The closer he got to the island, the colder it got. He regretted not bringing warmer clothes. Luckily, he didn't feel tired; his upper body gave him that advantage. Soon, he reached the fog, which weakened his vision. He tried to stay focused. One direction, no stopping. If he stopped, he risked getting lost.
Would he die here? He had always felt that he would do great things. Even his logical, scientific mind told him that he would get off the island alive.
Greenseers. It is said that they inhabit the island; perhaps they were the ones who called him. Maybe they want Valyrian blood for a ritual. Or they want to help him. Jaehaerys was curious about them as much as he was afraid of the curse.
What old Whent said made sense. Houses that once flew their banners at Harrenhal are now extinct. That was enough to raise eyebrows. Seeing the deaths of his subjects confirmed it even more.
Was it duty that brought him here? Was it love? Was it a hunger for knowledge? Was it pride? Did he want to be the first person to enter and leave the Isle of Faces?
The answer was yes to all the questions.
His duty to his land was to protect it. That same duty was linked to pride, which made him want his lands to be safe. Love, for his wife. Although he would not dare say he loved her, he was not indifferent to her affection.
He had been naturally curious since his childhood. What scholar wouldn't want to investigate a mysterious island? Who would turn down the opportunity to see magic, perhaps even study it?
And then there was that part of him that wanted to leave his mark. That part, perhaps from his youth, that made him daring and confident. He was going to leave his name in history, even as the third son, as the lord of a cursed castle.
He is a Targaryen. Madness disguised as greatness.
His children would hold their heads high and speak proudly of their father. 'I will not die here,' even though he would not be the first Targaryen to die in that lake. Daemon and Aemond faced each other here, on their dragons, Caraxes and Vhagar. Daemon's body was never found after he left Dark Sister in the basin of Aemond's eye.
He rowed for hours. But he didn't stop. Finally, he was rewarded. Through the white mist, he could see a little green. His arms oared with renewed energy. He looked at the lake, though he didn't believe the danger of the island was there.
He felt his raft hit the ground and come to a stop. He took a second to appreciate the island.
It was full of trees, and he even wondered if there was human life there, as it seemed impossible to live so long without cutting down a single tree.
"Jaehaerys Targaryen," to say he wasn't scared would be a vile lie. The voice seemed to be embedded directly in his brain. He looked everywhere. "You have come," the same sound, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Where are you?"
"In front of you, behind you, to your sides, in the sky, at your feet," said the voice.
"Do you know why I've come?" asked the prince, his eyes still studying the place.
"For answers," the voice sounded tired. "For your present. For your past. For your future."
"Will I be given help?" he asked now.
"The island does not help. Not without something in return. A trade."
"What could the island want from me?" He began to think that he was talking to the Isle of Faces.
"Death," the voice said mysteriously. The prince watched the leaves sway before falling. "Destruction."
Jaehaerys would not enjoy being a mercenary. But he would do it if he could find a cure for the curse.
"Who?" He did not like being treated like a hired killer. "Is it someone I know?"
"Since childhood."
"Is it my blood?"
"Yes," said the voice. And Jaehaerys thought of his entire family. He had known almost all of them since they were children, except for Visenya.
"I will not kill my blood," his voice was firm. He could not imagine taking the light from any Targaryen. Perhaps Daemon... and if he finds him guilty, Rhaegar.
"Things need explanation," the trees twisted. "Come," the voice commanded.
Jaehaerys left the raft. With his hand, he dragged it further into the ground. He held his weapon tightly. The voice said nothing.
The prince walked through the undergrowth. The vegetation parted for him. It was the most magical experience he had ever had.
He thought of Greenhand. It was said that flowers were rubbed where he walked. Could he achieve the same?
The island knew him, the island called him. It offered an exchange. Would he die if he refused? But could he kill his own blood? Not even Rhaegar or Daemon, with whom he had ended on bad terms.
Soon, he came to a tree, a giant weirwood. The weirwood at Winterfell had been the largest he had ever seen. But this one was two or three times as wide. It wasn't very tall, growing more in width than in height. Its branches spread out far enough to shade a small village and were leafy enough to block out the sunlight, which was already scarce on the island.
He felt small and insignificant in front of the weirwood. He looked at the face carved into the wood. It seemed to look back at him. And for a moment, he swore he saw it blink. He walked toward the tree. Since he arrived at Harrenhal, his headaches had subsided. But there was still that pain he sought to relieve with alcohol.
Here, in front of the weirwood, his mind felt free.
So much so that he wanted to stay there forever; he had grown accustomed to the chronic pain and had forgotten what it felt like not to have it. It was sweet, he cursed, because he couldn't stay there forever, and he couldn't take the tree with him.
He even remembered the face of an old man. His clothes were too modern to be from Westeros. But it was from his other life.
"Touch it," said the voice. And he reached out his hand. He touched just below the carved eye and felt red sap run through his hand.
He was no longer on the Isle of Faces. Now he was in Winterfell, in front of the weirwood tree. He would be ten years old. He frowned as he looked at the little white haired boy and wondered if his children with Dany would look like that.
The boy touched the tree and fell to his knees. He remained unconscious, his hand pressed against the weirwood.
"Ahhh!" The boy woke up suddenly. His hands held his head as he cried. Jaehaerys wanted to bring him to the weirwood tree, where he wouldn't suffer such pain. He remembered crying from the pain as a child until he fell asleep.
"The first time you met that friend," the island said softly.
"No. The pain has been there since I lived in King's Landing," replied the prince. He remembered crying from the pain until he fell asleep in his mother's arms.
The image changed. Now he was beyond the wall. He looked at an icy being. It seemed to be made of pale, icy substance. A crown made of spikes rested on its head. Its expression was bored as it rode a skeletal steed.
There were dozens of similar beings around him. They rested on the snow, still as statues.
The ice man looked at him. His stoic expression changed to a frown. His hand took a spear that was embedded in the ground, and with a fine movement, he threw it at Jaehaerys. The prince moved. The spear passed by him. Soon, he returned to the Isle of Faces.
"One death. One destruction," the voice spoke. "One caused your pain. The other one will cause your death," the island declared.
"How did he cause my pain?" Jaehaerys was not stupid. Just by looking at the white figure, he knew what it was. Their stories in the north were told to scare children in their cribs. 'The others', he remembered the name as if it were something he had known all his life.
He didn't need to be told that. He needed to know who had caused him so much pain in his life.
"One death. One destruction," the voice repeated, like a mantra. "Do you accept?"
He clenched his teeth.
"I accept," his voice firm.
"Then have your answers," said the voice.
And everything went black.