A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 32

With the tourney finally concluded, and with King Aerys’ demand brought to their attention, the time of the inbetweeners in Highgarden soon reached its natural end.

The castle stirred early on the day of their departure—by the time the inbetweeners stepped from their chambers and began the slow walk toward the gates, Highgarden itself seemed to have risen to watch them leave.

Every street and passage along the way was thick with faces. Nobles, stiff as statues, offered shallow bows and perfunctory courtesies, each no doubt weighing what they had gained—or failed to gain—by the guests’ presence. Soldiers stood at their posts, their relief plain— once these beings departed, their duties would be less nerve-wracking. Merchants watched them in silence, lips tight with disappointment at seeing the opportunity leave. Peasants (or was it the smallfolk here?) pressed forward wherever they dared, eyes wide and mouths agape.

It was as though every man and woman in Highgarden had gathered for one last glimpse before the strangers vanished toward the heart of Westeros.

At the head of the procession, Lord Hadwyn walked beside Mace Tyrell, engrossed in conversation. From the sounds of it, their talk once again turned to hunting—no doubt the safest (or at least the least controversial) topic Mace had found after several disastrous attempts at other subjects during the inbetweeners’ stay. Lord Hadwyn, as ever, spoke with fervor, his hands carving shapes in the air, while young Mace’s expression swayed between admiration and faint horror.

Not far behind, Leyton Hightower kept pace with his daughter and Mace’s wife Alerie, as well as his wife Jayne. The three conversed pleasantly enough, though Leyton’s eyes again and again flickered to Lord Hadwyn. His eyes carried the weight of a man who still expected calamity despite Lord Hadwyn’s numerous reassurances, wariness as sensible as it was unneeded.

Further down, Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon walked shoulder to shoulder, two men of similar age yet cut from metals worlds apart. Tywin Lannister was a severe man, his expression unreadable and the stride precise, while Steffon Baratheon seemed utterly at ease, shoulders rolling, a grin clearly present on his face, man’s attitude distinctly familiar. They spoke quietly, the last words they would exchange before parting ways—Tywin bound for Casterly Rock, Steffon to accompany Lord Hadwyn and Lady Ranni on the next stage of the journey.

And as for himself—well, Ansbach’s company of the most fine sort. Olenna Tyrell walked at his side, skirts whispering with each assured step. Her posture was upright, her expression was edged with the faintest smile and her eyes carried a strength Ansbach couldn’t help but find alluring. Recent peer, source of information, and —when the mood struck— the most delightful distraction, Olenna was a woman of strong wit and opinion, whose company proved to be most pleasant. It was not the wild exhilaration of the bloody hunt, of course—but Olenna’s wit and wiles had proved a thoroughly satisfying recreation indeed.

“I must admit,” Ansbach mused, his tone casual. “It’s almost a shame we are already leaving.”

Olenna glanced at him sidelong, her eyes flicking towards his masked face.

“I’ll take that as praise,” she said dryly, the glint in her eyes betraying her amusement. “It seems I’ve grown so proficient you that you’d rather linger.”

“I can’t deny,” Ansbach replied smoothly, folding his hands behind his back in the unhurried gait. “that I’ve grown fond of the local gardens. If nothing else, I’ve learned a fair deal about tending to a particularly thorny rose.”

She snorted, the sound sharp though not without warmth. “You’re fortunate you excel in other areas, Ansbach. I’ve endured more puns about roses from witless Reachmen than I care to number. I would have expected better of you.”

“Ah,” Ansbach said lightly, “It was my mistake for being so unoriginal. Perhaps I should speak of most sweet grapes lingering on a tongue and wines aged to perfection?”

“Spare me the experience.” Olenna rolled her eyes as she said so, though the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “As morbidly curious as I am to hear how far you’d carry such nonsense, you’d only traumatize my son beyond repair if you start waxing poetic about my grapes.”

Ahead of them, Lord Mace Tyrell walked stiff-backed, his shoulders squaring as though against a sudden gust. For all his efforts at casualness, his steps faltered just once at the mention, betraying that he had been listening all along—and that he had heard far more than he would have liked.

Lord Hadwyn, noticing the awkwardness, glanced back, sending them the most amused smirk, Ansbach simply shrugging his shoulders, a smirk on his masked face as well.

***

Before the gates of Highgarden, a convoy already stood in readiness: soldiers in Steffon Baratheon’s colors formed disciplined ranks and alongside them, the inbetweeners’ retinue gathered, Ansbach already speaking with the soldiers’ leader about one thing or another. Horses stamped and tossed their heads, the carriages stood along the road, already packed for the journey, and the people were patiently waiting for the departure.

