Over the span of several weeks, Geralt found himself immersed in a flurry of activities.
Ever since word got around that he was handpicking men for perilous missions Beyond the Wall and to the forgotten lands of Valyria, there had been an unending stream of volunteers and solicitations. The Kingsguard, those who hadn't accompanied him to Harrenhal, stepped forward without hesitation, joined by several esteemed nobles like Baratheon and Connington. Even members of less illustrious Houses, tantalised by the prospect of fame and glory, made their pitches with eager determination.
Geralt dismissed some outright, their eagerness falling short of competence. Others, like Baratheon and Selmy, gave him pause, compelling serious consideration. Ultimately, he deduced they would serve a better purpose bolstering Rhaegar's efforts and orchestrating the defences of the Wall. Baratheon's reaction to the decision was in line with Geralt's predictions—vociferous objections and a thunderous fist-slam that threatened to split his table asunder.
Baratheon was undeniably formidable, barely into his twenties, yet already on a trajectory that would place him among Westeros' finest warriors. The young lord's charisma seemed almost magical in its power to command attention and inspire devotion. But he was also the Lord of the Stormlands, the head of their military, and his only substitute was a teenage brother, unseasoned and largely unproven in leadership or combat. A wildcard in a game of precariously high stakes, Geralt reasoned.
In the following days, only two men seemed likely to join their ranks: Meribald and Prince Oberyn.
Meribald's arrival at the Red Keep had raised eyebrows. The sight of a clergyman donning armor, entering a sparring ring normally reserved for the finest knights, was baffling to many. Mockery quickly followed by onlookers, and varied with how open it was.
Meribald moved with an expected stiffness and awkwardness. He depended heavily on his shield to absorb the blows, and his mace swings were uncontrolled and wasteful. Even more disconcerting was the absence of any manifestation of his powers during their fights.
While Meribald had an uncanny ability to heal injuries, woes and fatigue, his magical prowess seemed limited to these feats. There was no Power augmenting his blows, no mystical force speeding up his movements. There wasn't even a spontaneous burst of raw magic that often happened when untrained users were pushed to their physical limits or emotional limits.
While Geralt's time was divided among various tasks, he couldn't dedicate as much time to training with Meribald as he would have liked. Instead, he enlisted the help of the Five and the Kingsguard to sharpen the septon's combat and physical capabilities, to which they agreed.
One day, Ser Lewyn shed light on a possible reason for Meribald's inhibited capabilities. "Your septon was a soldier on the Stepstones," the Dornishman divulged, during a meeting in Geralt's chambers in the Tower of the Hand.
"How do you know?"
"We were in the yard this afternoon, and I'd been relentlessly instructing him on shield usage and counterstrike timing. Despite numerous tumbles, one particularly harsh fall sparked concern in me. To my surprise, he merely chuckled it off, mentioning he'd endured worse injuries on the Mudhill."
Geralt remained silent, prompting Lewyn to continue.
"The Mudhill," Lewyn sighed, a weariness seeping into his usually energetic voice. "A stampeded, corpse-ridden hill on which Maelys' forces constructed a fort. It safeguarded his army's left flank. Capturing it would expose his entire line, hastening the end of the conflict." He chuckled bitterly, "By the time we finally seized the place, Barristan was busy making Maelys eat his own teeth."
Given Meribald's previous comment about the damaging impact of war on men's spirits, Geralt had suspected that the septon had experienced it firsthand. His age indeed suggested that he could have been drafted into the War of the Ninepenny Kings, either as a lowly foot soldier, plucked from his village, or a novice septon laboring in a war camp, stitching and tending to the broken soldiers engaged in battle. The fear and terror Geralt had glimpsed in Meribald's eyes during their sparring sessions now took on a whole new depth.
"It was a nightmare, Geralt, a true nightmare," Lewyn continued, sinking into the chair at Geralt's desk. "Dirt-caked bodies were strewn everywhere, a humid sea breeze wafting the stench across the islands, so I've been told. The sight alone could drive a man to madness."
"That might explain why he can't fully use his abilities," Geralt mused after a thoughtful pause. "Traumatic events can lead to magic abilities becoming erratic or stunted. From my own experience, I know that in some cases, it can completely block them."
