A Song of Fate and Blood

by The Almighty Afroduck

Broken and defeated, Guts dies in Elfhelm, surrounded by friends and regret. Fate, however, is not done with Guts, and instead sends him away. In Westeros's Winterfell, perhaps he can finally have a semblance of a normal life. But, in a land oozing with magic, and remnants of a past life trailing him, he must decide whether he'll continue within the current, or leap from the river.

9. Chapter 9

Raiders

Six moons had passed since his arrival, and yet the winter only seemed to grow longer. The occasional gentle snowfall became more recurrent by the month, and the crueler ones cast spiteful hail upon the Rock. There were even days when he washed himself in the mornings that he was tempted to ask the maids to heat the waters. He never did, but his baths became drastically shorter. His new wardrobe had come into play, to the compliments of half the Lannisters and their guests, while the rest simply approved or ignored. Geralt expected no more than that, and life continued. He did note the fur weaved into his cloaks came in rather handy when the occasional sharp gust attempted to freeze him, another thing he thanked Myrielle for.

Since he'd met Tyrion, he'd started to speak more and more with the small child. Sometimes he would 'accidentally' be shut out of his room before Geralt made it back into his, other times there'd be a crack open and he'd swing the door open when he was in the boy's line of sight. He was crafty, surprisingly intelligent. By the first fortnight since he'd spoken with Geralt, he'd memorized every house loyal to the North, proudly awaiting Geralt's recognition. It was easy enough to give it to Tyrion, rather effortlessly too. His ceaseless energy to learn and attempt to impress were owed recognition. I suppose that's what happens when all your friends are written in ink. He was even kind enough to tell Geralt to ask him all he could about the Westerlands. Whenever he would not have an answer, he'd find one the next day. Such was Tyrion's excitement that their moonlit talks became common, with the odd rarity of the child sleeping by the time Geralt returned to his room.

Much as he attempted to keep the nocturnal conversations a secret, others began to pick up on it. The first was Daven, one time where the overwhelming necessity to piss awoke him halfway through the night. Tyrion looked as if he'd been caught stealing his father's brooch when he burst through the door. Daven blinked several times before he realized what went on. He awkwardly returned to his room while Tyrion dashed into his. The former's door was locked, and Geralt knew better than to walk into the latter's. He woke up early the next day and caught the boy. I, uh… Tyrion's my cuz, Geralt, I just don't know if we're allowed to, you know, talk with him. Or be with him. At all. He managed to convince him not to speak of it when he promised he'd help Daven train in spars if he kept it. So it was that once or twice a week, he'd wake the rowdy boy for sword training before the sunrise.

It was Jaime who came to him after a moon. The heir to the Rock had kept a surprising amount of distance since he'd they'd returned from Lannisport, but he caught Geralt alone on his way back after the day was done where Tyrion would usually wait. What in the seven hells do you want with my brother, Stark?! He raised his arms lazily and simply said the boy liked to speak to him. That did little to quell the boy's fury, nor snuff out the fear it rooted from. If you think I won't tell father, I will, and you'll be back home having shamed your family name. Isn't that what you northmen are about? Honor? I'll see to it that you've lost it all.

Then your brother will go back to being locked away in his cell, all alone. Those words struck Jaime harder than any blow Geralt could land on him might. It was all he could do to shout in whispers. What do you want with Tyrion?! He means nothing to you, he's done nothing to you! What do you want from him?!

For fuck's sake, Lannister, I want nothing from your brother. I caught him locked out of his room the night we returned from Lannisport and opened the door for him to walk back in. The boy's been speaking to me every night since. What do I want with him? Nothing, he's a boy. A little boy. A little boy that might just have twice the brains you've got, if these nights have been anything to go by. Jaime was flabbergasted, and before Geralt could say any more, he rushed away. All of the rage he directed at Geralt that night might have been the only time he genuinely respected him. I'd do the same for Benjen.

He had packed his clothes the next morning just in case, but that day had brought about nothing different. If Jaime had ignored him before, he had started to outright avoid him, never meeting his eyes. Even the times they were caught in the same conversation at the Great Hall, Jaime answered to everyone but him. Geralt saw glimpses of embarrassment, maybe even shame the few times he managed to see his expression.

Tyrion apologized that night, explaining he'd been so excited about Geralt he'd told the secret to Jaime. He said his older brother didn't believe him when he told him that Geralt was his first friend. Friend? He hadn't had the heart to correct him, but then he supposed the child wouldn't be terribly wrong to come to that conclusion. When he mulled on it, Geralt promised to tell Daven of his wildling raid from the North if he helped him with the little boy. He was unsure, but when he tossed in the offer of his encounter with a snow bear, the boy readily agreed.

They'd alternate each night on who'd speak to Tyrion, with one night a week having both at the same time. Surprisingly, the dwarf ended up being rather likeable, far more capable at keeping up with them than most boys his age. Hells, even most boys our age. He was interesting to say the least, being half as apt at conversations as a child of six should be, but twice as knowledgeable. By the end of the month, he was sure he saw Jaime's shadow by the stairs, listening from afar.

The waking days, on the other hand, were the subject of a number of different things. He finally met Kevan's and Tygett's wives. Darlessa Marbrand was a prettier sight than Dorna Swyft, and far more interesting. Kevan's wife was not bad company, nor was she ugly. If anything, she was surprisingly comely. Next to her chinless father, she became a beauty to behold, but she seemed too gentle to be in the presence of so many lions. Darlessa was fierce enough to match Tygett, but with the propriety to not speak out of turn. When she's with him, it's Tygett who calms down. The only thing the two women had in common was the swelling of their bellies. We'll have even more Lannisters running around Casterly Rock soon enough. Hopefully neither will be my betrothed.

Even more so, Dorna could have been the Maiden herself next to Genna's husband. Emmon Frey took so strongly after his father, Geralt would have guessed old Walder birthed him singlehandedly. He was twitchy, bald, and the apple in his throat was more protrusive than his chin. Only his brows were a little thicker and his beard had barely enough girth to properly cover his chin and his moustache. But where his father was dour and envious, Emmon was meek and resigned. Geralt wondered who would be victorious in a bout between Genna's husband and Kevan's good-father. They're both absolutely pathetic next to even the lowest of the Lannisters. And half of their bannermen as well. Little Lyonel and Cleos thankfully took after their mother more closely than their father, though their hair looked to be a blond close to ginger. Was Emmon red of hair, or did Genna have the sense to have her litter with a better man?

His interactions with those three varied. Darlessa was as fiery as her mane and commanding as Tygett, but prone to smiling and loud in laughter. If Geralt had made a good impression on Tygett, he seemed to have passed his good will to his wife. Dorna avoided him like the plague, but then she also avoided most the people in Casterly Rock. She's as gentle as a flower, that one, but with half the wit of a Tyrell. She's well-meaning, but I'm afraid my good-sister prefers her manse in Lannisport, where only those with a temper equal to or lower than hers live. Genna had said as much of the Swyft, but little of her own husband. Gerion answered the questions he knew not to ask. Poor match for my sweet sister, isn't he? The bulge in that neck of his might be thicker than his cock, but I've never had the heart to ask her. And if I did, she might just cut it out.

