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Chapter Text

A welcoming breeze swept through the pine forest of Groundcherry, not too warm or too cold. Perfect for the retreating winter, whose snowfall had already melted away and a sign of the spring to come. The healthy trees rose dozens of feet into the air, letting just enough of the comfortable early morning sunlight to slip through the cracks and pleasantly shine down. The migrating bird species already began their reclamation, singing cheerfully in every possible direction. The predators who could threaten or kill man were elsewhere, giving off the impression of a vast but safe forest.

Geralt knew better than to believe that. He'd spent most of his life traversing through such places, living there, sleeping, eating, and hunting. He knew full well of the dangers man, monster, and mother nature alike could prepare for any poor unsuspecting fool willing to lower his guard. In this case, it was a monster keeping him tense. Taking in his surroundings, examining their most minute details. Such as torn branches, stamped over grass, claw or boot prints, and most tellingly of all in this instance: droplets of blood. All of which were present in abundance.

Though, the Katakan had little reason to mask the trail back to its lair when one took account of all the facts. The nearby village of Zrinski, home to just under one hundred people, was not only situated along the northernmost edge of the former kingdom of Sodden and the Groundcherry forest but also very close to a long-abandoned mine of the same name. According to the village's alderman, the Zrinki Mine was built over a century past. For the first twenty years of its existence, it served as a lucrative source of iron deposits. That was when the village came very close to growing into a key trading post. Until the deposits ran out and with it, most interest in Groundcherry forest.

Occasionally, some entrepreneurs seeking to rekindle the mine would arrive, boast of having a surefire means of letting the iron run again only to quit weeks into the endeavor and never to return. The Nilfgaardians were, as far as the village people knew, the last force to attempt this and quickly realized there was naught to be found in the mine and promptly left the Zrinski people alone.

Yet as Geralt walked on foot, having already left Roche behind in the village lest the Katakan tries something to it, the closer he came to the entrance of the mine, the more he knew it recently acquired some other residence along with the vampire. Alongside the occasional claw marks standing prominently out, tracks belonging to people were present as well. A score of grown men wearing boots of varying quality and one of whom probably had a hole judging by how malformed his tracks were in contrast to his comrades.

These tracks were far older than the Katakan's, more worn out by time and exposure to the elements. According to the alderman, none from the village bothered to go to the mine. Venture far enough only to hunt game. Even when disaster and tragedy struck them, Geralt had arrived quickly by happenstance before any angry and foolish search party mob went into the forest to find the culprit.

The boot tracks in-question did not reach the village or come from it. Instead, they came from the direction of the mine, southeast of the only residence for miles and miles. Judging by the lack of horse hooves or cart tracks, Geralt doubted they were merchants. There were no women or children present with the party, he would've spotted their trails already. If Dandelion were present, the Witcher would no doubt hear of some extravagant, implausible, and vaguely amusing explanation to their identity.

Geralt guessed they were brigands, most likely fleeing from the Yaruga down south and whatever punishment the Nilfgaardian's were ready to impose upon them. And it mattered little anyway, for they were most assuredly dead. The scant but prominent droplets of blood, which went to the same place the boot prints came to and from left little room to interpret this band of strangers' fate differently. Katakan's, particularly long slumbering and recently awoken one's weren't about to pass over a meal. Even if their preference, in this case, skewed younger.

Like the gaping maw of a lumbering beast, the Zrinski Mine came to the view, the small clearing which once surrounded its entrance mostly reclaimed by nature with lumps of thick, healthy-looking grass scattered about it. The path connecting it to the village proper was barely identifiable, the remnants of its iron gate hung loosely to the side, croaking miserably from its rusted hinges left and right in the breeze.

It was also the spot where Geralt found the largest puddle of blood thus far. Just fifteen feet from the entrance, the substance most definitely came from a grown man, no child was abducted from the village. No child could bleed such an amount. From the crushed grass, finger-like trails clawed into the ground, the Witcher guessed one of the party managed to flee from the mine only for the Katakan to attack him from behind and drag him kicking and screaming back into its depths.

Geralt ascertained the sun's position and was pleased to see it was not yet noon. He had time to prepare still and promptly went about doing so. First, he rechecked the Moon Dust bombs hanging off his leather belt, within reach at all times, and capable of removing the vampire's invisibility. He didn't have any bombs to neutralize its regenerative properties or oil for his Cat School blade to carve its flesh away. However, the midday sun was fast approaching its zenith. Even a vampire hiding away in the depths of the Earth was weakened.

The blade itself would serve him well, as it had already. Hatori had outdone himself with the steel and silver sword pair, calling it a parting gift once Geralt and Ciri set out on the Path almost a year ago. For two weeks, the swordsmith poured all of his knowledge and skill into the blades, and for any warrior, nevermind a Witcher, they were an achievement. Strong enough to weather a strike from a sledgehammer yet light and perfectly balanced, they both cleaved through flesh, hide and armor with next to no resistance. Their already potent cutting power was intensified by a series of Dwarven runes that glowed and dimly pulsated when Geralt took hold of them.

Next was his crossbow, capable of firing two shots before reloading and with a series of specially ordered, silver-tipped bolts also crafted by Hatori. The projectiles were capable of going in and out of a smaller monster with relative ease. A Katakan was made of sturdier stuff, which did not work to its advantage. The bolts would doubtlessly remain inside whatever body part Geralt fired them into, and the vampire would have to claw its own flesh to pieces just to remove them. Still, given the speed of his prey, reloading it wouldn't be possible. It was fortunate then that Geralt also had some silver, throwing daggers on hand.

Then came the more unpleasant part of his preparation: the Black Blood. Unlike many others, this one did not serve to enhance a Witcher's existing abilities. It was made to ensure that if a blood-sucking fiend won the battle, their next meal would be the last, poisoning them so severely death was certain.

Geralt had no intention of dying, of course, but he wasn't about to let this monstrosity terrorize the people of Zrinski any more than it already did. Perhaps it was finally getting Ciri and Yennefer back, though they were separated again for now, which made him empathize with the plight of the parents. The distraught mothers and wrathful fathers who went to sleep, thinking their sons and daughters were safe only to find them pale, cold, and drained of their blood the following morning.

Yes, he would enjoy killing this particular monster. If he couldn't accomplish that, get some satisfaction of making the bastard choke on his leftovers. The Black Blood left a sour, nauseating taste in his mouth. The effects of the second potion, the Blizzard, were far more potent. Though it tasted sweeter, it also left Geralt dazed for a few moments as though someone punched him hard across the face.

A steady series of deep, controlled breaths did away with the sensation, his heartbeat slowing down almost as much as his sensory perception did. All about, the world seemed to almost halt before his very eyes. The rustling of a single grass taking ages worth of time to sway in the wind, the shadows cast by the overhead sun freezing in place. To fight against a blindingly swift creature like the Katakan, with claws capable of carving through even the finest of armors in a single swipe, there was no better potion for a Witcher.

The Cat potion was the last he drank, dilating his pupils to such a degree his eyes resembled nothing but thick, black sockets. The world around Geralt changed again, becoming a grating, overly bright pestilence on his eyesight. Until he entered the cave that was, one hand wielding the silver blade and the other pulsating with the faintest of magical energy, ready to expel an Igni at a moment's notice.

Stepping into the cave with measured, quiet steps, Geralt took a moment to enjoy the welcoming pitch blackness inside and began his downward trek to the Katakan's lair. The unmistakable claw marks left behind by the poor sods it slaughtered were proof it was. All about, through the minutes upon minutes spent in the darkness, Geralt spotted bits of fresh, human flesh littering the ground. Weapons of decent enough craft lying abandoned on the floor, along with digging equipment which was not rotten from decades of abandonment and disuse.

Evidently, the bandits came for the cave, perhaps hoping to find some leftover means of earning coin. And if that didn't work, put the village to the sword. Fate had other plans for them. The settlement of Zrinski rarely saw anything worse than a bear or wolf pack come near it, so the Katakan was not an ever-present threat but a recent arrival. Or more likely, the beast arrived long ago. The new arrivals disturbed its lair, thus sealing their fate and of several children.

Their disturbance must have been quite egregious indeed. Katakan's do not mutilate their victims, preferring to target specific spots in the body and are even known to frequently let their weakened victims live. More than likely the men dug their way into the vampire's lair and began prodding around its inevitable treasure trove, laughing like idiots, grabbing any coin, jewel, or other trinkets to bolster their pockets. In so doing delivering a deadly insult to its owner.

Katakan's greed and love for all things shiny rivaled their desire for blood. Once, during his early years, Geralt managed to gain the upper hand against his first by slicing off its beard, adorned with countless jiggling, blindingly dazzling rubes, sapphires, and expensive earrings. The vampire was so stunned it let its guard down and in so doing, lost its head moments after.

The brief reminiscing of days gone halted the instant Geralt's eyes spotted something just fifteen feet ahead. The mine's ceiling gradually shrunk, and he resorted to moving in a half-crouch because of it. It didn't matter, because soon enough his available room to maneuver would grow substantially. On the other side of a freshly dug hole at the tail end of the mine, was an Elven ruin.

Even squinting from a distance, Geralt recognized the stonework inside. Still looking strong and sturdy, defiant to the encroachment of nature as it was to man's centuries ago. Pillars, standing and broken, stood out prominently against the floor, as it did the chests of riches collected by the Katakan before it went into hibernation. Much of the loot was, annoyingly, scattered about the ground. What caught Geralt's attention the most was at the center of the lair: a portal.

Or rather, a construction about what must've been the place for a portal. He'd seen enough of those during the trip across worlds with Avalla'ach to spot one right away. The chance of it turning on was relatively small, Ciri already performed a smaller, second Conjunction in her bid to disperse the White Frost. Even so, just being close to a remotely possible spot for a portal to appear got on Geralt's nerves worse than a broken tooth.

Putting his distaste aside, he carefully and slowly crouched down, passing under the recently formed hole and felt his mood substantially improve when not so much as a single pebble resounded through the seemingly empty room. What betrayed the Katakan's location wasn't sound or poor concealment from the creature. It was the faintest but distinct odor of blood coming from the ceiling.

Peering upward, his free hand reaching for the crossbow attached to his left side belt, Geralt squinted and spotted the creature sleeping amongst a slew of man-sized stalactites adorning the ceiling by the dozens if not hundreds. It did not so much as move the faintest muscle, nor did it let out a single sound. But as it was so often the case, the beast's nature betrayed it.

Geralt would have to act swiftly. If he aimed true and the beast's instincts were too slow, a single bolt through its head could end the fight in a moment. And so he prepared to do just that. Slowly, agonizingly, the Witcher took the crossbow off his belt and gently pressed against the trigger. His knees were bent, his sword hand clutching the hilt and ready to attack.

With the distinct thump, the crossbows mechanisms cut through the silence. The bolt flew through the air and for a moment, it seemed as though the fight was already done. A fraction of an instant before the bolt fired, a pair of black, predatory eyes snapped open and the Katakan tried to flee. Unsuccessfully. The bolt didn't pierce its head, but there was an unmistakable crunching sound of steel piercing metal and the blood-freezing chill of a monster renowned for feeding on it.

The beast landed about twenty feet north of Geralt, the impact reverberating through the ground and sending chests worth of gold and other riches to scatter about all over the place. While it was busy trying to claw out the bolt, Geralt was already on the move, anticipating its landing spot and slashing at it with a swift, overhead blow.

The Katakan abandoned its attempt of ridding itself of the bolt and darted to left. Another deafening screech came from it as it tried clawing at Geralt instead, hitting nothing but air when the Witcher leaped gracefully to the side and opened fire before his feet even touched the ground again. It missed, hitting some far off wall while the Katakan's body shimmered then vanished into nothingness.

Geralt dropped the crossbow, the Katakan would disembowel him before he could get another bolt ready anyhow. Instead, he took his sword with both hands and kept to one place. His blade moving in constant, circular motions, a constant steady swirl of motion ready to divert itself in whatever direction the Witcher needed it to.

Not that he didn't know where the beast was. The Katakan's blood stood out most prominently against that of men and children, and since he hadn't heard any more flesh being rent or a bolt clanking against the floor, Geralt knew it was choosing to suffer the pain in silence. There, over to the western side of the room, where the portal construct stood between them.

The Witcher decided not to let the beast know what he knew. Instead, he did something sure to anger it. With a few furtive steps to his right, Geralt spotted a golden goblet adorned with sparkling white jewels and other stones. It was fit for any king or queen. It was probably worth more than the last three dozen contracts he'd taken up combined.

Without hesitation, Geralt's foot stomped on the goblet and though his foot already hurt, the gold bent with a satisfying, metallic whine. The Katakan was on him almost immediately and this time, the Witcher saw its claws flash mere inches from his face as he leaped backward. His arms moved on pure instinct and struck back, rewarding him with a clash across the Katakan's right abdomen.

It yelled again, unquestionably feeling the searing of silver carving it and the oil acting as the cherry on top, as Dandelion was fond of saying. Geralt pressed his advantage, delivering two more cuts, one to its knee and another cutting off its smallest claw. Then he purposefully stopped and diverted all his energies into a pirouette, avoiding a returning claw strike which would've carved his chest into two pieces, at least.

He tried to use the momentum to perhaps cut into the back of the Katakan's neck but the beast leaped forward, avoiding death for the time being. They circled one another for a few, tense heartbeats, the vampire too wounded or bloody furious to bother turning invisible again and the Witcher, glaring back with his black pits for eyes and smiling nastily.

That was when it happened. When the tense silence was broken not by the snarl of the beast or the blow of a mutant, but by the activation of a portal. One connecting this place to who knew where or what and the vampire wasted not a moment going for it. With a dramatic series of leaps betraying how much strength the monster still possessed, it went for it.

And as was so frequently the case, Geralt's mind told him to let it go, that there was no knowing what awaited either of them on the other side. A wasteland where they would burn or freeze in moments, a strange alien world as the ones Ciri spoke to him off where both would be even less welcome than the world they called home. And as was so frequently the case, Geralt did not let it go.

With a snarl from the very deepest recess' of his throat that he would come to regret the morning after, if he lived that long, the Witcher leaped as well and drove his blade right through the Katakan's chest, his other hand gripping tightly to its left horn. For a moment, the two stood there, on the precipice of the portal and Geralt almost thought he'd stopped the disaster. Until the vampire lurched forward, then he felt the distinct, horrifying nothingness of every portal crossing.

Then, there was the suffocation of water, of being deep, deep underwater in what was likely some lake or sea. Neither Geralt nor the Katakan was prepared for it, the two of them awkwardly shouting and swaying left, right and then spinning in circles like some mad, drunk Dwarves tumbling in the middle of a tavern brawl. Every so often, Geralt's eyes caught sight of the portal and it's remaining active gave him hope. Hope that if he killed the beast quickly, he could still make it back home from wherever the Hell he was then.

Until the swaying Katakan, even less used to swimming than Geralt was, swung its powerful claws and in a single motion, carved the portal construct clean in two. Before Geralt could curse it or even better, make the child-murdering scum pay, the discharge of destabilized magical energy exploded merely a handful of feet away, propelling them upward in another dizzying spin.

Despite his arms already aching from the exertion and wanting to let go, Geralt managed to hold on to the vampire even as their spinning grew worse and worse. Somehow, in this calamity of madness and drowning, the Witcher removed a silver blade from his belt and wildly, like a man completely lost of his senses, began stabbing the Katakan. Over, and over again in and eventually through the throat.
In its last moments, the vampire managed to reach the surface of the water, letting out a pained, gurgling screech which prematurely ended when Geralt's own snarl overtook it and the knife removed the monsters head. It floated on the surface, almost comically bobbing up and down against the light swaying waves of the darkening pool of blood and water about it.

Geralt ignored it for the time being, instead, letting his body go limb and rest against the Katakan's body, using it as a disgusting raft of flesh and bone. The battle frenzy took a while to abate, leaving him already feeling tired and beaten when he was quite certain there was nary a scratch on him. Though, a flesh wound was preferable to what was already clear.

It wasn't simply the fact Geralt and his contract ended up in the middle of the ocean, at night when it was midday before. It wasn't merely that Geralt spun the corpse about and spotted a massive city off in the distance, the likes of which he'd never seen before with a monstrous fortress of a dozen towers looming over it atop a nearby hill. No, the detail that told the Witcher he'd gone somewhere very far away came from the stars.
He couldn't recognize a single constellation.

A single curse came out of him, quiet and snarling. Then it was accompanied by a score, then two scores of others. Each louder and more blasphemous than the last. It wasn't until his throat became sore that Geralt finally stopped and let some good sense dictate his next course of action. Well, good sense and a desire to vent his frustrations in another way: by removing every useful thing the Katakan had to offer him then setting the bastards leftovers on fire.

Chapter Text

The next difference between home and this other world became clear to Geralt while he still swam. Getting the corpse out to shore was to be a difficult task. The Katakan was over a head taller than him. Its body mass was several pounds greater than the Witchers. The vampire had caused him enough trouble, and the sooner it ended, the sooner he could focus on other matters.

His bad luck made itself known again when the Aard, which was supposed to blast the body and head faster to shore, amounted to almost nothing. The water barely rippled, as though a child slapped it. A belch from Zoltan would've done more.

"What the devil...?" He said, staring at his left hand. Again, he thrust, and the result was no better. His potions had yet to run out, nor had he exerted himself by casting too many signs beforehand. Therefore the problem was elsewhere.

Though he was no great sorcerer, to use even a simple sign required a fundamental understanding of how magic functioned. To wield it, one must focus the force around oneself through concentration and varying exertions of their own will. Through said will and no small amount of practice, one could perform many incredible feats.

And so Geralt closed his eyes, nearly halting his own slowed heartbeat and enjoyed the cooling feel of the ocean about him. Letting his senses perceive the force as best he could. It was a practice many young Witchers did early in their sign training. One only tolerated for a short while.

It was here Geralt found the root cause of his diminished sign power: the force of this world was weak. This ocean alone held less of it than a small lake back home. Each scrap was like trying to grab a spilled water between his fingers. Was this world always so starved, or did something weaken it?

Whatever the cause, the effect on Geralt's sign strength remained even after spending up to a minute concentrating. The Aard, though more powerful than before, still nudged the Katakan half the distance it should have.

About fifteen minutes later, the corpse and Witcher finally reached the shore. First, Geralt removed his sword still inside the vampire's body, meeting little resistance. With more force than necessary, he kicked the corpse so that its chest faced the sky.

He stared at it, wondering whether or not to bother removing its bones, heart, and any other useful parts. Just carrying the head around with no horse was troublesome given its size and weight. Yet the vampire owed him much for the misfortune it wrought. If this world lacked some ingredients required for Witcher potions, Geralt would rob himself of a useful, finite resource. He could not afford it, not with his diminished signs.

His practicality won out. Kneeling at the beast's left side, Geralt put his sword onto the ground. With the silver dagger in-hand, he began carving off the Katakan's claws. Ordinarily, taking off their limbs and extracting from them wholesale was the wiser option. Without Roach around and the saddlebag to place all of those bones in, this would have to suffice.

Luckily, the flesh about the claws showed little resistance. In a few minutes, most of them were off. Through the next hour, there were eight useful bones for alchemy. Geralt wrapped them in a cloth and placed them inside one of the two leather bags of his bandolier. Inside the other, he put the heart after cleaning it in the ocean and wrapping a cloth around it as well.

Knowing he couldn't burn the corpse with a single Igni, Geralt decided a more inventive approach. With a series of sword swings, he removed the vampire's limbs and stuffed them inside its open chest cavity. Next, oil got applied to the lump of blood, mutilated flesh. Even the weakened fire blast found ample fuel with its flame resembling the inside of a furnace.

He remained by the body, watching its flesh peel away, crack and turn black. Though Geralt was tired from the battle, the shock of being on another world and riping the body to pieces, he was mostly satisfied. Though they did not know it, and likely thought him dead, the families of Magdalena, Zvone, Igor, and Petar had received justice. No more sons or daughters of Zrinski would die to the blood-sucking fiend.

The shred of bitterness dulling his sense of accomplishment came from the fact he could not tell them so, not yet. Then there was the fact he took the small bits of jewelry adorning the Katakan. Two golden bracelets, a single ruby ring and some earrings from the head.

Though he had a coin purse, it was unlikely the sentient creatures inhabiting the castle would take them. Ciri and Yennefer would find him, that was beyond question, but how soon wasn't. So, he would have to sell the Katakan's treasures to acquire whatever passed for currency.

It was hard to say who or what inhabited the city looming so distinctly against the moonlight. Save for the seven-massive drum towers, little else besides its impressive size was certain. It didn't help his Cat's potion was wearing off, leaving his Nightvision dulled. Earlier, he spotted lights there, perhaps torches or whatever else they used for illumination.

Perhaps he would encounter humans, from what Ciri told him, they were present in other worlds. The Elves and Dwarves certainly liked to say they arrived back home with the Conjunction. Perhaps this was a domain of the Elves, judging by one of their ruins being present. Or the native species was something else entirely, closer to the Vodyanoy. One of his great regrets from all of the Salamandra business was never visiting their city.

Much as he liked to complain about Dandelion's curiosity, on account of him being unable to control it, Geralt shared it. As often as it led him to danger, it also provided him with many unforgettable experiences. Unlike the places he'd visited during his trip with Avalla'ach, this world wasn't immediately hostile to him either.

Should a great danger present itself, it might hasten his return home more than anything. The bond between Geralt and Ciri was strong, for when one fell into peril, the other became aware of it through dreams and nightmares.

His mind made up, Geralt grabbed the hook he'd ran through the Katakan's head, hoisted it off the ground over a shoulder and made his way into the forest. Lunch or rather, a late-night snack, was due. Keeping an ear out, Geralt already recognized a slew of familiar noises.

From the branches of the tall trees came the distinct hoots of owls, and the screeching of bats. Crickets were abuzz everywhere, chirping unceasingly in a chorus numbering in the dozens or hundreds. Fireflies buzzed through the air, providing illumination the deeper he ventured.

On the ground, Geralt detected the soft rustling of leaves and bushes from mice, hedgehogs, and even foxes. Though he heard no bears prowling the area, the Witcher picked up the distinct huffing of a wolf pack some ways off. What had already picked up his scent, or the Katakan's was a wild boar.

Geralt unsheathed his steel blade with the slow softness of a lovers caress. His lunch to be rumbled and hastened its step, each one reverberating through the ground with increasing frequency. Imperceptibly, Geralt bent his knees and tensed the fingers about the hilt. A few heartbeats later, he leaped to the right just as the boar came at him. The sword flashed, blood spurt across the nearby bushes, the boar slammed headfirst into the nearest tree. A moment later, the top of its skull finally landed.

Putting the vampire head down, Geralt grabbed hold of the boars back leg, dragging it away from the tree with some effort. Luckily, they'd run into one another in a small clearing, just big enough for him to set a fire without burning the whole forest down.

The Witcher gathered branches and other pieces of wood lying about in the clearing center. Once they were set aflame from a diminutive Igni, he went about sharping one of the longer, sturdier branches with his dagger. Lastly, came skinning the board. It was an impressive beast at full height, nearly reaching Geralt's thighs. Its weight was well over thirty stones, at least. He couldn't hope to eat it all, however. The forest would have to take care of his leftovers.

Judging by its teeth, the animal was perhaps two or three years old. That meant good meat from it. Carving about its necks, Geralt removed a few good-sized chunks and pierced them through with the sharpened stick. Now he simply had to wait a while until it was good and ready to eat. In his youth, the process was a slog Geralt made tolerable through sword fighting practice. Now, with nearly a century of life at his back, there was a mundane pleasure from preparing a meal. It was a practice in its own right.

So he watched and listened as the minutes passed by, the forest life continued despite his presence. One group he noticed earlier and fully expected to visit him did so eventually. They numbered five pack members, quietly they prowled through the forest, sniffing and salivating the smell of cooked and uncooked meat. Geralt watched them without moving, taking note of their yellow eyes watching him at the edges of the campfire.

He didn't feel like fighting anymore for today. So, Geralt rose slowly to his feet, grabbing the boar with both hands, heaving it off into the forest where three of the wolves stood. They snarled and bared their fangs at him but made no move to attack. Their free dinner was waiting. By the time Geralt sat back down, his meal was ready as well.

And so for a while, the six wolves ate together.

Eventually, the pack left, devouring a sizable portion of the boar and with enough left over for later. Geralt listened to them go, sitting down with his back pressed against the nearest tree. Under one arm was the Katakan head, in another the steel sword.

He chose neither to travel further into the forest or sleep. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes, let his breathing fall into a practiced pattern, slowing his heartbeat. The meditation left him relaxed and alert, capable of resting and springing into action at a moment's notice. Unmovingly, he laid there, still as a corpse until hours later, when the early morning sunshine warmed his face.

Wiping away the caterpillar which decided to crawl across his brow, Geralt let out a long moan, stretching the muscles of his neck then shoulders. Just as with his world, the sun was bright orange, piercing the retreating night, turning the sky into a collection of purple and blue hues. Assuming it functioned positionally the same, Geralt could finally discern where east and west were.

The large city he spotted was, relative to his position, further west. It would no doubt take him perhaps another day or so to get there. Without delay, he did so. The owls and bats of the woods gave way to seagulls and chirping morning birds. Squirrels and rabbits abandoned their domains to begin foraging for food. They were indistinguishable from the species of his world. As did the trees with many of the plants he came across as well, Mistletoes, Allspice, White Mertle, Fools Parsley to name but a few.

Other he did not see, perhaps because they did not grow there or did not exist at all. He would not use the recognizable herbs for potions without testing them first. Just because they looked and smelled the same didn't mean there weren't differences. Ones he couldn't know of and could turn even a simple Cat potion into an alchemical bomb ready to backfire on him.

Some hours later, Geralt stopped walking. Firstly to let his feet rest for a bit and secondly to spot any water around. Besides seawater, he hadn't drunk a thing since the day before, the thirst was beginning to annoy him. After a few minutes of listening, the Witcher heard a creek flowing.

The firstly faint rush of water grew as he traversed the forest southward. Yet his attention on it gave away to another sound Geralt was all too familiar with: the pounding of horse hooves. Several, moving at a leisure pace, accompanied by the creaking and swaying of what seemed a large, heavy wooden carriage.

Moving toward the sound, hastening his speed in turn, Geralt hoped his presence wouldn't elicit violence to erupt. Still, the Witcher would take a long, hard look at whoever rode those horses before revealing himself. The closer he got to the horses, the more it became clear he was not the only one to converge on their location.

As all violence did, it happened suddenly and without warning to the recipient. The distinctive cry of a man in pain echoed through the woods soon joined by the neighing of horses, the shouting of commands, and the steel pounding against steel.

Geralt's blade was out in an instant, his body rushing past the trees as fast as his legs could manage. The noise of battle grew stronger: men were dying, a woman screamed, a burst of bone-chilling laughter drowned it all out.

Soon enough, he came upon what was a road, the site of the battle. Before he could join it, Geralt took spotted one of the ambushers keeping a safe distance, striking his targets with a bow and arrow. From a glance, he was an older man with white hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a green jerkin, moving with a precision Milva would've found impressive.

He was also alert, for when Geralt snapped a twig on the ground, the brigand spun around, unleashing an arrow intended for someone else the intruder. Geralt deflected it with a circular motion of his sword. The archer stared, opening his mouth to curse before his head came off following another swing.

Reaching for a silver dagger, Geralt emerged from the forest to the carriages right. Inside it, a woman screamed, trying to fight off another archer clad in black at the door, her tan arms vainly keeping him at bay.

A bit further away, two of his companions fought against a pair of men in black armor adorned with golden cloaks.

With a single knife toss, Geralt attacked the archer harassing the woman, driving the blade clear through the back of his head. The brigand to the Witcher's left, wearing a distinct red scarf around his neck, took notice of his fallen comrade first. He even managed to spot Geralt himself a moment before he was beheaded as well.

"Oswyn!" The largest of them so far, a bearded bear of a man with a head wrapped in chainmail, wielding a Warhammer roared. With a single backhand, he knocked the gold cloak to the ground, charging at Geralt.

With an impressive grace and speed to his technique, the bearded bear swung, intending to take Geralt's head off. He struck nothing for the Witcher ducked, already launching his counter-attack. With an upward sword swing, the steel blade split the bandits head in two from chin to brow.

A momentary lull fell over the battle, Geralt staring at the dead man falling to his feet, the gold cloaks staring at the Witcher as though he were some phantasm. But only for a moment, until the laughter from before came back. From the front of the carriage, clad in black armor, a round shield and fresh blood dripping down his blade, came the ugliest man Geralt had ever seen.

He was without question uglier than Vilgerfortz. His receding hairline exposed a ghastly pale skin rivaling Geralt's own. His eyes had red bags under them, emphasizing the tiny black hateful orbs in their sockets. His teeth were jagged, rotten yellow, eternally fixed into a smile capable of making a drowner piss itself.

With slow, powerful steps, the smiling brigand dressed in a dark perversion of a knight came at Geralt.

"A most welcome surprise," He laughed again. "Perhaps you'll satisfy me now that Hightower cannot!"

Geralt wasted no time on banter, opting to strike him down quickly then move on to the rest. Yet when his blade moved to sever another throat, the smiling brigand demonstrated a speed much greater than one would expect, deflecting the stab.

He tried to bash Geralt with a shield, but the Witcher already moved aside, swinging back before his feet even touched the ground. Hatori's swordcraft made itself known immediately, carving through the right shoulder plate. The smiling brigand laughed, pressing forward, unleashing a series of quick yet powerful slashes and thrusts.

Geralt either met or darted around them, thankful that the two gold cloaks opted to flee instead of getting in his way. With a pirouette, the Witcher avoided another thrust, scoring two hits of his own. The first cutting into the right forearm while another slashed the bandit diagonally across his back.

Once again, the brigand laughed, spinning around to strike with even greater ferocity than before. Perhaps he was some strange monster from this world, capable of feeding off the pain of his injuries. Or he was just a man who knew death was close at hand and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

Whichever was true, Geralt would end it in a way he knew to work with any man or beast. Leaning to the right, the Witcher evaded another swing, pulled his arm back, and thrust it through the brigand's right knee. Even this mad dog howled from the pain, stumbling into a kneeling position.

Pulling the blade out, Geralt intended to cut his head off as well when he picked up a noise. Their battle had moved them past the back of the carriage, out in the open. A third archer awaited them there. Geralt just barely jerked his head back, letting the arrow pass mere inches from his face.

With grit teeth, Geralt grabbed hold of another throwing knife when the smiling brigand shouted. Ripping his round shield away, he roared and tossed it in the direction of the forest.

From there, a woman's yelp came out. "Bloody mad whoreson!"

"Stay out of this Wenda," He took hold of his sword, pointing at Geralt. "I'll suffer no interference in this battle!"

Geralt kept an ear out for her regardless, though by the sound of things Wenda would do as ordered.

"My apologies," The smiling one said with a mocking tone it was hard to gauge the sincerity of it. "A duel like ours should remain ours only."

The Witcher stared at him for a moment, then bowed his head in acknowledgment. In the next moment, they were back at it. With an impressive strength of will power, the smiling brigand launched back to his feet, his blade meeting Geralt's in a lock.

The two stared at one another, faces inches apart, one with a forceful grin, the other of a cold professional. The Witcher's demeanor broke first with the next strike. With a snarl, Geralt pushed the bandit away, bringing his sword back down with an overhead blow.

His adversary, determined as he was, could not defeat a knee. It gave out from the force of Geralt's blow and the weight of his own armored body. Pressing his advantage, the Witcher raised his blade overhead again.

When it came back down, it did so in the company of a coarse, bestial roar from the depths of Geralt's throat. Such was its strength the sound drowned out the sound of a sword snapping, armor giving away to an enemy blow, and finally, flesh being rent.

Blinking, Geralt stared at the right side of the smiling brigand's chest. With a slow-motion, one part of it went to the right, while the rest of him leaned to the left. His sword hand went limp, dropping the snapped blade at Geralt's feet. Blood poured from the massive wound, forming a puddle around them.

Yet the smiling brigand's expression was not one of pain. Instead, the ghastly grin gained a touch of warmth to it, of genuine happiness and humanity before the light dimmed from his eyes forever.

Geralt stood there, observing the corpse even as he heard Wenda curse, fleeing into the woods. Again and again, she shouted, "The Smiling Knight is dead!".

Her companion from the front of the carriage, a man Geralt did not see, tossed his sword to the ground, saying he was surrendering. An older man, wearing a dirtied set of white armor and a bleeding right hand came from the front then halted.

He stared at Geralt, then the Smiling Knight's corpse before returning his gaze to the Witcher. There was apprehension there, uncertainty even a bit of fear. There was no disgust or revulsion, however. The look many adopted whenever one of his kind was within sight.

Eventually, the knight ripped his gaze away and moved to the carriage door. The girl from inside came out. She was a frail-looking young woman, no more than two, perhaps three years older than Ciri. Her yellow gown and headband complemented her tan skin. Though she was shaken by what transpired, she managed a warm smile to the knight regardless.

"Princess Ellia! Are you alright, your grace?"

"Yes, Ser Gerold," She confirmed, taking a deep breath. "Though, it would not be so if not for this man."

Just as the knight did, there was uncertainty present in her gaze. As though neither one could fully comprehend what this strange, viper-eyed man before them was. Yet, Geralt could not help notice and appreciate the gratitude there as well.

"I only did what anyone else would, your majesty," Geralt bowed, remembering the court courtesies hammered into him by Dandelion, Yennefer, and Triss.

Surprisingly, it was the knight who laughed. Though not mockingly. "Not just anyone could kill the Smiling Knight. Nevermind half of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

"Please, ser, rise," The princess asked, Geralt did so. "I wish to know the name of the man who has done us all such a service today."

"Geralt of Rivia, your majesty. I'm a Witcher."

Chapter Text

"I see you've finally taken notice of Kings Landing's welcoming gift to one and all."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Ser Gerold? The watering of my eyes, the constant wrinkling of my nose, the ever-present curl of my lips? Perhaps my new horse-like, head-shaking tic?"

The Kingsguard riding at the forefront of the party to Geralt's right took no offense to the Witcher's tone. Instead, he adopted a cheeky smile.

"Aye."

The city in-question finally became plain to see as they reached the final stretch of the Kingswood. Though he'd already guessed its considerable size from a distance earlier, only now did Geralt realize it was the largest city he'd ever seen. Oxenfurt, Novigrad, Vizima, Vengeberg, and many others he could list off were nothing in comparison. Accounting for the smaller, cobbled together miniature towns present that Geralt could see from this side, Kings Landing very likely stretched several square miles. The population must've been in the hundreds of thousands. It was highly likely there were more people in this capital city than in many leagues of the Northern Kingdoms. So many people packed together, it was little wonder the stench was foul and wide-spreading.

"Care for a piece of advice?"

"Certainly."

"Think of flowers. Yes, you heard me right. Nothing defeats the smell of Kings Landing as reminiscing about more pleasant scents. In the Reach, the only thing held in higher esteem than chivalry is the nurturing of the land. Melons, peaches, apples, grapes, the finest of wines, and yes, flower gardens grow as far as the eye can see. You'll find no more fertile a place in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Sounds like a place I've been to back home."

"There is no place like the Reach," Ser Gerold said, exhibiting a measure of the puffed-up pride Geralt had come to know from knights. Even this, however, held more than a trace of the Kingsguard's good humor. If this Reach was as similar to Touissant as Geralt thought it to be, then it made sense why a stranger such as him received such courtesy. One's Martial skill was a proven way for even the lowest of commoners to rise in society, Geralt had made his debut almost wiping out a notorious group of thieves and cutthroats. Indeed, the survivors of the battle showed rare gratitude, untainted by scorn and prejudice for Witchers.

It probably helped they had no notion as to what a Witcher was. They'd never seen or heard of one before. Geralt kept his explanation simple, to the point: he was a monster hunter. One such beast was responsible for bringing him this far from home. The vampire whose head hung from the side of the saddle, wrapped in a sack Geralt took from the Brotherhood. The people of Westeros showed interest in seeing the creature, but back in the safety of court. The Princess' initial desire for the outdoors evaporated following the battle, a sentiment shared by all accompanying her.

Before the left, however, Geralt was able to endear himself even more to the Westerosi. Using salves and ointments given to him and Ciri by Nenneke during a recent visit to Ellander, he played the role of battlefield healer. Ser Gerold's hand, pierced by an arrow, was already back in use while a young Gold Cloak named Alyn bled no more from his brow cut. Though he did voice disappointment when Geralt said he'd have no scar to impress women.

"If it's not too much of a bother, I'd rather talk the rest of the way to, what did you call it? The Red Keep?"

"Aye, you'd be hard-pressed to miss it," Ser Gerold pointed to one of the three massive hills within King's Landing. With the midday sun overhead, its pale red stone seemed to glow prominently against its surroundings.

"Therein lies the court of King Aerys Targaryen the second, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Ruler of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms."

"An impressive collection of titles, I assume the Seven Kingdoms stretch across the whole continent?"

"An astute assumption, master Witcher. From the deserts of Dorne to the south to the Wall of the north, rules House Targaryen. So it has been for nearly the past three hundred years. Gods willing, it shall continue for many centuries thereafter."

"This city is only three hundred years old?" Geralt said, surprised by the fact. "I had thought it was much older, given its size and importance."

"The Seven Kingdoms have existed for thousands of years. The task of uniting them was only begun and with great success, by the first king of Westeros. Aegon Targaryen, the founder of the dynasty. Together with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, and their three dragons, they united much of Westeros."

Geralt noticed and pointedly avoided questioning the sister-wives portion of the story. "Westeros is home to dragons?"

"Once," Ser Gerold said, his enthusiasm faltering. "Over a century has passed since the death of the last dragon. The world has not seen one since."

"No doubt a sad fact for many a boy to hear throughout the realm."

"Like you wouldn't believe," The Kingsguard said with a rueful smile this time. "After all, who would not want to merely lay eyes upon such a creature? I am not ashamed to admit that the boy within me would swoon at such a sight."

"Do dragons hold religious significance here?" Geralt said, choosing to gain a greater understanding of their views on the creatures. "In a land far from even Rivia, they are revered as gods."

"The Faith of the Seven rules here," Ser Gerold pointed next to the second hill of King's Landing. This one was situated closer to its center in contrast to the Red Keep. Again, Geralt noticed seven towers that sparkled against the sunlight. Possibly made of some crystal substance. The towers surrounded a massive, marble dome. "The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maid, the Smith, the Crone, and finally, the Stranger. The greatest place of worship for them is atop Visenya's hill there. The Great Sept of Baelor."

"Seven gods pertaining to forms of justice, craft, healing, nurturing, death, and so forth. Simple enough to grasp and quite similar in some respects to the faiths of my own lands."

"There are other Gods as well, though their presence in Kings Landing is far lesser. In the northern lands of Westeros reign the old gods. They number more than the Seven, though their names are few. I know little else of them, save they are beings of forests, streams, and stone. There is also the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, though I know and care little to know of him."

"I'd wager the Iron Islands people aren't popular here?"

"The Ironborn," Ser Gerold corrected. "And no, far from it. Though I served with and even met a few decent ones in battle, the rest are but reavers and cutthroats. Eternally bitter for the end of their glory days yet too foolish to understand they are passed."

"And what lies on the third hill, Ser Gerold?"

"That is the Dragon Pit, naught but a blackened ruin," He pointed to the farthest hill, revealing a split open domed building resembling the maw of a great beast. "Once it served as home to the dragons, until their decline and final death. No one goes there now. No one has for well over a century..."

Just as Ser Gerold trailed off, they reached the outskirts of King's Landing. For half a mile alone, their part rode past inns, stalls, taverns, storehouses, small markets, and of course, brothels. What stood out most to Geralt was how utterly unremarkable the sight was. It was the kind of place one could encounter outside any larger city in the Northern Kingdoms. Almost distractingly so. A guard upon the gates noticed the royal banners adorning the carriage and swiftly opened them, allowing passage.

Inside, Geralt bore witness the sea of people within the walls. Like a never-ending horde, tightly packed together, almost shuffling from place to place instead of walking. There were peasants, merchants, soldiers, women of ill repute, women of better repute, holy men, and a thousand other occupants present within any large settlement. Even traversing through or passed them on horseback must be a nightmare. Geralt could not imagine it being anything other than an agonizing process.

Unless one in the presence of nobility. As though a spell was cast upon the entire populace, all halted. Then, all split in two, allowing the group passage inside the city. Geralt observed them, they returned the gesture. From the fainted whispers, some quieter than others, he heard the gossip-mongering begin in earnest.

"The Lord Commander is wounded!"

"Is that the prince?"

"Why's he wearin' two swords?"

"They were attacked!"

"Seven fuckin' ells! That's Simon Toyne!"

A similar concoction of wonderment, curiosity, fear, and speculation followed them all throughout the city. No small part of it concerning Geralt himself. Several more confused him with the crown prince, others stared in wonder as to who he was. A handful reacted with a wariness of his clear otherworldliness which he'd long since accepted. They passed through districts of the city primarily connected to the nearby harbor. Fishmongers of all sorts praised their wears in any number of fanciful ways. Men off galleys sang and reveled in being shit faced drunk. The local whores waved many a time to the party.

Soon enough, their journey came to an end. The Red Keep was no longer a far off curiosity but a very close, looming structure. It's massive curtain walls were even more impressive than those of King's Landing itself, reaching dozens of feet into the sky. Nests for archers were ever-present, thick stone parapets protected the outer wall ramparts. No heads were placed upon them, a curious thing.

Again, sentries positioned atop the walls signaled the return of the Princess and Lord Commander, accompanied by a horn. The main entrance, a pair of bronze doors split open, allowing passage into the Red Keep proper. This was but one section of it, as inner walls further served to separate it into multiple portions. The yard within this section was vast enough to allow hundreds, possibly even thousands of men inside. Several buildings were scattered about, chambers to house the servants, men and government officials. Geralt could not begin to guess which was which, except the one to the immediate right of the bronze gates. Reaching well over two hundred feet in height, there was no doubt as to where the throne room of Westeros was situated.

Dozens more Gold Cloaks, servants and even two more members of the Kingsguard, who'd been practicing, converged on the group. They'd barely crossed inside when the whole place seemed abuzz with activity.

Ser Gerold dismounted first, reaching for the door of the carriage and assisting Princess Ellia outside. Her complexion had improved from the rest she'd taken, her tan skin a far healthier brown. With a grateful smile, she allowed the Lord Commander to guide her out. Though some cast a glance or two at Geralt, everyone's focus was expectedly elsewhere.

"Ellia! Ellia!" One of the Kingsguard, with short brown hair and tanned skin cut through the assembled mob as a man possessed. From a glance, Geralt was able to spot the familial resemblance. Princess and warrior shared the same eyes, nose, and even mouth shape. Too old to be her brother, an uncle, or cousin by Geralt's estimate.

Whatever they were, neither the Princess nor anyone else prevented the man from wrapping Ellia in a tight hug. Her smile widened as she returned it.

"What happened?" He asked, observing the dress torn at the feet along with the bandage on Ser Gerold's hand. "Who did this?"

"The Kingswood Brotherhood," The Lord Commander answered in a clear, decisive voice. A near collective gasp of disbelief came from the crowd, many already whispering amongst themselves. "Bold have they grown these past moons, bold enough to try and attack even the Princess of Westeros!"

"I knew this would come to pass," The man who embraced Ellia said with fury. The crowd voicing their agreement with equal fervor. Some of it genuine, some painfully artificial. "We should have cut those animals down to the last man long ago! Dammit... I should've been there by your side!"

"Uncle," The Princess's warm voice had an immediate effect on the man, wrapping her hands around his shaking fist. "I understand your anger but it is unnecessary. For I am alive, as is Ser Gerold. And the Kingswood Brotherhood shall bother no one else ever again."

"You managed to defeat them, Lord Commander?" The other Kingsguard spoke, a younger man with short, chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes. "The Brotherhood is no more?"

"The Brother is all but destroyed yes, though I lay no claim to the honor of doing so. That belongs to someone else who came to our aid when we most desperately needed it."

Ser Gerold turned his head and smiled. It was then the group noticed Geralt, hanging about behind them, running a hand across his horse's neck. Much of the same reaction from the ordinary citizens was present amongst the guards, servants, and nobles around. Wonder. Curiosity. Apprehension. Some fear. Respect.

"Ser Gerold speaks true," Princess Ellia said, speaking loudly for all those to hear. With a gesture, she commanded Geralt to approach. He did so. "For none of us would be here were it not for the selfless bravery of this man. A man from distant lands yet has earned his place in Westeros. I present to you, Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia."

The Witcher bowed his head in acknowledgment of the praise and to greet those present. Everyone was looking at him, though Geralt primarily kept his gaze onto the Kingsguard. It was easier that way.

"You defeated the Brotherhood?" The Princess's uncle said as though Geralt had moved the sun back to the east.

"Singlehandedly," The Princess confirmed, giving Geralt a smile as the excitement grew with even an greater intensity. "I witnessed much of it myself, no less than six members of the Brotherhood are dead thanks to Master Geralt."

"Even the Smiling Knight?" The younger Kingsguard said, stepping forward.

"Slain in single combat by Geralt as well. Though, cleaved in half would be a more accurate way of putting it."

The younger one's jaw almost dropped in a plain display of bad etiquette. Not that much of it was left. Each statement from the Lord Commander and Princess seemed to intensify the fervor of the assembled welcoming party. They must've been so loud the entire keep could hear them by now.

"Master Witcher," The Princess' uncle stepped forward, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he bowed deeply. "On my honor as a knight and member of the Kingsguard, on behalf of myself, House Martell, and all of Dorne, I give you my most sincere thanks! We are all in your debt, say your wish, and we shall make it so!"

Geralt stared, unaccustomed to this much attention. Nothing since his knighting and time spent amongst Queen Meve's rebel army compared to this. Men clapped, cheered his name. He was a hero, not a freak or mutant. Still unsure of what to do, Geralt smiled and acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head.

"There will be plenty of time for rewards and such later, first," Ser Gerold moved to one of the horses at the back of the group and with a single tug of his hand, tossed Simon Toyne onto the ground. "Get him in a cell, a dark, miserable one."

Several of the soldiers remembered their duty and did precisely this, dragging the brigand away until Geralt could no longer see him. Then, the young Kingsguard stepped forward. The wonder and surprise in his eyes vanished, he leaned close to his colleagues and the Princess.

"We must tell the king of this, immediately. No doubt rumors and hearsay already spread across the castle. We must put a stop to them without delay."

"Aye," Ser Gerold said, sounding grimmer than Geralt had ever heard him. They all were, including the group of people still hanging about. The excitement evaporated almost instantly. Replaced by apprehension, and fear. Fear so palpable it might have been a noose tied around all of their necks.

"I shall speak to him first, then you Ser Gerold."

"Aye, we shall do so, your grace," Then he looked at Geralt, his mouth a thin line. There was pity in his grey eyes. Pity and a silent apology. "As will you, Master Witcher."

Geralt, as before, nodded in acknowledgment without a word. Though every one of his instincts told him something very foul was afoot, he would not truly understand why that is. Not for another hour. Not until he came face to face with Aerys Targaryen the second, known to many but not to him as the Mad King.

Chapter Text

"I must relieve you of all your weapons, Geralt." Ser Gerold said, extending a hand as the two stood before a set of bronze, wooden doors. Tall enough for a man mounted on horseback to cross through. On the other side, was the throne room, with several hundred people there. Even through the thick doors and stone walls, Geralt could hear the stir, the speculation, the anticipation. It was the same fervor that welcomed them half an hour past.

This time, Geralt did not find it quite so overwhelming. The fear he spotted when they mentioned the king was ever in his thoughts. Prickling away and souring his mood like a broken tooth. What kind of monarch was he to elicit such a fleeting yet powerful reaction at the mere thought of having to speak to him?

Perhaps if circumstances were different, Geralt would've acquiesced to the request without much more than an annoyed huff. Now, he gave the Kingsguard a very steely look. The knight narrowed his eyes in defiance of the gaze, even as Geralt noticed him gulp under something quite close to a vipers stare.

"None may approach his grace' presence with a weapon, even sheathed. Save for his Kingsguard. Hand them over, Geralt."

Geralt did not move, even as Ser Gerold reached closer. The guards at the doors shuffled imperceptibly, their eyes darting between the two men. With a deliberate pace, Geralt went about removing his armaments, starting with the bandolier. Once it was handed to the Lord Commander, he removed some of the throwing knives concealed about his person. Save for one hidden in his boot. The last weapons to come off were the Moon Dust bombs. Those he handed to one of the men stationed outside the gates.

"Don't throw or drop these if you value your lives," He warned the soldier, letting a severity enter his voice. Then he pointed to the sack containing the Katakan's head. "And do not touch that if you wish to sleep well for the next moon."

Once he was reasonably sure they understood the importance of following his instructions, Geralt nodded at Ser Gerold. The guards closest to the doors grabbed hold and pushed them aside, allowing the two to enter.

The throne room of the Red Keep was less a room and more a cavern. Geralt's earlier estimation of its size did nothing to quell the amazement of seeing it from the inside. Its height all the way from the vaulted ceiling adorned with arches and thick stone columns was, at least, two or three stories. The eastern and western walls allowed the afternoon sunlight to enter through high, narrow windows. Yet what truly caught his attention before anything else was the collection of dragon skulls.

The Witcher never laid eyes upon its like anywhere in the Northern Kingdoms. They were ever-present, placed between the narrow windows like an ominous group of gargoyle protectors. The range of them was varied indeed. Some couldn't have been bigger than an ordinary hound. Others were far and away bigger than Saskia or Borch. One, in particular, the largest and most looming of them all, might've been the grandest living animal Geralt would never see. By its head alone, it was massive, capable of devouring a fully grown fiend with one snap of its jaws. Simply imagining such a creature soaring through the heavens must have inspired dread and wonder like nothing else.

Yet there was another reason Geralt paid so much more attention to the skulls above everything else, at first. His medallion, hidden inside his clothing, began vibrating almost the instant he entered the hall. It's vibrations particularly intensified as the Witcher passed by the grander dragon skulls. The creatures were magical in nature, just as theirs were. Even though some were centuries dead, the power pulsated strongly from them. If the worst came to pass, Geralt knew he could draw upon it to give himself a fighting chance.

As Geralt began to walk towards the center of the throne room, the desire to lash out with the power and run for his life magnified. The closer he came to this particular spot, the more apparent a most specific scent became. As a tracker of beasts and sometimes men, trusting his nose over any other sense had saved the lives of many a Witcher. Geralt very much included. He had acquired a most varied collection of smells, to make one's heart soar and to make one's stomach crumble. In the latter category, the polar opposite of lilac and gooseberries was the odor of burnt, human flesh. Precisely what Geralt identified past the halfway mark. There was no room for doubt or reinterpretation.

The grateful princess of frail health and the accepting, chivalrous knight, brought him to another Novigrad.

Geralt kept his expression neutral, paying no attention for some time to anything but quelling the fury and disgust welling up inside. He had scarcely been present at court for more than a minute and already wished to retreat into the woods. He already wanted to strike anyone he could, even himself. For it was his idea to accept the invitation, thinking the favor of a monarch and the knowledge he could glean from his library a worthwhile tradeoff to suffering courtroom politics. It was no wonder Geralt's rotten luck was so effective as of late, he was doing a marvelous job of aiding it along.

He successfully steeled himself on the final approach to the throne. At the steps, a group of nobles and other government officials sat in far less intimidating but no doubt more comfortable seats. Several other members of the Kingsguard flanked them and the throne on either side. Princess Ellia stood on her feet, offering a smile Geralt did not return, standing next to a young man. He wore a black and red doublet, accentuating his white, long hair, deep purple eyes, and classically handsome face. No doubt this was the prince, scrutinizing the Witcher with great interest.

The remainder of the group standing closest to the king was comprised of six individuals. Three seated on the left, three on the right. The first of them was an older man, well over fifty, with pale rheumy eyes. His hair was greying, a thick beard reached almost to his stomach. He wore a thick, elaborate chain of silver, tin, bronze, and many other metals was around his neck. Geralt's eyes fleetingly meeting his own seemed to elicit surprise from the man, as though he did not believe what he'd heard until now.

The next man's fear was far more palpable, though he tried his best to not show it. His head was bald, save for brown remnants on the sides, though he was not obese, he was not a man of physicality either. The green doublet with lines of silver running through it only made it more pronounced. He audibly gulped under Geralt's gaze, licking dried lips.

The third one held himself with fare more fortitude. The pale skin, white hair, and purple eyes were present, though unlike the prince, he wore a beard and short-cropped hair. He was not so much intimidated by Geralt as he was curious by the way he inspected the Witcher's features. Judging by the sparsity of such features, the noble might've thought he'd just run into a relative of some kind.

The next two were far more unpleasant, for varying reasons. The first among them wore a strange necklace of linked hands, the rest of the clothes combining a weave of striking red and gold colors. Gold was the color of his hair, emphasized by bushy side-whiskers running down the side of his face. It was the face of a hard man, not even thirty yet already full of lines around the mouth and eyes, emphasizing the severity of his green-eyed, piercing gaze. Geralt disliked him almost immediately because of it, it was precisely the same look he'd seen in another, thoroughly unpleasant man of high birth before.

The second to last of them unnerved Geralt. He was a more aged man, the oldest he'd seen in Westeros thus far. His face was nearly hairless, from what Geralt could see of the all-consuming, black, and brown cloak he wore. The smell of ash and fire was heavy on him, scorch marks doted his robes. This was no doubt the one facilitating the burning of people. His eyes were a deep blue and stared unblinkingly, in a wonderous and mad fascination. It was the same way many wizards and sorceress' looked at the Witcher, right before asking if they could cut him open for dissection.

Lastly was a plump, fat man furthest to the right with rich-looking, silk robes quite distinctly different from the Westerosi. Upon further examination, Geralt noticed the powder on his face and the perfume scents of lavender and rosewater coming off of him. This one's reaction was the mildest of all, borderline disinterested. A few years ago, Geralt would've written him off as such, yet he was a wiser man now. Something about this one set him on edge.

Past them, looming in all of its grotesque grandeur, was the Iron Throne. Ser Gerold made no mention of its appearance, Geralt felt no need to ask: a throne was a throne. In hindsight, even if the Lord Commander described it to him in detail, the Witcher would've thought he was exaggerating. Yet there it was, an asymmetrical malformity of the highest order. Even from a cursory glance, Geral could count several hundred melted blades in it. Many of them looked sharp enough to kill a man. It was less a seat for a monarch and more of a repurposed Draug corpse.

What kind of man would ever choose to oversee his realm from such a place? It took but one look at Aerys Targaryen to answer this question: an unquestionably insane man. No self-respecting person of sound mind would allow themselves to deteriorate to the sate the ruler of Westeros was in. The stench coming off of him in almost tangible waves was worse than King's Landings. It must've been weeks or months since he last bathed. His matted hair seemed entangled around the crown in painful knots, the waist-length beard was more yellow than white. His fingernails were closer to talons befitting a vampire, no man, possibly a foot long. He was gaunt and frail-looking, a reasonably strong gust of wind would surely knock him off his feet. If one were to look upon him, save for his eyes, they might see a frail, pitiable creature. Afraid of his own shadow and no doubt a thousand more real and imaginary threats.

His eyes dispelled this notion entirely. There was a mad fire burning in them, a paranoid, perpetual simmering ready to explode and devour any hapless fool to raise his ire. Geralt thought he'd seen madness with Radovid. Now? He'd take the presence of the fallen Redanian monarch over this... Thing looming above him. Ser Gerold kneeled first, bowing deeply.

"Your Grace, I bring before you the man who's presence you've requested, without whom the princess and I would not be here. Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia!"

"Your majesty," Geralt said, mirroring Ser Gerold's bow as closely as possible. "It is an honor to stand before you and the fine lords and ladies of Westeros."

The assembled crowd of bootlickers and social climbers whispered amongst themselves. Some commented on Geralt's voice and accent, others with how he addressed the king. Aerys himself said nothing for a moment until a hoarse, rattled voice from above commanded Geralt to rise. The Witcher did so, arms kept to the sides, hands fully open and eyes meeting the kings.

"It seems my Lord Commander and good-daughter have not taken leave of their senses after all. Eyes and skin worthy of a son of Valyria yet the eyes of a snake. No doubt, such a fearsome visage greatly aided you in the destruction of the brotherhood, no? The rescuing of my Lord Commander and of a princess? Truly! A story fit for the tales, is not my lords and ladies?!"

A number of them replied immediately, voicing their cheers and thanks and admiration for Geralt. The Witcher was not convinced this was the end, for many others kept their mouths pointedly shut.

"Why one might even say the tale is too good to be true," Aerys' voice chilled, suspicion and paranoia pouring into it. "A mysterious stranger who just so happens to arrive at the perfect moment to rescue, to aid two of such high birth, and to earn an audience with the king of Westeros himself! Yes, indeed, Master Witcher, it is a tale too perfect to be real... You, who speak unlike any I've heard before, proclaiming yourself from a place none at my court have ever heard and called yourself a title which means nothing at all. My curiosity of these things is great indeed, what have you to say to satisfy it?"

A witty remark about how suspiciously close his curiosity sounded like mad paranoia was at the tip of Geralt's tongue. That would absolutely not do. Instead, the Witcher thought back to Radovid, and where he'd gone wrong there. By the king's own words, it was Geralt's insolence which prompted an almost death sentence had Roache not intervened. In fact, a great many other kings, queens and monarchs voiced similar displeasure about him. Even Foltest, who was far more forgiving of it and seemed to enjoy a candid conversation for a change. The answer then was simple, Geralt would have to stoop quite low indeed and resort to outright ass-kissing.

"I would say that you are a wise ruler indeed to ask such questions, your highness," Geralt said, trying to make his voice as flattering as possible. Already, Aerys' lip quirked upward. "For if a man of Westeros found himself in my position, at the court of Emperor Emhyr, and spoke of seven kingdoms, a throne of blades and dragon kings, he too would face many questions."

"And what would this Emhyr do?"

"If he was feeling generous, toss the man out of his court and spend many a night using him as the subject of court jests. Without proof, of course, your majesty."

"Proof which you possess?" Aerys said, smiling nastily and leaning forward. "Ser Gerold mentioned you hunted a beast on my lands, is this your proof?"

"It is, for it is a creature unlike any you've seen before. I daresay the only thing which could shock you more than its existence is if another dragon appeared through those doors."

"Quite a bold claim... Very well, I shall indulge you a while longer. If only for the way you address me. Have this beast brought here, quickly!"

A servant of some kind rushed to the opposite end of the throne room, commanding the guards stationed outside to bring forth the sack. Two men entered, holding onto it from two ends, their armors ratling incessantly as they struggled to bring Katakan over. With a loud thud, they placed it right of Geralt, bowing and departing following a dismissive wave of Aerys' taloned hand.

"I should warn you, sire, it is a most unpleasant thing to look upon."

"Enough delaying, master Witcher," He barked out, gesturing for him to get a move on. "If you've something to show us, do it! We're no frail waifs to tremble before some beast!"

Bowing his head, Geralt knelt, ignoring how several of the Kingsguard around tensed up. Grabbing hold of one of the top horns, the Witcher waited a moment, gathered his strength, and hoisted it out the sack with one arm. The reaction was about what he expected it to be. Ser Gerold instinctively backed away, most of the people seated at the base of the throne either rose or pushed back into their chairs. Aerys retreated so far he almost seemed to shrink amidst the dozens of swords around him.

"This," Geralt said, his voice loud and strained from the effort of holding the trophy. "Is a Katakan, one of several species of vampires. If you are reminded of bats, then you've already a notion of what this creature can do. It is a being of the night with razor-sharp hearing. At full height, it is taller than a horse, with claws capable of shredding through iron and steel. It is also impossibly quick, capable of slaying a man faster than a bolt can hit a target. And yes, like many species of bats, vampires drink blood. Human blood."

Slowly, deliberately, he turned around in place, letting everyone get a good look at it. Many backed away as though it could still hurt them. Many women and several men even fainted. Ser Gerold and his Kingsguard were ready to unsheathe their blades and attack at any moment. Princess Ellia went closer to the prince's side, growing pale again. The prince himself stared, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Earlier, your highness, you said the title Witcher means nothing? In Westeros, this is true. Yet, in my lands, it means to be a monster slayer. To hunt down creatures such as these who threaten the lives of innocents. Them, and many, many more. I hope you never have the displeasure of crossing paths with anyone of them. Or at least a live one."

"Grand Maester Pycelle," The blonde man who remained seated and directed his steely gaze at the Katakan said. "Inspect the authenticity of this... Vampire."

The old man with the metal chain blinked then seemed to realize he was being addressed to. "O-Of course, my lord Hand."

"Don't worry, it can't hurt you." Geralt assured the man, noticing his apprehension. The Grand Maester seemed to take some comfort from this, hastening his step.

"You said this beast comes from your lands?" The Lord Hand said while Pycelle prodded about the head, checking its eyes, nose, mouth, and hair.

"Yes, from the east, far, far to the east. So far, anything west of our mainland is thought to have nothing but endless sea."

"And you crossed such vast distances to slay this creature? Half the world away, according to your own estimate?"

"I would like to think," Geralt said, meeting the steely gaze with one of his own. His self-control was slipping ever so slightly, perhaps because the Hands resemblance to one particular prick he never wanted to see again grew with each passing moment. "That any man, be they Witcher or not, would pursue this Katakan as I have. One does not so easily forget the sight of inconsolable mothers, wrathful fathers brought low by guilt. Nor does one so easily forgive or forget the cold touch of dead children while inspecting what it is that killed them in the middle of the night. Though I am aware not every man has the means or strength of character to afford themselves such scruples."

Geralt's voice grew less and less respectful with each passing word, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Hand. The man glared, as though the power of it could make Geralt burst from the inside out. The Witcher unflinchingly returned it. His capacity to bootlick was already spent.

"Grand Maester," The Hand said in a low growl, eyes still meeting Geralt's. "Is there any truth to what he says?"

"Hrm? O-Oh, yes, my lords and ladies!" The Grand Maester said loudly and clearly. "Though I've only performed a cursory examination, I can confirm this is no mummers farce. This... Katakan was it? This beast was in-fact a living creature! Its skin, its hair, its saliva, there is naught false to any of it!"

The crowd, who still could, exploded in a mass of noisy deliberation. The chatter grew more and more intense by the moment. A single raised palm by the Hand quieted them down immediately.

"Continue, Grand Maester."

"This is a most important discovery, my lord. Nothing in any of our tomes and books speaks of such a creature! The value of this head alone from an academic viewpoint is immeasurable. Master Geralt?"

"Yes, Grand Maester?"

"With his graces permission, of course, I would invite you to aid in revealing the secrets of this Katakan. You've already shown us your knowledge on this matter, and if there are others like it, well, we cannot afford to remain ignorant! Who better to aid us than an expert?"

"I agree with the Grand Maester," A second commotion from the crowd almost erupted when the plump, bald man spoke in a loud and effeminate voice. "Though I am the Master of Whispers, he who is to know all the matters of the realm and beyond, I had no knowledge of this creature or the lands Master Geralt speaks of. And though the Witcher has done us a great service today, let us not forget his words: many more of this ilk exist. One man cannot defend all of the Seven Kingdoms, but he can help us defend ourselves, defend the people, through his wisdom and experience. That is why I believe we must allow a place for guest at court."

What happened next caught everyone's attention, even Geralt and the Hand postponed their glaring contest and looked at the top of the throne. Where Aerys, recovering sometime after his initial shock, began to laugh. What began as a light grumble in his throat transmogrified into an obviously deranged cackle, reverberating through the stone walls and marble floor. Geralt couldn't understand it, was he pleased or furious? With the insane, it was impossible to tell.

"Well done, Master Geralt, well done!" Aerys laughed, clapping his hands even as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. "Truly, you are a most interesting man indeed! Not only have you saved a princess, a lord commander and slain men and beasts who threatened my realm, but you've managed to stare down the mighty lion of Lannister and make Varys and Pycelle agree on something!"

He cackled even more loudly, this time joined by a large swath of the attending nobility. Much of it sounded forced and grating to Geralt's ears. He ignored them, bowing as well as he could given the thing weighing him down.

"I am pleased to have entertained you, your majesty."

"Oh, you have, you have, and you shall do so again tonight," Aerys said, the fires shining in his purple eyes. "I wish to know more of you and your exploits, Master Geralt! I'm certain a man of your experience has more than his share of stories to tell."

"It will be my honor, your royal highness," Geralt bowed again, already picking and choosing what to steer clear off and what to change.

"Indeed, but you will need a bathe and proper clothing for the event. Tywin," Aerys' eyes descended on the blonde Hand. "Can I entrust you with ensuring the Witcher's comfort in the Red Keep? After all, he is a most distinguished guest and I've already noticed how well the two of you are getting along."

"It will be my pleasure your grace," Tywin Lannister said, bowing and sounding very authentic as he lied. No doubt Aerys noticed their silent struggle, probably paying more attention to it than anything else. Despite his seeming high rank amongst the nobility, the Lannister and king shared little love for one another. Now, Geralt had become one more pawn in whatever sorted little game between them.

He really should have just punched someone out and made a run for it.

Chapter Text

His audience with the king lasted but a short while longer following Aerys' decision to place Geralt under Tywin's care. His weapons and equipment were returned to him post-haste, while the Katakan's head was given to Grand Maester Pycelle. Geralt passed on pertinent information regarding it: silver tools to cut open and examine it more thoroughly and to keep any and all flames far, far away. The Grand Maester, brimming with enthusiasm judging by the ever-present shine in his gaze and smile, nodded, assuring the Witcher no examination would commence without his experienced eye to oversee it.

Tywin personally led Geralt from the throne room, and for this, at least, the Witcher was thankful. Aerys chose this moment to announce the end of the day's court session, many of the attending nobles, courtiers, and the like swarmed to the exit. A great many intended to strike a conversation with Geralt until Tywin's smallest glance repelled them. Very quickly, they placed a considerable distance between themselves and the Lord Hand. Tywin said nothing during their brisque two-man march down the serpentine steps of the great hall, across the vast courtyard where many an eye were upon them.

The two men crossed a drawbridge and chasmic, empty motte into another section of the castle. Here, the sounds of blacksmiths applying their craft became apparent, the pounding of steel against steel, the sizzling of burning metal turning water into vapor upon contact. Dogs barked and howled, some free amongst the guards while others were locked away in rows upon rows of kennels, the persistent cat population which Geralt increasingly took notice of, antagonized them incessantly. These felines too hissed and snapped at his approach.

Their destination, a short walking distance right of the drawbridge, was one of the seven drum towers which so prominently loomed over King's Landing. At its base, the tower was connected to a smaller version of the great hall they'd left. Guards were positioned at its entrance, though these were distinctly different from the Gold Cloaks. These men at arms worse red cloaks over mail shirts, boiled leather. Steel caps they wore, beautified with lion crests. The Lannister man greeted their lord, receiving naught in return and openly staring at Geralt.

A pair of wooden doors were parted for them, revealing the interior of the hall with its high-vaulted ceiling, bench space for two hundred, trestled tables, and Lannister tapestries hanging off the walls. More golden lions against a red backdrop.

"This is the Tower of the Hand," Tywin curtly spoke as they began their ascent up a spiral staircase. "My private audience chamber and personal quarters are at the topmost floor. Yours will be two floors down."

Geralt wished it were lower. On the highly unwanted chance his stay on Westeros veered towards the greater length, going up and down this damnable thing would be troublesome. There were several hundred steps, at least, to traverse. At least his knee no longer ached. A pair of guards snapped to attention, greeting Tywin as he stood before the chamber doors. He glanced over Geralt's body from boots to head, mouth curling at what he saw.

"Servant will arrive shortly to prepare your bath, as will tailors to ensure your clothes for the evening are satisfactory. Should you require anything else, you know where to find me, so long as the matter is of actual significance. Lastly," The Hand stepped forward, his voice dropping. "Forestall any notions of further indulging your insolence. Aerys may find it endearing, I do not. Are we clear, Master Witcher?"

What was clear to Geralt was the fact Tywin Lannister deserved a meticulous boot in his ass. Would the great lion of Lannister yelp like one in such an event? The slightest possibility of this made it an enticing thing to try. Yet given his apparent animosity with Aerys, the mad king would likely award Geralt with lands and titles for such an act. At least with a sane monarch, a rational line of thought made it clear which path would lead to a genuine reward. With maniacs, every choice resulted in some variation of eating shit. Putting this thought to the wayside, Geralt let out a silent exhale and bowed deeply. This way, the insincerity of what he spoke next would only be verbally noticeably.

"My apologies, Lord Hand. Commonfolk and those of lower station are whom I most frequently speak to. My court etiquette is decidedly... Unrefined."

"Your apology is noted," But your slight is neither forgotten nor forgiven was the unspoken follow-up. "Good day, Witcher."

"To you as well."

Handing over the key to the chamber, Tywin departed while Geralt entered his new abode. He spent not a moment taking it in, marching over to the large window decorated with stained glass depicting some field of flowers. As he feared, his approximate guess as to where it faced on the way up was proven correct. It overlooked the east. Geralt saw much of the courtyard below him, many dozens of feet below. The kennels, the smithy from which plumes of grey smoke rose, a stable, a pigsty, a barracks where Gold Cloaks came to and from, a slender four-storied building which overlooked the sea. None of the battlements were near enough. Nor would it matter much, the length of roped required to scale down the tower would be absurd.

"What I wouldn't do for a portal right about now," Geralt muttered, froze, shook his head, and laughed. He stood there a while longer, staring out at nothing at all, knuckles pressed against the stone. Aerys would not give him leave to depart, the Witcher savior was his new court attraction, a warning to the existence of beasts and monsters only he knew how to slay. Given their reaction and ignorance of what a vampire was, Geralt very much doubted they had even a tenth of the Witcher's work his own world still required. And yet, if Geralt did nothing, allowing the Katakan to flee here, it would have butchered dozens, possibly hundreds of children until at last falling. If they ever managed to kill it at all. Highly unlikely with all the available facts taken into consideration.

The only way to learn more was to share his own Witcher knowledge, give and take. After all, magic was present in this world, and just because it was mostly dormant now, did not mean it would stay dormant. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, a great many things taken for granted at present never existed in his world. Humans, for example, if the Elves were to be believed. At the very least, partaking in an informational exchange would give him something productive to do concerning his profession and help kill time until Ciri and Yennefer arrived.

By now, the people of Zrinski must have noticed his disappearance. If the time between their worlds was inverted, no doubt the poor sods were huddled together at night, awaiting the Katakan's next blow. No doubt days of such constant fear and tension would pass before any of them decided to inquire into Geralt's fate. The village being largely ignored would slow the spread of news, Yennefer's information network falling with her reputation would impede it further. Though his love never outright said so, Geralt was fully aware she'd been covertly financing him many times over the years. In more than one conversation, she not so silently grumbled about how he was risking his life for next to nothing.

At the time, monsters grew rarer before the costly second war with Nilfgaard and Catriona plague brought them back to the forefront. Villages and cities were willing to pay less for what was seen as a settlement attraction or pet in certain instances. Until slowly but surely, places in the ass-end of nowhere produced crowns allowing Geralt to not only stave off starvation but keep himself well equipped. Communities so dirt poor you'd sooner find a dragon than gold. Ironically, Geralt ended up spending much of the same funds to help her finance her research into restoring fertility until they met Borch.

The issue was, Yennefer's connections were no doubt still in shambles. After the coup on Thanedd, she was widely branded as a traitor, an agent of Nilfgaard. In the ensuing chaos, her reputation was lost, her back accounts closed, and even Vengeberg itself was brutally sacked, many of its inhabitants put to the sword. Now, with services rendered to the new ruler of the North, she returned there to rebuild her life, settling any leftover business. Geralt most strongly hoped she'd restored everything lost, not only to hurry along with his rescue but for her sake too. He would get his answer if the stay in Westeros stretched out.

If nothing else, making sure nothing happened to Roach would be enough to set his mind at ease, for now. Setting aside the fact he'd left quite a few useful pieces of equipment with the horse such as the lamp, the eye, elixirs, herbs, this Roach was one of the best. Obedient, always ready to come at a moment's notice, capable of galloping vast distances. Some fool selling it for money or killing it for horse meat would make Geralt quite bloody furious. A knock on his door ended his musings, the sounds from the other side forced him to take another, calming exhale. Tywin's servants and tailors had arrived.

The next few hours of the afternoon passed in a most annoying blur of activity Geralt dearly wished he could avoid. Tailors pestered him incessantly, taking then re-taking measurements while endlessly speculating of how to bring out the full effect of his eyes through various boot pairs. Servant girls, while pretty to look at, were ruthless in their efforts of scrubbing him clean. The only thing of worth to come from it was his clothing, truthfully. Unlike the limiting, agonizing doublets of home, the nobility here favored gambesons, even for formal attire. Geralt's light gray one was smooth, comfortable, and quite flexible, affording him much freedom of movement.

Tywin returned just as the sun vanished, his mere presence petrifying everyone. Wordlessly, he walked around Geralt, scrutinizing him until they had eye contact again.

"It will do, come," Geralt did so, following the Hand while casting a final glance at the trunk where his weapons, equipment, and armor had been placed. Leaving it there left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could do nothing about it. Once they reached the bottom of the tower and exited it through the small hall, a cool evening breeze blew, fluttering the myriad of torches lit around the courtyard.

Silently and brusquely, they walked eastward to the battlements where a large, iron gate opened ahead of them. For a few minutes, they traversed down serpentine steps and winding staircases until they entered another courtyard. That was when Geralt laid eyes upon the residence of the king, a massive square fortress within an already impressive castle. Four towers were at each point, it's immediate surroundings naught by a dry moat lined with formidable iron spikes. Save for the drawbridge, Geralt could see no other path in or out of there.

At the entrance to the fortress, they were greeted by one of the Kingsguard, the princess's uncle.

"My lord Hand, Master Witcher, I bid you both good evening," He bowed, giving them a smile. The Witcher returned it and the bow, Tywin only did the latter.

"Good evening, Ser Lewyn," Tywin said with what appeared genuine respect. "I trust we are not late?"

"... His Grace has already begun, the decision to begin dinner earlier was-"

"Made without anyone deigning to inform me. Yes, very amusing. Come, Master Geralt, it seems we're the last to arrive."

"I shall escort you," Ser Lewyn said, walking behind Tywin to the right while Geralt was to the left. The interior of the fortress was, expectedly, red. It's hallways vaguely malevolent with the thick shadows permeating where the candlelight did not illuminate. "Master Witcher, may I trouble you with a request?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Something you'll enjoy, I'm certain," The tanned man flashed a smile. "In the mornings, we of the Kingsguard train when duty does not otherwise occupy our time. After everything Ser Gerold has told me, I am most curious to see your skills with my own eyes."

"And to put them to the test, no doubt," Geralt smiled back, and the knight expectedly chuckled. "I thank you for the offer, Ser Lewyn. Rest assured, I never miss a chance to keep my skills sharp."

Two more members of the Kingsguard opened the doors for them into a banquet hall bright enough to make Geralt squint. This one was even smaller than the throne room or at Tywin's tower, capable of seating perhaps one hundred guests. Wall sconces were ever-present, explaining the torchlights intense shine. More Kingsguard and servants were either stationed or walked around the single, filled table. All of the people who were present during Geralt's audience were there again, in addition to two others. Both of them shared the looks of the prince, the king, and the purple-eyed lord so interested in Geralt earlier.

One was undoubtedly the queen, not quite forty yet aged beyond her years, her pale face lined with many a wrinkle of grief and worry. The white, otherwise flowing hair was tied into a bum, making the lines more prominent. When she looked at Geralt, she froze. The other was a robust, happy-looking child, with short white hair, sitting next to the queen and humming a tone, in a world of his own. The princes younger brother, no doubt along with his cousin, perhaps nephew as well...

Aerys, looking equally as gaunt and ragged then as in the throne room, came alive at the sight of their entrance. If anyone found it strange he'd reserved a whole quarter of a table fit for fifty, putting considerable distance between himself and the others, they made no sign of it.

"Tywin!" Aerys' rattled voice reverberated against the stone walls. Though there was anger in it, there was obvious derision as well. "Your breach in etiquette would be worthy of scolding by itself, yet, you had to make my guest of honor late as well? Master Witcher, please accept my most sincere apology. A servant can reflect so poorly on the master..."

"Thank you, your majesty," Geralt bowed, ignoring the bitter taste of ass-kissing. "I take no offense."

"You are right, of course, your Grace. It shall not happen again."

Geralt could swear on one of his swords the lord of Lannister made a nigh imperceptible roll of his eyes as he bowed. Aerys gave no sign of noticing it or caring, his blazing purple gaze focused entirely on the Witcher. Taking up a golden cup of wine, the king made one of his servants, a taster, try it first. Once the man did not drop dead on the spot after nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aerys took a sip of his own and laughed, raising the cup high.

"Come, come, my friends!" He gestured to those already seated. "A toast, to our new friend from lands far away, who shall no doubt entertain us well for this evening! Let us all drink, to the Witcher of Rivia!"

Geralt smiled and bowed again at the display as all present followed Aerys' lead. The scent of wine was more welcoming than almost anything or anyone else present in the room. Though he did not intend to get anything close to drunk, he had no intention of making through this farce stone-cold sobber either.

Chapter Text

"How are you enjoying your meal, Master Witcher?"

"This is some of the best venison I've had the honor of eating, your grace," Geralt said truthfully, savoring the elk's earthly taste, the pungent, earthy flavor enhanced by the smooth firmness of the meat itself. The red wine accompanied it perfectly, rich with an aroma Geralt couldn't begin to specify yet enjoyed almost as much as the sweet taste it left behind in his mouth. "And this wine, even the people of Toussaint, would call it a worthy rival to their own."

"Aye, it hails from the Arbor, you'll not find one better in all of Westeros or Essos," Aerys snorted. "No matter how much the Dornish would like to refute this."

The way he all but spat the word Dornish out wasn't missed by the Witcher. Despite being several members of this kingdom present in the room and tied to his family through marriage, they too displeased the paranoid king. Though Geralt could not see Ser Leywn stationed behind him, princess Elia's jaw momentarily clenched as she reached for a cup of wine. The solemn prince sitting next to her offered no comfort, seemingly in a world of his own just as his excitable brother eternally fidgeting in his seat to the queen's never-ending, silent dismay.

This was far from the most offensive thing to come from the mad king's lips. During the start of the feast, while they partook in the warm, appetizing soup, Geralt began an abridged account of his world. He spoke of Temeria, long the strongest of the Northern Realms. The confederation of realms comprised of Rivia and Lyria. Of Cintra and its great lioness. While he spoke of Aedirn, Geralt brought up Dol Blathana, the duchy ruled by elves, a species the Westerosi had no knowledge of.

With a particular interest shown by princess Elia and Grand Maester Pycelle, he spoke of their long pointed ears, canine-less teeth, their tall and lean bodies, and long-lasting youth. He explained how advanced they were, building cities humans still failed to match in splendor and weapons capable of carving through even the finest of human crafts. Their songs and language the envy of many a race across the continent. Many of the things, including capital cities, were taken from and built upon by the elves first and foremost. Geralt's description of their ability to live on for centuries in their physical prime was one of many facts about the story met with bewilderment and doubt, particularly by the Hand and Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted.

"If these elves you speak of are such a force to be reckoned with, why then do men rule, not they?" Tywin asked the fair question. The elves did indeed seem far and away the most powerful race, from what Geralt had told them by this point.

The Witcher's answer was as simple as it was true. "Breeding and pride, lord Hand. The elves, who number among the Elder Races, do remain young, strong even as generations of men wither and die. They also lose their ability to reproduce quite early on in their lives and are slow to bear children even when they are able. Pride cost them when men first came to their lands. The elves thought them a passing thing, something they could ignore, something beneath their effort to deal with. Far, far too late they came to realize how foolish this was. Many of their youngest chose to meet mankind in battle, and in so doing, their species lost its future."

This answer seemed to sadden those most interested in the elves, and please those who doubted their existence. Those who doubted them only while Geralt gave the impression mankind was somehow inferior to anyone else. That they could possibly not be the masters of their own fate. Then, the Witcher spoke of the dwarves, another of the Elder Races, how they only reached the chest of a grown human yet were often sturdier, hardier people than men, dangerous warriors, and savvy businessmen.

Geralt soon came to regret his decision to speak of them. Aerys burst into a fight of loud, grating spasmodic laughter. His taloned fist-pounding rhythmically against the table, each blow making the queen shudder in fear. Glancing at Tywin, Geralt spotted genuine anger in those pale green eyes flecked with gold.

"Do you hear that, Tywin?!" Aerys shouted, bursting into another laughing fit. "A whole people of little imps! Your Tyrion's prospects of marriage aren't so bleak after all!"

The laughter went on and agonizingly on. Accompanied by more jests at the expense of Tywin's son afflicted with dwarfism, each one more tactless than the last. The lord Hand simmered in silence, his self-control impressive enough to earn some genuine respect from the Witcher, along with his pity. Though he disliked the man, had he known of his son's condition, Geralt would have kept his mouth shut on anything regarding dwarves. Aerys' laughter was only stilled when he broke into a coughing fit, his mirth evaporating in the throes of fear. Moving to the conversation on, Geralt chose to focus on the northern wars, finishing short accounts of the first, second, and much of the last until the main dish was at last served. Some semblance of normalcy returned to the feast.

"But enough of wine, let us continue where you left off... The fall of your Northern Kingdoms was it...?"

"Just so, your majesty. The Northern Kingdoms were in their last months referred to as Radovid's Kingdoms or Radovid's Realms. After the swift fall of the other monarchs, to conquest or assassination, Radovid was the only one left to challenge Nilfgaardian's third and largest invasionary force. Their armies clashed a great many times, yet neither one could prevail, they found themselves in a considerable stalemate, particularly about the free city of Novigrad. One of the richest, and most prosperous city's of the north, holding enough coin to finance a whole other army and with the largest fleet of ships. Anyone who took it won the war."

"No doubt this Emperor of Nilfgaard faced a great hardship from his banner-men," Grand Maester Pycelle said, smiling like a child perpetually awarded treats. "His previous two wars were, by your own words, quite costly and not as successful as he wished. Lords and kings have fallen low from but a single defeat."

"His ventures did indeed leave a bad taste in the mouths of not just the nobility, but the merchant's guilds as well whose influence is considerable. The former saw many of their own numbers fall during the last wars, never-mind the fact the Emperor put aside many a prominent daughter from the old families. Robing them of seeing an Empress of their blood rise to the Imperial throne. Trade routes across the continent were naturally in chaos, and the entrepreneurs found fewer and fewer reasons to finance more failed wars. Certainly, it is not hyperbole when I say Emperor Emhyr wouldn't have lived to see the end of the year had Radovid not died first."

"Foolishness," Tywin said, eating the spectacular venison with all the enthusiasm of a corpse. "This Emhyr you speak of should have secured his own power first before attempting another war. To battle against one enemy when many more lie among your own ranks is naught by courting disaster."

"For once, Tywin, we are in agreement," Aerys said, handing another cup to his taster while the lord Hand bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Speak, Geralt! I am most curious to hear the fate of this Radovid, how did he meet the Stranger?"

"The most agreed-upon version of events places the Temerian's at fault for his death. Allegedly, they brokered a deal with Nilfgaard: kill Radovid, and you may enjoy independence as a restored, vassal kingdom. The fact such a state came to be following the war's end is a brazen admission to their involvement for many, myself included. With Radovid gone, his remaining supporters fled to avoid Nilfgaardian reprisal or surrendered in the hopes of getting mercy. Very few of them did, far as I heard. So ended the third Northern War, Nilfgaard reigning supreme across most of the known lands. However, some say their victory was a foregone conclusion in the long term."

"How so?" Pycelle inquired.

"I'm not overly interested in economics, and I'll try not to bore any who share the sentiment by spending too much time on it. To put it simply: the Northern Kingdoms were financially crippled throughout the wars. They'd become increasingly dependent on Nilfgaardian manufacturing and goods to continue functioning."

"A death blow through gold and trade," The bald man Master of Coin smiled knowingly. "Yes, a frightening notion certainly: defeating one's enemy by forcing them into complete dependence of you for anything from food to weaponry. All you'd need to do is halt the sale and transport of provisions to destroy a kingdom or force it into vassalage. It is easy to resist an enemy army, less so when its the grumbling of your own starving belly."

"Father," The young boy spoke up, poking a piece of meat over and over with his fork. "This is boring, I want to hear about the monster, can he tell us about the monster? Please?"

The queen opened her mouth to say something to the boy when Aerys silenced her with a single look. Then, he smiled, probably the most human one Geralt had seen from him thus far.

"Ask, and you shall receive my son, you heard him, master Witcher, the vampire! Regale us with how you hunted the beast down! No doubt, you've crossed paths with many other creatures in your long trek across the world!"

"I too am curious, master Geralt," The Master of Whispers said, cup inches from his lips. "As someone from Essos, I am most eager to hear of your journey through some of my homelands as well. Why simply gaining information on Yi-Ti alone would be worthy of the history books."

Judging by the looks sent his way by many of those attending the feast, it was a unanimous sentiment. Geralt parched his throat with a fresh cup, deciding this would be his last for the evening lest his wits grow dull. He'd considered what to say when they inevitably broached the subject, lie and concoct some fanciful tale of swashbuckling adventure across seas he could not name, lands he had no idea about, even where they stood on the map of this world? No, that would not do. Geralt knew such a narrative would likely fail under even the most basic of scrutiny, nevermind with the likes of Varys or Tywin about. The only other choice was clear, and it was very risky if Westeros' familiarity with magic was as low as he suspected it to be. Still, he'd thought up of some ways to prove its existence and potency from where he comes from.

If the worst came to pass, he'd at least have some cutlery to use as weapons for a start.

And so, Geralt steeled himself, promising his audience a tale less and more spectacular than they might expect. He spoke of Zrinski and its barren mine, of how little of a settlement it was and far off the main path. An irrelevant place as one could imagine, perfect for Witcher's work. He explained how rogues had taken to digging in the prior mentioned mine, hoping to find some leftover deposits to fill their pockets. Instead, they'd only found death when they dug too deep, uncovering ancient elven ruins and awakening the Katakan who'd made them his domain. Once they were killed and feasted upon, the children of Zrinski were next.

The nobility surrounding him were, for the most part, enthralled or interested as he spoke on. The younger princes eye shined bright as Geralt explained his descent down the mineshaft, Pycelle leaned forward as some time was devoted to explaining the contents of the ruins. Aerys seemed to revel in the way his guest spoke of the bloody battle at the bottom of the world. Then the Witcher reached the part where things could very quickly take a turn for the worst: the portal. With utmost honesty spoke of what a portal was, how places in his homelands were connected to others, allowing fast travel across vast distances. How he and Katakan leaped through it, winding up at the bottom of the ocean just outside Kings Landing where the vampire met its end.

Once he finished, Geralt was not in the least surprised to find a slew of dubious, doubtful looks on the nobility of Westeros. Save for three people, the young prince who thought it all very exciting, the spymaster with a thoughtful look on his face and the solemn prince, staring at Geralt as though he only now believed the man was actually there.

"Your grace," Tywin Lannister broke the silence. "If it was not already clear beforehand, it is so now: this man is a charlatan. Come to sleep in beds and partake in meals of those far above his station, he should be removed from the court if not punished for the lies he's sown this evening."

The thought of being banished was an appealing one, with a more sane ruler, Geralt would've thought it likely. With Aerys, it was more probable he'd be burned alive. The Grand Maester's doubt was clear, a look of shame in his eyes as he too thought he'd been played for a fool. By the look on the king's face, he was most definitely considering punishment first and foremost.

"Master Witcher," The older prince said with a melodious voice, one more suited to a bard than a king. "Have you any proof of these claims?"

"Proof of the portal? No, as I said, it was destroyed, which some of you will no doubt find convenient for me to say. Proof that magic exists? I've two in this very room, and more if that's not enough. I will gladly present them all to you, with the king's permission."

"I would suggest we give the Witcher a chance," The spymaster said matter of factly, repeating his success of utterly flabbergasting everyone again. At this rate, Geralt might start liking the spy. "If he speaks the truth, we shall understand the full scope of our ignorance and know what Master Geralt tells us henceforth is genuine. If he has none, then we will have spared ourselves many more wasted hours listening to, as Lord Tywin says, a charlatan."

"I.. Do not know if everything Geralt says is true," the princess spoke, gulping, afraid. "Yet he has saved my life and Ser Gerold's and has asked for nothing in return. What does it truly cost us to give him a chance to prove his claims of... magic?"

"... The three of you united in a cause..." Aerys said, lip quirking upward as a hoarse chuckle came out of him. "You've missed your true calling, Geralt, you should've been a conciliator. Fine, fine, show us this proof. If nothing else, you will entertain me well... Before the fire does."

"Thank you, your majesty," He bowed his head, silently promising to make him choke on a torch if the opportunity presented itself. "My first piece of evidence is this medallion."

Lifting out from under his gambeson, Geralt held it on his open palm, giving all of the government officials of Westeros a good look at it. "This is no simple piece of ornamentation, a Witcher's medallion is one of his most vital tools. Any time it's in the presence of a magical source, it vibrates. The intensity of its shaking is directly related to how close the creature or object in question are. For example, the medallion violently shook as I entered the throne room, even centuries dead, the skeletons of your dragons remain strong with the power. If you require another, closer example, I can point one out in this very room."

Keeping his medallion within sight of all the nobles, Geralt looked back to the entrance of the room, pointing his open palm in its direction. More specifically, on one of the Kingsguard stationed there. Gently, his medallion began to visibly shake.

"That man there has something with a magical presence."

"Dayne!" Aerys shouted, commanding him over with a wave of his hand. "Come closer, I would see more of this..."

The knight clad in white did so, each resounding step of his feet getting a reaction from the medallion. By the time he stood but a few feet away from Geralt, the ornament was quite visibly shaking in every possible direction.

"It's not you," Geralt said, moving his hand up and down the knight until the most visceral shake of the medallion happened close to the man's sword. "There it is. Your majesty, Ser Dayne, may I examine your blade?"

Aerys looked torn between curiosity and fear, the muscles of his jaw were clenched, and he gripped the handles of his chair tightly. "Ser Barristan, stay close to our guest, lest he tries anything..."

The Kingsguard in-question approached, tall and slender from what Geralt could see, with sad, pale blue-eyes. From what little the Witcher could see of his hair, it was blonde, yet his beard revealed streaks of gray and silver. Wordlessly, he positioned himself a few feet away to Geralt's right, one hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. Slowly, the Witcher rose, turning his back to Ser Barristan. The knight before him was younger, possibly not even thirty with black hair, fair-skinned, possessing violet eyes and a few inches taller than Geralt himself.

With a slow, fluid motion, he unsheathed the greatsword, laying it on the palms of his hands, presenting it for all to see. Despite the blade being approximately five feet in length, the man showed no physical exertion in removing or holding it up. A credit to his strength and experience with it, and most certainly what the blade itself was made from. The faint, shimmering glow of it was ever-present, revealing the roots of its meteorite origins.

"Pale as me on a rainy day," Geralt said, admiring the fine craftsmanship of it. "Let me guess, this was forged from fallen star metal?"

"You've a good eye for swords, Master Witcher," The man said, with the kind of chivalrous voice any knight should have. "Dawn was forged from the metal of a fallen star, according to legends, the blade has been in the Dayne family for ten thousand years."

Geralt whistled softly. "An impressive career for any sword, it must be the envy of every warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. It is also a most potent source of power..."

Once the proximity between blade and medallion was mere inches apart, the ornament shook so violently it leaped out of Geralt's hand. With a swift catch, he caught it before it could land Varys' head. Slowly, he opened his fist and let them see its vibration next to Dawn closely.

"An amusing trick," Tywin drawled. "But have you anything else?"

"The swords I left behind in the Tower of the Hand. Much like Dawn here, they are reinforced with magical properties. Certain features like being able to carve regular steel in two with next to no resistance."

"I can vouch for this," Princess Elia said, more courage in her voice this time. "I saw the battle against the Smiling Knight, no ordinary blade could have cleaved a man near in-half through his sword and armor with a single blow."

"If his majesty will allow it, I would demonstrate more of the blade. I obviously don't intend to cut anyone in half, but I will gladly show the power in my swords by testing them against Dawn. And no, I don't mean fight him," Geralt forestalled any objections, already anticipating their reaction. "In truth, all Ser Dayne has to do is strike against my blade with all his force, the result will speak for itself."

"Dawn is one of the sharpest blades in the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Dayne said, disbelief clear in his voice. "Unless you've Valyrian steel, you'll suffer the same fate as the Smiling Knight."

"I don't know what Valyria is or what its swords can do, but I assure you, I will not fall to your Dawn. Nor will my sword be so much as nicked. And if I am a fraud," Geralt glanced at the Hand. "Then you'll have my head before the hour of the wolf."

"You are either mad or bold, Master Witcher," Aerys chuckled, his as smile predatory as his gaze. "Very well, I shall allow you a final demonstration."

Within the next few minutes, a shuffling of the room occurred. The queen, who's name Geralt learned was Rhaella took the younger prince Viserys out of the room. The boy protested, he wanted to see the fight, his pleas were ignored and echoed well into the hallways away from the ballroom. The servants moved the table aside, Aerys remained sitting, the other dinner attendees were lined up at a wall to his left. Geralt stood in the middle of the ballroom, flanked by all of the present Kingsguard save Ser Jonothor, who was dispatched to retrieve the Witcher's swords. Once he returned, he presented them hilt first.

"My thanks, ser Jonothor," Geralt unscathed the silver sword of the Cat School, taking a moment to observe the faint blue runes already glowing along its length. Bending his knees, Geralt took hold of it with both hands and placed the sword diagonally, inches from his face in a defensive stance. The other Kingsguard unsheathed their blades, anticipating danger and betrayal. Geralt ignored them, save for one.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser Dayne."

The knight looked back to Aerys, receiving less of a confirming nod and more of an impatient wave to get on with it. When he looked back to Geralt, finding no fear in the Witcher's eyes, the man bowed his head, either an apology or recognition of the brave display. Then, with a speed and strength of arms that were no doubt the envy of many warriors as well, meteor and silver blades collided.

The clang of metal against metal was deafening, the Kingsguard and assembled nobility stared as not only was Geralt left standing, his head was still intact, and his stance unbroken. The glow of his runes was plain for all to see, but it wasn't enough.

"Again," The Witcher said, and the knight stared, blinking as though he were mad. Ser Dayne only struck again once a terse command from Aerys told him to. The warrior's second blow was even more powerful and swift than the last. The end result was the same, save for the intensifying glow of Dawn.

"Again!"

On the third blow, Geralt's gambit played itself out. When two weapons, honed and strengthened by magic, made powerful contact, a discharge of pure power could erupt from them. The Witcher had no intention of leaving things to mere chance. Thus he focused on the energy of the runes, stoking it ever so slightly. The detonation was powerful enough to knock Ser Dayne and all the surrounding Kingsguard off their feet, the blue and purple energy blowing out numerous candles, engulfing much of the ballroom in pure darkness.

Princess Elia struggled to maintain balance even as her dress threaten to billow over her knees. Her husbands white hair was blown back in all directions, he resembled a noonwraith. Pycelle's eyes bulged, he and lord Varys struggled to stand, using one another for support. The Master of Coin stumbled back, bumping into Tywin who was taken so aback, he almost performed a pirouette before his back struck the nearest wall. Aerys' fear was plain to see, his body shrinking into the seat even as his crown flew off his head.

Only the Witcher stayed unfazed. He'd already positioned himself in a stance to maximize the odds of staying on his feet. With the room considerably darkened, his viper eyes and glowing rune sword made quite the impression, no doubt. Before he addressed the nobles, Geralt walked over to the fallen knights, aiding them to their feet, asking if they were hurt or bleeding. Some were too stunned to speak, others manage to give thanks.

Then, he turned his attention to the nobles, trying desperately to recover their voices, their dignity, or their air of invincibility. Yet all of them stood silent as Geralt approached the king, blade-in-hand. He stopped fifteen feet away from the gaping Aerys, looked him in the eye, and then knelt. Holding his sword in both hands, the Witcher allowing them to see it clearly in the remaining candlelight.

"As promised, not a nick on it."

Chapter Text

"I suppose you think yourself quite clever for that... Demonstration?" Tywin asked, his scowl the deepest Geralt had seen it thus far. They had returned to the Tower of the Hand posthaste once everything calmed down, and Aerys dismissed them.

The proof of power received the stunned amazement and fear he'd expected it to. For minutes, none of the nobles or knights knew what to say, their very understanding of the world around them irrevocably altered. Even the skeptical lord Tywin, furious though he was, couldn't deny this. For a whole minute, naught could be heard but the footfalls of iron boots, the ratling of chainmail, and the faint, labored breaths of those present. Varys was the first to speak.

"... I do believe Master Geralt has more than proven his tale, Your Grace."

Aerys said nothing, shrunken in his seat, hands trembling on his armchairs and lips parted in dumbfounded silence. They attempted to break him from the almost trance-like state he'd fallen into verbally, to no effect. It was only when his firstborn son touched Aerys' hand that something snapped him out of it. The madman recoiled from the momentary feel as though a snake bit him, cursing prince Rhaegar for his audacity, his impudence for breaking a king's admiration of a spectacular event. Pretty insults to mask the fact he was intimidated, but only up to a point. Soon enough, the rage simmered down, and a mad approximation of good humor overtook the gaunt monarch.

"Well done, Master Witcher, well done! Oh, if my grandfather were alive to see this! Magic, strong again, his joy would have been immeasurable!"

The tirade of grating praise continued for a while, with Aerys soon proclaiming Geralt's immeasurable importance. How the Mater Witcher was an indefinite guest at court whose expertise on the mystical arts must be consulted daily to further their knowledge. It was a small miracle he didn't bestow the official title of Court Witcher or Lord or some combination betwixt the two. Not for a moment did he doubt their desire for his blades, and they could have them, from his corpse. There was not a chance in any hell here, there, or anywhere Geralt would allow the Lytta Neyd mess to repeat itself.

Soon enough, even Aerys grew tired and bid everyone present farewell. Hopefully, all of the day's excitement and his frail body would keep the lunatic bedridden for a while. Geralt did not wish to spend every following evening in his presence. The guests soon dispersed, prince, princess, and most of the Kinsguard and Varys vanishing into the inner fortress' hallways while the rest left it behind. On the way out, Ser Lewyn approached Geralt and surprised him by saying they must do battle tomorrow at any cost. Grand Maester Pycelle similarly insisted on a meeting in the afternoon to begin the exchange of information. It was nice to know he hadn't made himself a pariah already.

Tywin said nothing until they were halfway up the Tower of the Hand, and he commanded, not requested, Geralt's immediate presence in his solar. And there they sat, monster hunter and second most powerful man on the continent on comfortable, finely crafted, cushioned chairs and a table full of countless, neatly organized documents between them. Those and a cask of wine Tywin hogged to himself.

"I think I'm very fortunate to be alive," Geralt said with the barest hint of bite to his voice. "Particularly given the circumstances of my arrival, or do you still doubt my word?"

"I am no fool, Master Witcher, I saw quite clearly what your weapon did. I am also aware of the repercussions of your actions far better than you. Tell me, did your medallion notice Aerys' favored pastime of late?"

"My nose, actually, one doesn't so easily forget the stench of burnt human flesh. Though, I am curious, Lord Tywin, why should my medallion have noticed something?"

"Aerys does not simply burn people alive," The Hand curled his lip, taking a sip of wine. "He uses wildfire for his purposes, or the substance as the Alchemist Guilds would have us call it. Madness and folly more like..."

"Wildfire...?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, an ill-feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.

"It is a volatile, green liquid, allegedly the end result of some sorcery known only to the Alchemists. What is known is the fact it burns almost unlike any other flame, capable of destroying cloth, leather, iron, and steel. It even burns atop water, and it can last a very long time, I can assure you of that..."

"... It's their replacement for dragons, isn't it...?" Geralt concluded, the ill-feeling resembling a pitchfork running him through again. "... Shit..."

"Vulgar yet accurate. Like many of the Targaryen dynasty, Aerys attempted to bring back the dragons, using leftover eggs to resurrect the beasts and secure dominion over the Seven Kingdoms. None succeeded, thankfully, yet the Alchemists Guild, instead of being put to the sword, wormed their way into the king's favor thanks to the wildfire they used in the process'. A rare flight of fancy of his to take root."

"And now Aerys' no doubt regaling anyone still awake enough to listen about how this is a sign of change, how the Master Witcher will most definitely do something fantastic, like resurrecting an extinct species,..." Geralt shook his head, grabbing the cask, nearest available cup and drinking its contents in one go. "When I can't do it, he'll sick every armored fool within shouting range at me... Shit..."

How could he have missed this substance? Did the anger and fear grip and the necessity to control both in the viper's nest make him blind? Did the dragon bone collection and the sensation of power coursing from them to distract him? Or perhaps, the substances other difference from the fire was lack of a distinct scent? There were odorless chemicals, some of them might be used in this wildfire's creation.

The worst part of it all was the fact Geralt knew no other way it could have transpired. His ignorance of this world prompted him into using the truth to avoid the flames, now his ignorance of Aerys' madness meant honesty would bring him to the same endpoint. All he'd done was delay the inevitable, the futility alone was infuriating and disheartening. Perhaps the danger would prompt Ciri to realize he had vanished, however, even this was no guarantee she'd arrive in time to rescue him. It was just as likely she would dream of his death hours after the fact when nothing could be done.

Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, the muscles around Geralt's jaw clenched. The only choice became obvious. "I have to get out of here as soon as possible."

"An unwise decision," Tywin gravelly replied. "Flee, and Aerys will ensure every man, woman, and child from the Wall to the Arbor pursues you. Even in Essos, you will find no lack of assassins and mercenaries to give chase."

"Better that than staying here, at least out there, I've some distance to put between myself and my hunter. Furthermore, I'm no stranger to having some monarch hound me at every turn."

Yet even as he said this, Geralt did not believe it. The reason he was able to survive so long during his search for Ciri deep in Niflgaardian territory and the frontlines of the war came down to his companions. Regis, Cahir, Milva, Angoulême, and Dandelion. They'd fought together, helped each other survive through despair and anger, shared laughs and wisdom, no man could ask for a better hanza. Now, he would be alone, in lands he did not know, where his powers were diminished.

"That does not surprise me, from the way you described the events of the second war with Nilfgaard, it was plain to see you were no friend of theirs. However, I do not believe you will have to flee, not for the time being."

The noblemen sounded so sure Geralt could not help but pause. Tywin Lannister did not strike him as one to make proclamations such as these without thought put in first. The way he spoke of the king pointed to a long familiarity between the two, perhaps even a friendship? He was also the Hand of the King, one of the most powerful men in this part of their world, as a source of information, Geralt could do worse.

"Alright," He sighed, leaning into the chair. "I'll bite, what do you mean, Lord Lannister?"

"Aerys kills those he fears and those he believes he can execute without suffering the consequences. At a glance, you would fit both examples, should you displease him. You are a foreigner, with no lands, titles, bannermen, or any political significance with which to shield yourself. For these reasons and numerous others, your life is easy to end. On these same grounds, you are one he cannot easily threaten. You've no house to lose or family to take hostage, and you've already shown you are dangerous and bold enough to perform feats in Aerys' presence none would dare. If Aerys remained unconvinced and commanded the Kingsguard to strike you down, you would have cut them all down to the last man without hesitation."

Without hesitation? Some of them. Without regret? None of them.

"Yet, these same qualities are what ensured Varys his place in Kings Landing, on the small council no less. Aerys desired a Master of Whispers who was unshackled by blood, vows, or any obligations in Westeros to save his duty to serve the king. No doubt he's already scheming to secure a similar place for you as we speak."

Geralt's gratitude was boundless already.

"For all his madness, Aerys is not entirely without some sense, whether it stems from himself or Varys whispering in his ear is irrelevant. He understands enough to know when someone he fears is too useful to be removed, such as myself. Oh, he may mock me and wish for me to leave the court, but Aerys knows the day I am no longer the Hand of the King is the day the twilight of his reign begins.

"Even if you cannot bring about a second Black Dread, your knowledge of magic is without equal. Were I to indulge in such matters, I would wager a great deal of coin and win such a gamble by saying none in Westeros, Essos, and very likely beyond can grant us the knowledge you've acquired as a Witcher. Use it to your advantage, Aerys will hear of what you share with Pycelle, stoke his fear of the unknown, of the beasts only a professional monster slayer such as yourself can defend him from and his compulsion to keep you alive and well will last long. The head you brought is a good first step in such a plan, tell me, how much did he shrink at the sight of it?"

"So much you could swear the throne was devouring him alive."

The Hand of the King didn't smile, but there was an amused glint in his eye.

"And you're certain Varys is helping nudge things along in such a direction?"

"None can know or understand what web the Spider weaves, that would defeat the point of a spymaster. Yet his interest in you and what you represent is without question, twice he has come to your aid. I do not trust the man or enjoy his presence at court. Nevertheless, his mind is sharp, and only an imbecile would fail to grasp the importance of what you've brought to our attention."

"And what many of you could stand to gain from it," Geralt pointed out, wondering just how far their ambitions reached. Did they merely stop at Geralt's knowledge? Not likely, his swords? Some would find those enough, his loyalty? That was a privilege reserved to few, and none of them earned it through coin or other offers of power.

"Every man stands to gain something from someone," Tywin said, folding his hands onto the table. "Even if you, Master Witcher, perform your services through contracts. Pay and your home will suffer no monsters, refuse, and I bid you farewell."

"Are you offering me a contract?"

"Wise counsel, you've not heard the words of House Lannister?" Geralt shook his head. "Hear Me Roar, though it is often our other, unofficial one which many attribute to us: a Lannister always pays his debts."

"And one should always pay his debts to a Lannister," He said, finding a simple but effective truth there. Assurance of great reward for loyal service and a promise of death for those who fail or refuse it. "Do I count among those for your advice?

"You are a guest from foreign lands, unfamiliar with the ways things are conducted here. Consider this conversation a gift, with no further obligations attached."

"You have my sincere thanks, Lord Lannister, a great many things have become clear to me. Now, with your permission, I would like to rest," Geralt sighed, his easy beginning to feel heavy. "This day has been most... Interesting."

The short walk down the winding stairs and two stories separating Tywin's chambers from his own helped Geralt stave off sleep. Vesemir would call him a city boy for thinking this, but in times like these, a good bed was worth more than contract money. Not that he expected to sleep well that night, or any night in this damnable place. For all the strife between them, Tywin was right, Geralt would be unwise to leave right then and there. He chose instead to follow the Hand of the King's advice, up to a point.

He would trade information for information, learn as much as he could about Westeros, Essos, and any other place in this world. He would bolster his number of allies and friends, find some way to earn coin, learn the ins and outs of the Red Keep for his escape, and then when Aerys and the rest of them least expect him to flee somewhere very, very far away. It would mean stomaching more dinners with the madman, more games and plots between those circling around him like vultures, and perhaps even witnessing another human burning... But he was a Witcher, and stomaching monsters was a skill he'd refined quite well over the past century.

Upon reaching the doors to his chamber, Geralt wished the stationed guards good night and entered. Before the door even closed, his instincts warned him something was amiss. More specifically, his sense of smell, with several long sniffs, Geralt's grip around his sheathed, steel sword tightened as he realized someone had been in his room. Someone besides the servants responsible for bathing and clothing him. It came from the large chest where his equipment had been placed. Upon noticing there was no trap or other surprise like one waiting for him inside, Geralt opened the trunk and quickly went about examining his things.

Whoever went through them was an expert, carefully taking note of where he'd left everything and how before snooping. Not a thing was missing or misplaced, were it not for his Witcher senses, Geralt was certain he'd never notice anything amiss. Yet the scent was there, along with a series of small, faint handprints all over his belongings. They either belonged to a dwarf or a child. Leaving the chest behind, he sniffed out where the scene was coming from. Not the door or window, but from the western wall right next to the garderobe.

He scrutinized it from top to bottom, until around the height of his knee, he found another handprint on a stone. Geralt pushed it, and sure enough, a portion of the wall slid to the side, revealing a secret passageway. It was small, far too small for a man of his size to even fit in. It seemed to run up the length of the entire Tower of the Hand, judging by the rung ladder present and how he could not even see its bottom. Geralt kept quiet, focusing on his hearing to determine if the snooper was still around if they'd possibly spied on him and Tywin. About half an hour later, he stopped, no one could remain quiet for so long, certainly not a child in a passageway.

The thought of anyone going through his things pricked at him. However, it may have also been a blessing in disguise. Geralt already suspected the Red Keep had secret pathways around, the nobility had to possess some means of escape if an enemy force threatened to overtake the defenders. La Valette castle, infinitely smaller than this one, came to mind. Now the proof was there, and though he could not use this one to escape, who said there wasn't another somewhere out there, waiting for him to find it?

