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A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 30
🕑 Added 2025-08-23 18:42:50 +0000 UTCOn a wide meadow, located just beyond Highgarden’s sight, an unusual congregation stirred beneath the cold moonlight.
Had the Tyrells known of it, they would have been quite worried. Not because a meeting was taking place so near them—though that alone would have been cause for alarm—but because its participants had managed to slip from Highgarden entirely unseen, despite many steps taken to have them subtly observed at all times.
In the grass, four chairs had been arranged—unexpected islands of civilization set in the middle of a wildness. Upon them sat four figures, each distinct, each about to take part in a meeting with their scattered kin.
Hadwyn Caria occupied one chair with his usual ease, leaning back with a faint smile playing at his lips. His presence here was never in question—he was the Elden Lord, and all decisions, whether he liked it or not, gravitated inevitably toward him.
To his right sat Ranni, her presence a rarer thing. The goddess left most dealings of politics to her husband, disdainful of the act of mortal wrangling. Yet tonight she could not remain apart, for without her sorcery, this meeting would not happen—the inbetweeners in Highgarden quite inept, if not worse, when it came to sorcery.
On Hadwyn’s other side was Ansbach, his ever-so-loyal seneschal. In Highgarden he had worked mostly in shadows— smoothing tensions, tending to misunderstandings, untying the knots behind closed doors and under sheets. He was the unsung hero of Highgarden, few noticing the work he did.
The last of the four was Florissax, the ancient dragoness. Of them all, she was the most elusive during their stay in Highgarden. At the first banquet she had walked among mortals openly, only to draw stares from men and women alike. Afterwards, finding the attention irritating, Florissax vanished from common view, haunting only her chambers or the streets by night, her only interaction visiting her lord under the cover of the dark.
“Is everything set up, Ranni?” Hadwyn asked at last, his tone leisurely.
“Yes. Upon mine own end,” Ranni spoke, her tone even. “The Wisdom of the Moon is furnished with the proper relics to bear such a binding over distances uncounted. The Sea Tower, however She let the name hang for a breath, her lips curving with the faintest scorn. “…was constrained to fashion their working from naught. They stumble much, groping as blind men to weave but a meager tether. And yet… ah. At last—they have contrived it.”
As she said it, Ranni lifted her hand. The meadow brightened at once, bathed in a cold radiance. Blue light coiled around her slender fingers like living threads, and the moon’s rays themselves seemed to twist under her will. The silver beams thickened, condensed, and then sharpened until they began carving shapes in the empty air.
First silhouettes, then clearer forms. Figures slowly gained depth and texture, luminous outlines hardening into faces and bodies made of pale moonlight, the air shimmering with their presence.
To one side appeared Miriel, Jolán, Tragoth and Saelle.
Opposite them shimmered the forms of Iji, Tricia, and Moongrum.
And there, in the grass of Highgarden’s meadow, Hadwyn, Ranni, Ansbach and Florissax completed the circle.
Between all three groups a table unfolded from the light itself, smooth and solid-seeming. Its shape mirrored the Roundtable of the Wisdom of the Moon—a detail born of Hadwyn’s insistence, his request finally wrung from his wife after long pestering.
Had anyone with even passing knowledge of the Lands Between been present, they might have noticed that Highgarden and Oldtown, were thin on Carian presence, while in Lannisport the Carians were numerous and firmly in charge. Whether it implied something, however, was anyone’s guess.
Seeing that everyone was present, Hadwyn broke the silence with a clap of his hands, the sound loud against the night air.
“All right then. Seeing as we’re all here already, let’s start.” Hadwyn declared, his tone brisk. He turned his eyes to the table at large, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, then he looked at Ranni. “Hello, everyone. It’s nice to see you all again, if only remotely this time. Normally, of course, our meetings would be secular affairs, but since tonight we’re borrowing the talents of my wife for the connection, Ranni magnanimously agreed to be here. We should all take a moment and offer a quiet prayer to our most benevolent goddess.”
Ranni’s spectral blue eyes narrowed into slits. “…how considerate, consort mine.”
