Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 28

Dark times had arrived.

The peace, once promised with solemn vows, had turned out to be a great lie. The long-awaited age of respite, where the wheel of suffering would give way to serenity, was just a fiction, created by hopeful souls dreaming for better times.

She had been deceived. Tricked. Betrayed by her own beloved.

When she and Hadwyn, her dear consort eternal, discussed the burden of their divine rule, the terms were simple.

She would shoulder the eternal, ineffable weight of divinity. She would stand apart, a distant sovereign beyond the reach of the world, untouched and unreachable in her divine remove.

Which is to say, she would do nothing.

Hadwyn, meanwhile, would act as her champion—her face, voice, and fist in the world of mortals. He would do the walking, the talking, the fighting and the ruling.

And for the first few centuries, that system had worked flawlessly, with Hadwyn stabilizing the Lands between, building the Wisdom of the Moon and preparing for their departure.

But ever since they crossed into Westeros… something had changed.

The structure was crumbling.

Because right now—

Ranni was in a garden.

Socializing.

Listening to noble housewives.

Speak of their husbands.

Beneath a fragrant pergola woven thick with climbing roses, Ranni—the Witch, Princess of Liurnia, bearer of the Elden Ring—found herself trapped in a polite conversation. To one side sat Alerie Tyrell, dressed in vibrant green, on the other reclined Jayne Hightower, composed in a seafoam gown. Around them, servants stood in respectable distance, bearing silver trays laden with fruits and wine.

Ranni herself sat in the middle. Her eyes were cast upward, locked on the slow drift of clouds. She did not move as she did so, pretending to be drifting off, but the strategy didn’t seem to work, the ladies apparently having realized her trick after several meetings.

“I must say,” Alerie said with a bright laugh. “This tourney’s done wonders for Mace. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so excitable. He practically glowed after the melee!”

Jayne shifted slightly, folding her hands neatly over her lap.

“My… husband found it intriguing as well.” She said delicately, the woman still a little hesitant to speak of her husband too much to the man’s daughter from a previous marriage. “He was rather surprised when Lord Hadwyn joined the fray.”

“Indeed. Quite the spectacle, especially after…Lady Devonia’s declaration…” Alerie replied, but then her tone shifted, turning more tentative, her eyes flickering toward the goddess. “Ah. Forgive me, Lady Ranni. I shouldn’t presume to speak of such things.”

At this, Ranni stirred slightly—only slightly—her gaze lowering from the firmament to meet them. Her doll face betrayed no emotion.

“What dost thou mean by it?” she asked softly, her head titling slightly, unsure about the reason for their concern.

Alerie hesitated, glancing at Jayne for help. When none came, she offered a fragile explanation.

“Only that… Lady Devonia named Lord Hadwyn her…King of Love and Beauty. It was… perhaps intended as a challenge, but such declarations, when made toward a married man, can be seen as… improper. Especially in such a public fashion.”

Ranni tilted her head, the movement slow. Improper? While it was perhaps a little embarrassing that it happened in front of their hosts, in the end it wasn’t something either Ranni or Hadwyn would find significant or offensive.

“Thou may rest thy worries, for no offense hath been spoken,” Ranni said, her voice a gentle chime. “Mine Hadwyn and I hold an accord in such affairs. Far be it from me to deny him his release, should another conveniently offer it in my stead.”

Hadwyn, after all, was a creature of deep fire. Both in flesh and in spirit, he simmered with force. To deny such force an avenue would only lead to trouble. Letting him expend all that energy in a controlled environment, with someone dependable like Devonia, was preferable to letting him stumble upon someone else—and create new problems for their hosts.

Upon hearing her words, Alerie’s smile faltered, held frozen, while Jayne’s eyes widened and dropped swiftly to her cup. Shock passed between them like a chill breeze—flickering, quickly masked by the polite composure demanded of ladies at court. Yet beneath their manners, something else took shape in their eyes. A quiet pity, veiled and involuntary, bloomed as their gazes flicked toward the vessel that housed Ranni’s soul.