Despite the hurdles, Meribald had demonstrated his ability to tap into the power of the Warrior, as he perceived it, both for healing purposes and through his visions. The challenge was getting him to access it during combat, something he undoubtedly associated with pain and suffering.
Yennefer had spent weeks with Ciri, utilising every waking and sleeping moment, employing subtle sorceries, trances, and their burgeoning bond to break through her mental block. It was a long and delicate process Geralt neither had the time nor the skill set to duplicate.
Suppressing a sigh, Geralt resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Thanks for telling me, Lewyn. Keep up your practices with him, train him as well as you can in the time that's left and if you notice anything strange happen, tell me."
"Of course, my friend."
Once the knight left, Geralt found himself mulling over this unnecessary complication. The worth of healers was immeasurable, a fact he knew all too well from countless near-death experiences. Just by virtue of his healing abilities, Meribald had secured his place in the upcoming endeavors. The lives he could potentially save were too numerous to count. Yet, having his full abilities at their disposal would undoubtedly be a significant advantage. Priests who could utilize their magic to the fullest extent were formidable assets.
The Witcher made a mental note to ponder over potential ways he could facilitate this transformation in the coming days.
Meribald wasn't the only one raising eyebrows. Prince Oberyn, as intent on journeying to Valyria as Robert, if not more so, took a vastly different approach to his conversation with Geralt than during their first meeting.
The self-assured grins and seemingly languid postures were replaced with a decidedly more professional demeanor. His words were succinct, devoid of derision. When Geralt responded, the Prince listened attentively, occasionally following Geralt's own train of thought to its logical conclusion.
What's more, Oberyn had apparently spent several days and nights gathering any Valyrian tales he could recall—from Westeros to distant Volantis. He organised these narratives into neatly categorised documents, accompanied by his insightful annotations. The stories spanned from the mundane, such as volcanic landscapes, to the fantastical, like Valyria morphing into a colossal egg, poised to birth a dragon large enough to devour the world.
One account from a down-on-his-luck Ironborn captain turned tavern owner in Volantis piqued Geralt's interest. It was a tale of ten ships entering a sea shrouded in smoldering fog, with nine being consumed by a vast, silent shadow within, and the last barely escaping back to the mainland.
When questioned why he'd never dared to brave Valyria himself, the Prince traced a finger along his finely trimmed moustache, pondering thoughtfully before responding.
"Good sense, what little I possess," he admitted after a few moments. "I won't deny that Valyria has captivated me—who can hear of such a place and not fantasize about being the one to conquer it, to steal its secrets, and seize everlasting glory?"
"But?"
"But a place doesn't remain shrouded in mystery for so long without good reason. Nor does it earn a fearsome reputation by being safe. A significant peril must dwell there, one beyond the reach of ordinary crews to overcome," he added, his old grin briefly flickering across his features. "This crew, however, is far from ordinary. A monster slayer from a world beyond our own, ancient First Men trees impervious to even dragon fire?"
"None of that ensures we'll return safely."
"Indeed," he shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe we'll perish there, or drown in a storm within sight of Dragonstone. Regardless, the Others are advancing, whether we set sail or not. Personally, I'd feel considerably more confident about our chances of victory with Valyrian steel in hand, rather than without."
Geralt had inquired about the composition of his crew. Some were old companions from minor houses who had accompanied Oberyn into his exile. The majority, however, were former sellswords and sellsails—men he'd encountered as both friends and foes, and had managed to win over through his charismatic personality and prowess in combat. Most importantly, they were reliable.
"These men have stood by me in more than sixty battles at sea," Oberyn expounded. "They remained steadfast in the face of ten approaching Myrish vessels. They showed no hesitation when we chased a rival into the heart of the Summer Sea, sinking his ship even as tumultuous storm waves threatened to capsize us and lightning crackled menacingly around us, narrowly missing its mark."
That, perhaps, was the most crucial factor in selecting any ship and its crew.
Geralt wasn't merely aligning himself with a small group of individuals he could trust. In this instance, the core group could potentially raid every temple, palace, and remaining home in Valyria, returning with a hoard of weapons, armor, and other useful items. Still, it would all amount to nothing if the ship's crew decided to rebel, give up, or flee.
