood red hand shaped leaves, the presence of something other growing with each step that he took.
He'd read accounts of Maesters that detailed their experiences in the North during his quest for knowledge of magic and history, and he remembered one account some few hundred years old that spoke of the peace the weirwood tree at Karhold would bring to even the most unruly child or belligerent man at the keep.
Even claimed that in a way the maester himself had felt the same despite his faith in the New Gods and speculated that it might be the reason why weirwood trees were planted long after by some Andal Lords long after the Andal Invasion.
Aegon felt no such peace as he marched ever closer to his destination.
The sight of faces carved on Weirwood trees became clearer, haunting faces that were all to lifelike in appearance, human faces that seemed to have been transformed into white trees suddenly. Some seemed in pain, others happy, and others as if they knew something you did not.
By the time he arrived at the end of the path, the presence had grown like wide thick ropes were draped over him, the kinds of ropes that were tied to anchors, yet he persevered as he came to a stop to a massive tree taller and thicker and wider than any he'd seen before.
Its blood red leaves were the size of his hands, its branches seemed uncountable but that was not what captured his attentions, no, it was the face carved on the tree that looked at him. He knew within the depths of his soul that this, this Thing, was truly otherworldly. The presence he'd felt since the moment he'd set foot on this Isle, was focused on him with a million eyes.
He felt as if nothing was hidden, nothing was unknown to this Being.
A cloud of doubt washed over him as he stood there before the Weirwood tree. He knew that that the chances of getting no answers were high. From either the Old Gods or from the Greenseer – he thought he'd likely speak with a Greenseer before he came but there was none here now – but he hoped, he hoped they could understand his resolve, of how far he was willing to go in order to get the truth.
He made to speak but stopped when he heard rustlings to his left and he jolted to awareness and got to a defensive stance, his heart pounding, and stared at the direction where he'd heard the noise from.
His eyes slowly began to widen until they were all but itching to pop out of his skull as small bare feet began to tread onto the soft wet ground wearing nothing sticks and roots for clothing.
Its skin was nut-brown, so earthily brown, with scales that seemed as if they were matted leaves stuck on human skin. Its, if it was hair, looked like braided strings of bamboo, odd and alien.
This…this…he struggled to form words as his eyes latched onto the completely black eyes that shimmered underneath the moonlight. The being came to a stop before him, no more than three and a half or four feet tall, yet its presence made the being seem as if he were a giant.
This was a Child of the Forest, echoed in his mind.
A Child of the Forest that was South of the Wall.
Aegon wasn't sure of its gender, only that this one seemed faintly male.
"Aegon. First of his Name."
The voice of the being was melodious, beautiful, the words flowing out of the being's mouth like fine, finest strings of honey caught in the breezes of a warm summer day.
He snapped out of his awe and surprise and shock, his eyes sharpening, webs of shock and enchantment fading away as he remembered why he was here, curiosity and questions laid far behind the singular thing that mattered the most to him.
"I am not the Conqueror. I am his descendant."
The being said nothing to his answer, and walked away past him towards the giant weirwood tree as if he were not there, as if he ceased to exist.
Aegon did nothing but watch the being carefully with utmost focus as it arrived by the tree, its hand reaching forward before placing it onto the trunk of the tree.
Aegon half expected something, anything, as if the bark of the weirwood tree would undulate into a sea of wood, sucking in the Child of the Forest.
Yet nothing as such happened and moments turned into seconds. Seconds turned into minutes and Aegon's patience began to fray.
"You do not belong here."
The words surprised Aegon as much as the suddenness of it.
The being turned around, his head tilting slightly as if curious.
"I know." Aegon said as calmly as possible, the odd sensation of the presence shifting slightly pushing him on to speak.
'Was this sensation magic…or was this other? Divine?'
"I seek only two answers. I will leave and not return once I leave here." Aegon told the Child of the Forest, his eyes flickering to the Weirwood tree.
"You do not belong here." The Child of the Forest repeated once more, the shift in its voice noticeable and a flash of anxiety burbled below his determination.
A long few moments of silence passed and Aegon fortified himself before he spoke.
"I know." Aegon said once more, this time whilst he spoke to the Child of the Forest.
"Yet I am alive. Yet I am here. Such is the reality of things." Aegon persisted with a set jaw. The Child of the Forest met his gaze for a few moments before nodding.
"You seek what you had accepted is not yours to have."
"Yes." Aegon said honestly, bowing his head slightly but not without keeping his eyes on the Child of the Forest…and on the Weirwood Tree.
"The Old Gods are powerful. They exist without Time. They can see across Westeros. Hear across Westeros. In the past. In the present." Aegon said with a hard glint in his eyes, memories of Bran and Brynden Rivers going back to the time of Jon's birth at Tower of Joy flashing across the front of his mind.
"I plead to only know where she is and if she is still alive. No more. No less." Aegon finished. He could not demand, only plead and ask and beg if he had to.
"And if We do not give you the answers?" the Child of the Forest inquired.
'…We' what did that mean? Conduit? Hive-mind?
His mind momentarily flashed to ideas of Id and Ego before fading away and Aegon clenched his jaws as he stared down at the Child of the Forest, his eyes darkening as he prepared himself for death.
"I will do what I must to convince you otherwise."
For the first time, Aegon saw something else other than idle curiosity on the Child of the Forest's face. It was hardness. It was fury behind a mask of stone.
"Your Song is not Ours. Be grateful." The being's voice was no more a soft melody made physical but more akin to the sound trees made when roused into turbulence by the force of strong winds and the presence around him grew stronger in hostility but Aegon did not break eye contact despite the danger he knew he was in.
'Your Song is not ours…'
Aegon bowed his head again.
"I do not mean you malice or harm. I am only desperate" he added honestly.
He knew that all of this was of his own making.
His own stubbornness. His selfishness. His fear.
His inability to accept reality as it was, rather than how he wanted it to be, how he had known it to be. Numbing himself to the realities of the world instead of accepting the world as it was and that he was Aegon, Son of Baelon and all that came with it.
'Prince. Son. Brother. Friend. Protector.'
And his hate for and fear of God – or whatever Being it was – and his meaningless and asinine rebellion to spite Him/It blinded him to the harm he was putting upon himself and those around him. Those who he had come to care for.
And i