Closing the secret passageway back up, Geralt undressed, casting most of his clothing over a nearby chair. He pulled the bedsheets away, placing both of his sheathed swords onto the right side, leaving the left for himself. Then, he removed a single throwing dagger and lied down. The Witcher soon went to rest, meditating with one hand around the pommel of his steel blade and the other, clutching the knife under his pillow.

His last thoughts were of lilac, gooseberries, and Ciri's laughter.

Chapter Text

Geralt's meditation ended moments ere the rooster crowed for the dawn's first light. Nevertheless, he did not stir, moan, or even deign to open his eyes. He simply laid in the luxurious bed for two, remaining still as a corpse, both hands still occupying one blade each. His right one coiled around the pommel of his steel blade under the sheets next to him. The other held the silver throwing dagger below his pillow. After the events of the last evening, the Witcher had many reasons to remain alert.

The night passed without issue. No more spies and snoopers climbed the hidden rung ladder to inspect or steal his belongings. No assassins scaled the length of the tower or its winding staircases to cut Geralt's throat. No contingent of Gold Cloaks, Red Cloaks, and Kingsguard attempted to batter down his door and put him in chains. The only sounds he could hear were the infrequent beats of his own, slowed down heart, seagulls squawking, and one of the soldiers stationed outside his doors yawn so loudly with his deep voice it resembled a bear roar.

Casting the sheets aside, Geralt welcomed the cooling, early morning air on his chest and back. Through the next few minutes, he performed a series of exercises in the middle of his chambers, readying his muscles for the real practice to come. Servants came, carrying water and cloths to clean his face and a bowl to piss in if he required it. To their credit, they did quite a commendable job of not looking too stunned or horrified by his collection of scars. One of Foltest's service during the months spent at Vizima's court shrieked at the sight of them, running through the hallways and shouting that a gravier had invaded the castle.

Once they left, Geralt went about putting his armor and equipment back on. He left nothing behind on the very high chance someone wanted to take their snooping about to outright thievery. By the time he was finished, the sun shined a bright, beautiful orange, most of the night clouds vanishing, leaving a view of the Red Keep and the nearby sea worth spending a minute or two admiring. He bid the guards good morning, and they enthusiastically returned it. No doubt, Tywin gave instructions about the deference their Master Witcher guest was due. Or perhaps his reputation from saving Ser Gerold and Elia Martell already preceded him.

Outside, the castle was well underway to waking up. Guards and sentries who'd suffered through their night shifts were replaced by fresh, ready men. The kennel masters and their aides went about serving food to the local guard dogs. Blacksmiths continued their trade while young apprentices scurried about, preparing themselves to learn or carrying equipment where it needed to be. Geralt traversed through this courtyard, receiving greetings from those close and hushed whispers of awe and speculation from all the rest. He wondered how many of them were spies. The soldiers protecting serpentine steps let him through immediately, citing that Ser Leywn had given them such orders.

"Good morning to you, Geralt! Come and sit!" The knight in-question waved him over, sitting at a table to the right of the white, slender tower Geralt noticed the knight before, the headquarters of the Kingsguard, no doubt. The member of House Martell was not alone, another of Aerys' elite bodyguards sat next to him, his armor near identical save for a helmet emblazoned with a black bat. His hair was pushed back, letting his prominent brow and fierce gaze achieve maximum effect. Such a look must have disheartened many of his opponents.

"To you as well, Ser Lewyn," Geralt said, sitting down opposite the two men. "And you, Ser...?"

"Ser Oswell of House Whent," He said, bowing his head and offering a smile. "And the man who's shoulder is still sore from your blade."

"My apologies for that, the circumstances were-"

"Say no more, I'm a warrior, Master Witcher, sometimes a man must do what has to. Elsewise he might as well throw himself upon an enemy's sword."

"Preferably not the kind you wield," Ser Lewyn smiled as he drank a cup of wine. "I thought my niece was merely coloring the truth when she said you carved the Smiling Knight in half, now I think its a wonder you simply ended there."

"Let's just say I was going easy on him," Geralt said drily. "If you don't mind me saying, you're taking my demonstration from last night surprisingly well."

"I've been crossing swords with Arthur Dayne since he was but a squire," Ser Lewyn said. "Strange blades are no stranger to my eyes. Besides, it's not every day you get a chance to fight something like it."

"And I grew up in the ruins of Harrenhal, Master Witcher. Means nothing to you, I'm sure, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a more accursed place in all of Westeros. I saw and heard many a strange thing in its vast halls before I could even ride a horse."

"Such as?" Geralt asked, intrigued by what constituted as accursed in these lands where even a small power discharge was considered a great feat.

"I cannot say," Ser Whent smiled nastily. "Mayhaps a sword to my throat may aid me in remembering."

Geralt, understanding what the knight was plotting, answered with a similar grin.

"Remember, Oswell, the Witcher, and I are the first to go."

The thought of fighting them both at once crossed Geralt's mind, but he decided otherwise. Such a suggestion might cause unnecessary friction with the only people he may strike a genuine rapport with save, perhaps the princess. Furthermore, this Harrenhal place piqued his interest, he wished to hear a firsthand account of what transpired there, something a book from Pycelle wouldn't do. Taking them on one on one was the safer way of getting it.

And so the two of them departed, entering a ring designated for sparring practice by a circle of wooden barricades thirty feet wide. Facing south, was Ser Lewyn, his white armor practically glowing in the early morning sun, he very image of a knight and no doubt the focus of many swooning ladies despite his age. Geralt, by comparison, no doubt, appeared closer to a mercenary with his leather jacket lined with silver chainmail around the arms, shoulders, and stomach areas, spiked gloves, and worn leather boots. Not that the others present at the courtyard seemed to mind from the hushed whispers passed between them.

"Is that the Witcher?"

"Who d'you think'll win?"

"Get on with it, I need t'go to the privy!"

"The first man whose back touches the ground losses, agreed?"

"Agreed," Geralt replied, unsheathing his steel sword. Ser Leywn did the same, using no shield whatsoever. Following mutual nods to begin, they did not attack one another right away, opting to slowly walk in a circle, Geralt to the right, Lewyn to the left. The Witcher held his blade in one hand, pointed for a thrusting move, his back and knees hunched ever so slightly. The Kingsguard kept his back straight with hands wrapped around the pommel of his sword.

It flashed less than a moment before he swung, aiming at Geralt's chest. The Witcher blocked, deflecting the blow to the side, but Ser Lewyn used the motion to his advantage, repositioning himself for an overhead strike. Geralt leaped back then sidestepped when Lewywn diverted a blade ready to hit the ground into a swing to the knees. Geralt's counterattack struck him in the side of the helmet, scrapping it just enough for the noise to rattle the knight without so much as cutting a hair on his head. Lewyn broke off, knowing he'd lost the initiative which the Witcher would not give back so readily.

Applying the principles of the Fiery Dancer, he responded with a dervish of quick blows accompanied by twists of his wrists to maximize a continuous momentum. Each strike resulted in one more in an increasing series of small cuts similar to what he'd already done. Another piece of his helm fell off, one of his gauntlet straps came undone, the corner of a shoulder pad hung and clanked loosely against the rest of his armor. Leywn could not attack as Geralt pushed him back further and further, nor could he defend, because Fiery Dancer's motions, ensured Geralt always hit, while his enemy desperately tried to so much as meet the sword.

Ser Lewyn was not done, however, instead of retreating in the face of a strike designed to carve a diagonal slash across his armor, the warrior from Dorne instead held his ground. Geralt immediately recognized the danger of this and used a side-leap to put some distance between them, and more importantly, not cut into Lewyn's flesh.

"A risky thing to pull, especially for a sparring match."

"As strange as it may sound," The Kingsguard side, panting and smiling. "I trusted you not to hurt me, you've more than shown more the precision of your blows!

The Dornishmen lunged, beginning a series of seemingly unconnected staccato movements. A menagerie of low and high swings, emphasizing speed and power to overwhelm the opposition. It was all Lewyn could try, overpower Geralt before he found himself overwhelmed again. The Witcher rarely blocked, opting to deflect the sword blows and dodge, waiting for the proper moment to strike. It came when Leywn thrust. Borrowing a move from Eskel, Geralt tensed and waited then swung in a reverse grip, striking the Dornishmen's blade. It happened so quickly, and in such an unorthodox manner, the Kingsguard could do nothing but stumble in a vain attempt to keep his balance before his back hit the ground.

The reaction from those observing the battle was loud indeed, possibly loud enough to wake up and irritate Aerys. Many were thrilled, some were dismayed, others already began proposing bets to one another for the fight to come. Geralt walked over to the Kingsguard and offered a hand, Ser Lewyn, coughing but smiling, accepted it gladly.

"Well fought, Ser Lewyn."

"Same to you," He chuckled, waving the complement aside. " Seven Hells, I've not seen someone move like you since I last fought with my nephew. Though he favors spears over swords."

"I've no doubt the Red Viper and Master Geralt would provide us with a battle worthy of songs," Ser Whent said, entering the arena. He was half a head taller than the Witcher, and unlike the Dornishmen, accompanied his blade with a pure, white shield. "But now, I think it is my turn."

"By all means, Ser Oswell," Leywn said, giving his fellow Kingsguard a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I eagerly wish to know which one of us will end up losing quicker."

Just as before, Geralt stood at the north while Ser Whent stood south, the broad-shouldered knight was a fierce sight indeed. Not as large as the Smiling Knight, yet his white armor adorned with the black bat on its helmet created a fearsome first impression. Geralt's issue lied in how to defeat him, were this a battle to the death, it would be a simple matter to dart around, cut him at the joints then behead the knight. Or a reasonably powerful Aard would break his guard and leave him vulnerable for a stab through the throat. Speed and intricate swordplay would not do for this battle, it was time to use the Temerian Devil.

Knees bent and sword held with both hands over his head, Geralt nodded his assent to begin and stood his ground as Ser Whents heavy footfalls closed to the distance. He did not move so much as an inch, eyes boring into the slit where the warrior of Harrenhal could see through. It was only when his blade reached the halfway point of its swing did Geralt answer. The force of his counterattack was of such strength, it very nearly knocked the sword out of Oswell's hand, forcing him to stagger back. Spinning in concert with the momentum, Geralt performed a diagonal pirouette and struck again, slicing a deep line across his opponent's shield, unleashing a grating sound of creaking metal and sparks.

Ser Whent was not deterred by this, reasserting his balance and striking again in a string of slow but powerful blows that would've been able to cut Geralt to pieces, if he allowed them to. Instead, he met each and every strike, using the inertia and momentum of the exchange to carry him into each successive blow. Ser Whent lasted a while, longer than most men would have, but his armor and fading stamina next to Geralt's speed, footwork, strength, and redistribution of kinetic force back at him could only end one way. With a final pirouette, Geralt put some distance between the two of them and leaped, high into the air, sword over his head. When it came down, the impact of the Witcher's fuller struck Ser Whent with enough force to send the man crashing down onto the ground.

The crowd's reaction was even louder this time, forming a veritable chorus of cheers and dismayed curses. Many men would drink well tonight, while others would face the ire of many a wrothful spouse. Ser Oswell stayed on the ground, his breathing labored. Geralt let out a single, inaudible huff then walked over to him. When the knight from Harrenhal reached out to move his faceplate, he noticed a sword pointed at his throat.

"How's your memory, Ser Whent?" Geralt smiled nastily.

The Kingsguard returned it. "Sharper than that sword of yours, I'd wager."

"A vampire addicted to blood and... Alcohol?"

"I didn't believe it myself, Grand Maester, yet the situation was thus. The Katakan had been preying on people in the city of Oxenfurt for several weeks. Most of them died, save for a young woman. The victims were unlike each other in every possible respect. Save for the fact they had a fondness for the bottle. Alcohol becomes more and more present in the bloodstream, the more one drinks it, so a vampire addicted to both substances would have no choice but to target drunkards.

"How did you succeed in defeating such a creature?"

"The only way I knew how: by getting shit-faced drunk myself. I must've roamed around the streets for a good long hour at night, singing until my throat was sore and earning the ire of many a decent sleeping citizen and patrolling guardsmen. Eventually, the Katakan did come for me, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't one of the more... Interesting fights in my career as a Witcher."

"Master Geralt," The Grand Maester smiled, a playful look in his eyes. "Are you jesting with me?"

"You overestimate my imagination, I couldn't come up with this if you paid me a chest full of gold."

The two men laughed, sitting across from one another at a large, oak desk covered with pots, jars, cups, parchments, books, flasks,... Inside the Grand Maester's quarters. All around the spacious chamber capable of fitting upwards of twenty people inside, many more tomes, chests full of ingredients Geralt could and could not recognize by smell alone littered the place. It was far from messy, however. Despite serving as one of the primary advisors to the king, offering knowledge of a wide assortment of subjects from medicine to history, the Grand Maester kept his quarters neatly organized.

One of the many side desks, currently covered with a thick blanket of cloth, served as the new home for the Katakan's head. Following the morning spent sparring or talking with the Kingsguard, Geralt received word that Pycelle was ready to meet with him. His tower was built along the same battlements as the White Sword Tower. The Witcher could hear the cawing of ravens from its upper levels throughout his entire stay. He was warmly welcomed, offered food, and drink before they began going about their business.

It reminded the Witcher of his tenure at Oxenfurt, though he was the professor this time. Throughout their talk, Geralt explained the capabilities of the Katakan's eyes, its night vision, how their saliva contained a small dose of poison to weaken their prey. At the Grand Maester's behest, he removed samples of the creature, one fang, a piece of its horn, offered the heart, all to send over to the headquarters of the Maester's, the Citadel to verify all of Geralt's claims. Eventually, conversation passed on to other forms of vampires.

The Plumard, the closest in appearance to ordinary bats. Yet as big as a small child and with a fondness for overwhelming their prey in swarms. The Garkains, pack beasts who hang on ceilings, leap across rooftops and are so ugly they're frequently mistaken for gargoyles. Ekimma's, close in appearance to Katakan's and who's bestial savagery almost always resulted in horrific mutilations. The higher vampires, such as the Bruxa's, Nosferat's, Alps,... Took more time to explain. How some could appear like men and women, others enjoyed invulnerability to the sun. Pycelle listened vigorously and dutifully, writing down everything spoken with a speed of a man half his years, his enthusiasm matching a students rather than an experienced masters. The Grand Maester's surprise that vampires drink blood more like an addiction than an actual necessity inevitably brought them to the Oxenfurt contract.

"The hour grows late," Pycelle said, looking out the nearby window toward the setting sun. "I fear we may have lost track of time. Still, I've not spent an afternoon this pleasant in many a year."

"Likewise, it's not every day I get a chance to share a Witcher's knowledge. Most of my friends and associates either know these facts already, or they grow bored when I try delving too deep."

"It is a difficult subject matter," Pycelle ran a hand through his greying beard, eyeing the concealed Katakan. "Facing but one of these monsters... Why it would be enough to drive most men to madness. Ah!" He shouted, slapping his desk. "How foolish of me! Please, wait a moment!"

The Grand Maester said, sifting through his desk until his hands found a particular tome. "I meant to show you this already, but in all the excitement..."

The book, written in a language Geralt couldn't read, contained a multitude of illustrations and maps. Some concerned Westeros, others Essos, some of the other drawings were of creatures Geralt recognized instantly. Griffons, krakens, unicorns, the one Pycelle stopped on was of an overlarge, fanged bat with folded wings and a bloated, red belly.

"There is a land to the far south-east of Westeros known as Sothoryos. We know precious little of it, save for tales describing a land of great forests, stretching out as far as the eye can see. Where men are bestial, countless deadly diseases run rampant, and beasts not seen elsewhere thrive. Eyeless cave dwellers, great moths with a taste for man-flesh,..."

"And vampire bats, it sounds like the kind of place I'd earn a lot of coin. If these tales ring true."

"My skepticism of such stories was always great, you understand, naught, but the drunken tales of sailors wrongfully chronicled in a vain attempt to acquire knowledge. Yet when I laid eyes upon the Katakan... The similarities," Pycelle shivered. "They could not be discounted so readily. Even less after what you've shared with me. I know Sothoryos is a land unknown to you, but in your expert opinion, could the vampires of those strange places, and your own homelands be one and the same?"

Geralt did not immediately answer, expecting this particular question to come up sooner rather than later. Even in his explanation of portals the night before, he said he'd come from a distant land, not another world outright. Not necessarily untrue, more of a play on words rather than an out-and-out lie.

"Truthfully? Your guess is as good as mine. Vampires, along with many other creatures, are not indigenous to my homelands, in fact, humans aren't either. They and many other beings I've yet to tell you about arrived during a particular event, one that irrevocably changed everything. We call it the Conjunction of Spheres."

"An event of magic, yes?"

"One that has not been seen again for well over a millennia," Not counting the near-Conjunction when Ciri destroyed the White Frost. "Countless beings, from across just as many strange, unknown lands, appeared in ours, some benign and harmless, others impossibly dangerous to the very ecosystem of a place not made for them. It's also at this point when magic, or the power, became more pronounced, allowing for the forging of special weapons imbued with it."

And a great many other things Geralt wouldn't share, not so long as Aerys ruled over Westeros.

"Through the portals you mentioned?" Pycelle asked then shook his head in dismay when Geralt nodded. "Gods be good, from what you've described, a single vampire would have caused irrevocable destruction across the Seven Kingdoms. The mere thought of hundreds or thousands of them alone arriving, amidst many others, I'm sure... Gods be good... It is little wonder your profession came to be, Master Geralt."

"The situation has calmed down, considerably but yes... In those days, it was chaos, pure and simple. So many of the creatures stranded from the Conjunction were unused to living on those lands. Their natural habitats, prey, and predators were all gone. Some managed to survive, either by finding a close equivalent to all three, others by integrating themselves into society. Many others... Were not so fortunate."

"When did this Conjunction of Spheres occur, if I may ask?"

"The precise date isn't known, generally speaking, it is agreed upon to have occurred fifteen hundred years ago."

Pycelle stroked his beard again, a thoughtful look on his face."...Could it have been four centuries ago?"

Geralt wanted to outright say so, Regis' age at the time of his death alone made this impossible. Nevermind multiple other events and lifespans of people and creatures. "I doubt it, why? Did something occur then."

"The Doom of Valyria," The Grand Maester said with a grave voice, as though the weight of ages was upon his words. "We've not the time to go over it in greater detail today, yet I can pass on several noteworthy works for you to read in your chambers."

"You have my thanks, Grand Maester, what can you tell of this Doom right now?"

"Valyria, or the Valyrian Freehold, was the greatest civilization the world had ever seen. It encompassed most of Essos, reaching as far as the Free Cities and the island of Dragonstone near King's Landing. It was a civilization of immeasurable power, mundane and arcane, built upon the backs of slaves, blood magic... and dragons. It is said these magics allowed them to bread the great fire breathing beasts, to bring the world to heel. Many attempted to challenge the Valyrian's dominance, none succeeded, the dragon riders power was simply too vast for any conventional strength of arms to defeat."

"And then something went wrong."

Pycelle gravely nodded. "It is said, that on the day of the Doom, every hill for five hundred miles exploded, unleashing fire, smoke, and ash unlike any seen before or since. Such was the force of these eruptions that even the dragons, capable of withstanding great fires, perished as men, women, and children did. Palaces and cities were destroyed by Earthquakes, lakes, and seas boiled, the Valyrian peninsula itself was shattered into many islands that remain to this day. In but a day, the Freehold was no more. Save for House Targaryen, which escaped the Doom and survives to this day."

Such as it was."Judging by your question on relating the Conjunction to the Doom, I'd venture to say the cause of this destruction has yet to be determined?"

"Most commonly, it is said to have been a natural occurrence, nothing more, nothing less. The septons would have us believe the Valyrians dug into the very seven hells themselves and brought the wrath of the gods upon themselves."

"A third group suggests blood magic played a role."

Pycelle nodded. "A fellow Maester of mine, one who will no doubt be most interested in meeting you, should he be here and not abroad, believes this to be so. That the very power which gave birth to the Freehold sealed its Doom, they could not control it any longer, or overplayed their hand and so brought cataclysm upon themselves."

"Not impossible," Geralt said, looking at his swords placed against his chair. "Even imbuing a simple rune inside a blade can horribly backfire if one lacks practice, knowledge, or skill. The kind of power they were using... It's a wonder they only destroyed themselves. Has anyone successfully explored the ruins? Or is the land still dangerous?"

"Several have attempted, with no success. King Tommen II of House Lannister, attempted to do so decades before Aegon the Conqueror's campaign. He was never seen or heard from again, the Valyrian blade of House Lannister disappearing with him."

"Ser Arthur mentioned those to me, another product of the Freehold's magic?"

"Valyrian steel is of unmatched quality. Though I am no warrior, a great many have attested to their longevity, durability, lightness, and unmatched cutting power. Such is its quality and its rarity today there are naught by approximately two-hundred such blades remaining in Westeros. Heirlooms of noble houses great and lesser."

From that moment on, Geralt swore to take extra precautions with his swords...

"Tell me, Master Witcher, what do you know of dragons?" Aerys sacked that evening, inviting Geralt, the rest of the noble family, and the small council to another dinner. Though, the attendance this time was lesser. Princess Elia was not present, probably on account of her health, neither was the Master of Coin who all but bolted out of the ballroom yesterday.

Save for the Kingsguard, the king and Geralt, the only others there were Tywin, Pycelle, Varys, and Prince Rhaegar. The Hand of the King sat directly opposite of Geralt, with the king's son to his immediate right. Varys sat to the right of him while Pycelle sat down to Geralt's left. As before, Aerys reserved a quarter of the table all to himself. There was a squadron of food and wine tasters around him.

Their beverage for the evening was a red, sweet, and fruity Summerwine. Accompanying the skin seared boar was bacon, ribs roasted with garlic and other herbs, pigeon pie and salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums to name but a few. Aerys let the first part of the dinner pass pleasantly enough, showing admirable restraint. Geralt half expected him to blurt out the question before they were back in the cleaned-up ballroom. On the opposite end of the table, Tywin didn't outwardly stir at the question, nor did he need to, Geralt knew he'd anticipated this as well.

"A great many things, your majesty," Geralt replied, wiping his chin with a cloth. "Very few paint a good picture, I'm afraid. The history of the species in my homelands is quite grave."

"They are extinct as well?" Aerys said, a dark look in his eyes.

"Not yet, but very close. Their numbers have been diminishing for hundreds of years, ever since the arrival of mankind to the lands, we know today as Nilfgaard or the former Northern Kingdoms. Ignorance and greed have driven them to the brink of annihilation. There is not another species quite as vilified as a dragon."

"Enough prattling around the issue!" Aerys snapped. "Speak clearly, now!"

"Castles are thought of as the ultimate defense, against nature, against animals and monsters, against other people. It doesn't matter what species you belong to, this is a universal truth between them all. Castles represent the height of civilization, of security from all the dangers lurking out there, in the untamed wilds. They can indeed resist many fearsome beasts I've hunted over the years."

"Yet they cannot resist a dragon," Lord Varys said, smiling faintly.

"Yet they cannot resist a dragon. For they are great beasts, capable of spewing fire and flying above even the tallest of battlements. A scourge to mankind like no other, worthy of the greatest contempt. If I had a golden coin for every ballad, story and tale portraying them as evil incarnate, I'd have enough money to buy a castle of my own.

"In my homelands, dragons are also known to have great treasure troves in their lairs. The finest amethysts, jewels, and other priceless diamonds. Enough wealth to turn a beggar into a king overnight. Dragons themselves are a great source of alchemic ingredients, rare ones which can only be acquired from their bones, teeth, scales, and even wings."

Geralt took another sip of wine, his throat growing sore from all the talking he'd done. "Lastly, dragons have many cousins, lesser beasts who can neither lay siege to a city single-handedly nor spew fire. To the peasantry and even much of the nobility, one overgrown lizard who can fly is the same as another. And so, often for the acts of their lesser kin, the dragons themselves paid a considerable price of blood for it."

"At the hands of humans and Witchers, no doubt," Varys asked, taking a small drink from his cup. "After all, a great many men would pay dearly for a dragon, as you've explained to us."

"A great many must have tried, yes, and they've all failed. Witchers don't kill dragons."

"Truly?" Prince Rhaegar said. "I would think a beast hunter would not discriminate."

"With many creatures? You would be absolutely correct, yet, exceptions exist and dragons number among them. For they are no simple nekker or drowner, the dragons of my lands are sentient creatures."

Everyone present at the table looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. Aerys and Prince Rhaegar in-particular were stunned, amusingly, this was the sanest the king had looked since the Witcher crossed paths with him.

"Master Geralt..." Pycelle said, slowly, uncertainly. "Do you mean to say...?"

"That dragons are capable of thoughts and feelings akin to humans? Yes, this is known among us Witchers. Of the tales I know coming from reputable sources, the dragons who've interacted with mankind have shown incredible benevolence, and even, dare I say it, human decency. Years and years ago, one particular dragon attempted to create her own kingdom where elves, dwarves, and even humans could live together in peace."

"A kind dragon? A dragon with scruples?!" Aerys said, all but spitting out the word. "Ridiculous, a dragon has no business thinking for itself, least of all with compassion! They exist only to listen to the commands of their rider, to burn and destroy their enemies to the ground! The Black Dread would not have hesitated setting Aegon's foes aflame!"

The compulsion to point out how the bestial Valyrian dragons were extinct while the so-called, scrupulous ones of his lands still survived was strong. Aerys' tirade continued on, speaking of the Valyrian breeds superiority, their unmatched power, and all he could do with it. Judging by Tywin's imperceptible eye roll, this was far from the only time he'd praised them so highly, despite never seeing more than a dead egg.

"What say you, Master Witcher?" Aerys said, focusing back on Geralt, an intense look on his face. "Would you accept a contract on The Black Dread? A creature with neither scruples nor mercy?"

"The largest dragon in the throne room?" Geralt smiled, shaking his head. "Not if you gave me an army of one million men and half the Seven Kingdoms as a reward."

The brazen statement achieved its desired effect, Aerys' eyes lit up like an excited child's, his chest heaving up and down as he chortled. When he could, he spoke loudly and at length of the Valyrian dragons superiority, of such great power even a man born and bred to kill monsters would refuse to fight one. For the next half hour, Geralt played along with it, letting Aerys' glee at his apparent inferiority sink into the king's mind. A simple look at Tywin from across the table told him he'd played this well.

Chapter Text

"Easy lad, we'll get there shortly. From the way you keep stirring about in that saddle, you'd think the Red Keep was about to flee from us."

"My apologies, Lord Crakehall... I'm merely..."

"Bursting with excitement? Aye, I know the feeling well, you should've seen how I shook on the sail over to the Stepstones. Like a septon trying to hold it in during an overlong prayer."

Jaime laughed alongside Lord Crakehall and his fellow squire Merrett Frey as they rode with the retinue from Crakehall, through the Lion's Gate where the Goldroad to Lannisport began. Visenya's Hill rose to greet them, the Great Sept of Baelor serving as its seven-pointed, crystal crown. Farther to the north loomed the husk of the abandoned Dragonpit, its blackened walls, and split dome appearing like the largest lump of coal in the world. The stench was foul then as it was when he and Cersei visited the city as children, during simpler, happier days and its streets just as crowded. Jaime, however, cared not for most of it, his eyes were saved only for the Red Keep and what awaited him inside. Or rather who.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Ser Barristan the Bold. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Lewyn Martell, and all the other members of the Kinsguard, some of the finest men to ever earn their way to this elite group of knights. Spoken of in the same breath as many other warriors such as Ser Duncan the Tall and Aemon the Dragonknight. Men with whom he would spend the next few weeks training under to hone his already impressive skills with sword and lance. Father had made the arrangements some months ago, and his intent was clear: impress these gods among men and earn yourself a proper knighthood, for the prestige of House Lannister. Jaime would've done it for nothing at all.

He was eager to see Father as well, the great lion of House Lannister, who made their family a force to be reckoned with. Cersei would be there as well, earning her place in Kings Landing two years earlier, to Jaime's eternal shame and wroth. They hadn't seen each other since they were both children, what with Jaime serving as a squire for Lord Crakehall, and Cersei, a lady in waiting for Princess Elia. They never missed the chance to send letters to one another. No doubt by now she'd grown to be one of, if not the, most beautiful ladies in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Still, Father and Cersei, though beloved, could not replace the Kingsguard in his mind. Or the Kingswood Knight.

In the past weeks, news of the Kingswood Brotherhood's crimes reached as far as the westerlands. Murder, robbery, taking nobility as hostages for coin. Numbering among them was the Smiling Knight, a man whose repute for madness, plundering, and mastery of the sword already preceded him. A man who's skill were said to equal even the finest of the Kingsguard. Jaime wondered, even dared to hope, that their invitation to King's Landing would coincide with a possible hunt for the Brotherhood. To cross swords with the Smiling Knight, it was terrifying and magnificent to even consider. Little did they know but, a few hours ago, someone already had and won.

The night before, their party took shelter in an inn called the Golden Horn, some leagues away from Kings Landing. After handsomely paying the owner for a fine meal and decent enough ale, Lord Crakehall asked -with more gold in hand- about the Brotherhood. When the man said they were all but wiped out, including the Smiling Knight, Jaime stared as though his own mother had returned from the dead to slap him in the cheek. A week past, Princess Elia ventured into the Kingswood alongside Ser Gerold Hightower and a group of soldiers when the Brotherhood came upon them. They were very nearly captured themselves until a man appeared and singlehandedly ended them, slaying the Smiling Knight in single combat.

When Lord Crakehall offered more coin, the innkeeper said he'd not seen the man personally, though some of his friends in King's Landing purportedly did. He spoke of a pale man with strange eyes, white hair, and two swords across his back, ridding alongside Ser Gerold Hightower himself on the way to the Red Keep. From there, rumors spread about the city and soon beyond it of a monster slayer from faraway lands, dining with King Aerys. Some even called him a sorcerer though neither Jaime nor Lord Crakehall paid heed to this. What was certain, however, was his victory over the Brotherhood. The singers and bards took but a day to proclaim him the Kingswood Knight.

Could his skill match the tales? Jaime wished for it to be so yet doubted it all the same. Even Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne could not hope to destroy all of the Brotherhood alone. No doubt, this stranger merely arrived in time to aid the princess and Lord Commander, joining their ranks and defeating the brigands together, reaping the glory and prestige thereafter. All the same, a man who could defeat the Smiling Knight was one to look out for. And they'd heard nothing of him leaving Kings Landing...

Soon enough, the Red Keep came into sight, its many battlements and red domed towers creating a striking imagine now as they did during his first visit. It was no Casterly Rock, not even close, yet for the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms, home of the Iron Throne, Jaime decided the second place was respectable enough. The main gate opened to them, and the moment Jaime spotted the Gold Cloaks sparring in the first yard, his own sword hand itched for battle. A welcome host waited for them as well, servants and stableboys helping them with their belongings, putting their horses away.

Lord Crakehall dismounted first and was approached by a messenger. Jaime did not hear what they said, yet the older man's wolfish grin was to his liking.

"Lord Tywin will not be meeting with us till tonight, too much work to be done. We'll have to find other ways to occupy ourselves."

"As you say, my lord," Jaime smiled back, bowing his head. Once Merrett Frey, clumsy oaf that he was, accomplished the daunting task of removing himself from his saddle, Lord Crakehall led them through the Red Keep, regaling them of the great tourney held after the War of Ninepenny Kings. It was the last great war of Westeros, over twenty years past. Lord Crakehall fought against the final Blackfyre pretender on the Stepstones as a young man barely older than Jaime was now. He'd earned his knighthood upon witnessing and promptly avenging the death of Lord Jason Lannister, killing all seven men responsible for unhorsing and butchering the westerlands commander. Lord Jason was Jaime's grandfather through his mother, and Lord Crakehall's act was never forgotten by Father. Elsewise, his son would've found another knighted lord to squire for.

Jaime knew of Lord Crakehall's achievements at the tourney and so only paid half as much attention to this retelling, focusing instead on the White Sword Tower growing larger by the moment. Merrett Frey, who also knew the tale, played lickspittle gloriously and feigned more interest than he honestly had. Crossing through the second courtyard and down the winding, serpentine staircase, the sound of battle grew louder, Jaime's excitement intensifying with every distinct clash of steel against steel. His lips and throat were dry, his heart thumping like a war drum. When he laid eyes upon who was sparring, it most definitely stopped dead for a moment.

Two men stood in a large, thirty-foot wide sparring ring. The first was younger than his adversary, even younger than Father. His hair was short and black, his greatsword blunted and sparring attire simple. Jaime knew it was Ser Arthur Dayne immediately, not from his looks but from the way he moved. His greatsword weaved in ways that should have been impossible, an endless dervish of motion so easily and quickly done one would assume he exerted no effort at all. Even more impressive given how Ser Arthur's body did not betray his strength. None in Seven Kingdoms could wield a greatsword like him.

His opponent was the Kingswood Knight, without question. His white, shoulder-length hair was tied back halfway into a tail. Two swords were on his back, yet he used a blunted longsword regardless. He did not wear the training garb of Ser Arthur, instead using a queer leather jacket with chainmail built into its shoulders, stomach, and arms. None of this stunned Jaime, the fact he was matching Ser Arthur blow for blow did.

The Sword of the Morning, thanks to his long blade, naturally enjoyed far greater reach, yet the Kingswood Knight seemed impervious to this. His blade moving in such confusing, intricate yet random motions Jaime had never seen before in his life, never thought possible. If Ser Arthur spun his blade into an intricate weave of motion, the Kingswood Knight moved in such a way as to give the impression of having an extra pair of arms, successfully darting to and from the Kingsguard, breaking his attack pattern and forcing him to retreat or defend himself.

"Somner! You old boar! Is that you?"

"Barristan!" Lord Crakehall shouted, diverting Jaime's attention away from the duel to another of the approaching Kingsguard, making his heart stop all over again. There he was, Barristan the Bold. The hero of the War of Ninepenny Kings, he who personally brought an end to Maelys the Monstrous and all future Blackfyre rebellions. Even twenty years removed from that legendary battle, Ser Barristan was every bit the knight Jaime imagined. Tall, slender, with a commanding but not domineering presence, the streaks of grey and silver adding to his appearance rather than betraying the weakness of age.

He and Lord Crakehall smiled, laughed, and shook hands. The two of them met decades ago, lance to lance, fighting it out for the coveted title of tourney winner. Ser Barristan, naturally, won yet, there was no ill-feeling between the two men, that much was clear. For a while, it seemed as though they'd forgotten about the squires, and Jaime dared to look back to the fight until he noticed Ser Barristan walking toward him.

"These are my squires," Lord Crakehall said, waving at them. "Merrett Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey."

"S-Ser," The oaf managed to bow halfway decently. "It is an honor to meet you."

"Likewise, lad," Ser Barristan said with a smile so genuine Jaime could not help but be astounded by his sincerity at meeting a Frey. "And you are Tywin's son, Jaime, as I recall?"

"Y-Yes, Ser Barristan," Jaime bowed, cursing his tongue for being tied in the worst possible moment. "I'm honored that you remember me..."

"Had to forget when we all knew you were all to arrive today."

"O-Of course... How foolish-"

"Don't worry, lad," Ser Barristan smiled, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "I was nervous as well when I was your age and faced Ser Duncan the Tall of all people, in a tourney no less. I'm certain that in a few years, you'll be the cause of many a stammering squire and young knight as well."

Jaime, quite worried he'd say something stupid for a change, simply nodded.

"I see we've come at a most opportune moment," Lord Crakehall nodded to the ongoing battle. "Ser Arthur... Gods, I'd heard of his prowess but to see it... Gods. And the other one, is that the Kingswood Knight?"

"Just so, though he is no anointed knight. He is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher."

"A Wicker?" Merrett Frey asked, earning a laugh from Ser Barristan.

"A Witcher, lad. In his lands, far away from either Westeros or Essos, he is a professional monster slayer. He came to the Seven Kingdoms in pursuit of a horrible beast, one who feasts on the blood of people. And no, Somner, I do not jest. We've a head to prove it."

A monster? In Westeros? There was naught to be found but bears, wolves, and perhaps lion-lizard if one despised themselves enough to drudge through the Neck. The last creatures one could call true monsters died out over a century ago. Though were Tyrion here and Jaime dearly wished he was, he would no doubt ask a thousand more questions concerning this beast. His interests always lied in the oddities of the world, Jaime's legends and tales skewed closer to men with swords in their hands and the skills to wield them.

"I-Is it true," Jaime almost cursed his tied tongue to the seven fucking hells. "Is it true he defeated the Smiling Knight, Ser Barristan?"

"He defeated near the whole Brotherhood," The Kinsguard replied, stunning Jaime a third time. "Six of the eight fell to his sword, including the Smiling Knight. Simon Toyne surrendered and is already well on his way to the Wall. Only Wenda the White Fawn is unaccounted for."

"Seven fucking hells," Lord Crakehall muttered, watching the battle with renewed interest. "With the way he moves... I can believe it. He's even giving Ser Arthur a challenge."

"He is the superior swordsman, without question."

Merrett Frey adopted a signature look of his, eyes wide, mouth agape and head slouched forward. A look that had earned him many a jest, this time, Jaime could not fault him for it, his own expression must have been equally ridiculous.

"Come off it Barristan. Aye, I can tell he's good but better than Ser Arthur? Or you? Or the White Bull?"

"You know me, Somner, I would not say such a thing were it not true. For the past seven days, the Witcher has resided in the Red Keep and spent half that time sparring with us from dawn to midday. He has defeated every single one of us, several times over, in single combat. He's faster than Ser Lewyn, stronger than Ser Oswell, his bladework is superior to mine or Arthur's. Were someone to proclaim him the finest warrior in the realm, I'd not dispute it."

Jaime turned away from the legendary hero, etiquette be damned, and looked back to the battle. It could not be true, some foreigner calling himself by some strange name better than the Sword of the Morning? Or the Bold? It was absurd, it was impossible...

"I see your squires share your doubt," Ser Barristan said with a smile. "Pay close attention to what is happening, lads, and you'll see the truth."

Jaime did so, scrutinizing everything to the best of his ability. Even as the maddening twists and twirls of their blades made his head spin. He did not see it at first, thinking the two were merely caught in a stalemate of sorts. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Though Ser Arthur fought valiantly, the tells of his defeat were there. His bladework became slower, his footwork sloppy, his black hair was drenched with sweat, and his mouth parted to breathe. The Witcher was the opposite. There was no sign of fatigue or exertion from him, every move was a fast, deadly, and precise as the one preceding it. He neither panted nor was drenched in sweat, his scarred face as immovable as fathers.

The end came soon after. Ser Arthur, attempting a complex feint, tried to mask his thrust with a swing. The Witcher saw it coming and dodged... In a way, Jaime had never seen before. Spinning out of the way, the Witcher held his blade over his head and performed a pirouette. For an instant, he seemed to almost float in-mid air, his body spinning on and on without end. Mid-spin, his struck Ser Arthur's back with the fuller of his sword, sending the Sword of the Morning tumbling down... All before his feet even touched the ground.

"Gods be good..." Merrett Frey muttered, and for once, Jaime agreed with him.

"As I said, the far superior swordsman. Thankfully, we've forbidden anyone from using anything but blunted weapons and heavy training equipment against Geralt."

"Forbidden?" Lord Crakehall asked with worry in his voice.

"Aye, he'd be too dangerous elsewise. Last time they used live steel, Ser Lewyn's armor was left in tatters."

Numbly, Jaime followed Ser Barristan along with Lord Carekhall and Merret Frey to the two men. Ser Arthur, as expected of him, took his defeat with grace, smiling, and accepted the Witcher's hand up. The two left the arena, leaving their blunted weapons at a nearby stand, no doubt discussing one another's methods to battle. Merrett quickened his pace to arrive first, only succeeding it halting first when the Witcher's eyes fell upon him. These were no ordinary eyes, not even the purple found among the blood of old Valyria or House Dayne. Snake eyes who's yellow color only became more chilling when accompanied by his pale skin and scars.

"My lords," Ser Arthur said, bowing to all three while offering his hand to Lord Crakehall. "It gladdens my heart to see you here, I apologize for not being present to greet you alongside Ser Barristan."

"No offense is taken, Ser Arthur," Lord Crakehall smiled. "I believe all of us here know how quickly time passes when one focuses so intently on the sword."

"Aye, and with Geralt about, one must focus or lose even more quickly."

"I'm sure one of these days the roles will reverse," The Kingswood Knight said, his voice hoarse and accent, unlike any Jaime had heard before. Lord Crakehall shook his hand as well. "Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, though I'm sure Ser Barristan told you all of this already."

"That he has, I am Somner Crakehall, Lord of House Crakehall."

"From the westerlands, your coat of arms is of a brindled, white boar on a brownfield. None So Fierce are your Houses words."

"Aye..." Lord Crakehall spoke, his wariness of the Witcher overcome by surprise. Perhaps even a hint of approval. "You are well informed,..?"

"Just Geralt is fine, though Master Witcher works too if you're one for formality."

"On the contrary, my wife ever complains to my lack of it," Lord Crakehall laughed. "These are my squires, Merrett of House Frey and Jaime of House Lannister."

"Greetings to you as well, my lords."

"G-Greetings, Master Wi-Witcher..." Jaime and Merrett replied, the former almost gulping under the strangers snake-like gaze.

"Yes, the resemblance between you and Lord Tywin is strong indeed."

"You know my father?" Jaime asked, almost striking himself across the face for his foolishness. The man had been in the Red Keep for a week. Of course, he'd know the Hand of the King!

"Lord Tywin has been Geralt's host since he arrived," Ser Arthur answered, causing Jaime to go numb all-over again. "Ah, my manners remain poor, welcome lads, to the Red Keep! Are you well-rested? Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Thirsty for battle, I would say," Ser Barritan answered for them with a knowing grin. "With Lord Crakehall's permission, we can begin your training right now if you'd like."

Father riding the Black Dread reborn could not stop Jaime from accepting such an offer. Yet a stone appeared in his throat when a messenger approached them. Already, he feared something had changed again. Perhaps the Lord Hand wished to see his son immediately after all? It disappeared as quickly as it came when the message was only for the Witcher who stepped away to receive it. When he returned, there was uncertainty in his face.

"It seems the Grand Maester and I won't be exchanging information today. Some business with the Citadel will otherwise take up his afternoon."

"That may work in our favor," Ser Arthur. "I am quite a bit spent after our match. If you've nothing else to do, Geralt, could you aid Ser Barristan with the squires? I'm certain there is much they could learn from you. You've some experience as an instructor, as I recall you mentioning."

"For my daughter, yes," The Rivian confirmed, taking a moment to consider it, not that Jaime could understand his hesitation. To instruct a Lord Paramount's son, even for but an hour, was an honor no warrior would refuse. Particularly with Father's reputation. "Very well, my work is not so urgent that I can't help two aspiring knights along in their journey."

Again, Jaime wondered what work this man could have, was there another creature like the one which brought him to Westeros? He still doubted its existence... And yet, if there was, there could be some glory to be found there. Simply by the way this stranger moved and fought, his prey would have to be fearsome indeed. In fact, fighting against this Geralt of Rivia and proving his worth against him alone could be enough by itself for Jaime to earn his knighthood. Boys of his age had defeated great warriors thought unbeatable before. One of them was a man grown right next to him.

"Teach these lads how to fight half as well as you and they'll not aspire to knighthood for long," Lord Crakehall chortled, the Witcher only smiled faintly.

"I'll certainly try my best."

"If I may," Jaime said, stepping forward. "I would ask Master Geralt the honor of fighting me first."

"What a coincidence," The Witcher smiled wider, for a moment, Jaime's confidence wavered. "I was going to suggest that myself."

Chapter Text

"Enter," Geralt said from the desk, pretending he hadn't heard guard on the way down to his chambers. He only turned to look at the Red Cloak who's face was marred by some pox as a child, leaving him with many noticeable scars into adulthood, when he opened the door. "Yes?"

"Master Witcher," He bowed, accompanied by the noise of his armor clanking. "Lord Tywin has requested your presence in his solar."

Geralt could guess why. "Understood, please inform the Lord Hand I'll be up shortly."

The marred guard bowed again, closing the door on his way out. Judging by the sound of his labored breathing and slowing pace, the man would take his time returning to Tywin on his two-story trek. It meant Geralt would have enough time to complete the final chapter of Madness in Blood, the Fall of House Lohston by Maester Barker. One of several books given to him by Grand Maester Pycelle, many of which about the dark history of Harrenhal castle. This particular tome made as recently as but ten years prior, told the story of the second-to-last House to rule Harrenal.

Like all of their predecessors, including House Hoare, whose methods for constructing the monstrosity were far from bloodless, another's tragedy laid the foundation for House Lohston's. House Strong was annihilated in the Dance of the Dragons, the brutal Targaryen civil war, and possibly the worst conflict seen in these lands in centuries. The first Lord of Harrenhal to come from House Lohston was Lucas Lohston, a master-of-arms for the Red Keep elevated to high nobility through his marriage to Falena Stokeworth. He even became Hand of the King until he, his lady wife, and daughter were sent away from the Red Keep at Aegon the Unworthy's command.

The Lohston's ties to the dragon kings were far from over. Lord Lohston's wife and daughter became mistresses' to the fourth Aegon. His descendent earned himself an ill reputation as a traitor, siding against House Targaryen in-favor of House Blackfyre during the First Blackfyre Rebellion only to switch sides again when the tide began to turn. Then came the last, most despised of the Lohston's: Mad Danelle. Known as a practitioner of blood magic and cannibalism, the lady spent her last years of life killing countless innocents in her dark pursuits, bathing in their blood, and indulging in perverse rituals combining magic, human misery, and sex.

For the cause of this madness, the tale tells not. Understanding a monster was frequently more difficult and unpleasant for people than putting a sword through it. And to swords, it inevitably came down to. King Maekar Targaryen took action against the mad lady, assembling a sizable force to bring her to justice. Ser Walter Whent, now Lord Whent and ruler of Harrenhal, played a pivotal role in Danelle's downfall. Before they were lords, House Whent was a small noble family, offering knights to the Lohston's. It was their familiarity with Harrenhal, which allowed them to open the gates and turn what could have been a long, drawn-out disaster into a swift victory. Maekar himself cut off Danelle's head, burned her remains to ash, and cast them into the wind from atop the highest tower of Harrenhal.

So fell House Lohston, so rose House Whent. The misfortune of one elevating another. The actual foundation of Harrenhal, not stone, steel, sweat, or blood. Geralt was convinced the place was cursed by House Harroway, everything after only reinforced the idea. Every House appointed by the Targaryens to rule the castle was inevitably destroyed by them. At least one representative of each was known to have been involved sexually with someone in the royal family. Several of them rose high in the ruling governments of their time, ascending to the position of Hand of the King.

Too many repeating occurrences to simply wave aside as coincidences. Places of great human suffering, pain, and death eventually gained a sort of aura about them. Drawing more of each to the spot years down the line, perpetuating them ad infinitum. What Harren the Black purportedly did to simply build the place alone would've been enough to attract to stir trouble years down the line. Yet on a world where the power was diminished, the end result of such issues wouldn't necessarily be magical in nature, unless the starting point itself was magic. Such as thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children being burned alive by a massive dragon oozing with the power even centuries after his death.

As Geralt stepped away from the desk, dressing for the next insufferable evening with Aerys, he recalled Ser Oswell's story after their sparring match.

"Harrenhal is home to strange sights and sounds, Master Witcher," The Kingsguard said, running a cloth along his sword at the table they sat at. "The flapping of unseen birds at the mews, the patter of footfalls from someplace down its many long hallways belonging to no one, lone torches lit in halls and rooms none reside in. Strange to be sure yet as my father says, naught that can't be explained."

Yet even as he spoke those words, the grave stare he gave to his sword showed he was unconvinced of them.

"What cannot be explained by tricks of the mind or children playing at ghosts to frighten others with is... Something I witnessed as a lad of but seven years of age, a frightening experience which robbed me of sleep for many moons thereafter. I was returning from my lessons with the Maester, bored of quills and lectures, and eager for the practice sword. I cannot say when or how I lost my way, I'd gone down the endless steps countless times. On that day, however, my memory and wits failed me.

"I pressed onward, unafraid... For a time. I was to be a knight, and knights were not afeared of anything, certainly not losing themselves inside their own home. I kept telling myself this, too young and stupid to know better. Soon enough, I began noticing drops of water in my path, in places without holes in the roof, and where no rain had fallen for weeks. I paid it no mind, even playing a game of avoiding the puddles which grew with every new one... Until a thirst took me. I thought to drink from the water, to my regret.

"There, in the crystal clear puddle, as I knelt, my heart plummeted to oblivion, and icy fear froze my blood. In the water, there was the flame, and amongst the fire stood a man. He seemed a knight, though his coat of arms was impossible to say for his armor was black. His wet hair stock to his charred skin and where a man has eyes, he had naught save empty holes. He... Tried to speak but his tongue... It was melted... After that-"

"After that, you made another puddle when you pissed yourself," Ser Lewyn said at the time, wearing a new suit of armor and laughing.

"Others take you, brother," Ser Whent sounded aggrieved only for a moment before laughing with him. Perhaps Leywn did not notice or care to comment, but to Geralt's ears, the laughter seemed forced. When asked about his birth date a bit later that day, Ser Oswell said it was 245 years after the Conquest. The incident occurred the same year as the 250th anniversary of Aegon torching Harrenhal to a smoldering ruin. The event gained no great attention amongst the Whent family, why should it? It was nothing but the wild imagination of a boy.

Did the Lady Danelle suffer a similar trauma? Further examination revealed she'd been born around the 200th anniversary. Yet, the signs of madness were not apparent until much later in life. Who could say, magic and madness could be and frequently were mutually exclusive. In this case, the Witcher doubted very much that they were. Putting the matter from his thoughts for the day, Geralt checked himself in the mirror close to the garderobe then checked if another lackey of Varys' was spying on him from the rung ladder. None that he could hear, this time.

Nor did he hear any on his way up to Tywin's quarters atop the tower. Geralt found him, unsurprisingly, deep amidst official paperwork, two stacks of which stuck out quite prominently to his left side. To his right was a cask of ale with two cups. One of which was already placed at guests' end of the table for his convenience.

"Lord Hand," Geralt said, bowing his head, eyes straining with the setting sun shining into his face. "You wished to see me?"

"Of course, be seated Geralt, we will begin our business shortly," A few more papers required his attention and the Witcher was glad for them. His considerable stack proved the perfect means of blocking the sun's rays once he sat down.

"My apologies for interrupting, but would you mind if I began my newly acquired drinking habit earlier this evening?" Geralt inquired, nodding at the cask.

"Help yourself."

He did so and found the taste of the Arbor wine as delightful as ever. The scent alone was enough to calm Geralt even in Aerys' presence, and in the time it required for Tywin to end his duties, he closed his eyes and basked in its sweet taste.

"Mm, I'll have to take some of that with me when I return home."

"And when may this be?"

"Difficult to say," Geralt answered truthfully, putting the cup down. "It depends on a great many factors. Why do you ask, Lord Tywin? Is there some reason I should hurry along?"

"Quite the opposite in fact," He placed a final stamp bearing the kings seal onto the paper, setting it aside atop the stack. "I understand your usual meeting with Pycelle did not come to pass today."

"Indeed, it seems some urgent matter required his immediate attention. Leaving me free to spend the afternoon reading about destroyed Houses and train with your son, Jaime. Judging by your absence at his arrival, and by the paperwork mountain on your desk, I would say you weren't able to greet him until not too long ago yourself."

"A most interesting series of events which you no doubt pieced together within minutes," Tywin said, leaning back into his seat. "Let us speak plainly then, Master Witcher, what do you think of him?"

"Truthfully? His skill with the sword is considerable," Geralt answered and meant it. Though still a boy, possibly no older than fifteen or sixteen, Jaime Lannister fought better than most men Geralt had crossed swords with, men twice his age and some even thrice his experience. Ser Barristan chose the Frey boy, citing a brother or cousin of his who impressed him at some tourney as an example of a fine Frey knight. Geralt and Jaime went after, using blunt weapons even as the Witcher saw a frown of distaste cross the boys face at this fact.

The rules were a revised version of what Geralt and Ser Arthur used, the first to fall five times was the loser. The boy didn't use a shield, opting to use a single longsword. Not out of arrogance, the Witcher saw, but of simple preference, he wasn't the type for trying to withstand his opponent. This one preferred the dance of blades. This is precisely what it turned into moments after Ser Barristan told them to begin. Jaime wasted not a moment trying to score a blow, his blunted sword whirling in his hand into a thrust.

Geralt smacked it aside and counter-attacked with a swing, the squire saw it coming and deftly twisted his head to the opposite side, wrist already angling his sword for another attack. Geralt avoided this as well, spinning his blade into an intentionally quick series of circles and semi-circles to confuse him. Jaime responded well, however. His sword met Geralt's time and again, even if the Witcher was holding back considerably. On and on this went during their first bout, the young lion using the seemingly boundless energy of youth against the Witcher, severely holding back to test his capabilities. There was another reason for his offensive dervish, fear.

Though the boy tried to hide it through a mask of concentration and exertion, Geralt's purposefully unblinking, emotionless stare seemed to hold him back.

"What's wrong?" He asked, boring his viper-eyes into the squire's green ones, his sword deflecting a swing. "Does this look frighten you?"

"N-No!"

"I should hope so, never let your enemies face make you scared, lax, or fooled. Your body must be ready to move, to defend, to kill, at the mere instinctual presence of danger."

To hammer the point home, Geralt kept fighting him this way well into the fifth bout after Jaime had fallen four times beforehand. By then, the boy seemed to catch on, afeared still but fighting it back, drawing strength from the defiant counter glare he offered the Witcher. His stamina remained impressive throughout, despite the countless strikes they'd sent against one another, Jaime in the last round was barely any slower or sloppier than the one from the first.

It was during this final exchange that Geralt decided to test his personality in other ways. Feigning weakness, the Witcher allowed himself to get pushed back and back, intentionally missing strikes and even letting the boy's sword bruise him on the right shoulder. The change in demeanor was swift and troubling, the focus he'd acquired when fighting a superior shifted into arrogance. He couldn't help but smile cockily, his head no doubts imagining a million fantasies of gloriously defeating the man who'd bested the entire Kingsguard.

Geralt put a stop to it quickly, the shift in the balance of power occurring so swiftly Jaime's mouth would've gone agape if the Witcher gave him enough time for such a luxury. With the same speed he'd used to defeat Ser Arthur, Geralt unleashed a veritable storm of thrusts, swings, counter attacks, ripostes, and even a pirouette or two. To the boy's swordsmanship credit, Jaime withstood the barrage for a while longer than expected, letting his body instinctually move and react when his mind could barely comprehend anything.

When his back hit the ground for the fifth time, Geralt offered him a hand up. The squire's response was to begrudgingly take it, even as the Witcher could already hear his teeth grind. If it was just the two of them, his reaction would've been far less respectful, Geralt had seen enough from Ciri to gauge petulance in a child from a glance. Acting like a scorned little boy in front of his two heroes kept him in check, to a point.

"You acquitted yourself well, young Lannister," Geralt said, meaning every word even as the squire before him didn't know whether to take comfort or offense from them. "But a fight isn't won until your enemy is defeated or dead. Out there, your arrogance will cost you dearly."

"Y-Yes, Master Witcher," He responded with a forced tone of respect, bowing his head. "Thank you for the lessons."

After that, he and Ser Barristan went several more rounds. Geralt did not participate in anymore. He stayed on the sidelines to observe how the boy thought and acted with one of his heroes. As before, his swordwork was impeccable, the rest...

"He won his first tourney melee at the age of three and ten," Lord Tywin explained, not smiling but with a hint of pride in his eyes. "At my behest, the Kingsguard have offered to continue his training, to finish what Lord Crakehall has begun."

"He'll go far, I would even dare say that in a few years, he will be a match for the likes of Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur."

"Not better?"

"Perhaps," Geralt shrugged, knowing the point of this conversation was drawing close. "They've set the bar quite high. Your son most definitely has the potential to realize it, he fights with a natural talent many would envy."

"I am aware of this, and I would see this potential realized."

"And who better to do it than the man who's already far and away superior to the current Kingsguard crop?"

This time, the Lord Hand almost smiled. "Quite so, and as you've told us the other evening, you have experience as a sword instructor."

"That I do," Geralt nodded, with pride in his voice as well. "My daughter Ciri is, without question, one of the best fighters there or even here. Though I don't take full credit for it, several of my Witcher brothers and instructor helped make her what she is."

"Then let us arrive at the heart of the matter at all, I offer you a great opportunity, Geralt, a chance to tutor not only the son of a Great House of Westeros. But an heir to one. It is a matter most important, and one I would not trust anyone so lightly. Jaime is the future of House Lannister, our name, our reputation, our power... it all rests on his shoulders, and I will see that all three continue well after I am naught but dust and bone."

"The legacy of House Lannister must remain strong, by any means necessary," Geralt continued, omitting the word supremacy.

"Precisely, and you are just such a man to help see it become a reality. I have already taken the necessary steps to ensure the means of performing such exercises and will compensate you for your efforts most generously. Aerys cannot know of this. And so, you will train in secret, within the Tower of the Hand. There are a number of chambers and places well suited to the task. Rest assured, I will make it painfully clear to him never to reveal the existence of these lessons, and silent he will remain."

They would have to do such exercises even earlier in the morning, before their schedules, as everyone else knew them, began. Not impossible for him, Geralt had grown accustomed to doing more with less sleep.

"You will also be generously compensated for your efforts."

"Supposing I do accept this agreement, let's keep the means of my payment something to discuss for later. I've already got three hundred golden dragons in my chambers and nothing to spend them on."

Aerys, appreciable for a change, rewarded Geralt for the Brotherhood's destruction. Though an official bounty had not been issued for them, three hundred golden coins seemed quite a fair sum. In truth, it was more than fair. Geralt never left the Red keep and thus spent not a single one of them. Tywin accepted this with a nod, even as his eyes grew suspicious at the word "Supposing."

"In truth, Lord Hand, I wonder how much I can even do for your son."

"Explain."

"Firstly," Geralt leaned forward, filling his cup again. "The training of a Witcher requires a wide assortment of specific equipment you can only find at Kaer Morhen, far, far away from here. I speak of large training machines that would be impossible to transport, place, and use someplace discretely. You'd have to put them atop one of the Red Keep's battlements. I'm also no builder, I can't give you the specifics of their construction no matter how much money you offer me.

"Second," Geralt took a swing of the wine. "The fighting style of a Witcher is ill-suited to the kind of warrior your son will be. It requires speed and space to maneuver. Jaime will be fighting in heavier armor, surrounded by hundreds or thousands of others just like him in the piss and shit covered fields and city walls. Places where a man is just as likely to fall to an enemy sword as he is to his own comrades crushing him to death.

"Lastly," Geralt placed the cup down, looking Tywin in the eye. "When I trained my daughter, she was much younger and had no prior experience. She was moldable into whatever kind of warrior one could want her to be. Your son isn't. He's been squiring for years and has ingrained fighting techniques. To start teaching him in something quite different would confuse and set him back. I can, of course, teach him about footwork, help him fight well with his other hand, let him incorporate some Witcher techniques applicable to his style. Make no mistake, though, Lord Tywin, Jaime can't ever fight like me."

The head of House Lannister did not respond, he didn't even grip his armchairs. Instead, he looked... Conflicted, the same expression his son wore the day before. Furious at the seeming refusal Geralt was giving him and perhaps even impressed by the way he was doing it? Tywin had no doubt spent many, many years of his life amongst idiots, men whose reasons for failing were laziness or incompetence. He couldn't number Geralt among them, not with the rational reasons provided for it.

After the way he reminded the Witcher of Emhyr, with all his talk of a child being first and foremost the means of securing some legacy, Geralt enjoyed watching him squirm a bit. But, Lord Tywin was also the closest thing he had to a true, powerful ally save Pycelle. And besides, he pitied the boy more than he may dislike the father.

"And yet," Geralt said, in a more placating tone of voice. "I suspect your son doesn't have to be close to my way of fighting to realize his potential. His larger problems are up here," He tapped the side of his head. "May I speak plainly?"

"You've found no compulsion to do otherwise so far, why stop now?"

"Your son needs to get his head out of his ass. He's gifted with the sword, and his training thus far has brought it out spectacularly. He knows this all too well. The instant I feigned losing my strength and gave ground, your son foolishly walked into my trap. The smirk on his face said it all: I'm about to achieve incredible glory! It doesn't matter how little sense my act made, his head was in the clouds, and I threw him down easier that time than all the previous ones.

"Ser Barristan later performed the same trick on him later and, the boy fell for it again, though he had enough courtesy to bob his head up and down in understanding more convincingly there. But he doesn't understand, not really. The world may let you suffer your flights of fancy in a training yard, but out there? Not a chance. He'll do or say something stupid and lose his head for it."

Again, Geralt's speech was met with silence by Lord Tywin, though he appeared far less conflicted than before. There was some fury there, doubtlessly he misliked anyone speaking so brazenly ill of his golden air. And yet, there was something else too... A look of respect?

"An astute examination, Master Witcher," He replied, slowly. "Yes, I am aware of my sons... Tendency towards foolishness. Even as a boy, he and his sister both would perform dangerous stunts simply to show they could."

"Fearlessness, talent and arrogance, a dangerous combination but not an unfixable one. There is something I can share with your son to help him overcome this, something besides fighting better with a sword."

"Which is?"

"My experience," Geralt said, knowing this would work and be far, far kinder to the boy than whatever else the world may use to correct this mistake for him. Because the Witcher himself had experienced how quickly life can shatter your wildest dreams. He had been a boy gifted with the sword, all too aware of it, and dogmatically convinced he could fix everything wrong by swinging it about.

Chapter Text

Jaime barely slept that night, his thoughts as restless as a caged lion's with fresh meat just behind steel bars. His first day at Kings Landing was all he'd hoped it to be... And more, or perhaps less? He could not decide yet. He'd met the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold, his heroes since he was but a boy, trained with them, found himself on the receiving end of their remarkable swordsmanship. Every bruise, every defeat from them? It was a reward, a badge of honor. Jaime could not hate them for it, they were the best of the best, but to stalemate them in a single duel was already more than he could ever hope to do.

And then there was the Witcher. A stranger with those frightening eyes, who's technique was unlike any Jaime had ever seen before. It was fast yet powerful, staunch, and reliable, a blur of motion closer to dance. No one had ever pushed him to such a point before, leaving his body drenched, his arms sore, and his pride more than a little bruised. For every moment he enjoyed it, there was another he loathed fiercely. This man, no knight, of no noble birth whatsoever, was besting him. Besting the likes of Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and the entire rest of the Kingsguard. It could not be so, Jaime simply could not accept this.

It had to be because of his unorthodox fighting technique. Doubtlessly it gave him an advantage rooted in a knights unfamiliarity with it. Once this was taken away, his superiority would disappear with it. Jaime tirelessly spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, attempting to unlock the secrets to this fighting form. He was so distracted, Cersei became cross with him, and though he apologized, it was only done half-heartedly. Then Father invited him to his solar, and Jaime's musings were replaced by a predatory excitement.

"Master Geralt and I have come to an agreement, henceforth, until such time as your training is deemed complete by him, you will train together. Here, within the Tower of the Hand, in chambers, I've already emptied for your convenience. I brought you here to hone your skills, to learn from the best, and Geralt numbers among them. You will do as he tells you, follow every command from him as though it came from me. All but this one order which I shall pass onto you now: absolute discretion is mandatory. None can know of this arrangement for reasons of court intrigue save for us three, not even your sister. If it even momentarily appears this secrecy has been undermined, I will personally send you back to the westerlands and ensure you never see a single tourney for the next five years. At least."

The instant the rooster crowed, Jaime all but flew out of his bed. He freshened up with a splash of cold water left for him the night before, filled the pissing bowl near to the top, dressed then rushed from his chambers. The daunting length of the Tower of the Hand seemed to vanish during his descent, the stationed guards and winding steps disappearing in a blur. The chamber Father had cleared for them was a dining room, capable of seating thirty guests. The tables had been dismantled or moved, and the benches bushed to the far corners of the room. On the opposite side, sitting on steps leading to an outside balcony was the Witcher.

Clad in the same attire as from the day before, the Rivian paid no heed to him, almost lazily reading some tome Jaime did not recognize. His bandolier and twin blades were to his immediate left, while a pair of blunted swords laid to his right. Not accustomed to people not greeting him when he entered someplace, Jaime felt irritated as the foreigner continued to ignore him even as his steps were deliberately quite loud. Halfway across the small hall, the Witcher's eye met Jaime's, and once again, the heir of House Lannister momentarily struggled to meet them. But only for just that instant.

"Good morning," Jaime said first as the silence stretched out, even giving the Rivian a courtesy bow of his head.

"To you as well, Jaime," The Witcher replied in that hoarse, grating voice of his, remaining seated. With far more effort than one of his proven physicality required, he eventually got to his feet and leisurely strolled to the nearest bench.

Ignoring the pang of irritation at his failure to address a Lord's heir properly, Jaime eyed his two swords with interest. From what Ser Barristan said, they were capable of carving through even the armor of a Kingsguard. Could they be Valyrian Steel? Or perhaps the same meteor substance Dawn was forged from? Or something else entirely. To try such a blade would be most interesting indeed. Perhaps, Father could even buy one from him...?

"Don't even think about it," The Witcher said without turning around, breaking Jaime's reverie. "The only one way you're touching either of those swords is with my permission or from my corpse."

The latter could be arranged if his insolence continued. "Not gold? My Lord Father could pay you handsomely for them. A Lannister-"

"Always pays his debts, I know," He walked back. "And no amount of gold he or anyone else from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond could match their worth. A Witcher's swords are his life. I'd no sooner part with mine than Ser Arthur would sell Dawn."

"You speak as though their worth is remotely comparable."

"One of them was capable of withstanding several direct blows from Dawn without a scratch," The Rivian said as casually as one may comment on the sky. "Blows meant to kill, might I add."

While Jaime stared, dumbstruck by this revelation, the Witcher walked past his swords and took hold of the blunted steel. Jaime caught it enough, his irritation growing at the thought of using lesser practice equipment when he'd already fought in actual combat with live steel. A fact his Father most definitely would have told the Witcher. Still, this Geralt of Rivia's word was law while they trained and so he said nothing.

"Three days," He spoke, twisting the sword about with circular, smooth motions of his wrist and fingers. "Through the next three days, we will perform a preliminary test of sorts. To see if you've got what it takes to succeed the training I've got in mind for you. If you do so, then I will share some of the secrets to the Witcher arts. If you don't, our business is ended. And yes, your Father is aware of this. Don't go crying to him in the event of failure."

"I don't cry," Jaime replied, clutching his pommel tightly. "But my enemies do when I've bested them!"

Without care for chivalry, Jaime thrust his sword in a feint, switching quickly into a swing meant to strike the insolent cur across the face. The Witcher did not immediately move, standing like a statue. In a quick motion, the foreigner tossed his sword from the right hand to the left and blocked the swing. Jaime, undeterred, swung again and again, in a quick succession of blows and counter blows. Firstly with one hand, and then two, each one with all the force behind it he could muster. Men twice his age and size would've already been overwhelmed, fallen on their arses by the third or fourth. The Witcher did not number among them. His blocks but with one hand were more than enough to render Jaime's two-handed swings useless. His evades were impossibly quick, nimble beyond description.

Even as Jaime circled about him, the Witcher only shifted position to keep the two remained facing one another. His look was severe, and his face chiseled from stone. It only made his frustration worse, the inability to crack defense, or infallible facade. It was unlike anything he'd faced before. Even more so than what he'd done yesterday. Jaime felt no honor or gratification from fighting like this, losing this way, only fury.

Eventually, amidst this rush of this one-sided battle, the Witcher smirked, doing something no sane warrior would ever do, he tossed his sword aside. Jaime would have shouted, had the Witcher not almost leisurely side-stepped his thrust. The Young Lion barely kept his balance thanks to years of practice, it did not make his failing about any less humiliating.

"You!" He spun around, pointing his sword at the Witcher. "What game are you playing? Pick up your sword!"

"Why should I? It's painfully clear to me I don't need it, not against someone like you."

"I care not what you need, I'll not fight an unarmed man. Even an arrogant one such as you. Now, pick it up and fight me properly!"

The Rivian stood there, eyes squinting imperceptibly. Then, with the only show of proper respect so far, nodded, kicking the practice sword into the air and snatching it. A neat trick, Jaime thought before attacking again. They played at this mummers farce for a while longer until even Jaime's rage could not compensate for weariness. He'd failed to realize how much time has passed. A momentary pause let the ache of his arms, and stickiness of drenched hair settle in. Outside, the sun's shine grew with each passing moment, the previous night all but vanished.

"That's enough for today," The Witcher said, turning his back to him and putting the practice sword down. "Get some rest, you'll need it for your training with the Kingsguard."

"W-What?!" Jaime stared, incredulous as the Rivian slung the bandolier across his chest. "We've done nothing!"

"On the contrary, I've learned much today. Keep a cooler head going forward, and you might do the same. See you tomorrow."

With that dismissal, the Witcher left the hall and Jaime alone staring after him, wondering what in Seven fucking Hell he'd just participated in. He could not see reason in any of it. Was it all to test how long Jaime could fight? His patience? Self-control? Or some elaborate plot to humiliate Tywin Lannister's sun under the guise of training? To his great shame, Jaime considered going to his Lord Father a while as he trudged back to his chambers. Such an act would prove the Witcher right, that he was naught but a boy who would run to his parent when something didn't go his way. It was the last time he'd even entertain such a fool notion.

The Witcher did not participate in the days sparring matches, opting to remain by the side with the same tome he'd brought to their training. From what Ser Oswell said in a jape, it was some book detailing the history of the Night's Watch. What could he possibly want with some group of cutthroats, purse-snatchers, and other criminals of the realm exiled to the Northern wastes to the end of their days? And why was it more important than giving Jaime another chance at besting him? The thought irked him to no end, well into the morning of the next day.

It began much the same as their last training, Jaime, ready and eager to fight, the Witcher scrutinizing the same tome as though it held all the answers, ignoring the heir of House Lannister. Did he steal this from Father, who was wont to keep someone waiting under the veneer of work only to annoy them? He'd learned well if such was the case.

"You're unusually quiet today," The Rivian said, turning to the next page.

"I'm merely considering the myriad of ways I've in store to defeat you, foreigner."

"None of which will work, as you well know. Or rather, you should know, if your pride wasn't so wounded."

"Hand me a sword, and we'll see how right you are."

Jaime could not help but fume when he chose for more blunted steel. If it was a proper weapon, the results would be quite different. He knew this to be true.

"Ready?"

"Yes-" A moment later, the Witcher struck. Jaime was so surprised it was only his honed fighting instincts that prevented a blow to the stomach. He tried to riposte the thrust only for the Rivian to perform one of those spinning motions of his, completely changing the course of his next action. The blur he'd encountered during their first match returned with a vengeance, his attacks ceaseless, swift, powerful. Jaime's pitiful attempts at a counter strike worked to his advantage as well, the Witcher seemed to let the blow carry him on, to reposition himself into even deadlier strike than before.

Jaime's perpetual retreat, his faltering defense, brought him to the edge of the hall where the benches were pushed aside. On the nearest one was the Witcher's tome. For an instant, it crossed his mind to grab it, perhaps use it as a weapon or a shield to deter his opponent. The act may even give him a chance to score a hit of his own. But it would not matter. It would be a blow earned through trickery and surprise, not from true skill of the blade. And so Jaime threw the notion aside, grit his teeth and weathered the storm of sword strikes until his arms ached, his chest was on fire, and his knees quivered.

"You should've gone for my book," The Witcher said, walking back to his bandolier at the terrace steps. "Using it to deter me from attacking, even for an instant, would've given you a chance to turn things around."

"... You'd have me resort to trickery?" Jaime panted out, struggling to stay up. "Never... Either I best my enemy with the sword alone or-"

"Or you'll die," He wrapped the bandolier around himself, looking at Jaime as he walked to tome. "Chivalry, fairness, even in a knights tourney, these things aren't absolute. Much less out there in the real world where a desperate enough man will try to slit your throat for your boots. While you sleep."

"The knights of the Kingsguard wouldn't-"

"They most certainly would, they're good men, in many ways honorable men, but they're not stupid. They can and have used trickery and other less than chivalrous methods to win a fight... Or cope with their everyday lives," The Witcher's took the tome under his arm. "If you don't believe me, ask them out in the sparring yard."

Just to spite the bastard, Jaime silently vowed to do precisely this and prove him wrong when next they met. Fortunately, his tutors for the day were Sers Leywn and Ser Barristan. Men who fought against the last Blackfyre pretenders in their youth, attaining knighthood and membership into the Kingsguard for it, respectively. If any could prove the falsehood of the Witcher's lies, it would be them. Instead of receiving vindication, Jaime only found surprise and disappointment.

"The songs and books have no doubt sung my praises aplenty," Ser Barristan said, smiling as though it were no great matter at all. "Aye, I did fight my way to Maelys, even as dozens of other men fell to his sword, and dozens more fled away from it. Soon enough, it was just the two of us, given a wide berth as though a sparring ring was around. It began as the tales say, two men crossing swords, each waiting for the moment to strike, to win. Until the mad dog rushed me, once I'd disarmed him, pushing me into the dirt. After that, there was little gallantry. We'd spent near enough time punching, clawing, trying to choke one another out as we did sword fighting. It was only at the very end when we'd somehow reclaimed our weapons in the mire and dirt that I ran the Monstrous through. It's a blessing most of my teeth were left by the end of it."

"At least your victory was in single combat," Ser Leywn snorted, showing even more mirth even as Jaime silently despaired. "I was knighted for rushing the enemy line, holding fast even as my comrades fell or ran off. Crap, all of it. My horse panicked and threw me from the saddle over the pike well, it was only the fear of death, battle madness, and grabbing some Tyroshi sellsword as a meatshield that saw me live long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Any other man would've been speared through or broken every bone."

The rest of the afternoon continued to be a miserable one. Jaime's thoughts were far from the sparring ring, imagining Ser Lewyn flung from his horse, Ser Barristan beating a man in the dirt and mud like some smallfolk tavern brawler. It would be amusing if it wasn't a knife twisting in his heart. His performance suffered, his hand was slow and clumsy, his footwork appalling. For the first time since he'd begun training properly, Lord Crakehall found him lacking while Merrett Frey came out the better of the two. How dearly he wished for the Witcher to be there, to challenge him before one and all, proper steel in hand and best the prick. He chose that day to forego the sparring yard entirely, spending it with Grand Maester Pycelle or in his chambers.

Jaime did not unleash his fury on anyone. He accepted Lord Carkehall's criticisms, the Kingsguard's advice, the Frey's japes, Father's silent looks, and Cersei's growing disdain for the distance between them. All would be well once the Witcher's arse was knocked upon a stone floor. He did not rush from his chambers, or down the steps, no, Jaime saved every ounce of strength in his body for their final sparring match. The Witcher had no tome with his this time, nor did he wear the metal-studded leather jacket. Instead, he wore a simple, white short with folded sleeves. Revealing the end of a scar on his chest, and one on his right forearm, and a strange wolf-headed medallion dangling from his neck.

Jaime met his eyes unflinchingly, right-hand opening, and closing. So focused was he on letting the viper-eyed bastard know he was not intimidated that he neglected to notice the absence of blunted practice swords. The only blades in the room, near as he could tell, were in the scabbards carried by The Witcher.

"I believe you wanted to try one of these?" He inquired, unsheathing the blade and tossing it to Jaime in one smooth motion. What immediately took him by surprise was the weight of it, more precisely the weightlessness. Despite being around fifty inches from the pommel bottom to the tip, the blade was lighter than castle-forged steel. Its grip, made for either one or two hands with a steel ring dividing the handle, fit perfectly into his palm.

"Go ahead, try it out." The Rivian said, Jaime idly nodded and began to move the blade about, checking its balance, performing rudimentary wrist spins and swings to get his bearings. The sword seemed to almost shimmer as it cut and glided through the air.

"These words, what do they mean?" Jaime asked, trying to make sense of them to no avail.

"They're runes, Dwarven runes, and no, I'm not making a joke about your brother," He unsheathed the other blade, of comparable length to the first though with some differences. The crossguard was straight, not curved, a series of indentations were built along each side, running almost the full length of it. The wolf symbol built into the bottom of the pommel was carved into a ring, while Jaime's had a replica of the Witcher's medallion.

"Where I come from, runes can turn even an ordinary sword into something much more dangerous. The one you're holding is the blade I tested against Dawn. This one I used to cut the Smiling Knight almost in two."

"A pretty tale to be sure, but I've you to thank for not believing in them anymore."

"Your newfound bitterness is as stupid as it is unconvincing," The Witcher said with more bite to his voice. "I see I'll have to knock some more sense into you before you see things clearly."

"We'll see," Jaime said through grit teeth, his hand already growing accustomed to the sword. Things would be different this time, now it was live steel. Every blow could be fatal, ever mistake a death sentence. It was in such bouts that Jaime felt the most alive when his skills shined the most brightly. They had to.

The Rivian took a high stance, sword held-over-head diagonally, legs spread apart and knees bent. Jaime did the same, intending to meet and overpower him. Slowly, carefully, the two circled one another, Lannister to the left and Witcher to the right. They moved almost in unison, colliding in the very center of the hall. Jaime lost almost immediately. The force of the Witcher's strike not only overpowered his but flung the sword from the Young Lion's hands before Jaime could even perceive what happened a sword was pressed against the left side of his throat. He stared at it, blinking and shivering at the touch of steel.

"Pick it up," The Witcher said, no, commanded in a tone that brokered no disagreement or place for negotiation. Jaime moved away, resisting the urge to check his throat for any injury. Instead, he tried to stoke the fires of his anger, to ensure the next attack was stronger and faster than the last.

The Witcher switched stances again, this time into a hanging left pointed at his opponent. Jaime did not bother to wait this time, opting to strike first. The Rivian's riposte left him off balance instantaneously, stumbling like a fool again. By the time Jaime turned around for a swing, the swords fuller struck his wrist, leaving him weaponless and open to another blade press against his throat.

"Pick it up," The Witcher shoved him this time, and Jaime fell. He was too stunned by how wrong everything was going to even protest or brace himself. This wasn't meant to be, he was supposed to be doing better with live steel, not worse than ever before. "Pick it up!"

Like a stumbling Frey oaf, Jaime's hand darted across the stone floor and searched for the sword. Once it was within his grasp, some of his confidence returned. So long as there was a blade to wield, Jaime had a chance to win. This was what he kept telling himself even as the Witcher readied for the following strike. There was no stance this time. Instead, the white-haired beast hunter marched forward, spinning his sword in dazzlingly quick, circular, and half-circular motions, switching it deftly between both hands. With each passing moment, the rotations hastened, creating a dizzying endless storm of motion.

So overwhelmed was Jaime by it, his shaken resolve and everything else that'd happened, he didn't realize the tip of Geralt's sword was pressed against his throat. When, how? It was impossible to tell. It was also impossible to move, even the merest act of gulping would cause the blade to rend his flesh in two. Jaime stopped breathing, his sword handshaking incessantly even after the Witcher took his sword back. Once he walked away, the Young Lion gasped for air and slumped onto the ground, checking his throat for any sign of cuts. None could be found.

He could have killed me... The realization turned his blood into ice and doused the final embers of his rage. He could have killed him any single number of times, not merely this day, but in all the others they'd fought. Even with a blunted sword, the Witcher could no doubt cave a man's head open with a single swing. Perhaps even with his bare hands...

"You're beginning to understand," Geralt's voice made Jaime involuntarily shiver. "The most painful lesson every young man must learn: your own fallibility."

Fail, at fighting? The notion was absurd, impossible to even imagine, yet... There he was. Frightened, shaken, desperately clutching his throat to search for a phantom injury. How, how could it have come to this? He asked the question endlessly, and just as ceaselessly, the answer evaded him. Was he simply not good enough? Was all his vaunted potential as a swordsman truly for naught?! As he tried to make sense of it all, he noticed the Rivian remove his shirt, casting it aside on the floor. What Jaime saw across his chest and arms were scars, countless, horrible scars. Numbering two dozen at the very least, most caused by fangs or claws from creatures he dreaded to even imagine. To suffer even a fraction of these injuries... How, how was this man even alive?!

"Some of these injuries I received when I was like you, young and inexperienced," Geralt said, his voice like steel. "But I assure you Jaime, the vast majority of them were received even when I'd become older and wiser. When I was fully committed to the fight, killing my enemy before it could kill me. And I still almost died three times the number of years you've been alive."

He tapped his chest with his sword. "Now, what do you think would've happened to me, someone who is far and away your superior, if I'd done what you do? Allowed thoughts of glory, pride, or rage to slow me down or guided my sword?"

Then he pointed the blade at Jaime, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Now, I want you to think about what will happen to you?"

The answer he'd look for came to Jaime, in all its horrible clarity. As though a sword had been run right through him.

Chapter Text

"Something troubling you, Jaime?"

"... What...? Oh, n-no, Father. I'm merely thinking..."

"We should send a raven to the Citadel at once, history is in the making before our very eyes."

Jaime's quiet consideration, not brooding, ended entirely with the remark of his dear, sweet sister Cersei. Sitting in the seat to Father's left, his twin was as lovely as ever. Glinting green eyes full of amusement with her own cleverness, a smile too friendly to be authentic and glowing, golden hair intricately woven into a braid running down her right shoulder. What a pity it would be if someone were to fling a piece of venison across the table into those meticulously cared for curls. If Father wasn't present, Jaime would've done so already, were his mood merrier, he might've done other things as well. Yet Father was there, and truthfully, Jaime's interests were occupied by other matters. Such as the question...

"Droll, dear sister, very droll," Jaime smiled, attempting to look and sound his usual self. "And here I thought you'd be proud of me for sparring a thought to a given matter."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction even as the smile persisted. "Of course, I'm glad, I merely wonder if you've taken this new habit too far already. Thinking is all you seem to do as of late when you're not fighting."

When you should pay heed to me was her unspoken point.

"If Jaime wishes to consider a matter of importance carefully, he should be allowed to do so," Father said, silencing Cersei with a glance. "I encourage it, in-fact. So long as it is a matter deserving of such scrutiny?"

"It is, I'm merely... Unaccustomed to approaching matters this way."

He very deliberately avoided looking at Cersei, focusing instead on Father. Not for the first or last time that day, he'd considered asking him for advice. If there was any man in the Seven Kingdoms known and feared for his... solutions to any and all issues, it was Tywin Lannister. Try as he might, however fancifully, Jaime could not imagine receiving the aid he so wished. Cersei, as dear as she was to him, would help him even less. She would try to emulate Father, providing the same useless solution or find the question too perplexing to bother thinking much at all.

Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell were two he'd also considered asking without ever doing so. They would speak of the duty of knights, to defend their king, their liege lord, the smallfolk, their family. This was closer to the truth, to a point. If a sixth Blackfyre pretender appeared the next day, invading the Stepstones or Westeros, Jaime would go out and fight them just as Father and his brothers did. Would duty alone spur him into doing so? A pretty thought to be sure, not one he believed entirely.

"Then learn," Father said as if it was nothing at all. "Once you are Lord of Casterly Rock, every action, great or small, will require careful consideration. A sword will only ever take you so far."

Once Jaime may have silently scoffed at the idea, now? Perhaps there was more truth to it than he realized. Once their family dinner for the evening passed, Jaime returned to his quarters, angering Cersei again when she suggested some elaborate attempt to sneak out of the Red Keep.

"Be mindful dear brother," She hissed on the steps separating the top and second floors. "I'll not take kindly to this new habit of yours for long."

Jaime could not help but laugh in her face, even after she struck him and fled down the steps. He had never much feared his dear sister, finding her anger more amusing than fearsome. It was doubly so now. What were the threats of an angry sibling next to the press of cold steel against one's throat? If nothing else, Cersei helped distract him from the past few day's events. He could not help but laugh on even as he laid down into bed. Unlike the past few nights, Jaime managed to sleep decently enough. An improvement over the rage-fueled half-dreams which plagued him during his madness against Geralt.

The next morning, the Young Lion took his time arriving at the next sparring session. Partly to buy himself more time for an answer and out of fear for failing this last test. Geralt awaited him in much the same way as before, sitting at the far side of the room on the terrace steps. A new book was in his hand, something concerning the Age of Heroes. Practice blades were there again, along with a thick piece of cloth.

"Good morning," Jaime said first, bowing his head.

"To you too," Geralt returned the gesture, setting his book aside. "Looks like you slept well."

"Well enough," He awkwardly answered, trying not to shift from place to place. "I've thought about it... What you asked me yesterday before we parted... What it is that I fight for..."

"Possibly overthought too."

"... Aye... I considered asking many people for aid and yet... I don't think they would've told me anything I hadn't heard before."

"You know them well enough to make such a judgment?"

"Father and Cersei? Yes, I'm certain. Ser Gerold and Ser Whent..." Jaime trailed off, feeling his mouth go dry. Was this some other part of the test? Did he just fail by acknowledging a possible failure on his part? Geralt didn't strike him as one to do such a thing and yet... He didn't know this man either, how could he be sure?

"Easy, kid, you're not in trouble for admitting fault. The fact you're starting to think these matters through tells me you've got some sense in that head of yours. Experience and practice will help you hone this skill out the older you get. Now, sit down before your legs give out."

"Thank you..." He crossed the distance, sitting some feet away to the Witcher's left. What he wouldn't do for some wine...

"Now tell me, what did you expect your father and sister to say?"

"Lecture, more so in Father's case than Cersei's though she dearly tries to be him. Long speeches about my duty to the family, how this should be enough for any man, much less the heir of House Lannister. Father has great plans for me, and Cersei, we're his golden twins. Meant to continue the great work he's done for the family line... On more than once occasion, he's told us he expects a dynasty to last a thousand years, one to guide not only the westerlands but all of Westeros. If not beyond."

"Fighting for one's family is more than enough."

"If my family came to harm, I'd be the first to come to their aid. There's nothing I wouldn't do for them."

"But it's not what drives you, is it? Makes you so dedicated to mastering the sword? What inspired you to pick one up in the first place?"

"...No..." Jaime answered truthfully and reluctantly, averting his gaze. "I don't care about fighting for some grand plan, I never have..."

"What about Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold?"

"They're heroes of the Kingsguard. Knights sworn and true, they would speak to me of duties aplenty to all the people of the Seven Kingdoms. To the king, to my Father, to the Faith, to the smallfolk..."

"True enough," Geralt almost sounded pleased by this assessment. "The duties and vows of a knight are easily spoken of yet rarely upheld. Even when one tries to adhere to them, contradictions and conflicts inevitably emerge. What does a knight do when if his family and the king come into conflict, and he must choose? One part of his view will inevitably become broken, and neutrality," The Witcher shook his head. "Sometimes applicable, but when the stakes are too high, or too personal... Doing nothing leaves the bitterest taste of all."

Jaime stared silently, never considering this before, it was... an unpleasant thought. The idea of being stuck between two forces he was supposed to protect and yet could choose but one or none. Who would he decide if the Faith and smallfolk came to blows for any reason at all? What if Father and Aerys Targaryen did...? What would one of the Kingsguard members do if their House became enemies to the rest of Westeros?

"It's an impossible thing to find a clear, always correct answer for. If it was a simple matter, there would be much less bloodshed in the world."

"... How is one to know then...? Experience...?"

"That and depending on the kind of man that you are. Everyone's solution to these is different, sometimes marginally, other times profoundly. Often even the best solution will leave something foul behind for you to stomach. I suspect all of the Kingsguard have experienced this too. Yet they try to stay as true to their vows as they can. Sometimes aspiring towards a great ideal is enough, even if you can't always meet its criteria."

The hint of scorn in the Witchers voice was not missed by Jaime, now was not the time to ask him why. "I do wish to fulfill the oaths of a knight, more than I ever wish to rule Casterly Rock."

"Got a feeling we're still not at the heart of the matter."

"...Aye..." He replied, feeling sweat gather on his palms and brow. With all the other possible answers refuted, the true one became clear. Or perhaps Jaime had always known it and wished not to admit it. Compared to honoring a knights duties, a family legacy, or even personal glory, it seemed... Foolish under scrutiny. To put it lightly.

"The truth is... I fight because I'm good at it. I've excelled at swordsmanship like nothing else I've done since I first picked up a wooden practice blade near as tall as me. Reading, writing, ruling, I could never care for any of it unless fighting was involved. Nothing has ever made me feel alive like throwing myself at another warrior and besting them."

"That's about the answer I expected," The Witcher said, almost off-handedly. While Jaime stared at, Geralt tossed him one blunted sword and the thick cloth. "Go to the center of the room and tied that around your eyes. Your real training beginnings today."

"W-Wait! Are you not troubled by what I said? Angry? Disgusted? I had thought..."

"You thought well, Jaime Lannister. Fighting purely for the sake of self-gratification and because other things are too tedious or too difficult for you is worthy of criticism. The fact you were honest about it and genuinely felt ashamed as you admitted so tells me you're not a lost cause or some bloodthirsty lunatic. Were you either, I'd tell you to piss off and never waste my time again."

Jaime would not have believed anyone would speak such a way to any Lannister, not even Tyrion, without fear of reprisals. Now? He was starting to think Geralt could and would challenge even Father if a reason for it presented itself. He couldn't deny his interest in witnessing such a confrontation. Or his interest in something concerning the Witcher since he'd posed his question the day before.

"If I may, Master Geralt, what is it you fight for? You're a beast hunter, you've put yourself at risk dozens of times against fearsome creatures. There must be a reason you choose to do it."

"Just Geralt is fine," He rose to his feet, wrist spinning the blunted sword in slow, steady motions. "And there is a reason why I fight, though it's not what you might expect. There's no glory in it, the jobs are brutal, dirty, and Witchers aren't well-liked where I'm from."

The spinning motion intensified, turning into a gradually complex sequence of swings and dizzying rotations. "Coin? Yes, I've fought and killed monsters for gold. But only out of necessity, to stave off starvation, thirst, or to maintain my equipment."

The force behind his swings was such the air seemed to quiver with each blow across the empty space. "My reason is quite simple, some might even call it banal," Geralt concluded the sequence, turning back to Jaime, hands resting on the crossguard. In that stance, with the early dawn shining into the room, the Witcher appeared half a mercenary, half a God. "There are monsters out there, great and small, and someone must kill them before they kill the innocent."

There was no sound in the hall save for Jaime's slow, steady breathing. He tried to quiet even this as much as possible. The silence was thick enough to be welcoming at first and maddening once the moments spent in it stretched into eternity. The stillness did little to ease the tension in his heart or the anticipation for the strike to come. The attack he could not hope to see thanks to the cloth keeping his eyes closed. And with the silence of the Stranger, come it did. A thimble of a moment before it struck, Jaime heard the wind snap to his right and moved to halt it. The two practice swords thumped noisily, too loudly. He was unable to detect the next strike and so tried to do what Geralt wanted of him, let his body fight on pure instinct.

He blocked but one more strike amongst ten. "Seven... Hells... "

"You're improving, the last round you couldn't block any of them."

Jaime scowled, or attempted to with a blindfold on, in his general direction. "At this pace, I'll be ready to fight like this in a decade."

"The point isn't to fight blind."

"Aye,... I know," Geralt explained it on the first day they'd begun this practice. Witchers were taught to train their whole bodies, pushing them to their limits. One such path was to fight without one's eyesight. To sharpen all of their senses. A fighter had a far greater chance of hearing an attack from his blindspots coming than see it. Become good enough, and the training could allow one to fight almost without thinking, letting the body react faster than the mind ever could. Jaime saw the potential of this. From the way some of the Kingsguard described the War of Ninepenny Kings, it was very likely someone could be felled by a stray arrow. From friend and foe alike. Amongst many, many other things. Getting to this point of fighting prowess, however...

Before Jaime even knew what was happening, his hand moved to halt a thrust, then a swing before a blow to his shoulder got him.

"W-What was that?!"

"The end of your rest, now, get ready."

"Geralt?"

"Yes, Jaime?"

"Your swords, you told them the writings on them were done by Dwarfs?" He inquired on the steps to the terrace, drinking a flagon of water he'd brought with him. Geralt sat ten feet away, pressing his back against a nearby pillar as he ran a cloth against the length of his silver sword. The one sometimes, but not always, used for killing monsters.

"Dwarves," He corrected. "They're one of several species in my homelands. Renowned for their hardiness, skill at arms, and mastery of blacksmithing. Their runes have special properties, some of them useful for any fighter. Others moreso for Witchers."

Jaime stared, trying and failing to imagine a species of diminutive, awkwardly wobbling men perform any of the tasks he spoke of. He could not outright dismiss Geralt, either. The Witcher was one to put things bluntly, a man who spoke of things as they were, not what they could or should be. The other day, he spoke of his best friend Dandelion, some bard who'd made his reputation on countless songs concerning Geralt's Witchers' work. With frequent exaggerations. One of the worst was of a song of him, and Dandelion slaying some creature and receiving a royal welcome at a nearby noblemen's castle with food and gold aplenty as their reward.

A pretty tale, as Geralt put it. The truth of the matter was the beast was less than half of the size they expected it to be. When Geralt returned the head, the noblemen tried to underpay him despite signing a contract for a fixed price. In the scant few minutes Geralt and the noblemen argued over the reward, Dandelion successfully seduced the man's daughter, and the two were forced to flee the castle lest they suffered execution. If Geralt hadn't clarified which story was authentic, Jaime would've found the second story more fanciful.

"For example," Geralt spoke again, no doubt seeing Jaime's doubt. He was quite the observant one, eerily similar to Father in this regard. "If you strike an armored man in the chest with a warhammer, and he's very likely dead. Do it to a Dwarf of Mahakam, and he'll get back up, curse you well enough to offend every God you believe in before shoving his fist down your throat. If he's feeling merciful."

"... Could... Could my brother go to this Mahakam?" Jaime inquired, remembering the recent letter he'd received from Tyrion. "You've no doubt heard that he is a Dwarf by now, Lord Tywin's great shame among many other undeserving names."

"I have," Geralt looked at him, his rough voice sympathetic. "And I'm sorry, but your brother isn't the same kind of Dwarf as those of my homelands. Even if I could take him back, I fear he would not return some great warrior as you expect."

Asking what he meant by "the same kind of Dwarf" was at the tip of Jaime's tongue. But he did not speak it, or allow his disappointment to show or his anger to stoke itself. He stopped and considered what Geralt told him. Of course, they weren't the same, but what was the difference then?

"I'll try to explain it in the simplest possible terms, there's something called evolution that the... Maester's of my lands have spoken of across the centuries. It's the idea that species, those capable and incapable of thought and speech, do not remain the same through lengthy periods. Instead, they change and adapt to their surroundings."

"... Do you mean the difference between wolves and dire wolves?"

This seemed to please Geralt, who smiled. "Exactly, dire wolves live farther up north, where the conditions of living are far and way more treacherous south. They've grown larger, stronger, faster, with thicker furs to protect them against the cold. Wolves of more temperament climates, by your Westeros standards anyway, changed because their environment wasn't so dangerous."

"And this... Evolution, it exists even for people?"

"Without question. Mankind wasn't born with the knowledge of forging weapons of iron or steel. They didn't always know how to build great castles or even simple huts. They lived off the land in ages passed, exposed to the elements. A hardier humanity, most likely hairier, capable of withstanding greater injury and cold than what most can manage now. Yet, mankind can never overpower a bear, or outrun a wolf, and so they developed differently, up here," He tapped the side of his head. "With a superior mind, they could out-think their predators, and eventually do so much more."

"And these Dwarves developed the same... They are not as tall as humans, but they've other advantages we lack," Jaime sighed, unable to hide his sorrow this time. "A pity, I'd hoped... Perhaps if Tyrion returned a fighter, he would be less looked down upon..."

"The same is true of humans born of dwarfism even in my homelands. They're seen as freaks, abominations,... Mutants," The last word was unknown to Jaime, the disdain in Geralt's voice explained it well enough. "Your brother is fortunate to have been born in a noble family, at least. A peasant household..."

"... So I've been told..." Jaime turned his gaze to the sun shining outside, almost wishing he could see the Rock in it. "He sent me a letter, Tyrion. His name day was yesterday, and I missed it again. Tyrion tries not to say it openly, but he's lonely. Very likely has been since I began squiring for Lord Crakehall some years ago."

"You were his only friend."

"The only one always present for a time, yes. Our uncles and aunt all love Tyrion, truly they do. They begrudge him nothing and are always kind to him. But they are grown, with seats and families of their own. They cannot always be there."

"I sense it's not a sentiment shared by your Father," Geralt said, once again proving his insightfulness. "I noticed a dark cloud hanging over his head yesterday. He was scowling harder than usual."

Jaime smiled, appreciating his attempt at improving the mood. "My mother... She died giving birth to Tyrion when Cersei and I were but children. Father never forgave him for it, and neither has my sister. I fear their absence may be the best part of his name day."

He shook his head, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Why does it happen, Geralt? Why are some children cursed this way? Do the Maesters of your lands know? Is it truly something from the Gods?"

The Witcher said nothing for a time, cleaning his gleaming, silver blade. "Gigantism and dwarfism are conditions with several causes. In the case of your brother, I would say it comes down to his... genetics."

Jaime raised an eyebrow at the queer word.

"Genetics is a part of every person, it determines everything about you: height, weight, hair, and eye color. It can determine the strength or fragility of your health, your capacity to learn... A person's genetics are determined by numerous factors, quite often by their parents. Sometimes, a thing that appears in a parent may appear in a child. Conversely, something that appeared in your ancestor may skip a generation or even several before appearing again."

Such as dwarfism, Jaime silently concluded. He'd never taken much of an interest in looking through the Lannisters of the past, save some exceptions. He momentarily wondered if there were any recorded dwarfs such as Tyrion buried in the family records. Likely not, if they didn't extend Father's courtesy to their own offspring. Regardless, Jaime decided to investigate the matter in the coming days. Perhaps Geralt could help, he and the Grand Maester were quite close.

"I've heard stories of incest resulting in dwarfism as well."

"Incest...?" He repeated, focusing back on the conversation.

"When people who's genetic material is too close together produce offspring, it can result in their children suffering from any number of possible defects. They can be born with poorer health, psychological problems, limited thinking capabilities. They can even inherit the inclination towards further incest. Don't look so surprised Jaime, one look at the Targaryen dynasty is all the proof you need."

He misliked where this talk was heading, for quite a few reasons, some he would not wish to share.

"If any other family performed continuous incest as they have, it wouldn't survive a century. Their members would devolve into drooling imbeciles held together by diseases and malformed flesh. Prince Rhaegar marrying outside the family was a wise move. They would do well to continue the practice moving forward."

"Surely cousins are... Acceptable?" Jaime inquired, trying his best to sound natural. "The practice of marrying cousins has been in Westeros for thousands of years."

"It's safer than marrying brothers and sisters, or uncles and nieces to be sure. But that only dilutes the risk, it doesn't eliminate it."

Jaime was dearly glad Father was not present for this talk. The idea he and Mother were responsible for what Tyrion did... He dreaded to think of it. Or the possibility he and Cersei were also born... Defective.

"... Fuck..." Jaime grunted in the privacy of his chambers, left-hand gripping tightly against his sword as he awkwardly executed another horrid swing sequence. He'd pushed back as many things inside as he could, giving himself enough space to practice. While he and Geralt spent their mornings improving his fighting instincts, Jaime was commanded to train another great matter: achieving ambidexterity. By Jaime's estimate, the far more challenging task of the two.

Fighting with the blindfold, while difficult was still done with his dominant hand. This? It was like every bit of his experience, training, and talent was snatched away by the simple change of a different hand wielding the sword. Even the most rudimentary of strikes were clumsy, woeful even by the most generous of estimates. Time again, his anger threatened to explode, forcing Jaime to apply some Witcher breathing exercises to keep himself calm. No doubt this was the other, unspoken point to the training, improving his self-control. What allowed the training to remain so, and not simply some gruesome exercise in torture was the Geralt's sound logic and his expectations.

"Your enemies won't hesitate to get any advantage they can, this includes cutting off or otherwise disabling your sword arm. Even if your left hand is never as good as the right, being mediocre is still leagues ahead of being useless. Not that I think you'll ever settle for mediocrity."

And he was right, Jaime was never one to settle for anything less than being the best he could be at swordplay. He wasn't about to start now. He would consider it a grave insult to himself and to his instructor who believed he could overcome this challenge. With this in-mind, Jaime kept practicing long into the night, step by step improving.

Chapter Text

The nightmare began as it always did, with loneliness and ice. Sometimes, it was Dragonstone fallen into cold ruin. On some occasions, it was Summerhall succumbing to the infinite winter. This night, as several before, it was the Red Keep serving as the frozen stage for one performer. A lone singer who's ballad was of cries of desperation, fear, and ultimately pain and who's audience was death.

"Mother! Elia! Viserys!" Rhaegar shouted as he ran through the empty, snowed over hallways of Maegor's Holdfast. Each breath left cold air in its wake and pain gnawing in his lungs. His armor rattled with each footfall, always cutting through the otherwise oppressive silence. He knew there would be no answer to his calls. There never was. And every time, he hoped something would change.

"Arthur! Barristan! Gerold!" The hallways went for an eternity, a black void in some parts whilst others were blasted open, revealing the full bleakness of his surroundings. Through the massive cracks, Rhaegar saw all of Kings Landing engulfed in snow, a white wasteland as far as the eye could see. There was no fire anywhere, no noise of city life, naught but the howling of a cold, lonely wind. The sky covered by thick, white clouds blotting out the sun began to darken, enveloping all under it in shadow.

What little reason there was to the Red Keep vanished the closer night came to fall upon the castle. Hallways went on without end, side passages, and staircases brought him to places that could not, should not be there. The shadows grew thicker, the flame of his torch began to wane, the steel sword in his hand threatened to freeze over his fingers. The billowing snow outside became a storm, devouring the interiors with each passing moment through every crack and hole. Rhaegar's run slowed, his feet struggling to make each new step in the growing mounds. He dared not shout anymore, a single intake of cold air would assuredly destroy his throat.

Then he heard it, the great flapping of leather wings, a shadow passing over the castle in the dimming daylight, and a chorus of three great roars. The dragons had returned! All was not lost, if he could just get to them, this disaster could be averted. Not even the coldest frost could withstand the searing heat of dragon fire. Rhaegar, as always, felt the dwindling embers of his strength rekindled and chased after the dragon with renewed vigor. Forgetting the inevitable futility of his efforts once again. His erratic surroundings began to take a more familiar shape, leading him to the throne room.

With a great effort, Rhaegar pushed and hacked his way through the sealed doors like a drowning man clutching for every scrape of air. Behind him, the shadows of falling night drew closer, and in the room denied to him, the roars grew louder. He even felt a rush of heat from the other side, a burning inferno waiting to embrace him. If he could grasp at but a fraction of this power, claim the dragon awaiting him, Rhaegar could still save what little there was left of the world.

The doors gave out after a final push, the roar in his throat echoing past the vacant halls and pathways of the Red Keep. With all the grace of a drunken dwarf, Rhaegar fell face-first into the throne room following his slam into deep snow within it. His helmet fell from his head, his torch was extinguished and lost from his grasp.

Forcing himself back onto his feet, he stared at the blown open roof of the throne room, allowing the intensifying blizzard outside in. Then, frantically, desperately, Rhaegar looked for signs of the three-headed dragon, of the heat he'd felt mere moments ago. There was no sign of anything or anyone there. Not a claw print in the snow, not a single sign of burns anywhere. There was naught even a trace of people. The only things in the room were himself, the iron throne... and the dragon skulls watching, judging him silently.

Rhaegar stared back, remembering the words of an unpleasant yet knowledgable voice. It spoke of power lying within those bones, leftover strength from the mighty beasts that brought the world to heel centuries ago. He was foolish or desperate enough to believe he could grasp at this power through sheer force of well, grasping at... Something that was there and slipping between his fingers regardless. Eventually, the last effort robbed him of his strength, and of what little, precious time was left, sending him to his knees.

His eyes never left the dragon bones, however. The longer he stared, the less they seemed a promise of power and salvation and more of a portent of his own fate.

"The dragons are gone, little prince," The heads of the dead fire breathers almost seemed to say to him, a contemptuous chorus. "Now, so too will their riders."

Rhaegar hated them at that moment, hated how for all their power, they died out. Dying to their own kin and to masses of enraged smallfolk alike. He hated his own ancestors for so foolishly culling their numbers, weakening House Targaryen and leaving all of Westeros vulnerable to a death not seen in thousands of years. He hated himself for knowing of this storm and failing to stop it. Such was the fury in his chest, Rhaegar almost entertained the fool notion it would be enough to make a difference.

Any fantasy of a grand, defiant last stand was shattered by the simple fact he could not get up from his kneeling position. His sword hand was so frozen around the pommel, it would snap off if he tried to brace himself on it. His torch was lost, buried in the growing snow mound around him. The armor covering his entire body had become so rigid, Rhaegar could scarcely move at all. All his years of study, preparation, skill at arms amounted to nothing. Everyone he knew, loved, admired, hated, and respect was dead and gone. He'd failed them all to the last man, woman, and child. Despair overwhelmed him, a desire for the cold to simply get on with it, freeze him dead and let it all be over.

The blizzard heard his silent plea. The clouds overhead turned from white to grey to finally black, the throne room was so dark, he could see naught at all. Yet, he knew he was not alone. Something... Moved in the shadows, vague shapes dancing about, observing him through strange, glowing eyes eternally fixed on him. The chill intensified monumentally, such was its strength Rhaegar's own hair froze around his neck. He couldn't even shut his own eyes. Then the shapes halted, their eyes moving to something beyond Rhaegar's sight. A green light illuminated his surroundings, forcing the shadow shapes to reel back.

The creatures... Hissed, the sound of icicles grinding against one another. Rhaegar felt a fresh warmth pass through him, letting him breathe and move. With a gasp, he fell upon the snow, his helmet falling from his head. When Rhaegar lifted his gaze, he found something standing between him and the darkness. It was a wolf, white as the snow itself and entirely unafraid of the monsters threatening it in their strange tongue. When the beast turned to look upon him, its eyes were red.

Rhaegar did not awake from the nightmare with a dull, agonizing headache or near incapable of even moving. Such was it when the terrors of sleep frequented him in the past since he was a boy. The experience of age only adding to their frightening clarity and terrifying complexity. Not so this time. If anything, the sight of the wolf, burned into his memory like a brand, left him invigorated, validated. There was nothing to second guess about this, it was the Witcher, turned into a living incarnation of his silver, red-eyed medallion.

For some weeks now, he'd regaled them all on an evening basis of many tales of his lands, of places where magic remained strong, ever-present. Of lands where dragons lived with honor and dignity despite their treatment, where corpse-eating beasts roamed the swamps and seas, and griffins soared through the skies, building families and terrorizing men. Rhaegar would not have believed it to be true were it for Geralt's... Demonstration. Among other things.

Though he did not dare approach the Witcher directly, Varys and numerous other would gossip and spin tall tales to his father, Rhaegar had agents of his own. The Kingsguard, though oath and duty-bound to serve the king, were no friends of his. That privilege was Rhaegar's. He was the one who trained with them until his marriage to Elia and Aerys' madness forced him to Dragonstone. It was he who took them on many youthful escapades into Kings Landing and beyond, spoke to them as people. Not as merely walking swords to stave of delusions of knives in the dark. Or any other unsavory things.

Rhaegar rose from his bed, walking to a bowl of cold water left for him to refresh himself with. The early morning sun rose in the horizon, such a sight he felt inspired to write a ballad for the first time in many moons. It was... heartening to have his mood better for a change. Still, there were other matters to focus on, far more important than his good spirits. The Witcher's combative prowess was startling and welcome, they would need as many great fighters as they could muster for the dark days ahead.

He'd learned of Geralt's interest in Harrenhal from Ser Oswell, particularly of a strange experience the knight suffered in his youth. From other, less famous agents, the Witcher's interest in the ruined castle and the curse long since rumored to hang over it was known to Pycelle. The Grand Maester had shared many a tome on the subject. The Witchers' interests in matters of little concern to those who could, and should care, did not end there. He'd inquired into the Valyrian Freehold, the Doom, the Age of Heroes, the Long Night. Yet, it was one matter he discussed with Ser Barristan which surprised and shook Rhaegar profoundly.

"Geralt spoke with Ser Gerold, and I of the weather, Prince Rhaegar," The bold knight told him during the hour of the wolf, in the safety of the vast Godswood. It was a place few frequented, and fewer still knew as well as Rhaegar who spent many, many days of his youth observing and traveling through its thick, winding pathways. "He asked us if our winters or summers last as long as he heard they did. When we told him it was true, he was troubled..."

"Troubled...?"

"Aye, I believe his precise words were: how the hell are any of you still alive? He explained to us of his own homelands seasons, how all four of them lasted but months, three at most. How they were constant, with some years being warmer or colder. Completely unlike our own seasons here."

"A winter lasting but months?" Rhaegar repeated. The very idea was absurd, unbelievable. Yet, this was the Witcher. A man who, for all of his experience in the arcane arts, seemed entirely incapable of flights of fancy. Then he remembered something of the Long Night from the tales of a winter that lasted an entire generation. Rhaegar's own blood seemed to freeze as a horrifying thought came to mind.

