Author's Notes: Well, with 30 followers (much more than I was expecting so early on), I'd say we have a class's worth reading this story, so gather 'round children. This is the last very fast update you can expect for the time being, since I've got midterms this week. I suppose the immense inspiration I've gotten for this story comes from loving the idea this gives me in my head, so I've been restlessly writing. This chapter should have a much more standard length for what you can expect from future chapters (about 9,000 words, give or take a couple hundred). It's still introductory, but it's starting to really take shape now. Before I get on with it, since it's the GoT screen universe (at least in the visual aspect), here's my cast for the Stark household (we'll get to others soon enough):

Rickard Stark - Ian McShane

Brandon Stark - Chris Hemsworth (young and dark haired)

Eddard Stark - Sean Bean (as young as his character)

Geralt Stark - Henry Cavill (young (I'm especially proud of this pick, I was careful when picking this one))

Lyanna Stark - Kaya Scodelario (young)

Benjen Stark - Joseph Mawle (young)

With very few exceptions, the cast will simply be a younger version of the cast of Game of Thrones. Looking up pictures of their younger selves online and imagining the acting to go with it makes it easier to imagine than brand new casting. As for the casting, some of it I find to be perfect (with Henry Cavill being a perfect fit for Guts), and some is mainly visual. Most of the weirder 'characters' are mainly visual, the story will just show how it's played out.

As for the reviews, I'll answer briefly at the end of the chapter in what I can to clear up doubts without spoiling. Until then, enjoy the chapter!

Blue Rose

Geralt had had a… unique childhood. He had been plagued with nightmares since his youth, of evil monsters and even crueler men. He dreamt of solitude and pain, of fantastical planes and mediocre prisons. He spent his nights in fear, feeling like he was on the edge of an abyss, an abyss which longed to drag him into the vilest pits of all the Hells. Sometimes they were so vivid, Geralt could not help but feel that they were very real, even when they made no sense. A hand two or more times bigger than the Wall itself, a man who turned into a slug, children that became ravenous butterflies and wasps, and bloody eggs with twisted faces on them. There were times he thought he was mad. But even then, some dreams were crueler, closer to reality. He dreamt of men using him to fight and kill, friends who saw him as nothing more than a tool, and a large dark figure with a grin that would forever haunt him.

The waking world was greatly kinder. It was like being reminded that those nightmares had no base, no reason to be. Geralt was, by nature, a lone wolf. Even then, his family flocked to him time and time again, and though it once frustrated him to no end, he enjoyed the warmth. He was the third son of a family of five, and his father was the lord of the North, seated at the capital of the largest portion of land in all of Westeros. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf amongst wolves. Even as a thirdborn, he had duties and responsibilities to keep up with. Knowledge of the other Great Houses, the houses of the North, proper knowledge on tactics and warfare, amongst more things. In fact, in the last one, he wound up being somewhat prodigious. Though his nightmares were the demons that awaited him at the end of the day, sometimes he would dream of better days, of a royal white hawk leading men and using intelligent strategy to win against overwhelming odds.

His greatest work, however, and perhaps the one he was best fit to, was combat. Since he was six, he would swing a sword. Old Rodrik Cassel tried to get him to use a wooden sword, but Geralt howled and snarled. He didn't get it then, but he resigned himself to sneaking into the morning and picking out old, steel short-swords. They were big in his hands, but he had dreamt of a sword far greater, impossibly larger. If he could wield that monster, a short sword wouldn't be difficult. And it wasn't. He swung the steel to the best his little body could handle, until one day his father and Rodrik caught him. The Lord of Winterfell prohibited from doing that again. That just meant Geralt would wake up earlier, and find wherever they snuck the swords into. Getting caught a second time let them know he was adamant in his methodology, and Rickard Stark decided to allow him to train exclusively with blunted swords, capable of bludgeoning at best, but never cutting. Geralt accepted the ultimatum. He only wanted the swords for their weight.

His father was a good man. An ambitious man, but a good man. Geralt was naturally paranoid about greed and desire, but he knew his father well enough that all the money and all the lands and all the power in the world would not be enough for Rickard Stark to give up his people, much less his family. That didn't stop him from getting ideas on how to strengthen the North. Maester Walys was responsible for that, at least that's what the other northern lords said. The southron was dismissed after his failure to save Geralt's mother, but the seeds he planted in his father's head had already flourished. Lyarra kept him grounded. With her gone, he's all scent and hunger. He heard that one from some old Dustin whose name he couldn't remember. Squaring up against him and threatening in all his terror of eight years should have made the elder laugh, but somehow it set the old lord straight.

Brandon was another matter. He was called the Wild Wolf for a reason. Handsome, long hair, eyes between steely gray and stormy blue, he was considered the pride of House Stark. And the idiot acts like it too. He loved Bran, he was his brother, but that didn't stop Geralt from wanting to break his nose from time to time. One time he did, and his brother's retribution was fierce, but Geralt never backed from the fight. They were evenly matched, in fact, and it was Old Rodrik that stopped the fight before there could be a victor. Bran was a good brother, a loving brother, but he was also proud. And with that pride came greed. And lust. So much damn lust. I'll bet half the gray hairs from father's head come from other lords catching their daughters with him, the ones that caught him anyways. For lack of better words, Geralt thought Bran was an idiot, a loving, good idiot to have on his side, but an idiot.

Eddard was as far from Brandon as the sun was from the moon. Where Bran was boisterous and loud and charismatic, Ned was reserved, gentle and shy, the Quiet Wolf. He had a fierceness in him too, but it took plenty to evoke that. While Geralt certainly got along with Ned better, there was one thing that continually frustrated him about the secondborn. For all of Ned's temperance and goodwill and intelligence, he had no will of his own. He was perfectly obedient at all times, and rarely ever came to think for himself. If he'd been born heir, father would be happiest. He was a good companion, a great friend and an excellent confidant, but without his own drive for something for himself, Geralt could not help but feel like Bran was Ned's better in what was most essential for any person alive. Unfortunately, with his continual stays in the Eyrie, he never got to voice those concerns to the quiet brother.

