Synopsis: When we last saw Jon Snow in 'A Dance with Dragons,' he was bleeding out and on the verge of death. This crossover is my take on what happens next and also acts as a sequel to the Witcher 3 videogame.
Warning: Contains major spoilers to both the Witcher games and books (and to the Netflix show if it accurately adapts the books). Seriously, do not read this if you don't know what happens at the end of 'The Lady of the Lake' or at the end of The Witcher 3.
oOo
A Song of Ice and Igni
"Ghost," whispered Jon just before a dagger was plunged into his back.
Searing pain shot through him – so intense that it knocked the wind from his lungs - and a moment later, he fell from his knees, face-first into the snow. Blood poured forth from the knife-wound in his belly and seeped into the icy ground around him. A fourth attacker stabbed him, but he never felt the blade enter his back. For, at that point, he knew nothing but the cold…
…until an instant later, when he was flooded with fury. There was a frenzy of urges swirling through his mind, but the predominant one was simple and overpowered the rest.
'Kill.'
He immediately felt his body slam against something hard before he landed softly on his paws. As he pivoted, it took a moment to get his bearings, but he eventually recognized his surroundings – his rooms behind the armory. He could hear Lord Mormont's raven squawking loudly from the lintel, 'Snow, Snow, Snow!' His nostrils were filled with the unmistakable odor of mulled wine, kernels of dried corn and a half-chewed ox bone. And he could feel his ears pinned back and his teeth bared.
Jon was in shock. He could hardly form a coherent thought – because he'd not only just been attacked by his sworn brothers of the Night's Watch but also, with his dying breath, he'd somehow warged into his direwolf. He'd never even attempted it before. Mostly because he'd had no real desire. While he loved their connection – and enjoyed the night-time jaunts that they shared while he dreamt - he'd never wanted to intrude into Ghost's private space. He respected him too much for that. But though the two of them were now sharing a body, Ghost was still clearly in control.
He charged again across the wooden floor of the armory and leapt toward the door, turning his body slightly so that he wouldn't ram his head. But the door held firm.
'Ghost! Calm, boy. Be calm,' ordered Jon.
There was danger all around, and he needed time to think. But the direwolf paid no heed. Jon wanted to take control of his companion, but he didn't know how. Even if he had known, he wasn't sure that he could've overpowered the beast's rage at the moment. He could sense that Ghost had a solitary focus – vengeance.
"Go, go, go!" he heard the raven caw.
Jon knew that there was wisdom in those words. Bowen Marsh and his fellow conspirators could very well be coming for his direwolf at that very moment. 'You have enemies on every side,' Melisandre had warned him. 'I see daggers in the dark.' The Red priestess had also instructed him to keep Ghost at his side at all times, but he hadn't heeded her warnings, to his demise. There was nothing that could be done for that now, but he still had a chance to save his companion.
'Ghost! The window!' The shutters were much thinner than the door.
Suddenly, the huge beast veered from his charge at the door and a moment later leapt towards the window. Wood splintered and glass shattered, and Jon felt a slight pain in his leg as a jagged pane sliced through his haunch. But, as usual, Ghost made no sound. It wouldn't have mattered if he had, though, for Castle Black was in chaos. Wun Wun, the giant, was bellowing over by Hardin's Tower, and countless men were shouting loud enough to wake the dead.
'Flee, Ghost! Flee!' Jon urged, but to his dismay, the direwolf instead rushed toward the direction of the fight.
Ghost moved like a silent assassin through the encroaching darkness, and when he came around the corner of the barracks, Jon saw his own body up ahead, unmoving and lying face-down in the blood-soaked snow. The twilight fighting through the storm clouds made his blood look more black than red – matching the color of his cloak. He noticed five men crowded around his corpse, peering down at him. He knew all of their names, but through Ghost's eyes they all looked the same – simply human…and the enemy.
'No, Ghost!' yelled Jon. 'No!'
But there was no stopping the predator from exacting his vengeance. The direwolf leapt at the back of the closest human, knocking him to the ground. A flash of recognition came to Jon's mind – Wittlestick – just before Ghost attacked. Immediately, Jon heard Wick cry out in terror, which was quickly followed by the taste of blood as Ghost ripped out his prey's throat. But the direwolf didn't linger to enjoy his kill. He instantly turned to see the other enemies fleeing, and he quickly chased down the nearest one, sinking his teeth into the back of the man's calf. The black-clad enemy fell face-first, and Ghost was immediately at his throat – clamping his massive jaws around the man's neck and savagely ripping flesh from bone.
The direwolf heard the crunching of snow behind him and instantly darted away, catching the shapes of several human figures out of the corner of his eye. After putting some distance between himself and his adversaries, he turned to face three enemies who had their weapons drawn. I see daggers in the dark. Would his companion meet the same fate that he had, thought Jon. Ghost crouched low, with his hairs bristling, and bared his teeth. As the humans slowly spread out as if to encircle him, Jon pleaded, 'Ghost, flee, boy! Flee, please!' Though it was inaudible to human ears, Jon sensed Ghost growl – a menacing sound full of fury and anguish rumbling up from his chest and catching low in his throat. And then, a moment later, the direwolf turned and ran past the dilapidated barracks and tottering towers and into the darkness, the light from recently-lit torches and braziers casting shadows on the snow-covered terrain before him.
As Ghost ran throughout the night – always in a southwesterly direction – Jon tried to probe the beast's mind. 'Ghost, can you hear me…feel me?' he asked. And though he, obviously, received no reply in the Common Tongue, Jon could sense the affection coming from the direwolf every time Jon said his name. It was clear that the direwolf knew that the two had become one. But Jon didn't just sense affection and comradery in Ghost's mind. He felt an urge there, as well. But it was no longer the urge to kill and seek vengeance against the Night's Watch assassins. There was a new compulsion pushing the direwolf forward. Or, perhaps, drawing him forward was a better description. Jon could hear no command, but he kept getting visions of weirwood trees, with their white bark and blood-red leaves. It was as if the trees were calling to Ghost. Or is it the old gods?
