Then, a scream tore through the quiet.

Lyonel’s head snapped toward the sound. A woman’s voice, high with terror, cut through the stillness.

Ashford didn’t need the spur; he surged forward at the shift in Lyonel’s weight, his muscles bunching beneath him.

They crested a rise and saw them: a cluster of men, rough and armed, their laughter ugly as they dragged a struggling woman toward the water’s edge.

Her clothes were torn, her dark hair wild around her face, her hands clawing at the dirt as she fought against their grip.

"Let her go!" Lyonel’s voice boomed across the shore, deep and commanding.

The bandits turned, their grins faltering as they took in the sight of him—towering, armored, the hilt of Lionmane glinting at his hip.

One of them, a wiry man with a scarred lip, sneered. "And if we don’t, bastard? You’ll make us?"

Lyonel didn’t answer. He dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a thud that made the men flinch.

The woman’s eyes locked onto his, wide and ****. "Please," she gasped.

The bandits didn’t wait. With a curse, the leader shoved the woman toward the water.

She stumbled, her arms windmilling as she tried to catch her balance, but the slope was steep, the ground slick with mud.

Lyonel lunged, but he was too far—she screamed as she fell, her body disappearing beneath the dark surface of the Gods Eye with a sickening splash.

The bandits didn’t stay to watch. They scattered like rats, melting into the trees, their laughter turning to panicked shouts as they fled.

Lyonel didn’t chase them.

His eyes were on the water, on the ripples where the woman had vanished.

He didn’t hesitate.

He shed his cloak, his boots, and dove.

—

The lake was colder than he expected, the shock of it stealing his breath as he kicked downward, his arms cutting through the murk.

The water pressed in around him, dark and heavy, but he focused on the faint glow of light from above, on the **** need to find her. His fingers brushed fabric—he grabbed, pulling her toward him.

She was limp, her face pale, her lips blue. He kicked hard, breaking the surface with a gasp, dragging her with him as he swam toward the nearest shore.

But the shore was too far. The current pulled at them, the weight of her **** body making progress slow.

Lyonel’s muscles burned, his lungs screaming for air, but he didn’t stop. Then, through the mist rising from the water, he saw it—the Isle of Faces, closer than the mainland, its ancient trees reaching out like skeletal hands.

He adjusted his course, fighting the drag of the water, the cold numbing his limbs.

He collapsed onto the pebbled beach of the isle, the woman sprawled beside him. His hands shook as he rolled her onto her back, pressing his ear to her chest.

Nothing.

He cursed, pressing his palms against her sternum, pumping once, twice—then she coughed, water spewing from her lips as she gasped for air.

Lyonel turned her onto her side, his own breath ragged as she retched, her body shuddering with the effort.

When she finally stilled, he helped her sit, his arms supporting her as she swayed. Her eyes fluttered open, dark and dazed, before focusing on him.

"You—" Her voice was raw, her fingers clutching at his arm. "You saved me."

Lyonel nodded, too exhausted to speak. He looked around them.

---

The Isle of Faces was a place of whispers, its weirwoods carved with faces that seemed to watch them from the shadows.

The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and something older, something sacred. He shivered, the cold seeping into his bones.

The woman—no, the lady—stared at him, her breath steadying. "Who are you?"

"Lyonel Rivers," he said at last, his voice rough.

Her eyes widened. "The king’s bastard?"

He gave a curt nod.

She swallowed, her gaze dropping to her torn gown, her trembling hands. Then she looked up at him again, her expression shifting from fear to something sharper.

Recognition.

"You don’t recognize me."

"It doesn’t matter," Lyonel said, but she was already shaking her head.

"No. You must know." She took a shuddering breath.

"I am Selyse. Selyse Frey. Wife to Ryman Frey." Her voice cracked. "And daughter to Lady Shella Whent."

Lyonel froze.

The world seemed to tilt beneath him. Shella’s daughter.

The words echoed in his skull, the implications crashing over him like the waves of the lake.

He had pulled Ryman Frey’s wife from the Gods Eye. He had saved the daughter of the woman carrying his child.

Selyse didn’t wait for him to speak. "I came to Harrenhal when I heard of my mother’s condition," she said, her voice gaining strength.

"I wanted to see her, to ensure she was well. My husband—" Her lips twisted. "My husband and his men were with me, but when the bandits attacked, they fled. Left me to my fate."

She looked at Lyonel, her dark eyes burning. "And then you came."

Lyonel exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place.

The bandits, the chase, the lake—all of it leading to this.

To her.

Selyse reached out, her hand gripping his wrist. "You saved my life, Lyonel Rivers."

Her voice was steady now, her gaze unflinching. "For that, I owe you a debt I can never repay."

Lyonel looked at her, at the bruises already darkening her skin, at the defiance in her stare.

He thought of Shella, of the child she carried, of the secrets that bound them all.

And he knew, in that moment, that this was not the end of their paths crossing. It was only the beginning.

