Author's Notes: And unto a new arc! Howdy do, ladies and gentlemen, it's good to be back. Last uni semester, so expect the updates to be spaced out, but hey, at least this chapter is longer than the last one. Regarding reviews, there's not much to specifically respond to, but there's a recurring theme in some of them. I don't want to spoil much, but I want to make something that I hinted at clearer: Guts's reincarnation is a singular thing. The point of him being reincarnated was that he was the only one to die from the Berserk side of the story. In fact, more than just reincarnating, he's the only one who managed to die without being dragged into hell. It was a... collaborative effort between very powerful parties (you'll learn later on the truth), so it's not like this is a story about "guess who - ASOIAF edition". Casca did not reincarnate into a Martell, Griffith is not a Targaryen, and the dead Band of the Hawk was claimed by the Godhand. Guts is in Westeros by luck and important efforts from magic users. Besides that, enjoy the start of the next arc!

Lion's Den

The wood was thick, the scents hindered by the cold. Winter's reign had been long and harsh, but some moons proved to be kinder than others. Even with many prey and predator slumbering through the frosted underbrush, his nose guided him to the hares and the deer that remained plum and healthy. Flesh and blood tasted sweet in his maw, and the fear that once plagued him against his envious cousins and the lone, lumbering beasts had left him. The man-pup had rid him almost fully of his fears. He gave him rage and bloodlust, defiance against the kings of the woods and the winter's fury. But he also gave him warmth, a reminder of times when his pack was alive, only closer. They had attacked as one, and they had defeated the white queen.

He smelled the air and howled at the moon. When he dreamt of the man-pup, he dreamt of his pack, now separated as he had once been from his own sister. The two trotted together now, and his sister had picked up stray, lone cousins that would follow them loyally, even as pups. They were ten now, and when he had returned to his sister, the two relished in each other's presence. A duel between the two determined who would lead the pack, and the black wolf had prevailed. Compared to the white queen, he hardly struggled against his sister, and she submitted. He would grow, as he had done so for the moons since he'd encountered the strange black pup, not unlike himself. He'd grow strong until he matured, and when the time came, he would duel with the man and his steel greatclaw.

Geralt awakened to droplets of sweat on his brow and Wolf's Claw at his side. It was strange. His 'wolf dreams' were intense and blood-pumping, but they brought a certain sense of calmness in him. I march in the day and hunt in my dreams. Amongst the last things he had read before his march south, he had looked into wargs and ancient northern magics. Luwin's second Valyrian steel chain had served him well for that, and when questioned, he argued he was curious as to what the Maester had studied from the North that would earn him another black link. Few books were as descriptive as those that spoke of men and beasts' anatomies and habits, relying more on legends and songs passed through generations, but those relics of time proved to be enough to teach him what he needed to know.

Skinchanging proved to be wide in the range of the animals it involved, and the strength of the Skinchanger was shown in the number of beasts he subjugated. Wargs were considered the laziest of the lot, who only changed into wolves and dogs, so close to men. Skinchanging, however, could expand to the hawks in the sky and the sharks in the sea. The best of them could have many different bodies. The more a man's soul spends in a wolf's body, however, the more the wolf's soul remains in the man's body. They were old tales compiled into one book, and Luwin was mostly dismissive of it, but Geralt found it all to be exactly what he was looking for. And in part, he did his best to keep the link between himself and the black direwolf pup alive, and the young beast did the same. He found his time spent in the wolf's mind helped him steer away from the bloody monstrosities in his true dreams. He found the nights treated him better that way.

As he woke up, he stretched. He got into his smallclothes, and soon after, his leather armor and cloaks. He was barely as equipped as he had been in the North, the southern half of Westeros was not as ravaged by the cold winds, but it was still enough to equip himself properly for it. Once he was out, he found that the camp was still slumbering, unbothered by the morn's first light. Wolf's Claw in hand, he went off a little away, into the fields. That had been a strange thing for him to be accustomed to. Where the woods were thick and the forests were sheltering in the North, the Westerlands had fields and hills and rugged plains along its landscapes. The snowfalls so far were faint and rare, but every so often a cold wind would remind them of the season's reign.

With Wolf's Claw, he swung upwards and downwards, downwards and upwards. He did so a hundred times two-handed, fifty times one-handed in each hand. Even with his awkward left hand, he made sure his strength was even in both sides. As he finished and started over, his mind went over to his father and his siblings. Lord Tywin has responded, Geralt. He has accepted my offer and will take you in. This in no way means he has a warm spot for me, nor is he in my debt in any way. Rather, I believe it's the other way around now, at least from his point of view. You must not, and I'll repeat myself so you hear me well, you must NOT disobey him. He is not a man that likes to be questioned or challenged, nor is he a mind that seeks meek subservience. He a man with an iron fist coated in gold, and you must act the part of a soldier of iron will, heeding his orders. Anything short of that, Geralt… this is no longer for my sake, it's for yours.

Never had Rickard Stark been so apprehensive about another man, save perhaps for Aerys Targaryen. But Geralt had listened patiently and assured him every time his father grew nervous of his character. He'd also warned him he'd gain little to no visits in his time in Casterly Rock. Winterfell needed Rickard greatly, more so as he began talks with Olenna Tyrell, so he'd not be able to go down south. Brandon would be aiding their father in lordly duties and beginning to assume his position as the future Warden of the North. Eddard had returned to the Vale to Jon Arryn and Robert and Elbert, and Benjen would leave for the Reach in due time. Lyanna had sulked the most since their father announced his plans, and she hardly got better by the time Geralt left. Rickard had had to break hug she gave him at the gates of Winterfell when she wouldn't let go.

