Author's Notes: Well, this has grown incredibly fast since I last posted a chapter. I did not expect to have over a hundred followers by this point, but cheers to that. Alright, so a couple of things I want to touch on.
The reason for this chapter's lateness is because my previous laptop decided to stop working (mid-quarantine). What really sucked was learning that the harddrive was damaged, and none of the documents for this story (including the first ten pages of this chapter) or any of my other stories could be recovered. So I had to recreate this from scratch while rewriting the main document I had written out for this story (essentially, the whole story boiled down to basic bulletpoints (I have multiple arcs planned, each one with several chapters)). You can imagine why this was essentially a roadblock for a while. The second most important is that I've been busy with the uni, and I'm just starting finals week (it ends on the 14th), so until then, I'll have no time for this. The third most important is that this chapter is not quite filler, but it will be a necessarily slower chapter compared to others I have planned for the rest of the story (the Winterfell arc will be mostly like this).
Now, unto some of the notes reviewers have made, namely an important one: Lyanna Stark will NOT be a Mary Sue. Far from it. The thing is, Geralt gets along well with feisty, fighting personalities, and for lack of better words, Rickard has the tendency to spoil his children. That does not make her perfect or flawless, it just means she hasn't been in a situation where they're truly exposed.
Now, I can't speak too much about what the gods of Mundus are (and that's if there are gods) because that would spoil plenty and it also wouldn't make sense right away. However, what you do know is that there is magic in Westeros (hence Guts's/Geralt's affinity for the Heart Tree whenever he has "nightmares"). As for his weapon, Dragon Slayer is quite literally stuck in another world, so Jeor Mormont's gift (an average greatsword but with good quality) will have to suffice. The topics of his past life, love interests and more will be answered with time. I'll answer what questions I can, but I won't spoil.
Last thing before starting the chapter- regarding the casting, there's one addition and one modification:
Benjen Stark - Ben Barnes (Joseph Mawle is great, but Ben Barnes would have an easier time being the youngest of the Starks)
Chitch - Willow Shields (she simultaneously has an innocent appearance while having a sort of elegant, ethereal face (elven, if you will))
So without further ado, I bring you the Reborn fourth chapter.
Wildlings
Geralt walked through the castle halls. It had only been a couple of weeks since his nameday, not even a full moon since. Still, there was much and more on his mind, a hundred and one things to mull over every night. He sighed, the air puffing from him almost as thick as smoke. It had been warm during his birthday, but winter had been traitorous, and just as during that day there had been running waters and sprouting grasses, icy gales had come and frozen them. It had been a source of conflict for the boy, given his tendency to be by the Heart Tree whenever he could. The weirwood's presence was about the only thing remaining that warded the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep. They're getting bolder now too. Why is it that now every shadow I see, they're fucking moving?
It had been a restlessness that had plagued him since, which had only led to further bouts between him and his father. He'd near been slapped by Rickard when he was found to have been sleeping under the Heart Tree the day after his nameday. Are you mad, boy?! Have I not taught you that winter is a treacherous bitch, especially in the North?! You say you want to become a fighter, well it'll all be for naught if frostbite takes you first! And that had been the last time Geralt had slept there, though it was likely the most rest he'd ever gotten from a night in the past few months. Though every so often, Geralt would experience the fortune of the hellscapes within his mind being interrupted by cawing. Whenever he'd look, he'd see nothing special about the raven perched on the dead trees within his dreams, though a closer look would show him it observed him with three eyes. Black falcons with white hawks in their chests, chained beasts in the shadows, and now a damned three-eyed raven. Can I not dream about a normal fucking battlefield for once?
When his father had asked him his obsession with the sacred woods, Geralt wouldn't budge, and his father had begrudgingly accepted his silence. It was lost for a far fouler mood when the lord of Winterfell revealed the gift he'd promised his thirdborn the night before. Never mind that then, Ger. About your nameday's gift… I can't promise it is entirely sure, but I've been reaching out to Starfall the past few months. I've been looking to see if you can't squire under Arthur Dayne, the current Sword of the Morning. As best as I understand it, he's becoming about as much of a household name as Barristan the Bold is, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a better instructor than one such as him. Hells, perhaps you could even be betrothed to one of his sisters and seal the bond between our houses. I hear Ashara is an unmatched beauty in the south, even next to the likes of Cersei Lannister and Elia Martell. You would be your own man, you'd be trained by a master swordsman, and you'd have a beautiful wife. How's that for a nameday gift?
And that had perhaps been the only time Geralt had even been truly tempted to give in to one of his father's plots. He'd wanted to travel, though he could care less about the marriage, and to train with the Sword of the Morning… but then there was Chitch. And her flower. Had she appeared a day after the proposal, the answer would have been different. But fate was a cruel whore, and he found himself needing to refuse his father. I can't leave her. Not now, not yet. That had been one of the only times he'd ever witnessed his father losing his patience with him. DAMN IT, BOY, DOES NOTHING EVER PLEASE YOU?! WOULD YOU LIKE A CASTLE, AN ARMY, THE WALL ITSELF?! WHAT WILL IT TAKE FOR YOU TO BE GRATEFUL FOR ONCE IN YOUR DAMN LIFE?!