Once or twice, Jon attempted to take over Ghost's body but with no success. Even though the direwolf's defenses were down – he was no longer filled with rage and fury over the attack – Jon simply didn't know how to take control of his companion. Thus, throughout the journey, Jon was left with nothing to do but think and ask himself questions. Is this it? Will I be stuck here – inside Ghost – until he dies? What should I do next? What can I do next? Is there any way to protect Arya like this? Especially if I can't learn to take control of Ghost? Jon could sense both Nymeria and Shaggydog somewhere out under the Westerosi night's sky. Should I try to find them - if for no other reason than for protection? Are they my only family now?
Ghost continued his journey through the Gift until he reached the higher, mountainous regions – by which time the sky in the east was lightening. Jon couldn't believe that the direwolf had been on the move the entire night without rest or food. It was as if he was obsessed – nothing would deter him from his destination. Finally, they crested over a ridge, and there - down below in the dale – Jon saw the bright-red leaves of a large weirwood lightly dusted with snow. Ghost padded down the slope but paused once he'd approached the weirwood. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. Jon saw a face carved into the side of the tree – red sap leaking down the left cheek. It looked like a wound from a blade or perhaps a bloody tear-drop – which reminded him of the night before. I see daggers in the dark, Jon Snow. Unlike most carvings, though, this pale face wasn't angry, sad, or happy - any of the emotions that were typically displayed. Instead, it was peering right at him and appeared to be in contemplation – as if it was assessing his worth.
The direwolf - not sensing any danger - crunched through the snow until he came to the base of the massive tree, at which point, he began digging. Once he was through the layers of snow and hard ice, Jon saw that there was a hollow near the bottom of the trunk, and it was just large enough that it could accommodate Ghost. The direwolf must have thought the same because he immediately crouched low and wriggled his way through the hole. He could just barely fit. Once inside, he turned around so that his head was facing outward, and then he lay down, resting his head on the floor of the hollow.
As soon as Ghost's head touched the wood of the tree, Jon suddenly felt a force pulling him out of the direwolf. He blinked his eyes and brought his hand up to his face as a few random rays of sunlight nearly blinded him. He swallowed as he realized that he once again had a hand – and not a paw – and that he could actually control it. He immediately reached down to his gut – where an echo of pain still lingered. To his surprise, not only was there no hole in the fabric where the knife-wound should have been, but when he pulled his hand away, there was no blood either. Where am I? Am I dead? He lifted his eyes to see that he was lying under the blood-red canopy of a weirwood tree. He could feel his head resting against its roots. He slowly rose to his feet and turned to face the weirwood. It wasn't the same one in which Ghost had just laid down. This one had no face carved into it. A butterfly flew in front of him, catching his attention, and he followed its path as it flittered on the breeze – the same gentle breeze that tickled his cheek. Quickly though, his eyes left the little flying insect and took in his surroundings. He was speechless as he gazed around him. He was no longer in a wintry dale in the Gift. In fact, he seriously doubted if he was still in the North at all. What in the name of the old gods is happening? He couldn't be sure, but it appeared that he was in some kind of spring-time garden paradise. He was standing in a glade of lush, green grass beneath his feet. Bees and butterflies danced about, occasionally landing on the flowers that dotted the landscape. There were blooms of every color and shape – most he'd never seen before. Though he couldn't see them, he could hear the dulcet melodies of birds singing nearby. And on the other side of the meadow was a grove of fruit trees filled with the brightest and reddest of apples. His mouth began watering just at the sight. He breathed in deeply and swore that he could sense their sweetness through the air.
"Is this heaven?" he whispered out loud.
As if in response to his question, it was then that two cotton-tails entered the clearing. They stared at Jon for a moment or two before twitching their noses in his direction and hopping away.
"You're lucky Ghost isn't here," he said with a small smile, which immediately made him think of his companion.
"Ghost!" he quickly called out but to no avail. He couldn't sense the direwolf anywhere. The massive animal was either not in this mysterious world or their connection had somehow been severed. Neither thought particularly comforted him. 'Keep your animal close by,' Melisandre had advised him. He hadn't listened to her counsel before, and now, it appeared, he was alone again. With that in mind, he instinctively looked down and exhaled in relief to see Longclaw at his side. He didn't know where he was or how it was even possible that his Valyrian steel sword was with him, but, regardless, he was grateful to have it for the moment.
Jon stepped out from under the shade of the weirwood and into the middle of the glade. The high sun shone down from a cloudless blue sky, and given that he was dressed in his black Night's Watch attire – including his thick cloak, boots, and gloves - he realized that it should have been sweltering. But it wasn't. Surprisingly, he felt completely comfortable. There wasn't a single bead of sweat on his body. Add one more mystery to the list.
He was startled out of his thoughts when a bird suddenly landed on his shoulder. He carefully turned his head – not wanting to scare it off – and peered at it from the corner of his eye. It was a small bird with a white breast, bluish-gray feathers, and a bit of rusty brown around its bill. It looked similar to the martins that had frequented the forests around Winterfell in his youth. He remembered that Old Nan had used to refer to them as swallows. He very slowly lifted his hand toward his shoulder, and a small smile came to his face when the little bird hopped onto his finger.
"I lost a direwolf and gained a martin," he said softly. "Not a great deal, but, given the circumstances, I'll take what I can get."
The swallow chirped at him and ruffled its feathers.
"Sorry. No offense meant."
The little bird tweeted, flapped its wings and flew out of the clearing. Jon watched it go and then shrugged his shoulders.
"I might as well follow. I've got no better plan."