"We thought him jesting, at first," Barristan said, his low voice dropping lower still. "There was no humor. If anything, Geralt seemed to grow paler still, pressing a hand against his temple."

"Did he say any more...?"

"Only that there was more Witcher's work to be done here than he thought."

Was it truly possible, was the influence of the Others still strong over Westeros? Their power cast a darkness over the land millennia before the first Andals or Valyrians came. Who was to say its effect did not persist even now? He'd proposed this to Maester Aemon, writing to his wise, aged kin on the Wall numerous times of The Witcher. He'd hoped to meet the strange man and to inquire into matters of magic. Aemon did not openly write of the Others, yet from his words, Rhaegar knew he'd begun to suspect something foul afoot as well.

If only he could find a chance to speak to Geralt directly, with no others around. Even with his closest confidants, Rhaegar was hesitant to overtly speak of his visions, his thoughts of prophecy. They would begin to doubt him, think him a different kind of mad from Aerys, and in the days to come, he needed every staunch ally he could. To present himself as the infallible prince they all believed him to be. Yet, with the Witcher, he could speak openly. If there was any man who would not think him mad, it was one who'd clawed his way from the matters of magic time and again.

Geralt crept through the mostly vacant hall, his steps making neither sound nor vibration. His fingers gently tightened and loosened about the pommel of his sword. He didn't wish for Jaime to so much as hear the creaking of his leather gloves. The boy stood in the center of the room, blade held in a middle guard in both hands and knees bent slightly. His breathing was faint, measured, executing the exercises Geralt imparted on him with flawless rhythm. His posture was still somewhat tense, particularly around his shoulders, much of the rest of his body gave off the false impression of almost arrogant ease.

Geralt hesitated to call it to deem it good, not until he struck. Whirling his blade in a silent, semi-circle, he struck Jaime's left side from behind. He intentionally let the blunted weapon aim high, only to change course in the last possible moment and go for his legs. Jaime leaped forward without looking and turned his entire body around in time to meet Geralt's follow-up attacks. The boy withstood a swift, frontal Fiery Dancer sequence with greater ease than before, his arms and body moving to deflect and block the blows.

When Geralt switched strategies, choosing a heavy, Temerian Devil overhead blow, Jaime answered it well. The boy knew he simply couldn't take the Witcher strength versus strength, and so he wisely didn't try. Instead, the young Lannister let the attack hit and push him back. He did not awkwardly stumble into messy footwork, allowing the momentum to carry him and practice to cushion his landing. Then, his legs twisted, using the considerable inertia to empower his own overhead strike.

Geralt avoided it and, feeling a bit clever, plunged his sword into the spet Jaime's right foot was poised to land on. The boy froze, leg hovering inches above the sword and completely unsure what to do. When the sword swung to Jaime's other leg still on the ground, the boy successfully leaped back and regained his balance.

"Is fighting one-legged the next step in our training?" Jaime huffed, wiping some sweat from his brow. "Allow me to venture a guess: once a three-headed snail poisoned your left foot, and you had to hop on a single leg to defeat it?"

"There's no such thing as a three-headed snail, wise-ass," Geralt reprimanded him, even as he smiled. "And yes, I've faced the difficulties of fighting with a leg immobilized. My knee was once shattered and didn't heal properly. On several occasions, it gave out from under me."

"Truly? It does not seem to hinder you now."

"I went someplace, very far away. Let's just say my wounds, old and new alike, were healed there. No healer or Maester can match it in this regard."

"A useful place, mayhaps I could go there should something ill befall me?"

"Be better than I was, and you won't have to," In a show of self-depreciation, Jaime snorted, no doubt thinking this an impossibility. Not that it stopped him from trying. The boy's desire for them to fight one day, closer as equals, was still present. Tempered now with some wisdom and patience. The past few days, he'd done so well in the sparring ring, he'd gotten this morning off to relax. He chose to spend it prolonging their secret exercise for the day.

The truth was, Jaime had great potential. Even beyond his sword skills, exemplifying the adage that a man could be born to fight, there was intellect, consideration, and even compassion in the boy. If he could weather the storm of the real world and continue resisting some of his own worst tendencies, Jaime could be a great man. Not just a knight or lord. He wouldn't tell him this, not yet, Jaime's ego had been lessened to a reasonable level. It would not do to upset this.

"But you were right, there will be another step in your reflex training, taking on more than one opponent at once."

"I'd assumed we'd come to that, sooner rather than later."

"You assume well. Whatever men your father chooses for this task may not be my equals in swordplay," Jaime snorted again. "But they don't have to be. Even the best of the best can only compensate for his enemy's numerical superiority for a time. Often times, it's better to simply retreat to more favorable ground or give way entirely, live to fight another day."

"Many men would balk at such a thought," The boy smiled, resting his palm atop the sword handle. "You'd balk at their stupidity."

"One of life's greatest gifts that keeps on giving is witnessing the infinite ways people screw themselves over for pride or glory," While his student was resting, Geralt swiftly moved to see how well he could do when they weren't actively fighting. To his satisfaction, Jaime reacted quickly, whirling his blade and blocking Geralt's thrust aside. "Good, you're paying attention."

"I'll not fall for the same trick again."

"Thank you for telling me, I'll be sure to resort to my many, many other tricks henceforth."

Two hours later, once morning was well and truly underway, the two parted. Geralt commanded Jaime to take the remainder of it off, rest was just as important as practice. A warrior gained nothing by torturing his body. He'd take his own advice too. Between tutoring Jaime, training with the Kingsguard, sharing information with Pycelle, investigating the oddities of Westeros, and entertaining a lunatic, Geralt had kept himself busy these past few weeks. Lying down in his bed, enjoying a meal or two, and simply reading a book for the sake of itself, there were worse ways to pass the time.

So, of course, something was wrong. Before Geralt had even reached the chamber, he heard someone asking for him. This, someone, was a messenger, bearing something from Aerys. An immediate summons. The Witcher sighed, feeling a wave of irritation pass over him. Irritation and trepidation.

"I'm here, royal messenger," Geralt said with the utmost respect, bowing to the young man who struggled not to jump at his sudden appearance. The nearby guards seemed faintly amused by this. "How may I be of service to his majesty?"

The man collected his strength and turned to face Geralt, doing a remarkable job of appearing dignified even as his heart still beat like a drum.

"His Grace demands your presence at the throne room, Master Witcher. In our king's own words, he wishes you to behold the end of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

Geralt said nothing, did nothing but look at the messenger. No, past the man, no doubt growing uncomfortable under the snake-eyed gaze. Toyne had been sent to the Wall, most of the rest were dead. There was only Wenda the White Fawn left of the Brotherhood, and now Aerys was going to burn her alive. Let wildfire devour her, and make Geralt watch...

"M-Master Witcher...?"

"Let us make haste then," Geralt said, unblinkingly, fists clenched and voice harder than steel. "We wouldn't want to anger the king, now would we?"

Chapter Text

The walk from the Tower of the Hand to the throne room passed far too quickly for Geralt's liking. The halls and courtyards all becoming indistinguishable from one another. Perhaps it was the foreboding sense of anticipation shrinking the distance. Or more, likely, it was the intense effort and concentration he'd silently exerted to suppress it, and many other unpleasant emotions in a mask of careful neutrality. So far, it was working well. He hoped it lasted until this... Execution was over.

As with his last visit to court, one of the Kingsguard, this time Ser Oswell, demanded Geralt to relinquish his swords. He wordlessly acquiesced, letting his eyes linger on the man's face. How was it possible for men such as these, almost valiant knights, to stomach serving this madman? After a glance, Geralt understood how. It was shockingly similar to what he and many other Witchers had done: going dead inside. Not simple emotional self-control, but finding someplace within yourself far, far away so the horrible things in the world couldn't quite get to you. A form of psychological suicide.

It seemed a wise thing to do until you realized it didn't. How it left you stunted, broken, and miserable. Clutching for numb comfort until some part of you, desperate to feel anything inevitably snapped. Geralt was just lucky enough for his snap to come from finding friends, and eventually a family. Not everyone was so fortunate. Though he somewhat resented them for doing nothing, Geralt respected these men enough to wish they found some true peace. Maybe if that disgusting gaunt lunatic did everyone a favor and dropped dead.

The throne room was much the same as last time when the doors parted. Courtiers numbering in the hundreds swarmed and crowded on each side of the hall. Their expressions either faintly numb or strugglingly sycophantically smiling. The dragon bones hummed with power, the energies almost abuzz with what was about to happen. At the center of the throne room, obscuring much of the Iron Throne was the stake. The base of it was littered with dozens, hundreds of smaller woodpiles, reaching Geralt's knee. The stake itself reached well over ten feet into the air, and bound around it near the top was Wenda the White Fawn.

Geralt had inquired in the reputation of the various Brotherhood members. Simon Toyne, the leader, was the disgruntled son of an old Stormlands house that fell from favor by choosing to support the Blackfyres. The Smiling Knight was an enigma whose real identity and name were lost to history. Some thought him like Toyne, a former noble who's family fell to ruin. Others claimed he was a Ninepenny Kings veteran who'd become disfigured and transformed during the conflict. The rest were smallfolk, peasants who'd turned to thievery and murder from desperation, tragedy or bloodlust and greed. Wenda numbered among them.

The stories spoke of a young woman with a long neck, smooth skin, and long, golden hair. As beautiful as she was dangerous. Her skills with a bow were feared, and good enough to fell several men even amid combat with relative ease. She was also fond of torture, carving, or burning marks into some of the Brotherhood's captives. What ferocity there may have been before was gone. The woman tied to the stake was beaten with several bruises across her lowered face, her golden locks sliced away so as not to cover it. Geralt heard her silent sobs, the terrified thumping of her heart.

"Master Geralt!" Aerys greeted with far, far too much enthusiasm for execution from atop the Iron Throne. "I am most pleased you've arrived on time! The demonstration is about to begin!"

"I would not miss it for anything, your majesty," Geralt lied, bowing to him.

"Indeed," The madman smiled, managing to entwine his fingers. "Some time has passed since the presence of wildfire has graced the Red Keep. Fortunately, my loyal subjects have found a most worthy criminal to feed it too."

Geralt heard Wenda's breath shiver behind him.

"I've no doubt it will be an event to long remember."

"You've no idea," Aerys' eyes narrowed with the widening of his smile. "Come, take your place, Witcher, while my Alchemists complete the final preparations."

Rossart smiled and bowed to Aerys, removing himself from the rest of the small council standing at the base of the throne. The Alchemist smiled and nodded to Geralt as he moved away from Lucerys Velaryon at the eastern side of the hall. The Witcher found Grand Maester Pycelle at the westernmost end and took a spot between him and Varys. The spymaster was a thousand worlds away, judging by the vacant look on his face. Pycelle was not quite so far gone, managing to smile at Geralt, which was returned, even if both of them must have looked quite forced. Already, the other courtiers whispered among themselves, eyeing Geralt with interest, desire, and envy. Until the Alchemists began their work.

From a side entrance leading to the throne room, several of them entered, aiding Rossart. They carried with them jars of a green liquid. Pycelle had explained this was wildfires dormant state, dimmed with sand and numerous other substances but always ready and capable of transforming into flame. Geralt was interested in the alchemical brew, thinking how useful a more controllable form of it could be for Witcher work. Not that he'd tell Rosart this, the lickspittle would talk Aerys' ear off about such a meeting and a thousand horrible things would come to pass.

The Alchemists poured the liquid into the base pyre of the stake, showing incredible care and practiced slowness while doing so. Geralt's already vibrating medallion shivered more quickly under his armor. The courtiers nearest to them backed away, their fear palpable despite their attempts to hide it. Wenda did no such thing.

"Piss on you..." Geralt heard her whisper, cold fury in her voice. None heard her, at first. "P-Piss on you!"

The force of the voice was surprising, along with the audacity behind it. Numerous court attendees gasped and balked at this breach in etiquette, as though a woman sentenced to die was still expected to give a damn about such a thing. At that moment, the broken creature seemingly resigned to her fate was gone, the White Fawn had retaken her place. The only one to find amusement from this was, as always, Aerys.

"Well, well!" He chortled, slapping his taloned hands against an armchair. "The beauty of the Brotherhood has some strength left yet! Good, good, it will make your screams all the more delightful."

"Not as delightful as yours..." She smiled, revealing rows of broken, bloody teeth. "Your time will come... Mad King. May the Mother curse you, may the Smith break your bones, and may the Stranger bugger you in every hole through all seven fucking hells!"

Everyone stopped whatever it was they did, as though they'd become petrified, their gazes moving between Wenda and Aerys. The former, knowing she had nothing else to lose, smiled on defiantly. The latter smiled not, gripping the armchairs of the Iron Throne.

"Rossart," Aerys' voice was as cold as a tomb. "Get on with it."

"... As you command, your Grace," Rossarts slithery voice answered after a moment. Banishing his fellow Alchemists with a wave of his hand, the pyromancer took hold of an offered torch and hefted it in his hand. The tension grew, Geralt's hands clenched into fists, dozens of other attendees grew stiff, as though the fire was coming for them as well. After what he'd heard about Summerhall, the Witcher couldn't entirely blame them. Eventually, the moment of dread came when Rossart flung the torch.

The effect was as instantaneous as it was horrifying to behold. The green liquid poured at the base of the stake reacted several times faster than ordinary flames. In seconds, the entire lower portion was engulfed with fierce, blinding, and unmistakably magical green fire. The blast of heat seemed to suck all the air from the room. Geralt's medallion vibrated so fast it began to irritate his skin. The stories, as was always the case, were incapable of capturing its frightening power.

The stench was overwhelming, making Geralt feel woozy though he resolved not to show it. This became much more difficult when the stake itself, and then Wenda, began to catch fire. The odor of burning, human flesh felt like knives twisting inside his head and twisting his stomach into unnatural contortions. Wenda, defiant still, did not scream at first. It wasn't until the rest of her teeth cracked from the clench that she could not hold back anymore. A cloud of thick, black smoke engulfed much of the sight. No doubt, many could not see the burning, and they were lucky. Geralt, the small council, not so.

Wenda's wails continued as the fire traveled along the length of her legs, burning the dress put on her and spreading the flame quickly up the rest of her body. Her skin turned grey than black in the span of moments, and she still didn't faint or die. On and on, it seemed to go on, torturously endlessly. Geralt's fists were clenched so tightly, it was all he could do to not break something. The rest of the attendees steeled themselves, went away, or stared in open horror, everyone but Aerys.

When the Mad King laughed, it was as though a cold rush of water was poured onto Geralt. He cackled at the top of his lungs, clapping his hands and moving restlessly atop the chair. As though he were an excited child watching some grand performance. Such was the volume of his laughter, it drowned out Wenda's screams. Geralt stood there, listening to the macabre symphony between the two of them... And decided to do something.

A part of him said to do nothing, she was a criminal who killed innocents, robbed them and used men, women, and children as hostages. All of this was true. Wenda deserved to face justice and to answer for her crimes to society. What she didn't deserve was to be a fly for a Mad King to laugh at as he picked her wings off. So, Geralt did the only thing he could without overtly bringing the ax on his own neck, even if it brought considerable risks all on his own: he chose to give her a cleaner death.

Drawing from the power of the wildfire and the dragon bones, Geralt, taking a quick glance about the room, relaxed his hand. Then, he tried to lock eyes with the struggling, burning woman at the skate, executing a series of almost imperceptible finger motions without moving the rest of his arm. When the flame burst again, ascending to new heights, the flash of it concealed the white, momentary flash in Geralt's eyes. There were many reasons it shouldn't have worked. Distance, pain, and yet it did. Wenda's screams suddenly grew faint and then died entirely. Her head slumped and tensed, burning body relaxed atop the stake.

"Wake damn you!" Aerys' joy evaporated into a wild rage. "Wake! Worthless brigand whore! You'll not deny me this joy! Guards! Guards! Run her through and wake her!"

The nearest guards stared at him, unsure of what to do. From the center of the small council row, Geralt saw Tywin stir for the first time, no doubt moving to forestall such idiocy. Not that he had to. Before anyone could do anything, the flames burst again, and the unconscious Wenda was utterly consumed in the fire. What was left of her skin, mouth, eyes, hair, it was all incinerated within moments. She made no sound whatsoever. In silence, the rest of the throne room observed as the stake holding her up snapped and fell to the floor, Wenda's body vanishing into the flames.

From Geralt's right side, Pycelle let out a shaky breath. "Thank the Gods she fainted..."

"Rossart!" Aerys barked, causing the pyromancer to reel back as though struck. "Put this fire out and away with you! Away with all of you! Court is no longer in session!"

The attendants began to shuffle out of the room with varying levels of urgency. The pyromancers surrounded stake area like vultures and began applying large quantities of sand over to quell it. Geralt moved back out through the main entrance, accompanied by Grand Maester Pycelle. Listening and looking closely, the Witcher tried to catch some hint he'd been spotted using magic. A whisper, a sign, anything. But there was much noise to discern, much he could not see...

"Master Geralt...?" Pycelle spoke as they reached the entrance. "W-Would you take offense if we did not have our scheduled meeting for the day...?"

"No, Grand Maester," Geralt let out a breath he'd been holding for what felt an eternity. "I feel like shit too."

The walk back to the Tower of the Hand was a trudging experience. Geralt felt as though he'd spent the past ten days and nights fighting without sleep, food, or rest. The only grain of solace he found came from having his swords back and thwarting Aerys' disgusting enjoyment, for all the good it did. The act also ran the risk of revealing his full capabilities, something to cause fear and no doubt spur many a plot if he'd been spotted. There were many hasty fools in court, but also many careful considering vipers as well, those who could wait with this information for days, perhaps even weeks, until the perfect moment.

There was no choice, Geralt would have to leave the Red Keep for Harrenhal as soon as possible. He would have to speak with several people before going to Aerys, to run through his various points and ensure the go-ahead was given. Letting the madman know of a magical curse carried its own risk, but the danger might also bring Ciri and Yennefer over to this world and even the scales considerably in Geralt's favor.

But that was a matter for another day, now, Geralt simply wished to get to his chambers and sleep.

"Geralt!" Ser Gerold's voice came from afar, and sure enough, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard crossed a small distance of the sparring courtyard to greet him. "Well met."

"Same to you," Geralt replied while clasping his hand, trying not to sound too irritated. Or to notice the piece of paper that had suddenly appeared in his palm. "I see the Frey boy is at it."

"Aye, Ser Oswell is teaching the lad to make use of his strength. Closest thrice-damned thing he's got going for him with a sword."

The Witcher nodded, hoping this conversation ended soon.

"True..." Gerold's good mood dimmed a look of understanding in his face. "I know you were at the... Execution. Care for a round in the ring? It can help... Ease the burden, as it were."

"Thank you for the offer, but no, I think I've had my fill of excitement for today."

"Very well," He stepped aside. "I'll not keep you then, rest well, my friend."

Rest would come later, the first order of business once he reached the chambers was a thorough inspection. Geralt keenly observed it in every way he knew how, looking out for new scents or prints, or anyone nosing about in the hidden rung ladder along the length of the Tower. No one came into his room, and nothing left behind was disturbed in any way. Once he was reasonably sure of this, Geralt sat down at the end of the bed and unfurled a scrap of power slipped into his hand by Gerold.

'Come to the godswoods heart on this days twilight, Father will not summon you tonight.'

Geralt stared at it, wondering why Prince Rhaegar wished to speak to him. The solemn young man seemed lost in his own thoughts most of the time. Showing some interest in the numerous tales the Witcher regaled them with daily. It was just as likely this was but an act, meant not to show too much before Aerys, lest he raise suspicion. Did he have some mad demand like his father, of something Geralt either couldn't or wouldn't provide under even pain of death? Was it a mere political meeting, a son working to usurp his own parent? It'd been done before, and the Mad King courted a coup with each passing day.

The Witcher told himself he would refuse such an involvement, at first. He'd already become entangled with numerous monarchs who lived or died, directly and indirectly, thanks to his actions and inactions. Geralt helped to kill Radovid for the threat posed to Yennefer, Ciri, and his numerous other friends. Aerys was no menace to them whatsoever, and yet, having a ruler who he could count on for what may lie in the future would be useful. Because, though he was loathed to admit it, there was no chance in hell Harrenhal was the only thing wrong with this only seemingly magically dormant planet.

Their horribly disturbed seasons, a massive Wall built to keep something on the other side out... He sighed, burning the scrap of paper with an insignificant Igni. It was too soon to make up his mind. Once he saw the measure of Rhaegar, perhaps then Geralt could choose how deep he'd throw himself down this particular well. But first, he was getting some rest. All else be damned.

The godswood was a place Geralt had meant to visit sooner, especially once he'd learned their history. Wooded areas built into every castle when the First Men reigned in ancient Westeros, they were and in the North still are, vast stretches of wilderness, places of worshiping the numerous old gods. Besides being grooves paramount to their entire belief system, however, they contained within them unique trees: weirwoods. Bone-white, with red leaves and sap, these trees had faces carved into them by the enigmatic children of the forest, the first species to inhabit Westeros. A means of communicating with their gods.

Numerous stories he'd familiarized himself with spoke of their magical properties, how it was impossible to lie before one, how the children of the forest and even men were once able to communicate through them. Geralt was no pious man, he cared nor thought much of the gods business, but the rest of it intrigued him. There was nothing quite like it back home. Most of the weirwoods were cut down when the Andals arrived. The largest concentration of them this far south could be found on the Isle of Faces, close to Harrenhal.

Even without one of these strange trees, the godswood of King's Landing still contained quite a bit of the power within it. Geralt's medallion began and continue to noticeably vibrate as he walked through it. The ever-present elm, alder, and black cottonwood felt distinctly different from the energies of the dragon bones. Those were of fire, the most uncontrollable form of power one could tap into, promising power and danger. This was of the earth, reliable, old, and more pleasant. It didn't hurt that the setting sun gave the godswood a damn soothing glow. Perhaps once the girls arrived, he and Yennefer could enjoy a walk or two in this place.

As he neared the center of the forest, Geralt set these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the only other man inside this place save for him. Prince Rhaegar waited at the chosen spot as promised, wearing a doublet in the colors of House Targaryen and unarmed. His only possessions that Geralt could see were a leather bag and rather large wine flask. When the Witcher emerged from the forest, checking again to make sure they were truly alone, the prince rose from the tree he'd pressed his back to, smiling for a change.

"Good evening, Prince Rhaegar."

"Master Witcher," He offered his hand. "Thank you for coming, I've wanted to speak with you privately for some time."

"Seems so," Geralt shook it. "Am I correct in taking you... Disinterested demeanor during our many dinners together an act for your father's sake?"

"To a point. Truth be told, I've always been a bit of a distant person, caught in my own world. But make no mistake, Geralt, I've listened very intently to all you've said. Come, let us sit, wine?"

"Don't mind if I do," The Dornish red was a welcome taste as Geralt found the nearest tree to Rhaegar's, sitting down against it. It'd been weeks since he'd been around nature, he'd forgotten how much he'd missed it. "I need it after what happened today."

"Aye..." Rhaegar took the flask back, taking a swing from it as well. "As does any man with his wits about him. Though, I cannot deny feeling some satisfaction from the ruination of his pleasure today."

If the prince meant anything by this, an implication of knowing why Aerys' favored pastime was ruined or suspecting the reason, Geralt could not see any hint of it anywhere in the young man's face, voice, or general demeanor.

"Truth be told, I did not summon you to discuss my father. The matter I wish to bring to your attention, it is of less... Mundane nature. Tell me, Geralt, what has Pycelle told you of Azor Hai? Or the prince that was promised?"

"It's an old prophecy. It tells of some great warrior who'll deliver the world from darkness. One born under a bleeding star? Apparently, it's a myth shared across Westeros and Essos, a rarity from what I know of your cultures."

"Do your lands have such a prophecy?"

Geralt studied Rhaegar carefully, noticing something change in his voice. "Why all this interest in what long-dead people said would happen thousands of years ago?"

The heir of House Targaryen did not speak but locked gaze with the Witcher as if some terrible thing would come to pass if he answered the question. Perhaps it would, as far as Geralt knew. Eventually, Rhaegar reached for the bag he'd brought and produced a scroll from within. It was aged, the coloration of the pages slightly yellowed.

"I discovered this within the depths of Maegor's Holdfast when I was but a boy of seven years old," He offered it to Geralt with the utmost care. "As I told you, my interests were elsewhere from what most expected of me. I was one to read, to devour all the knowledge I could. I never wished to so much as touch a sword... Until I found this."

The words were familiar if faded. Silently, Geralt read through its contents. It spoke of Azor Ahai, though in greater detail than anything Pycelle's tomes held. It spoke of a great shadow of winter returning to the world, of mankind brought low in a time of frost and death, of a savior born amidst salt, smoke, and a bleeding star to save them. A leader with the power of a three-headed dragon at his back, ushering in a new age for humanity. A song of ice and fire.

"Since that day," Rhaegar spoke with a weight upon his shoulders. "I've dreamed of the darkness. Countless times, I've witnessed the end of all that I know, love, and even hate. Of a world in frozen ruin, of endless night and winter. Always, I try to find the three-headed dragon, and failure is all I achieve. Failure and my own death."

Then his gaze returned to the Witchers. "Until last night, when a great, white wolf with blood-red eyes came to my rescue."

"To the rescue of the prince that was promised."

"I was born amidst salt and smoke, the salty tears of my parents, and the smokes of Summerhall burning next to us. Though," His resolve seemed to waver. "There was no bleeding star, for myself or even Rhaenys."

Geralt looked to him, then back to the scroll, and exhaled softly. Prophecy was a troublesome creation back home, here and quite likely everywhere else it seemed. Ithlinne's Prophecy came to pass for them, and Ciri rose to meet it, destroying the White Frost to ensure it never threatened any world again. On more than one occasion, he'd considered the similarities between this event and the Long Night, the story of Azor Ahai.

Were these Others creatures of ice, an entire species, unlike any back home? Or merely a fanciful interpretation of mutated humans who'd been changed by the White Frost's climate shift? Alvin, as Jacques de Aldersberg, showed him this was very possible. Were these children of the forest the same way, or merely elves who aided mankind before they declined and left this world? Was this Azor Ahai another seed of Lara Dorren, coming to this sphere and saving it?

Perhaps their portent was rendered null and void by the completion of Ithlinne's. They might have had nothing to do with one another. Geralt silently doubted this, adding one more thing to investigate in the coming days. Right now, however, he wished not to share his thoughts on all this. Not with Rhaegar who, try as he might, had desperation in his eyes. Desiring a validation of his musings and obsession as a thirsty man craves water.

"Rhaegar," Geralt eventually said, handing the scroll over to him. "I've never told you of the Law of Surprise, have I? It's an old, hallowed custom in my lands. Its importance is equal to that of your guest right, even if it happens less frequently. Obey it, or suffer grave consequences, from gods, destiny,... pick whichever you like. It dictates that a man saved by another is expected to offer his savior a boon. It can be the first thing that comes to greet you or what you find at home, yet you don't expect.

"I invoked this law, and in doing so, bound my adopted daughter to myself with something thicker even than blood. For she was a child of surprise. But I too was young, and foolish, I did not take her with me, despite many opportunities presenting themselves. Time and again, I rejected my destiny. Then, Nilfgaard invaded Cintra, Ciri's homeland, and for a year, I thought she was dead."

He paused, remembering that time. How lost he'd been, how afraid, how self-loathing, suicidal even. His despair, it was unlike any he'd felt by that point in his long life. The debacle between himself, Istredd, and Yennefer was nothing in comparison.

"Then, at risk of my own life, I saved another, a merchant's whose path I crossed. The man showed rare gratitude, nursing me back to health, carrying me to his home. The Law of Surprise was invoked again, that which you find at home, yet you don't expect. And what Yurga didn't expect was to discover another child at his house, a war refugee taken in by his wife. An ashen haired girl."

Hearing Ciri's voice, embracing her, it healed him, in body and mind. It was as if the whole world, for but a moment, made sense, was just, fair and perfect. He couldn't stop himself from smiling at the memory, gazing at the sun very nearly falling off in the distance. Rhaegar observed quietly, a look of surprise and vindication present on his face. Now was the time to get rid of it.

"You asked me earlier if we have a prophecy of doom in our own lands, we call it Ithlinne's. It speaks of a time of sword and ax, a time of contempt and madness, a time of end. Only a special someone could prevent it, a child of the Elder Blood. The Blood of Elves. Emhyr var Emries, Emperor of Nilfgaard, wished to be the progenitor of this savior."

Geralt scowled, feeling bile rise in his mouth. "In pursuit of this, he invaded his own daughter's homeland, putting thousands to the sword. Then he waged war against many other nations, destroying entire cities and spurring a hatred between humans and non-humans that burns fiercely to this very day. All because of his egotistical interpretation of the Ithlinne's Prophecy, how only he was worthy enough to be the progenitor of the world's savior since he couldn't do it himself. Emhyr was willing to stoop so low in pursuit of this, his ultimate plan was to father this child... By marrying and impregnating Ciri, his firstborn.

"And do you know what it all amounted to? Nothing. Emhyr was only ever a pest. A horrid parasite who ran tens of thousands of lives to the ground, his own child's, simply because he wanted to fulfill his egotistical fantasies. Now he rules the world, as far as he knows, and his own daughter has completely disowned him. The great White Flame will die out knowing he was a thoroughly shit father, and it bothers him. I saw it myself."

Through all this talk, Geralt's voice rose, not quite a yell but louder than what he usually spoke. His hands shook, and it took quite a few deep breaths for him to steady himself. In the distance, the sun had nearly set, only a trickle of light was left. To his left, the Witcher looked at Rhaegar and found something else in the young man's features.

Shock, disgust, and more than a hint of... Shame? Whatever the reason was, the wild flame in Rhaegar's eyes dimmed. His shoulders slumped, and he simply looked lost, defeated.

"Drink some wine, it'll help," Rhaegar did so, drinking down quite a bit more of it the second time around.

"This is... Not how I thought our conversation would go, Master Witcher..."

"Truth be told, neither did I," Geralt leaned against the tree, enjoying the smell of the forest about him. "But I do have one last piece of advice to give you. Something that helped me when I too didn't know what to make of fate and destiny."

The prince looked at him again, looking like a hopeful child and not a man grown. "Destiny, prophecy, fate... They may or may not play a role in our lives. Regardless, they aren't enough Rhaegar, you need something else, something more."

Chapter Text

Geralt heard him long ere he saw him, and he'd detected the little birds lurking in the shadows before that. How they waited inside small crevices, silently skulking around corners and swiftly moving to pass information over to the next one. During his journey to the godswood, Geralt hadn't noticed a marked increase in their spying activity. Now, in the return journey to the Tower, they were being overworked, to pass off his chose route for their master in waiting. It was a system as impressive in its almost clockwork efficiency as it was disgusting in its moral repugnancy.

Even the Spider, a man of considerable weight, strategically moved past some hidden pathway in the serpentine steps with nary a noise, arriving at their center before Geralt. He would concoct some lie about an evening stroll, or perhaps a chance meeting between them after some business. The Witcher slowed his step, his fingers reflexively curling and his shoulders tensing in anticipation of danger. Varys could have approached him for a more private conversation at any point during Geralt's stay and didn't. His reason for doing so now was patently obvious like the full-moon hovering overhead, he'd seen the Axii. The vacant, dead inside stare during the execution was nothing but a convincing bit of acting.

Still, what was his play? The Spider, despite his apparent loyalty to the crown, didn't strike Geralt as so sycophantic to inform the king. Aerys would go off like a bomb, forcing the Witcher to perform any number of insane rituals, expecting a dragon to blossom from them. It would be Summerhall all over again, perhaps worse. Was he hoping to force Geralt into some kind of servitude? To hold him, hostage, through the information? Or he knew nothing precisely, and this was but a scheme of baiting the truth out.

Whichever it was, it meant trouble, and the sooner Geralt got it over with, the sooner he could plan out his next move. So, with an imperceptible sigh, the Witcher relaxed, feigning ignorance and taking comfort in the presence of his swords. This, and the lack of guards or would-be assassins in the serpentine steps. Varys, hearing the approach, began to walk, acting as though he were just ahead of Geralt.

Deciding to get this over with as quickly as possible, the Witcher called out to him first. "Lord Varys, out for an evening stroll?"

"Master Geralt," The Spider replied with utmost pleasantness, slowing his step and smiling until they were side by side. "I could ask the same of you, I trust you're enjoying a reprieve from the monotony of royal dinners?"

"I won't deny it, there's only so much venison a man can stomach before he tires from it. Visting the godswood didn't hurt either. It's been a while since I could enjoy a bit of undisturbed nature. Prince Rhaegar chose a good place for our meeting."

They halted, Geralt very pointedly looking at Varys. The Spider returned the gesture, all good humor vanishing from his face. His overweight body stiffened, and for one without enhanced senses, they might think him concealing a weapon in those thick, purple sleeves covering his hands. The lack of it didn't weaken the threat of the man, quite the opposite. When he smiled again, it was anything but pleasant.

"Cutting to the heart of the matter," His voice cooled by several degrees. "A privilege I rarely enjoy in my line of work. Very well then, Master Witcher, let us speak plainly then: what did you converse to the prince about? And why, if anything, have you done to him?"

"If you're wondering whether or not I cast a spell to brainwash him, I'll have to disappoint you," Geralt replied with an edge to his tongue. "Rhaegar asked me of prophecy, destiny, and one's involvement in it. Perhaps I give myself too much credit, or I'm a worse judge of character than I thought, but I may have taken his head out of his ass."

"A most impressive accomplishment, if true. Rhaegar has long obsessed over prophecy and destiny, even moreso since the birth of his daughter who's existence he rarely acknowledges. And you accomplished this without any of the sorcery you wielded to influence Wenda the White Fawn?"

"Calling my Signs sorcery would be a good joke if you ever find yourself in a circle of mages and sorceress'," Geralt answered, taking note of the venom in his voice at the mention of magic. "They're rudimentary, lacking in great power or complexity. Parlor tricks to proper masters of the arcane arts, but for a beast hunter, they get the job done."

"And yet, our lands our lacking in such regards. Even a parlor trick, as you call it, maybe a dangerous weapon. Perhaps too dangerous to allow."

"Don't give me a reason to use it, and I won't. Which I rarely have since arriving here. In-fact, the Axii I cast today was the first Sign I've used in weeks."

"Truly?" Varys snorted, even as his eyes narrowed. "You've not used this... Axii at anyone else at court? You've the power to influence the minds of others and have only used it to spare a murderous brigand from the flames?"

"You overestimate the power of my Sign. It can only affect weak-willed individuals, men such as yourself, Tywin, the Kingsguard, and numerous others would be impervious to it. Those who aren't would only fall under my sway for a moment, and the means of casting it is far from subtle, what with my eyes glowing white. You, or any number of others, would have noticed it immediately. And I don't want Aerys to know, because both know what his obsessions would lead to with this information."

"Yet this self-imposed rule did not stop you from casting a Sign on Wenda the White Fawn."

"Yes," Geralt answered immediately, boring his eyes into Varys'. "Even a murderer and brigand like Wenda doesn't deserve to burn for the amusement of a cackling lunatic. That... Execution was nothing but a deranged child picking wings off a fly. There was no order or justice to any of it."

"It was the king's will, does that not make it justice already?"

"If one unflinchingly believes in a king's authority above all else, then yes, I would assume so. I don't, there are some lines no one should cross, be they beggar, priest, or monarch."

"A most appropriate choice of words: belief. The instigator of countless miracles and tragedies, birthing kingdoms, and ruining dynasties. You are not wrong in this regard, Witcher, what is Aerys' will to a man who does not recognize it?"

"The same thing religion is to one who doesn't believe in the gods or wealth is to man indifferent to it: nothing. Now, if we're done philosophizing, I'd like to know what you intend to do with this information."

The Spider said nothing, examining Geralt with a calculating gaze of one accustomed to finding treachery and lies everywhere while creating many himself. It was the same look Dijkstra had during the numerous, unpleasant times, Geralt had to stomach in his company. But if deceased Redanian intelligence officer taught him anything, it was Geralt's own poor capability to lie. And how easy it was for a trained eye to see through his deceptions. So, he answered everything truthfully and hoped it would be enough.

"I despise magic, Witcher," Varys eventually said, the disdain obvious to see and hear. "I loathe it and all those who practice it. Now and forever. But I am no fool, you've changed things, Geralt, forever. The days when men could ignore the arcane are numbered, and to combat it, we need one such as you. Oh, you may pass on your knowledge to us, your insights. Yet they are a poor substitute for raw experience which you've plenty of. And I know of the things that interest you, Harrenhal, the Wall, the strangeness of our seasons to yours, there is much work for you here."

Geralt felt no need to answer, for the Spider's words were a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I thought so. An unfortunate set of circumstances, however, we all must adapt to the times in which we live and all they challenge us with."

"That's it? You're simply letting me go?"

"For now,..." The Spiders slithery voice replied, his face half-shrouded in darkness. "Your experience as a monster slayer aside, I believe I've taken a proper measure of the man that you are. For all your intellect, all your deadly skill, you are, Geralt of Rivia, a good man. A man with scruples and utterly lacking in ambition. An admirable quality, yet in the court of King's Landing, that all but renders your other, dangerous qualities null and void."

"It's always pleasing to know basic human decency is so frowned upon."

Varys laughed with genuine amusement, even as his eyes remained humorless. "My point exactly. Good night to you, Master Witcher, and rest assured, I'll not stand in your path when you present the Harrenhal issue to the king."

"A world with less magic is a far better one," This time, it was Varys who remained silent, the satisfaction on his face saying more than words ever could. He began to walk away, his purple robes flowing in the wake of his quiet retreat. Before he left, however, Geralt could not help but satisfy his curiosity.

"Lord Varys?"

"Hm?" He turned around, face exposed thanks to the moonlight shining down from above them.

"How old were you when you were changed because of magic?"

The Spider's gaze, as deadly as it was imperceptible in nature, implied he would take offense and say nothing. Then, it did not soften so much as grow distant, as though the spymaster was looking past Geralt to someplace far, far away. It was a look he'd seen on his fellow Witchers many times when the darker parts of their history at Kaer Morhen were brought up.

"... Ten years old."

Geralt nodded, looking at Varys with some pity. "So was I."

Days later, after performing some final preparations with his allies and making a few requests, Geralt found himself in the Council Chamber. Situated in a building adjacent to the throne room, the meeting place between some of the most powerful men in the realm was expectedly opulent. Richly furnished carpets were placed along the length of the room, a carved screen on the western side gave a detailed map of all of Westeros. The western one was adorned with tapestries from Essos. On each side of the entrance, stood a pair of malevolent looking, black marble sphinxes from Valyria itself.

Tywin once told Geralt that after a time, Aerys refused to meet with him privately without all of the Kingsguard present, a show of profound paranoia now extended to the Witcher. As still as the sphinxes, the seven bodyguards stood tall, still and imposing in their white armors, covering each side of the room in pairs. Arthur Dayne stood by Aerys' right at the head of the tall table at the heart of the room. Ser Gerold kept a tight hold on Geralt's swords. The entire small council was assembled as well. Tywin, Pycelle, Varys, Lucerys Valeryon Qarlton Chesteald, and the, until recently absent master of laws, Symond Staunton. Missing for the past few weeks due to an ill period of health. Curiously and thankfully, Rossart was absent.

"Your majesty, honored members of the small council," Geralt said in a loud, respectful voice, bowing to his waist to the gathered group. "I would first like to thank you for taking the time from your busy schedules to give me this audience."

"How could we not, Master Witcher?" Aerys smiled pleasantly enough, a gesture that made Geralt's skin crawl. "From what you oh so mysteriously told us during yesterday's dinner feast, the matter is of grave importance. Why you appeared even more dour than usual!"

The lickspittles, so most of the small council, laughed along with the king. As though it was the cleverest jape in the world. Varys and Pycelle only smiled out of forced politeness, Tywin and the Kingsguard could have been carved from marble themselves.

"People always do compliment my sunny disposition," Geralt feigned a smile as well. Letting them laugh even harder at the self-deprecation. This, however, did bring some genuine amusement to Varys, Pycelle, and even some of the Kingsguard. "But you're right, your majesty. The matter is of grave importance unless I am thoroughly mistaken, I believe there is some Witchers work to be done here in Westeros."

"You mean a beast to slay?" Ser Gerold asked from Aerys' left. "Another vampire, mayhaps?"

"Something more dangerous, I believe. But also more... Abstract," Confusion, fear, and curiosity permeated through the assembled men. "If you'll allow me to tell another tale, I believe I can illustrate my point clearly."

"You may."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Geralt bowed his head. "During my time here, I've told you of many dangers faced by Witchers, creatures who feed on corpses, beasts comprised of the dead, underground dwelling swarmers, insectoids the size of a horse. However, there is one threat we also deal with, the root cause of many problems in my lands. The Grand Maester already knows of what I speak."

"And I urge all those present to listen well, for it is no small matter."

Geralt nodded at the support. "The threat I wish to draw to your attention is one I believe already lingers in Westeros, in quite plain sight: a curse."

"Your list of adversaries grows more and more colorful, Master Witcher," Tywin said with all the discreet disdain of a flailing warhammer, playing his role expertly.

"Life is quite colorful in the ways it tries to kill people where I come from," Geralt riposted, adding some bite to his tone. Aerys smiled approvingly at this. "But yes, curses are quite real where I'm from, I've encountered and broken dozens over the years. One which always comes to mind is the case of Princess Adda of Temeria. A girl cursed before she was even born and turned into a hideous monstrosity.

"You see, Foltest, the last king of Temeria, had an incestuous relationship with his own sister. Unlike the renowned Targaryen dynasty, such a practice was not looked upon favorably there. Even less so when it became known that Foltest impregnated her and planned a marriage. It during this time, the curse was cast upon mother and daughter both. The first effect of it was claiming their lives during childbirth. The caster being either a jealous courtier who wished Foltest' sister as his own, or Foltest mother, furious with the incest."

A thick silence fell upon the chamber, even the hardiest of these men showing signs of discomfort. In the case of Tywin and even Aerys, there was a far rawer emotion neither man could successfully conceal.

"For seven years after their deaths, nothing was amiss... Until one night, the child emerged from her tomb. In all that time, the curse transformed a simple, dead baby girl into a monstrosity of unquenchable hunger for human flesh, and a profound hatred of all living things. Adda had become a Striga. I want you to imagine a beast larger in size than a bear, with a wild red mane, endless rows of teeth capable of rending steel and hateful, black eyes. Now, imagine such a thing coming at you in the middle of the night, and you've no chance of escaping or killing it."

Some of the small council, such as the masters of law and ships paled at the thought. The assembled Kingsguard tensed and quite openly stared at Geralt. Aerys, as he'd done before, seemed to shrink into his seat. Whether it was from the tale or Geralt's flat, hoarse voice, it didn't matter. They were getting the point.

"For the next seven years, she terrorized the citizens of Temeria's capital, ruthlessly, gruesomely. Foltest couldn't bring himself to kill her, he wished a cure for the curse. Many tried it, even other Witchers, none of them succeeded at lifting it until me."

"... A-And..." Symond Staunton spoke, trying not to tremble. "H-How did you do so...?"

"Someone must prevent the Striga from returning to her coffin by the third crowing of the rooster. This would temporarily break the curse and revert the beast into an ordinary, if mentally addled, girl," Geralt craned his neck, giving them a good look at the scar that very nearly killed him and left him incapable of turning his head for months. "Easier said than done, even for a Witcher. And yes, I said temporarily, some curses can be broken, others sent into a kind of dormant state, Adda can and has relapsed. I was forced to restore her humanity again years down the line."

"And what brings about these... Curses?" Varys asked.

"The officially recognized cause of them is magic. Many a tome categorizes a curse as a malevolent spell cast on a person or place that brings a wide variety of side effects. Sometimes, men and women become inhuman beasts. Other times it may be outright death. Or, it can be as simple as ever-present misfortune following an individual. Causing them failure in their profession, love-life, or any number of other things. From my experience, mundane disasters can also cause a curse to hang over a place, acts of supreme violence, and death that naturally gather negative energies around themselves. Such as Harrenhal."

"You believe the curse of Harrenhal to be true?" Lucerys Valeryon asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are we to really entertain such-"

"Silence!" Aerys slammed the desk, a wild fire in his eyes. "Let the man speak."

"Thank you, your majesty. Yes, I wish to bring Harrenhal to your attention, for it is clear to me that a curse hangs over it. In your lands, noble houses tend to last centuries, if not millennia. Yet, Harrenhal has cost well over half a dozen families their very existence. Houses Hoare, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, and Lothston, all made lords of Harrenhal and all lasted barely a few decades at best. Tragedy, death, even madness, growing with increasing frequency."

Ser Oswell stiffened at those words, struggling to stare or look away from Geralt.

"And yet," Tywin answered, sounding appropriately unconvinced. "You've spoken of how diminished sorcery is in Westeros, how is that an entire castle, the largest in the land, could be cursed? Or will you produce another exception to suit your needs?"

"I said silence, damn you all! The next who speaks who interrupts without my permission will suffer the same fate as Ilyn Payne!"

"As I said," Geralt broke the silence, letting Aerys simmer down. "Acts of extreme cruelty can bring forth a curse to hang over a place as well. Not just magic, though, Harrenhal has more than enough of both. Harren the Black scoured the riverlands of resources, no doubt condemning countless to death from famine and exposure alone. Then, he used forced labor to construct his impregnable fortress, leaving their dead bodies buried amidst quarries. Now, imagine such repugnant human suffering go on for forty years. I've seen places become cursed for far, far less, and in shorter time to boot. Then there's Aegon the Conqueror."

Aerys leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with rabid curiosity.

"This was a time when magic was not so diminished in your lands. When the sight of a dragon, while incredible, wasn't deemed impossible. And the greatest of them, Balerion the Blackdread, a living embodiment of the power itself, unleashed it all upon Harrenhal. The scorching flame of dragon fire would've been a molten bath of magical energies, destroying all within, yes, but also leaving a trace. No one and nothing can unleash such a display of power without some consequence. And as we already established, Harrenhal would've been ripe for a curse before the Conqueror ever set his sights on it. Lord Symond?"

"... Yes?"

"Might I borrow your cup of wine, I'm a bit parched."

"O-Of course, Master Witcher..."

Taking his sweet time to enjoy the Arbor red, Geralt allowed his words to etch themselves into the assembled group. For a moment, Varys inclined his head, and offered a smile, impressed the Witcher assumed. Most importantly, Aerys was thoroughly invested. Like an anxious child, he squirmed in his seat, with terror and anticipation.

"Witcher," He said when Geralt downed the cup. "This curse... Would it... Would it hold greater power over... Targaryens?"

"Without a doubt," He brazenly answered, getting stunned stares from the lickspittles. "House Targaryen brought an end to Harren the Black and his entire lineage. If there is anyone who would suffer from its effects profoundly, it would be Aegon's heirs. Though, I doubt the curse will discriminate against anyone. Which is why I believe it must be removed from the castle, by any means necessary. Particularly since the entire realm plans to go there soon for a tournament."

"And you can stop it?"

"I can," Geralt said, feeling pleased with how the conversation was going thus far. "It will require me to travel to Harrenhal personally and perform an investigation of its ground, to find the highest concentration of power and break the source of the curse."

Aerys' enthusiasm cooled, he misliked the idea of Geralt slipping away. An expected reaction, and with a prepared response.

"Your Grace," The Grand Maester spoke, not unkindly. "If Master Geralt is given leave to go, I would personally accompany him on such an endeavor."

The rest of the assembled men turned to the Grand Maester, more or less all of them stunned at his proclamation with varying degrees of authenticity.

"Not only to act as a witness, so that we may add credence to Master Geralt's works and all else he wishes to accomplish, but also to aid him in the investigation. From what he has told me, it is a task made far easier with a group and not simply one man."

"It could be dangerous, Grand Maester," Geralt warned him again with genuine concern. The old man, though gulping, managed to gather his strength.

"Perhaps, yet... I feel duty-bound to go, regardless, with your permission, of course, Your Grace."

"I would also ask to accompany the Witcher," Ser Oswell stepped forward, kneeling in Aerys' direction. "My family rules Harrenhal, and I grew up within its ruined halls. My knowledge and my sword will be of use on this endeavor."

"I too for your leave, sire," Ser Arthur volunteered next. "As Geralt demonstrated, Dawn is a blade of magic, and if we are to face a threat of power, then I believe having another of those at our disposal will be a boon."

"I've already prepared diagrams for weapons and even armors," Geralt said. "We'll need quite a bit of silver for both, and perhaps some training for the Kingsguard to acclimate themselves to them. However, we should be ready to leave within a week, perhaps even less."

Aerys leaned back in his seat, a genuinely thoughtful look on his face, ruined by the taloned finger running across his chin. He glanced at those willing and ready to leave time and again.

"A Witcher, two of my Kingsguard and my Grand Maester, a most interesting group indeed," Then, he smiled again. When he glanced at Tywin, a lump of ice formed around his stomach. "Such a group will need an aide, or perhaps a squire to help them in this venture."

Tywin's eyes hardened, his gaze boring into Aerys'. Rather than be intimidated by this, the Mad King was not cowed. If anything, his amusement grew.

"Your son Jaime, he's earned quite a reputation here as a capable lad from my understanding. Perhaps if he lives up to it, he could earn his knighthood during this arduous task, eh, Tywin?"

"... It would bring great honor upon House Lannister, Your Grace."

"Splendid!" Aerys clapped his hands together, relishing in Tywin's acceptance. Geralt, meanwhile, kept a neutral expression, even as the desire to reach across the table and throttle the prick was very tempting. There was nothing for it, the king's mind was already made up. Now, it was up to him to make sure this new group he was taking into danger lasted better than the one before them...

Chapter Text

The choice before him, like many others preceding it, wasn't simple by any stretch. Geralt was aware of it would come to this since the formation of his Harrenhal curse-breaking scheme weeks ago. From those earliest days, when the plan was in its nascent stages, he knew Aerys would never let him leave alone. The Mad King would want to keep his newly acquired pet Witcher under close watch if he couldn't contain him within the Red Keep. He would also desire witness accounts from credible members of the inner court circle as it were, men who could back up the claim of a genuine curse, and very likely much more, haunting the blasted ruin of Harren the Black.

This alone would present many an issue, practical and more personal. Both of which were respectively made more complicated by Varys and Aerys. If what he thought awaited them at Harrenhal was, they would need his Signs, particularly the Yrden. This meant revealing to even more people that he was a sorcerer, pathetic in comparison to the magic wielders back home. In Westeros, however, even a little was much. Just as Varys told him some days ago. Could he trust them to this secret? The Spider being aware was enough to heighten Geralt's awareness of the danger around him.

Fighting while concealing the Signs would make a dangerous endeavor all the moreso. Even with the diminished magic of this world, once their curse attempt got going, the entire length of the castle would become exponentially more dangerous than it already was. A single well-placed Sign casting could be the difference between life and success, or death and failure. This is where the personal aspect became troublesome. Geralt had gotten to know the people who were willing, and tasked, to accompany him on this job. Perhaps not for long, but enough to build a rapport, even friendships. He'd already lost friends before, men and women who'd accompanied him and paid dearly for it...

It was only made worse by the fact Aerys had thrown Jaime into the thick of it as well. Despite their less than friendly initial encounters, Geralt had grown fond of the boy, enjoying the time they spent sparring and talking. It reminded him of Ciri... and Alvin. Both children he'd taken under his wing, one of whom succeeded in coming out alive and happy from the dire circumstances thrust upon her. The other, changed into someone, something, Geralt had no choice but to stop with what he knew at the time of their duel. Where would Jaime end up, he wondered and dreaded as the sound of many footsteps reverberated in his ears from the halls of the Tower of the Hand.

He waited for them inside the hall used during the hidden practice matches with Jaime. A secret he could, thankfully share with the party with Tywin's permission. It was part of the payment he and Geralt worked out for Jaime's tutoring some days ago in private.

"Three favors," Geralt said, inside Tywin's private study, the same evening he'd spoken to Rhaegar and Varys. "That's all the payment I desire for services rendered and will continue to for the duration of my stay here."

The Lord Hand commented but with a single imperceptibly raised eyebrow.

"If the circumstances ask for it, yes. I won't be unreasonable, of course. You have my assurance I won't use these favors to ask of anything thoughtless or ridiculous from you, like half of the Rock or a seat in the westerlands. In fact, the very first favor requires that you only act much the same as in our first encounters, dubious of me, my motives and of magic before Aerys when I present my Harrenhal plan to him in the coming days."

Tywin silently contemplated this for a moment, unsure of the deal. Did he find but three favors too little a price to pay for his son's improved sword skills and mentality? That may have been part of it. Geralt thought he was busier gauging if one of these three favors could screw him over in the future.

"Anyone else would demand chests of gold or perhaps more for the service you've done House Lannister, a number of them quite foolish," He eventually spoke, leaning into the seat. "You are fortunate then, Geralt. I do not consider you foolish or greedy enough to overstep your boundaries in this arrangement. Regardless, I still hold the right to refuse your desired favor if it does not suit me, agreed?"

"Agreed."

Tywin played his role well, perhaps too well. Once Jaime became involved, Geralt spent his second favor to bend the rules of the arrangements secrecy. He was loathed to grant this, but once Geralt explained how much easier the preparation would go if Jaime could put his newly acquired skills to the test, and how much better the task itself would end from it, Tywin agreed. Accepting the necessity of honesty could save all of their lives. The irony of this didn't escape Geralt's notice in the least, or help give an easy answer to the conundrum facing him.

With a knock and creak of the wooden door, the group entered the hall. Arthur and Oswell, wearing the almost blindly white armor of the Kingsguard, ready and dutiful for the meeting. Grand Maester Pycelle, heaving from the tiresome ascent but smiling nonetheless and finally, Jaime, sweating and curious, fresh from the sparring yard, no doubt. Four, not counting Geralt himself. Larger and smaller by one than his first and second Hanse's, respectively. Just as with them, the position of leader was thrust upon him, and seeing them there, Geralt's mind was made up.

"I sympathize with your plight, Grand Maester," Geralt smiled, taking a book of his own making and rising from the terrace steps to greet them in the center of the room. "Don't worry, I won't have you suffer walking up these stairs much more often."

"Words to comfort an aging man's soul," Pycelle sighed, a look of relief on his face. "And his knees..."

"Mayhaps, you should join us in our training?" Ser Oswell grinned while Pycelle blanched. "I'm certain we'll make a warrior of you yet. You'll be hard-pressed to find better tutors in such an endeavor."

"As interesting as that would be, Ser Oswell," Geralt came to his rescue, walking over to hand the book. "The Grand Maester will have his own battles to fight."

Pycelle accepted it and opened the first page, the sense of wonder so often found in his eyes whenever Geralt regaled him of tales from his world returned tenfold. Though it was a breach in good manners, the Grand Maester, as an excited youth, could not resist but dive into the work.

"Master Geralt is this...?"

"Yes, it's a series of incantations, prayers, and other verbal rituals, translated from the tongues of my lands to your own language. I've even included pronunciations of the original sayings and ranked them from most to least potent. They'll be your silver blade once we arrive at Harrenhal."

"... And what exactly are we doing at Harrenhal, Master Geralt?" Jaime inquired, trying to get a peak in the book to his left with all the subtlety of nosy brat. "Ser Arthur only said my presence was required."

"Apologies, Geralt," Arthur said, looking politely remorseful. "You're the expert and leader, I thought it best for you to inform young Jaime of our task."

"That's fine, Ser Arthur. I've much to say to you all regardless, a great deal of it not from the meeting..." He exhaled. "And some of it which cannot leave this room. Under any circumstances."

The three men who already understood the basics became attentive, while Jaime's curiosity and even excitement grew. His sword hands were twitching, and there was no mistaking that glint in his eye. No doubt, the thought of going out on a mission with such a group was causing his flights of fancy habit to rear its ugly head. As usual, Geralt decided to put a premature end to it. For his and the group's collective good.

"We go to Harrenhal for Witcher's work, the curse there has been a grave threat for centuries, and it's up to us to put a long-overdue end to it. And no, Jaime, I don't exaggerate what my work is or what it needs me to do. You should well know that by now."

The other occupants of the room looked at their apparent familiarity with one another with surprise and interest. Jaime looked stunned, and even a bit afeared, purposefully avoiding the other's gaze.

"Jaime and I are acquainted yes, the hows and whys I'll explain shortly. But first, there's the matter of the curse and what danger it could present to us when we attempt to break it."

"Monsters," Ser Oswell said, his gruff voice stiff. "You mentioned such occurrences can bring them about, yes?"

"Exactly, not every curse brings about or is connected to a monster. When they are, monsters are either the cause or the consequence of the curse's existence. I hope in this case its the latter, it'll make things considerably less dangerous for us all. My boundless optimism is rarely rewarded, so we're assuming its the former. Given the nature of what transpired at Harrenhal, we're looking at wraiths, specters, and other such ghostly apparitions will be our adversaries."

"... We're fighting spirits...?" Jaime languidly repeated as though he were simple. The Grand Maester momentarily looked surprised, but Geralt had told him enough by this point to dampen his disbelief. Ser Arthur remained politely neutral, waiting for Geralt's impending proof. Ser Oswell said nothing, yet the scowl on his face and the stiffening of his entire body betrayed his anxiety and anger.

"That's the most likely scenario, yes. Specters come in many shapes and forms, they're frequently some of the trickiest opponents for a Witcher to face. Not the least of which comes down to their ability to become incorporeal or cross distances while vanishing from sight. Against such enemies, we'll need more than just Witcher training and silver swords. We'll also need one of these..."

Jaime had listened to many of Geralt's tales during their breaks. He spoke of beasts with queer names, coming in shapes and sizes that sounded as incredible as they were formidable. Many appeared too fantastical, too out of the tales from bygones ages to actually exist. But spirits, wraiths? It sounded too unbelievable, and curses as well? Yet, what stopped him from entirely dismissing this was not just curiosity but Geralt himself. The Witcher did not lie or embellish the truth of his work, he was bluntly forthright in what it entailed and did nothing to soften its blow. Perhaps he said this because he knew people would be slow to accept this, in contrast, to say vampires or ground burrowing nekkers?

Whatever his reason for keeping this quiet, Jaime would soon stop to care for something else sent his mind into a whirl of shock and amazement. With his eyes closed, Geralt seemed to concentrate on something, his left hand extended outward, his knees bending alongside it in slow motion. When the first crackle of purple thunder danced through his fingers, Jaime thought he'd imagined it. When it happened again, he assumed madness was upon him. When Geralt thrust his hand at the floor, and the lightning crackled about him, engulfing him in a glowing ring of magic, his mouth hung open.

It was magic! Geralt had performed magic! The realization was slow to come and only stunned him for longer. Unblinkingly, Jaime observed the sight, watching the purple lightning dance in place around the floor, its glow, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Several points were comprising the circle, runes of some kind in a language he could not begin to decipher. It almost seemed... Alive, from the way that it moved, the way it crackled with the faintest sounds of lightning.

Yet, Jaime was not so astonished as to miss something else change, this time with Geralt. Looking at his instructor, the Witcher looked at his own creation with a thoughtful expression, perhaps even surprise. His eyes passed over the length of the circle, narrowing at it, his gaze eventually resting on the palm of his hand. Before Jaime could ask what was wrong, someone else spoke first.

"By the Seven,..." Grand Maester Pycelle gasped, the aging man staring in a wonder equaling Jaime's end. Only, he dared to approach it.

"I wouldn't do that, Grand Maester," Geralt put whatever troubled him aside and refocused on the group. "The Yrden is a trap Sign. Those who enter or even touch its edges can suffer harm. In the case of living beings, it can wound or slow them down. While specters become corporeal beings, far easier to kill."

Pycelle retreated while Ser Arthur approached, looking intently at the spell. "Signs... is this what the sorcery of your land is called, Geralt?"

"Signs are nothing but primitive spells. Witcher's use them because they require little concentration to use and can be activated quickly in the heat of battle. Proper wizards and sorceress' don't bother with them, they've got far better at their disposal. For our purposes, the Yrden will more than suffice, however."

With a wave of his hand, Geralt did something to the circle. It's lights winked out into the nothingness, along with the strange runes comprising it. Once it faded, there was no trace left of it at all.

"Incredible," The Grand Maester breathed again, coming to one of the places where the rune was, running his hand across the stone. "I had my suspicions that there was more to you than you let even me know... But this..."

"Is something that stays between us," The tone of Geralt's voice was severe, Jaime hadn't heard him speak like this since the earliest days of their training. Even the look he gave one and all sent a shiver of fear across the young Lannister's body. Pycelle stepped back, while Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell appeared... Strange. Jaime could not guess what they were thinking. It eerily reminded him of Father.

"Don't ask me why when most of you know full well. Aerys would use this information to concoct all sorts of insane plots, and everyone in this city would suffer for it."

Jaime's mouth hung open again, to speak in such a way... It was treason, what was Geralt thinking?!

"You speak ill of the king so brazenly," Ser Oswell smiled even as his eyes narrowed. "Careful Geralt, many would not take well to such acts."

"I'm aware Aerys' ass kissers are as endless as the stupidity driving them. I don't care. As the leader of this group, your lives, your well being is my responsibility, and this knowledge could very well see you through this. I've also spent enough time to know you all, you see things as I do, though you've never spoken it aloud until perhaps today. Aerys cannot know of this."

"We are bound by oath to serve him," Ser Oswell said with some force, and far too little of it when addressing some who spoke this way of the king. "You would have us lie to His Grace should he ask us of a truthful account?"

"Your oaths also tell you to protect others in this castle," Geralt's voice might as well have been made from ice, and his gaze of pure venom. "Or is the queen's well-being not important when-"

"Enough!" Ser Arthur's voice cut him off, commanding and powerful... But still lacking in anger. In-fact, the Sword of the Morning looked miserable, his sigh carrying with it the weight of something terrible upon his shoulders. When he locked eyes with the Witcher, there was resignation and even shame in his face. "... You've made your point, Geralt, please... Do not speak more of this..."

Ser Oswell, who's lip curled in distaste, stood there with sheer despondence plain in his face. The Grand Maester shook his head in silence, taking a shaky breath even as the tension in the air hung over them like an executioner blade. Geralt's demeanor changed not at all if anything, the longer he stood there, the more Jaime's mind wondered just what they were talking about? Was the king hurting the queen? Did the Kingsguard know this? It was frightening, impossible to consider, and yet... Geralt would not react like this over nothing.

Jaime felt something twist in the pit of his stomach the more he thought or rather imagined the implications of this. A part of him wished to play the indignant knight to defend his king's honor against such insinuations. He said nothing, these men wouldn't speak of such things if there was not some truth to it. Eventually, Ser Arthur's eyes met Jaime's and properly left again, the shame becoming clearer.

"On my honor as a knight," He said, looking to Geralt instead. "And as a Kingsguard, I swear I will not reveal the truth of you and your Signs, Geralt. For your own good... And of the realm."

To emphasize this, Ser Arthur bent his knee and bowed deeply. Soon enough, Ser Oswell did the same. "I follow my sworn brother, I'll not speak of this to anyone, even under pain of torture or death. Not even the king."

"I too swear myself to secrecy," The Grand Maester, with far less grace and ease, knelt as well. "Many things you've confided in me, and I've not betrayed you, Master Geralt. May they take my chain and fling it into the sea if I should do so now."

Then came Jaime's turn, he followed the knights. "I swear to keep this secret," His voice was rough, making him cough. "From all those who should not know it, even from those closest to me."

Geralt scrutinized them all, silently and intently. Soon enough, some of the tension in his own shoulders seemed to fade, and eventually, he nodded. Even if he looked uncertain still, of their oaths or his choice to reveal this? Both? Jaime could not say, but he knew he did not wish to break Geralt's trust, especially if he took such a great risk to speak of these matters to plainly.

"Alright, you can get up, the theatrics... Weren't necessary," He sighed. "And I apologize for... Speaking of sensitive matters. Let us not go there again and focus only on what task lies before us, agreed?"

"That is what we came here for," Ser Oswell answered. "Now, tell me truthfully, Witcher, that thing I saw as a lad... Will we face it?"

"It's very likely, yes. The dead man, covered by the sea and consumed by flame, came to you on the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Harrenhal's incineration. Many apparitions only appear during certain times of day, in such specific instances, they can only manifest on dates like this with years separating hauntings."

"You don't seem to take much comfort from this," Ser Arthur pointed out.

"The incantations," The Grand Maester said. "From a cursory glance, I saw some within meant to invoke such... Creatures, you mean to spur the wraiths into revealing themselves, yes?"

"If we're lucky, the source of the curse will require them and perhaps some ritual drawings cast at the epicenter to begin the breaking process. Given the longevity of the power hanging over Harrenhal, we're sure to be accosted by spirits. If a spirit itself is the heart, then we'll have to fight and banish it into the netherworld to end the curse."

"... Harren the Black...?" Jaime spoke again, voicing what the others no doubt already knew or guessed. He could not keep the wonder and curiosity from bleeding into his voice. "Are you saying we could actually meet Harren the Black himself?"

Geralt was not so enthused. "It's very possible, Harren was the architect of the castle's misery long before any dragon king decided to make an example of him. If there's any wraith who could be the lynchpin of all the misery wrought by the places magic, it's him."

"... Seven hells..." Ser Oswell muttered. "What are the chances of him being the only one? Harren sired eight sons, all of whom perished alongside him when Aegon the Conqueror struck."

"At the very least, we'll have nine wraiths to contend with and possibly more. The numbers will not favor us, and I very much doubt we could fulfill Harren's request to peacefully send him on his way."

"Such a thing is possible?" Ser Arthur asked, stroking his chin. "If so, is it truly not pursuing?"

"If this were a smaller, less severe case, then yes. Unfortunately, I doubt Harren will give us any demands we can accomplish, for practical or ethical reasons. The last great hateful spirit I attempted to settle down peacefully demanded the body parts of his previous torturers to leave. I tried fooling it with pigs part, but it was too clever for that."

"Then it is with the sword we solve this, good," Ser Oswell actually smiled, some of his mood improving at last. "I've long since wished to trounce the prick who terrorized me as a boy. Tell me what must be done, Geralt, and then let me at him."

"To do that, I'll have to explain what you've all no doubt noticed, my... Familiarity with Jaime."

Before the young Lannister could recover from yet another well delivered surprise from Geralt, or voice the fact no one was to become aware of their arrangement, Ser Arthur spoke. In fact, he even seemed to smile and find little trouble at sending a knowing look Jaime's way.

"I can guess, your student made a slip the other day, letting one of my blows carry him into an answering blow. Very similar to what you so frequently do, Geralt."

"I-It could not be helped!" Jaime said, hoping to forestall any ire to rise back in the Witcher. "It happened on instincts, was that not what you wished of me to accomplish?"

"Calm down," Geralt said, entirely unconcerned. "I figured it would happen sooner or later, though I hope you tell me of such instances henceforth. You can relax about your father knowing too, I already got his permission to let everyone here know."

"It does not surprise me," Ser Oswell commented. "No offense, lad, but your father is one to grasp at an opportunity when he sees it."

"I would be more astounded if he didn't try to enlist Geralt as your hidden instructor," The Grand Maester said, smiling and giving Jaime a knowing look. The lad could not help return the gesture, knowing it was useless to deny such observations. "We shall, of course, keep this between us as well, lest Lord Tywin's enemies at court become aware of it."

"Aye!" The knights of the Kingsguard said in unison.

"Good, then we can move onto the next important point, your training," Geralt looked at the knights. "In our practices, Jaime and I have done reflex training, binding his eyes with cloth and forcing him to use his other senses and ultimately, pure instincts, to let him anticipate and respond to danger. It may sound simple, but from both of our experiences, you will get far worse before you return even to your previous skill level."

"I've the bruises to prove it," Jaime quipped, earning laughs and smile from the others.

"Your silver swords and armors aren't complete yet, and they may prove an added hurdle to overcome, but you'll have to. Until they're ready, you'll practice with your standard equipment."

"In the meantime, I will begin learning these incantations," The Grand Maester said with conviction, holding the tome given to him tightly. "Rest assured, Master Geralt, I will know them by heart before we leave the Red Keep."

"Good to know, Grand Maester," Geralt replied, smirking. "Because I intend to test your knowledge much in the coming evenings."

Pycelle was not deterred by this, if anything, the thought brought out a smile. The kind one saved for an opponent who's challenge one enjoyed. "And I will endeavor to pass without fault."

He nodded, returning his attention back to the Kingsguard. "Your training will begin today, and Jaime's private sessions had a fortuitous consequence, it means there are two of us capable of acting as instructors."

Jaime blinked once, twice, and on the fifth, his mind seemed to recover. "... I beg your pardon?"

"Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur are different in the necessities of their regiments. The former is staunch in his defense, preferring strength and solid footwork above our speed and mobility. I'll have to work with him to make sure he can adapt to the training. Ser Arthur is closer to how we fight, and his prodigious talent with the sword will make him a far easier student."

"... Student...?" Jaime repeated, staring at the Witcher as though he'd gone mad. He must have gone mad for certain! How could he, a boy nearly half the Sword of the Morning's age and but a squire train Arthur bloody Dayne in anything? The very thought was madness, not the least of which insulting to the knight.

"I know I'm throwing a lot your way in so short a time," Geralt said, his rough voice unusually smooth. "But I wouldn't thrust this task upon you if I didn't think you were up for it, you've learned well, Jaime and in such a short amount of time. If you feel something is amiss, I'll help you, you're not in this alone."

"And I will pay close attention," Ser Arthur bowed his head, not at Geralt but Jaime! "Your skill with the blade is great, Jaime, and I will be honored to learn anything I can from you."

Caught in this situation, one madness after another, Jaime could do nothing but silently, and stupidly nod his head as the only answer. Meanwhile, in the back of his mind, Ser Oswell's words from moments ago rang truer than ever.

Seven fucking hells.

Chapter Text

The Kingsguard were as still as statues, their white armor resplendent in the afternoon sun shining into the room. Both of them stood ready to attack or defend. Ser Arthur held Dawn in a close left stance while Ser Oswell took a phalanx position with his silver sword and shield. Both had thick cloths wrapped around their heads, making sight an impossibility. The scent of perspiration hung heavy in the air, Geralt could practically see the waves of exertion made stench rolling off of them. Silently, steadily, he and Jaime both stalked around the two knights, waiting for an opportunity to attack. 

Though, Jaime's footwork was not quite as silent as Geralt's, letting out a thump every so often. The Witcher didn't begrudge him this, if anything, letting your anticipating enemy think you've made a mistake can present an opportunity for later. When the lads latest footfall made them twitch just a bit too much in Jaime's direction, he struck. Ser Oswell reacted immediately and appropriately, his shield meeting each blow with a satisfying clang. When he moved to counter-attack, Geralt leaped aside in a half-circle. Jaime went after him next, striking Ser Oswell from the side, only for Ser Arthur's blade to intercept the cut. 

The boy tried to goad Ser Arthur to break the back to back position with his sworn brother by feigning weakness with little success. Geralt decided to aid him by rejoining the fray, letting his footfalls give away his place in the room only to squeeze just in-between the Kingsguard with a tight but fast pirouette. Ser Oswell's reflexes served him well, his sword meeting Geralt's strike for strike. Jaime went on the offensive as well, darting in and out of Arthur Dayne's reach with swift blows followed by equally quick retreats and repositionings. 

When Ser Oswell tried to strike back with a shield swing, Geralt broke off from their engagement entirely and switched out with Jaime. With the Sword of Morning, the Witcher did not engage, letting his blade spin in quiet, rhythmic motions as close as he could get the knight without provoking his attacks. Ser Arthur didn't take the bait, breathing in and out in the automated sequence Jaime had passed down onto him. It was not a matter of trust, the Dornishmen knew Geralt could and would strike him to wound and hurt. His body simply refused to answer anything less than a proper threat. 

This is what Geralt was counting on exploiting. While the two of them did nothing much at all, Jaime and Ser Oswell were busy fighting as though a melee was on. Youth and speed against experience and strength. A fierce exchange of sword and shield strikes and blocks one would be forgiven to think them lost in a battle frenzy. Jaime smirking and breaking off the engagement, deftly zipping under a sword swing to attack Ser Arthur,  proved otherwise. The Dornishman moved to stop him only to stiffen when Geralt attacked next, forcing him to break from his sworn brothers back. 

If Ser Oswell was deterred by this, he didn't show this, grimly smiling even as he realized he'd been fooled. Geralt switched the weight and momentum of his swing intended for Arthur and attacked the knight of Whent once more. 

"Don't let that happen at Harrenhal," Geralt grunted. "Wraiths love to goad you into overplaying your hand."

"Aye, I'll not!"

For the next half hour, Geralt and Jaime both took turns making sure he did. On and on they fought, the attackers switching between prey, falling silent or immobile only to reposition and strike again.  The sun was setting as the final exercise in the Tower of the Hand came to a halt. Most of the combatants were decently tired, Geralt's constitution serving him the best of them all. As always, Ser Oswell produced a cask of wine for them to enjoy. They sat in amicable silence at the steps of the terrace, their various weapons settled within reach. 

"Finally leaving the Red Keep," Geralt commented after a while, savoring the fine booze's aftertaste. "Feels like a lifetime since I've been outside castle walls."

"The weather has been good to us this year," Ser Arthur said. "Long, summer-like days, warm breezes..."

"Let's hope it doesn't take a turn for the worse, although," Ser Oswell's lip curled. "Home would look like arse even if you plopped it in the middle of the Reach."

"Or the westerlands," Jaime smiled, taking a good swing from the cask. "Mayhaps if we liberate Harrenhal, we could go there next? I've heard stories about Tarbeck Hall being haunted ever since my father was through with it."

"One curse at a time," Geralt replied, taking the cask. "And don't drink too much of that. The three of you still need to practice after I've gone."

"Exercising that elvish of yours, no offense Geralt, all of it sounds like someone choking on a bone to me."

"None taken," The Witcher smiled, imagining many an appalled Elf's expression at Ser Oswell's words. With a final swing of the cask, Geralt took it and his own possessions and made his way for the door. Ser Oswell made a noise of protest about the wine being snatched away but otherwise did nothing to stop it. 

"Make sure they don't get into trouble, will you?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jaime answered, the past week of near-constant training in the presence of the Kingsguard loosening his tongue. Or maybe that was from the alcohol. 

"I was talking to Ser Arthur."

"Very amusing," Jaime replied with a ton drier than the Korath desert. "It's a wonder you need a sword at all, much less two, with such razor-sharp wit."

"It's all I need to win some fights. I'd rather avoid wasting good steel or silver," Glancing at the opposite end of the room, Jaime took the riposte with a smile, while the Kingsguard snorted or laughed. With a wave, Geralt bade them farewell and began the trek over to the Grand Maester. 

Jaime climbed down up his chambers tired, and sore. His knees ached incessantly with every step, his legs almost hung at his sides, and he smelled like horses balls. It was the best kind of fatigue, one acquired through unceasing sword practice, backed by the elation of a good day's work and sense of self-satisfaction. It didn't hurt his sparring partners, mentors, and in some cases, apprentices were the finest he could ask for. Always keeping him and one another ready for more, always pushing themselves and accepting of a jest. 

He was almost saddened to know their training would lessen in the coming days. Their journey to Harrenhal, while not pressed for time, would be made up of riding on horseback and taking breaks for sleeping, eating, and drinking. Opportunities to spar would be infrequent, lest their traveling becomes too slowed down. Still, the company was an interesting one, and being able to ride with them alone, chosen for this task was an honor he would never forget. In ways he could never have foreseen, his great hope about the Red Keep came true: it was the best time of his life.

The thought brought a smile to his face, content despite his weary body. It didn't hurt Father, and Cersei already feasted with him in the early afternoon, leaving him the entire evening to simply take off his boots and fall on his welcoming bed. Simply imagining those soft cushions and freshly cleaned sheets was enough to bolster his strength and make the final steps a great deal easier. 

Yet, the moment Jaime opened the door, his body froze, and his sharpened instincts warned him something was amiss. All thoughts of sleep, rest, and weariness vanished at a moment's notice, he was not alone in the room. The fact his hanging had been lowered said as much. Before he could turn to the guard or draw his recently forged silver sword, the hangings parted, and from the crack, emerged Cersei. 

Before he could do much more than stare like a simpleton, his dear sister smiled sweetly in a way he hadn't seen much recently. She pressed a single finger to her lips for silence, then waved a hand for him to shut the door. Jaime regained enough sense to do both and to run a thousand questions through his head. What was she doing there, had she gone mad, did the guards see her? All of these and many more came and went unquestioned. When he turned around, Jaime's mind went blank all over again. 

In the scant moments he turned around, Cersei rose from the bed and stood before him in all her naked splendor. Her golden locks glowed in the candlelight, her eyes were full of want, and her smile equal parts predatory and enrapturing. 

"I know we've not spoken well in each other's company of late," She said, walking in such a way as to emphasize her hips, those, and so much more. The only piece of clothing, a Lannister necklace, accentuated her enticing breasts, coming ever closer. "But it does not have to be so, not when you're leaving me again tomorrow."

Slowly, her arms rose and entwined around his neck, her body pressing against his. There was only the faintest of perfumes on her, the smell alone doing things to him.

"Come, let us do what we've both wanted for so long."

And she was right, they did want this, ever since they were children. Before the servant informed their mother and forced them to separate ends of the castle. Even then, as a boy still green with a sword, who knew nothing of love and taking a woman, Jaime knew Cersei was the only one for him. No one knew him like she, none could make him feel what he did. Leave him sleepless and intoxicated at the mere thought of touching her soft skin, running his fingers through her hair. One of his few regrets since arriving at the Red Keep, for a time, was not being able to take her. Or rather, becoming less willing to.

Even as she closed the distance, capturing his lips in hers and giving herself into pure want, Jaime stood there, stiff... And afraid. The conversation on incest with Geralt many, many weeks past, was never too far from his mind. The fact Father and Mother both, mere cousins, may have caused their children to think this way, that their last born son was broken forever from it. No, that wasn't all that kept him from returning the embrace, it was Geralt himself. He spoke of the mere act of incest with disgust, revulsion, not even holding the Targaryens above it. If anything, he found them quite appalling for the practice. 

And he was sharp, impossibly observant. He'd seen right through Jaime in scarcely an afternoon and knew precisely where and how to bring him down to reality. He would notice something amiss, Jaime knew this to be true. They were to spend the next days together, sooner rather than later, Geralt would take him aside and ask him what troubled him. Could Jaime keep bedding his own sister from him? Perhaps he could fumble through some lies and half-truths until Geralt left the matter alone. The thought almost broke his restraint.

And yet, Jaime could not budge. He could stomach keeping this part of himself a secret from Geralt, so long as it remained an idle fantasy never partook in. But after it was no longer mere reverie, becoming something real, something a man of his keen senses would pick up on... All it would take for him to know the truth was to be in the same room as Jaime and Cersei for a few minutes. An invitation from Father to join them at dinner after they return from Harrenhal. Try as he might, Jaime could no stop himself from imaging such an occasion... The look of sheer disappointment and many other worse things alone in his mind was like running himself through with a sword. 

"... Cersei..." His voice came out rough, strained. "... We can't...."

She blinked at him, want replaced by stunned confusion. "Can't... What do you mean-"

"We can't go through with this," He responded with more resolve,  settling himself down with the breathing exercises from Geralt. "Mother was... Right to separate us, she knew nothing good would come from us pursuing this."

Cersei said nothing, staring at him until somehow, she smiled and then giggled. It seemed to take all her strength to keep herself quiet. She didn't believe him, thinking it was some game he was playing on her. The thought set a fire in his chest that spurned his insistence onward. 

"This is not a jape!" Jaime whispered forcefully, hoping the severity of his voice would help her see reason. "We cannot do this, and we will not, do you understand me?!"

Her giggling ceased, and when she looked at him again, all humor vanished. "You're serious," Cersei spoke as though he'd grown another head. Already, her beautiful features began to contort from a smile capable of starting a war to something far, far uglier. "You're truly refusing me? After all these years of waiting...? Now, when I am offering myself to you in a way we've both yearned for?!"

".... Things have changed," Jaime answered, feeling a horrible ache stir in the back of his head. 

"... Is this because of Lysa Tully?!" Cersei all but snarled her face inches from his. Jaime's body stiffened again, not from surprise but from the possibility she could strike him. "Did that trout fucking little whore put herself between us?!"

Once Jaime may have laughed at the thought, it still amused him privately. But it would not do this time, if he intended to impart to Cersei the severity of the situation, old habits had no place. 

"This has nothing to do with the Tully girl," Jaime steely told her. He barely even remembered what his wife to be looked like. "It is only between the two of us and how our relationship... It will do neither of us any good, Cersei. We are not Targaryens, we do not and should not do what you wish us to. We're brother and sister-"

"No, we are not mere siblings," She hissed, scowling with a curled lip that removed all of her beauty entirely. "We are one, you and I. We came into this world together, we grew in our mother's womb together... Jaime... We are parts of the same whole, you cannot reject me any more than you could remove your own sword hand."

Cersei moved closer to him again, calming herself, hoping the gesture would weaken him. Jaime breathed harder and, with a hand to her left shoulder, kept her at bay. Even as the effort threatened to drain his already spent strength.

"No."

The fury took over her, and the inevitable smack to his cheek came. Only this time, Jaime was swift enough to catch it. The movement surprised her, and even tired, he could hold her in place. Then, leaning closer, Jaime tried to capture the same look on Geralt's face. The expression when he'd revealed his collection of scars and shattered Jaime's foolish notions of glory and pride. 

"I said no," Cersei's eyes grew with shock and fear at his voice, her strength leaving her. "You and I are brother and sister, nothing more. And if we have to become even less to stop us from making a terrible mistake... Then so be it, Father will hear of it."

"Y-You wouldn't dare-"

"Wouldn't I?" He smiled. It was an ugly one judging by how she seemed to shrink at the sight of it. "You were certain I would never refuse you, yet I am. It is plain you do not know me, not anymore. What we both know, however, is this: Father will punish one of us more for these near follies. Who do you think will get the worse of it, I wonder?"

Cersei's palling face said it all when he let go of her hand, Jaime knew she would not strike him again. Wordlessly, she walked back to the bed and collected her discarded robes from it. Once she was clothed, Cersei walked to the door, sending a single look at him filled with poison before opening the door and slamming it on the way out. Once she left, Jaime walked to the nearest chair and fall on top of it, not trusting his legs to hold out anymore. 

Father would hear of this, without question. Cersei most likely used Lannister gold to bribe his own men to let her in at this hour, without his leave. Stupidly believing gold could withstand but a single, stern glance from Tywin Lannister. It was a foolish plan, short-sighted and ill-conceived. Only his sister could think it would work. Would Father ask of it immediately? No, the journey to Harrenhal awaited, and Jaime needed his rest. That gave him time to think of a reasonable enough lie to avoid whatever disaster Cersei might bring upon them. The guards would not speak either, not to anyone but their liege lord. 

But more than a few eyes were sure to find Cersei furiously crossing through the Tower back to her own chambers. And there were other ways to loosen a man's tongue than with just gold or fear, as Father told him many times. Jaime sighed, the headache growing more terrible the further he considered the many ways this could come back to bite them in the arse. With some final effort, he removed his boots and made it to his bed, and hoped he did not dream of monsters this night.

"Vort aep taedh... Vort aep taedh..."

"Speak taedh more softly. It'll help with the last parts pronunciation."

"Vort aep taedh d'yaebl... Vort aep taedh d'yaebl!"

"Perfect," Geralt smiled toasting to the Grand Maester sitting across from him. "Keep this up, my friend, and you'll be chatting with the elves as one of their own."

"A conversation enjoyed only by myself, from your own words on elven, human relations," The Grand Maester returned the gesture, partaking in some alcohol to parch his dried throat. Night had fallen well over two hours ago, covering much of his office in darkness. The parts that weren't, illuminated by candlelight, gave the impression of visiting a library or laboratory when no one was supposed to. Geralt liked it, particularly the fact no nosy spy was intruding on them this evening. 

"Not all elves hold grudges, the crafter of my swords, Éibhear Hattori, would gladly speak to you. Although, much of it would be about blacksmithing."

"But a few moons ago, I'd never thought I would learn of magic, monsters and a great many other things, why not add blacksmithing to the list?"

"Life does enjoy throwing many surprises at us," Geralt said, leaning back into the chair and gazing at the stars twinkling through the nearest window. "Sometimes, the surprise grows day by day."

His tone faltered Pycelle's smile, the Maester put his cup aside and looked at him with concern. "So, it is true then, what you've suspected since the first Yrden casting?"

"It is," Geralt said with an exhale, remembering the many late nights and early mornings spent meditating. Opening his meager perceptions of the power to the world around him, trying to prove a hunch and quell a fear. Time and again, he tested this with various Signs in the privacy of his own chamber. The differences were minute, but they were present. Comparing what he could do now to when he'd first arrived, there was little room for doubt. "Magic is growing stronger, Pycelle. Little by little. Before, I could scarcely produce more than a fart of wind without considerable concentration and time. Now? I could throw a grown man in full plate on his ass with but a wave of my hand."

Geralt set the drink aside and looked back at Pycelle, the older man meeting his eyes with a thoughtful look. "We'll have to provoke the wraiths holding the curse, and with the power growing, the side effect of this will be far more dangerous than I initially thought. We'll have to evacuate the castle."

"Lord Whent will not do so lightly, even under more... Mundane crises, abandoning such a place is done only under dire circumstances. Even Ser Arthur's reputation and Ser Oswell's word may not be enough."

"Which is why I've come up with an idea or two to show him, and everyone else there, that magic is quite real."

"Something I've seen before, mayhaps?" Pycelle smiled conspiratorially.

"Maybe," Geralt smirked. "As I said, I'm keeping my options open. There's still time to find an answer, we won't be reaching Harrenhal tomorrow after all."

"... I know not of this will ease or add to your burden, however," The Grand Maester rose sharply from his seat, darting to one of the smaller desks along the north side of the room. With some effort, he lifted a chest and brought it over to Geralt. "I believe it will still serve our purposes well."

"So, you're finally showing me what's inside," Geralt smiled, getting on his feet and running a hand along the length of the chest. "I was wondering when you'd do it, my medallion's been twitching incessantly."

"My apologies, but it is not often I take you by surprise after all, not in matters such as these." With a key produced from a chain of dozens, Pycelle opened the chest with deliberate slowness and revealed what was inside. When Geralt laid eyes on the contents, he couldn't stop but stare.

"Holy shit... " He said after a while, reaching into the chest once Pycelle gave him an approving nod. "How did you...?"

"Convince the king to part with it?" The Grand Maester let out a shaky laugh, a bead of sweat-producing itself across his brow. "It was not an easy task, much of my morning was spent convincing His Grace of why it was imperative to the curse-breaking process. You did say we would require suitable bait to lure the wraiths out, after all?"

"That I did..." Geralt said, hefting the lure in his hand, his medallion's vibrations intensifying from the proximity. The Witcher was indeed unsure of what to think of this, once the surprise was dulled. What he held would help and potentially doom them in equal measure. "One thing's for sure, this will definitely piss off Harren like almost nothing else."

The party out to see them off was small. The sun was yet to even fully rise, and much of the castle and city remained asleep. Their horses had already been prepared for them, fully stocked, and checked with all they would require. There was food enough for the entire journey and then some, a sizable sum of coin for any additional needs, places for books, to carry equipment on four young, strong stallions. Some of the best in the entire castle, as Aerys promised. The king and much of the small council refrained from being present, however, with some exceptions. Varys and Tywin were both in the courtyard, talking with Pycelle and Jaime, respectively. Geralt stayed with the knights, the two accompanying him and Sers Jonothor and Luwyn.

"Keep an eye on them, eh, Geralt?" Ser Luwyn asked, smiling, and patting Oswell's shoulder. "Particularly this one, the Red Keep will not be the same without his gallows humor."

"Aye," Ser Jonothor said. "Though, mayhaps we'll enjoy fewer bruises for a change."

"It's not my fault you can't avoid a sword strike for shit," Oswell laughed, clapping hands with both of them. 

"If it makes you feel any better, brother," Ser Arthur said, smiling. "It's likely we'll be the ones suffering for a change."

"You can be sure we'll climb many an insufferably tall tower before its over," Geralt drily replied, earning laughs from the assembled men. While the men spoke on, he listened in on Tywin and Jaime's conversation.

"Remember all you have learned," The Lord Hand said with his usual tone of voice, keeping a respectful distance from Jaime. "Let it guide your blade to a killing stroke, and let it keep you alive."

"Yes, Father," Jaime bowed, voice resolute and respectful. "I swear, I will not fail you."

Though he did not embrace the boy, or even shake his hand, from a cursory glance, Geralt could swear Tywin graced the boy with something akin to a smile. 

"I know, now, off with you, Harrenhal awaits."

Dislodging himself from the Kingsguard, Geralt approached Pycelle and Varys next. The two of them had passed the time discussing small council matters. 

"Ah, Master Geralt," The Spider said with enthusiasm deceptively genuine,   the Witcher's in a double handshake. "We've not spoken much since you've been excused from dinners with the king. All the same, I wish you and your company great success on the road ahead."

"Thank you, Lord Varys," Geralt said, his grip just a bit tighter than necessary. "Regardless of what happens, I'm sure you'll be the first to know either way."

If it bothered him, the eunuch did not show it, merely bowing his head with a knowing smile. Then, Geralt excused himself from them as well, letting the two return to matters of state, he stopped before Tywin last. The Lord of Lannister stood tall, unmoving with that piercing gaze of his. As always, the Witcher was undeterred by it. 

"Despite all I've learned, from you and Jaime both, I do not... Fully perceive the danger awaiting you, it is of a world foreign to me," He admitted with great, pained reluctance. "Regardless, the danger is great, and that is all I need to know. You've looked after Jaime well so far, Witcher. Do not falter now."

"I won't," Geralt said with utmost honesty. "I'll tear that castle to the ground before I let it claim Jaime or anyone else in my company."

The Lord Hand scrutinized him for a few moments. Then, he nodded his head in approval, even offering his hand to Geralt. "Good luck out there, Geralt."

"Thank you," The Witcher shook it, meaning this as well. With these farewells completed, the company mounted on their horses, Ser Arthur at the front with Geralt behind him, followed by Ser Oswell, then the Grand Maester, and finally Jaime. Before he gave the command to leave, Geralt's eyes swept across the battlements and spotted a figure watching them from afar. A young man with silver hair flowing in the early morning wind. Rhaegar waved his farewell to them and then vanished from sight, back into the depths of the castle.

"Shall we?" Ser Arthur asked, bringing Geralt's attention back to the matter at hand.

"Yes, let's ride."

Chapter Text

Their journey to Harrenhal passed pleasantly and without incident. They exited King's Landing through the northern, Dragon Gate, crossing through a vast expanse of healthy, and thick green forests interspersed with vast, plentiful, neatly tended fields and orchards as far as the eye could see. Crops, fruits, vegetables grew aplenty in the summer sun, herds of beasts protected and guided by their owners. The weather was as Arthur said, warm enough to be pleasant without being unbearable, tempered by an ever so slight breeze, cooling breeze. It reminded Geralt of the fields just outside Novigrad, only these stretched on for miles and miles.

The peasantry toiling the fields, often accompanied by women and children, frequently stopped and gazed at the Hanse. Men courteously bowed to the Kingsguard, others to Geralt who mistook him for the prince, and were answered in kind. Children ran with them for a time, hoping to see them fight or at, the very least, their swords. The smallfolk's fascination and sometimes apprehension with the company continued as they halted at countless villages spanning the northern crownlands for food and shelter. Inn owners aplenty, initially surprised with the appearance of gallant knights and other companions, soon transformed into wonder. 

Aerys had provided them with enough coin to last for weeks on the road, and so they ate well and slept comfortably. In some of these taverns and inns, fellow knights and small lords traveling to and from the capital greeted them. Passing on news from the crownlands and riverlands. A knight of House Wode, Ser Willem, one of the border holdfasts with the Tully lands toasted to Geralt's health upon learning his identity. A cousin of the family was waylaid by the Kingswood Brotherhood and only narrowly escaped with his life. They would end up spending an evening in their wooden holdfast sometime later where a grand feast was held for Kingsguard and friends of House Woode.

When the company wasn't resting in one place or another, they passed the time sharing stories. Some adventures were from youth such as Jaime leaping from the cliffs of Casterly Rock or Arthur Dayne's single, disastrous visit to Braavos after his knighthood at the age of fourteen. As the physically frailest of their group, and long since uncustomed to long horse riding, the Grand Maester benefitted from this distraction in particular. He was also the one who's tale got the heartiest of laughs. How he'd snuck into the chambers of a tyrannical Grand Maester and replaced his schedule list with erotic poetry written by Pycelle and his co-conspirators.

While much of it passed with merriment, Geralt did not let himself or the other forget the task awaiting them. Whenever possible, he kept his training of the other warriors and Pycelle up, making sure they didn't become too lax or comfortable. Or that he didn't either. After their aforementioned feast at the holdfast of House Woode, Geralt and Oswell both stood atop their battlements, scrutinizing their destination from afar long after their companions retired to bed.

"Gods Eye," Ser Oswell spoke, pointing to the massive lake leagues away. It's waters shining in the night from the almost full moon looming in the sky casting down on them. Its reflection was marred by the single island. "And the Isle of Faces. It is said the First Men and children of the forest forged the Pact there, more than 10,000 years ago, ending generations of slaughter."

"The home of the mysterious green men as well, along with their weirwoods," Geralt said, finding his eyes drawn to the isle. "Tell me, does this reclusive order allow for visitors? Besides Addam Velaryon?"

"I've never known a man to do so since, though my brothers and I often dared one another to try."

"What stopped you?"

The Kingsguard went silent and grim, his face only partially illuminated by the moon's light. He did not speak for a while, as if to find the right words. "Truth be told... I do not know. Every time the madness to see the dare through to the end took me, a glimpse at that place struck it down... There is something about it, Geralt. It is an old place, untouched for millennia, overrun with weirwoods. I need not tell you what a poor impression Harrenhal's left on me... To be amongst dozens or hundreds of such trees..."

He shuddered as though a cold chill ran through the otherwise warm air. Geralt knew from Oswell's recollection, their weirwood was a ghastly thing, it's carved face contorted into an open-mouthed scream of pure hatred. Very, very few in the castle dared to approach it then and now, save Oswell's second cousin and good-sister, the Lady of Harrenhal, Shella Whent. 

"We Andals tried to destroy them thousands of years ago," Oswell calmed down, sounding almost like his usual self. "And I do not doubt such a group would lack a long memory. Do you think we'll need their counsel on this matter?"

"That depends on what we find there. I've read much of these weirwoods, as much as Pycelle could give me. Many a tale speaks of their magic capabilities, how they were specially carved with forgotten techniques by these children of the forest. The largest concentration of them was on the northern shore of the lake, and it is known Harrenhal cut down all but one for rafters and support beams. Call me paranoid, but I don't think that a coincidence at all."

"Geralt, my friend," He chuckled, giving the Witcher slap on the shoulder. "In matters such as these, I'll gladly take a paranoid man over a lax one."

Over the next several days, they made their way through the holdings of House Whent, green, fertile land, and sunlit fields interspersed with a myriad of holdfasts. The lake to their left glimmered in the welcoming summer sun, shifting its colors from crystal blue to leafy green. Geralt observed the weirwoods closely as he could. Their red leaves and bone-white wood forming an image that would've been striking to see anywhere. 

He could not, however, see the faces carved into them or spot anything move amidst them. A faint mist surrounded the place, Geralt's heightened vision could not pierce through it entirely. The shadows between the thick weirwood growth were also thick, so much so the sunlight from above could not cut through them. The Witcher silently agreed with Ser Oswell's assessment, just gazing upon the place brought forth words like old, and foreboding to mind. A place of true wilderness where men seldom came and, those who did were changed by doing so. The fact Geralt distinctly felt... Something watch him back from those obscured shores only magnified his curiosity. 

It was still a more pleasant sight to gaze upon than Harrenhal.

It's five towers loomed over them for leagues upon leagues, as gargantuan as they were bent and ravaged. The fact they were so clearly visible, yet the castle walls proper weren't until the last day of approach, was a testament to their size. Geralt had memorized all of their names, and which was which. His eyes lay fixed upon the Kingspyre Tower most of all, the residence of Harren the Black, where Aegon and Balerion fed him and his entire family to dragonfire nearly three centuries past. The topmost portion of it was completely melted away, leaving the eastern side exposed. The Witcher's old knee injury almost ached anew at the merest thought of climbing up the damned thing.

"Ser Oswell," Jaime said, staring at it with no small dread himself. "D-Does your family perhaps have some means of... Hastening one's ascent up the towers?"

"Aye, a strong pair of legs, patience stronger than Valyrian steel and mayhaps a wine cask should all else fail."

Jaime kept a respectful silence, even as Geralt could practically hear him some curse Harren to all of their hells. Ser Arthur merely sighed, shaking his head. Their discomfort palled next to the Grand Maester's who visibly palled and stared wide-eyed. 

"Have no fear," Geralt said. "I don't intend for us to do the ritual from there up, fighting atop one collapsing tower is more than enough for me."

Yet even as color returned to Pycelle's face, and the rest of the group seemed to find ease in his words, Geralt wasn't as sure as he sounded. Witcher work was dangerous and prone to complications if something went awry, and they didn't act quickly enough, climbing up that overcompensating piece of detestable rock might be the least of their worries. 

In the early afternoon, during the final approach, a ten-man group of household guards arrived to escort them, more as a courtesy than a necessity. Oswell greeted the men warmly, introducing the rest of their Hanse in turn. Many of the soldiers stared at Geralt with surprise and wariness. His looks were far from pleasant already, and brooding on the castle must've made his appearance that much less appealing. He courteously bowed his head and spent the final stretch of the ride in silence, letting Oswell primarily do the talking. 

His entire family was already assembled at the castle, waiting to welcome him and the company in the main yard. The grand preparations for the upcoming tourney were still underway, with many rooms, chambers, and even halls once abandoned restored to a livable condition. Geralt thought they must have found a sorceress or twenty for such a task, Harrenhal only grew more monstrous the closer they got. Atop one of the taller, rolling hills littering the grounds outside the castle, the urge to curse was strong indeed. 

Harrenhal went on and on northward almost as far as the eye could see. He'd visited fiefdoms and lands of lords and even kings that didn't cover as much ground as the ruinous monument to some vicious fool's ego. It must have sprawled across hundreds of acres of land. The curtain walls' enormity only became apparent once they rode closer. They put many natural mountain cliffsides to shame, so gargantuan in-fact, up close, it was impossible to see any rest of the castle save for the five towers looming even above the battlements. It was difficult to even see the men stationed atop the ramparts.

The closer they got, the more his medallion shook under his leather jacket, irritating his skin. Even without it, however, the Witcher would be able to tell magic very present. Once they rode into the main gatehouse, it was as though they'd entered another world through an invisible threshold. The power was thick in the air, the ground, and even the very fissured stone. Most of it was Balerion's, frighteningly similar to the magic contained within the dragon skulls of his species, only far more powerful. That was a detail he would keep from Aerys even under pain of death.

Even those unfamiliar with magic or unable to perceive it felt its effects. A sudden and unpleasant thickness was in the air, followed by an unwelcome heat growth. Pycelle almost immediately reached for a cask of wine and downed quite a bit of it. Plenty in the group did the same, noticeably breaking into sweats. 

"Seven hells Lyonel," Oswell huffed, hair already sticking to his brow. "I've never known the castle to roast a man like this."

"Aye, it is strange, ser," The captain of the guard retorted. "For the last two weeks, it feels as though a great hearth burns across the length of it. Even night offers but scant respite. Mad as I may sound, I'd not mind a bit of winter to befall us."

The other power hanging in the air must have made finding release even more daunting. Unlike Balerion's leftover magic, this did not affect the physical world. It was a poison of the mind. It was the heightening of a feeling Geralt had long since learned to stomach and overcome. A sense of discomfort, growing unease when one came to an unwelcoming place, where you could never rest, where the persistent threat of some unknowable danger gnawed at you. Almost immediately, the Witcher felt the slimy tendrils of this sensation coil about them all. Arthur rode to Geralt's right, and with a single, severe look from the Witcher, received confirmation of the existence of the curse. The Dornishmen's eyes momentarily widened, a passing fear on his face before he imperceptibly nodded and steeled himself.

Soon enough, they exited from the inner gatehouse entrance and found themselves in a yard as vast as the godswood of King's Landing. Stables were to their immediate right, with slate roofs and the capacity to house hundreds of horses, at the very least. Smithies, barracks, and kennels larger than minor lords entire holdfasts littered the yard in many sides, along with a single sept which stuck out from its surrounding. If the outer walls surpassed a hundred something feet, the inner walls were twice that size.

A group of men at arms, servants, and members of the nobility awaited the company near the main entrance leading into the castle. Even with so many of them assembled, Geralt found them a strangely pitying sight amidst the general overbearing emptiness to the rest of the place. They all dismounted, with Oswell being the first off his horse. 

"My lord," He said, bowing with all the required formality for a scant few heartbeats before he and Lord Walter laughed and embraced each other. Soon enough, the rest of the family followed suit, joyously embracing their usually absent brother and uncle as though a hundred years had passed since his last visit and not merely one. The Hanse stayed at the sides, watching the sight with polite smiles and awaiting their turn for the necessary introductions. Even Geralt felt the tension of Harrenhal ease at the sight of familial joy.

It lasted too briefly, however. Oswell bade them step forward, and so they did in order of Arthur, Pycelle, Jaime, and Geralt last. Already, many of those present stared quite brazenly at him, some with fear, others with excitement, and quite a few mixing the two emotions and everything in-between them. The one who most intently gazed upon him was a graceful lady who's greying hair was tied into a braid to Lord Walter's immediate right in the family lined from oldest to youngest. Shella Whent's expression was strange, equal parts haunted and... Relieved? 

"First brother, I believe you know my second," Oswell chuckled, as he and Lord Walter approached Arthur Dayne. The Dornishmen smiled and bowed politely. "Though he surpasses you in swordsmanship, you remain unsurpassed as my greatest pain in the arse."

"I'm sure Ser Arthur feels the same of your troublesome ways," Lord Walter laughed, shaking the Kingsguard's hand. 

"Truth be told, I need not do anything at all," Arthur smiled. "Ser Lewyn answer's Ser Oswell blow for blow for both us Dornishmen."

"A pity he did not ride with you then, I'd much like to see that for myself." The group laughed politely as Lord Walter moved to Pycelle. "Grand Maester, I've seen you around the court, yet I do not believe we've had the chance to speak until now...?"

"Indeed we have not," Pycelle shook his hand, looking profoundly relieved to be off his saddle. "But it is never too late to correct some mistakes."

"I couldn't agree more, and this is Jaime Lannister! How are you lad, it's been some years since we crossed paths at Riverrun. As I recall, you and Ser Brynden were all but inseparable during the stay."

"The Blackfish has a talent for stories, and I've an ear for them," Jaime accepted the offered hand, smiling brightly. The lone daughter of House Whent, and current queen of love and beauty, Maris Whent, couldn't keep her eyes off him. Geralt knew the expression quite well and silently vowed to make sure looks and smiles were as far as it went. 

At last came his turn to speak with Lord Whent, a man near as tall yet half as broad as his brother. By Oswell's own words, there was but five years difference between them. If Geralt hadn't known that, he would've sworn it was closer to ten or more. Unlike Oswell who's receding hair kept its color, Walter Whent was almost entirely white-haired with only flecks of gray. Thick lines of aging were around his eyes, making him look tired and weary even as his eyes and well-kept teeth shone brightly. It was a strange toll taken on Walter and Shella both. 

"And last but certainly not least, this is Master Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher whom I wrote to you of and leader of our party," Lord Walter stood there, gazing into Geralt's eyes and required a moment to gather his wits. The Witcher's scrutinizing gaze again made him look more fearsome and strange. Or perhaps he was merely curious how a stranger from faraway lands superseded the Kingsguard in the party, and what role he played in their presence here. "You and many others may know him as the Kingswood Knight, destroyer of the Brotherhood and rescuer of Princess Elia!"

"Just Geralt is fine," He said, smiling and bowing his head low in deference. "It's an honor to meet you, Lord Whent, Ser Oswell has told us many good things about you."

"... And no small part of ill things as well, I'd wager," Lord Walter said eventually, doing an admirable job of not looking or sounding unnerved. Geralt chuckled at they shook hands, the Lord's grip was firm and steady. "I jest, of course, welcome, Master Geralt, to Harrenhal! May your stay be pleasant and my Houses hospitality to your liking."

Geralt bowed his head again, not trusting his tongue to withhold a hint of scorn or sarcasm at the notion of finding hospitality here. For a while longer, the group was introduced to the remainder of the Whent family. Lord Shella recovered herself, showing little to any great interest in the Witcher. Though, he swore he could feel her eyes following after him as they, at last, entered the castle.

Stepping through the main gate was like voluntarily shoving one's mouth into the maw of some great beast. The slimy tendrils sensation causing every fiber of Geralt's being to stiffen in anticipation of some attack or danger was magnified, the heat from Balerion's power seemed to radiate from the thick walls all around them, like hundreds of thousands of small hearths all aflame at once. And yet, there was something else present as well, a faint, third power much older and different from the rest. 

Every so often, the heat would falter to almost nothing as they passed through one cavernous hallway and into another. As though something was keeping Balerion's leftover magic entirely at bay. This third sensation, it reminded Geralt somewhat of the power from the godswood, was this the weirwood trees doing, even centuries after being pulled from the earth and carved into rafters and beams? Or was the single standing weirwood at the heart of this power? Geralt would inquire into that once the necessary courtesies were done with. 

Each member of the party was given their own chambers next to one another. Geralt thought this unnecessary almost immediately upon entering his own. The room was near the size of Tywin's and his solar combined, with plenty of empty space left over for a group of men to practice swordsmanship. As with the hallways, the walls were thick and blackened, the ceiling so high Geralt could not see it. Lord Walter's renovations, if any were done in this part of the castle, were unnoticeable. Or perhaps the lack of any gaping holes save for the man-sized window was the proof. 

The Witcher was no stranger to residing in ruined castles, Kaer Morhen's best days were long since behind it. Possibly, it was the fondness he held for the place that clouded his judgment of it, but even with its sorted past, the old fortress of the Witcher's never made him feel so thoroughly unwelcome. Worse, it reminded him of the storeroom Aryan La Valette led him to during their escape, a place ready to explode when the first match was lit. If the castle was abandoned, this wouldn't present an issue, a Witcher's work was rarely that kind or simple, however.

A knock came from the door, and from the rattling of chain links, Geralt knew it to be the others. He also noted the lack of anyone else listening in on their conversation, anyone alive, at any rate. 

"My brother says servants will be upon us soon, no doubt to pretty us up for the feast. Arthur says you've learned something, Geralt. Tell us."

And so he did, recounting the three powers he'd sensed throughout the castle and even outside its walls. Revealing his quivering medallion for all to see was the proof they needed. 

"I won't say with finality yet, not until I've covered more of the castle's ground, but an evacuation of this place before we proceed with the curse-breaking seems more unavoidable with each passing moment."

"Abandoning's one's seat is not a thing to be done easily, Geralt," Ser Arthur said. "Even under the gravest of sieges, to leave one's place of power is considered a grievous loss. Though, I suspect you ready to say they're already under siege."

"They are," Geralt replied gravely, looking to Oswell. "I don't know if you're brothers had health issues, but his appearance is not normal. He looks closer to an aged uncle of yours then a brother only five years your senior."

"...Aye, you've the right of that," Oswell sighed, resting a hand upon the pommel of his sword. "I returned to this place a year ago, and though his hair grayed, he was not the man you see before you."

"Ser Oswell speaks true," Jaime replied. "When we crossed paths at Riverrun, Lord Whent looked well. Quite a bit stronger and more able than men half his age I would say."

"And what of your good-sister? Lady Shella's expression upon my arrival was strange... As though I were some phantom she'd seen before come to life."

"Shella has always been... A stranger woman than most. Harrenhal has bothered her for as long as I can remember, though she never experienced a wraith encounter as I have, to my knowledge at least. She is also a devout woman, though as the years have gone by, her interests in the gods have... Changed," A shiver seemed to run through Oswell's body. "Last I was here, she'd begun to spend much time in the godswood, before that accursed tree."

"It may be this has shielded her," Pycelle said, running a hand through his beard. "You yourself said, Geralt, that the weirwood is repelling these other powers. Mayhaps, Lady Shella is less affected by the curse?"

"If my current assumptions are correct, yes," The Witcher had thought of this as well. He was no man of faith, and so doubting godly protection came naturally to him. All the same, men and women of faith had performed more incredible feats than merely protecting the user from malevolent forces before. It could not be readily discarded as a possibility. "We'll learn more in the coming days, and I hope that some of it turns out to be for the better."

