A Thousand Year Voyage- Chapter 34

The boy was perched upon a mound of rubble, a pale figure easily noticeable amid the scorched ruins. His hair was white, his eyes purple and his finger rested on the strings of a small harp that had just stopped playing. For a moment he did not move, only regarding the newcomers with a quiet, searching gaze. Then, almost absently, he tilted his chin skyward as though to seek some forgotten constellation.

“…Once,” he began, his voice soft but resonant. “this castle was a place of life. My house would come here to rest from the burden of the crown, to walk its gardens far from the capital. There was laughter within these halls...” His hand then drifted toward the blackened walls. “Now it lies broken. A ruin. A warning etched in stone—of pride, of folly...”

…he clearly was of the monologuing kind, that was for sure.

Hadwyn stood in silence, regarding the boy in front of him with certain aversion. He could name more than a few enemies who had greeted him in much the same fashion, and all of them shared one irritating quirks: they spoke way too much, often forcing him to wait ages before the weapons would finally be drawn.

At best, it was tedious. At worst, discouraging.

It was not that Hadwyn could not endure brooding nobility— he had fought alongside and against enough of them in his long years. But it was always an oil-and-water affair, his straightforward nature clashing against their taste for theatrics.

He glanced sidelong at Steffon, hoping the storm lord might offer some guidance on how to interact with the sullen drakeling, but Steffon avoided his gaze altogether, the Baratheon’s eyes fixed on a ruined wall in the distance, the noble seemingly trying to stay out of the whole thing.

Hadwyn let out a long, quiet sigh.

Florissax speaking was out of the question and while Ansbach having Ansbach to simply deal with the whole thing would be convenient, the whole ‘interacting with foreign rulers’ was, in the end, one of the few tasks that he was truly responsible for…as much as it pained him.

As such, he stepped forward, boots grinding against rubble, and let his voice carry across the ruin.

“The castle can still be rebuilt…” he said reluctantly, though there was little conviction in the words. It was an empty offering made to humor a brooder, but it was expected of him to at least take part in the battle of wits. “…to let the new memories drown the old ones.”

The prince lowered his gaze to him, his mouth curving faintly—not quite a smile, more the ghost of one.
“…Rebuilt?” he repeated, tone contemplative. “Stone may be lifted, halls raised anew, but what then? Would not the walls still whisper of fire and grief? Could one sit in their shade and find tranquility, knowing what happened there? What peace is there in a tomb, no matter how finely restored?”

Hadwyn stared at him for a long moment, unimpressed. It would seem that the boy really wanted to turn everything more depressing, as if finding any positivity offensive. His earlier comparison to Messmer, dour and joyless that guy was, was more than fitting.

“Then I don’t know… sit on a beach instead?” Hadwyn said at last, his tone flat. He probably could have given it more thought, but he found out he didn’t overly care about the restoration of the ruins he did not care about. “I bet the air would be cleaner there, with the lack of ghosts of the past as the additional benefit.”

The bluntness struck the prince as if a stone had been hurled into still water. Rhaegar blinked, once, twice, his composure faltering beneath the weight of a suggestion so alien to his nature that it stunned him into silence. His lips parted, then closed, then parted again as though he struggled with a thought that refused to be born.

“But… the sea?” he managed at last, his voice wavering. His violet eyes searched Hadwyn’s face with desperate intensity, as though hidden wisdom must be concealed behind advice. “The sea carries memory as well. To gaze upon those waters is to be haunted by the memory of Old Valyria, forever lost, forever out of reach. To look upon the waves is to remember ruin, and it is… it is very… very…”

The word slipped from him, unfinished, trailing into silence. His voice faltered as he struggled to answer, the boy apparently not expecting to be forced to improvise so suddenly.

Seeing that his prince was floundering and apparently feeling a need to support him, Steffon let out a long, quiet sigh. The lord’s heavy brows furrowed as he cast a look toward Hadwyn—half-annoyed and half-amused, then he squared his shoulders and stepped forward, bowing before the boy seated on the rubble.

“My prince,” he said, his voice steady and formal. “forgive us. We did not plan to disturb your solitude. Certain circumstances compelled us to make for Summerhall, but we did not expect to find you here.”

At that, Rhaegar’s violet eyes shifted from Hadwyn to Steffon, and relief—barely veiled—flickered across his pale face. It was the look of a drowning man grasping at a rope, grateful to be spared further awkwardness.