“You will always find me your most devout worshipper,” Hadwyn replied without shame, grin stretching wide. He leaned back in his chair and swung his gaze back to the projected table.
“Now then. I’ve called this meeting because, as it turns out, you’ve all been rather busy since we split up, my friends.” He said, giving everyone an amused look.
“Lord Hadwyn?” Iji asked, his confusion plain, while Miriel simply bowed his massive head, his posture heavy with guilt.
“Well, you see…” Hadwyn explained. “I had two separate meetings today—one with Leyton Hightower, and another with Tywin Lannister. The first concerned a recent development, where the members of the local faith attempted to massacre our people in Oldtown. The second was fairly confusing, as it was about Tricia saving the wife and son of Tywin Lannister. It sounded fine to me, but apparently, this has somehow managed to make their king rather upset with us. I still don’t quite follow the cause and effect relationship there, but I suppose it doesn’t matter much.”
Hadwyn’s words were met with interest, though not with the alarm. To those gathered, the idea of an attempted purge was not novel. To the Westerosi, such an event could be seen as significant, but to the inbetweeners, who had lived through millenia, the luster had long since dulled. After the twentieth or thirtieth such purge, what was another? The same was true for the ire of some foreign monarch. Most of those seated about the table had provoked kings, lords, even gods, at some point in their lives. Taking into account the gulf of strength between them and the people of Westeros, this local king’s anger was less than noteworthy.
“I will say that I do have news on my own to share concerning that Aerys king’s reaction, but they are rather connected to our actions in Casterly Rock.” Hadwyn drawled, folding his hands. He turned toward Miriel, encouraging smile on his lips. “So, I think it better to start with Oldtown. How about you tell us exactly what happened, Miriel?”
A deep, weighted sigh escaped the turtle priest, one that seemed to draw from the very pit of his ancient lungs.
“Of course, Lord Hadwyn.” Miriel began, his voice slow but steady. He lowered his gaze toward the others, gathering their attention. “As you know, I was chosen to watch over our people in Oldtown whilst Lord Hadwyn tends to Highgarden. For a time, everything seemed well. I worked with Septon Gerold, striving to soothe various frictions before they could fester. We made some progress, I believe…but unbeknownst to us, some among the Faithful judged the inbetweeners’ presence intolerable...”
And so, Miriel began his tale. His words unfurled like a slow river, recounting with painstaking care the night of the assault. He spoke of the mob, who marched upon their people’s dwellings, with weapons in hands and zeal in hearts. He told how they came upon the inbetweeners, intent to slaughter them all, and of how swiftly the tide had turned—how zealots became corpses, how blood was once again spilled by the inbetweeners after centuries of peace. He also mentioned how Jolán and Tragoth had known of the strike beforehand, and how their silence led to everything that happened later, an admission that made Jolán turn her head away in protest and did not affect Tragoth in the slightest. He finished the story by telling how the battle ended, how Septon Gerold’s incantation bound the survivors in chains of light, incapacitated them and brought the battle to an end.
The listeners were attentive, though certainly not alarmed. To them, it was simply another story in a long line of endless, similar tales. Only Hadwyn showed a flicker of animation, but only because he found himself interested in Gerold’s incantations, eyes glinting with boyish curiosity. But beyond that brief spark, none bothered to probe Miriel for further details, the purge was too simple and familiar to warrant questions.
“…And when all was finished,” Miriel concluded at last, voice mournful. “I spoke with Gerold. He gave me his word that those who incited the slaughter shall meet their punishment. In return, I pledged that we too should seek atonement.”
Hadwyn leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
“I see…” He let the word hang, his voice mild, measured. Then his mouth quirked. “Well, let me start by saying I’m really disappointed you didn’t invite me—”
The reaction was immediate.
“Hadwyn…” Ranni’s voice was spoken with almost instinctual chastisement.
“Lord Hadwyn…” Miriel murmured softly, almost wounded.
“Hah! Next time, Hadwyn!” Tragoth barked, grin wide and unrepentant.
“I apologize, my lord. I will invite you next time.” Jolán offered earnestly, bowing her head.