For the Reach nobility present it was a bittersweet moment, the months of the inbetweeners’ stay in the Reach filled with both unease and wonder. Now that they were leaving, it was difficult to say whether it left the air lighter or simply emptier.

Mace Tyrell stepped forward, the young lord of Highgarden dressed in green and gold tunic. He was smiling, though the expression was strained at the edges—whether it was caused by the inbetweeners’ departure or his mother’s recent conversation, it was impossible to say.

“I am truly grateful for your visit, Lord Hadwyn, Lady Ranni,” he declared, voice clear. “Highgarden has been… quite lively thanks to your stay, especially during the tourney. I doubt anyone will ever forget the spectacle.”

“I admit, I had more fun than I expected,” Hadwyn replied, his voice earnest. “I’ve never been much for tourneys, but your local spin—the king of love and beauty—was a charming little tradition. Shame you wouldn’t let me fight Devonia a second time, though.”

“Y-yes, a shame…” Mace forced a laugh, sound thin and brittle.

“Thou needst not go soft upon mine consort, Lord Mace,” Ranni said, choosing that moment to cut in. “Lest thou wish a repeat of that spectacle, when next he doth set foot within thy halls.”

The young lord blanched visibly, the color draining from his cheeks. Hadwyn, by contrast, merely cast his wife a sidelong look before pressing on.

“So, anyway,” Hadwyn said, ignoring the comment. “I’ve something for you. Nearly forgot amidst all the feasting and jousts, but the whole thing was supposed to be in your son’s name, wasn’t it? I had my blacksmith prepare a gift for Willas, but it slipped my mind until recently…”

He gestured, and one of the crystallians stepped forward. In its arms was a bundled package, swaddled in dark cloth. Hadwyn took it, undid the wrappings, and revealed what lay within.

Gasps stirred through the Tyrells’ entourage, the loudest one coming from Mace himself.

The shield gleamed in the morning light, wrought in the likeness of a rose in full bloom. Its overlapping plates, hammered and polished in the likeness of golden petals, formed a blossom of gold, the design exquisite beyond compare. Along the edges of each petal, small metal thorns jutted subtly outward, their points catching the sun like drops of dew.

For the Westerosi, It would have been a gift fit for kings on its own. But Hadwyn had not been content to stop there.

“It’s a shield, as you see,” he said, holding it out for Mace’s inspection, his tone unbothered by the lord’s lack of verbal response, the man simply staring at the object in shock. “It doesn’t have a name—but I imagine it’s something you can remedy yourself. The enchantment is nothing too special—when the shield is struck, the thorns grow outward. They’ll shrink back after a few seconds, but the effect is long enough to leave the attacker regretting their blow. After I was told about your emblem, I thought it would be a fitting gift for the heir of House Tyrell.”

Mace did not react immediately, simply staring at the shield. His mouth opened once, closed, then opened again, his eyes bulged and fixed on the object. Slowly, he took it from Hadwyn, holding it tenderly as if expecting it to disappear.

“I…I…In Willas’ name, I thank you for your gift!” was all he managed, the lord clearly overwhelmed.

Hadwyn cocked his head, glanced sidelong at Ranni.

“I suppose that means he likes it?” he asked mildly.

“Aye,” Ranni murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I should wager so.”

Leaving Mace to wrestle with his astonishment, Hadwyn turned his attention to Leyton Hightower, who had been observing the exchange from the side, a strange blend of amusement and apprehension in Leyton’s expression.

“And you, Leyton?” Hadwyn asked, tone light. “You were a very gracious host in Oldtown. Surely there must be something you’d like to receive?”

Leyton’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“I must decline, Hadwyn.” he said at last. His voice was steady, but there was a faint undercurrent of regret in it, as though the words themselves were costing him. “After what transpired… it would not sit right with me to accept anything. If anything, I remain in your debt still, for the leniency you showed.”

“What is it with you nobles and debts…” Hadwyn muttered, exhaling through his nose and shaking his head. Then he continued, his tone warm. “Well, regardless—it was a pleasure to meet you, Leyton.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Leyton answered, inclining his head. “Our time together hath proven most… educational.”

Hadwyn returned the nod, satisfied, and glanced about, as if to make sure he had dealt with all issues.

“Right, then. I think I’ve spoken with everyone?” he said aloud, almost to himself.

“Thou hast not yet breached the matter of Moongrum’s request,” Ranni’s voice chimed in.

“Oh, right,” Hadwyn exclaimed, grateful for the reminder. His eyes swept the gathering and found their mark—Tywin Lannister, who stood nearby. The lion lord faltered under the Elden Lord’s gaze, his shoulders tightening. “Still need to speak with Tywin about that.”