The only farewell that had tugged at the strings of his heart was Chitch and her two roses. 'Ger Friend, look! I have two flowers now! Chitch–I am getting better, growing more, full of poppo! So much poppo, Ger Friend!' Chitch had never glowed so bright as she had that day, when the second rose finally bloomed from the main stem. Geralt swore she was just a little bit taller as well. He could only imagine the bees surrounding the flower meant more blue roses were growing outside of Winterfell, hopefully all around Westeros. He had wanted to test the theory if the other rose could heal as well as the first, but had neither the time nor the heart to test it on the day of his departure. Chitch had wept and moped when she learned of his future, but wiped her eyes clean of tears and commanded, 'Ger Friend visit Chitch! You will come and visit me and my flowers soon!'

He said yes and hoped he wasn't lying. He would have been truthful to her, but when she learned Benjen would also move south, he didn't want to break her little heart any further. A small, brief kiss on her forehead, or rather her entire head had been his goodbye, and a head-engulfing hug and numerous pecks had been hers. And now, I'm making my way to Casterly Rock, home of House Lannister. The fields he was by were drier, and the coast wasn't far away. If he looked hard enough, he could see the sea from afar, almost hidden by the tall grasses and the shifting sands. And easier to be seen, a great mountain rose by the coast, with an intricate top indicating him that they were not long for the seat of the Warden of the west. They were close now, a month's travels had led them far, and now they were almost there. Beyond the brief snows, easily melted away by the sun's strength, he could see dry greens and yellows and browns along with the great blue in the distance. Some part within him felt conflicted, remembering times in places not unlike the one he was on. Plenty of his dreams of battlefields and warfare made him feel at home, but a foreboding sense of danger latched onto him like a dry leech.

"Lord Geralt! Where are you?! We mustn't waste the day away, we are to reach Lord Tywin Lannister's castle by nightfall!" Ser Rodrik Cassel had been at the head of the small troop of soldiers that had been guarding his passage down. Where it was usually customary to send the ward with a few other boys or girls their age, none of the Northern lords had wanted their lot in Casterly Rock. The only one that entertained the idea was Astor Bolton, who meant to send Roose along with him. Much to both his and Rickard's relief, Tywin Lannister had only explicitly accepted Geralt, not more. I suppose lions prefer wolves over flayed men. Rickard had in turn offered to take in the young Bolton heir, but his father declined, claiming he was to learn their 'olden ways'. Geralt chose to think little of that, but he knew his father sent a few discreet scouts to make sure their 'ways' weren't amongst those outlawed centuries before.

The northmen would be guests to Casterly Rock for a fortnight, then return north, though that made the men no less excited of visiting the legendary mountain. The travel had been a journey and a half. While they attempted to stay by local inns and guest worthy keeps, many nights had been passed by campfires and tents. Half of the men cared little for it, the other half complained about it. Geralt felt at home. In the woods, sword by his side, he felt whole. As he made it back to the camp, he was looking at Ser Rodrik angrily wiping his boiled leather halfhelm, patting away the night's grubs. Putting Wolf's Claw in its sheath, he came upon the elder. "I'm ready."

Ser Rodrik gave a huff and his whiskers twitched before barking at his men, the lot rousing with the rising sun. It wasn't long until they were on horseback, well on their way to the blue horizon. His mind returned to the ride south. Of the long stretch of the North, ending in the Neck. Of House Reed and the bogs he'd briefly traversed when the house of lizard-lions offered roof and food. He'd been caught off-guard by the size of the crannogmen, Geralt had been as tall as Lord Marlow himself, and little Howland tended to shy away from the Winterfell host. The Twins, by comparison, had been both better and worse. Where there were no more endless colorless mires under grey skies, the Freys proved to be greyer in spirit where the crannogmen held warmth. He'd been forced to pay due respect to old Lord Walder Frey, every part the rat in man's skin, and had had to ward off half a dozen attempts at betrothals to their house between him, his siblings and half the northmen. A steady warning that he was to go to Casterly Rock made the frail lord hold his tongue.

The rest of the Riverlands had been better, and Riverrun had treated him well. Going there had been entertaining enough, though Catelyn Stark's persistent questions about her future husband had been rather trying. She was polite enough, and not without wit, perhaps she'd have enough fire to reign in Brandon, though he spoke nothing of that. Lysa was meeker and nice, but she stayed close to some minor lord's son, too small and jittery for Geralt to take note of. Lord Hoster was nice and hospitable, undoubtedly meaning to keep a good image to Rickard to ensure all would go well, though he seemed genuine in his attempts to keep the northmen well. Brynden had been the focus of his time, however, the Blackfish having many and more war stories of the Ninepenny Kings and the battles fought. Geralt had even gotten the chance to spar with him, one of the few men who'd defeated him at each of the practices. Even then, the grizzled veteran complimented his skills, particularly the use of a greatsword at his age.

After that, it was through the River Road they made it to the Golden Tooth and Ashemark after. Houses Lefford and Marbrand both proved to be hospitable, but tense nonetheless. As per Lord Rickard's strict instructions, Ser Rodrik had demanded bread and wine at the gates of each keep and refused to step in otherwise. Willingly or not, it was clear that the trust in the western lords was not as great as the faith in the Gods' punishment on those who would betray the guest right. The Leffords were a strict bunch, military in their lifestyle, though not as austere as the Mormonts. To Geralt's surprise, they were not prickly like he expected, being rather brusquely honest, not quite so different from the northmen's attitude. The Marbrands, by comparison, were a gallant lot. Lord Damon had dismissed Ser Rodrik's terseness and inquired of the North and its people, claiming it be an honor that House Stark would come to Ashemark. He told Geralt that he would meet his son at Casterly Rock, where Addam was squiring.

"What's Lord Tywin like, my lord?" He'd figured it was as good a time as any to put in practice propriety and learn more of the Great Lion. Lord Damon's posture straightened impeccably, and he raised his chin when he spoke. "He is a hard man, that much I'm sure you've heard. But as he is hard, he is just as well. He does not deal punishment to those who do not warrant it, and he is a man that rewards the subjects and allies who would hold his banners and defend the Westerlands loyally."

