The carriage rolled along the well-worn path, its wooden wheels creaking in a rhythmic cadence that blended with the soft rustling of leaves outside. Each turn of the wheels was accompanied by the gentle sway of the cabin, giving the impression of a ship cutting through the sea of wilderness. The sun, still high in the sky, filtered through the thick canopy of trees, casting warm dappled light across the carriage interior, illuminating the rich fabrics and polished woodwork with a golden glow.

This was not an ordinary carriage, and those riding inside were no ordinary passengers. The convoy it travelled with was sizable, a procession of finely crafted vehicles, each filled with notable figures from both Westeros and the Lands Between, but this particular carriage stood apart, not by design, but by the company it held.

Hadwyn, Elden Lord and consort to the Lunar Princess, sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, his posture far more relaxed than most highborn men of Westeros would ever dare adopt in such formal settings. He had abandoned his usual battle-worn armor for an exquisite deep blue outfit, embroidered with the crest of the Carian family. The finely tailored fabric glinted in the soft light, its craftsmanship undeniably foreign and superior to the local fashions. His presence was commanding even in repose, and he regaled his fellow travellers with a tale, his voice rich with amusement as he spoke of battles long past.

Sitting across from Hadwyn was Leyton Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown, his thin, scholarly face alight with feverish excitement. His expression betrayed the deep obsession with the arcane, the same obsession that had drawn him into Hadwyn's tale. Ever the seeker of ancient mysteries and hidden knowledge, Leyton appeared completely enthralled by Hadwyn's storytelling. His grey-white robes, lined with subtle silver thread, were elegant and refined, yet they did little to mask the childlike curiosity in his wide eyes. In that moment, he looked less like the experienced, powerful lord of one of Westeros' great cities and more like an eager apprentice, captivated by every word of his guest.

The contrast between the two men couldn't have been starker. While Hadwyn spoke with a casual, almost irreverent ease, recounting battles and strange encounters as if they were no more than casual anecdotes, Leyton listened as though hearing divine revelations. His gaze was unwavering, hanging on Hadwyn's every sentence, as if the Elden Lord were a prophet of the unknown world.

Beside Leyton sat Lady Jayne Hightower, née Fossoway, his second wife. A recent addition to the Hightower household, she looked as though she might faint at any moment, her knuckles white as she nervously clutched the edge of her seat. Jayne was clearly out of her depth, her gaze darting anxiously between Hadwyn and the figure seated beside him, the presence of the otherworldly guest having an unsettling effect on her. Her discomfort was palpable, though she tried valiantly to maintain some semblance of decorum.

The one beside Hadwyn was none other than Ranni, the Lunar Princess. Her doll-like form sat next to her consort with an inscrutable grace, her pale-blue features perfectly composed, betraying no hint of emotion. The robe she wore, though simple in design, was of impossible craftsmanship, its shimmering pelt glinting softly in the carriage's dappled light. Her glassy, unblinking eyes stared straight ahead, indifferent to the world around her, giving her the unnerving appearance of a carefully crafted statue. The ethereal half-visage projected in front of her only heightened the sense of mystery that surrounded her, making her stillness unnerving to those unfamiliar. Jayne had made several awkward attempts at polite conversation, but each met with Ranni's cold indifference, just as Leyton's constant inquiries about her nature.

The carriage was part of a larger convoy heading toward Highgarden for the tourney hosted by House Tyrell. Though the procession was substantial, with various people from both the Lands Between an Oldtown joining it, this particular carriage had been reserved for just the four of them—Leyton, Jayne, Hadwyn, and Ranni. It was spacious and luxurious by Westerosi standards, minimalists that they were, the plush seating and intricate woodwork perfectly suited for the kind of polite conversation expected of highborn. Yet the conversation unfolding within it was far from the restrained pleasantries of the nobility. Hadwyn had just finished recounting a rather extraordinary—and wholly unrefined—encounter from his past.

"…so, after dealing with all those demented blood cultists, I headed to the palace, thinking I'd finally get a proper battle. You know, a fight worthy of two competitors for the title of Elden Lord, right?" Hadwyn leaned forward, an almost nostalgic grin creeping onto his face. "Well, wrong! Turns out, the creepy part was just beginning. That guy was a real lunatic. Completely unhinged. Spent most of his time humping his brother's carcass—and get this—he had a whole musical troupe playing while we fought. I mean, the man had a melody for his insanity."