See, he's a relic from the times our father ruled Casterly Rock, when old Walder Frey swindled Tytos Lannister's only daughter for his third son. Third, lad, not even second. He had a contemplative face and rubbed the stubble of his jaw's golden shadow. I wasn't even pissing my swaddling clothes when that happened. Hells, I don't even blame the man. I was little enough when they were wed, but I remember clear as day he was the one shaking when the vows were spoken. After all, who would have the guts to marry a lion? Certainly not him, and he hasn't grown them since. Vows are vows and promises are promises, so there's no nulling that joke of a marriage.

But, if nothing else, Genna has proven to be as good of a father as she is a mother. Many lords are tyrants in their homes as they are with their subjects, others are smart enough to share those burdens with their wives. Genna's certainly intelligent enough to never shame him publicly nor speak ill of her husband, but there isn't a thing that poor Emmon Frey can do without her permission. And Seven save him if he ever decides to purchase a night of power and pleasure in a brothel, my sister might just do to him with a wooden cock whatever he'd buy from those sultry maids.

And you, Gerion? Geralt had asked then, a smile threatening to break his serious look. Would you be looking for a lady like Dorna to rule, someone like Darlessa to match you, or a woman like Genna to command you? Your days as a bachelor can't go on forever. Misery awaits you.

HA! It took you long enough, but now I'm finally bearing witness to that vicious wit you hide behind courtesies for my brothers. He laughed hard and loud, shaking his head and looking at him. But you're sorely mistaken. I'm the fourth son and fifth child, Geralt, just a hill away from being as low as a bastard. Or a dwarf, if the gods were feeling humorous. In my late arrival to the world, I've earned a certain number of liberties that come with being last in line.

Much as my brother has tried to find me ladies to marry, and believe me, he's found plenty, I've yet to heel and give myself up to those chains. Sweet chains, mind you, but chains all the same. I'll never be a king, certainly not lord of Casterly Rock, likely never to be a lord of anything, but I can be a free man. And I would sooner be a humble, free man than yet another one of my brother's pieces in his little game of worldly cyvasse. So, I'm afraid those miserable days won't reach me, Geralt, at least not before they reach you. The two had laughed, and he'd taken more liberties of speaking freely to Gerion since.

Finally, there was the bulky youth that was Lyle Crakehall. True to his word, Tygett took to training the boy regularly. In fact, the towering Lannister had commended Geralt's initiative, and asked if he minded that they share the same morning routine to train. Hells, it's your castle, why are you asking me? Some measure of respect must have been what Tygett tried to convey, and Geralt answered that he was merely a guest, that he welcomed the company. I'll miss the morning silence. Thankfully, they arrived a little later than the time he started, so he had the last hours of the night to himself. Their arrival and Tygett's lessons led to Geralt sparring with Crakehall, whom he'd thought was the most aggressive boy he'd met. You're training with a greatsword too?! You're only three-and-ten! Boys are supposed to train with short swords!

He enjoyed besting him and knocking him to the ground, which had actually been a lengthy task with how many blows the boy shrugged off. He had been loud and shouted over how Geralt wasn't fighting properly. Tygett corrected the loud boy, saying the battlefield was opportunistic, and the best methods to win were rarely ever the honorable ones. The boar nodded fast at that, and never commented on it again. He'd approached Geralt later that day. Who taught you how to fight?! What kind of style do you use to swing a greatsword that young?! He almost jumped when the large boy was shouted to his face, brows furrowed and deeply frowning. He had half a mind to say 'fuck off' and leave it at that, but the boar continued. You fight really fiercely! You're stronger than some men I've fought! How did you become so strong?!

He said he'd tell if he stopped shouting, and the taller boy's cheeks flushed red, nodding fast and listening attentively. He answered simply, I just train every morning by swinging my sword at least a hundred times. When it's becomes easy enough, I swing it one-handed at least a hundred times. If that also becomes easy, I do it with my left hand as well. When I've mastered that, I try to get my hands on a bigger sword and start over. Crakehall nodded rapidly, and immediately left, abruptly leaving Geralt alone in the hall. The next morning, he was waiting for Geralt where he usually trained.

When Geralt said he trained in silence so he wouldn't give away his intentions to his opponents, Crakehall did his best to reduce his shouts to grunts. By the time Tygett arrived for those lessons, the boar stood up in front of him and held out his hand. Thank you for teaching me your style, Geralt Stark! It dawned on Geralt then that Lyle Crakehall wasn't earnestly aggressive, but aggressively earnest. Addam had confirmed as much, telling him the Crakehalls were a loud bunch, but simple, sincere and loyal. He probably speaks that way because he believes that's how knights address their comrades and superiors. He isn't looking to get a rise out of you, much less fight you. Not that kind of fighting, at least. After getting used to it, he found it a rather refreshing dose of blatant honesty in the Rock. The few times he'd asked Crakehall for a favor, the young boar would help the whole of the way until he was sure Geralt had what he needed.

His mornings became even more colorful when Daven grew jealous of his infidelity, his previously exclusive lessons now shared with the newcomer. Once or twice a week became every day and the three fought and sparred and trained under Tygett's watchful eyes. Even Kevan would bring Addam a few times a week as well, which Geralt had learned then had been promoted from being the elder's page to his squire. Geralt had mourned the loss of his peace and quiet, but even the unruly company had begun to grow on him. They're not my House, but this is much more than what I expected coming here. Not unlike during the nightly talks with Tyrion, Tywin's sire would watch them spar from a distance once in a blue moon. Even Cersei would watch from a room far above, overlooking the training, when she believed no one knew she was watching.

His lessons continued, and Creylen was as grouchy as Tywin was severe, but now most things he did was with a crowd. Crakehall's nameday followed soon after his arrival, and he commanded Geralt to not hold back on their spar despite it being his day. Geralt won, and Crakehall thanked him for it. Daven and Addam's namedays had rolled around as the months came by, the former turning three-and-ten and the latter four-and-ten. Cerenna and Myrielle turned as well, Cerenna starting a growth spurt that threatened to pass her sister's height in the coming years. Myrielle also started to… develop, just behind Cersei. Talks were talks, and the word "moonblood" was tossed briefly in hidden conversations. The age of being wedded and bedded.

He kept his mind off of it, instead focusing on his nameday, now a moon away for himself. The Rock is too far away for regular visits to Winterfell, especially with how long this winter's taking. I won't be seeing them for some time. I wonder how Benjen likes the Reach. Or if Ned finally found a bride in the Eyrie. Letters came and he sent a few back, the right amount to keep them content and calm. He was aware enough that Tywin would give his father reports on his behavior and wellbeing once a month, so he figured he needed to do little more than that. That led to his sister cursing him in her letters for writing so little, so he wrote as often to them as the Lord.