Geralt held no illusions that they would all withstand whatever Valyria threw at them. It was virtually certain that some, if not most, would falter, contemplate deserting, or worse, freeze up during the venture. That was tolerable, so long as they, or Oberyn, could be depended upon to right themselves and return to their tasks at hand.
And so, Oberyn and his crew were chosen for the Valyria mission.
His ship, the Serpent's Kiss, was soon docked, and the city's finest shipwrights were assigned the task of its enhancement. The ample weirwood supplied by Howland, transported to King's Landing by Roland Whent, was meticulously carved and integrated along the ship's length. Geralt theorized that dispersing the tree's ability to resist dragon fire and its magical properties throughout the ship would allow them to endure the blistering heat of the Smoking Sea and Valyria itself.
After the modifications were completed, Oberyn took the vessel out to sea multiple times to assess its performance following the alterations, familiarizing his crew with the revamped ship.
Geralt hadn't had the chance to join him on any of these excursions despite numerous invitations. There was too much other work to do.
Pycelle had transformed the Red Keep's library into an information-gathering powerhouse. He marshalled all his assistants and scribes, giving them clear instructions: any scroll, tome, book, or even scribbled note containing knowledge about Valyria was to be located. They would meticulously scrutinize every detail, reference it, catalog it for future utility, and compile notes from the amassed wisdom.
Driven by this mission, several among them were so engrossed in their pursuit that they chose to bring sleeping rolls directly to the library, forgoing the comfort of their own chambers. Their dedication was unquestionable, but the yield was meager.
As Geralt and Pycelle waded through the burgeoning piles of papers accumulating around the Grand Maester's office, a prevailing theme became evident: redundancy. Almost all solid, credible knowledge about the Freehold culminated with the Doom. What followed was largely dominated by conjecture, supposition, and the spreading of rumors. At times, the accounts made it seem as though the Maesters were engaged in a contest, vying to outdo one another in the realm of imaginative speculation.
Still, amidst this sea of dubious content, there was a particular book Geralt was determined to secure, even if it might be filled with as much conjecture as fact: "Septon Barth's 'Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History.'"
Pycelle had mentioned it to him before they departed for Harrenhal. A controversial tome, it delved into exhaustive detail about dragons, their origins, and even claimed to have concrete information about Valyria after its doom. Condemned as libelous and inflammatory by the Citadel and largely destroyed during King Baelor's book purges.
Geralt had encountered enough such volumes in his time to recognize that they were either utter nonsense or contained truths that ruffled the feathers of those in power. His hope was that the Citadel or the library at Castle Black had retained at least some decent remnants of the book, fragments from which they could glean valuable insights.
Maester Aemon had quashed some of those hopes early in the process, writing to inform them that years prior, a section of Castle Black had given way, causing a significant portion of the original library to be destroyed. Numerous tomes, scrolls, and vast amounts of knowledge were either crushed, torn to shreds, or subsequently buried beneath layers of ice and stone.
The Citadel, for all its vast repositories of knowledge, surprisingly fell short in this endeavor. What they sent was merely an apology coupled with notes from volumes already available in the King's Landing collection. It was an unexpected twist of events when the most tangible fragments of the sought-after tome came not from the esteemed center of knowledge, but rather from Leyton Hightower, the Lord of Oldtown himself.
Geralt and Pycelle convened among rows of leather-bound tomes and carefully arranged scrolls that adorned the walls of the Grand Maester's private office the morning his raven arrived, bearing the message tube.
The assortment of frayed fragments and barely legible scraps conveyed fragmented tales - hints about the nature of dragons being as fluid as fire, and the grim specter of death lurking within a dragon's maw. On its own it wouldn't have amounted to much, but Hightower's accompanying letter gave them more to think about it.
"It seems," Pycelle said, squinting at the unfurled paper between his fingers. "That Lord Leyton is aware of an individual who purportedly has a complete version of the text. A Thario Mopyr, a very wealthy man from the city of Lys and an avid book collector. It seems that Lord Leyton had laid eyes on the tome, was allowed to read a few of the pages during a visit to the man's estate some years ago and attempted to purchase the book, though without success."