“Ah,” said Jayne at last, choosing her words with excruciating care, “I suppose… life must prove difficult, with the… form you now possess, Lady Ranni.”

Alerie shot her a sharp glance, but Ranni did not appear offended, merely titling her head.

“I would not claim the burden overwhelming.” Ranni said at length, her voice contemplative. She supposed the question should be expected given the Westerosi’s low education regarding the arcane. ‘Most of what I once did, I still may. Yet it is true that some affairs—those of physical nature—slip beyond mine reach.”

There was no bitterness in her tone. Only distant contemplation. She fell silent for a moment, letting the thought unravel.

“Mayhap there are certain inconveniences, now that I reflect…”

Her gaze drifted upward again, returning to the endless stretch of the sky above them.

This doll’s body—her current vessel—freed her from the lesser toils of the flesh—She did not hunger. She did not tire. She did not hurt. But in return for such liberation, subtle things had been taken. Pleasures so easily dismissed, yet now missed.

She remembered sleep—not the absence of thought as it was now, but the kind that pulled slowly.

She remembered the comfort of simply laying in bed, uncaring for the burdens that would need to be dealt with once she leaves it.

She missed pillows, warm linen, tangled sheets and blissful ignorance.

Such things were gone now, and had been for long, for to her body, the sensation would not differ if she were to lay on a plank of wood instead.

“Yes…” she murmured at last, her tone faint and far-off, expression dreamy. “Mayhap I should fashion a new form for mine self… to feel again pleasures long forsaken…”

She had delayed it for ages. The crafting of a new vessel—one of true flesh—was a tedious affair that would take weeks, if not months, of efforts, with materials, spells and location to prepare. It was the kind of task she had always delayed. But now…

Now she apparently had responsibilities once again. Endless, irritating responsibilities—reminders of the noble upbringing she once discarded. All of it, dumped onto her by Hadwyn, who, on the other hand, seemed to have a time of his life.

And so a new idea bloomed.

A body that required sleep as a lovely excuse.

‘Apologies,’ she imagined Moongrum or Miriam saying. ‘Lady Ranni regretfully cannot attend the tea party. A biological necessity, you understand. Her new body requires sleep. Quite unfortunate, really.’

They wouldn’t question it, not in this land that knows nothing about magic or her divine nature that would make sleeping a voluntary action for her regardless of her vessel.

Yes. That could work quite nicely.

There was a pause, then the sound of giggling—light, stifled behind fingers. Alerie and Jayne, their faces flushed, were laughing softly, shoulders shaking with amusement.

Ranni blinked. Turned her head, ever so slowly.

She examined them in silence. Had she said something humorous?

She searched the last few sentences in her mind, reconstructing the likely misunderstanding.

‘Ah’. Ranni realized. Well, she supposed her words  might have sounded rather more carnal than she intended.

Well, no matter.

Physical intimacy with Hadwyn, after all, sounded rather alluring as well. After all, it would be a lovely bonus—it had been millenia since the last time she'd known the full spectrum of touch. To connect not only in mind and soul, but in flesh with her beloved would be… beautiful.

She imagined their chamber aboard the Wisdom of the Moon, she and Hadwyn alone in the bed. Bed so full of pillows, with soft sheets and a mattress sunken just so. Curtains drawn, room quiet, ideal for a nap…

Before long, her thoughts began drifting again to the delights of glorious, indulgent sleep.

As the noblewomen seemed to catch the dreamy expression she wore despite her emotionless face, another bout of giggles followed.

***

The inbetweeners’ jousting tournament was, by most accounts, a success—exciting, intense, and filled with spectacle. But it was also, undeniably, a little odd.

The complication came mostly from the numbers. The inbetweeners who had accompanied Lord Hadwyn to Highgarden were not many, and thus there was no need for preliminaries—anyone able and willing to ride could participate. This open policy, however, left the Westerosi organizers in a state of mounting confusion. Their experience with tourneys did not exactly prepare them for the participants hailing from the Lands Between.

Their greatest challenge, however, came in the form of Devonia.