Hadwyn blinked, then noticed Miriel’s expression—eyes downcast, as if he were some colossal tortoise that had just been struck across the snout. The look made Hadwyn clear his throat and cough into his fist. “That’s, of course, a joke. I am not condoning baiting people into a massacre…” He paused. “…anymore.”
The words did not seem to cause the intended reaction, as both Ranni and Miriel sighed deeply in response.
“But more seriously,” he pressed on, tone becoming just a tad more serious. “since the slaughter was entirely consensual, at least at the beginning, and given that both Leyton and apparently Septon Gerold were quite insistent the priests were acting entirely on their own… I don’t see much reason to do anything at this point.” Hadwyn said while scratching his head, not really seeing any point in pursuing that topic further. “In fact, I think that this entire mess should be seen as beneficial by the Westerosi, given that it allowed one of them to finally use some incantations. In a few centuries it could lead to something interesting.”
“…I just think we should at least take some steps to mend the wound this conflict caused between us and the people of this land.” Miriel said after a moment, his voice full of sorrow. His shell-like form seemed to sag under some invisible weight. His eyes—luminous orbs that had watched uncountable ages pass—lowered with sadness, perhaps even guilt.
Hadwyn found himself marveling at the sight, as he always did. No matter how many times he had witnessed it before, it never lost its strangeness. Miriel—the oldest being he knew, old enough to have been Placidusax’s father, perhaps even his grandfather—was also the only person he knew so averse to violence. Even now, after an attack in which bloodshed had been unavoidable, he still mourned. It was oddly heartwarming, yet utterly alien, mentality completely at odds with the very order of the world.
“…I mean, you can offer some help to those hurt by the conflict?” Hadwyn said lamely, his voice hesitant, his hand lifting in a vague gesture that trailed into nothing. “Take Tragoth and Jolán with you, if you like. That way, you can fulfill your promise to Gerold about…atonement.” The word felt clumsy on his tongue. He was trying his best—trying to accommodate his favorite elder, to give him something of what he wanted. He did not understand Miriel, doubted he ever truly could, but he wanted to support him nonetheless.
“My lord, is what I did wrong?” Jolán asked suddenly, her posture stiff, her gaze flicking toward Miriel before fixing on Hadwyn. Her tone was earnest, but beneath the steadiness ran a hint of uncertainty could be heard. “His Excellency speaks of atonement, but I merely ensured a potential threat was removed. In controlled fashion, no less.”
“No one is blaming you, Jolán.” Hadwyn replied smoothly. The girl was young despite her long life, still learning the ways of the world after millenia of isolation, so he didn’t want her to feel unsure about her choices. “You did your best and that’s what matters.”
But as his gaze shifted, he caught Miriel’s chagrined expression. That sight alone was enough to make Hadwyn feel he said something wrong, even though he knew his words were true and Jolán deserved them. Why was it so hard to keep both ancient pacifist and bloodthirsty youth happy at the same time?
“That being said…” His voice slowed, reluctant. “Next time, please tell Miriel if you see something like this coming. He was chosen to lead in my absence, so you shouldn’t keep such things from him.”
Jolán froze, then inclined her head, a faint shadow of shame flickering in her eyes.
“…I understand, my lord.” She bowed low. Then she turned, her voice softer, directed toward the elder. “And I apologize to you, Your Excellency. I will strive to improve my conduct in the future.”
“…That is the beginning of atonement, I think,” Miriel murmured at last, his deep voice full of resignation. He did not seem satisfied, but perhaps he recognized he couldn’t expect a better result. His great eyes blinked slowly. “…Or at least the beginning of growth, if nothing else.”
“That being said…” Hadwyn went on, his eyes narrowing a touch, “there is one person I’m a little irritated at.”
His gaze slid across the table until it came to rest on Tragoth.
“Jolán is still learning, so I don’t hold it against her. But you…” Hadwyn stated, a slight hint of accusation audible. “…you should have ensured the mob never reached the village without first challenging you. For a man famed for mowing through tides of enemies, you let an awful lot slip past.”
Tragoth’s broad shoulders shifted, his massive head dipping low.