He paused, shaking his head as if still trying to process the madness of it all. Despite the absurdity, the grin stayed firmly planted on his face, as if he remembered the whole thing fondly. "I'll admit, though, the music was pretty damn good. It was like fighting in a grand performance. They say duels are like a dance, but this was something else. Shame the music stopped the moment I speared him with his own trident—guts all over the floor. Guess things only got 'real' for the troupe after their boss was impaled."

"It certainly sounds... interesting, Hadwyn. Particularly the blood-magic society you've described," murmured Leyton, his face alight with fascination, fingers twitching as if he couldn't wait to ask for more details. His wife, however, looked as though she might faint on the spot. Pale-faced and wide-eyed, Jayne clutched the edge of her seat as Hadwyn's tale veered into grisly territory, the woman probably not expecting to hear such a terrifying story.

Hadwyn, oblivious to Jayne's visible discomfort, decided to take it a step further. "Oh, you think that was interesting?" he continued, eager to share his adventures. "It didn't even end there! After I dealt with the lunatic, his body got turned into some kind of flesh golem for someone else's soul. Still don't know how Leda managed to haul all that dead meat over to Miquella, but—"

Before Hadwyn could delve deeper into the macabre details, Jayne, clearly desperate to steer the conversation in a more civilized, or at least less gruesome, direction, interrupted. "Lady Ranni," she said, her voice trembling but determined to salvage some class from the situation. "Your clothes are simply exquisite. Such a refined design, and the shade of blue is so unique. May I ask where you had them made?"

For a moment, the question hung in the air, unanswered. Ranni, seated beside Hadwyn, had barely moved throughout the conversation, her pale-blue, doll-like form as still as a statue. Fashion, especially as a topic of small talk, wasn't exactly high on her list of concerns, so Jayne's question seemed, at first, to be met with complete indifference.

But after a few moments, Ranni's gaze shifted ever so slightly toward Jayne, perhaps sensing the poor woman's anxiety and deciding, in a rare moment of mercy, to respond. Her voice was soft and detached, like the whisper of wind through the trees, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"I didn't have them made. They belonged to mine old mentor, and I inherited them after she passed away," Ranni's soft, ethereal voice drifted through the carriage, her tone steady, deliberate, and entirely devoid of emotion. "She is the one who created them. For a long time, they were left unused, but after I created this body in her likeness, I deemed it fitting to don her clothes. A homage, thou could say."

Lady Jayne's pale face grew even whiter at the mention of 'body creation', her hands clutching nervously at the hem of her gown. The calm, almost eerie detachment in Ranni's explanation only added to her discomfort. But while Jayne seemed close to fainting, Leyton's reaction was entirely different. His eyes widened with excitement upon hearing her words, his focus instantly snapping to the sorceress and his previous interest in Hadwyn's story completely gone. Fortunately, Hadwyn seemed amused instead of offended by his sudden change of behaviour, reacting only with a cheerful laugh.

"Fascinating!" Leyton exclaimed, leaning forward to examine Ranni's artificial body more closely, utterly oblivious to his wife's discomfort. "I had my suspicions, of course, but I wasn't certain, given the mystical nature of your lands! Does this mean that this is not your original form, Lady Ranni?"

Ranni's expression, though still impassive, darkened just a touch at the question. Her reluctance to discuss personal details to the magic-obsessed noble was evident, but before she could respond, Hadwyn, ever the conversational wildcard, chimed in with his usual nonchalance.

"Oh, no. The doll thing's pretty recent," he said with a grin. "She used to have a normal, living body that looked completely different. Stunning red hair, sharp features and cold demeanour—very classy, very high-quality. She wasn't too tall for a demigod, only about eight feet at most, but it worked for her."

Ranni blinked, clearly surprised by Hadwyn's comment, and turned her head slightly toward him, her earlier indifference broken by curiosity. "When didst thou lay eyes upon mine original form, Hadwyn? I wouldst have remembered such a meeting."