"And if it does not, convincing Walter to leave will be no small task. My brother is a generous man, and not quick to dismiss a great many things. But long he has doubted the curse, and many a time come to blows with Shella on Harrenhal being a foul place."

"He'll be convinced soon enough once Arthur and I do what we have to."

"So it comes to that, again," The Dornishmen smiled, giving Geralt a knowing look. "Very well then, though I hope not to be flung to the ground a second time."

"Don't worry," The Witcher smiled back. "The only thing I intend to toss aside is Lord Whent's doubts about the curse."

Outside the door, the footfalls of many men and women could be heard, opening one chamber after another only to find no one inside. Eventually, they came to Geralt's. 

"Lord Whent sends us, my lords," A comely, older woman said, bowing alongside two others while the rest waited in the hallway outside. "We're to help you in preparing for the dinner."

"You heard the lady, my companions," Geralt said, tossing his bandolier to the nearby bed. "We've a feast to get ready for."

Chapter Text

The Hall of a Thousand Hearths was only somewhat of an exaggeration. By Oswell's own words, there were but thirty-five. From the two that were lit near the entrance of the Great Hall, it may as well have been twenty. Each one was wide enough to serve as the bed-chamber of a lesser castle and taller than most trees outside of Brokilon Geralt had seen. The flames rose high, their intensity sending the warm air into the realm of unpleasantly hot. The Witcher idly wondered how much firewood was wasted bringing them to life, most likely enough to keep a small village alive through an ordinary winter.

The Great Hall itself was a monstrosity of architecture. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark in ways beyond those of ordinary, Geralt could not even see the shrouded ceiling. Or far past the edges of the hearths lights. Were it not for the fires, there was no chance he could even begin to guess where the walls were. He had read about the Great Council held within these walls and the upcoming tournament which lords and knights from across the realm were to attend. There was no doubt there'd still be room aplenty leftover once they all settled in.

A testament to the absolute absurdity of the castle's construction was where the dinner table was situated. Back home or in King's Landing, they were placed somewhere in the middle of the hall. Or if there were multiple tables, the one with the host family was on the far side. This one was placed a short walk away from the entrance. Something which would look comical were the rest of the hall not covered in thick, almost impenetrable shadows. He could all but hear Dandelion compose a ballad about them or Hearths of Hell, and for once, Geralt wouldn't find the exaggeration unwarranted.

The absence of their weapons didn't help to put him in any ease, not that most present at the table seemed to notice. Lord Whent, as per his station, sat at its head. Though his appearance remained aged beyond his years, the occasion of hosting esteemed guests brought endless mirth to every action. His smile was ceaseless, and his laughter an equal match to Oswell, who sat to his immediate left. The rest of House Whent was seated on the right side of the table. Lady Shella took a more reserved but tactful approach to her husband. The fact she struggled not to look at Geralt's general direction wasn't lost on him.

Arthur sat to Oswell's right, engaged in stories of adventure and swordcraft with either Lord Whent or his oldest sons seated to the right of their mother. Pycelle kept to himself, sitting between Jaime and Arthur. A man of text and literature, even a Grand Maester, wasn't of much interest beyond mandatory courtesies. Particularly in the company of knights, a squire, and a strange man from afar. Maris Whent, as expected, took every opportunity to converse with Jaime, who sat opposite of her, to Geralt's immediate right. Her smile was as unceasing as her fathers, and so was the blush.

Jaime smiled back, exchanging japes and quips with her as the courses came and went. Entertaining Maris with tales of his first melee and excitement at witnessing, perhaps even participating, in the tourney at Harrenhal. In every way, he played the part of the dashing, young squire out of any girl's dreams well. But not too well, Geralt made sure of that before they left for dinner.

"Don't do anything foolish with Maris Whent," He said in the lad's chambers after his cleaning and dressing were finished. As expected, he wore a doublet with the colors of House Lannister. Jaime stared at him as though he'd grown another head. "What's with that look? You hadn't noticed the way she stared at you as though you were the Warrior come to life?"

"Of course, I noticed. I'm merely surprised you'd think I would do anything about it."

"I was your age once. I know what goes through young men's heads when a pretty girl's nearby," Some of his closest friends, probably all of them, would say he wasn't one to talk. Not that Jaime needed to be aware of that. "Be pleasant, polite, even dashing, but nothing more. I don't need another child surprise or to explain how one came to be to your father when we return."

To Geralt's surprise, Jaime didn't seem particularly scolded or annoyed by the order. If anything, he seemed amused, even snorting back a laugh. As though the thought of doing something lustful and forbidden with the queen of love and beauty was a great joke. Under the Witcher's severe gaze, however, he soon wiped the smile from his face and vowed to do as told. Soon enough, as one delicious course of meat came and went, attention was brought to Geralt himself. The second to youngest boy, who glanced meekly at him, eventually worked up the courage to inquire into the Kingswood Brotherhood incident.

Geralt gave a shortened account of it, keeping the specifics concerning portals and such to himself. To the best of his ability, he spoke of how he dispatched the various members, thanks to surprise and superior swordsmanship, until the clash with the Smiling Knight. The back and forth between them, even noting his twisted sense of honor. The boys and men looked at him in rapture, while Maris Whent found the rescue of the princess romantic. Shella Whent remained politely silent.

"Is it true what they say, Master Geralt?" The oldest of the sons, Roland Whent, some years older than Jaime, asked in a tone of childlike wonder. "That you cut the Smiling Knight to a dozen pieces?"

"The tales exaggerate as usual," He answered in a drier voice, reaching for his wine cup and stoping before taking his drink. "It was barely two."

Much laughter followed that particular proclamation, with much of the ruling family asking about Witcher's, Geralt's homelands, and, in particular, tales of strange beasts he hunts. Stories of large insectoids, monsters who fed on the dead, and finally, cursed creatures. Specifically, Vincent Meis, the head of the Vizima city who took vigilante justice as a werewolf. Walter Whent and his older sons found the tale dubious, judging by the looks they sent Geralt's way. The younger children and Maris were more interested if nothing else. Shella Whent paled as the tale continued.

"What happened next, Master Geralt?" Asked the youngest of the four sons, Ben, eyes as wide as a full moon. "Did you hunt him down?"

"In a manner of speaking, truthfully, there was no need to kill Vincent. Though we Witcher's often have to take a life, whenever possible, we prefer to find alternative solutions. Particularly those who are cursed."

Lady Whent's complexion improved, and as she looked at him then, Geralt silently noted the tension ease from her shoulders.

"One particular cure for lycanthropy, or werewolves as they're commonly referred to as is something simple: love. Vincent Meis, as it turns out, had fallen in love with a... Local lady of the night. When all other means failed us, we decided on his being his last hope for a normal life."

"Did it work?" Maris Whent leaned forward, staring at him as though her life depended on the answer. "Please, Master Witcher, tell me it worked?"

"It was successful," He answered truthfully, taking some joy from the smiles and hopeful looks of his most receptive audience members. "Vincent never became a werewolf again, and eventually, he and Carmen were married."

"Oh, what a tale..." Maris leaned back in her seat, delighting in the ending as only a lady could.

"One for the delights of children and fair ladies everywhere," Lord Whent commented, amused though clearly disbelieving. "But only a tale, am I correct, Master Geralt? Strange creatures and animals are one thing, but men transforming into beasts during full moon's? Curses? Come now..."

"Curses are quite real, Lord Whent," Geralt replied, noticing Oswell stir from further up the table. "They can affect men, women, children, even places."

"There's no reason to skirt around the issue anymore, Geralt," Oswell said, a sudden irritation in his voice as he slapped the table. "You've not asked why we've come here yet, though the question has hung over you. To the seven hells with decorum, it's time we speak plainly: the curse of Harrenhal brings us here, brother, and we intend to break it."

Reaction to this proclamation was about what Geralt expected. The youngest grew fearful of mention of curses. The older children glanced at their uncle and parents with confusion and shock. Lady Whent took a deep, silent breath, as though a great weight was soon to leave her shoulders. Lord Walter stared unblinkingly at Oswell. When he looked to the rest of the Hanse and found absolute certainty across all of their faces, his confusion only intensified. The guards stationed nearby rattled in their armor as they tried to discretely glance at each other, or perhaps lean forward to hear more of this.

"Right, you think me mad, perhaps all of us. No, don't say it. I know you better than you think, Walter. You wish proof? Of curses and magic? You'll have it, guards!" He slapped the table again, the force shaking every plate, piece of cutlery, and cup. The sound reverberated through the empty, shadowy hall like an explosion through a cave. "Bring Ser Arthur and Master Geralt their weapons at once, then we shall see who is mad."

Lord Whent recovered from his stunned silence, and at that moment, Geralt could see the man he was before advancing age took its toll. The look of challenge in his eyes was equal to Oswell's, the look that could make a man cower in fear and beg for instantaneous forgiveness. Oswell met it unflinchingly, and wordlessly, the two brothers of House Whent stared each other down. Lady Whent made her move then, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. The effect took a few more tense moments to finally take hold, but hold it did. Lord Whent's gaze softened, and his fist uncurled itself.

Not the first time she's helped ease tension's between them, I'd bet. Geralt thought, remembering countless tales of sibling rivalries. House Whent was no exception. Oswell had said in not so many words that his family didn't take his first encounter with the supernatural very seriously. And boys can be cruel about such things, even to their own brothers in youth.

"Men," Lord Whent spoke in a calm voice that brokered no argument, gesturing to two nearby soldiers. "Do as my brother commands, if he has brought proof of... A curse, then I would see it with my own eyes. And speak nothing of this to anyone beyond this hall, I will know if you have."

The two chosen guards paled noticeably and nodded their assent, leaving the hall with no shortage of swiftness to every step. In the tense moments of silence that followed, no one dared speak. The youngest children were naturally confused and frightened, casting glances about the room at the thick shadows all around them. Lord Walter siped his wine, leaning back into his seat in an approximation of sudden indifference. An attitude adopted by his older sons, who failed to refrain from casting curious looks at their uncle, Ser Arthur and Geralt. Minutes later, the two guards returned, swords in hand.

"Shall we, Master Witcher?" Ser Arthur asked with a hint of humor in his voice, rising from his seat.

"Indeed we shall, ser." Geralt answered, reaching the two men first. The twitching of their fingers around the scabbards was unmistakable. As was the less of color in their faces at the close proximity between them. When he reached out for the silver Cat sword, they went as stiff as statues. "My thanks, good men, though I must trouble you to keep one of my swords safe for a while longer."

Unsheathing the blade, Geralt performed a swift series of wrist motions, staring as the runes built into it already began to glow. It was not alone in this regard, for Dawn as well seemed to shimmer in Arthur's hands. Something not missed by the knight of Dorne or everyone observing the display. The two men walked some distance away from the table, putting themselves between it and one of the two hearths, placing the flames to their left.

"I trust I'll not fall to the ground, again?" Arthur inquired. Geralt gave him a small smile.

"No, this time, we strike at the same time, meeting halfway until the same discharge as last time comes to pass."

"They mean to fight?" Maris asked her uncle, trepidation, and curiosity, lacing her voice.

"No, my lady," Pycelle assured him with a warm voice. "Naught, but three blows will come to pass... Perhaps less, given what is already happening to the blades."

"The Grand Maester is correct," Geralt looked to the table, his eyes meeting Lord Whent's. "Which is why I suggest you all hold on to something. Those who can't should distance themselves."

The nearest soldiers already recoiled as if struck, and only a few moments later did they think to ask their lord for permission. Walter Whent, trying his best to appear indifferent, save for the trembling in his hand, gestured for them to leave that portion of the room. Once Geralt and Arthur were a good enough distance away from the others, they took their respective stances. Silent as a long-forgotten grave-yard, the two men stared each other down, their bodies poised and ready to attack at any moment. To an outside observer, it would appear they were there to duel to the death.

In truth, the two men waited until they were perfectly in-tune, weeks of sparring, helping each man to recognize the others tells. A feat made far simpler for Arthur by the purposeful holding back of Geralt. Eyes locked and blades ready, the two men shared imperceptible nods with one another and then, with perfect timing, struck. When their sword met halfway, the reverberating clanking sound of steel against steel was drowned out by a ripple, a shimmering, faint outburst of power from their glowing blades. Geralt felt his medallion bite into the flesh of his chest from the sudden vibration.

Not even looking at the table, the Witcher heard men, women, and children alike sharply breathe in and gasp. As ever, the strange Shella Whent had the most interesting reaction of all.

"Gods be good..." She whispered in pure awe. Her husband remained silent.

That won't last for much longer, Geralt thought, knowing that Pycelle's assessment of the situation was accurate. Sharing another nod with Arthur, he pulled the sword back, readied himself for another blow, and like a viper, met Dawn halfway once again.

The discharge of power was beyond even his expectations. With no stoking or further enhancing of his own, Geralt watched as the purple and blue colors seemed to swirl about them for an instant until erupting like a titanic burst of Aard. The nearest pillars shook and grumbled around them. The massive flames of the hearth seemed to recoil as a struck child would into its cavernous depths. Pieces of cutlery flew from the table and well above the heads of its occupants. The nearby guards covered and shielded themselves from them as though they were the arrowheads bearing down for killing blows.

Maris Whent shrieked and took cover behind her seat. The second oldest somehow managed to smack his head against the pie before him. The youngest children stared with open mouths even as the wind blew their hands and chubby faces in the opposite direction. Lord Whent seemed to shrink in his seat, eyes almost unnaturally wide as he clenched his left armchair in a death grip. Shella Whent placed a hand before her face, hair flung in every direction as Princess Ellia's was. Mouth trembling and tears in her eyes, the Lady of Harrenhal seemed almost in a world of her own as she stared at what just occurred.

The first to speak and break the thick silence that befell the hall was Oswell.

"Well then, brother," He smiled with a look of satisfaction, placing a hand on Lord Whent's shoulder. The gesture caused his older brother to involuntarily shake in his seat. "I suppose fearing grumpkins and snarks isn't so foolish anymore."

To no one's surprise, least of Geralt's, Lord Walter's solar was near thrice the size of Aerys' personal feasting hall. Situated in the second-lowest level of the Kingspyre Tower, the Lord of Harrenhal summoned the entire company there once the bewilderment of the demonstration passed. All of the children were sent to their quarters. Under Lord Whent's piercing glare and voice, which brokered no argument and promised severe punishment, all present were sworn to secrecy. This included the guards. The Witcher found it an understandable but ultimately useless order. The castle's inhabitants would know everything soon enough, through gossip or Lord Whent's own mouth.

With each step they took toward the infamous tower where Harren and his entire lineage was snuffed out, the lingering magic intensified. Sometimes, Geralt felt as though he was back in Loc Muinne, finding it difficult to breathe as a heated stone all but burned around him. At other points, the tendrils of the curse seemed more eager than ever to twist about him. Neither power, however, could overcome the resistance of the weirwoods potency. In fact, once they entered the tower itself, situated near the northeastern side of the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, the curse, and Balerion's magic were hardly felt at all.

Oswell mentioned his family had abandoned the upper sections of the castle. Did they subconsciously know or feel the weirwoods resistance? It was, but one more thing to inspect once his report to Lord Walter was delivered. Sitting directly across the man in-question and provided more than enough wine to wet his throat, Geralt did precisely this. Detailing his own investigation into the castle's history, Harren's near annihilation and appropriation of the weirwood forest, what Balerion's magical fire would've done, and then the dead families who tried and failed to survive in the castle. Bathed in candlelight, Lord Whent's unflinching, grim visage observed Geralt like some foreboding statue. His lady wife, seated immediately to his right, seemed to grow more afeared as Geralt, with further input from Pycelle, went through the various pieces of evidence they'd acquired.

"Though I've only passed through a portion of your castle, Lord Whent," Geralt said after a cup of wine. "My first impression paints a poor picture of the situation, and I don't expect it to improve over the coming days and nights of further investigation."

"... You are absolutely certain there is a curse? Not simply..." He fell silent for a moment, visibly struggling for words. "Remnants of magic?"

"Were it so, our demonstration from earlier wouldn't have happened or this conversation. No, Lord Whent, the curse is quite real, and I suspect many people here have been aware of it, whether they fully knew it or not," Geralt noticed Lady Whent shift in her seat, though he did not deign to so much as glance her way. "The sense of discomfort, that something doesn't want you here, and will hurt you for so much as daring to enter. These are all things people feel and often dismiss, sometimes for good reason, not here. Even places that suffer mundane tragedies and disaster acquire a... malevolent aura about them. Harrenhal has one of the worst I've ever encountered in my decades as a Witcher."

"You've known it since we were children, Walter," Oswell said, not unkindly. "Many times, you sneered at the notion of a curse, but look at what has happened this night. Look what has happened to you! By the light of the seven, in but a year you've aged ten! Someone would sooner mistake you for my father, and not my brother!"

For an instant, the anger from earlier burned bright in Lord Whent's eyes. Yet, as his hand curled about the armrest of his chair, they flicked to it and rested on it.

The hands of an old man, not one of but forty and one, Geralt could see the thought pass through his mind as he stared at the wrinkled skin. His wife laid hers over his, and Walter seemed to draw strength from the gesture. "The situation is serious. There is no disputing this but not unfixable."

The lord and lady looked at him with renewed interest. "With your permission, I would do a thorough examination of the entire castle grounds. I must know just how far the curse reaches, where it is strongest. I'll also need everyone to tell me of any strange occurrences they've noticed in or around Harrenhal. No matter how absurd it may seem, I want to hear it. The more I understand the curse, the easier it will be to break it, hopefully soon at that."

"If those are your terms, Master Geralt... Then allow me to be the first to speak," Shella Whent said, gathering his strength after a long breath. Lord Whent stared but did not interrupt, even as the surprise was plain to see on his face. "... I have always believed in the gods, the Seven, in the thought of higher powers watching over us, offering us comfort... Since I first visited Harrenhal, I knew... Or perhaps began to suspect that not all of these powers were so benevolent..."

She gave a sympathetic look to Oswell, who sat to Geralt's left. "When you were a boy and told us of that wraith, I could never remove it from my thoughts. Many sleepless nights I had ever after, even as the years went by because of it. Even the joys of marriage and motherhood could stave such dread from my thoughts for but a short while..."

Lord Walter said nothing. The guilt and pain clear for all to see. As was the reason why his wife refrained from sharing these thoughts from him even after so many years.

"When I was heavy with my Maris," Shella Whent continued, turning her gaze at Geralt. "... I do not know, the fear of something terrible happening... One night, when my husband was away, I fled from my chambers and... Found myself in the godswood. I had gone there before, finding solace and peace there... But..." She shivered. "That horrible face of the weirwood... I could never muster the strength to approach it..."

"Until that night."

"Yes, Master Witcher. That night... I felt drawn to the tree. No longer did I see anger or hate... But pain and sorrow. A lonely soul, a kindred spirit. I... Laid down next to the tree, and that was when I... I had a dream, or perhaps it is better to say a vision..."

"A vision, my lady...?" Pycelle inquired, running a hand through his greying beard.

"I was lost in a dark, cold place... My voice was gone, and in every shadow cast by torches... I saw... Creatures, stare back at me through the blackness... Men who were no longer men... Corpses dragged from the sea itself... Calling me... Taunting me, how I would see all of my kin die until only I remained... Old and alone..."

At that moment, Lord Walter's arm came around his wife's shoulders and held her tightly as tears began to fall from her face. For a while, no one interrupted them, letting husband and wife have their moment of respite.

"Thank you..." Shella silently said, smiling and kissing Lord Whent's cheek.

"If you wish, we can continue-"

"No, no Walter, I must," She gently urged him, and he did not stop her. Instead, the Lady of Harrenhal drew strength from the secret lifted from her shoulders. "For my tale is not finished, nor does it end quite so grim."

Then, she looked at Geralt, at all of the company gathered before her, and a childlike admiration entered her eyes. "When it seemed I had succumbed to madness, from the darkness my rescuers came, five men, five knights out of the tales themselves forcing the creatures back. One as tall and terrible as the bat of House Whent. One who shined as bright as a star. One who almost seemed made from gold. Another with no blade yet who stood tall none the less, and then... The last warrior with hair as white as snow and the piercing gaze of a serpent."

A/N: Ah, its good to be back. Hopefully I can get Harrenhal finished before exams rear their ugly heads again. And for those wondering why Geralt's eyes are described as serpentine instead of cat-like:

On the third day all the children died save one, a male barely ten... Finally came the seventh day. The male awoke and opened his eyes, and his eyes were as those of a viper.

From Blood of Elves, preface to Ch. 3

Chapter Text

Kingspyre Tower, the tallest of the five that rose above the monstrous walls of the rest of Harrenhal, it's original name was lost to history nearly three centuries ago when the first Targaryen king burned it and everyone inside to cinder and ash. The uppermost levels were the hardest hit out of the entire castle, blasted to such a degree they were utterly inaccessible, halls, rooms, and pathways leading to them were transformed into a massive, misshapen lump of burnt rock. Even the places of the upper section still livable were abandoned over fifty years ago when House Whent aided Maekar Targaryen in bringing down the infamous Mad Danelle Lohston.

Decades of disrepair and abandonment, and yet nothing's moved in here... Geralt thought as he stood at the center of the upmost hall left intact within the tower. Eyes keenly scrutinizing every inch, ears listening keenly for any noise. Over the years, he'd encountered no shortage of desolate keeps and abandoned strongholds. Places where nature and its simpler creatures moved in to lay claim to what man abandoned or left behind. No such thing could be seen three-quarters of the way up the tower. Lord Walter, in preparation for the tourney, already made places within Harrenhal livable for the numerous guests to come. The highest sections of the various towers didn't receive such care.

With no one present during the climb save for himself, Arthur, and Oswell, Geralt could perceive the auditory noises with much less to get in the way. More specifically, the utter lack of them. There was nothing. No matter how hard he tried, the Witcher was unable to hear a single living soul once the three reached the highest available levels. There was no scuttling or buzzing of insects, no sniffing, and prowling of rats. No bats laid claim to the towers deserted chambers and hallways, nor did any birds think to build nests. There wasn't even a cobweb to be found.

Either the creatures of this world are far more attuned to magic, or even their base instincts know to avoid this place...

It wasn't difficult to perceive why. Though lacking a medallion, given to Jaime and Pycelle for their simultaneous inspection of the godswood, Geralt didn't need one to grasp the strength of the curse and dragon fire poisoning the air and ground atop the tower. The dampening effect of both from the weirwoods wasn't present in the tallest quarter section of the structure. Either the beams were never used in its initial construction or, and he found this far more likely, Balerion was to thank for this absence. Given the poor state of the towers sections above their heads, even these trees couldn't survive the Black Dread's opening attack. Not when Aegon would've given Harren and his kin special attention.

The heat in the hall and during the daunting walk up to it was insufferable. Sweat covered every inch of his and the bodies of the others, not made any better by the humidity. A bathhouse where the fires and steam never went out and no fresh air was allowed to enter for days would be more pleasant. The sensation of Balerion's leftover magic would've made the place miserable to stand-in alone. The curse only made it worse. No longer did it simply gnaw at the back of one's mind, an unknown danger one could pretend to ignore. Now, it was akin to being surrounded by a pack of wolves or monsters. Snarling, watching, waiting. Letting the inevitability of pain and its threat hang over one's head like a guillotine.

Now it's only simmering, boiling under the surface, waiting for a spark to ignite it... Us.

"Well, Geralt?" Arthur suddenly spoke, walking closer to the center of the hall with Oswell next to him. "Is this it? The heart of the curse?"

"Its power is purest here," He said, turning to face them. Arthur kept a brave face, though Geralt couldn't miss the tension in his shoulders, the absence of Dawn keenly felt. Oswell did the same, even as his eyes seemed to wander throughout the room, eyeing it all with deserving suspicion. "At least the closest we can get to it given the tower's state above us."

"I feared you would say this..." Arthur's distaste was evident by how he, too, then looked across the room, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow. He did so for good reasons. The mere act of ascending the place wearing jerkins was taxing, and with armor, it wouldn't become any easier. Then there were the holes. Some in the hall were wide enough to drive a cart through. It was a place no sensible warrior would choose to fight in.

Geralt understood their trepidation for these practical and unspoken personal reasons. He even sympathized with them. These were matters beyond the ordinary, above what they thought was possible up until but a few months ago. Against such forces, even the bravest men would feel trepidation.

Assurances will do no good for that. Not until I know what all our options are. Besides, the less we say of our plans in this room, the better...

"Let's see what the others have found." He said with a sigh that wasn't entirely feigned. He moved past the knights, who stared after him for but a moment before following. None of the three men spoke on the way down, though Geralt could imagine them exchanging puzzled looks. Once they'd reached the point where the weirwood effect was present, the atmosphere improved, becoming merely unpleasant instead of unbearable. A handful of men at arms were provided by Lord Walter, and Geralt commanded them to stay put and keep their weapons safe.

When dealing with curses, particularly points where its power was at its purest, it was pivotal to disturb as little as possible. Even mundane alterations or obstructions could cause something to go awry. The risk only increased for magical ones. Thus, they had to temporarily abandon their magical or power obstructing weapons. A dangerous course of action by itself, but suffering a few tense minutes at a pure whirling point of the curse, was far preferable to inadvertently escalating its effects.

Maybe nothing would've happened, Geralt thought as they eventually finished their descent. But with a place like this, the fewer maybe's hanging over our heads, the better.

Following their return to ground level came a long journey through many hallways that seemed stretch on into infinity. Their endless lengths were only made bearable by the gradually lessening effects of the curse. With each step towards the godswood, the power of the weirwoods built into the blackened stones seemed more potent. Balerion's fire no longer gave the temperature an unearthly and unwelcome increase of heat. Nor did the twisting coils scratch at the back of Geralt's head. Or anyone else's. Yet even as the Witcher hoped and reasonably enough expected it, the effect of the godswood proper still surprised him.

As he and the group stood at the very edge of the vast forest, stretching out to over 20 acres, it was like entering another world. As far as the eye could see, elms, alders, and black cottonwoods were ever-present.

"Men," Geralt turned to address the group of soldiers who served as their escort. Their wariness was plain to see. Many failed to meet his gaze or hide their trepidacious glances toward the forest. "Stay here until we return. I don't believe we'll require your service for this inspection."

Their leader, a lad of no more than twenty at most with a narrow face and buck teeth protruding from his lips, nodded. Some color returned to his face as he did so. As it did for the rest of their group. For this venture, Geralt and the Kingsguard didn't give up their weapons. Merely standing in their outskirts proved the strength of the weirwoods capabilities. The power of the curse and Balerion's fire was absent. It was utterly repelled. Banished to the other sections within the walls of the castle, not permitted to tarnish this last place of the old land. The godswood of King's Landing was nothing in comparison. Here, the ancient, stalwart power of the earth reigned supreme, present in every leaf, rock, and gentle stream.

If the druids of my lands could know of this place, they'd likely try to claim the forest for themselves. The idea brought a smile to Geralt's lips, along with the potential lying in this place. The possibility of finding answers, and perhaps something to aid them in liberating the castle. But the godswood of Harrenhal was only pleasant in-sofar it was a reprieve from the other, darker forces thriving within this place.

It was an old forest, and this was plain to see the further in they traveled. While the outskirts resembled King's Landings, showing signs of human presence, domesticating the wilderness, the innermost regions were anything but. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy in a way only old woods could. The moon overhead, which shined on them, seemed to be repelled as well, it's light unable to penetrate the thick trees growing taller and older by the moment. Soon, the only light source was from their torches. A thick silence fell over the place, interrupted by the soft sounds of three men's footfalls.

Eventually, they reached a sizable clearing, a cut-off point where all other trees dared not pass over, a place where only one, unlike all the rest, was permitted to be in. The moonlight overhead was no longer blocked, shining down on the weirwood as bright as the sun. Though its size was unimpressive, relative to the other trees that dwarfed it, its appearance was entirely unlike the others. Simultaneously captivating and threatening.

Wood as white as bone, and leaves as red as blood... And that face... As told by men, living and through books, the weirwood did indeed have human features carved into it. It's narrow eyes thick with red, flowing sap which almost seemed to glow in the torchlight, flaring hatefully at them. Its mouth was twisted, a curl of absolute disgust. The power coming from it was the strongest he'd felt in Harrenhal. No, in all of Westeros. Even Balerion's skull wasn't so saturated with the power. Not even close.

This was magic older than any kingdom or house of men. A primordial force that stretched back eons past the memories or even existence of beasts or sentient creatures. If this tree could speak, entire libraries' worth of tomes could be written. Not that he expected it to share such knowledge even if it could. From the way those baleful eyes seemed to bore into Geralt's, it was far more likely the tree would tell them to go to hell.

The last of its kind on this side of the lake, Geralt thought as a sudden forlornness came over him. Sudden, but not unfamiliar. Forests, animals, seas, they were all alive as the druids tried and failed to make most others understand. This one was not only more alive but aware than most. With each moment their gazes were locked, Geralt got the distinct impression something very much intelligent was scrutinizing him back. He hadn't even noticed Pycelle, Jaime, and their armed escort approach until they'd walked up right next to him.

The soldiers of House Whent tried to mask their discomfort with grim looks of determination. Ironically, bathed in the moonlight shining down, their expressions mirrored those of the very tree that discomforted them so. Jaime and Pycelle were more relaxed, even if the youth rested a hand atop the pommel and the Grand Maester's hand seemed to wobble uncontrollably.

"Soldiers of House Whent," The Witcher spoke, addressing the armed escort after a moment's silence. "You may leave us."

Exchanging looks, the guards seemed momentarily reluctant to do until their commanding officer, an older man who was closer to Oswell in years, inclined his head. "As you command, Master Witcher."

Once their clanking armors and footfalls faded far into the distance and silence fell once more, Pycelle approached.

"It is as you suspected, Geralt," He opened the wobbling hand to reveal the medallion lying in its palm. It shook so fiercely it almost seemed to perform small leaps with each twitch. "The heart tree is a source of power, perhaps the greatest in the castle. Have you ever witnessed such... Behavior, from your medallion?"

"Only in a handful of other instances," He took it back, though he did not put it on, gripping it tightly between his fingers. "I suspect the top of Kingspyre Tower would've caused a similar reaction had I taken it with me."

"So it is there," Jaime said, taking a deep breath. "The source of the curse..."

"Not the source, but where you're likely to feel the purest sense of the curse. I know what you're all thinking: fighting up there is a madness we should avoid at all costs but one we may have to accept as a possibility. Fortunately, some facts work to our advantage in this regard. Breaking a curse at its source of power is the swiftest way of ending it."

"Harren's wraith," Oswell said. "Your mind has not been changed on this matter?"

"No, if anything, getting a closer look at this place has verified some of my earlier assumptions. This situation reminds me of a previous curse-breaking I've done by its sheer scale alone. A battlefield where dead men, wraiths, and specters, were forced to reenact a battle in perpetuity until the greatest of them was slain by me. This arch-wraith was the lynchpin of the curse, through which all its energy channeled.

"Harren or one of his sons, one of them lived long enough to muster the pure hatred and bile necessary to cast such a curse. Perhaps more of them, I felt many eyes watch me atop that tower," The other's eyes flashed as he said this, recalling the unmistakable sensation of being observed from the shadows. "The overwhelming force of Balerion's power, inadvertently, raised the possibility of such a thing coming to pass. Then there's Harren's obvious fascination with the weirwoods and their use of constructing this place. Yes... Sorcery was afoot here long before any Targaryen conquerors came to the Westeros mainland."

"None know precisely how Harren and his kin perished," Pycelle said, thoughtfully running a hand through his beard. "Only that they were within the tower when the Black Dread turned them to ash."

"The heart tree might."

"... The tree?" Jaime repeated.

"There is a power within that tree, and within this very forest," Geralt answered calmly, his eyes gazing across the thick woods all-around them. "A power which not even the curse or dragon fire can overwhelm to this day. If I can gain a greater understanding of it, I might be able to catch a glimpse of events long past. Learn some facts that can aid us in the inevitable curse breaking. Or do you doubt such a possibility after Lady Whent's tale?"

"That's why you spoke little atop the tower," Arthur said. "No unwanted eyes or ears of the living and the dead to hear what they should not."

"That's how we're doing it, from this meeting until the last. You will not utter a word about the curse or how we're going about dealing with it outside the confines of this forest. If one must write letters of progress to the king, Lord Tywin, or anyone else in King's Landing, they will do so here. Discretion and secrecy are of paramount importance from this moment forth."

"The king will have to be managed," Oswell said, addressing Pycelle and Arthur. "Once he hears we've reached Harrenhal, he will demand this and that of us. I'd not be surprised if his patience was already thin from the time it took us to arrive alone."

"The Ser Arthur and I shall manage this," Pycelle replied, giving the knight a knowing smile. "His Grace has always been... Positively disposed towards us. I am certain that letters from us shall earn us enough time to do our work properly."

"Yes," Arthur smiled back. "Particularly if Ser Barristan were the one to speak our words to the king."

"Varys will aid us as well," Geralt said, his mouth just slightly curling. "The Spider shapes his schemes known only to him, but for now, he's on our side, and Aerys listens to him closely. Still, we mustn't waste a moment, and there's much to be done in the days ahead."

He tossed the medallion to Jaime, he deftly caught it. "You'll take your horse and ride out across the outskirts of the castle grounds. Pay very close attention to the vibrations of the medallion. As soon as you feel the vibrations end, stop, and mark the position down on a map. I want to know precisely where the power of this place starts and ends. Once that's done, I'll do a second sweep myself and make out which magic it is."

Jaime gripped the medallion tight and bowed his head. "Of course, I won't fail you."

"I know," He faintly smiled before turning to the others. "Arthur, Oswell, you'll accompany me during our tours of the towers. So far, we know Kingspyre is a point of the curse's purest energies. We need to assess the damage done to the others, make sure there's only one such place for the wraiths to retreat to and not more."

"With full arms," Oswell said. "By the time we've climbed up and down half a dozen times, we'll scarcely need any effort at all to do it later."

"Grand Maester, you'll continue practicing your incantations within the forest. Keep the bait safe too, it may not even be a bad idea to bring it here to completely mask its presence. I don't want anything setting off the wraiths until we're ready."

"A wise choice," He replied. "Is there anything else you wish for us to do?"

"Yes, hold out a hand, all of you," They exchanged puzzled glances but acquiesced to his demand. Geralt, meanwhile, went about swiftly picking and choosing from various things littering the ground. A rock, fistfuls of dirt, a twig or two, and gave each one to a member of the Hanse. "I wish to test the repellent capabilities of the godswoods force. Each of you holds a tiny portion of this place. Carry these with you in the coming days, then report to me if you sense any change in the general feel of the castle or your own moods. If even these small bits and pieces can offer resistance to the curse, all the better for us."

"A dirt and twigs meaning the difference between life and death," Oswell muttered, shaking his head as he gripped the soil tightly. "Half a year ago, I'd have laughed at the very thought."

"The world is more interesting than any of us thought possible," Pycelle replied, gently carrying the twig given to him. "Interesting... And dangerous."

"As a friend of mine would say, danger and wonder are as close as bravery and madness," Geralt smiled again, turning towards the heart tree. "Get some rest everyone, we've got long days ahead of us, and in my case, little sleep, I think."

"You mean to sleep here?" Jaime asked, nudging the twig in his free hand back and forth between his fingers. "Would it not be wiser to merely ask Lady Whent to do it instead?"

"That's my second plan if my attempts yield no results," He started walking to the heart tree, and so did the others in the opposite direction. Their footfalls grew fainter while the air grew thicker the closer Geralt approached.

Unlike any other tree, he'd come across before, this one had no scent. Not the bark or the leaves. Most humans wouldn't notice or care, but to his heightened Witcher senses, it was a perplexing thing. Its eyes continued to follow him as he stood but ten feet away and laid his weapons on the ground. Then, he moved to the side, pressing his back and head against the trunk. The stars shined brightly overhead, as did the moon. With a series of long-practiced and mastered breathing motions, Geralt relaxed his muscles, let his worries fall to the wayside, and soon enough, fell into a slumber.

Chapter Text

The malodorous scent of Crookback Bog was heavy in the air. It's fetid waters bubbling with noxious gases meant to poison men and beasts who dared to venture forth. A heavy wind blew through the trees, swaying and bending them in unnatural directions as the setting sun took an unnaturally red tinge at their backs. For ordinary people, particularly the superstitious who lived in and on the outskirts of this swamp, they were omens. Begone, leave or suffer, and die. For a sorceress and two Witchers, it was little more than a wounded, rabid animal snarling even as its death drew near.

Sleeping with his head rested against the trunk of the heart tree, Geralt vividly relived their hunt for the last of the Crones. With agonizing detail, he recalled every foul stench, push of the wind, and each step taken. He smiled as Yen wrinkled her nose in disgust of the place, frowned each time Ciri's impatience momentarily threatened to prompt her into foolishness. He recalled the werewolf Berem who forewarned them of danger, and pulsation of old, dreadful magic than hung in the air and the swarms of beasts encircling them as they drew closer.

The Witcher felt the heat of Yennefer's flames, the pounding of her lightning as it kept the monsters at bay, how Ciri's dazzling powers blinked her from one place to another. The tension and momentum of his own, swaying body as it carved crows out of the sky. Weavess' death cry rang in his ears as Ciri plunged her newly acquired sword through the children eating beast. The recovery of Vesemir's medallion, burning the huts to ash, and their celebration afterward, it was a good day. One of the best in many, many years.

"Reliving that, it felt good. No, better than that." Geralt concluded his recollection of the experience. His audience comprised of Lord and Lady Whent, along with most of the Hanse, save for Jaime, who'd brought him food and drink for breakfast. The Whent's listened silently, sometimes in wonder, and other times in fear, as Geralt gave them a simplified version of events. The others, who'd grown more accustomed to his stories, remained more or less unfazed. Then again, he hadn't told any of them quite a few of the specifics.

"The heart tree chose for you to relive this experience," Pycelle pointed out, brow furrowed. "My knowledge of this... Oneiromancy is decidedly limited, but is it premature to say clues may exist within this memory?"

"The thought had crossed my mind as well," Geralt said after downing a few gulps of Arbor red. "Crookback Bog was an old place of wild, untamed nature, with ancient forces practicing magic there for hundreds of years. Not too dissimilar to where we stand now in power, though this godswood doesn't near match the Bog's malicious aura. Then there's my enemy, the Crone, one of three who feasted on the flesh of men, women, and children to empower herself."

"Mad Danelle did the same, so the tales tell," Lord Whent said, recovering his composure. "My grandfather served as her bannerman in those times, the last Whent to do so before Harrenhal was given to us by king Maekar."

"Used to frighten us with tales of bats devouring babes," Oswell's face brightened as he spoke. "Of a red-headed demon who would claw our hides if we did not act properly."

"Aye, most of his tales were in jest. In truth, he was fonder of delighting us with his days battling the Blackfyre usurpers, stories of blood and steel, the kind any lad would enjoy, save for his last," The guilt from their conversation last night resurfaced, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Oswell had already left to be fostered a year when grandfather's health, at last, began to fail him. In but a few days, he was gone, and yet every time I came to visit, he spoke of the castle with a mad fire. How terrible things came to pass here, wrongdoings to damn king and farmer to the worst of the seven hells."

"Lohston's wrongdoings."

"... Yes," He sighed. "Blood sacrifices, consuming the flesh of men. I am ashamed to say these frightened me not, bearing witness to that great man's crumbling before my eyes did. All his talk of evil and such, I dismissed as talk of a dying man haunted by a failing mind..."

Oswell, who but for a moment looked furious again, cooled as Lord Walter's composure fell, making him look every bit the prematurely aged man the curse had made him. Lady Whent stepped closer, placing an arm around Walter's shoulders. Her eyes, full of empathy and fright, were on Geralt.

"Harrenhal's history of blood and sacrifice does not begin with Danelle Lohston, Master Witcher."

"You're referring to the First Men practices."

"I am. For years, I have collected tomes of knowledge, common and rare on the subject, trying to learn as much as I can of those ancient customs. Like many things from the times before the Andal arrival, the information is scarce. What exists is surrounded by myth and legends. The children of the forest were responsible for the weirwoods creation and the First Men's attempts to cut them down before embracing the old gods. I do not know if the children offered blood and flesh to heart trees. Men, however, did. One King in the North ripped the entrails of invading slavers and hung them from weirwood branches."

"I would ask that you pass on this knowledge and along with any tomes concerning the First Men and Harren to the Grand Maester, my lord and lady," Geralt said, finishing the last of the bacon brought to him. "Any breadcrumb of information may prove indispensable. No matter how ridiculous it may seem. I would do it myself were the castle not in such need of thorough inspection."

"You wish for me to pass on this knowledge," Pycelle correctly guessed. "To aid you in oneiromancy."

"Successfully doing it, to put it simply, is a right pain in the ass even for people predisposed towards it. However, if the one dreaming gets subjected to enough information concerning a person or place, it can improve the chances of prompting a vision. That's where you'll come in, Grand Maester. For a few hours every evening, before I go to sleep, you will repeat everything you've learned of Harren when you're not busy practicing the incantations I taught you. I would suggest you join us, my lady."

She blinked. "Me?"

"If I fail to learn anything, it will fall to you experiencing another vision to discover what precisely Harren was trying to accomplish here. If it's anything remotely as revolting as what we're all assuming it is, the experience will be... Unpleasant."

"Is it dangerous," Walter asked, the very notion bringing the lord back out of his stupor. "Well? Is there any chance this... Vision could cause her harm?"

"Truthfully...?" Geralt sighed, looking back to the heart tree, it's eyes locking with his. "From what Lady Whent said of her first experience, it shouldn't do more than a poor night's sleep and memories best left forgotten of the experience."

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm not. Heart trees don't exist where I come from. I've never encountered a thing quite like one. I can only speak from my own experiences with visions of the past, present, and even future. Mine were rooted in mystique, allegory, difficult to decipher. Whereas Lady Whent's portent of the future was surprisingly specific. Such explicit detail will work to our advantage, but I doubt it'll make the journey itself bearable given what I know of Harren."

"If it comes down to it, I will aid you."

"Shella-"

"I know you worry for me, husband," Shella Whent interjected, leaving Lord Walter standing with his mouth agape. "And I know the guilt and love that drive you to ask such questions. But if I am the only one who can help free our home from this evil, at long last, is it not my duty as a Whent to see it through?"

"She won't do it alone," Geralt assured him. "If I even detect for a moment she's in any danger, I'll pull her out of the dream. Then, I'll have words with the green men about these trees and why Harren was so infatuated with them."

Most of the others present stared at him as if another head suddenly sprouted from his neck. The Whent's in-particular looked aghast at the thought. An understandable reaction, given the air of mystery surrounding this group and their isolated island. Only Arthur Dayne's surprise was momentary. If anything, his smile showed respect for Geralt's boldness.

"We must have answers."

"We must," Geralt agreed with the Sword of the Morning, shifting his gaze to the others. "If all other options are exhausted and result in nothing, then who else can we ask but the green men? They've watched the banks of the lake for generations, and I doubt they'd ever forget Harren's actions on it. Besides, they've no quarrel with me. I'm not a descendant of the First Men or an Andal, and if they were truly so hostile to all outsiders, how did Addam Velaryon come back alive?"

The obvious answer, which no one voiced but most certainly thought of, was him possessing a bloody dragon. Geralt did not expect it to come to that. The weirwoods were predisposed toward aiding them already. They merely needed to perform the final push necessary to gain the full picture of how the curse came about. Once these matters were settled, Geralt inquired into the effectiveness of the godswood pieces. Arthur, Oswell, and Pycelle all stated an improvement in their mood, finding the castle less threatening. They even slept quite well with the trinkets on their person. All the same, he told them to keep at it and provided similar pieces for Lord and Lady Whent.

The proceeding few days fell into a mostly unbroken pattern. During the mornings and much of the afternoons, Geralt went about his examination of the castle. Arthur and Oswell accompanied him throughout, and all three men wore full-arms. It made ascending and descending the four remaining towers a bothersome but necessary physical exercise. If they couldn't sustain an ascension up those seemingly endless steps in more favorable conditions, how could they when the power of the curse flared?

The Towers of Dread and the Widow had their weirwood resistance, despite suffering the effects of Balerion's searing heat. Geralt and the Kingsguard were able to travel their whole length without the need to leave their weapons behind. Lord Walter and Lady Whent accompanied them through much of the inspection, offering some insights into their history. The Tower of Dread was named for a former torture chamber where Harren personally oversaw and allegedly partook in the mutilation of those who most defied him. The Widow's Tower was named for Harren's last wife, who bore his youngest son, Emberlei Blackwood.

The Blackwoods and the Bracken's were some of the oldest and most notorious families in the riverlands, if not all Seven Kingdoms. They were once allies who found themselves bitter rivals when the Andals came, and the Bracken's took to the faith of the seven. The Blackwood's kept to the old gods, and to this very day, their ties to the First Men remained strong. Geralt knew this was no coincidence, nor did he miss the meaningful glances and hints of trepidation from the Whent's as they spoke of the Blackwood's. He chose not to pursue the matter, for now.

The Wailing Tower was one of the more notorious places in Harrenhal. From the colossal cracks along the walls, hallways, and ceilings, there was a constant howling noise, the higher one climbed. A perpetual, grating wailing that was easy for the common man to mistake as ethereal, otherwordly. To the surprise of the Whent's, and somewhat to Geralt's amusement, it was in truth nothing but the wind. Something which he revealed to them once they returned to the safety of the godswood during a late afternoon.

"A-Are you certain, Master Witcher?" Lady Whent inquired, disbelief clear in her voice. "For years, I've..."

"Thought it was haunted? Yes, it's not an uncommon reaction, particularly when one is inclined to believing in the ways of magic. However, the weirwoods presence remains strong there. It might, ironically enough, have one of the strongest resistances to the curse. Besides, I've more than my share of experience with debunking false sightings and claims of ghosts and monsters. If I got a gold coin for every instance..."

"Enough to fill the vault of the Red Keep?" Oswell asked with a grin.

Geralt did the same. "At least thrice over."

The Tower of Ghosts, however, provided no such levity. It was the most ruinous of them all, as well as the shortest. Situated near the east postern, near an equally decrepit sept, the Tower of Ghosts was another concentration point of the curse. Before stepping inside, they once again discarded any items of magic and walked to its upper levels. Such as they were. Balerion had done such damage to it, there was barely a room left standing just a quarter of the way up, or even a ceiling. Just like Kingspyre, this was avoided by beasts as well as men. Even the rats who swarmed the old sept nearby avoided it. Its name came from the belief that only the dead could stomach being inside.

That evening, after the others left and Geralt was alone with Pycelle until Lady Whent arrived from the dinner, the Witcher voiced his frustration.

"If that was the only concentration point of the curse, it would've made things a thousandfold easier," He admitted, back pressed against the heart tree while the Grand Maester sat some twenty feet away, a stack of books lined immediately to his right. "With the properties of the soil and trees here, we could've formed a circle of both around the tower's grounds. It would've trapped the curses energies there and the wraiths inside that fixed radius. The fight would be on our terms."

"And none would have to leave the walls of Harrenhal," Pycelle gave a justifiably concerned look. "Do you believe Lord Whent shall refuse such a course of action? Despite all he has come to know?"

"Accepting the existence and threat of magic is another. Telling everyone in the castle to abandon it for one is no small undertaking, not the least of which comes down to the size of the place and the possibility of Harrentown being under the curses sway. Even if it's ultimately not, they're too close to one another..."

The sound of footfalls grew in the distance. The third member of their group was soon to arrive. Once they grew close enough, even Pycelle picked up on the sound.

"We should count ourselves fortunate then," He tried his best reassuring smile. "We've someone who holds much sway over Lord Walter is quite predisposed towards our cause."

"I hope it's enough."

That evening and many more to come, the three spent many hours sharing information concerning Harren the Black. They had exhausted the personal history of House Hoare, who traced their lineage back to the mythical Age of Heroes. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the ironborn chose their king through a kingsmoot in those days. A process of selection between several noteworthy candidates from across their territories. It was very similar to what the people of Skellige practiced for such matters. House Hoare's greatest from that era, Harrag and Qhored, were noted battle commanders who caused the northmen generations of grief.

Eventually, the kingsmoot age died off when House Greyiron established a hereditary dynasty. A dynasty that, as many seemed to in this world, last for an absurd number of years. The Hoare's brought this ruling family down during the age of the Andal invasions, using marriages to gain their support. Archmaester Haraeg's tome History of the Ironborn, a frequent reference point in their discussions, showed a legacy of reavers and conquerors at some points yet tradesmen in others. The Hoare's were allegedly mistrusted by their fellow ironborn for allowing the Faith of the Seven amongst their people.

Finally, came to the subject of Harren himself. A universally despised figure no matter which source one chose to glean from. He'd inherited both the iron islands and the riverlands conquered by his grandfather, Harwyn Hardhand. Despite the vast wealth he already enjoyed, Harren's bloodthirstiness was superseded only by his vanity. He did not rule from a castle built into a mountain as the Kings of the Rock. Not an unconquerable seat that famously resisted even the god's wrath in its seventh attempt. The King of the Isles and Rivers commanded all under him from a modest tower house at Fairmarket. His pride couldn't stomach the fact.

That was as far as any academic was willing or interested to go with regards to Harren's motives. Vanity and pride alone prompted him to sacrifice thousands, cut down ancient godswoods, and erect such a stronghold. Weirwoods were only used for their strength as material. The location of the castle was there to tighten his hold over the famously troublesome riverlords. He wanted a close enough command point from which to strike out at Argilac Durrandon or an impregnable retreat point if his conquests went poorly. All of them made sense once Geralt or anyone interested enough looked at the full historical context of Harren's time and the troubles of his forebearers.

Religious reasons were never factored in by the numerous maester's who chronicled ironborn history. There were but two or three passing mentions of Harren following the Drowned God, nothing else. His father, Halleck, only nominally supported the religion, paying service to its customs at absolute most. He'd only ever visited the iron islands themselves on but three occasions. The construction of a sept as part of Harrenhal was seemingly never deemed interesting enough to warrant mention or further inspection into Harren's character. A monster was a monster, simple as that.

The heart tree didn't respond the way Geralt desired, in-spite practically beating centuries of ironborn history into his head and traversing the length of the vast castle. His dreams were more recollections of the Crookback Bog fight, and in two instances, memories of the Eternal Battle. When the first week of their stay in Harrenhal came to a close, it was decided to let Lady Whent try her hand at prompting a vision. Lord Whent misliked the notion still, but his wife's words and assurance that all five members of the Hanse would be present and awake for the night was enough to convince him.

And so the six found themselves back at the heart tree that evening. The sky was, as usual, was filled with bright, shining stars. Some of them even streaked through the night. A brilliant shine made more prominent by the absence of the moon.

"It is said on moonless nights, misbehaving children shall be flown by winged horrors back to Harrenhal, to Danelle Lohston," Shella Whent said, gazing at the sky as she and Geralt stood but twenty feet away from the heart tree. The rest of the Hanse stood further back, hidden Lord Whent and his two oldest sons the furthest. Geralt could hear them shift uneasily in the outskirts of the clearing. "For a time, I thought I too would go mad, knowing what I did... Some families are cursed with it in their very blood..."

She fell silent after a quivering breath, lowering her gaze toward the weirwood scrutinizing them. "You've no doubt noticed, Master Witcher, how Walter and I are... Wary of all Blackwood talk?"

"It came to my attention."

"There is a good reason for it, one I wish for you to hold silent on until the end of your days."

"I've no intention of breaking whatever trust you place in me."

"Yes... I thought so, I only..." She shook her head. "House Blackwood has married into many families across the Seven Kingdoms, as have most Houses of such prestige. They've even found their way into the royal Targaryen family through blood, if not name. The Lohston's were one such family, and we the Whent's were their most loyal and respected bannermen."

"So loyal, you became bound by marriage as well long ago. It wasn't just bravery against Danelle that earned you Harrenhal," Geralt concluded correctly, judging by her nod. "House Blackwood, connecting together Houses Hoare, Lohston and now Whent. Bringing the blood of the First Men into all three..."

Geralt didn't doubt its presence already, particularly in the Hoare's who's ironborn practice of salt wives would've done so generations prior. Regardless, it was a detail he knew wasn't irrelevant.

"I won't speak of this, my lady," The Witcher assured, letting his proclamation before a heart tree emphasize its authenticity to her. "But I would ask this of you: if there is another such secret you carry, reveal it now. Later, there will be no room or time for such things."

"My greatest secrets are laid bare," The burden of years was almost palpable in her tired voice. "Their chains have held me so tightly, it is a wonder my worst fears of going mad did not come true."

Madness would've been a reprieve, Geralt thought, not for the first or last time feeling a great deal of sympathy for the woman. It is far worse to be sane, knowing even a sliver of the truth and that no one will believe you.

"They won't," He promised again, bowing his head. "Harren's shadow has poisoned all under it long enough. The troubles of you and your family are coming to an end. You have my word on that."

Even as her eyes betrayed a weariness, no words could entirely erase Shella Whent managed to smile warmly. "You should consider knighthood, Geralt. I believe you would be worthier of it than most."

The Witcher smiled back. "The thought has occurred to me once or twice."

Lady Whent settled down next to the heart tree minutes after, using one of its many protruding trunks as a cushion. Geralt listened to the diminishing of her heartbeat, the quieting of her breathing. He stepped away from the weirwood, making as little noise as possible, and rejoined the rest of the Hanse. They sat down in a small circle formation, similar to what they'd done during the trek to Harrenhal. While there was no campfire, wineskins were not absent.

"Any notion of when it will happen, Geralt?" Oswell asked as the Witcher sat down next to him, accepting the offered wineskin. The two sat in such a way as to always have the heart tree in their sights. A single dash in the span of a few heartbeats would close the distance between them and it. "I'm not as afeared as my brother but,..."

"It may not happen tonight at all," He admitted after a gulp, offering the skin to Jaime next. "We may be at this for a while. We may not. This part is out of my hands, as troubling as that may sound. Don't drink too much of that. You'll need to stay sharp."

Jaime stopped mid-drink, giving him a puzzled look. "You said the forest was safe."

"It is, but Lord Walter and his two oldest are watching us. The man's on edge already, and I'd rather avoid pissing him off by acting sloppy."

"I thought I'd heard something shuffling about," Arthur said, waving aside the offered skin. Pycelle accepted. "We would be wise to pass the time to remain awake."

"So long as it's not anymore ironborn history lectures, I'm all for it."

The hours of the bat and the eel passed remarkably quick and without incident. As they did on the journey to the castle, they kept each other awake and quietly amused with tales of days gone. None drank much wine, and the hiding Whent's did not deign to join them. During the hour of ghosts, they all stilled mid-conversation when a monumental trembling erupted from Geralt's medallion. The Witcher and his party members stared at it, swaying wildly in the palm of his hand. A heartbeats length later, they sprang to their feet and made way to the weirwood.

At a distance of forty feet, Geralt suddenly stopped and raised his hand. "Wait, give me a moment..."

Taking a few cautious steps forward, the Witcher stared at the sleeping form of Shella Whent, the tree towering over her, and the quickening build-up of power around them both. There was a faint but familiar sound, a kind of roaring when a magic wielder approached a place of power. There was a thick, primordial presence of it, stronger than before. Underneath, it was exponentially stronger. Geralt could practically feel the very hill shake as the magic veins pulsated like a living man's. It gathered inside the heart tree, slipping out of it and reaching into Shella.

The Lady of Harrenhal barely stirred at all. Her breath only infinitesimally quickened, so slightly only a Witcher's senses would even pick it up. Seamlessly and unconsciously, she drew it into herself as if on an old reflex. Though physically unaltered, in the unseen energies coursing through all things around them, Shella and the weirwood were one and the same. Geralt had never seen so much active power without a single discernible outwardly alteration of the surroundings. The tree, the leaves, the ground, all remained visibly unchanged.

And yet there's enough power here for a proper wizard to blow this pile of burned rock into oblivion.

From afar, Geralt heard the observing Whent's spring into action, their footfalls thumping against soil and crushing leaves. They rushed toward the tree. Geralt wasn't sure if crossing into the swirling energies would break the vision or have some other unforeseen consequence, but he wasn't about to gamble on it. He slowly but swiftly intercepted them in their path, raising a hand to halt.

"Wait, my lord," He whispered as the hair on the back of his neck stood up from the power. "Whatever power lies in the tree is active. Active but not dangerous to Lady Shella. There's no reason to interfere."

"Do as he says, Walter," Oswell approached next, standing at the Witcher's left. "When there is a danger, we will act. If not, you'll only make an arse of yourself and force Shella to do it again."

Though Lord Walter gazed at his brother with an understated but undeniable look of ferocity, he did not act rashly. His son's, meanwhile, looked uneasy, glancing between the two of them with reasonable trepidation. Geralt glanced over his shoulder at the heart tree. The power no longer grew but continued to swirl in and out of Shella like a flowing river, neverending river. Once or twice, he heard a hitched breath, an indecipherable mumble. Eventually, the power began to wane. Geralt's medallion no longer shook as harshly. The veins of magic running under the ground settled into docility, and Lady Whent's eyes slowly opened.

"It's over..."

"Shella!" Lord Walter ran past them to her side, his son's and Oswell following suit. Though each one offered to help her stand, Lady Whent rejected all such offers. Even positioning herself to lie against the trunk seemed too much of an exertion. After she had drunk a few noticeably large gulps of wine, Lady Whent looked at the crowd gathered before she and silently asked, "Where is the Witcher?"

"Here, my lady," Geralt approached, kneeling before her once the others parted a way for him. Taking a better look at her, Shella Whent looked less like a lady and more of a drunken brawler by the sheer exhaustion present on her features. "If it's too much, we can speak of this-"

"No, no,... We must speak of this now," She closed her eyes, frowning to help focus her undeniable weary mind. "You were right, it was... Far more unpleasant than the last time, I-I shan't forget it until my dying breathe..."

"... You saw Harren the Black, mother?" Roland Whent asked with fear and awe in equal measure. "Truly...?"

"In all his depravity, my boy... I was alone, in a dark, fathomless place where I saw naught but blackness and the sounds of my own footfalls. My voice... Failed me. I could not utter so much as a word. It was... frightening, overwhelming, merely considering the solitude. But... I was not alone. Another creature joined me, guided me, a crow. It's like I've never before witnessed..." Shella's let out a shaky breath, looking at Geralt. "It had three eyes, and it spoke, in an old voice that brokered no argument. It told me to follow, the truth awaited above..."

"Above where?" Geralt asked, trying and failing to recall any instance of encountering a three-eyed crow.

"The rest of the castle. The blackness around me became walls, strong, thick walls, and hallways that seemed never to end. It was Harrenhal. I knew it at once. New and pristine... But I recognized it all the same. The crow guided my way, commanding me to follow and never veer from its path... It took me... To Kingspyre Tower... Up new stone steps, where the setting sun shined through windows and not fissures... To a place that no longer exists... That is when I saw them, him..."

She shivered as though a horrid chill ran through her.

"He was old and hairless yet with an armor blacker than any shadow and that crown, Harren the Black had come to life before my very eyes. He sat at the end of the hall, atop a white weirwood throne with his sons beneath the steps. When his gaze passed over the room and flicked to me... I thought he would... He paid no heed to me or the crow. Nor did his sons. All but one was a man grown... Save for Harren, all of them drank something foul, yet they dared not voice displeasure before him...

"Look, the crow told me, look and remember well, child. And so I did. I looked as Harren leaned back in his throne, and a whiteness overtook his eyes. I watched as all his sons began to shake, tremble as though poison was in their veins until their eyes too became white... I will... Always remember how the seven came upon the eight... The child... And with no hesitation, no mercy ripped him to pieces... How he stood as silent as a statue even as his limbs-"

Her demeanor crumbled, and she could no longer contain her sobs and cries. Walter, her sons, and even Oswell came close to Shella, offering her what little comfort they could. The other members of the Hanse watched, deathly silent as only horrified people could. Geralt did not press on for a while. Lady Whent needed to let it out, while the Witcher needed a moment to suppress the seething anger and hate that burned in his chest.

"... He ate the child's remains,..." Shella revealed as she wiped the tears away, finding the strength to meet Geralt's eyes. "Drank his blood... I could not bear it... I screamed at the crow, demanded answers, how... Why, why would a father butcher his own child... Power, the crow said, to command men and beasts, now it is his only hope to survive against a new threat. To endure... That.

"Before I could ask, a shadow fell over the hall. The setting sun... Vanished, that was what I thought until I approached the nearest window and realized I was only somewhat wrong. It was unlike any creature I could even begin to imagine... It's spread wings engulfed all I could see, its scales seemed alive with fire, its teeth dwarfed even the finest blades, even it's breath seemed to ignite a fire in the air," Her voice grew fainter, more fearful. "And it's eyes... There was a mind behind them, a hateful will of its own... When they turned white, my breath failed me... The thought of that monster commanding the Black Dread..."

She shivered again, pressing herself closer to Walter. "But it was for naught... Balerion roared with such force the very glass shattered... Then it all burned when the dragon obeyed the Conqueror's command. The black flame seared into the hall... Harren's sons perished immediately, even as their hair caught flames and skin turned grey than black... They uttered not a word. Harren..."

"Survived long enough to cast the curse."

"Mine! He shouted, somehow, the flames did not burn him as it did the others... Somehow, he managed to rise and stand even as the very stone around him melted away into what it is today... Mine, he screamed again, even as his lips burned away, and his teeth burst... Mine it will always be, and all those who lay claim to it shall suffer and die... Down to the last of their kin..."

She did not cry again, merely sighing as her strength seemed to be spent. Their sons had paled as she spoke, rivaling Geralt's own complexion. The rest of the Hanse shifted in place while Oswell stepped away from the tree, putting as much distance as he could. Lord Whent did not bother asking if she could stand, taking and carrying her in his arms.

"Wait, Walter," Shella said with a weak voice, stopping him before they could leave. "There is one more thing I must say... A message for Geralt..."

The Witcher frowned as a chill settled into his veins. "A message?"

"From the three-eyed crow, it is the last I saw of it as black flames danced in and around us... Break the curse, White Wolf of Rivia. Break it, and all shall become clear."

Chapter Text

The summer sun had scarcely begun to set when Geralt and the rest of the company awaited the arrival of Lord and Lady Whent. It was a meeting long since coming, from the Witcher's earliest considerations of Harrenhal's curse. A pivotal moment where things could become exponentially easier or infinitely more difficult. In the days since Lady Whent's weirwood experience, he and the others kept themselves busy in various ways. Grand Maester Pycelle aided in hastening Shella's recovery. The weirwood had left her tired, bedridden for two whole days.

It had made the situation within those walls understandably tense, the previous faint murmurs of sorcery quite boldly being spoken of for all to hear. Lord Whent scarcely left his lady wife's side, and Geralt had no doubts the man misliked him for placing her in such a position, despite her stance on the matter. Fortunately, Lady Whent's strength returned, and the Witcher avoided Lord Walter most of the time. There was work to be done outside the walls.

Thanks to Jaime's earlier scouting efforts, Geralt ascertained the rough endpoints of magic across Whent lands, where his medallion no longer shook. During this second planned pass through their territory, the Witcher journeyed to these points, sensing out what magic was present throughout. Sometimes, others even joined him. After so much time spent within Harrenhal and the godswood, he and his companions found it relieving to roam the countryside on horseback. If things went poorly, it was the last chance many or all of them might have of doing so.

Once this final piece of the investigation concluded, there was nothing else left but to schedule a meeting with Lord Whent. A chance to deliver the final report of Harrenhal's situation and a recommendation for what to do next. That last part, he knew, would cause trouble, arguments. It had to be done, however, for the good of everyone inside and around Harrenhal.

Now, I only need to convince the man-in-charge of that, Geralt thought whilst he and the others observed the lord and lady of Harrenhal cross the final distance to the heart tree's clearing. Lady Shella pointedly avoided gazing at it. Instead, she offered Geralt the briefest of reassuring smiles. At least I've a considerable ally or two in doing so.

Her husband, looking well-rested for a change, inclined his head. "Master Witcher."

"My lord," He said with utmost formality and bowed. The remainder of his Hanse did the same. "I'm pleased to say our scouting has born results. There is nothing left to doubt over this situation."

"I am satisfied to hear this," Lord Whent answered amicably, kneeling before a small table placed for the meeting. "Show me all that you've learned."

He seems in good spirits, Geralt noted, finding him in a seemingly genial mood. He reached for the map and unfurled it across the table. Both lord and lady leaned forward and began to scrutinize what he'd drawn across it. Hopefully, it doesn't evaporate the instant I get to that.

"To reach the heart of the matter in the simplest terms, I've divided the lands of House Whent into three parts," Geralt explained, running his finger along the edges of the map, separated by newly drawn borders by himself and Jaime. "These lands are of no concern to us. Magic was either weak in them to begin with, or waned in the years since the godswoods cutting."

"The middle portion," His finger drew closer to the castle, between the first magic border and the final, innermost one. "Is where the power of the godswood remains present, even considerable to this day. I would venture to say the fertility of the soil there can be attributed to its presence."

"And the curse?" Lord Walter asked. "The dragon flames?"

"Not present, thankfully. The only place where all three powers exist simultaneously is here," Geralt's voice grew just the barest hint grimmer, his right index finger tapping the center of the map. "Harrenhal and Harrentown. Every single thinking, feeling being residing in either place is at risk. Not only of the curse but the inevitable consequences of our attempts to break it."

"And these consequences are...?"

"A discharge of considerable, uncontrollable power," Geralt spoke plainly, focusing all his attention on Lord Whent. "The demonstration of magic's existence by myself and Arthur? It's nothing in comparison to what will transpire, less than nothing. It will be no mere show of lights, a wind tossing cutlery every which way. Our attempts to liberate your castle, your people, from the throes of Harren's power will be a spark that will burst into a great flame. The likes of which hasn't been seen in this country since the last great dragons perished."

Lord Whent's eyes narrowed and then steadily, imperceptibly grew, the inevitable realization of what Geralt would say next dawning upon him. Shella's mouth drew into a thin line, her hands already moving to her husband's.

"If we're to ensure a successful and bloodless breaking of this curse," Geralt putting as much certainty and severity into his voice as he could. "Then Harrenhal and Harrentown must both be abandoned."

An expectedly uncomfortable, thick silence fell on the forest. Witcher and lord gazed at one another, the former unflinching and the latter stunned. Not even Lady Whent's touch could shake Walter from his surprise. Astonishment inevitably gave way on its own, replaced by a restrained fury. Geralt didn't miss his hands curl tightly around the arms of his chair.

"You would have me forsake my castle...?" Lord Walter said in just above a whisper. "Force my family and people to flee from it? Harrentown as well...?!"

"Walter-"

"No, Shella!" The shout thundered from the deepest recess' of his throat, carrying itself through the trees for what seemed like acres. A fist slammed against the table with such force Geralt heard the wood creak. Lord Whent's nostrils flared with each deep breath. He sharply rose to full height, a wolf ready to pounce. "I am not blind to what forces are at work... I've seen enough proof for a thousand lifetimes, but he asks too much! For a lord to abandon his castle? You, Witcher, have you any notion of what such a course of action would demand of me?"

"The displacement of thousands of people," Geralt said in his most respectful voice. "I'm no ruler of any lands, nor do I own anything that's not on my person or strapped to the saddles of my horse. However, I've seen what wars do to the peasantry, the endless caravans, the refugees fleeing across hundreds of miles. Even planned exodus' such as these are rife with difficulties, large and small aplenty."

"You speak such sense and would enjoin I follow your instructions regardless?"

"Geralt is no fool, brother, as you now admitted," Oswell spoke, taking a step forward and standing immediately to the Witcher's right. As per some advice ere the meeting, the Kingsguard kept his voice level. "Were there any other path, he would not speak of leaving Harrenhal. Yet we know what lingers here, seeping into every blackened stone and crevice. Remaining hereabouts when our task begins is tantamount to cutting everyone's throats ourselves."

"Doing nothing is leaving the noose tied around their necks," Geralt resumed. "The nature of the curse is subtle, easy to mistake for a series of unfortunate events. One's inability to tangibly perceive the threat is its deadliest effect. Even from where I come from, such matters aren't always so easily believed."

"Yet I am to do precisely that?" Lord Walter said, his brow furrowing, accentuating the hard lines across his features. "Tell the smallfolk of my lands to flee from what? Bad luck in farming? The terror of tumbling down stairs? Use the spirit of Harren the Black to explain to my vassals why their liege lord flees from his own walls? They will proclaim me a mad man, one and all!"

"Beg your pardon, my lord," Pycelle stepped forward next, his Maester chains clanking against one another. "But you are not alone in this matter. King Aerys and all of the small council have taken the Harrenhal matter quite seriously. Since our arrival, ravens arrive with great frequency, demanding constant news of our mission's progress. If you require word from Kings Landing to aid in these endeavors, to forestall questions and other such issues, such support you shall have."

Aerys won't stand for a refusal to leave if it's necessary to break the curse either, Geralt silently added, a fact Lord Whent was all too aware, even if anger momentarily blinded him to it. I put the fear of it deep into his already paranoid mind. I wouldn't be surprised if he burned every letter sent from here the instant it got read.

"It gladdens my heart to know this," Lord Walter said with no small amount of scorn. "And tell me, will this support extend to rebuilding efforts for Harrentown? Or perhaps finding my family a new castle, assuming anything at all is left of this one?"

"His Grace is not unreasonable," Arthur answered first, lying quite exceptionally. "Long has he heeded my council, Lord Walter, as well as Ser Barristan's. If House Whent requires assistance, I am certain a letter from myself, delivered by my sworn brother, will yield a fruitful result."

To this, the Lord of Harrenhal said nothing, taking a moment to cool himself lest he should send a glare at the Sword of Morning. Not for the first time, Geralt was impressed by the sheer force of the man's reputation. Though he had never witnessed Ser Barristan sway Aerys in-person, his reputation as the king's rescuer from Duskendale was something they could use to their advantage.

"Harrentown will suffer the worst of it," Geralt said, letting the other's words sink into the lord. "Unlike much of Harrenhal, no weirwoods were used in its construction. Homes, barns, taverns, the discharge will spare none of them. Some parts of the castle will suffer more than others. There's no doubt about that. By and large, however, Harrenhal will weather the storm thanks to Harren's own efforts."

Yet even while those words came out, Geralt knew there was more to say, a simple, unavoidable inquiry that required a frank answer. It was a question every Witcher asked themselves on the eve of a contract. A part of him considered the possibility of aid coming from back home, Ciri and Yennefer arriving in his most dangerous hour in Westeros. It was a potentiality but far too up in the air to truly lessen the danger before them.

"I won't deceive you, my lord, even with all we've learned, all we've prepared, this task won't be easy," Geralt continued following a moment's silence, his voice harsher. "It is without a doubt one of the most deadly curse breakings I've undertaken in my life-long time as a Witcher. If you want me to stand here and promise an absolute victory with no chance of failure, you're going to be disappointed. The odds of us all perishing in this endeavor are high."

Something in Geralt's eyes, voice, or demeanor affected the Whent's. Shella's lips parted in a silent gasp, her aged face losing some of its colors. Lord Walter stared, fear and not anger gracing his features for the first time. The forest around them was still, not even the gentle rustle of leaves or the coursing of the stream interrupting the thick silence.

"Which is why further precautions are necessary," He proceeded after a time. "We've already confirmed the potency of the soil, grass, and trees here when it comes to resisting the curse. We'll need more of it, much more. Firstly, to seal off the Tower of Ghosts so as not to allow our enemy a chance to escape there. If we can't finish it in the main hall, we'll do so in Kingspyre Tower. By leaving a trail of leaves, pebbles, dirt across the shortest pathways leading from the hall to Kingspyre and the godswood, we'll increase our chance of safely traversing the castle. Either in pursuit of the wraiths,... Or to escape from them and fight another day."

"You mean to flee from the battle?" Lady Whent inquired. Geralt shook his head.

"Unless things take a monumentally disastrous turn against us early on, the Kingsguard and I are staying inside, finishing the job no matter what it takes. The Grand Maester and Jaime will leave should I deem it necessary. For this reason, they'll require a trail of godswood pieces left. To get them here safely and out of the castle."

Geralt could vividly imagine the stunned gazes from Pycelle and Jaime both, particularly the boy. He didn't acknowledge them, keeping his eyes on the Whent's before him.

"Oswell," Lord Walter said, staring at his brother, resignation and worry in his voice. "This is-"

"What must be done, brother," Oswell cut him off, not unkindly. "Were I a mere knight with no family name or titles, I would choose to stay."

"This is a matter beyond mere oaths and duty, my lord," Arthur spoke, sounding every bit the knight everyone idolized him to be. "There is evil in your home, in the Seven Kingdoms, and it has gone unchallenged for long enough."

"And we're not leaving things up to chance, even if the worst comes to pass," Geralt assured him. "The Grand Maester has learned much from me in the Witcher ways, and more still, I'll impart on him before the curse-breaking commences. If we fail on the first night, the Seven Kingdoms will wield the knowledge to win later."

The lord and lady of Harrenhal fell silent, the setting sun tinging the overhead sky in orange. Lady Shella, already convinced of the situation's severity, required no further convincing. Her husband, whose fingers she entwined slowly with her own, stared past the Witcher, past the Hanse. His fury subsided a while ago, replaced by a grim, focused consideration. The wear of the curse seemed to burden his aged features more than usual. While his resignation visibly grew, so too did Geralt's certainty in the success of their convincing.

"... I will begin making preparations in the morning," Lord Walter eventually spoke, his voice tired but not defeated. "Grand Maester, Ser Arthur, I would ask you send ravens to King's Landing. There will be no shortage of them flying about Harrenhal in the coming days..."

"Of course, my lord," The Grand Maester replied with a bow.

Lord Walter inclined his head to him and the rest of the Hanse. He seemed to linger more on his brother but said nothing. If there was more for the two men to resolve or speak, it was their business. Just as silently, he rose with some effort and turned back towards the depths of the forest. Lady Shella followed after, glancing back at the company.

"Thank you," She said in just above a whisper, or it would have been to anyone besides Geralt. He answered with a smile and watched them leave, their footfalls vanishing into the trees until it appeared they had never visited in the first place.

Now, for the other hard part, Geralt rose as well, preparing himself for the inevitable trouble only children of a certain age could bring.

"I will not leave," Jaime said the moment Geralt turned around, fists clenched at his sides and a defiant glare directed solely at the Witcher. "I refuse."

Not a bad copy of his father's. Too bad he's still a few years too young for it to appear anything more than petulant.

"Jaime-" Arthur smiled amicably, futilely trying to forestall an argument.

"Forgive me, Ser Arthur, but I won't stay silent," The boy's voice cracked just momentarily near the end. "Long have we spoke of this curse, of why we must remove it. I doubted at first this is true, but have I not proven myself regardless? Have I not done all you've asked of me and more?"

"No one could've done it better."

"Then why... Why must I flee...?" Jaime's voice became almost pleading. His white, tightened fingers shook. "How can I leave you all here against such a foe?"

From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the sworn brothers giving him knowing, sympathetic looks. All three men understood quite well what it was like to be young, impetuous, and stubborn, particularly in the face of anything that could get misconstrued as cowardice. Without a doubt, a young squire leaving the side of the Kingsguard would get seen as such an act.

Words and notions by fools getting young men killed for nothing, Geralt kept his disdain hidden, lest Jaime get the wrong idea.

"I believe there is more to what Geralt intends than we yet know, young Jaime," Pycelle said thoughtfully, running a hand through his beard.

"There is," Geralt said, walking to the two of them. "To the two of you, I have imparted my skills and knowledge to the best of my ability. What a Witcher must know of its prey, how he must fight in the moment, and more."

He placed a hand on their shoulders, glancing meaningfully from squire to scholar. "If I don't make it out of this, you two will be the closest thing Westeros will have to a Witcher."

The words, expectedly, left both of them stunned. Pycelle's gazed at him owlishly, Jaime as though he were mad. Neither, however, argued the point.

"What the crow said to Shella," Oswell said from behind Geralt. "You think it an ill omen...?"

"... When something ends, something else begins," The Witcher said in a low voice, his eyes staring at the visage of the heart tree overlooking the clearing. "The intensifying of magic, the three-eye crow+s promise,... A change is upon these lands. I've felt such shifts in the currents before and based on far lesser evidence. No matter what happens here, Westeros needs a Witcher. Me," He gazed back to his companions. "Or the two of you."

Their silent stares continued a while longer. Pycelle, the first of the two to recovered, bowed his head in silent acceptance and humility at the responsibility. Jaime's defiant anger shrank, the boy looking torn between feeling honored by the responsibility Geralt entrusted to him and knowing what must happen for such a task to befall him.

"Don't worry," Geralt smiled, trying to ease away those dark thoughts running through the boy's head. "I'm not going into this intending to get myself or anyone else here killed. This plan is, as I told Lord Walter, a precaution if the worst comes to pass. If we banish Harren during the initial summoning, this whole affair will conclude in a matter of minutes."

"We've time on our side now," Arthur said. "Our task of inspecting Harrenhal and the surrounding lands is done. Save for writing letters and ensuring the creation of the godswood trails, all we've left to do now is prepare."

"It will take no small amount of time or effort for Walter to leave this place. More than enough for us to continue what we began in the Red Keep," Oswell rested a hand atop his pommel. "I can't be the only one whose sword hand has grown irritable from disuse?"

"Not even close," Geralt replied, smirking and lowering his hands. "We'll be training extensively from tomorrow onwards. To make the most of it, I suggest you all reside here from now on. It wouldn't hurt to gather as much provision as we can either. Once the servants start leaving, we'll have to handle all our cooking."

"I shall abstain from such duties," The Grand Maester smiled ruefully. "I would not wish to inflict such tortures upon you."

The group laughed at the jest. Even the shadow over Jaime passed as he could not help himself. In the days that came after they met with Lord Walter, a great many things came to pass. From Oswell, Geralt learned the less than enthusiastic reception of the older Whent children to the plan, eerily and amusingly similar to their father's. The younger siblings thought it all most exciting. None of them disobeyed their lord father, however, obediently preparing to leave or aiding in those efforts.

In those first days, Pycelle was kept busy along with Harrenhal's Maester, sending letters to and from the castle, relaying news from King's Landing to Lord Walter and the Hanse. Assurances of aid from the Crown got arranged. They had also heard a bit of news Geralt found immediately troubling.

"Aerys wishes to see the curse-breaking?" He asked the Grand Maester during a sparring break with Jaime and the Kingsguard. The very thought of him choosing to come there was simultaneously infuriating and laughable.

"He has not left the Red Keep in years," Arthur commented, wiping sweat from his brow. "He is afeared to even walk its battlements."

"His Grace, along with the small council, shall observe the curse-breaking from afar, the Red Keep to be precise. They desire to witness the discharge of magic."

"Is such a thing possible?" Jaime asked, giving an understandably puzzled look.

"Given the size of Harrenhal, and the amount of power coursing through it,... Yes, our curse-breaking will likely be visible for miles upon miles in the distance. I'd dare say much of Westeros will bear witness to it, one way or another."

"Forgive me," Pycelle faltered, seeming guilty. "I could not shun mentioning it."

"It's fine. So long as Aerys doesn't try to impose anything unreasonable on us from afar, he can observe away." Geralt sighed. Maybe we'll get lucky, and the excitement or fear of beholding will stop the yawning chasm of where his heart is.

Over time, the clearing around the heart tree more and more resembled a proper camp. The Hanse slept and spent most of their time there, using provisions to prepare meals, drink when thirsty, and rest under the night sky. Mornings and afternoons passed in fierce, tireless sparring sessions, the ringing of steel ever-present throughout the forest. The company spent their evenings telling tales or playing dice. Pycelle had proven himself quite adept at the game, earning Oswell's ire several times over.

While their small piece of land became more comfortable to them, Harrenhal itself was the inverse. During the companies outings through its halls to deliver more letters, converse with Lord Whent, or inspect the godswood trails progress, the castle's emptiness grew eerier. Where once sentries stood, there was naught by barely lit torches. Servants who once walked the hallways had left long ago. It became entirely likely and soon a certainty that one could walk for the entire length of hallways without seeing or hearing another living being, even in the lowest levels of Harrenhal.

Lord Walter knew that scattering the citizens with no rhyme or reason would present long and short-term problems. Thus, he organized expressly where and how many of the smallfolk could go where. He, Shella, and their children would await with a host of men at arms in tents specifically prepared to house tourney guests. They wished to remain close to the castle, to offer swift aid if the Hanse succeeded in their attempt. If they did not, the Whent's would retreat south of God's Eye river. To one of the larger towns situated just under the great lake.

If Dandelion were here, he'd compose a ballad on the Carrions of Harrenhal or some such nonsense. Geralt commented during the earliest days, observing and noticing the constant presence of ravens overhead. They too, after a time, flew no more. The kitchens and barracks fell silent, the hearths no longer burned, silence fell upon Harrenhal. On the final day of the exodus, only a few remained inside its walls.

"I would say not to do anything foolish," Lord Walter said, smiling as he and Oswell embraced in the main courtyard of the castle, their men at arms waiting while the Whent's bid farewell to the company. "But it would be wasted effort... Oswell..."

"Aye, I know, brother," The Kingsguard returned the smile, pulling his older sibling back and seeing him for what may be the last time. "These wraiths will see that it means to earn the ire of a Whent."

"I hope to hear it from you in-person," Shella was the next to embrace him, just a hint of tears in her eyes. "Be safe, and come back to us."

"With this lot at my side, I just may."

The rest of the Whent's did the same for Oswell, the older children doing a better job of keeping their emotions in check. The youngsters were not quite strong enough, their cheeks red and noses sniffing as they bid their uncle farewell. Maris Whent gifted both Oswell and Jaime folded pieces of fabric, embroidered with the symbols of House Whent and House Lannister, respectively. The girl was as quiet as a mouse as she bade them both farewell and avoided Jaime's gaze.

If Geralt hadn't already known Jaime's exact whereabouts in the days since the exodus' beginning, he would have worried far more about the gestures meaning. He and Oswell weren't the only ones to gain a lady's favor.

To Geralt, Arthur, and Pycelle, Lady Whent gifted three more pieces of embroidered cloth. Each intricate and beautifully designed, showing the Maester chains, a great sword positioned before the sun, and a white, red-eyed wolf.

"It does not do for a lady to give her favor to multiple men, but," Shella smiled brightly despite the circumstances. "These are... Strange times."

"It is a... Most beautiful gift, my lady," The Grand Maester complimented after a moment's bewilderment, unused to ever receiving such things.

"Quite so," Ser Arthur smiled and bowed, accepting it more gracefully. "You have my thanks, my lady."

"Mine too," The Witcher did the same as his Kingsguard companion, find no small measure of amusement from this being his first lady's favor as a knight, even if the rest were unaware of either fact.

Once Lady Whent left to her horse, only Walter lingered, halting before Geralt. The Lord of Harrenhal seemed unsure as he and Witcher peered at one another. Theirs was a relationship fraught with Geralt upending many things the lord knew, of the world around him, his own family, bringing him one ill omen after another.

It was then, to the Witcher's surprise, that Lord Walter extended a hand to him. "May the Gods watch over you all in the night to come, Witcher, and may your swords strike true."

Geralt shook it. "And may we all celebrate to the success come tomorrow."

"Aye," He laughed, his eyes performing a final sweep of the castle looming over them. "Aye, that would be good..."

In silence, the Hanse watched the last of those who called Harrenhal home vanished into the shadows of the mountainous gatehouse. The figures, banners, and eventually even tramplings of their horses faded into the distance, into nothingness. The morning sun still shined down upon them, accompanied by a warm, comfortable wind. The Witcher was not disturbed to remain in such a place. As he surveyed his companion, it was a gladdening sight to see them prepared as well.

"Let's get inside," Geralt announced, turning towards the flung open main gates, the maw of the great, slumbering beast about to awaken. "We've got work to do."

Chapter Text

The Hanse kept themselves busy with a few last tasks in the first hours since Lord Walter's departure that morning. Jaime and Pycelle transported a few remaining vital pieces of equipment into the main hall from the woodland, inspecting the godswood trail and formation. The rest toiled away with the Tower of Ghosts. To ensure Harren had but one place to retreat, cutting it off was vital. Barrels, filled to the brim with godswood soil, remained within the courtyard.

Thanks to existing, marked borders around the tower, the three men applied the soil with meticulous care. Never letting it spill near the power of the curse. Geralt feared this step. A single misstep could have proven disastrous, bringing discharges and wraiths down on their heads. He didn't dare to breathe easy until midday when the task ended. Their circle of godswood dirt accomplished its duty without fail. Nothing would leak in or out. The overbearing heat that day, however, tempered the gratification of success. Or perhaps they'd simply grown accustomed to the dragon fire's absence under the weirwood's protection.

Oswell wiped away enough sweat to bring forth a second lake. "This damned sun is a pestilence…"

"Won't be getting much colder, not when we're underway."

Arthur sat at Geralt's left, finding refuge in the shade, surviving the heatwave with little more grace than his sworn brother. "You've the right of it, my friend. All the same, we'd best make the most of what peace we've left and retire inside."

So they did, leaving the Tower of Ghosts, courtyard, and outside world behind, venturing forth into Harrenhal's depths. Each footfall rung with a foreboding echo, accentuating the absence of others. The countless unlit hallways appeared closer to cave walls than a castle's. Harrenhal never felt more of an abandoned ruin.

The great hall's center was the exception. Under Oswell's watchful eye in the initial exodus efforts, it became a secondary camp for the company, the starting point of their curse-breaking efforts. It's massive, feasting table the lord's men put aside, replacing it with a meager one, more fitting of a roadside tavern and their small company. Food and drink aplenty ready at hand, and the center point of their plan.

Near it, a circular arrangement of soil, pebbles, dirt, and leaves over thirty feet wide laid atop blackened stones where nobility once gathered, warding off the lingering curse power, a haven when swords became drawn. To the east and west, trails of mud, grime leading to the godswood and Kingspyre Tower connected with the circle, furthering the warding effect.

no-man's-landA secondary configuration, half the size of the first, made its center, inscribed with dozens of elvish runes and Witcher formulae written by Pycelle's very hand. Within this secondary circle, Jaime and Pycelle left the chest from King's Landing and another where Pycelle placed his wraith oil. The third circle of sorts was provided by the weirwoods, support beams, and rafters spread out, forming an area where the curse's strength weakened. A no man's land where they could fight the enemy and the wraiths weren't entirely repelled away from them.

To the three arriving men's delight, they'd also prepared meals and filled goblets. Thus midday passed into the afternoon, in the company of friends and allies, resting as men, not Witcher's. Geralt found this a pleasant change from his usual, solitary, and silent preparation to a point.

"Take care, brother, a sword to swing true requires a sober mind."

Oswell put aside his second cup of wine. "Fear not, Arthur, I'm saving the proper drinking for after we've won."

"I'm aware, the hall is much too quiet for your true revelry."

The Kingsguard laughed, joined by Jaime. The two knights had enough experience to appear and to point to be at ease. Pycelle's tight smiles and half-hearted laughs betrayed a mounting worry. His gaze locked onto the surrounding shadows, the wine cup forgotten. Only a handful of torches, candles, and late afternoon sunlight illuminated the hall. Comrades and the godswood barrier weren't enough to quiet down the gnawing little voice of fear. The curse-breaking was nigh, an event of great importance and danger made aware for them all in exquisite detail. Weeks separating them from it became mere hours.

A beginner's spirits often waver at imminent peril. Only first-hand experience harden's them, or natural confidence.

He cast a subtle, meaningful glance at Jaime. The boy seemed untroubled, jesting away with Oswell across the table. Geralt knew such an attitude would fade once their fight began and hoped the years of training and survival instinct replaced it, not paralyzing fear. Something even young, full trained Witcher's weren't immune to, as Geralt himself could attest. The scars were proof enough.

The mirth and quiet considerations halted when Arthur Dayne caught their attention by rising to his feet, smiling and glancing between the Hanse members.

"This is... A queer situation we find ourselves in. Dining within an abandoned castle, resting and soon preparing to do battle with wraiths, to banish fell sorcery from these lands..."

"Speak for yourself," The others laughed or smiled at Geralt's friendly interjection, even Pycelle.

"Uncommon but for one in our present company," He amended ere continuing. "A few moons ago, the rest of us would have thought such things fables and legends, tales from ages long since past. To know otherwise, to partake in something worthy of the Age of Heroes, I am not ashamed to admit excitement, fear, and gratitude to all of those gathered around me.

"Old friendships we have strengthened," He focused on Oswell, then the others. "New ones, we have forged a bond of companionship tying us all as one. Pay no heed to what may happen tonight, tomorrow. Find strength and courage in those standing beside you. Now and forever, we are the company of Harrenhal, and in-spite of the challenge ahead of us, I know victory will be ours."

One and all shared in Arthur's toast. The doubts weighing Pycelle down vanished, a fire burning in his eyes. Jaime and Oswell's good spirits intensified, the former's gaze only something a youth staring at his hero could perform. Geralt watched the knight closely, discerning a shrewd glint in the man's eyes. He'd seen it already, with Foltest and other men whose strength of character and voices could work a kind of sorcery for their own troops and comrades. The Witcher, sometimes to his own chagrin but not this time, got swept by it too.

"Your speeches are as good as ever, brother, only, I'd have called us the Curse Breakers of Harrenhal."

"A most appropriate title for a book of our efforts," The Grand Maester spoke for the first time in over an hour, his smile unmissable. "I've no doubt it will become a grand addition to the Citadel's vast collection."

For a while longer, the Hanse spent what little daylight left to them speaking, jesting, and enjoying each other's company. As all good things must, it ended sooner than they realized. When the sunset, they were back at work. They set the chairs, table, and provisions outside the hall, lest the wraiths use them as projectiles. Torches on stone pillars nearby were lit alongside two dozen candles in and out of the circles.

The Kingsguard placed their changed, silver-studded armors on, aided by Jaime. Pycelle busied himself by repeating the chants repeatedly, his elvish polished to near perfection. Geralt, in the meantime, kneeled within the outer circle, facing away from the others. With a practiced, deliberate slowness, he poured the prepared specter oil to a large, clean piece of cloth and rubbed it along the length of his Cat blade and crossbow bolts. The Grand Maester had outdone himself, finding the ingredients and successfully creating proper oils by his third attempt. He'd even produced enough to cover the length of Oswell's silver shield with it.

It was but the simplest variant of the oil. The ingredients for the stronger ones simply didn't exist in Westeros, pieces of monsters, essences, and bags of specific dust or ash. Geralt's own stash of them left behind with Roach. Many potions he would have gladly taken were inaccessible as well. So were the bombs, leaving Geralt with only what he'd brought over on his person: two Moon Dust bombs, a pair of Blizzards, a Petris Philter, and Tawny Owl.

He'd drink the Blizzard when the wraiths appeared, and not a moment sooner. It acted quickly, heightening Geralt's fighting prowess with minor side effects but could not last long. The Petris and Tawny Owl he would refrain from using in the first and hopefully only bout. Theirs was a back-up role. A means to boost his Signs if things spiraled well out of control. The Witcher hoped in-secret to avoid resorting to them. There were entire species of arachnids and snakes whose bites were less toxic than drinking even a single Petris.

To their luck, the wraiths had no idea of Geralt's Signs, nor did Westerosi have an equivalent to them, their sorcery far more rooted in ritualistic spells rather than in the moment casting. His meager spell-casting abilities could more than suffice. Vials, filled with godswood soil, would serve as supplements or replacements for his bombs. Another idea from Pycelle. He even stored several for himself to defende with if the incantations failed.

By the time he'd finished preparing, so too did the others. Pycelle knelt at the heart of the formations, both chests to his immediate right. Arthur and Oswell faced south and west, Jaime eastward.

Geralt knelt before the Grand Maester, sword laid gently within arm's reach. The courage given to him by Arthur held on, Pycelle's gaze resolute, his head nodding for them to proceed. The Witcher returned the gesture, taking a deep breath. Far above them, a large enough crack of the ceiling poured a ray of moonlight over the pair. It was a full moon.

"Cáemm aen hen,..." Witcher and Maester chanted the Elder tongue in-unison, their voices distant, eyes shut and postures stiff. "Cáemm aen hen... Cáemm aen hen!"

A faint gust of wind entered the hall, whistling through the vacant hallways of Harrenhal. It grew louder, stronger alongside the droning. Some torches and candles laid out across the room danced alongside its push and pull, others blown out, and some flames crackled with bursting flashes and sparks.

"Cáemm saov aen tedd,..." The chanting became louder, almost wrestling for supremacy with the howling wind. "Cáemm saov aen tedd... Cáemm saov aen tedd!"

Geralt's amulet quivered, joined by the rattling of the other's armors and Pycelle's Maester chains. The ground around though not directly beneath them, shook. The Witcher heard the cracking of stones, the falling of pebbles, the scuttling of retreating mice and rats in the dark.

"Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,... Cáemm dhu bhrenin Harren,..." The Witcher rose, sword in hand, eyes open, his destination the chest from King's Landing. His medallion shook with such vigor it almost seemed alive, but a glance at their surroundings revealed why.

Outside the barriers, lights and colors of unnatural shapes flash and swirled about them. The sounds of thunder and lightning echoed through the passageways and hall even as the overhead sky remained clear. Geralt took out the bait, walking northward to the edge of the second circle. There was a faint noise, moans, and groans, tired, angry, pained. The candles and torches still alight almost hurt to even glance at the shadows cast by them, revealing unnatural shapes.

Just a little more, Geralt extended his left arm, holding out the bait in its palm. Even through thick, leather gloves, he felt the growing heat in the room, repelled by godswood soil. How could he not, when so much of it entered the skull of a dragon?

The head was scarcely the size of an apple, a miserable, misshappen thing. Short-lived and stunted, a powerless last member of beasts who'd brought this world to heel. So inconsequential, no one ever bothered to name her. Now, the bone pulsated with power, becoming the epicenter of a storm, its minuscule presence drawing the attention of energies friendly and hostile to its attendance. A small flame glowed from inside it. The Witcher focused those powers, building a monstrous shout to come in the deepest recess of his throat.

"Cáemm... Dhu bhrenin... Harren!"

With that, the final spark was lit.

The Burning of Harrenhal, men, women, and children across all the Seven Kingdoms, high and lowborn alike, knew it well. There was never a swifter conquest of a castle or more absolute extermination of its people than the Black Dread searing away the black line into the ashes of history. Even knowing all of this and living under its shadow his entire life, Walter Whent's imagination could never grasp the magnitude of this event.

A fact made painfully clear as he watched it happen before his very eyes.

Neither Walter nor Shella rested since leaving Harrenhal, their gazes ever locked upon the castle with a maddening obsession. They left lunch and dinner uneaten when offered, and orders from either sparse, their oldest sons taking command of the camp for a while longer. They were the first and some few to witness the devastation from its very beginning.

There was no slowness to the change, no time to ready himself. As quickly as a simple torch burst into flame, so too did the castle. Streaks fire sprang to life along the walls, streaking across their entire length. Windows and cracks shined with blinding, white flashes ere belching out plumes of blood-red fire and black smoke high across the night sky. The flames bent in unnatural ways, swaying like waves in an ocean storm, shrinking and rising back up with unceasing fervor, unfathomably higher than even the tallest towers of Harrenhal.

The smoke pillars devoured the moon, spreading across the otherwise clear night sky as ink spilled over the parchment. By now, the entire camp was in dazed silence, watching the stars overhead vanish, the blotting out spreading for many, many more miles. Lightning and thunder cracked, a hailstorm of ash rain descended on them like a locust on fertile soil. Rapidly, the fire's glow looked as if they took a life of their own, changing the black smoke with a thick, bloody red tint.

His force, a sizable command left near enough to the castle to retake it, men he trusted to holdfast under any enemy siege, crumbled. Men screamed and ran, horses inconsolably panicked and neighed. Somewhere in the distance, Walter heard the voices of his sons, calling out to him, Shella, trying to maintain order as a searing hot wind threatened to blow tents and men alike aside.

Even so, the camp's noise could not overpower the castle's.

Moans, dozens, hundreds, echoed from its blackened, blazing walls across his family's lands, the cries of men, women, and children, all in agony. The knowledge these sounds could only come from those long since thought dead, now burning all over again, stunned Walter, freezing the blood in his veins.

All our lives... This evil lingered... The full brunt of those words, the meaning, and the history behind them crashed down on Walter's very soul like a mace. Several generations of Whent's born and raised with nooses around their necks, an unspeakable, unhuman power poisoning them, condemning them to inevitable doom. Despite all the Witcher said, all he and the others knew, Walter could not, would not grasp it fully.

Now he did, and it broke what little strength he had left. His legs and knees wobbled ere failing him. The lord of Harrenhal fell. He perceived nothing, not even pain, crumbling and lying in the dirt and mounting ash as though struck dead.

"Walter!"

Absently, he noticed his lady wife kneel by his side, struggling to make him rise. The overpowering weariness made it futile. Walter's own flesh was a weight pulling her down instead, soon enough leaving them both lying there, gazing as the fires and smoke rose before and around their lands.

"Father! Mother!" Roland called to them, rushing past the madness of the camp, halting at the sight of burning Harrenhal but for a moment. The lad kneeled by Walter's side, managing what his mother could not, slinging an arm over his shoulders and helping his father rise. "We must do something... Uncle is there. We must help him!"

Help them...? If Walter had the strength, he would've shouted it. Instead, he only gazed at his firstborn as though Roland was mad. What can anyone do against this...

"If it comes to that, we shall, my son," Shella replied. "Your uncle and his companions knew what evil they face. If any in the Seven Kingdoms can halt it, it is they."

"Then we are to do nothing...?"

She rested a hand on their cheeks; her gaze averting theirs from the flames. "We pray, to the olds gods and new, pray and hope they aid us in this time of need. Theirs is a great power, and I do not believe they shall abandon us now."

Walter stared into his wife's eyes. While their home burned and the dead rose to haunt the living, she remained steadfast, an unfaltering conviction lending her strength. Gazing at his child, the surrounding camp, stunned, on their knees or trying to keep order, her fortitude stood out to him all the more. Like a child, he found himself in need of it, clutching to anything certain in times where the word seemed laughable to him.

"... The camp..." Walter's faintly stammered, sounding close to a doddering old man to his ears. Closing his eyes, drawing some strength from a place he knew not where, he spoke again, more forcefully. "The camp... We must restore order here... Once they break the curse, our swift arrival may prove imperative to their survival... There is no telling what wounds they may suffer..."

Walter did not dwell on those dark thoughts, but for a moment. The War of Ninepenny Kings taught him even victory did not heal those already wounded, how even the triumphant laid in pools of their own blood, cut and hacked to pieces. The thought of this befalling Oswell and the others was unacceptable. Roland seemed to calm down, drawing renewed vigor of his own from his parents. Shella smiled, and for a moment, Walter allowed himself to find some small measure of relief.

He would need it. The coming hours would not grow any easier to bear.

The Whent's were not alone in their dazes and frights. Across the riverlands, men, and women, young and old, high and lowborn, gaped in paralyzing horror and uncontrollable fear at the curse-breaking of Harrenhal. Lord and ladies awoke by their men at arms, peasants stirred by the madness of their livestock. Horses bashed against their stable doors and walls, cows and sheep involuntarily produced bloody milk, young calfs shivered in their sleep, many never awakening again.

The slumbering Blackwood's became deathly ill, one and all. Shaking unceasingly in their sleep, cold as corpses to the touch even as they muttered of fire. Past the golden mountain, an iron beast in the guise of a man clawed out and devoured his own eyes before his kin. East of the king's city, across a great sea, a man stared in flames, his wineskin forgotten, flashes of knights and krakens doing battle. Northward, far past the great wall, in the cold, forgotten parts of the earth. An old crow steeled himself for the conflict at hand. In these places and many others, across and near Westeros, the curse-breaking was witnessed or felt.

Most felt dread, some fascination, one terrified those around him.

Rhaegar and the assembled royal family and small council observed the great, unceasing point of fire burst to life. Shining and vast, it appeared a second sun rose on the horizon, the gathering smoke spreading far beyond the castle's borders, devouring the night sky. The crashing of thunder rang with such force, he could swear the earth was splitting asunder in the distance.

He'd visited Harrenhal several times already, as a boy and man grown, knew how tall its walls and towers reached, for the entire castle to burn as brightly as it did pointed to the flames rising even higher.

A burning to shame Summerhall in size alone...

More than ever, Rhaegar desired to be there. Not merely to bear witness to more sorcery as he'd longed for, but to aid his friends. Arthur and Oswell were men he trusted almost more than anyone else. Despite knowing their prowess, and that of Geralt, he could not silence the disquiet gnawing at him, the thoughts of them all burning to ash. In this, he was not alone.

Lord Tywin observed it all with his usual intense focus, betrayed by the rage in his gaze, the almost stone-like stiffness of his entire body. Rhaegar scarcely knew Jaime at all, yet any who understood Tywin could tell his firstborn was the pride of his family. A golden heir for which the lion would do anything, and now, he could do nothing but watch.

Varys looked closer to a corpse, deathly pale, his gaze unceasingly watching the burning lips parted in silent horror. There were many ways Rhaegar could describe the spymaster. Ere that evening, terrified, was never among them. The prince was unsure if Varys was even with them at all. Or had he gone some place very far away inside?

The Kingsguard remained resolute, standing vigil between Aerys and the assembled party, even as they doubtlessly feared for their brothers and even Geralt.

At Rhaegar's side, Elia shivered. Her lips quiver, arms tightly wrapped around his back. The prince could not smile or say anything calming. He could not even reassure himself, silently embracing her tightly instead and hoping it was enough. Theirs was a cordial marriage, and even this simplest of gestures struck him as feeble. A faint gasp drew his attention to the person at his side, standing rightmost of the gathered audience.

Mother looked worse than Varys. This was not the quiet resignation, the dignified acceptance she wore like a mask on the eve of Father's ravagings. She trembled, tears threatening to spill, only narrowly holding back sobs. Years had passed since Rhaegar had seen her this way. Not after Mother commanded him to halt comforting her from Aerys' ravages, lest their meetings provoke Father's wrathful suspicions of treachery.

The king was deathly silent, watching the flames several feet behind the Kingsguard from a wooden throne. Rhaegar reached out to his mother, and though it momentarily pained him to see her flinch at the touch, a smile many years unseen of genuine gratitude gladdened his heart.

The warmth turned to ice when the laughter arose.

Aerys' snigger transformed into a chortle, then blossomed into a loud, throaty howl. With unseen vigor, an almost child-like excitement, he rose from his chair, walking to the very edge of the walls. Everyone watched him, struck by fear, surprise, and perhaps even hope he would fall off the edge. He did not, resting taloned palms atop the red rocks, laughing all the while.

"This is it...!" He shouted between snickers. "It has returned! The power of dragons burns again. Do you not see it?!"

The lickspittles dared to laugh with him. All others, with any sense, stared in icy dread at the sheer joy on Father's face, the kind warmth of his smile, the passion in his voice, the tears in his eyes flowing freely. He cared not for their stunned silence, gazes of abject, horrified fascination Aerys was in a world all his own and turned back to its source with renewed mirth.

"Grandfather was right! He merely chose the wrong castle! Gods bless you, Witcher, I'll make you a lord of the realm for this!" The king roared, spreading his arms wide towards the fire as if embracing an old friend long thought gone.

To him... it is... Rhaegar swallowed the shard of ice in his throat, unable to escape the certainty Harrenhal was but the start of something much, much more.

Chapter Text

Everything changed in an instant.

Jaime knew it would be so. Geralt had all but bludgeoned the details into their heads across the countless hours spent planning, foreseeing what stirring the curse would do. The sudden gusts of the storm spun about the hall in unnatural ways, cracks of thunder with nary a cloud in the sky, the castle itself quivering beneath their feet like a freezing child. He did not allow himself to falter amidst such things: his feet remained sure, his will resolute and heart steadfast, even whilst things grew even more bizarre.

The torchlights burned with a peculiar and uncomfortable intensity, casting shapes along the floor, pillars, and walls. These changed from moment to moment, sometimes resembling normal humans only to change into figures fit for one's nightmares within the next breath. Strange lights bloomed and died amidst the darkness like stars in the night sky, or perhaps more accurately, as if the winds had been given shape and color.

Pay no heed to what may happen tonight, tomorrow.

Jaime recalled Ser Arthur's words, trying to quiet the quickening thumping of his own heart. Another piece of wisdom from Geralt. If one could not shut themselves off from the strangeness, they should find comfort or strength to bear the trails of the hour. Whether words, prayers, or even doggerel, it mattered not so long as it kept them focused.

We are the company of Harrenhal, and victory will be ours. It  will  be ours.

The words ran through his head a thousand times, drowning out the cracks of thunder traveling through the hall and the chilling Elder Speech behind him. It eased the tightness in his chest, making the strange sights around them less frightening. The sound of footfalls signified Geralt was on the move, the dragon skull finally exposed. Jaime tightened his grip on his sword, body tense and ready to fight. The hall itself seemed to do the same, the strange sights quickening and strengthening.

Come, then. The pride of House Lannister is ready.

"Cáemm... dhu bhrenin... Harren!"

The flash came so swiftly, with such overwhelming, searing brightness, Jaime could not help but flinch. He tried in vain to shield his already burning eyes but blackness littered with white spots consumed his sight, and for an uncomfortable time, refused to abate. It took no small measure of restraint for Jaime to hold back the panicked, childish fright building in his throat.

It mattered not, for when his sight returned, the cry died at once.

No matter where he looked, a raging inferno unlike any he had ever seen before roared through the vast hall of Harrenhal. Some flames were fit only for candles while others grew to such towering heights the hall's pillars seemed insignificant. With the light from the flames, he could even see the ceiling for the first time. Only the circles, the no man's land around them, and from the weirwood beam and rafters and the godswood trail, were spared.

Like waves, they shifted and weaved in, out, and around one another. Orange, red, blue, and even purple were but a few of their ever-changing colors. Pitch black plumes of smoke rose from them, dwarfing the pillars and seeping through the countless cracks running along the ceiling.

We should be choking to death, Jaime thought with no small measure of growing fear and bewilderment. We should be cooking in our armors. There's not even any bloody heat in the air-

"Gods, it burns!"

"Kill me!"

"Make it stop!"

Voices.

Strange, broken, and frightened but voices, all the same, shouted from the fires. Nay, they were the fires. Grimly horrified, Jaime stared as their deathly choir of misery grew louder, transforming mere flames into the shapes of agonized men, women, and children. The ghosts of the Conqueror's wrath. No matter where he turned, they were there, calling out to him, to anyone there for help, to save them from something centuries past.

I can't help you. None of us can! He wanted to scream at them, fear and indignation almost but not quite bursting forth. Why are we even here? Madness, all of this is madness-

"Jaime."

An unmistakable voice cut through the haze clouding his mind, easing the suffocating tightness in his chest at once.

Allowing himself to breathe, Jaime looked away from the fire, northward toward where Geralt stood. The witcher did not turn to look at him but kept his gaze ahead, right hand gripping the silver elf blade and the other hooking the dragon's skull onto the side of his belt.

Otherwise, he stood still, as if he were lazy or overconfident. It could not be further from the truth. Jaime had witnessed this before, a stance relaxed in appearance only, masking the intent and capacity to spring in for a killing blow. Like the biting strike of a viper given human form.

It was a terrifying skill to behold once the deadliness of its simplicity became clear. Most times, Jaime found it unnerving, but not then. Seeing Geralt stand amidst this chaos as if it were nothing at all was baffling...and reassuring.

"The rest of you, you're right to be frightened by this. Any normal person would be."

Turning to gaze at the others, Jaime was astounded to see even the knights of the Kingsguard staring at Geralt as well. It floundered the momentary comfort he'd just found. "But if you want this madness to stop, then you must focus. Remember what Arthur said before we began."

"We are the company of Harrenhal, and victory will be ours. It will be ours."

Jaime blinked, wondering whose voice it was until he realized it was his own.

"Yes," Geralt replied. "And if you can't find strength from one another, then find it from them."

He pointed his sword to the flames, where the moaning dead continued their pained cries.

"These people, trapped and miserable, have spent centuries here, never able to find even a shred of peace. They endlessly relive the last moments of their lives with no end in sight."

A cold fury entered Geralt's voice unlike any Jaime had heard before.

"All because one man couldn't yield, couldn't let go of his power. And he'll never stop, not unless we do something about it, here and now."

Jaime looked back to the shapes, their fiery forms moving to and between one another. Figures of women ran to children only to never reach them. Men raced in circles, vainly trying to escape the Black Dread's fires coming after them. Some even reached out towards their defensive position. Fiery arms shaking, waiting, begging for someone to pull them out.

"Help us!"

"Addam, where are you?! Son!"

"Get the women and children out! Quickly!"

The countless cries of the ghosts persisted through the hall for a while longer. Jaime watched and listened, his sword lowered. He did not know how long he stood this way, willingly subjecting himself to witnessing the torment of those who should've left this world behind, a familiar feeling of pity swelling in his chest. The kind Jaime most strongly felt whenever he lamented Tyrion's state and his own inability to fix his brother's ailment.

But I can help fix this...

