A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 33

As their journey carried them north-east, the land itself seemed to change beneath the wheels. At first the convoy rolled easily along the Roseroad, a road of stone said to bind Highgarden and King’s Landing together, but soon they veered from it onto lesser veins—narrow tracks that wound across the Stormlands leading to Summerhall. During some parts of their journey, the flat gray stone would give way to pressed dirt, the path little more than a trampled trail. The difference in quality was obvious. The wheels jolted more often, mud clung to the hooves of the horses, and the whole of the carriage swayed in a more intense manner.

For some, it might have been tiresome, but for Hadwyn it was hardly worthy of note. He had spent more nights sleeping under the sky than in a bed, and Ranni—well, she had passed a millennium sitting in her tower, her doll body gathering dust while she had waited for the right time to pursue her grand designs.

Perhaps Steffon, a mortal noble by birth, might have found it uncomfortable—but if so, he bore it without complaint. The man sat confidently at his seat, the sway of the carriage seeming to trouble him no more than it did them. As he had told them, in youth he participated in a local war once, called the War of Ninepenny Kings. That probably hardened him enough.

In Hadwyn’s opinion, every youth should participate in a proper war at least once. It built character. After all, if it worked for Messmer, it would work for anyone.

At that thought, Hadwyn smirked to himself, recalling a memory from the early days of the war against the Giants, with Messmer glaring at him and the others with disgust as they crouched over the carcass of a direwolf, tearing strips of meat like starving dogs.

The carriage creaked and silence stretched, the thread of their earlier conversation having run its course. It was Steffon who broke it, shifting slightly in his seat until his steady blue gaze passed between husband and wife with curiosity.

“So,” he said at last, his voice filling the cabin. “Since we’re soon to reach Summerhall, I think it’s time I asked… why are you so set on going there in the first place? You strike me as the sort who could act on whim, but still—most would find the capital a far more tempting sight than an old ruin.”

At that, Ranni stirred, a small shift of her head, the faint tilt of her chin—barely a movement, but enough to signal she would deign to answer.

“I read of it in a tome granted by thy scholars,” she said, her voice cool. “Therein was writ that Summerhall once served as foci for a rite—a communion of drakes, wherein riders sought to breathe flame anew into drake eggs. I would see its remnants, though it be naught but fleeting fancy.”

Hadwyn laughed, his grin flashing as he leaned toward. “Oh, she’s not telling the full truth. There’s something else she is interested in, but she won’t tell me what it is.”

Not that he minded. Neither of them found it necessary to bare every thought or motive, trusting the other one. Freedom suited them both, so as long as Ranni’s secrets didn’t drag them into some unenjoyable danger, he was content to let her chase her whims.

Ranni’s glassy eyes rolled at his words—a motion Hadwyn knew she had worked hard to perfect for her doll’s body.

“Well, given you are a sorceress beyond my measure, I can see how such a place might call to you...” Steffon replied diplomatically as he inclined his head, the man seemingly deciding not to inquire further about the real reason. “Still, I must warn you that not much remains of the place after Aegon the fifth’s disastrous attempt. What you’ll find now is little more than old stone and blackened walls. Many have picked through it already, and the fire left little to recover. It’s a place with only regret and loss left.”

Hadwyn gave a bark of laughter at that. “Which is exactly the sort of place she’d choose!”

Steffon’s brow furrowed, puzzled. “What do you mean, Hadwyn?”

Hadwyn’s grin widened, mischief glinting in his eye. “Just the way of things with Ranni. You know where she sent me after we first met? Into the depths beneath the earth—an entire fallen kingdom hidden below. Caverns vast enough to house entire cities. Ants the size of men crawling in their hives, shapeshifting silver, and freaky pale grey-skinned women. All so I could fetch her a dagger.”

‘Tis a gross oversimplification…” Ranni replied, though there was no heat in her voice.

“It was a very fancy dagger.” Hadwyn allowed, giving a wise nod.

Across from him, Ranni’s porcelain lips parted, a flicker of irritation in her face as though she meant to refute him or explain herself, but after a heartbeat, she closed them again. She knew as well as he did there was no counter for his words.

And when it came to Steffon, he stared at Hadwyn for a long moment, seemingly weighing his words. At last, he drew in a breath.