Hadwyn chuckled warmly, leaning back in his seat. "Well, you probably don't remember because you and Rykard were too busy dealing with Radahn at the time, but I was part of Lord Godfrey's entourage when he and Messmer went to Raya Lucaria to recruit some soldiers for the war with the giants. I accompanied him when he spoke to Radagon and your mother. You were there too, though I imagine you were too busy trying to stop Radahn from enlisting to notice me."

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Ranni's lips. "Ah… I see. 'Tis a shame I didst not notice thee then. Things could have unfolded quite differently. I would have held the advantage in height in our union, for one."

Across from them, Jayne watched the exchange with wide-eyed wonder, clearly captivated by the ease with which Hadwyn and Ranni interacted. And yet, even as she found the scene in front of her captivating, there was a question weighing on her mind, one that just couldn't go away. Eventually her curiosity won over her trepidation and Jayne asked her question, her voice trembling. "If I may ask, Lady Ranni, what… what happened to your original body? Is it because you lost it that you now reside in this…doll?"

Ranni's expression cooled once more as she looked at the woman, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. "The creation of this vessel was a necessary consequence of mine choices," she said, her voice growing colder. "Mine original body was no longer an option."

Her brief, detached explanation seemed to signal the end of the conversation, Hadwyn, however, was never one for leaving things vague.

"You see, Ranni had to, well, kill her older brother and herself at the same time. She needed to destroy his soul while getting rid of her own body in one fell swoop. Had to put her soul into the doll afterward as her body was destroyed. Complicated stuff." Hadwyn delivered this shocking information as if he were recounting a mundane tale, not his wife's gruesome, ritualistic murder-suicide of her own brother.

Jayne's eyes widened, her face going as pale as the moon, and for a moment, it looked as though she might faint from the horror of what she had just heard. "You… you committed kinslaying and… and suicide… as part of some dark ritual?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear and confusion. Leyton, for all his obsession with magic, seemed similarly taken aback, though his fascination with the occult clearly warred with his shock.

Ranni's eyes flicked toward Hadwyn, a flash of irritation breaking through her usual calm. She sighed, her tone laced with exasperation. "And thus, thou seeth why I did not wish to explain."

Hadwyn blinked, suddenly aware that his explanation might've gone a bit… awry. "Ah, well, you know, I might've… oversimplified things just a bit." he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, trying to smooth over the shock he'd just unleashed. "Look, it's not like she wanted to do it. Ranni was in one of those 'puppet of gods' situations, and the ritual was necessary to break free from that. Destroying her body was part of that process, so this doll form—" He gestured toward Ranni, who in response sent him an annoyed look. "—is, uh, kind of like a penance. You know? A burden she carries, bearing the weight of everything that happened. Right, Ranni?"

"Not particularly," Ranni said. She seemed entirely unmoved by the horror-stricken expressions of the Hightowers, her face was calm and her tone detached. "I feel no such guilt for mine actions, nor doth I see any reason to feign such sentiments. 'Twas a necessity to sever mine bonds to fate, nothing more."

Hadwyn winced, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, and threw Ranni a sidelong glance. "Right. Uh… not helping, Ranni."

Leyton, his mind clearly working overtime to process this, eventually seemed to reach some sort of conclusion. Expression on his face changed from horror to acceptance, though some discomfort could still be seen on his visage. "I understand." He said, nodding sagely. "Great power often requires great sacrifice. It is the cost of reaching for the heights of the arcane."

Jayne turned to her husband, horrified. "Leyton…!"

Hadwyn, sensing that things were getting a bit too grim and desperate for support, forced a chuckle. "Not sure I like the way you put that, Leyton, but hey, I'll take any help I can get at this point."

The tension in the carriage was thick enough to cut with a blade, a heavy silence hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Suddenly, a soft knock rang out from outside, piercing the uncomfortable silence like a bubble. All four heads turned toward the source of the sound as the carriage door creaked open, revealing the figure of Ansbach.

The old man's sharp eyes swept over the scene, narrowing slightly as he noticed the tension, but he made no comment on it. Instead, he gave a quick, respectful bow, his demeanour as composed as ever.