The night's dinner was ending when Tywin stood up. "Tygett, Kevan, Gerion, to my solar."

There was an air of gravity in his tone, even more than usual, so much it even brought a composed look from Gerion. The only one who seemed to fully understand him was Kevan, whose nod was brisk. Tywin turned to the boys, voice equally as severe. "Jaime, lead the rest to my office in an hour."

"I-yes, father." He replied, blinking fast as the elder Lannisters diligently filed out of the table, following the Great Lion out of their Great Hall. Genna's eyes grew steely as well, and with some prompt words led the ladies and girls away. The boys stood awkwardly, all eventually turning to Jaime. The boy's look offered them no answers, but Daven still asked, "Say cuz, what's your lord father want us for? We haven't done anything wrong, have we?"

"That we haven't been useful yet in his quest to conquer the world is cause enough to wrong him, cuz." Jaime scratched his chin, where the first hints of where his beard would grow beginning to appear. He furrowed his brows, deep in thought. "…I think I heard father mention something about raids in the West, when he's spoken to uncle Kevan. I don't think I'm right, though. No one would be stupid enough to attack us, much less when Westeros is at peace. The Greyjoys were always a miserable lot, but I think their iron lord's turning away from their 'old ways'."

"From the east, then?" Geralt asked. Jaime raised his brow at him. If he lacked the open hostility he had had before, there were clear signs of apprehension to replace it. Geralt continued. "Is there anyone in Essos that could have gripes with your father? I doubt he'd be their target, but I've heard the Iron Bank is ruthless about unpaid debts. Maybe they're going after the king's old Hand to get him to pay Targaryen loans?"

"No… no. Aerys is mad, but he's not as stupid as to pin King's Landing's debts on my father." Geralt gave him a look, and Jaime reconsidered. The boy shook his head again. "All it would take is my father's word to undo it, and the Iron Bank wouldn't be as cowardly as to send pillagers from the shadows. If they were really serious about money they're owed, they would just pay off the most trustworthy mercenary companies, perhaps even other Westerosi houses, and have them surely defeat those who owe them to collect their dues."

"There are rumors of the Kingswood Brotherhood by the Crownlands. It's said that they're bold enough to raid near the walls of King's Landing itself, so they may be unruly enough to go after the West. If they're just rumors, though, then I don't think they would have made it this far here without officially getting caught and having public bounties put up by lords to bring their heads. I think it's true in any land, but with Lord Tywin's coffers, I don't think a single town would dare to take them in, not for the rewards, certainly not for the punishments." Addam offered. The boys nodded their heads. Geralt didn't voice his thoughts. Lord Tywin doesn't seem like a man to offer bounties for wayward criminals once they reach his domain, but more the lord to put their heads on pikes the moment they set foot on his lands.

"What's our duty then?! Why are we called?!" Crakehall shouted, bringing the boys to look at him. A reasonably strong nudge from his elbow to the boy's thick chest made him look at Geralt in confusion. His eyes widened and his ears turned red, whispering, "What's our duty then? Why are we called?"

No need to speak so low, but that'll do. Jaime shrugged. "Hell if I know, but if I had to guess, we might be getting lessons from father himself. If there's raiders mucking about in the Westerlands, he'll be sure to teach us how House Lannister pays its debts."

He looked around, the servants having already gone and the tables left bare and clean. He gestured with his head. "Well, we won't learn anything here, might as well go to my father's tower. I don't think anyone would presume to enter his solar halfway through a meeting, but we might as well wait close by. Interrupting my father may be a terrible crime, but second to that is making him wait."

The boys followed Jaime through the door at the back of the hall, the thick oak making little sound besides the opening and closing of it. If Reginald's Fort was full of detailed, beautiful paintings of the 'lesser' Lannisters, the Lord's Tower of the Rock outshined that as well. The Lords and Kings of the Westerlands held entire sets to their names, with complete halls dedicated to their like and their achievements. Jaime caught his gaze and took a moment before speaking, "All the Lannisters that have ruled Casterly Rock have at least a room to themselves. Only the best have entire halls. I suppose at some point that gave one of them the idea to build the Hall of Heroes, where they rest together. Rather boring, I imagine. A bunch of grim, old men bickering in their graves over who holds the best tomb and who was the greatest of the lions… Say, Stark, how do you northmen treat your dead?"

Geralt raised a brow at the Lannister. He looked for venom or mockery in Jaime's words but came to find none. He shook his head. "Can't speak for our vassal houses, but the Starks are much simpler than your lords and kings, Lannister. All sons and daughters of House Stark are given a place and a statue in our crypts, while only the best live on through their legacies. Brandon the Builder has the Wall and the Great Keep to survive him, his son lives on through his hand in building Storm's End, the North remains free thanks to Theon Stark's victory against Argos Sevenstar, Karlon Stark earned Karhold, and the rest of the best built what the North is now. We aren't half so refined to paint those deeds."

"A shame then, people better remember when they see what they can't imagine." There was a mild pompousness to his tone, but his words were lacking the spite and ridicule Geralt had grown accustomed to listening to. Crakehall nodded raptly at those words, though he kept to himself. Daven's face scrunched up. "Stark, your oldest brother's name is Brandon, right? Like the Builder?"

"Aye." He answered, raising a brow. "What of it?"

"Did your lord parents name you after someone, or are you the first of your name? I know there's Gerold the White Bull, but I've never heard of a Geralt until you." The boy asked. That had the lot looking at him. Ah fuck. "They did. Geralt Snow was the natural-born brother of Brandon the Breaker, who brought together both the northmen and the wildlings to fight the Night's King. At least that's how the legend goes."

"Do bastards have proper rank and status in the North?" Addam piped. He looked up, rubbing the first hints of stubble on his chin. "I thought only Dorne treated them with such deference."

"We aren't like the Dornish, I can tell you that much, but any man who can prove his strength will earn respect from others. Geralt Snow was a lesser known hero of the North, but a hero regardless." Geralt answered. Jaime opened his mouth, half smile on his face. He clenched his teeth and looked uncomfortable for a moment before turning forwards. "We best get going. Any more talks of history we can do outside my father's office. He rarely ever calls on children to join his meetings. It's easy enough to wander off into these halls chasing stories, we're better off talking where he can call upon us when it's our time."

Several more corridors filled with ancient kings and newer lords led to circular staircases wide enough for two to walk beside each other at a time. Thick, marble steps matched the half-columns to the sides of each step, each holding a statue of the head of a Lannister of old. Some faces Geralt found to be even finer and thinner than Jaime's, others even bulkier and more menacing than Tygett. They've got their share history as well, I'll give them that. The only place with any level of simplicity was outside the dark oak door that led to the lord's solar. It had the Lannister colors coating the outside, a wide enough room between the office and the end of the stairs.