“So… I think most men I know would call what you’ve just described an utterly terrifying experience…” he said slowly, and there was a strange glint in his eye.

Hadwyn leaned forward a touch, smiling in recognition of that look. “And yet…?”

“…And yet Seven be damned if it doesn’t sound like an adventure.” Steffon finished, his voice gaining a note of amazement, his mouth quirking into a grin. “I thought I’d seen excitement during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but that—what you speak of—that is something else entirely.”

“Oh, yes, it was quite fun.” Hadwyn agreed with a grin that widened by the second, leaning back comfortably against the padded seat. “Though disorienting. The tunnels are like a labyrinth, with almost no landmarks to orient yourself. I think I spent an entire week lost in the ant nest once because I couldn’t find the way out.”

Steffon gave a low chuckle, though his smile faded a little. “That… sounds a little less like an adventure.”

Hadwyn found himself unable to refute Steffon’s words. After all, surviving on ant meat alone for weeks was not really that interesting of an experience.

“So, anyway…” Hadwyn asked to change the subject, as the previous one brought some unpleasant memories. “What exactly happened at Summerhall? Were they successful in hatching a drake and it burnt them all alive? Seems unlikely, given you still speak of Westerosi drakes as extinct, but due to my past experiences I am completely ready to find some ‘Whatnot the Last Dragon’ lurking in the depths.”

Steffon scratched at the back of his head, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s the thing—no one knows. Not truly. You’ll hear a dozen versions depending on who you ask, but the only certainty is this: Targaryens tried to bring dragons back with fire and sorcery. Something went wrong. Whether it was some great spell misfiring or Duncan the Tall tripping on a rug and knocking over a candle—” his mouth twisted grimly, “—the end was the same. Summerhall went up in flames. King Aegon the Fifth, most of his family, Ser Duncan… all devoured by fire.”

Hadwyn let out a low whistle. “Well, Florissax will laugh herself hoarse when she hears this—drake riders accidentally burning themselves to cinders while trying to hatch their beasts. You’ve never seen a humanoid dragon smile before, have you? It’s a peculiar sight, I’ll tell you that.”

Steffon gave him a look caught between obligatory offence and amusement, then shook his head. “I can’t say I’d blame her. Gods know it was a very needless endeavour from the start.”

“Then why did thy former king attempt it at all?” Ranni asked, her voice carrying faint curiosity at the tale.

“Because he was a shitty king,” Steffon said bluntly. He leaned forward, big frame shifting into something more serious. “Truth is, all of it came down to Aegon the Fifth being—” he paused, hunting for the right word, then gave a helpless shrug.“—inept. A good man, from what I’ve heard. Brave. Noble. Squired under Ser Duncan the Tall himself—one of the finest knights Westeros ever saw. But all of that, all those knightly virtues and sensibilities, made him the wrong sort for the throne. Man only became the king because almost every other choice was worse.”

Hadwyn laughed, amused. So being a fine warrior does not make you a fine ruler? Who would have thought.

Then again, his role mostly consisted of fighting strong enemies and pointing the issue to the correct person so that they would deal with it. From what he had gathered so far, however, Westerosi rulers actually ruled. They waded into matters of grain and coin, charters and harvests. He could hardly imagine a more miserable way to spend his time.

Steffon’s eyes flicked toward him at that, most likely guessing the reason for Hadwyn’s amusement, but seeing the man’s lack of reaction he relaxed, seemingly realizing that Hadwyn would not take offence.

“On a personal level,” Steffon continued, voice even, “I could respect him. From what I gathered, Aegon’s goals were noble enough. He wanted the smallfolk to live better and safer. He wanted his children to marry for love, not out of duty. All fine ideals, commendable even—when you’re just a man. But when you are king? It was folly.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “A realm is held together by strength and political bonds, marriages above all. Lose either strength or bonds and cracks form in every direction, especially without the dragons to protect you. Aegon made the smallfolk cheer, aye, but he made the lords restless. And restless lords make for a restless kingdom. My grandfather Lyonel’s rebellion is just one example.”

