Author's Notes: This was much faster than I expected an update to come out, but my inspiration was on a role. The chapter is still relatively short, but it's now at least two and a half times longer than the last one. First chapter should be short still, especially in a story with much build up. To get into the story a little more (without spoiling too much), there will be deviations from the main GoT/ASOIAF storyline (more than because it's in the middle of the shows and the books, it's because Guts has the tendency of changing the whole of making ripples in destiny). Will he be the only character from Berserk to make an appearance. No, that'd be a waste. Now the way others will be incorporated and how many will be incorporated is what only time will tell. However, you'll have an answer within a few short episodes of something that should help you get an idea of what's in the story and what's not. Now, the only thing is, Guts's name can't be Guts in this story 'cause, you know, he won't have the same extraordinary circumstances in rebirth this time around (and he won't be raised by an asshole like Gambino). The name I chose might be cheeky, but I'm sticking by it (and I promise you, this story is only a crossover between Berserk and A Song of Ice and Fire, not something more). Also, it'll make sense by the next episode, when I give you the 'casting options' for this crossover. Now, without further ado, enjoy the first chapter.
Winterfell's Brood
The halls were hectic at Winterfell, the Noble Wolf was storming through them. It wasn't long before Rickard Stark entered his lady wife's birthing chambers. By happenstance, Lyarra's sister Branda and her good-brother Harrold Rogers had come visiting the North. It had been a great relief to Rickard Stark that his family had visited, so as to not leave little Bran and Ned with only servants. He loved them greatly, but with the eldest at three and the second at two years of age, he would not want them to see their mother's spirit twisted in the agony of birthing. In a few years mayhap, when they could witness their first execution, they might bear through their mother's pain. Until then, he wanted his pups safe and happy with the event already done.
Hearing his wife's screaming brought him to a run. By the time he reached it, he could see the nursing bed red and crimson with blood. Rickard paled. He'd been with Lyarra through every birth, and none looked as horrible as her third. He didn't think for a moment before jumping to her side. The nurses tried to tell him something, but one look of his and they were silenced immediately. His wife, tearful and delirious, looked at him and smiled. He held her hand and smiled back. "You came, Rick."
"How could I not, Ly? I'm by your side now and forever, else the Old Gods see me hung from a Weirwood." That made her laugh, and Rickard smiled in relief. It crumbled away when her face contorted into one of agony, the screams born in her throat echoing out her mouth like damned spirits released from a tomb. She's never screamed like this. She's never bled like this. She can't… no, she's a Stark, she will NOT die from this. She is strong. But all his faith in those words faded the more blood pooled about her legs. His face contorted by the anger and fear possessing him. "DO SOMETHING. CAN YOU NOT SEE MY WIFE BLEEDING?"
"W-we're trying, my lord. We cannot do more until she gives birth." He grit his teeth, putting his other hand by Lyarra's face. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, but he drove them back. I must be strong for her, for me. She cannot see weakness now, not in her time of need. "Ly, my love, I know you're in pain, Hells, agony right now, but you need to push. Push now, and push hard Ly, it will all be over soon."
"AND DO YOU THINK I'M NOT DOING THAT, YOU DAMN OAF?!" Rickard flinched. It did well to remind him from whom Brandon inherited the Wolf's Blood. Her shriek was ear-piercing, a barbed needle that threatened to gouge Rickard's heart. You're strong. YOU'RE STRONG. PUSH, DAMN YOU. Seconds were as long as hours then, but her screams finally died down, and replacing it was a deafening silence. He did not hear the soft whimpering that followed the pain. No, no, NO. Lyarra had fainted from the blood loss already, but turning around and looking at his newborn, his son unmoving and silent left him in fear. He loathed the sensation plaguing his mind, the powerlessness. All he could do was look at his stillborn while his wife's life withered away.
Even the babe was ghastly. Born nearly a moon prior to his expected time, he was small, fragile, ugly. And with his wife's profuse bleeding, he was coated in red and black and brown, making him look closer to a miserable little imp than an actual babe. One of the nurses, one of the older ones, Nan, she was called, took him immediately. All his inaction in fear was determination in her eyes. Without hesitation or disgust, she took the babe, pressed him against her and slapped his bottom. A minute of doing so brought little coughs from the newborn, and Rickard felt a relief in his heart like he'd never felt with Bran and Ned's arrival into the world. A soft grip on his hand brought him to look at his wife, whose tears could not hide her soft, faint smile. "Go to him, Rick. Hold our son for us."