"I beg your pardon for the interruption," Ansbach began, his voice calm and measured. "But Latenna has informed me that some of the direwolves picked up the scent of people hiding by the road up ahead. It seems we may have some unwanted company lying in wait." His gaze shifted briefly to Hadwyn before continuing. "I just wanted to let you know that we'll be halting the carriage for a short while as we deal with the threat. I hope this doesn't cause any inconvenience?"

Hadwyn, always quick to seize an opportunity, started to get up from his seat, an unmistakable glint of anticipation in his eyes. Whether it was excitement at the prospect of battle or simply a desire to escape the stifling atmosphere inside the carriage, it didn't really matter. "Of course not," he said, his tone carrying the slightest edge of eagerness. "In fact, I think I'll go lend a hand…"

Just as he moved to step out, he felt Ranni's cold, delicate hand wrap around his arm, her grip firm.

"Sit, Hadwyn," she commanded, her voice cool. "We have people to deal with common bandits now. Thou need not take their duties from them."

Hadwyn hesitated for a moment, then sighed, flopping back down into his seat with a resigned expression. He suddenly realized how Lord Godfrey must have felt after defeating the giants. "Yes, dear."

The bandits crouched low in the shadows of the dense forest, concealed beneath the thick canopy of trees and tangled underbrush. Their eyes were trained on the road below, every man still as stone, their bodies nearly blending into the wilderness. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patches of golden light that danced across the forest floor, illuminating the faint trails of dust that hung in the air. The road snaked its way through the trees like a lazy serpent, offering a perfect spot for an ambush. Silence hung over the scene, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a passing breeze, and the distant calls of birds oblivious to the danger lying in wait.

The men were well-armed, especially for a gang of newly minted outlaws, each man sporting leather armour or mismatched pieces of chainmail. Their weapons, though varied, were of decent quality- some of them carried crude spears and daggers, while others carried well-maintained swords and shields. A few of them also had bows and quivers strapped to their backs, fingers occasionally brushing the arrows in a nervous tick. Some of the men shifted restlessly in their hiding places, tension evident in their hunched postures, while some gazed down the road with unwavering focus, anticipation building like a coiled spring.

Their nervousness was understandable, as for most of them, this was their first real job- an ambush that would set the tone for their new life in the wild.

Not long ago, they had been nothing more than petty criminals, scraping by with theft, smuggling, and back-alley brawls in Oldtown's grimy underbelly. They had spent their lives as nobodies, existing on the margins, picking up scraps from the larger gangs that controlled the city's slums.

That all changed when a new player appeared in the Reach's underworld- a man as mysterious as he was powerful. With swift brutality, he carved out a name for himself in Oldtown's criminal circles, ruthlessly dismantling his competitors and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. His strength and ambition were undeniable, and soon he began gathering followers- thieves, outcasts, and killers who saw in him a chance to escape their miserable lives.

This man had united them under a single banner and led them away from the streets of Oldtown into the wilds of the Reach, transforming them from a ragtag street gang into what he proudly called a 'proper bandit band'.

Now, crouched behind the trees and bushes, these former thugs and pickpockets were ready to prove themselves. Their boss had made it clear that their target was any carriage or convoy unlucky enough to pass through the region, especially one bearing goods or wealth. Plunder was their reward, but more importantly, it was a test—a chance to show their worth to the man who had given them this opportunity. The stakes were high, and failure was not an option. Each man understood that proving themselves today could mean the difference between living the high life or becoming just another nameless corpse in the woods.

"Come on, why are there still no carriages? Shouldn't there be a lot of them coming for this Tyrell tourney?" A lanky youth named Hett muttered under his breath, squinting down the road as if willing a target to appear. His impatience was clear, his foot tapping against the ground in a futile attempt to keep his nerves steady. A few others grumbled in agreement, the group collectively yearning for action to prove themselves to their new boss.

"Patience," came the steady reply from Garth, who stood a few paces away, his eyes still scanning the road. "Something will come soon. And when it does, we'll hit 'em hard, take what we want, and be out of here before they know what hit 'em."

Garth was the leader of the crew, a man who exuded an intimidating presence even in the quiet moments. His muscular build and the scars that marred his face marked him as a man of experience. Having fought during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Garth was no stranger to violence, and it was that very experience that had earned him his position. Clad in a patchwork of old leather armor and a longsword at his waist—a relic from his military days—Garth had the respect of the men. He was the one handpicked by the boss to lead this ambush.

