A Thousand Year Voyage- chapter 29

The chamber they had given him was as fine as he could have expected—perhaps the finest they had prepared for any guest, save perhaps for whatever suites had been allotted to Hadwyn and Ranni, depending on how the Tyrells had first approached the inbetweener matter. It was a room designed to impress, with broad, arched windows, heavy oak furniture and swathes of fabric in carefully non-Tyrell green colors.

All that careful hospitality was, in Leyton’s opinion, mostly wasted effort. While he appreciated the luxury and comfort as much as any self-respecting noble, his mind was fixed elsewhere for his entire stay.

Part of that was because he had to constantly focus on politics, doing his best to maintain his position in Hadwyn’s eyes despite Tyrells, and now also the Lannisters and Baratheons, trying to wove themselves into the inbetweener orbit. It was incredibly important, especially since he was slowly beginning to realize that he was on the back of a great, lethargic dragon that could, with little warning, simply throw him off and devour him.

And yet, the danger was not enough to make him withdraw—mostly because befriending this particular dragon came with certain privileges he could not ignore.

Leyton sat hunched in an armchair by the hearth, the thick tome across his lap. The book was a gift from the Lunar Conspectus, acquired through a string of careful inquiries made during his conversations with Hadwyn.

Bound in deep blue leather, its title was written with silver threads: ‘Glintstone Sorcery: First Lessons for Initiates’.

The very title alone had thrilled him when he first saw it. First Lessons—the phrase promised a threshold, the first crack in a door that, once opened, would reveal the higher mysteries. He had pictured pages heavy with invocations, inked diagrams of ritual circles, instructions for secret rites perhaps.

Instead, what he found were… numbers.
Charts.

Descriptions of metals and stones, some familiar and others wholly alien to him, and their transformations through methods of entirely mundane alchemy.

Whole chapters were devoted to celestial observation—precise astronomical records tracing the paths of sun and stars, and of the moon. Or… moons. The text shifted between singular and plural without warning, sometimes describing one pale orb, sometimes several, each distinct in nature.

The book gave no hint whether he should understand it literally or as a metaphor, but Leyton decided it was an allusion to some deeper truth, one buried beneath the surface. Unfortunately, despite his efforts, the meaning refused to reveal itself.

In the end, the knowledge contained in the book was undeniably of immense worth, perhaps greater than anything he had seen before. And yet, as he was going through the book, Leyton couldn’t help but feel a creeping dissatisfaction.

“Are you listening, Leyton?” Jayne’s voice drifted from near the window, where she stood, her tone holding the faintest note of reproach.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured, not looking up. His eyes continued to study the page, seeking the understanding that had eluded him so far.

From what he had gathered, Jayne was recounting some exchange she’d had with Alerie and Ranni the other day—a matter that should have been of interest to him, for both personal reasons (Alerie) and political ones (Ranni). But at that moment, the problem of the book’s hidden meaning, the elusive truth concealed behind its practical words, gripped him far more tightly than the world of the mundane.

He was trying—truly trying—to pierce the veil. He brought all his accumulated learning of the arcane to bear: the years of patient study into hidden truths, the deep-seated belief in unseen forces, the conviction that with the proper words and the proper faith, a man might coax reality into bending toward his will.

And yet… nothing.

No hidden door in his mind creaked open.

No sudden surge of understanding filled him.

Not even the smallest of conjurations—the simple summoning of a glintstone pebble, supposedly one of the most basic sorceries in the inbetweeners’ repertoire—worked.

Something was missing. He could feel it, the truth hanging just beyond his reach. Perhaps the figures in the margins were ciphers? Perhaps the dry measurements were meant to guide him to something greater? If only the key would reveal itself…

What Leyton did not know was that he was approaching the matter from entirely the wrong angle.
The book in his hands did contain sorceries, yet they were nothing like the wonders he had yearned for. Contrary to the spells found on Planetos, the sorcery in the Lands Between was an art of the intellect: manipulation of magic based on precise knowledge and anchored in rigorous study of nature.

What Leyton truly sought, though he did not put it in such terms, were incantations—faith-based workings of will and belief, where conviction and devotion shaped reality.