He nodded faintly. As far as he was doing, he might have been no damn better than Bran or Ned. Hells, they might have done a better job than he was doing now. But he took to his wife's guidance, left her side for a minute, and looked to Nan, who used a moist towel to clean the boy. She gave him a reassuring smile and held him out to the Lord of Winterfell, who held him carefully, afraid he would break. He only felt that fear with Bran, that was his first time in such a case. But this one, the bloodiness, the fear… it doesn't matter. He's alive. Ly's alive. He whimpered, arms and legs barely moving, but sporting a liveliness that quenched his fears. He knelt besides Ly, who ignored the nurses' stitches and towels, and looked at her son. She choked on a sob. "Rick, he's beautiful."
"Yes, he is, Ly. Our boy, our son. Little Benjen." At that, his wife gave soft laughter, shaking her head as well as her pillows would allow. He raised his brow. I wanted our next son to be named that… not like it matters. She went through all that, she deserves to name him. "No? Then what were you thinking, my love? Who is our boy?"
"Geralt. Geralt Stark is our son. Little Ger will play with Bran and Ned when he's older, and he'll fight harder than anyone to protect his family. With how fierce he was while he was inside me, and how daring he was to come so early… yes, Geralt will be his name." For a moment, Rickard thought she spoke of King Aerys's White Bull, undoubtedly a good warrior to be promoted to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, especially after his actions on the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He admitted he wasn't fond of a southron name, but he could not deny his wife's wish. But Gerold wasn't Geralt, and Geralt had been a Stark once, if not a lesser known in history. Most annals of the war on the Night's King were lost, but some said the only reason Brandon the Breaker and Joramun the Free fought together was at Geralt Snow's behest, the unsung bastard hero of the War for the Dawn. Bringing together his brother's northmen and his friend's wildlings, the three fell against the Night's King and won.
He looked at his boy. He was a third-born, though that didn't make him any less a Stark. He came into the world bloodily, but he survived his first great peril. He was young and frail now, but that did not mean he would not grow. He was premature, but he was fine and healthy. Yes… Geralt would do. Geralt was his name. He smiled, unable to stop a lone tear from rushing down his cheek. "Geralt Stark then, Ly. Our little Ger."
Years had passed, and life at Winterfell had continued splendidly. If Rickard didn't count the greying hairs that continued to colonize more and more of his beard. It seemed to be catching up to his head, according to his wife. He could only count with Ned when it came to the children that actually gave him a measure of peace. Brandon, Geralt and Lyanna seemed intent on finding all matter of mischief and putting him in the Crypts before his time. Bran was the oldest and proudest, even at six finding ways in which he could use his status as firstborn to gain some measure of power, if only to demand the cooks to make him more sweets. Lya took after her eldest, even at two being a force to reckon with, screeching and howling whenever something didn't go her way. Ned, in comparison, was silent and obedient, a blessing Rickard never knew he could be so thankful for.
Ger was… Ger was Ger. He was different from the others, even since birth. The strange, faint birthmark on the back of his neck should have been a sign of that. He was only three, to be sure, but his wildness was nothing like Bran's when the latter was younger. He wasn't disobedient, not intentionally at least, but there were things he would do because he chose to, or duties he would do his own way and no other way. He was strange, having unique fixations on how he approached his life, and he was fiercely aggressive whenever someone threatened that. He could only shake his head when he remembered how he stabbed a nurse with his fork because he wanted to cut his own meat. He apologized, Ly made damn sure of that, but he remained adamant on feeding himself. At least he strives for independence, not to satiate power hunger.