You know nothing, Jon Snow. He nodded his head as he remembered Ygritte's words. They'd never been more true than they were at the moment. All he had were questions. Unsure of what he would be facing, he unsheathed his sword and then took off in the direction of the martin. He crossed the glade and stepped past the apple grove and into a slightly wooded area of oaks, birch, and elms. As he walked, he saw deer, rabbits, squirrels, and other forest animals, but none seemed to be too concerned with his presence. They each lifted their heads and took notice at his approach but would then quickly go back to nibbling the grass or drinking from a nearby stream. All the time, the swallow never flew too far ahead. It was as if it was purposefully waiting on him. Shortly, the two of the came to an area that was sparsely wooded, allowing Jon a better view of what lay ahead. The land sloped slightly upward, and he noticed that the stream was flowing down from a short summit – at the top of which he could see an enormous, leafy tree of some variety. He wasn't exactly sure of its species. He moved up the hill but suddenly paused halfway to the top – for he could swear that he heard the sound of a woman laughing. He focused his senses – even closing his eyes for aid – but all he could hear was the soft wind and the chirping of birds.
"Maybe I just imagined it," he said before continuing his journey.
He passed through another apple grove and then came to the giant tree. At its base was a large pond of clear water – the source of the deep, wide stream that he'd followed. He took in the scene for a moment, before turning and looking back down from whence he'd come. And his breath caught in his throat. For he could now see that he was on a small island surrounded by the bluest water he'd ever seen. It went on for a couple of miles, but strangely, there was a light layer of mist encircling the island and obscuring the horizon in every direction. He wondered briefly if Westeros was out beyond the mist and if he'd ever find out. 'Arya,' he thought. 'Are you out there, little sister?'
As his eyes surveyed the island around him, he was reminded of the godswood back at Winterfell. Though the two environments didn't particularly look alike – for the island was much brighter and cheerful – they had a similar feel. It was as if there was something ancient coursing through both lands. Something both ancient and wise…and powerful. Beyond his understanding. You know nothing – he thought again for the hundredth time.
Jon was brought of his thoughts by the sound of splashing water behind him. He turned to see a stunningly beautiful, black-haired woman rise up from the far side of the pool. He clearly hadn't imagined hearing the woman's laughter after all. His eyes immediately made contact with hers – a pair of violet eyes that at first widened ever so slightly at his presence before quickly narrowing. He instinctively glanced downward, taking in the rest of her appearance. She was completely naked, the water shimmering off of her near-perfect body. He instantly turned away.
"I beg your forgiveness," he called out over his shoulder. "I was unaware of your presence…and your state of undress. I assure you – I mean you no harm."
"And I assure you, young man, that you couldn't harm me even if that was your intention."
Her voice was haughty and carried a touch of regal chill – reminding him a bit of Catelyn Stark's. She was clearly a woman who was used to giving commands.
"Now, please wait while I cover myself," she ordered.
"Of course…my lady."
A moment later, he heard another splash of water – as if someone else had just surfaced from the pond.
Jon did as he was told, but he didn't particularly like having his back turned on two strangers – especially not after recent events. His level of trust wasn't particularly high at the moment. That said, he needed answers, and whoever was behind him might be the only ones who could provide them. Therefore, he knew that he needed to stay on amicable ground. Still, he gripped the hilt of his sword while he listened intently to the goings-on behind him. He wasn't sure, but he thought that he could hear some muffled whispering carrying on the breeze.
Over a minute had passed, and he was just about to take a peek over his shoulder, when the woman spoke again.
"Okay, you may turn around and introduce yourself."
Her voice had come from only a few feet behind him, but when he turned to face her, his attention immediately landed on her companion standing at her side – particularly on the sword strapped to his back. But then his eyes drifted sideways to the man's bare torso, and he furrowed his brows at the sight. He had a silver, wolf-head medallion resting against his chest, but that wasn't what had grabbed Jon's focus. Besides the sword, the stranger was wearing nothing but a pair of dark grey trousers – which afforded Jon a view of the man's body. It was lean and muscular and covered by more scars that he could count. Scars of every kind – cuts, tears, bite marks, punctures and more. Jon didn't think that the man had enough unscarred tissue on his body to make a decent wineskin. What in the world had this man gone through? He brought his eyes upward, noticing the man's milky-white hair pulled back in a pony-tail, and then he sucked in his breath. Are those…cat eyes? It had to be a trick of the light, he thought. So, he peered closer. There was no doubt – this man wasn't wholly human, for his pupils were vertical slits instead of round.
"I thought you said he could speak?" said the man in a gruff voice.
"It seems that a nekker has caught his tongue," said the woman, who was wearing nothing but a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It appeared to be the man's since it was several sizes too large, its end coming down to mid-thigh. "So, perhaps we should begin. I am Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, and my companion is…Ser Geralt of Rivia." When she'd said the last, the smallest of smirks had come to her lips. Jon was sure that he didn't understand the joke.
"Knock it off, Yen," said Ser Geralt, giving the woman a quick glance before bringing his attention back to Jon. "Just 'Geralt' will do. And you are?"
Jon had never heard of either Vengerberg or Rivia. He quickly wondered if they were regions in the far east of Essos.
"My lord, my lady," he replied with a bow of his head. "I am Jon Snow…" He then paused, unsure of exactly how to continue. Should he even mention that he was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch? He decided not, given the most recent circumstances. "…of Winterfell."
Geralt furrowed his brows.
"Winterfell? Where is that?"
"In the North."
"The north of what? The Continent?"
"If you mean the continent of Westeros, then yes."
Geralt glanced at Yennefer – clearly asking an unspoken question. The raven-haired woman simply shook her head in response.
"Where exactly are we?" asked Jon.
"That is the great mystery," Yennefer replied. "We simply call it 'Apple Isle.' How is it that you have arrived here? You are the first fellow visitor that we've met."
"I'm not sure. I died last night – or at least, I think I would have died had I not warged into my direwolf with my last breath. Later, when he laid down inside of a weirwood tree, I somehow found myself here…underneath a different weirwood…with a body."
For a moment neither said a word. It appeared that the two of them were contemplating his tale. Did they think he was lying? He wouldn't blame them if they did. It sounded absurd to his own ears. Like one of Old Nan's yarns. Of course, having seen wights, Others, and giants, Jon had long past stopped believing that her stories were nothing but fairy tales.