Due to a small linguistic mishap, Lunar Conspectus had given him exactly what he had asked for—yet entirely not what he truly desired.

Among the many misunderstandings between the Westerosi and the inbetweeners, this one was perhaps the least harmful one, worth noting for this exact reason.

While Leyton was unknowingly wasting his time, Jayne sent him a sidelong glance, clearly aware of her husband’s lack of focus. She let out a faint sigh—audible yet deliberately non-confrontational. Perhaps she was irritated—he suspected she might be—but she had not yet grown confident enough in her place as his wife to speak her mind regarding his behaviour.

Truthfully, he would not have overly minded if she did. Gods only knew he and Malora would often disappear into his study for days without surfacing if not interrupted. Once again having someone to keep him grounded would certainly be beneficial.

But Jayne did not know that—and Leyton would never tell her. If she knew, she would actually start to keep him grounded, interrupting his studies, something he didn’t want.

He was complicated like that.

The one-sided conversation trailed on for a few more minutes, his only contributions strategically placed murmured acknowledgments, until a knock broke it off.

Upon hearing it, Jayne paused mid-sentence and, after a few seconds, crossed from the window to the chamber’s door. After she did so, she began to speak with one of the Hightower guards stationed outside, the words indistinct from where he sat.

Uninterested in the exchange, Leyton bent back over his book. A particularly perplexing line was unfurling in his thoughts when—

“Leyton.”

Jayne’s voice froze him in place. Her voice was stripped bare—serious, flat, with not a trace of the warmth it had carried moments ago.

He looked up from the page. She stood in front of him, one hand locked tight around a piece of paper, the material wrinkling under the pressure of her grip. Her complexion was ashen, her eyes wide, her posture tight with some force she could barely contain.

A cold knot began to coil in his stomach.

“What is it, Jayne? What happened?” he asked, his own voice quieter than he meant, the question heavy with the certainty that whatever it was, it was not good.

She stepped forward, each movement deliberate, as if her body carried the weight of the message itself. When she extended the letter toward him, her hand shook.

Leyton took it, the paper warm beneath his fingers. His pulse began to climb, quick and heavy, and he lowered his eyes to read.

He didn’t make it past the second line before the blood drained from his face, leaving his skin as pale and bloodless as his wife’s.

***

Leyton’s steps were slow and heavy, each one bringing him closer to his doom. The words of the letter clung to his thoughts like burrs—small, sharp, impossible to shake free.

The account, dictated by Baelor and written by Malora, had been sparse on detail for most of the events had happened beyond his children’s sight and the letter had been sent almost immediately after the attack. But what it did contain was enough to freeze the blood in his veins.

The Faith uprising.

In his city.

Against the guests he had welcomed, given bread and salt to.

Against people whose leader could turn into a dragon—and who was here, in Highgarden—whose hostility Leyton did not wish to ever experience.

It was a disaster in its purest form. Not only had it happened without the Hightowers even hearing a whisper beforehand, but it was also conducted for religious reasons, the attackers basically declaring with their actions that the inbetweeners’ very presence was a sin.

As Baelor reported, thousands of smallfolk and townsfolk, led by the Faithful, had moved in the night against every cluster of inbetweeners in and around the city. The village. The perfume quarter. The Sea Tower. All hit, the goal nothing less than slaughter.

If they had succeeded… Seven save him, the thought alone made him tremble. At the very least, every soul in Highgarden and Oldtown would have been doomed.

The only mercy was that they had failed—utterly. Whether forewarned or simply too powerful, the inbetweeners had effortlessly crushed the attacks. Most insurgents lay dead or bound, with the rest  fleeing, scattering into the night. By dawn, Oldtown had woken to mounds of corpses and blood-slick cobbles. Friends and neighbours, traders and priests, all counted among the dead.

Still, the situation was grave. The goodwill between Oldtown and the inbetweeners was shattered—the people of the city had to bury too many familiar faces, while the inbetweeners would always expect another attack to come. Worse still, the Faith’s hands were responsible for the attempt, and so the chance for the two groups to ever know each other without hostility had been crushed before it could begin.