Neither Hadwyn nor Ranni offered judgment, neither condoning or condemning Aegon’s decisions. The truth was that they didn’t really have much ground to stand on when commenting on other’s political issues—Hadwyn didn’t care for the big picture in the slightest, becoming the Elden Lord just to feed his ambition, while Ranni not only triggered the Shattering, thus condemning countless people to die, but also originally planned to simply embark on a solitary voyage after everything was over, leaving everyone behind.

“It became so much of an issue,” Steffon went on. “that he thought the only way to steady the throne again was to bring back dragons. That was his answer. He might have reined in his children, might have paused his reforms until he had firmer ground, but no. Instead, he reached for fire and sorcery, trying to resurrect monsters so that he could threaten his lords into compliance.” Steffon shook his head slowly. “And look where it got him. Burnt to a crisp alongside most of his kin.”

“Yeah, that Aegon king really messed up by focusing too much on other people.” Hadwyn eventually replied as he mulled the story over. “Being kind to your people is certainly commendable, something I try to do myself, most of the time. But his mistake was ruling for his people instead of for himself. He had no ambition of his own, so he simply tried to make everyone happy. You can’t achieve anything worthwhile like that.”

Steffon let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.

 “Well, that’s true, I suppose.” Steffon said, giving a shrug. “A lord is obliged to care for his people, yes—make sure they don’t suffer needlessly, see that justice is done. But if all your choices exist only to please others, then you are no king. You are a servant who happens to wear a crown.”

“Exactly!” Hadwyn said with a smile, then a quick laugh escaped him. “Reminds me of one of my competitors to the throne—or rather, Ranni’s competitor to godhood. His name was Miquella—Ranni’s half-brother from a different mother—and he was simply insufferable, the child who believed he deserved to rule because he wanted everyone to be happy. His goal was to save everyone, but his idea of salvation was to control minds and strip them from violent urges and free will. Because that would make everyone happy, right? For this goal he even used a corpse of one of his brothers to resurrect his other brother as a perfect, obedient consort. He didn’t succeed though, because we stopped him. We had quite a blast putting them down, didn’t we, Ranni?”

Ranni’s lips curved—only slightly, the smallest tug of her porcelain features—but the satisfaction was unmistakable.

“’Twas a necessary cleansing,” she murmured. “but…it pleased me. A pity that Radahn was tangled in his snare, yet at least he perished as he would have wished—in glory, sword in hand.”

For a long moment, Steffon simply stared at them, then, abruptly, he snapped his fingers.

“That’s—” he stopped and shook his head. “That’s completely not what I was expecting or was prepared for. But, casual talk of kin-slaying notwithstanding… gods be good, I suppose I should count my blessings. I’m glad we never had to deal with anything like that when it came to Aegon.”

After that, the conversation stumbled onward into safer territories, Hadwyn and Steffon trading various stories, with Ranni listening leisurely. But then, the carriage slowed, then stopped. From outside came the muffled murmur of men’s voices and then, with a squeak of hinges, the door to the carriage swung open.

One of the Baratheon soldiers appeared, face weathered and cheeks rough. His gaze flicked to Hadwyn and Ranni before settling on his lord.

“My lord, Lord Hadwyn, Lady Ranni,” he said, bowing his head quickly before straightening. “We are nearing Summerhall, but… there is already another party on the grounds.”

“Another?” Steffon asked, his brow rising. “Do we know who they are?”

The soldier hesitated, then gave a short, reluctant nod. “They… they bear the sigil of House Targaryen.”

Silence hung in the cabin, heavy on the Westerosi side. Steffon drew in a slow breath, then pressed his hand over his eyes, his expression sinking into a deep, weary sigh.

Apparently, he knew exactly who awaited them.

***

The carriage door swung open with a groan. Hadwyn was the first to descend, boots crunching into the dirt, with Steffon coming right behind him. Ranni, for her part, remained inside, dealing with complications on the road apparently not part of her divine domain.

Hadwyn stretched, rolling his shoulders until they cracked audibly, then flung his arms wide. He tipped his head back, shut his eyes, and drew in a long, theatrical breath through his nose.

“Ah,” he exhaled, a grin tugging across his face. “Yes. This entire place definitely stinks of drakes.”

He said it without offence. Because to him, the stench of the drakes was just a sign of prey, of challenge, of something that could be hunted and felled.

No, the offence belonged to another, who was approaching him.