"These weirwood trees," said Geralt, finally breaking the silence. "I've never heard of that name. Describe them for me."
"Pale white bark. Blood-red leaves. Red sap. They're revered back home. Many believe that the old gods reside within them."
Geralt looked at Yennefer.
"The tree down the hill. The place of Power. It's got to be what he's talking about."
"Place of Power?" asked Jon.
"Yes, magic," answered Yennefer. "The island is saturated with it. Don't you feel it? If you have the ability to warg into animals, as you said, then you must have some affinity for magic. So, surely you can sense it."
He slowly nodded his head.
"Yeah, I did sense it earlier. I just didn't know that's what it was." He wondered why he'd never felt the same sensation at the wall, for it had been built with magic. At least, according to legend it had. Perhaps, 'dying' and warging into Ghost had awoken something inside of him, something that made him more attuned to magic. "So, how did you two get here?"
"Our daughter, Ciri, brought us after I was stabbed through the gut with a peasant's pitch fork," answered Geralt. Jon glanced down to, indeed, see three puncture scars in the pale skin of the man's abdomen."
"And after I had expired from magical exhaustion," replied Yennefer.
Jon quickly turned his focus on her.
"You're a witch?" Thoughts of Melisandre immediately came to mind. I see daggers in the dark. Given the chance, he'd never again question the Red priestess' ability to see visions in her flames. Perhaps her ability to interpret them, but never her ability to see them.
"Please," Yennefer scoffed. "I am a sorceress."
Jon cocked an eyebrow.
"What's the difference?"
"Oh, boy," Jon heard Geralt say under his breath.
"Despite what my current ensemble may convey," answered Yennefer, leveling an ice-cold glare in Jon's direction, "I do not ply my trade in back-water villages – healing peasants' boils and hemorrhoids in exchange for a half-dozen eggs. I am a highly skilled and sophisticated practitioner of the arcana - educated at Aretuza - and a trusted mage-advisor for numerous kings and queens in the past century."
"Yen, give the kid a break. It's obvious he didn't mean any offense."
"I apologize, my lady, for my ignorant words."
Her hard, violet eyes peered into his for a moment before she finally spoke.
"You are forgiven," she said coolly.
Yeah, she definitely reminds me of Catelyn Stark. Though, to be fair, Catelyn had never forgiven him for anything – most especially for just being born. So, maybe, this sorceress wasn't quite as harsh as Catelyn had been. Regardless, he had bigger concerns at the moment than thinking about the former Lady of Winterfell.
"So, are we dead?" he asked, turning towards Geralt. "Is this some kind of after-life?"
"Don't know," he answered.
"Well, how long have you been here?"
"Can't tell you that either. Time doesn't really have any meaning here."
"Then, what can you tell me?" Jon could feel his frustrations mounting. He needed answers if he was going to have any chance of getting back to Westeros to protect Arya.
"We can tell you about us and where we come from. And maybe you can do the same."
Jon looked at the two of them before sighing and giving a nod.
"Come on," said Geralt. "We've got a little hut nearby. We'll cook you some lunch, and you can tell us all about your home. Winterfell, was it?"
oOo
Jon lay on the wet sand, breathing heavily and looking up at the clear, blue sky. He had just returned from a long swim, and, as usual, when he was alone, he thought of home – of Arya, of Sam and his friends at the Wall, of Stannis and Winterfell, and of Tormund and the Others. Geralt had spoken true that first day on the island. Time had no real meaning here. Jon didn't know how many weeks had passed since he'd first arrived. Mostly because the day and night cycle was so inconsistent. It sometimes seemed that multiple days would go by without the sun ever setting, and when the moon and stars finally did appear, the night might only last for a few hours before the sun rose again. And, according to Geralt, the season never seemed to change. It was perpetually late spring – a time of eternal sunshine and blooms.
He sat up and looked out at the freshwater sea surrounding the island. Its gentle waves were lapping at his bare feet. Given that he always felt as if he was intruding on Geralt and Lady Yennefer's private time, Jon had taken up swimming every day, which had initially been a little strange. Prior to coming to the island, he could only remember being near a sea one other time in his life – a short visit to White Harbor when he'd been a boy. He hadn't been the best swimmer at first, but he improved with each passing day. Though, he still had never come close to swimming through the mysterious fog out in the distance. But it wasn't because he'd tire out. He simply couldn't reach it. It seemed to move away from him the closer he got. So, eventually, he'd given up his attempts, resigning himself to his fate on the island.
Jon glanced down and took in his body for a moment – realizing that he'd never been so tan in his life. It's not your body – he thought, correcting himself. While it was a good approximation – for he'd seen the reflection of his face in the calm water of the pond – he knew that it wasn't his. The fact that the burn scars on his hand were missing was proof of it. That and also the fact that he never seemed to tire or get hot or become thirsty. While Geralt and Lady Yennefer had their own bodies – and the scars to prove it - his seemed to be some sort of magical construct. Or, at least, that's what the three of them had deduced one day after he'd brought it up to them. Though, none of them knew exactly how it was done or who was behind it. He wondered briefly if he'd ever get back into his own body one day, but he shook his head at the thought. If it was me, I would've burned it afterwards. No sense in letting the Others have it.
Eventually, Jon rose from the beach, entered the water again to wash the sand from his skin before returning to his belongings along the shoreline. His slipped on his trousers and unsheathed Longclaw – or, at least, the island-magic's close approximation of it. As the sunlight reflected off of the ripples of dark steel, his mind suddenly flashed back to a memory from his first day on the island.
"I've noticed the pommel on your sword," said Yennefer. "Is that a white wolf?"
The three of them had just finished eating a lengthy lunch of fruit and smoked venison. It was a lunch that had also been filled with much conversation regarding their lives and home-worlds. They were now sitting cross-legged on some mats in their hut – a simple, three-walled structure made of tree limbs and leafy branches.