"But what if we hit the wrong ones?" Uther, one of the more nervous bandits, piped up, scratching his head. "Aren't those 'inbetweeners' supposed to be coming to the tourney? We can't touch them. They've got magic... and monsters and all that."

Garth snorted, waving off Uther's concerns with a flick of his hand. "That's why the boss gave us the list, remember? Look for the symbols. Wand and sword crossed—don't touch 'em. Some tree thing—steer clear. Just hit the ones that don't have any of those, and we'll be fine."

"Suppose you're right..." Uther muttered, though he still seemed uneasy, even if unwilling to argue with the more experienced man.

"Now, if no one else has anything to say, we—" Garth began, his voice tinged with irritation, as if he was on the verge of telling the men to shut up and focus. Perhaps he had more to add, some instructions or perhaps a reprimand for their impatience.

But whatever words he had in mind would never be spoken.

In the next instant, an arrow whistled through the air with deadly precision. It struck Garth's head with such force that his skull burst like an overripe fruit, blood and bone splattering the nearby foliage. The arrow didn't stop there—it continued on, piercing through the thick trunk of a tree behind him before finally embedding itself into a distant rock with a solid thunk.

The forest was silent for a heartbeat, the bandits frozen in stunned disbelief, the grisly sight of their leader's ruined head the only answer to their unasked questions.

Before the bandits could react, more arrows flew from the surrounding trees. Another three men dropped instantly, lifeless before their bodies even hit the ground. Panic set in as the bandits realized they were under attack. Hett's eyes widened in terror as an arrow pierced Uther's chest and created a large hole in his torso, the man crumpling to his knees before collapsing face-first into the dirt.

"What the f—?" Hett began, but his words were swallowed by the earth-shaking thud of something massive crashing through the forest. With terrifying speed, it started spinning around in their direction, its twisting body smashing into one of the bandits and sending him into the nearest tree. The poor man splattered against the bark like a fly under a hammer, reduced to a smear of blood and broken bones in an instant.

Screams filled the air as bandits ran in every direction, only to be met with death. Some were engulfed in flames as giant figures in white cowls appeared from the shadows, casting handfuls of glowing powder that ignited into roaring infernos. The forest was alive with the sounds of death—the sickening crunch of bones, the crackle of flames, and the dying cries of the outlaws.

Hett, his mind gripped by pure terror, turned and ran, his heart pounding in his chest. Arrows zipped past him, each one narrowly missing its mark, one grazing his cheek but by some miracle sparing him the fate of his comrades.

He didn't know how or why he was still alive, but he wasn't going to question it. He sprinted through the woods in reckless abandon, feet pounding the earth, not stopping until the base came into view—an unassuming cave hidden among the trees.

Panting and drenched in sweat, Hett stumbled into the cave, his legs barely able to carry him any further. The men inside, lounging by the fire and sharpening their weapons, looked up in surprise as he barged through, his body covered in blood and dirt. They exchanged uneasy glances, noting his dishevelled state and the gash on his cheek, but Hett ignored them all. His mind was singularly focused on one thing—reaching the boss and reporting the disaster that had just unfolded.

The further he went, the more his surroundings blurred, his frantic thoughts barely registering the faces of his comrades. They had no idea what was coming for them. Without stopping, Hett pushed past them and made his way straight to the back of the cave, where their leader usually waited. The boss—a man both feared and revered—was always calm, always in control. If anyone could salvage the situation, it was him.

He found the boss sitting by the fire, relaxed and at ease as if the world outside hadn't just been turned upside down. Bald, with sharp features and a grin that rarely left his face, the man radiated a sense of dangerous charisma. His leather armour gleamed in the firelight, immaculate as ever, with a long spear and towering shield resting against the wall beside him. His sharp eyes flicked up as Hett staggered into the chamber, wild-eyed and breathless, but the boss said nothing, merely watching him with a patient smirk, as though giving him time to gather himself.

Hett could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but something about the man's presence made him feel like he wasn't completely doomed. This was the boss, after all. If anyone had a plan, it would be him. Slowly, as if the mere act of being in the same room as his leader allowed him to breathe again, Hett managed to steady himself. His voice came out in ragged gasps as he finally spoke.