Lyanna, for that reason, had been Geralt's closest friend. She was a, no, the She-Wolf of House Stark. She was very much like Bran if he'd been born a girl, but with half the flaws. Lya was strong-willed, unrepentant and cunning. She fought for what she wanted and let nothing get in the way of that. Well, she wouldn't use her siblings or family for something genuinely important, but the bitch was certainly crafty enough to know her way around them. They fought all the time as children, clashing time and time again with only a year's difference. But mother's death brought them all closer together, especially for Benjen's sake. He could only smile as he remembered when she caught him training in the black of the night with the blunted iron sword and demanded he teach her. He told her to go find something to knit, and she pounced on him. If he hadn't been so tired, he wouldn't have been overpowered. But when she held his own sword against his throat, he knew she'd find a way to fight one way or another. Better he teach her than she teach herself, if that was the case.

Benjen was the youngest and sweetest of them. Thinking back to Ned, he had to remove the thought of shyness describing him. Ned was solemn, it was Ben who was shy. But Ben was also well-meaning, and sweet. He had about as much Wolf's Blood in him as Ned, which wasn't exactly none, but it was certainly far less than Bran, Lya and himself. The Pup was mostly all smiles and always looked for the answer that would make everyone happy. Every so often though, Geralt could see past Benjen's mirth, a sadness hidden behind his eyes. He couldn't blame the youngest, he bore the weight of mother's death on his shoulders, even if it wasn't his fault. He was violently protective of him for that. They all were, it was the single common ground all siblings shared. The Pup was theirs to raise and protect, and no one would hurt him without their retaliation.

Overall, Geralt considered his life a good one. Sometimes he'd dream of his mother, holding her hand as she lay dying. Sometimes, she would look like she had some sickness eating at her, a plague marring her features. She was very present in his sadder dreams. It was a pain he shared with his father. Rickard Stark treated him differently since that day. You may not be the only one with Wolf's Blood, Ger, but you're the only one with the mind to tame it. The others will learn, but later in life. Never forget that strength. For the others he held the patience a father would for his children. With Geralt it was in part the same, but he treated him like an adult as well. And, for all of his own stubbornness, he often acted the most mature of the litter. Often was not always.

Geralt turned halfway back to look at Winterfell, the imposing walls making for a magnificent sight. Snow dropped slowly on his thirteenth nameday, and he wanted to enjoy some silence before the whole damn castle went up in celebration. It was his little rebellion against his father, but it was definitely on the better side of them considering Bran. He laughed, remembering his father's red face and Bran's fear when he pulled him out himself naked from Nesta Norrey's bed, when she visited with her father and brother. No, he wanted time for himself, time to think.

When he came upon the Godswood, he felt much more at peace. He wasn't sure if the Old Gods were real, though he knew his father prayed to them time from time. When he asked him where the book for that was, he laughed. If the Gods need books to speak to you, they are as good as mutes. When you stand before the Heart Tree, listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water. They'll speak through them, if you know how to listen. He didn't. But he found peace there regardless, and he was grateful for the Heart Tree itself, even with how strange the face looked. The Godswood helped him whenever nightmares wouldn't let him sleep, when mad visions and cruel ideas threatened to take over. They brought peace, they brought silence. They saved him from himself. And sometimes, he had half a mind to believe they did give answers in their own way. They were what led him to dream of training in another life, to come up with the idea of using actual swords to practice despite what others would say.

He sat on one of the great roots, and took a look around. The dawn was almost upon Winterfell, and the stars and the moon would fade from the sky. In the violet hues of the night, he let out a frosty breath. He'd dreamt of the hawk again, shining brightly like a comet in the abyss. But then the hawk was surrounded by the silhouette of a black falcon, cruel and menacing, whose wingspan blocked out the sky. Geralt had realized that the 'hawk' was nothing more than a painting on the falcon's chest, something for the world to look at to ignore the black beast that stole their light. He looked at the long, broad face of the Weirwood, solemn as a Stark, and wise as a Maester. It cried sap from its eyes, red tears that spoke of damning knowledge. Forbidden knowledge. Geralt frowned. Forbidden knowledge, where the hell did I come up with that?

He shook his head, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water. The water was faster now, being well into spring and with summer approaching. The wind still made the leaves give their telltale chant, though now there were newer, smaller ones budding in to the chorus. He felt peace, he was well away from the chaos of his mind here. It's as if the Godswood was magical, capable of bringing peace to those who embraced it. When he opened his eyes again, his mind was clear of his newest nightmare. He smiled, now I have a better chance at facing the family. Getting up from his place and patting away the snow from his cloak, he tensed when he looked at a shadow in the distance. Red eyes peered at him from afar, and Geralt felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck. He instinctively touched it, but found it to be normal still.

He reached for his sword and took it out immediately, an average greatsword that should have been too big for his age. He got closer to the shadow, "Hey UGLY! You lookin' for a fight? I'm right fucking here."

When he got closer, he froze. He couldn't see too far ahead, but what he could see through the snowfall was a man armored from head to toe, on a macabre horse in equal wear. His heart near stopped when he realized the red eyes came from within the helmet, which from afar, looked like a skull. The rider said nothing, only looking on at him. Geralt had a hard time between the instinct telling him to drive his sword through the invader and run to Winterfell before he could get cut down. But the mysterious knight simply backed away into a fog, the red eyes observing him until they were gone. Geralt grasped his head. "Fuck, am I really going mad now?"

