The Isle of Faces

Quite separately from Theodan and Howland, Rogar Bolton had decided that he wished to take this opportunity in the South so close to Harrenhal to visit the Isle of Faces. He'd wanted to come for decades, but there had always been some excuse as to why it wasn't practical to make the trip. He'd gone down to the nearest village on the Shore of the God's Eye to find a fisherman willing to forgo his day's catch for coin to give him passage to the secluded island that sounded like a place of legends rather than an actual island one could visit. He wanted to walk among the grove of weirwoods, and stand on the soil where the Children of the Forest made their pact with the First Men. Where better to feel the presence of the Gods in the south than on the very place created to act as a witness?

The God's Eye was immense, stretching as far as he could see in either direction along the shore, and there was no sight of the island in the middle, much less a far shore. It would be easy to mistake it for the sea shore, were it not for the gentle way the water rippled against the shore, rather than broke in waves like the ocean.

The Lord of the Dreadfort had left his armor behind this morning, instead wearing a white tunic with a black sleeveless jerkin over the top, with an panel embroidered in red and white down the front to conceal the buttons that held it closed. He'd worn his customary riding breeches and boots, and a black cloak fastened with a clasp in the shape of his House's sigil.

Beside him was a female figure, shrouded in a grey cloak, though she was turned at an angle that presented her back to Theodan and Howland and did not grant them a clear look at her from their present position.

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