Son of the Forest on Thousand Faces Island
The air hanging over the lonely island in the middle of the great lake was thick with dampness, carrying a faint, ancient scent of decaying leaves and stagnant water. It felt as though time itself had slowed here, trapped beneath a heavy gray veil.
Syrax landed with a deep, earth-shaking thud, her massive body sinking slightly into the soft soil as she folded her enormous wings. Unlike her usual fiery temperament, she was uncharacteristically silent. Her golden, slit pupils darted around the forest warily, as though she could sense an invisible danger lurking among the twisted trees.
Rhaenyra slid off the dragon's back unsteadily, her breath shallow and uneven. The strained journey at impossible speed had left her pale. Her vision swam, her stomach churned violently, and she had to brace herself against Syrax's scaled leg to avoid collapsing.
This place…
This was the God's Eye.
A site of tragedy.
A land soaked in the blood of dragons and kings alike.
Here, Maegor the Cruel—riding the Black Dread—had slain his own nephew in brutal combat decades before. And in the future that Damian Thorne alone remembered, two other dragons—ridden by Daemon Targaryen and Aemond Targaryen—would one day tear each other from the sky and plunge into the cold black waters below in their final battle.
The island bore witness to too many deaths.
The colossal black dragon beside Rhaenyra shimmered faintly, his massive form dissolving into motes of golden light. In moments, the beast vanished completely, replaced by a tall human figure dressed in black.
Damian Thorne stood where the dragon had been.
He slowly closed his eyes.
The moment he did, his awareness expanded violently, like quicksilver spilling across the land. His perception surged outward in every direction, piercing through soil, water, roots, and bark.
In an instant, the entire Isle of Faces unfolded before his mind like a living map.
Ancient magic throbbed beneath the earth like a dormant heart—power far older than the Valyrians, older even than dragonkind. Dark, obscure, and unnatural, yet strangely pure, it permeated every stone and root.
And deeper within the forest…
He sensed life.
Tiny forms flitted between branches. Small shadows darted behind trees. They were weak physically, but their spirits glowed faintly with intelligence and magic.
Not animals.
Not humans either.
Children of the Forest, Damian thought.
His lips curled slightly.
Perhaps I can finally meet a Green Seer.
Just as he prepared to reach out with his power to drag the hidden creatures forth, an unsettling sensation brushed across his skin like invisible silk.
Someone was watching him.
Not with eyes—
But with something far more insidious.
It was a gaze that pierced not the body, but the soul.
The sensation carried curiosity…
Judgment…
Evaluation.
As though some unseen being were examining him like a rare artifact.
Damian's eyes snapped open.
They burned molten gold.
"Asking for death," he murmured coldly.
Then—
The air twisted.
An invisible force surged forward like the fist of a god. Space distorted violently, compressing and folding as Damian's magic followed the direction of the unnatural gaze.
A heartbeat later, a shrill cry of agony shattered the stillness.
"CAW—!"
Something fell from the sky.
No—
It was thrown.
A black raven with three eyes, its feathers smoking and warped by energy, tumbled violently from thin air and slammed into the dirt. It twitched twice… and then lay still.
Dead.
Rhaenyra had just forced her legs to move when she witnessed it happen. Her hand flew to her mouth, her lavender eyes wide with terror.
"A… three-eyed raven?"
But Damian did not even spare the corpse a glance.
Instead, he raised his hand.
Whoosh!
The forest exploded with motion.
Four invisible giant hands surged forth between the trees, dragging figures kicking and screaming from the hidden woods. Before Rhaenyra could even process it, four small creatures floated in midair, tightly bound by unseen pressure.
"What… what are those?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
They were no taller than human children.
Their skin was bark-green and mottled like moss. Their eyes shone gold in the shadows, large and luminous. Each wore primitive clothing woven from leaves and vines. Their weapons—knives and spears—were black as night, carved from sharp obsidian.
"Children of the Forest," Damian replied calmly.
"The original inhabitants of Westeros."
The captive beings spoke rapidly in sounds like birdsong—beautiful, crystalline notes layered into language. To Rhaenyra, it sounded like distant wind chimes.
But Damian heard every word.
"Will he kill us?"
"That raven… he destroyed the raven!"
"We don't speak their language—he might tear us apart!"
Their voices quivered with panic.
Damian tilted his head slightly.
Then—
He sang.
The sound that left his mouth was not human.
It was ancient.
It echoed like running water, whispered like drifting leaves, resonated like the heart of the forest itself.
Rhaenyra felt her breath catch. Goosebumps rippled across her skin.
The air vibrated with something sacred.
The four creatures froze.
Their golden eyes widened, glowing with disbelief.
"Is he… one of us?" one whispered.
"He's speaking the Song!"
"He can't be human…!"
The Child of the Forest holding a small curved bow finally spoke.
"Great one… forgive our fear."
The invisible bindings released.
All four landed lightly on the earth and bowed deeply.
"I am Pinecone," the leader said.
"And these are Pine Needle, Tree Knot, and Acorn."
Rhaenyra unconsciously edged closer to Damian, clutching his sleeve. Curiosity warred with fear as she stared at the mythical beings.
Damian nodded.
"Tell me about the Green Seer."
The four exchanged uncertain glances.
Finally, Pinecone answered quietly.
"We do not know where the Green Seer is."
"Since the cursed castle was built, our world has been… severed."
Damian frowned.
"Harrenhal?"
Pinecone's eyes darkened.
"That fortress is a wound in the world. Harren the Black butchered thousands of weirwood trees to raise its walls. Their spirits were not merely killed—
They were mutilated."
A tremor ran through the Children.
"A curse spreads from that place. Our power is strangled. Beyond this island, our souls would be ripped apart."
The others burst into furious song—cursing the Ironborn king with venom disguised as beauty.
Rhaenyra felt chills creep up her spine.
Such hatred… wrapped in music.
Damian listened quietly.
Then—
He smiled.
"A curse?" he repeated softly.
"How unfortunate… for Harrenhal."
The Children blinked.
"What do you mean?" Pinecone said cautiously.
Damian's molten gaze turned toward the distant silhouette of the cursed castle.
"It means that what he built…"
"…I can unmake."
A tremor of power rolled faintly through the air.
The forest itself seemed to inhale.
Rhaenyra stared at him.
For the firs
t time, she realized—
This man did not merely ride a dragon.
He was something far worse.
Something far older.
Something… unstoppable.
And deep within the forest, unseen roots quivered in fear and anticipation alike.