He looked to the Heart Tree for answers, and could almost say its eyes looked wider. Walking slowly towards it and placing his hand on it, he waited for a reaction. Nothing happened and Geralt shivered. Fuck, this is it. I thought only Targaryens had this. But the river flowed and the leaves sang from a particular place. He looked again to where the mysterious rider had been standing and found the man to be gone. In his place was something blue on the ground, something glowing. Sword in hand, Geralt walked close to it, and found himself before a blue rose. A winter rose. This… wasn't here before. Flowers can't grow here, not with all the trees blocking out the sky. It was just a flower, nothing more. And yet, there it was now.

He knelt down next to it, inspecting it closely. It looked like it was made for the cold, but the lack of sun was what was keeping it malnourished. Geralt grit his teeth. Bran hears I'm collecting flowers now and I'll never hear the end of it. Fuck it. He removed the snow around the flower and began to dig at the soil around it. Once it was out, roots and all, he carried it the way he carried Benjen when he was a babe. Great, I'm takin care of fucking flowers now. What's next, I'll let horses ride on my back? But he didn't let go of the rose, and he didn't stop until he was back in Winterfell. Through halls he ran, fast before the rest of the North would wake. C'mon, c'mon, where's the damn flowers again? Living there for thirteen years should have been enough for him to learn, but then he'd never cared for the gardens.

Making it by one of the courtyards, he almost planted it on the soil, but stopped himself. What if someone pulls it out as a gift? Sounds like something Bran would do to seduce a servant girl. He continued running. Where, where, where? He stopped and thought, before a grimace came to him. It'll have to be my room then. Not many people go there except Lya… I'll have to threaten her with telling father I'm training her if she touches it. He didn't know why he was being so protective to a flower, it made no sense. But there he was, defending it as if his life depended on it. Or rather, someone else's. It made no sense.

When he got to his room, he placed the rose on a pot he had stolen along the way and placed it by the window. The stone was wide enough that even if the pot was knocked over, it wouldn't fall. There, that should do it. He let out a deep sigh, laying on his bed and looking out the window. The sun was finally rising, the first hour of the morn painting the edge of the horizon red and pink and orange. It made it to his room. Geralt took deep breaths, looking at the ceiling in solace. He didn't know why he felt solemn, but he did. His mind flashed to a jail, cold as the Neck, but with nothing to cover himself. He remembered a plump, fat rat, the screeches that echoed through the small prison as he devoured it. He remembered the foul taste, though the relief his stomach felt when he finally gave it feed. Geralt shook his head. That's someone else. That's not me. He closed his eyes. Listen to the wind, the leaves, the running water.

He heard the leaves moving. His eyes opened at that. The plant had been limp, unmoving. But with the sun, something seemed to have changed. He sat up on his bed to find that the blue rose was upright now, drinking in the light that had been denied from it. It's pretty. Geralt didn't know why, but it brought him peace. Squinting his eyes, it was what he saw besides the flower that had him jumping. And when he jumped from his bed, she hid behind the flower. He slowly walked towards it. He laughed a humorless chuckle. "I guess I've really gone mad then."

He bent forwards to look at it closely. A figure was hiding behind the rose, shivering slightly. When its head–her head peeked out, Geralt raised a brow. She looked like the dolls his father had gifted Lyanna when she was young, back when he thought she could be tamed. She had several short leaves woven into a dress, starting at her chest and ending at her knees. Her hair was a dark green, not unlike the grass that surrounded the flower. It was tied back in a bun, which in turn transformed into a miniature rose itself. Her face was a child's, curious and innocent. She stepped out in front of the flower, allowing him to look at her whole body, which could have easily fit in the palm of his hands. The two stayed looking at each other, until a light entered her eyes. Geralt could have sworn the last time he'd seen that much joy in someone had been a while, when father allowed Lya to take riding lessons. "Guts Human!"

His expression remained shock, so much so he did not have time to react to the little girl hopping onto his sleeve, climbing up and hugging his face. …What? He felt her. He felt her. She was real. And if she had had any other face, he would have flicked her from the window and tore apart the rose. But the face… her face... she was in my dreams. My dreams. Are they dreams now, or are they real? She's… she's… "…Chitch?"

"GUTS HUMAN! Chitch happy! Chitch SO HAPPY! Chitch full of poppo! Chitch with friend! Human friend Guts!" He cringed at the name, he didn't know why. Doesn't matter, I can deal with that later. There was something about her face, her sweet, innocent face that made him hurt. And it hurt deeply. She's a kid. She was brought to me just to be my damn weakness. But in spite of the needles poking at the strings of his heart, he made himself smile. He sat on his bed, which made her fall from his head. He caught her in his hands, and she was in the same place as she had been in his dreams. Only this time, she's a winter rose instead… but still an elf. It didn't matter, not for the time being. "It's Geralt. I don't know who this 'Guts' is, but I know you. Besides, I promised, didn't I? I still haven't gotten you to your buddies, and I get the feeling that this time around, I'll get the chance to take you."

Her smile dwindled then. She frowned at him before looking at her feet. Geralt frowned too. Is it because of the 'Guts' thing? Hells, I don't want her to start calling me that. Didn't think that would bother her so much. She started shaking. Geralt grit his teeth, his mind berating all his recent mistakes with the little girl. With a finger, he gently poked her in the stomach. "Chitch, you alright?"

She looked back up at him, tears running down her cheeks. A very high whimper let him know she was on the verge of a breakdown. Geralt felt sweat threatening to sprout from his forehead. Fuck, what do I do now? He opened his mouth to speak, but she jumped from his arm and onto his leg. She ran to his torso and hugged him as tightly as she could. She sobbed then, sobbed loudly. He would have been annoyed, should have been annoyed. But something about her crying reminded him of Lyanna, who only ever wept when she was truly heartbroken. He gently wrapped her body with one of his hands. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She looked up again, hiccupping every time she tried to take a full breath. "G-Guts Hu-Human remember Chitch. Friend re-remember Chitch. Ch-Chitch not alone."