Then there was Septon Gerold. The letter claimed the septon had halted the last of the fighting himself—calling upon the Seven and summoning “invincible chains” that bound every surviving attacker where they stood. Beyond the envy Leyton felt, it was a mess in the making.

Whether it was truly the work of the gods or some form of magic awakened after the man’s contact with the inbetweeners, Leyton didn’t know. He only knew it would shake the Faith to its core and give people a lot of potential causes to rally to. He could scarcely imagine the consequences.

And if Hadwyn decided to take revenge on the Faith or endorse Gerold…

Leyton shuddered.

The worst part was not knowing how Hadwyn would react. The man was bizarrely lax, almost carelessly so for someone with such authority and power—but even the most placid man would react with fury after finding out his people were betrayed and attacked.

Actually, the worst part was that Leyton would have to be the one to tell him.

Leyton moved grimly along the cobblestone path, the garden’s beauty wasted on him, green lawns, marble fountains and blossoming flowers blurring into a meaningless backdrop. His thoughts were heavy and dark, dragging behind him like an anchor.

And then, sooner than he’d hoped, he saw the man he had come to find.

A tall figure sat on a bench in the distance, his blue tunic clearly visible in the sun. His hands were busy with some small work, the movements neat and deliberate.

As Leyton drew nearer, the details sharpened: Hadwyn Caria was focusing on a piece of pale stone—marble, seemingly—which he cradled in one palm. In the other, he held a slender knife, beautiful and seemingly made of pure crystal.

Leyton slowed, frowning. The knife’s crystal edge bit into the stone as if it were soft cheese, curling shavings falling around Hadwyn. There was no strain in the man’s wrist, no shift in his shoulders—only smooth, patient cuts.

A tremor passed through Leyton, Hadwyn’s artistry another reminder of the man’s otherworldly power.

When he came close enough, Leyton realized this was no raw chunk of stone but a sculpture nearly complete. It was a strange, unsettling figure: a dragon-shaped humanoid, gaunt yet regal, kneeling in tattered armour and cloak. Its torn wings drooped at its back and in its clawed hands it held a jagged, oddly shaped weapon. The detail was exquisite and Leyton could not reconcile such craftsmanship with the man’s other life as a ruler and warrior.

Hadwyn looked up before Leyton could speak, having somehow noticed him despite the quiet approach.

“Greetings, Leyton.” he said, smiling lightly. “Decided to give the dusty books a rest and breathe some air?”

The warmth in his tone only made Leyton’s stomach twist tighter. He was about to crush that easy mood with his news.

“I… have a matter we need to discuss.” Leyton said carefully, unsure how to proceed. Seeking at least a few more moments of peace, his eyes flickered to the sculpture in Hadwyn’s hands. He cleared his throat. “It’s… a beautiful piece, Hadwyn. A creature from your lands, perhaps?”

Hadwyn considered the question for a moment.

“Creature? Well, I suppose dragonkin are creatures… I’d hardly call them people at this point.” Hadwyn said, titling his head. Then he looked at the figure in his hands, eyes narrowing. “Damn it, I botched the lightning again. Sculpting non-physical things is always a nightmare.”

Then, with no more thought than one might give to snapping a twig, he closed his fist around the sculpture. Stone crunched and powdered between his fingers, shards raining on the path. Leyton felt the shock in his gut twice over—once for the destruction of such beauty, and again for the casual, absolute power in those hands.

Hadwyn brushed his palms, then fixed Leyton with a calm, expectant look. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

Leyton’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard. Finally, he gathered enough courage to speak. “There’s… been a development in Oldtown.”

“Yes?” Hadwyn asked, still perfectly at ease.

“Members of the Faith,” Leyton began, then faltered, struggling for words “…They… they launched an attack against your people during the night, intending to slaughter them.”

He braced himself for fury—for the heat of dragonfire, for the declaration of war, for hostility and violence.

That would be expected. That would be normal.

But Hadwyn…

Hadwyn only regarded him with polite interest, as if Leyton were halfway through a story and had not yet reached the interesting part.

“Well, that was inevitable to happen at some point, I suppose?” Hadwyn said without missing a beat, scratching absently at the side of his head. “Mari… Ranni knows I’ve waded through more religious wars than I care to count. So—everything ended well, I take it?”