Perhaps asking Tywin to allow his heir to apprentice under Moongrum instead of sending him to one of Tywin’s bannermen would count as a favour enough for them to be even?

But, as it turned out, Hadwyn’s calculations were just slightly off.

Tywin took the suggestion as if it was another burden placed upon his shoulders, rage and gratefulness warring across his face. The man barely managed to ground the agreement and in the next moment he staggered, hand clutched to his chest as pain wracked him.

With no hesitation, Hadwyn reached out and cast a healing incantation, the pale light seeping into Tywin’s frame and easing the sudden strain. Apparently the action was not entirely welcome judging by the noble’s expression.

So much for evening the scales.

***

With the inbetweeners’ journey concerning both the Stormlands and King Aerys’ demands, it had naturally fallen upon Steffon Baratheon to accompany them. His duty was twofold: he was both the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, responsible for all who entered his domain, and the King’s representative, charged with ensuring the will of the crown was properly carried out.

Fortunately for him, Lord Hadwyn and Lady Ranni had offered no protest at his company—indeed, they had even seemed to find it preferable. Steffon suspected they viewed his presence as a practical convenience, Steffon supposed to handle any trouble should it arise. He supposed they were right to think so—as Lord Paramount, his word carried weight enough to smooth most problems, the mere sight of the stag upon his banners enough to see their journey untroubled.

Provided, of course, that the inbetweeners themselves did not stir trouble, but he was very aware that he didn’t have much power over that.

For his own part, Steffon found relief in the arrangement. The very notion of these strange outsiders—people of uncanny strength, whose true power he now understood all too well—roaming unaccompanied across his lands turned his stomach sour. It had ached worse still when he’d seen Lord Hadwyn plunge Tywin into even deeper debt without so much intending it, though that one was partially countered by the amusement he felt at his friend’s constant misunderstanding of the foreign lord’s true nature.

And so here he sat, sharing a carriage with the two most prominent figures among the inbetweeners: Lord Hadwyn Caria, the so-called Elden Lord, and his wife, Lady Ranni Caria, princess of liurnia (whatever that was) and the supposed goddess of the inbetweeners.

They had chosen to ride together for the day out of mutual curiosity, each seeking to learn more of the other. In Highgarden he was mostly acting as Tywin’s shadow, watching and listening in silence, so now they finally had a chance to measure each other directly.

He quickly found that, despite knowing full well these two could kill him—and his entire entourage besides—in the span of a heartbeat if they wished, he did not mind their company.

Lord Hadwyn reminded him, oddly enough, of himself in younger days, before the mantle of Storm’s End and the weight of the Stormlands had hardened his spirit and tempered his laughter. The foreign noble was supposedly burdened with duties even grander than his own, yet he carried himself with a disarming bluntness, lightening the air in ways Steffon had not expected.

Lady Ranni, by contrast, was a different creature entirely. Reserved to the point of austerity, she often let her husband carry their half of the talk, her pale and ethereal figure unmoving in the corner of the carriage. Supposedly, she was the greater of the pair, her divine status causing her to let her husband deal with ‘mortals’. Steffon was fairly certain that the truth was much plainer: she was simply too indolent to bother, Lord Hadwyn’s teasing when the subject was breached serving as evidence. But it would be foolish to voice such thoughts aloud. Lazy or not, she was still the so-called goddess, a being strange and unfathomable, and even Lord Hadwyn—the man who could turn into a dragon—treated her as his equal, if not his better.

And Steffon, despite what Tywin or Cassandra might sometimes mutter, was not a fool.

“So, you really don’t have a problem with us taking a detour?” Hadwyn asked, his voice casual. “I know we sprung the visit to Summerhall on you rather abruptly.”

Steffon shrugged, broad shoulders shifting in a gesture of nonchalance.
“It’s not really a question of whether I have a problem,” he said, voice dry. “From where I stand, you’d have gone there whether I accompanied you or not. Better, then, that I go with you—and make sure no trouble comes of it.”

In truth, he’d rather they didn’t set foot in Summerhall at all. He had learned enough of them by now to trust they weren’t prone to wanton destruction, but visiting Summerhall was a complicated issue. After all, it was a place where a king burned and most of the Targaryen dynasty followed. Going there, especially instead of going to King’s Landing, would undoubtedly offend Aerys greatly. That the inbetweeners treated the place as a landmark, something to be seen by curious travellers, made the situation even worse.