He'd not had dinner with his family that night, and a part of Geralt was sad that he could not spend that last night with Ned. But he'd do with seeing his silent brother the next morning, early before he left for the Vale again. And he stood his ground, despite his father's anger and disappointment, he remained adamant about remaining in Winterfell. It was that that 'belligerence' that had earned him a whole day to be locked in his room, though it wasn't so lonesome with Chitch to speak to, though it was somewhat unnerving. Lyanna had snuck into his room at night and the three had talked and she'd taken to Chitch as something between a mother and an older sister. And Lyanna had been the one to convince him to meet up with Ned.
Their father caught the three of them, though none of his anger had been left. Geralt felt guilt when he saw the bag under the lord's eyes, when he watched the silent sigh and just walk in the other way. But he'd be happy to be the unruly son of Rickard Stark if it meant keeping the elf safe. I'm sorry father, but I'm sure you'd do the same in my place. The day had been tense, and not a word was exchanged between father and son. They'd all met at Winterfell's gates to see Ned off, but silence followed soon after. He did not bother punishing Geralt a second day in a row, but his stance was colder to the thirdborn. He would remain that for another week, and the boy knew better than to aggravate him in that time.
When he was finally called to the solar, he'd been seated in front of his father's desk, Rickard having a sip of ale before turning to him. Geralt… I'm sorry for how I spoke before. You're my son first and foremost, and I'll always love you, no matter our difference. But what I'm asking of you is to understand me. I have five children, each one with their own dreams and ideas, and I'm trying to make it so everyone is happy. Aye, that'd be easier if I just allowed you all to do as you please, and I'd be a pitiful lord and father to do so. You've a right to do as you choose, Geralt, but with that right comes a set of duties as well. Winterfell… the North has given you plenty, it has made you what you are. You cannot take as you like and turn your back on those who've been supporting you, caring for you.
I'm at wit's end, Geralt. I don't know what to do with you. You're not like other boys, I've known that for years now. You ask for little, and you do plenty. You ought to learn to act as a lord, as Ned is doing in the Vale, as Ben will do not long from now. Gods forbid I lose any of you before my time comes, but I will be at ease if I leave this world knowing each of you can thrive on your own. And the Daynes were about my best bet for you. Marriage and mastery of war are almost one in that house and I know you'd do well with them, even with your bouts of irreverence. But I cannot be patient with you all my life, Geralt. I cannot wait for you and treat you as a child until you learn what needs to be done.
Geralt had been nervous his father had already written to the Daynes then, that he had already consented to the match without his say. …I won't be sending you to Starfall. I know you well enough you may just escape the soldiers I send you with, bury a hole beneath the Heart Tree and spend the rest of your days there. I cannot force you to do something you won't commit to, not yet, but my patience is at an end. You're three-and-ten, so I'll make you a deal. If you come to me in less than four years and tell me what you'll make of yourself and how you'll contribute to your family and to House Stark, I'll never try to have you betrothed or squired again. If you don't, however, you'll ride farther north and swear yourself to the Night's Watch. The vows may be severe, but that is a place of honor, and House Stark has kept good ties with the Watch for thousands of years. They'd do you as much good as you'd do them. This is my final offer, Geralt.
And he had conceded. It was fair, he understood the source of his father's grievances. And though he had no idea on what to do with himself, four years was enough time for him to find out. More importantly, four years would be enough time to find out what he'd do with the whimsical, magical child. Hopefully. Something's gotta change in the next four years… right? Well, Lord Commander Geralt Stark doesn't sound bad either. But if I take the black, it'll be by my own doing, not because I had no choice. He shook his head. No point in worrying about that at the moment. If nothing else, at least he was on good terms with his father again. For all his intensity, Rickard Stark was a man quick to love and prone to forgetting grudges. And so, Geralt remained in Winterfell, walking across its echoing halls. Another faster set of echoes snapped him from his trance. "Geralt, GER! Where have you been! Come on, I have to show you something!"
"Fuck off, Lya."
"You fuck off! This is important! Now come on!" And without any say, Lyanna grabbed Geralt by the arm and dragged him back to her room. There was Chitch, and her blue rose. The night after his nameday, the two had agreed on the She-Wolf taking the elf to her room. Lyanna Stark was not a girl that loved flowers and knights and songs, but it looked a great deal more normal with her than with if Geralt was caught to have a sudden interest in a rose. And Chitch danced and waved at the two, happy for her late morning visitors. "Ger Friend, Lya Friend! All friends are here!"
"That's right, Chitch, we're all here. Now show Ger what you showed me this morning! Show him!" Chitch smiled wide and ran over to her rose before pointing at the stem. Beyond plentiful leaves, nothing out of the ordinary, Geralt had to squint his eyes to see a… growth. Something budding, fresh and young, thicker than any leaf's arm. It took a moment for him to realize what it was. "…Chitch, are you growing another flower?"
"She is! She's going to grow bigger and stronger and prettier, isn't that right Chitch?" Before the little elf could answer, Lyanna swooped her in her hands and planted a kiss on top of her head. The little girl could only giggle and smile and say something about 'poppo' while glowing. Geralt felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, but he stopped himself to look seriously at the girl. Grabbing one of Lyanna's wrists, she understood with a look to put the magical girl back on her pot. He knelt in front where her pot was placed, leveling his eyes to hers. "Chitch… have you been alone lately, or have you been with others?"