"It is," answered Jon before going on to explain the history of House Mormont's Valyrian steel sword, how he'd come into possession of it, and why the pommel had been changed into that of a white direwolf.
"Interesting," replied Yennefer when his tale was done. "I've got a 'white wolf' of my own." She'd said the last with a small smirk and a glance in Geralt's direction.
And he looks perhaps more deadly than mine – thought Jon, looking into the witcher's cat-like eyes. Earlier, Geralt had explained to Jon just what he was. Or, rather, what he had been before arriving on the island - a mutated and highly trained monster-hunter.
"Lot of men back on the Continent carried swords on their hips," said Geralt. "Question is – can you actually use it?"
"I'm not the best, but I can hold my own."
Geralt simply nodded his head.
I wonder just how good he is. "I've always enjoyed sparring, testing myself against others," Jon continued. "Care to?"
Geralt didn't say anything at first. Eventually, though, he gave a short nod.
"It's been a long time since I drew my sword against another man. But, why not? I was trained to fight monsters, not men. So, who knows? Perhaps you'll be able to teach me a thing or two."
Why do I think not?
They left the hut and walked out onto flat ground, where they unsheathed their respective swords. Jon looked at the blade in Geralt's hand. It flashed in the sunlight.
"That's a beautiful weapon," commented Jon.
The witcher gave a quick nod.
"It's a dwarven sihil, forged in the mountains of Mahakam with dwarven magic."
Jon noticed runes in a language he didn't know etched along the blade.
"And the runes? Is that the name of the sword?"
A small twitch came to the witcher's lips.
"Not hardly. In my world, only pompous, pretentious nobles name their swords. And its typically something silly, like Widow Maker or…"
"Longclaw?" added Jon.
"You said it," answered Geralt with a smirk. "Not me."
Jon clenched his jaw, bristling a bit at the witcher's ridicule.
"You ready?" asked Geralt, grasping his sihil in both hands.
And Jon's anger quickly turned to awe, for he never stood a chance. Of everything that he'd experienced in the past twenty-four hours, watching the witcher with a sword in hand was perhaps the most unexpected. It was truly other-worldly. Jon had never seen anyone so skilled or fast. He'd gone up against hardened warriors and gifted swordsmen before - like Mance Rayder and Qhorin Halfhand - but Geralt's speed made them look as if they'd been fighting under water. Jon had been unable to parry even half of the witcher's attacks. Geralt must have slapped the flat part of his blade against Jon's legs, arms and shoulders at least a dozen times in the first minute alone. Each time saying, "You're dead."
When it was all over, Jon simply shook his head in amazement and asked, "How?"
"How what?"
"After the masterful display I just saw, how was it even possible that a peasant was able to stab you with a pitchfork?"
"He was begging for mercy, and I let my guard down. Took pity on him."
"And that's how he repaid you." It wasn't a question. Just a statement of fact.
Geralt nodded.
"Sounds like my world is not all that different than yours," said Jon.
"I guess humans are the same everywhere. No matter what world they live in." He then scratched the stubble on his jaw. "You're not bad, kid. I can tell that you've had some training."
"Well, to be fair, I'm used to fighting with a shield," Jon said with a smile. "I would've given you a better battle if I'd had one." I might have lasted a few seconds longer.
The tiniest of smiles came to Geralt's lips.
"Probably so."
Jon could tell that he didn't believe it either.
"What about you? Do you – I mean, did you fight with a shield when you were hunting monsters?"
"No. Witchers need to keep one hand free."
"Why's that?"
Geralt lifted his left hand to his side, and suddenly a stream of fiery flames burst forth from his palm. Jon's eyes bulged. The witcher closed his hand, the flames disappearing instantly.
"The sword's not our only weapon."
The two of them spent countless hours after that continuing to tell each other of their respective histories, families, and home-worlds. Jon was enthralled listening to Geralt and Yennefer speak about the Continent and how it was both so similar and different to Westeros.
Later, Jon was awoken from a nap by Geralt gently kicking his boot.
"Wake up, kid."
"What is it?"
"I was thinking. I don't know when – or even if – you'll ever go back to your world. Or even if you'll get your body back if you do return. But, in the meantime, while you're here, how about we train? Maybe it'll help you in your fight against the Others. It's not like you got much else to do here."
"Yeah, Geralt," said Jon, getting to his feet. "I'd like that. Thank you."
And from that point on, the two men trained every day, with Geralt teaching Jon drills and techniques that the Westerosi had never learned before. Now, weeks later, as Jon stood there alone on the beach, he was just about to start some witcher sword forms when he suddenly heard a soft voice coming from behind him.
'Jon Snow.'
He immediately turned, expecting to see Yennefer in the distance – because the voice had definitely been that of a woman. But, to his confusion, there was no one on the beach. He focused his senses, but all he could hear was the slight breeze in the air and the smallest of waves running up onto the shoreline.
A moment later, it came again.
'Jon Snow.' It was a whisper in the wind.
His eyes scanned left and right, but there was still no one there. And he suddenly wasn't sure if he was simply imagining things. For the voice didn't sound like Yennefer's at all. It had an ethereal quality, like it had come from a long distance away, from another world. And then his eyes widened when he sensed a force drawing him forward. The same kind of 'pull' that had drawn Ghost to the weirwood tree all those weeks ago. And, immediately, Jon began to run, his bare feet kicking up sand behind him. He didn't even bother to stop and get fully dressed. He had one overwhelming thought – Arya. I've got to get back to Arya.
As he sprinted inland, he glanced upward toward the giant tree on the hill – to where Geralt and Yennefer's hut was located. He briefly considered heading up there to let Geralt know what was happening, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't dare ignore the voice that was calling out to him. What if this was his one and only chance to return to Westeros? And right at that moment, he heard it for the third time.
'Jon Snow.'