There was something painful about hearing that. The feeling of being alone and forgotten by most and used and abused by the rest… he knew that feeling. He knew that feeling much, much better than he had the right to as a Stark of Winterfell. But Guts… No, I can't think about who she's talking about now, that can wait. It's not important now. He cursed internally, he didn't want to tear up, he refused to. He remembered his father then, words that he kept as a mantra. You're strong. Like your mother. Mother would smile if she were in his place, so he did the same. With a finger, he poked the elf on the head. "No, you're not. So smile. You've got a human friend, and soon you'll have many elf friends."

"E-Elf?" She repeated, sadness overtaken by interest. Gotcha. Guts sighed in relief. "Yeah, elves. Like you. Like Chitch. Some day you'll meet them. I've met them. I think. We'll just have to find them again, and you can live in a field of flowers forever. How's that sound?"

"Ch-Chitch happy! G-Guts Human make Chitch full of poppo!" She was still hiccupping, but her smile returned. Good, back on track. Now all I need to do is find a way to get her to stop calling me 'Guts'. He cringed when he heard it. He shivered when he thought it. One way or another, I'm figuring out if I'm crazy and just imagined all that shit in my dreams and I'm just talking to a flower or if it's all real. Until then, I'm keeping the elf… Chitch, safe and happy. "It's Geralt Human. My friends call me Ger for short, so you can call me that too."

"G-Ger? Ger! Ger Human!" She cheered, hopping on his leg and dancing around. Geralt's lip tightened to a thin line. For some reason, I thought she could fly. He shook his head. Grabbing her with one hand, he stood up and grabbed the pot in the other. He placed it on the table by his bedside. It ain't the best, but now she'll be in less risk. He placed her on the soil, letting her dance in circles around the rose. She cheered even more when she saw the sun rising a little further, enough to turn the skies into shades of blue instead of shades of pink. His eyes widened. Fuck, it's my nameday. Dreams of a leafless, withered field flower entered his mind. Fuck. He turned a serious face and looked at Chitch. She stopped dancing and looked at him with big, sweet eyes.

"Chitch, no pulling leaves from the flower, alright? If anyone comes into the room, hide. You can use my bed to hide. No one should come, but if they do, you hide. They probably won't see you, but you never know if they will. Just… just wait for me, I'll come back later. And don't pull out the leaves." Her eyes got sad again. "Ger Human leaving?"

Geralt sighed. He knelt in front of the flower, and with one calloused finger, he rubbed her head. "Ger Human coming back. Stay here, enjoy poppo. I'll come back soon. Ger Human is friend. Friends don't leave friends. Friends don't forget friends."

"Ger Human come back later? Chitch wait with poppo!" She was happy again, and Geralt sighed in relief. Hells, I think I'm starting to understand why father stresses so much over us. He grabbed her and gave her a last hug, which she embraced fully, before putting her back by the rose. Getting up to leave the room, he turned back to wave at her. She waved enthusiastically from the top of the flower. He almost laughed, leaving the room and quietly closing the door behind him. By the time he turned around, he'd already been pounced on. "HAPPY NAMEDAY, GER!"

He almost threw Lya off of him from the surprise. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him, and it took his heart slowing down before he could return the hug. He laughed lightly. "Gods damned she-wolf. What are you doing up?"

"What are you doing so late? You didn't train me today, you ass." She frowned at him, and he rubbed the back of his head. He laughed. "It's my damn nameday, Lyanna. I'll do whatever I fucking want. I'm sure you'll have doing lots of needlework today instead."

She punched him in the arm, and he laughed louder. He threw an arm around her and forced her into a half hug, putting on a forceful stride so she would follow. Her frown transformed into a laughing smile. He discretely turned his head halfway back to the room. I'll be back soon. I need to find someplace safer for her flower. He let go of his sister soon enough. He had a lot on his mind, and the last thing he needed was to worry about family at the moment. He loved them, but he felt them intruding on something much bigger than himself, than all of them. But if Chitch was a light of his dreams that was real, that meant the shadows could not be dismissed either. He thought of the elf he rescued, the dreams she spawned from. He thought of the mysterious knight in the Godswood. There was something profoundly unnerving to it all.

"Ger, what's with the face? It's your nameday." Geralt frowned. "Didn't sleep much."

"Oh, stop whining. Ned's around again and he didn't bring that idiot with him this time." That made him laugh. It was another strange thing about the second eldest brother, he supposed. For however different Ned was from Brandon, he was almost as close as blood to Robert Baratheon. And Robert Baratheon was almost the same as Brandon was. One's got antlers and the other has jaws. The only reason Lya hated Robert and loved Bran was because Bran was her brother. If he wasn't, Geralt was sure she'd hate him as much, if not more for 'ruining the northman's name'. But Ned saw none of that in Robert, or rather, he chose to ignore his fellow ward's shortcomings. Father had almost made Geralt to ward in the Reach, having just enough ties to Olenna Redwyne to make something happen. He spent a fortnight outside of Winterfell before his father called off the arrangement. Even the hounds couldn't find him, and eventually, the lord only left a large wooden sign stating he'd be staying in the North by the gates.

"Yeah. If he was here, I'm pretty sure he'd get into a contest with Bran over who could fuck the most girls. He could even win if father got word of it. Robert has no parents to smack him if he starts making a mess wherever he goes." Geralt's response was dry, but not angry. There was a brief flash of sympathy on his sister's face at his words. He blinked and she was scowling again. "That's no excuse. I've never used mother's death to excuse myself."

"Doesn't stop you from keeping father from having a night's worth of sleep." He had a half-grin now, and it only grew when she hit his arm again. "I don't want to be some stupid lord's lady, you ass. And what about you? Bran's dumb and I'm brave, but you're the one who's done half the mad shit that goes on in Winterfell!"