"Chitch not alone! Chitch has Ger and Lya Friends!" He struggled to keep his eyes from rolling upwards, but instead found himself smiling instead. "I know, but when we- when Ger and Lya Friends are not here, are you alone, or are there any more elves? Any more like you, like Chitch?"
"Like Chitch?" She stopped and looked up and down, to the sides and out the window, finger over her mouth. She finally turned to Geralt and shook her head. "When Chitch alone and Ger and Lya Friends are gone, Chitch is only with Chitch and the Buzz-Buzzes!"
"…The Buzz-Buzzes? Chitch, you don't mean bees, do you? Small, black and yellow with little wings?" When Lyanna asked the question, the two siblings shared a look. Chitch only beamed and nodded eagerly. "Yes! Buzz-Buzzes come and tickle my flower whenever I have sweet kunkun! They come when the sky is full of poppo, but don't come until I have more kunkun."
Geralt stood back up and had a silent stare-off with his sister. It took only a moment for the two to burst out laughing. Chitch stared at them in wonder and confusion before she decided to join in the mirth as well. Lyanna swooped her up again and cuddled her close. "This is great, Chitch! Those buzz-buzzes you saw are called bees, and bees help spread flowers and make them grow more. Soon you'll have many flowers that are all yours!"
Chitch giggled and Geralt smiled a little farther from the two. His thoughts made it drop as scenarios came through in his head. Tickling isn't the same as… She's not with child, that's for sure. If that's the case, then that means that there's not gonna be a sudden outbreak of elves in Westeros. If she has more flowers to herself, then, does that mean she can use more? Is she bound to her first flower, or can she be attached to any? Lyanna put her down again. "Well, I'm glad you told us, and I'm glad you're making more friends, Chitch."
"Buzz-bu-bees are nice, but they're not friends like Lya and Ger are. Lya and Ger Friends make me happy!" Finally, she's not saying 'Chitch this' and 'Chitch that'. Now if she can drop the 'Friends' every time she speaks to us, Lya might've worked a miracle. Geralt smiled at the elf, but his voice grew stern when he spoke to her. "Now remember Chitch, the moment we're gone…"
"Chitch stay by flower and hide from others who come in room!" She declared happily. He nodded at that, and gently rubbed her head with one calloused finger. He put a hand on Lyanna's shoulder and she nodded. The two waved the elf goodbye and Chitch waved from the top of the rose before sitting by the smile and looking out the window. She claimed that during the day there was always 'poppo', even with the clouds in the way. Best she enjoy it while she can. This winter's a cunt, and the nights are only growing longer.
"She didn't seem like she was having children, do you think the roses spreading will make her stronger? Maybe her life won't depend on the rose alone…" When he looked at his sister, he gave a tired sigh and shrugged. "If we're lucky… if she's lucky, then yes. We won't find out until the second one grows and the others the bees took grow too. That being said, Chitch has a better gut-feeling than most. She's afraid of rats because they want to eat her flower. She likes bees because they tickle her and spread her seeds. If we find another rose, I'm sure she'll be able to tell us if it gives her 'poppo' or something like that. If it does… hell, that'll make things easier."
"Oh, Ger, if only the ladies of the North could see this side of you, they'd be swooning at the thought of you fathering their children." The false sweetness of her voice was only accentuated by the teasing pinching of his cheeks. Geralt felt the vein in his forehead popping, but resorted to retaliating by squeezing her own face at her cheekbones. "And if the lords of the North saw the She-Wolf of Winterfell playing with flowers and raising little dolls, then they might just have hope they'll make a wife of you yet."
She yelped and growled and pounced him. She succeeded in tackling him to the ground, but Geralt very well knew her tricks now, and her strength would never match his. It wasn't long before he wound up on top of her, mildly twisting her arm. She yelled and fought, but Geralt twisted a little harder. "Yield."
"Fuck off, Geralt!" She snarled. He twisted harder this time, and her squeal betrayed her conviction. "Yield, Lyanna."
"Fine, now get off me!" He did, and she immediately got up, rubbing her left arm by the elbow. Her pouting made him laugh. "At this rate, you're never gonna win, Lya. You howl like a wolf, but you don't bite."
"Don't worry, I'll bite next time." The arm was fine, but Geralt could tell the wound to his sister's pride was far greater. His patience, however, was running thin to be the patient teacher. "No, you idiot. I don't mean biting and scratching, you'll never win like that. No matter what you do, I'll be stronger. No matter what you eat, I'll be bigger. So get your head out of your ass and start thinking. Use your speed, use your flexibility. Play to your strengths, or at this rate, you're never gonna win."
"Win what? Who's the best wildling? Who's the Dragonknight and who's the Conqueror? By all means, I want to see what victory looks like in your little game." The two froze, turning slowly to find their father at the end of the hall. His arms were crossed and his face was as if carved from stone, but there was something akin to amusement in his eyes. Fuck, we've been caught. FUCK. Wait, he only mentioned the fighting, he said nothing about Chitch. "N-no, Father, we were just-uh, we were only-"
"Only what? Having a friendly round of cyvasse? See, I was just wandering where I'd placed my set and spent the morning looking for it. How about you, Geralt, have you been teaching her the ways of cyvasse?" His father sounded serious, but Geralt knew too well that he was having fun prying the truth out of them. And if he is, then it can't be that bad. We'll just apologize and be on our way. "No, father. I've been training Lyanna the sword in the mornings, not cyvasse."