Leyton stared at him, momentarily robbed of words. He had heard the question clearly, but he simply couldn’t comprehend it. Surely Hadwyn must be mocking him, testing him with some cruel jest? Yet the man’s face was calm, not a flicker of anger in it.

“…What?” Leyton whispered, the word barely audible due to the shock.

“I mean,” Hadwyn continued with perfect ease, “I assume the people I left in charge handled it. From what I’ve seen, your folk haven’t exactly had to… grow strong. My people? That’s all they’ve ever done.”

He smiled faintly, as if explaining something simple to a child.

Leyton blinked again and again, mind reeling.

“Yes… yes, they repelled the attack easily but—but your people were still attacked!” He stammered. “You don’t feel any anger?!”

“What? No.” Hadwyn looked genuinely puzzled. “Do you know how exhausting it would be to get angry at every soul who tries to kill you? I wouldn’t even be able to leave Limgrave without falling apart.”

Leyton gaped. The certainty hidden behind the words utterly terrifying.

“And besides,” Hadwyn went on, oblivious to the horror creeping through his listener, “the ones I left to guard my folk are excellent fighters. The outcome was inevitable, so why waste time worrying about it? And if your priests had somehow won, then the victory would have been earned—with strength that deserved it.”

Leyton’s thoughts reeled. A ruler who did not mind if his people were butchered, so long as it was done by those strong enough to do it?

It was monstrous. It was unthinkable.

“At least, that’s my view.” Hadwyn gave a careless shrug. “Now—what exactly happened?”

So Leyton told him. Every detail.

Hadwyn listened without interruption, the faint smile still playing on his lips—until Leyton reached the part about the village and some of the buildings being destroyed. Then the smile thinned and a furrow creased his brow.

“I see…” Hadwyn murmured. His voice was still mild, yet the shift was enough to make Leyton’s chest seize, the pressure pushing him to the ground as though the air itself had thickened around him. If this was what Hadwyn’s mild displeasure felt like, he dreaded to learn what true wrath might be.

“Is… is everything alright, Hadwyn?” Leyton asked cautiously, his voice catching in his throat.

“Everything is fine.” Hadwyn replied, voice just a shade more terse than normally. “I’m simply… irritated that a certain goat-head failed his task and let villagers get tangled in this mess. If they’d killed him in combat, that would be fair enough. But it sounds like they simply sneaked past him…”

He glanced at Leyton and then, noticing his trembling hands, let out a soft sigh.
“Don’t worry, Leyton. My annoyance is with one of my own, not you. As I said—people tried to kill us, they were killed in turn. Perfectly fair. I only regret that some attackers slipped through without proving themselves. But being angry at an enemy for being competent if not brave? That would be beyond pathetic.”

Leyton exhaled slowly, unsure if he should feel relief. The man’s reasoning was alien, incomprehensible—but if it meant Hadwyn wasn’t going to retaliate, then perhaps Oldtown was safe.

“That’s… very gracious of you, Hadwyn,” he managed, his voice a little too unsure for his liking.

“Well, I am a gracious man.” Hadwyn said lightly, then turned his head toward the garden path. “Something you’ll see again very soon, I imagine.”

Leyton followed his gaze—and saw Tywin Lannister and Steffon Baratheon striding toward them, faces pale and expressions grim.

***

Aerys, you foolish bastard.

The thought echoed with every step Tywin took through the castle’s sprawling gardens, Steffon keeping pace beside him. Each stride carried him closer to the inbetweener lord, the man capable of turning into a dragon. And he was going to meet him to carry words that could easily provoke this beast.

Why did Aerys have to be so stupid? He and Steffon had been sent to Highgarden to investigate these strangers, to weigh their strength and their intent, and they had been doing exactly that, so far the results being as good as they could be given the circumstances. All Aerys had to do was remain seated on that Aerys-cutting chair of his and wait for their return.

But no. That would have been too simple.

Instead, his newest child had died in the cradle and— rather than bear it with what little dignity he had—Aerys lashed, making leaps that only he could: that the inbetweeners had slighted him and let his newborn son die, in his mind choosing Tywin over him.