Geralt had just said so and made it known thousands of times before. If they could be of no aid to him, the witcher wouldn't have minced words in making that clear. He wouldn't have trusted them to remain here, with him, amidst this storm of madness.

"Good," Geralt spoke again. "You've all calmed down, so now hold on to that focus. The guests of the hour are just arriving."

Geralt saw their approach on the circle's position long before the others did and hoped their renewed focus would withstand the sight of the wraiths. Some materialized inside the raging inferno, taking their time to arrive, their black and solid shapes unmistakable amongst the shifting waves of fire.

The others came closer to the no-man's-land separating the flames and outermost circles, appearing first as puddles of dense and pitch-black, oozing water through the cracks along the ground. From there, they clawed their way out like men climbing onto a boat, revealing the full grotesquery of their appearance for all to see. Charred and sickly green skin, dangling wet hair, sunken holes where their eyes should be, their weapons and armor so melted it seemed to fuse into their very flesh. Hilts and hands were indiscernible while chest cavities and chainmail were inexorably linked. Like the wraiths of his world, the seven gathered around them had no feet, just upper bodies hovering off the ground.

"Seven fucking hells..." Geralt heard Oswell mutter, the clanking of his and the other armors as they readied themselves. Pycelle, still in the very center, whispered a prayer to the Seven.

The witcher looked ahead, sensing his medallion shaking with even greater intensity. Suddenly, deep within the flames burning ahead of him, the largest of the solid shapes came to life from the spectral ooze, the crown atop his head unmistakable. A smaller followed just behind it. At once, the moans and cries of the dead fell suddenly and deafeningly silent. The shades parted as the wraiths drew near, what passed as their faces locked in expressions of barely contained horror. And for good reason.

Harren the Black stood a head taller than Geralt, his black armor, broad shoulders, and malevolent visage sparking memories of the Smiling Knight. Unlike his sons, the only steel conjoined to his flesh was the crown embedded around his skull. His mace was four feet long and his shield was akin to a black, metal door ripped off its hinges. Neither his arms nor his armament suffered the poor quality of his sons'.

His visage was no improvement of theirs, however. Harren's lipless face revealed rows of blackened or burst teeth. He had no nose or ears, with only faint shreds of melted flesh remaining around his cheeks and brow. The black gaze came from two milky white eyeballs impossibly floating in otherwise empty sockets. Their sight was transfixed on Geralt.

The witcher stared back without so much as a blink. It might have been intimidating if he wasn't giving their circle the widest berth out of all of them.

"A foreigner with cat eyes," Harren's voice rang from the ruined remains of his throat. Old, gravelly, and unpleasant enough to make Geralt's sound worthy of a bard's. It reverberated through the hall, sounding distant all the same, as though coming from the bottom of a well.

"A little lion cub, so far from his Rock," cackled one of the wraiths, still with Harren's voice, near Jaime. Geralt saw the momentary quiver of the Lannister's arm before the lad steeled himself.

"A Sword of the Morning," another of Harren's sons hissed, respect present in the wraith's voice nonetheless as it beheld the Dornish knight and his milk-pale greatsword.

"A winged rat!" the next laughed with scorn, its unearthly gaze fixed on Oswell.

"And a maester." The last of their group was mentioned with disinterest.

The undead speaking about the hall fell silent, neither daring nor caring enough to make a sound.

I doubt they'd be able to speak even if they wanted to, Geralt noted with a pang of pity for their plight, remembering Lady Whent's words of how they perished enthralled. Their very ability to desire anything beyond release from their suffering likely doesn't exist anymore.

"Truly," Harren spoke from his wraith form, the barest hint of mirth to his voice, "I cannot recall ever having the honor of entertaining such a group of... honored guests within my halls."

"Nor have we ever had the... the privilege of enjoying such a host's welcome," Geralt countered.

"Indeed?" Harren said with an approximation of laughter. "Oh, I do not believe that to be true. At least not for you, cat-eyes."

"I am Geralt, a witcher from Rivia."

"Oh, I know."

Harren inclined his head in greeting. "It is a pleasure to speak with you, at last, witcher from faraway lands. After so many weeks of listening to hushed whispers and faint dreams and nightmares. It is not often I find myself so... in the dark about one who prowls about my castle and lands."

Geralt heard the faintest of growls from Oswell about that last part.

"Yes," the wraith drawled on. "It is rarer still to encounter one who so obviously shares my fondness for the practices of magic. In mere hours, you realized the true nature of Harrenhal in ways none have dared or suspected to try."

"...hmm, guess there's no point in denying it. You were right before, Your Grace," Geralt admitted with a bow of his head. "This isn't the first time I've encountered a curse."

"Curse? A curse?!" Instead of indignation, Harren and the other wraiths all burst into bellowing fits of laughter, the voice reverberating through each of them in some macabre chorus. "This is no curse, master witcher, merely a king holding to what is rightfully his. That the fruits of his toils remain ever within the grasp of the one who planted the seeds."

"Your toils?" Arthur replied with shock and disgust, addressing the wraith facing him. "You sacrificed thousands of men, women, and children. Mercilessly ground the very life from them, tossing their remains into whatever pit was nearby. Even your own kin were naught but more bloody sacrifices."

"Such righteous indignation, O Sword of the Morning," the wraith answered back with another howl of merriment. "Yet, whom do you serve? What is the newest fancy of the Targaryens? Fathering children under my roof only to fuck them once they flowered? No, that was the fat one. Drinking wildfire? No, that one wasn't even a king, if I recall correctly. My apologies, after so many centuries of witnessing and listening to their stupidity, it all begins to blur."

"Their failings and atrocities do not absolve you of yours," Arthur answered, steel in his voice.

"Why then am I the only king threatened by you? Or, do you merely mean to make me the first of horrible rulers to face justice?"

The wraith would've smiled had it a jaw or muscles left. "From Kingsguard to Kingslayer, quite a tale for the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Would you still be worthy of bearing that famed sword of your family?"

"Is prattling on all you can do?" Oswell spoke with the force of a bear's shout. "Mayhaps it is when you're too afeared of mere dirt to approach us."

"A wonderful jest from the vermin cowering behind it. Not that I expected much from the little Whent who pissed himself at night-"

"If you're trying to provoke us into a fight, you'll have to do better than that," Geralt said, forestalling any more interruptions from the others. There was no point to this, for Harren's love for the sound of his own voice would give them all the openings they needed. "I, however, get the sense there's more to this conversation than that. Am I right, Your Grace?"

"Very true, master witcher," Harren replied with such admiration that it made bile rise in Geralt's throat.

He smiled politely instead. "If we're going to discuss business, Your Grace, I'm not doing it with a dry throat."

"By all means, Rivian. I would do the same if I had any use for such things anymore."

Putting his sword down mere inches from his right foot, Geralt reached into a pouch at the center of his bandolier, taking out the Blizzard bottle.

"Geralt!" Oswell shouted with apparent indignation. It was worthy of the best mummers' performance. "You cannot mean to listen to anything he... It has to-"

"As I told you all before," the witcher said, uncorking the bottle and deciding to play along with the Kingsguard's improvisation, "if we can sort this out without a single sword swing, I'll consider it."

"I'm most glad to hear this, witcher. You cannot imagine how refreshing it is to converse with a sensible man."

Geralt smirked, bottle mere inches from his lips. "You'd be surprised."

The potion, expectedly, overwhelmed him with a few moments of dizziness he didn't allow to show. It would only take a short time for it to begin working, and they'd just made sure Harren gave them more than enough of it.

"Now then, what is this offer you mentioned?"

"It is quite simple, Geralt of Rivia. I desire your knowledge of magic, all of it." Harren's son floated closer to the circle, staying to his father's left, the side he favored his mace. "In all the centuries I have ruled over this place, never has my will achieved such manifestation..."

The wraith took a moment to inspect its form while his nearest thrall watched for an attack.

"You will tell me what else you can do and the means to accomplish it. With such knowledge and this new form?" He looked back to Geralt, fingers curling about the mace. "All those unwanted will stay away, and those who wish to take from me what is mine will perish. No one will so much as set foot in this place and return alive after you.."

"Gods be good..." Pycelle whispered, his teeth chattering.

"After us?" Geralt said, feeling the beating of his heart slow down more with each passing moment. Just a minute or two longer.

"You will be the last to leave this place, witcher, you and all of your company. You've already done me many services by removing most of the unwanted scum from the castle and bringing all of this forth."

The last Hoare gestured across the fiery hall, his momentary fury replaced by elation. "I will even spare you all from the influence of my will, a honor I've not bestowed upon anyone else in all these centuries."

"With negotiation skills like that, it's no wonder Aegon Targaryen burned you to ashes," Geralt said, his voice thick with contempt.

Harren fell silent at once and, in turn, so did the rest of the hall. The flames dancing about them slowed down in Geralt's eyes, the tiniest flickers of them almost hanging frozen in the air.

Just a bit longer.

"... You dare, witcher?" Harren broke the silence, his featureless white gaze reflecting the fires. "You dare stand in my hall and speak such-"

"I just did, and I'm not finished, not even close. As I told you before, this isn't the first time I've dealt with a curse, and while you are a formidable one, you aren't even close to the most dangerous being I've had the pleasure of banishing," Geralt put as much derision into his voice as possible, even as the company knew he was lying through his teeth. "

I've seen the bounds of reason and beyond, Harren. I've witnessed the limits of what's possible pushed time and again." Geralt's voice grew colder than his companions had ever heard it. "My very presence here is proof of that. If you think empty threats from a dead reaver of a line long bereft of name, lordship, and kingship will cow me, you're far more stupid and arrogant than I ever dared to imagine."

There was no hush that time. A hearty laugh from Oswell saw to that. The wraith king merely stood in place, silent like all the other spirits until their Kingsguard companion could laugh no more. It lasted a long while.

"...I am arrogant...?" Harren eventually said, his voice disquieting in how low and icy it was. "A stupid reaver...?!"

The shades moaned again in full agonized force, their fiery forms recoiling further still from Harren whilst his wraith kin hovered closer to the circle. Right where the companions wanted them to go.

"You think my threats empty, merely hollow? When you feel preyed upon, stalked and watched in every waking and sleeping moment, it is my gaze set eternally upon you."

He next spoke from all wraiths. "When every joy you should feel rings hollow and all your fears and worries more insurmountable, it is my voice breaking down the walls of your very sanity!"

His mace struck the ground, cracking the stone with the sound of a battering ram, daring to hover closer. "When your children are born stunted and dead, it is my fist that breaks their bones and chokes the very life from them-"

Geralt had heard enough, and the Blizzard was at its full strength. The time was right. With a swiftness further bolstered by the potion, the witcher removed the crossbow dangling from his belt and loosed bolts on both of the wraiths closest to him in a single, seamless motion.

Harren, already moving to strike the floor again, snarled and positioned the shield just in time for it to absorb the bolt with an ear-piercing shriek of silver meeting steel. For a moment, the spirit seemed frozen in place, no doubt surprised by the fact something managed to touch him. In the next moment, the wraiths snarled and halted when Geralt's second bolt lodged itself into one of their throats. The wraith shook from the silver and oil cutting into its suddenly corporeal form, its visage vibrating, flickering in and out of existence itself.

The witcher kicked his seemingly discarded sword into the air, snatching it, and bent his body into a pirouette mid-leap. By the time the wraith recovered from the shock to even begun to counter-attack, he'd already closed the distance. The grating noise of blade carving through failing armor echoed through the hall like a woman's shriek, Geralt's silver blade slicing down from the wraith's skull and through its shoulder, shield arm, and lower body.

By the time Harren moved to strike, his thrall already began to disintegrate into a crumbling mess of bone, metal, and black ooze, a dying howl the last noise it ever made in this world. The wail of the remaining Hoares overcame the shade's moans and cries, their pain apparent from the simple recoil visible on Harren himself. The king wraith halted at once, convulsing and struggling to move.

"Now!" the witcher shouted, moving in for the kill. "Attack now!"

The others were all too eager to oblige.

"Our Hour Will Come!" Oswell Whent roared the words of his house from the circle's west end, descending upon the nearest convulsing wraiths like the bats on his family's banners. His sword cut into the shoulder of one monster while his shield bashed the other away with the force of a war hammer.

Though he did not voice it, only the faintest bit of worry had plagued Oswell, that Geralt and his oils would fail them somehow and that their swords would be of no avail He was not so great a man that he denied himself the satisfaction of knowing it was not so. The fate that had befallen the other families that had held Harrenhall since the Conquest would not happen to his, he had sworn, and so he took great pleasure in rending those that threatened House Whent.

To the south, Arthur Dayne shouted no cries of war, no boasts of strength and valor. He fought as if he were his own sword, silent, deadly, and inevitable.

The Sword of the Morning struck out at his enemies with a swiftness matched by only one another far away and surpassed by the witcher himself. Dawn had begun to emit a faint glow since the wraiths had appeared, a light no less strange than all the others around them but a thousandfold less frightening. Well...to him, at least.

When the greatsword cut across them, the wraiths shrieked and recoiled, their stupor ended by overwhelming pain. Their shields were marred with a burning scar that never cooled and their unliving flesh bubbled with scalding heat from where Dawn had cut through.

Jaime stepped forward from his place in the circle and thrust with a swiftness nearly unrivaled, seemingly fearless. The wraith merely howled as the blade cut into the black void of its eye socket and began swinging its ax at him even with the sword still embedded. Another rushed at him with a spear.

They never touched him. Jaime's countless hours of practice with Geralt and the others saw to that when his body leaped with a dancer's grace out of harm's way, leaving the wraiths to strike at nothing. Jaime even dared to smile ere returning to the fray.

Pycelle witnessed all of this and more from the central circle, clutching his bottles of godswood soil tightly, the words of the Elder Tongue now scattered and mumbled in his shaking mouth. No matter where he looked, the living fought the undead. No matter how he tried to block out the sounds, the whistling of blades and shouts of men plagued him. Neither Ser Oswell's loud shouts proclaiming strength and valor nor Geralt's righteous indignation lifted his spirits. All the maester could do was bear witness in fear and hope that they could succeed.

"You've made a grave mistake, witcher!" Harren sneered, the swing of his mace another blur of motion against the backdrop of fire surrounding the circle and no-man's-land. "You should have given me what I wanted!"

Not even if you could get me back home.

Geralt leaped to the left, feeling the ground quiver upon the mace crashing into it, forming cracks in all directions. The witcher's body bent and snapped forward, intending to stab the wraith through the upper arm only for Harren's shield to once again intercept the blow. For every opportunity he saw to deliver more than a glancing strike, the last Hoare quickly shifted to being on the defense, forestalling any such attempts. The fact he had no legs to hinder his repositioning abilities made it only more troublesome.

"I will enjoy breaking you, tearing away every secret you hold until you beg me for death's embrace!" Harren snarled. "No one denies me and lives."

"No? Then I suppose Aegon Targaryen's overgrown pet lizard was only a figment of imagination and you burned to death by your own hand."

Just as expected, Harren's remorseless assault paused for the briefest of moments, shock, wonder, and pure rage clouding his good sense. Geralt wasn't about to let it go to waste. The witcher's free hand took hold of two godswood bottles secured within the bandolier while he charged forward, feigning another sword blow. By the time the Hoare realized returned to his senses and swing again, Geralt already bent his body for a pirouette, tossing the bottles at the shield mid-spin. The glass shattered, their contents spilling across its length.

The barely dented monstrosity warped and melted away, like acid eating through metal. Some stray clods even managed to hit Harren himself, and his roar was an assault on the senses. Even Geralt's balance couldn't withstand the sudden and overwhelming ground quake shaking through the entire hall, likely the whole castle. He fell, feeling pebbles and rocks fall from the ceiling onto and around him. He could hear cracks appearing along the length of nearby pillars and the floor.

It might have saved him, however. The wraith king didn't so much discard the melting shield as throwing it at Geralt like a spear. The massive hunk of metal whirled past mere inches from his ear, crashing and dissolving into nothing somewhere amongst the shades. He sprang back to his feet quickly, knowing their kind was capable of restoring their weaponry if lost or destroyed.

I have to cut him down now, anything less, and he could end up bringing the whole damn castle down on top of us-

"Thrice-damned whoreson!" Harren roared, and the castle shook again. Geralt was ready this time, not losing balance or much momentum. The wraith king swung his mace with even greater force, striking the ground and sending dozens of rocks the size of Geralt's head at him.

The witcher rolled out of the way and responded by throwing a pair of silver daggers of his own. Harren, overtaken by fury, made no effort to stop or evade them. One grazed the Hoare's cheek and another embedded itself into his right shoulder pad. Geralt leaped away from the next mace strike and focused on evasion. The Hoare swung with the ferocity afforded by only those who could not tire, each attack meant to brutalize and break.

Feigning fright, the witcher avoided each blow with side-steps, short leaps, and pirouettes, letting Harren's battle frenzy reach its zenith. The plan carried risks beyond simple bludgeoning to death, taking him dangerously close from the circles to the northern edge of the no man's land. On more than one occasion, he felt the whip of the wind from each swing that came, the brushing of spikes on the very edges of his armor.

It was all worth it, however, when Harren struck the weirwood support beams.

An overhead swing of his mace capable of decapitating a horse broke instantaneously on contact with the weirwood, splintering into dozens of tiny pieces. Barely over half of the weapon remained, and its dumbfounded owner was ripe for a killing blow. Switching to the Temerian Devil, Geralt leaped, letting the momentum carry the force of his one-handed strike. With a satisfying screech, his sword carved a thick cut running from the back of Harren's neck to the base of his spine.

The wraith shrieked and turned, swinging the remnants of its mace in a futile counterblow. Before he even threw it, Geralt had already moved back, taken his sword in both hands, and unleashing a roar of his own, jumped high into the air and put the full force of his entire body and the momentum of the fall once again into the cut. Just as with the Smiling Knight, the blade rent Harren almost in half, his left arm and torso dangling as ethereal lights and pure power seeped out of him.

Too much power.

Before Geralt could destroy him utterly, the build-up of raw magical energy forced his hand. Crossing his arms, the witcher cast the Heliotrop Sign in the last possible moment before the discharge sent him hurtling through the air to the eastern side of the no man's land. The whole hall spun wildly, a numbness left his limbs feeling useless, and the stone pillar his back suddenly met knocked the air out of him.

"Geralt!" he dimly heard Oswell call out and then even the Whent's voice faltered next to the moans and shrieks of the undead, and both falling to insignificance once the companions noticed the whole bloody castle was shaking once more.

Five feet away, a chunk of the roof fell, large enough to crush a man whole. The ground rent open to the south of the outermost circles, but none of this worried him more than what Harren did next.

Instead of vanishing from his already crumbling form or retreating, the Hoare unleashed a shout worthy of a dragon. It wasn't a death cry or one of mere fury, but a call to return.

"Geralt!" Ere he could leave the circles to strike out against his foes again, Ser Oswell's shout halted Jaime. Knowing they could not attack him, the Lannister dared to look for Geralt northward only to find the glowing form of Harren the Black shrieking, his weapons gone and arm dangling at a strange angle. The cry was deafening, the ground quake so powerful Jaime's full attention was spent for a moment on simply keeping his balance.

Ahead, he saw a stone pillar crack and burst like glass. A wall half his size fell frighteningly close, and Grand Maester Pycelle cursed the whole bloody thing to the seven fucking hells. What happened to the wraiths, however, was what caught the brunt of his attention next.

The spear wielder suddenly and quickly retreated, running back into the fires, and the one carrying the ax... changed. A blinding glow came from it as its shape changed from a hovering corpse into pure light. The unnatural shape shrieked in a voice not entirely Harren's before it and another flew across the no man's land into Harren himself. At once, his mace and shield returned as if they had never been destroyed and his body, such as it was, had been restored.

"You've failed, witcher!" Harren taunted for all to hear. "Now, this hall will be your tomb!"

"Jaime! Pycelle!" At once, he snapped to where Ser Arthur called and watched the great knight rush to the cowering maester just as the ground behind him began to split open like the maw of a great monster. Jaime ran to the heart of the circles as well and watched with no shortage of awe and wonder as Ser Arthur grabbed Pycelle with one arm and all but threw him into Jaime's arms.

"Go! Get out of here-!"

"Ser Arthur!"

The Sword of the Morning reacted in the last possible moment, bending his knees and leaping away just as the floor crumbled beneath his feet. Ser Oswell, left his post as well, using his shield to protect him from falling stones and grab Ser Arthur by the arm to safety. Jaime pushed Pycelle back as the widening gap encroached on them, revealing a chasm of pure darkness right underneath, sending large portions of their protective circle plummeting into it.

"Damn it all to seven hells! I told you to go, Jaime!" Arthur shouted from the other side. "Get to the godswood before it's too late!"

"Arthur! Oswell!" Geralt's pained shout came from afar, his shape but a vague shadow amidst fiery shades and debris. "Move, now, before the trail gets cut off!"

Whatever protest Jaime wished to voice died on his lips when a pillar suddenly snapped and threatened to fall and crush him and the maester both

"Move!" he shouted at the old man and pushed them both out of harm's way. The pillar sunk more of the ground, forcing Jaime to run faster, one arm around Pycelle's shoulder whilst the other kept his sword ready to swing. Following the intact godswood trail, they neared the west exit from the hall, avoiding falling stones and keeping watch on the shades about them as they ran.

Jaime dared to look back only once, seeing a white shape run in the opposite direction and growing smaller with every breath. To Kingspyre tower, where the danger was a hundredfold worse, where that undead bastard would try to kill some of the men he respected most in this world.

Not bloody likely, you will. The Lannister promised, pushing on to the godswood where he and his sole remaining companion would find some respite and a way to help end this madness. And he already had someone, or rather, something at their destination in mind.

Chapter Text

"Why won't it end?!"

"The gods have forsaken us!"

"It's burning everywhere... my mouth, my eyes..."

The countless cries, moans, and wails of the damned accompanied Jaime and Pycelle whilst they traversed the fiery hallways of Harrenhal. Inside the endless rooms and adjacent halls they passed by, the dead roamed and despaired. Some only stood in place, writhing in pain. Others went about whatever they did before fire destroyed their bodies and a curse trapped their souls.

The air was hot, but surprisingly enough, not stifling. The brunt of the heat and smoke was repelled by the weirwood presence on their path. Cracks along the ground and walls lessened the further they drew away from the main hall. Debris that would have caved their skulls in shrank to pebbles the size of Tyrion's littlest fingers.

Other paths less protected were not so fortunate. Where there were rooms not a few hours before, now remained only piles of fallen stone or frightening chasms leading to pits of fire and shadows. Places best avoided and not spared a single thought.

Just keep moving, Jaime repeated to himself for the hundredth time, one arm wrapped around Pycelle's back and the other still wielding his silver sword. His hand ready to attack whatever wraith waylaid them. And yet they haven't, they won't. We're halfway to the woods. It's the others Harren is after...

The poisonous notion brought dread to Jaime's heart. The witcher with secrets the Black yearned for, some of the finest knights in the realm, all now under direct threat from the vicious shade. A fleeing squire and maester are beneath his notice. Jaime quickened his step, fear and fury alike pressing him onward. A choice he'll regret if I have my way.

"My l-lord Jaime," Pycelle said, his voice nearly drowned out by the dead. "I-I do not think I can keep-"

"Just a while longer, Grand Maester."

They turned a corner, passing by a room where the sounds of pleasure and love transformed into wails of horror and misery and back again. Long-dead lovers caught in a repeating cycle since the day Balerion's flames washed over the castle more than two hundred years ago. "We're nearly... we're nearly there."

After what seemed an eternity, the trees indeed came into sight. Pycelle sighed with relief, and Jaime couldn't well begrudge him that, at least. At once, the heat vanished at the edge of the godswood. The moans of the dead and their very presence banished back into the hallways they'd left behind. The forest remaining secure despite all the madness was enough to loosen the tightness in Jaime's chest.

Finally... He let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes staring into the depths of the ancient woods. Never thought the sight of damned trees would be so comforting.

"Gods be good..." The Grand Maester's words at once put him on edge, his body tensing in anticipation of an attack or some disaster. Indeed there was one- above them.

Following Pycelle's gaze, Jaime looked to the heavens and found only hell. Streaks of blood-red fire burned along the length of walls and spires. Plumes of black and red-tinted smoke rose and bent, swaying like gargantuan shades, rising above even the tallest towers. They devoured the night sky, blotting out moon and stars alike, their unnatural spill stretching out beyond the borders of the castle. Lightning and thunder flashed and roared amongst the clouds. What appeared as snow was in truth ash and soot. They watched it all fall then vanish before their eyes whenever a flake dared to approach the trees themselves.

"Such a sight," Pycelle said after a moment's silence. "It must be visible for miles, perhaps even as far as King's Landing."

"Aye, " Jaime's grip tightened around the pommel as fear did the same to his heart. And now the others march to the heart of the madness, where that bastard Harren is strongest...

With a sense of purpose and urgency only strengthened by what existed above the castle, Jaime walked into the forest proper. The Grand Maester followed a step or two behind. The woods seemed their usual quiet self for a short time. He feared the horses had run off, spooked by all the bending of nature around them. To his eventual relief, the noble beasts were where they'd left them hours ago, tied to a tree and one another. They chewed on the nearby grass, snorting softly as though nothing at all was amiss.

No doubt the forest and godswood filling their saddlebags saw to that. Jaime approached them, running a hand across the strong necks. Lord Whent had personally chosen some of his youngest, strongest, and most fearless mares for the task of getting them away from the castle. Now, let's hope they don't throw us on our arses when we ride back into the castle.

"Come, Grand Maester," Jaime said, reaching out to the older man, offering a disarming smile that seemed to please most people. "We've much to do and little time."

"Ah, yes, thank you, my lord," The Grand Maester returned the smile, climbing onto the saddle with some effort. Jaime heard more than one bone creak in the sudden eerie silence of their surroundings. "Have no fear, I will not slow us down."

"It gladdens my heart to hear so," Jaime removed the rope holding his mare to the tree, lifting himself effortlessly into the saddle. "The sooner we get to the weirwood, the sooner we can speak with it and help the others."

"Speak to the-" The sudden spurring of the mare forward into the forest cut him momentarily off. "Master Geralt told us to leave, my lord, not to disturb the weirwoods!"

"We won't disturb it, Grand Maester," Jaime replied, holding back the anger threatening to escape at the situation and Pycelle's fear. For in truth, that was immensely unfair to the old man. He had stood his ground and spoken the spells against Harren despite his fear where lesser and younger men would have long since fled. "Contrary to what my father and sister might tell you, I am more than capable of listening."

Geralt and Pycelle had explained it a dozen times during their stay: they were not to disturb the weirwoods. Ever. Not to cut them for weapons or to make armor or move them from any place they'd spent the past near three hundred years. They were connected, an unfathomably ancient web intricately and purposefully made, and disturbing it was deemed most unwise.

Geralt feared the castle itself would become unstable once they took the fight to Harren, that his power had festered too long and sunk too deeply into the very stone, not unlike a disease contaminating the flesh. What remained of the paths lacking any weirwood presence were proof enough of that. No, disturbing the trees and risking any weakening of the weirwoods' power against the undead was deemed unwise.

"We will talk to it, Grand Maester," Jaime said to Pycelle, with a desperate hope it would come true. "To the crow or raven or whatever sort creature dwells in the midst and watches from afar. We will tell it the situation has grown worse, and we need aid if we are to end the curse once and for all. It wished to speak to Geralt of other matters, did it not? Fine, let it support us now, one more time, and we'll do whatever else it wishes of us later."

"T-The First Men spoke to the weirwoods, this is true, to swear oaths or to watch over marriage ceremonies..." Pycelle said slowly. "But my lord, it was the Blackwood blood tying together Houses Whent and Hoare that allowed the tree to answer back."

"I'm aware of that, and the tree need not give me nightmares," he replied. The gods know I'll suffer plenty of those if I live to see the end of this.

"You forget, Grand Maester, House Lannister descends from the First Men as well, and there as many tales of our past as there are of the Blackwoods. The tree has a face, it weeps sap, and it knows when someone is addressing it. I need only a sign, permission to remove a single branch, any part of it to use as a weapon against Harren. Seven hells, I'd settle for a single fucking acorn to throw!"

"And what if a simple request is not enough?!" Pycelle's voice rose with desperation and the first hint of genuine anger Jaime had ever heard from him. "The First Men made blood offerings to the weirwoods! Their innards split open and hanged from branches for all to see! To punish the wicked and to curry favor with the old gods! What if all your words fall on deaf ears?! What if you are only giving yourself false hope-"

"Then I will have done something!" The long-simmering anger burst forth in a sudden roar. Something about the way he'd been addressed broke all restraint. Jaime's voice carried through the otherwise empty and silent woods. Pycelle, wisely and immediately, shut his mouth.

"I will know I tried all that I could to save some of the finest men I've had the honor of fighting alongside. It is preferable to nothing or to cowering like the worst of cravens. Is that good enough cause to try, Grand Maester?!"

Jaime spat the title out, turning his mare to the side, allowing him to look the old man in the eye, to remind him who was in command between them. It was a look he had seen countless times before, whenever Father brought men ten times braver than Pycelle to their knees. Eyes wide, mouth stupidly agape, sweat the size of pebbles falling down their faces.

Cersei enjoyed cowing people this way, and Jaime long suspected Father did too. And to his secret shame, so did he.

It was a look he'd gotten out of Merrett Frey when the oaf had made the mistake of trying to bully him. An expression the other young boys had during Frey's reign of terror at Crakehall. At the moment, his patience long gone, Pycelle reminded him greatly of those lads, a frightened boy in an old and weathered body.

And far less used to fighting than we were even back then. The fires of Jaime's fury shrank to ashes, doused by a sudden wave of pity and shame. His eyes could not meet the maester's, much less continue to deliver a baleful glare. To the hells with this, there is work to be done. Apologies can come later. He spurred the horse forward into the depths of the forest, ignoring Pycelle's yelp.

They rushed past the trees as quickly as the wild forest path allowed. It was dark as usual, for even the light of spectral fires could not penetrate the thick leaves. Save for the trampling of horse hooves and their soft breaths, Harrenhal's godswood was as silent as a grave.

Soon enough, however, they reached Jaime's intended destination, the clearing where no other trees grew or resided. A place reserved for one unlike all the others. Its blood-red leaves captured the glow of the fires, the red deepening every other moment like the rhythmic beating of a heart against the bone-white bark. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

"Make sure the horses don't wander off," Jaime instructed Pycelle, climbing down from the saddle. The Grand Maester made no objections. Good, if he will not aid me then let him remain silent. With a purposeful stride toward the tree, he entered the clearing proper, closing the distance between them in short order. Ten feet separated man and source of power. The latter's murderous gaze from narrow, bloody sap flowing eyes stared back at him, as welcoming as ever. Go on boy, he could imagine its disdainful taunt from those curled lips. Go on, if you dare.

And Jaime could never refuse a dare.

"Old gods of the streams, of the stones, and of the forests." He held the sword as if to stab the earth, leaning the tip against the grass as he knelt. His head was bowed low and each spoken word held the utmost of deference, as though Jaime was addressing a king. Perhaps one even greater.

"I am Jaime, firstborn son of Tywin, lord of House Lannister and Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King. You know my purpose here, you had foreseen and foretold it to Lady Whent years ago and I am here to tell you I fear we will not succeed.

"Harren has torn the main hall and much of the castle asunder and we were forced to separate. Geralt, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell… they head to Kingspyre tower where the wraiths await them, stronger than ever. They've no weirwood or godswood circles for aid. Not unless I bring it to them."

His fingers tightened around the pommel. "That's why I'm here. I ask for permission to remove only a single branch. One last wound inflicted upon your prized heart trees so that we may banish the one who means to inflict more evil upon this world. Help us now, and you will… you will..."

The words he'd prepared were there, and all the same, Jaime fought to speak them. One cannot lie in the presence of the old gods. He knew the saying, they'd all just about bludgeoned it into his skull. He had no intention of lying to the tree, matters were too grave for something so foolish.

Why then do I hesitate? No… I know why oaths carry weight. What does a knight do if his family and the king come into conflict, and he must choose? Those were Geralt's words on the eve of their first, proper lesson. The responsibilities of a single oath or vow, the inevitability of hypocrisy and conflict against others, and most terribly, one's own self.

Now, I'm pledging my service to this… The expression held a different meaning altogether when Jaime dared to return its gaze again. A sudden chill ran down the length of his spine, his breath caught in his throat. It's watching me now. The chill returned, a thousandfold stronger. He felt naked, intimately scrutinized in a way only his mother ever once achieved.

Go on boy, Jaime imagined the voice jeer again. Speak the words or begone.

"Your messenger spoke of other matters, the kind you need someone like Geralt for," he spoke once more, trying to sound resolute. "Lend me your aid now, and I will see to them as well. I will see them through to the end, even if all others refuse to."

He placed the length of the blade on both hands and held it out to the heart tree, bowing his head once more. "You will have my sword, until all matters are settled and my service is no longer required. This, I swear to you, old gods, on my honor as a Lannister!"

"... I too wish to offer something."

Jaime's eyes snapped open and turned his head left to find Pycelle a few paces behind him. The old man stood upright, appearing stalwart even as his exposed hands quivered. Jaime watched him take a handful of furtive steps forward and kneel down, bowing low enough for his brow to touch the grass.

"Gods of the First Men and the Children, I am Pycelle, Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I have served three kings of the blood of Valyria and in the midst of this catastrophe, I seek your aid."

"What are you doing?" Jaime blurted. "Why are you-"

"You were right, my lord," Pycelle rose from his bow, settling his palms against his bent knees. He never looked away from the heart tree. "Whilst I… cowered in the godswood circles, I witnessed Harren the Black's weapon shatter against a weirwood beam like glass. A single branch could end this madness in an instant. If this is the only way to acquire it without angering the old gods, then I say again: I offer my service until all your troubles are no more!"

Pycelle's voice cracked like a boy's, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the fabric of his robes, and his face shone with his tears as he spoke.

"I do not have either strength of arm or knowledge of the sword to stand as a champion, but I will offer what I have nonetheless so greater and braver men may live. My sins are legion - I have laid with women against my vows and many were old enough to call me 'grandfather', I have worked against the one I am oathbound to serve, and I have played the game of thrones against my duties. But I will repent, nameless lords of wood, stone, and stream. For your aid in this desperate hour, I offer you my service until the day it is needed no more."

Jaime could do nothing but stare in stunned disbelief as if this moment were stranger than all else he had seen this past night. In many ways, perhaps it was.

But even as he did so, the gods answered.

The heart tree was changed. The bleeding sap had run out, the scowl about its eyes had vanished, and the yawning chasm of its snarling mouth was sealed shut. Where once was an expression of pure disdain, now was a face of calm consideration and wisdom.

A snapping sound from above caught their attention, and then another. From the mess of tangled branches and red leaves, two shapes fell, rolling across the ground until it hit their knees.

Branches… Jaime would've gasped if his voice hadn't failed him. One for each of them. Nearly the length of his silver sword and cut so neatly at the end Dawn itself couldn't have done it better. Along each long branch jutted out seven smaller ones.

"Those potions are terribly dangerous. They'll eventually kill you." Yennefer had told him that more times than they were stars in the sky. All Geralt could ever say on the matter was emphasize their necessity before a fight. Witchers could only match a fraction of a true mage's full destructive potential.

Unless one drank a Petri's Philter, then it became just a bit more.

The potion was a product of numerous failed experiments intended to permanently strengthen magical power. Failed for not achieving this end and for being poisonous enough to kill any non-mutants. Not that witchers had an easy time drinking it down either.

The philter tasted like shit-stained sewer water vomited into one's mouth through a necrophage. Unfortunately, that wasn't hyperbole, but humiliatingly painful experience speaking.

It took considerable willpower for Geralt not to retch. All his feelings of disgust and unease were released through a single, long-suffering breath. This was a dangerous game he played. Though the initial Blizzard had worn off on their run to Kingspyre, it hadn't left his system entirely. Adding a Petri's and second Blizzard elixir wasn't exactly the wisest of choices, but given the circumstances, there was little else to do.

Thus he sat there, meditating, controlling his breathing, and by extension, his metabolism to properly work the potion through his system. The two Kingsguard standing nearby observed the emptied room. Once they were quarters of some kind for visiting guests to Harrenhal but now were left almost bare save for the godswood circles they'd planted in it beforehand. A second and last place for them all to catch their breaths before heading up to the higher levels of the tower where the wraiths awaited.

Harren and his remaining servants didn't waylay them on the path there. A fact his remaining companions didn't draw much comfort from.

"He's nowhere to be seen," Oswell spat. "Too afraid to face us anywhere else, I say."

"Were we in his position, we'd do the same," Arthur replied. "Geralt, what do you make of that… ability of his, devouring his own sons. You made no mention of such a power in all your stories."

"...I've never seen one wraith consume others before, not even specters so strongly linked by a curse," he admitted with reluctance, knowing it did nothing to lift their spirits. He couldn't recall such an instance himself, from any other witcher he personally knew, or in the countless monster tomes. "It could be from any number of things: a property of the weirwood power they held in their blood, the circumstances they perished from in the presence of it, or even... something the wraiths of this world are uniquely capable of. "

"Then let us hope that's the only surprise they have for us," Arthur concluded grimly. "No matter the why or how, they must be swept off the board no matter what. Leave them to us, Geralt."

"Aye, the curs will know such fury they'll wish Harren let himself fall to your blade already," Oswell said with a bloodthirsty grin.

If only it were that easy. A thousand things could still go wrong and we're two men short… Geralt lamented in his motionless meditation, his breathing quickening and gradually slowing down. Jaime and Pycelle were just as likely out of the castle and already safe as they were to be dead for all he knew. They could be buried under stone or fallen into whatever black chasm opened beneath their feet or cut to pieces by Harren to dishearten and provoke his pursuers.

He'd rather drink ten thousand Petri's rather than live to see any one of those possibilities come true.

Now's not the time for this. Geralt slowly stood up, his breathing almost entirely halted. The ones I can help are right here, time to focus.

The fingers of his free hand swayed and bent gently in slow and deliberate motions. The power danced between them, a cauldron of different magical energies swirling throughout this singular room, nevermind the rest of Harrenhal. There was one he could only faintly sense thanks to their protection, a void of power several floors above where no weirwood presence or godswood circles existed.

"Seven hells…" Geralt heard Oswell mutter. The witcher opened his eyes to see an all too familiar fear on the faces of those he had come to call friends as they looked upon him in the aftermath of using the vile potions. Arthur said nothing but his face was so pale that it spoke volumes enough.

"I'm fine," The witcher assured them and meant it. The nausea and overwhelming weariness wouldn't overcome him for a while, even if Harren pushed him to his limits. The knights didn't bother responding. They just continued to stare, and for good reason.

He was hardly pleasant to look at on the best of days. Pronounced sickly black and green veins all across his exposed, suddenly chalk-white skin wouldn't have done his visage any favors. "Trust me, I've done this before."

"Aye so you've told us," Arthur replied quickly enough, with forced calmness. His complexion, however, was slower to recover.

Credit where it's due, they're taking it better than most others who've seen me like this. Geralt put the empty vial away, taking the second Blizzard from a bandolier pouch, eyeing the substance with distaste.

"Sod it," Oswell said in his usual forceful voice, sheathing his sword and removing the wineskin fastened around the belt. "Die tonight or live to see tomorrow, I'll have one last drink. May victory be ours and Harren be buggered in whatever hell is waiting for him!"

He raised the wineskin like a cup at a feast and drank two gulps, handing it to Arthur next. The Sword of Morning looked hesitant for a moment, not the lover of good drink like some of his sworn brothers. "Sod it," he echoed Oswell, raising the wineskin as well. "To victory and to buggering that undead son of a whore!"

Geralt smiled at the uncharacteristic swearing from the usually calm-mannered knight and returned the gesture with his Blizzard vial. "To victory!"

For once, the elixir didn't taste as foul as it usually did.

They abandoned the safety of the spare godswood circle soon after, beginning the final advance on Harren's trap-in-waiting. They kept a steady pace, not moving too quickly. The Blizzard still needed time to work through his already overtasked body and it wouldn't do for the enemy to catch them unawares. As Geralt expected, the wraiths made no attempt to attack.

All the same, simply arriving at the hall in question increased in difficulty with every step forward. The heat rose noticeably, becoming stifling. The air grew thick with an invisible and loathsome pressure pushing against their chests. Before they even reached the door of the last hall, Geralt heard the knights' breathing grow heavy. Were it not for the scant godswood soil they already carried on hand, he was certain the effects of the pure curse energy would've been manifold worse.

Methodically, like wolves passing through the territory of a bear, the three men entered the hall. They did so in a circular formation, their backs covered by one other.

The purest remaining source point of the curse visibly available for Harren appeared the same as the first night Geralt had inspected it. There were no shades wailing along the walls or screaming in perpetuity. Fires burned along the edges of the room or shone from the outside through cracks and holes, just enough to illuminate sizable swaths of the otherwise pitch dark hall.

The slithering sensation evolved. Now it was like coils of a massive sea beast were slowly being shoved into his head. Wriggling around and going through any opening, digging into the depths of the brain and skull. Despite the godswood soil they kept close, the disturbing feeling was overpowering.

"Gods… "

"This is…"

"An annoyance at most," Geralt cut them off, feeling the beginnings of the Blizzard affect his perceptions. "A futile strategy to grind us down. Is that the best you can do, Harren?"

"Certainly not, master witcher."

His voice was like an echo from the bottom of a well, carried through the hall, seemingly nowhere and everywhere. Geralt's medallion began to shake even more intensely. His free fingers bent imperceptibly, already gathering power for the Sign.

"I wish to inflict such pain on you in a more personal manner," Harren said. "Your provocations will turn to cries of pain and finally, you will beg me for mercy that will never come, just like your whore dragon queen does in the grasp of her mad husband…"

To Geralt's acute hearing, the knights' low growls and tightening steel fingers were as loud as shouts of outrage. All three were close to the center of the hall, and the Sign was almost ready.

"You will never leave this place," Harren continued to gloat. "Eternal servitude is the punishment for your defiance. I will tear every scrap of knowledge you possess on magic from the depths of your mind, your souls and flesh broken in ways I've had centuries of time to invent. And then, when I've taken all you can imagine, I will take even more." Harren's voice became amused, the medallion jerked with increasing frequency. "You three will become my next wraiths, new soldiers to replace those sacrificed, my thralls. You will, as all things in this castle are, become Harren!"

Geralt's left palm thrust toward the ground, the modified Yrden forming at his feet precious moments ere the air rippled with the wraith's power. Blinding flashes manifested around them in an instant, the largest ahead of the witcher. They changed shape, reverting to the skeletal and armored visages of the last sons of House Hoare, teleporting in to finish off their intruders as quickly as possible.

Sadly for them, they weren't as fast as the Yrden.

Harren's mace was poised to turn the witcher's head into pulp while his sons attacked the Kingsguard. The moment they struck, however, they were pushed back by a bolt of purple lightning. His howl of fury was like the finest of Dandelion's songs to Geralt's ears.

Just as they'd planned, the knights made use of the enemy's momentary surprise. They immediately positioned themselves between the Sign, using it as a fourth combatant of sorts to even the odds. The altered Yrden was focused on a single point, functioning with a mind of its own, attacking any monster foolish enough to enter its range. Most importantly, it ensured the enemy couldn't simply teleport to the men's blindspots without paying dearly for it.

Geralt rushed forward and then to the left, intending to cut off the mace-wielding left hand. Harren surprised him again. In spite of the Yrden, the great wraith recovered and persevered through the agony just as the Cat sword cut into his forearm. The witcher leaned into the slash, using the momentum to propel himself into a roll just before the massive shield could swat him across the room.

The instant his feet were back on the ground, Harren's mace came for him, again and again. Geralt ducked and sidestepped under and around each swing, retaliating with an Aard. The telekinetic blast rippled through the air, striking the mace mere inches away from Geralt's freehand. Harren spun, his balance broken and momentum entirely reversed.

Geralt pressed his advantage, tossing another vial of godswood soil to melt through the shield. Harren vanished in another flash of light, the vial harmlessly spilling soil across the ground. At once, the witcher stopped and waited, sword held high, his every muscle tense in preparation for an incoming strike. Harren returned and struck from behind and Geralt ducked and spun around, knocking aside the following strike only for Harren to disappear again.

Soon enough, both witcher and wraith entered a frenzied rhythm of blow and counterblow, slowly moving them away from the hall's other occupants. A deadly dance ensued between two beings simultaneously lesser and greater than mortal men. Where the only instruments were sword and steel, and the only music, their snarls and growls of fury.

At the hall's center, the Kingsguard knights were locked in battles of their own. Oswell stood his ground, letting his enemies' weapons crash against his shield like water against stone before his sword made them regret even trying it. Though he had yet to deliver a killing blow, Oswell smiled in the wraiths' faces regardless.

I see you, whoreson. He recognized the axe wielder, his tormentor from childhood with his melted tongue dangling out and long, black hair sticking wetly to his charred flesh as if he'd been doused by water mere moments before his death. Live or die this day, you'll trouble me no more, specter. I swear it.

He waited for them to come to him, the swordsman approaching first. Where Geralt was water, always moving, Oswell was earth - stolid and unmoving until the moment it wasn't. It was only when the first wraith was almost upon him that the knight swiftly sidestepped its downward slash, leaving it exposed to Geralt's spell. The creature shrieked and retreated when another crack of lightning struck it.

Its brother came for Oswell a moment later. The Whent grit his teeth and swung the sword sideways, knocking the falling axe to the side. For a moment, man and wraith stood inches apart, nearly face to face, until the former smiled and struck it with his helm. The undead warrior snarled and tried to retreat. But Oswell would have none of it.

With a shout born from years of nightmares and vengeance, he swung with all his might and watched with satisfaction when the skulled face was ripped asunder by the force of his shield.

At his feet, the creature bent and contorted its body, shrieking through annihilated lips, its form barely holding itself together until his sword came down upon its head, finally silencing it for all time. Was it his imagination, or had that been relief in its last wails?

Arthur kept his enemies at bay, a human whirlwind, switching seamlessly from blocking a wraith's weapon and following with a counterattack. Dawn shone as brightly as it had in the first battle, a purple light matching the Yrden and pulsing with a power that emboldened the Sword of Morning. The enemy weapons could not withstand it as every touch of its blade on them seemed to mar them. More than once, the wraiths were forced to flee beyond the range of the knight's famed greatsword and cast spells to restore them.

Not this time.

When one of the five fell, the remaining recoiled from the destruction, momentarily dazed and ripe for a killing strike. Arthur broke formation as well, rushing at the closest wraith - the hammer wielder. The creature's arms bent in a futile attempt to block the blow, but the Sword of Morning used all of his momentum and strength to unleash a swing that would've been the envy of knights across the realms. Dawn carved through the hammer's handle and the wraith's armored neck too for good measure, decapitating it in a single cut.

The remaining specters recoiled and retreated, keeping their attacks sparser and more cautious.

Harren snarled and suddenly broke off his attack, recoiling in fury and pain as if Geralt had skewered his intestines when he had been alive. The witcher felt a drop in the curse's power, the same sensation he had felt when he had felled the first of the wraiths. But it didn't put him at ease, not when the medallion's trembling began anew.

Not this time. Steeling himself for the struggle to come, Geralt pointed his free hand in Harren's direction, his fingers performing the three steps of the Axii sign. The spell came to life in a white flash, reaching its target a moment later. Now comes the hard part…

Clenching his jaw until his teeth ached from the pressure, Geralt focused as much power as he could on simply penetrating Harren's mental defenses. The wraith snarled and froze in place, its fury and willpower focused inward to overcome the psychic assault. It was not unlike banging one's head against the wall or trying to bend steel and wrap it around a raging bull. Soon, Geralt's free hand shook and his whole body froze from overwhelming tension.

Damn it, finish them already!

The hanse had to destroy the remaining wraiths, or Harren could simply heal himself once more. Geralt dared not shout this command. Even the mere thought spent on the knights very nearly broke his hold. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe and a horrible rhythmic throbbing pounded between his eyes. The remaining sounds of battle had not ended either.

Shit. Choosing to break the hold rather than overtaxing himself beyond all reason, Geralt released the Sign, gasping for air. The sounds of battle behind him still rang through the hall.

"You've troubled me enough, foreigner," Harren snarled, a very human fatigue in his voice. "Die. Die forever like the rest of the mongrels under my power!"

The strongest of the foul spirits roared, lifting his shield high into the air. Geralt retook control of his breathing, knees bending in anticipation of the throw. Except it never came. Or at least, not at him. As if metal monstrosity weighed nothing at all, Harren tossed it across the hall to where the Kingsguard were.

Geralt had no time to think, to even consider if his Yrden could deflect a projectile of such size. His hands thrust in the direction of the flying shield, unleashing an Aard. The blast traveled almost instantaneously across the room, sending pieces of broken stone and dust into the air. The shield rang with an irritating, drum-like noise as it was knocked aside. It spiun wildly, landing in the eastern side of the hall.

Harren was on him in an instant, wielding the mace with one hand. Geralt attempted a sidestep but the distance was too great and time was not on his side this time. To his great fortune, the first swing passed scant inches from his face rather than reduce it to pulp.

The next attack was so bold, so unlike anything else any foul spirit had ever tried, Geralt could not help but be surprised. Even a little impressed. With his free hand, Harren grabbed the blade of the silver Cat sword. He snarled and held on in spite of the pain and Geralt's attempts to break free. When the mace swung for his torso, the witcher was left with no choice but to let go.

At once, Harren's weapon hand swung in the opposite direction, striking Geralt across the left cheek. His whole world flashed white from the impact and blood filled his mouth in moments. Black spots filled his clearing vision as he clumsily stumbled back. His ears, however, didn't ring so loudly as to miss the sound of something whistling through the air. It wasn't the mace for sure. Geralt sidestepped to the right, trying to use what strength he could to evade whatever blow came next.

Only years of experience ensured that rather than a scream of pain, a snarl of rage ensued from his lips as his own sword impaled him through the shoulder. His step turned into a fumbling, painful roll across the ground. Ironically enough, that may have saved him.

The throbbing sensation that exploded throughout his entire body was like a pail of cold water doused over him, refocusing Geralt's other senses immediately.

Before the next attack could strike him down, Geralt forced his body up and thrust his good arm forward in the wraith's direction. The black steel would have succeeded in ripping the limb off had it not been for the Quen barrier that stopped it. Harren's scream of rage nearly burst his ears, his maddened strikes failing to break through the bubble of energy surrounding the witcher. The semi-transparent yellow construct of power surrounded him from all sides and Harren's teleportation would amount to nothing. Not that this deterred him from trying.

Good, at least he's not throwing shields at the others. Geralt calmed his breathing, taking back control of his heart rate and dropping it as low as necessary. Blood loss wasn't too bad, he hadn't hit a vital vein or artery. Now if I could just move it.

It wasn't a question of pain. Geralt had long accustomed himself to withstand injuries where the pain alone should have had a normal man begging for a sleep that never ended. No, it wasn't that. It was a question of basic anatomy and physiology. He couldn't risk placing the hand in the proper casting position, not without tearing through his own flesh. I have to discharge, buy myself some time to pull this out-

A sudden shift in the power took away what little breath Geralt allowed himself, his blood turning to ice. Glancing at where the wraiths kept a fair distance from the Kingsguard, daring them to leave the Signs protection, his Yrden's light dimmed until it vanished entirely. A low and dark chuckle outside the barrier caught his attention. Geralt could swear he saw that lipless face form a smile. Before he could even break the shield to stun the undead creature, Harren's shape already glowed, teleporting away.

"Look out!" Geralt shouted, breaking the shield. "He's coming for you!"

The knights immediately broke apart and fled, Harren appearing a few feet behind where the Sign once was. Though his mace failed to directly strike either one of them, the impact tore floorboards asunder, sending the wood hurtling through the air.

Oswell was struck in the back by one fragment. His balance did not fail, but he was delayed long enough for a flail wielding wraith to meet him. Arthur was waylaid by the spearbearer, spinning its weapon with a renewed speed and enthusiasm.

Casting a weaker Quen shield over his body, Geralt grit his teeth and pulled at the sword, keeping his breath rate as slow as possible. Moments later, it exploded when something struck him from behind. Geralt leaped forward, landing on one hand and balancing himself on it before pushing off and landing on his feet just. Harren teleported to his side. Geralt sidestepped the first swing and performed a minor Quen counter, discharging the spell an instant before the next swing impacted.

This time, the wraith king did not howl so much as cackle in spite of the pain he must have felt. "Go ahead, witcher. Use the first spell you wreaked such havoc on us with." He roared with mad laughter, pointing the mace at him as if it were a sword. "It's the only way you will gain enough time to remove that sword!"

Geralt's hatred of the loathsome beast before him intensified tenfold. Harren was right. Petri's wasn't spent yet, so he could cast another altered Yrden and pull the sword out. But in those precious moments, he'd butcher Arthur and Oswell like dogs…

The odds were already not in the knights' favor.

Arthur traded blows with the spearman as best he could, for while the foul spirit could not commit to a prolonged assault thanks to Dawn, neither could the Dornish knight land a direct strike. Without the Yrden to deter or slow them, the creature could vanish far beyond his reach and reform its weapon. When it did strike, it moved with such practiced speed, a maddening spins of thrusts, sweeps, and feints.

The wraith thrust forward, only to disappear when Arthur readied to block, reappearing behind him and striking his helm with such strength it flew off his head. Only the knight's meager witcher training kept him from landing on his arse. He spun around on one leg and thrust his blade in retaliation.

Alas! The spirit disappeared again. When next it appeared, the tip of its spear managed to scrape the surface of his chest plate. No blood had been drawn, but how long this could last, he was not certain of.

The flail struck Oswell again, removing one of the wings adorning his helm. The Kingsguard snarled and swung his sword only to cut naught but air. When it reappeared moments later at his side, he succeeded in bashing the flail away before his own blade cut through the air once more. His enemy's shortsword screeched against Oswell's longsword, the silver blade coming close to striking the undead flesh only for the accursed flail to swing once more.

"Shit!" Oswell snarled, lowering his head lest it score another blow and break his attack. The fell spirit followed after, spinning the weapon unceasingly with a speed he would've thought impossible mere months ago. It came for his legs next, but Oswell backstepped and swung to cut its chains. The wraith pulled it back and spun its entire legless form alongside the flail.

Oswell bent his knees and waited for the blow to come, for the creature to disappear once again. It did so, reappearing to his right. When he slashed again, he realized too late it was not the flail that was meant to strike him first but the shortsword, thrown as if it were a knife.

The speed of the throw sent every instinct in his body on fire. There was no time to reposition and block with the shield. Instead, he hastily sidestepped, the blade passing so close to his cheek it scraped the side of his helm. All of it happened in less time than for a heart to beat once, but the wraith already came for him again.

The chains wrapped around his left leg, its spikes cutting through his armor about the ankle. When the wraith pulled, it was with the strength of several men. Oswell's thoughts were scattered as if they were hens beset by a fox as he almost flew across the air. He landed with all the grace of a tavern drunkard, the very wood underneath creaking and cracking as his entire weight fell on it.

"Thrice…damned…cunt…" He gasped for breath, his whole body shook from the impact. Forcing it to act, Oswell attempted to cut the flail still encircling his leg. Or he would have, if the wraith hadn't driven its shortsword through his right forearm deep enough for the hilt to press against the plates, pinning it to the ground.

The fell spirit removed the flail and conjured another blade, hovering over Oswell, away from his futile shield swings. "I was not quiet in life and I'll not leave it quietly," The Kingsguard roared, swinging again and again, every painful throb from his pierced limb utterly ignored. "Come on, do your worst!"

Harren laughed malevolently through his son's wraith."I, hehe, humbly thank you, little whelp, for volunte-"

"VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL! VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL!"

"Wha-NO! NOOOO!"

The thunder of the magical words outrang even Harren's screams, echoing from the hall's entrance and running through its entire length. It was the howling of the strongest wind, the cracking of the heavens above and the earth below, of the angry sea washing away all in its path. It was, in a sense, the inevitability of death approaching at long last. Living and dead alike heard it but only one of them fully perceived the discharge of overwhelming power rippling the air.

Geralt felt it wash over him, familiar, primordial magic whose purity was contained in only one thing in all of Harrenhal. And now the source of it was at the entrance, embodied in two weirwood branches with glowing, red leaves. Held by the utterly exhausted and mismatched pair of Pycelle and Jaime.

They'd brazenly disobeyed his orders. Never was he more thankful that someone had not listened to him.

The wraiths convulsed in pain, giving out unearthly shrieks. Their assault on Geralt and his company was halted as they struggled to merely mantain their form. Unfortunately for them, Geralt wasn't about to make it any easier for them. At once, he reached for the very last vials of godswood soil he possessed and threw them at Harren.

The great wraith shrieked and aimlessly swung his mace, overwhelmed by agony as soil spilled over him . Geralt couldn't stop smiling even as he, at long last, removed the Cat sword from his shoulder and jumped back into the fray

Pycelle split from Jaime, ignoring the pain in his heaving chest and the ache of his knees for a madness he had not felt since the days of his youth overtook all thought of resting. He was as relentless as the horses who had very nearly died bearing them through the accursed castle. The staggering wraith next to Ser Oswell snarled even as its body continued to flicker.

"Vort aep taedh d'yaebl!" The Grand Maester's voice boomed with a strength that surprised even he. A sense of righteous fury burned in his chest, anger for what the foul spirit had done to his comrades. Snarling and gritting what teeth he still had, Pycelle swung the weirwood branch, shattering the specter's flail and limbs like glass. "VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL!"

He stabbed the bottom end of the branch into its snarling mouth and shouted with a fury of ten men, pushing it down and down until at long last, the accursed spirit crumbled into dust at his very feet.

Pycelle gasped and watched it disappear. For a moment, he simply stared into nothing, wondering what force had possessed him. The spell was broken by the sound and sight of an elated, albeit sorely wounded, Ser Oswell.

"Pycelle, by the gods, I'll make sure you're knighted for this!"

"..there is time for that later, ser." Putting the branch close to the ground, he knelt by Ser Oswell's side and tried his best to help the man up. The Grand Maester hoped his newfound strength would not fail him then.

The old maester was not alone in his madness.

Jaime ran toward the spirit hovering close to Ser Arthur. An icy coil of dread had crept into his heart when his eyes beheld the awful scene of the Sword of Morning losing ground to the loathsome wraith. Arthur, emboldened by the approaching presence of an ally, sallied forth once more.

Swinging Dawn with a dancer's grace, the Dornishman carved the spear in twain and left a burning slash mark across the creature's chest. Then, the young Lannister roared like the great beast that had become his family's sigil in a bygone age and threw himself at the stricken wraith. Like a hot knife through butter, his silver blade cut open the specter's throat.

With a flash of light, the last of Harren's sons faded into oblivion with only a dying whimper to mark his passing.

"Thank you, lad… '' Ser Arthur gasped out smiling, for not even his exhauston would rob him of his joy in their victory. "You've done a job worthy of ten thousand songs. Aye, both of you have."

"Well," Jaime smiled in return. "I couldn't let the three of you have all the glory-"

"Accursed wretches!" Harren's enraged howl forestalled any further talk. The knight and the young lord turned, to be met with the sight of the wraith and Geralt locked in a frenzied duel of black steel and glowing silver.

"Come, Jaime! We've still more work to do!" Ser Arthur ran towards the dueling pair, and Jaime followed without hesitation.

"All of you!" the wraith king raged, swinging his mace to and fro. Geralt put another end to it with an enhanced Aard, blasting Harren away with such force he sailed through the air, only stopping when his mace crashed into the ground. "You will all pay for this…"

Earlier, the fury in his voice would have troubled Geralt far more. But now, the ground no longer quivered in his wake for the combined power of godly weirwoods and magic had greatly diminished his power. Harren hadn't manifested his shield or teleported even once since Pycelle's most powerful incantation.

"Well now," Geralt smiled nastily, unable to squash the desire to rub it into the vile thing's face and feeling absolutely no regrets about it. "Isn't this a fine reversal of fortunes? What are you waiting for, Harren, here I am. You wanted to kill me, did you not?"

The ghost was so taken back that he could only stare in silence, his featureless eyes gaze blank and mouth agape. The witcher was not surprised in the least that the wraith's last piece of composure had crumbled in the face of such provocation and disrespect. Disbelief turned into rage, and rage into frenzied action. With his weapon high, Harren the Black rushed headlong into absolute defeat.

Geralt merely waited, his weapon held low and power dancing between his free fingers. The Blizzard and Petri's both were nearly spent, but he had just enough left of both to make one last move.

As Harren swung, Geralt retaliated, gathering all the power he could for a final Quen counter. Instantaneously, a barrier of yellow energy surrounded him once more. It shattered nearly as quickly, unleashing a colossal discharge of lightning. The wraith was overwhelmed by it and pushed back. His entire being was aglow, the lightning crackling through it and burning him from the inside out. What few teeth he had left snapped out of their sockets and burst out of his mouth.

And still, he would not stop, snarling through a lipless mouth and raising his mace once more. Or he would have, if Dawn hadn't then descended upon his forearm, severing it and leaving nothing but a steaming stump. Harren had scarcely any time to react in any manner before Jaime approached the ghost from behind and drove the weirwood branch through his torso.

A soundless scream left the gaping maw of Harren's mouth, his featureless eyes staring wildly at the ceiling. His body flickered and shifted in place unceasingly until Jaime put an end to it with a twist of the branch. The wraith king froze, a visage of pain and horror.

At long last, true death had finally come for him as he began to fade. By the time Oswell and Pycelle reached the rest of their friends, there was nothing left of him at all.

None of the five men said anything for what seemed like hours. Even their breath was still as they looked at where the wraith once was, then at each other, and back again.

"Is..." Jaime spoke, wetting his dry lips. "Is it over?"

A sudden burst of thunder shook the room. The five men rushed to the nearest window, huddling around it to see what was happening. They watched in silent awe as the storm above them rippled and shifted across the sky. The fire, the smoke, even the accursedly everpresent heat, streaked across the air over their heads and was sucked into the storm's blood-red center.

For a short while, its heart glowed in the night sky as if it were a second sun, shining upon the world with its terrible glory. It began to grow smaller, shrinking into itself and sending Geralt's medallion into a frenzy. Then, just as quickly as the terrifyingly beautiful sight had come to life, so too did it end. The accumulated power burst across the heavens with such brilliance that it was painful to look upon. But look they did, unflinchingly watching as a massive flame burst in all directions for miles and miles, devouring the blackness of the night and even the light of the moon and stars.

And then... nothing. The wine-dark sky was studded with silver and bathed in the light of the glowing moon as if it were any other night. Such a simple sight had never looked more beautiful.

"Now, it's over…" Geralt sighed, feeling the power around them drop. The constant quivering of his medallion had now slowed to a slight tremble. They removed themselves from the window, slumping against each side of the it as their weapons fell and clattered against the ground.

"... Fuck," Jaime muttered.

"Quite right, young Jaime," Arthur laughed, pressing the back of his hand against a cut on his forehead.

"I've got something for our injuries," Geralt said while reaching for some ointments and bandages, courtesy of the Priestess of Melitele.

"As do I," Oswell grunted, uncorking the wineskin with his teeth even as blood trickled through his wound.

"I would help you with those, Geralt," Pycelle said through gasps. "Truly I would. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"...I can't feel my bloody legs."

The four turned their heads and stared at the old man.

Whenever they were asked later, none of them could recall who had started laughing, or even, if they had all started it immediately. All they did know was that the moon had never seemed so bright, the silence of the hall so pleasantly peaceful, and the sight of friends and sword-brothers more joyous. They knew they laughed their hearts out, their merry band of five, in sheer relief and joy to be alive.

By the time they halted, every single one of them was short of breath and their throats and faces ached. They settled into a short and comfortable silence for a while, broken only by Geralt rising to finally apply the medicines.

Just as he rose to his feet however, the witcher's medallion jerked sharply and shook with growing intensity. A power was rising in the hall once more. But if it wasn't Harren, what was it?

"W-What is that?" Jaime asked, reaching for his sword, and the others following his example. Geralt did not as he gestured for them to stop and wait.

The suddenly visible being approaching them made no sounds as his feet touched the ground. He was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old. He was well-dressed, the image of fine clothing and a furred cloak draped over his shoulders, but his features were eerily familiar.

The spirit looked at them all, smiling and at ease. The hanse could see the joy and relief in his large eyes. "I had always hoped this day would come, the day someone would arrive and end my father's reign of terror. The day when we can finally rest."

Pycelle gasped and Oswell cursed under his breath.

"The eighth child, the first of you all to suffer the curse..." Geralt muttered, a feeling of overwhelming pity for the boy overtaking the righteous fury directed at his father. As he spoke, the hall was slowly filled with more spirits until there was no end to be seen of their number.

The tortured, screaming shadows of Harrenhal were gone. In their places were the inhabitants of Harrenhal as whole as they had been before the Black Dread's flames had washed over the castle. Laughing children played in their mothers' arms as their fathers watched proudly, maids sung songs, and friends roared in joy as they greeted each other at long last. On and on, it went.

They all looked at Geralt and his hanse in joy. In relief. In graitude.

"Thank you, noble knights," The young prince proclaimed, falling on one knee and bowing his head. As did every single one of the spirits present. "On behalf of all of us who have been trapped here: thank you for ending this nightmare. From the bottom of our hearts, we wish you, the Heroes of Harrenhal, good fortune in life and in death."

"Hail!" They rose back up, shouting with a thousand voices. "Hail, the Heroes of Harrenhal!"

And so they passed from this world, their forms flickering out of existence one by one until the prince was the only one left. Then he too disappeared, and only the five living men were alone in the great hall.

And may good fortune smile upon you all too, the witcher hoped with all his heart as he gazed at where the boy once stood.

"Is your witchers' work always like this, Geralt?" Jaime asked.

"Honestly? No. It's a hard and lonely life with shit pay," Geralt said morosely. "It's dangerous, tragic, bloody, and most of the time, you wonder why the hell you do any of it for."

The witcher turned and smiled in genuine joy to his friends. "Then you live to receive rare and genuine gratitude like this, you know to yourself you did something truly great and good, and then it's all absolutely worth it."

Chapter Text

There was a time Aerys feared fire, dreaded it more than anything else in the world. It was a shameful, disgusting thing for a son of Valyria to even privately admit. All the same, he could not deny it for many years. Not after Summerhall.

Over twenty years later, Aerys could recall every moment of it with perfect clarity. The walls crumbling around them, he and Rhaella suffocating amidst the smoke in their retreat, the screams of their kin overpowering even Rhaegar's first cries. Their great dynasty almost purged in the span of a single hour.

For many years nothing could hold back the nightmares of that day. Not war and steel, women and wine, friendship and family, useless, all of it. All burned to cinders in the face of such devastation. This was Aerys’ great error, the foolishness of his youth. Duskendale had taught him otherwise.

In those six months, alone and beaten like a dog, Aerys found only comfort from the lanterns outside his cell. They brought warmth to his heart, their lights easing the howls of his own troubled mind in those dark lonely nights. When watched the Lace Serpent burn for his treason, a satisfaction unlike any other came over him.

Henceforth, he sought comfort from the fire, not away from it. Why wouldn’t he? Nothing could withstand its power.

Metal could stab and cut, beasts ripped and teared. Flames destroyed, conquered. A master of it could turn anyone or anything into ash. Armor, weapons, flesh and stone, even dragons could not survive its fury when the Doom came. Every defiance, every foe and every issue was solvable with a single solution.

Our power always lay there, sorcery, not steel is the Targaryen way! Aerys smiled wider, leaning over the battlements. Unblinkingly, he stared at the pyre of Harrenhal, admiring the way the blaze and smoke swayed in the air, how even the night sky retreated in the face of its towering might.

How I wish you were here to see it, grandfather. How different things could have been if you knew what I know today. The Seven Kingdoms trembling before us, our authority unchallenged in every way…

A shadow fell over him, his joy replaced by a terrible wroth swelling in Aerys’ chest until it ached. These too became more frequent with age. I know what you’re thinking, Rhaegar, Tywin… His fingers throbbed from the tightening grip about the red stone. Traitors and schemers, plotting my demise, poisoning the greatest joy I’ve felt in years.

Gazing deeper into the raging inferno, Aerys saw not a castle but a man burning and his good spirits returned at once. It was the great lion of Lannister, whimpering like a beaten cat, begging for the mercy of a quick death ere the dragon was unleashed on him.

Once the almighty Tywin is a stain, all the rest of them shall be brought to heel or join him. Even Rhaegar. A son must always bend to his father’s will.

There came a sudden, powerful roar of thunder. Aerys could swear he felt the Red Keep quiver at the mere presence of it. A warm wind blew from the north, bringing the sweet taste of ash to his mouth. He stared transfixed on the fires once again, watched their forms change. They coiled and swayed like tendrils of a kraken wrapping about a single point.

Someone gasped, another cursed, Aerys merely stood in awe of the sight. It was akin to another sun, glowing in the sky. He couldn't help but let the tears flow freely again. “Such power, a gift from the Conqueror himself! And it is mine, all mine-”

Like water spilling from shattered glass, the sun burst. As far his eyes could see, the fires spread, devouring the heavens, bathing all under it in red, yellow and orange. More of the witless fools gasped and panicked. Aerys knew better, he burst into the laughter, spreading his arms wide in embrace of the majesty towering above them all. For the first time in many years, he found the strength to dance, to spin and grasp at the tiny, burning embers descending on them like fiery snow.

Everything was perfect in the world, all too briefly.

Aerys noticed how the flames shone less, the embers fell no more or the growing spots where the night could be seen. A cold dread formed in his stomach. “No, no…” He shouted and reached for the sky. “Stop… Stop! Damn you!!”

His demands and shouts for all for naught, Balerion’s power sputtered, vanishing in moments. Not even a single trace of it remained, even the taste of ash disappeared from Aerys’ lips. He slumped, staring at the red stones beneath his fingers. With each breath, his chest ached again. A maddening throb pierced into his temples like a pair of knives. A back tooth cracked loudly from the force of his gritting.

When Aerys broke the dead silence, it was with a howl of black fury and despair not heard in the Red Keep since the death of prince Jaehaerys.

Shrieks and shouts aplenty echoed throughout many of the Seven Kingdoms. The awakened smallfolk and their livestock cowered, cried and ran in fright from the dragonfire's death throes. Many of the beasts fell dead at once.

House Blackwood’s members no longer trebled in their sleep, their fevers gone. They just didn’t wake up for another month. The iron beast, blind and in the throes of madness, escaped the grasp of his father and brothers. He ran out into the raging rain and firestorm, screaming of crows and krakens ere flinging himself from the battlements of Pyke.

In the east, the fire watcher stared until the kraken was naught but ash. Within the hour, he and his companion were back out to sea. Past the great wall, amidst ancient stones and deepest tree roots of the world, the three-eyed crow trembled then smiled, sensing the demise of his predecessor's enemy. The Seven Kingdoms would need more of such bravery, ingenuity and sacrifice in the coming days.

None, however, felt the fall of Harren and the end of his curse more acutely than members of House Whent still watching it all unfold.

First came the thunder, loud and strong enough to shake the very ground beneath them. Men and women struggled to stand, horses neighed in terror, ravens croaked and shrieked in their cages. Roland’s commands to maintain order fell silent. The wind blew from their backs, warm and uncomfortable, swirling about the camp and castle. Fires and smoke plumes as taller than the walls came alive again, thrusting into the flaming heart of the black storm raging above Harrenhal.

Watching it all unfold left Walter breathless, still as a statue. He could not pry his eyes away from the orb of flames looming over his home. A terrible, evil thing coming to life in the den of night. A perversion of all the laws of men and gods alike.

Have they failed? He dreaded, imagining Oswell and his companions all slain and burnt to ash. Is this the end of us all?

Shella’s hand entwined with his couldn’t keep the terror at bay any longer. All the same, Walter had no strength left to flee. What could an ordinary man’s retreat do in the face of such power when unleashed?

The place drawing all of Harrenhal’s evils began to shrink. The smaller it got, the more terrible its red glow became. Eventually, it was no larger than a small, bloody star in the sky ere it burst across the heavens. Everyone in the camp shrieked, Walter and Shella held each other close, a final embrace on the eve of their fiery demise.

An infernal wave sent the heavens afire for miles, blanketing the stars and moon in a sea of red, orange and yellow. Fire did not reach them on the ground, something else did. An unseen force of such power fell with a war hammer's force upon Walter.

His legs gave out, everything became a blur, his face met the dirt. Somewhere, Shella shouted commands, horses neighed and trampled and men panicked. It wasn’t merely a weariness overpowering him, not even the Stepstones had left Walter so spent. This was an absence of thought and of feeling. The world no longer spun in his sight but froze and fell silent. Soon enough, Walter didn’t even have the desire to blink or breathe nor could he if he wanted.

Lord Whent could not say what stirred him out of this near death. He could not hear the cries of his family, them clutching at his fallen form. It simply went away after a time, with its absence, many sensations overcame him. A searing stinging in his dry eyes, a desperate need for air, a rush of noises assaulting his ears. Roland and Shella held him down during the brief panic, shouting pleas to stop, to calm himself.

Walter eventually recovered his composure, the frantic gasps and flails halting until he simply laid on the grass, an ordinary night sky overhead. No trace of the madness at all. Was it all a dream? The fires, the voices? Am I… dead?

“Walter, Walter are you alright?” Shella said, the pain of her legs and Roland’s hands pressing on his limbs revealing to the lord he was in-fact not dead.

“Aye, I am… the panic has left me,” The nearby torches revealed just enough of their faces for him to see their concern. All the same, they released him. Ere they could help him up, Lord Whent did so by himself. He all-but sprang to his feet with an ease and swiftness he had not felt in a long time.

Seven hells… Walter nearly blurted out. He hadn’t moved this way in years, some days a simple walk from one side of the castle to another left him spent. By all accounts, he should’ve been in pain. He felt none. There was no ache in his knees or back. No stiffness about his shoulders. When he focused only on his hands, they no longer shook beyond his control. The only thing amiss was his clothes, they felt a size too small for him then.

Can it be? He ran a hand through his hair, wishing a mirror was within reach. Have they truly broken the curse?

The neigh of a horse and the cry of a man-at-arms halted his consideration. Though the chaos within their camp had lessened, men still lied on their knees or backs, steads refused to obey or fell deathly still upon the grass. In the distance, Harrenhal burned no longer, there wasn’t even a hint of smoke or heat in the air, the fallen ash had vanished utterly.

“Roland, gather whatever men and horses are still able, we’re returning to the castle. Shella-”

“I will remain to oversee the camp,” His lady wife rose with a speed matching Walter’s own. In the torchlight, he could swear a change had come upon her visage as well. “Go my love, there is no telling what has befallen the others in that dreadful place.”

“Seven hells, Geralt,” Oswell said, clenching and unclenching his exposed, bandaged right arm. “Even the medicines of your lands are worthy of a bard's tale.”

“You’re right brother, I scarcely feel the cut at all.”

“That’ll last for a few more hours, maybe a day if you don’t irritate the wounds.” Geralt said, pointedly looking at the knights across the table.

“Speaking from experience, Geralt?” Jaime said from the witcher's left with a pleased smile.

“As matter of fact, yes,” He returned it, fondly recounting the many scoldings of Nenneke. “Once you get to even half my age, you’ll learn the value of letting a wound settle in its own time.”

“Cuts, stabs, aching feet, knees, shoulders, really anything at all.”

Pycelle’s tired remark from the table’s head drew laughter from all assembled. Despite being the most tired of their group, he diligently aided Geralt in applying the herbs and ointments to the Kingsguard and the witcher himself.

Once they were tended to, the group mustered the last of their rapidly dwindling strength and dragged themselves down the tower. This proved easier said than done. Only a few floors down, Jaime suggested they rest in one of the numerous, abandoned rooms. No one argued with him.

And so their company sat comfortably in a minor study, surrounded by cobwebs aplenty, illuminated only by candlelight and passing around Oswell’s wineskin. It was the best they’d all felt in hours.

“Aye but a tired body after a job well done has a certain charm to it,” Arthur replied, swallowing another gulp. “And none here or out there can say we’ve performed anything less than a miracle tonight.”

“For once this damned place doesn’t make me reach for a sword,” Oswell looked about the room, mostly without distaste. “You can all feel it, can’t you? The heat has vanished, the air is easier to breathe.”

“The accumulated discharge of power is to thank for that,” Geralt explained, placing his medallion atop the desk. It hardly moved at all. “Harrenhal will never be free of magic, it's… festered here for too long. But the brunt of the dragon fire’s influence has left this place for good. No more insufferable heats or wraiths prodding around people’s heads.”

While Jaime accepted and drank the skin offered by Dayne, a look was shared by the other four men. The same thought ran through their heads. Yes, no more wraith kings to trouble people here. Their living one will do it next.

Geralt anticipated a final burst of energy to come with Harren’s downfall, not one of that size, however. If his guess was correct, people as far north as the Neck and south as Ashford could have seen or felt it. While they were busy drinking and jesting, untold panic in men and beasts alike was spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms. It was an inevitable consequence of the breaking, it left a foul taste in his mouth all the same.

It’s still more thought than their monarch is sparing for them. The witcher glared at the candlelight.

Provoking Aerys’ madness was another inevitability of this endeavor, even less avoidable than the discharge. All the same, it had to be done, for the well-being of those in the castle’s shadow and in-part for Geralt’s own benefit.

By putting himself in such peril, Ciri could be provoked to dream of him and arrive in Westeros at last. Months with no sign of her pointed to his daughter not even being aware of Geralt’s predicament. He hoped that it would end soon. If Aerys was right about anything in his many mad ramblings about dragons, it was the edge overwhelming magical force could give someone. With her, Yennefer and the aid of some men he’d come to know and respect, they just might be able to halt any of the mad king's plans in motion.

If Dandelion was here, he’d say breaking the curse cured the king of his madness. He smiled somewhat bitterly. I doubt it’ll be that easy. Not just because of Aerys either.


Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the nearby assortment of weaponry they’d left against a wall. The weirwood branches white trunks stuck out amidst the shadows, their red leaves glowing in the candlelight.

Since reuniting, Jaime and Pycelle had said nothing on the matter. Nor did the rest of the group ask, though they all must have considered it. Is this the work of our mysterious ally? The three-eyed crow said all would become clear once the curse breaking was accomplished. Was this some aid given to them when the first attempt failed? More importantly, what was the price for this aid? Lady Whent’s payment was losing enough strength to stay bedridden for two days.

He sighed deeply, leaning back into the chair, eyes growing heavier. Speaking of payments…

“Something the matter, Geralt?” Arthur inquired.

“It’s just the potions, they’re starting to work their way through my system. I’ll be asleep as a corpse soon. Probably for a day or two.”

The Kingsguard looked at one another and smiled. “Then we’ll have to perform the ceremonies swiftly, while all our soon to be knights remain awake.”

“It seems so, Arthur.”

“Soon to-” Jaime said, confused but for a moment. When his eyes widened and body went still, Geralt couldn’t resist a short laugh. “You cannot mean-”

“What else could we mean?” Arthur replied, retrieving Dawn. Oswell did the same for his own sword, using his shield hand to wield it. “An abandoned study is a strange place to knight someone, I admit. Yet, how often do a squire, maester and witcher receive the honor for stopping a fell wraith king?”

“A-A maester knighted?” Pycelle sputtered and coughed, the wine was caught in his throat. “S-Surely you jest.”

“Far from it. I promised to knight you for saving me, did I not? I intend to keep it, right now. There are thousands of men who would have fled in your place.”

“One can only be brave by overcoming fear,” Arthur continued. “You, Jaime and Geralt have all proven yourselves more than capable of this and so much more. You’ve all saved not just the living from a madman’s terror but brought peace to the dead. This honor is the smallest token either of us can give to you for your accomplishments.”

“And it is a greatly appreciated offer, my friend,” Geralt said, meaning every word. “Unfortunately, it's one I’ve already received a long time ago.”

They all stared at him as if he’d just revealed himself to be Harren the Black reborn in mortal flesh.

“Twice,” He clarified, taking the wineskin out of the dumbfounded Pycelle’s hand. “Once by a queen with broken teeth and again by a lady of the lake. Our version of ser is addressing someone with their country of origin at the end. In a way, you’ve been calling me Ser Geralt for months now.”

“How does that even happen?” Jaime blurted out. Geralt had seen that look in his eye before, the one hungry for a good story. “And why would you accept a second one-”

“Leave him be, lad,” Oswell snorted, shaking his head. “It is likely a long tale and one better left some other time. Let him witness the ceremony then. Or mayhaps you wish to delay it?”

“No, no!” The boy pushed himself up from his chair with the speed of an arrow. “We will do it tonight, right, Grand Maester?”

“W-Well, I-I-I suppose…”

Jaime did not forget Pycelle, helping him rise out of his seat then kneel before the knights. All the same, Geralt could not smallest hint of a smile playing around his lips. Even the Grand Maester, perplexed by this as he was, straightened his back when facing the Kingsguard.

Arthur and Oswell faced them, silent and taller in the candlelight and red leaf glow. Their absent armor pieces, bandages and dirt smeared cloaks doing nothing to lessen the strength of their appearance.

“Jaime of House Lannister,” Arthur began, touching the blade to the boy’s right shoulder.

“Pycelle of the Citadel,” Oswell continued, mirroring the gesture. Squire and maester alike imperceptibly shivered at the touch.

“In the name of the Warrior I charge to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just,” the swords moved from one shoulder to another. The Kingsguard voices were strong but dignified. “In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.”

The blades stopped and so did the recipient's breathing. The three other men in the room smiled.

“Arise,” Oswell and Arthur said as one. “Jaime of House Lannister and Pycelle of the Citadel, knights of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Ser Jaime and Ser Pycelle did so, joy plain on their faces and pride in their chests. Geralt watched them a little while longer, the four men talking, laughing. Great companions one and all. I’ll have to give the two of them something later. The witcher leaned back into his seat, the shadows falling over his eyes. They’ve both earned it….

With that final thought, he fell asleep and did not wake for the next three days.

Chapter Text

The blade rose and fell, first a dozen then over a hundred times. Nothing more, nothing less. An exercise so ordinary a small child could do it with a twig. It was swordsmanship in its simplest form, its drawn-out, repeated execution enough to numb the mind and body. That was why Arthur increasingly did over the past few years, it helped keep him sane.

Shortly after Duskendale, he rose to the position of Kingsguard to replace Ser Gwayne Gaunt. It was all he ever wanted, to serve among the finest knights of the realm. Such was his excitement at the time, it dulled his perceptions of all the signs.

Aerys’ behavior during Arthur’s first two years was erratic, somewhat concerning but not cruel yet. He was slow to trust and quick to snap at perceived slights. The estrangement between him and Rhaegar widened into a vast chasm. Dragonfire and its power to defeat all traitors and enemies quickly became a favorite subject.

His Sworn Brothers assured him it would pass, the king suffered grievously in captivity, time would heal his wounds. Everything would turn out well, Arthur believed it too. Until the rapes and wildfire burnings started.

Once it became clear this would not come to pass, they all discovered ways of staying their tongues and hands.

Barristan found strength from his vows, Leywn comfort from his paramour, Oswell in his outward disinterest. Gerold in the assurances of better days ahead from Rhaegar. It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t believe his friend, it just wasn’t enough. He needed to cut something down, even if it was just air. Or whatever he allowed himself to imagine in its place.

For that reason, Arthur was grateful he volunteered to come to Harrenhal. Despite all the dangers within and to come out of the curse-breaking, it was the first time in years he didn’t feel useless. He wasn’t a glorified sentry to a madman, admired for his perceived, unwavering dedication to duty and the values of knighthood.

Harren had to fall, the lives of thousands depended on it and many more souls deserved their long denied justice. There was nothing else to it and it felt good.

In all the weeks they’d spent in the castle, Arthur never once resorted to the exercise. Bonds were forged or strengthened, a great service was performed to the realm. He would go to his grave remembering the freed spirits cheer in gratitude as they departed this world in peace. It was the first time in years he had achieved what a knight should.

All the same, sleep eluded him that evening. He endlessly tossed and turned in bed for what felt like hours, his eyes always resting at the beam of moonlight cut through the otherwise pitch-black room. In time, Arthur could stomach it no more.

Returning to the godswood not only felt better, it felt right. So familiar was it, he knew where to avoid each branch, stone or small pity with nothing practiced ease. Its stale air bothered him not, the sight of strange and bent shadows all around, given life under the moon's shine was more welcoming than the pure void of a cavernous bedroom.

The only unwelcome sight was the weirwood, its bark and leaves glowing like a great, fire-less torch. Arthur felt its eyes upon him and promptly moved to where they could not see.

And there he stood, a lone man amid pure nature, focused only on the practice. He couldn't begin to remember where he stopped counting by the time his body began to fail. Pains and aches began to mount across his legs, arms and shoulder. Arthur’s hair stuck to his brow, his breathing becoming labored, almost desperate. All the same, the heart’s disquiet did not abate.

“... why.” He pierced the ground, steadying on Dawn. “Why isn’t it working? What’s wrong with me?”

“Old failures taste bitter even after a good victory, as my grandfather liked to say. I don’t think I ever understood it truly until now.”

Startled, Arthur turned with the grace of a drunken boar to find Oswell standing behind him, cross-armed, plainly dressed as if right out of bed and wineskin-in-hand. Twilight had arrived, banishing the night on the eve of dawn.

Gods, I’ve been at it for hours.

“Come, brother,” Oswell said, patting him on the shoulder. “Let us sit, it’ll do you more good than torturing yourself.”

Arthur considered protesting until the pat sent a ripple of pain running down his whole sword arm. Wordlessly, he followed after Oswell, feeling a great deal worse for wear than after fighting Harren.

They stopped at the table amidst the remnants of their former camp. Tents, blankets, bedrolls, stools, crates, plates and a score of other items lay just where they’d left them ere the curse-breaking. They could all go back to it at once and would want for nothing.

Dawn was laid atop the table, the two men sitting apart from one another. The weirwoods features were, thankfully, not visible from where they were.

“Drink up, you need it a great deal more than I.”

“Bit early for wine,” Arthur pointed out, uncorking the skin all the same. He was pleasantly proven wrong with the first gulps. “Water? You’ve always preferred stronger drinks.”

“I had considered it when staring at the ceiling lost its charm. It simply… didn’t feel right,” He looked about the former camp, a smile playing around his lips. “Strange as it sounds, I almost wish something else was amiss here. Naught but a beast for us to slay and hours spent here planning it.”

“Something else is amiss, somewhere” Arthur reminded him, handing back the waterskin. “The three-eyed crow implied as much and our companions' oath only adds fuel to the fire.”

Both had learned of Jaime and Pycelle’s vow to the old gods the previous afternoon. Arthur had wondered about the story behind their branches and misliked much of it. They had learned much of what the weirwoods could do, but not everything.

As thankful as he was for what the two did, he could not escape the terrible feeling they had bound themselves to something none of them fully understood. Just like I didn’t when I put on the cloak.

“Yet our mysterious benefactor has fallen silent, like every other bird recently,” Oswell gave an ugly smile as he drank. “Walter is expecting riders from other houses to head out any day now. Hoster and Brynden are likely on kingsroad as we speak, ravens be damned.”

Many are likely doing just that. Geralt had warned of side-effects to the curse breaking, yet even his bleakest estimations did not foresee a total breakdown amongst the messenger birds.

The ravens would not fly, no matter what anyone did. Many had outright perished in the chaos, those who remained just shook in their cages, day and night. No messages had arrived from King’s Landing or anyone else for that matter. Much of the realm could be in utter disarray after the curse-breaking and they’d likely learn nothing of it for days or weeks.

“I expect our king is accepting it all most graciously,” Arthur said, the disquiet in his heart was joined by another feeling. “Barristan and Varys can only do so much this time. You saw the power, how far it traveled. He is no doubt scheming a thousand different ways to get his dragons.”

“Walter and I spoke of that as well. He fears all our efforts with Harren will be for nothing when Aerys arrives. With no tourney to gain the great lords support as we planned, he says Harrenhal will not survive a third burning.”

“He’s right,” Arthur replied, his fingers tightened about the chair's arms. “No matter what any of us tell him, Aerys will proceed with his plan. Even if it means the end of himself, this place and all the rest of us in it.”

He looked away from his Sworn Brother, gaze falling upon the greatsword resting on the table. The disquiet from before was gone, in its place was a mounting, raw fury the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since that night.

“Have I ever told you what happened the first time I listened to him ravage the queen?” He spoke in a low voice, sharper than steel and colder than ice. “Lewyn was with me. Aerys had spent the afternoon with that toad Rossart, talking of fire and alchemy. Silly to my ears but it lifted his spirits. He was excited, happy, even deigning to jest with me like we were old friends on the way to his chambers. For the only time, I thought Aerys was charming.

“Stop, she kept telling him, you’re hurting me. She screamed and begged and he struck her every time. I stood frozen in that hall, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, what was happening on the other side of that door. It was like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from, no matter how terrible…”

Staring into the pale steel, he could almost see it reflected in the blade with perfect clarity. Aerys swaggered out of the queen’s chambers, jesting and bragging, Rhaella sobbing as the door closed behind him. How he and Lewyn followed in stunned silence like a dutiful pair of accomplices. The cold fury that burned in Arthur’s chest until a long bout of sword practice left him aching and exhausted for days thereafter.

The same anger had returned, many-fold stronger. Adventure, survival and victory against a powerful curse had unleashed something he feared could not be quieted again.

“Then let us end the nightmare ourselves by killing him.”

Arthur did not react, at first. The statement came so swiftly, so brazenly, he wasn’t entirely sure his troubled mind wasn’t playing more tricks on him.

Looking away from the steel, he saw Oswell’s unflinching, grim and half-shadowed visage across the table. This was not his Sworn Brother speaking, but the Dread Bat of Whent.

“False tourneys, great lords and councils, promises of a better tomorrow, piss on all of it I say. All we have ever needed is the will to act and one of those.” He pointed to Dawn. “There is evil in this world, Arthur. Something foul in the hearts of men, driving them to commit unspeakable acts. Harren is all the proof anyone ever needs that some men must be punished, be they beggars or kings.”

Weeks, even days past, Arthur would have disagreed outright. To kill a king was no simple matter. He would cite their vows, their duties to the crown. What such an act would do to their honor, their family names, the very existence of the Kingsguard. A thousand excuses to delay, to do nothing, he felt no desire to voice any of them.

Instead, he looked back to the greatsword. There, in the reflection of the steel, he saw fire and death, the slain creature whose words he tried to bury and ignore rattled his soul that evening.

Do you merely mean to make me the first of horrible rulers to face justice? Harren’s taunt was as clear as the first time. From Kingsguard to Kingslayer, quite a tale for the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Would you still be worthy of bearing that famed sword of your family?

He lifted the sword atop his palms, looking it over once, twice. In the steel, there were Morgan, Ashara, his father and mother, Rhaegar and Rhaella, his Sworn Brothers. Those who would love and hate him for what must be done, who would live free of Aerys and his evil because of the dishonor to come.

“The will to act and a sword to make use of it,” Arthur glanced over at his smiling brother. “You should’ve been a poet.”

“Mayhaps, I will when I’m too old and tired to swing a sword.”

The thought brought a brief smile to Arthur’s face. Taking the sword in both hands, he held Dawn aloft, pointing to the sky. It shined in the early sunlight creeping into the clearing, weighing nothing at all.

“If Aerys pursues his heart's desire, we will do the same,” The Sword of Morning vowed, to himself, to Oswell and to all those wronged by the mad king and their hesitation. “He will die by the sword.”

“And so there we were, two men riding through the firestorm. The fires were red as blood, all-consuming and the dead were with us almost every step of the way. Moaning, begging for someone, anyone to release them from Harren’s evil. Our faithful steads galloped through the inferno, never once showing fear in the face of the chaos around them. Kingspyre tower loomed over us most of the way, a great fiery pillar almost daring us to come.”

The assembled men, women and children all gasped and murmured, huddling around closer Jaime’s table, forming a wall of bodies around it that could halt a cavalry charge. Fresh meals went cold and uneaten at fifteen or so tables around the hall. The early morning sun shined just over the crowd while the wooden floor protested audibly from the sheer weight pressed upon it.

Not that anyone present cared for such things. Their focus lay entirely on Jaime, sitting relaxed near the hall's center and a cup of fine ale always in hand. Glancing about their faces, he could see the mounting anticipation and fright in their eyes.

Jaime had chosen to break his fast in that hall, being the closest to his chambers. He had scarcely eaten a bite of bread when Ben Whent and a group of other children arrived after him, like a small Dothraki horde, asking to hear all about the curse-breaking. They weren’t alone in wanting this and Jaime was never one to refuse an enthusiastic public.

“Tired from battle and riding, we ascended the tower-like men possessed. The heat was scalding, the dead growing more numerous,” His voice lowered with each word, and his eyes meeting many others. “Slayer of thousands, devourer of his own child, Harren was dangerous already but in his own domain? The wraith's power was tenfold greater still!”

They sat and stood frozen, unable to muster even a whimper, growing as pale as the steel of Dawn. He let the fright hang over them a while, what was a good story after all if the listeners weren’t terrified at least once?

“W-Were you afraid, ser?” A girl, the castellan’s daughter, mustered the courage to ask.

“Afraid? Of course not,” Jaime gave the girl his most winning smile, his friendly demeanor restored. “When your comrades' lives are on the line, there is no time or place for fear.”

The half-truth was received very well, their unease from moments ago changed to wonder, awe and even greater respect than before. Particularly from the children, who so very much reminded him of Tyrion. It was their gratitude and admiration he held dearer than most others. It was not so long ago I looked at many others with the same reverence. I probably still do.

“What happened next, Ser Jaime?” Ben Whent asked from the front, his eyes sparkled with barely contained enthusiasm. “What happened next?! Is it true you killed Harren yourself?!”

“Aye! Please tell us, ser!” One of the oldest men there said, short, balding and supported by a cane.

Ser Jaime. I will never grow tired of hearing that. His smile widened. “Of course I will tell you, how could I possibly refuse such a wonderful public?”

Nearly an hour later, once the tale was told in all its deserved glory, Jaime excused himself without inciting a rebellion. Down the endless stairs, he went, receiving more thanks and acknowledgments all the while. The destination in mind, however, soured the sweet taste of victory.

Geralt had forewarned them of what the potions could do. For the first day and a half, he was merely in a deep sleep. Then, in the waning hours of the last afternoon, the witcher fell ill. The bed was drenched from the sweat, his complexion grew paler and his face contorted from deep pain.

In a way, it was as if the witcher was giving him another brazen lesson: even the best can fall ill like anyone else. It didn’t make seeing it any more pleasant. At least he left Pycelle armed with the knowledge and medicines to ensure a proper recovery.

With Geralt’s first chambers destroyed during the curse-breaking, he was placed in one of the finest left in all of Harrenhal at Lord Walter’s express wish. No expense was spared in its furnishing.

Jaime had seen enough tapestries and carpets from the Free Cities in his time to recognize them at a glance, the strange colors and shapes were woven across them. Alongside the carpets, there were the furs of wolves and even a bear lying about. Fine wooden chests, seats and tables of varying sizes were placed throughout, a large bath in a corner with white folded curtains for added privacy and weirwood ceiling beams standing out amidst the black stones overhead.

It was fit for a king and far too ostentatious for a man like Geralt. At one of the tables closest to the drape-covered bed, sat Pycelle. A tiny figure amidst the stable-sized chambers, busying himself not with hovering around the slumbering witcher with papers of some sort. At a smaller, adjacent desk, were many vials.

“Ah, Ser Jaime,” Pycelle greeted him warmly, turning on his seat to face the doorway. “Good morning to you.”

“To you as well, Grand Maester,” he replied, unable to resist a smirk. “Or is it Ser Grand Maester now? I’m afraid that still confounds me.”

“Amuses, from what I can see,” There was only the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice. The others wouldn’t be so polite. “For now, let us say I am only the Grand Maester.”

“Or we can simply put aside such formalities, at least in private. We’ve certainly gone through enough together to earn such liberties.” And we’re both oath-bound to that suddenly silent tree.

After a moment’s pondering, he nodded. “Yes, I suppose we have indeed… Jaime.”

“Good, now, what of our leader? I assume he’s better today?”

“Oh yes, considerably so,” The two approached Geralt’s sleeping form, protected from the outside light by thick, red curtains hanging off the wall. Some of the color had returned to his face, his expression calm, breathing steady.

“Though it may surprise you, many of the worst symptoms never came to pass.”

Jaime gave him a startled look. “It could have been worse?”

“In any number of ways. Luckily, Geralt suffered but one injury and a swiftly treated one. His body only needs to recover from exertion, most of the potion's contents have been expelled already.”

Right, I’ll not ask what that entailed. “Will he awaken today?”

“Most likely, tomorrow at the latest,” He replied with reassuring certainty. “I am hoping it is sooner, I’ve not slept at all in close to a day.”

“You can do it now if you wish. With Harren defeated, those of us good for only swinging our swords don't have much else to do here.”

In truth, there was never a dull moment with the curse about. Sword practices, planning out routes for the godswood trails, learning the weakness and strengths of the enemy, scouting the area of magic effect.

Not all of it was enjoyable and yet all of it was done with a purpose. It was time well spent, on matters of genuine importance, a foundation for their great victory. Much as he enjoyed the fruits of their efforts, a part of Jaime was sad to see it all end.

“It is a most generous offer my lo- Jaime, though I must refuse,” Pycelle walked back to the desk, gesturing at a dozen or papers scattered along its length. “I’ve found something else to stave off sleep a while longer.”

It only took a few glances and quick reads for him to recognize their contents. “You’re writing a book about the curse-breaking?”

“Indeed I am!” He replied with great excitement. “An event of such magnitude, such sorcery has not happened in the known world since the Doom of Valyria. There will be much speculation, conjecture and falsehood concerning it long after we are all dust. Creating a reliable account of what transpired is of the utmost importance.”

“True enough,” Jaime replied, smiling fondly at one particular claim made yesterday by a guard. “Some are already changing the story, saying we each defeated a hundred fire-breathing specters.”

“And others will believe little to none of it, regardless of evidence or how many witnesses we provide. My many years in the Citadel and serving in King’s Landing have taught me that quite well.”

“I know a few such men too, pains in the arse every one.” Father most certainly numbers among them. Tywin Lannister only acknowledged the gods when necessary, to swear an oath or as part of a ceremony. Advancing the dynasty and an unquestioning, absolute rule was his faith. He who achieved both commanded the world.

It did not help that he usually proved it to be true.

Pycelle continued. “Precisely why we must arm ourselves with knowledge. Imagine for a moment how we would have fared against the curse if it erupted last year? With no witcher to aid us and many, myself included, obstinate and ignorant to its nature?”

“Thousands dead on the first day, ravens and beasts going mad, a winter slowing our every move and likely thousands more lost before we could even gain any foothold inside,” Jaime answered moments later, a chill running down his spine. And my father, among those leading the effort, curtailed at every turn while Harren laughed at them all from inside his fiery domain.

The Grand Maester nodded with approval. “And within us, few lies the power to ensure such a thing never comes to pass. Not if our true experiences, our knowledge live on.”

“Then allow me to aid you, I’ve become quite accomplished at recounting our adventure of late.”

And so they did, putting many important details to the ink while leaving others for the rest to fill. It was both far more enjoyable and exhausting than he ever expected writing a book could be. After a fine lunch of bacon, soft-boiled eggs and roasted ribs was delivered to them, Jaime left Pycelle’s company and Harrenhal itself.

Cersei once said horses were among the few things in life he cared for and she was right. There was nothing like the rush of a fine stead in full gallop. How the wind whipped at his face, the countryside turned into a blur. Nowhere and everywhere to go at once, at a speed only a noble beast could offer.

So passed almost his whole afternoon, riding near the northwestern banks of Gods Eye without a single care in the world. By their return journey, man and beast alike were spent but content. The sun was setting at their backs, bathing everything around them in striking orange hues.

Saving castles, slaying monsters and riding however long I want. Jaime smiled, breathing in a pleasant scent from the nearby lake. I could get used to this.

As he took one more look at the countryside, the castle growing larger and finally the lake, something caught his attention there. Slowing the horses' walk further still, Jaime peered in the direction of the Isle of Faces. A movement caught his eye there, a tiny shape in the distance.

There he stood, transfixed and then stunned as if struck across the face. For the movement was no trick of the light or of a tired mind. A boat was coming, with a single cloaked occupant rowing it toward Harrenhal.

The worst part of waking up after downing several potions wasn't the stomach cramps, shivers, or vomiting but the stiffness. A witcher’s speed and mobility were among his greatest weapons. Constricted muscles and numb legs went against their very nature. A monster slayer could only feel more vulnerable if deprived of their swords.

Luckily, Geralt had someone to help him through it this time.

“Careful now, careful,” Pycelle guided a cup to Geralt’s parched mouth. His breath smelled of bacon and eggs. “We would not wish a repeat of last night.”

No, no we wouldn’t.

Slowly, he rose just enough to drink the offered beverage. It was Ellander tea, made from the region's herbs specifically to aid in lessening the potions after effects. It tasted like warm wine from an old boot, far preferable to the aftertaste of retching. He drank several cups.

Geralt had awoken shortly after lunch, just missing Jaime. For the first two hours, he remained in bed, using breathing exercises to impose a metabolic control over his body. It was taxing in its own way but it would let the medicine work faster.

Once he felt strong enough, he proceeded to spend the remainder of the afternoon exercising. The overly ostentatious room was large enough for him to perform some rudimentary sword practices. Slow and deliberate, the blade swung about, speeding up in proportion to how much his muscles relaxed.

“Lord Whent was swift and tireless in re-establishing control over the castle,” Pycelle explained, sipping red wine from the desk. “With the curse destroyed, it was more of a matter of ascertaining the state of the castle itself. The great hall is ruined, beyond repair if you ask me, as are many pathways and chambers closest to it.”

“Not the towers?”

“They survived the event more or less unscathed. Once the smallfolk began to arrive, Lord Whent offered refuge inside them for the many thousands now homeless until a new town is built. They were… understandably hesitant, Arthur assured them all was well.”

Doesn’t surprise me it worked. Geralt smiled, weaving intricate patterns through the air, the blade alight from the falling sun's rays.

Though the walls were quite thick, he could make out enough noises from the nearest rooms, hallways and the buzzing activity out the window. Children playing around, men and women alike shouting after them or going about their work.

It wasn’t just the sensibility of the act he found privately admirable but the sense of responsibility towards the peasantry. He had worked for lords, princelings, kings, queens and even an emperor, most of whom could be generously called pricks. The likes of Emhyr or Henselt never would have given up even a small portion of their own castles or residences to help their displaced people. Even if they had someplace as spacious as Harrenhal.

Before he could ask more, however, there was a knock on the door. “Enter.”

A guard showed himself in, an older, rough-looking man well into his forties. “Apologies for disturbing you, Grand Maester, master witcher,” The man bowed. “Lord Whent wishes to see you both in his solar.”

“If I may ask my good man,” Geralt asked. “What for, is something amiss?”

“... Mayhaps, my lord,” He said uncertainly. “A man came to speak with Lord and Lady Whent not too long ago. Ser Jaime brought him into the solar, he… wore a green hood, walked with a white staff.”

“Thank you for telling us, inform Lord Whent we’ll be there shortly.”

Once he was gone, Geralt and Pycelle stared at the door, neither speaking for a short while. “He knew you were already awake.”

“Yes, and I think I know how,” He gazed upward at the weirwood beams overhead. “It appears the three-eyed crow is ready to talk to us. Let’s go see what he wants.”

“Wait,” The Grand Maester rose sharply, a sudden urgency in his voice. “There is something you must know before we speak to this green man… what Jaime and I did to attain the weirwood branches.”

Geralt looked at him calmly, even as he felt an unease churn in his stomach once more. Pycelle took a few breaths, looking worried and guilty, awkwardly shifting in place.

“We swore an oath before the heart tree,” The words came out in a rush ere he sighed. “Jaime was the first to conceive of the idea. I argued against it, it was all so terrifying I could not bear to stand in this place anymore… and yet, when the time came, I felt compelled to join him. I could not simply do… nothing, not anymore.”

This revelation elicited little surprise from Geralt. He suspected something must have happened in attaining those branches. It was only a small, vain hope it amounted to simply chopping them down. All the same, his insides bent again and the stiffness around his shoulders returned.

“I’m sorry it came to that,” Geralt said, revealing none of the worries he felt. “I won’t lie, this is a serious matter, binding magical contracts like these always are.” His hand rested on Pycelle’s shoulder. “Whatever comes next, we’ll handle it together. I’m not in the habit of abandoning my friends.” Especially when I couldn’t get the job done faster.

It was enough to calm his friend, Pycelle smiled and nodded, appreciative and put at ease by the gesture. Once Geralt was dressed and ready, they made their way to Kingspyre Tower.

Some changes had come upon Lord Whent’s solar since the last visit. Piles upon piles of papers formed a mountainside at one of the desks. The smaller table they sat at when Lady Shella revealed her dreams, was replaced by a larger round one, capable of seating well over a dozen men.

Outside the large windows facing west, twilight was approaching, casting much of the room in shadow despite the torches and oil lamps already lit.

Jaime, Arthur, and Oswell were already there when Geralt and Pycelle arrived, all three wasted no time in rushing toward him. Undisturbed, the Hanse laughed and spoke awhile, as though nothing of import brought them back together.

Of course, it could not last forever.

Lady Whent greeted him next, wearing a fine dress in the Whent colors. Her once gray hair turned black and tied only loosely into a braid. A youthful warmth graced her features. “It gladdens my heart to see you recovered, master witcher.”

“Thank you, my lady,” He smiled back, kissing her hand. Most of the wrinkles are gone, around her face too. “I’m also quite glad to be out of that bed.”

She laughed, her voice a great deal smoother.

“Be glad you’ve had the chance to sleep at all, Geralt. It is a privilege I fear some of us will not enjoy anytime soon.”

The restored Lord Whent stepped forward. His once white and grey hair was almost entirely black, the slight back hunch was gone bringing him to a height of six and a half feet. There was a new strength in his eyes, a youthfulness to his reinvigorated features.

“I doubt that my lord. The way you are now, you could likely wrestle a boar.” The firmness of his handshake made it only somewhat of an exaggeration.

While they laughed, Imperceptible footsteps approached their group from the shadows, even Geralt’s keen ears didn’t hear them until he was closeby. The smell, however, was noticeable before the witcher even stepped into the room. It was exactly like the godswoods.

“Geralt,” Lord Whent stepped aside, gesturing to the castle’s newest guest. “May I introduce Howland, of House Reed, lord of the crannogmen.”

The recent arrival was the shortest person in the room, under five feet tall. He wore a green cloak reaching down to his knees, adorned with deep, green leaves about the shoulders. Fingerless leather gloves wrapped around the weirwood staff he held onto tightly. The top was hollowed out, just big enough to fit a small blade.

Green eyes met the witcher's through strands of unkempt, brown hair. There was fear in them, trepidation, and something old in his otherwise youthful face. Too youthful.

“It is an honor to meet you, master witcher,” Howland’s voice was respectful, his bow deep. “On behalf of my master and the order which I represent, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to you and your party for banishing the evil of Harren. Long had it defiled these lands.”

“Not long enough for any of you to do anything about it.” Oswell brazenly replied. Nearby Whent’s along with Arthur gave him a pointed look he ignored entirely. The lad, meanwhile, froze, his breathing stilled.

“Not all who deal with magic have the same knowledge,” Geralt replied, trying to ease the sudden tension. Though a part of him agreed with the Kingsguard, this was not an old, set in his ways fart of a druid. Just a boy, not much older than Jaime. “I doubt elvish incantations are a part of it.”

“You speak truly, master witcher,” Howland rose, gulping under Oswell’s gaze. “Those who know of the old ways, their abilities lie more in the roots of the world, its skies and rivers. The domain of raising the dead… belongs to others.”

The fear in his voice boded ill. All the same, Geralt just nodded. They sat down around the table, the witcher seated to Lord Whent’s left with Shella and Oswell to his right. Cups of and two flagons of Arbor wine were provided for all to drink. Howland and the Kingsguard didn’t partake, the rest sipped theirs.

“Now then,” Geralt spoke, refreshed by the sweet taste. “I’m certain you haven’t come all this way just to thank us, Lord Reed. Not when the three-eyed crow spoke of other matters he needed me for?”

“You or them,” Oswell jerked his head in the direction of Pycelle and Jaime. “Either way, the crow gets a witcher, isn’t that right, lad?”

“... it is true, ser,” Howland said after a moment’s hesitation, one that did not leave his voice or face. “When master Geralt slept under the weirwood, much of his history and intentions were laid bare to my master.”

“Including the fact I don’t intend on staying here forever.” Or that some of this is in part to bring Yennefer and Ciri over here.

“Aye, he was worried you would leave upon the arrival of your family. Or that Ser Jaime’s words were true, that three of you would perish in your battle against Harren.”

“The second point I can understand, truthfully, without those branches, we would have lost. On the first, he should have known better. I don’t abandon my friends, ever. He shouldn’t have bound them just to get to me.”