Geralt moved his jaw from side to side to clear the fog in his ears and took the better part of a minute for his hearing to grow sharp again. Their talks became whispers for the rest of their wait, ending when Gerion opened the door. He held the knob open with his hand and gave them all a look. The severity of his expression almost matched Tywin's. Only his words retained any softness to them. "Come on lads, in you go."

"Yes, uncle." Jaime replied, surprisingly dutifully. He turned halfway back and gave the rest of them a nod, and they too followed. Geralt entered last after Crakehall, who tried to move as fast as possible without his boots making a sound. If nothing else, he tries.

Entering the room gave a stronger feeling of austerity than the rest of the Westerlands offered. The lavishness in every nook and cranny of the Rock seemed almost null in Tywin's office, which was stocked with dozens upon dozens of books, large and small. The scrolls and texts were placed in ironwood shelves, dark and simple, yet no less elegant. His desk was made of the same material, and it was by the great window that overlooked the vast, black expanse of the sea. There were circular stairs by said window that led upwards and backwards, leading to a second floor. On the desk there was a small, golden bowl filled with blood-red wax, halfway empty, next to a silver vial Geralt imagined was filled with ink. A few books, neatly arranged, were at its corner, and a stack of fine, virgin papers were the centerpiece.

Gerion continued walking towards one of the stairs, the boys following in a single line, maintaining the silence that was only ever broken by the wailing winds. Once more he went last, paying no mind to the candles and torches at the walls as he reached the stairs until a very strong, biting gale swept away half the lights. He was the only one to notice, turning around and noting the remarkable painting held just above the entrance. He recognized it as the lord's late wife, similar, if not more detailed than her portrait in Reginald's Fort. Between the remaining torch to her right and the moonlight lighting the rest in shades of orange and blue and all the hues in between, she looked like a beautifully somber phantom. Geralt frowned. Every day that he works, he sees her, and he has yet to spend a night away from his duties since I've arrived. I wonder how father would be if he had a portrait of mother in his solar instead of her statue in the crypts. Would he be a happier man, or would grief have driven him mad?

The second floor had fewer books than the first, but they were large, fitted for the greater room. Perfectly circular, there were great windows across every wall, strong pillars keeping the top of the tower in place. At the center, a great table of white marble, elegantly painted had an enormous map of Mundus. In that map, Westeros held more details than Essos, and the Westerlands more details than the rest of the kingdoms. Even then, the map was so large that each of the cities were as big as the head of his thumb. It took a small path carved out from the ocean north of Essos and east of Westeros to the top of the Narrow Sea, just next to Braavos, so a man could walk in and stand at its center. It was where Tywin stood.

Kevan and Tygett stood by Dorne and the Bay of Ice respectively, while Gerion walked to the Iron Islands. It gave room for the boys to be in front of the Westerlands themselves, and with Jaime at the front and center, they gathered around him. All the Lannisters had severe expressions about them, and in that room, they truly looked the part of leonine brothers. Tywin raised his gaze, and Geralt barely caught himself from flinching. He's been serious for all the time I've been here, but I've never seen him this intense. His look near mirrored the snow bear's he'd faced so long past.

"Father, we've arrived." Jaime said. He nervously shifted his weight from leg to leg before asking. "What is our duty?"

"To listen for now. You'll learn the rest through the meeting." His voice betrayed no emotion, and his gaze turned to the Westerlands. Kevan somehow stood up even straighter, his voice filling the room so the wind was almost unheard. "There have been multiple reports in the Westerlands of small pillages and raids over the past fortnight. Towns attacked in the night, soldiers murdered, women raped, and children kidnapped. These reports came from Kayce, which sent out several search parties to find and execute the miscreants, but their men have turned up dry."

"We then learned that the attacks began since as much as a full month ago, but the Farmans believed it was just unruly criminals trying their luck in Fair Isle. The attacks followed inland, but they've remained by the coast, never venturing further out into the east." Tygett followed, showing more fury in his silent mood than in a hundred shouts during morning training. His scowl was visceral when he growled, "Whoever they are, they came by sea."

"Ironborn raids, father?" Jaime asked, brows furrowing. Tywin only shook his head, and Gerion answered in his stead. "No, lad. The Ironborn are an unruly lot, that much is true, and their heir, Balon, is set on returning to their laws of iron and blood. But for now, Lord Quellon Greyjoy has had none of it, and some well-placed informants let us know that there's been no movement from House Greyjoy nor any of their adherent houses."

"I-is the Kingswood Brotherhood moving west, m-my lords?" It was almost humorous to watch Crakehall stammer, but he felt pity for the large boy when Tywin gave him an unimpressed look. Tygett sighed and Gerion clasped his shoulder. "They came on ships, remember? The Kingswood Brotherhood is a persistent nuisance, but they don't have nearly enough support to be seafaring."

"Essosi pirates, my lords?" Geralt spoke, bringing the attention to him. The lord looked at him in silence, as did the boys, so he spoke louder. "They seem like an unlikely lot, but however tenuous it is, Westeros is at peace. Neither the Tyrells nor the Dornish seem to have a grudge against the Westerlands, and on the northern side, the Ironborn are accounted for. That only leaves the east, though they'd have to take a very long voyage to make it to this side of the world unnoticed."

There was some silence among the Lannisters, the lords sharing looks. It was almost imperceptible just how little Tywin's brow had risen, but Geralt didn't miss it. His tone was neutral. "Among the reports from both House Kenning and House Farman were the fact that the survivors from the raids collectively spoke of the invaders speaking a foreign tongue. That leaves the Essosi and the northern wildlings. I assume the latter is not the case."

"No, my lord." Geralt shook his head. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and continued. "It's few enough wildlings that make it south of the Wall, and the Umbers usually make short work of them. Any more than that, my father would finish the stragglers. But wildlings don't have the unity to actually sit down and build a boat. And however many of them speak the Old Tongue, most use the common one. If it were wildlings, I imagine the Greyjoys would have sunken them before they could step foot in the Westerlands. At worst, my father would have sent you a raven directly about northern raiders."

"Then the enemy is clearer, we thank you for the confirmation." Kevan replied formally. His eyes turned to the Narrow Sea. "The maesters of houses Farman and Kenning tried to decipher what little the survivors remembered, but they don't seem to be of any singular language spoken in the Free Cities. Witnesses speak of a variety of men, some as dark as coal, others copper of skin, and still others pale as the moonlight, so the attack is not singularly of pirates from Sothoryos or the Rhoyne. That they would have a variety of men raiding our coasts speaks more of the like of the Free Cities, so it is likely that they speak in their native tongues to each other, few other places possess such a variety of free men working as one crew."