Florissax came, her scaled frame swaying. She lifted her narrow head, slit-pupiled eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring as she drew the air into her lungs. A low note of distaste rumbled in her throat.

“It does, Lord Hadwyn,” she admitted flatly, her voice low and edged. “That is why I argued against traveling here. Nothing but the stench of drakes long gone, polluting the air even in their absence.”

Hadwyn chuckled, brushing off her sour mood. He turned toward her with a sly smile, his hand casually thumbing back over his shoulder toward Steffon, who stood a short distance away speaking with one of his men.

“I see you are quite gloomy,” he teased, his grin widening. “But I know how to cheer you up. Steffon here told me this whole ruin reeks of drakes because Westerosi dragon-riders, desperate to bring back their precious mounts, burned themselves alive trying to hatch drake eggs.”

“That,” she said slowly. “is most amusing.”

Hadwyn’s grin widened. “Glad you think so.”

Steffon, catching the sound of Florissax’s laugh, glanced over and, upon noticing the female dragon’s grin, shook his head in unwitting amusement, seemingly conceding it was indeed a peculiar sight.

After Steffon was done talking, he, Hadwyn, Florissax and Ansbach began to walk forward and soon, the ruins of Summerhall came into full view.

What had once must have been a fairly proud castle was now little more than a blackened husk. Walls slumped inward, their stones charred and brittle, some melted together. What used to be towers now lay in heaps, collapsed into themselves, jagged teeth of masonry biting at the sky. The courtyard was choked with rubble and weeds that had forced their way through cracked stone, making it clear it was no longer used.

And yet, in that desolate ruin, another party was waiting.

As they drew nearer to the gutted gate of Summerhall, the figures waiting in the shadow of the ruin became clearer. The most noticeable of them, standing at their fore, was a young man in gleaming white armor, quite noticeable amid the blackened ruins. His posture was straight and his helmet tucked beneath his arm, his eyes watching the approaching group with clear wariness.

The rest of his retinue bore darker hues—black and crimson—symbols on their shields and flags around them bearing an image of a three-headed dragon, supposedly the sigil of House Targaryen. Banners stirred faintly in the breeze, the painted dragons seeming to writhe in the air. Florissax’s mouth curled back in something between a sneer and a growl, as she saw the symbols, their sign enough to sour her recently improved mood.

It was when they neared the group that Hadwyn noticed a few more interesting details. The man at their front, clad in his white armor, seemed to be very young, late teens at most. His posture was almost immaculate and his sharp eyes were watching their approach closely, betraying that the man was quite skilled by Westerosi standards. But what caught Hadwyn’s attention the most was the sword on his hip. While it was sheathed, he could feel the familiar tingling he had once felt so often, making the nature of the man’s weapon clear.

As they approached the opposing retinue, Steffon stepped forward. His gaze locked on the man in white plate at the head of the opposite company, recognition flickering immediately across his features.

“Ser Arthur,” Steffon greeted, his voice firm, and deliberately neutral. “I had not expected to find a Kingsguard in this place.”

The man in white armor inclined his head slightly, the movement precise and measured.

“Lord Baratheon,” The knight, apparently named Arthur, answered, his tone courteous but reserved. “The honor is mine. Though I must confess—” his eyes swept briefly over company. “—it is a surprise to see you here as well, and in such company. When we departed King’s Landing, His Grace made it clear to everyone he expects to see you and the lord of the inbetweeners in the capital…”

The words hung there like a silent question.

Arthur’s gaze passed over Hadwyn and Ansbach, lingering on Florissax for the longest, the woman’s inhumane visage catching his attention. The man’s eyes revealed a clear wariness, his body tense, though there was not much fear in him, Arthur clearly prepared to fight if the need arose, a very commendable quality in a knight.

Still, the men behind him were not so disciplined, some shifting uneasily, hands brushing hilts, eyes darting between the figures foreign to them.

“The plan did change, I’m afraid.” Steffon replied shortly, leaving the matter there, apparently finding it unnecessary to explain the whole thing to a simple knight. His gaze sharpened, fixing Arthur directly. “Does your presence mean the prince is here as well? If that is the case, I would like to speak with him regarding the current…circumstances.”