Geralt’s voice was like ice, his steely gaze not on Howland, but at the weirwood staff resting next to the armchair. Do you like prodding around my head? Well, here’s something else for you: there better be a damned good reason for this.

“The three-eyed crow's methods aside,” Arthur broke the silence, his voice entirely devoid of any anger. “We must get to the heart of why he has chosen to do all this. Tell us, Lord Reed, what must be done to release our companions from their oath?”

“Nothing so small or simple as the curse of Harrenhal, I assure you,” The fear was back in the crannogman’s voice. Not of the men seated at the table, though. “It is a far older evil of which I have come to warn you. All men know it, stories and legends of their existence have been told to every man across the realm for millennia.”

His eyes swept across the room, there was a slight tremble in his hands. “I speak of the Others.”

The hush swiftly returned, thick as sewage muck. About the room, almost every exchanged looks, equal parts worried and puzzled. Geralt’s gaze was solely on Howland. He had met many liars on matters of monsters and magic. Men and women who lied or exaggerated to stave off boredom or justify their own terrible deeds by concocting evil creatures hiding in the fields.

There was none of that in the young man’s face. Only honesty and a palpable fright.

“It is a bold claim to make, I know, even after all that has transpired here. Yet I swear to you, it is the truth, the Others have returned. I have seen them in my dreams.”

“Your dreams?” Lady Whent said.

“Yes, though I am no true greenseer, my time among the green men has opened my mind to a great many things,” Howland stared past Geralt, past any of them, at something only he could see. “I see a great wildland covered in snow, the night is dark and terrible and never-ending. Men and women flee amongst the trees, death's cold black hands are always at their heels… and its icy masters are never far behind. Always for the same purpose, to bring back a world of always winters.”

“These dreams, how long have you had them, Lord Reed?” Pycelle asked, fingers passing over his beard.

“They have been with me all my life, though never so… vivid,” He shivered. “It was only last winter when the sky split open and the magic began to return, did they change. It is why I left to seek out the green men-”

“The sky splitting open,” Geralt interrupted. “What does that mean?”

“What you’ve already begun to suspect it does, master witcher,” Howland looked apologetic. “A year ago, in the lands far beyond the Wall, the heavens above were changed. Green flames rent it apart like paper and on the other side, there was another world. Dead, save for a lone girl fighting against a storm.”

“What does he mean, Geralt?” Lord Whent asked and many more curious looks silently asked the same. “What girl, what… other world?!”

“... there is a magical event of great power called the Conjunction of Spheres,” He managed at last. “It’s capable of opening doorways to other places, some of them very, very far away. The first happened fifteen hundred years ago, bringing men, monsters and magic to my lands… the second happened just over a year ago.

“An apocalyptic force known as the White Frost was laying waste to countless worlds. Ours was soon going to be destroyed too. Only my daughter had the power to stop it, once and for all. She caused another, smaller Conjunction to occur, opening windows to hundreds of different worlds in the process…”

“And one of them was here…” Pycelle concluded with a harrowing finality. “Returning magic to this place, and the Others.”

“Gods.” Oswell downed the cup in minutes, reaching for another immediately.

There was no other way. He argued, more against the budding guilt within himself than any accusations yet thrown at him or Ciri. The weariness banished hours ago threatened to return. A shiver ran through him, a twisting sensation around his lower side. His eyes didn’t meet anyone else’.

“You couldn’t have known, Geralt,” Jaime said, trying to sound reassuring even as his own fear was plain to see. “You told us many times that there are forces beyond anyone’s control.”

“No one here blames him, lad,” Arthur said, the unshattered trust equal parts painful and comforting. “We’re merely considering what all this entails and how to deal with it.”

“He means to say that we have more pressing issues to deal with. One’s far closer to where we are now,” Oswell pounded the cup atop the table, disgust and fury plain to see. “Once Aerys hears of this, the bastard's obsession with dragons will grow a thousandfold and why not? What better way to kill dead men and ice monsters than with fire-given flesh?”

Jaime was the only one surprised by such a brazen display of disdain towards the king. It increased many times over when Arthur joined in.

“He’ll stop at nothing to hatch but a single egg. If he fails at Harrenhal and the Others march on the Wall, there’s no telling what else he could try.”

“I don’t believe the king’s madness will present a problem,” Howland said not with naivete but with certainty. All eyes were drawn to him again.

“He has been restored to his former self?” Pycelle was the one to ask.

The green man shook his head. “King Aerys is dead.”

Chapter Text

What did he do, what did he do?! Did he break the curse? Was losing the dragonfire part of it?! Is it truly gone? Of course! What else could it be?! It vanished across the bloody sky! But the witcher... did he know or did he purposefully not tell me? Was there ever even a curse or was all this part of some scheme...

Aerys considered these and a thousand more possibilities, each one more terrible than the last, stoking the mounting fury in his chest and giving strength when weariness might have otherwise overcome him. The scream took more effort than he expected, each breath after worsening a sudden soreness in his throat.

Nevertheless, rest was out of the question for there was treachery afoot and it needed to be stamped out forthwith.

If Geralt has betrayed me, who else there has? Dayne, Whent? No, no, they are my sword swords, and so my will is theirs! But Pycelle...that doddering old fool never fully took my side whenever Rhaegar dared oppose me. And that spawn of Tywin's…

His fingers ached in protest under the tight grip on the battlements' wall. The pain ran up the length of his arms, the worst of it settling around his shoulders. In spite of himself, Aerys loudly flinched as if struck, backing away from the wall.

"Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked, his eyes crinkling with worry under his nearly white brows. "Are you well?"

I will be when I get to the heart of this matter, he vowed, angrier still for the show of weakness. Steeling himself, Aerys looked next to the assembled group of knights, lords, and his so-called family, scrutinizing each one in turn.

Varys, Charlton, Velaryon, Staunton. All loyal men, and true. Wisdom Rossart was a kindred spirit, one whose love of fire matched Aerys' own. He would never do anything to subvert the return of the dragons. The Kingsguard were above suspicion, but the same could not be said for his family.

Rhaella. Rhaegar. That Dornish bitch that was Rhaegar's wife.
They all attempted to hide the terror he knew they all felt at what had transpired. Fear and envy of the power he would soon wield, by which he would break their own forever. They had earned his distrust and hate long ago.

But even they paled into insignificance at the sight of his false friend, the man he had once trusted and admired above all others.

As ever, the great Tywin Lannister stood tall and proud. The Great Lion, clad in the colors of his house, he who so many thought ruled the Seven Kingdoms in truth. When their eyes met, there was no change in his bearing, not even a minute crack in the unshakable visage he'd crafted since coming to power.

Even now you think yourself untouchable, irreplaceable? You think I'm a fool, that I do not see what you and the witcher were up to?! We'll see how long it lasts when I'm through with you.

"Guards, guards! Come to your king's aid at once!" his voice shattered the stunned silence.

The growing sounds of their approaching footfalls were almost as sweet to his ears as the death wails of those fed to the fires.

Blazing torches from all sides converged, a dozen men-at-arms bearing them arrived with commendable swiftness. More could be heard coming from the distance. They surrounded the group from three sides, the Kingsguard stood ready at their front.

Aerys' gaze never left Tywin for he wanted to see the first crack appear in all its beautiful detail.

"Your Grace?" his ever-loyal knight asked, worry threading his voice.

"There is a traitor amongst us, Ser Barristan. One who has pretended to be a friend and servant of the realm all while sowing the seeds of my destruction."
Aerys smiled, pointing at the soon to be former Hand. "Men, seize him!"

Three of the soldiers pushed through the small council and were on Tywin at once. There was something particularly gratifying about finally seeing Tywin restrained by men bearing the Targaryen dragon on their surcoats.

The great Lord Lannister did not balk at their approach, did not even deign to look at them. There was only one he thought worthy of his supreme attention. "And what treason have I committed against you, Your Grace?"

"You know exactly what you've done!" Aerys snarled, rushing past Sers Barristan and Gerold. He stood before Tywin in moments. "You took Joanna from me, you murdered Steffon, and now, when I was close to attaining dragons, you told the witcher to sabotage it! Didn't you?!"

"I know nothing of what has transpired here any more than you do," Tywin replied coolly. "As all here can attest, I have never trusted the witcher or his ways."

"Naught but a well-orchestrated act! You may have doubted him at first but when he proved magic still exists, you wasted no time in buying his loyalty! Didn't you?!" Aerys' shouted, face mere inches from his most hated enemy within reach. "What is the reward for aiding in a king's destruction? Piles of gold, lands and titles? Your daughter's cunt?!"

The crack in Tywin's unshakable bearing finally appeared, but it was not the abject reaction Aerys had hoped for. His former friend was not someone who raged thunderously, letting men and gods alike know the depths of his displeasure. He made his ire known through utter silence and a fixed, unblinking gaze with narrowed eyes. It was a look that made men regret their words. Flee in terror, beg and grovel for forgiveness. Anything but behold that vicious stare. A visage of pure, smoldering hate.

Aerys had always respected and envied Tywin's power to break men with but a look. Once or twice, the Hand dared to use it on him during their worst arguments. The king never forgave or forgot these acts of impudence. He would not start now.

"Who do you think I am? Some cheese merchant or westerlander dog you can intimidate?! Fool!" Aerys laid his fist across Tywin's curled lips that drove him back. Pain shot through his whole arm, the knuckles throbbed. But it was worth it just to see his enemy's bloody lips.

"I am the king! Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and soon to be master of dragons," he thundered out. "You? You are nothing."
Aerys reached out with his good hand and removed the pin of the Hand. "Henceforth, Tywin Lannister is stripped of all lands and titles. He is a traitor to the realm and he will face my justice in due time. Until then, he is to rot in the black cells! Guards, take this loathsome lion from my sight!"

"Father, I ask you to reconsider while there is still time," Rhaegar said, stepping forward.

The old defiance he showed since Duskendale was rekindled anew, it seemed. Aerys had wondered where it vanished since his marriage to the Dornish girl. "He is a great lord of the realm, your Warden of the West. Remove him as Hand if you wish but please, take it no further. Otherwise, you will court war with the Westerlands."

"It is by our ancestors' foolish mercy that he and his pack of golden pricks are great lords in the first place!" he countered his son. "House Targaryen gave it to them and House Targaryen can take it back, whenever it pleases."

"It is because of that foolish mercy there is even a realm today at all. Or would you have preferred a Field of Fire stretching from Dorne to the Wall?"

"If that's what it takes to break them forever, then so it will be. Bah, I grow tired of this pointless debate. Guards, throw my insolent son into the black cells too."

Rhaegar did not expect that. He stood frozen in stunned surprise as though he did not know the consequences of working against the king. He would learn first hand very soon.

"Aerys, my love," the loathsome creature he was forced into marrying spoke next. Softly at that, as though it would matter. "He is your son, our firstborn-"

"Are you a halfwit? Do you so easily forget what our foolish, willful uncles did to our grandfather? I'll not suffer such disobedience. Now, be silent," his good hand rose and Rhaella trembled at once, "or else."

"Touch her again and I'll make you wish you'd died in Duskendale."

Silence fell. Aerys turned to strike the boy instead and stopped. He had seen his son angry before, furious during their worst arguments. But this was different. The steel edge in Rhaegar's voice was nothing next to the icy ferocity of his glare. It was hate, pure as it could be. Utter contempt ready to become bloody violence at the slightest provocation.

In his son's eyes, Aerys saw Aegon in his prime again, if but for a moment. What did you leave me to do, Grandfather? Why did you fail and force this task upon me?

He could not withstand that familiar gaze reborn in the eyes of his son , the shame he felt witnessing it, brief though it was, and scrambled behind the Kingsguard. "T-take them away."

Six of the sentries did as commanded. Tywin and Rhaegar were led away without further resistance or incidents. Like a caged beast, the boy's eyes followed him until he, at last, disappeared inside the walls. Their absence did nothing to improve Aerys' mood. It only showed how deep the treachery around him went.

In the quiet that had fallen, Aerys' anger diminished. A pounding resounded from the back of his skull, the discomfort around his shoulders stiffened them uncomfortably. For some reason, his eyes stung.

Now is not the time for weakness. He rubbed at them furiously from behind the tall frame of Ser Gerold. If I am to leave for Harrenhal soon, I cannot leave anything else to chance.

"Men," he addressed the remaining guards. "Escort my gooddaughter and lady wife back to their chambers, at once."

Neither of them openly protested on their leave. He did not miss the glance Elia gave her uncle. As though a single knight would make a difference.

Once they too were removed from his presence, Aerys felt some measure of relief. He walked through the gap in his Kingsguard defensive line. "Lords Staunton and Varys, step forward."

It was fascinating and amusing how two fat men could move so differently. The balding master of laws was faster, and as graceful as a drunken horse. It was a wonder his grey, wing-patterned tunic did not rip from the strain of his rotund form. Varys did not walk so much as glide without sound, his purple cloak only faintly rippling from the wind.

"Lord Staunton," Aerys smiled, not entirely at the man's expense. "Long have you served me and done so well. When others conspired to destroy me, your loyalty never faltered. Rise, my friend, rise and take your place as my new Hand."

"Your Majesty," Symond replied with barely contained joy. "The honor you bestow upon me… I have no words to describe my gratitude."

"Words are wind," Aerys warned as the Hand pin was given to the lord. "Now is the time to act. Cersei Lannister and Jon Connington, I want them both arrested. Send the girl to the Maidenvault, and Rhaegar's pet can rot in the black cells too."

"For the rest of my family, I want their protection doubled at all times of day and night- we must not give the Lannister's any chance for reprisals." Or to let them curtail my authority while I'm away.

"Once the Red Keep is cleansed, assemble a host of men, three hundred strong, along with Wisdom Rossart and whatever materials he requires. They are to be my retinue when I ride out for Harrenhal."

An unmistakable look of surprise crossed the new Hand's face, but Aerys took no offense from it. It had been years since he stepped foot outside the Red Keep. It couldn't be helped, for this matter was too important to leave to anyone else.

"The witcher has rediscovered the power of dragons," Aerys growled, "I must take it for myself before anyone else tries to curtail my efforts. Send a raven sent to Walter Whent. Geralt of Rivia, Jaime Lannister, and Grandmaester Pycelle are to be thrown into the dungeons under suspicion of treason."

"My most loyal men will watch the assistant maester closely, Your Majesty," Symond simpered. "If the boy even thinks of betraying you, justice will find him swiftly."

"Good, very good," Aerys smiled, looking next to Varys. "Contact your spies at Harrenhal, for I wish to know everything Lord Whent may choose to keep a secret. Tell them to keep an eye on everyone on the Red Keep. If you so much as suspect someone of being Tywin's spy, send them to the black cells."

"Of course, Your Grace. In fact, I should have a list of suspects ready within the hour."

If only all my servants were so expedient and loyal. But no matter, they will be very soon. "When the first bit of news arrives, come to the throne room. I will be residing there until my departure."

"T-The throne room?" Symond stammered, his face a hilarious riot of surprise.

"Where else should a king be, Staunton?" Aerys walked past them.

His remaining Kingsguard followed in a circular formation around his person. They would serve as his strong shield in the coming days. The Iron Throne itself would protect him from all other threats.

Its many blades were still sharp. His arms and hands bore sufficient scars to prove that, while his enemies made mock of its power. They called him King Scab. Never to his face, of course. It was safe to mock a dragon when from the shadows.

Now the very same cause of that mockery would make it impossible for their assassins to come near him. They would be the ones to suffer a slow, painful death of ten thousand cuts if they dared. The thought brought a smile to Aerys' face as he entered the depths of the Red Keep.

True to its reputation, the black cell suffered no presence of light. The darkness was impenetrable, everywhere. Save for the rattling of his chains, it was deathly quiet too. Rhaegar could not say how long he'd been down in the bowels of the castle. Sitting amidst the piss-laden floor, the straw sticking to his clothes and skin, and his head aching against the cold dungeon wall, it was hard to tell for sure.

There was nothing else to do but wait.

He tried to bargain with the soldiers taking him to the cell. Lands, titles, and gold were all offered. To no avail, for the fear of wildfire was burned deep into them. A steel fist fell upon the back of his head when they had enough of his wild promises. Rhaegar could only moan and gasp in shocked pain as they tied his arms and left him to rot.

He chose to wait and save his strength. The gaoler. I must bring him to my side, and I have to stop father. It was only a matter of time before word of Tywin's arrest reached Casterly Rock. Before all the westerlands rose in rebellion.

Again, his plans were all for naught. No one had been to visit him since the start. In desperation, he shouted demands and offers to whoever may hear him. Only silence answered. It was impossible to know how much time had passed. He grew hungrier, thirstier. His stomach bent and twisted and growled in ways Rhaegar didn't know were possible. He'd never gone so long without food or water.

Is this part of his plan? The terrible thought had crossed his mind at some point and scarcely left it since. Does he want me to grow weak down here? To become useless and insane? An example for Viserys not to follow in his terrible brother's footsteps?

Thinking of his mother did little to raise his spirits. He's ravaging her again. I know it. Rhaegar seethed with a cold fury, he tried and failed to break the cuffs and chain. He'll make her suffer more than ever for my outburst.

His mother would very well not be alone in misery. Elia, Rhaenys, Viserys, Jon, Arthur-there were too many to count. And he could do nothing to help them. He could not even bring himself to ask for forgiveness, either from them or the uncaring gods that watched over them all.

Outside the cell, there was a rattling noise, a loud click, and the creaking of wood. Rhaegar mistook it for a dream at first as he had fallen asleep sometime in the throes of dread. It wasn't until the torchlight warmed his left cheek that he gasped and awoke.

"Wine, my prince," the gaoler said, kneeling down. He was a stout, bearded man wearing a leather half cape. "Your food will arrive later."

The voice was one he recognized and found not welcome at all. "Varys? What are you-"

"As I said, I bring wine and the promise of more in the future. Now drink, Prince Rhaegar. You look in desperate need of it."

Rhaegar laughed bitterly. "If you think I'll drink any poison from you, you're madder than the king."

The Spider seemed saddened by the accusation. "No one believes in a eunuch's goodwill. Very well."

Rhaegar expected him to force it down his throat, but was surprised again. Varys drank two mouthfuls instead and paused. Nothing happened to him. When he offered the wineskin again, it was not refused.

"You will be glad to know things are far less terrible out there than you might have otherwise thought."

"My mother," Rhaegar asked, savoring the taste on his lips. It bordered on sour, but to his parched mouth, it might as well been have sweet Arbor Gold."Elia, the others?"

"Your family is unharmed, even the queen," Varys told him. "They are informally confined to their chambers. Your father has not moved from the Iron Throne in over a day and a half. His fear has grown so great he refuses to eat, drink or even sleep. Staunton, our new Hand, effectively commands the Red Keep and ensures your father's will is done."

He lingered on his disgust for the man but for only a moment. A muted relief filled him with some hope. However, Rhaegar was careful to keep it so. The Spider couldn't be so easily trusted. "And what of Jon Connington?"

"Alas, he is a fellow captive of these terrible cells, I'm afraid. He earned a broken nose for his resistance."

Better a dozen broken bones than suffering wildfire.
"My father must have been very pleased to hear that."

"It was the only good news he's heard in days. The ravens have kept his spirits low and temper high."

The prince frowned. "What do you mean by the ravens?"

"Half of them have died," the eunuch's voice dropped as he spoke. "The survivors refuse to eat or sleep, much less fly. All they do is shake in their cages as if a great beast was ready to devour them. Animals across the whole city are acting the same. Except for the cats, strangely enough. Your father raged that the witcher had planned it all. A great, sorcerous scheme."

"You sound amused." Who wouldn't? Seven hells, Rhaegar would have laughed out loud in less desperate times.

"Geralt is a man utterly lacking in grand plans or ambitions" Varys replied with a fleeting smile. "He went after the curse because it presented a threat to the realm, not because it suited his desires. Whatever hatred I bear for magic, I must give him that much at least. I would sooner accuse him of not thinking things out more thoroughly than treason."

"And what is it you're planning, Lord Varys?" Rhaegar watched him closely. "You bring me wine, tell me what I want to hear, why? What game are you playing?"

"The same one I've always played, and for the same reason: peace for the realm."

The prince stared, looking for some hint at treachery. The utter lack of hesitation as Varys spoke only added to Rhaegar's disbelief. "Peace, what peace? Do you know whom you serve? A king who burns people alive? Who rapes his own wife and sees daggers in every shadow?"

"All of it contained within the Red Keep," Varys countered. "Oh, I am certain many lords outside the crownlands know or suspect what he does. Just as I am sure that they do not overly care. Lord Tywin ruled and protected their interests, and if the king wished to punish criminals harshly, let him."

"And now Tywin rots down here with me and Jon on false charges while my father does as he pleases," Rhaegar said bitterly.

"It is worse than you realize," Varys said. "Houses Stark, Tully, and Baratheon have become intertwined through various betrothals. What if I told you another sought to join this growing alliance? A certain lion from the west?"

It took but a few moments for Rhaegar to piece it together. "Jaime Lannister and Lysa Tully." If Ser Kevan tries the same plan, he could turn no less than four of the great houses against us. Five if he offers Cersei or another girl to Elbert Arryn… Dread tightened around his throat like a noose the longer he considered this. This would mean the end of our house.

"He must die."

Even then, reflecting upon that terrible moment later, Rhaegar could not say which of them said the words.

All the same, he felt terribly cold. When he again looked upon Varys, the eunuch's face was a grim visage carved out of stone. "You know it must be done. So long as Aerys Targaryen draws breath, there cannot be peace."

Rhaegar's back crawled. "There is no man more accursed by gods and men than a kinslayer."

"Even if the slain one is a king who rapes his wife, burns people alive, and wants a Field of Fire from Dorne to the Wall?" A hint of impatience entered Varys' voice. "What do your gods and customs say of one who does nothing in the face of these atrocities?"

Rhaegar wished he knew for certain, and not for the first time. When news of the first time his father had ravaged his mother reached him, his wrath was terrible. Like an angry hound sniffing blood, he stormed through the halls, seeking vengeance. It was his mother who prevented bloodshed.

"Do not stain your soul with his blood," she begged, holding back tears. "The gods will never forgive you. You will never forgive yourself."

When his rage dulled, Rhaegar told himself she was right. The wrath of the gods was a terrible thing to suffer. He held onto fading memories of a different father from his youth- one who was as different from the madman who sat on the Iron Throne as day is to night.

A good man who held his lady wife close as they sobbed for another lost child. A father who once smiled with pride when his son won tourneys and earned favor from their people. And as he would not, could not kill Aerys himself, Rhaegar had tried to draw some comfort from the fact that he planned to remove his father from the throne bloodlessly, when he left the realm, and his family little other choice.

With even that taken away, the bleak future that awaited them all was frighteningly clear in his mind's eye. There was but one way to stop the madness now. All else led to ruin.

"Varys," Rhaegar spoke in a voice as cold and sharp as steel even as tears streamed unbidden and unwanted down his cheeks. "Do it."

"How much longer must I wait, Staunton? Horses, birds, from whom else must I expect treachery?!" The shout was half-hearted, the act left him lightheaded at once.

The world went out of focus and spun before his eyes. The Hand, the Kingsguard, even beams of afternoon sunlight throughout the hall became misshapen, whirling blots. Aerys tried to blink away the mess that was his sight, with limited success.

"P-Preparations are hastening, Your Grace," the fat fool sniveled from the base of the Iron Throne. His shrill voice did little to improve the king's mood. "We've regained control of many of the horses, and your retinue should be ready to depart soon."

"And the ravens? Why do they still refuse to fly? How am I to know what awaits me at Harrenhal?" Or if my enemies are dead or trapped.

At this, the Hand fell silent. Looking for another excuse, I'd wager. "One more day, Staunton. You have that only to see my order's carried out. Or I find someone else who will. Am I understood?"

"Y-yes-," Symond whimpered.

"Then get out of my bloody sight!"

Watching him flee like a hunted hind gave Aerys no pleasure this time. The comparison only reminded him of how hungry he was. Thirsty too.

Yet he could not risk eating or drinking. There was no telling what his enemies could slip in there.

The headache flared again. It was akin to an axe splitting his skull, nestled between his eyes, throbbing thunderously. His body was stiff and numb. Leaning back into the throne was impossible. There were too many swords capable of rending flesh nearby.

But it would all be worth it, soon.

Just a while longer. Aerys looked to the skull of Balerion hanging closest to the throne. Soon, your brethren will be more than mere wall decorations. You will fly and burn all before again.

The afternoon and early evening passed without any returns from Staunton. Kingsguard and regular soldiers changed shifts as the hours passed. Countless times, his heavy eyes threatened to close and fall. That was when the unpleasant sensations through his body became useful.

They helped keep him awake and alert for the many people no doubt waiting to kill him.
It was midnight when Staunton returned.

The apparent fear on his ashen face from before was gone. The Hand stepped into the throne room with the vigor of a man half his size and age. There was a barely contained smile on his face. Aerys leaned closer, daring to hope.

"Your Grace," Staunton bowed. "My knights have just informed me that the raven has been made to obey. It has already left for Harrenhal."

The words were like the sweetest of wines for Aerys' ears. He too found himself rejuvenated. "And what of the horses? Do they obey too?"

"More and more with each passing hour," Staunton said eagerly. "We've already assembled over two hundred of the finest steads. At this pace, I suspect we shall have three hundred calmed again by morning."

One more day. That is all I must last and then I can go meet my destiny.

The good mood lasted briefly. Throughout the night, the pains worsened considerably. It became harder to breathe and a terrible throb was in his jaw and teeth. Every drop of spit was as precious as drinking water to his dried lips.

A terrible growl erupted from his stomach the following morning. He winced and bent over from the sharp, twisting pain. More than a few cramped muscles protested from the sudden movement. He hadn't felt this sore all over since the fighting on the Stepstones. Not even the Darklyns had starved him out so fiercely.

"Your Grace?" Ser Gerold asked with concern, ascending some steps. "As your Kingsguard, I must again ask you to reconsider your stance. Without a meal, you will-"

"I will endure this," Aerys replied through grit teeth. "Baelor Targaryen fasted for far longer than this. Up to forty days. Do you think I cannot do the same?"

"Of course not, my king," Gerold bowed. "I only wish to see you healthy and strong. The journey to Harrenhal will take almost a fortnight. Even Baelor the Blessed ate bread and drank wine while spurning more luxurious substances. Surely there must be some way for us to prepare a meal or drink for you?"

Aerys almost dismissed the notion out of hand. Tywin's agents would never allow a single scrap of food or drink to reach him without poison. He had been in the capital for nearly twenty years. More than enough time to put his people everywhere from cooks to messengers to even the food and wine tasters.

Varys had put no fewer than a dozen of them away. But how many were left? And how bold would they grow in desperation? Against them, the only safe man in the castle was Tywin himself.

Perhaps I should make him my food taster. Aerys smiled briefly at the passing thought. Or what was only meant to be one. "Ser Gerold, you needn't worry about my health for much longer."

One hour later, four men escorted Tywin into the hall, bringing him a dozen paces away from the Kingsguard. The numbers of those soldiers standing by were increased to over a hundred and fifty, half along each side.

The former lord of Casterly Rock made a pitiful attempt to look unbothered by his imprisonment. He walked with a straight back, never looking anywhere but forward as though his stations were intact. In the midday sun, however, all present could see its falsehood. His golden locks were a lank mess, his red leather boots were stained with something brown and foul, and his cloth-of-gold tunic was spattered with worse.

There was an unmistakable weariness in his bloodshot eyes Aerys delighted in witnessing. A pity the rest of the court was not here to see this. Mayhaps I will keep him alive long enough to for them to witness it.

Many in the Red Keep already knew of his new position regardless. Aerys sent out men across the entire castle with the express purpose of ensuring it. He wanted everyone, most particularly Tywin's little assassins in waiting, to know.

"You look well, Tywin. The black cells seem to agree with you." His old friend gave no answer save a stern scowl. "Your silence is appreciated, so long as you still remember how to swallow. Guards, give something to slake his hunger and thirst. No doubt, the Great is famished."

Strong hands clamped down on each of Tywin's shoulders, forcing him to his knees. They kept him down while other soldiers brought forth a tray of loaves of sweetbread and a barrel of red Lys wine. They shoved large slices of sweetbread down his throat first.

Tywin's mouth was so full his cheeks puffed enough to rival Staunton's. He had scarcely swallowed it down when a third soldier grabbed his hair, forcing his head back while two others poured the barrel over his head.

The Great Lion was bent over in a coughing fit, his tunic and face stained dark red. The sound of his hacking was beautiful music to Aerys' ears. "And now we wait and see if your agents slipped anything in. The great Tywin Lannister, murdered by his own assassins. A good joke, don't you think?"

"Only half as funny as you," Tywin managed to say in a ragged voice.

The coughing was transformed in the span of a few breaths. Aerys stared and leaned forward, listening closely. Could they have truly done it? As it turned out, they didn't. Tywin's cough hadn't changed due to poison- it changed because he was laughing.

It grew louder, the sound bouncing off the walls like a cave echo. His cackling face, doused in red wine, was terrible to look upon.

"Wha-what are you-"

"Laughing at how terrified you are," Tywin's smile was even worse to behold than it was to hear his laughter. "You think my death will give you peace? Even if you kill me and my entire house, you will always wonder if one got away. If one more lion was waiting in the shadows to strike. You will never be rid of me, Aerys. Never."

Silence fell.

Everything seemed to stand still. The king's wrath didn't explode at once. He was far too shocked by what he'd seen.

It simmered and froth, growing into something terrible within his chest until it hurt as if someone had thrust a sword straight into his heart. Aerys was so distracted by what he could possibly do to punish Tywin enough he scarcely realized Symond's approach until the Hand stood before the Iron Throne.

Him, and Pycelle's assistant.

"Staunton," Aerys said in an icy voice, "why is the maester here and not watching for the ravens?"

The lad did not so much step forward as he was pushed in front by Staunton. The boy's thin lips quivered, his hands clutching at the plain brown cloak for dear life as he knelt.

"Your G-g-grace, there has been a… p-problem with the ravens."

Thin fingers tightened around the blades that served as the throne's armrests. "What have you done this time?"

"The raven f-flew in Harrenhal's direction, Your Grace, I swear!" The boy's beady little eyes were terrified. "But it was not to be so. Another flew to the Red Keep not half an hour ago. It was from Lord Rykker. He said the Harrenhal raven had lost its way and flown to his home instead. He s-s-swore to get your message to Lord Whent with utmost speed."

"Rykker," Aerys replied flatly. "Do you mean to tell me that fucking bird flew to Duskendale instead?"

"A-aye."

"You worthless shit for brains!" He rose to full height, shaking, looking for something to throw at the fool. At Staunton as well, cowering to the boy's left. The urge to run down the steps and strangle them and the still smiling Tywin was only barely restrained.

"I gave you simple orders! So simple that a moon-blind fool would be able to follow them! Send a bird to a castle and prepare a few riders and you cannot do either one? Instead, you sent a raven to fucking Duskendale of all places?!"Aerys all but screamed, his voice too hoarse from lack of water to do so in truth.

He stopped for a moment, shaking so strongly his bones seemed to rattle.
"I'm going to kill you all," Aerys seethed through grit teeth. "I will butcher your families and burn your homes so thoroughly men and beasts alike will shit themselves at the mention my name for the next ten thousand-"

Without warning, the stabbing pain in his chest turned into a raging furnace. Aerys stopped and gasped for air, but to no avail - nothing was entering his lips no matter how hard he strove to breathe. He tried to clutch at the spot where it hurt most, but his right arm hung useless at his side and the other was frozen around his heart.

"Your Grace?" Aerys faintly heard Staunton call out to him. He could only reply with a single, pathetic wheeze. "Sers, we must help his majesty!"

The world spun again, becoming a blur of mind-splitting motions before his eyes. Aerys tried to keep his balance, tried to hold on until his knights reached him. But alas, no.

Aerys' sight recovered just enough for him to see the dozens of swords rising to meet him as he fell.

Chapter Text

Day 1

What am I doing here? What do I even say to him? The questions hung over Rhaegar's head like an executioners blade the entire day. Some would answer with prayers, parting words of love for the deceased parent, expressing the hope they were someplace better. Nothing was so simple with Aerys Targaryen.

The last of the days mourners had long since departed, midnight drew near. The throne room was quiet. All around him and his father's body scented candles burned from dozens of tall candelabras. They and near forty braziers banished the night into the furthest corners. The red stone appeared to glow under their light. Great banners bearing their families' sigil hung along the walls, between the mounted dragon skulls. The Kingsguard who otherwise stood vigil close to the bier were absent, Rhaegar had asked them to leave for this private visit.

It was just as his father detailed in his will. If anyone wished to pay their final respects to the king, they would do so at the heart of his power, beneath the Iron Throne. There the body would lay for two more days, giving the nobility and smallfolk alike a chance to come pay their respects and share their grief.

Most of the courtiers were more relieved than anything. Rhaegar noticed the absence of fear in their faces or how the tightness around their jaws and stiffness in their walk had vanished. The only ones bothered were Aerys' lickspittles who bowed low and spewed niceties to curry favor with the soon to be king. Rhaegar's only answers were cold smiles and curt agreement.

The only lord who was of immediate concern to him was Tywin and he was among the first to pay his respects. Though stripped of all lands and titles on Aerys' word, none of the kings remaining supporters felt the need to enforce the proclamation.

Tywin approached the bier with his usual, imperious bearing, he had done well in masking the wear of the black cell. A gold threaded lion embroidered over the left breast of his otherwise crimson tunic roared while a short, black cape flowed down from his right shoulder. Black, polished boots shined and reached almost to his knees. His cold, green eyes appeared more severe with his golden hair combed and slicked back.

Those same eyes looked over the king once, twice ere he knelt and gave a prayer to the Seven, no doubt cursing him to one or all of their hells. Then, without another glance at the body, he rose to address the royal family.

"Your Grace," Tywin said, kissing the queen's offered hand. "I must apologize for my daughter's absence, recent events have left her tired. She sends her most sincere condolences for your loss."

"Tell Cersei I am most grateful," The queen inclined her head. "And that she may take as long as she needs to rest. These are very... trying times for us all."

"Indeed, losing an old friend is never easy," He brazenly lied, moving onto Rhaegar next. "I do believe more fortuitous days lie ahead for us all. A chance to begin again, wouldn't you agree, Your Grace?"

Rhaegar politely smiled and shook his hand, agreeing with the sentiment. A fool could guess the meaning behind his words: the lion would soon demand compensation for the wrongs done to him. Refusing to do so would court further disaster with the Lannisters.

It was a parting gift from the late king, one reason among a thousand that made the genuine displays of grief over his passing from the lowborn of King's Landing impossible to stomach. It was a despair born of ignorance. If they understood what his father had truly become, what he was about to do they would mourn him almost as little as Rhaegar's mother did. The work of the silent sisters on Aerys' corpse only furthered their illusions.

The fine heavy plate of steel he wore was intricately engraved with the Targaryen sigil across his chest down to the last scale. The besagues resembled shrunken black dragon heads. Red inlays on his gauntlets, greaves and breastplate broke the otherwise black color.

The bastard sword that lay upon his chest was without a scabbard. A trio of dragon heads adorned the tips of the slanted cross-guard. The largest was at its center giving the impression of a sword exiting its mouth. Its handle was thick and black, segmented into rings and the pommel was naught by a large, red jewel.

The sisters folded Aerys' hands over the center of the steel, its talons shrunken to ordinary finger nails. His long, tangled white hair was neatly cut and arranged only to reach his shoulders, the polished black, three pointed crown, each ending with the head of a dragon gleamed in the candlelight. They'd even managed to hide the scar where one of the dozen blades cut through his throat.

What caught Rhaegar's eye most of all was his father's expression. It was the visage of a man utterly at peace. A wise king resting at last. It was unsettling.

For as long as Rhaegar knew him, Aerys was always in motion. He laughed heartily and could speak for hours of vengeance when worthwhile. When he planned something, they were grand designs made known throughout the entire Red Keep ere he lost interest in them.

Sometimes these moods changed with great speed. In the span of a single evening, he would be the heart of a gathering and then the dark cloud hanging over it. He was a man prone to fear too. It was never more obvious than when one of Rhaegar's many lost siblings passed before their time.

Duskendale made him eternally fearful. His thinning frame was perpetually tense, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. His suspicious gaze constantly wandered around every inch of a given room. The mad fire in them was enough to bring terror to most men's hearts.

Now it's over, he can't hurt anyone anymore. That fact alone should've brought him immense relief. It didn't. In the three days since he was first thrown into black cell, the dejected restless born of that terrible place still clung to him like a leech.

He's dead. Rhaegar repeated the fact over and over. He's gone forever. By week's end what's left of him will be naught but ash. He closed his eyes and let out a long, suffering breath, his fingers curled into fists. So why, why does he still bother me?!

He stood there for a time and listened to the gentle crackling of burning wood. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. "Damn you," Rhaegar seethed and looked again at the body. "Even in death you bring nothing but trouble."

The king said nothing.

"Is this what you wanted, to die screaming like a madman impaled on your own throne?" He snarled.

It was almost the truth. His ever dutiful mother wore her black mourning gown and hid her indifference to Aerys' demise with a thick, mesh veil when in public. Elia played the role of the distraught but thankful gooddaughter. She even managed to say a kind word or two about the king when approached by someone out to curry favor through false sympathy.

Only Viserys' tears were genuine. The boy had never experienced any hardship. Their father shielded and spoiled him too much. He didn't even understand what death was until Rhaegar and his mother both spent the better part of an hour explaining it to him. It took two more to calm him.

"How could you?" Rhaegar said. His fists shook uncontrollably. "You burned people alive... raped your own wife and for what, because your bloody cock couldn't work otherwise?! Mother was always dutiful, always faithful, even when any other woman would have cut your throat while you slept! She even protected you from my wrath you miserable, ungrateful bastard!"

He could not say how or what stopped him from striking the body. "What of me, what did I do to earn your hatred after Duskendale? For not cutting Tywin's head off when he callously spoke of your rescue? Was that all the reason you needed to cut ties with your own son?!"

Faster than Rhaegar could stop them, tears flowed down his cheeks. His hands laid atop the bier's left side, his head lowered until his silver hair fell over his brow and obscured all but the body. Rhaegar could not say how long he stood there, shaking, quietly sobbing. All his practiced calm, indifference and dignity crumbled before the flood of guilt, anger and regret.

The king said nothing to this. How could he? He was dead, only the gods would ever know his reasons or excuses. It was just a pity Aerys couldn't have taken all the woes and misery he'd caused with him. Healing those was a task left for those he had wronged.

"For the affection I once had for you, I will perform my duty as your son for a few more days," Rhaegar hoarsely said. "I will pretend to mourn you, I will burn you atop the pyre as per Valyrian customs and then I will inter your ashes with our forebearers."

Then, he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially into Aerys' ear. "But I will not fully respect your will. After Harrenhal there is no man, god or devil that could ever force me to burn you with wildfire and a dragon egg. You will never be a dragon."

Rhaegar found a great deal of satisfaction from that final, hateful promise. He drew back, gave the body one last, hateful look then stepped away to let his majesty rot away in peace. He shed no more tears and lost no more sleep that evening over Aerys Targaryen.

Day 2

Midnight was close when Rhaegar snuck out of his bedchamber. Half lit or pitch black hallways and corridors greeted him as he traversed throughout the Red Keep to his destination. This didn't bother him, years of secret meetings with his allies and possible additions to that inner circle had made him quite experienced in the art of skulking.

However, this was no meeting with Arthur or Barristan about the troubled, now ended reign of his father. It wasn't Rhaegar sneaking out to read old tomes and scrolls left buried within Maegor's holdfast. It wasn't even him slipping out of the castle entirely to get drunk and sing to the smallfolk with Jon at his side.

With a sheathed sword hidden underneath the thick, black cloak, Rhaegar quietly made his way through the halls grim-faced as if marching to a duel to the death. If only it were that simple.

Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but each step to his destination seemed to make the shadows thicker. The air became colder, a slithering unease crept up and down his spine.

His mother awaited him outside the door, still wearing her black mourning gown absent the thick mesh veil. Her face was pale, ghost-like in the small candlelight, her hands quivered imperceptibly. She didn't even notice his approach. All she did was stare hauntingly at the entrance to Aerys' bedchamber.

"There is... there is something I must do there," she told him that morning before they broke their fast. "I planned to wait until... he was ash but it can't, Rhaegar. Meet me at his bedchamber at midnight, bring a sword with you and tell no one else of this."

It was a strange request to be sure. That room had been hell for her, a place where Aerys truly rescinded any right to be anything but a monster. Why would she want to ever go back there and why bring a sword?

"Mother," He quietly called out, stepping into the candlelight. When she didn't move, he gently shook her left shoulder. "Mother? I'm-"

She recoiled at the touch with a gasp, a fleeting look of sheer fright passed over her face. It took a span of two heartbeats for her to calm down. "Rhaegar, I'm sorry, I was only..."

"It's alright," He said, trying not to show the growing discomfort he felt about this. "I've brought the sword as you asked."

She glanced at the door then back at him. "I know you find this all strange, worrying even. I'm not sure it will sound any less so when I explain it but..."

He stood and waited while she gathered her thoughts, or courage.

"The bed, I-I want it destroyed," Steel entered her voice. "That was where he... where it always happened. Just the sight of it became enough to..."

Rhaegar watched her shudder, her hands opened and closed in and out of fists. An old, black hate several years old and still furnace was hot reignited. I should throw what's left of him into the sea. Let the so-called dragon feed the fish. He was sorely tempted to try it and damn whatever anyone thought.

However, he did care about how others would see it, particularly his mother. She was always mindful of her duty as queen and what one should and shouldn't do in such a position. She was a firm believer of the Seven as well, the knowledge her own son had shouted and narrowly came to striking a dead man would appall her. Even this small bit of revenge must have embarrassed her.

"I need to do this," She recomposed herself with a steadying breath. "It's all I can do now for some measure of peace."

"You don't have to justify anything to me," Rhaegar assured her. "Just say the word and I'll do anything else to aid you."

"I know," A brief, genuine smile brightened her face. "Thank you, my boy."

He smiled back, nodded and waited until she was ready. Then, together they gripped the handle and went inside. Save for the beam of moonlight illuminating the northern side from the open balcony, the room was pitch black. Not that it mattered, Rhaegar remembered where everything was.

The air still smelled of burnt wood and soot. All eight of the flower pots that once stood in pairs throughout the room were long since replaced by ten barrel high, braziers. Each night, Aerys commanded them and over two dozen torches aligning the walls to burn from dusk till dawn. A marble floor replaced the old tiles, turning even light footfalls into the thunderous sound of trampling horse hoofs. No carpets remained to lessen the effect.

On the opposite side of the balcony, situated atop a wide, raised platform was the bed. The nearest nightstands, the chairs and the three desks got shunted to the corners of the room to allow for four braziers to encircle the bed.

Rhaegar left his mother's side to light the closest sconces. The red, three-headed dragon seemed to glow in the fire atop the black sheets. They stared at it wordlessly as though it were some slumbering beast none should dare awaken. Geralt had said things and places of great cruelty and malice could become tainted by it and pass the misfortune on like a disease. How much of it lingered on the bed made Rhaegar's stomach twist in revulsion.

With considerable forbearance which betrayed none of what she must have felt, his mother ended the thick silence. "Give me the sword."

The castle forged steel was out in an instant. It was a shorter sword Rhaegar had used before he was fully grown, lighter, easier to control and to hide beneath a cloak. The queen took the offered weapon with a slightly tremulous hand. Her fingers tightened and loosened about the pommel, her eyes fixed on the blade itself.

"Don't swing," Rhaegar gently helped her adjust and reverse the grip. " If you 're not trained, the blade might fly out of your hand. Keep your legs evenly spaced, when you push it out, don't do it too hastily or you might pull a shoulder."

She nodded and stepped closer to the bed. For the span of a few heartbeats, she didn't move. Rhaegar offered to help her with the first blow when her arms laboriously rose then rammed the blade through.

She gasped so loudly he feared she'd managed to hurt herself. It was naught but a surprising exhale. His mother again froze, kneeling by the side of the bed, her breath ragged. Then, with a surprising ease, she dislodged the sword out and sent bits of tattered sheets into the air.

It only became easier the longer she practiced. Rhaegar stepped back and simply watched as the blade fell again and again, tearing painfully and audibly through the accursed bedding like a hide torn from flesh. He listened to his mother's gasps turn into snarls of long held hate and rage, incomprehensible half-wails and curses against one who would only face justice from the gods now.

She had turned the sheets, wood and pillows into a butchered mess when her strength seemed to fail. Feathers became scattered five feet in every direction of the bed, the three headed dragon became a mangled thing of twisted features.

She faced away from him, the sword hung pointed down to the floor between her right fingers, her shoulders slumped and her breath heavy.

"Mother?" He called out to her, but there was no response. "Mother, are you-"

At the sound of his footsteps, she snarled, spun and raised the sword overhead. Rhaegar stopped and stared at the sight before him. Out of everything he'd seen and heard that night, the ending became most vividly carved into his memory like a dreadful scar.

Her braid, always immaculate, had come partway undone. Curls of silver hair pointed wildly in every direction, her tired arms trembled with the aloft sword from fright and anticipation of an attack, her eyes, glowing from the nearest torch sconce burned with a mad fire.

"Mother," He said with a quivering lip. "Mother, please."

She starred, teeth barred the blade shaking like a leaf in the wind. Rhaegar came closer, tears welled in his eyes, hope and terror fought in his heart.

"Mother, its me, its your son..." Gods, please don't let madness take her too...

"... Rhaegar?" She whispered, blinking away the mad fire in her eyes. Her face relaxed, the blade held high thunderously fell and reverberated against the tiled floor. His mother herself would have too if Rhagar hadn't caught her on the way down. "Rhaegar, I'm-"

"It's alright, it's alright." He whispered, holding her, the tears and gasps of relief flooded unabated out of him. His mother hugged back, kept whispering apologies cried alongside him anew.

They said nothing for a time, there was no need to. They simply remained in each other's arms, drawing relief and comfort until the hour of ghosts passed and the first rays of dawn tinged the sky purple. Rhaegar helped his mother back to her chambers, the experience had left her weightless and tired in his arms. However, when he saw the look of exhausted satisfaction on her face when she fast fell asleep, Rhaegar smiled and kissed her good night.

Sleep would come to him much later. A great deal of unwanted furniture had to get thrown out into the sea and he wished to do it personally.

Day 3

He couldn't say why he chose to see Rhaenys that afternoon. The last hour had passed in a daze, Rhaegar felt as though someone had ripped his soul out and his body remained to wander the world aimlessly without it. There were any number of other places he could have gone to, other people he should visit and speak with yet on the grave matter he'd learned about yet there he stood above a sleeping baby's crib.

Rhaenys' little chest went up and down with each tiny breath. Her mouth hung just slightly open, letting a trail of drool run down her face and stain the purple sheets covering her from the neck down. Silver and brown hair already graced her head.

She was a beautiful, slumbering little princess, a babe without a care or regret in the world. Rhaegar almost envied her if he didn't know how doomed Rhaenys was.

Her first words were already silenced, her first steps taken away. She would never learn the joys and pains of reading, studying and horse riding. Never become the joy or terror of the Red Keep, make friends or perhaps find love. All those wonderful and terrible possibilites would never come to pass. Only he was to blame, he had failed her and everyone else long ago.

Rhaegar might have shed tears, if the ice shard in his heart hadn't left him numb and cold. "I'm sorry little one..."

"Rhaegar?" He looked up across the room and saw Elia standing at the door, surprised and confused.

Rhaenys stirred at the sound of her voice and wailed meekly. Elia was by her side in an instant, her high necked long black gown fluttered through the air as if pushed up by a gust of wind.

"There there, don't be upset little one," Elia took Rhaenys into her arms, she smiled and offered their daughter a thumb. Rhaenys chewed at it at once, mollified.

Rhaegar watched them closely. The happy glint in their daughters eyes, the way Elia gently swayed in place, humming a tune he didn't recognize. How many more times would they enjoy this? How long until there was naught left but a cold dead wind in these halls?

"She's magnificent, isn't she?" Elia asked him, unknowingly twisting the ice chard growing in his chest. "Magnificent and healthy, I foresee many a love-struck boy in her future."

"There isn't a future for her or any of us."

The statement and it's hopeless utterance shook her anew. Her tanned, graceful face bathed in the sunlight shining behind them from the window froze as if run through. Her large dark eyes widened, her thin lips parted.

"Why would you-"

"A raven arrived from Harrenhal one hour ago," Rhaegar interjected. "Arthur, Oswell, Geralt,... they all survived the ordeal. They've broken the curse, Lord Whent has already retaken control of the castle and prepares to rebuild Harrentown."

Feeling the strength drain from his legs, Rhaegar sat down atop Elia's double bed. His breathing became more hitched, his gaze unsteady.

"A greenman came to them from the Isle of Faces. A messenger to warn them, warn us all of something terrible that's been ravaging the lands Beyond the Wall..." Rhaegar's fingers clutched at the purple, silk sheets. "The Others have returned, Elia. They're back and they mean to destroy us all."

Words long held back came pouring out of Rhaegar like a raging river. Knowledge he had only shared with his closest friends or allies, those who didn't share most people's skepticism of sorcery or visions of the future. He told her of his nightmares since childhood, of a wintery and destroyed King's Landing by blue-eyed shadows. The song of ice and fire, the prince that was promised, the dragon that must have three heads he explained with nothing held back.

"Now my worst nightmares have come to life," Rhaegar concluded with finality, staring at somewhere far away. A quiet Elia sat next to him, Rhaenys blissfully slept in her arms. "It's only a matter of time before they march on the Wall, another Long Night more terrible than the first..."

Rhaegar's face fell into his hands, he felt exposed, like a fresh, unwrapped wound. Elia said nothing, only Rhaneys' gentle breathing kept the silence at bay.

"You must think I'm mad, don't you?" Rhaegar gave a bitter, humorless laugh. Why wouldn't she? My father was mad, my mother briefly lost her sanity last night, why should I be exempt? Maybe I'm the maddest of them all...

"If you had told me this half a year ago, yes, I would think you mad," Elia replied with a surprising honesty. Her voice, however, wasn't colored by skepticism. "However, much has happened since the witcher saved me. Paths to other worlds, monsters, wraiths and curses..."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I understand why this frightens you so, if the monsters of my deepest fears appeared before me, I would feel the same. But," She looked at him, sympathetic but determined. "All is not yet lost, Rhaegar. You are king, all the power and authority that entails are yours to use against the Others."

"My power is less than you realize," He bitterly wiped away what stung his eyes. "House Targaryen has fallen in the eyes of the great lords. My great-grandfather's reforms and failed betrothals earned their ire. My father's flights of fancy then madness have left the whole realm thinking of Tywin as king in all but name. Of course Lord Lannister isn't pleased with that, he wishes for me or Viserys to marry Cersei all while positioning himself in a grand alliance with the other great houses."

He relayed to her what Varys told him back in the black cell.

"Now I see," Elia muttered, twisting her lip. "He yearns for a Lannister Targaryen match with one child while another secures a place with the Starks, Baratheons and Tullys."

"My father's last act of stupidity ensures Tywin is owed a great compensation. He won't be placated by simply getting reinstated as Hand."

"Then you must offer him a Targaryen betrothal."

The bluntness of the statement took him by surprise. Rhaegar looked to find Elia smiling.

"Not with Viserys and Cersei, that must never come to pass. Offer him an agreement to wed his first granddaughter with our first son."

"Our son? Elia, are you-"

"No but there is time and I'm not as frail as I was before."

Rhaegar couldn't help but notice. In the immediate months since Rhaenys' birth, she became bedridden, her dark skin turned unnaturally pale and thick lines of weariness marred the space around her eyes and mouth. All of that disappeared. The young woman he'd met two years ago sat next to him.

Rhaegar became almost distracted the sight of her, not helped by the scented perfume of Dornish red roses from her hair. "It won't be enough, he'll want something immediate, a show of respect and trust between us."

"Then offer one of the Lannisters a place among the Kingsguard. Ser Harlan's place remains free and has been for months now."

A place among the Kingsguard was indeed a great honor he knew. Men of high and low birth alike could aspire and become respected members of the order. Putting a Lannister among them would show Tywin he intended to keep his word and leave someone blood bound to the future queen as protector.

"Tygett Lannister," He thought aloud. "I've met and fought against him in several tourneys. A stern man and fearsome warrior, Tygett fought on the Stepstones too. Gerold, Barristan and Lewyn have told me how he'd felled several men and a Knight of the Golden Company when he was but ten years old. They'd have knighted him several times over if not for that." He was unwed too, and in rather poor relations with his oldest brother.

"Doesn't Lord Rickard have a third son as well?" Elia's conspiratorial smile grew. "Knights among the northmen are rare, this is true, but none of them would refuse an offer for their son to squire for one of the Kingsguard."

"No," Rhaegar admitted, surprised and reluctant by where this conversation headed. "No, they certainly wouldn't."

"There is the small council too," Elia nudged closer. "Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, any number of lords can be offered a place on it. Unless you mean to keep your father's troupe of sycophants?"

"Not bloody likely," Rhaegar growled. "I'd sooner drink wildfire than suffer any of those bastards a second longer."

Elia answered with a long but quieted laughter. Rhaegar couldn't help himself, he joined her. For a while longer, they spoke and schemed about what they could do to strengthen Targaryen and Martell ties with the rest of Westeros.

"Use this war to your advantage," Elia said when the sunset outside drew nearer. "The great lords doubt you? Make them feel foolish for thinking so. Show them that when Westeros is threatened it is only to a strong, Targaryen king they can look to for victory and prosperity. Do this and all your predecessors' failures will vanish like empty words in the wind."

Just as she finished, Rhaenys stirred again. Elia's words, humming and gentle rocking failed to calm her, the babe's crying grew louder.

"D-Do you want me to try it?" Rhaegar offered despite his trepidation.

Holding a child always put him on edge, ever since little Daeron passed mere hours after Rhaegar held him, a bizarre but strong antipathy towards it took root in his heart.

Elia must have noticed it in his face or voice. She gently, slowly put Rhaenys into his arms. She was heavier than Rhaegar thought, soft and warm to the touch and not calming down at all.

"I'm sorry," He couldn't see which of them he meant it for. "I'm... I'm not very good at this."

"Try singing to her," Elia smiled encouragingly despite the growing, piercing wails of their child. "You're no novice in that regard as I recall."

True enough. He had sung to her at their wedding, eliciting tears and cries of joy from her and many of the women present. They didn't need to encourage more crying of Rhaenys but it couldn't hurt to try.

So he did, it was a song he made but hadn't finished. It was about a dragon, a noble one who united all the lands and brought peace to them. For a while, Rhaenys seemed not to hear or dislike it. But slowly, gradually, the words reached her and soothed her frightened heart. By the end of it, the babe was giggling and smiling, her tiny arms clutching at the nearest strands of his silver hair.

"It seems you've got a new admirer." Elia's shoulder and arm brushed his own as she gently shook Rhaneys' tiny leg dangling in the air.

"Yes, it seems I do." He grinned at their giggling daughter. The weight of what was to come still lingered in his mind but somehow, it seemed less hopeless than before. I'll win this war, little one, Rhaegar silently promised the carefree child. You will have a future, I promise.

Chapter Text

Geralt was on his seventh day of recovery from the potions when the great lords arrived at Harrenhal. To the immediate right and left of the gateway, soldiers mounted and on foot stood ready. The household servants and dislocated residents of Harrentown formed the majority of this welcoming gathering in a semi-circle. The Whents stood at the forefront, Lord Walter in the center with his family lined up to his right, from Lady Shella to their youngest child. The Hanse, or The Harrenhal Five as many came to call them of late, stood lined up from his left side. The only noteworthy absence was Howland. He toiled away at a tricky, important task elsewhere.

Geralt watched the stream of armored, mounted men flow into the castle through the cavernous depths of Harrenhal's gateway. By his quick estimate, each of the four great lords had brought two dozen or so bannermen, knights, or some other type of sworn sword. Their weapons and armor were of fine make. The polished steel shone brightly in the midday sun. Banners resplendent with theTully trout, Stark wolf, Arryn falcon, and Baratheon stag swayed back and forth in the gentle breeze.

They were four great houses joined together through old friendships, marriage betrothals, and fosterings. Their members had assembled at Riverrun and were meant to ride out for the tourney before Walter told them of its delay. They came to Harrenhal for a different reason, entirely more wonderful and terrible than they could ever imagine.

Amidst the multitudes of men arrayed in the colors of their respective houses, one caught Geralt's eye first. He had a few years on than Jaime, and he was of a height with the Smiling Knight, and his arms thick with muscle, resembled tree trunks. A war hammer of absurd size was slung to the side of his black stallion. Barristan had spoken of Robert Baratheon's impressive size and strength back at King's Landing. Even without the Kingsguard's description Geralt didn't doubted the terror he could sow in a melee.

Next, he noted the Stark pack led by a man of similar age to Walter. His long, brown hair fell past his shoulders and was held back by a band similar to what Geralt used to wear. Thick creases aged Rickard Stark beyond his years, adding grim severity to his long, bearded face. He and his children all were thick cloaks of wolf fur about their shoulders.

Geralt's gaze lingered on a particular item brought by them. Just as with Baratheon, a sword longer than most men were tall was strapped to the side of Rickard's stead.

So that's Valyrian steel. I'll have to take a closer look at it later.

Next, he observed Jon Arryn, who could not be mistaken for anyone else. Tall and broad, powerful in bearing despite being the eldest of the riders. What little hair remained just above and behind his ears was thin and white. Unlike the other great lords, including the youth who shared his blue eyes and aquiline nose, Lord Arryn's armor was plain if finely made steel. Nothing was engraved on it, not even the sigil of his house.

The last lord Geralt focused on, and the first to dismount was Hoster Tully. His auburn, if grey-streaked hair was cut short, accentuating his stern blue eyes. A blue and red cloak held by a trout pin wrapped around his broad shoulders and fell over his right arm, covering much of his sword. Behind him came a man wearing grey mail under blackened steel and a helm with a black trout adorning its crest. His personal banner also had a blackfish on it. Brynden Tully put the helm under his left arm, revealing a younger faceless graven by gray hairs or deep lines than his brother.

For a few moments, silence fell on the courtyard. Most of the new arrivals looked around them with plain surprise. They searched for signs of destruction and seemed perplexed to find Harrenhal not just standing but relatively undamaged.

Jon Arryn was the first to look upon the Hanse. It was impossible to miss them in any crowd with the golden and white armors of Jaime and the Kingsguard. Geralt, quite expectedly, earned the lengthiest stares of those who focused on the party. Not the least for standing to the immediate left of Walter, before even Oswell or Arthur. The youngest Starks seemed the most interested in him.

"My lords," Walter announced. He stepped forward to greet the Tully's. "My friends and my kin, the hospitality of Harrenhal is yours."

The gathered group of knights, guards, servants, and smallfolk knelt before the great lords. The newly arrived nobles seemed to recompose themselves and dismounted in earnest.

"Walter, it is good to see-" Lord Tully's mouth hung open when he looked at his approaching good brother. Brynden Tully, Jon Arryn, and Rickard Stark all goggled like the Tully Lord's sigil. Geralt suppressed a smile of his own at the muttered chuckles from Shella, Oswell, and Jaime.

"Aye, I am pleasant to look upon again," Walter ran a hand through his restored hair. "Perhaps I will be crowned queen of love and beauty at the next tourney?"

The jest hardly seemed to break the daze of his kin and old friends. Walter went on with his pleasantries, guiding his latest guests to where his family stood at the forefront of the welcoming group as if nothing had changed, while Lord Hoster's surprise upon seeing Shella was even plainer. He inhaled sharply as if stabbed, and water seemed to gather around the corners of his eyes. Brynden Tully's helm fell from under his armpit.

"Hoster, Brynden," Lady Shella said with a warm smile. "It gladdens my heart to see you again."

The two Tullys continued to stare in astonishment. Though three years divided them, Shella and Minisa Whent resembled each other close enough to be confused for twins. Lady Tully had passed some years ago in long and painful childbirth and left a shadow over Hoster's heart as Walter told it.

It must be like seeing her again. Geralt thought, feeling a familiar longing for his own lady.

"How can this be?" Lord Tully said with a gasp. "You and Walter, you had aged... yet the years have vanished from you both..."

"All will be revealed in good time," Walter clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, the children are eager to see you."

The Whent children smiled at the sight of their uncles and rushed over to be slightly crushed in excited embraces.

"Where is Roland?" Brynden said. "Has some harm come to him from the fire?"

"Nothing of the sort," Walter answered. "He is performing an important task for me, and I will apprise you of it in due course."

Once the family reunion and formal introductions to the other nobles concluded, attention again fell on the Hanse. Walter stepped to Geralt's side and laid a hand on his shoulder. The great lords and their retinue looked on, their faces fighting between fascination and fear when their eyes met his.

"This is Geralt of Rivia," Lord Whent announced in a clear voice." A witcher or monster slayer from lands very far away and an eternal friend to my house. Some of you may have heard of him already. He is the rescuer of princess Elia and destroyer of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

"I knew it!" The Stark girl said to her brothers in a loud whisper." The two swords, the cat eyes, it's like the bard at Riverrun said!"

"They say he slew the whole Brotherhood in single combat," The youth who resembled Jon Arryn said. "That he carved the Smiling Knight into a dozen pieces."

More murmurs and rumors passed through the crowd as their astonishment grew. The youngest Starks began to debate whether he had cat or snake eyes. Others like Robert Baratheon, Brandon Stark, and Brynden Tully looked on with approval and a hint of challenge in their eyes.

I know who I'll be sparring with tomorrow. Geralt smiled faintly and bowed his head low to the nobles. "Just Geralt is fine, my lords. It's a great honor to meet you all."

Once all formalities and introductions concluded shortly thereafter, the great lords and their retinues were led away to their prepared guest chambers. Baths, shaves, wine, and all other necessities would be offered to them while lunch was cooked. They were all to convene for it in the great hall at the base of Kingspyre Tower.

It was not a lunch any of the new arrivals would forget.

At two in the afternoon, the Lord and Lady Whent, three members of the Hanse and the great lords, and their nearest kin trickled into the hall. Geralt and Arthur stood by a closeby archway entrance and watched them go in.

The knight had put aside his armor for a tunic made in the colors of his house. It was embroidered with swords and falling stars along the length. The snow-white cloak remained over his shoulders, contrasted by black trousers and knee-high leather boots. Dawn, in its long sheath, was in his left hand. Geralt opted to wear his Manticore armor, freshly cleaned and patched about the shoulder where Harren had pierced it. Both of his swords were hung on his back.

The two men waited in silence until the large, wooden double doors creaked open, and a guard gestured for them to enter.

"Time for another show," Geralt said and walked to the doors. Arthur smiled and followed after him.

This hall didn't match the sheer absurdity of the now-destroyed main one. Geralt counted only twelve hearths surpassing Brokilon trees in height, and ordinary castle bed-chambers spread throughout the room. Tall windows numberings in the dozens and parted drapes from Essos let in beams of afternoon sunlight.

The high table was raised on a dais at the northern end of the hall, beneath great banners with House Whents sigil. Walter was seated in the center. Shella sat to his right while Hoster and Brynden Tully were to his left. Three other tables were positioned perpendicular to it. One for the Hanse, another for the Starks, and a final one for Lord Baratheon and the Arryns. There was nothing on any of them. Not dishes or cups or bowls or even a fine cloth.

All eyes fell on Geralt and Arthur as they approached the tables. Their comrades and the Whents simply waited for the next part of their plan to happen. The new guests, however, looked more perplexed by the moment.

"Walter," Lord Tully said with a furrowed brow. "I hope the answers you promised me are soon to arrive."

"You will have them in but a moment, brother," Walter gestured to Geralt and Arthur with an amused glint in his eye. "My friends, do what you do best."

And so they did. The witcher and knight unsheathed their blades and struck them thrice against one another. Purple and blue ripples of pure power burst forth from the clashing swords, thunder reared across the hall, and the wind struck out like a hundred whips.

Their friends and allies who knew ahead of time braced themselves. Everyone else was taken completely unawares by the discharge. The youngest Starks quailed and hid under the table while the older men's long brown hairs were flung in every direction and stayed up. They looked like mad wraiths in human flesh. Lord Baratheon moved to shield the elder Jon with his own body while Elbert prevented him and his chair from falling over. Hoster Tully reeled back and sunk in his seat. His brother stood sharply and tensed as if ready for battle. The room's other occupants took the display in stride.

Long was the silence that followed in the wake of their latest demonstration. The rippling wind concluded its sweep across the hall and died somewhere in the furthest corners.

"What- What is the meaning of this...?" Lord Tully's voice returned after a while. "What did they do?!"

"Gave you all a taste of sorcery, Hoster," Lord Walter said." why I forbade any cutlery from being in this room."

Geralt heard all of his companions try and fail at suppressing their laughs. According to what Oswell told them some weeks ago, Walter got struck in the eye by a flung spoon when first they demonstrated magic at Harrenhal. He was loath to have it happen again.

Soon, servants came to and from the hall, bringing plates with black sausages, beef, and roasted ribs. They were ignored, while the cups and jugs of black wine were far less so.

While Arthur sat down at the Hanse's table, Geralt took an offered glass and sipped the wine. He then stood several paces away from the tables so that all might see him.

"What Lord Walter says is true. Contrary to what you may believe or know, magic is far from dead in your lands. Quite the opposite."

At length, Geralt elaborated on Walter's cryptic opening statement. He spoke plainly of the curse, its effects on those who resided at Harrenhal across the ages, and what it took to break it. Looks of varying incredulity rose among most of the newly arrived, and the expected disbelief burst from one of the younger attendants.

"Curses and wraiths?" Brandon Stark laughed, and Baratheon joined him. "My lords, are we truly to believe this mummery?"

Geralt said nothing and showed even less on his face. They had anticipated such reactions ahead of time.

"Don't be so quick to dismiss a catastrophe several of us bore witness to and participated in stopping, Lord Stark," Arthur said, politely cutting the young men off.

He and the rest of the Hanse took turns speaking next. Alone, Geralt could still be doubted or dismissed as a liar and charlatan. With two famed Kingsguard, the Grand Maester, Tywin Lannister's son, and the leading Whents backing his claims, mockery and doubt faded. A growing pair of wonder and admiration grew amongst most of the audience, particularly for Jaime and Pycelle for turning the tide.

"Harren murdered and devoured his own son?!" Lord Rickard exclaimed in rage and disgust at Shella's account of the weirwood vision.

"These wraiths, you said they could appear and disappear at will?" Ser Brynden asked Jaime.

"Is he truly gone...?" Lyanna Stark asked last. She eyed the room with uncertainty. "Harren is truly defeated?"

"Gone forever," Geralt answered. "The beatings he received on top of Jaime's killing stroke broke his corporeal form, his ability to remain among the living. Whatever's left of his worthless soul has been scattered to the winds. No one will ever suffer from the curse of Harrenhal again."

Geralt noticed her give Jaime another imperceptible glance across the hall. She's better at hiding it than Maris. He thought, thankful that the lad had sense with women and his boundaries with them.

"At my age, you don't expect to be surprised anymore," Jon Arryn said with a smile. "Yet I speak for all of us when I say the five of you brave men have done the Seven Kingdoms a tremendous service. Truly, this is an accomplishment worthy of the Age of Heroes."

Nods and murmurs of agreement rose from the new arrivals. Geralt bowed his head in recognition of the thanks but expected more to come. The old lord spent the past two hours as silent as a crypt, outwardly unmoved by all this talk of centuries-long torment and death-defying heroics. He neither showed any doubt once his composure returned after the demonstration nor asked any questions. The witcher, however, didn't fail to notice the cogs turning behind those keen, blue eyes.

"All the same, the joy and pride of your victory is muted," His smile faded. "Other men do not seem so grim or held back in the glow of their success as I notice the five of you are. There is something else you wish to tell us, something altogether less pleasant."

The lightening mood was stalled and began to diminish in but a few heartbeats. Doused by the words, the new arrivals began to look between them, and in the silence that fell, many of them knew Lord Arryn was right in his suspicions.

Walter was right. He is a sharp one. Geralt said nothing, merely had another sip of wine to lubricate his dry throat after more talking in a week than he typically did in a month. "Your reputation as a keen observer is well earned, Lord Arryn. You're right, there's another matter we have to discuss, and I'm sorry to say there's no happy ending to it yet. The Others have come back."

At this news, the old falcon's demeanor was broken as though an arrow had pierced his side. Eyes widened across the hall, and the quiet that followed was absolute and dead. Geralt pressed on. He told them of the Conjunction and how it brought back magic and the Others to Westeros.

"Those stories you tell to frighten children at night?" He continued, moving on to more present matters. "They're true: the Others have spent the past few months attacking wildlings tribes and settlements. Every person they kill rises as one of their undead soldiers, and one day very soon, they'll have enough wights to march on the Wall and take it. The wildlings are becoming displaced, pushed farther back. It's only a matter of time before they head for your Wall."

"Father," Brandon Stark whispered loud enough for only Lord Stark and Geralt to hear. "What he says... It is the same as what we've heard from Castle Black."

Rickard Stark closed his eyes. The lines about his face thickened, and the already present grimness of his features grew tenfold. The Warden of the North rose from his seat and looked this way and that to the others.

"What you say is true, master witcher," Lord Stark said following a long sigh. "One of the reasons I came down for this tourney was to bring a grave matter to the attention of my fellow lords and possibly the king. Over the past few moons, several troubling letters from Lord Commander Qorgyle have arrived at Winterfell. They spoke of rangers vanishing with naught left but blood in the snow. Wildling settlements Huts and dwellings ruined in savage raids, clothes, and tools abandoned, pools of blood in the snow yet without a single corpse in sight."

He paused and shook his head. "Truthfully? We began to fear another King beyond the Wall."

"If only it were so simple," Hoster Tully said with plain distaste, fists rested on the table. "Before today, we could dismiss any claims of the Others return with jeers and scorn. I am not foolish to do so now: they are coming, and many thousands of desperate wildlings will come for the Wall ahead of them. They have nowhere else to go."

"Let them come!" Came Robert Baratheon's thunderous response. The pound of his fist shook the table enough to make the cups dance across it. "When they try to pass the Wall, these wildling and Others pricks will find the strength of the Seven Kingdoms ready to throw their arses back down!"

"It always astounds me when you think only as far as your hammer reaches, Robert," Lord Arryn chided him. At once, Lord Baratheon quieted down. "Remember what Geralt said? Every man who dies is another soldier the Others can use against us. To enter into a long, bloody battle against the wildlings may doom us all in the long term. You spoke of a King beyond the Wall, Rickard? I daresay such a man would be of great use to us."

It was indeed a daring thing to say. The suddenness and gall behind the words were enough to shake everyone from the grim mood. The Starks had the most visceral reaction. Eddard looked at his foster father as though he were a stranger. Brandon Starks's face took a red tinge. Geralt could hear his teeth grind.

"You cannot mean that, Jon," Eddard said in disbelief.

"I should hope he doesn't," Brandon Stark unclenched his jaw. "They are savages, Lord Arryn. Raiders and murders and rapists. The instant you turn your back, they'll slit your throat to the bone and eat your heart with a smile."

"I never claimed they weren't those things," Lord Arryn replied, unmoved by the youth's anger. "What you forget is that they are also men. Men want things, gold, food, a roof over their heads, or in this case, a wall to shield them. I've no doubt many of them are too vicious and short-sighted to negotiate with us. I also doubt all of them are foolish enough to think that a fight on the Wall benefits anyone. Besides, better they serve our purposes rather than the enemies."

"What do the Others even want?" The youngest of the Starks, Benjen asked.

The boy of twelve turned from Lord Arryn and looked to Geralt for an answer. Fear was plain to see in his wide grey eyes.

It's not every day that the scary monster under your bed turns out to exist. The witcher looked at the boy with pity and soon found himself the center of attention again.

"Surely they want something?" Benjen asked again. "People don't fight without reason, right?"

"People usually don't, no," Geralt said. "And make no mistake, the Others are a people too. They're the first intelligent species to live in this world. Long before there were men, children of the forest or even seasons, these were lands of always winter..."

And so, over the next few hours, he gave a shortened account of a lengthier history told to them by Howland over many evenings. He told them how the world was once blanketed by endless ice storms, how the seas were frozen over, and one could walk over their length from one side of the world to another. This was the home of the Others, and forages beyond count it remained the same. The Others ruled it and were some of the only creatures hardy enough to survive and thrive in it.

It didn't last. The world began to change. It grew warmer, and the sun eventually pierced through the clouds. Winter began to fail. During this time, the Others came into contact with another sentient race.

"I mentioned a doorway that brought me to this world? Well, it was once part of many such portals connecting dozens of planets. An entire system devised by a particular species known as the elves. They are an ancient, proud and warmongering race, and they laid claim on every world across the multiverse. The Others wouldn't give in, and the two species inevitably went to war. The details of this time are sparse, but the Others must have emerged victorious and destroyed much of what the elves built here."

"And then came the children of the forest?" Asked Lyanna.

"Eventually, yes. The children were the second native sentients to emerge into this world. They and the Others for a time too but seemed to reach an accord even as their wintery territory shrank. They might have stayed this way forever if that word ever meant anything in practice. Sure enough, men began to appear as well.

"The children and men were able to coexist after initial hostilities. Most of the Others found it impossible. You were the next stage in the planet's rejection of them. The dreadful looming summer coming to burn and sear the last of winter away. These two species are utterly incompatible in their eyes, and so one of you has to go. Once everything else is dead, their Long Night will engulf the world and bring it back to its original form."

"B-But," Eddard Stark's voice failed him. It took him time to find it again. "But it is madness. Surely they do not think they can turn back the whole world into what once was?!"

"They absolutely do," Geralt answered with a grim severity. "And for a while, I suspect their plan would even work if they won the coming war. This Long Night is a spell of considerable power and reach. It's without question the strongest I've ever encountered. But magic has a price. To draw so much energy from the world itself invites its death and disaster. Look at your seasons as they are right now. Do you think it's normal for them to be this erratic? Believe me, it's not. Where I come from they last just three months."

The sun began to set outside. What beams of its light still entered the room tinged it with orange and red hues. The shadows about them grew, almost as black as the thoughts of doom coursing through everyone's heads.

"They must be stopped," Ser Brynden said with a voice like steel. "No matter the cost, we must end them and ensure they have no hole to crawl back into from this defeat."

"I still don't understand," Benjen said in a whisper. His face was downcast. "They're doing all of this to get their home back, but they'll lose it anyway? They'll fight and die for nothing? Why don't they just stop and leave us alone then?"

"They're a very long-lived species, Lord Stark," Geralt said, understanding the boy's feelings all too well. "And they're proud to the point of arrogance. When you live so long, so assured of your own dominance. All the good sense in the world can't stop you from chasing after the impossible. Even if it means the doom of your species."

"You sound as if you pity them, master witcher," Elbert Arryn pointed out. "Pardon if I offend you, but it is a strange thing to see from a monster slayer."

"Strange as it may sound, you come to pity even those you're supposed to kill," Geralt sighed and felt a great weariness threaten to overcome him, at its heart an old, terrible feeling many a witcher have come to know.

"Bearing witness to the end of a species is never easy. Participating in it is even worse."

"I believe we have done enough for one afternoon," Came the weary voice of Lord Walter. "There is much to think on, and we have only begun to skate across the surface of our problems."

The suggestion garnered murmurs of assent from many of those present. Geralt welcomed the opportunity to retire to his bed and doze like a dead man. The afternoon had left him spent, almost as though he'd gone several more rounds with Harren the Black. Before he even exited the great hall, though, Robert Baratheon had waylaid him for a word.

"I won't keep you long, master witcher," The young man said. "I merely wished to suggest that we spar in the morning? In times like these, it does a man good to send another crashing on their arse in the ring, eh?"

"I can't deny that." Geralt chuckled.

While they conversed, someone outside the hall's entrance had ordered the sentries away. Baratheon seemed not to notice as he left, and Geralt pretended not to hear Lord Tully's voice issue the commands. When the witcher exited the room, he found the great lord standing several paces off to the side. The two men were alone.

"Master witcher," Said Hoster Tully. "I apologize for keeping you here when rest and recovery is warranted. But there are some vital things I still wish to know."

Geralt gave a quiet grunt of acquiescence, "Honestly? I'm surprised more people haven't lined up to delay me."

"For that, we can both be glad," The man's stern blue eyes looked at him closely. "For a start, I wish to thank you for the services rendered to my bannermen. You have aided the Seven Kingdoms and my kin too. I shall not forget it."

Geralt inclined his head but said nothing.

"Now you prepare to do us all an even greater service: defeat the Others," He continued, placing his hands behind his back. "For merely undertaking such a task, a man could ask for a great deal as a reward. Lands, titles, or even enough gold to make the Lannisters envious. You are a sellsword, Geralt. You admitted it hours ago when you first began to speak. So tell me, what do you want out of this?"

The witcher noticed the presence of another. His sharp hearing picked up a pair of almost imperceptible footfalls at one of the hallways intersecting at the great hall's entrance.

Something else to keep me a little busier. Geralt exhaled softly lest his flash of irritation show. "What I want, Lord Tully is to return home. Failing that, for home to come to me."

"And if home comes for you, you intend to leave us to our fate?"

"If home comes for me, everyone on this planet has a better chance of surviving the Long Night," Geralt looked him in the eye and did not blink. "That aside, there are people who I've come to care about a great deal here. I don't abandon my friends for anyone or anything, least of all to save my own skin."

He paused for the span of three heartbeats. "So, you want to reward me? Give me good food, drink, and places to sleep, send what men and support you can to the war, and take my council under serious consideration as the ground shifts in the months ahead."

Lord Tully stared back. His face was impassive though his eyes searched for any sign of deception. Walter had warned Geralt of this too. The Tullys were always in a precarious situation thanks to their location within the Seven Kingdoms. Deals and negotiations were oft the sword and shield keeping them alive these past centuries.

"Very well," Said the great lord, his gaze became less suspicious. "Forgive me, I am... unaccustomed to men being so forthright with me. Do not take my doubts as a sign of falsehood for my earlier words. My gratitude was genuine."

Geralt didn't doubt that at all. He saw it plainly hours ago when Lord Tully laid eyes on the Whents.

"You are a high lord," Geralt said with a heavy respect "Caution is warranted and forthrightness among vassals rare. I would suspect your acumen if you did not ask me what I wanted. But at heart I assure you, I am a simple man."

"All interesting problems assure me at first they are but simple men," said Lord Hoster in an amused grumble, "Good day, Master Witcher."

"And you, Lord Tully." Geralt said, inclining his head.

With that, the great lord strode past Geralt and vanished down a hallway.

"You can come out now," The witcher said to their hidden listener. Howland noiselessly emerged from the shadows.

"My apologies for inadvertently spying on you," The lad said in his usual soft voice. "Lord Hoster seemed intent on a private conversation, and I wished not to interrupt it."

"It's better that you didn't. I've allayed his doubts now and don't have to worry about them later. Now, what is it you wanted to see me for? Has Roland finally reached Maidenpool?"

"Indeed he has. The raven arrived just half an hour past."

He was to thank for any ravens flying at all. Day and night he spent with them in the rookery, muttering in the old tongue of the first men, healing them with seeds and water from the Isle of Faces. Many were capable of flight already, and more would be too.

Thanks to his continued efforts, Harrenhal could send and deliver messages across much of Westeros. They would need these lines of communication in the coming months.

"They found no trouble on the road, and a ship has already agreed to take them and the weirwood to King's Landing. They'll set sail for it in the morning."

Geralt felt his lip twist at the mention of the weirwood wood. The green men had provided several heavy cords of the material after Howland made contact. Walter sent his oldest son, a retinue of guards, and a wagon to carry the material in advance of everyone else.

"They're being very generous with it." Howland reminded him.

"I know and I'm thankful for it. There's no telling how many lives that wood will save," A shiver ran the length of his back. "It's the journey we'll need it for that worries me."

Terrified him in truth. It was a perilous place they would have to trek to. An undertaking that would make the curse-breaking at Harrenhal looks as easy as slaying a crippled drowner by comparison.

"You never know, perhaps your ladies will arrive before you set out for it?" Howland said, trying to sound more sure than either of them felt.

"I hope they do, Howland," The witcher replied with the weariness of a spent old man. We likely won't survive that hell any other way.

Chapter Text

"You're slowing down, Pycelle," Jaime remarked. He cast a glance at the old man trailing behind and smiled. "At this speed, we won't finish the run by dawn."

"Y-Yes!" Pycelle huffed. "I will do better!"

So he did. The seven-pace distance between them shrunk with his hastened step. In moments the two ran shoulder to shoulder again.

It's still strange to see him like this. Jaime gave the older man to his left a look-over.

No longer did he wear the red, velvet robe already uncommon to most Maester's Jaime knew. For his training, he wore a thick, gray gambeson over a white shirt. A long-sleeved mesh of mail went over both, clanking with every movement. Black, stained leather boots stomped on over the grass and dirt of the godswood. His Maester chain left behind in a chest within his chambers.

Closer to a very old squire than a man of the Citadel. Jaime thought with amusement, not for the first time. I won't fault him for his efforts, though. Most wouldn't dare try this training at his age.

"There is a request I would make of you," Pycelle proclaimed the morning after Howland arrived. The Company had sat down to break their fast in private when he said it. "It will sound strange, I know but I wish for you all to train me, to help make me strong."

The morose silence got replaced by one of pointed looks between the Company.

"Honing one's body isn't the easiest thing to do," Geralt replied first. "Even for a young, healthy man, there are many things to consider. Those variables only multiply for someone past their prime."

"I am aware of how... unlikely it is for me to make much progress," Pycelle said. "I too am a man learned in the ways of the body. Muscles, bones, and even hair weaken with time. All the same, I wish to at least try. A terrible danger awaits the entire world and I must help stop it. I do not wish to be a burden in our future efforts."

"Pycelle is stronger than you know," Jaime spoke next, glancing at the others at the table. "He rode from the godswood to Kingspyre Tower then ran up the whole bloody thing without pause. Most of the way, he was scarce a step or two behind me. I say with certainty that most of my old fellow squires at Crakehall wouldn't have managed either."

"He beat one of the wraiths back to death with a branch too," Lord Oswell continued, raising a mug at the Maester. "What harm is there in seeing if he can toss some hay bales or stones?"

"Ladder climbing would do as well," Ser Arthur said. "Nothing hones one's endurance like scaling a tall wall with armor weighing you down."

Geralt leaned back into his seat and frowned in silence. Jaime noted the concern on his face and the slight dark bags under his eyes at the time. No doubt the thought of added danger to one of his comrades weighed on him. All the same, Jaime thought it unfair to Pycelle to not at least try.

"There are some things we could do," The Witcher said after a time. "Breathing techniques and muscle stretching to ease your body into the exercises."

"See?" Oswell said to Pycelle, who looked very relieved by Geralt's words. "We'll have you in fighting shape in short order."

That day it was Jaime's turn to mentor and he looked to test how long and far Pycelle's legs could carry him. Having grown accustomed to the godswood, Jaime mapped out a series of routes within it. Paths where the forest gave way to clearings. Other trails were so dense it was a struggle to see a few paces ahead. This route stretched from the edges of the godswood and wound like a snake closer to its center.

The lands of the far north were as dense as Harrenhal's godswood and dozens of times its size, as Howland told them. Neither the sun nor the moon could pierce through the thick leaves. Snows could grow to piles reaching higher than a man's knees. To even have a chance of lasting there a day, one needed endurance and situational awareness.

Despite the large beads of sweat falling down his brow, Pycelle seemed not to struggle too much. For now.

Let's see how he deals with this. Without warning, Jaime took a sudden turn from the more open path they'd run in so far. With practiced ease, he leaped through a bush and landed atop a large stone. One of many scattered along the downhill dirt path leading deeper into the forest. The rocks were large enough for a man to stand on but far enough apart to strain one's jumps and balance.

Jaime turned around to see a ragged breathed Pycelle peek over the bush. He smiled and waved him over. "Come on!"

He leaped from stone to stone, the weight of his mail forgotten. Jaime felt a rush of freedom as he hovered in mid-air. Freedom and satisfaction with each successful landing. In a few moments, he'd reached the bottom of the steep hill.

Geralt's balance practices have paid off. Jaime thought with no small satisfaction. Looking back, Jaime again saw Pycelle still peeking through the bush. He still made no move to follow. "You don't have to jump as I did!" The shout carried through trees. "Climb down, brace yourselves with the trees if need be."

The Maester said nothing for a few moments. Jaime began to wonder if he'd gone too far when Pycelle began his descent. It was a slow, somewhat clumsy affair. He took a long time looking about, prodding the ground and rocks with his boots. Jaime heard the raggedness in his breath grow. A time or two he considered climbing up to offer aid but Pycelle persevered on his own.

A good while later, after performing a small leap from a tree, he descended the hill. At once, he gasped and sat down on a bed of grass. If he was sweat-stained before, one could mistake him for having gone for a swim now. All the same, Jaime didn't miss the satisfied smile through his thick, white beard.

"I... did it..." He said, wiping his face with a sleeve.

"That you did," Jaime unhooked the waterskin dangling from his belt. "Here, a reward well earned."

Pycelle's eyes snapped to it like a hunting hound spotting a hare. He did not take so much as snatch it out of Jaime's hand and drank much of it in a few mouthfuls. When he gasped at last for air, one might think he hadn't tasted water in years.

"Better?" Jaime inquired with a grin.

"Much, much, better," Pycelle said with another deep breath, closing his eyes. "To think, something as simple as walking down a hill could become so strenuous. My respect for you warriors of the realm grows with each passing moment."

"You'll get better at it with time," Jaime sat down next to him, accepting the returned waterskin. "First time I ran through a forest in armor, I damn near broke my neck. I didn't see a rock stick out on the dirt path and lost my balance because of it."

"What happened next?"

"I rolled down a hill like a giant, plated barrel."

Pycelle gave a good-natured laugh at the story, Jaime even found himself joining him. With most people, he'd sooner die than recount that bit of humiliation to anyone.

Cersei and Uncle Gerion would tease me about it to my grave. Father would likely drive me to it with his scolding about Lannister's not acting like fools. Now I'm telling it to the Grand Maester with the same ease as I draw breath. Jaime shook his head at the strange turns his life kept taking. He wondered, not for the first time, which one would come for him next.

Once they'd settled down into a pleasant silence, Jaime noted a faint sound in the distance. One at odds with the gentle rustling leaves and chirping of birds. A series of thwacks, wood striking against the wood.

Practice swords. He soon concluded, he'd recognize the sound anyplace. Steel, even blunted, would carry far further in this place. Who could it be?

Jaime discarded any notion of it being one of the older or seasoned warriors. They were all far too busy falling on their arses against Geralt and the Kingsguard in the training yard. It couldn't be the Whent boys either. They watched those sparring bouts with bewitched fascination each day. No one else came to mind.

Whoever it is, they don't want anyone to know what they're up to. Why else train so deep within the forest? Intrigued, Jaime decided to find out who these secretive fighters were.

Looking over to Pycelle, he pressed a finger to his lips and gestured for the older man to follow. The Grand Maester looked confused but otherwise obeyed the silent order. Slow and steady they rose from the grass and took measured steps toward the source.

For his part, Pycelle endured this surprising bit of sneaking about quite well. Not only did the Maester keep pace with Jaime but slowed his movements down for the ringmail to not give them away. They stalked through thick bushes, squeezed between thick, packed groups of trees. The thwacking noise grew louder, joined by grunts and pants.

One of the voices was a boy's, not yet deepened by manhood. The other caught his attention much more. It was higher pitched, and smoother. Could it be a... girl? Jaime thought it a ridiculous notion until he remembered what he and Cersei used to do back home. This grows more interesting by the moment.

They reached and halted at the edge of a small clearing, their approach masked by a thick, brown berry bush. They both knew of this forest gap, situated northeast and 15 minutes away from the central heart tree.

On two of its edges, piles of moss-covered stones, some twice the height of most grown men lay. Old trees and thick bushes of herbs aplenty formed the rest of its outskirts. Amongst the low grass, there were patches and dirt holes where nothing grew. Geralt hypothesized places such as these were former weirwood homes.

Now they were being used for sparring practice by a most surprising person.

Jaime did not recognize Lady Lyanna at first. To be truthful, he scarce noticed her at all when she had arrived with the others three days past. Brown-haired, and long-faced like all the Starks, he would not consider her a great beauty. Nor did she say or do anything to stand out much in his eyes. A good lord's daughter in all the most boring of ways.

He could not have been more wrong it seemed. The usual blue dress' she wore lay folded atop one of the smaller rocks. Underneath it, she hid a short grey gambeson, black leather breeches, and brown boots. A black band circled her head, keeping her untied hair in check.

What most drew Jaime's attention was the way she fought.

Her brother, younger but stronger came at her with fierce and slower blows. The slimmer lady waited and with a cat's grace danced around him and retaliated with equal ease. If Benjen overstepped, Lyanna struck at his leg to break his balance. If he chose a more passive approach, she tested him with feints, probing for a crack in the defense.

She's been at this for years. He knew right away. No amateur could fight like this. Not even I could when I started.

As he watched the battle, Jaime noticed something else when her face came into view: her smile. There was no practiced politeness in it but the untamed joy of one allowed to cut loose. Her grey eyes came alive with a wild light.

Whilst he imagined how good she'd look with her hair left untied, another idea came to Jaime's mind. If Cersei or Tyrion were there, they'd despair or laugh at his smile

"Jaime," Pycelle whispered from his right. "I do not believe it wise to interrupt them or make our presence known at all."

"Why not? The lady wishes to train?" Jaime's grin widened further. "Who better than an anointed knight for an opponent?"

Pushing through the push, Jaime walked toward the dueling Starks at an unhurried pace. Pycelle trailed behind, sputtering something in a vain attempt to stop him. Benjen Stark noticed him first, his sister's back turned toward Jaime. He made the dreadful mistake to freeze mid-battle. The price for that was a wooden blade jabbed into his stomach.

"What was that?" Lyanna laughed, patting him on the shoulder as he coughed. "It's not like you to let your guard down so."

"I wouldn't fault him, Lady Stark. In his place, I'd have been rather surprised too."

She spun in place and then halted, dumbfounded upon seeing him. A blush soon turned her cheeks red, accentuating her hair and the grey eyes he found most drawn to.

Aye... There is more beauty to her than I thought. Jaime's smile turned less mocking. But a blushing maid is not who I came for.

"S-Ser Jaime," She stammered in a way he found charming. "T-This is-"

"A secret sparring session," Jaime crossed his arm and nodded toward her wooden sword. "I've partaken in a few myself to recognize one. Given your skill, I would wager to say this is far from your first bout."

"... You cannot tell our father," Benjen Stark said, recovering from the stomach blow. There was a pleading look in his eyes. "If he knew we were doing this..."

"Bloody furious I would say," Jaime finished for him. Noticing their mounting worry, he chose to lower his smile. "Have no fear, on my honor as a knight, I swear upon the Warrior himself not to reveal what I've seen today."

"I swear to do the same," Grand Maester Pycelle said from behind Jaime. The Starks hadn't noticed him, it seemed, and stared like a pair of owls at the old scholar clad in body armor. "Uhm, good day, my lord and lady."

"G-Goodday, Grand Maester..." Benjen answered and made a stiff bow.

"Unlike my fellow curse breaker here," Jaime's grin widened. "I do have a request to make, my curiosity has been most piqued by this discovery."

"A request?" Lady Stark's shoulders tensed. "What is it?"

"A duel against you," Jaime said without a hint of mockery. The collective shock of now all three people about him made it difficult. "I've watched you two fight for some time ere approaching you. You are good, Lady Stark. Very good indeed. I'm curious to see how well you'd fare against me."

Benjen Stark looked torn, no doubt looking for some way to refuse without angering anyone. Lady Stark, fixed him with a searching stare, looking for signs of a jape or trickery behind his words. In the silent exchange between them, she would have found none.

"Ser Jaime," Benjen said. "This is a most… generous, uh, gift-"

"Which I accept," Lyanna announced, and for a third time, her brother all but reeled in pain. "Ben, give him your sword."

"L-Lya, you can't be serious! He's an anointed knight, he fought Harren the Black himself!"

"A fine sparring partner, I would think," She smiled with the anticipation of one eager to fight. "Besides, I've always wanted someone else to join us for training. And Ser Jaime has already sworn not to reveal us, what's the harm?"

"A great deal of it may come to you," Her brother answered with concern. "If you get hurt, there will be no masking it from father."

"He's a true knight as you pointed out," Lyanna shot him a glare over her shoulder. "I would think he is masterful enough with a blade to ensure nothing grievous happens. And he's not foolish enough to harm me. Not when we're preparing for war. We have the Grand Maester with us as well. He is sure to mend any bruise or small cut," She turned to Jaime and Pycelle, almost challenging them to refute her. "Is that not so?"

"Well, I do not have my equipment with me," Pycelle said. "But as someone who has trained with Ser Jaime, I can vouch for his quality in this regard."

Jaime suppressed a smile at his support. Instead, he affirmed Lady Starks words with a nod. "Flawless logic in every regard," He then gazed past her to the youngest Stark. "I will swear it again if need be: I only wish to duel. Should things go too far, I'll make sure to forestall any injuries. Is that acceptable for you, Lord Stark?"

He said nothing for the span of a few heartbeats. The startled pup from moments ago released a long, quiet breath. When his eyes met Jaime's again, it was with a steely glare quite close to Lord Rickard's.

"Very well, Ser. I will hold you to that."

Jaime said nothing but bowed his head in silent thanks and respect. In a few more years, he will cow men many times his size with that look.

"Well then, if we're done arguing," Lady Starks fingers tightened about the wooden pommel. The challenge and amusement burned anew in her eyes. "Shall we?"

Jaime smirked. "Of course."

They went on to fight for seven rounds, close to an hour in length. The first to fall on their back or to get disarmed lost the bout. And Lady Stark did all the losing, though not without a fight.

Despite her inexperience fighting anyone besides her brother, she proved quick and nimble. Her practice sword came in quick, successive slashes and thrusts interspersed with pauses. With these, she both recovered and attempted to hide any notion there was an attacking rhythm. She knew she could not overpower him so disarming remained her only option.

Unfortunately for her, Jaime had become quite nimble himself. He was always quick and strong with a blade. But these past months of sparring with Geralt and the Kingsguard had taken it to new heights. He'd also gained a wealth of experience on how to deal with a quick-footed adversary.

On the last exchange, Lady Stark tried for a feint, masking a thrust with a swift slashing motion. Jaime saw through it at once. Slowed by weariness as she was, he side-stepped her blow with an easy half-pirouette. By the time she realized he was on her exposed left, his sword fell like a hammer. A loud thwack echoed through the forest and her blade fell useless to the ground.

"And that makes seven," Jaime said, smiling at the way she blinked in surprise.

"That was..." Lyanna trailed off, licking her dried lips. "T-That was amazing!"

She howled with laughter and beamed at him. Her eyes sparkled wide with wonder and amazement. "The way you avoided my attack! It looked exactly like the Witcher!"

Taken aback by the way her face brightened, Jaime faltered and cleared his throat. "Well, thank you. I must again give praise to you as well, my lady. I would dare say your skills surpass most squire's I've crossed swords with over the years."

He meant it too. He couldn't imagine any of the lads back at Crakehall managing to defeat her. Merret Frey would have tripped up and cut his own throat open keeping track of her in the yard.

Lyanna's cheeks reddened at the praise and her eyes failed to meet his. "T-Thank you, ser. Your praise means a great deal."
"Are you alright Lya," Ere they could speak further, Benjen Stark appeared between them.

"Are you alright, Lya?" Ere they could speak further, Benjen Stark appeared between them out of nowhere. Jaime glared at his back, and Lyanna turned her head away.

"I'm fine, Ben," She gave a curt answer. "No worse than the last six times you intruded."

"I'm only-"

"Being a pest."

The retort was on the tip of Jaime's tongue. For an instant, he thought he'd said it too. In truth, it was Lyanna, crossing her arms and frowning at her brother. Almost daring him to refute the claim.

Wholly unaware of the tension brewing, Pycelle walked up to Jaime and looked at the sky. "Midday is drawing near, mayhaps we should return to the castle? Though rested, I've become quite hungry."

"... We should go too," Benjen said. "Father will grow suspicious if we're away for too long. We don't want him sending someone after us."

The prick of irritation Jaime had felt at the intrusion worsened. He had enjoyed himself fighting Lyanna. So much he hadn't even noticed how much time had passed in what felt like an instant. He didn't wish it to end.

Lady Starks mouth made an ugly twist at her brother's news. She wants to keep going too. Fine, we'll do that and the two of them can leave if they wish. Jaime almost felt bold enough to utter it. A voice of reason he once found quite easy to ignore stayed his tongue. ...It wouldn't work. For a multitude of reasons...

His temper cooled by this. Jaime opted to consider his options while he still could. A few moments later, a simple idea came to mind.

"You're right both right, we should all return in due course," Jaime announced. "Before we do, I would ask you both if you would consider meeting with us again to train?"

The question he foremost directed at Benjen Stark who turned to face him. "I enjoyed today's exercises quite a lot and would not mind for them to continue. At least while we're still in Harrenhal. Mayhaps we could make it an exchange of sorts: I aid your sister while you help Pycelle here."

"M-Me?" Benjen answered, taken aback. "How could I help the Grand Maester?"

"Come now, Lord Stark," Jaime smiled. " You're a man of the North and that's where the coming war is. I'm certain you've some skills or knowledge you can pass on to Pycelle here to help us all in the coming days."

"Ben's the best tracker of us all," Lyanna stated with a sister's pride. "If it's in the forest, he'll find it. Father and Brandon joke that he reads tracks in the dirt and snow better than his letters."

"Most impressive," Pycelle rescued the situation. Jaime had feared that the last comment would spur an argument and ruin his plan. "Geralt and Lord Reed are most busy with other matters to teach such things to me. I would be most glad to learn from you, Lord Stark."

He's trapped. Jaime tried hard not to let his satisfaction at this show. Refusing the Grand Maester is no easy thing to do. All the more so when he's a noted hero asking for your tutelage.

Benjen Stark was all too aware of this. Twice he opened his mouth to answer only for no words to come out. While he struggled, Lyanna came up and patted him on back.

"Come on, Ben, what is there to think about? You're a good teacher. A few lessons with you and the Grand Maester will be stalking the woods like a direwolf."

"... Yes, of course," The lad relented at last, trying not to sound too defeated. Standing upright, he bowed to Pycelle. "It would be a great honor to aid you, Grand Maester."

"Splendid, most splendid! I would think of some questions to ask and pose them to you when next we met. Mayhaps tomorrow early, at this same place?"

"... Yes, we can do this again tomorrow."

May all the gods bless you with long life my friend. Jaime's appreciation grew ten sizes. You've helped me more than you realize.

With the matter settled, the Starks prepared to leave. They hid the wooden swords in the gaps between the stones. Lady Lyanna put on the dress she'd discarded over her training garb. Jaime struggled not to stare too hard as she removed the headband, her wild hair flowing in the wind.

I'll have to find a way to take it off her next time we fight.

Soon after, the Starks departed the clearing. As they did, Lady Stark caught Jaime's eye, and her gray, smiling gaze seared into his memory.

Chapter Text

"Jaime, a word, if you will," came the solemn voice of Pycelle.

The two knights halted near the edge of the godswood. Jaime had scarcely noticed his companion's presence since their parting from Lyanna and Benjen, too preoccupied with his own indescribable elation.

Turning to face the older man, Jaime was surprised to find a worried frown further creasing his already wrinkled visage.

"What troubles you?" Jaime inquired, his lips curling into a confident smile. "You seem worried, my friend."

"Indeed, my lord, and not without cause," replied Pycelle, his eyes darting nervously between Jaime's. For a few heartbeats, he hesitated before speaking his mind. "I feel compelled to urge caution regarding Lady Stark."

"What do I have to be cautious about?" Jaime shrugged dismissively. "I am merely interested in a good sparring partner."

"As your comrade in arms, I must implore you to be careful," Pycelle cut in. "Do not act in any manner that might be deemed...unbecoming, with Lady Stark."

Jaime's brow furrowed in confusion. "Unbecoming, you say? What precisely do you mean?"

"I saw the way you looked at her," Pycelle replied gravely. "I have seen such looks in many young faces in my time. Such things can and oft do grow into heated passions, and passions unchecked lead to unnecessary trouble."

"I assure you, there is no heated passion between us," Jaime retorted.

"Did you find yourself unable to look away when she fought? Were you entranced by the way her hair danced in the air or the way she moved with the speed of a viper?" Pycelle asked pointedly. "Think on it, my lord. If the answer to any of these is yes, then I must insist that you exercise caution."

Jaime felt his good mood dissipate quickly. The Grand Maester's condescending tone was all too familiar, reminding him of countless tedious lectures from his peers. The kind of teachings where Jaime was frequently made to feel foolish for not grasping the obvious.

With a calming breath, Jaime decided to play along, hoping to prove the Grand Maester wrong and end the matter once and for all. He followed the instructions and recalled the scene of stumbling upon the Starks duelling and his own battles against Lyanna, all with startling clarity.

He started with her fighting form: the way she struck, parried, and darted from side to side. Then his thoughts wandered to the headband that tied back her hair, how lovely it would look loose and flowing in the wind. Next, he remembered her striking grey eyes and her charming smile. Soon, he found himself grinning from ear to ear.

"My point exactly," the Grand Maester said.

Jaime was startled, as if struck by a blow, and snapped back to the present, meeting the older man's gaze. There was no hint of amusement, as some maesters dared to show whenever they caught Jaime off-guard. Just the grave look of one who had been unfortunately proven right.

Jaime's voice faltered, his tongue slow and awkward to answer for once. Heat reddened his cheeks, leaving him feeling exposed, like an open wound.

"Being taken with someone is nothing to be ashamed of," Pycelle offered.

"Yet you're doing a marvellous job of making me feel otherwise," Jaime retorted, his temper rising. "Alright, Lady Stark has... caught my interest, what of it?"

"Nothing, so long as you maintain the necessary self-restraint, no issues will arise."

"What restraint? You speak as if I'm halfway ready to sail across the Narrow Sea with her!" Jaime huffed and ran a hand through his hair. "Besides, she's betrothed to Baratheon."

He tried not to sound too dejected by that fact.

"If betrothals and marriages were enough to douse the flames of passion," Pycelle waved a dismissive hand. "Our history books would be a great deal shorter and less bloody. You know as well as I what awaits us, Jaime: division and strife between the lords caused by an affair between you and Lady Lyanna is something we can ill afford at this time."

Jaime looked away to some far off point. Months ago, if he had met Lady Lyanna, he would not have spared a thought about any of what Pycelle was saying. If she had caught his eye, then yes, yes he would have pursued her. There was no point in denying it, even privately. He had very nearly crossed the line with someone far more forbidden than Lyanna after all. 

In the silence that followed, Pycelle approached and laid a hand on Jaime's right shoulder. "Consider Geralt too," he said in a soft voice. "The Others' threat is a great burden on him. He feels partially responsible for bringing it on us because of his role in the Second Conjunction. Do you think he needs this to worry about as well? Do you think he would approve of your actions if you crossed a line with Lyanna Stark?"

Jaime turned his gaze back to the old man. There was pity and understanding in his eyes, and Jaime didn't doubt their authenticity. But he also remembered Pycelle's confession of playing the game of thrones. How much of that was he using now to manipulate Jaime? Anger threatened to burst from him, and he felt himself halfway to accusing the old man of the very thing.

But then, he thought of Geralt's dismayed look, and just as quickly, the rage shrank and crawled back to some dark corner of Jaime's mind. He felt ashamed and defeated.

The Witcher had made it abundantly clear that he would neither tolerate nor support any romantic foolishness when they discussed Maris Whent's one-sided infatuation with Jaime on their first evening at Harrenhal. And this would be orders of magnitude worse. 

"... Fine," Jaime said after a while, his voice small and face downcast. "You've made your point. Lyanna Stark will be my sparring partner and nothing else.”

As Jaime looked up to hold Pycelle's gaze, the Grand Maester said nothing. Jaime wondered if he doubted his sincerity. "I mean it, nothing beyond that," Jaime insisted, his voice earnest. "I'll swear another oath in front of the weirwood if that's what it takes for you to believe me."

For a few moments more, Pycelle remained silent. Jaime was about ready to storm back into the forest when the Grand Maester finally nodded. "Alright," he said. "Alright, I am glad to hear that. And, I will of course keep this between us. You have my word on that."

Jaime breathed a sigh of relief. "Aye, you have my thanks," he said, looking down at the ground. Others take me and my good sense.

"Take heart," Pycelle said softly. "Lady Lyanna is but a passing interest. I'm certain a good wife will one day capture your heart."

Jaime couldn't help but scoff at the thought of being remotely interested by Lysa Tully. Capture my heart? I’ll sooner wed a rock.

Over the next few days, Jaime's promise would be put to the test.

The two of them and the Starks would cross paths several times during that period. Jaime suggested they alternate between a handful of spots good enough for sparring practice to ensure no one else stumbled upon them. Pycelle benefited from this arrangement, observing and applying what Benjen taught him about scouting through the woods on the way to each sparring area. It also gave Jaime and Lyanna a chance to speak during their walks between sparring areas.

With their "guardians" within earshot, neither Jaime nor Lyanna could afford too much liberty with what they discussed, so they focused on battle. However, at her or his sly prodding, the conversation would sometimes shift to other topics. For example, when Jaime mentioned the harrowing experience of galloping through a burning castle of damned, screaming souls to break a curse, Lyanna revealed her own love of horseback riding.

When he would mention her betrothed, and the myriad of ways Geralt had bested him in every single sparring match, Lyanna would scarcely keep herself from bursting with laughter. But the conversation with Pycelle was never far from Jaime's thoughts. Like a blow, it jolted him from becoming too enamored with Lyanna. It certainly got him to stop bloody staring at her so much.

Lyanna proved to be an able student as well. When Jaime warned her that she tended to leave her left side more exposed, Lyanna took it to heart and prompted Jaime to attack her there until it wasn't so glaring. Likewise, her cat-footed footwork kept him alert. What she lacked in strength, she made up for with surprising speed and a marked ability to feint him with an attack, only to suddenly shift, reposition, and attack again.

Indeed, though it pained him, circumstances forced him to keep his interest in her at bay. Jaime found these days pleasant and all too soon to pass.

"The king has sent for us," Geralt announced as the Five sat in his chambers one day, their lunch served at his request. "He’s called for a meeting in King's Landing. He aims to coordinate with as many influential people as possible, to manage operational and logistical issues in the war effort before we head out to our individual tasks."

Lord Pycelle stroked his shortened beard thoughtfully. "Lord Quellon will be significantly delayed, given the distance of the Iron Islands from the capital," he said. "And Lords Tyrell and Martell will also be absent."

"I cannot speak for Mace Tyrell, but Prince Oberyn is already in the city. He arrived two days past," Oswell replied after taking a sip of wine. "It seems he grew impatient waiting for my brother to announce the tourney again and took his personal ship there."

Arthur grinned. "No doubt he's irritable and full of fury for missing out on all the 'fun' here," he said. "Still, Oberyn is a well-known warrior and leader in his own right. He's also spent considerable time in Essos, gaining knowledge and experience that will benefit us."

Jaime's voice was calm as he asked, "When are we expected to depart?"

"In three days," Geralt replied, taking a bite of the baked ham. "Ser Brynden will leave tomorrow morning for Riverrun to begin early preparations for the war. The rest of us will head for Maidenpool, where a few ships from the royal fleet will be waiting for us." He looked at all of them, though his gaze lingered longest on Pycelle. "Get some rest, all of you. We have a few hard days of riding ahead of us."

With that, Jaime knew it was over. Sneaking around a sprawling castle to train in secret was one thing. But on the road, where they would be forced to move quickly and any absence would be quickly noticed? The Red Keep was an even worse place to try it. There was no way they could continue.

After lunch, a restless and despondent feeling overcame Jaime. He wandered aimlessly through the intact paths and halls of Harrenhal, burdened with a thousand considerations. Eventually, he found himself back in the godswood. The silent woods were illuminated by the yellow and orange hues of the afternoon sun, which brought him some comfort. The colors reminded him of Casterly Rock, and he was distracted by those thoughts for a while as he sauntered on. So much so that he scarcely realized he had reached the edge of the weirwood clearing until his eyes fell upon the blood-red leaves.

He stopped and stared at them. It had been a while since he had been there since swearing the oath. Jaime was not afraid to face it again; he had made his choice. However, with them back inside the castle, and Howland serving as the voice for the tree's power, there was little point in returning. Jaime almost turned to walk away when he noticed someone circling the tree.

He recognized her at once. The wild brown hair falling down her shoulders and back, the blue dress etched with an intricate pattern of white snowflakes. Her hand softly brushed against the white trunk as she circled it.