“Yeah, I know, Hadwyn. I know.” His tone was subdued, lacking its usual bluster. “I accept whatever punishment you see fit to give me.”
“Once again, I’m not really in a position to punish you.” Hadwyn reminded him, exhaling through his nose. “You all came with me and Ranni of your own will. Just don’t make this mistake again.”
The man gave a single nod, chastened.
Hadwyn let it drop and turned his attention down the table, his eyes settling on Saelle, the leader of the Deathbed Companions. She was sitting at ease in her chair, posture loose, acting as if outside of the topic.
“And you, Saelle?” Hadwyn asked. “Nothing happened on your end?”
“Me? Oh, no.” Saelle’s lips curved faintly as she lifted one pale hand to her cheek in a gesture almost coquettish. “It may be impolite to say, but I had a wonderful night when the attack occurred. A frequent benefactor kept us… thoroughly occupied. We didn’t even hear of the trouble until the following evening.”
A few of the listeners exchanged sidelong looks.
“…Then I suppose there isn’t really anything more to say.” Hadwyn concluded, brushing past her remark. He leaned back in his seat, shoulders settling against the chair as his gaze shifted across the table to the other half of the gathering. “Now, about Casterly Rock… I’ll be frank. Did you actually do anything that might make someone angry? Because I feel like I’m missing something.”
“While I did not leave the Wisdom for the duration of our stay in Lannisport,” Iji rumbled, troll’s voice deep. “I did not receive reports that any of us acted improperly. Some, like Moongrum, made the decision to train local warriors, while Tricia performed a commendable act in saving Lady Joanna Lannister and her child, but nothing noteworthy happened otherwise. To my knowledge, we made no hostile moves.”
“I can confirm Master Iji’s words, Lord Hadwyn.” Moongrum followed dutifully, voice steady. “I spent most of my days in Casterly Rock sparring with their troops and training the lord’s heir—young Jaime. Nothing more.” He paused for a moment, then rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, Lord Hadwyn… if it is not too much to ask, could you perhaps speak with Lord Tywin about the possibility of me continuing to train young Jaime in a more formal capacity? The lad has some talent for parrying—it would be a shame not to cultivate it.”
Hadwyn blinked, then shrugged. “Sure. After conveying his king’s message, Tywin looked as if he was simply done. I’m sure some happy news will improve his mood.”
Moongrum bowed his head, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “Thank you, Lord Hadwyn.”
Hadwyn turned next to the last representative from Lannisport. “And you, Tricia?”
“My only interaction with the Lannisters—or with anyone at Casterly Rock, truly—was when I saved a woman and her child whose lives were imperilled by the incompetence of their healers.” Tricia’s words came firm, measured, without the faintest hesitation. “If their king fears I acted from political motives or ignored any safety measures, he should know I acted only according to the teachings of the Perfumer. If I could turn back time and found not a noblewoman, but a destitute plague-ridden orphan before me, I would still have chosen to save that orphan.”
“Please don’t actually say that, Lord Hadwyn…” Ansbach interjected quietly, apparently finding it necessary. It was and Hadwyn made a mental note of the advice.
“May I ask why that king is angry?” Iji inquired at last, his rumbling voice steady. “Perhaps then the matter will become clearer.”
“Well, I only know what was in the message,” Hadwyn replied, fingers drumming lightly against the table, or rather, air. “Tywin was cagey about the details, but apparently Aerys is furious because the Wisdom sailed to Lannisport instead of King’s Landing. He claims that if we had gone there instead, we might have saved his son—who died recently.” Hadwyn gave a short explanation. “But it sounded like an excuse to me, so I thought perhaps one of you had done something that would actually warrant his anger.”
Tricia folded her hands before her. “While I do not know the specific ailment that claimed the prince, it is probable he would have had a greater chance of survival had we been present, given this land’s abysmal medical knowledge. But we were not. Thus, there is no purpose in pondering what could not be.”