"My lord uncles, what do they want from us?" Daven's question came timidly and quietly. He swallowed and puffed up his chest, continuing in a deeper voice. "There's little they could steal from the Westerlands without making enemies with the strongest house in the Seven Kingdoms."

"That's the problem. The pirates undoubtedly act like common raiders, perhaps even slavers. They kill, rape and rob, but reports find the children they capture murdered unusually." Tygett answered. He crossed his arms, and his face contorted in red fury. He snarled through his teeth. "The children are usually similar enough. Pale of skin, black of hair, and a few years away from manhood, with their bodies maimed almost beyond recognition.

"Though their skulls are missing and their backs are mutilated, we know their features because their heads were flayed and left behind. Those with living families confirmed the bodies as well. The way they're displayed seems ritualistic, like the works of priests for some foul black god demanding tributes. If they meant to do it for ransom, they would have made themselves known. As of now, we assume we have fanatical savages hiding in our midst. There's reason to believe their crew are normal pirates, but their leaders are Essosi priests."

"What's more, we've found one such body on the outskirts of Lannisport, by the closest village." Kevan continued more calmly, though hints of disturbance made their way into his eyes. "Whoever these fiends are, it's likely that they believe that what seek something valuable enough to be worth the West's ire."

"And that will be their undoing." Tywin spoke. His voice had an air of finality. His mind is made up. "We have already sent small contingents to Fair Isle and Kayce to pull the weeds from their roots, but it seems they've entirely ceased their attacks on those lands. No reports of unidentified ships have been written since the fleets have been made aware. An army cannot find them as well as a sizeable force, but the lands surrounding Lannisport are already manned and camped. Scouts are searching for them as we speak, and with any one of them captured, the knowledge of their whereabouts will come to light. Within the coming days, we will bring them to heel."

"And remind the Essosi that the Lannisters always pay their debts." Finished Gerion. Addam shifted his weight from leg to leg before carefully asking. "If such is the case, how can we be of assistance to you, my lords? Our loyalties are to the Westerlands, by birthright or guest right, but I'm unsure how we can aid in this plight."

"You will be riding with the main contingent, once the raiders are located." Answered Tywin. That took the lot of them by surprise. "You will watch, with proper protection from our best guards. You've read it from history books and listened through the maester's lessons, but it is another matter entirely to witness it with your own eyes. Blood was what earned us Casterly Rock, and it's blood that had ensured we kept it as the power of the West, not gold. You're to learn this and see the sacrifice that power demands."

"Will we fight, father?" Jaime asked, eyes shining. They dimmed with one good look from his father.

"No, you will watch and learn. You are not yet trained in the ways of war, fighting the Master-at-Arms means nothing until you step into the field where you must kill to survive. This will be the first step into understanding the truths of this world." He shifted his eyes from the Westerlands to Essos, from the Braavos to Asshai. "And if we are dealing with Essosi priests, they'll either be smart enough to try and capture you for ransom and safety, or mad enough to attempt to kill you. You are my eldest son, Daven my nephew, and the rest of you either my wards or my guests. If they have any wits about them, they'll attempt to get to me through you. A predictable foe would be better for practice, but these may be no better than frenzied animals."

"We'll watch over you." Continued Gerion, gesturing to Tygett who nodded. He walked towards them and clasped his hands on Jaime and Addam's shoulders, giving them the first smile he'd worn that day. "Worry not, we want you to learn of combat so you are better prepared than most other lords' children, but this is not to merely view the battle. Lord Tywin may be a good fighter, but he's an unmatched strategist. To win a fight decisively, there must be a clear mind and a strong voice to lead the soldiers to victory. You'll have a thousand opportunities to test your might once you're truly men, right now you should take advantage of learning how the commanders coordinate their forces."

"…Yes, uncle." Jaime said no more than that, a sullen look on his face. For once it was a feeling that Geralt could relate to. I've had my first real fight before, I've even shed blood against frenzied animals. Both kinds. But then if something happened to me under Tywin's care, or by the lack of it, my father may actually be wroth enough to start a war, even against him. With that in mind, he spoke up, "When do we ride, my lords?"

"Within the coming days." Tywin answered. His gaze returned to the Westerlands, by Lannisport. "We've had word of movement close by, and scouts have already been sent to capture any of the outriders that they find. Once they're sent to Casterly Rock's bowels, we'll have the whereabouts of the rest of the forces. After, it'll only be a matter of plucking weeds from their roots. You're dismissed."

"Yes, my lord." The boys chanted with a half bow. They filed away silently, Geralt being the last to leave before Jaime. By the time he was at the first floor of the solar, all candles and torches had been blown, and Joanna Lannister was left shrouded by a gloomy dark. He turned back to catch Jaime's face for a brief second. He'd seen him sullen before they rode to Lannisport and disappointed in being denied a place in the battle, but this had been the only time he'd seen him truly forlorn. They locked eyes for a few long seconds, and the boy sighed. "Let's go."

Not a word was spoken on the way down, and each of the boys left off to their own room on their own. It had been late, late enough that he found Tyrion's bedroom door open, the little boy sitting on the floor with his head against the side of the bed. He'd been snoring away with a book on his lap, and pointing at the dwarf to Daven brought some laughter from him. The two silently entered the room and carried him as gently as they could into his small bed. It was still large enough that he could roll several times to each side without falling, and Geralt admittedly found it funny to see how close he looked like he was drowning in his pillows. He took the book and placed it by his bed while Daven tucked him in, and the two boys shared a quiet good night.

The next few days were tense, the conversation that'd once fill their hall now almost void of voices in the lord's table. Even the ones where the soldiers were sat held a stronger air of curtness with the winds of battle so close to the Rock. Though he'd never heard anyone explain it to them, Geralt knew the ladies knew just as well. Genna was as strong and unbending as her brothers. Darlessa said nothing, but would occasionally take Tygett's hand and grasp it tightly. Kevan did the same with Dorna, whom he'd taken from her manse in fear of the pirates entering the city. And the girls knew better than to try and break the tension. Even Cersei held her tongue, occasionally shooting worried looks at Jaime and Daven, which she attempted to hide.

It wasn't until they were having lunch on the fourth day that a pair of guards led by Captain Wyatt came up to the table. He gave a deep bow to the table and looked at them. He was a man who, like Maester Creylen, was cleanly shaved above and below his brows. That was the only likeness they shared. His head was large and round, and the hazel stubble on his head did not allow it to shine as much as the maester's did. Even as he always squinted, his eyes were still bigger than Creylen's, his nose more rounded than hooked. And though he had a small shadow of a double-chin and a barrel trunk, the few times he'd seen the man train and work proved that he was both shaped and built like an obelisk. He'd yet to learn his house, if he had a house, but as far as soldiers went, he was a man befitting of his station in form and temperament. Exactly the like that Tywin would choose.