He immediately picked up his pace, knowing for sure of his destination – the lone weirwood tree on the island. He made his way through the wooded area and passed the apple grove when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. On the other side of the glade, the weirwood tree was covered in flames. But, oddly, it wasn't on fire. No bark or leaves were burning. No black smoke was rising in the air. How could this be? Magic – he answered to himself. It was even more present than usual. He could sense it, for Geralt and Yennefer had taught him how to increase his connection to the Power.
'Return, Jon Snow,' called a voice from somewhere beyond the weirwood.
He moved quickly across the clearing and was just reaching out to touch the trunk of the tree when he heard his name being yelled from behind him. This time in a gravelly voice. He swiveled his head to see Geralt standing at the far edge of the glade. He looked to be slightly out of breath – as if he, too, had been running towards the clearing. The two men made eye-contact, and then the witcher slowly raised his hand in the air. Jon raised his hand in farewell and gave a small nod of his head before, eventually, turning and reaching out for the weirwood. As soon as his fingers touched the fiery bark, he felt himself pulled out of his body, and his world went red.
oOo
Even though it was the middle of the summer, the wind whipping off of the Great Sea still had a bite. It whistled along the sheer, rocky cliffs and through the stone hallways of Kaer Trolde, ensuring that the giant keep maintained its permanent chill.
'Fitting,' thought the witcher, for he didn't think he'd ever feel warm again. Warmth was for the living. He sighed slightly before glancing down over the railing. Far below, the waves of the sea continued their never-ceasing endeavor to wear away – bit by bit - the rugged, rocky shoreline of Ard Skellig. How long had the battle been going on? How many centuries had the wind and waves and storms of the sea done their best to break the iron wills of the islands' inhabitants? And yet, here they stood, ever defiant. He envied them of their inner fortitude. There was a time when he thought that he was just as strong, if not stronger. But that was before last summer.
"It's not natural," said Hjalmar, interrupting Geralt's thoughts. "The old shouldn't outlive the young."
Geralt didn't initially respond. He simply gave a slight nod as he continued peering into the distance, picturing an island – and a tower - that he knew were out there, only a few miles beyond the western horizon. Eventually, he turned and looked at the queen's brother – and the son of his close friend. Hjalmar was in his mid-twenties and looked much like his father – thick of arms and chest with long, reddish-brown hair and beard. His nose and cheeks carried the scars from countless fist-fights. He was quick to draw his blade but just as easy to laugh and lift his tankard. The two men were on a terrace of the Clan an Craite stronghold, sitting at a table filled with food and ale. When he'd arrived, Geralt had told the islander that he wasn't hungry – that he wasn't in a festive mood - but Hjalmar wouldn't hear of it.
"The Vanquisher of the Ice Giant of Undvik comes for a visit, and we don't – at the very least - prepare a table in his honor?" Hjalmar had bellowed. "My father would come back from beyond and tan my hide!"
Queen Cerys – Hjalmar's sister - was away from the fortress visiting some of the jarls of the other clans so lunch was just the two of them.
"Yeah," the witcher finally said, his voice barely carrying over the howl of the wind. "It's definitely not the way it's supposed to be."
"Well…here's to Ciri," said Hjalmar, raising his tankard. "May the annals of history ever praise her heroic deeds."
Geralt could see a touch of sadness in the young man's eyes.
"And to Crach," he said, lifting his own drink. "He had a warrior's death."
"Aye," said the Skelligan with a nod of his head. "He did our family name proud…so I know he's now feasting in the Great Hall of our ancestors. May our deaths be just as worthy."
At that point, the two men took long pulls from their tankards. Geralt knew that he'd been served the finest mead on the island, but to him, it tasted bland and stale. Just like my life.
"Are you sure I can't change your mind?" asked Hjalmar. "I could have a ship manned within an hour. It's the least we could do for all the help you've given our family."
"Yeah, I'm sure. Letting me stable Roach here is favor enough. I should be back tomorrow. The day after at the latest."
Their lunch ended soon after that, at which point the two men took the winch-controlled platform down to the port city below the fortress. They made their way through the crowded docks to a single-mast sailboat that Hjalmar had arranged that morning for Geralt's journey.
"Do you really think she's still out there?" asked Hjalmar after Geralt had boarded the small vessel.
The witcher let out a small sigh.
"No…not really."
The Skelligan furrowed his brows.
"Then why go? What are you hoping to find?"
Geralt let his eyes drift away toward the horizon for moment. He shook his head slightly before looking back at Hjalmar.
"I don't know. I'd love to find her but...honestly, at this point, I'd settle for a few answers. Maybe…just some simple closure."
Hjalmar nodded. "May the gods grant you smooth seas and favorable winds."
Geralt didn't believe in Hjalmar's gods. He didn't believe in any gods for that matter. But now wasn't the time for theological arguments. He just wanted to be on his way. So, instead, he simply said, "Thank you, Hjalmar. I'll take what I can get. See you tomorrow."
"Fare thee well, Witcher."
Geralt was no Skelligan, but he did have sufficient knowledge and ability to handle the little sailboat, and he spent the rest of the afternoon tacking against the wind as he headed west toward the island of Undvik. As he sailed, he let his mind drift.
A year ago, Ciri – his ward – had returned to his life. Prior to that, the last time that he'd seen her had been on the day of that pogrom in Rivia, when he'd been stabbed with a peasant's pitchfork. She had carried him and Yennefer to that mysterious island filled with apple orchards, and then she had vanished for almost five years. But last summer, she'd returned to his world with the Wild Hunt on her trail. When Geralt had defeated Eredin – the leader of the Aen Elle elves – he had thought that their fight was finally over. That the three of them – he, Yennefer, and Ciri – could finally settle down into some kind of normal family life. He couldn't have been more wrong. While his adventure was complete, Ciri was determined to face down the White Frost – the other-worldly power that devastated worlds in its icy grip, killing everything in its wake. The prophecies stated that only someone like her – a carrier of the Elder Blood – could defeat the apocalyptic force. Geralt had done his best to convince her that the prophecies were meaningless, that she didn't have to go through with her plan, but her mind was mind up. So, at that point, knowing how stubborn she was, all he could do was wish her well. With the help of an elven sage, she entered a portal on the island of Undvik to once and for all break the curse of the White Frost.