"The Inbetweeners... they attacked us…" he gasped, his words tumbling over one another. "Everyone... Everyone else is dead. I... I barely managed to escape."

For a moment, the boss simply stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced past Hett, as if expecting someone else to emerge from the shadows. Then, with a heavy sigh, he shook his head. A strange mixture of amusement and resignation flickered across his face.

"Well, I wouldn't really call what you did 'escaping', boy," he said with a dry chuckle. "I think the correct term is 'spared'."

Hett blinked, confusion flooding his mind, but before he could fully process the words, a cold voice echoed from the dark corners of the cave behind him. "Indeed…"

A man stepped into the light, his face hidden behind a bizarre mask, the visage of an old man with a long beard. He wore dark armour, and in his hand, he held a massive, ominous scythe of black dragonglass that gleamed in the dim firelight. The blade was slick with fresh blood, dripping onto the cave floor.

Hett's eyes widened in terror as he saw the bodies of his comrades scattered behind the masked figure, strewn across the ground, their lives snuffed out without a sound. The man greeted Patches with a nod, his voice filled with a mixture of exasperation and cold amusement. "Good evening, Patches."

The boss, Patches, smiled in response, though his expression was strained and a sweat was forming on his forehead. "Ah, Ansbach. Fancy meeting you here. I assure you, this is all just a misunderstanding."

"Naturally…" Ansbach replied, his voice flat and cold as the blade in his hand. "I'm sure Lord Hadwyn will be very interested in your explanations." He then turned his cold gaze to Hett, who stood frozen in fear. "I will have to drag that low-life to Lord Hadwyn, but what should I do with you? After all, you're just a common bandit who planned to ambush innocent travellers. I can't really let you go..."

Panic seized Hett as the reality of his situation crashed down around him. He blurted the first thing that came to mind, his voice hoarse and desperate. "I'll take the black!" The words rushed out, raw with fear. While he wasn't thrilled by the prospect of freezing to death on the Wall, it was better than becoming a lifeless corpse in a blood-soaked cave. The Night's Watch was his last hope.

For a brief moment, Ansbach looked mildly surprised. His brow lifted, and he seemed to consider the words with some amusement. Then, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he raised the scythe in his hand, its black blade gleaming in the firelight, still slick with blood. "As you wish. Black it is, then."

It wasn't until that moment—the moment Hett saw the scythe poised to strike—that he realized what was about to happen.

"Wait, that's not what I- " The objection died in his throat, swallowed by a swift, merciless stroke.

And then, there was only blackness.

As the convoy reached the ambush site, Hadwyn stepped out of the carriage, the warm sunlight hitting his face as he inhaled the familiar, almost nostalgic scent of battle. Blood, charred flesh, and the sickly-sweet aroma of burning perfumes wafted through the air—scents that made Hadwyn feel oddly at home. Next to him, Leyton Hightower clambered down from the carriage, albeit with much less enthusiasm. His face was pale, his eyes wide with discomfort as he surveyed the grisly scene ahead.

Their better halves had opted to remain in the carriage—Ranni, because she was indifferent to what she considered a trifling affair, and Jayne Hightower, because she was still rattled from the earlier conversation about kinslaying and body-swapping, unwilling to further distress herself by witnessing the brutal realities of battle.

Hadwyn found Jayne's reaction refreshing. In a world drenched in violence, encountering someone so untouched by it, someone with such a visceral distaste for bloodshed and kinslaying, was rare. It was like coming across some long-lost species thought to be extinct. A curiosity, perhaps even pitiful in some ways, but undeniably fascinating.

The scene before them was carnage incarnate. Bandits' bodies lay strewn across the road, their forms twisted into grotesque shapes. Some were missing chunks of flesh; others were charred to a crisp, still smouldering from the perfumers' fire. A few unfortunate souls had been pinned to trees by their own shattered limbs, while burnt remains crackled ominously in the underbrush.

For Hadwyn, it was like a stroll down memory lane. The scene was eerily reminiscent of countless battlefields back in Limgrave—fights where he and his comrades would kill and die against the Storm Lord's forces, savage joy coursing through their veins. It was a familiar sight, almost cozy. His Westerosi companions, however, seemed to have a different perspective.