“Of course, Lord Baratheon. I do not begrudge you for carrying out your task, as I assume these are the people my father desires to meet so much.” Rhaegar replied, his voice still a little stiff, but regaining some melody. He cast the gaze on the inbetweeners, ignoring Florissax glare and focusing on Hadwyn. “Can you please introduce us? I believe we have many things to discuss.”

“Of course, my prince.” Steffon replied. He raised one hand and extended it toward Hadwyn, his words rolling out with a herald’s cadence. “Allow me to present Lord Hadwyn Caria of the Lands Between. Elden Lord, husband to Princess Ranni Caria and the captain of the grand vessel that has just made harbor upon our shores.”

He let the introduction hang for a moment, then he turned, his dark eyes locking onto Hadwyn’s.

“And Hadwyn, you now stand in the presence of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—son of King Aerys, Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

Steffon declared the titles with a fairly respectable pomp, but in Steffon’ gaze, Hadwyn could see his friend imploring him rather directly to behave and indulge the prince, if only for Steffon.

At that, Hadwyn gave a faint clear of his throat, then scratched his neck. He felt like what was to come next would be a huge waste of his time, but he supposed he could try for his friend’s sake.

“Yes. I suppose apologies are in order for disturbing you, Prince Rhaegar,” Hadwyn said lightly, his tone bearing none of the ceremony the moment seemed to demand. “I realize this isn’t the best place for introductions, as your father is no doubt preparing an entire spectacle for our arrival in King’s Landing already, given the intensity of his letter. Truth be told, we came only because my wife suddenly declared she wished to study these ruins. As Steffon has said, we had no idea anyone else would be here.”

Steffon Baratheon gave a look that could only be described as long-suffering, yet his face betrayed no surprise, as the Storm Lord knew better than to expect any formality from Hadwyn.

Rhaegar, however…

Hadwyn could not know, but most of the remaining Targaryens would be utterly furious at such a peculiar introduction. While Aerys’ wrath for daring to ignore his command was a separate issue, even Rhaella Targaryen, Aerys’ wife, and Rhaelle Targaryen, Steffon’s mother, would find themselves offended by Hadwyn’s casual admission about visiting Summerhall, the place of House Targaryen’s near demise, due to simple curiosity, their family’s tragedy a mere landmark to see for the foreigners.

Rhaegar’s pale face brightened instead at the declaration, though the exact cause was unknown. Perhaps the prince was simply glad that the mysterious and powerful outsider chose to interact with him at all, allowing him to learn some grand truths. Perhaps, it was because someone—anyone, really—had voiced an interest in the scorched ruins, Rhaegar’s hobby not unique anymore.

The result, in the end, was the same: the awkward melancholy in Rhaegar’s eyes gave way to an almost fevered gleam.

Not disturbing at all, Hadwyn thought sarcastically.

“No, Lord Caria. There is no fault in your coming,” he said, voice melodic as if ready to break into song. “This place has long been forsaken, seldom visited, its stones left to crumble in silence. Even I come only to reflect upon the ashes of my house’s past—an exercise I believe is vital, given the path I am destined to walk.” His gaze sharpened suddenly, violet eyes catching the light. “For us to meet here, at this hour, within these ruins… that cannot be mere chance. It is providence.”

Hadwyn’s brows drew together slightly, giving the boy a tired look. Yeah, such declarations rarely led to anything good. The boy already sounded like one of the crazed individuals Hadwyn had long learned to avoid. He doubted interacting with the prince would be as awkward as his talks with Hyetta, but it was not exactly a high bar given her whole ‘burn the entire world because sad’ spiel.

He masked the feeling with a laugh—it was not very convincing, but Rhaegar didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, I’ll give you this much—it was unlikely…” he said at last. Inwardly, however, he thought otherwise. He felt a little bad about judging Rhaegar so soon, but the boy looked exactly like someone who would haunt a ruin such as this. For all he knew, Rhaegar visited Summerhall every other week just to brood.

Rhaegar, of course, seemed blind to the skepticism. His gaze did not rest upon Hadwyn so much as through him, as though he tried to gaze upon some higher truth, something veiled that only he could glimpse.

After a moment, a smile, faint yet fervent, spread across Rhaegar’s face.

“I believe much may be gleaned from our meeting,” he declared, his tone rich with solemn weight. “Let your lady wife come. She may study these ruins with my blessing. Summerhall belongs to all who seek its truths, as sorrowful as they are. But you and I, Lord Hadwyn—we should speak. Of burdens, of duty, of futures yet to be written. There is meaning in this encounter, and I would not see it wasted.”