"I do what I do for me and because of me, no one else. I try to help father with what I can in my own way, but I ain't some damn game piece that can get moved around Westeros for someone's wish. I'll obey father and try to be a good son, but I am my own man, no one else's." He was adamant in his words, bringing steel to his voice when he lectured his sister. She didn't back down. "That's what I'm doing! I want to be my own woman, fight my own fights! I don't want to dress fancy or act stupid and swoon for whatever some lord may say to get between my legs!"

"No, that's what you tell yourself you're doin'. You keep saying you want to be your own woman, but then you try and please father in any way you can. And when he asks you to be a 'good lady' and act like some child's doll, you get angry and start making a mess. If you want to be your own person, and you mean it, then you stop caring 'bout what anyone else says and you go your own way. You don't tell people you're going your own way, you go your own way. If all you do is talk, then you better shut up and dress pretty. No one likes people who talk horseshit. Not in the North, at least." Lya looked at him in shock, betrayed. She opened her mouth for a rebuttal that never came. She hesitated, but one good look at her and she was looking at the ground sullenly. She continued walking with him, but she kept some distance now. …Damn it. He got closer to her and put an arm around her.

"Look, Lya, I'm not saying you shouldn't try to do what you want to. I'm saying you've gotta stop caring what people will say and think if you do. Father would hate it if you were riding and fighting for the rest of your life, but he'd never hate you. Nothing you do will change his mind about that, the same way nothing he does will change yours. But, if you act by your own word, and you act without regrets, then people will respect you, even the ones that hate you. You just gotta accept that." Her tension was gone, but her expression was still solemn. "Easy for you to say, Geralt. You're a man. You could do all that and people would love you for it."

"Like the northerners? You think they'd like Lord Rickard Stark's son to hang around with commoners and fight everyone and 'act like an ass', like you call me? No, Ned's the best kind of northerner, and Benjen's second best. Bran can still get by if he calls if Wolf's Blood, but people's honor around him would have them cut his cock off if he keeps at it. You could be a good northerner, you act like one when you reel in your passion. I'm the one who's a shit northman. I don't care much for honor, noble blood or court duties. I'll fight for father, for you and all of us Starks, but I couldn't be fucked to help with everyone else's struggles that they started. I've got enough to deal with myself." His thought went to a blue rose, and the shadow that came before it. Lya looked at him intently. He shook his head. "But I'm fine with that. If I'm a northman without honor, I know the consequences and I've got no problem dealing with them. You know why? I chose that. I chose this struggle. You just need to choose yours."

"…I guess you're right, it's just… after mother passed, father's been empty, you know? He keeps looking for things to do in his time and things to fill him up and he's looking in the South to fill the hole he has. I want him to be happy, but I can't be a lady. That's not me." She's been talking to Ned. Not that he disagreed. He'd had that same conversation with the Quiet Wolf only a few nights past when he returned home again. Both agreed father's grievances manifested through his ambitions, but they only kept getting more ambitious. If Robert really has the guts to ask for Lya's hand, father won't deny it, and all the Hells will come lose then. He's already writing to Tully about his daughter. That might be good though. If she's pretty enough, Bran might just stick to one bed. He sighed.

"You can't please everyone, Lya. If you devoted yourself to father… you wouldn't be bad, but you wouldn't be you. Ned's… Ned's better at it. Too good at it. But at least he's got the right head for it. He's the spittin' face of honor, he's smart enough to handle himself, and he's a good man. He might be father's favorite for that, but father's favorite son might be the worst person for someone else. No matter what you do, there's people who'll fight for you and people who'll fight against you. If you're gonna fight either ways, why not pick your own battle?" Lya looked at him, drinking his words like they were a gospel preached by a southron priest. She smiled softly. "When you stop being so damn stubborn, Ger, I think you become the smartest of us. I'm glad you're my brother."

He smirked and shoved her. She fell to the floor, eyes bulging. He laughed loud and heard. "GERALT, YOU IDIOT!"

When he ran, she kept at his heels. She's in a damn dress, how the hell is she so fast?! He fell forwards when she tackled him this time. He laughed loud, and so did she. With the two of them getting up and dusting themselves off, she asked him, "Feeling better now, Ger?"

"Yeah, Lya, I am." She was out of her funk too, he noticed. The push worked. A voice threatened to put him in one again. "Hells, Ger, you keep throwing our sister to the ground like that, there won't be any girls left in Winterfell that won't be afraid of you."

"Bite me, Bran." Bran laughed loud and boisterously, and much as he tried to keep a frown, his chortles were too damn infectious to remain stoic. The eldest brother swaggered towards the two, stopping in front of Geralt and wrapping him in a bear hug that lifted him from the floor. "Happy nameday, you miserable little runt!"

"Put me down, you idiot!" Bran did, and Geralt took a moment before giving his brother a real hug, which was promptly returned. Some said they bore the most resemblance to each other amongst the Stark children. If you didn't keep your hair so short, Ger, and grew a beard, you'd be the spitting image of Brandon. He swore to cut his hair and always shave when he heard that. Another's laughter brought the three to look at a figure standing against the wall, arms crossed. For once, he wasn't brooding. "Happy nameday, Ger. Try not to fight anyone today."

"Can't promise that, Ned." Another brother, another hug. And from the stomps along the hall, it didn't take a Maester to guess by the eagerness and the lightness of the steps that the Pup had come running to the pack. At almost ten, he resembled Ned, but his smiles came easier. Geralt was the one who carried him in a hug this time. "Happy nameday, brother!"

"Thanks, Ben." He put him down and looked around. All his four siblings were there in front of him, all smiling, all joyful. A strong hand on his shoulder made him look back. "Aye, another nameday, Ger. Perhaps if you start behaving and stop being so unruly, you might get to have more than your father."