Leyton looked visibly uncomfortable, his already pale complexion taking on an even greener hue. His lips were pressed into a tight line, and his eyes darted nervously between the corpses, as though he was trying not to focus too long on any particular one. His retinue fared no better, some looking like they were on the verge of losing their last meal, visibly nauseated as they picked their way through the carnage, clearly trying to avoid stepping on any particularly gruesome remains.

"Is everything alright, Leyton?" Hadwyn asked with genuine curiosity, confused by their behaviour. He could understand Jayne being squeamish, sheltered noble she was, but Leyton and his guards? Weren't they knights, warriors? Why would a simple battlefield have such an effect on them?

Leyton forced a weak smile, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, away from the corpses. "I'm fine, Hadwyn," he replied, though his voice was strained. "Just… not used to the intensity of your people's methods, that's all."

Hadwyn wasn't quite sure what there was to get 'used to,' but he let it slide, if only for Leyton's sake. If this was already too intense for them, he could only imagine how they'd react to Lord Godfrey's more enthusiastic walks.

As they continued down the road, Hadwyn spotted Ansbach, who was walking toward them while dragging a figure behind him.

The man being pulled along was bald and lean, dressed in leather armor that was surprisingly pristine given the chaos surrounding them. His hands were tied in front of him, and his expression was one of forced nonchalance, though there was an unmistakable flicker of nervousness in his eyes. As they drew closer, Hadwyn's eyes lit up with immediate recognition.

"Well, look who it is!" Hadwyn called out with a grin, his voice carrying across the site. "Patches! What are you doing here? I didn't even know you were on my ship!"

The bald man winced slightly at the sound of his name but managed a strained smile. "Hadwyn… mate…" Patches greeted him with a mix of forced cockiness and discomfort. Ansbach, still gripping his collar, gave him a hard yank as he tried to approach Hadwyn, ensuring he wouldn't get too close to his lord.

"Lord Hadwyn," Ansbach said, coming to a halt in front of them. His face was as neutral as ever, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he presented his prey. "Found this one skulking around in a cave nearby. Turns out he's the leader of the merry band of cutthroats we have just dismantled."

"A cave? Now that brings back memories…" Hadwyn mused, almost nostalgically. Leyton, still visibly shaken by the carnage, blinked in disbelief, his gaze shifting between Hadwyn and Patches.

"You… know this man?" Leyton asked, clearly not expecting such a casual exchange in the midst of a massacre, especially with a leader of the opposing side.

Hadwyn chuckled at the question. "Oh, you could say that. This here is Patches. He's from the Lands Between, same as me. Though I didn't know the sneaky bastard had hitched a ride on the Wisdom." He gestured vaguely at Patches, his tone nonchalant. "He's… well, a bandit. That's the best way to describe him, I think."

"That's hurtful, mate!" Patches interjected, feigning a wounded expression. "I'm a bandit, sure, but I'm also a vivid enthusiast of early-Erdtree Caelid art, not that anyone here appreciates that!" He then tried to say something else, but Ansbach silenced him with a swift slap to the back of his head.

"You are right. No one cares," Hadwyn shushed him with a wave of his hand. He turned back to Leyton with a casual shrug. "Patches here—he's tried to scam me, rob me, even kill me more times than I can count. Rot, one time he literally pushed me off a cliff."

"I've always been honest and dependable, Hadwyn! You know that!" Patches protested, raising his bound hands as though to plead his case, but Ansbach just smacked him again, forcing him into silence with a loud thud.

Leyton looked more baffled by the second, his face tinged with a faint green hue. "And… you still speak to him like that? With such familiarity? Why… why would you let someone like him live, let alone roam free?"

Hadwyn gave a casual shrug, a smirk playing on his lips. "Honestly, I just find his antics amusing. After the first few times he tries to con or kill you, you can either decide to hate him or start finding him hilarious. And I just couldn't bring myself to hate that shiny bald head of his."

Patches, for his part, rubbed his bald scalp with a sad frown, somehow looking more miserable than when he'd been dragged across the battlefield. "You always know where to hit, Hadwyn. Right where it hurts the most."