"You don’t owe me anything, my lady," he said at last, his voice low. "I did what any man would do."

Selyse smiled faintly, but her eyes were shadowed. "No," she said. "Not any man."

She looked out over the dark water of the Gods Eye, then back at him. "Will you take me back to the shore? My mother will be waiting."

Lyonel nodded, rising to his feet before offering her his hand. "Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

—

The water’s current was relentless, its dark surface churning as if stirred by unseen hands beneath.

Lyonel crouched at the edge of the Isle of Faces, his fingers tracing the cold, damp pebbles beneath them.

The Gods Eye was no gentle lake—it was a beast, its depths hiding secrets older than the kingdoms of men. He could see the way the water pulled toward the center, the ripples forming patterns that spoke of unseen currents beneath.

Even a strong swimmer would struggle against it now, in the height of day when the lake’s mood was restless.

He turned to Selyse, who stood wrapped in her torn cloak, her arms hugging herself against the cold.

"The current won’t let us cross now," he said, his voice rough with the weight of the decision.

"We wait until nightfall. The water calms when the wind dies down."

Selyse’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. "And until then?"

Lyonel reached into the pouch at his belt, pulling out the last of the bread he’d taken from Harrenhal.

It was stale, the crust hard, but it would fill their bellies. He broke it in half and handed her the larger piece.

"Eat. We both need strength."

She took it without argument, her fingers brushing his as she did.

The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through him—a reminder that this woman was not just a noblewoman, not just Shella’s daughter, but a life he had pulled from the jaws of the lake.

A life that now depended on him.

"I’ll find wood," he said, already turning toward the dense thicket of trees that crowded the heart of the isle.

"We’re both freezing. A fire will keep us alive until we can cross."

Selyse didn’t protest. She simply watched as he stepped into the shadows of the weirwoods, their pale bark standing out like ghosts against the deep green of the island.

The air was thick here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

The Isle of Faces was a place of whispers, of forgotten gods and ancient pacts. The trees seemed to watch him as he moved deeper, their carved faces twisted in silent judgment.

He ventured farther than he intended, the underbrush growing thicker, the light dimmer.

The ground beneath his boots was soft, the detritus of centuries pressing down into the earth. He could hear the distant lap of water against the shore, the cry of a bird high above, but little else.

The island was still, as if holding its breath.

Then he saw it.

A glint of metal, half-buried in the loam near the water’s edge. Lyonel slowed, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of Lionmane.

The ground here was disturbed, the earth sunken in places, as if something—or someone—had been dragged into the mud long ago. He knelt, brushing away the damp leaves and dirt.

Bones.

Not just bones—a skeleton. What remained of it was half-sunk into the earth, the ribs splayed like the branches of a dead tree.

The skull was there, too, though time and the elements had taken most of it. Only fragments remained, the jaw missing, the top of the cranium collapsed inward. But the eye socket—

Lyonel’s breath caught.

A sword jutted from the hollow where an eye had once been, its hilt blackened with age, its blade a dark, mottled gray that seemed to drink in the light. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the pommel.

The metal was cold, but not with the cold of the earth.

It was something else—something that hummed faintly beneath his touch, as if the steel itself remembered the heat of dragonfire.

Dark Sister.

The name slithered into his mind, unbidden. He had heard the history of course—every man in Westeros had.

The sword of Visenya Targaryen, wielded by princes and kings, lost in the mists of time after the Dance of the Dragons. After Aemond.

Lyonel’s gaze flicked over the skeleton again.

The size of the ribs, the breadth of the shoulders—this had been no common man. And the location… the Gods Eye.

The Battle Above the Gods Eye. Aemond and Daemon.

The princes who had torn each other from the sky, their dragons locked in a **** spiral that had ended in fire and blood.

Aemond had fallen here. Or what was left of him had.

Lyonel’s fingers closed around the hilt of Dark Sister.

The blade came free with a wet, sucking sound, as if the earth itself had been **** to let it go. He held it up, turning it in the dim light.

The steel was unmarked by rust, its edge still sharp enough to draw blood. The Valyrian forge-masters had made weapons to last eternity, and this one had waited here, buried in the mud and bone of a dead prince, for over a century.

He should leave it. He knew that. A weapon like this was cursed—stained with the blood of kings, with the madness of the Dance.

But the thought of leaving it here, where any bandit or fool might stumble upon it, sat wrong in his gut.

And Lionmane… his blade had taken a beating over the years. The edge was chipped in places, the steel worn thin.

A man in his position couldn’t afford to be without a reliable weapon.

Lyonel exhaled slowly, then slid Dark Sister into the empty scabbard at his belt.

The fit was imperfect, the blade longer than Lionmane, but it would do.

He would find a proper sheath later. For now, it was his.

He turned back toward the heart of the island, his mind still reeling.

The gods played cruel jokes, dropping a blade like this into the hands of a bastard.

But he had never been one to question fate.