A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 36

A very short, transitional chapter. It’s so short mostly because it didn’t fit any other fragment planned and yet it had to be written. Of course, the other reason it's so short is because i found myself behind a schedule and wanted to publish at least something. But mostly because it didn't fit.

It probably could have been a part of the previous chapter, but…well, it's too late for that.

***

Though Ranni remained evasive about her true purpose in coming to Summerhall, after Hadwyn’s brief spar with Arthur she approached him and, rather smugly, announced that she was “done with the place for the time being.”

She did, of course, add—rather offhandedly—that they would need to return at some later date “for reasons yet to be revealed”, but thankfully she said so out of Rhaegar’s earshot.  Whatever her reasons were, however, didn’t really matter in the end, so long as she was content to leave the ruins behind.

That was more than enough for Hadwyn, the man finding himself quite relieved.

If anyone had asked him what he thought of their day at Summerhall, his answer would have been simple: profoundly boring.

Contrary to his quiet hopes, there had been no drake to fight, nor was there any mysterious relic to unearth. Somehow, a ‘cursed’ ruin of the drake riders was utterly free of danger, something Hadwyn found bizarre and wrong on almost every level. Instead, the only thing Hadwyn managed to find in those singed ruins was a long, meandering conversation with a brooding, drakeless brat, whose incessant philosophizing had been grating on his nerves.

His duel with Arthur Dayne had provided a mild flicker of amusement, if only due to Hadwyn’s nostalgia regarding the meteoric ore blade, but the spar had been simply too brief for the Elden Ring to actually shake off the residual boredom, clash ending far too soon to affect him. Arthur had some commendable skill for someone this young, no doubt, but the boy’s stamina was simply atrocious, young warrior running out of energy in no time at all.

In Hadwyn’s opinion, there was simply nothing worse than the other person ending the engagement too soon.

Much to Hadwyn’s dismay, by the time Ranni’s investigation concluded and his spar had ended, the sun had already dipped low behind the horizon, dusk creeping across the ruins and painting the fractured stone in hues of violet and ember, the development moving away their departure away to the next day.

It didn’t make much difference to Hadwyn personally, as he himself would have gladly left under moonlight—he was still used to travelling through darkest nights and grandest storms both on Torrent and on foot—but the Westerosi had other opinions. Apparently, it was “unsafe” to travel after sundown, which…well, yeah. It most certainly was, if only by Westerosi standards.

But they said it like it was a bad thing, so it was eventually decided they would stay in Summerhall for the night, intending to depart the ruins next morning.

The night itself passed without incident.

Rhaegar did not bother Hadwyn that night. The drake prince remained preoccupied, still deep in discussion with Steffon Baratheon, the two of them seemingly discussing something rather complex given the length of the conversation.

The Westerosi soldiers stayed close to their fires, speaking in subdued tones. Their talk kept circling back to the topic of Summerhall’s history, men telling each other stories about the mad king and great fire in hushed tones, apparently finding the place they camped in rather unsettling. The Inbetweeners found the entire thing hilarious, the Westerosi idea of haunted ruins charming. As far as they were concerned, Summerhall was the safest ruin they had ever seen.

Still, there was a source of entertainment that bridged both worlds—Arthur Dayne.

The poor knight spent an admirable portion of the evening locked in a struggle against his own sword, trying—and failing—to awaken its hidden power. It was a rather amusing sight to watch the knight strike, raise, whisper an even glare at his blade, hoping to coax magic from it to no avail.

By morning, the camp began to stir. Smoke curled from rekindled fires as the scent of food filled the cool dawn air. Men moved with quiet efficiency, folding tents, tightening saddle straps, stowing packs onto horses.

Hadwyn found himself watching it with a faint twinge of envy. He’d long since forgotten the simple satisfaction of menial work, his title and divine status supposedly making it ‘unseemly’ for the Elden Lord to make scrambled eggs by himself.

No wonder Lord Godfrey had to graft Serosh into himself.

As he turned his eyes away from the sight, Hadwyn noticed something rather worrying.