I should leave her be, Jaime thought to himself, even as his feet carried him forward. It was just the two of them, with no watchful eyes or keen ears from a younger sibling or concerned Maester. He realized he might not get a chance to speak to her like this again.

"Lady Stark," he called out, his voice showing an ease he didn't feel at all. "We must stop meeting like this."

She turned sharply in his direction, looking quite like a startled owl. Then the surprise passed and a smile graced her features. But there was something wrong about it. To Jaime's eyes, it looked sad, strained.

"Ser Jaime," Lyanna replied, her voice more formal than she usually adopted when speaking to him. "Yes, we should. I fear my heart cannot take any more surprises."

Her gaze left him and went somewhere far away for a moment. Then she shook her head, her locks of hair gently swaying. "Forgive me, I am… in a troubled mood today."

That much was clear. Jaime was unused to this. Lyanna Stark was usually bursting with energy, smiles, and laughter. To see her this way dampened his mood. "If it makes you feel any better, so am I," he said, moving closer to the tree. "Feels like my head is stuck in a fog and my body moves of its own accord."

"Aye, that about sums up my own feelings," Lady Stark sighed, pressing her back to the trunk as she gently sat on the grass.

Jaime did not sit next to her, exactly. He mirrored her position, settling down several paces to her left, his face forward, though his eyes kept risking glances at her. They sat in silence for a while. The soft touch of a summer breeze cooled the heat, making the red leaves above them rustle gently.

"The colors are beautiful," Jaime said, caught up in the splendor of the summer foliage. "Nothing like the godswood in my home. Ours is in a cave where an old and ugly weirwood has entwined everything with its roots."

"Our godswood is drearier," Lyanna replied after a moment. "We don't get as much sun up North, but we have snow. The way it dances through the air and how the soft winter breeze sings through the branches - I could stay there for hours."

"I'll have to visit it when I go to Winterfell," Jaime said.

"I wish I could be there now," Lyanna's face fell. "Away from whatever others have planned for me here..."

Jaime suspected what she was referring to, but a fear of voicing it kept him silent for a few heartbeats.

"...Benjen," Lyanna said, uncertainty lacing her voice. "He overheard Brandon and Ned talking about my brother's betrothal to Cat at the sparring ring today. With the war coming, Father thinks it's best to hasten the wedding plans. Brandon is going to King's Landing with us. I assume they will be wed there before he, Father, and Ned head to the Wall."

"And you fear that he'll hasten your marriage to Baratheon," Jaime concluded with a terrible finality, his gut twisting with dread.

"Benjen swears that Father made no mention of my betrothal. He brushed off Brandon's question about it," Lyanna grew small. "But who's to say that he won't change his mind later? A few weeks ago, none of us thought we'd be going to war with the Others. Anything is possible after that."

Jaime was at a loss for words.

"Perhaps if Robert wasn't a swine, I could stomach this better."

Her mouth curled, and her hands tightened into fists atop her knees. Fury simmered in her eyes, barely contained.

Outside of joking about his failed attempts to best Geralt, Jaime and Lyanna didn't talk about Baratheon. He suspected she was no admirer of his, but he didn't expect such clear revulsion.

"Did you know he already has a bastard daughter?" She asked, turning to face Jaime. "And that's just the one anyone knows about. I happen to know he's had many... conquests in and around the Vale. If my father wasn't here, I know for certain he'd have already fucked every serving girl in the castle. Gods, I'm not convinced he hasn't found some way to do it anyway."

Jaime knew there were many such men across the Realm, lords and baseborn alike, who left a trail of bastard children in their wake. Some recognized, most left to their obscurity.

As he paused to consider the matter, Jaime realized he had never given much thought to what the wives, or in this instance, the betrothed ladies of such men, thought or felt about these actions. He hadn't even considered what they would think about marrying someone they disliked for any reason. Facing such emotions now, Jaime found himself utterly lost for words. He had expected to do something to make her feel better, but he was about as useful as a broken sword.

"I'm sorry," he said when no other words came to mind. "I'm truly sorry you find yourself in such a position...and that I can't offer you more."

Lyanna's gaze held his for a few heartbeats. The fury that had risen fell along with her face. She looked very alone and small.

"Thank you, Ser," she said in a quiet voice. "Truly, it was nice to be listened to, at any rate."

"Take heart, my lady," Jaime fought the urge to reach out and take her hand. "Your brother says nothing has changed yet, and I doubt he is unaware of how you feel about this matter."

"I tell Benjen everything," Lyanna replied, her eyes staring at something far away. "All the same, with everything that's changing-"

"Not every change is for the worse. Yes, the Others have returned, but they won't catch us unawares. We have a few experts around to turn the scales of the war in our favor," Jaime smiled. "If that doesn't convince you, look no further than Pycelle and me for proof. The Grand Maester was a craven not too long ago. I practically carried him to safety during our first battle against Harren. But when the deciding moment came, he found and gathered his strength and helped save his friends and the whole castle from Harren. Now he trains thrice as hard as men a quarter of his age to do it again."

"And you?" Her head turned, and grey eyes locked with his.

"To put it plainly, I was a total arse. As opposed to mostly one," Jaime shook his head with laughter. "I thought all I'd ever need to beat anyone was a witty retort and a good blade. If you tried talking to me about this a few months ago, I would have brushed you off and gone to fight someone. Or gone riding until my thighs were sore."

Jaime paused to let his words sink in before continuing.

"I'm not claiming Robert is certain to become a man worthy of you. Perhaps he will go and come back from this war unchanged at all. He may not return at all. He may wake tomorrow, slip, and break his neck down a flight of stairs," that got a chuckle out of her. "But you said so yourself: the limits of possibility have changed. Geralt says they have none at all. You may feel trapped now, but tomorrow? Who knows."

Lady Stark's eyes fell imperceptibly. She didn't appear as relieved as he had hoped she would be by his words, but neither did she seem quite as terrified. "Thoughtful" was the word he'd settle on.

"Mayhaps you're right," she said after a while. "I can't deny that all is or will be as bleak as I thought. All the same," she bit her lip, "I wish I could have more sway over which path things go down, instead of waiting and hoping they turn out better."

Once again, Jaime found himself at a loss. If his father pressed him to marry, Jaime could refuse. He could weather being disowned or pushed to the side in whatever plans he had for House Lannister. He had means of earning coin and making a life for himself. Lady Lyanna didn't have that luxury. Most ladies didn't, he realized. She could fight and protect herself, certainly. But if she refused, she could not simply walk away. She would be locked up and held until the marriage ceremony, or sent to the Silent Sisters, or whatever the Northmen had that was similar to them if she tried to run or sabotage the betrothal.

For a few brief moments, he considered sabotaging the betrothal, waiting to flee from Harrenhal, taking their chances out in the world. Free to go where they wished and do what they wanted. But it was only a passing, impassioned flight of fancy. Jaime felt the weight of his responsibilities and duties right behind him. The shadow of its branches and leaves hovered over him. No, even if he ran far and kissed and laughed the days away with her, he wouldn't forgive himself for abandoning his friends when they needed him.

Suddenly, Jaime keenly felt the limits of possibility. "I think it's time I went back," Lyanna said as she got back on her feet, her hands gently brushing away the twigs and leaves. "I don't want my family to worry."

"Aye, that sounds sensible," Jaime agreed.

She turned to face him. The gentle breeze that passed through the clearing blew harder, and in that moment, her dress and hair danced in it. Jaime stared at her, admiring the way she looked down on him. Grateful and sad, worried and indebted, pained eyes with a warm smile. "Thank you, again, Jaime," her voice carried the same mix of emotions. "I wish you good fortune in all the days to come."

She curtsied, gazing at him for a moment longer, then turned away. Her shape vanished into the trees soon after, the soft sound of her footfalls vanishing until only silence was left at the heart of the godswood. 

It only broke with Jaime's reply, "You too, Lyanna. You too."

Chapter Text

The yard of Harrenhal was teeming with people, the largest gathering Geralt had yet seen. Men-at-arms of House Whent stood tall upon the walls, bearing shields and tall pikes with the standard of their house aloft. Servants and smallfolk of all ages packed together so tightly that a cavalry charge could not break their ranks. The retinues of the visiting lords formed an inner circle, their mail and shields and steel gleaming in the morning sun as they prepared for days of hard riding ahead. Their banners joined with those of House Whent, fluttering in the cooling breeze, with wolves, falcons, trouts, and stags emblazoned upon them.

The Whents themselves were at the heart of this mass of people, bidding farewell to all their guests.

We're finally leaving. Geralt repeated to himself several times since he'd woken two hours prior, unable to shake the thought. As a Witcher, he was accustomed to a wanderer's life, travelling wherever he needed to earn coin and survive another year on the Path. The Temple of Melitele and Kaer Morhen were the only exceptions he could consider, and he dared not visit the old Witcher stronghold since Vesemir's death. Nevertheless, the notion of leaving Harrenhal filled him with a strange melancholy he was unaccustomed to.

Harrenhal was a damn ugly place, a foreboding ruin where it took forever to get anywhere. It was a monument to a lunatic's ego, a deathtrap that had caused the misery of thousands of people. Just making the place somewhat less deplorable had nearly killed him and his friends a dozen times over.

While Walter shook the hands of Rickard Stark and Lord Arryn, Geralt's eyes were drawn to his companions, lined up to his left. The nearest was Jaime, followed by Pycelle, Arthur, Oswell, and Baratheon. Geralt silently watched them and quickly knew what, among many other things, would bind Harrenhal closely to him until the end of his days. It was the place their party had come together.

Pycelle had found his courage and purpose. Jaime had flagrantly disobeyed and come back to help, saving the entire effort in the process. Arthur and Oswell had been given the chance to be true knights, defenders of the realm instead of sentries for a mad king.

And I found new friends. Geralt thought, looking at each of the Five again and committing them to memory. Tall, rested, prepared for the dangers to come. Alive. How many of them will still be alive when all this is over?

The next few moments only intensified the twisting feeling that had settled into Geralt's gut. Lord Walter and Lady Shella reached Oswell, and without any thought or care for appearances or lordly behaviour, the two brothers looked at each other and embraced.

Walter's voice was rougher than usual as he spoke into his brother’s right ear. "Don't do anything stupid, for a change," he warned. "I mean it. I want you by my side when we celebrate our victory over the Others."

Oswell laughed. "I'll try not to claim all the glory for myself, just this once." His eyes were only slightly watery. Then he grew serious, gazing sternly at his brother and nodding. "We will see each other again, I promise."

"I know that, you fool. What I want is for us to see each other while we're still alive."

"Gods willing, it will be so," Lady Shella said, hugging him next and kissing him on the left cheek. "May they watch over you, and all your companions."

Oswell bid his nephews and nieces farewell next, the older ones stoic while the youngest valiantly held back their tears. Meanwhile, their parents addressed the remaining five. Even with them, Geralt could sense a hint of sadness behind their smiles.

“My advice for Oswell concerns all of you,” Lord Walter said, clasping Geralt's hand firmly. “Take care of yourself, Master Witcher. I look forward to welcoming you and your fine party back to more peaceful times.”

“There is still much work to be done before then.”

“Aye, and I will assist in any way I can. You have my word, my friend,” Lord Walter released Geralt’s hand and gestured to his subjects. “As long as a single soul of House Whent remains, you and your deeds shall never be forgotten. You have vanquished the shadow that threatened our future, and we shall aid you in ensuring the next threat meets the same fate.”

“My husband speaks the truth,” Lady Shella said, beaming at Geralt. “I have no doubt you will once again accomplish the impossible.”

Geralt had seen this look before, when Lady Shella had revealed her visions of the curse-breaking. It was a look of complete trust and unbridled hope that all would end well. Faced with it, the Witcher concealed his own doubts behind a practised mask of self-control and bowed his head.

“Thank you for your trust, my lady,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand. “I shall endeavour to be worthy of it.”

She laughed. “You already are, my friend.”

Moments later, the Five and the high lords mounted their steeds. The great assemblage of people parted, allowing them a clear shot for the main gate. Ere Lord Tully could gesture for them to ride out, a cry issued forth from someone in the back of the smallfolk.

“Hail the Heroes of Harrenhal!” Geralt turned sharply and noticed an aged man of at least sixty winters cupping both sides of his mouth. “Hail! Hail!”

Soon, the yard burst forth with similar cheers. The voices of young and old, the hearty and the wizened, soldiers and farmers, blacksmiths and stablehands became one, overwhelming voices echoing through the yard and vast, black stones. Such was the force of these unified cries that even the steeds, trained for war and the chaos therein, neighed and stomped in place, so taken aback were they.

Once Geralt had managed to calm his own steed down, he turned to his right at the Whent's and saw the knowing looks Walter and Shella gave him as they too joined the cheers. Even as part of him knew it would take much more to win the coming war than just cheers and thanks, all the same, the Witcher smiled and bowed his head in recognition of their gesture moments before he and the Five at last left Harrenhal behind them.

As they entered the shadow of the long archway, the people's cheers following them, Geralt's face remained unchanged. On the other side of the main gate, they were greeted by green farm fields bathed in bright sunlight.

"At last, he smiles," Oswell commented to Jaime from behind Geralt. "I was afraid he'd be moody throughout the whole war."

"Aye, you'd think he was practising to scowl the Others into submission."

Geralt snorted and turned his head momentarily to glance at them. "Just shut up and ride."

For the next four days, the Five, their lords, and their retinues drove their horses and themselves to the brink, from the moment the sun first kissed the sky to the moment it withdrew from view. In ordinary circumstances, a journey from Harrenhal to Maidenpool would take a week, but their forced pace cut it down by a third.

The expansive and fruitful farmlands that encompassed House Whent's lands gave way to a long expanse of towering and robust soldier pines that reached towards the heavens. Here, the numerous rivers that lend the kingdom its name trailed along the well-trodden road and occasionally intersected with the riders on their way to Maidenpool. The warm summer light, chilled only by a slight breeze, welcomed the riders as they encountered many groups of travelling traders and local soldiers along their way, who typically yielded to them to avoid impeding their progress.

Numerous inns and taverns were passed on the journey, all of which appeared to be thriving, but the riders only halted at one for the trip's duration. Otherwise, they camped and slept under the stars. The soldiers' impressive efficiency was laudable to Geralt; within an hour, they could dismount, assemble the tents, bedrolls, and other necessities and create an entire campsite. Equally as swiftly, the following morning, they would pack up and prepare to ride once again.

The journey was quiet, with little conversation exchanged, as horse-riding at this speed was arduous enough without attempting to converse. By evening, everyone was too preoccupied with readying themselves for the following day's ride. Geralt was unfazed by this, as he had grown accustomed to long rides with nothing and no one to talk to, except for one of his Roche's.


The one Geralt had been most concerned about for the journey proved himself more than capable. Even a young man would have found such a relentless pace taxing, yet Pycelle held himself admirably. He never complained or slowed down, nor did he force them to rest, galloping on with steely determination. When he dismounted, Geralt noticed how he did so without assistance and went about preparing his own sleeping arrangements without showing any signs of fatigue or pain from the ride.

Still, they were all quietly relieved when the flat forest gave way to rolling hills as they approached the eastern coast of the Riverlands. On the fourth day, two hours before sunset, the mass of riders halted to take in the city that lay before them.

Geralt caught the scent of salt in the air and the cries of gulls long before they came into view. As they stopped, he saw the tall pink stone walls that stood out against the blue of the sea and the greens and browns of the surrounding farmland. From a distance, he heard the cries of men, the ringing of harbour bells, and saw ships of all kinds sailing in and out of the harbour.

Shortly thereafter, a group of seven men bearing the blazon of a red on a white field with golden treasure rode up to greet and escort them into the city. The men of House Mooton welcomed them with the usual courtly courtesy and informed Lord Tully that Lord Mooton had prepared a grand feast to welcome his many guests and was eager to assist them in any way he could.

The city they briefly stayed in reminded Geralt of Novigrad. It was a prosperous town with traders and artisans from across the Seven Kingdoms and the Narrow Sea. The number of timber taverns they rode past was matched only by the multitude of revelry they heard emanating from them. As they rode to the highest hill on the coastline, Geralt saw the castle constructed atop it, towering over the rest of the town. Its grey walls shone brightly in the late sunset.

Within the castle, Geralt noticed numerous tapestries, carpets, statues, paintings, and other assorted purchases from the Free Cities. Large black cat statues, reaching up to Geralt's chest, were scattered around the hallways. Tapestries depicted scenes of battles for the Disputed Land. Lord Mooton, who was scrawny and well into his fifties, adorned himself with shining and elaborate gold necklaces and a jeweled ring on every finger. Geralt overheard Lord Tully grumble about how he looked more like a Myrish cheesemonger than a lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

During the feast, Geralt went through all the formalities, drank to the many toasts, and entertained the members of House Mooton with his tales. Besides seeing Howland forced out of his usual, greenmen attire, it was an unremarkable affair.

The morning after, they headed for the docks. There, ss promised by Rhaegar, three of the fastest galleys in the royal fleet awaited them. The banner of House Targaryen flew atop each of the three masts, and Geralt estimated there was enough room for over 30 pairs of oars in total. Each galley was over 120 feet long and nearly 25 feet wide.

One galley would take Elbert Arryn to Gulltown and then further north to White Harbor, where Eddard Stark would disembark. There, the young lords were to head for their kingdoms' respective seats and begin laying the initial preparations for the fight against the Others until their uncle and father respectively returned to take full command. The rest of the highlords and the Five would head to King’s Landing along the south coast.

The journey lasted a mere five days with the wind favoring them almost the entire way. Geralt and his companions passed the time in conversation, discussing both grave and trivial matters or considering what exercises they could do without troubling the crew.

The first sign of King’s Landing came into view as Geralt stood on the portside, hands resting on the wooden railing. The sea breeze blew into his face, carrying with it a terrible odor that stung his nose like a wasp bite, his eyes threatening to water at once. Then, the Red Keep appeared on the horizon, its seven-drum towers of pale red stone almost aglow in the mid-morning sun.

Geralt heard the thump of boots against the wooden deck behind him. Moments later, Arthur arrived, already donning the white armor of the Kingsguard. In his peripheral vision, the Witcher noticed a severe, haunted look etched on his friend's face as he gazed up at the castle towering above them.

"Feels like years since we last set foot here, doesn't it?" Geralt remarked.

"Aye," Arthur answered with a heavy voice. "Much has changed in the world, and in us."

Geralt saw his friend's gloved hands clench tightly around the railing. "Aerys is dead," he said, hoping to alleviate some of Arthur's troubles. "You don't have to answer to him or his degenerate whims anymore."

"The stains of his crimes that I allowed to go unpunished linger. No, Geralt," Arthur's body shook with his sigh. "There is one person I must answer to in the Red Keep, and her words will cut into me deeper than any blade."

The Witcher could easily guess whom he meant. Nonetheless, he had no words to comfort Arthur's guilt. He wagered Arthur wouldn't accept any words of comfort, and there were merely some failures that words couldn't ease the pain of, or the guilt.

Soon, their ship sailed into the mouth of the Blackwater. Scores of vessels of all kinds sailed to and fro the harbor. Carracks and long ships from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond bobbed on the waves, along with simple fishing vessels for one or two men out to make their haul for the day. On the countless quays, innumerable ships lay docked, some empty, while others unloaded their cargo into the city.

A significant portion of the docks had been cleared for their arrival.

Men-at-arms, donning red and gold cloaks, stood united, holding House Targaryen's banner aloft atop their long pikes. Positioned a few paces behind the Small Council, the Kingsguard, and their monarchs at the forefront of the welcoming party. Geralt spied Varys' purple and green silk robes and the golden lion roaring on Tywin's red tunic. However, the absence of Wisdom Rosart caught his attention, and he hoped the old sadist had been thrown down a long flight of stairs. Fat Staunton, the boot-licker, was gone too. In his stead, Geralt guessed, was Jon Connington, a young man with flame-red hair, a slightly bent nose with an equally red scar running horizontally in the middle. Geralt remembered him as one of Rhaegar's closest advisers and the new Master of Laws.

Beside him stood another tall young man, perhaps the same age as Ciri, garbed in an orange tunic with red and gold highlights, knee-length and similar in style to his sister, the new queen. Geralt recognized him as the infamous Red Viper, feeling the youth's eyes upon him as the galley halted at the quay. Arthur had warned him about this one, a fierce youth who could laugh with you like a best friend only to slit your throat moments later if you offended him. He had earned his moniker by poisoning the man whose paramour he had been found in bed with.

Geralt would have preferred to deal with someone more even-tempered, but Arthur assured him that, despite his recklessness, Oberyn could be an asset and when properly motivated, was a force to be reckoned with. During his long exile following the poisoning, he had apparently traveled to the Citadel, earning many Maester chains and had taken part in numerous adventures across the Free Cities. First-hand knowledge and experience would be invaluable for their mission in Essos.

The three galleys gradually arranged themselves one after another at the docks. The high lords were the first to descend down the long, wide wooden ramps, followed by the Five and Howland Reed, and finally, the lords’ personal retinues. Once they had all set foot on land, the entire arriving group dropped to one knee in unison before their new monarch.

Rhaegar had seen fit to correspond with them personally, several times throughout their sojourn at Harrenhal. From his missives, they had gleaned that a swift coronation had taken place soon after Aerys' funeral. The city was in tumultuous disarray, both from the king's demise and the breaking of the curse that had wrought havoc upon the animal population. Geralt found himself in agreement with this. There were far more pressing matters at hand than squandering time and coin on some grandiose ceremony.

Likewise, as Howland began to expound upon their plan of action against the Others and where to locate the necessary resources, Rhaegar was all ears. The young king had already set in motion mining operations for obsidian on Dragonstone, as they had witnessed for themselves during their recent passage by the isle.

Approaching them now, Rhaegar gestured for the group to rise, and patiently waited as they complied, addressing them in turn. It was then that Geralt noted an intriguing detail about the king's attire. Clad in the customary colours of his noble house, accentuated now by a cape of black and red with white fur upon the shoulders, he also wore a crown upon his head. Fashioned from pure gold and bearing eight points, the largest of which was adorned with a three-headed dragon, the remaining points were marked with the sigils of all the great houses represented right on the king's head.

Geralt knew the nobles would undoubtedly take note of the young king's grand display. As with most high born people, grand gestures were their bread and butter. Rhaegar and Elia took their time speaking with each of the high lords, and the princess even managed to get a laugh out of Baratheon with her charms. Meanwhile, Rhaegar reminisced with Tully and Arryn about a tourney they'd all attended several years ago. Queen Dowager Rhaella, looking healthier than the last time the Witcher had seen her, also managed to elicit a smile or two from the grim Lord Stark. The boy Viserys, however, was polite but reserved.

Geralt couldn't help but pity Viserys for missing Aerys. In many ways, the boy was the only one who mourned the late king. But to Geralt, a monster like the mad king was hardly worth a second thought, let alone any mourning.

After the highlords received their due attention, the new king and queen turned their attention to the Five. "It is a pleasure to see you unharmed, Master Witcher," Queen Elia beamed at him. "All of you. Your service to the Realm is unmatched."

"Indeed," The Witcher expected a nod of courtesy. Instead, Rhaegar extended his hand, a gesture he would repeat with all of them. "On behalf of the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen, I express my heartfelt gratitude for your services rendered. Once the current crisis is resolved, I will ensure that you are all rewarded as is fitting."

"Your Grace, thank you," Geralt shook his hand and bowed his head. After all the formalities were complete, they began their journey back to the Red Keep.

Passing through Fishmonger's Square to ascend up Aegon's Hill, they wove their way through crowds of people. The Five soon dispersed among the front of the gathering. Jaime was summoned to his father's side, while Arthur and Oswell joined their brothers with the royal family. Pycelle was approached and found himself in talks with Lord Connington about the curse breaking. Howland, who had stayed behind the Five, was asked to ride by the king to give him a preliminary report on the Others and their activities.

Geralt found himself riding at the back of the column's spearhead, next to Prince Oberyn. The young man, atop a black steed with a fiery red mane, pulled up to his left side. The Witcher had never seen a horse like that before.

"So, you're the one the whole castle speaks of," the young man said, a sly grin on his lips. "Geralt of Rivia, the monster killer from another world. Slayer of the Smiling Knight, breaker of curses, bane of Harren the Black."

The Witcher gave no outward sign of offense to the mockery clear in the young man's voice. He had dealt with enough cocksure warriors in his time to know that the best way to cut them down to size, short of a thorough thrashing, was to take the sting out of their words. And so he simply bowed his head politely. “I am. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Prince Oberyn.”

The Red Viper paused for a moment, a smile frozen on his face, a hint of challenge flashing in his black eyes. “Some men would not admit their accomplishments so brazenly. Others might think it a show of arrogance.”

“I prefer to tell things as they are whenever possible. If someone’s got a problem with that, they can lose sleep over it, not me.”

“It’s a wonder you lasted more than an hour in Aerys’ presence, with a tongue like that.”

“I’d have gladly gone to my grave without needing to spend a second in it.”

The Dornishman let out a hearty laugh at that. Geralt had been advised that a mix of deference to Oberyn's station and a bold disregard for formalities elsewhere was something the Prince appreciated. He had no intention or desire to antagonize the living, but he’d be damned if he had to mince words about Aerys Targaryen anymore.

Oberyn's laughter drew the attention of those at the head of their party, including his sister who glared daggers at him for a few seconds. The Prince caught on to her meaning and swiftly sobered up.

“Forgive me for my earlier words, Master Witcher. Truthfully, I’ve wished to meet you ever since my sister wrote of her rescue,” the Prince said, sounding quite sincere for a change. He put a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “On behalf of my family and all of Dorne, I thank you for protecting her from the Smiling Knight and his brigands.”

“I've met their type, and the results are never pretty,” Geralt replied, the grinning mad face of the Smiling Knight flashing before his eyes.

“So have I, here and across the Narrow Sea,” Oberyn said, his hands gripping the reins so tightly they turned paler. “The very thought of Elia at their mercy,” he continued, his nostrils flaring and his shoulders tightening, as though the Smiling Knight were still alive and in front of him.

But then the rage subsided as quickly as it had come, and a fresh smile was on his face. “Still, to face such adversaries at once and emerge victorious is no small feat. In fact,” he gave Geralt a sideways look, “I would say only the best of the best could accomplish it.”

“I suppose we'll find out in the sparring ring tomorrow morning.”

Oberyn chuckled. “I suppose we will.”

As they dismounted in the Red Keep's yard, Rhaegar informed them of a meeting in the Small Council's chamber in two hours' time. The group soon dispersed to tend to their own business, including preparations and rest. Geralt accompanied the Lannisters to the Tower of the Hand where he was staying. Servants brought him hot water and a wooden tub, scrubbing him clean from head to toe. He chose to wear his freshly cleaned armor instead of the tunics provided by Tywin, leaving his swords behind.

Accompanied by Tywin and Jaime, Geralt made his way back to the throne room, walking for twenty minutes across the main courtyard of the Red Keep. As before, the dragon skulls hung on the walls, casting deep shadows through the empty sockets. His medallion twitched in their presence. The Iron Throne, with its mass of twisted and burnt swords, caught Geralt's eye. It was now surrounded by wooden scaffolds, and two dozen men worked on blunting the edges of the blades with hammers and stones.

"Smart choice," Geralt commented as they passed by the hulking monstrosity.

"The king felt it was a necessary safety precaution after his predecessor's accident," Tywin answered, with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

As Jonothor and Lewyn opened the twin doors, Geralt felt the weight of the black, malevolent Valyrian sphinxes lurking on each side of the entrance. With a sideways glare, he moved past them, descending down a small set of steps into the chamber.

The once modest table had been replaced by a far grander one of dark brown ebony wood that stretched the length of the room. At its center lay a wide map of the north, displaying the Wall, its many castles, and the lands beyond almost as long as the table itself. Seated at the head of the table were the king and queen, joined by several lords. The remaining key figures arrived over the next few minutes.

The Kingsguard stood in pairs around the chamber, except for Gerold who stood behind the king. Geralt took his seat at the center of the long table, affording him a clear view of the map. Beams of sunlight touched his back, illuminating much of the room. Howland Reed sat to his left, followed by Pycelle and the other members of the Small Council. Tywin Lannister sat at Rhaegar's right, with Jaime by his side. Oberyn Martell had chosen to take a seat to Geralt's right, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair until one of its front legs hovered mere inches off the ground. The other high lords occupied the remaining seats.

Rhaegar loomed over the assembled lords. Jonothor and Lewyn, stationed closest to the entrance, locked it following his nod.

"My lords," he addressed them with open arms, meeting their eyes for a brief moment. "Although I'm glad to see you all here, I regret that it's not in more cheerful times. A dire threat, more fearsome than any living man has faced in thousands of years, is stirring in the far north. And it seeks to destroy us all: the Others."

At the mention of the Others, Geralt could sense the temperature in the room drop perceptibly. "While they have yet to march on the Seven Kingdoms, it's only a matter of when, not if, they will. To prepare ourselves for the coming war and secure victory, we're blessed to have the presence of those who possess the knowledge to fight and defeat this threat."

He gestured towards Geralt and Howland, and murmurs of agreement and consent rippled through many of those present. The Witcher observed the young crannogman, still garbed in the attire of a greenman, blush and attempt not to shrink under the scrutiny.

"Hence, I'll not waste any more time and let the experts speak." Exchanging a look with Howland, Geralt decided to take the lead, noting the boy's reluctance to speak before so many prominent individuals.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he inclined his head and rose as Rhaegar sat down. Leaning forward, Geralt placed his knuckles on the southern end of the map, his eyes fixed on the Wall.

"Thousands of years ago, after the First Men, the giants, and the children of the forest defeated the Long Night, they were wise enough to know the Others would return and prepared for it accordingly." His finger traced along a portion of the Wall illustration. "Contrary to what most believe, the Wall isn't only an imposing physical defense but also a magical barrier. The children of the forest poured much of their lost power and knowledge into these stones, forming a repelling force against the Others and their undead minions. The crucial points anchoring this vast web of runes and mystical protection are situated at the base foundations of each of the 19 castles along the Wall."

Prince Oberyn's face twisted into a quizzical expression. "So the Others cannot cross?" he inquired, seemingly unperturbed. "Then what is the danger they present?"

Geralt raised his head to meet the prince's gaze, offering him only a cursory glance before addressing the table. "Magic, my prince, is not a perpetual force," he explained. "It ages, fades, and weakens with neglect. A mere few moons past, not a soul gathered here, except for myself, would have given credence to the words I now speak. Men have forgotten the Wall's true purpose, and the youth of today are mere shadows of their forefathers, bereft of the same vigor and vitality. As a result, the power that once repelled the Others from these two fortresses has significantly diminished."

He gestured towards the Long Barrow and the Nightfort, both infamous for their dilapidated state. "Our three-eyed raven, who keeps watch over the goings-on in the frigid north, has confirmed this. Although the Others themselves may not yet be capable of breaching the fortifications of these strongholds, their undead minions could very well do so."

Varys interjected, his tone measured and thoughtful. "And once they breach the defenses, they would attempt to destroy the great runes that you spoke of earlier, concealed within the foundations of the castles."

Geralt nodded, a somber expression crossing his features. "Precisely. If these runes are destroyed, there is no guarantee that the fortresses themselves, along with the nearby sections of the Wall, will not crumble with the collapse of magic. When the Others launch their attack, these two locations will bear the brunt of their assault."

"Both the Long Barrow and the Nightfort are among the most decayed of our castles, Your Grace," Lord Rickard interjected. "We have already dispatched word to Lord Commander Qorgyle and my closest bannermen, instructing them to begin the process of re-garrisoning these sites. However, it will require a significant amount of time and manpower to restore them to defensible positions."

Rhaegar's gaze swept across the room, lingering on each of the gathered lords and advisors. "Ask, and you shall receive, Lord Stark," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Regardless, this situation necessitates the division of our forces. Neither fortress is within close proximity to the sea, making the transportation of goods and soldiers a logistical nightmare once the snowfalls intensify."

Geralt cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room back towards him. "There is yet another problem, one that could render the Wall irrelevant," he said gravely. "The Horn of Winter. Our three-eyed raven has informed us that the Others are actively seeking it, scouring the entirety of the wildling lands."

"The Horn that can shatter the Wall," Rhaegar murmured, his voice filled with foreboding. "I recall the legend well. It was crafted by a wildling king, Joramun."

"Your Grace," Howland spoke, his voice trembling with reverence. "He was a giant, the last of their great kings before their people became divided. He forged a mighty house of his kin, including men and even children. Over time, they grew to despise their lot, trapped north of the Wall. The children under his banner even enchanted the horn, attempting to shatter the very runes that uphold the Wall."

"You said 'attempted,'" Elia pointed out. "Is it not certain to work?"

"Well... no," Howland replied, scratching his chin. "Thanks to the efforts of the Night's Watch, greenseers, and children still loyal to their oaths, Joramun's ambitions were thwarted. He never got the chance to use it."

"All the same," Geralt interjected. "We can’t leave anything to chance. Even if the Horn can’t bring down the Wall, we can’t discount the possibility that the Others may seek to repurpose it for something else we do not know about. It must be found and destroyed."

"As per the three-eyed raven's counsel," Pycelle continued. "Joramun's Horn is most likely buried in the region of Thenn, amidst the northernmost peaks of the Frostfangs. The Others' search parties have been most active in that area of late."

"This task will require a skilled and agile team," The Witcher announced, feeling the unease from his departure from Harrenhal slowly creeping up his spine. "A small but formidable group, able to move quickly and defend themselves in case of a fight."

"A task fit for the Harrenhal Five, it would seem," Varys added, and the table murmured in agreement. Tywin gave the spymaster a brief glance but said nothing. Geralt kept silent, his eyes staring beyond the map, the floor, and the ground to someplace only he could see. For a long while, he wished to simply agree and be done with it. However, he knew he could not. There was something else they needed to do, something likely far worse than going beyond the Wall.

"Perhaps for some of the Five," The Witcher replied with grim finality. "But there is something else we must do. We must arm ourselves to kill the Others. The obsidian we’re mining, it can kill them but it's brittle. You can’t make more than a speartip or knife or arrowhead with it. And you’re not going to parry or block one of the Others enchanted blades with any of that.”

"What of silver?" Tywin inquired with a raised eyebrow. "You've wielded it with great efficacy thus far."

"Silver is most effective against the wights," Geralt replied, his eyes scanning the gathered faces. "They are undead beings bound by magic, not unlike wraiths or ghouls. But the Others are a different breed. Silver may work, or it may shatter like any other steel. I've learned not to rely on maybes in my line of work. We need a weapon that is guaranteed to kill them."

Geralt paused, his gaze flickering to Howland. "We need Valyrian steel."

The room fell silent, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Those who understood the weight of Geralt's words held their breath, while those who didn't gazed at him with a mix of confusion and awe.

"You mean to go to Valyria?" Lord Chelsted exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Forgive me, Master Witcher, but that is sheer madness. No one has returned from that cursed place alive. And who knows what, if anything, remains there?"

"Those are valid concerns, my lord," Geralt acknowledged with a sigh. "But we have no choice. The Others threaten us all, and Valyrian steel is our only hope. The weirwood granted to us by the greenmen will shield us from the heat and sorcery of dragonfire. A ship outfitted with it should withstand the steam and flames that surround Valyria. And we have confirmed reports of Valyrian steel not only being used against the Others but killing them as well."

"Dark Sister," Rhaegar breathed, his voice heavy with reverence. "The blade of Queen Visenya Targaryen herself. It disappeared with Bloodraven when he was sent to the Wall. It's been lost for nearly three decades..."

"The sword has been found, Your Grace," Howland interjected. "An ally of the three-eyed raven wields it, and has used it to great effect against the Others. From this, we've learned that the Freehold's legendary weapons, as well as those forged from meteor ore like Ser Arthur's Dawn, are effective against them. A great shower of the fiery rock fell during the first Long Night and the First Men shaped it into specialized weapons against the Others and their servants. Sadly," Howland's voice fell. "Dawn is the only one left of these unique weapons, and none remain who could forge new ones."

"And unless another meteor shower conveniently rains down upon us too, we couldn't make them even if we knew how. Valyrian steel remains our best bet," Geralt concluded somberly.

"Then let us retrieve it," Oberyn declared, his eyes glinting with determination. "I volunteer myself and my ship for the task."

"Oberyn!" Elia chided her brother. "This is not one of your reckless escapades. Valyria is one of the most perilous places on earth. You cannot charge into this without proper preparation."

"The whole world is in peril, dear sister," Oberyn retorted, gesturing to the map. "The Others threaten everything we hold dear. Waiting for them to come to us is not an option. We must face them head-on."

"I volunteer as well, Master Witcher," Baratheon declared, his hand slamming down on the table with a resounding thud. "You'll need a mighty warrior by your side to face whatever horrors await us. My hammer is at your disposal."

Geralt spoke in a warning tone, "No offense to either of you, your gestures are appreciated, but this requires careful consideration. This isn't just about being bold and mighty. Either of these tasks will make the cursebreaking of Harrenhal seem like a tavern brawl by comparison. The fact of the matter is," the Witcher paused and felt the full weight of dread settle in his throat, "Beyond the Wall or to Valyria, whoever is sent to either one is very likely to die. And I can't promise that's even the worst thing that'll happen to you."

Silence followed Geralt's words, with no more volunteers or murmurs breaking the stillness. The lords, knights, and monarchs were left to ponder the weight of his warning, and to consider the implications of the dangerous tasks at hand. Geralt knew they would heed his counsel, for he was the expert in battling sorcery.

Just as he knew the responsibility of selecting who would go where and the crushing weight of guilt would fall on his shoulders too.

Geralt could feel it bearing down on him, threatening to crush his resolve. He longed for the arrival of Ciri and Yennefer, for they could avert many of the terrible dangers that lay ahead with their help. But he knew the odds were against them.

Despair and fatigue settled over him like a cloak, as he waited for the inevitable. It came moment’s later when Rhaegar chose him as his foremost adviser for the assignments of each task.

Chapter Text

Their journey from the White Sword Tower to Maegor's Holdfast was both long and foreboding. Although off-duty that morning, Arthur and Oswell traversed the Red Keep side by side, fully clad in their white armor and cloaks. Their weapons were sheathed, yet the pommels of their swords were held in tight grips. Those who found themselves in their way soon hurried to move aside, their greetings dying on their lips.

Arthur hardly noticed any of them. Since awakening that morning, his mind had been clouded with a thousand emotions and thoughts, all vague in detail yet heavy and terrible to consider. He was so preoccupied with what awaited them both that his body seemed to move, clothe, and guide him on the path of its own accord. Neither man ate nor drank anything, and they passed by their returning brothers, Lewyn and Gerold, without so much as a greeting. The two men did not speak to each other on their march.

Arthur was only fleetingly aware of a rush of heat beating down on them from the early morning sunrays. The sun had already covered the crimson stones of the Red Keep with a scalding, eerie glow. He only momentarily acknowledged the sweat that already stained his undershirt and made no attempt to wet his quickly drying lips. What did any of this matter next to the task ahead?

They had requested an audience with the queen dowager a day ahead, and she had acquiesced to the request with naught but a polite smile. A cold, too-polite one. Arthur had looked at himself in the mirror enough times to know when someone was merely pretending to want you nearby. He had to master the art lest Aerys caught wind of what any of them actually thought of him. So too did the queen, he supposed with a curled lip, more strongly than anyone else.

All the same, clarity of purpose did little to stave off the sheer weight of actually speaking to her about the subject of Aerys’ rapes and their inaction to stop them. It only intensified the coiling dread that squeezed at his innards, the shame that choked his lungs until his breath perpetually came up short.

Preparing and serving as a knight prepared a man for many things: how to ride, fight and kill, stave off the fear of death and loss long enough to at least keep one’s head on their shoulders. None of it gave him any practical advice or lessons for how to face the fury of someone you’d failed so utterly. And there would be fury, he knew.

If you didn't want shame, you should have done the right thing sooner, a voice said in Arthur's head - sometimes his own, other times Rhaella's. He had blocked it out under the foolish pretence of doing his duty before, but once they had resolved to murder Aerys, the voice had assaulted him day and night with growing intensity. Now, it pounded in his head like the beat of an overwhelming war drum.

He didn’t expect it to quiet down at all once this was over.

They halted a few paces ahead of the chamber's entrance and stood there, side by side, staring at the imposing doors carved with intricate patterns of soaring dragons. The doors seemed to loom before them, growing fearsomely large and daunting, making it difficult to even lay a hand on them.

Arthur felt the air grow stuffy and thick, the sounds of courtiers deeper in the castle and chirping birds outside growing fainter, as if they were thousands of leagues away. His heart pounded with such force that he almost thought it would burst right through his plate armor. He knew that this was it. Once they crossed the threshold, there would be no turning back.

His gaze turned to his sworn brother. Oswell's usually sharp and fierce features were marred by apprehension, his broad shoulders slumped slightly as if the weight pressing down upon them threatened to push him into the ground. In the silence that enveloped them, Oswell too turned to look at the man at his side.

It wasn't enough to banish their fears and worries; nothing could do that. Yet, in that shared look, they remembered the strength of the bond between them. It was forged in battles and lives saved, and now deepened by being each other's support in their shared guilt and blame.

Arthur allowed his gratitude to show in a fleeting but sincere smile, which the taller man returned. Then, they soberly and resolutely nodded to one another just before Arthur reached for the handle.

Upon entering the chambers, Arthur and Oswell were greeted by beams of light piercing into the room from the east-facing balcony on the opposite end. The floor was adorned with a lush carpet of silver and golden threads, resembling dragon scales. Tapestries in intricate red, gold, and black hues adorned the walls, depicting legendary dragon battles throughout the Targaryen dynasty's reign of nearly three centuries.

As they approached the center of the chambers, heading towards the balcony, Arthur and Oswell passed by the entrances to the queen's private study, where shelves of books had been collected and stored over the years. To their right, they caught a glimpse of the queen's bedchambers, with four posters and large red and black curtains pressed against the far side wall.

By the entrance to the balcony stood their sworn brother and the queen's sworn shield, Ser Barristan Selmy. His white armor shimmered with the brilliance of polished steel, even on the dreariest days, and now it seemed almost blinding to Arthur's eyes. His imposing and chiseled physique added to his appearance. Though his helmet concealed much of his features, his blue eyes softened at their approach, and the weathered lines around his strong jaw deepened with a greeting smile.

Arthur tried, and failed, to return the gesture. He noticed that Oswell didn't even go that far.

Stepping onto the red stone balcony, a gust of fresh air banished much of the lingering heat, carrying with it the invigorating scent of the sea. The fragrance of flowers also filled the air, dominating the balcony with numerous arrangements. Vases of exotic blooms, such as winter roses, golden sunflowers, and white stags, created a fragrance that Arthur had hardly noticed before but now found almost disarming in its uplifting ambiance.

The queen dowager sat gracefully on a plush, elongated chair, positioned against the southern stone railings of the expansive balcony. Her silver-white hair, once tightly braided, now cascaded freely, gently swaying in the wind. Clad in customary black silks, her gown appeared to absorb the sunlight. Long, flowing sleeves elegantly adorned her arms, while a high-necked collar enveloped her neck.

They also kept the marks of Aerys’ teeth and claws hidden, Arthur knew and the momentary distraction of the flowers vanished. 

As the sound of their approaching footsteps reached her ears, the queen set aside a large, leather-bound book she had been engrossed in, placing it delicately atop the chair. Then, with practiced grace and regality, she stood and offered them a smile, pressing her palms together.

Arthur allowed his gaze to linger on her, perhaps longer than customary. Although the darkened skin beneath her eyes had receded, and some color had returned to her face, the unmistakable marks and weathered lines of pain remained glaringly evident. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes betrayed a different story.

"Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell," she greeted them with a warm voice. "I bid you good morning." 

"Good morning, Your Grace," they bowed their heads and spoke in unison. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Arthur added afterward. "The matter we bring before you today... it is of great importance." 

"I gathered as much, though I am curious as to how I can help you in a way that the current king or queen cannot." 

"What we've come to discuss," Oswell replied in a gruff voice, "Concerns us, Your Grace. Our service to you as the Kingsguard in these past few years." 

Though the smile remained on her face, confusion and something else flashed in her eyes. "I am... not certain what it is you mean, Ser." 

"P-Please, Your Grace," Arthur managed, his breath short and his chest tight. "Allow us just a few minutes to say our piece. I promise it will be the last thing we ever ask of you. Once it is done, you can choose to scorn or punish us in any way you see fit." 

A thick silence descended upon them, even the wind seemed to die down. The heat became blistering, and Arthur's mouth and throat felt as if filled with sand. Rhaella's smile faded into a thin line as curiosity and a myriad of other emotions bloomed and died in her gaze. Under her scrutinizing stare, Arthur felt utterly exposed and pathetic. 

He was almost convinced she would dismiss them and order them to never trouble her again, but then she relented, releasing a sigh that eased some tension around her jaw. "Very well, Ser," Rhaella said in a tight voice. "Say what you wish to say."

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Arthur replied, almost relieved at her answer. 

The two knights then glanced at each other again, they were committed to their course now. It was time to see things through to the end. 

Together, they unclasped the straps of their helmets and placed them next to their right legs. Then, they kneeled, their palms resting atop their right knees. Rhaella’s eyes were upon them, unblinking, piercing and passing to and from each man’s face.

It was all Arthur could do to withstand the gaze. Wetting his dry lips, the Sword of Morning used every ounce and shred of willpower he had and laid himself bare before her.

"We have come to admit our failure, Your Grace," Arthur confessed, his voice heavy with guilt and shame. "Our failure to protect you." 

"We were aware of what Aerys was doing to you," his brother echoed, matching his tone of remorse. "Night after night, we stood there like obedient sentinels, listening and doing nothing while that... monster ravaged you." 

Rhaella's face remained devoid of emotion. Her gaze had turned distant, as if escaping to a terrible, faraway place she hoped to never witness again. 

"We could have saved you," Arthur continued, his anguish growing as he brought this misery back into her life. "We should have saved you. Instead... we hid behind our oaths to the king and became complicit in the pain and suffering he inflicted upon you. There is no forgiveness for such inaction. We neither desire nor deserve it. Nevertheless, we cannot continue serving you and your family without at least acknowledging our failure and swearing to you, here and now, on our knees before you, that we will never fail again." 

"The two of us..." Oswell began, his voice faltering briefly in an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation. Arthur heard the strain in his brother's grip, the sound of metal against metal as he clenched his fist. "If Aerys had not died, we would have killed the bastard before he could harm you or anyone else ever again. We should have done it as soon as the rapes and burnings began." 

Rhaella's lips parted in a silent gasp, her complexion turning deathly pale as she took a step back. Before they could continue, Arthur heard the sound of rattling mail and the muffled thumps of boots on the carpet. Turning his head, he saw Barristan standing on the balcony, his face a mask of bewilderment and shock.

The air crackled with tension as the three knights stared at each other on the balcony.

"Watch your tongues!" Barristan exclaimed, his voice filled with a mix of anger and disbelief. "Do you have any notion of the weight your words carry?"

Oswell's fury rose, his voice sharp and impassioned. "Our words carry the truth, and nothing else," he retorted. "We should have severed that animal's head the moment we realized what he was doing."

Barristan shot back, accusingly, "That animal was your king! You swore an oath to serve and protect him!"

Arthur blinked in disbelief, his heart sinking at Barristan's defense of their inaction. How could he still justify their choices, knowing the suffering Rhaella had endured under their supposed protection? They had all bent their consciences or chosen to believe their oaths justified their inaction. Yet, as he stared at the older man standing behind him, utterly oblivious to the weight of his own words and actions in that moment, Arthur was faced by a horrible truth he had given no voice to yet held in his heart all the same. 

Only two of their group of seven failed knights would admit their failure. 

That was why you never approached your brothers. The haunting golt spoke again, now in  Oswell’s voice, leaving Arthur pained and stunned. You didn’t trust them to stand at your side when the time of confession came. 

"You were not in Harrenhal, Selmy," Oswell stated firmly. "Harren the Black taught us well the depths a mad king can sink to if allowed to do as he pleases. Given enough time, they will do anything to satisfy their bloodlust and thirst for power."

Again, instead of admitting the truth, Arthur only perceived a defiant desire to argue the point from his sworn brother's scowl. This time, it wasn't incredulity that he felt, but seething rage. Anger simmered and boiled within him, directed at the man he would have willingly sacrificed his life to save and protect. It took all of Arthur's restraint to prevent himself from striding over and throttling Selmy.

"There are no oaths that justify inaction in the face of a terrible crime," Arthur said with an unyielding stare, scarcely containing his fury. "There are deeds in this world that are beyond forgiveness or excuse," he declared, his voice resonating with determination. "Terrible acts that no man should ever commit, boundaries that must never be crossed. Aerys was on the path to surpassing them all, consequences be damned. With the existence of magic known to him, he would have stopped at nothing to get his dragons and the whole Realm would have burned because of it. We had no intention of letting him live long enough to try."

The tension on the balcony reached its peak, with the weight of their shared guilt and conflicting loyalties hanging heavily in the air. 

"You know, I often wondered why no one would come to save me," Rhaella's voice came out flat, putting an end to the argument. Arthur turned his gaze back to the queen and saw that she was looking northward, her focus on some unseen place. "When Aerys was taken prisoner, a brave knight, a hero," she added with a touch of venom in her tone, "sneaked into a castle, killed his captors, and rescued him as if it were a tale from the books."

Then, she turned her gaze to Arthur, then Oswell, and finally to Selmy. There was no veneer of politeness left, no regal deference. Only hatred and disgust filled her black orbs of purple eyes, directed squarely at them. "And yet, no one ever came to save me. When I was the one beaten and cornered and helpless, you all just... went away somewhere and pretended not to notice... Just to protect your own hides."

As Rhaella stepped forward, Arthur braced himself, expecting her to strike each of them in turn. Instead, she stood tall and resolute before them, her gaze filled with absolute contempt. Arthur did not avert his eyes. He met her stare and accepted it all, knowing he would carry this memory for the rest of his days.

"Perhaps you would have killed him upon your return, perhaps not. It's irrelevant now," Rhaella continued, her voice cold as ice. "I will give you two a small shred of credit for not being utter cravens like the rest of your woeful brotherhood. But that is all I will grant you. It's all I can bear to give. My respect for your order has long since vanished, and my forgiveness is forever beyond your reach."

Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, acknowledging the words with a grim finality.

"If I could punish you more severely, I would," pure hatred blazed in her purple eyes. "But there is a war coming, and men of your skills will be useful in ensuring the survival of us all, including my son. We will," Rhaella's lip curled with contempt, "... all need your swords and skills in the days ahead."

Her hand, once tightly held by another, rose sharply in a dismissive wave. "Go now, Sers. Serve my family and the Realm better than you've served me. And unless my son or daughter-in-law explicitly order otherwise, you and all the other Kingsguard are henceforth to stay away from me... I've had enough of you and your... protection."

"Yes, Your Grace," Arthur bowed his head and retrieved his helmet from the ground. Oswell mirrored his actions. "Thank you."

They both rose abruptly, turned, and walked straight off the balcony. Barristan stared after them, struggling to maintain his balance as Oswell deliberately brushed past him on the way out.

Arthur remained motionless, his body consumed by a whirlwind of emotions. He was oblivious to the heat, deaf to the sound of his boots against the stone floor. Without realizing it, he had walked a fair distance from Rhaella's chambers, now standing at a crossroads of hallways in the eastern section of Maegor's Holdfast.

"What has come over you two?!" Barristan barked, his gaze shifting from Arthur to Oswell and back. "Do you even realize what you risked by doing that back there?"

"What has come over us?" Arthur repeated flatly. "What has come over us?" With a swift, viper-like motion, he smacked Barristan's hand away. The older man stepped back, his widened eyes reflecting surprise. Arthur's nostrils flared, and the overwhelming anger from before shook his entire body.

"You have the nerve to question our sanity after you had the audacity to defend Aerys Targaryen back there?" Arthur shouted, not caring who might overhear. His voice carried through the corridors. "You know as well as Oswell and I that what Aerys did was vile, despicable, and wrong. If you had true courage, you would go back to the queen and apologize to her on your hands and knees."

"King Aerys was-"

"A monster!" Arthur tossed his helmet aside, the force of the throw leaving a large dent in the stone wall. "A monster who would have brought destruction upon us all. Tell me, Ser," he spat the title out like a curse, "how long would you have stood by and allowed him to do as he pleased? Until he tried to hatch dragon eggs at Harrenhal? Or perhaps after he raped his own wife to death when his latest scheme failed?! Or maybe..." Arthur's voice lowered to a rough whisper. "Not even then."

"Enough, Arthur," Oswell said quietly, stepping between them. The older man, known for his fiery temper, now appeared as stoic as a stone sculpture, showing little emotion. "Your words ring true, but there's little point in dwelling on them now. We have done our part. Whether Selmy and the others choose to follow us or not, that is for them to decide."

Arthur knew deep down that it was true, but in his fury, he still desired to argue, shout, and fight further. It took many long, hard breaths for him to regain composure, aided by Oswell's unwavering gaze. They both understood the need to step back before the situation grew even more heated.

As the anger ebbed away, Arthur felt a void opening up within him, draining him of strength and purpose. Suddenly, his armor felt heavy, and his sword became a burdensome weight threatening to drag him down.

"Come," Oswell said gently, placing an arm over Arthur's shoulder. "... Let's try to get some rest. We still have our duty to fulfill."

"Aye," Arthur replied with difficulty. "Aye, I suppose we do..."

And so, they began to walk away, heading back to the White Sword Tower. Arthur doubted he would find any rest or solace there, at least not for a long time. But, he supposed, the worst was over.

"Arthur, Oswell," Barristan's voice called after them. Turning to look at him, they noticed the once-strong man now appeared weakened. There was a pleading, tearful look in his previously forceful blue eyes. Wordlessly, his mouth moved a few times before his voice finally emerged. "I... I am sorry..."

The two sworn brothers exchanged glances, then shifted their gaze back to Barristan. "We're not the ones you should be apologizing to," Arthur stated firmly. With a sense of finality, he and Oswell turned away and walked off, leaving Barristan behind.

---

I would like to thank Kilerog and Skyborne, fellow SB users who helped me realize this chapter. It was extremely tough given the subject matter and I couldn't have done it without them. 

Chapter Text

A throng of common folk, dense enough to halt a cavalry charge, stood in silent anticipation around the central market of Seven’s Threshold.

Under the watchful gaze of the Gate of the Gods and its towering walls, the settlement sprawled with cobbled, winding streets and one- and two-story wooden buildings, spreading across the northeastern side of King's Landing. Countless market stalls lined the streets, their colorful array of wares and fresh produce painting a vibrant tableau, and filling the air with the mingled scents of ripe fruits, fresh bread, and a faint hint of sea breeze carried from Blackwater Bay.

The sensory feast was almost enough to mask the stench of King’s Landing itself and the odor of hundreds of bodies, young and old, pressed together and perspiring in the early morning sun. Beyond that, Geralt detected an undercurrent of anticipation in the air, a tangible awe that held the crowd as silent as a tomb.

Despite their focus on the main event, they gave no heed to the pale, white-haired, snake-eyed monster killer from another world as he gently navigated through the crowd until he reached the front.

At the heart of the marketplace stood the centerpiece of the gathering: two men and a pig.

One of the men was the pig's owner, a weathered and tanned individual with a sturdy frame honed by at least thirty years of labor. He was clad in a simple, homespun tunic, trousers, and mud-stained boots, all in earthy tones. He nervously fiddled with the dark brown cap in his hands, his face bearing a familiar look of barely restrained worry tinged with a glimmer of hope, a look Geralt had seen a thousand times before. The man’s pig, despite its impressive girth, lay atop a plain wooden cart in a pained slumber. Its pink skin had turned a sickly green, and its breathing was short and labored. Every so often, the poor beast grunted and whimpered in its sleep, as if tormented by nightmares.

This had become a common occurrence since the curse-breaking. Entire flocks of sheep had dropped dead from fright, brave dogs had turned into cowering, beaten mutts, and mighty steeds had become wild and dangerous, even to their own riders. The problem seemed unsolvable until the second man, and the reason for Geralt’s presence, arrived in King’s Landing a few days ago.

Varys had informed him about it yesterday and had kept a close eye on the matter. His spies had gathered scant information about him, save that he was a wandering septon who usually kept to the Riverlands and his name was Meribald. Moreover, he was said to possess the power to miraculously heal any ailment or injury presented to him.

Indeed, in a short time, tales of his supposed abilities had spread throughout the city. With just a prayer and the strength of his voice, even the most deathly ill or psychologically distressed animals would spring back to life, filled with renewed mental and physical vitality. With no other alternatives, it was no wonder the smallfolk had begun to congregate around him.

At first glance, Geralt didn’t perceive anything particularly unusual. Meribald was perhaps thirty some years old, tall but not notably muscular, with thick black hair and a bushy beard speckled with gray. He was dressed more simply than even the beggars in the crowd. A roughspun robe of undyed wool covered most of his body, reaching down to just above his sandaled feet.

The only thing about him that identified him as a septon, rather than a wandering vagabond, was the seven-pointed crystal hung around his neck, which seemed to change color in the sunlight.

With a kind smile, and a reassuring hand on the owner’s shoulder, Meribald spoke in a calm voice. “Have no fear, my friend. The Seven will provide, as they always have.”

Climbing atop the cart, the septon kneeled and gently stroked the side and belly of the slumbering pig. The animal grunted in pain, its whole body shivering as if exposed to a freezing cold. One palm remained on its stomach, the other, he placed over its neck. 

“Poor creature,” Meribald said with pity. “Don’t worry, the pain will soon end.”

The septon’s eyes fell shot, his face became serene but focused. Geralt felt the crowd around him shift on their feet, slowly drawing closer. Glancing about, he noticed their unblinking stares, the almost child-like wonder on their faces. Not one of them said a word.

"Father Above, we call upon you," Meribald began, his voice clear and soothing in the stillness. "Guide our hands and hearts, lend us your wisdom in this time of need. Grant us the strength to heal and to hope."

He paused, then continued, "Mother, your mercy knows no bounds. Watch over this creature, bestow upon her your gentle care. Let her pain be eased, her strength renewed. Warrior, grant us courage, to face the trials ahead. Help us to fight against the sickness that weakens this innocent creature."

Geralt felt his medallion tremble underneath his shirt. The air, already abundant with anticipation, slowly began to change as something else filled it. Something only he in the crowd could identify but they all surely would have felt too. 

"Maiden, with your love, guide us towards purity and health. Let your light shine upon Truffle, cleansing her from within. Smith, in your craft and labor, we find resilience. Lend us your endurance, your resolve, to bring this creature back to health."

His medallion shook severely, the mounting Power in the air circled above their heads, passing in and through all the assembled people. Geralt felt it nestle and press against his temples. 

"Crone, wise and knowing, guide us through this darkness. Show us the path to healing, let us not falter. And Stranger, you who walk in shadows, stay your hand. Let not this creature pass into your realm. Not today, not while there is still hope."

As the last of his words echoed and dissipated in the enveloping quiet, a sense of calm descended upon everyone present. Even Geralt momentarily lost focus, swept up in it before he collected his wits.

The energies around the marketplace paused, hanging frozen in the air as if encased in ice. Then, not with an overwhelming force, but like a gentle breeze one might encounter riding across an open field, it flowed into Meribald, traveled through his hands, and settled into the pig. The Witcher did not miss the transient glow that enveloped them for an instant.

Moments turned into minutes. No one dared to move, speak, or in some cases even breathe until the first signs of healing appeared. The pig's labored breathing ceased. Its skin changed hues within a few heartbeats, returning to a natural pink. Steadily, the animal opened its eyes and rose to its feet, now steady and strong. Wagging its tail like a dog, the pig immediately turned to the serene septon by its side and nuzzled into his stomach, snorting and squealing happily.

"There, there," Meribald laughed, patting and stroking it as it nearly climbed on top of him. "Did I not say all would be well?"

The pig snorted even louder and proceeded to shove its snout into his face, licking him. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Children looked on as if Meribald was a member of the Kingsguard visiting. Women laughed and wept. Men stared in awe and respect. Most began to recite the prayer of the Faith, while others huddled around the cart to get a better look at the local hero.

Geralt held back, waiting for the euphoria to pass and examining what he'd just witnessed.

Belief in the power of gods to conjure and wield spells was nothing new. Back at Harrenhal, Howland had performed similar feats on ravens and other creatures. The young crannogman would spend days, even weeks, in their company, communicating with them in the ancient tongue of the First Men. It was an old, daunting language that Geralt found unsettling to listen to. Yet, it seemed to put both the animals and Howland himself into a kind of trance that soothed and healed the beasts' wounded psyches. Now, this priest of another faith was doing the same.

The concept of faith-based sorcery had long been a point of contention among scholars, priests, and wizards back home. Geralt had read about it and even participated in many such debates himself. There were individuals who didn't possess magical potential in the "conventional" sense, yet could still command incredible feats of sorcery simply thanks to the strength of their conviction and the power of their belief. They could even have premonitions and prophecies of the future.

Priests often refused to acknowledge this as magic, instead considering it a gift from their chosen gods. Yennefer, who once left him speechless during a conversation on this topic, agreed with them, citing an instance when she had fallen into a trance on Skellige and sensed the presence of a powerful, otherworldly force during it. Geralt remained unconvinced. A sufficiently provoked farmer could cast a curse on his neighbor, while a priest who believed in his connection to a higher power could perform similar acts.

Nevertheless, if this Meribald could wield such power, he would be an ally worth having. Geralt concluded, setting aside his skepticism towards gods and his negative experiences with their many followers, and approached the septon.

The crowd had significantly thinned out during his musings. Those who stayed sought Meribald's help with their own troubles, some legitimate like a sick sheep or cow, others mundane and almost amusing, such as asking for a hangover remedy. The pig owner, caught between laughter and tears of joy, attempted to hand Meribald a pouch of gold. The septon, however, kindly refused.

"There are others who need this more than I, my good man," Meribald gestured to some of the beggars who sat waiting in the corners and along the peripheries of the street. "Dark days are ahead, and in such times, we must show each other kindness to endure and survive them."

"O-Of course, septon," The man sobered up, and bowed his head. "I will do as you say, I swear it. All my family will too."

As the farmer rode away with his happily squealing pig, Geralt made his way to the wandering septon. He stopped about ten feet away before calling out, "Septon Meribald?"

At the sound of his name, the man froze, his hand halfway down from waving to the departing farmer. He slowly turned around to face Geralt, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes focused in a frown of concentration. Gradually, a look of understanding, of recognition, appeared on his youthful face.

"... It is as the gods showed me," Meribald finally spoke after a moment of silence, his voice low and hushed. "The wayward wolf has followed the spider's trail, caught my scent, and has finally sought me out."

Geralt's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the septon's cryptic words. "You knew I'd be here?"

"... In a manner of speaking," the younger man responded with a smile. "Perhaps we should move this conversation indoors. I'm certain you have many questions for me, Master...?"

"Geralt of Rivia, Witcher," he replied, nodding his head towards the nearest tavern. "And you're right, we've got a lot to talk about."

The Bountiful Barrel was a two-story establishment with well-maintained walls and a signpost featuring a barrel overflowing with flowers, vegetables, and frothing ale. Inside, it was spacious, with sturdy wooden tables and benches strategically placed, leaving ample room for patrons to move about. Wooden beams crisscrossed the low ceiling, and a large, long-unused hearth dominated one side of the room.

The atmosphere was welcoming, especially when the tavern nearly erupted in cheer upon Meribald's entrance. In contrast, Geralt barely garnered a glance from anyone. The bartender even allowed him to take two kegs of ale without demanding payment.

They'd chosen a secluded corner table, away from the rest of the patrons. Geralt sat with his back pressed against the wall, Meribald opposite him, basking in the beams of sunlight that infiltrated the room.

"Thank you, although I'll only have a little," the septon said as the Witcher returned to the table. "Just enough to moisten my lips. I've found that too much can cloud the mind."

Geralt nodded in agreement, observing the man closely as he took the merest of sips. His medallion remained unresponsive to their close proximity, and there was no lingering sign of Power around the septon.

"Now then, Master Witcher," Meribald smiled, resting his palms atop the table. "I am prepared to answer any questions you may have."

"You knew I would find you and that the king's spymaster would guide me to you. You also," Geralt's voice dipped slightly, "warned that man of impending dark days. It's clear that you've had visions or glimpses of the future. How much do you know?"

Meribald's smile faltered, his eyes seeming to look past Geralt at something only he could perceive. "... I've had numerous dreams in recent months, Master Witcher. I've traveled down unfamiliar paths and roads, to a grand castle atop a hill that resembled a mountain. I've found myself among numerous flocks of sheep and a large, white wolf with red eyes standing amongst them, utterly unnoticed..." His voice became more distant, and Geralt's medallion twitched slightly.

"I've seen a vast, bleak forest stretching out before me. Tall, dead trees, their life claimed by winter, and hostile, blue eyes tracking my every move through it. I've felt the searing blasts of fire scorch my skin, melt my bones, and burn away my screaming mouth."

A fleeting look of horror washed over his face, turning his complexion as pale as death. Then, just as quickly, it passed and a slow, gradual smile reappeared. "I've felt the Mother's love tend to my ills and those of others. The strength of the Warrior imparting me courage. I've heard a kindly old voice tell me that death was nothing to fear…”

The brief recollection ended, Meribald closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Geralt’s medallion settled down, and he remained silent while the other man took another sip of wine.

"These visions," he began after a pause, "how long have they been occurring? A year, or less?"

"The Seven first granted me their gift almost ten moons ago," Meribald sighed. "A boy had fallen ill with a dreadful fever. I tended to him as best as I could, but there was little hope of recovery. Then, one night, as I laid beside the child, bracing myself for the worst... I held onto his hand, prayed to the Seven to ease his pain, and-"

"And the same thing happened to him as the pig just now."

Meribald nodded and fell silent. Geralt took a swig of the bitter ale and mulled over this information. Ten months, just a short while after Ciri caused the Second Conjunction of Spheres and began reintroducing magic to this world. Or, in this case, opening the doors for those with strong emotions and beliefs to tap into it.

"These miracles are not something I use freely, you understand," Meribald said. "A gift is always a precious thing, especially so from the Seven. I've only made use of it more... regularly, as things have grown increasingly strange... more dire."

"So, they've manifested as visions and healing, never anything else?" Geralt rested his arms on the table, leaning closer. "You've never... conjured fire from your fingertips? Lightning?"

The septon looked as if he were on the verge of laughter at that, but the Witcher's stern expression and earnestness held him back. Instead, the young priest shook his head.

"No, never. True, I traverse dangerous, wild paths where few dare to tread, but I know those ways well and learned long ago to read the tracks of men and animals to avoid danger. Conflict… it is something I wish to avoid, if I can."

"I'm asking because..." Geralt trailed off, glancing around the tavern to see if any particularly curious commoner was eavesdropping on their conversation. Fortunately, they had the sense to realize Meribald was engaged in a serious matter and gave him space. "I'm asking because of the dark forest you saw, the unfriendly blue eyes. These are visions of the North, of an enemy that's threatening to destroy your Seven Kingdoms."

Meribald stared at him, not surprised but looking pained and deeply saddened, as if a knife had slowly twisted into his chest. "So it has returned again," he sighed, his gaze downcast. "War, back to claim lives and shatter men's spirits."

"Unfortunately, yes," Geralt said, not unkindly. "A regular war is challenging enough, but this? Nothing like it has been seen in these lands for thousands of years. The enemy your elders used to frighten you as children is back, and this time they intend to finish the job. If the people of these lands wish to survive, they'll need every advantage they can muster."

"Aye, I expect that we will," Meribald responded, his voice distant, a faint, haunted look in his eyes. The holy man sat there, silent, lost in his thoughts, his fingers gently caressing the crystal pendant hanging from his neck. From his previous words, Geralt deduced that he had experienced battle before and had developed enough wisdom to want nothing more to do with it.

He sympathised with that, having gotten embroiled in more fights and plots than he ever wished to. However, as was often the case, when the currents of history moved with such speed and force, attempting to stay out of their path was virtually impossible. Sooner or later, you were dragged into it, in big and small ways. 

"Very well," Meribald took a deep breath, drawing strength from it, and opened his eyes with a clear, more determined expression. "The Seven Who Are One have brought me here and united us for a purpose. I do not intend to question it. My assistance and service are yours, Master Witcher. Tell me how I can help, and I will do it."

Geralt offered the man a sympathetic look and inclined his head in recognition of the promise. "Thank you," he paused for a moment. "To begin with, I'd like to better understand your abilities. I’d like to test their limits, see if and how they can be used in a fight.”

"I haven't been in a battle in nearly twenty years, not since I was a naive lad who fought somewhere far from home. For kings and pennies I neither saw nor earned. Still," he sighed, "I stand by my promise. Lead the way, Master Witcher. Provide me with weapons, and we will see what the Warrior will grant me."

---

"Tell me honestly, old friend, does she remain as magnificent as you remembered?" 

Arthur was not a maritime enthusiast, nor did he have a particular desire to become one. As long as a ship could keep him afloat and distant from the unfathomable depths of the sea, a regal galleon was just as good as a humble fisherman's skiff. Nonetheless, he could not deny the elegance of the Serpent's Kiss.

The galleon was a formidable yet sleak sight. At 60 meters long and 20 meters wide, its three masts towered like great, wooden edifices capped with iron, reaching high into the sky. Upon each one were folded sails in shades of vibrant orange and golden yellow. He was aware that its four decks were expansive and accommodating, capable of carrying a small army along with ample provisions and treasures.

Throughout the entirety of its sturdy hull, reinforced plating was punctuated and complemented by intricate carvings and ornate patterns etched into the wood, depicting scenes from Dornish lore. A serpentine figurehead, masterfully sculpted from the finest timber, adorned the ship's bow: a cobra with its mouth open wide, a long, metal spearhead protruding from its maw, glinting brilliantly in the midday sun.

"Aye," Arthur conceded, his gaze shifting from the ship to Oberyn who stood at his left. "The figurehead is a striking addition. Doran must have been ecstatic to foot the bill."

"Undoubtedly," Oberyn responded with a hearty chuckle, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "As you well know, my brother finds nothing more delightful than indulging my whims!"

“Of course.” The two continued laughing as they climbed up the lowered ramp. 

As Oberyn was in no hurry to depart, the majority of the crew were enjoying their shore leave, engaged in various pastimes. Only a handful remained to greet them as they stepped onto the weather-worn deck. A mixed group of Dornishmen and others who Oberyn had recruited during his adventures in Essos. After paying their respects to their captain and his distinguished guest, they promptly returned to their tasks. Some busied themselves checking the condition of the rigging, ropes, and tackles, while others diligently scrubbed the deck of any bird droppings and inspected the woodwork for any signs of decay or damage.

Oberyn's quarters in the aftcastle were as ornate as ever. A carpet, painted in hues of blue and yellow, depicted the mingling of sand and sea in winding patterns that muffled their bootsteps.

Finely drawn and framed maps covered the eastern wall, some displaying various points across the Narrow Sea, others marked with a knife, showcasing crossed-out symbols of sellsail companies his friend had encountered and annihilated. The western wall was adorned with Oberyn's collection of vividly colored paintings: some depicted battles, others showcased throngs of people in various stages of intimate embrace. Arthur couldn't help but shake his head at these.

"Don't disapprove simply because you've never tried it," Oberyn warned teasingly. He navigated around a finely crafted table of redwood and produced a bottle of wine, accompanied by two glass goblets. These were crafted in the visage of the Black Goat of Qohor, its mouth gaping open and its horns serving as handles.

"I don't disapprove," Arthur retorted, leaning back comfortably into the cushioned redwood chair in front of the desk. "I merely wonder if those drawings have ever managed to disconcert anyone with whom you've negotiated."

"More often than you might think," Oberyn replied as he uncorked the bottle, a potent scent immediately permeating the air. It was Crimson Ambrosia, as sweet as cake and as dark as a fresh pool of spilled blood. He poured the wine into the two glasses. "Most men tend to overly focus on seeing three women who can bend their bodies in such ways."

A juvenile, curious part of Arthur yearned to question the feasibility of such a position, but he decided against it. Oberyn would surely never let him live it down. Instead, Arthur accepted the offered glass with a grateful smile, and brought it to his lips. The scent enveloped him, the sweet taste captivating his senses.

As he leaned further into his seat, Arthur closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. For a few fleeting heartbeats, he was no longer in King's Landing or in the company of Oberyn. He was back home, watching the wind dance through the mountainous terrain, the trees, and the fields of blossoming flowers. He was on the Dornish coast, listening to the seagulls gliding overhead and the bells of Starfall's port echoing in the distance. Events, recent and forthcoming, all vanished from his mind and for that he was quite grateful. 

Indeed, his moment of tranquillity was fleeting, the peace dissipating all too soon.

"At last, you look a little at peace," Oberyn commented, his voice bearing a rare hint of concern which Arthur recognized as genuine.

"I've had much on my mind recently, a great deal to... unburden myself of.”

"So I've heard, as has much of the castle," Oberyn responded. His words were not judgemental but carried a tone of camaraderie, as if he was ready to lend an ear or a piece of advice. “Don’t think I’ve not noticed how you and Ser Oswell have… stood apart from the other Kingsguard at the training yard of late.”

Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "No doubt the castle is abuzz with gossip and rumors about our heated exchange with Barristan, and why we suddenly find ourselves with an abundance of free time," he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not discuss it right now. The circumstances are neither pleasant nor something I wish to revisit so soon... I do enough of that in my private hours."

"Whenever you're ready, my invaluable company and exceptional wine will be at your disposal," Oberyn chuckled, seemingly unfazed by Arthur's somber demeanor. He leaned back in his seat, nonchalantly propping his legs atop the desk. "Very well, if it's a change of topic you desire, let's discuss something else. How about your daring battle against Harren the Black?”

Arthur couldn't help but crack a small smile at Oberyn's antics. He shook his head, the mirth in his eyes belying his stern exterior. "Fine, you relentless devil. But in return, I want to hear a tale of your own. No doubt you've been embroiled in some scandal or controversy during my absence, knowing your... habits."

Oberyn clapped his hands in delight, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. "You drive a hard bargain, Arthur Dayne. But a deal is a deal. I'll regale you with one of my misadventures after hearing yours."

The tension seemed to lift a little from the room. Arthur took a sip of his wine, savoring its sweet notes, and started to recount his own adventure, with Oberyn hanging on his every word. So engrossed was he in the narrative that, unusually, the Red Viper said almost nothing at all for nearly an hour, his expressions providing sufficient commentary. His lips curled in disgust at the tale of Harren's atrocities against his own kin, while a mesmerized wonder sparkled in his eyes as Arthur described the clash with the wraiths and their joint defeat of the accursed Ironborn king.

“And then their spirits passed on,” Arthur concluded, taking another sip of wine. “With Harren’s power broken, they finally find some measure of peace.”

Oberyn, who had been watching Arthur throughout the tale with rapt attention, raised an eyebrow at that last sentiment. His features hardened slightly, the typically jovial air about him replaced with a thoughtful one.

"You speak of peace as though it were an easily obtained commodity, Arthur," he mused, swirling the dark wine in his glass. "Yet we both know, peace, true peace... It's elusive. As elusive as a dream, for most."

He lifted his glass to his lips, savoring a small sip of the Ambrosia before continuing. "Harren's wraiths were driven by their pain, their anger, their suffering for centuries. And you... You released them. Allowed them to find their peace."

His dark eyes flickered to Arthur, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I think there is a profound nobility in that. To offer solace to those lost souls, to release them from their eternal torment... That is the mark of a true knight, my friend."

Arthur couldn't help but give a small, appreciative nod at Oberyn's words. He knew his friend's beliefs were different from his own, knew that the Dornishman placed great value on personal freedom and individual choice. To hear such an affirmation from him was a deeply gratifying moment.

"Thank you, Oberyn," he replied, his tone sincere. "Your words mean more to me than you might realize."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear Arthur," Oberyn replied, his tone teasing. "I am well aware of the weight my words carry. But enough of such serious talk. It's your turn to listen. Prepare yourself for a tale of scandal, intrigue, and my undeniably impressive charm."

Settling comfortably into the chair, Arthur listened, watched, and frequently laughed at Oberyn's latest escapade. As it turned out, Oberyn had run into a pair of Stormlander brothers visiting the Free City of Myr some months prior. What started as a harmless story of three noblemen whiling away the afternoon with drinks degenerated into a tavern brawl. This unruly episode escalated into a drunken chase through the city streets, ending with their pursuers dead and Oberyn in possession of an albino donkey.

"You should have seen Arianne's joy when I brought it to Sunspear," Oberyn chuckled, shaking his head. "Last I heard, she's even taken to bringing him along to her lunches and dinners."

"I'm sure your brother is overjoyed," Arthur replied with a knowing grin, which only widened when his friend burst into louder laughter. "Poor Doran."

"His life would be profoundly dull without me, though he'd sooner eat a rock than admit it."

"Doran certainly won't be bored in the months to come," Arthur replied, then almost winced as the somber meaning behind his words threatened to spoil their camaraderie. "I apologize... it just slipped out..."

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Oberyn’s dark eyes fell on the wine he swirled close to his chin. “War is coming, we can only pretend it's not for so long, especially when some of us will soon journey out to meet it ahead of the rest.”

Arthur said nothing, he’d guessed his old friend would broach this particular subject sooner rather than later. He was quite surprised by how long Oberyn had held back in-fact. 

“Still hoping to go to Valyria?” He asked, deciding it was better to get to the heart of the matter now. 

“It is my fervent wish to do so,” Oberyn’s gaze settled on him from across the table. “Yet I sense that the Witcher is not overly keen to have me involved in the venture.”

“The task is a difficult one, mayhaps impossible and Geralt is a thorough man. He wishes to be as certain as he can be with all the factors that will come into play, who he can trust, what man’s abilities will be of the most use.”

"Who is more capable than I?" Oberyn questioned, his smile almost fully concealing a trace of irritation in his voice. "I've captained this splendid ship for over a decade, seen and traversed more of the known world than most maesters, and my prowess as a warrior, as I'm sure you'd concur, is nearly unrivaled."

The latter was indeed a slight hyperbole, though not by a considerable margin. Arthur had bested Oberyn in numerous encounters. This rivalry had served as the foundation for their friendship. Geralt had also outmatched him in several duels since their return to King's Landing.

Although Oberyn did have superiors, there were hardly any who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him in his chosen combat style. Opting for a spear over a sword or hammer, the Red Viper built a formidable reputation. His jabs and sweeps were as swift as a lightning strike one moment, then agonizingly and almost hypnotically slow in their deliberate execution the next. With one blade he would attack, while another scraped the ground, hurling pebbles into his opponents' eyes to blind them. He was quicker on his feet than Arthur, executing leaps, nimble sidesteps, and jumps with an effortless grace that was unmatched by nearly anyone Arthur had ever observed or confronted.

In fact, Oberyn's only true superior in these aspects was Geralt. The Witcher had praised the prince's talents during a private conversation the previous day, stating that of all the Westerosi warriors he had battled, Oberyn's fighting style bore the closest resemblance to that of a Witcher.

Arthur refrained from verbalizing these thoughts, knowing it would only stoke his friend's already considerable pride and exacerbate his underlying irritation. Instead, he set aside his half-empty wine glass and leaned forward in his seat.

"You are indeed one of the most capable warriors in the realm. There are only a few men with whom I am confident we could prevail in any battle, and you are among them. Furthermore, Geralt is aware of your sailing prowess, your knowledge of Essos, and its diverse cultures."

"And yet?"

"And yet, he also knows that you can be quite a handful, thanks to me," Arthur retorted, holding nothing back. "You are fiercely loyal to your friends and family. You would go to war with all the other kingdoms to save us or seek revenge on our behalf. However, you can also be dangerous, Oberyn. To yourself and to those around you. Your temper is quick to flare, and you seem unable to resist the urge to retaliate for even the slightest offense, or stir up trouble simply out of boredom. That story you just told me? It's humorous and charming when it's just you involved, but if you were to attempt anything of the sort on the journey to Valyria? I would not hesitate to knock bloody sense into you for threatening the mission, as would Geralt."

He straightened in his seat, folding his arms, and calmly met Oberyn’s glowering gaze. “This isn't some thrill-seeking endeavor. The task that lies ahead demands utmost professionalism. All the martial prowess and worldly knowledge won't amount to anything if the man wielding them poses a risk to the entire mission."

Oberyn’s fingers tightened around the glass, the skin stretching pale from the pressure. The daggers in his eyes conveyed his fury, and Arthur had no doubt that his friend considered, at least for a moment, lunging across the table to initiate a brawl. With another man, Oberyn might have casually dismissed the words, seemingly laughed them off, only to produce a hidden blade and spill blood on the spot.

Arthur, on his part, merely returned Oberyn's stare with a seemingly mild interest, patiently waiting for the initial surge of anger to subside. It was a tactic he’d witnessed Doran employ many times, usually with success.

The Red Viper didn’t shatter the glass, though his grip suggested he might. He didn’t hide his rage behind a jovial smile or forced laughter. Instead, somewhat to Arthur's surprise and approval, he simply downed the remainder of his wine and set the cup down with more force than necessary and fell into a sullen silence that lasted nearly a minute. 

“Listen,” Arthur sighed, unfolding his arms and resting them on the table. “I know, as does Geralt, that beneath your thrill-seeking bravado lies a man eager to contribute to the war effort. A man who wishes to protect his friends, family, and countrymen from suffering and death. You are an able leader of men, a fearsome warrior and an excellent captain. You could be of great use in this task. The issue lies in how you present yourself: show the Witcher that you can take this mission seriously.

"Do you have knowledge of Valyria and Essos? Bring it all to Geralt, no matter how trivial or seemingly inconsequential it may appear. Better yet, write it all down, neatly organize it, and present it to him so that we can all more easily keep track of the information. When he asks you to recount something, speak honestly, without sarcasm or ridicule. Stick to the facts and for the love of all the gods,” Arthur smacked the side of his foot, startling Oberyn, “keep your bloody feet off the table while doing so. It makes you look like a fool.”

Oberyn's eyes flashed again with restrained anger, though not as intensely as before. He regarded Arthur with a slight tilt of his head, akin to an animal examining an unfamiliar creature.

"You've changed, Arthur," he commented, his voice a mix of respect and irritation. "You've never been one to speak so... bluntly."

"I've lost patience for lies and half-truths, to myself or others, as my sworn brothers have recently discovered."

Oberyn remained silent, though Arthur was certain he must have heard about the quarrel concerning the queen and Aerys. He would relay his own account of the event later.

"Not the wisest strategy in all circumstances," Oberyn pointed out, with some validity. "But... effective here. I've known you for too long to believe you'd be misguided in this matter. If you say this is how I can prove myself, then I will do it."

"It's not a guarantee of success."

"Neither is the whole endeavor, is it?"

Arthur released a dry chuckle at that. "No, it certainly isn't. But having the right man in the right place can never hurt, I've found. Even if some may initially doubt their inclusion to a task."

Oberyn nodded in agreement, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “You speak truly,” he said. Instantly, his hands swept across the table, producing ink, a quill, and several sheets of paper from the drawers. He leaned forward, his fingers absently tracing his lips.

Arthur recognized this look immediately. Once Oberyn committed to a task, nothing in the Seven Kingdoms could divert or slow him down. A few hours later, after Arthur had provided guidance on what to include first, he excused himself to attend to his duties, leaving the prince engrossed in his work. Oberyn barely seemed to notice as a stack of papers detailing his knowledge of Essos, Valyria, and its many dangers steadily grew beside him.

Arthur departed, finding some measure of solace in aiding his friend and stepping away from his troubles for a while.

---

I would again like to thank fellow SBers @Skyborne and @kilerog for providing help on this chapter. The next chapter or two will continue this mini-arc of various characters being introduced as the teams for the North and Valyria steadily take shape. I don’t expect we’ll be staying in KL for much longer after that. 

Chapter Text

Over the span of several weeks, Geralt found himself immersed in a flurry of activities.

Ever since word got around that he was handpicking men for perilous missions Beyond the Wall and to the forgotten lands of Valyria, there had been an unending stream of volunteers and solicitations. The Kingsguard, those who hadn't accompanied him to Harrenhal, stepped forward without hesitation, joined by several esteemed nobles like Baratheon and Connington. Even members of less illustrious Houses, tantalised by the prospect of fame and glory, made their pitches with eager determination.

Geralt dismissed some outright, their eagerness falling short of competence. Others, like Baratheon and Selmy, gave him pause, compelling serious consideration. Ultimately, he deduced they would serve a better purpose bolstering Rhaegar's efforts and orchestrating the defences of the Wall. Baratheon's reaction to the decision was in line with Geralt's predictions—vociferous objections and a thunderous fist-slam that threatened to split his table asunder.

Baratheon was undeniably formidable, barely into his twenties, yet already on a trajectory that would place him among Westeros' finest warriors. The young lord's charisma seemed almost magical in its power to command attention and inspire devotion. But he was also the Lord of the Stormlands, the head of their military, and his only substitute was a teenage brother, unseasoned and largely unproven in leadership or combat. A wildcard in a game of precariously high stakes, Geralt reasoned.

In the following days, only two men seemed likely to join their ranks: Meribald and Prince Oberyn.

Meribald's arrival at the Red Keep had raised eyebrows. The sight of a clergyman donning armor, entering a sparring ring normally reserved for the finest knights, was baffling to many. Mockery quickly followed by onlookers, and varied with how open it was.

Meribald moved with an expected stiffness and awkwardness. He depended heavily on his shield to absorb the blows, and his mace swings were uncontrolled and wasteful. Even more disconcerting was the absence of any manifestation of his powers during their fights.

While Meribald had an uncanny ability to heal injuries, woes and fatigue, his magical prowess seemed limited to these feats. There was no Power augmenting his blows, no mystical force speeding up his movements. There wasn't even a spontaneous burst of raw magic that often happened when untrained users were pushed to their physical limits or emotional limits.

While Geralt's time was divided among various tasks, he couldn't dedicate as much time to training with Meribald as he would have liked. Instead, he enlisted the help of the Five and the Kingsguard to sharpen the septon's combat and physical capabilities, to which they agreed.

One day, Ser Lewyn shed light on a possible reason for Meribald's inhibited capabilities. "Your septon was a soldier on the Stepstones," the Dornishman divulged, during a meeting in Geralt's chambers in the Tower of the Hand.

"How do you know?"

"We were in the yard this afternoon, and I'd been relentlessly instructing him on shield usage and counterstrike timing. Despite numerous tumbles, one particularly harsh fall sparked concern in me. To my surprise, he merely chuckled it off, mentioning he'd endured worse injuries on the Mudhill."

Geralt remained silent, prompting Lewyn to continue.

"The Mudhill," Lewyn sighed, a weariness seeping into his usually energetic voice. "A stampeded, corpse-ridden hill on which Maelys’ forces constructed a fort. It safeguarded his army's left flank. Capturing it would expose his entire line, hastening the end of the conflict.” He chuckled bitterly, "By the time we finally seized the place, Barristan was busy making Maelys eat his own teeth."

Given Meribald’s previous comment about the damaging impact of war on men’s spirits, Geralt had suspected that the septon had experienced it firsthand. His age indeed suggested that he could have been drafted into the War of the Ninepenny Kings, either as a lowly foot soldier, plucked from his village, or a novice septon laboring in a war camp, stitching and tending to the broken soldiers engaged in battle. The fear and terror Geralt had glimpsed in Meribald's eyes during their sparring sessions now took on a whole new depth.

"It was a nightmare, Geralt, a true nightmare," Lewyn continued, sinking into the chair at Geralt's desk. "Dirt-caked bodies were strewn everywhere, a humid sea breeze wafting the stench across the islands, so I've been told. The sight alone could drive a man to madness."

"That might explain why he can't fully use his abilities," Geralt mused after a thoughtful pause. "Traumatic events can lead to magic abilities becoming erratic or stunted. From my own experience, I know that in some cases, it can completely block them.”

Despite the hurdles, Meribald had demonstrated his ability to tap into the power of the Warrior, as he perceived it, both for healing purposes and through his visions. The challenge was getting him to access it during combat, something he undoubtedly associated with pain and suffering.

Yennefer had spent weeks with Ciri, utilising every waking and sleeping moment, employing subtle sorceries, trances, and their burgeoning bond to break through her mental block. It was a long and delicate process Geralt neither had the time nor the skill set to duplicate.

Suppressing a sigh, Geralt resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for telling me, Lewyn. Keep up your practices with him, train him as well as you can in the time that’s left and if you notice anything strange happen, tell me.”

"Of course, my friend."

Once the knight left, Geralt found himself mulling over this unnecessary complication. The worth of healers was immeasurable, a fact he knew all too well from countless near-death experiences. Just by virtue of his healing abilities, Meribald had secured his place in the upcoming endeavors. The lives he could potentially save were too numerous to count. Yet, having his full abilities at their disposal would undoubtedly be a significant advantage. Priests who could utilize their magic to the fullest extent were formidable assets.

The Witcher made a mental note to ponder over potential ways he could facilitate this transformation in the coming days.

Meribald wasn't the only one raising eyebrows. Prince Oberyn, as intent on journeying to Valyria as Robert, if not more so, took a vastly different approach to his conversation with Geralt than during their first meeting.

The self-assured grins and seemingly languid postures were replaced with a decidedly more professional demeanor. His words were succinct, devoid of derision. When Geralt responded, the Prince listened attentively, occasionally following Geralt's own train of thought to its logical conclusion.

What's more, Oberyn had apparently spent several days and nights gathering any Valyrian tales he could recall—from Westeros to distant Volantis. He organised these narratives into neatly categorised documents, accompanied by his insightful annotations. The stories spanned from the mundane, such as volcanic landscapes, to the fantastical, like Valyria morphing into a colossal egg, poised to birth a dragon large enough to devour the world.

One account from a down-on-his-luck Ironborn captain turned tavern owner in Volantis piqued Geralt's interest. It was a tale of ten ships entering a sea shrouded in smoldering fog, with nine being consumed by a vast, silent shadow within, and the last barely escaping back to the mainland.

When questioned why he'd never dared to brave Valyria himself, the Prince traced a finger along his finely trimmed moustache, pondering thoughtfully before responding.

"Good sense, what little I possess," he admitted after a few moments. "I won't deny that Valyria has captivated me—who can hear of such a place and not fantasize about being the one to conquer it, to steal its secrets, and seize everlasting glory?"

"But?"

"But a place doesn't remain shrouded in mystery for so long without good reason. Nor does it earn a fearsome reputation by being safe. A significant peril must dwell there, one beyond the reach of ordinary crews to overcome," he added, his old grin briefly flickering across his features. "This crew, however, is far from ordinary. A monster slayer from a world beyond our own, ancient First Men trees impervious to even dragon fire?"

"None of that ensures we'll return safely."

"Indeed," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe we'll perish there, or drown in a storm within sight of Dragonstone. Regardless, the Others are advancing, whether we set sail or not. Personally, I'd feel considerably more confident about our chances of victory with Valyrian steel in hand, rather than without."

Geralt had inquired about the composition of his crew. Some were old companions from minor houses who had accompanied Oberyn into his exile. The majority, however, were former sellswords and sellsails—men he'd encountered as both friends and foes, and had managed to win over through his charismatic personality and prowess in combat. Most importantly, they were reliable.

"These men have stood by me in more than sixty battles at sea," Oberyn expounded. "They remained steadfast in the face of ten approaching Myrish vessels. They showed no hesitation when we chased a rival into the heart of the Summer Sea, sinking his ship even as tumultuous storm waves threatened to capsize us and lightning crackled menacingly around us, narrowly missing its mark."

That, perhaps, was the most crucial factor in selecting any ship and its crew. 

Geralt wasn't merely aligning himself with a small group of individuals he could trust. In this instance, the core group could potentially raid every temple, palace, and remaining home in Valyria, returning with a hoard of weapons, armor, and other useful items. Still, it would all amount to nothing if the ship's crew decided to rebel, give up, or flee.

Geralt held no illusions that they would all withstand whatever Valyria threw at them. It was virtually certain that some, if not most, would falter, contemplate deserting, or worse, freeze up during the venture. That was tolerable, so long as they, or Oberyn, could be depended upon to right themselves and return to their tasks at hand.

And so, Oberyn and his crew were chosen for the Valyria mission.

His ship, the Serpent's Kiss, was soon docked, and the city's finest shipwrights were assigned the task of its enhancement. The ample weirwood supplied by Howland, transported to King's Landing by Roland Whent, was meticulously carved and integrated along the ship's length. Geralt theorized that dispersing the tree's ability to resist dragon fire and its magical properties throughout the ship would allow them to endure the blistering heat of the Smoking Sea and Valyria itself.

After the modifications were completed, Oberyn took the vessel out to sea multiple times to assess its performance following the alterations, familiarizing his crew with the revamped ship.

Geralt hadn't had the chance to join him on any of these excursions despite numerous invitations. There was too much other work to do. 

Pycelle had transformed the Red Keep's library into an information-gathering powerhouse. He marshalled all his assistants and scribes, giving them clear instructions: any scroll, tome, book, or even scribbled note containing knowledge about Valyria was to be located. They would meticulously scrutinize every detail, reference it, catalog it for future utility, and compile notes from the amassed wisdom.

Driven by this mission, several among them were so engrossed in their pursuit that they chose to bring sleeping rolls directly to the library, forgoing the comfort of their own chambers. Their dedication was unquestionable, but the yield was meager.

As Geralt and Pycelle waded through the burgeoning piles of papers accumulating around the Grand Maester's office, a prevailing theme became evident: redundancy. Almost all solid, credible knowledge about the Freehold culminated with the Doom. What followed was largely dominated by conjecture, supposition, and the spreading of rumors. At times, the accounts made it seem as though the Maesters were engaged in a contest, vying to outdo one another in the realm of imaginative speculation.

Still, amidst this sea of dubious content, there was a particular book Geralt was determined to secure, even if it might be filled with as much conjecture as fact: "Septon Barth's 'Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History.'"

Pycelle had mentioned it to him before they departed for Harrenhal. A controversial tome, it delved into exhaustive detail about dragons, their origins, and even claimed to have concrete information about Valyria after its doom. Condemned as libelous and inflammatory by the Citadel and largely destroyed during King Baelor's book purges.

Geralt had encountered enough such volumes in his time to recognize that they were either utter nonsense or contained truths that ruffled the feathers of those in power. His hope was that the Citadel or the library at Castle Black had retained at least some decent remnants of the book, fragments from which they could glean valuable insights.

Maester Aemon had quashed some of those hopes early in the process, writing to inform them that years prior, a section of Castle Black had given way, causing a significant portion of the original library to be destroyed. Numerous tomes, scrolls, and vast amounts of knowledge were either crushed, torn to shreds, or subsequently buried beneath layers of ice and stone.

The Citadel, for all its vast repositories of knowledge, surprisingly fell short in this endeavor. What they sent was merely an apology coupled with notes from volumes already available in the King's Landing collection. It was an unexpected twist of events when the most tangible fragments of the sought-after tome came not from the esteemed center of knowledge, but rather from Leyton Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown himself.

Geralt and Pycelle convened among rows of leather-bound tomes and carefully arranged scrolls that adorned the walls of the Grand Maester's private office the morning his raven arrived, bearing the message tube. 

The assortment of frayed fragments and barely legible scraps conveyed fragmented tales - hints about the nature of dragons being as fluid as fire, and the grim specter of death lurking within a dragon's maw. On its own it wouldn’t have amounted to much, but Hightower’s accompanying letter gave them more to think about it. 

“It seems,” Pycelle said, squinting at the unfurled paper between his fingers. “That Lord Leyton is aware of an individual who purportedly has a complete version of the text. A Thario Mopyr, a very wealthy man from the city of Lys and an avid book collector. It seems that Lord Leyton had laid eyes on the tome, was allowed to read a few of the pages during a visit to the man’s estate some years ago and attempted to purchase the book, though without success.” 

“You sound surprised by that.”

“I am,” Pycelle put the letter down and leaned forward in his seat. “Lord Leyton is renowned for his vast wealth, often considered a close rival to Lord Tywin in that regard. And he's not known to shy away from spending lavishly on things that intrigue him. He must have offered Mopyr a significant sum indeed.”

“From my experiences,” Geralt curled his lip, “when a wealthy man refuses more gold, it typically means he wants something else. Mopyr must've demanded something from Lord Hightower that he was unwilling to part with.”

Pycelle stroked his thick beard thoughtfully. “Perhaps Mopyr desired one of Lord Leyton’s daughters for marriage?”

“Possibly,” Geralt exhaled. “But we can speculate until the Long Night comes again. You mentioned he's from Lys, correct?” The Grand Maester nodded. “Then I know just the person to ask about this Thario Mopyr.”

Geralt turned his attention to the south-facing wall of the office. On multiple visits, he'd detected the faint sounds of hushed breathing emanating from it. Sure enough, his gaze settled on a minuscule hole, through which a solitary blue eye stared back.

"Tell your boss to meet me in the sparring yard at midnight," Geralt instructed, his tone nonchalant. "And he'd best brush up on anything he knows about this book collector from Lys."

The child's breathing momentarily ceased. The eye remained unblinkingly fixed on Geralt for several heartbeats before quickly withdrawing. The Witcher then caught the faint sound of small footsteps disappearing into the concealed passageway.

Pycelle, taken aback, darted his gaze between Geralt and the wall. "Who... What was that?"

"That was one of Varys's 'little birds'," Geralt explained, a touch of amusement in his voice. "There's a hidden passage behind that wall. The boy's been using it to listen in on us for a while now."

Pycelle blinked, struggling to find words. "The very thought that someone's been spying here..."

"It's unsettling," Geralt interjected, "but it's convenient now. Saves me the hassle of hunting him down. Now, let’s see what we can learn from these fragments…"

That evening, the spymaster arrived punctually. The sky was dominated by a sea of stars, with only a faint hint of the moon's presence. The darkness of the castle was occasionally punctuated by the passing torchlight carried by guards, servants, and scribes. During a spin, Geralt's keen eyes detected an approaching light from the eastern edge of the training ring.

He would have recognized the silhouette of Varys, the Spider, even without the torchlight. The eunuch moved almost silently, his vibrant robes gently swaying with each step.

Pausing his late-night practice, a necessity due to his day's many obligations, Geralt returned his sword to its sheath and advanced to meet Varys. There was something unsettling about the man’s perpetual smile.

"Training in such darkness," Varys observed, a hint of admiration in his tone. "Quite an unorthodox approach, but then again, I shouldn't expect the ordinary from a strange Ser such as yourself."

Geralt paused just at the periphery of the torch's glow, allowing the subtle narrowing of his eyes to be discernible to the Master of Whisperers, who seemed only more amused by the reaction.

"Ah, do not take offense," Varys chimed, "Ser Jaime was recounting his knighting ceremony at dinner. Cersei wondered why only he and Pycelle were knighted and not you. I believe he mentioned your prior knighthoods with a hint of reverence. How, pray tell, does one earn such honor twice?"

"Never mind that," Geralt replied with his usual brevity. "Thario Mopyr. What do you know?"

The mirth in Varys’s eyes momentarily dimmed. "A considerable amount, though I suspect much won't sit well with you."

"I suspected as much from Hightower's correspondence. What's Mopyr's angle?" Geralt queried.

Varys sighed. "Thario Mopyr is amongst the richest in Lys. Not a magistrate, but he could ascend to such a role effortlessly. However, politics bore him. He has other passions: amassing rare books, acquiring unique relics, and hosting fighting tournaments. I cannot substantiate Lord Leyton’s claim about the 'Unnatural History', but if anyone possesses it, it's Thario."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you've had personal dealings with him."

"A correct assumption. Before my service in Westeros, I assisted Thario with... discrete matters related to his estate. Mainly issues of inheritance." Varys paused, allowing the implication to settle.

Geralt didn’t miss a beat, envisioning the covert and violent tasks Varys alluded to.

"In any case," Varys resumed, "Thario owes me a few favors. I can notify him of your intended visit. That should guarantee an audience, perhaps even an invitation to his famed dinners."

"But not the book itself."

Varys smirked. "Absolutely not. Thario's attachment to his treasures is tenacious. You'll need to present something of equivalent or superior worth to sway him."

Geralt fell silent, weighing his options. He had no tome of comparable rarity to offer in trade, especially not one about dragons. But perhaps something else might catch Thario's interest, something directly linked to a dragon.

"Would a dragon skull interest him?"

Varys tittered. "A bold proposal, indeed. And, if it might aid your quest, I believe Rhaegar wouldn't object. If Aerys can be persuaded to part with one..."

"You don't seem convinced this'll work."

"Thario is a cunning individual," Varys said, a note of caution in his voice. "Even if he agrees to a trade, don't assume he won't devise some way to twist the arrangement to his advantage. Once he sizes up you and your companions, he's bound to request that you fight in his arena."

Geralt's gaze hardened. Though he usually dismissed superstition, lately he felt as if someone, somewhere, was deliberately throwing obstacles in his path.

The Witcher released a drawn-out, silent sigh. "The bored rich and their indulgences..."

"An endless source of trouble, indeed," Varys' eyes gleamed in the dim light. "But also an opportunity. One simply has to know how to turn it to their advantage."

Geralt would often reflect on Varys' advice, pondering it during any quiet moments that came his way.

Perhaps the most challenging task in those days was determining who would undertake each mission. The Witcher was certain his journey would take him to Valyria, which would inevitably bind him to Oberyn and his team. Arthur, after extensive deliberation with Geralt, would lead the expedition to Joramun's Tomb.

The two debated fiercely, weighing the merits and drawbacks of each choice, sometimes even verging on confrontation. Every candidate was skilled in their own right and could offer immeasurable value to either mission.

Many were dear friends. And with each decision, Geralt felt the heavy weight of responsibility, haunted by the idea he might be sending some to their deaths. Memories of the incidents at Stygga Castle and Kaer Morhen loomed over him.

On a restless night, one of many he’d been having of late, Geralt pondered, How do these nobles manage it? How can they send thousands to their deaths with such ease? Allies from other houses, fathers, brothers, uncles, and even the unsuspecting commoners tending their lands... And here I am, struggling over the fate of fewer than a dozen men.

At times like these, Geralt wished he truly was the heartless mutant many back home believed him to be.

It was the 7th of August, or the Eight Moon as the Westerosi would call it, when the final selection and briefing took place in the Tower of the Hand.

The hall that had once served as the private training area for Jaime, Geralt, and later the Kingsguard had been reorganized back to something resembling its original function. A circular table of polished, shining ebony was brought in and placed near the entrance, by the west-facing wall. The wall itself was decorated with numerous maps, some small, while the three largest ones dominated, looming over anyone seated before them.

Beams of early morning sunlight penetrated the hall through its windows, bathing the red stone with a honey-like sheen. The members of the two parties sat at the high cushioned seats in order from right to left: Jaime, Pycelle, Oswell, Howland, Meribald, and finally Oberyn. Geralt’s swords rested in their sheaths just under the map

Geralt and Arthur stood between the maps of Essos, Westeros, and the crudely drawn regions Beyond the Wall.

This is it, Geralt thought, glancing at the faces of all the assembled men, noticing traces of apprehension, excitement, dutiful coolness, and a myriad of other emotions. No turning back.

The Witcher took a deep, steadying breath, then spoke. “You all know why we’re here, so I won’t waste time with fancy introductions. Arthur and I have spent a while deciding who goes where. Some choices were obvious,” Geralt observed a fleeting smile on Oberyn’s face. “Others were a good deal tougher. But we didn’t make any decisions lightly. If you disagree with your assignment, speak now. But do it quickly; we head out in a week.”

Oswell, Howland, and Oberyn received this news without any noticeable reaction. Pycelle and Jaime looked momentarily startled before quickly regaining their composure. Meribald, appearing somewhat out of place among this group, opened his mouth to say something but then reconsidered, shifting uneasily in his seat.

“The assignments are as follows: Oberyn, Septon Meribald, Oswell, and I will head to Valyria. Arthur will lead the northern mission with Jaime, Pycelle, and Howland.”

Geralt paused, allowing the men a moment to digest the information. The room's atmosphere was thick with anticipation and, for some, anxiety. After a beat, Arthur stepped forward.

“We carefully considered each individual's strengths, experience, and expertise against what each mission requires,” Arthur stated, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber. “Understand that these decisions were made with the success of each mission foremost in mind.”

Howland and Oswell simply nodded in acceptance. Pycelle, adjusting his maester's chain, mused, "It’s been years since I ventured to the North. I’ll need to pack warmly."

"My ship and crew are prepared for the journey," Oberyn declared, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. "Although the Serpent’s Kiss might be a bit more... robust than we are used to, she has never failed me in any voyage. She'll navigate the mists of Valyria and bring us to its steel."

Jaime, visibly trying to mask his disappointment, took a moment to collect himself before responding. "As you said in Harrenhal, between Pycelle and me, we nearly amount to a Witcher in skill and knowledge. It... stands to reason we should remain a team."

“Exactly, which is why I’ll be giving you some Witcher tools.”

Geralt reached for the sheathed steel sword emblematic of the Wolf school. Simultaneously, he took off the silver medallion he typically wore. He presented the sword to Jaime and the medallion to Pycelle.

Grand Maester Pycelle cradled the wolfhead medallion with a gentle respect, while Jaime, much to the amusement of the onlookers, stared wide-eyed at the sword handed to him.

"This... This is..." Jaime began, struggling to find the right words.

"You'll need it up there," Geralt cut in, extending the blade toward him. "Meteorite steel can take down Others. Knowing you have a blade almost on par with Dawn eases my mind. And," The Witcher flashed a knowing grin, "consider it a knighthood present. Thought a new sword might be fitting."

Glancing between Geralt and the sword extended to him, Jaime finally shook off his surprise and tentatively reached for the scabbard. Any lingering thoughts about the mission or his initial disappointment over not going to Valyria vanished. For a moment, a youthful grin touched his lips, and his eyes sparkled with delight.

"Admire the blade later, lad," Oswell interjected, his tone gentle but firm. "We've still got work ahead."

"O-Of course," Jaime responded, looking from Oswell to Geralt, then setting the sword down. "I apologize... And thank you. I vow to wield it with honor."

"As will I with this medallion," Pycelle said, wrapping the chain around his left-hand fingers. "But are you sure about giving this up? I've heard you mention its importance to a Witcher."

Geralt shrugged slightly. "It's true, it helps sense magic. But if Valyria’s as thick with it as I reckon, the thing won't stop vibrating. Won't help much there. Better you have it –  it’ll warn you when the Others or their wights are close."

When no one voiced any objections about their assignments, Arthur took the lead in the conversation, tracing the three primary maps with his right index finger as he spoke.

"We will be sailing on the Sea Star to Eastwatch," he began, his eyes flitting between the members of his party. "It's a swift, reliable vessel, suited for coastlines and capable of breaking through the ice we're likely to face the farther north we venture. Once at the Wall, we'll be supplied with rations, gear, and steeds. From there, we'll head northwest into the Haunted Forest."

His finger traced over a vast expanse of dense, untamed forest that spanned a considerable portion of the lands beyond the Wall. Lands teeming with dangers—both living and now, undead.

That, and the sole man north of the Wall wielding a Valyrian steel sword, the ancestral Targaryen blade, Dark Sister. A blade long lost, now held by this enigmatic ally of the Children. Geralt had questioned Howland about this man who managed to kill an Other in single combat, deftly evading their wights and the retreating freefolk. A hunter who had tracked down a group of wights and slew them for the soul purpose to see if silver could be used to break their sorcery. By Geralt's reckoning, he was an adept figure, one of many skills. Yet, all Howland could offer was that he had been a long-standing friend of his master and a member of the Watch.

A member whom their current Lord Commander seemed completely unaware of, based on their exchanged letters.

"I suppose there's no possibility of utilizing a ship further north?" Pycelle asked.

"We did consider it," Arthur replied. "Under certain conditions, a ship would expedite our journey to the Frostfangs. However, we decided against it. According to Lord Commander Qorgyle, the sea ice is thickening rapidly in the north. We can't risk becoming trapped. Furthermore, the wildlings are amassing along the eastern shore, gravitating toward Hardhome."

Dayne indicated a point on the peninsula, which extended from the mainland like a formidable talon.

"The various wildling tribes are congregating there, either to strategize a defense or to gear up for a potential assault on the Wall. Regardless of their intentions, it's clear they won't allow us to sail through without a challenge. And that doesn't even take into account the threats posed by the Others and wights. Aye, traveling by land will be slower and undoubtedly fraught with its own perils. But within that ancient forest and among those stones, we stand a far better chance of avoiding unwanted attention."

"We won't traverse the entire distance above ground," Howland said, his first contribution to the conversation, eyes flitting between his companions. "A vast network of tunnels exists beneath, guarded by the children. These passages will afford us a significant stretch of safe travel."

"There remain the mountains to tackle," Jaime pointed out, gesturing toward the intricate depiction of towering peaks marking the continent's northern extremity. "If memory serves, a great many unsavory sorts dwell there. And, the tomb's exact location continues to elude us."