Spoken like a true vassal House. Geralt noted there wasn't fear in the lord's voice. He'd remembered his father's voice then. The world of men is the world of stories. And in a world full of stories, only the best and the worst are remembered. Maegor Targaryen once helped crush the rebellion that murdered Lord Ronnel Arryn and hung all those involved for following a kinslayer. People hardly remember that, but they do remember how he mounted the Black Dread and burned septs, the Warrior's Sons and beheaded dozens of septons. The Rains of Castamere is the most important of the stories that mark Tywin Lannister, but that may not be all there is to his person. That makes him no softer, but you'll have the opportunity of meeting the man behind the tales, Geralt. Make the best of it.

True to Ser Rodrik's words, with the sun beginning to rest on the Sunset Sea, they found themselves at the foot of the mountain. Not far from them was Lannisport, little ways west of House Lannister's seat, already being lighted with torches and braziers. He could see more and more of the city the higher they galloped up the mountain leading to Casterly Rock. The strength of the wind reminded Geralt of Winterfell's own howling gales, but where the North held a cold bite, the southern gusts brought licks of the sea. The salt was thick so close to the coast, the air was thick and musky. The direwolf banners were waving rapidly, making faint claps as they approached the bridge's gates. Great lions carved from stone were at each side of the gate, one lying with a peaceful visage and the other stood snarling, each twenty feet tall. From the top of the gate, a soldier shouted, "Who goes there?! State your name and intentions here!"

"WE HAIL FROM WINTERFELL, SER! WE BRING GERALT, SON OF LORD RICKARD STARK, AND THE CONTINGENT THAT ESCORTED HIM HERE!" Ser Rodrik's voice boomed, fighting against the wind that threatened to stop it from reaching the troop's ears. There was silence for a moment, then the gates opened. Inside, two dozen troops greeted them, the head of the lot marching towards them with a distrustful expression. Ser Rodrik moved forwards to greet him, stepping off his horse to properly face the southron. "Lord Tywin commanded we watch for a host with the Direwolf banners. He also ordered we make sure they're the true Stark bannermen."

"Of course, ser. Lord Rickard instructed we present proof of our identity." He fumbled a little with his coat, before procuring a letter and then a scroll. The letter he returned to his belongings, the scroll with the direwolf's seal he handed to the man. He looked at the wax seal carefully, bringing torchlight close to it and squinting his eyes. Once he was sure he saw correctly, he took it off and opened the scroll. He muttered under his breath, lips moving with the words on the parchment. His brows furrowed and he gave the group a final look. He didn't stop until he met Geralt's eyes. He nodded brusquely. "My men will lead your horses, Ser Rodrik, they'll be fed and sheltered until your departure. As for you all, you'll be followin' me."

"You have our sincere thanks, ser. I would ask your name, we of the North do not forget those hospitable to us." Geralt could see the leader struggling not to roll his eyes. "Captain Wyatt will do, Ser Rodrik, and I ain't no knight. His grace hasn't deemed me worthy of such a title yet like yourself."

"Very well then, captain, I would ask you to lead the way." Ser Rodrik remained immaculate in his manners through the captain's insolence, but Geralt could see his whiskers shaking. The Lannister soldiers went to the horses, the northmen dismounting and allowing them through the first gate. The bridge was long, but it seemed like a serpent's tongue before the Lion's Mouth. The monstrous cavern alone was two hundred feet high, dozens of great pointed stones at its ceiling and its floor making it seem as if some stony beast awaited its feeding. Fires within lit it up, and numerous guards wearing the snarling lion stood unmoving. Casterly Rock is high, nearly thrice as tall as the Wall itself. But the Great Keep is larger. The only thing greater is Harrenhal, and that one's nothing but ruins.

By the time they were inside the maw, a halfmoon had risen and was halfway to the peak of the starry skies. Geralt remembered few nights so full and bright, Winterfell's clouds obscuring the great black plain. It was a wonder in itself, and what little he had seen of the Great Lion's seat only raised the standard. The cavernous hall had multiple outings of equal appearances to its sides, holes of dark stone that led deeper within the mountain, illuminated by practically placed torches. The way to the mines? Doesn't matter. We're here to meet House Lannister, not dig their gold for them. It was a long walk, but they made it to where the dark stone gave way to carved and polished floors. The patterned floors were white and made for intricate patterns, and the walls and ceiling soon did the same. Crimson and gold began to mark the growing hall, weaving into intricate mosaics of lions and kings and armies and blood. Marble statues stood vigilante, men with lions' heads and great winged cats ready to attack those who entered. At the end of the hall behind the Lion's Mouth was another set of gates, and a man in a fancy crimson cloak awaited them there. The lion's head brooch stood out above his left breast.

His face was hard, with short golden hair threatening to recede. A short golden beard made his thick jaw even more imposing, with a thick body to back it. He was not a fat man, but there was a faint hint of roundness under his chin. His eyes were green, his posture solid and steady. He's a Lannister to be sure, but he's not Tywin, not if father hasn't lied and if his liege lords are to be believed. As Ser Rodrik did, Geralt bowed before the man, a gesture he returned smoothly. He turned to the two at the front. "Ser Rodrik and Geralt Stark, on behalf of House Lannister, I welcome you to Casterly Rock. I am Ser Kevan Lannister. My brother Lord Tywin awaits you in the Great Hall, as does the rest of our House. I will walk you there. Your soldiers are welcome to eat and rest with our own at their barracks."

"My thanks, Ser Kevan, we are honored to be welcomed so well by Lord Tywin." Ser Rodrik's answer was deep and gracious, which earned him a nod from Kevan. "He has been attentive of your journey, ser, ensured that your arrival would be fast and safe."