Ah, so that was the catch. Ranni would be allowed to explore the ruins at peace, but only if Hadwyn allowed himself to be cornered into a long, meandering conversation with the melancholic dragonling.

His eyes flicked to Steffon, seeking rescue, but the Storm Lord had suddenly found himself quite taken by a passing cloud overhead. Hadwyn wished he could judge him as a traitor, but it was a bitter truth that he would do exactly the same in his shoes.

As such, Hadwyn could only sigh deeply, the Elden Lord’s shoulders slumping as he resigned himself for the ordeal that was to come, the consort sacrificing himself for his god.

The things we do for love, Hadwyn mused as Rhaegar began the conversational assault.

***

Walking slowly across the scorched skeleton of Summerhall, the ruins silent beyond the distant chatter between her beloved consort and a local prince, Ranni judged it to be acceptable for the ritual she had in mind—if only barely.

The place itself was utterly unimpressive, the place grand neither in physical or emotional scale, no different than countless similar ruins she had seen spread around the Lands Between. To her eyes, it was little more than a funeral pyre for the most pitiful of dragon-communion adepts, the sacrifice of a most paltry kind. The lingering magic clung faintly to the air, but it was noticeable only because Westeros was so starved of sorcery that even a dying ember looked like a flame.

There was almost no power sleeping in the stone, no spell waiting to be unearthed, no creature lingering to soak in the residue. While she was more realistic about the endeavour than her husband, even she, who had learned not to expect much of this mundane land, had half-expected to encounter something, even if it was to be a malformed drake, a beast twisted by the failed ritual.

Instead, there was only emptiness…

…Well, she encountered one peculiarity, though it was not one of the kind she sought.

As she walked through the ruins, her gaze would occasionally catch a faint shadow, a figure moving where no figure should be. A woman-shaped apparition, pale and blurred, drifting through the broken halls. She seemed content merely to dance, her motions mournful, swaying to music unheard. None of the Westerosi seemed to notice her, stepping around her as if she was not there.

Ranni did not know who she was, nor what was her true nature. And while the mournful movements did move her, if only slightly, she let the feeling pass. Whatever this ghostly dancer was, she was no threat, and Ranni had little patience for idle mysteries. The spectre would dance, and she would let it.

But beyond that one apparition, the ruin was truly empty.

Still, as was stated previously, Summerhall offered what she required, if barely.

The ritual meant to create a new body for her to inhabit demanded only to find a place where magic lingered, however faintly, and Summerhall, meagre as it was, fit that criterion. She could have chosen the white crown of the Hightower or the lush gardens of Highgarden, where it was more potent, but that would have been… rude.

Summerhall, abandoned ruin it was, worked better.

The ritual was, of course, not yet ready. Today, she merely wished to scout the location and judge the place fitting for her purposes. Before it could be conducted, her body still needed to be prepared, Ranni still having issues with making the size just right, each height having its own advantages.

If she was to be entirely honest, the lack of a proper spectacle gnawed faintly at her. A small part of her had hoped for the location to be more grand, more fitting. But this was Westeros, and Westeros was a land where magic had withered. Summerhall was all there was.

Her gaze drifted from the stones to the living. Across the courtyard, her beloved consort sat upon a collapsed wall, his posture weary and his face pinched with the strain of polite endurance. Beside him, a young Targaryen prince leaned forward eagerly, eyes wide and questions endless, his voice insistent and burning with feverish energy.

Between them, Steffon Baratheon played the reluctant mediator, occasionally stepping in to lessen the burden of Hadwyn. It helped, but only so much. The Elden Lord was wilting all the same, if at a slower pace.

Ranni felt her gaze returned, finding Hadwyn’s eyes fixed upon her with the desperate intensity of a man silently calling for rescue. There was trust there—utter, unshakable trust—that she would come to his aid, sever him from the clutches of the silver-haired boy. In that look was devotion, the certainty that their fates were entwined, that she would not abandon him to this torment.

Ranni tilted her head, considered him for a heartbeat.

Then she lifted her gaze skyward.

What a peculiar cloud, she thought idly, watching the white drift of it cross the blue. She turned away, leaving her Elden Lord to his fate.

***

Noticing the subtle exchange of glances between Lord Caria and his wife, Lady Ranni, Rhaegar felt a shiver shiver down his spine.

What did that fleeting look mean? What truths had passed between them, unspoken yet undeniable? To most men, it might have seemed ordinary, but to Rhaegar Targaryen, it was nothing so simple. It was a glimpse of the deeper mysteries.