Rickard Stark sported a mostly gray beard, in spite of his years. He was still in his prime at thirty-eight, but Lyarra's death had made its way into his features through a few girthy silver lines in his hair and notable crow's feet. Still, his blue eyes held a wisdom and a life that had not been whisked away by the tragedy, and they held warmth for his children whenever he didn't have to act as lord. His smile was soft with hints of cunning, but beneath was an undeniable love his litter. Geralt looked to the hall, saw no one, and gave him a hug. Rickard laughed and slapped him on the back. "You'll be a man soon enough, Geralt, and then I'll have no bloody idea of what to do with you, though I'm sure you will. Come everyone, we have a day of festivities with the other lords3– you take that frown off Geralt, or so help me I'll have you cleaning horse dung from the stables for the rest of the day."

"Don't tell him that father, he might just prefer that." Geralt punched Bran's arm, and everyone laughed. With everyone around him and the warmth of his home and his family by him, Geralt smiled. The nightmares are just nightmares. This is real. This is my world, the world I choose.


The day had been long, and overall good. Most of the Sworn Houses had been there, so he'd had to deal with a couple of proposals from minor lords to arrange an engagement with their daughters. For once, Geralt had been happy for his father's ambitions, who'd politely declined them in favor of finding southron ladies of better standing. You're a Stark of Winterfell, and you have the worth of a Stark of Winterfell. The minor lords didn't need to know that though. Some others, with slightly better proposals, would sooner see him trained and made a soldier of. They had a better chance with Geralt offering that, but he was already content with practicing by himself and the occasional training from Rodrik. The more he grew, the more he found his style to be that of very heavy weapons, which Rodrik couldn't help him too much with. He was working on wielding a greatsword with one hand, but he wasn't quite there yet. He'd get there soon enough. Crazy child, he remembered the whiskered man calling him. He never denied those claims.

Crazy or not, word of his self-imposed training had left the walls and reached the other lords' ears. With wolfish strength, steeled discipline and an iron will, he became an attractive choice for becoming part of an army. Even a select few lords offered him the chance to lead a small team of men. His father declined for him, which saved him the trouble. He wasn't a leader. Perhaps he could fight in a team, but he wasn't a leader, and didn't intend on becoming a commander. He would become a damn good swordsman, though. Of that, he was sure.

His celebration had gone on normally since then, though at one point, his father had to near twist his arm to get him to dance some. It was awkward and clumsy and the young lady spent most of it blushing at him. After that first dance, Geralt sat in his place and did not move again. When his father demanded, Geralt threatened to twist his arm. Rickard rolled his eyes, but chose to laugh and leave it alone. The cake was good, the roasted venison was better. The gifts were good enough. The thirdborn son of the Warden of the North was important enough to warrant a few, but not the best and not too many. Geralt was content with that.

Bran gave him some hefty gauntlets, which Geralt had to admit fitted him perfectly and would serve perfectly for training. Ned gifted him The Gift of the Warrior, What Makes a True Swordsman. The book was southron, and the name made him frown, but Ned reassured it wasn't religious. If anything, it detailed legendary fighters throughout history and the way they fought successfully according to their strengths. Even Geralt, who wasn't too interested in reading, had to stop himself from ignoring the party and sticking his nose in the book. It had almost been the best gift of that day. Lya gave him a sown direwolf sigil, a rather good one at that, so he could stick it to his armor the day he started fighting. Father said it was much too dark for the Stark-grey of their banners, and Lya retorted she only found the black and blue colors. Geralt smiled and said it worked just fine. Ben had gone for a knife, which Geralt honestly wondered where and how he got it from, finely made and just big enough to fit in his boot. Him being young doesn't make him any less crafty.

His father smiled and said his gift would be a surprise. Geralt hid his tension. Either he's getting me something truly special, or he found a way to make his ambition into my nameday present. A few of the more notable sworn lords had given him gifts as well; books, trinkets and the like. Jeor Mormont, however, presented him with a greatsword, finely made, with a wolf's head pommel. And this one isn't blunted. That had been Geralt's favorite gift by far, and he had promised the bear lord that he'd pay him back. His grizzled features had given way for a brief smile then. Swing that in the name of the North, and there'll be no debt to me. It was then he realized he liked the Mormonts more than the other lords.

The day was done and Geralt was alone again. With the darkness of the night, the previous sensation of victory against the visions began dwindling. I'm not gonna start being afraid of the dark now, I'm not a fucking child anymore. But the thought brought him no comfort. He started walking faster. Chitch… you better not be there. Please… just be some mad, waking dream. But if you aren't, you better not have plucked all your leaves. Not again. He didn't know where the 'again' came from, but he knew it was true. He was running now, more comfortably with the weight of a sword on his back. His father had failed at convincing him to place it elsewhere.

When he entered the room, he found the rose there, perfectly standing, perfectly intact. Sitting with her back leaning against the stem, Chitch slept softly. Geralt felt his mind conflicted between fear and relief. He sighed. Walking by his bedside and gently grabbing Chitch, he let her lie down on the soil and continue softly snoring. She was warm. Full of 'poppo'. He couldn't stop himself from smiling. Maybe the nightmares are real. Maybe it's all real, but… maybe it's not all nightmares. That thought helped him be mildly more at ease. He chuckled slightly, and berated himself for waking the little elf. Drowsily raising her head, she looked at him, blinking owlishly. It didn't take her long to smile wide again. "Ger Human back! Friend came back!"

"Yeah, I did. Friends don't forget friends, remember?" She put a finger by her mouth, thinking inquisitively. She smiled and nodded rapidly. "Friends don't forget friends! Ger Friend said so!"