"You sound surprised by that."
"I am," Pycelle put the letter down and leaned forward in his seat. "Lord Leyton is renowned for his vast wealth, often considered a close rival to Lord Tywin in that regard. And he's not known to shy away from spending lavishly on things that intrigue him. He must have offered Mopyr a significant sum indeed."
"From my experiences," Geralt curled his lip, "when a wealthy man refuses more gold, it typically means he wants something else. Mopyr must've demanded something from Lord Hightower that he was unwilling to part with."
Pycelle stroked his thick beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps Mopyr desired one of Lord Leyton's daughters for marriage?"
"Possibly," Geralt exhaled. "But we can speculate until the Long Night comes again. You mentioned he's from Lys, correct?" The Grand Maester nodded. "Then I know just the person to ask about this Thario Mopyr."
Geralt turned his attention to the south-facing wall of the office. On multiple visits, he'd detected the faint sounds of hushed breathing emanating from it. Sure enough, his gaze settled on a minuscule hole, through which a solitary blue eye stared back.
"Tell your boss to meet me in the sparring yard at midnight," Geralt instructed, his tone nonchalant. "And he'd best brush up on anything he knows about this book collector from Lys."
The child's breathing momentarily ceased. The eye remained unblinkingly fixed on Geralt for several heartbeats before quickly withdrawing. The Witcher then caught the faint sound of small footsteps disappearing into the concealed passageway.
Pycelle, taken aback, darted his gaze between Geralt and the wall. "Who... What was that?"
"That was one of Varys's 'little birds'," Geralt explained, a touch of amusement in his voice. "There's a hidden passage behind that wall. The boy's been using it to listen in on us for a while now."
Pycelle blinked, struggling to find words. "The very thought that someone's been spying here..."
"It's unsettling," Geralt interjected, "but it's convenient now. Saves me the hassle of hunting him down. Now, let's see what we can learn from these fragments…"
That evening, the spymaster arrived punctually. The sky was dominated by a sea of stars, with only a faint hint of the moon's presence. The darkness of the castle was occasionally punctuated by the passing torchlight carried by guards, servants, and scribes. During a spin, Geralt's keen eyes detected an approaching light from the eastern edge of the training ring.
He would have recognized the silhouette of Varys, the Spider, even without the torchlight. The eunuch moved almost silently, his vibrant robes gently swaying with each step.
Pausing his late-night practice, a necessity due to his day's many obligations, Geralt returned his sword to its sheath and advanced to meet Varys. There was something unsettling about the man's perpetual smile.
"Training in such darkness," Varys observed, a hint of admiration in his tone. "Quite an unorthodox approach, but then again, I shouldn't expect the ordinary from a strange Ser such as yourself."
Geralt paused just at the periphery of the torch's glow, allowing the subtle narrowing of his eyes to be discernible to the Master of Whisperers, who seemed only more amused by the reaction.
"Ah, do not take offense," Varys chimed, "Ser Jaime was recounting his knighting ceremony at dinner. Cersei wondered why only he and Pycelle were knighted and not you. I believe he mentioned your prior knighthoods with a hint of reverence. How, pray tell, does one earn such honor twice?"
"Never mind that," Geralt replied with his usual brevity. "Thario Mopyr. What do you know?"
The mirth in Varys's eyes momentarily dimmed. "A considerable amount, though I suspect much won't sit well with you."
"I suspected as much from Hightower's correspondence. What's Mopyr's angle?" Geralt queried.
Varys sighed. "Thario Mopyr is amongst the richest in Lys. Not a magistrate, but he could ascend to such a role effortlessly. However, politics bore him. He has other passions: amassing rare books, acquiring unique relics, and hosting fighting tournaments. I cannot substantiate Lord Leyton's claim about the 'Unnatural History', but if anyone possesses it, it's Thario."
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you've had personal dealings with him."
"A correct assumption. Before my service in Westeros, I assisted Thario with... discrete matters related to his estate. Mainly issues of inheritance." Varys paused, allowing the implication to settle.
Geralt didn't miss a beat, envisioning the covert and violent tasks Varys alluded to.