He had been told that Lady Ranni Caria was a sorceress of unmeasured power, wielding knowledge that dwarfed the maesters’ entire citadel. An immortal presence, supposedly even a goddess in flesh.

Even Lord Baratheon had spoken of her in tones of almost reverent awe, assuring Rhaegar that her power was comparable to her husband’s, who, as also told by Lord Baratheon, was powerful enough to vanquish everyone in Summerhall with ease.

And as he watched that unfathomable figure walk among the ruins of Summerhall, studying them with a watchful eye, a swelling sensation of vindication gripped Rhaegar’s chest.

It was a proof, undeniable sign that the blood of the dragon called to greatness. Because if a sorceress of such power— a being who wore an artificial body wrought of arcane craft of her own design—found this place worthy of her attention, then surely his own instinct about Summerhall had been true all along.

Lady Caria had not come here out of idle fancy; she had been drawn, just as he had.

It is fate, he thought, his heart quickening.

Yet even this revelation was only a shadow of the greater gift before him. For while Lady Caria studied the ruins in silence, her husband was seated at his side.

Lord Hadwyn Caria, the champion of a distant, mythical realm. A warrior who had strode through calamities, who had overthrown tyrants and restored order to the previously shattered lands.

Rhaegar had long dreamed of speaking with such a figure, a hero of old that would show him the way as he walked the grand path that awaited the prince in the future.

And now, impossibly, he was here. Not in a dream, but in the flesh.

Over the long hours that had passed since their meeting, Rhaegar had gathered fragments of the man’s tale, carefully teased from him. The picture that emerged was of a soul burdened—perhaps even chosen—by fate. A man who had stood against the collapse of his world and borne scars no one else could bear. A man forged by endless trials, who carried within him the quiet dignity.

Rhaegar’s heart had clenched more than once, as he realized he was glimpsing himself in a mirror cast years into the future. Was this not the very same burden he, too, was to carry? To save his people from ice and darkness? To see Lord Caria was to see his own destiny confirmed, his own path illuminated by a living exemplar.

True, the man’s words were sparse. His answers were curt, sometimes almost dismissive, stripped of any embellishment. But Rhaegar did not take offense. No, he admired it. His silence was not emptiness—it was gravity. His brevity was the discipline of one who had long ago transcended the need for words. Even in silence, he spoke volumes.

And when another tribulation was shared, Rhaegar felt his chest tighten, his eyes sting. The connection between them was undeniable. Here, in the wreck of Summerhall, two souls chosen by destiny had met.

Rhaegar leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as though confessing a private truth.

“Though we have met only this day, Lord Caria,” he murmured, his violet eyes fixed with earnest intensity, “I cannot shake the strangest feeling. When I speak with you, there is a familiarity, as if we had known one another for a long time. I find it… easy to speak freely in your company.”

Upon hearing that, Lord Caria fixed him with a look, his expression unreadable. When at last he spoke, the words were stripped of any inflection, giving no hint on what he had thought about the declaration.

“…Is that so?”

Rhaegar studied the man intently. There was no denial in it, but neither was there any agreement. There was a weight in his answer, however, certain acknowledgement in itself. Perhaps Lord Caria felt the same connection and merely withheld acknowledgment. Perhaps he even knew the true reason for it.

“Yes,” Rhaegar said softly, nodding with solemn conviction. “I believe it is so.”

This time, Lord Caria offered no direct answer, the silence stretching out between them like a drawn bowstring.

His gaze then shifted to Lord Baratheon, a brief and wordless exchange that Rhaegar could not parse, though he sensed there was a deep meaning in it. Everything in this man carried meaning, even the things unsaid.

At last, Caria lowered his head a fraction, as though some invisible burden pressed heavily upon his shoulders, the reason not yet revealed.

“…I suppose you might have sensed the drake within me?” Caria said at last. Though his tone was weary, the words struck Rhaegar with the force of thunder. “While I suppose the nature is wholly different—me a humanoid drake, and you a drake rider—both of us are related to them, I think. Or dragons, as you Westerosi call them…”

The prince’s breath quickened, his pulse hammering in his temples. His entire body seemed to still as the Elden Lord raised one hand.

Black scales bloomed across Hadwyn’s flesh, rippling into existence like armor called from some unknown place. They gleamed in the light, each one sharp-edged. Heat bled into the air, a shimmering haze that warped the air around him, like a breath of a dragon half-woken from slumber.