"That's accurate," Howland acknowledged, his earlier confidence waning slightly. "However, there are the Thenns. Although they might be distrustful of strangers, they're descendants of those who followed Joramun and maintain close ties with the world's remaining giants. If anyone knows the tomb's whereabouts, it would be their wise women."

The room's atmosphere was palpable: everyone sensed the gamble in this plan. Yet, it was the only lead they possessed.

Arthur and the others went back and forth an hour, seeking further information, proposing or dismissing alterations to the plan.

 Arthur and the others debated for another hour, seeking deeper insights, considering potential modifications, and dismissing certain facets of the plan.

When it was Geralt's turn to brief his team, there was significantly less to cover. The first half of their journey would be a relatively straightforward sail, while the latter half involved navigating Valyria - an enigmatic and largely uncharted territory. Weeks of research had yielded limited information, making Geralt feel unusually out of his depth.

The most heated part of their discussion centered on Thario Mopyr. Doubt and unease permeated the room as they delved into the topic.

"Being mere entertainment for some unscrupulous merchant?" Oswell sneered, evident revulsion shaping his features. "This doesn't sit right with me, Geralt. If Varys has collaborated with him in the past, there's no telling the kind of deception we might face."

With a measured glance, Oberyn responded, adjusting his posture as he rested his left leg over his right knee. “Having had encounters with Essos' elites, I can affirm their danger is akin to facing a wall of shields and pikes. But Ser Oswell, our intel on Valyria is fragmentary at best. Taking this route might be our salvation.”

Meribald, seemingly lost in his thoughts, spoke hesitantly. "I wish we had clearer insights into... what lies there." He realized the weight of his words a moment too late, a look of apology crossing his features. "I didn't mean to question your judgement, Master Geralt. It's just that..."

Geralt, sensing the Septon's apprehension, interrupted gently, “You've said nothing wrong. Voice your concerns. We’re allies in this endeavor."

Drawing a deep breath, Meribald continued, “Even among the common folk, tales of Valyria circulate. We know it as the ancient homeland of our dragon rulers, obliterated by flame and ruin. By your standards, this might seem trivial, but these tales have painted an image of a cursed land. Knowledge could dispel these daunting images.”

Understanding Meribald’s perspective but not entirely agreeing, Geralt simply nodded. He then addressed Oswell, a hint of intensity in his eyes. “I've been a pawn in someone's twisted game before, and trust me, it's not a position I relish. However, when the stakes are high, sometimes you wade through the muck to get what's needed.”

Oswell reclined, his eyes shadowed with memories. “I’m familiar with that sentiment, Witcher. We must hope the damn dragon skull suffices to please this Mopyr so we can progress.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Geralt remarked, scanning the faces around him. Thoughts swirled thickly in the room's air, yet none ventured to voice further doubts or queries. “If that’s all-”

“Hold,” Oberyn interrupted, his forceful slap on the table drawing everyone’s gaze. That familiar sly smile Geralt first saw was back. “Now that we’ve ironed out the mission details, we need to discuss the pre-departure festivity.”

“The... what now?” Meribald asked, puzzled.

“Each time I embark on a journey with my crew,” Oberyn began, “we dedicate one night to revelry. We share tales, test our skills against each other, or simply indulge in drink and merriment. The sea is unpredictable; it's wise to cherish solid ground while we have it. I believe many of us here could use a break from endless strategizing.”

“We still have tasks to address,” Geralt noted, arms folded, ever the realist.

“Then address them, but spare this one evening. Tell me, Master Witcher, when was the last time you permitted yourself some respite?” Oberyn pressed.

Arthur chimed in, “He has a point, Geralt. You've been ensnared in one matter after another post the curse-lifting. A break might do you good.”

Pycelle, nostalgia evident in his tone, added, “A simple gathering, reminiscent of our time in the godswood of Harrenhal, sounds delightful.”

Surveying the group, Geralt noticed the shift in demeanor, a collective yearning for camaraderie. Memories of carefree moments around a campfire with close allies surfaced. A part of him, muted under weeks of duress, planning and private worries now loudly spoke how it would be good to get away from it all, just for a little while. Just the consideration of it made a great deal of tension ebb away from his whole body. 

With a resigned sigh, he finally nodded at Oberyn. “Alright, but let’s keep it under control.”

Oberyn’s grin, however, was anything but reassuring. “On my honor.”

Chapter Text

This place certainly lives up to its name, Geralt thought, mere minutes after entering the Merry Way.

Nestled between the bustling fish markets near the Blackwater Rush and under the shadow of the Great Sept of Baelor, the Witcher navigated through a serpentine labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys. This was where Oberyn had decreed their pre-departure celebration would take place.

The air was thick, tinged with an intoxicating blend of exotic spices, lingering perfumes, the sweaty fervor of the crowd, and that unmistakable undercurrent one only senses where pleasure, thrills, and danger are inextricably mingled—like a volatile mixture on the verge of combustion.

The torchlight's orange and yellow hues regularly erupted into great streams of flame, courtesy of the fire-spewers flanking either side of the pathway. Knives and blades flashed menacingly as jugglers hurled them—sometimes close to a dozen—into the air with a grace and finesse that bordered on Witcher-like.

Makeshift stages, cobbled together from worn planks of wood, creaked under the weight of actors, comedians, musicians, and puppeteers. They performed atop these platforms, drawing crowds dense enough to halt a cavalry charge. As he moved, Geralt caught snippets of their tales and songs: narratives of love, war, past glories, and the troubling events of the present day.

Glancing toward the darker corners off to the side, the Witcher perceived snippets of other kinds of stories: the clatter of dice on stone or wood, men cursing their luck, and women moaning in pleasure.

It wasn't all revelry and amusement, though.

On multiple occasions, he caught sight of cut-purses reaching toward unsuspecting pockets. He also felt the unsettling sensation of being watched; more than once, he sensed footsteps trailing his own. Each time, he'd turn abruptly, lock eyes, and send a glare potent enough to chase the would-be stalkers back into their shadowy corners, where they'd undoubtedly seek easier prey.

Ah, the energy of nightlife, where trouble and pleasure were never far apart—or perhaps it was the other way around? Either way, Geralt found himself somewhat enamored by the experience thus far.

Since arriving in Westeros, his days had been consumed by forests, castles, and seemingly endless stretches of road. Recently, his life had been filled with meetings in austere red halls and long, quiet hours of reading, punctuated only by the occasional sparring session. But here, in this cacophony of sensory stimulation, Geralt felt like he was finally getting a moment's respite, as paradoxical as that seemed.

The kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells swept his work-related concerns aside, carrying him along like a leaf caught in a river's current. He found himself descending to the Sundown Circle, the beating heart of the evening's revelry.

By day, Geralt surmised, the area functioned as a marketplace like any other. Merchants from across the Kingdoms and even farther lands would set up stalls, haggling over prices, extolling the virtues of their wares to passersby, rejoicing at a sale made and lamenting the potential customers who slipped through their fingers.

Yet now, as he finally reached the open space, it had transformed into something else entirely. Designed in a circular layout, cobblestone streets radiated out like spokes from a central hub—a grand fountain topped with a weathered statue of a Targaryen king he couldn't identify. Where stalls and shoppers would've bustled hours ago, performers now held court.

Dancers moved fluidly to the rhythmic beats of drums, lutes, and guitars, their silken veils shimmering in the torchlight. Jesters in colorful patchwork garments tumbled and capered about, eliciting laughter and applause. Illusionists deftly pulled coins from behind ears, while fire jugglers filled the air, heavy with incense and wine, with blazing arcs of flame. The spectacle unfolded in dizzying, mesmerizing fashion.

As he stood there, arms crossed, eyes darting from one spectacle to another, a melancholy thought brushed his mind. 

Shame Dandelion’s not here, this place was made for him. 

He could almost hear his old friend prattling on about how a city's true character only reveals itself after dark, or musing on the intricate composition of a song he'd likely forget by the next hour. Geralt could even picture Dandelion scaling the fountain, probably displacing someone in the process, to serenade the crowd with a performance so captivating that even his own musically-inept ears would find it impressive.

Zoltan would probably knock someone's teeth out , Geralt mused with a wistful smile, picturing some unsuspecting Westerosi mistaking him for one of their own dwarves and ending up in a puddle of ale and their own blood.

Ciri, on the other hand, would likely dive headlong into one of the many gyrating crowds, effortlessly losing herself in the rhythm of the place and probably becoming the star dancer of the evening. As for Yennefer, she would initially feign aloofness, pretending she was above such base revelry. But sooner or later, she'd play some clever trick on an unsuspecting passersby or burst into laughter at some ludicrous thing Geralt did after a few too many drinks.

Yes, it would be wonderful to have them all here just for their company... The thought momentarily darkened his mood, dulling the vibrant sounds and sweet aromas that had been so palpable on his tongue just moments before.

"Geralt, over here!"

Amid the cacophony of sounds and distractions, Geralt's ears picked out a voice he recognized. Breaking free from his transient wistfulness, he scanned the crowd until his eyes landed on a cluster of tables positioned outside what appeared to be an inn facing east.

There they were, in order from right to left: Pycelle, Oberyn, Arthur, Oswell, and Jaime, the latter of whom had spotted him and was energetically waving him over. Surrounding them were men of both Dornish and Essosi descent, engrossed in games of chance involving dice and cards, and even a few partaking in a perilous game involving knives and outstretched fingers. As to be expected, Oberyn had secured the largest table for their motley crew. Howland and Meribald were invited too, though both declined. Howland seemed too private a sort to partake in it and Meribald only said with a cryptic smile that his days of revelry were behind him. 

As he approached, a cheer of greeting and a sea of raised cups welcomed him. The Witcher managed a rare smile, grateful for the camaraderie he had found in this foreign land. His mood lifted almost instantly as he took his seat between the members of the Kingsguard.

"Took you long enough to get here," Oswell grumbled good-naturedly, handing him a tankard of aromatic wine that was almost comically large.

"The meeting with the King and Hand ran longer than expected," Geralt explained, taking a deep sniff of the wine before indulging in a hearty swig. "I had hoped to be here an hour earlier, but..."

He let the sentence hang, not needing to elaborate further. Time had its own way of running amok when matters of state were involved, and everyone at the table understood that all too well.

"Let my good brother and Lord Tywin bore each other on this fine evening," Oberyn declared, his voice rising with enthusiasm. "We have more entertaining pursuits in mind, don't we, lads?!"

"Aye, Captain!" The response was immediate and thunderous, startling many of the passersby and earning them a few glares from some of the performers. Their voices had easily drowned out the acts, who in turn doubled down on their performances, perhaps to reclaim the crowd's attention.

This is going to get interesting. Geralt thought with a mix of amusement and just a bit of common sense worry. “So, Prince Oberyn, what’ve you got in mind for us?”

With a flourish, Oberyn lifted his mug, gracefully spun his chair just enough to pivot, and extended an arm toward the revelry that enveloped them. "Take your pick, Master Witcher," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "As you can see, there's no shortage of diversions to enjoy on this fine evening. And you, as my guest of honor, shall have the first choice."

Turning his gaze back to the Sundown Circle, Geralt quietly observed the various games unfolding before him. Among the expected activities—arm-wrestling bouts, ale-quaffing contests, and dice games—one peculiar spectacle caught his eye.

A long, narrow beam, approximately nine meters in length, was elevated about a meter off the ground, supported by sturdy wooden legs at each end. A cushion of thick hay was spread below, clearly intended to soften any falls. The current contestant, a middle-aged man with a notable girth, ascended a small staircase, balancing a tankard of ale on his head. Remarkably, he managed a few steps before stumbling and snarling, much to the delight of the onlookers.

The rules, as Geralt gleaned from the crowd and organizer, were simple: traverse the beam from one end to the other without spilling a drop of ale balanced on the head.

"Ah, the 'Tipsy Trek,' as it's fondly called around here," Oberyn grinned, following Geralt’s gaze. "A test for both the sober and the inebriated. I like your style, Witcher. Shall we?"

The Witcher returned the smile and set his tankard down. "Why not," he said, glancing around the table. "Anyone else interested?"

"Doubt I'd make it past a few steps with that on my head," Oswell snorted. "Nay, I think I'll sit back and enjoy watching Prince Oberyn take his tumble."

"You speak as though I've already lost, Ser Whent," Oberyn replied, a dark glint in his eyes belying the smile on his face. "I believe you'll soon see the error in that assumption."

"You'll do better than most, old friend," Arthur added. "But I fear that in Geralt, you've at last met your match when it comes to agility."

 “That remains to be seen.”

Twenty minutes later, it was.

Geralt and Oberyn each approached the organizer, with the Prince handing over a coin purse the size of an apple and about as heavy. The man's eyes might have bulged out of his skull if Oberyn hadn't quickly instructed that the game be theirs exclusively until he said otherwise. Snapping out of his stupor, the man numbly agreed as they moved past him.

The first round went as expected. Accustomed to walking on narrower, more precarious surfaces—often while things tried to knock him off or kill him—Geralt found little difficulty in the challenge. Oberyn performed almost as well, appearing almost bored by the time he jumped down and caught the mug before it could spill.

"Fine for a start," Oberyn shrugged. "But I say we can make it more fun. You there! Bring us each two more mugs!"

The organizer complied. Once the additional tankards were in place, each man crouched down and balanced two mugs atop their outstretched palms. By this point, the crowd had taken notice of their escalating competition. Many shifted their attention from the performers to this spectacle.

Again, Geralt moved with ease. Oberyn, although slower, managed to keep up, his brow marked by beads of sweat from the exertion.

"Very good, Master Witcher, very good," Oberyn smiled, his easy-going tone almost masking the slight hint of effort. "But I think we can still make it more interesting."

"What's your idea this time?" Geralt asked, eyebrow raised. "Going to try it blindfolded?"

"Oh, you'll see," Oberyn replied, his smile taking on a dangerous edge. With feline grace, he turned and leapt back onto the beam.

"Good people of King's Landing!" Oberyn announced, his voice carrying through the air and drawing the eyes of the gathered crowd like moths to a flame. "You've enjoyed watching me and my friend compete, and not just because we happen to be the most handsome men here!" The crowd laughed, many glancing appreciatively at Oberyn, Geralt, or both.

"I see it in your eyes and hear it in your hushed awes," Oberyn continued, masterfully gauging the crowd's reaction. "But now, we need your help to make this contest even more exciting!"

The atmosphere thickened with anticipation. Oberyn had always had a knack for showmanship, and it was clear that whatever he had in mind, it was going to be memorable. Geralt couldn't help but feel a mixture of intrigue and caution. The Dornish prince was nothing if not unpredictable.

"You've no doubt thrown ale or food at someone you thought deserved it, right? Well, now I ask you to do it again! My friend and I will balance our ales atop this beam, and you will be the ones trying to spill them or knock us down! Do this, and a rain of coins from a very grateful Dornish prince will be your reward!"

A current akin to lightning shot through the crowd. Almost immediately, the promise of a little havoc and some extra coin sent people scrambling to gather whatever they could throw. Oberyn leapt down from the beam and slapped Geralt on the back, his smile stretching from ear to ear.

"Not a bad idea, don't you think?" he asked.

"Guess I should be grateful you didn't ask them to throw knives or rocks. Or get the fire-breathers to target us," Geralt replied, glaring at Oberyn as the idea seemed to flash through the Dornish prince's mind. "Don't even think about it."

Oberyn chuckled, thoroughly and plainly enjoying the look of mild consternation on Geralt's face. "Oh, don't worry. I think food and ale will provide enough spectacle. Besides, I wouldn't want to give my friend any unfair disadvantages."

"Yeah, right," Geralt responded skeptically, but he couldn't help but appreciate the spirit of the contest. Things were certainly getting more… vibrant. 

As they both took their terms on the beam, the atmosphere was electric. People had armed themselves with bits of food, scraps of bread, and cups of ale, waiting eagerly for the sign to let loose their salvos.

Oberyn looked down at Geralt as he went first, his eyes twinkling with mischief and excitement. "Good luck.”

The Witcher nodded. "You too."

At a signal from Oberyn, the air filled with flying food and splashing ale, as the crowd unleashed their culinary artillery. Balancing carefully on each of their turns, the two men focused on maintaining their poise and keeping the ale from spilling, while simultaneously dodging or deflecting the edible projectiles.

To his credit, Oberyn performed better than most would have anticipated. True, he took a fair few hits—a tankard to the rib, a turnip falling onto the beam that nearly made him slip—but he persevered. Leaping and contorting his body, he narrowly dodged most of the incoming missiles. He landed, splattered with ale and food but without a single spilled drop.

For his part, Geralt felt like a young trainee back at Kaer Morhen. Tankards whizzed past his eyes, tomatoes narrowly missed his chest and back, and he found himself executing small leaps to avoid being tripped up. The only things missing were a blindfold and Vesemir chiding him for favoring one foot over the other.

It was chaos. It was exhilarating. It was utterly ridiculous. Most importantly, it was fun—something Geralt hadn't realized he'd been missing until now.

Reaching the end of the beam for a third time, his ale mostly intact, Geralt leapt down and exhaled a long, relieved breath.

Oberyn, observing him closely, seemed to weigh the events. Though they had both completed the challenge, only Geralt had emerged unscathed. For a moment, Geralt suspected that Oberyn's competitive spirit might issue forth yet another outrageous challenge. Instead, the Dornishman simply laughed and smiled.

"You see?" Oberyn approached Geralt, placing one hand on his shoulder and raising the other high. "Who else but the Red Viper and the Kingswood Knight could have done this!" The crowd erupted in cheers.

As promised, Oberyn untied his coin purse and tossed it into the air, showering the crowd with glinting gold. As people scrambled to collect their prizes, Oberyn turned to Geralt, his face radiant with delight. "Well done, my friend. Truly, no one has ever challenged me like this."

"Likewise," Geralt replied, surprised by his own genuine pleasure. "But if the fates allow, you should see the training courses at Kaer Morhen. Tests of dexterity and agility unlike anything you'll find here, I assure you."

"An intriguing prospect. Do tell me more."

And so they did, walking back to their companions, who had either been observing the contest from a distance or killing time with a game of cards that Pycelle had thoughtfully brought along.

An hour later, several tankards of ale deep, the focus of their conversation shifted to a topic uniquely specific to their table.

"... I will say..." Oberyn mused, his brow furrowed in thought, "Forty."

"Forty?" Jaime exclaimed, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. "You can't be serious; he's at least fifty.”

"You're the one jesting, lad," Oswell countered before taking a sip from his fourth mug. "No man of fifty could fight as he does."

"Ser Gerold still moves faster than men half his age and is considerably stronger," Jaime retorted.

"You didn’t spar with the White Bull in his prime. Ten years ago, when I first donned the white cloak, dueling him was like facing a hurricane—a blur of steel and iron that knocked you flat before you knew what hit you. Aye, he's still strong and fast, but age is slowly catching up to him," Oswell argued.

"Let's not forget there are men significantly younger than Geralt who can't hope to match his skills," Arthur chimed in, leaning back into his seat. "Some of whom are at this very table."

Oswell looked at Arthur. "Well, how old would you say he is?"

Arthur rubbed his chin, scrutinizing the Witcher, who silently observed the unfolding debate with thinly hid amusement. "...Perhaps...thirty-five...?"

At that, the table erupted in another wave of heated discussion. As Geralt listened to the shifting conversations, it became clear that his age had been a topic of much speculation among these men, even before they had left for Harrenhal. Apparently, the entire castle was in on the debate.

What he found refreshing about his time in Westeros was that no one knew the first thing about what made a Witcher. They were ignorant of the reasons behind his eye color, skin tone, and speed, why he could consume poisonous substances without harm, or why his fighting prowess was so exceptional. Back home, Witchers were figures of fear and loathing—emotionless mutants who hunted monsters and, according to some stories, even men, all for a handful of coins. Here, though, he was merely a peculiar foreigner with an even stranger title. And that anonymity, he realized, was a kind of freedom he hadn't known he'd been missing.

When questioned about his age, Geralt remained elusive, turning it into a game of sorts. He pledged that if anyone came even remotely close to guessing his true age, he'd empty an entire small barrel of Dornish Red that Oberyn's crew had brought from their ship. So far, the barrel remained untouched, and that didn’t seem likely to change.

"Pycelle!" Oswell boomed, pounding the table with his fist. "You've been suspiciously quiet. What's your guess about Geralt's age?"

The Grand Maester wasn't fully inebriated yet, but he was teetering on the edge—another sip or two would tip the balance. Geralt observed Pycelle's slightly slackened mouth, the almost imperceptible swaying in his seat, and the narrowing and widening of his eyes as he pondered his answer.

"I...say," Pycelle started, his words slightly slurred. His gaze locked onto Geralt's, lingering for an uncomfortably long pause. Just when Geralt thought someone would urge the Maester to hurry up, Pycelle finally spoke. "I say... he's older than me!"

The table fell into a stunned silence, the knights looking at Pycelle with a mixture of incredulity and mild amusement. The Grand Maester seemed undeterred as he maintained eye contact with Geralt, then glanced around at the others.

"And how do I deduce this?" he began, his voice that of a tipsy man embarking on a lecture. "Because... if your guesses were correct, which they clearly are not—else he would already be halfway through that barrel—then the opposite must be true!"

Another pause filled the room, pregnant with disbelief. Finally, Jaime broke the silence. "That has to be... the most nonsensical pile of drivel I've ever heard. How could he possibly be older than—"

It was at this precise moment that Geralt chose to reach for the barrel resting beside his chair. Lifting it effortlessly off the ground, he set it onto the table with a resounding thud. Every eye was glued to him, their expressions a combination of utter disbelief and awe. He knew he'd be paying for it with a killer headache and probably an upset stomach the next day, but their shocked faces made it all worth it.

"A deal's a deal," he said, uncorking the barrel with a grin. "Bottom's up."

Following that, things started becoming more fragmented to Geralt’s eyes. Even his Witcher biology couldn’t withstand that kind of sudden, massive intake of alcohol with no repercussions.

Some time after the initial shock of Geralt's age revelation had worn off, Oswell, inspired by an inexplicable burst of enthusiasm, challenged thirty men to an arm-wrestling contest. The prize? His custom-made, batwinged Kingsguard helm.

And so, one by one, men from all walks of life took up the gauntlet. Some of Oswell's opponents saw their fists slammed against the table with enough force to make the wood splinter. Others managed to give the Kingsguard knight a run for his money. By the end of it all, Oswell's black hair was soaked in sweat, and Geralt could almost hear the man's teeth creaking under the pressure of a clenched jaw.

His final opponent was a burly fisherman, roughly the same age and built like a slightly less hairy grizzly bear. The two men locked hands, muscles bulging, beads of sweat forming on their foreheads. For a few tension-filled seconds, it seemed an even match—neither giving an inch.

Then, Oswell released a roar that started as a low rumble in his throat, a sound so fierce that it silenced the crowd, made the fisherman visibly flinch, and reverberated through the entire Sundown Circle like a peal of thunder. The climax of this terrifying vocal performance coincided with the fisherman's hand slamming against the table, his face contorted in a grimace of pain and exertion.

Grimacing from the sheer effort, Oswell grabbed what was either his eighth or twelfth tankard of ale—Geralt had lost count at this point—and hoisted it high into the air with his free hand.

"I can't feel my bloody arm!" he bellowed, his voice tinged with both triumph and exhaustion.

The crowd erupted into cheers, their earlier shock completely forgotten in the face of this new spectacle. It was a moment of revelry and camaraderie, the likes of which none in attendance would soon forget.

Somewhere around two in the morning, someone had the bright idea to fence off a portion of the Circle, fill the makeshift ring with mud, and place a small piglet inside it. Arthur, Jaime, and Pycelle spent over half an hour engaged in a farcical chase to catch the slippery animal.

"He's there, he's there!" Arthur slurred, his face smeared with mud and his footing uncertain. "Quick, Jaime, go after him!"

"I—I see him!" Jaime lunged, leaping a few seconds too soon, and ended up face-first in the mud. The piglet squealed with delight, scrambled onto his head, and then darted down his back just as Arthur lunged for it.

Arthur gave it a valiant effort, coming close to capturing the elusive piglet several times. However, he miscalculated his final lunge. Tripping over himself as the piglet darted between his legs, he lost his balance and tumbled out of the ring, eliciting roars of laughter from the audience.

Pycelle, who had tired first, had opted to recline in the mud, gazing up at the twinkling stars and chuckling at some private joke. To the crowd's astonishment, the piglet approached him and began nibbling on his long, white, mud-streaked beard.

"Must think it's straw," Oberyn slurred, leaning over the fence, observing the unfolding spectacle with the wide-eyed wonder of a man considering life's absurdities for the first time.

"Uh-huh," Geralt grunted, raising his mug for another sip, only to find it mysteriously empty. He stared at the bottom of the tankard as if its emptiness were a riddle he needed to solve.

Indeed, the piglet was so entranced by Pycelle's beard that it allowed the Grand Maester to grasp it between his trembling fingers and secure a firm hold. Triumphantly, Pycelle rose from the mud, standing tall as the crowd's cheers crescendoed, chanting his name almost a dozen times in their collective euphoria.

As dawn approached, the crowds began to disperse, leaving behind only those sober enough to attempt cleaning up the area. After all, the space served as a market and needed to be in a somewhat usable condition for traders the next day.

The Five, along with Oberyn, were among the last to leave. They stumbled out of the Sundown Circle, made their way up the hill, and navigated through the serpentine labyrinth of streets that comprised the now-emptying Merry Way, finally returning to the Red Keep.

Drunkenly they ambled, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, forming a line that zigzagged more than it went straight.

Oberyn led the tune, though calling it a "tune" might have been generous. It was a Dornish melody, at least initially, but as they went on, elements of Northern dirges, songs from the Riverlands, and even a Dandelion ballad found their way into the mix. Nobody seemed to mind that they were horribly out of tune or that the lyrics made no sense.

"An' the Red Viper pranced through the sands," Oberyn warbled.

"Down by the rivers of Riverrun!" Jaime added.

"With a White Wolf at his right hand!" Geralt chimed in, his voice surprisingly melodic despite the alcohol coursing through his veins.

"Where the Kingsguard helm flies free!" Oswell bellowed, almost losing his balance but steadied by Arthur.

"And the Citadel's bells ring—hic!" Pycelle hiccuped, causing a new round of laughter.

Arthur began a new verse, but it was mostly a string of "la la las," as he'd forgotten the words halfway through. Still, it seemed the perfect addition to their motley choir.

As they approached the looming shadow of the Red Keep, it was clear that not a single one of them would remember the evening's events with complete clarity. But in that moment, none of that mattered. For a few stolen hours, they were not members of a Kingsguard, a Witcher from another land, or a Dornish prince. They were just men, bound by the shared experience of song, laughter, and ridiculous games.

The guards at the Red Keep gate looked astounded as the group approached, their armor clinking out of rhythm with their singing. But the men paid no mind; they had their own rhythm, a beat understood only by those who had ventured out into the madness of King's Landing’s nightlife and returned as comrades.

Eventually, they crossed into the courtyard of the Red Keep, their song trailing off into laughter and fragmented conversation. Still, as they parted ways, each headed to his own chamber to sleep off the night's festivities, it was clear to them all even in that drunk state that this was a night they'd speak of in the days to come—each version more exaggerated than the last, but all equally cherished.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The deck of the Crown’s Spear bustled with activity.  

Across the 120-foot length and 20-foot width of the long, sleek, and imposing two-masted galley of dark oak and iron fittings, crewmates went about their daily tasks maintaining the ship. Ropes managing the sails were adjusted, the master-at-arms walked the length of the ship, always at the ready for a change in weather or sea—though both had heavily favored them so far on their journey. Members of lesser rank scrubbed the deck, except for one section along the starboard side, which held the brunt of Jaime’s attention—and no small number of the crew’s, too.  

Pycelle stood in a half-crouched position, the starboard railing within grasping distance to his right. He wore simple, drab brown trousers, his feet bare, while his upper body was exposed to the warm sea air that gently swayed his neatly trimmed beard.  

Though age had marked his body with deep wrinkles, fine lines, and visible veins, Jaime noted with approval that Pycelle had also acquired some muscle in his arms, back, and shoulders.  

He’ll need them all , Jaime thought with a hint of amusement. That log looks to be a heavy burden.  

The large piece of wood weighed about half as much as Pycelle himself and was almost as wide as the Grand Maester’s torso. It took no small amount of effort to lift and hold it in place.  

It was an exercise Jaime had picked up from Lord Crakehall during his days as a squire. Lord Sumner would alternate between commanding them to lift even heavier pieces of wood, sprint with them to and from a predetermined spot, or simply hold them atop their backs for extended periods. A simple but effective training regimen, particularly once they had to do it in full armor.  

For today, Jaime decided to see how well Pycelle could move with it.  

“Keep your back straight,” Jaime warned, circling the old man with folded arms, scrutinizing his form. “Don’t let the weight fall on your back—keep it at your shoulders.”  

“Y-Yes,” Pycelle huffed, his chest rising and falling irregularly.  

“Control your breathing. Draw strength from it.”  

The Grand Maester did as he was told. His irregular pattern became a controller series of deep nose inhales until his stomach expanded followed by slow exhales through his mouth. For thirty heartbeats, Jaime watched him closely and nodded with approval when he saw no fault in stance or technique.  

“Good,” Jaime smiled. “Now comes the fun part. I want you to carry that from here to the bow and back again.”  

“How many times?” Pycelle asked, breathing heavily.  

“Once, for now. Don’t rush. Take it slowly and pause if you must, but don’t tarry too long at any one spot. If the weight bears down on you, tell me and I’ll get it off.”  

Wordlessly, the old man nodded, standing a bit straighter, his eyes—once glued to the floor—now fixed in a determined gaze.  

“Very well. Now, go!”  

And so, he did. First with slow, ponderous steps, judging his capacity to withstand the strain without breaking form or, gods forbid, his back. Soon enough, Pycelle found a rhythm, and his speed grew with his confidence. Jaime counted six runs to and from the bow, five without any pauses to catch his breath. By the end of the sixth, Jaime noted his face growing redder and heard the haggardness of his breathing. He walked over to his side.  

“Seven hells,” Jaime muttered just loud enough for him to hear, then helped take the log off his back. “You were born for this, Grand Maester. Half the squires at Crakehall would’ve lost all strength by now.”  

It was only a slight exaggeration. Jaime himself could manage as many as thirty runs under far greater strain, but no small number of squires at Crakehall struggled with the exercise for a long time, even if they excelled in other areas.  

Pycelle nodded appreciatively as the weight was lifted. With a slightly shaking hand, he steadied himself on the railing, sweat running down his face and chest, aided by the midday sun scorching them from above.  

Jaime saw Pycelle’s mouth begin to form words, only for his question to die amidst a small chorus of cheers and claps. Jaime turned his head and saw several crewmates—those who had snickered at Pycelle’s efforts just a few days ago—now openly showing their approval. The Grand Maester, surprise plain on his face, raised a hand in recognition of their praise before the master-at-arms shouted at them to move their arses and return to work.  

“At this rate, you’ll be popular enough to stage a mutiny before we reach the Wall,” Jaime quipped.  

“W-Wine,” Pycelle wheezed, gesturing to his throat. “Wine…”  

“As you command.” Jaime said with a grin.  

He set a small barrel of watered-down summerwine by the steps leading to the stern, along with a pair of wooden mugs. Turning the spigot, Jaime filled them both, watching with no small amount of amusement as Pycelle downed his in one go. Almost immediately, the fatigue from training seemed to dissipate, his eyes closed, and he looked ready to fall asleep.  

"Don't get too comfortable," Jaime warned, taking a sip of his own wine and savoring the sweet taste of grapes. "We've still got a few more rounds of exercises to go today."  

For a moment, he thought the Grand Maester might protest—brief flashes of disbelief and even anger crossed his face—but, as always, Pycelle quashed them, adopting a look of determination instead.  

"Just a few more minutes' rest," Pycelle asked, before adopting another Witcher technique, a breathing practice passed onto them both by Geralt. In the span of a minute, no more than a handful of breaths, calming the body, quieting a thumping heart, and easing fatigue.  

Jaime had heard Geralt explain the method more than once, using strange words like "system" and "biology," though Jaime could only half-follow the explanation. Still, the results were clear, and he had no argument with them.    

At the thought of the Witcher and the journey that took him, Ser Oswell, and their vessel on a separate course, Jaime glanced to the southeast, as though he might still spot them far in the distance. Yet, as every time since their ships parted at Dragonstone, there was nothing but the vast blue of the Narrow Sea and its swaying waves.  

I wish we hadn’t split up.  

It wasn’t a wrath Jaime felt at this fact, as he might have six months ago. Back when he was a squire leaving Crakehall, eager and ignorant of what knighthood truly meant in equal measure, lesser things had darkened his mood with anger for days or even weeks.  

Rather, Jaime likened it more to a longing for the camaraderie they’d shared amidst the ruins of Harrenhal. Days spent preparing and sparring, nights filled with stories of danger, monsters, and bravery. Danger had been present then, but not the same kind that now awaited their divided party.  

Feels like something’s ended. Geralt would have said every end is the start of something else, but… A tightness gripped his chest as his gaze lingered on the sea. I still wish the Harrenhal Five could’ve lasted a while longer. At least long enough to enjoy our victory before news of the bloody Others’ return reached us.  

"They should be in the Stepstones by now, if the winds favor them and no Free City war has waylaid them."  

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Pycelle, who had turned his head to follow Jaime’s gaze through the beams of the railing. The old man’s complexion had improved, and much of his prior weariness had left him already.  

Still, Jaime’s thoughts lingered on their friends, now many leagues away. "Lord Varys said Lys and Tyrosh were on good terms when we left."  

"The fickleness and pettiness behind the many wars for the Disputed Lands cannot be underestimated," Pycelle replied, adopting a familiar lecturing tone. "Resources and land alone do not dictate their motives, and haven’t since before either of us drew our first breath. They’ve had centuries to amass rivers of bad blood. The possibility of renewed conflict between them at any moment is a fact of life. Even without a true war, the Stepstones are a breeding ground for pirates and sellsails. Criminals carving out their own little kingdoms and territories."  

Jaime was about to respond when a familiar voice cut him off.  

"And my good friend Oberyn has, proudly I might add, made no small number of enemies among said pirate lords."  

Ser Arthur descended from the stern, stepping down the wooden steps to stand beside them.  

During the voyage, both he and Jaime had largely set aside their armor for long-sleeved, knee-length tunics and breeches that did not hinder their movements at all, paired with sturdy, finely polished leather boots.  

Jaime’s attire, of course, was in the red and gold colors of his house, featuring lion’s eyes embroidered in gold patterns around his shoulders, with subtle designs beneath that gave the impression of fanged teeth running down his chest. Ser Arthur’s attire was comparably plain, lacking any decorations or trimmings, yet the simplicity of its white color often left Jaime feeling like a court jester next to the seasoned knight.  

"Friends as well," Arthur continued, resting both palms atop the pommel of Dawn hanging down the side of his left leg. His gaze wandered southeast, too. "They can expect either a boarding or to be hosted like long-lost brothers, if they haven’t been already."  

A fine job you two are doing of making me feel better about our party splitting , Jaime thought, though he held his tongue.  

"I understand your feelings," Ser Arthur said, seemingly addressing them both, though his gaze sought neither. "I, too, wish to be by their side, or to have them by ours. The dangers awaiting us before we reach our destinations are great indeed. Perhaps greater than anything Harrenhal threw at us. Lying to ourselves or each other about it does no good."  

"...I know it doesn’t," Jaime sighed. "It’s just... I’m not used to this. Knowing danger’s out there and not being able to do anything about it."  

"I’ve stood on the sidelines most of my life," Pycelle added. "Watching others ride and rush into danger. It used to not bother me..."  

"Nothing would gladden my heart more than to say there’s something to banish that worry from your mind," Ser Arthur said. "But there isn’t. These are natural feelings anyone must deal with, knowing a comrade or brother is facing danger far away. Rather, I ask you both to quell those fears with faith."  

Jaime gave him a puzzled look. Ser Arthur had undoubtedly taken many vows to the Seven, yet in all their time together, Jaime had never seen him pray. Nor did he strike Jaime as particularly pious.  

"I don’t speak of faith in the Seven or the old gods, though if that helps, by all means," Ser Arthur said, smiling at both of them. "I speak of faith in our friends and their ability to survive. They are some of the most capable men the Seven Kingdoms could hope to have in these times. Surely, you don’t believe some petty sea reaver will do more than delay them at worst?"  

"Even if he did, he would likely regret it," Pycelle said, running fingers through his shortened beard. "Knowing the others, they’d likely escape and sink every vessel in his fleet before they were done."  

"Aye, I can see it now," Jaime added, grinning. "Geralt using one of his Signs to burn through their bonds. Ser Oswell knocking down half a dozen men like they weighed nothing. Prince Oberyn making away with a pirate ship in a night escape."  

"You’re thinking too small," Ser Arthur replied. "Oberyn would set the bloody thing on fire, then ram it into the pirate’s seaside home."  

"You are poor at consoling people, Ser," the Grand Maester chimed in with a wry smile. “Now I wish to be by their side all the more."  

The three shared a laugh at this, and Jaime felt more at ease. The longing did not vanish, but its hold over him was lessened. He would take note to remember Arthur’s words should it arise again.  

Mayhaps I was simply jealous at the thought of them having all the fun and not us. He considered wryly.  

"Well, I’ll leave you both to it," Ser Arthur said. "I’ve just spoken with the captain, and he expects we’ll enter the Shivering Sea soon. He thinks the weather will turn a good deal colder—maybe as early as tonight—so enjoy the summer while it lasts."  

The change came as soon as they passed the Fingers. Though the skies remained cloudless as far as the Grey Cliffs near Karhold, the wind took on an icy, biting quality that intensified the farther they sailed north.  

Jaime, along with practically everyone else, changed their attire. Fur-lined, heavy cloaks, hoods, and boots became mandatory, as did quilted tunics, hand wraps, and thick leather gloves. Not that any of it seemed to help. With every strong gust of wind, Jaime felt a thousand icy knives cutting through to his bones, no matter what he wore. Ser Arthur perhaps took it the worst, coughing and sniffling as they sailed through the Bite, heading toward Widow’s Watch.  

The land to their left was snowy and dreary, much as Jaime had expected of the North. The sea, however, was anything but. On mornings before any sparring or exercises, Jaime found himself watching it closely.  

Fish unlike any he’d ever seen swam near the blue surface or leaped through it with a dangerous grace. But it was the larger creatures such as walruses and narwhals that truly caught his eye. Often, they seemed to chase after the Crown’s Spear, while others hunted their prey. His favorites were undoubtedly the sea lions, whose barks and demeanors reminded him of hairless, whiskered sea dogs.  

Tyrion would love them, Jaime thought with a smile, resting his arms atop the wooden railing as tiny sea lions took their first swims from a nearby rocky coast. I can almost hear him begging us to catch one and make it his pet.  

“So that’s a sea lion.”  

The unexpected voice at his side made Jaime turn abruptly. He nearly stepped back in shock when he saw the reclusive greenman, Howland Reed. Reed was staring at the sea lions moving alongside the ship, his green cloak pulled back, wonder clear in his gaze.  

It wasn’t just Reed’s sudden appearance that startled Jaime—it was how quietly he’d appeared. Jaime prided himself on being aware of his surroundings, and his Witcher training had sharpened that awareness. But apparently, not enough to notice a greenman.  

It’s fortunate for us he’s not an assassin, Jaime thought . He’d make a damned good one.  

“A-Apologies, Ser Jaime!” Reed blurted, clearly flustered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I only... the crew mentioned there were sea lions, and I wished to see them.”  

I’m surprised you could hear them, locked away in your chambers as you’ve been, Jaime thought. He could barely recall more than a handful of times he’d seen the crannogman since the voyage began. Reed spent most of his time in his chambers, where, according to the crew, strange scents and guttural noises often emerged.  

More business with the three-eyed raven, Jaime surmised, trying to relax. “It’s quite alright, it’s just... you took me unawares.”  

“Ah, yes...”  

An uncomfortable silence followed as they both looked back at the sea, neither sure of what to say.  

Should I leave, or stay? Jaime weighed his options. Reed’s portents of doom left have an impression, but the young lord himself? Not much of one. We’ll be traveling together for a while still. It would be odd to ignore him... more than I and most of us have already anyway.  

“So, I’ve heard tales you’ve a particular breed of lions in the Neck,” Jaime said, breaking the silence. “Lizard-lions, right? Never seen one, but my Uncle Gerion tried to scare us by saying they were giant, scaled cats. Any truth to that?”  

“Ah, no, certainly not,” Lord Reed answered, momentarily surprised at being spoken to, from what Jaime saw. “They’re reptiles of great stature, teeth like daggers, and bites that can cleave horses in two.”  

“Why lions, then?”  

“They prefer to remain submerged in the waters and can stay still for hours, some for days, as they wait for prey to approach. Because of this, a great deal of bushes, branches, and especially moss stick to their scales. When they emerge on land, it almost looks like great tufts of wet fur.”  

“They sound formidable,” Jaime said. He imagined a lizard big enough to snap a horse in two; it made him shudder almost as much as the cold breeze.  

“They are,” Reed answered with rare enthusiasm. “Most are quite ill-tempered, but some do not shy from the company of men. A few are accustomed enough to us that they let us ride them on land.”  

Jaime blinked, then stared in disbelief. “You’ve ridden a giant lizard?”  

“Aye, when I was but five winters old. My cousins dared me to it, and—” Reed began, then halted. By the apparent embarrassment on his face, Jaime surmised this was not something he should’ve spoken of. “My apologies, it was just me being a foolish boy.”  

“As it so happens, I’m quite a fan of foolish boyhood stories,” Jaime replied, intrigued beyond the capacity of words to describe. “Come, tell it all. It’s not every day I get to hear of crannogmen using swamp lizards for mounts.”  

After a few more minutes of goading him, Lord Reed recounted the event. A tale as old as time: children getting together and daring one another into some mad, reckless thing. In this instance, it was Howland who rose to the challenge and approached the resting lizard-lion. The beast stared at him all the while, then huffed and seemed to shift its neck toward Howland. He mounted it moments later, and the lizard did not object at all to his proddings to go this way and that. Reed’s cousins cheered him on—until Howland’s father stumbled upon the scene and punished them until their arses were as red as peaches.  

Jaime returned the favor and recounted tales of his own, most of which had left Cersei incensed and maddened in one way or another. After that, the little lord became a good deal less isolated, even joining them for lunches and exercises, to the surprise of Arthur and Pycelle at first.  

Soon, the once clear skies gave way to a permanent expanse of twisting, dull grey clouds. Snow began to fall—first lightly, then in quantities that matched last year’s. A select group of crewmates was tasked with clearing the deck, working in shifts both day and night.  

The sea turned turbulent as they sailed past the Grey Cliffs and into the Bay of Seals. Sharp, jagged stones pierced the water's surface like spears through flesh. Some rivaled, or even dwarfed, the ship’s 80-foot mast in size. Others, which the crew called more dangerous, vanished at times beneath the shifting waves, threatening to tear through the hull if not accounted for. Whirlpools spun too—great enough in size and strength to pull the ship dangerously close to the treacherous rocks, forcing the crew to adjust their speed and direction in haste.  

The afternoon before they reached their destination, Jaime saw it for the first time. That day had been surprisingly clear, with little snowfall, and even the grey clouds seemed to retreat before the sun. He stood at the bow of the Crown’s Spear, with the remainder of the party and stared.  

The Wall—one of the Nine Wonders Made by Man. Even from a distance, Jaime knew it to be true. Its ice-covered exterior glinted like a gargantuan jewel rising above the ground, shining in many colors under the sunlight. The Wall stretched from the coast and far beyond the point he could see in the distance, straight as a sword.  

"Three hundred miles wide, seven hundred feet tall," the Grand Maester muttered to Jaime’s right. "It’s little wonder the Others seek another means to bring it down. An assault or siege on that will cost them dearly."  

The winter could cost us much more. Jaime always wanted to reply but held his tongue. He was never good at listening to many things, but war stories? Those he remembered by heart. All of them concerning winter said it was a bloody pain in the arse to deal with—crumbling supply lines, sinking morale, starvation, frustration at the cold gnawing at you day and night, just to name a few problems.  

And the dead suffer from none of them. They’ll keep trying to kill us as long as they can move and their masters command it. Jaime’s hand reflexively tightened around the pommel of Steelfang. Then, he stopped and smiled to himself. Wonderful, I’m starting to sound like Geralt.  

“The Wall has its faults,” Ser Arthur said from Pycelle’s right. “But it is also an incredible boon to us, and the lives of many will be saved thanks to it.” He turned to address the entire party. “Now, let's make sure it stays standing for the coming battle.”  

“Much of the path for us remains clear,” Howland replied. “The Ranger will meet with us in the Haunted Forest in two days' time, just as agreed.”  

“I’m more than ready to kill some more dead men,” Jaime added, then patted Pycelle on the back. “As is my friend here. Look at him, he’ll be ripping apart wights limb from limb.”  

“I’m quite willing and prepared to do anything at all that doesn’t involve carrying around that log anymore.”  

At this, the four of them laughed and went below deck. There, they supped and, at Jaime’s suggestion, gathered in his private quarters. They talked late into the evening of events to come and things that had passed.  

The next morning, they reached Eastwatch at last.  

Jaime was greeted on the upper deck by a gust of icy wind that cut through his many layers of clothing like steel. Clouds had re-gathered overnight, blotting out the sun and casting a dull, grey hue across the surrounding landscape. The sparkling of the Wall from yesterday had vanished, leaving naught but hundreds of feet of play grey, jagged ice. Snowfall had already covered a decent amount of the deck; the assigned teams dutifully went about removing it.  

Walls of grey, battered stone marked by blue ice and white snow formed an outer defensive ring around Eastwatch. Towers of over thirty feet heights rose in pairs were built into the walls, and Jaime noted black cloaked sentries standing or making their rounds along the length.  

The harbor was functional and naught else. Simple, long wooden piers that reached out into the nearby sea like the outstretched fingers of a great hand. Three ships were already docked, bearing the flag of the Watch atop their masts. One of them he noticed had long scrapes and dents running along its port side. The damage looked recent to his untrained eye.  

Amidst the greys of the rocks, and the white of the snow, the gathered black brothers caught his gaze next.  

Lyanna’s father made it clear the Night’s Watch had greatly diminished in strength. Jaime saw it even from the bow. By his initial estimate, the castle looked big enough for a few thousand men to live there. Jaime had seen about fifty thus far. A dozen or so waiting to greet them, others going about their work in the castle in the distance and perhaps twenty or so more along the outer ring of defensive walls.  

I suppose I can’t blame them for not having men. Jaime thought as he walked down the ships boarding ramp with the rest of the party. Hard for an order to remain useful in anyone’s eyes when its enemies haven’t been seen in millennia. The vow of eternal celibacy can’t be helping them either.  

From the assembled group waiting for them at the docks, one man stepped forward to Ser Arthur.  

He was a head shorter than Jaime, yet even beneath the thick black fur cloak, it was clear he did not lack for strength. His face, already marred by several scars and a smashed flat nose, looked even rougher due to his grim expression.  

"My lords, I am Commander Pyke." He bowed his head in recognition, his voice making Geralt’s sound melodious by comparison. "On behalf of the Night’s Watch, I welcome you to Eastwatch."  

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Commander," Ser Arthur replied, mirroring the gesture, though with an added smile. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."  

"Aye, you’ve the right of it," Pyke said, then turned back to his waiting men, Arthur and the rest of the party trailing behind him. "But we’ll speak more of this at lunch. Until then, my lords, let me get you settled and out of the cold."  

As they journeyed into the castle proper, Jaime couldn’t help but notice the black brothers’ expressions darken with restrained fury or shift into nervous glances between themselves and the commander, particularly at the mention of poor circumstances.  

Somebody has cocked something up, he realized, recognizing worry and even guilt when he saw it. Well, we won’t be lacking for interesting conversational topics at lunch, at least.  

Chapter Text

The private dining room of Commander Pyke was as austere as expected, much like the rest of Eastwatch.  

It barely matched the size of Jaime’s chambers back at the Tower of the Hand and was made of the same black, weather-beaten chill stone as everything else at the Wall. There were no tapestries or decorations—just bare rock.  

A fire crackled in the nearby hearth, casting shadows across the windowless room alongside a handful of freshly lit torches. Outside, the wind howled and waves crashed against the shore, slipping into the room through unseen cracks.  

A large wooden table, aged and worn like the walls, sat in the center of the room. Its dark oak surface was marred by cracks and what Jaime recognized as knife marks. The chairs around it were plain and hard, though they were covered with various animal pelts to offer some measure of comfort.  

Pyke sat at the head of the table, barely moving his mouth as he devoured a whole chicken leg. Ser Arthur sat to Pyke’s immediate left, with Jaime and Pycelle filling out the remainder of the table. Howland was somewhere beneath the castle with a group of black brothers and Eastwatch's Maester, going through its underground pathways to find the place where the magic of the Wall was most concentrated.  

The meal prepared for them consisted of salted meats, bread, and a stew of a greenish color that Jaime was in no hurry to try. The pear brandy, however, was much to his liking. It helped that Pyke had seated them close to the hearth, where the heat from the sizable flames warmed their backs. Jaime almost didn’t feel chilly—almost.  

“Food to your liking, m’lords?” Pyke asked, downing no small amount of ale. “Not much luxury to be found at the Wall, but.”  

“Your hospitality is impeccable, Commander,” Ser Arthur replied. “Particularly the brandy—from Tyrosh, I believe?”  

“Aye, something brought here during the time of my predecessor. Them Essos folk know their drink,” Pyke finished his mug, wiping droplets of brandy from his chin with his sleeve. “Now that the pleasantries are done with, let’s get to what brings you here."  

Jaime raised an eyebrow at that—more at the sudden shift in topic than the idea of cutting through idle lunch chatter. Not one to mince words, is he.  

From the depths of his cloak, Pyke produced a large, furled brown-yellow parchment and rose from his seat. He pushed the cutlery and crockery in front of him aside and spread a map of the Wall and a large swath of the nearby lands across the center of the table.  

Unlike the maps they’d seen back at King’s Landing, this one held far more details of the lands beyond the Wall. Jaime had assumed the wildlings were wanderers—nomads who never stayed in one place. Yet as his eyes took in the names of what were clearly villages, hamlets, and campsites spread across the nearby Haunted Forest, the shores along the Shivering Sea, the Bay of Seals, and beyond, he was surprised to see well over thirty names written down.  

“There’s plenty more of them, m’lord,” Pyke said. It took Jaime a moment to realize the commander had spoken to him. “In caves, valleys, and other places we’ll never know or find.”  

“And how many are still inhabited?” Pycelle asked.  

“Can’t speak for Castle Black or Shadow Tower, but here? Few. Reports started reaching me months ago—rangers finding places out in the woods where battles happened without a body in sight. Intact hamlets and campsites left for the snow and ice to claim. There used to be plenty of fishing tribes along the coast. Now? Nothing.”  

Pyke traced his forefinger along the map and pointed to a handful of larger names and places. “There are small keeps and halls beyond the Wall, old abandoned places of the Watch. Near as we can tell, many clans are gathering at those places, even fighting over them. Rangers who’ve gotten close enough to check tell me they’re burning great fires, day and night. Someone’s put the fear of death in them.”  

Someone? Jaime gave him a puzzled look. “It’s the Others who’ve got them running scared.”  

Pyke gave no immediate answer, pausing as if searching for the right words.  

“You don’t think it's them?”  

“…I’ll not deny my doubts, m’lord,” Pyke said after a sigh. “Aye, some strange things have happened. Who raids someone else’s lands and homes and steals nothing? How are we not finding a single corpse amidst the sites of slaughter?”  

"You believe it’s another King beyond the Wall?" the Kingsguard asked.  

"Aye, I do," Pyke answered. "Maester Gawen agrees with me, and so do many of the men under my command. We’ve checked the records of past Kings beyond the Wall. The pattern’s always the same: a wildling meaner than the rest appears, kills enough of the others for the survivors to bend the knee, and then marches on the Wall. Tribes getting butchered, forced to flee their lands—much of it has happened before.”  

Jaime had a witty remark at the tip of his tongue but held back. It wouldn’t do to antagonize Pyke, and as he paused to consider it, he realized it wasn’t an unreasonable position. I’ve been surrounded by strangeness of all sorts lately, he thought. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but to an outsider, the four of us heading out to find an old giant’s tomb in some faraway frozen pit does sound quite mad.  

“But don’t mistake my lack of trust in your word as proof of lack of effort,” Pyke continued. “The Lord Commander told me to aid you in this endeavor, and I’ll do everything in my power to.”  

“That was never in question, commander. Rest assured of that,” Ser Arthur nodded. “Yet the uncertainty among you and your men must be removed. A threat more terrible than you realize will march on the Wall and slay your brothers long before that battle comes to pass. Your men must know what awaits them as they sail the coasts and range through the forests.” He smiled and touched the pommel of his sword. “Luckily, we’ve brought some proof with us.”  

Pyke’s grim expression cracked for once, his eyes widening in surprise, his lips parting. “Proof, you say?”  

“We don’t have a captive Other or wight, but sorcery is very real, and we can show it to your men in a way that should leave little room for doubt.”  

The grimness in his features returned, stronger than before. He looked at each of them, then down at the map spread across the table. Jaime didn’t need to see the fleeting fear and worry crossing his face to know what he thought. We’re about to show him there are far worse things to fear than a would-be wildling king.  

“M’lords,” Pyke said after a brief pause. “If your proof is as strong as you claim, then it’s a boon and a thrice-damned shame we hadn’t seen it sooner. My men... they haven’t taken kindly to the new orders regarding how to deal with the wildlings.”  

Jaime remembered that meeting well. For hours, there had been heated debate about what to do with the wildlings. Leaving them beyond the Wall was simply unacceptable. Yet, as Lyanna’s father had made plain, there was little love between the northmen and the wildlings. Many lords, particularly those closest to the Gift, had suffered personal tragedies at the hands of raiders. The Night’s Watch fought them endlessly. Letting them pass through the Wall seemed equally impossible.  

Plans and ideas had been presented, but nothing conclusive had been decided, at least by the time they left King’s Landing. The most they’d done was send word to Lord Commander Qorgyle, informing him of the threat from the Others and advising that hostilities with the wildlings should cease whenever possible.  

“We are aware of the deep-seated enmities between the wildlings, the northmen, and the brothers of the Night’s Watch,” Pycelle said, stroking his beard. “We understand that such deeply rooted hostilities cannot cease easily, but for the safety of the Seven Kingdoms, they must.”  

“You are a learned man, Grand Maester, and aye, the king knows, but do any of you truly understand?” Pyke countered, his voice growing gruffer. “You are not of the North. You haven’t lost friends, family, and homes to the wildlings, but we have, since before our grandfathers’ grandfathers drew their first breaths. The wildlings see us all as kneelers and black-crow murderers. Let them south of the Wall, and many will pillage, rape, and burn their way through the Gift and beyond. If the Others are truly back, many in the Watch will gladly let them do what they please with the wildlings.”  

Until the dead start crawling over the Wall and add them to the horde, Jaime thought, holding his tongue with effort.  

“When the order from Castle Black came for us to cease hostilities with the wildlings,” Pyke continued, leaning forward and pressing both gloved hands on the map, “you cannot imagine the wrath that overcame the men here. The damned meeting turned into a brawl. More than a few had to be put in the ice cells to cool off—or receive visits from the maester. If we’d taken our lunch at the hall today, you’d have earned yourselves no small number of icy, hateful looks.”  

“There’s more to it than that,” Jaime pointed out. “You said it’s a shame you and your men hadn’t seen our proof earlier. I noticed one of the ships in the docks had suffered damage—recent, from the looks of it. Did the wildlings attack your ships?”  

“Wildlings don’t have the means to attack our ships. The damage you saw was... done by Tyroshi slavers,” Pyke answered at length. “They always come with the spring. My men intercepted them on patrol five days past, just off the shore at the base of Storrold’s Point.”  

Pyke’s finger fell on the nearby peninsula, where a place called Hardhome was prominently marked at its tip. “Bastards tried to flee, even killed two of my men with arrow fire before Donnor, my most able captain, drove them ashore. Killed the lot of them and set fire to the ship afterward.”  

The commander fell silent again, and Jaime felt an ill feeling creep up his back like an oily snake as he waited for him to continue.  

“Wildlings are tough bastards, even their spearwife women don’t go quietly or easily. Back when I still patrolled the shores, the largest haul I ever saw was twenty-five at most,” Pyke looked each of them in the eye, his face like stone. “There were over a hundred wildlings aboard, women and children all. Not a single fighting man among them. Before they lost their heads, the slavers said the men practically begged the Tyroshi to take them away—far away from the North. That something evil was stirring in its coldest places, and that they’d all be safer in some foreign summer land than with their husbands and sons. Didn’t even ask for anything in return, just told them to haul them all away.”  

Seven fucking hells , Jaime thought, imagining all of them chained and imprisoned in the bowels of the ship. Mothers holding onto their children, brothers and sisters frightened and worrying what would become of them. Or maybe they weren’t. Mayhaps some of them were glad, anything that put distance between them and the Others.  

“You said your men set fire to the ship,” Ser Arthur broke the ensuing silence, his voice calm. “What of the captives? What did they do with them?”  

Pyke looked unmistakably uncomfortable. Jaime saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet any of theirs. No, they couldn’t have. The terrible thought came to him and wouldn’t vanish. They couldn’t have burned the ship with the wildlings inside, could they?  

Just as Jaime was about to give voice to the horrid notion, Pyke forestalled him by speaking first. “They pleaded with my men, begged them to take at least the children to the Wall. Said they’d serve the crows, that they’d be good kneelers—anything to get them away from the... frost demons attacking them at night. Donnor told them to piss off. A few spearwives tried to attack but they were cut down... some fled into the Haunted Forest. The rest cried and begged for their aid even as Donnor and the rest sailed away...”  

“They left a hundred innocent people at the Others’ mercy?!” Jaime knocked his chair almost into the hearth as he rose. His hands clenched into fists as he glared at Pyke across the table. “Without protection, without food? What madness is this?!”  

“Jaime,” Pycelle said, tugging at his sleeve. “It is terrible, I know, but—”  

“It’s not terrible!” He bellowed, right in Pyke’s face. “It’s murder! Your brothers left those people to a fate worse than death! They’d have been better off burned and sunk with the ship than this! They’ve sixteen castles they’ve done fucking nothing with for centuries—room aplenty to let a few frightened families use as shelter—and they left them all—”  

“Jaime.” Ser Arthur’s voice cut through his yells and anger like Valyrian steel. Jaime turned to the senior knight and, at once, felt his rage cool at the look on his face.  

He had seen Ser Arthur happy, determined, even weary after they’d interceded in the fight against Harren. This was none of those things—it was a gaze that could have rivaled even his lord father’s in quiet intensity.  

“There’s no need to shout, lad. We will make a great many things clear shortly.” Ser Arthur turned that look on Pyke, and the commander flinched under it. “Your men are in the dining hall at present?”  

“A-Aye.”  

“Good. The more of them that see our proof now, the better. Now, lead us to it.”  

“Y-Yes, m’lord.” Pyke gathered the cloak from the chair, placed it around his shoulders, and walked first, Ser Arthur marching after him. Jaime traded looks with an equally stunned Pycelle before they, too, followed them out of the main keep.  

They were out in the cold courtyard within minutes. The wind howled about them, sending flakes of snow and dirt hurtling through the air. Black brothers patrolling the grounds followed their progress, and Jaime could feel their gazes from every direction as they watched the group cross to the mess hall.  

Pyke pushed open the doors and entered, Ser Arthur right at his heels. The first thing that struck Jaime was the smell of the place—smoke from a great open hearth that dominated the center of the room swirled lazily in the air, mingling with the steam of bowls of hot stew. Dozens of long, weathered tables marked with deep cuts and ancient ale stains littered the hall, while barrels of supplies were stacked in the corners of the room.  

A great orange light rose from the hearth, with crowns of torch rings flickering around the circular pillars holding up the roof. Jaime had heard a great murmur of voices before they entered, but that died at once as they became the sole focus of the black brothers lunching within. He counted perhaps fifty men, scattered around the hall that easily could’ve held a dozen times their number or more. Some looked at them curiously, but more than a few didn’t bother to hide their contempt or suspicion.  

“Commander,” Ser Arthur said with the same voice that brooked no discussion, “tell your men to step away from the hearth. And to remove their crockery, lest I break it all.”  

“A-Aye,” Pyke said, taking a few steps forward before bellowing out, “Men! Our guests from King’s Landing wish to show you something of import! It concerns... recent tidings we’ve discussed! Step away from the hearth, and take your dishes with you!”  

The hard looks from the men burned hotter still, but they obeyed, splintering into smaller groups and hanging closer to the edges of the room. Ser Arthur turned his head toward Jaime. “Give me Steelfang. I’ll return it once I’m done.”  

“You won’t need me for this?”  

“I can bash two swords together well enough, lad. Now, give it.”  

Jaime paused for a moment, eyeing Ser Arthur’s outstretched hand before, with a swift motion, removing Steelfang from the scabbard hanging at his left leg. The sight and sound of bared steel drew murmurs from many of the black brothers, some of whom tensed up—Pyke included.  

“My thanks.” Ser Arthur took the sword and strode to the center of the room, just a few paces away from the hearth. In another motion, almost too fast for Jaime to follow, he unsheathed Dawn as well, the ancient greatsword glowing with a pale light in his hand. Even the orange hues of the flames could not dim it.  

“What is he doing?” Pyke asked, his eyes darting from Ser Arthur to his men, tensely watching him stand there like a marble statue against the flames and shadows of the hearth.  

“Giving you your proof.”  

“Men of the Night’s Watch,” the leader of their party spoke in a loud, clear voice. Slowly, he circled in place, looking at the gathered black brothers. “I am Arthur, of House Dayne, sworn Kingsguard to King Rhaegar, the first of his name. And I am told you are... displeased with your recent orders.”  

His voice, clear at the start, grew colder with each passing word.  

“I understand,” Ser Arthur said in a tone that implied no such thing. “You think it all madness, folly. Break bread with the wildlings, the Others return. You are angry, mayhaps you even feel betrayed by your superiors. Allow me to aid you.”  

He held Dawn to his side and lifted Steelfang overhead like a hammer ready to fall upon an anvil. Ser Arthur struck the two blades against one another, once, then twice. Before the third blow fell, the runes along both swords glowed, drawing the eyes of every man there except Jaime and Pycelle. The two of them bent their knees and braced themselves.  

The surge of Power struck with even greater force than at Harrenhal. Like great bells, the ringing of steel against steel assaulted their ears with such force that Jaime was certain he’d hear the sound for hours to come. Energies of pale and blue colors mingled and blasted in all directions. Chairs flew, tables skidded across the black stone floor. The smoke and steam were blasted into nothingness, and the great fire at the center of the hearth was dimmed to a shadow of its former self.  

Pyke would’ve stumbled on his arse had Pycelle not caught him. Jaime might have helped him too, but felt no compulsion to do so. The black brothers closest to the hearth stumbled and fell on their backsides. The rest desperately flailed to stay on their feet like awkward children at their first feasting dance.  

When the noise finally ceased, Jaime heard more men rushing toward the hall, some with swords drawn. Pyke, recovering from his stupor, quickly regained composure and bade them to stop.  

"Sorcery is real. The cursebreaking of Harrenhal happened, and the Others have returned.” Jaime looked back to Ser Arthur.  

He stood tall next to the dying hearth, with two runeblades glowing in each hand. With many of the lights dimmed or snuffed out, great shadows fell over him, though not enough to wholly obscure his face. Jaime saw the look in his eyes and felt a chill run through him harsher than the coldest northern winds.  

As Ser Arthur circled the hearth to meet the eyes of the onlookers, he gazed at them all not just with hate, but with murderous rage. And they knew it. Fear overcame their shock, and Jaime saw nearly every man take a reflexive step back. Some shakily fumbled at their belts for their axes and blades, to no avail.  

He can’t want to kill them, could he? Jaime thought, trying and failing to shake the notion from his mind. He stepped forward to speak, but when Arthur’s gaze landed on him, Jaime could do naught but stare back and gulp.  

“They will march on the Wall,” Ser Arthur continued, “and every wildling you kill out there will return as a wight to butcher you like the curs I know some of you to be. Remember that when you leave defenseless women and children to their doom.”  

Then he turned back to the entrance, his footfalls stomping like hammers in the ensuing quiet. Jaime reflexively tensed when Arthur’s right hand moved in a swift motion and he sheathed Dawn.  

“Here.” Ser Arthur handed Steelfang back to Jaime, then stormed out of the mess hall. Everyone parted in his wake as though he were infected with greyscale.  

“W-What,” One of the men from the hell sputtered out after a brief silence, and sent a puzzled look at Pyke. “C-Commander, wh-what was that.”  

“You stupid as well as a cunt, Donnor?” Pyke snarled. "You heard the man, and hear this too: anyone disobeys Lord Commander Qorgyle’s orders about the wildlings will be exiled north of the Wall naked as they day they were born and chased into the Haunted Forest.”  

Many recoiled as if struck at the thought, and their terror would’ve been plain for a blind man to see.  

“Now, get that fire burning and finish your lunches. You’ve news to spread to your brothers I expect.”  

As they left the mess hall, Pyke walked with him and Pycelle in the courtyard. Ser Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Already, many who’d witnessed the Power surge rushed from the hall, eyeing Jaime’s blade with silent awe and terror ere they went out of sight.  

“Can we expect more trouble from them?” Pycelle asked as though nothing at all happened. “You see now why poor relations with the wildlings cannot continue.”  

“Morons can always cause trouble in the moment, when their prides and angers are aflame,” Pyke answered, then sighed. “But I expect the Kingsguard put a good enough fear into them now to know better.”  

He certainly put it into me , Jaime thought, still feeling the tension as keenly as he had minutes ago. So lost was he in recalling the event that he scarcely noticed Pyke bidding them farewell and returning to his keep for some matter or other. It wasn’t until he faintly heard Pycelle call out to him that Jaime finally shook himself free of his stupor.  

“A-Aye, what?”  

“I asked if you were alright, lad,” the Grand Maester said, folding his hands into the depths of his long, brown cloak. “You seem... shaken.”  

“How are you not?” Jaime replied incredulously, then leaned closer. “He was this close to killing the lot of them. He might’ve managed it too with those swords.”  

Pycelle looked at him with something close to pity. “Ser Arthur is a man like any other, Jaime. Fury can threaten to claim him too.”  

I know that. Jaime almost replied with no small measure of anger. It’s just... I suppose I thought him too good to ever indulge in it. Nothing else we’ve seen or heard has brought him to this point.  

“If anything,” Pycelle went on, looking at some distant point southward, “he showed remarkable restraint, considering...”  

“Considering what?”  

As though caught saying something he shouldn’t have, the Grand Maester looked at Jaime, then shook his head. “No, it is not my place to say.”  

“Say what?” Jaime gave the older man a cross look. “What’s going on here that I’m not privy to?”  

“It is not a secret from you, my friend,” Pycelle said in a calming voice. “All I will say is that Ser Arthur has had to... tolerate certain cruelties done to another during his service in the Kingsguard. Ere we left King’s Landing, he had almost come to blows with a very dear friend because of this. With this in mind, this was a remarkable show of restraint on his part.”  

Cruelties? Jaime had heard nothing of Ser Arthur coming to blows with anyone. Then again, castle rumormongering wasn’t something he indulged in—that was Cersei’s favorite pastime—and relations between them had stayed decidedly cool even after his return from Harrenhal.  

No, there was something else. It was the day the Harrenhal Five met atop the Tower of the Hand, when Geralt had revealed his Signs to them.  

"Your oaths also tell you to protect others in this castle. Or is the queen’s well-being not important?" That’s what Geralt had said. And Arthur had bade him to stop. Jaime had almost forgotten that, what with all the excitement, wonder, and danger that followed thereafter. Or did I make myself not think about it...  

At once, the image of a miserable, beaten pair of Arthur and Oswell came to his mind's eye, and a great many things made terrible sense to him.  

“Neither Arthur nor Oswell have spoken of it,” Pycelle said. “And I would ask that you not inquire too deeply into it. If Arthur wishes to share his woes, you’d best let him do it on his own terms.”  

Jaime said nothing, watching as Pycelle turned and began to walk back toward the main keep. Tolerate certain cruelties? The words lingered, heavy as the northern chill.  

Chapter Text

Arthur found no peace that evening.

The confrontation with the Night's Watch earlier that day tested the limits of his patience and mental restraint. His attempt to burn the smoldering fury out through hours of intense, martial practice after the mess hall confrontation left his body weary. He retired to his cabin in the ship, and at the time felt spent enough to sleep.

He crashed atop his bed, wrapped the many thick fur blankets around himself and tried to get some. It was useless. He had lied down when the sun began to set and now, hours into the night, he was no closer to it. No matter what position he shifted to, the restlessness would not let go.

At some point, he lied on his back, gaze locked on the cabin roof shrouded in black. Arthur closed his eyes once more and tried to breathe. When this did not work, he counted each inhale, hoping the repetition would bore him into sleep. His eyes snapped open on the county of seventy, and he could stomach lying down no more. With a swift motion, he pulled the blankets off and sat on the bed's left side, his head cast downward. Arthur stared at the vague outlines of his own palms in the dark. The frigid wind blew outside, and he keenly felt it bite into his flesh. His bare feet atop the wood all but screamed for him to lie down or put his boots on.

Those women and children suffered worse. The dark thought he had tried to bury through fatigue overcame him anew. Defenseless, freezing out in the woods. And those bastards left them there.
Arthur's fingers curled into tight fists, strong enough to crush a man's throat. I let them off too easily. I should have beaten them all until their faces were as black as their cloaks. Until their own brothers couldn't recognize them...

He did not know how long he sat there, imagining the well-deserved thrashing he could and still had apple opportunity to deliver when the pain was recognized. Arthur had tightened his already weary fingers so tight, the spent muscles there protested with a tearing sensation. His jaw, clenched too, audibly popped as he suddenly relaxed it. His heartbeat like a war drum and drowned out the wind outside.

Arthur shivered and realized a profuse sweat had broken out over his whole body. He wiped most of it away with a cloth on his nightstand. Next, he poured a cup of Dornish Red and drank it in a single gulp. It did little to improve his mood while he sat in the quiet dark, the black thoughts gnawed away at him still.

Dawn was sheathed and put next to the nightstand. Arthur stared at it and considered more doing more practice. There's no point. He soon concluded. I swung the damned thing all afternoon. What good will more of it do me now?

Arthur sighed and swayed the cup in his hand back and forth. The soles of his feet grew cold and numb, the chill prickling away at his already frayed patience. The cabin became more oppressive to him with each moment. Dark thoughts became conjoined with memories of his pathetic service until Arthur couldn't stomach it anymore.

I'll go mad if I stay here.

With that final thought, Arthur lit a torch and swiftly clothed himself in many layers, banishing much of the cold. The rest he took care of by downing two more wine cups ere he marched out of the cabin. Dawn, he left behind. If the Night's Watch pissed him off again, he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it sheathed.

He marched out of the cabin, stomped out of the ship's bowels, his footfalls resounding through the wooden floor and walls. The frigid air bit into his exposed cheeks the moment he stepped onto the deck. He suppressed both a curse and a shiver as the wind picked up, gently rocking the ship beneath him.

A pair of sentries patrolled the length of the deck and greeted him. Arthur barely acknowledged them and tersely answered in-kind. They didn't speak to him again, which was fine. For no reason he could discern, Arthur chose to make the bow of the ship his destination.

He stood there a long while, leaning lightly on the rail as his eyes swept over the darkened silhouette of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The castle's shape was faint, a hunched and jagged shadow against the deeper black of the horizon. Only a scattering of lights along the battlements and the central keep offered any clarity, their weak, flickering glow barely cutting through the shroud of clouds overhead. The stars were nearly hidden, faint pinpricks of light struggling against the thick gloom, and the moon was absent entirely, leaving the world below cast in a heavy, oppressive darkness.
The sea lapped quietly against the ship's hull, a rhythmic sound that seemed louder in the stillness of the night. Occasionally, a stronger wave would rise and slap against the docked vessel, sending faint ripples across the black water.
Arthur watched the distant castle as if it were a living thing, crouched and waiting, its quiet presence somehow heavier than any roar or tumult could have been. The wind shifted, carrying the tang of salt and the faintest traces of smoke from the castle's hearths.

He inhaled deeply, the cold air biting at his lungs, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts threatened to wander again.

... I wish Oswell was here. Arthur thought with no small amount of melancholy. Many thought his sworn brother a loud brute, mistaking his brashness for lack of intellect. But Oswell saw and knew more than most, and Arthur deeply missed his wisdom that night.

Howland, he did not know well enough to confide in such matters. And Jaime? The lad still saw him as a hero, a knight without stain. Sometimes, when speaking to him, Arthur almost felt like his old self, in the times before he accepted the white cloak.
There was Pycelle. Arthur considered it for a long while. The Grand Maester knew well what Aerys did; he'd seen to the queen's many injuries. And though he appeared a scholarly old man, he was shrewd and once a creature of politics, like most others in the Red Keep.
It was not his only breach of vows, for Arthur also knew that he once took women half his age to bed. He and the other Kingsguard regarded him with private scorn, and neither he nor Oswell was pleased to have him selected for the Harrenhal task.
Yet, in the time since then, the old man had proven his worth a dozen times over. He braved the fiery halls of Harren's former stronghold; he'd dealt a crippling blow to the Wraith's powers and saved Oswell from certain doom. He took no more whores to his chambers, and whatever games he once aided Tywin in seemed entirely excised from his mind.

It almost sounds like a story from the tales: the cowardly old man finds his courage and purpose. Arthur concluded with a weary sigh. He's a worthier knight than me.
Even at this hour, Arthur was certain that his friend was busy toiling away at something to help them gain an edge, however small, against the Others in the castle's libraries. No, let him work or rest. He has enough tasks to weigh upon his mind. No need to burden him with my failures.
And so, Arthur remained atop the deck, alone and unmoving in the night, with naught but his regrets and anger to keep him company.

Eventually, the growing cold forced him to retire back to his bed. He slept but poorly. His dreams were memories, distorted by a frantic pace and exaggerated by horrid shapes of people he knew. Arthur awoke a dozen times, expecting the night to have passed only to realize he might've slept half an hour at most.

By the time someone knocked against his doors the next morning, Arthur groaned and stuck head under the pillow. The polite knocks, which sounded like war drums to his ears, kept going.
Keep doing that, and I'll bash your head through them.

"Ser Arthur?" Jaime's voice came from the other side. "Are you awake?"

Too bloody long. Arthur groaned and forced himself to sit up. The beams of sunlight pained him and he could not force his eyes to open a long while. "I am Jaime, is something amiss?"
"It's Howland," Jaime answered. "He's found it—the Weirwood Gate beneath the castle!"

Arthur felt a momentary jolt of interest refresh him. No doubt the whole of Eastwatch was in a stir because of this news. He felt no more eager to stomach the black brothers' presence now than a few hours ago, but this was a pivotal discovery, and he would not miss it.
"Give me a few minutes, and I'll be ready."

And in short order, he was. Dressed and armed, he opened the door to find Jaime leaning against the opposite wall. The lad's smile faded slightly at the sight of him, and this Arthur couldn't begrudge. The Stony Dornishmen were a good deal paler than most of their kinsmen, and no doubt Arthur's poor sleep did little to improve his looks.

He managed a strained smile in greeting. "Let's be off."

Jaime, thankfully, made no attempt to inquire as to the cause of his strained appearance. Instead, he gave a brief summary of the discovery: Howland had toiled all through the night, leading members of the Watch down into the forgotten pathways of the castle. News had reached the castle scarcely half an hour past, and many rushed to see the end result.

They encountered Pycelle by the sparring yard ring and walked toward the great gathering of black brothers converged before the Salt Tower's entrance. It was an old, ugly, weatherbeaten thing, nestled close to the westernmost edge of the castle, hugging the sparkling, early morning ice of the Wall like a child to a parent's leg. It was used as a place for prisoners, with its frost cells claiming the lives of many wildlings.

How many of them were innocents? The black thought soured his mood at once, and he eyed the black brothers blocking his way into the tower with thinly veiled disgust. "Stand aside. We've business inside."
Several heads turned, eyes widened, jaws slacked open, and in short order, they all parted before him as though he were infected with Greyscale.

Inside, they were greeted with a great chasm, a vast hole torn through with shovels and pickaxes. The pit yawned before them, and were it not for the torchlight of a kneeling black brother, Arthur would have mistaken it for a sheer drop. Instead, the orange hues revealed an old staircase, made of stone black enough to be mistaken for obsidian—an old path into the forgotten depths of the Wall, covered and forgotten long ago.

"I'll take that," Arthur said, claiming the torch for his own. The black brother thought better than to protest and stepped away. Arthur glanced at his companions, then nodded toward the entrance.

The tunnel was of surprisingly great height, tall enough for them all to walk without the need to bend or crouch. It was wide, too, enough for the three of them to march shoulder to shoulder. He couldn't be certain, but Arthur thought he noticed flickering shapes along the tunnel's walls—strange glows that could not simply be tricks of the eyes from fire touching stones that hadn't felt it in millennia.

"Runes," Pycelle muttered, watching them with keen interest. "Faded, yes, but there, see? Unmistakable, from the days of the First Men and the Children."

Arthur paused and pushed the torch closer to a left-hand section. He squinted and saw them better: letters and symbols, in a tongue he'd never seen before, carved into hundreds, thousands of shapes. Some were so small and faded he could scarcely see them; others were as large as his fist. And they all glowed, a faint white color, he noted, not too different from Dawn's own shine.

"Gods," Jaime breathed. "There's so many of them, so old... Older than my entire House. If Tyrion could see this now, you wouldn't be able to shut him up about it for months."
"Believe me," Pycelle replied. "The compulsion is hard to resist."

At this, the two of them laughed, and even Arthur managed a chuckle. They walked several minutes more; the runes grew more prominent, their faint lights stronger. Yet they were dwarfed by the white glow ahead. The tunnel widened; its ceiling rose still higher.
Men of the Night's Watch stood before the source of the light in a great cluster numbering close to twenty. Pyke was there, and the castle's Maester, along with other senior members. Howland stood at the forefront of the group, and all eyes were trained on the Gate.
The Weirwood shone as though moonlight itself came through it. Its withered, wrinkled face towered over the assembled men; its eyes were firmly shut, and its mouth was slightly agape, as though asleep. Through its parted lips, Arthur felt a small but piercing rush of wind flow into the tunnel and cut through every layer of clothing he had. He suppressed a shiver and watched the tiny form of Howland approach the tree.
Quiet gasps and murmurs broke out when it suddenly moved.

The eyelids snapped open, revealing a pair of blind eyes. Most of the black brothers stepped back, their fear palpable in the air. Arthur watched with keen interest as its lips moved wordlessly, as though forgetting how to speak; its gnarled exterior groaning from the effort, the sound echoing the length of the tunnel.

"Who…" The Weirwood spoke in a voice that seemed as old as the earth itself. "Who are you?"

The black brothers whispered; some thought to leave, judging by the glances they shot between the Gate and the tunnel. Arthur took a single step forward and glowered at them. "You'll stay and witness this."

In the twin glows of orange and white hues, he saw them pale and fall silent. At the head of the group, he noticed Howland whisper something to Pyke. The commander stared at him and took a while to muster his courage, judging by his furtive steps. He looked up into the blind eyes of the tree.

"I am…" Pyke began in a frail voice, then shook his head and cleared his throat. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass."

The lips opened wider, the bark groaning with tremendous effort. The sound carried through the tunnel with powerful force, as though a forest had come alive and marched down its length. The mouth widened still; it almost appeared it would devour Pyke, who stumbled back. The Gate's face retreated next to its advancing lips until there was naught left of it but a great gaping maw of wrinkles on the corners of the tunnel.
"Just like at Harrenhal," Jaime muttered, no great shock marking his voice or face.

The black brothers were far less composed. Their stunned silence hung in the air. None of them dared to move or speak. Arthur pushed his way through them and halted by Howland, who was busy aiding Pyke to get back on his feet. Despite the day-and-night-long effort, the young lord seemed not the least bit exhausted.

I'll have to ask him what his secret is. Arthur thought, looking at the mouth-ring that was once the weirwood tree. "Is everything alright with the wards? Is there no danger of the Others passing through here?"
Howland had explained that wards built into the ancient, far deeper sections of each castle were key to the sorcery preventing the Others and their wights from passing. Old places that would require considerable effort to dig up and find, and that was without potential collapses or damage to the foundations. Yet their states could be checked through the web of runes that ran through the tunnel pathways and by the health of the weirwood gates.

"The children's work has faded here, but the defenses hold," Howland nodded, then looked at the stone walls. "It is a pity, though; I would like to inspect all the castles myself…"

"Our task is elsewhere. Let the men of the Watch mind their own defenses," Arthur turned to the still-shaken Pyke. "Commander, I want every man stationed in this castle to come here and swear their oaths before the Gate. I don't wish for even the tiniest shadow of doubt to cloud their judgments as to what lies ahead. Not again."

Pyke's wrath seemed to flare for a moment, his eyes flashing in the lingering white light of the bark. Arthur cared not if he liked his tone or words and made it plain with his gaze alone that he'd suffer no debate on the matter.

Whether it was shame, self-preservation, or good sense, it mattered not. Pyke's gaze could not hold, and he nodded. "I'll send ravens to the other castles, tell them what to look for and how. I'll have my lads add everything they know."

"I will help, of course," Howland said in a conciliatory tone. Arthur caught his worried glance. "It is not as simple as merely checking for runes carved into the stone."

"Fine," Arthur said. "But get some rest. We will be departing soon and can't afford to start this journey exhausted."

Soon, the large gathering made its way back down the tunnel. Howland busied himself by exchanging words with Pyke and the maester. The black brothers whispered among themselves, casting fearful looks down the tunnel, watching the runes with wariness.
Pyke made himself busier still, barking orders to the men, informing them of their new duty for the day and the night they'd spend in the Salt Tower's frost cells if they didn't comply.

Would that he had punished them before, Arthur thought, finding some relief in the thought of one of the murdering bastards curled up and shivering in misery.

"Ser Arthur," Jaime said. "How about a sparring match? We've still some time before breaking our fast."

"Actually, Jaime," Pycelle replied. "I believe our friend would do well with some rest. It appears the northern cold does not agree with him. Luckily, I've seen some drinks on hand that will help soothe his woes."

"I'm fine."

"It does no good to be weary before our journey starts, Ser. We must rest well while we can. Wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur gave him a look and didn't fail to notice the tiny smile visible through his thick white beard. Knowing he had no counter to that; he chose to relent. "Aye, you're right. I think I will retire back to my cabin a while longer. Apologies, Jaime; we can spar this afternoon."

The lad seemed not to notice anything amiss; he smiled in that confident way of his. "That's better, actually. It's no fun beating you when you're not at your best."

"How would you know? You've never bested me at all."

At this, they shared a laugh, then parted ways. Arthur watched as Jaime approached members of the Watch and chose to spar with them instead. He was halfway tempted to stay and watch them fall on their arses when Pycelle tugged at his sleeve.
"I meant it; you must rest." The Grand Maester's voice lost all mirth. "It is plain to see that yesterday weighs heavily upon you. You should have come to me last night if you couldn't sleep."

"I'll get some now," Arthur replied and tried to ignore a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him he wouldn't. "If you've some drink or potions to aid me, I'd be glad of it."

They walked from the sparring yard, where steel rang, and back to the ship. They were close to the docks and far from anyone else when Pycelle spoke again.

"It would be easier if you slept in the chambers prepared for you. Faster for the rest of us to reach you."

Arthur's grip on Dawn tightened momentarily. "I'll not sleep there. It's warmer aboard."

"Warmth isn't the issue, I think."

They walked down the docks, the ship growing closer. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, and Arthur found himself increasingly nettled by Pycelle's wordplay and the fact that he kept his gaze trained forward, at the cold, swaying sea.

"Fine," Arthur halted and planted himself before the old man. "You didn't come here just to put leaves in my wine; speak plainly."

Pycelle did not speak at once; his old fingers played with his beard in rhythmic motions, as though he were pondering some great question. "I know why it is that the black brothers have earned your ire. I understand it well, but all the same, I must ask you to refrain from creating hostilities with them."

Arthur gripped his pommel tightly and glowered at Pycelle. If the old man was deterred by this, he didn't show it in the least. "They deserve worse than my ire."

"Some of them, no doubt," Pycelle replied with a nod. "With or without the Others, the actions of some of them are deplorable, loathsome by gods and men alike. These men are some of the most experienced we have when it comes to fighting on the Wall or the threats beyond it. Eastwatch, in particular, will play a crucial role not only in the supply chain for the future war but in ferrying men to and from danger. Tensions between us and the Watch, which we represent, will only divide and weaken us."

"Their stupidity will weaken us far worse than any of my words," Arthur shot back. "They've already murdered a hundred women and children. Do you trust them not to indulge their vicious cruelty again, not to sabotage the war effort in other ways?"

"The enmities between black brothers and wildlings run deep, very deep, if you pause to ask them," Pycelle continued in the same, thrice-damned reasonable tone. "I have spoken to quite a few of them here and can tell you that no small number of men here have lost a great many relatives and friends alike to raids before ever taking the black."

Arthur laughed at this, loud and mirthless. "Any bastard can use their misery and pain to justify their actions. They lost a son, so it is right to murder another's in revenge? Spare me."

"Are there cruel fools here? Certainly, just as there are those who doubt or regret their actions and those who did not participate in the wildings doom. But cruel, innocent or remorseful, we will need their help all the same."

A small part of Arthur supposed that was true enough. Indeed, the entire Watch did not condemn those people to doom at best and undead servitude to monsters at worst. All the same, no punishment was doled out and this he could not stand by.

"Let a vicious bastard get away with his crime once and he'll do it again, worse even. I..." He caught himself then halted; his chest tightened until all air seemed squeezed from his lungs. I know that all too well.

"A man's failures need not be the end of him."

Arthur flinched as if struck, then looked Pycelle in the eye to find pity there. "What?"

"Aerys's actions were loathsome; everyone knew it, and no one did anything to stop it. You may think the Kingsguard solely responsible for the inaction, Arthur, but we were all accomplices in his madness. We all failed our duties, in one regard or another."

"You…" Arthur replied, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Bringing a whore to your chambers isn't the same as my failing, Pycelle. Not even close." The wrathful words spilled out, and Arthur suddenly found little care in speaking of it so openly. "I was there many nights, I could've run him through, pushed him down some stairs. Anything. I didn't. Do not think to compare your failures to mine."

Pycelle stood resolute before him, undeterred as ever. If anything, his pity only grew, and Arthur's fury burned at the sight of it. I don't fucking deserve it. Stop giving it to me!

They stared each other down for what felt like hours. The Grand Maester's jaw tightened, and his lips parted as though he meant to say something. But whatever it was, it died unspoken, replaced only by a weary sigh.

"I can see words alone will do no good now. Very well. Then, as a friend, can I at least ask you to act as though you hold no ill feelings toward the men of the Watch? We depart in two days and need their knowledge to survive the journey ahead. You are our leader, and your duty lies in seeing us through this enterprise."

I don't need you to remind me of my duties, Arthur almost snapped, but held his tongue. As much as he hated to admit it, Pycelle was right about that, at least. Their stay there was brief, and the path waiting for them was treacherous. Whatever his other faults were, Arthur did not abandon or fail his friends.

"Fine," he acquiesced; the word pained him. "I'll keep my displeasure to myself. You have my word on that."

Pycelle stared at him for the span of a few heartbeats, then nodded and began walking onto the deck. "Come, then. You need rest. I have some concoctions that will give you a few hours of peace."

Peace? The word felt seemed very alien to him, a phantom. I doubt it, but I'll settle for a little rest if nothing else.

Chapter Text

It was their last day in Eastwatch, and a restlessness had stirred Jaime into constant activity since he awoke. In the morning, he spent sparring with Ser Arthur, whose mood had improved considerably since the… incident at their arrival. He lunched with many of the black brothers who'd approached him to hear tales of the curse-breaking—how one was meant to fight the dead. Jaime had, at Pycelle's urging, kept the boasting to a minimum and focused more on the practical details, as he knew or had heard them from Geralt.

The afternoon, their last one at the castle, was the issue. Howland was busy sending out the final ravens, Pycelle checked his own belongings, and Ser Arthur had one more meeting with Commander Pyke. That left Jaime alone, with little idea of what to do.
Knowing that their departure was imminent, and with little idea of what else useful to do, Jaime decided to check if everything he needed was present and in good order.

He'd emptied the contents of his leather satchels, cloth and shoulder bags, and sprawled them all across the bed and floor of the room. Though he'd never gone ranging, he had journeyed through the westerlands and riverlands during the height of the previous winter. He knew what a pain in the arse a single misplaced glove could be out in the cold.

Gloves, socks, scarves, flint and steel, bundles of dried fruits and salted meats, flasks of watered-down ale. Looks like everything's in good order, Jaime concluded, running his eyes over it all once more when a pair of items caught his eye.
In the rush to unpack, he'd placed them on the center of the pillow: a metal scroll tube and a hunting dagger. Jaime watched them for a moment, then opened the tube first.

Inside, he found the last letters he'd received from his many family members and friends. And many was the key word; they scarcely all fit inside. Word of everything that had happened, and of course his accomplishments, spread throughout their family like wildfire. Once they'd found out he was heading to the Wall and beyond, they'd wasted no time in sending legions of ravens. The castle's maester was quite befuddled by it all, and Jaime felt a rare embarrassment and apologized to the man.

This is a great honor, Jaime, for you and for House Lannister, his father wrote. The task entrusted to you is of paramount importance for the war and the survival of the Kingdoms. I trust you will approach it with the same quality you did when you slew Harren the Black. Ensure that the Others fear the lion more than any other men before your work is done.

His Uncle Kevan, as ever, closely mirrored his older brother. Though, he did not miss the chance to say he was proud of him and knew Jaime would do his best.

Uncles Tygett and Gerion brought a smile to his lips as he read their joint letter. Good for you, my boy! Jaime could practically hear Gerion's voice through the ink. You were always roaring for an adventure! And to face the Others themselves—gods, I half wish it were me instead! But alas, I enjoy not freezing my balls off far too much for that.

His Aunt Genna spoke her mind openly as always. Tywin and Kevan see great glory and opportunity in this; Gerion thinks of it as an adventure. But it is a great danger you head to, dear boy. You've already faced something like it, I'm told, and survived. Remember how and why you did, Jaime, and come back. My brother wishes to see a returning war hero; I'll settle for seeing you alive and whole again.

I wonder if this is what my mother would've said had she lived? Jaime thought as he reread Genna's words. In truth, he hardly thought of his mother much since she'd died. He'd known her too briefly; she was ephemeral in his mind, sometimes a stern, sometimes a kind smiling figure with golden hair whose voice he couldn't recall.

Whenever I try, she sounds too much like Cersei. A pang of sadness clutched his chest, and he eyed his sister's letter with hesitation before reading it.

Dear brother,
I trust your journey to the Wall was enjoyable? I also trust that you are excited for this endeavor; you've never shied away from danger, after all. I've no doubt you will excel in it. It warms my heart to see you soar so high. And without me, too. Safe travels.
Cold as the ice of the Wall, Jaime thought while he reread the words. The contempt was almost palpable in the ink. Cersei hadn't forgiven him for… stopping their near mistake all those months ago.

She had acted the perfect lady whenever Father or someone else was around—all politeness, smiles, and charms, and some banter with him to liven up a dull dinner or two. But it was all an act. He could tell from the tightness of her smile and the slight scowl in her eyes whenever she looked at him that her wrath hadn't abated. Still, he held some hope that time, and the fact he was going to fight the bloody Others, would have cooled it at least a little.

How does one even have an ordinary relationship with his sister after nearly… He sighed, shook his head, and tossed the letter aside. No, I really don't want to think about this right now.

With more urgency than was necessary, Jaime went to the next one. He knew it to be Tyrion's at once from the handwriting alone. Jaime's own letters were a barely legible scribble of shapes next to his little brother's expert handling of quill and ink. And the content warmed his heart and banished all thoughts of Cersei.

They tell me you're going up north, beyond the Wall, to fight the wild men there and the Others! They say magic has returned, that you've seen and fought it, big brother! How I wish I could come with you, but alas, I fear I'd only be a burden to you.

Jaime's heart tightened as he imagined Tyrion's despair at missing out.

When you come back, can you bring me a trophy? A sword, knife, or even a piece of Other armor! I'd love to have it, study it! Who knows, with sorcery back, perhaps I'll have that dragon I wanted for my birthday after all!
Damn whatever caused him to be born as he is. With a proper body and that mind, he'd have been worth ten of me at Harrenhal or here. Jaime thought, clutching the paper tightly. "When all this is over, little brother, I promise I'll take you with me to see something wondrous."

Geralt would chide him for that. He'd say magic was no toy, no theater. It was useful, powerful, but dangerous, and it was unwise to risk Tyrion's life by bringing him somewhere men far abler than he would be in grave danger. But the Witcher hadn't seen a little dwarf boy's heart be dashed to pieces when he learned that the wonders of the old world had seemingly passed and died off, left as naught but tales and texts.

With all correspondence from his family read, Jaime's attention turned to the hunting dagger—Lyanna's gift.

After Harrenhal, it became a great deal more difficult for them to see each other privately. The Red Keep, always full of people and considerably smaller than the Whent's castle, was doubly so since the crowning of Rhaegar and the arrival of many high lords for the upcoming war. Indeed, it seemed difficult for one to find much privacy at all outside his or her own chambers.
Lyanna found a way for them, anyhow.

With her older brother and father in constant meetings for the war, and with little else to do, Lyanna took to exploring the Red Keep. Soon enough, she'd poked around closely enough to stumble upon a hidden place: a small, secluded shore along Blackwater Bay.
When one of her ladies-in-waiting, a stoic girl from House Karstark, approached him with a letter bearing instructions on how to reach this place, Jaime wasted no time in going there. He ventured to the southern wall of the castle overlooking the bay, found the proper stone to twist and move, and practically ran the length of the winding, weather-beaten stairway that led to the shore.

There she waited for him, clothed not as a lady of the North but in the same training attire he'd first fought her in. The sea struck against the rocks that surrounded the shoreline, and it suited the blue of her eyes. Jaime swore he saw them twinkle when she grinned at him.

His chest tightened, and his breath was short.

"Ser Jaime," she bowed and reached for a pair of wooden practice swords she'd hidden between the rocks. "You seem out of breath. I didn't think you'd be so eager to lose to me again."

He stared at her, then burst out laughing. The waves of Blackwater Bay drowned it out. "Again? I don't recall a first time, my lady."

"Hm, you're right," Lyanna said, mock-pondering it with a finger to her chin. "I suppose I'll have to correct that mistake today!"

She tossed one of the blades at him and lunged the instant he grabbed it. The fight was on, and they wouldn't have had it any other way.

They would go on to meet like this many times before Jaime departed. Sometimes they met only to spar, and other times they spoke of matters that were and things to be. But one thing that Jaime was happy to note was her good spirits throughout. The shadow of fear that clung to her had vanished.

"You seem in better spirits," he commented one afternoon as they sat ten feet opposite one another on the shore—he on the stairs, she atop a large stone, her back to the sea, her hair swaying gently in the breeze. "Of course, it's thanks to me, but I'm curious if there's more to it?"

"Your humility is the envy of the realm, Ser," she chuckled. "But you're right; I've some cause to feel better. Father won't be hastening my marriage to Robert."

Jaime tried not to seem too shocked, nor too pleased by this. All the same, his heart definitely skipped a beat at that news. Court gossip was of little interest to him most of the time, but since their conversation at the weirwood, Jaime had kept an ear out for any news concerning her betrothal—and his, too. He and Lysa were not formally betrothed as far as he knew, but Cersei had let him know of Father's plans while they were still on speaking terms.

"When I heard that Cat had been summoned here, I was… terrified," Lyanna said and shivered slightly. "I was certain Father would make it a double wedding. Ned told me Robert had suggested the idea to him but was refused. Father told him I was too young still, that House Stark wouldn't lose the life of another of their own to another premature marriage. I think he meant my aunt Branda. She'd been married off at my age and didn't survive childbirth. Her or her babe. Robert didn't take this well."

"…Do the boars have something to do with that?" The other day, Baratheon, looking ready to kill the entire castle, rode through the main gate with a retinue of men, including Eddard Stark and Elbert Arryn, and a pair of carts carrying three boars that looked big enough to mangle a horse to death. Jaime thought it an impressive show of hunting skill but strange all the same.

"Robert vents his anger in a few ways: drinking, hunting, fighting, and fucking. I'm sure he'd done three after my father refused him, and I wouldn't dismiss the notion he visited a brothel or two on the trip."

"Maybe he used the boars for that."

Lyanna's eyes widened, and a laughing fit overtook her. Jaime smiled, opting to enjoy the sight rather than join in. It took her minutes to sober up; by the end of the fit, her cheeks were bright red, and she took exceptionally long breaths.

"D-Don't talk like that! I thought I was going to laugh myself to death!"

And miss out on the sight of you like this? I think not.

As the day for his departure drew nearer, however, he noticed Lyanna's mood darken. She would make poor swings, ill-timed thrusts with her blade born from a distracted mind. During breaks, Lyanna would fall silent, her gaze turned northward. Jaime knew what bothered her and asked anyway, but she would smile and wave off his concerns. After his revelry on the Merry Way, Lord Tywin kept a closer eye on Jaime's whereabouts and had told him he was not to leave the Tower of the Hand past nightfall without his explicit permission.

All the same, he and Lyanna managed to hold a final meeting. The sun was setting over Blackwater Bay, turning the sea, city, and nearby forests into a great collection of orange, dim yellow, and red hues. Lyanna, to his surprise, wasn't in her training clothes but in an ice-blue dress with silver embroidery patterned to evoke falling snow carried by the wind. Her hair, in a long braid, swayed in the wind, and her back was to the sea.

"Lyanna?" he called out. "Is everything alright?"

When she turned, Jaime saw a flash of pain cross her features, the strained way she smiled. Her eyes seemed glossy, wet.

"I can't stay long," she sighed, stepping away from the edge of the shoreline. "But I wanted us to meet one more time before you left. And to give you this."

From the depths of her long sleeves, she produced a dagger. The sheath was of dark leather reinforced with steel fittings at the tip and opening. It was a dark, deep blue color, almost black; a clasp of silver ensured the blade wouldn't slip out. Jaime unsheathed it in a swift, smooth motion and noted its greater-than-usual length—fourteen inches, including the hilt. The grip, made of dark wood, was slightly curved and made slightly larger to accommodate a bare or gloved hand. The blade itself was made of silver.
Jaime eyed it closely, swung it here and there, jabbed at the air a few times, and nodded at the ease with which it moved.

"You told me you'd have to use two swords," Lyanna said. "I thought it might be troublesome for you to switch between them in the middle of a fight. Pulling out a knife will be faster."

"Aye, it will be," Jaime answered.

In truth, similar daggers were already forged for him. But those were like Geralt's—meant to be thrown, to wound or distract an enemy. This? This one he knew he could carve into skulls, through throats, and even use to deflect attacks.

"This is a great gift, my lady. I will—"

Before he could finish, Lyanna swiftly closed the distance between them, grabbed hold of his crimson coat, and planted a firm kiss on his lips. Jaime's head went utterly blank for a moment, then his arms went around her back, and the kiss deepened.
Time lost all sense to him. They might have kissed for seconds or minutes. But by the time it was over and they pulled back, they were both out of breath and hungry for more.

"Promise…" she said, pressing her forehead against his. "Promise you'll come back, Jaime. That you'll return alive and well."

Her eyes were wet, pleading. It looked wrong on her; he couldn't stand it. Gathering his wits, Jaime cupped her cheeks and met her gaze. "Nothing—no wildling, wight, Other, or lord of the realm—will keep me from you."

She stared at him, watched him closely as if to find doubt or deceit in his words. But he had none to show or hide. Lyanna closed her eyes, nodded, then captured his lips again. The taste was the sweetest he'd ever experienced.

Jaime sat on the floor of his chambers, fingers tracing along his lips at the memory of it, when he was interrupted by a loud knock on the door. "Enter."

It was Pycelle, looking much different than Jaime was used to seeing the old man. A heavy black, fur-lined mantle covered much of his body, adding a great deal to his size, especially his shoulders. A dull gray hood that resembled his usual robes was pulled back and fell around his scarfed neck.

Underneath the towering cloak, he wore a plain leather jerkin and thick black boots with lines of fur running down their sides. His maester's chain was lost to sight; a belt of many thick pouches clung to his waist, as did a pair of sheathed obsidian daggers.
A great satchel bag clung to his shoulder, and he held it deftly with one hand. In his other? There was the charred weirwood branch from Harrenhal. Since the curse-breaking, Pycelle had had it adjusted to his needs. It had been cut and reshaped into a walking staff, one a good head taller than Pycelle himself. The thickness of the old branch, however, was retained at the top, where its crown twisted in a gnarled pattern around reinforced steel rings and spikes of silver that jutted out in all directions—a weapon to bludgeon wildlings and undead alike.

The Grand Maester smiled, then looked about the room, puzzled. "You're still not ready?"

"What for? We still have some hours before heading out." He swiftly set the dagger aside. There was no clue or hint as to who made it for him. All the same, Jaime didn't want Pycelle to ask any questions about it.

"The sun will set shortly, my lord," Pycelle replied. "We are to set off within the next twenty minutes."

Jaime was about to argue the point, but the older man's look suggested it would be foolish. Seven hells, how long have I been daydreaming here?

He rose with haste and began putting the letters back in the tube. "I'm sorry; I lost track of time. I'll be out in a few minutes."

It took him nearly ten. Clothed in many layers of wool, leather, and fur, Jaime emerged from the depths of the keep into the main castle yard. The sun was nearly gone in the west, a red orb disappearing past the horizon, coloring the world a deep crimson hue as it retreated before the incoming night.

The rest of the company was already there, placing saddlebags and shoulder bags onto the horses' saddles. Ser Arthur, he saw, was still speaking with Pyke about something, and the old knight acknowledged him with a nod and a small smile. Jaime returned the gesture and busied himself readying his own steed.

A harsh caw from nearby caught his attention, and Jaime lifted his gaze to see a large black crow perched on Howland's shoulder. His gaze met the birds, and as he stared into the deep blackness within, Jaime swore he found something… too human in the animal's eyes, especially when it cocked its head to the side as if in recognition of him.

Must be one of the three-eyed crows, he deduced but found it unsettling all the same. The idea of someone watching another through an animal or tree was not to his liking.

"Weather looks to be clear," he heard Pyke say. "A little snowfall, but with some luck, you'll get far before it worsens."

"Any sign of wildling activity?" Ser Arthur said.

"Here? No, but the Lord Commander told me an hour past that some boys were scouting Sable Hall and ran into a group of four of them hiding in the castle. Said they'd been chased out of their village. Said their own forefathers tried to rip them to pieces. Boys took 'em to Castle Black for now."

Jaime listened and shivered at the thought of one's own family rising to kill their own families.

"We'll hear and see much more of that ere this is over," Ser Arthur replied and lifted himself into the saddle. "Keep an eye out, Commander. Just because the wards hold here doesn't mean the enemy may not try something."

"We'll do our duty," Pyke retorted forcefully. "I'll make sure of it."

"Glad to hear it," Ser Arthur said, then turned to the others. He looked at each in turn, then nodded.

To the west, the sun fell, and when it finally disappeared, the signal was given. A black brother, bearing a great torch, swung it in a practiced motion. Far, far above them, another answered, and so the gate opened. Chains and mechanisms worn out by time, ice, and cold groaned, and the entrance was lifted off the ground like the mouth of an old, tired beast. Beyond it was utter darkness.
Arthur spurred his steed onward, and the rest of them followed.

Jaime cast a final glance behind as he rode on, recognizing that this was the last he would see of the realm as he knew it. Beyond lay only wilderness and danger.

They galloped out of the tunnel and were greeted by a vast expanse of snow half a mile long. The sky above them twinkled with untold millions of stars, some tiny, others blazing like precious stones. The moon was almost full, and its milky white light shone on them openly. Jaime didn't find comfort in it; he felt exposed, as no doubt thousands of wildlings across the millennia had felt on their marches against the Night's Watch.

They slowed as they approached the forest, and Ser Arthur let Howland take point. The crow perched on his shoulder took flight and disappeared over the black, twisted shadows and shapes of oaks, sentinel pines, and soldier pines.
Pyke had instructed them closely on various "ranger roads"—game trails and dirt roads of a primitive sort used by black brothers to traverse the woods safely. Jaime found it of little comfort.

Despite the moon and stars, the forest's tall trees and infinite, mangled branches allowed little light to pass through. The trees were packed tightly together, and if it hadn't been for his long time spent in the similarly oppressive godswood of Harrenhal, Jaime would have found the place utterly suffocating.

Above them, the crow cawed on, landing every so often on one branch or another, guiding them deeper into the forest in snakelike patterns. Glancing about, Jaime squinted and was startled to see another crow staring back at them, hidden among the branches and quiet as a grave. Then he saw another, two more, five more. With the same quiet, they flew from branch to branch, and try as he might, he could not follow them.

Seven hells, Jaime thought, tightening his grip on his reins. I felt less watched outside the woods.

Eventually, after an hour's ride by his estimate, they reached their destination. It was a small clearing in the forest, the only one they'd seen thus far.

In truth, it was the last vestige of an old, long-destroyed and abandoned ringfort. According to the oldest texts of the Night's Watch, the Wall once had a whole system of such defenses throughout the Haunted Forest—places for black brothers to rest, prevent initial attacks, and even great torch towers to forewarn their comrades at the Wall.

I'd have never noticed if I didn't know of it beforehand. Jaime checked his surroundings and saw the last remnants of the place: the base of a pillar here, the remnants of a wall there. Nature had reclaimed this place.

Even as the thought came to his mind, Jaime heard the flap of many wings and spun about to see many crows perch themselves on the edge trees of the clearing—two dozen in all, quiet and unmoving as statues.

"Don't be alarmed," Howland said without a trace of worry in his voice. "They are friends. The Others' sorcery cannot claim any among them."

Doesn't make them staring at us any more pleasant.

One of the crows, Howland's he guessed, cawed once more and flew into the tangled trees on the opposite end of the clearing. When Jaime saw it again, it was perched on the shoulder of another.
He rode no steed but an elk, a great and proud beast of the northern lands. Its horns were tall, wide, and sharpened into many points. The reins and saddle bothered it not at all as it chewed and trotted gently to the center of the clearing. But its power was undeniable, and Jaime knew for certain that it could beat and crush an armored man to death with little effort.

The rider was dressed in mottled blacks and grays, worn by weather and time. Jaime saw the glinting of mail over his chest, upper arms, and legs. Thick gloves of leather and what appeared to be wooden reinforcement covered his hands completely. But one thing caught his attention most of all: the sword.

The blade hung at his right leg. The crossguard was made of pure gold, its shape twisting like flames, and a red ruby adorned its center. The slender grip was segmented into ring patterns, and the pommel was of gold molded into a crown of flames.

Jaime held his breath and stared at it as though it were his own mother come back from the dead. "Dark Sister," he whispered. "That's the sword of Visenya Targaryen, Aemon the Dragonknight…"

"Gods be good," Pycelle answered in a hushed voice. "We knew it was here and in use. But to see it… It's older than the Seven Kingdoms themselves."

"Hail, friend of the children," Howland said in greeting and approached the quiet figure. "It is an honor to meet you, at last."

"The honor is mine," the figure spoke in an accent Jaime had never heard, in a voice so rattling it seemed the rider was ill. "These are your companions?"

"Aye, this is the company sent by King Rhaegar to thwart the enemy's plans," Howland adjusted his steed and gestured to each one as he spoke their names. "Ser Arthur, of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning. Grand Maester Pycelle, knight of the mind. Ser Jaime, descendant of Lann the Clever."

Jaime pried his eyes away from the blade that had fueled his imagination an uncountable number of times and straightened in his saddle. His posture faltered almost the instant he tried to look at the rider.

For his face was obscured, covered by a hood, a deep, long, and tattered scarf, and a mask—a bone-white weirwood mask carved into the visage of a man, his expression twisted by pain and grief. Try as he might, Jaime could not find a hint of the rider's eyes in the black pits of the eyeholes. Yet he felt them. It was a gaze more penetrating than his lord father's or Geralt's, more knowing and stranger than any of the ravens that stood in silent witness to the meeting.

The masked one looked at them all in turn, and Jaime saw even Ser Arthur's demeanor crack momentarily under the scrutiny. A long, powerful silence hung over them. Not even the horses and elk interrupted it. Jaime's breath was short, and his heart beat like a drum.
"Forgive me; it has been a long while since I've traveled in the company of others. My manners have grown most poor indeed," the masked one bowed his head. "I was… I am known as Coldhands. I bid you welcome, champions of men."
With an outstretched hand, he gestured at the haunted forest around them. "Welcome to the lands beyond the Wall, where the doom of all will be decided."