So what if it was the fourth child lost, and thus something his heart should have already hardened against?

So what if the inbetweeners had no reason to even think the king even needed aid?

And so what if Tywin had no knowledge or control over the fact that the inbetweeners had sailed to Casterly Rock and saved Joanna’s life?

None of that mattered. Not to Aerys. To that inbred fool, it was probably all part of Tywin’s plan to humiliate him.

When he and Steffon had first read the letter that contained Aerys’ insane demand, they’d gone cold to the marrow. Neither of them had wanted to bring those words to Hadwyn Caria out of the simple, primal instinct for survival.

But unfortunately for them, the message had to be delivered. And worse, Aerys had demanded it be read exactly as it was written, making it impossible for them to skirt around the issue and provide Hadwyn with a more…palatable version of Aerys’ demand.

Tywin’s mouth had been a hard line ever since, not that anyone except Joanna would notice the difference from his typical face.

Steffon walked beside him in silence, his face pale, lips pressed into a grimace, the man clearly as nervous as Tywin was.

Ahead, Tywin finally spotted their target, currently accompanied by one other person.

There he was—Lord Hadwyn Caria. Seated on a stone bench, posture loose, almost lazy.

At his side stood Leyton Hightower, the Reachman looking like death. His complexion was drained of color, his hands clasped in front of him like a sinner awaiting judgment, his body stiff as a statue.

Upon seeing that, bells inside Tywin’s mind began to ring, telling him it was a bad time to approach. Unfortunately, the men’s eyes were already on him and Steffon, making it impossible to retreat.

“Lord Hadwyn. Lord Leyton,” Tywin said as he approached, voice as level as it was possible given the knot in his stomach. “I trust I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Hadwyn replied with disarming ease. Despite the state of the man he had been just taking too, his face and body displayed no tension. “Leyton was just telling me of some… unpleasantness in Oldtown. But it’s already been dealt with.”

“Unpleasantness…?” Tywin repeated carefully, every syllable measured. It was probably better to know what situation he had just stumbled into.

“Yes.” Hadwyn went on, voice light as if he were recounting idle gossip, “Apparently, some members of your faith… well, Faith, attempted to kill the people I left behind in Oldtown.”

The words landed like stones dropped into still water.

Tywin froze. Steffon beside him went rigid. Both turned their eyes upon Leyton, whose expression was that of a man already condemned, shoulders sagged.

And yet Hadwyn spoke on as if nothing of weight had been said:

“But as I mentioned, it’s already resolved.” His smile returned, terribly wrong in its ease. “So then—am I right in assuming you’ve come with business of your own? You Westerosi seem oddly incapable of approaching me just for a simple chat.”

Tywin’s stomach turned to lead. Seven save us all. This was worse than anything he could have imagined!

The Faith attacked the inbetweeners?! And now he was supposed to tell this man that the King threatened to do the same?!

Aerys, you inbred, rash bastard!

Tywin forced his lungs to work, drawing in a careful breath, steadying his face into something deliberately neutral.

“…I see.” Tywin said at last, every word deliberate. “That’s the first I hear of this. As Hand of the King, I must acknowledge it as a grave matter indeed. But if you tell me it is already resolved—and you have decided to withdraw from retaliation…”

He flicked a glance toward Leyton, seeking confirmation. The Reachman nodded weakly, though the movement lacked conviction. His shoulders slumped as if they bore a millstone. Even now, he looked unsure whether it was truly over.

“…then,” Tywin continued, each syllable measured, “…I suppose the matter can remain between those directly involved.” He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, forcing control into his tone. “…For myself, I have another matter I had hoped to speak with you on—later, Lord Hadwyn. After you and Lord Leyton have had time to conclude your own business. I would not wish to impose when—”

“Nonsense.” Hadwyn’s voice cut him off, the man lifting his hand in a genial wave, his smile broadening. “I can see from your faces this won’t be a pleasant topic, so better to settle everything at once. Leave nothing festering, and all that. Don’t you agree?”

No, he most certainly did not agree.

Everything in Tywin screamed at him to delay, to wait for a more convenient time, until this man was not freshly after hearing the Faithful had tried to massacre his people. Speaking now could only end badly!