"Then we honor him little by wasting his time. If you would take us, we'd be grateful." That had been the first time he'd spoken since the morning, and it brought the blonde's attention to him. The stained green eyes looked him up and down with scrutiny, and in turn Geralt remained still and serene, if with a hard look in his eyes. I'm not here to threaten anyone, ser, but I don't mean to scare like some lost orphan. "Very true. Captain, see to our guests' quarters. Ser Rodrik, Geralt Stark, follow me."

The captain bowed deeply and gestured to the soldiers. Geralt felt a small measure of comfort Ser Rodrik would be accompanying him, though he hoped his honor wouldn't prickle their hosts' moods. I'm surprised Lord Tywin would even seat Ser Rodrik on his table. House Cassel is very small compared to other vassal houses, and men's standings are of importance with Tywin. Geralt stood tall and proud as he followed Ser Kevan closely, steeling his nerves and making ice of his face. I've killed before, fought against a wildling lot and slayed a snow bear. Dinner won't be the death of me. And through another pair of oak doors, they entered a hall that mirrored the Great Keep's own dining hall. But where Winterfell was white and grey with ironwood and oak in its tables, the Lannisters' hall was filled with gold and crimson tablecloths, red candles and lions' heads on the walls. It was large, great enough to feed men by the score. Many were already in their drinks, but their food was whole and their plates untouched. With the opened doors, the hall was consumed by silence and all turned to the three.

Geralt's face remained calm and from the corner of his gaze, he could see Rodrik fighting the urge to tug at his whiskers. To his left and right were sets of tables, but the center gave for a clear way to the head, where marble steps elevated the table at its end above all others. Where the seat of the Starks was horizontal, well distributed to face the guests, the Lannisters' was vertical. He could see some faces closer to others, but he could imagine that farthest from them all was the head of the table. And there's only one man who would sit there. Kevan began walking and the two northmen followed behind. Geralt lazily looked at the soldiers dining, most of them giving dissecting gazes, at their furs and leathers and boots. While not all were of such coloring, he found that the closer he got, the greater number of blonde heads sat at the table, ranging from dry hay to polished gold. At the other end of the table, left unseated, he found himself under scrutiny of two dozen sets of eyes. The table was long enough that there be distance between them, but where he had felt doubt when he first saw Kevan, there was no doubt in the intensity of the head's expression.

"Lord Tywin, I would present to you and House Lannister Geralt Stark of Winterfell and Ser Rodrik Cassel, his handpicked escort." Rodrik bowed so fast Geralt thought the man had fainted. He could hear silent chuckles from the table at that, and he made a note of remembering who laughed. He in turn, looked directly at Lord Tywin. Meeting eyes that spoke of indominable will, he gave a slower bow, his look returning adamantly at the Lord's visage when he stood straight once more. Even from farther away, certain features already stood out. His eyes were green as his brother's, but the torchlight made it seem as if shards of gold were hidden beneath their surface. His face was longer, his nose pristine and elegant. He wasn't as wideset as Ser Kevan, but then he didn't have a trace of fat on his face. His hair was combed back, and while time had thinned it, remained as a short, golden mane of leonine nature. His robes were more elegant than Kevan's, that did not surprise him. But where Kevan's brooch was of a calm lion's head, Tywin's was roaring. It's my turn to speak, then.

"Lord Tywin, on behalf of House Stark, we are grateful for the open doors with which you greeted us. On my word as a Stark, I'll ensure my stay is of no burden to you, and by the time of my leave, see to it that the North and the Westerlands have a closer standing in the Seven Kingdoms." He'd been given those lines by his father, and forced to practice them each night with Ser Rodrik. I know them damn near better than the Stark words. His voice didn't break and his face didn't falter. There was more silence on the table, which no doubt wouldn't be broken until his stare-off with Tywin ended. Even as calm as his expression was, there was an undoubtable weight to it, a presence to his character that was made known in spite of his silence. There was a brief flicker in his eyes before he nodded. "You may sit."

He already sent his brother to welcome us, he won't do it twice. It was fair, he thought, though most others would expect to be honored again. Ser Kevan gestured and the two followed, Geralt barely having enough time to catch a glance here and there at the faces by the table. They were closer, much closer now to the lion lord, but the empty chairs designated for them were still a few ways away. Tywin sat at the head, and to his right, Kevan took his seat. To his left, a boy in Lannister robes with a long mane of hair locked eyes with him. It didn't take long for Geralt to find out he was the lord's firstborn. To his left was a girl with much longer hair braided intricately with gold braids and rubies to match her dress. They had the same eyes, and everything else was more similar than his liking. So those are the twins Jaime and Cersei. The boy flashed a snobby half-smirk while the girl held her chin high, not even deigning him worth looking at. Didn't they have a dwarf brother?

Left of them were three more, a boy with rowdier hair and mischievous smile. One of the girls looked haughty while the other held a more serene expression. Even the boy, whom he assumed to be a cousin of the twins, that was the ugliest of the six Lannister children, was still prettier than half the girls in Westeros. To Kevan's right were three more figures, these adults. Where Kevan looked to be second on everything that Tywin was, the man to his right held a more unique look. He shared Tywin's nose, but his eyes were a darker green, with a short beard and a severe gaze. His thick brows were furrowed and his hair was kept short. Where Kevan's beard hid hints of stoutness, this one attempted to hide a much stronger jaw. He looked younger, but somehow his grizzly features complimented the elegance of his Lannister blood.

Next to him, the youngest of the adults looked to be his opposite, though strangely the one who held the most and least resemblance to Tywin. His hair was long and mostly combed impeccably to the right. His jaw was lean and his face was elegant and his eyes had green flecked with gold as well. But where Tywin held a severity to his face and presence, this one resembled the opposite. His features gave way to an easy smile, not the likes of which Jaime had offered, but the ones that tended to infect those closely surrounding the person. He was leaner than the bold man to his right, but he looked to be very fit as well. He was, like Tywin, beardless, allowing him to see his well-defined jaw.