"My lord, three men have been delivered to Lion's Mouth. They're being sent to the gaolers as we speak." He stopped and looked at the table questioningly before his gaze fell back on the lord. Tywin nodded, and he continued. "We'll be getting answers from them shortly. If any of my lords wanted to see to the matter personally, I'll lead you there."

There was silence in the table. Geralt had half a mind to go there for himself and see what the Rock's bowels threatened their prisoners with. I'll bet I've dreamt of worse tortures than anything they have to offer there. He spoke nothing, and instead looked at Tygett when he stood up.

"I'll go, I was done with my food either way." He looked at Darlessa and briefly placed a gentle hand on her ever-growing belly. She gave him a reassuring nod, and his eyes became steel again. "I'll see that their tongues grow soft and put an end to this damn spell the Essosi have cast."

"Good. Captain, when they're ready, send word and I'll join." Said Tywin. Wyatt and his men bowed again before leading Tygett out of the hall with them. Few more words were shared, and it wasn't until the better part of two hours had passed that one of the soldiers returned. A simple milord and Tywin was up, following him wordlessly. Daven swallowed. "I guess it's time, huh cuz?"

"Yeah. Never thought we'd see our first battle here." Jaime answered. He looked at the boys for a moment. "I suppose I always expected it'd be on another country's field."

Cersei held her head high when she joined in. "Not much of a battle anyways, just a bunch of upstart mercenaries that came to the wrong land. Father will do worse to them than the ones we captured. That they've lasted this long in the first place is nothing short of a miracle."

"Be very careful, sweet Cersei," Genna said with pursed lips. "Arrogance masked as confidence is a treasonous cloak to don, one that harms its wearer far more than it protects him. Even now, even here, in our homeland and with all our armies, an attack on the Westerlands is never to be taken lightly."

"Your aunt speaks true." Kevan added. He took a moment to look at Tywin's empty seat and said, "The War of the Ninepenny Kings began when the Blackfyres came with an army of what some would call upstart mercenaries. And that was a war that devastated the countryside, even without dragons to burn the fields. The reason your lord father has never lost a war is because he's never erred as badly as to underestimate his enemies. We'll put an end to this impudence soon enough, but to have lasted as long without capture or annihilation means that to a certain extent, they know what they're doing."

"You ought to remember they travelled around the world to get to us, perhaps even from places farther than the Free Cities. If all they wanted was to plow riches from their betters, attacking their neighbors would have sufficed." Gerion spoke with a bleakly humorous voice. He shook his head and folded his hands, looking at the grand paintings on the walls. "Few would make such a journey. Love, hate and fear are among the only things to ever motivate such a hazardous voyage, especially to lands they're surely aware will stop at nothing to have their heads placed on pikes. Whatever the reason, they're mad enough to try, and madmen know neither fear nor restraint. Hopefully we've captured the sane ones, or finding them might take a little while longer."

"Surely the dungeons are enough to loosen any man's tongue, aren't they uncle?" Asked Daven.

"There's very few men whose tongues would remain still when treated to a gaoler's kindly ministrations." He replied. He smiled sardonically. "You'll just find that minds fermented with insanity have nothing worth saying to begin with."

"I'm sure these ones will speak," Dorna said softly. Her eyes never left her plate, and rarely was she able to meet anyone's gaze. "It will all be over soon, and then we'll be at peace again."

"Between Lord Tywin and Ser Tygett, they'll be sure to procure some clue about them, good-sister." Darlessa spoke strongly, though her expression showed the mildest signs of contempt. Or is it pity? "Even so, for all of their mad tenacity, the Rock is unbreakable. With the West searching for them, they're naught more than a band of animals backed into a corner."

An animal backed into a corner is when it's the most dangerous, but Geralt chose not to voice that. The hall was empty save for the table, which Kevan had instructed to remain in place until the lords returned. And soon they did, removing their black leather gloves and handing them to the maids awaiting. In the daylight, they shone wetly. Did they have a hand in making them sing themselves?

"Pirates of the Free Cities." Tywin stated as he stood by the head of the table. "Fewer than three hundred, with the ones we've taken. A fifth of their forces remained on half a dozen ships, the largest of them half the size of our flagships. Kevan, see to the fleet. They claim they sent their ships 'north of the island', meaning they should be by the Crag. Bring them alive. The rest of you, with me."

"Why are they here, father, uncle?" Jaime questioned as the men began to stand, swallowing tensely. "What do Essosi pirates want with the Westerlands?"

"The same thing all pirates want, women and gold. Only they received both before their voyage as payment for their trip." Growled Tygett instead, through tightly gritted teeth. "They say the voyage was led by Qartheen warlocks. A group of pale, blue-lipped snakes claiming to search the 'hell-bound black sheep', some sacred beast they need for a ritual. Their supposed visions from the shade of the evening led them to those claims, and by luck storms and mists hid their ships. We'll be dragging them from their burrows tonight."

"And finish uprooting this pest." Tywin spoke evenly. Gerion stood, gesturing to the boys to follow him. There was nothing but austerity and silence as they bed their goodbyes to the ladies, the girls giving them worried looks. Genna, in turn, offered them all a reassuring smile, leading the girls and the lords' wives elsewhere. Gerion led them to the armories, where Geralt was relieved to find that Wolf's Claw had already been fetched. Donning the boiled leather armor he'd brought from the North, he found that both the pants and the sleeves felt tighter. Nameday's a moon away. If I'm lucky, I'll get newer, larger armor as a gift. Or enough gold to buy another set. Leather's been good to me, but I reckon steel will treat me better.

With the manservants helping him finish armoring up, Geralt was quick to march out, heading to where a black mare awaited him. After Jaime, he'd been the second to arrive, though this time, the other boys wasted little time arriving with them. In the center of the moving force with Gerion at their front, they trotted out, making it out the mountain before turning into a full gallop. The evening sky made the encampments harder to see, but from high above, Geralt was shocked to see just how close the perimeter was to Casterly Rock. Maybe an hour or two east of Lannisport. No wonder they were able to set up defenses fast, these idiots sat right in front of the lion's den. But where the aggressors' audacity should have comforted Geralt, they only managed to make his sweat grow cold.

The moon was starting to rise when they came upon the main camp, a great tent lit by nothing more than candles properly protected from the howling winds. By that point, much of the small army had ridden sidewards, encircling the encampments and further fortifying the torchless, silent stands where the garrison had bogged down. Tywin truly means to kill them to the last man… Father mentioned the Mad King might be keeping an eye on his old hand. If the Great Lion were to be invaded by a small band of savages successfully, even if only for a fortnight, he may well invite the royal army upon his lands. That, or he's too proud to allow this kind of insult from some Essosi pirates. Probably both.

Tywin stopped before the great tent, deftly hopping off his white mare, Tygett stomping shortly after him. Gerion turned back to them with a half-smile. "If ever there was a night to behave, this one's it. Chin up, lads. You'll still have plenty to learn from tonight."