Rhaegar could only stare, breath caught in his throat, mouth parting as though words might come of their own accord.

“You… you are of Old Valyria as well?” he managed at last, voice unsteady, shaken by the revelation.

Lord Caria did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his head and gave Lord Baratheon a questioning look, brows drawing together.
“…Is Valyria the one with the sea riders or the one with the big wall, Steffon?” he asked, his tone uncertain, the man seemingly more concerned by the geography than the true weight of his nature.

Steffon sighed, the sound heavy. “Neither. Valyria is a desolate land beyond the eastern sea, a birthplace of the dragons destroyed by fire and smoke centuries ago.”

“Oh.” Lord Caria blinked, then gave a small shrug, musing aloud. “Well, now I know where I should go after we finish our journey in Westeros, I suppose.” His eyes then shifted back to Rhaegar. “But to answer your question, no. I’m not from Valyria. I came from the west, if anything. Though saying that in the past seems to have created some misunderstanding among your people…”

The foreign lord’s words only fanned the flame within Rhaegar’s mind. His thoughts swirled, each one louder, clearer, sharper than the last, until he felt himself swept away by revelation. Where others of his house would have stopped in wonder at the mere draconic aspect—Rhaegar looked beyond. He grasped the deeper truth, the song hidden beneath the surface, the truth that only he could see.

This was no accident. This could not be an accident.

His mind raced, leaping toward destiny’s inevitable conclusion.

A prince of another land, yet marked by fire as Rhaegar was. A soul who had carried the same burden he would have to… Brought to Summerhall of all places, where fire and ash still whispered their truths. How can this be anything but providence?

His violet eyes moved, hungry and searching.

He looked at Lord Caria: a dragon clothed in human flesh, savior of his land, a being of fire who had delivered his kingdom from doom.

He looked at Lady Caria: pale and cold as full moon, distant beauty carved as if from ice, sorceress of unfathomable power, a being of ice that aided lord Caria in his journey.

Ice and Fire. Not hostile, but joined. Paired in bond unbreakable, their union more than chance—meaningful, eternal, destined.

The Song of Ice and Fire.

“…Everything finally makes sense,” Rhaegar breathed, barely more than a whisper. His voice trembled with awe, yet held a strange certainty.

The vision uncoiled in his mind like a serpent, swift and unstoppable, all the fragments falling into place with crystalline clarity. The Lands Between had faced their ruin, their doom. And they had been saved—by Fire and Ice. Not one without the other, but both together, bound to a single purpose.

The Song was not chained to Westeros. A truth that rang wherever the people trembled beneath shadow, wherever darkness gathered. Here stood proof: a promised prince of another realm, his story a reflection of Rhaegar’s own.

If prophecy could flower in such distant soil, then surely—surely—it must bloom in Westeros as well. It must. He was not wrong. He had never been wrong. His burden was not folly—it was the truth. And now, before his very eyes, that truth had been confirmed.

It could not be a coincidence. The gods had carved this meeting long before his birth, etching it into fate’s marrow. Why else would he, heir to dragonlords and the prince promised, stand in Summerhall’s ruins before such figures? Why else would he, haunted by prophecy, come face to face with a savior of another world unless to find the confirmation of his grand duty?

Rhaegar’s eyes burned, lit by inner fire, and when he looked at Hadwyn Caria, he saw kinship—another soul anointed by flame, pressed into the eternal song, carrying the same heavy burden he bore.

Meanwhile, Hadwyn shifted under the boy’s silent, unblinking stare, discomfort plain in his posture. Noticing that something potentially troublesome seemed to hatch in the prince’s mind, he opened his mouth, lips parting as though to speak…

…but then he realized that doing so would spark another lengthy conversation, this time with Hadwyn having to unravel some unknown tangle of delusions that had just blossomed in Rhaegar’s head.

…yeah, it was simply not worth it.

***

While the sheer scope of delusion Rhaegar displays here might seem as a little unrealistic, let’s remember that a 21-years-old Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna, most likely in assumption everything would end fine as he was ‘the Prince That Was Promised’tm, not realizing such an action might have…destabilized the realm he was supposed to save.

This it’s a 13/14-years-old Rheagar whose favourite hobby is to visit the house where his grandpa burned alive to sing sad songs and who is not as good at hiding his deficiencies as his older version is.

Or in other words, Rhaegar in currently in his chuuni phase.

Also, I started a new story, Gate: Thus the Phar Loomed there! It’s a crossover between Hollow Knight (more specifically Silksong) and Gate, thus the JSDF fought there!