His wife, in the meantime, was eight and a half moons swollen. She had a glowing about her she didn't have before, but Rickard once again felt the nerves threatening to overpower him. All pointed towards him being wrong, and after Ger, he was convinced that nothing was too strong for his wife. But… there was something about it this time, Lyarra did not seem all there as she used to be, her ferociously strong will becoming more absent by the day. Even the children were beginning to notice. It was all he could do to maintain the calm. It'll all be well soon enough. Once Benjen–or Arya, is born, all will be well. She was fine. She was past the dangerous premature period Geralt was born in, but he still had the sinking feeling. This time I'm here, though. I'm not down south asking for King Aerys's aid in claiming more of the North. I'm where I need to be.
He held her in his bed, the only movement from her being the kicking within her womb. He looked at his beautiful Ly. I can't lose you. You're the one I trust most. The one who can tell me when greed and ambition get the best of me. You're the best of me. And with those thoughts, he held her close to him before his mind drifted off into the night's peaceful abyss, drowning thoughts and silencing fears. He awoke to wetness, but not to screams. It was still dark, though the growing moon had passed plenty of its course. He looked to Lyarra and touched her face, unmoving and tense. If it wasn't for the fever, she'd be cold. He threw the covers off to see her legs, and his, soaked in her bodily fluids and blood. "NURSES, MY WIFE IS TO BIRTH!"
His roar had brought about a flock of the ladies, shocked to see his wife still, but wasting no time in carrying her to the room. He was naked, finding the time only to put on some simple robes and boots before following after them. "AND BRING THE MAESTER, SHE'S BLEEDING AND FAINTED!"
This is it. He damned the Gods then. To take her sleeping was to take her at her weakest, undoubtedly the only time she was weak enough to be robbed from him. Spiteful cunts, she was too strong for you in life, and you'd take her while she's giving birth? He was nauseous. He wanted to hold her as he did last time, but the Maester told him this time, he needed to perform surgery while she was delivering. He sat outside the room, his robes hugging his legs uncomfortably, plastering against his wife's blood. Silence, he found, was even more damning than the screaming. At least give her a chance to fight, damn you all. He was in pain, in fear. He was powerless again, and this time he was away from her. It took him a few moments to realize his children were before him. Brandon was holding little Lyanna's hand while Eddard and Geralt were standing at his sides. They were softly weeping, but they were silent.
…I have to be strong. If not for her, for them. "Come here, pups. Your mother will be out with Benjen soon. We'll all laugh about this tomorrow. Everything will be alright."
His voice was as warm as it could be, and his children rushed into his open arms. Only Geralt didn't look convinced. The look he had told Rickard he knew what was happening, better than his three siblings. He held them that way, for how long, he didn't know. The damnable darkness and silence hid the passage of time, and he didn't have it in him to ask anyone how'd long it'd been. He didn't know if he'd like the answer. All he knew was that he was his children's pillar, and he refused to crumble. Or are they mine? I don't know where I'd be without them.
The door opened, and out came old Maester Walys. He was relieved to hear the crying from within the room. But the solemnity of his worn, leathery face told him all he needed to know. "Your son, is well and healthy, Lord Rickard. Lady Lyarra has been administered milk of the poppy to remove her pain, but she is not long for this world. If you wanted to say farewell, my lord, now is the time."
He held his head low and slowly walked away, chains quietly clinging from his body's lethargic movement. Rickard watched him go, mouth agape. …No, that's not how it was meant to happen. He could only look at the door besides him, so close and so far away. He was afraid to look inside, to say goodbye. His children continued sobbing into his chest. Only one walked away, waddling into the room where the others couldn't move. Geralt looked inside, his tears dried up, his little expression solemn. He stood still for a moment before he walked inside. A minute passed, and the Lord of Winterfell could only look at the door. Rickard's heart broke. "Bran, hold Ned's hand. I'll carry Lyanna. Come, we should be with your mother."
With one arm, he carried Lya, while with the other hand, he led Bran who led Ned. The room inside wasn't half as horrifying as Geralt's birth had been, far less bloody and messy. Instead it was somber, a melancholic presence in the room that came with the presence of death. The nurses looked at him nervously, sad and defeated. Ly was truly loved in Winterfell, how could she not be? She had Wolf's Blood running through a golden heart. When he found none of them to be holding his child, he tensed. It was only when he found Ger sitting on a chair next to his mother's bed that he was taken aback. As Rickard held Lyanna, Ger held the babe, clean and silent and asleep. He held his smiling mother's hand in the other.