With that, he gestured forwards, leaving his own steed behind to join his brothers. Jaime sighed, following his steps. "I suppose it's better than learning it from some dusty book… meaning no offense, Stark."

"For once, Lannister, we're of the same mind." Geralt replied, the dejection in his voice mirroring the boy's. The others made no comment, tension robbing them of opinion having them follow blindly. The boys walked closer, coming to a far more precarious table where the elder Lannisters and a few other lords gathered around Tywin, overlooking its center.

"Milord," Geralt squinted slightly before recognizing the thin, raspy voice. Ser Kevan's good-father, Ser Harys bluecock. "The enemy has buried the entrances to some of the outer mines. We believe they'll be guarding the few entrances that remain open to funnel our soldiers. With our strength, however, I believe they cannot win."

"To follow them through those open tunnels would be an excellent way to trap our men, my dear good-brother." Gerion replied cheekily. "Or choke the life from them, should they have managed to mine toxic fumes from some of those caverns."

"Attacking them head-on is a needless waste of resources." Tywin agreed, paying no mind to Swyft's reddening ears. "We'll wait until the contingent from Lannisport arrives. Flooding the mines will be far more effective. They'll drown, come out from the very openings they were defending, or they'll show us any new entrances they may have dug. Our siege engine canopies will be more than enough to ensure their delivery in case the pirates have archers, and if they do, we'll be able to locate them as well."

"My lord." Tygett spoke loudly and firmly, bringing Tywin's attention to him. "You heard the prisoner. They've still got hostages in one of their hiding holes. Whoresons and orphans, most like, but still children from the Westerlands. And that's assuming Ronal Farman isn't amongst them. To kill them in their cages for the sake of efficiency would be sure way to have our people believe we value our soldiers over their lives. Even if it weren't an open insult to our subjects, it's a risk we cannot afford. Not now."

"Naturally. That plan of action will occur once the reconnaissance force recovers them." Tywin explained, turning to face Tygett directly. "You'll be leading them. I've already been informed of the most likely places where they will be, and fortunately, the entrances are close enough together. You'll be taking three hundred men. Be aware of any and all traps that they may set. That they kept those children alive means that they hope to have a bargaining tool to survive their unwelcome stay, it's not likely they've rigged that holding place as well as they may have the others. Still, they've been crafty to make it here unnoticed."

"I'll keep my eyes open." Tygett nodded as Tywin signaled on the map the locations of interest, ending on where Geralt assumed his soldiers would be. "I take it my men will come equipped with canaries?"

"They will." Tywin nodded. "And a few dozen barrels of sea water, should the pirates decide their salvation lies in fire. The stallions without riders will carry them."

Tygett nodded, a figure nearly as tall as him walking behind him, bowing.

"My lord." He growled out in a low, rumbly voice. The group turned to the intruder, wrapped in plate mail, not once removing his large, if unnoteworthy helmet. "I've come to take you to your contingent."

"Mind your manners, Clegane," Tywin addressed coldly. "When you address your lords, you raise your visor, lest you seek to slight them."

"Apologies, my lord. My lords." He said, as he brusquely tore his visor upwards. Fine mood he's in. His scowl did his tone no favors, matching the snarls the three black hounds on his coat held. Something about the way he looked at others, the way he moved, the way he breathed… I don't trust that one. One proper look from Tywin was enough to have him taking a half step back. He turned to Tygett again, about to speak again but instinctively bowing first. "I've come to escort you to your soldiers, my lord. They'll be ready to ride on your command."

"As you were, Clegane." Tygett replied sternly, if not with hints of distaste in his voice. He looked at Tywin, a question clear on his face, though not one Geralt could identify. Tywin nodded, and Tygett sighed, frown tightening a bit. He shook his head and placed his helmet on. "Lead the way. No point delaying this any further."

They marched out, and Geralt noticed that nearly all the other boys were gawking. Jaime and Addam kept their composure the best, but they still failed to hide their shock. What's got them so floored? Tywin's command filled the tent. "All of you, with me. We'll be riding to the eastern edge of the encirclement. We'll be there to receive the Lannisport contingent and carry out the flooding once all is done and ready."

"Yes, my lord." They replied, the adults moving out. Instinctively, Geralt fell in stride with Jaime, following you when a gauntleted hand stopped the two.

"Not you lot, I'm afraid." Gerion interjected, amused smile on his face. Jaime opened his mouth, but the young man held his hand up quickly, silencing the boy. "Not myself either on this beautiful night. You're to remain here and watch from afar. I'm head of your guard, so if nothing else, we'll get to be bored together. Consider it proof of my love and devotion to you all that I would choose my duty to protect you over my aching desire to shed my steel for our dastardly guests. Get comfortable, because you're staying right here. If you need my, I'll be just outside. Try sneaking out if you truly want, you'll get caught by another of a hundred mounted guards, and you'll be answering to my brother over your impertinence."

With that, he swaggered outside, hand on his pommel, leaving the boys to the tent. From far away, Geralt could see that the center of the encirclement was an uneven terrain. If the Rock stood as a monumental landmark to scratch the sky, the area just nearby proved to be as uneven as the wavy ocean just nearby. And here I thought the mines were only in the Rock. He was about to ask on it, when Crakehall for the first time since they left the castle. "Seven hells, was that Gregor Clegane?!"

"That he was." Ser Jaime replied, his mood returning to pride and pompousness. "Quite the dog to own, I must admit. Father must be keen to take him out hunting."

"What, the oaf that came to fetch Ser Tygett?" Geralt replied, turning to him. "What about him?"

"What about him?!" Daven cut in, looking at Geralt like some poor, lost fool. "That's Gregor fucking Clegane!"

Geralt shook his head and shrugged. "That's twice you've mentioned his name without telling why it's worth mentioning."

"You're from the North, it's only natural to not have heard of him from so far away." Adam replied, looking where Tygett and Gregor had ridden off to. The winds seemed to howl in return. "House Clegane is a new one as well. During Lord Tytos Lannister's reign, Casterly Rock's kennelmaster earned lordship. Lord Tytos was nearly killed by a lioness, but the kennelmaster came with his hounds, losing three and a leg but saving his liege. Thus, House Clegane was born. The boy that came to fetch Ser Tygett is his grandson, and will be lord once his father passes."

"Boy?" Geralt asked louder speaking over the rising winds, brows furrowing. "What do you mean, boy?"

"What Addam means is Gregor's not a man." Jaime smirked as Geralt raised his brow. "You see, he's as old as you, Stark."

It was then that Geralt's surprise finally caught up to him. "That half-giant's four-and-ten?!"

"He is." Jaime said, gleefully taking in Geralt's shock. "I reckon he'll be a full giant once he's fully a man."