Still, what could he do? Even if by some miracle he convinced them to visit King’s Landing first, he knew Aerys would never allow them to visit Summerhall later. And yet—of course—they would go anyway, because Aerys’ permission meant little to them. And so Steffon reasoned it was better to accompany them, to keep them from causing too much trouble, and to explain the situation to Aerys afterward.

Better to ask forgiveness than permission, as they say.

“That’s very true, I suppose,” Lord Hadwyn replied, his tone edged with a hint of self-awareness. He tilted his head then, studying Steffon. “Don’t you need to speak with your king, though?”

“Of course,” Steffon answered at once, the answer coming easily, as though he had already weighed it long before. “It’s my duty as his representative. But given that my orders concern you, that can wait until you arrive in King’s Landing. In the meantime, I’d rather make certain nothing happens on this journey that might stir the king’s temper further.”

He leaned back a little in his seat, the leather creaking under his bulk, then gave an easy laugh, the sound warm.

“And since your path takes you first to Summerhall, the most natural course afterwards would be Storm’s End. Backtracking along the Roseroad doesn’t seem to fit you, after all. From there, the Kingsroad leads straight on to the capital—a solid, secure route. And,”—his voice warmed slightly—“it gives me the chance to see my wife and sons. No offence, but something tells me that once you reach King’s Landing, it’ll be a good while before I’m allowed to go home again.”

Despite the bluntness of the words—or perhaps because of it—Lord Hadwyn’s smile broadened, teeth flashing. Lady Ranni, by contrast, stirred from her near-statue stillness, turning slightly toward Steffon, the faintest glimmer of interest touching her features.

“Thou art unafraid to speak thy mind so plain, before us? Most of thy peers would deem such candor shameful.” Lady Ranni spoke, her voice cold and precise, though softened with the faintest hint of amusement.

Steffon did not flinch under her gaze, meeting the uncanny eyes squarely. “No real point in dancing around it. You strike me as people who prefer honesty, and nothing I’ve said is hard to guess besides. Better to speak plainly, instead of wasting all our breath dressing it up.”

Lord Hadwyn let out a booming laugh at that, the kind that filled the small carriage. “Finally, someone who speaks plainly! You don’t know how refreshing that is, compared to the rest of your local nobles. They’d talk circles around us, just to avoid saying what they mean.”

Steffon gave a rueful grin, shaking his head.

“Well, politics and intrigue can be interesting as well...” His words trailed into a pause, and then he winced, as if catching himself mid-lie. “No. No, it’s awful. Truly awful. But the truth is, unlike you, no lord in Westeros can afford to ignore the game and keep his head. We’re all forced to play it, whether we like it or not.” He shrugged then, the motion heavy and unbothered, his grin tugging wider. “That said… as a Baratheon, I do enjoy a certain leeway most do not.”

“Does it have to do with the faint scent of drake you carry?” Hadwyn asked conversationally, giving him a curious look.

Steffon blinked. “…What?”

“it’s very weak, so I’ve not noticed it before, but I suppose it became noticeable in this enclosed space. It’s nothing to worry about, though I would advise you not to stand against the wind when Florissax is about you. She has a particularly strong opinion about drakes.”

Steffon’s brows rose. He had already heard of the man’s dragon-companions during their talk in Highgarden, and had even seen the strange fusion of dragon and woman with his own eyes before they had entered the carriage. For that reason, he treated the advice with the gravity it most likely deserved.

“…I suppose it’s not only your strength that’s exceptional, but your senses as well,” Steffon said at last, his frown faint but genuine. He paused, then added more deliberately, “And you’re right—in a way. I am half… drake, if I were to use your own terminology, though here most would just say half a dragon.”

“Well, so am I,” Hadwyn said cheerfully, groad grin on his face. “Though I doubt you won such status the same way I did—by eating dragon hearts.” His eyes gleamed with curiosity. “I would guess you’ve blood ties to your dragonlords instead?”

“Yes, you are correct.” Steffon exhaled slowly, leaning back against the padded seat of the swaying carriage. The casual way the man spoke of devouring dragon hearts was unsettling—yet it made a kind of dreadful sense, given Lord Hadwyn’s ability to take on the form of a dragon himself. What that meant for Westeros, and what Steffon was supposed to tell Aerys, he did not yet know. Easier, then, to speak of his own claim. “My mother is Rhaelle Targaryen. Through her, the blood of the dragon runs in me—and it connects to what I said earlier, about the Baratheons enjoying a certain leeway.”

His voice steadied as he continued, deepening into something firmer.

