Lost at Lonely Light

> *"Strange tales like this are common at the edges of the world, however, and the Lonely Light stands farthest west of all the lands known to us."*
>
> — Archmaester Yandel

The isle of Lonely Light is, perhaps, the most unremarkable of the seven Iron Islands. It is the smallest and most isolated, so far west that men fear to sail past it's guiding light. The people of Lonely Light are just as strange as the island they live on, whispered to be skinchangers, mermen, half-seal, and all sort of fantastical creatures in-between. But perhaps the strangest of all of the tales of Lonely Light has just played out before the very eyes of the Ironborn; an event coined as the **Lost at Lonely Light**.

It is frightening to believe that perhaps the effects of the occurrence would not have been noticed for many moons if it had not been for luck. A trading vessel, the *Favored Flame*, sailing to Lordport from the South was blown far westward thanks to fierce summer storms; that in itself not unusual for the season or time of year. The fierceness of the gale was what was remarkable, as it came close to tearing the *Favored'*s mast off the desk itself, and sent many men to the Drowned God's watery halls with waves thrice a man's height. As the captain notes, the ship itself came close to capsizing not once, but twice, and much of its merchandise was lost as a result. Having taken on water and lost many an able-bodied crewer, the *Favored Flame* limped to the only landmark it could see among the howling Storm God's rage; the flickering flame of the isle of Lonely Light, guardian of the Sunset Sea.

Indeed, it was a small mercy the ship could even withstand being beached. What crew remained, including the captain, disembarked and sought shelter in the cliffs of Lonely Light, awaiting the storm's end, though many already felt something odd in the air. Though the fire of the island still burned bright, the tiny settlements around the landmark seemed especially quiet; though not many were willing to risk losing themselves to the storm to seek out the populace until morning came.

After many harrowing hours spent huddling next to the rocks, praying for relief, the biting wind calmed to a nipping chill, and the rain went from painful as a whip to as gentle as a maiden's kiss. The sun brought a dim glow to the world, enough to see. The captain led a party from their shelter to the villages, seeking shipwrights who could make sure their vessel could, at least, withstand a journey to the nearest isle.

What they found they spoke of for moons to come, spreading the tale from White Harbor to Lannisport, to King's Landing to Pentos. Like wildfire it spread between sailors and traders, and for good reason.

The villages of Lonely Light were deserted. Not a man, woman, child nor animal was found. They claimed that smoke still curled from cookfires inside homes, that tepid water still filled wooden baths, that one could see where chickens had laid eggs and where dogs had slept. But they were simply... Gone. Naught a soul remained. Alarmed, the captain of the Favored immediately took his crew to the tower of Lonely Light itself, and found it unguarded and in similar state. The halls of the castle were empty, the flame at the top of the tower burning wild but untended. The Lord Farwynd's bed was empty, though one could still see where he and his wife, a Farwynd of Sealskin Point recently-wed, had slept before their mysterious disappearance.

Terrified, and rightfully so, the Captain and his men swiftly abandoned Lonely Light. They left *Favored Flame* where it had run aground and instead took sturdier vessels to the main islands, spreading word of what they had found from Saltcliffe to Blacktyde. Any sailor who thought it worth to risk the wrath of the Storm God and sail to Lonely Light through the near-perpetual storms that now surrounded the island like a great natural barrier would be greeted with the truth of it; that the people of the western island were truly lost.

But where, exactly, had they gone?