"Perhaps he'll squire at Casterly Rock!" Crakehall added, excited look in his face. "Could you imagine?! Between the six of us, we'd be quite the lot of knights to ride and protect the Westerlands!"

"I'd hope not." Addam interjected, the distrust and fear in his voice catching the others' attention. "There's no doubting his strength, and if he's directly under Ser Tygett this mission, surely Lord Tywin wants to confirm his capabilities for himself. He's terribly strong now, and he'll be a force to turn the tide once he's finished growing and acquiring experience. But the stories, that come from that family…"

The gales were starting to scream. Geralt's brows furrowed. Even with the few men that are pitiful excuses for lords in the Westerlands, there's never been revulsion in Addam's remarks. For him to speak like that of this Clegane is telling. "What kind of stories?"

"The least flattering kind." Jaime replied, smile receding. He frowned at the candles being blown out, but returned to his story again. "He's a violent one. For the scolding my father gave him, he's far less friendly without his betters around, from what I hear. Furious at the smallest noises, twitchy at the mildest glares. Not the oldest Clegane of his brood, or wasn't, at least. Doesn't matter now. The firstborn was a sister, as far as I recall, though she mysteriously disappeared. Usually, that'd likely just be telling of a tragedy in the family, but then there's his younger brother–"

"PIRATES!" The sharp cry led them to see Gerion, bloodied sword in hand, maddened look in his eyes. He pointed towards where the mountain stood. "BOYS, TO TYWIN'S CONTINGENT! WE'LL HOLD THEM OFF!"

Jaime stepped up to him immediately. "Uncle Gerion, we're not leaving you! We can–"

"THAT'S AN ORDER, JAIME." He roared furiously, making the lot jump. "NO ARGUING. GO, NOW!"

With that, they ran, swords in hand. They sprinted through the dusty ground, through frantically dancing grey grass. It reached his waste, and clouds had obscured the previously starry night. No promise of rain, but a mist had settled in that hid nothing, but blurred all. They found the silhouette of their horses, racing towards them. The five were on, and Geralt nearly galloped along with Daven, Addam and Crakehall when he caught the missing member. He turned back around to find Jaime looking at the battle not far away, where the Lannister and Essosi clouded into a great, cacophonous dance of blood and steel. He grabbed his shoulder tightly. "Lannister, we go, now!"

He turned to Geralt, for the first time showing fear and frailty. "But Uncle Gerion, he's– they're surrounded, outnumbered–"

"He'll be fine, he's a knight! A knight of House Lannister!" He shouted, trying and failing to make his tone comforting. "We've got to go! Trust him that he'll be fine! Your father will be coming as soon as he hears!"

Jaime nodded once half-heartedly, blinking and nodding steadily a second time. The two turned their mares and led them east, the mist slowly devolving into fog. Though they could see their surroundings still somewhat well enough, the Rock was starting to get swallowed by the invasive grey. Geralt frowned. Fuck, I can't see the others. Hopefully, they'll reach Lord Tywin soon. Another five minutes riding, and the fog rolled over them, turning the windblown grass into one great, shifting shadow. His hearing hardly fared better, the winds not letting up their agonized cries. All he knew was Jaime's shadow to his right, and the twin sounds of hooves galloping. Then there was one.

He turned quickly, the yelp drowned out by the gusts, but his reflexes caught it well. The mare continued, madly frightful, but her master had fallen. As he galloped back, he felt a rope swing into his chest, weights wrapping themselves around him. He snarled and kept grip on his horse. His sword-hand was wrapped, but his left was still free. He bent forwards, reaching into his boot, pulling Benjen's knife. With one swipe, he cut free. The mare screeched, and he still he came crashing down. By fortune, his fall led him far enough from the mare that she did not land on him. She thrashed, and Geralt had to focus for a few seconds to notice one of her front legs had ben cleaved off at the knee. It had been his only warning.

A shadow came large, arms open as if to wrap him in it. He swung Wolf's Claw, drawing blood from the attacker's stomach. The foreign screeching confirmed his origin, and Geralt swung again. He watched the head fall to the ground, rolling onto its cheek. Lifeless eyes damned him. My first. My true first. He saw several shadows rising from the grass. Too many, and I can't fucking see. He ran, swinging at another as he sprung from his place, severing an arm. Another lost his leg, taking to screaming just as his mare had. He had half a mind to finish them off, but too many stomps followed him. They already know where I am anyway. He kept running. He almost ran into a wall.

He ran by its side, finding more figures coming close from where he ran. He turned around, heading the other way. He ducked under a swing, blood staining his armor. The injured pirate had caught up to him, seething in fury and swinging his sword at him with one muscly arm. But as he had missed Geralt, he'd not missed the rocky wall. The quality of the assailant's sword betrayed him, shattering into diminutive pieces. Geralt lunged at his gut this time, twisting Wolf's Claw and swinging up from within. The body fell again, this time lifeless. In a form of bitter irony, multiple figures from fifty feet away were surrounding him. They were coming closer, half as fast and twice as careful. At least three dozen. Too many.

Frantically he laid on the floor and searched, madness springing the idea into his mind. He used his free hand to ruffle the floor, grabbing as many of the pieces of the broken sword he could get. The largest was the size of his knife, the smallest the upper half of his thumb. He let go of the rest, rolling up his left sleeve as fast as he could. It barely reached his elbow. Good enough. He took a deep breath and plunged the shard into his forearm, closer to his hand than his elbow. He growled from the pain, stomach clenching and heart pumping. He dug it so it was parallel, just under his skin. As every voice in his mind roared in protest to pull it out, he used Benjen's knife to cut cloth from the ankle of his pants. He wrapped it, each layer he covered around his forearm in sending another searing spike of pain. He finished in seconds, gripping one end with his free hand and the other with his teeth, he finished a tight knot, though one that would come loose if pulled the right way.

Nothing left to do now but take as many of these cunts with me. He got up again, silhouettes tightening into a near-gapless circle, merely fifteen feet away. The pain and fear transformed into feral rage, Geralt roaring and charging at them with Wolf's Claw raised high. The strangers raised their swords, but never swung at him. One blocked, another dodged, the third was too slow. His swing didn't reach somewhere lethal, but the copper-skinned raider's cheeks were split open, leading to a horrific scream. A sharp lunge got another in the throat. One lucky swing got the two at the back cutting one at the skull and digging well into the second's ribs.

The time it took him to pull his sword out was enough to feel a strong arm gripping his sword arm. The other pressed a silky cloth against his nose and mouth. It smelled like freshly cut grass, with a faint, false sweetness that made Geralt's heart spike. He swung his head back at the pirate, managing to hit him in the chin, but his grip was tight. The palm was too light, too ghostly compared to his skin, just a shade away from Dragonglass. Another gripped his wounded, arm, making Geralt gasp for breath as the figures surrounded and held him down. The sweetly smell became fainter and fainter as the cloudy night sky grew darker and darker.