"Is that right? I imagined as much." Lyanna shot him a furious glare, to which he rolled his eyes to. Can't you see he's forgiving about it, you idiot? If he was angry, we'd know. And you're shit at lying. What brought the silent tension to an end was the sound of steel being brandished. The two turned to their father, who now had a sword in each hand. In one was Ice, the family sword of House Stark. I've always wanted to try Valyrian Steel. The other sword, by comparison, was small, short and meager. It was blunted, perfect for practice. He tossed that one at her feet. "Go on then, Lyanna. Show me what you know. All you need to do is to strike me once with your sword."
"Wh-what?" Geralt saw their father raise Ice, the end of the greatsword facing the ceiling. The lord of the castle kept an unmoving stance, defensive. His face was the Wall, and his eyes were steel. When Lyanna didn't move, he raised an expectant brow. Move, damn it. He gave her a soft push to where the sword lay on the ground. She whipped her head back at him, startled. Geralt himself was nervous, but managed to keep himself composed. "Show him what you've learned, Lya."
She swallowed before looking back down, where the small practice sword lay at her feet. She picked it up slowly by its hilt, turning to the frozen Stark lord ten feet away from her. One hit, Lyanna. Just one hit, that's all you need. She took a step, then another, then she raised her sword and screamed when she charged him. Geralt cringed and bit the inside of his cheeks. You're gonna lose. And when she brought the sword down on their father with all her strength, it was all Rickard needed to do was shift Ice to its side. The blunted steel clashed against its Valyrian brethren and bounced farther back than it had started. Lyanna stumbled, nearly falling on her back when Geralt stopped her.
"Dammit Lyanna, he's testing you, testing us, can't you see that? He's stronger, bigger, and he's seen battle, you will NOT win against him if you throw yourself against him. Act fast, Lya, and aim for where he can't reach. You know this, you can do this." Geralt's whispers had been brief, but Lyanna turned to him with a fire she'd lacked earlier. She nodded, and the two turned back to Rickard, who remained unmoving, Ice straight as a pillar again. She took longer at approaching him the second time around, and Geralt had hope. He lost it when she started running again, sword above her head. She's fucked. Both him and his father were surprised when she never struck downwards. She missed Ice and made to strike at his feet. But their father was fast, and Ice moved in a pendulum to keep the steel from hitting his legs.
He took a step back, and Lyanna immediately swung upwards to catch him at his elbow. Ice intervened again, and she aimed downwards again. Geralt frowned. You're started good, Lya, but he's reading you. And with each strike, Lyanna grew more tired, and Rickard grew faster. You're too easy to read, and he'll outlast you. Hell, he's faster than you too. All you need is one hit, Lya. Just one. Ice went up and down, faster than her sword, but never striking her. Lyanna was panting by the end of it, and Geralt had thought her fight was over. But if there was one thing he knew, was that she was one of the few if not the only other Stark to match his unconventional ways.
About to move Ice from down to up again, Lyanna put her sword behind his and grabbed the blunted end. Putting her weight to her fall, Rickard looked with wide eyes as the family greatsword threatened to slip from his grasp. When it was low enough, Lyanna slipped over it and put a boot on top of the blade. Their father had no time to react when she hit him on the shoulder. And that brought her cheers of victory. Even Geralt laughed. You crazy bitch, you actually did it. Both smiles fell when their father dropped Ice, face turning from red to purple. Lyanna fell, the sudden drop of Ice leaving her without balance. Rickard immediately grabbed her by the elbow and stood her up. "HAVE YOU GONE MAD?! WERE YOU TRYING TO LOSE AN ARM OR MAKE A CRIPPLE OF YOURSELF?! MEN HAVE LOST HANDS AND WHETSTONES TRYING TO SHARPEN VALYRIAN STEEL!"
"I-I just-" All of Lyanna's passion and enthusiasm died, and Geralt could see tears threatening to escape their eyes. And their father would have none of it. "YOU JUST WHAT?! PRAYED YOU WOULD WIN?! BET EVERYTHING ON A FOOLISH, DANGEROUS GAMBLE?! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
"I just wanted to show you, father. I wanted to prove to you that I could be like Bran and Ned, like Ger and Ben." This time, she couldn't keep herself from sniffling. Geralt sighed and frowned. He put a hand on her shoulder and faced Rickard. "I taught her to fight like that, father. I taught her to look for opportunities where she sees them and play to her strengths. The only way she could have won was by outsmarting you, and she did exactly that."
The two had turned to him, and it took the better part of Geralt's inner strength to face his father's intense glare and not falter. The minute was long, the passing seconds even longer. Eventually, Rickard's face returned to its original color, and his eyes closed. His chest heaved with a slow sigh, and he faced the floor. Geralt only relaxed when he opened his eyes again, his usual, calmer demeanor returning to him. "…It was absolutely mad and reckless… but you did land a hit on me, Lyanna. I had not expected you to. Knowing you and knowing Geralt, I had half a mind to have you trained under Ser Rodrik as well, show you proper fighting. But then your brother's eccentric teaching style served you better in this case. After seeing her victory, Geralt, I've half a mind to slap you and the rest of me wants to praise you."