Geralt didn't know if she succeeded or not, for she never returned. It had been over a year, and there was still no sign of her. And that had been the hardest part – the not knowing. Not knowing if she was dead or alive. Not knowing if she was trapped in some other-worldly dimension, needing help but with him unable to provide it. And robbed of the opportunity – if she had died – of ever truly saying goodbye and laying her body to rest. He knew that she was no longer a little girl who needed saving anymore. The truth was, with the power of the Elder Blood running through her veins, she was even more formidable than he was. So, if she couldn't defeat the White Frost, then what chance did he have? But what he knew in his mind didn't reach his heart – where he still viewed Ciri as that little, eleven-year-old girl that he'd first taken to Kaer Morhen. The little girl who hid her fears behind a mask of stubborn bravado, but who, at night, when the terrors of the Slaughter of Cintra came, would quietly slip into his room and ask if she could sleep with him. And the thought of that little girl somewhere out there, alone and scared, was more than he could bear.
The witcher sailed all afternoon and finally caught sight of the island of Undvik just as the sun was setting behind the western horizon of the Great Sea. The beautiful sunset – with its red and orange and yellow rays of light reflecting off the calm waters – was completely incongruous with his mood. A tempest with howling winds would've been more appropriate. He glanced to his right, to the northern tip of the island, to see the tall spires of an elven tower. High atop a craggy, snow-capped peak stood Tor Gvalch'ca - the Tower of the Falcon in the Common Tongue. In some folk tales, it was referred to Falka's Tower. Regardless of the name, it was the tower where he'd last seen the woman that he considered to be his daughter.
It was dusk by the time he moored his boat at one of the docks at the little village situated on the Marlin coast. It was no longer deserted as it had been the last time he'd been there. A year prior, his search for Ciri had led him to Undvik, where he'd soon learned that an ice giant had been terrorizing the island. Those members of Clan Tordarroch who hadn't died fighting the giant had fled for Ard Skellig, but with its death, they had returned. He noticed that the once-abandoned huts, boats, and fishing nets had all been patched up and repaired. The smell of fish – mixed with that of the salt sea - permeated the air.
Geralt lifted the cowl of his cloak over his head before stepping onto the dock. Because he and Hjalmar had defeated the ice giant, he was fairly known on the island. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was to be stopped by the villagers and have to repeat the story. He had more important things on his mind. He quickly found the pathway out of the village and began his journey to the northern tip of the island, lowering the cowl once he was alone. As he walked, he glanced up to see that the first stars were appearing in cloudless, night's sky. He wondered if those same stars were, by chance, shining down on Ciri, or if she was in a completely different world with its own set of stars and planets.
As he continued to walk, the moon and the rest of the stars filled their places in the sky. He nodded when he saw that the moon was full, its white light shining down brightly, illuminating his path. He hoped the fact that the moon was full would somehow help what he was planning to do. An hour later, he saw twinkling light – most likely from lanterns or firepits - coming from the re-populated villages of Dorve and Uskar off to his left. The villages were higher up, near a lake, but he purposefully bypassed both and eventually found the steep pathway the led to Tor Gvalch'ca. As he climbed higher, the air became crisp and the verdant land of shrubs and trees gave way to snow-covered rock. And with each step, he could feel his mood become darker as memories – and the feelings associated with those memories - started coming back to him in vivid detail.
"Wake up, Geralt!" yelled Yennefer. "She's dead!"
"You don't know that."
"If she were alive, she'd have returned by now!"
"So, maybe, she's trapped somewhere and needs our help."
"And what do you propose to do?! We've tried everything we know to do to find her. We've attempted every type of tracking spell. Even Avallac'h can't locate her."
"So, you just want to give up?"
"We had our chance to save her, Geralt. And we failed."
"You mean – I failed."
He knew that she blamed him for what happened.
"You never should've let her enter that tower."
"We've been over this, Yen. She's a grown woman, and she'd made up her mind. I didn't agree with it, but I was respecting her decision. What did you want me to do – tackle her and tie her up?"
"I could've talked her out of it. I could've. She would've listened to me."
"I did what I thought was best."
"Well, congratulations, Witcher. Your best got her killed."
That conversation had taken place a couple of weeks after Ciri's disappearance, and Yennefer had left the island shortly after that, their relationship not strong enough to stand up under the strain of the guilt and grief. Every time she looked at him, he could see the accusation in her eyes. And, despite his words of defense that he'd spoken to Yennefer, deep down, he blamed himself, as well. He kept telling himself that he should've been able to convince Ciri to leave with him. To convince her that the White Frost wasn't her fight.
Eventually, everyone – Avallac'h, Ermion, Triss, and all of the rest - went back to their lives, leaving the witcher alone. A ghost who, day and night, haunted the empty halls and rooms of Falka's tower hoping for his daughter's return. Throughout the summer, Geralt remained, but when autumn arrived so too did his final acceptance of the situation. He reluctantly packed up his gear and headed back to the Continent, returning to the only thing that he truly knew how to do – killing monsters.
But, as the weeks turned to months, he learned that there was no longer a witcher's Path to which he could return. Monster contracts had simply dried up. To be honest, it hadn't really surprised him. He'd seen the writing on the wall for more than a decade. In fact, he could still remember a conversation with Dandelion on the very topic many years before.
'You witchers are simply too good at your jobs,' the Bard had once said over a shared bottle of vodka. 'You're working yourselves right out of business.'
And it was true. He and his fellow witchers had culled the monsters of the Continent faster than the beasts could procreate. 'What the hell do I do now?' he'd asked himself. But he'd had no real answer. So, with no witcher's Path to travel, that winter Geralt went to the only other place he knew to go – Kaer Morhen – and simply exchanged one cold, empty fortress for another, night after night walking aimlessly along the ramparts, haunted by his failures.