Finally, there was a woman to his right. She was curvy with hints of plumpness, and her crimson dress helped to highlight that. Her hair was kept long and in an elegant southron braid, and her brows curved. Her lips were dark red, almost the color of blood. Weaves in her hair were silver rather than gold, and sharp green eyes matched the emeralds intricately placed in it. She, along with the man to her left, were the only two Lannisters with openly welcoming expressions to the two, but Geralt could tell the woman was a lioness just as well as her brothers. Remember Geralt, Tywin is the Lord of Casterly Rock, but he is not alone. Just as you have three brothers and one sister, he has the same, as well as good-brothers. I know not enough of their like to tell you how they act, save for Kevan, his likeminded right-hand man. You answer directly to Tywin, but make sure to act just as properly around them. After all, if you earn a betrothal, it will be from one of their daughters.

His seat was next to the youngest of the girls whereas Rodrik's was next to the curvy woman's, leaving Geralt to frown and go back the long way around. And one more thing, Geralt, if you're asked to dance, you dance. If I hear word that you refuse to do so, I swear I'll send you right away to the Wall. I'll use a hundred men if that's what it takes. By the time he made it to the other way back, he was able to get a better look at his neighbors. The rowdy boy had a pug nose and a big chin, and his eyes were green stained with hazel. The girls Geralt assumed to be his sisters were fairer by comparison. Where Cersei was undoubtedly the most beautiful, with heigh cheekbones and long golden locks held mostly freely, the two looked to be near as pretty.

The one by the boy was shorter than her sister, though she seemed older. Her expression was peaceful and welcoming, her eyes big, stained emeralds that looked at him curiously. Her face was rounder than Cersei's and her sister's though not undefined and certainly not fat. She seemed to be ridding herself of the childish roundness and looked to be of an age with Lyanna. Her hair was long and straight, color between hay and gold. Her sister was skinnier, her hair had dark roots like their brother's, her glare mean and suspicious. Her brows curved like the woman's, and her eyes seemed between green and blue. Her lips were skinnier than her sisters, but even with her childish roundness, looked like she would make for a beauty of finesse. The only thing marring her features was her frown.

To the right of his seat, there was a boy his age, with copper hair and dark blue eyes. For a moment he would have confused him for a darker-haired Tully, but the flaming tree on his breast immediately quelled his doubts. So this is Addam Marbrand. He offered a smile, and he nodded in return. The two looked awkwardly at one another, while he could see the girl to his left rolling her eyes. Geralt suppressed a sigh and took his seat between them. With him seated, Kevan raised a cup of wine. The table focused on the two northmen and did the same. Geralt looked for his own, grabbing it and raising it at them. They toast at the beginning of feasts in the south? That was the second time Tywin spoke. "May your time here be fruitful, Geralt Stark. The Rock has no room for more boys, you shall find your manhood here. Ser Rodrik, be sure to send Lord Rickard my regards."

"Of course, my lord." He bowed his head deeply, prompting the lady to his side to laugh. The toast was silent and the food was served soon after. Honeyed pork, duck liver and fresh poms and berries made up the platters in front of him, along with a dozen more extravagant plates Geralt couldn't name. It tasted good, and Geralt mentally timed himself as to not wolf it down the way he had through the journey. He briefly looked to his left, to find the blonde, likely of an age with Benjen, to disgustedly scoff at him and focus on her food. He raised a brow briefly at that, but figured the more he cared for that, the worse he was off. If I'll be the mutt of Casterly Rock for the next few years, so be it. I can still stand taller than half the lions here. "What's the North like?"

He looked to his right, finding the ginger boy in between bites and looking at him inquisitively. There was a brief silence between them as the redhead swallowed the bite of duck he'd taken. "I was just wondering what it was like to live so far in the North. I've only heard tales of old from my father and our Maester, and of brief stories of Others and grumpkins and snarks, so I wanted to ask you what it was like."

"The North's cold, colder than any of these Southron parts." Addam looked at him, mouth sealed tightly as he conjured what to say. Geralt refrained from frowning. I can't afford to give dry answers here. They may take it as a slight. "…It's also beautiful, in its own way. The South has the sun for longer times, and the nights are only half as harsh. But where the South has hills and lions and coasts, the North has thriving forests, with great packs of wolves and a coat of snow for every bit of land there is."

"And frosty men to guard their frozen hearths and icy castles. Not the strongest forces to march south, but almost certainly impenetrable to those who intend to invade the winterlands." He looked in front of him and to his left to find the curvy, blonde lady speaking. She looked as far from a halfwit as a dragon from a rat, and her smile curved upwards as she spoke. "My name is Genna Lannister, young Stark, I am Lord Tywin's younger sister. To my right is Gerion, the youngest of our pride, and to his right is Tygett, the fourth child our father produced. To his right is Kevan, whom you've already met, and at the head of the table, well, I needn't explain who sits there."

"Ah, my greatest accomplishment, sweet sister. To be the brother of Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion. I'm of little interest next to him, I'm afraid." Gerion answered. It was strange. Where he looked to have the most of Tywin's like, he was also the one who felt the least like Tywin. His eyes were no less sharp, but his generous smiles did not seem to be a farce. Genna in turn laughed heartily at her younger brother's quips, but Tygett seemed to frown further. "We're in front of guests, Gerion. Behave the part of the lord. You're a Lannister, you ought to stand as tall."