Rhaegar stood with Steffon once more, the two of them still at it—their conversation from the night before evidently unfinished. Even from afar, it could be seen that the topic was rather agitating for Steffon- the Storm Lord’s posture was tense and gestures sharp, the man arguing something rather animatedly. The prince, on the other hand, remained perfectly calm through the entire exchange, smiling faintly and replying quietly.

Hadwyn watched them with growing unease, arms crossed and expression unreadable as something began to settle in his gut. He didn’t know what they were arguing about. He didn’t want to know. But some old, nameless instinct— honed by centuries of bad luck—told him that whatever it was, it was about to become his problem quite soon.

And, naturally, he was right.

The argument between the two nobles concluded at last. Steffon, bowing stiffly, with jaw set tight, said something too low to catch, and turned in Hadwyn’s direction. Rhaegar followed, the faintest shimmer of satisfaction in his purple eyes.

They approached Hadwyn together—one man resigned, the other far too pleased with himself.

“Good morning, Hadwyn!” Steffon began as they reached him. Though the noble tried to sound casual, it came stiff, the Stormlander seemingly unable to entirely hide awkwardness about…something.

“…Good morning,” Hadwyn greeted back slowly.

His tone was dry—measured, yet clearly of a man who already knew the day would not, in any conceivable fashion, be good. It wasn’t even resignation so much as an acknowledgment: something unpleasant was about to happen, and it was going to involve him.

Steffon winced slightly at the tone, hopefully feeling guilty. Rhaegar, by contrast, didn’t react, the apprehensive tone most likely not even registering to the prince.

“So… I know we are preparing for departure, but…” Steffon spoke, his voice striving for a casual tone and failing miserably. “I was speaking with the Prince about your, ah, plans for travel. Specifically, that you intend to visit Storm’s End before proceeding to King’s Landing.”

“…I see,” Hadwyn said evenly, his tone utterly flat. “And?”

Rhaegar’s smile grew brighter and—as if just waiting for his cue—he then spoke for the first time, voice cheerful.

“And,” the prince said smoothly. “I have decided to accompany you, Lord Caria. It seems… appropriate. Our fates appear to have intertwined, and I would be a fool to waste such a grand fortune.”

Hadwyn stared at him.

For a long, heavy moment, he said nothing. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he turned his head toward Steffon.

The Lord of Storm’s End met his gaze—and mouthed a single word, his expression completely apologetic.

Sorry.

Hadwyn’s eye twitched.

He turned back to Rhaegar, mentally crossing Steffon from the list of ‘Favourite people in Westeros’ for the foreseeable future.

His first instinct was to refuse outright—to say no and let the problem solve itself. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it would be rather stupid. He had a feeling it would have easily led to some annoying development down the line, especially with the brat’s father already throwing a fit about the inbetweeners’ presence in Westeros.

Of course, agreeing to the prince with him would also cause problems. Just later. Which meant it would be a problem for Far Future Hadwyn.

And Far Future Hadwyn, as far as Present Hadwyn was concerned, was not as close to him as Near Future Hadwyn was. He didn’t mind dumping all of his problems on Far Future Hadwyn—that man was practically a stranger.

Still… he had to at least make an effort.

“But…don’t you have to go back to King’s Landing?” Hadwyn asked at last, his tone mild but carrying the unmistakable undertone of a man performing a last-ditch effort. “I was under the impression that in Westeros young nobles—particularly heirs—don’t just… wander the land without their parents’ permission. But maybe that’s just a Dornish thing.”

Rhaegar didn’t even blink. His silver eyes shone with unshakable conviction.

“Do not trouble yourself, Lord Caria,” he said sincerely. “My father will understand. After all, what value lies in idleness at court when an opportunity such as this presents itself? I would say that accompanying you is my duty, considering the burdens both of us carry.”

The silence that followed was almost palpable.

Hadwyn stared at the prince for a long moment—then sighed through his nose, the exhale slow, weary, and utterly defeated.

“…Great,” he said at last, his voice perfectly flat.

It was, of course, not great.

Not great at all.