"What do you mean, father?" Lyanna was no longer frightened, but she still treaded the conversation carefully. Geralt could see hope returning to her eyes. Rickard shook his head. "It's your lord father's way of saying that if you'll be fighting your whole damn life, you best be doing it the right way. You may continue training with Geralt, and I'll speak to Cassel about his new student as well. Your brother will continue to teach you as well, but any of these questionable techniques that you're taught or come up with yourself you'll only do if they're approved by Rodrik or myself. And if you miss even a single sewing session or history session with Maester Luwin, there will be no more of this. The same goes for you too, Geralt. Do I make myself clear?"
"THANK YOU, FATHER!" And just like that, Lyanna wrapped her arms around their father's neck. Rickard's casual smile returned and his booming laughter echoed across the hall as he carried the girl with one arm. Fuck, he's got us where he wants us. He made that damn test just so he could own something we value so we listen to him better. But Geralt smiled. It was fair play, and he'd sooner rather his father found out about their lessons than about the otherworldly girl in the castle. "Father, how'd you know?"
At that, Rickard stopped laughing, but kept his smile. The raise of his right brow showed he was… unimpressed. "Geralt, do you really believe I don't know what goes on in my own castle, especially concerning the whereabouts of my children? I didn't believe you took me that much for a fool, I ought to be stricter with you for that. The happenings in Winterfell do not escape me, and if they did, they'd have to be better hidden than your little secret. Lyanna's sudden dirty cloths for boys and the maidens reporting fresh bruises on her body in the morning left me with a clear idea of what was going on. The fact that Lyanna stopped asking a year and a half ago to have lessons with Rodrik was another clue. But what really gave it away was her defending your choosing to stay here when you refused fostering in Starfall. It wasn't hard to realize she didn't want to lose her personal master-at-arms."
He saw Lyanna blushing furiously, and Geralt himself felt himself grow pale. She wasn't arguing about her training, father. But he sighed in relief, or shame, rather, to confirm his father's suspicions. I can't keep too many secrets for him. Father is sharper than people assume him to be, and that's his advantage. Better he knows this here and now. If we kept hiding things from him, everything would spill out sooner rather than later, and no one can know about Chitch. No one. He loved his father, but he had no idea how he would take to the elf's existence. He'd been unfair in assuming he'd use her for his gain, that wasn't true. But whatever he did with the girl, he'd have more eyes on him than his thirdborn son would ever suffer. Someone would learn the truth, and he'd be damned if she was captured by Astor Bolton to heal himself from battle wounds. Or worse, heal his victims so his playthings last longer. "I understand father, it won't happen again."
The look Rickard gave him made his stomach drop. Fuck, he knows I'm lying. He remained that way for a few seconds, but he shook his head. "I'm sure it won't. Now, pack Lord Mormont's sword and head to the armory. Get yourself a shield as well, and find a horse. The Umbers reported a small wildling company, if it can be called as much, that breached their defense. They only found out through the trail of corpses they left behind, and they haven't been captured in the Dreadfort. The Glovers have asked for our aid, and they've scouted where they are in the Wolfswood. You'll be there to watch how battles are done, not to fight, so don't get any ideas. You'll be accompanying myself and Brandon, as well as thirty of our men."
Something within Geralt's mind clicked then. Some mysterious yearning for his place in the world. Fuck, that sounds strange. But still, he knew in his heart that he was a man of battle and fighting, that the war grounds were where he truly belonged. He frowned. He said I'm not to fight, but anything can happen in the battlefield, and I've been training with Jeor Mormont's sword since he gave it to me on my nameday. He had yet to name it. He figured it would only earn a name once it had actual blood spilt unto its glistening steel. His heart raced, and his father picked up on it. "Geralt, I mean it, no fighting unless it's absolutely necessary. Death should never be something to want for, and staying in the distance is safest for you. But you ought to be acquainted with the way of the world, and men can be as noble as they can act like beasts. We ride at noon."
"Yes father, I understand." It was only a half-truth that he mentioned. There were dreams of him where he had faced a hundred battles, where he had fought battalions of men and hordes of inhumans. It still remained in him, but he ensured his father would not know. Instead, he rode to the armory, and then to the stables. Once he was where the group of his father's men was, he found himself nearing the front of the soldiers. There was his father and there was Brandon, both keeping very different stances of the coming battle. The lord began. "Men, I'll keep this brief. There are wildlings in the Wolfswood. We'll take handle them, capture them or execute them if needs be, but we'll not play the part of butchers to them. If we attack them and treat them as animals, we'd be no better than the wildlings themselves. We should be there in a quarter day's ride, so if all goes well, we'll return at night to our wives and children."
"You hear that, men? We'll do well to act as good soldiers and good men, but if they should challenge us, we'll defeat them AND we'll leave them broken and beaten! We are northmen, and I'll be damned if we're made fools of! Worse, we'll be damned if we allow these savages to take our wives and mothers and daughters with impunity and kill out fathers, brothers and sons with no punishment! We'll show them the way of the North, the true North!" At his brother's shouts, the soldiers cheered loudly, but Rickard's tight smile did not escape Geralt's eye as it had Brandon's. He does not agree with his words, but knows better than to show disagreement between lord and heir in front of their men. He was sure of it. There was no mirth in Rickard's eyes, no agreement to their words, not overtly anyways. He supported his firstborn, but no farther than that.