"Rather hard to do next to a giant like our eldest brother, Tyg. I rather like my shortness, it helps me meet all those beneath the lion's shadows. There's only one lion for every hundred dogs, and one dog for every hundred hares. Imagine how little we know of the people in our lands if we stick only to our own." Tygett's frown became severe, but Gerion's smile reached his eyes. He leaned forwards on the table, looking beyond the right of his sister. "Ser Rodrik! Lord Geralt! I trust your ride here was fast and mellow, was it not? I rather doubt it would look good on our name to deliver our guests to our doors in any way short of splendidly. Did your horses treat you well?"

"They did, Ser Gerion, many thanks for your concern. Our steeds rode well through the North, the Riverlands and the Westerlands. We have no source of misgivings." Ser Rodrik bobbed his head up and down, giving the man his words humbly. Gerion laughed at that, enough to bring the attention of those immediately by him. "I should hope so, Ser Rodrik. And I'm afraid to tell you, I'm no Ser. You'll find that my brothers all share that title, I'm rather lacking when it comes to the joys of knighthood. And I can only imagine what your ride was like and pray you tell the truth. I can't imagine a journey from one corner of Westeros to another on a blistered arse."

Genna laughed, and for all of Tygett's frowns, he seemed to be fighting a smile threatening to ruin his fearsome visage. The Lannister children laughed, and Addam joined as well. And here I thought every man in the south was born with a golden spoon up his ass. The boy next to Lord Tywin spoke up, finally bringing the upper end of the table to the talks. "Aye, uncle Gerion. Even worse when you know so little of the Westerlands, coming from so far away. One can only imagine how a poor, thirdborn of a wolf would manage his way down south. Far from the North, far from his caves, it's a wonder he doesn't cower–"

"Jaime." It was all the lord needed to say for the boy to fall silent. The table followed soon after. Tywin almost looked like he paid the comment no mind, putting more focus on the plate in front of him, but Jaime seemed to hold his breath the moment his father spoke his name. Geralt clenched his jaw. In Winterfell, he'd have no misgivings over breaking the nose of someone who meant to mock him freely, but he'd be surprised if he didn't lose his hand if he raised a fist to the heir. So this is what my father warned me of. All games and no honest words. I'll play, if that's what it takes. "Direwolves get tired of chasing the same prey, my lord. We figured we could learn from our lion neighbors what more we could hunt. We just so happen to be cursed with endless hunger."

Ser Rodrik was red-faced and afraid. Gerion coughed, but Geralt could see how poorly his fist covered his smile. Genna raised a brow, and he could see hidden approval in the lady's eyes. The girl to his left looked at him intently, as did her sister, her brother, and the twins. Jaime was especially scrutinous with his glare. Tygett and Kevan sat straight and serious, and Tywin raised his eyes from his plate to look at him. Of all the eyes on the table, it was the lord's that were undoubtedly the hardest that bore on him. Geralt didn't flinch, even with the intensity of Tywin's gaze. If I falter now, I may as well roll over. I've insulted no one, but that doesn't stop me from taking a stand. It was long, or rather, it felt long. Then he spoke, "There's little to learn, for those who have no ears to listen. If you mean to play the part of the wolf, Stark, then you best not stray behind, and listen well. Those who don't fall alone, and any man who calls himself a wolf cannot balk when he must subdue goats and jackals."

"Direwolves don't, my lord, and neither do I." Direwolf, not a wolf. We are the kings of the North, not their weaker ilk. The comment had certainly not gone over the lord's head. The girls to his left looked at him wide-eyed, and their brother was not much better. The other girl, Cersei, held a half-smirk, and Jaime squinted his eyes at him. Gerion was no longer laughing, but held open surprise in his expression. Genna, Tygett and Kevan were more controlled, but seemed to feel the same from his answer. Only Tywin's face hadn't change, not even a flicker in his eyes. Silence settled a little while longer, a presence only he had the power to break. "Then you will heed and listen. You'll learn in Casterly Rock what lesser men dare not teach their sons of the way of lords and men, of rule and execution. Few like to understand the nature of men, and blind trust is unacceptable in this house."

"I understand, my lord." Geralt never backed from the gaze, but he was out of ideas on what to retort with to the man. There was nothing in the lord's voice that wasn't intentional, no word that wasn't measured. I can't fight against him and win, not in this, but I can concede victory while standing tall. It was exhausting for Geralt, the thought of mentally preparing himself for every one of the Lannisters without faltering, but then it had been what he had chosen. It was his struggle, and he'd stick by it. Standing tall as a Northman in House Lannister won't be easy, but it's not the worst. I'm not living by a battlefield, warding off demons of the night. And for all of Tywin's might that Geralt could see in his short time there, nothing compared to the gaze of the silvery hawk of his dreams. Tywin returned his gaze to his plate, and the table birthed conversation once more. That was the time he heard the boy, brother of the two girls, speak. "You've got balls, Stark! Most grown men piss themselves speaking to uncle Lord Tywin."

He was louder than Jaime, but seemed to conceal his voice from the lord, who now looked uninterested from the table again. His sister levelled a glare at Daven, and looked at Geralt with the serenity she held before. "My brother Daven is not one with an intricate tongue, he rather speaks his mind freely, so you'll have to forgive him that. However, I admit that he's not wrong. Our uncle, Lord Tywin, is a hard man, a strong man. Lesser men would sooner sit with the soldiers and dogs if it keeps them from his sight. Most children try not to cower, and few of them succeed. Addam managed that, but I don't believe he answered lord Tywin as you did."

"A comment of poor state, Myrielle. Addam did very well when he was first sent here by Lord Damon, and all he's done since then is improve. And my brother has no intention of terrifying children and sending men away to dogs. If he did, you'd very well know he meant to do so. It's his presence that precedes him, and he's a man who plays no games. He is the head of House Lannister." Genna spoke again, and Myrielle pouted, offering a silent 'sorry' to Addam, who shrugged it off. Finally, the youngest of the bunch smoke, dark eyes looking at him with a snide smile. "Not like that would be a problem for this one. Mutts and wolves and dogs are much the same in the lion's court."