"It's alright mother. Benjen's fine. We're fine. You can sleep now." Lyarra said nothing, but her smile grew a little wider, caressing her son's little hand in her own. She gave a slow and careful kiss to Ben's little forehead, who Ger held close to her. She lazily turned her eyes to him and their children. Brandon was sobbing loudly and disheartened, while Eddard was silent in his whimpers. Lyanna cried into his chest. Rickard smiled past the tears. "Geralt's right, Lyarra. We're alright, all of us. They have you as a mother, a lady so strong the Gods had to take her sleeping. Benjen will be fine and strong, like you. We love you."
"I love you all too. Be strong, Rickard." Her words were faint, but her smile didn't falter. It was tragic, but there was a sweetness to them. When her eyes closed, Rickard felt numb. He still held on to the children, still crying, but his eyes were dry now. Geralt too looked shock, but overall composed, if only at first glance. He still held on to his mother's limp hand, but his grip on Benjen did not loosen for a moment. They remained that way a little longer, each of their children giving their mother a parting kiss on her forehead. Better now before she's cold, truly cold. He would have her buried in the Crypts, tradition be damned. The nurses finally snapped from their waking dream, taking to the children, a few attending Benjen. The only one that grabbed little Ger's arm was shocked at how he yanked it viciously from her. Her eyes widened, but Rickard put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. She opened her mouth for a brief second, but Nan grabbed her by the elbow and gave him a nod.
He knelt beside the bed, at Geralt's height, who still held on to his mother. Rickard looked at him and nearly came undone. He placed both hands on his cheeks and kissed the top of his head. "You did good, Geralt, better than I could have done. You… you're strong. Like your mother. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
He nodded silently, tears fleeting his eyes, but with an unchanged face and without the chest-heaving his siblings had been stricken with. Sometimes he wondered if his thirdborn was truly a child, or an adult trapped in a very young body. Doesn't matter. He is my son. They are my children, my pups. The direwolves of Winterfell. They'll make you proud Ly, I promise you. Slowly and gently, Rickard pried Ger's hands from his mother's and into his own. He looked up at him before freeing his hand from his. He hopped onto the bed, hugged Lyarra's head and kissed her on her forehead. When he jumped back down, he looked up to his father and held out an expectant hand. Rickard held it gently, and led him to his room. The other three needn't know. They were young, they didn't understand what happened. He let Geralt sleep in his bed that night, cleaned with new sheets. My son. My strongest son.
Author's Notes: Just to be sure no one gets confused: Rickard Stark is not a pedophile. He simply saw that one of his sons was more affected than the others because he understood that his mother had died and preferred he stayed with him. Now that you know Guts's new origin and family, I'll let you in on who Rickard and Lyarra would be protrayed by (in my head):
- Rickard Stark: Ian McShane (his portrayal in S6 was short and underused, so I'm using him as the Stark patriarch)
- Lyarra Stark: Cate Blanchett (for a mother with no wiki description, I figured she had to be beautiful and strong-willed, which Cate Blanchett fits in perfectly)
Lyarra's "fancasting" might be short and even pointless, but I figured it's good to have an image in your head of what certain important characters look like. Guts's own actor equivalent is what I consider to be the best pick in the fancasting I've made (you'll find out in the best episode). If you want to guess prematurely, it has a lot to do with his name.
So to summarize the chapter, I wanted to make Guts's birth parallel but humane to his birth in the Berserk universe. And, having been at Shisu's side at the moment of her death, I figured he 'inherently' (or by experience of a past life) knows how to handle someone who is dying. Not much happened this chapter, but it's a setup for the beginning and how the dynamics should play out in the coming chapters. And for reference, one of the first arcs of the story (maybe not the first) will be Robert's Rebellion, which Guts/Geralt will be a part of. After that, I think you could expect a jump to the 'modern day' of Game of Thrones. Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed, and these Author's Notes will only be long for the first episodes (while I write who's cast as who and how the story will work). Feel free to give feedback, if you enjoyed something or hated it, or if you see room for improvement. I'm open to all of it.
The Almighty Afroduck,
All Hail