"In any case," Varys resumed, "Thario owes me a few favors. I can notify him of your intended visit. That should guarantee an audience, perhaps even an invitation to his famed dinners."
"But not the book itself."
Varys smirked. "Absolutely not. Thario's attachment to his treasures is tenacious. You'll need to present something of equivalent or superior worth to sway him."
Geralt fell silent, weighing his options. He had no tome of comparable rarity to offer in trade, especially not one about dragons. But perhaps something else might catch Thario's interest, something directly linked to a dragon.
"Would a dragon skull interest him?"
Varys tittered. "A bold proposal, indeed. And, if it might aid your quest, I believe Rhaegar wouldn't object. If Aerys was persuaded to part with one..."
"You don't seem convinced this'll work."
"Thario is a cunning individual," Varys said, a note of caution in his voice. "Even if he agrees to a trade, don't assume he won't devise some way to twist the arrangement to his advantage. Once he sizes up you and your companions, he's bound to request that you fight in his arena."
Geralt's gaze hardened. Though he usually dismissed superstition, lately he felt as if someone, somewhere, was deliberately throwing obstacles in his path.
The Witcher released a drawn-out, silent sigh. "The bored rich and their indulgences..."
"An endless source of trouble, indeed," Varys' eyes gleamed in the dim light. "But also an opportunity. One simply has to know how to turn it to their advantage."
Geralt would often reflect on Varys' advice, pondering it during any quiet moments that came his way.
Perhaps the most challenging task in those days was determining who would undertake each mission. The Witcher was certain his journey would take him to Valyria, which would inevitably bind him to Oberyn and his team. Arthur, after extensive deliberation with Geralt, would lead the expedition to Joramun's Tomb.
The two debated fiercely, weighing the merits and drawbacks of each choice, sometimes even verging on confrontation. Every candidate was skilled in their own right and could offer immeasurable value to either mission.
Many were dear friends. And with each decision, Geralt felt the heavy weight of responsibility, haunted by the idea he might be sending some to their deaths. Memories of the incidents at Stygga Castle and Kaer Morhen loomed over him.
On a restless night, one of many he'd been having of late, Geralt pondered, How do these nobles manage it? How can they send thousands to their deaths with such ease? Allies from other houses, fathers, brothers, uncles, and even the unsuspecting commoners tending their lands... And here I am, struggling over the fate of fewer than a dozen men.
At times like these, Geralt wished he truly was the heartless mutant many back home believed him to be.
It was the 7th of August, or the Eight Moon as the Westerosi would call it, when the final selection and briefing took place in the Tower of the Hand.
The hall that had once served as the private training area for Jaime, Geralt, and later the Kingsguard had been reorganized back to something resembling its original function. A circular table of polished, shining ebony was brought in and placed near the entrance, by the west-facing wall. The wall itself was decorated with numerous maps, some small, while the three largest ones dominated, looming over anyone seated before them.
Beams of early morning sunlight penetrated the hall through its windows, bathing the red stone with a honey-like sheen. The members of the two parties sat at the high cushioned seats in order from right to left: Jaime, Pycelle, Oswell, Howland, Meribald, and finally Oberyn. Geralt's swords rested in their sheaths just under the map
Geralt and Arthur stood between the maps of Essos, Westeros, and the crudely drawn regions Beyond the Wall.
This is it, Geralt thought, glancing at the faces of all the assembled men, noticing traces of apprehension, excitement, dutiful coolness, and a myriad of other emotions. No turning back.
The Witcher took a deep, steadying breath, then spoke. "You all know why we're here, so I won't waste time with fancy introductions. Arthur and I have spent a while deciding who goes where. Some choices were obvious," Geralt observed a fleeting smile on Oberyn's face. "Others were a good deal tougher. But we didn't make any decisions lightly. If you disagree with your assignment, speak now. But do it quickly; we head out in a week."
Oswell, Howland, and Oberyn received this news without any noticeable reaction. Pycelle and Jaime looked momentarily startled before quickly regaining their composure. Meribald, appearing somewhat out of place among this group, opened his mouth to say something but then reconsidered, shifting uneasily in his seat.
"The assignments are as follows: Oberyn, Septon Meribald, Oswell, and I will head to Valyria. Arthur will lead the northern mission with Jaime, Pycelle, and Howland."