"Cerenna, behave. Your father would be remiss to hear his daughter has acted so coldly to our new guest. Surely Stafford would be aghast to know how little his youngest cares for the rules his good-brother upholds so strictly, especially with all Tywin's done for him." Cerenna paled and immediately dug into her food, averting her eyes from her peers. Genna held a shrewd half-smile, and Gerion looked on with an open grin. He wasn't as obvious as Ser Rodrik, but Geralt found himself to be equally confused. Stand your ground. "No, she's right, my lady. I have no problem eating with dogs, I like their honesty better than most. The problem is I tend to scare them away. Direwolves have a knack for doing so."

"Ah, the direwolf has fangs and claws as well, doesn't it? Shame they were born with no manes, they lack the crowns befit for kings." Gerion smiled, and Geralt mimicked him. "Direwolves don't need crowns for others to know who's king."

"Ha! This one's definitely got guts, sweet sister. Best not show them off too often, lad, lions don't much like threats, but I'm sure you'll do fine. I look forwards to your stay, Geralt Stark, we could do with a bit of the northman's ice around these parts. I hope you don't melt come summer, I hear even our coolest winters are warmer than summer in Winterfell." Geralt half nodded at that. "Well, our snowfalls are softer in the summer."

"Seven hells, it's a wonder you people live! When people ask my why I believe in the Seven, I tell them it takes a miracle from the Father to make a Northman lay his wife through seven coats of fur." His voice lowered at that, but it was still loud enough for Tygett to scoff. Daven laughed long and hard, Myrielle had the decency of using her hands to cover her smile while Cerenna never gave the effort. Ser Rodrik was red-faced, and Genna slapped Gerion's arm with a red handkerchief. Geralt himself chuckled, finding the youngest of Tywin's ilk to be very entertaining. Unless he kills by garnering the trust of others, he seems to be the best of this lot. "We manage, my lord. Springs and fires make for good bedfellows."

"I should hope so. Men must have some ways of keeping warm, lest they remain frozen inside their wives." When Genna meant to slap his arm, he caught her hand and kissed the ring on her finger, prompting the lady to roll her eyes. It wasn't until the older brother growled that their attention turned to him. "Gerion, enough. You've had your chance to speak and make japes, but you will not sully the Lannister name with more crass words. Much less when we have guests at our table, so mind your tongue."

"Tyg, dear brother, I apologize to you from the bottom of my heart. If it's my silence you seek, then you shall have it. But a table should not be bereft of laughter, and our own guests are not deprived of humor as most in our lands would expect the 'dour Northmen' to lack. And nothing's half so dangerous as the unbearable silence of a table that fears conversation. We are mere men, you and I, as are they. It's good to remember where we all stand, and that those who see themselves reaching for the skies are rarely ever taller than their grounded neighbors. Lion or direwolf, we are much the same." And therein lied the sharpness of the youngest. True to Geralt's guess, Gerion was far from a fool and oaf. There was even strength in his voice when he turned towards his older brother, who only seemed to grow and look more imposing. "We are not mere men, and neither are they. We are lords, rulers of the West and the North. On our shoulders lie the lives of thousands, of men, women and children. And if we are to be privileged with such power, we ought to act deserving of it, you best remember that, dear brother."

"Oh please, enough of this. Gerion may have his japes, Tygett, just as you have your intense passion. It does little good to squabble more in front of our guests, so perhaps we could manage to show the better side of ourselves to them. Now, enough of our talks, Geralt will have more than enough time to learn our ways and meet us each. If anything, we should follow young Addam's lead. Tell us about Lord Rickard, Ser Rodrik, of the Umbers and the Karstarks, the Boltons and the Manderlys. We hear plenty of stories here, but many of them are little more reliable than tales of grumpkins and snarks. If you would honor this lady, as the proper knight that you are, then tell us these stories and tell them true." Genna's arm lingered on Ser Rodrik's shoulder, a savvy and inviting smile on her face. Geralt could see his face flush again. This time he looks more the boy taking a lord's daughter to dance. And Ser Rodrik spoke louder, while his wine made his tongue looser. For every story he'd tell, the table turned to Geralt for confirmation. All he would do was nod, with the occasional comment adding or correcting the story.

The night was long, the feast splendorous and extravagant. It did not take him long to see that Genna oversaw each conversation, measured each person. With her close involvement, no other tensions erupted that night. Where Ser Rodrik's stories ended, Ser Stafford's children spoke to Geralt, asking for more and proving to be hungry for fresh tales. Myrielle was the kindest among them, keeping the peace amongst the children as Genna did with the adults. She smiled prettily at him more often than not, though Geralt suspected she compensated for her sister's brashness. Cerenna did not attempt to insult him as openly as she had before, but she made sure her compliments were barbed. Geralt humored her, or rather himself, when he took her poison with a smile and spun her taunts into praises. That left her contemplative, trying to beat him in her game of mental cyvasse of trying to undermine him. He actually found it rather entertaining after long enough, and eventually Myrielle grew tired of apologizing on her behalf when she learned he didn't mind.

Daven was the farthest one of the group, but the loudest to match. He tried to converse with Geralt of fighting styles and battles and swords, roping Addam along for the conversation. They spoke of training with Jaime, whom they vouched for being the best swordsman of their age. Either they're forced to lick his ass for being Tywin's son, or he's worth his lot. Either ways, I can't tell if winning a spar against him will do me any good here. The plates were emptied when the moon reached its peak, and Tywin stood up. He gave a final look at the table, stopping briefly to look at the other Northman. "Ser Rodrik, Gerion shall escort you to your chambers. Ser Tygett will take you to your men on the morrow so you can tend to them."