"Very well, then. Soldiers, we leave, we act, and we return. Everyone comes home and the Glovers will toast to our valor tonight. No more than that." And with that, Rickard rode off, Brandon to his right and Geralt to his left. No fighting unless it's absolutely necessary. Geralt frowned. He knew better than to go against his father's words, especially with how lenient he'd been with him the past month. But sitting back and watching other men do the fighting for him, protecting him… I won't have anyone die on my account. He sighed. The more he thought about it, the better he realized the hidden barb of his father's mercy. He's allowing me freedom in plenty things so he can make sure he gets in return what he requires from me.
The horses moved steadily along with the sun. It was a few hours away from the twilight when he finally started seeing smoke in the distance. Fires. Rickard spared him a look. Geralt took a moment to realize what he meant, but he nodded his head somewhat annoyed. He let his horse slow down and kept a firm grip on his shield. Four of the men, in turn, surrounded him. Brandon himself rode a little farther from father, and he was flanked by two soldiers. By that moment, he could start smelling the scents of roasting game. We're here now. No going back. He could see the figures not so far away. They had at best half a dozen horses, none of them mounted. The figures huddling about outnumbered them greatly, far more than he'd expected. Between three and four times the amount of men father commanded. Something in Geralt's stomach churned. They brought women. And children.
Rickard rode closest, by which time the wildlings had immediately stood up from their campfires, crude weapons in hand. A few of the men had good steel, likely from the patrols the Umbers had reported dead. A woman also boasted of one. His mouth turned into a thin line. The women armed like the men, and numbered near as many. It was only the children and young ones that looked afraid and unprotected, but even they had a rougher look on them than most boys Geralt's age. Thirty armored and mounted against fewer than a hundred unorganized foot soldiers. By all means, this should be an easy victory. But against wildlings… A few started aiming their bows.
"HOLD!" His father's voice thundered through the forest. The Lord's voice. There were times when Geralt would practice with Brandon shouting at one another hundreds of feet away to train their voices. If they ever commanded in battle, they would have need of such lungs. And somehow, their well-tempered father had one of the most powerful voices Geralt had heard in any man. It was enough to catch the wildling's attention and keep them from attacking. "To whom should I speak to? I assume you must have a leader to have come so far down south in a camp that large."
"We're freefolk, ye damn southron. We have no leaders, each man is his own! We ain't no lords or ladies, we choose to live as we like. Now leave us, else we gut ye like we did the boars in these woods!" The man that spoke had greyed hair, sporting holes in a rancid smile. He stood half a head taller than the second tallest wildling. The good helm on his head, the better furs and the good steel let Geralt know he was one of the better fighters. Brandon was quick to get his sword out, and the wildlings grew tense. Rickard was even faster to stretch his own sword, preventing his firstborn through. Seconds were long, but the look their father had given Brandon was enough to make him retract his steed, though not hide his sword. Rickard took a deep breath, tone still amiable. "Aye, but not every man is fit for such a task. And to keep the women and the children alive, surely you must have chosen the one to lead your band. The freefolk may have no lords, but they had chosen kings in older times."
"Aye, it ain't a man who led this lot south, no keep your mouth shut Holrin, this lot we won't win against. Not in these lands, not in this land, not against their mounts." The woman wielding the steel stepped up, and when Holrin growled at her, all she gave was a glare and the brute backed away. She was… pretty, in a strange way. She would be of an age with mother if she were still alive. She had messy black hair, kept in messy dreadlocks, and her skin was almost milk. Her eyes, however, were what set her apart from most. Between blue and grey, almost close to the Boltons' own shade. "My name's Arla, and we mean to ride south, as far away from the damn Wall as we can."
"From your journey, it would seem that way. I am Rickard Stark, and I'm afraid I will have to ask you to come to Winterfell. One of my men reported dead scouts farther north, and a village raided and pillaged in the Gift. From the looks of your furs and steel, it would not take much to guess which hand dealt the crimes." Holrin meant to growl again, but Arla cut him off. "Aye, the men with the giants on their chests? We killed them after they meant to rape our women."
"LIAR! The Umbers are an honored family, they would not lower themselves to–" Again, Rickard raised his hand, and Brandon held his tongue. Rickard had a severe look on his face. "The reports came of the corpses, bled out from the wounds where they had been gelded. I will ask this once, Arla, out of respect for the strength of your people and the will to come so far south. Did the scouts truly mean to take you and the women of this group dishonorably?"
Arla took a look back at some of the faces there. Geralt paled when he looked at the sight of some of the women. Bruised eyes, swollen lips. The ones with arms and legs mildly exposed sported scratches. They could be lying, might just be them fighting between each other. But if that were the case, then this Arla might've just killed the men. Either ways, Geralt hated of thinking of the implications. Arla leveled a look to Rickard before she spat on the ground. "I was leading the men and spearwives in the hunt while the old and young women were gathering the berries and watching the children. When we came back, the scouts were having their way with them."
"Then it was an act of self-defense and just cause. I appreciate your honesty, and expect much the same from my next question if this is to remain a bloodless bout. Did you or did you not torch a village, butcher the men and children and rape the women?" Arla remained silent, but that was all Geralt needed to hear. They pillaged first. Fitting they'd receive the same from the Umbers. He couldn't condone what the scouts did, but he felt numb towards them all. Holrin finally spoke up. "We're freefolk, shit lord. We take as we please, and if they wasn't able of fightin' back, that's their fault."