Geralt paused, allowing the men a moment to digest the information. The room's atmosphere was thick with anticipation and, for some, anxiety. After a beat, Arthur stepped forward.
"We carefully considered each individual's strengths, experience, and expertise against what each mission requires," Arthur stated, his voice echoing slightly in the large chamber. "Understand that these decisions were made with the success of each mission foremost in mind."
Howland and Oswell simply nodded in acceptance. Pycelle, adjusting his maester's chain, mused, "It's been years since I ventured to the North. I'll need to pack warmly."
"My ship and crew are prepared for the journey," Oberyn declared, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. "Although the Serpent's Kiss might be a bit more... robust than we are used to, she has never failed me in any voyage. She'll navigate the mists of Valyria and bring us to its steel."
Jaime, visibly trying to mask his disappointment, took a moment to collect himself before responding. "As you said in Harrenhal, between Pycelle and me, we nearly amount to a Witcher in skill and knowledge. It... stands to reason we should remain a team."
"Exactly, which is why I'll be giving you some Witcher tools."
Geralt reached for the sheathed steel sword emblematic of the Wolf school. Simultaneously, he took off the silver medallion he typically wore. He presented the sword to Jaime and the medallion to Pycelle.
Grand Maester Pycelle cradled the wolfhead medallion with a gentle respect, while Jaime, much to the amusement of the onlookers, stared wide-eyed at the sword handed to him.
"This... This is..." Jaime began, struggling to find the right words.
"You'll need it up there," Geralt cut in, extending the blade toward him. "Meteorite steel can take down Others. Knowing you have a blade almost on par with Dawn eases my mind. And," The Witcher flashed a knowing grin, "consider it a knighthood present. Thought a new sword might be fitting."
Glancing between Geralt and the sword extended to him, Jaime finally shook off his surprise and tentatively reached for the scabbard. Any lingering thoughts about the mission or his initial disappointment over not going to Valyria vanished. For a moment, a youthful grin touched his lips, and his eyes sparkled with delight.
"Admire the blade later, lad," Oswell interjected, his tone gentle but firm. "We've still got work ahead."
"O-Of course," Jaime responded, looking from Oswell to Geralt, then setting the sword down. "I apologize... And thank you. I vow to wield it with honor."
"As will I with this medallion," Pycelle said, wrapping the chain around his left-hand fingers. "But are you sure about giving this up? I've heard you mention its importance to a Witcher."
Geralt shrugged slightly. "It's true, it helps sense magic. But if Valyria's as thick with it as I reckon, the thing won't stop vibrating. Won't help much there. Better you have it – it'll warn you when the Others or their wights are close."
When no one voiced any objections about their assignments, Arthur took the lead in the conversation, tracing the three primary maps with his right index finger as he spoke.
"We will be sailing on the Sea Star to Eastwatch," he began, his eyes flitting between the members of his party. "It's a swift, reliable vessel, suited for coastlines and capable of breaking through the ice we're likely to face the farther north we venture. Once at the Wall, we'll be supplied with rations, gear, and steeds. From there, we'll head northwest into the Haunted Forest."
His finger traced over a vast expanse of dense, untamed forest that spanned a considerable portion of the lands beyond the Wall. Lands teeming with dangers—both living and now, undead.
That, and the sole man north of the Wall wielding a Valyrian steel sword, the ancestral Targaryen blade, Dark Sister. A blade long lost, now held by this enigmatic ally of the Children. Geralt had questioned Howland about this man who managed to kill an Other in single combat, deftly evading their wights and the retreating freefolk. A hunter who had tracked down a group of wights and slew them for the soul purpose to see if silver could be used to break their sorcery. By Geralt's reckoning, he was an adept figure, one of many skills. Yet, all Howland could offer was that he had been a long-standing friend of his master and a member of the Watch.
A member whom their current Lord Commander seemed completely unaware of, based on their exchanged letters.
"I suppose there's no possibility of utilizing a ship further north?" Pycelle asked.