"Many thanks, my lord, I swear they'll not give cause for worry." He bowed deeply, sobering his attitude the moment the Great Lion gave his commands. Tygett gave a brief nod, brows still furrowed, while Gerion clasped the man on the shoulder and led him away. As the adults left, Genna herding most of the children away, Tywin's look kept Geralt where he was. "Jaime, you'll see Geralt to his own quarters. Guide him so he knows where they are, where he'll find the places where he'll perform the responsibilities assigned to him."

"Yes, father." Jaime responded, still looking to Tywin before turning to Geralt. Geralt gave a brief bow, but said nothing more. I've spoken my gratitude and Ser Rodrik thrice so. The last thing a man like him wants is a blind boot licker. Tywin gave an almost imperceptible nod, spun on his heels and walked away, deep into an elegant hall. Geralt and Jaime shared a look, both sharing the same tension. The latter rolled his eyes. "Best get going, no man is ever so worthy to delay my father's orders."

"Lead the way, then." Jaime gave him a half smile. "Then follow fast and try not to get lost. More doors than not lead to the bowels of Casterly Rock. I can't say I remember perfectly, but I do believe some of the dungeons hold a few hungry lions."

"I wouldn't half mind carving myself a lion pelt, so do as you will." Geralt replied. Jaime's eyes flickered in the candlelight, servants now populating the hall and removing the empty plates. His eyes lowered, turning to Geralt's hip. "Is that your sword? I suppose you didn't have the time to pack it with your belongings, you'd kept us waiting long enough for your arrival. Tell me, Geralt, in the North, do you train with wooden swords or do you actually use steel?"

"If you want to spar, you can find out then." Jaime laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. "For a savage from the North, Stark, you've got wits. I expected an oaf to come here, eating with his hands and bedding the girls in his mind. Might just be that you can survive here, if you know how to hold your silence better. A man once japed at my father's expense, my uncles told me, and that man left red-faced, near pissing his britches without a single word from him. Men have lost their tongues for less."

"I speak when spoken to, Lannister, and I don't jape. And you like to speak of steel over wood, but have you ever spilled blood, ever felt the rush of battle?" He got close as he asked, a mere few feet from the other boy. Jaime smiled, but he could see his eyes barely flinch. "Not yet, I'm afraid. Soon enough, though, I rather find myself bored of besting our Master-at-arms. It's been long since I last got struck with a sword."

"Aye, you don't look like you've seen a real fight. When you take your first man, then we'll speak of blows." Jaime's smile withered then, his face cold and serious. "I'll show you to your room, Geralt, it's late enough as it is. Remember the way well, it's the only time I'll do so."

"By all means, show me." Jaime turned on his heels and walked fast, and Geralt kept the pace. Not another word was spoken between the two, the tense silence keeping a fair few feet of distance between them. Coming around a corner, going through more grandiose hallways and climbing the steps of a large tower, one final corridor led to a door at the end. For a moment, a genuine smile came on Jaime's face. "Daven's your neighbor to the right, so good luck sleeping. He snores like a damn bear."

"I'll take your word for it. I'll see you around, Lannister." Geralt spoke. He mulled it over his mind briefly and bit the sides of his cheeks. He thought of his father and his words. Fuck, I don't want to make enemies on my first day. He offered a hand to the blonde, who looked at it curiously before laughing loudly. He turned around and walked away, calling back to him. "Don't mistake my courtesies for a sign of friendship, Stark. Lions and direwolves make for poor bedfellows, and there's not a damn thing that's interesting about some frozen boy sent from the North. My lord father won't accept any foolishness from us, much less from you, so I'm forbidden from speaking my mind. All that I find that would make you worthwhile might be that greatsword at your hip, but then what's a boy doing with a man's sword? I'll see you around, Stark. I'll be wagering to see how long you last before you beg to go back to Winterfell."

He swaggered out of the hall, and Geralt held back a growl from the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and let go of his anger. Little blond cunt. He shook his head and opened his door. He could see an elegant bed on the inside, along with a window giving way to howling wind. Incenses kept the room from being overtaken by the sea's salt, and he could see the packs of his clothes and materials had been placed there already. Removing Wolf's Claw, still in its sheath, he placed it against the wall standing. Turning around to close himself in, he saw one of the other rooms had its door slightly open. Stepping out to look closer, he saw a single green eye, perhaps at the height of his waist, looking at him. He heard a faint little gasp and the door closed. Geralt sighed, closing his own and getting into his new bed. He shuffled a little beneath the sheets, not used to a resting place so soft. Well, if nothing else, I've survived my first encounter.

Author's Notes: And there we go. Someone was mentioning that "Jaime will be a good friendship shoe in for Geralt" in the reviews along with another that just kept saying "Geralt and Lyanna are selfish". These are twelve-to thirteen year-olds, they're barely just starting their teens, of course they're selfish. They're also prone to being irresponsible and bratty, that's the point. They're not adults yet in a society where adulthood was cemented at fifteen years of age. They're gonna fuck up, and they're gonna fuck up for a good long while. Hell, in the world we live in now, you could easily fuck up big time when you're in your twenties, life isn't simple and clear-cut. So when I write Jaime & others acting like little shits, this does not make this a bashing-fic, it's just kids/teens being kids/teens.

Now, as for this chapter, it was very fun to write in general. Casterly Rock is more or less explored in fanfic given the lack of it in the books. Moreover, Tywin has four siblings, where the show only put Kevan in. These are worthwhile figures and deserve a place in the story. Only problem is writing Tywin himself, given his status of being one of the most ruthlessly intelligent leaders in the whole world. For his dialogue, I'm gonna have to take a page out of Machiavelli's mind and give it a drier delivery. Next chapter I'll put in the "casting" for all the worthwhile figures shown in this chapter. Anyways, hope you've enjoyed! Comment on what you liked and what you didn't, all constructive criticism is welcome.

The Almighty Afroduck,

All Hail