"Is that the way of the freefolk? Sounds like a terrible way to live. By that matter, any man strong enough to rape your mother, sisters and daughters should be free to do so." Horlin started stomping towards Rickard, but it took one punch from Arla to get him to back down. The large man yelped and held his bloody nose, and Arla looked at Rickard with a tired look. "Aye, that's the way of the freefolk. We never had the chance to learn the southron way when we were left to be born, freeze and die north of the Wall. We've heard the likes of crows and 'northmen' that they know cold better than anyone. You've never spent winter beyond the Wall. You haven't seen men eat their wives and children when the game hides and the storm's too strong. We ain't a pretty people, we're survivors, and we mean to keep surviving for our own."
"And where's it end, Arla? Was the village in the Gift the first or the last to suffer from your survival? What will your own freefolk have to endure when they face scouts and soldiers crueler than the ones you've encountered? Believe me, there are plenty worse you'll face if you continue marching south. But you seem like a woman of reason, if nothing else, and the like that lives the way of the freefolk because you never had the opportunity to do otherwise. So heed my words, this is your chance. Abandon your strength, abandon your pride. You will face justice in Winterfell, just as the scouts you've encountered had. But if you come willing, your women and children will be free from a life of cold and hunger, the life you lot have survived. Come with us, and you'll not want for food nor blood. Let there be an end to this cruelty. We were once all kinsmen, descended from the First Men. Let us act like kinsmen."
The freefolk were tense, and Geralt could see the beaten women sharing glances, and the children had yet to let go of the rabbit legs and stag meat they held. The men frowned, but most turned to Arla, who held a conflicted look. The grip on her sword was tight, but she looked at one of the children of their lot. He was small, redhaired, and held pale grey-blue eyes. Her eyes. When she turned back to Rickard, she bit her lips. "Promise me the women and children shall be safe."
"On my word as a Stark. They are young and innocent of all crimes." Geralt felt his eyes widen when he saw Arla stabbing her sword in the soil. Many of the spearwives did the same, and even a few of the men as well. Father truly has a gift for words when he means it. Holrin only growled. "Dumb cunt. If ye want to spread your legs for the Stark bastard and breed his lot, then you're a fuckin traitor to the freefolk. The freefolk don't kneel!"
And with that, he grabbed a makeshift spear, and chucked it. Arla screamed at him, and Geralt felt his heart stop. Rickard raised his shield and the spear breached through, stopping inches from his face. He was alive and unharmed, but the damage had been done. Brandon let out a scream of rage and charged, sword in hand. When he rode to meet the two, he swung at the pair of wildlings in front. Arla had dodged, fast, but Holrin wasn't so fast. Holrin may have been six-and-a-half feet tall, but Brandon was short of six feet and on horseback. The brute had just enough time to reach for his sword, but Brandon's swing had been fierce enough to drive it back and scrape his helmet off. His ear came off with it. Holrin held his head and screamed. Chaos erupted.
Before he knew it, Geralt instinctively rode forwards, shield on his left hand, Lord Mormont's gift in the right. His father's words escaped his mind, and he met Brandon before they could surround him. The wildlings were riled up now, and intent on surrounding them. Many of the Stark soldiers were already riding some of the men and spearwives down, cutting them with ease. But the archers were better shots than Geralt had expected, and more than a few of the riders were shot down. The ones that hadn't been impaled in the head or the neck were surrounded once they fell onto the ground, and the wildlings proved to be as brutal as the men were skilled.
When Arla aimed at Brandon with speed and fury, Geralt's sword stopped its tracks. Fuck, she's not supposed to be that strong. Geralt met her match for match, blow for blow. Holrin had stabbed Brandon's horse in that time, and his brother fell with a cry. The moment Geralt spared a look at him, seeing he was fine and taking the fighting against the brute on foot, he deflected a dangerous slash with his shield. Strong enough to knock him back and loosen his helmet. When he stood, Arla's eyes filled with regret. She didn't expect me to be so young. A part of him yearned for the fight, but thoughts of his father came through. "Stand down. You can't win, so just toss the sword."
"I can't do that while your soldiers are killing my people." She swung again and Geralt rolled out of the strike. I mistook her as weak because she's a woman and Holrin's twice her size. But if she's a woman and she leads a band of wildling's herself, I can't underestimate her. He loosened his shield and tossed it at Holrin's head, who staggered from the attack. By that point, Brandon removed his sword arm, but neither that nor his scream mattered. He was against Arla. I must make her yield. It's the only way the killing stops. And so they fought on even footing. Geralt had no shield weighing him down and he used the greatsword twohanded and freely, and Arla lost the sympathy that slowed her strikes earlier. Rickard roared, but three wildlings and two spearwives surrounded him.
"You want this to stop, you make this stop! They're your people. If you can't command them now, then you never could've from the start. My father's men won't kill your children, but your son might die if we keep on fighting!" Arla's eyes widened, and she looked at the chaos. The women and the children were huddled and away from the lot, few of them with knives in hand. They were scared, and the men and spearwives were falling by the lot. For every Stark soldier that fell, six wildlings took his place. Almost a third of the fighting forces had fallen, and Arla screamed. "ENOUGH! NO MORE!"