The champion of the melee had returned after recovering from what would normally be a crippling injury, the woman declaring her intent to enter the joust. The audience would of course love that, something the organizers knew and were in support of, but there was one problem.

Devonia… didn’t have a horse. Or any mount, for that matter.

She arrived alone, and, when questioned, simply nodded and conjured four spectral legs— Devonia becoming a centaur, one part woman and one part hoofed beast.

Her ability was of course known to everyone thanks to the melee contest, but it was certainly unconventional, leading to a quiet debate whether she could still be considered  a rider if her body was her steed.

But in the end, it was ruled that Devonia could indeed compete—so long as she maintained her centaur form during all rounds.

And so she did.

Devonia took the field, clashing with opponent after opponent, her strikes powerful and her balance immaculate, the crowd going wild after her every victory.

Her final opponent was a massive knight clad entirely in radiant gold—man and horse alike enshrined in burnished armor, the knight bearing a halberd in one hand and a gleaming shield in the other. The inbetweeners called him the Tree Sentinel, and for a while, it seemed he might match her strength.

Their duel was long and brutal as weapons clashed, hooves thundered and spells flew, all for the entertainment of the masses.

But in the end, it was Devonia who stood victorious.

And as she was standing over the toppled sentinel, happened what everyone was either dreading or waiting for.  

Her eyes rose toward the main dais—toward Hadwyn.

Fortunately, Mace Tyrell, sweat gleaming on his forehead, sprang into motion, reacting with a stunning speed.

Before Devonia could speak, he rose and, with utmost delight, declared that she had once again won in Hadwyn’s name, something the foreign lord must be surely proud about. And even if she were to power through and try to challenge Hadwyn anyway, he following applause stopped any potential challenge from happening, the sound overwhelming and most definitely final.

And so, a potential crisis was averted, the tournament ending in triumphant and safe manner. Banners rose, cheers boomed, songs were sung around the field.

It was a good day, all things considered, for only two figures were left unsatisfied by the outcome.

***

The feast following the jousting competition was a jubilant affair. Highgarden’s great hall pulsed with life—harps and drums played from every alcove, while golden torches bathed everything in a warm, flickering glow. Wine flowed freely, and noblemen and noblewomen lost themselves in celebration.

Among the many voices growing loud and foolish was one Barris Merryfellow—a minor noble from a minor house. By the time the main courses had been cleared, Barris was at least three cups past wise and five past decent. He sat slouched near the edge of the gathering, cheeks flushed, his doublet half-undone.

Surrounded by companions who were a little more than strangers, but certainly not friends, he let his eyes drift hungrily across the hall until the landed on a person they really shouldn’t have.

Lady Ranni Caria.

“Look at her…” Barris said slowly, lifting his cup slightly at the distant woman. “Such a beauty. Looking very cold, though. I bet she is cold under all that. But pleasant cold. You know, tingly.” He leaned forward, eyes glazed. “Wonder what it’s like to use that—would you get frostbite or—ha!—splinters on your—”

He didn’t finish, as a hand landed on his shoulder—action not inherently violent, yet carrying immense weight, as if he was suddenly burdened by a heavy stone.

The conversation around him died as eyes turned to the owner of the hand. Upon recognizing him, men sitting with him started to suddenly slide away, seemingly terrified.

Barris, blinking dumbly, turned his head to see the man standing behind him.

Tall. Dark-haired. Bearded. Immaculately dressed in deep blue. Eyes like embers, burning bright.

Something sobered deep within him at the sight.

It was not surprising because it was the ruler of the inbetweeners. The man who had taken the field during the melee and turned into a dragon.

Lord Hadwyn Caria.

Husband of the woman Barris had just crudely and openly fantasized about.

“Oh. Oh…” Barris managed, his voice suddenly smaller.

“I thought we might have a quick chat,” Hadwyn said, voice calm and pleasant, smiling as though discussing the weather. “What do you say?”

Barris blinked rapidly, words catching in his throat. “A-about… what?”

“Well…” Hadwyn said thoughtfully, tilting his head ever so slightly, “given the complicated nature of the topic we are about to breach, it’s hard to say. For now let’s say it will be a theological conversation about the hazards of public blasphemy and insulting another man’s wife.”