“Yes. Prince Rhaegar is within the ruins…reflecting upon his family’s history.” Arthur replied, his tone carefully measured. His eyes flicked briefly toward Hadwyn, then back to Steffon. “But…if I may ask—are your companions also intending to meet with the prince? Forgive my bluntness, but I am sworn for his protection, and I cannot allow harm to come to him.”

Before Steffon could answer, Hadwyn gave a sudden snort. There was no malice in it, but rather a slightly amused approval. Arthur’s hand shifted, thumb brushing the guard of his sword, but then he stopped as no hostile move was made.

“You don’t need to worry. Your prince will be safe. We are only here because my wife wanted to see these ruins. We didn’t even know someone else would be here.” Hadwyn replied easily, then his grin grew more amused. “Though I’ll admit, it would be quite enjoyable to cross blades with you—if only for nostalgia’s sake. I once wielded meteoric ore myself and I have quite a few fond memories related to the weapon.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, suspicion flickering across his composed face.

“…Meteoric ore?” he echoed. “It is true that my sword was forged from a fallen star, but…” His gaze hardened slightly, his voice dipping into caution. “You spoke of your wife wishing to visit Summerhall, and with Lord Baratheon as your company….am I correct to assume you are the lord of the inbetweeners?”

“Ah, right….I suppose I forgot to introduce myself.” Hadwyn said, some sheepishness audible in his voice. “Hadwyn Caria. Elden Lord and—” he made a vague gesture to those behind him, “lord of the inbetweeners. Supposedly.”

Arthur’s eyes widened just slightly, the faintest crack in his stoic visage. When he spoke, his tone was respectful, though still edged with caution. “…I see. I am Arthur Dayne, sworn brother of the Kingsguard. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The knight seemed to hesitate, as if weighing something behind his calm façade. His gaze flicked briefly to Florissax, then back to Steffon and Hadwyn, deliberating in silence. The pause stretched, heavy with unspoken concerns—duty to his prince, suspicion of strangers, calculation of risk. Finally, something settled in his eyes, firm and resolute.

“…Then, please follow me,” Arthur said at last. “I will take you to the prince.”

***

They passed deeper into the ruins, the crunch of boots echoing against hollow walls. The air carried the faint tang of ash, old yet never quite gone, as though the fire that had devoured this place lingered stubbornly in memory.

As they approached the largest of the ruined halls, a sound drifted to them—fragile yet clear, threading through the air like smoke. The plucked notes of a harp, delicate and mournful, followed by a voice.

High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts…

The voice was young yet practiced, melodic enough to carry sorrow through the air. The tune was melancholic and the artist was reasonably skilled, though Hadwyn supposed he probably couldn’t entirely enjoy it, the Elden Lord never particularly fond of sad songs.

As the song reached them, Steffon gave a long-suffering sigh beside him, body betraying the exasperation. Hadwyn quirked a brow, but the Baratheon lord only shook his head, his eyes darting toward Arthur. Whatever remark he had on the tip of his tongue, it would remain unsaid.

Hadwyn shrugged his shoulders. Well, no matter.

They entered the castle proper, where ruin reigned no less fiercely than outside. The walls bore the stains of flame, beams half-collapsed, the gone roof revealing the gray sky above. Rain must have fallen here countless times since the fire, for moss clung to the broken stone.

The ones who’d been gone for so very long,
She couldn’t remember their names…

They spun her around on the damp old stones,
Spun away all her sorrow and pain…

The voice carried clearer as they crossed the shattered threshold.

At the far end of the ruined hall, perched upon a mound of rubble, sat a boy of no more than fourteen. His hair gleamed a stark, silvery white, and he was draped in black and crimson tunic, the three-headed dragon spread across his chest. He cradled a harp against his body, long fingers plucking strings with solemn grace.

His face was smooth and his eyes—purple and heavy with a sorrow—rose to meet theirs without faltering, even as his song wound to its end. He sang on until the last verse spilled into silence.

And she never wanted to leave,
Never wanted to leave…

Never wanted to leave

Never wanted to leave

The final words faded, dissolving into the open sky above.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Hadwyn tilted his head, regarding the sight before him: a child, draped in black and red with winged serpent sigil gleaming on his chest, surrounded by ruins, strumming out mournful laments.

And in Hadwyn’s mind, only one thought rose:

was this brat Messmer’s secret lovechild or something?