“You see, the Baratheons have ever been… how to put it? The minders of the Targaryens. Orys Baratheon stood beside Aegon the Conqueror as his Hand—his sworn brother in all but name, and perhaps in truth. Rogar Baratheon was Protector of the Realm during King Jaehaerys’ minority.. Even now, my friendship with Aerys might be counted the same.” He gave a short laugh, sharp-edged, then shook his head. “But it is not always peace between us. We Baratheons are a stormy line, and when the need comes, we challenge. The last time was not so long ago. A little more than thirty years past, when my grandsire, Lyonel Baratheon—the Laughing Storm—rose against King Aegon the Fifth.”

“Laughing Storm, huh?” Hadwyn asked, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “A man with such a title must have a story worth telling.”

“It is an interesting tale, that much I can promise,” Steffon allowed. He cleared his throat, straightened in his seat, and began.

And so, Steffon told the tale of the Laughing Storm.

As Lord of Storm’s End, Lyonel had been one of Aegon’s staunchest supporters. The king, to reward his loyalty, arranged a marriage between his heir, Prince Duncan Targaryen and Lyonel’s daughter, Ellyn Baratheon. It should have been a bond that bound the stag and dragon tighter than ever, but Prince Duncan then broke the betrothal, cast aside his status as the heir itself, to wed Jenny of Oldstones, a smallfolk.

To Lyonel Baratheon, who had always been loyal so far, it was a grave insult, a stain on House Baratheon’s honor. Upon hearing the news, he renounced his fealty and declared himself Storm King, the first in generations.

The war was short, but bloody, so to spare further slaughter, trial by combat was declared. Lyonel Baratheon himself faced Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a man who had guided and guarded King Aegon for years. Steel rang, strength clashed, and in the end, the Laughing Storm was bested. Defeated, Lyonel yielded and bent the knee once more.

Knowing his line was to blame, King Aegon sought to mend what was broken. The king gave his youngest daughter, Princess Rhaelle Targaryen, in marriage to Ormund Baratheon, Lyonel’s heir—and Steffon’s father. Thus dragon and stag were bound once more, their blood mingling.

“Well, it was certainly a fine tale,” Hadwyn said at last, his grin crooked, eyes glinting with something of approval. “I personally could not care less for political marriages—my own notwithstanding…” His gaze flicked sidelong to Lady Ranni, mischief curling his mouth. She met it with a single roll of her eyes, unmoved by his teasing. “…but I suppose your grandfather had cause to feel wronged, given you Westerosi’s endless obsession with betrothals and marriages.”

“Yes,” Steffon replied, his voice firm, his jaw set. “I believe my grandfather was right to rise. The loyalty of our house was repaid with scorn. And Baratheon does not swallow such insult meekly.” His shoulders straightened as he spoke, pride ringing in the words. To stormlanders, the Laughing Storm’s rebellion was no shame but a point of pride—a reminder that the stag may bow, but when provoked, it lowers its antlers even to the dragon.

Lord Hadwyn nodded slowly, as though weighing that sentence and finding it satisfying.

“I do not disagree. A vassal challenging his liege once in a while—it seems only healthy to me, provided the reason is right of course.” His expression was open, his tone utterly guileless. Then he leaned forward, interest brightening his gaze. “So tell me, Steffon—do you plan to challenge Aerys? You and Tywin both seemed ready to burst into flame when you read me his letter.”

But Steffon… Steffon understood. Lord Hadwyn meant no such thing. There was no intrigue in the question, no manipulation hiding beneath the surface. The foreign lord asked because he simply wanted to know—He did not know much about the political landscape of the Seven Kingdoms, and so he asked directly. He wanted to measure the man before him, with no thought of potential repercussions such words could cause.

A laugh burst from Steffon, sudden and thunderous, the sound booming like a storm. His stag-spirit roused within him, exultant at the audacity of the question and the wild freedom in being able to ask it so easily.
“I don’t know about challenging, but I’ll tell you this much,” he said, his eyes blazing, grin splitting wide. “After that damned letter, I am about ready to punch Aerys square in the face when I finally see him.”

Hadwyn’s grin widened, teeth bared in delight. His gaze was gleeful, a beast recognizing another of its kind. “I think we are going to like each other very much, Steffon.”

“You took the words from my mouth, Hadwyn,” Steffon answered, matching his fire with a blaze of his own. His eyes locked on the other man’s, unflinching.

For a long heartbeat, the two men held each other’s eyes. Then both broke into the same smile, easy and unforced, the kind of smile born from the recognition. In that instant, a bond was struck—not forged slowly and carefully over years, but hammered into being in the span of a few breaths. A friendship sudden and perhaps inevitable, considering the nature of both men.

The only witness to its making was Ranni, who let out a long, quiet sigh.