He gave Barris a gentle pat on the shoulder, causing the man to flinch.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Hadwyn didn’t ask for permission, simply taking the nobleman by the arm and helping him rise. Barris stood, legs wobbling, and allowed himself to be led, finding the alternative to be undesirable.

Many eyes watched as they left, but no one rose to help.

The two exited the hall without a word more.

What occurred in one of Highgarden’s many chambers was never recorded, for Barris never spoke of it—not to his family, not to his friends, not even to his contemporaries in the years to come.

But whatever passed between them, it reshaped the man entirely.

After the tourney ended, Barris quietly renounced his titles and holdings. He left court. He stopped drinking. He swore off all romantic pursuits and travelled to Oldtown, where he eventually became a maester.

At the Citadel, he threw himself into study with a fervor none expected, focusing on theology and history with nearly obsessive discipline, quickly forging copper, bronze and pewter links.

He would become a respected scholar, his life’s work culminating in the completion of a book that would endure for generations: “Moonlit Garden: An Account of the Carian Royal Family’s visit in Highgarden.”

It would be hailed by the scholars for its clarity, its insight, and its remarkable neutrality. A meticulous account of the events surrounding Lord Hadwyn and Lady Ranni’s stay, from the tourney to the feasts to the politics beneath it all.

Yet at the close of the section describing the feast following the jousting competition, Barris would leave a peculiar note that would frustrate those studying his works to no end:

“During the feast, there was a private conversation between Lord Hadwyn caria and a foolish noble of house Merryfellow, following said noble’s inconsiderate remarks about Lady Ranni Caria (which shall not be repeated). To those who persist in asking what transpired that night, the foolish noble has only this to say:

For Seven’s sake— Leave me be. Some things are better left alone.”

***

Far away from the Highgarden’s halls, in the highest parts of Casterly Rock, Joanna Lannister sat in a reclined chair, her arms cradled something precious and fragile.

Tyrion, the third cub of House Lannister, was impossibly small. His limbs bent at odd angles, his head a size too large, his face slightly out of proportion—all the parts merged together to create a sculpture just off the mark, the dwarf of Casterly Rock.

He blinked up at her with those clear, blue eyes, gurgling softly and clutching at her gown. Joanna smiled—sadly, heart split between two halves.

One part of her glowed with fierce affection, a quiet voice whispering that she must lean forward, kiss his small brow, hush his fears before he can even learn about them. This child was hers: her blood, her flesh. No less hers than Jaime or Cersei were—born of both her and Tywin, rightful heir to lion’s blood.

Yet the other part burned with shame. Shame that she had borne a son so out of measure, shame at the scar that accompanied him, shame at the humiliation they would all receive. After years they spent restoring their house’s honor, she tarnished it once more by giving birth to a dwarf.

She hated those thoughts. Hated the humiliation that coiled low in her gut. And hated the voice in the back of her head, judgemental and cold: This is the boy who will bear Lannister’s name?

In fleeting moments of despair, she wondered—should she have surrendered him to Rennala, the mad queen who roamed the castle like a ghost? Though she held no fondness for the woman, finding her presence irksome, she had heard tales from the queen’s retainers, or rather warnings, that the woman possessed a power of rebirth, power to mold flesh and reconstruct form.

But those thoughts would never lead anywhere.

Partly because the power Rennala wielded was apparently incomplete, survivors of her ‘rebirth’ remaining hollow and infantile for the rest of their lives. At least according to the queen’s retainers, who, fearing what would happen if Rennala were to reach Tyrion, more than once had to lure the madwoman away using red-haired dolls. The fact that the woman couldn’t see a difference between a real child and a doll was by itself a sign that trusting her with Tyrion would be a big mistake.

Yet mostly, Joanna refused to seek the queen’s help because Tyrion was a Lannister. A twisted Lannister, perhaps—but Lannister all the same. Her house did not beg for pity. They endured. Grew. And they made those who laughed regret it for the rest of their lives.