One day, as the snow was blanketing the keep and the surrounding Blue Mountains, he found himself in Ciri's old room. He sat in a chair next to Ciri's bed, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees. He wasn't really seeing anything. He was just lost in thought – with images of Ciri and his mentor, Vesemir, in his head. Eventually, he came to himself and blinked a couple of times before sighing deeply. And that's when he saw it – a long strand of ashen hair on the bed cover. He slowly reached out and picked it up, examining it closely. It was obviously one of Ciri's from the previous summer. He looked over at her pillow and noticed several more strands. And it was then that the idea came to him. Avallac'h and the sorceresses had used every form of tracking spell that they knew in order to find Ciri after her disappearance. But there was one thing that they hadn't used. They hadn't utilized him. So, he'd gone straight to the Kaer Morhen libraries, hoping to find an ancient tome that might help. It took him weeks, but he finally found what he was looking for.
Geralt was recalling those memories from six months past as he climbed the last set of steps up to Tor Gvalch'ca. Just in front of the main door was a small, circular area surrounded by high, pointed arches on all sides. He looked straight up to see thousands of stars above him, and he gave a nod of satisfaction because the air seemed alive. He had purposefully timed his visit to coincide with Midaete, the longest day of summer. The chaotic force known as magic was always at its most powerful during the summer solstice, and he hoped to be able to tap into that power. The energy pulsating around him was causing both his medallion to vibrate slightly and for the hair on his arms to occasionally stand on end. He breathed slow and steady as he continued to gaze upward, wondering if Ciri was somewhere up there – out in the stars. And then his eyes widened slightly when he noticed a red comet suddenly appear in the night sky. Its long tail trailed behind like a splash of blood, and suddenly his medallion began to twitch with more intensity. He watched the comet for several seconds more, not sure if its appearance portended ill or good. A moment later, a meteor shower began off in the distance, dozens of 'falling stars' raining downward into the Great Sea. Geralt was no expert in the arcane areas of magic, but he knew for sure that there was a confluence of powerful energies occurring at the moment, and he didn't want to waste it.
The witcher immediately knelt down and wiped away the thin layer of snow in front of him, revealing granite tiles underneath. Tiles that had been decorated with elven designs in forest green paint. He began to quickly remove various items from the large satchel that he carried on his hip: a large stone bowl, a dozen or more strands of Ciri's hair curled into a loop, a single feather from a swallow, a fang from a white wolf, and several alchemical ingredients. The last item was a wolf-head medallion. It was the medallion that Vesemir had worn during his life. The same one that Ciri had carried after his death. It had been ripped from her neck during a battle with the Crones of Crookback Bog, and Geralt had tracked down the lone surviving crone to retrieve it. Their reunion hadn't ended well for her.
Geralt downed a potion that he'd prepared before – a potion that was supposed to enhance his affinity for the Power – and then he placed each of the items into the stone bowl, all the while focusing his thoughts on Ciri. Once he was done, he looked into the sky – the blood-red comet still visible high above.
"Ciri, you and I are bonded in a mysterious way. It's deeper than magic. It's more than destiny. So, show yourself to me. If you are still alive, give me a sign."
With that, he unsheathed the knife from his hip and slashed his right palm, letting his blood pour out over all the items within the bowl.
"I call out to you, Ciri. Answer me."
And then he cast an Igni Sign at the bowl. The contents immediately burst into flames, causing the medallion around his neck to bounce repeatedly off his chest. He felt the Power surging through him, stronger than he'd ever felt it before. But, despite that, he was seeing no sign from Ciri. He looked around him and back up into the sky, but there was nothing from her. He could feel a pit of desperation in his gut, slithering upward like black vipers into his throat. It was so thick that he was about to choke on it.
"Please…" he rasped out.
Eventually, he closed his eyes.
"If you exist, gods, then I call out to you. I beg you – let me help my daughter. I promise…I won't fail her again."
For several seconds, he heard and felt nothing except for the wind swirling around him and the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. This had been his last hope, but it too had failed. He shook his head back and forth as an image of an eleven-year-old Ciri came to mind, and he let out a sob.
"I'm sorry, Ciri," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry."
And, suddenly, he heard a loud crack of thunder. He instantly opened his eyes, and hope leapt within his chest. Ten feet in front of him was a large portal, shimmering with blue light. Its opening rippled like gentle waves on a pool of water, and his eyes widened when images of people began to appear on its surface. He quickly stood and walked forward, peering closely at the faces, hoping that one of them might be Ciri. He saw a beautiful blonde woman wearing a circlet on her head. She was glaring at someone, not looking pleased at all. He saw an ugly dwarf - with the tip of his nose missing – bringing a goblet to his mouth. Next was some kind of hideous ghoul with streaks down her cheeks and a slashed throat. He saw all these figures and more, but he didn't see Ciri. And then his breath caught in his throat when he saw a face that he recognized. It had been years since his time on Apple Isle, but there was no doubt in Geralt's mind. The young man's eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving, but it was Jon Snow.
Why am I seeing Jon? Is Ciri in his world?
And then Geralt got his answer, for in that moment, an image of Ciri flashed on the surface of the portal. Like Jon, she wasn't moving. In the shimmering light, she looked like she was made of stone or perhaps frozen in ice. Geralt didn't know if she was alive or dead, but at that point, it mattered little. And without ever looking back, without even a second thought, he immediately stepped into the portal and was pulled into a world of blue.
oOo
Author's Note (August 2021):
I came up with the idea for this chapter a few years ago after reading the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' books, and, since then, I've considered on multiple occasions trying to write a novel-length adventure of Geralt in Westeros. However, given that the ASOIAF series has a dozen or more loose plot-threads and a ridiculous number of POV characters, every time that I think about it the task seems too daunting and I tell myself that I don't have the skill to resolve all those plot-threads in a satisfying way. Heck, Mr. Martin himself apparently can't even finish his own story. So, it'd be pure ego on my part to think I could. Still, the idea does intrigue me – because I do love a challenge. But I'll leave this as a one-shot for now.