And yet… he had no choice. His orders bound him and to delay after Hadwyn’s words would look like weakness.

He inclined his head a fraction, his voice deliberately neutral. “If you would permit, Lord Hadwyn… this is a matter best discussed in private.”

His eyes darted briefly to Leyton Hightower, hoping for the man to take a hint.

The Reachman did not miss it. Pale and stiff, he unsurprisingly latched onto the lifeline at once.

“I think I will… take a walk. To gather my composure.” His voice was low, tired, and Tywin was certain it was not really just an excuse—he truly was holding himself together by threads. The Reachman turned to Hadwyn with a stiff nod. “But later… I believe we should have another conversation. To decide how to move forward.”

“I think there is not much more to be said.” Hadwyn replied with a shrug, ease of which twisted Tywin’s stomach. “but why not? I’m not opposed.”

With that, Leyton all but fled, his departure brisk.

Hadwyn turned toward him and Steffon, the casual smile returning. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

Tywin found himself uncertain how to proceed, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. He did not know how much Hadwyn already knew of what had transpired at Casterly Rock. Even if the man had not orchestrated it—something improbable yet still possible—Tywin was certain he had been informed about the situation already. After all, a matter as important as the Hand of the King’s wife being saved by his people could not go unreported.

But starting with Aerys’ message would be too abrupt, especially after just being told of the Faithful attacking his people.

And there was still the matter of his debt—an obligation that sat in Tywin’s chest like a stone. One he did not want to think about, let alone speak aloud.

Still, the background had to be laid out, he supposed. Both issues, his and Aerys’, stemmed from the same source, after all.

“To start…” Tywin said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “I have been informed that the ship you arrived on in Westeros—the Wisdom of the Moon—left Oldtown and sailed to Lannisport around the time you traveled here, to Highgarden?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. I sent the ship ahead to Lannisport because I befriended Oberyn Martell during my time in Oldtown. He and his family were intending to reach Casterly Rock and—well, you know how it is. One thing led to another.” Hadwyn blinked, then responded easily, a light smile on his face. “Besides, I thought a visit to Casterly Rock would be nice. After finishing my stay here, I’d planned to stop there, and from there sail back to Oldtown. It seemed like a scenic enough route.”

For a moment Tywin simply stared, his mind utterly blank.

How…how was that an answer?

He had befriended one of Obella’s sons and that, somehow, was his main justification for sending his gargantuan monstrosity of a hip, supposedly housing thousands if not more of the inbetweeners, right to his doorstep?

There was no way that was true!

A ruler as powerful as Hadwyn would never make such a capricious decision without considering enormous political consequences it could (and did) lead to!

Tywin’s jaw worked, his tongue trying to form words that could not be spoken aloud.

Lifelong debt, he reminded himself, teeth clenched. You have a lifelong debt to this man. You cannot furiously shout at someone to whom you owe a debt you can probably never repay.

He closed his eyes briefly and drew in a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself. The headache that had been building since the moment he received Joanna’s letter pressed harder against his skull.

Enough. The background was set. There was no avoiding it now. He had to address it, no matter how it galled him.

“Be as it may…” Tywin began again, his voice clipped and his throat tight. Every word felt like a battle hard-won. “While your people were in Casterly Rock… one of them… helped my wife.”

The words clung to his throat like burrs. His jaw tightened. “There were… complications during her labour. My wife nearly died, alongside my son. But one of your healers—Tricia—she saved her life. Helped her bring my son into the world. It is because of her… that my wife lives.”

The words scraped out of him, heavy and reluctant, as if he had been forced to drag them up from the bottom of a well.

Steffon, watching him from the side, gave an audible sigh, full of exasperation.

Hadwyn, however, only blinked at him. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then he spoke.

“I… sorry, but I really can’t tell if you’re happy or angry about your wife’s survival.” His tone was genuine confusion. Then, with bizarre frankness, he continued, “I mean, if you were in an unhappy marriage and wanted an out, I get it. My own marriage is fine, but my former liege—well, he was saddled with a woman who used him only for war and breeding, then stripped him of grace and sent him to die. Incidentally, I nearly married that same woman. Funny story, that—”

 “What?!” Tywin’s voice snapped like a whip as he comprehended Hadwyn’s words. “No! I love my wife! I am incredibly happy that she is alive!”