“…Please don’t say that either, lord Hadwyn.” Ansbach once again interjected quickly, his job thankless and full of hardships. “But I believe I can add context. According to information acquired from my… source, Tywin Lannister and Aerys Targaryen are apparently on famously poor terms despite them being childhood friends. The king is deeply insecure about the possibility of his Hand overshadowing him. While I cannot be certain, it is quite possible Aerys’ accusations stem less from fact than from any real irrationality and more from the suspicion and ill will he harbors toward Tywin.”
“Ah, so it’s spite then?” Hadwyn mused sagely, stroking at his beard. “I can see that. Nothing moves a man like a little bit of spite.” His tone was wry, almost nostalgic. Then his eyes flicked across the table, and he remembered the tidbit he had been meaning to speak about. “Well, regardless of his reasoning, Aerys sent me an…I suppose I should call it a demand, tied to all this. That’s the news I wanted to talk about. Apparently, he’s calling me to King’s Landing—northeast, as I’ve learned—so that I might ‘explain myself.’ If I do not, he threatens to banish the inbetweeners from his lands.”
He spoke the words casually, making it clear he didn’t think much about the threat itself.
At that, Moongrum stiffened and spoke, voice deepening from the affront. “Are you planning to go there, Lord Hadwyn? While I cannot speak to the validity of such a threat… the fact that such an order was issued at all is an insult. A grave insult against you, and by extension, against Lady Ranni’s honor.”
The lady herself, simply rolled her eyes, unaffected by the perceived insult in the slightest.
“Hmm? Well, I don’t really know.” Hadwyn shrugged, the motion almost bored. “On one hand, dealing with some foreign grievances sounds tedious, and I’ve no interest in getting into a pointless argument with a man I don’t even know over things I don’t even care about. On the other hand, I do find Westeros interesting, so I’d like to see more of it. And constantly fighting off the king’s soldiers every time we travel would be fairly annoying.”
“While I will certainly follow you regardless of your choice, Lord Hadwyn, I deem it ill-advised to set foot in the seat of the drake-riders,” Florissax declared at last, speaking for the first time since the start of the meeting. “Even from this distance, the stench of Bayle’s progeny is ever-clinging. The thought of going to their nest and bathe in their foul perfume fills me with loathing.”
“Florissax,” Ansbach sighed. “as I have explained to you before—there are no longer any drakes in Westeros. The ruling house, the Targaryens, simply drove them to extinction so recently that the smell has not yet faded.”
“I know this,” Florissax conceded, her tail coiling behind her. “And if the current king himself was the butcher of the drakes, then my opinion of him is not wholly abysmal. But that means drowning in the stench of drake without a drake to slay. A cruel improvement, I would say.”
For a handful of moments, opinions clashed, each person present having their own opinion about how to proceed. Yet the debate faltered all at once when a quiet, measured voice cut through it.
“I deem we should go.” Ranni said, her voice quiet yet carrying the weight. Every head turned toward her, for she rarely deigned to speak in such gatherings, content to remain in the periphery while others tangled themselves in worldly affairs.
And with her declaration, the matter was settled.
“Then we will go,” Hadwyn replied instantly, without hesitation. It was an unwritten law of their religion/marriage: the goddess asked for little, and so when she did, she was provided. The Carian retainers did not protest, for their Lady’s word was the law. Hadwyn’s companions accepted the decision just as quickly, knowing that Hadwyn would agree—and his word was the law. “Any reason in particular, though? You’re usually not so interested in where we go.”
“In a tome I perused, there was writ of a ritual site most curious.” Ranni declared, her tone calm. Her tone was serene, almost indifferent, yet there was something beneath it—an undertow of intent not spoken aloud. “A place of dragon communion—Summerhal, as men name it. I would behold it with mine own eyes.”
“Well, I guess it does sound rather interesting,” Hadwyn mused as he imagined incantations that they might find at such a place.
Without further word, Ranni lifted one pale hand, and moonlight coiled around her fingers like threads of silk. Slowly, a shimmering map bloomed in the air above the table, the image sent to the other groups as well. The land of Westeros unfurled in argent glow, important landmarks highlighted. Highgarden and Oldtown shimmered at the south-west, King’s Landing shone far to the east, and Summerhall gleamed in some distance to the south from it.