She pressed Tyrion closer and traced a fingertip across his belly, the boy wiggling and laughing in response—the sound bright and adorable.

“Lioness playing with her cub…” came an amused, gentle voice. “What a beautiful picture. Someone should write a song. I heard you Lannisters tend to favor them.”

Obella Martell sat across from Joanna on her own recliner, the woman watching Joanna and Tyrion with a small smile on her face, hands gracefully folded on her lap.

Joanna let out a soft laugh.

“It likely wouldn’t be very popular, I’m afraid,” she replied, her tone wry. “And if Tywin endorsed another song, people might start thinking of him as a patron of the arts—minstrels from all over Westeros would come flocking to Casterly Rock. I can already picture his frown.”

They laughed together—sound quiet and warm.

“Have you sent word to him about your birth and Tyrion?” Obella asked after a moment, voice laced with curiosity.

Joanna’s gaze drifted to her son’s cheek as her thumb brushed it. “Yes. A raven already took flight. Without a doubt, Tywin will hear many rumors before returning home, so I wanted to make sure he knows the real story.”

“And when do you expect him back?” Obella asked thoughtfully, tone shifting slightly.

“After the Tyrells’ tourney ends, I would imagine. I doubt he’ll visit Bastard’s Landing afterwards, given… circumstances.” Joanna replied. As she knew the real reason for the question, she smiled wryly. “You have nothing to worry about, Obella. Given that you are the reason for the inbetweeners visiting the Rock—saving me and Tyrion in the process—I doubt Tywin will find strength to object to Jaime and Elia’s betrothal. And if he does… I’ll make him regret it.”

She stared at Obella, eyes warm with gratitude. Obella accepted the promise with a soft laugh.

“Jaime and Elia’s betrothal, you say?” Obella repeated dryly. “I assume Oberyn and Cersei’s betrothal is not an option?”

“Obella, my dear friend… you do realize you only saved my life and Tyrion’s, nothing more?” Joanna snorted, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Try to keep your expectations realistic.”

***

When the raven reached him, carrying the news about his son’s birth, Tywin Lannister first felt a surge of joy and relief. After all, how could he not: Joanna lived, a second son had been born, the bloodline of the Casterly Rock was more secure than ever.

But beneath that joy, darker currents writhed.

First came the anger—less his own and more on his wife’s behalf. The proud woman he loved was not only forever marked, but had also birthed a dwarf, forced to bear the humiliation for the rest of her life.

Next came the shame, this one his own—his second son, Tyrion, was a dwarf, an affront to Lannister prestige and pride. Though he had not yet seen the child, perhaps the sight of his child being able to quell his emotions, but the weight of it all already burned.

And—as if that were not enough—there was also the debt to consider.

A lifelong obligation to the inbetweeners and, by extension, to Lord Hadwyn Caria.

Throughout his entire stay at Highgarden, he had one goal: to conduct negotiations with the foreign lord on even footing, Tywin— as the Crown’s representative—dealing with Lord Hadwyn Caria as an equal. Of course, the goal quickly turned out to be nearly impossible given the inbetweeners’ power, but Tywin still tried. He negotiated on Crown’s behalf without kneeling or pleading, treating Hadwyn Caria as he would any other foreign ruler, be it Braavosi Sealord or Lysene Magister.

The outcome was, predictably, unsatisfactory, Hadwyn making it clear he would not even pretend to submit to Aerys’ authority while in Westeros, promising only to offer ‘basic courtesy’ (open statement that could mean nothing in the grand scheme of things).

Still, Tywin thought he had held his pride intact. Though the yield was meager, he had conducted diplomacy with dignity and head held high.

But, as it turned out, everything he did was for nothing!

Because while Tywin negotiated, carefully weighing each phrase and gesture, Hadwyn’s subordinates sailed unbidden to Casterly Rock and saved Joanna and their newborn son!

Without him even knowing, they pushed him into a debt he would likely never be able to repay!

Ever since he learned of their intervention, his mind was filled with a bizarre blend of fury and gratitude—one part of him yearning to thank the inbetweeners, to reward them for saving one thing he loved about anything else. The other part, however, was recoiling from humiliation, Tywin fuming in anger at being so easily played.