"It was a compliment, you know?" Hadwyn rolled his eyes before leaning forward, raising an eyebrow at his old 'friend.' "Now, what to do with you? I can't exactly let you run off—you'll just go back to causing trouble. So… how about you tag along with us to Highgarden? Behave yourself, be useful, and maybe, just maybe, I'll forgive you for trying to rob me… again."

Patches' face lit up instantly, the thought of staying alive and relatively free clearly appealing to him. "Oh, I'd be honoured, Hadwyn! I always knew you were a good mate at heart!"

Leyton's jaw nearly dropped as the absurdity of Hadwyn's proposal sunk in. He stared at him in pure incomprehension, struggling to find the right words. "You… You're inviting a bandit leader to accompany us to Highgarden?! How can you just let him go like that?! His people were clearly intending to rob and kill innocent people, maybe even do something worse!"

"Eh, it's not like he's ever really pulled off anything substantial. Trust me, Patches' schemes usually fall apart before they even get going." Hadwyn waved his hand dismissively, but then paused, a thought crossing his mind, and his brow furrowed. "Actually, I'm making decisions as if this is my call, but it's your land, your jurisdiction. My apologies. If you'd rather throw him in a cell or cut him down, that's entirely up to you. Believe me, I won't lose any sleep over it."

Leyton's gaze flicked from Hadwyn to Patches, who was standing there with a grin so full of warmth and human kindness that it bordered on nauseating. The lord of Oldtown hesitated, clearly torn between the urge to imprison a criminal and the desire not to offend Hadwyn—his only link to the arcane secrets he so desperately sought and someone he couldn't afford to antagonize. After a long, strained silence, Leyton sighed in defeat. "No, it's… it's fine. Just… keep an eye on him."

Patches beamed instantly, his smile practically glowing. "You're a great man, my lord. Truly! Kind and wise beyond your years," he said, his tone far too warm and informal for someone addressing a lord who just spared him.

"Patches, come on. He's still a lord. Show some respect." Hadwyn sighed in exasperation, looking at Patches with mixture of fondness and annoyance.

Patches raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin never faltering. "What, you think I don't know how to respect nobility? I'm a man of the people, Hadwyn! Servility is in my veins!"

Hadwyn groaned, shot the man an irritated look and turned back to Leyton. "Honestly, if he does something stupid again, feel free to kill him. No need to hesitate on my account."

Patches squawked in protest, his voice rising in indignation. "Oi, that's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"Maybe you shouldn't have pushed me off a cliff, then," Hadwyn quipped with a playful grin, though the steel in his eyes suggested he was only half-joking. No one liked being thrown off cliffs, after all.

At that, Patches could only sulk in silence, the usual quick-witted retort dying on his lips. For once, he found himself without a comeback.

Author's thoughts:

The Lands Between is a place fundamentally different from Westeros (and when I say different, I mean different), which is something I wanted to show in this chapter.

Inbetweeners only truly respect personal charisma and raw power. To them, many actions that might be considered horrific or immoral by Westerosi standards—like kinslaying—are seen in a completely different light depending on the situation. For instance, Ranni's act of killing both her brother and herself is not viewed as abhorrent. Instead, it's vaguely commendable because it was part of her rebellion against the Two Fingers (they are regarded as gods or angels, so it's very metal). The fact that this led to Ranni becoming a god herself? Just a cherry on top.

Sure, Godwyn's followers would probably disagree, but their objections wouldn't have anything to do with the morality of the act.

This same mentality extends to how the Inbetweeners handle enemies. For someone like Ansbach (Mogh was a swell guy) or Hadwyn (I participated in giants' genocide brrrrr), sparing a random bandit because he surrendered would be laughable. Patches survived not because he gave up but because Hadwyn found his grovelling amusing and decided, on a whim, to spare him. In the Lands Between, rulers and heroes are expected to make capricious, even selfish decisions—this is part of their charisma. They have the strength to do whatever they want, and deciding the fate of the weak is their right, not a matter of morality.

Also, I originally planned to make this chapter from Leyton's/Jayne's PoV, but I quickly realized it would quickly get really dark. It's much better to make the chapter from the point of view of Hadwyn, the laidback blood-thirsty warlord with a heart of gold.

it's much more light-hearted that way.