Ranni’s target was not exactly along the main path to the capital, a detour necessary to visit Summerhall before King’s Landing, but no one seemed to mind. They were not pressed for time, nor bound to choose the shortest road. The scenic route through Summerhall, even perhaps bending further toward Storm’s End, gave some promise, especially since the road would lead them to King’s Landing even then.
Moongrum was surprisingly the most in favour of such action, puffing his chest and nodding with satisfaction at the ‘retaliatory slight’ as he called it.
And so it was settled: the path of Hadwyn and Ranni’s group would wind eastward, through Summerhall. But another matter yet remained unresolved—the fate of their other companions, the inbetweeners spread between Oldtown and Lannisport.
What followed was a long discussion, winding and tangled with competing voices. Plans were proposed, weighed, discarded, and reshaped again.
In the end, a course was agreed upon.
The Wisdom of the Moon would not linger in Lannisport—there was no reason to, as Hadwyn and Ranni would not be going there soon. For the time being, It was better for the vessel to return to Oldtown.
Once there, the inbetweeners stationed in Oldtown would be given time to consider their path. If they truly wanted, some might remain behind, staking roots in the city despite suspicion that would follow. Others would rejoin the ship, ready to sail again until they found a place more suited for the extended stay.
From Oldtown, the Wisdom and its crew would sail south, then east, then north, until it reached King’s Landing and reunited with their rulers.
The decision would perhaps be made earlier if Hadwyn’s mood did not sour as Iji mentioned the fishmen living in the western seas and the possibility of their underwater boarding, the man becoming quite sullen upon realizing he would not be able to face them personally given his journey taking him eastward, but that was beside the point.
But eventually, the matter was resolved and the meeting came to a close, the silver map fading, the moonlight’s glow thinning and connection ending.
Hadwyn and Ranni did not depart at once. Rather than return to Highgarden, the pair lingered beneath the night sky, seated upon the grass. The world was silent save for the whisper of wind in the grass, the pale moon hanging above them.
They sat together in that quiet, shoulder to shoulder, saying little. Words were needless, the hush between them companionable and intimate.
Perhaps an hour passed before Ranni broke the stillness. Her voice came soft and quiet, as though carried by the very breeze.
“What manner of eyes dost thou favour, mine consort?” she asked, her gaze never shifting from the moon’s argent glow. A faint smile played across her lips, soft and real.
“Confident ones.” Hadwyn replied at once, no hesitation in his voice. Only then, as the words left him, he registered the strangeness of the question, turning to his wife with a puzzled look.
Ranni’s lips curved further, and—rare as snowfall in midsummer—laughter slipped from her. Not the faint chuckle, but a light, unguarded laugh. “How endearing,” she said, eyes glinting, “—how utterly useless an answer.”
Hadwyn shook his head, smile tugging at his mouth betraying his fondness. “And why do you ask, Ranni? Does this have something to do with that dragon-communion place you’re so intent on? Incantations are usually my obsession, not yours.”
“Of course not. I did but wonder.” Ranni replied smoothly. Her smile was subtle and mysterious, while her expression was unreadable. Then, with sudden whimsy, she rose from the grass in a fluid motion, turning to regard him with a tilted head and luminous eyes. “Now—be a good consort, and stand before me, that I might measure thy stature. ’Tis for no purpose but a fleeting fancy of mine own.”
Hadwyn barked a short laugh at the oddness of the request, but did as she bid without resistance, unfolding from the grass to stand before her. She circled him, each step unhurried and trailing coat brushing the grass, with the slow care of one appraising some ancient carving, her pale gaze sweeping up his stature as if etching his measurements into memory.
The night stretched on, the moon sliding its slow arc across the heavens, and the two of them remained—Elden Lord and his God, mortal and demigoddess—lingering together until the horizon kindled with the blush of dawn, husband indulging his wife until the new day came.
***
The end of the Reach arc.
Comments
Ad_Valorem
Let’s go!!! Summerhall, Storm’s End, then King’s Landing - the roster’s stacked! God, I’m hyped for Hadwyn to meet Bobby B…