"I did. And I won't leave you alone. If I ever go, I'll bring you with me. Until we get you home. I promise." Chitch was dancing, but Geralt froze when he heard her voice. "Promise what? Who're you speaking to, Ger?"

Lya was through the door, looking at him with an eyebrow raised. For a moment he felt as cold as winter when he turned to look at her. She looked at him expectantly, then the flower. A moment passed before her brows raised at the unique color of the rose. Her eyes were bulging afterwards, mouth agape at the unique sight Geralt was sure she shared. He was in front of her in a second's time, hand covering her lips. "Don't scream. Do not say a single fucking word, Lya. I mean it."

"…Ger Friend? Is she friend?" He turned back, looking at Chitch, none the wiser about the fresh new complication. He frowned. She saw her. Lya fucking saw her. It's real, and I've already been caught. He looked at Lya apprehensively, who still observed the magical child with awe. More pressure from his grip made her squeak a bit, looking at him again. "If I let go, promise you won't scream."

She stayed still for what could have been a minute. A very long minute. Slowly, she nodded. He took off his hand even more slowly. Her mouth was still quivering, bottom lip slightly bleeding. Damn, I think I scraped that against her teeth. Well, it ain't the most I've hurt her. Lya, in turn, didn't even notice, instead walking slowly towards the blue rose, and the creature it harbored. Bending over and looking closely, she whispered, "…What are you?"

"Human can see Chitch? Chitch even more full of poppo! Is human friend? Whu- human bleeding!" Her expression turned to one of determination, and Geralt swiped her from the pot in the blink of an eye and brought her close to his face. Chitch looked shocked in his hand, looking at him in fear and question. "Chitch, what did I say about the leaves?!"

"B-but human friend–"

"YOU DON'T KNOW IF SHE'S A FRIEND! SHE COULD BE CRUEL, SHE COULD USE YOU AND LEAVE YOU FOR DEAD!" His roar was angry, born from a fear alien to his mind. It made his muscles tense and his mind paranoid. He hated it. He hated that it left Chitch shaking, teary and berated. Geralt knew he was right, but leaving it off like that wouldn't do. He sighed, walking past his sister, standing silent and watching the scene, and placed the elf by the flower again. "Chitch… those leaves are special. They're your leaves. You can't pluck them just for anyone, and you can't pluck them all. It'll hurt you, I know. Lyanna…"

He turned and looked at his sister. The lip was much too bloody for the small size of the cut. "Lyanna is a friend. Lya Friend. But not everyone who sees you is a friend. Lya is, but not everyone. Lya is like Ger, she is my sister. With her… you can use a piece of one leaf for her, not more. She doesn't need more than that. Do not pluck more until it grows back."

Chitch blinked the tears away and smiled, carefully tearing off part of one of the leaves, and jumping up at Lya's figure. She jumped in place, piece stretched out to where Lya's wound would be. His sister, still in silent wonder, looked to her brother. Geralt gave a soft nod. Lya bent close to where Chitch was again, and the little elf placed the leaf piece on her lip. She glowed a little sunshine, as did the leaf. Chitch let go, proud of herself, and Lya touched her lip. The leaf cleaned some of the blood away, though her bottom lip still had some dried crust, but Geralt saw her remove it to a perfectly healed cut. Silence became the overwhelming presence in the room, until Lya smiled. "That… that's amazing. You… you said your name is Chitch? Mine's Lya. Thank you, you're amazing."

"Lya Friend! Chitch have Ger Friend and Lya Friend! Chitch HAPPY!" She glowed again, soft rays akin to the sun's emanating from her pale skin. The blue rose also glowed, and Ger's brows raised when he saw the half-leaf grow back to its original form. What? How? Last time, it was withering away… I'll need to learn about it. Later. Right now, I have to deal with Lya. His sister stood up again and whispered by his ear, eyes following the dancing elf. "…Is she a Child? Of the Forest? I thought magic was dead. I thought magic wasn't real."

"A Child of the Forest? I–no, I don't think so. I don't know. She's an elf, I think." She turned to him now, fully facing him. She grinned. "An elf? What's–doesn't matter. We have to tell the family!"

"No!" He grabbed her by the shoulders, restricting her to her place. Geralt grit his teeth, working out in his mind how to best word it. "We can't, and we won't. I love father, but I wouldn't trust him with this. We bring him a magical little girl, capable of healing wounds, he might get one of his ideas. Brandon's no better, he'd be nice, but he'd use her to win every fight. I'd say Ned, but he wouldn't waste time in reporting her life to father, and Ben's too young, he might let it slip. And that's the family. Anyone else catches wind of it, and they might want to trap her, hunt her. I'll be damned if Astor Bolton or his son Roose get their hands on her. And all of that will happen if they can even see her. Not everyone can."

Lya shook her head, brows furrowing, trying to think of a retort to his speech. Geralt took one look at Chitch, who looked at the two curiously. His eyes saddened, no matter how he tried to hide it. "If you pluck all the leaves of that rose, she'll get much weaker. And if anything happens that can kill that flower, Chitch dies. I won't let that happen."

Lya nodded slowly, and looked at the entity in a different light. She knelt in front of her and smiled softly. "Chitch? Is it true? Are you a part of that rose? I've never seen a blue rose. Do some people not see you, or is Ger lying?"

"ALL people not see Chitch. Until Ger. He was Guts. He saw me, he was friend. Now you see me, friend of Ger." Lya was sharp enough to understand that the child knew no better, but Ger saw something change in her face. "Guts? What's that mean?"

She pointed at Ger, who was on the verge of sweating. "Him Guts. Guts was friend. Chitch meet Guts again, but now Guts is Ger. Ger is friend!"

"Ger was Guts? What's she mean, Geralt?" Her eyes were sharp now, looking at him up and down. Geralt look to the side. "No idea."