And so, even three days after receiving the raven, Tywin’s mind remained a battlefield, two forces raging within him—something inside stopping him whenever he considered speaking with Hadwyn about the issue.

His thoughts churned as he stalked the floor of Steffon Baratheon’s chamber, the stone echoing beneath his boots. Across the room, Steffon sat in his high-backed chair, arms crossed, one brow raised in mounting exasperation. The two had met to continue their shared work on writing a letter to Aerys concerning what they had negotiated with Hadwyn Caria, but Tywin’s min was clearly elsewhere.

“It’s been three days,” Steffon said finally, his tone edged with impatience. “Why don’t you just go see Lord Hadwyn and thank him? Like a normal person? It’s not like you have any other option.”

Tywin wheeled around, sending his friend an irritated look.

“It’s not that simple!” He barked, his voice raised. “While I negotiated, he went around me and put me in his debt! I am now indebted to a foreign power—one I am supposed to investigate on behalf of the Iron Throne!”

Steffon gave a long-suffering sigh.

“You think it was a plot? That he schemed to ensnare you from the start?” Steffon asked, voice full of doubt. “We spoke with the man together, Tywin. I doubt Hadwyn Caria plans what he’ll do next day, let alone orchestrates some masterstroke of manipulation against the Warden of the West.”

“That’s naïve thinking. You forget who we’re dealing with. The man is a ruler of a civilization apparently far more advanced than our own. I have no doubt he’ll find some angle, some benefit to squeeze from this debt.” Tywin hissed, then turned around, pacing again. “And what of Aerys? I’m his Hand, yet I’m now indebted to the very man he had send me to investigate. Bastard will be livid, blaming me for everything like he always does.”

“Tywin, Aerys would blame you if it rained while he was taking a stroll. That’s his nature.” Steffon said, rolling his eyes. Then he tapped at the parchment he was currently working on. “But if you are so concerned about Aerys, how about you help me with the letter? I’ve made some progress, but…how to diplomatically inform Aerys that the inbetweeners’ leader is a dragon in human form, who commands other dragons, and has no interest in recognizing the Crown’s authority?”

The letter they were writing—drafting, redrafting, and redrafting again—was turning out to be a very interesting piece of parchment, full of many lovely details that Tywin and Steffon were unfortunately obligated to inform Aerys about, even if they really, really didn’t want to.

The main problem was that every one of those details would probably send Aerys into a frenzy.

For instance, the inbetweeners had access to dragons. Real dragons. The very symbol of Targaryen former dominance in someone else’s hands. And worse, the man who ruled the inbetweeners—Hadwyn Caria—could apparently become a dragon himself, ability that, according to the man himself, he acquired by killing dragons and devouring their hearts?

Worse still, there wasn’t really any way to omit the fact that Hadwyn Caria had no interest in following Westerosi law or respecting Targaryens’ rule, acknowledging them only as far as a man would acknowledge a passing neighbour—with a polite, indifferent nod.

They had spent hours trying to write it all down in the most neutral language possible, hoping to leave just enough ambiguity to keep Aerys from acting just long enough for Steffon to return to King’s Landing and explain things in person.

Aerys, while becoming increasingly volatile when it came to Tywin or his pride being bruised, was not entirely unreasonable. That’s why, for now, they just had to make sure their letter wouldn’t cause the man to act unwisely before Steffon personally explained everything.

But before they could continue their task, a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” Steffon called, voice steady.

The door creaked open, and one of Steffon’s soldiers stepped inside, holding a rolled parchment sealed with red wax.

“My lord, Lord Tywin.” the man said with a formal bow. “A raven from King’s Landing. It bears the royal seal.”

Tywin and Steffon exchanged a look—something tightening in their stomachs. No words were needed.

This… couldn’t be good.

***

A series of short stories meant to tie some loose ends.

Next chapter, Hadwyn will learn about Tyrion’s birth/Tywin’s debt, Oldtown massacre and Aerys’ message, allowing the story to finally leave Reach and move north-east.