The soldiers and wildlings stopped to look at her. With shame and defeat, she threw her sword on the ground. The wildlings paused, made pained faces and did the same. Geralt fell back when he felt Holrin charge him and hold him with one arm, knife against his neck. "I AIN'T FUCKIN DONE HERE! I NEED ME SOME SNOW AND ALE, MY FUCKIN ARM HURTS! GET IT NOW, OR THIS LITTLE RUNT'S NECK WILL BE AS BLOODY AS I AM! AND WHY ARE YE LISTENING TO THAT BITCH ARLA?! THESE ARE THE CUNTS WHO LOCKED US OUT OF THE REST O' THE WORLD AND LEFT US TO ROT!"
Rickard had a look of fear in his face, and Brandon wasn't faring any better. Holrin may have had one arm left, but the left arm was still strong enough to hold him in his place. Geralt took deep breaths. He denied fear its due. Instead he met Brandon's gaze, only a few feet away from him. His sword's long enough. He looked directly at his sword until his brother noticed. He nodded upward and with one hand counted down. Three. He could feel the blade cold against his neck. Two. The point was piercing the skin. One. A faint line of blood seeped out. Now. He shifted and hit Holrin in his stump. The brute howled and his grip loosened. Geralt shoved his arms away and Brandon swung the sword. The two fell, though his head rolled away.
Geralt got up, sword in hand to find Brandon with a horrified look on his face. Arla stood with a knife in hand, not far from where Holrin had been standing. Blood poured from her neck. She meant to save me. FUCK. She dropped the knife in her hand and used it to hold her neck. With the other, she reached out to Brandon, shaking her head. He ran over to hold her, and she shook her head. She was dead after that. The Wild Wolf had never looked so broken. The small shadow that jumped from the trees onto Brandon was too fast for him to dodge, the knife in its hand coming with hateful intent. Geralt impaled it with his sword, and the knife never reached Brandon.
Removing it, he found the redhaired, pale-eyed boy on the ground, his stomach weeping red, his eyes weeping white. She hadn't been reaching out to Brandon. He let out a pitiful whimper before Geralt realized what Arla had tried to do. He dropped Lord Mormont's sword and rushed to the child. Now there was no more noise in the battlefield, no one else giving a fight. All that was left was Geralt, holding the little wildling boy's hands. He could have been younger than Benjen. I'm sorry, he meant to say. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. The little boy whimpered and coughed. He met his mother's fate a few moments after. No tears threatened to come from Geralt. His eyes were dry, and his soul was void. He didn't react when he heard his father roar.
"ENOUGH! IN THE NAME OF ALL THE DAMN GODS, ENOUGH OF THIS! HAVE ENOUGH PEOPLE NOT SUFFERED YET?! LET THERE BE AN END OF THIS! ENOUGH, I SAID!" His father's rage had disarmed the remaining wildlings left, those who could fight, at least. Geralt didn't see, but he could hear more swords dropping. He could hear knives dropping. He could hear the soldiers grabbing chains and ropes, he could see them out of the line of his sight coming closer to the wildlings, who did not move any longer. Geralt remained where he knelt. He grasped the unmoving, little hands fiercely. Stupid kid, STUPID KID. He clenched his teeth, and loathed to think he would have done the same had his mother been slain in front of him. He was shaking, but his eyes remained dry still. He was breathing fast, faster than he should have. I'm not running, I'm not out of breath. When Brandon placed his hand on Geralt's shoulder, he hit his arm away. Go away, damn you. I can't leave him! His heart was pounding, and his grip never loosened.
It took the combined effort of his father and his brother to make him release the little boy's hands. He heard his father speak again, his tone morose. "You lot will never wield swords again, but if you'll want to bury your kin, do so now."
"We don't bury our own. We burn them. We don't want them coming back." The one that spoke was one of the surviving men, tall, lean, bald and earless. He was solemn, he even stood upright and proper, at least by wildling standards. Rickard was brief in his orders. "Then gather some wood and handle their bodies. If you want to pay respects, now's the time. Either that, or they'll be gone by the hour of the wolf."
On their way back, Geralt rode next to Rickard. His expression had not changed, and all he could think of was the blood on his hands. The little boy's blood. I didn't even know his name. He did not know if that made it better or worse. Brandon himself refused to take a horse after losing his. Instead, he walked to the right of Rickard and Geralt, next to a horse carrying the bodies of three of their soldiers. The ride was silent, and the wildlings offered no further fight. By the time they had returned to Winterfell, Rickard said soft words to Geralt that he didn't hear. Brandon could barely look at him before apologizing and following the men leading the corpses. His father, in turn, led the captured wildlings, many sporting broken looks. He didn't say anything to Lyanna when he returned to their hall. He didn't spare a look at Benjen when the boy greeted him. The only thing he did was shut himself in his room, look at his bloody hands and scream.
Author's Notes: I remember someone asking something along the lines of if A Song of Ice and Fire would be more forgiving to Guts/Geralt than Berserk. The simple answer is yes, simply because of the fact that next-to-nothing in Westeros could match the horrors of Midland and the Astral Plane. The longer answer is yes, but "yes" doesn't mean he's exempt from the other (comparatively milder) horrors that Mundus has (the name I gave for the world where Westeros is (because Planetos just doesn't sound that good)). Once again, comparatively little has happened from a narration stand point, but as I've stated before, with few exceptions, Winterfell is not the most interesting place to be in during this time. A few important events are worth noting, and I've found a... unique way of making Geralt's teenage years interesting. You'll know about it in two chapters, with the end of the Winterfell arc. That being said, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and feel free to comment what you liked and what you'd change.
The Almighty Afroduck,
All Hail