"Liar! I know that look, I know you're hiding something! Now, you're going to tell me, or I'm gonna–"

"No, I'M NOT. And neither are you." She took a step back from his glare. Geralt knew that look. That fear people had in his dream when he made a mean face. A beastly face. He had to shake it off. Dreams and the real world are becoming less and less clear now. "I don't know, Lya, not everything. Fuck, I don't know nearly enough. And what I do know, I have no reason to share with anyone. And if it's all true, you wouldn't believe me anyways if I told you how I found out."

"Alright, fine, but can you at least tell me how you found her? How you found Chitch?" How I found Chitch? That'll lead to more questions, but I can't afford to hide everything from her. Not if she's gonna keep this secret with me. "I was in the Godswood today, before sunrise. I found her there. There was a rider– don't ask, I don't know– a strange rider there. He had strange armor, so did his horse. His helmet looked like a skull from where I stood, but I'm sure that was just the fog getting in my eyes. He didn't make a sound and just disappeared. Where he left, there was a blue rose there. Never seen one before. It was on the ground, weak. The shadows probably left it starving. I don't know why, but something in my gut told me there was something about the flower, something I couldn't ignore. I brought it here, put it in a pot, and when the sun came up, Chitch was there."

Lya nodded, and he could tell she knew he was telling the truth. At least the truth from the real world, not the dream world. He let go of her shoulders and gave her a pleading look. "Lyanna… no one can know about this. No one. Promise me, Lya."

"I… I promise, Geralt. I won't tell anyone." He sighed in relief. The two stood awkwardly, Lya licking her lips to clean the dried blood that remained from her forgotten wound. She shrugged her mood off. "I best get going back to my room. Someone sees me here, they might start asking questions. Chitch shouldn't stay here, though. I know you don't let servants in the room, but you don't know if some new one doesn't know any better and comes here. She might like the flower and take it for herself. I don't think much of flowers and even I think it's beautiful. We need a place to hide her."

"Agreed. It needs to be someplace where no one will pick it and no animal will eat it. Until we find a place like that, my room will do." The two nodded, Geralt walking her out his door. She turned around, scrutinizing a final, stoic glare. "That's why you were acting strange this morning, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, I tried hiding that, but if you came here tonight, I'm sure I didn't fool you. Well, no one's bold enough to come looking for me when I'm in a mood save for you. Maybe Bran, but he didn't catch on, and if Ned did, he'd wait for me to speak about it. He won't do anything if I don't." Lya shook her head. "Still… why do you think this happened? Why you? Why now?"

He turned back to his room, where Chitch was waving goodbye to Lyanna from the top of her rose. He frowned. "I really don't know. But if the Gods have anything to do with it, I'd guess she's here to punish me for giving father so many gray hairs."

Lya laughed, giving a little wave to Chitch before turning back to her brother. She hugged him and walked away. Her voice was soft, hints of solemnity in it. "Happy nameday, Geralt."

Author's Notes: So, Chitch is in the story. Her original purpose was Miura showing why Guts was repulsed by weakness, and I think with him by the point he got to Elfhelm, he's essentially gotten over it. Besides, she's just unique enough to be a direct link to Guts's old world without giving everything away (also, I have to be honest, her death was heartbreaking enough for me to take advantage of this story to bring her back). And Lyanna, with how free-spirited she is (and presumably, by virtue of a relationship with a very superstitious prince), I figured she could be a human capable of seeing elves (Chitch may be in Mundus, but elven magic still applies to her (more will be revealed in time)). Also, hope you liked our ominous knight's cameo, and if you've read Berserk, you know you haven't seen the last of him. Hell, his role is fundamental for the story.

Also, fun fact of a deviation I'm making to my story: blue roses didn't exist in Westeros in my story. Chitch's arrival is the arrival of blue roses in the North, and, soon enough, Westeros. (Also, I figured that a fighting figure like Lyanna Stark wouldn't like a flower in particular without any deeper reason, so that also ties that in).

The chapter itself wasn't all that intricate. Nothing worth noting happened in Guts's/Geralt's childhood that could merit a whole chapter, but he's thirteen now, and at an age where he can start acting more. You can imagine what the nightmares are about, and to answer some of your questions, no, Guts has not forgotten his life. If anything, I would describe it as strong amnesia. But in the back of his mind, back of his soul, the truth is still there. There's a reason why he was born with a 'birthmark' on his neck. And with the proper triggers (enter Chitch), he may begin to remember more solidly, and he might start putting the pieces together. Not entirely, but in due time, he'll understand what it all means and how it plays a role in his new world. Naturally, this makes Guts somewhat out-of-character as Geralt. He is still Guts at heart, but he had a good enough life (in spite of the trauma of holding his mother's hand when she died) that he could become a better version of himself. But the more Geralt remembers Guts, the more certain characteristics may show in his character. He'll never fully be Guts again, but that's natural. Guts from the Elfhelm Arc is entirely different from how he was in the Black Swordsman Arc, so you can expect a new Guts to come from all this, but his change will also be organic to the story and his character. So I hope this answers your questions about Guts's character.

I've read the whole manga, but I have to yet to see the Golden Age movies (I refuse to see the 2016-7 series), once I have the time, I've heard it's excellent. And as for the mysterious 'Guest' who commented four entire testaments in the reviews, I invite you to sign onto your account and PM me. If not, then I recommend you make an account, because there's a lot you've written which I agree with, but there's also plenty that I disagree with, and I'd like to have a better, two-sided conversation about it all. It seems very interesting, and you've certainly put a lot of time into writing it all.

As for Ethloc, Davie Wilson, winterwolf23543, and trollzor69, I think I've answered all questions/responded to your comments, and I'm grateful for your input. I hope to hear more from you.

So, I hope you've all enjoyed this chapter. If you haven't, by all means, tell me why, I'm open to criticism.

The Almighty Afroduck,

All Hail