Circlet

Spoilers for the ending of The Dance of Dragons in this chapter btw, so if you don't know what happens in fire and blood….uh…well my bad :(

——

"How many people come here" Aerion asked, his voice barely louder than the splash of the oars cutting through the dark, sluggish waters. The boat beneath him creaked with every stroke, unsteady as they moved through the mist that clung to the lake despite the bright sun overhead.

"Not many," the boatman grumbled, his weathered hands steady on the oars. "But those that do, pay well enough."

Aerion nodded, he himself had given the man a few silver coins for the journey. He glanced toward the approaching isle, the jagged silhouettes of ancient weirwoods rising from the fog.

"And what do they say of the Isle?" Aerion asked, his voice quieter now.

The grey-haired boatman hummed, as if considering how much to share. "Depends on the man," he said finally, his tone low. "Some speak of horror and ghosts. Others claim they see nothing at all." He shrugged. 

Aerion's eyes narrowed as the Isle of Faces loomed closer, its gnarled weirwoods rising like ancient bones against the horizon, their pale trunks twisted and skeletal. The fog thickened around them, creeping in with each pull of the oar, the air felt heavier.

The dream had been different—brighter, almost peaceful. This was anything but.

He clenched his jaw. Had he been misled? Was it a trap? His mind churned, questions swirling like the murky waters below. Something had called him here, drawn him across the lake. But was it fate—or folly?

The boat scraped against the shore with a soft scraping sound. Aerion remained seated for a moment, the cold air seemed sharper here, like icy fingers grazing his skin. Reluctantly, he rose, stepping onto the sodden ground, the squelch of wet dirt deafening.

"Be back before nightfall, or I'm leaving without ya," the boatman grumbled behind him, settling back into the boat as if this journey were nothing more than routine.

To Aerion, it felt anything but. His eyes drifted over the white-barked weirwoods, their blood-red leaves motionless in the still air, standing in stark contrast to the dark, moss-covered ground. The world here felt older, as if time itself had forgotten this place.

Aerion hesitated, a flicker of dread curling in his stomach as he stared into the shadowy depths of the forest. Ahead, the weirwoods watched—silent and knowing.

The Isle of Faces waited.

—-

He had been walking for what felt like hours, the dampness seeping into his boots, chilling his feet. He searched for something—anything—but all he found were weirwoods. 

Their pale trunks standing silent and stark against the gloom. Normally, he found their presence comforting, a connection to something older, wiser, but not here.

These ones felt…primal.

He couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. The trees, with their carved faces, seemed to track his every step. He didn't doubt for a moment that they were watching—something on this island was aware of him. 

Still, he pressed on. There had to be a reason for the dream, for the pull that had brought him to this place. He forced himself to ignore the dark thoughts whispering of traps and betrayal, though they echoed louder with each passing minute, gnawing at his already frayed nerves.

Eventually he stumbled upon a clearing, his mind still distracted as he eyed the place warily. Was this where he needed to be? Did he even need to be anywhere?

He stepped into the clearing, his breath caught as he noticed the weirwoods—each one turned inward staring at him, their pale faces weeping fresh crimson sap. 

Goosebumps prickled his skin. His cloak offered little warmth, and even the familiar weight of the sword at his hip did nothing to ease his unease. A crow's shadow passed overhead, the presence of his bird the only comfort in this unnatural place.

He circled the clearing cautiously, every muscle taut as he scanned for movement—any sign, even the rustle of a leaf. But there was nothing. His crow's caw pierced the silence, sending a jolt through his veins.

A warning.

He unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion, the sharp ring of steel slicing through the air. His eyes caught sudden movement, something between the trees. Horns. He tensed, thinking it a stag at first, but his raven wouldn't warn him of such a thing. His breath quickened.

He took a step forward—then froze.

He groaned pathetically as agony gripped him. He collapsed to all fours, his blood boiling beneath his skin, fingers clawing desperately at the ground as the pain overwhelmed him.

Then he was elsewhere, his breaths coming in heavy pants, he was looking down at stone ground. He stumbled to his feet, brandishing his sword as he looked up only to freeze once more.

Pained, anguished, rageful eyes met his, he took a step back. Not at the emotion nor the fire burning in them, but at the lilac eyes familiarity. 

Older, but still her, Princess Rhaenyra. 

He swallowed, briefly noticing her cut bare breast, blood seeping from the wound. He heard words, crying and screaming from behind him but oddly couldn't take his eyes off of the Princess. 

He stepped closer, her eyes seeming to lock onto his, a brief spark of recognition alighting in them before a large, disfigured, burned dragon's jaw shot out towards the woman in a grotesque motion almost too fast to see. 

With a sickening snap the jaw closed around the Princess, her startled scream cut off by the horrific sound of crunching bone and tearing flesh as the dragons massive jaws clamped down.

Blood sprayed in an arc, going right through his form as it painted the ground crimson. The dragon shook its head violently, the mangled remains of the princess tumbling to the ground. 

Aerion stepped back, not noticing the horrified screaming of a child as suddenly he wasn't there anymore. His eyes snapped around his new location, the memories of Rhae—Rhaenyra being torn apart replaying through his shocked mind.

But now he was in a room, he briefly noticed a flash of silver hair fleeing but then found himself transfixed by the gruesome, awful, awful sight ahead of him. 

He couldn't look away, blood was pooling on the floor below as a dirty man sawed away at a struggling young boy's neck with a dagger, the sound of gurgling breaths echoing through his ears as his hands trembled at his sides. 

He stepped closer, the boy had bright silver hair, his young—young purple eyes locked onto Aerions own, a sense of recognition flaring in them before they seemed to fade, the magical colour retreating. 

The dirty man just kept sawing mindlessly—Aerion stepped forward a sudden snarl on his face, his hand reaching for the dagger on the small of his back.

But then he was elsewhere, in a dimly lit room filled with flickering candlelight. His gaze locked onto a tall, silver-haired man standing with his back to him, broad shoulders cloaked in dark fabric.

Aerion swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the dagger in his hands as he stepped closer. His eyes focused on a crib the man stood before, a newborn staring up at him.

Suddenly, the man chuckled, causing Aerion to jolt. He circled around the other side of the crib slowly, his eyes scanning the man's face—oddly familiar, yet one he'd never seen before.

A golden circlet rested atop the man's head, his platinum hair short. Dark purple eyes glinted in the dim light. Aerion's gaze dropped to the babe, and his breath caught in his throat.

A wooden toy, a dragon, was clutched in the infant's hands, the newborn giggling up at it innocently. Aerion's eyes burned, his vision blurring as his balance faltered, he grasped the crib to steady himself, his dagger dropping to the ground with a thud.

Another chuckle escaped the man as he regarded the child, his hands wandering to his neck to retrieve a familiar necklace. The silver three-headed dragon pendant gleamed in the candlelight, and Aerion felt his fingers tighten around the crib, his burning eyes fiercely scanning the pendant.

With trembling hands, he raised his right hand to his own neck, fingers brushing the necklace hidden beneath his tunic. He pulled it free, the same pendant shining brilliantly as it caught the light.

His eyes almost desperately ran over the man's face, but suddenly in a blur he was gone, back in the weirwood clearing. His burning, teary eyes wide and breathing shallow as his hands clutched desperately at the ground below.

—-

Thoughts?