Hadwyn only looked at him a moment longer, then gave him a flat, almost baffled expression. “…So, what’s the problem?”

Tywin clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He could feel the vein in his temple throbbing like a drumbeat.
“As… as your people saved my wife, a woman worth to me more than all the gold of Casterly Rock…” His voice faltered, the thought stumbling on his tongue.

Steffon let out a long, exasperated groan, throwing up his hands. “By the gods, Tywin, just say it!”

Tywin forced the words forward, each one ground out as if dragged across stone.

“As your people saved my wife, I am bound by debt to you. A debt I will most likely never be able to repay. But I will try nonetheless.” He drew himself taller, his tone hardening. “A Lannister always pays their debts.”

The air held still for a heartbeat.

“…I accept your debt, I suppose?” Hadwyn said at last, his voice unsure, almost dismissive. “I didn’t have anything to do with it—Tricia saved your wife and son—but you seem full of conviction, so who am I to refuse…” He shrugged, letting the words trail off.

Tywin’s vision swam red at the edges. He forced himself not to snarl. No. You owe him a great debt. Swallow it, Tywin. Endure it.

“So,” Hadwyn went on blithely, “is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“…No.” Tywin’s voice dropped low, dread once again twisting his gut. He drew in a careful breath, shoulders rigid. “I spoke as a Lannister. Now… I must speak as the Hand.”

How was it fair that he should be placed in such a position? Why were the two issues bound so tightly together that he could not separate one from the other?

Hadwyn leaned back, resting his hands loosely on his knees. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Tywin forced the next words out, each one heavy. “You see…my wife was not the only one to give birth recently. Queen Rhaella bore a son as well. But the child did not live long. He passed into the night.”

Hadwyn’s brow creased, though only faintly. “Alright?”

“As His Grace learned your people saved my son and not his…” Tywin fought to find the most inoffensive word possible. “…he was… puzzled. That is why he sent me a message I am bound to deliver to you.”

Hadwyn tilted his head, still puzzled. “Like I said, I had nothing to do with any of that. But… let’s hear it.”

“Very well,” Tywin said, his hand tightening on the folded paper. He raised it, his voice stiff and formal. “This is the message His Grace King Aerys bids me deliver to you, Lord Hadwyn Caria…”

“To Hadwyn of House Caria, who styles himself Lord of the Inbetweeners,

Know this: the Iron Throne extended its hand to you, not intervening when you and your people began to dwell in Oldtown. It was a boon offered out of magnanimity, a gesture of royal grace, a respect offered to a noble of a foreign court.

And yet when the time came for the respect to be returned, you turned your gaze westward instead. When your ship should have sailed to King’s Landing, the heart of the realm and the seat of the family who rules over the land you are all in, it bore instead to Lannisport, seat of the Warden of the West.

When my son fought for breath, your healers were absent. Your hands, which might have preserved the life of the Prince, were spent instead upon the Lannister woman. Because of your neglect, my son is dead as your skill was given to another.

If you call yourself honorable, you will present yourself in King’s Landing, there to give account and to offer recompense fitting to the crime. Should you refuse, then you and all your people shall be considered the enemies of the crown and the realm, to be cast out of the Seven Kingdoms.”

—His Grace Aerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

After Tywin was done, the words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre, while the silence that followed was suffocating.

Tywin’s eyes flicked toward Hadwyn. He braced for fury. For outrage. For the storm about to break. He was sure the sleeping dragon was about to awake in its terrible glory.

Hadwyn’s face was unreadable, his gaze steady and flat, as though he were considering whether the letter was worth the breath spent reading it. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching into eternity.

And then, at last, Hadwyn scratched at his temple and spoke.

“Yeah, your king sounds like a real prick. But I suppose he just lost his son, so it’s hard to get mad.” Hadwyn declared mildly, his expression betraying no anger most would feel upon receiving such a demand. Then he added, titling his head with genuine curiosity. “And, this probably isn’t the best moment to ask, but… where exactly is King’s Landing?”

Whatever Tywin expected to hear, it was… not that.