"We did consider it," Arthur replied. "Under certain conditions, a ship would expedite our journey to the Frostfangs. However, we decided against it. According to Lord Commander Qorgyle, the sea ice is thickening rapidly in the north. We can't risk becoming trapped. Furthermore, the wildlings are amassing along the eastern shore, gravitating toward Hardhome."
Dayne indicated a point on the peninsula, which extended from the mainland like a formidable talon.
"The various wildling tribes are congregating there, either to strategize a defense or to gear up for a potential assault on the Wall. Regardless of their intentions, it's clear they won't allow us to sail through without a challenge. And that doesn't even take into account the threats posed by the Others and wights. Aye, traveling by land will be slower and undoubtedly fraught with its own perils. But within that ancient forest and among those stones, we stand a far better chance of avoiding unwanted attention."
"We won't traverse the entire distance above ground," Howland said, his first contribution to the conversation, eyes flitting between his companions. "A vast network of tunnels exists beneath, guarded by the children. These passages will afford us a significant stretch of safe travel."
"There remain the mountains to tackle," Jaime pointed out, gesturing toward the intricate depiction of towering peaks marking the continent's northern extremity. "If memory serves, a great many unsavory sorts dwell there. And, the tomb's exact location continues to elude us."
"That's accurate," Howland acknowledged, his earlier confidence waning slightly. "However, there are the Thenns. Although they might be distrustful of strangers, they're descendants of those who followed Joramun and maintain close ties with the world's remaining giants. If anyone knows the tomb's whereabouts, it would be their wise women."
The room's atmosphere was palpable: everyone sensed the gamble in this plan. Yet, it was the only lead they possessed.
Arthur and the others went back and forth an hour, seeking further information, proposing or dismissing alterations to the plan.
Arthur and the others debated for another hour, seeking deeper insights, considering potential modifications, and dismissing certain facets of the plan.
When it was Geralt's turn to brief his team, there was significantly less to cover. The first half of their journey would be a relatively straightforward sail, while the latter half involved navigating Valyria - an enigmatic and largely uncharted territory. Weeks of research had yielded limited information, making Geralt feel unusually out of his depth.
The most heated part of their discussion centered on Thario Mopyr. Doubt and unease permeated the room as they delved into the topic.
"Being mere entertainment for some unscrupulous merchant?" Oswell sneered, evident revulsion shaping his features. "This doesn't sit right with me, Geralt. If Varys has collaborated with him in the past, there's no telling the kind of deception we might face."
With a measured glance, Oberyn responded, adjusting his posture as he rested his left leg over his right knee. "Having had encounters with Essos' elites, I can affirm their danger is akin to facing a wall of shields and pikes. But Ser Oswell, our intel on Valyria is fragmentary at best. Taking this route might be our salvation."
Meribald, seemingly lost in his thoughts, spoke hesitantly. "I wish we had clearer insights into... what lies there." He realized the weight of his words a moment too late, a look of apology crossing his features. "I didn't mean to question your judgement, Master Geralt. It's just that..."
Geralt, sensing the Septon's apprehension, interrupted gently, "You've said nothing wrong. Voice your concerns. We're allies in this endeavor."
Drawing a deep breath, Meribald continued, "Even among the common folk, tales of Valyria circulate. We know it as the ancient homeland of our dragon rulers, obliterated by flame and ruin. By your standards, this might seem trivial, but these tales have painted an image of a cursed land. Knowledge could dispel these daunting images."
Understanding Meribald's perspective but not entirely agreeing, Geralt simply nodded. He then addressed Oswell, a hint of intensity in his eyes. "I've been a pawn in someone's twisted game before, and trust me, it's not a position I relish. However, when the stakes are high, sometimes you wade through the muck to get what's needed."
Oswell reclined, his eyes shadowed with memories. "I'm familiar with that sentiment, Witcher. We must hope the damn dragon skull suffices to please this Mopyr so we can progress."
"Couldn't agree more," Geralt remarked, scanning the faces around him. Thoughts swirled thickly in the room's air, yet none ventured to voice further doubts or queries. "If that's all-"
"Hold," Oberyn interrupted, his forceful slap on the table drawing everyone's gaze. That familiar sly smile Geralt first saw was back. "Now that we've ironed out the mission details, we need to discuss the pre-departure festivity."
"The... what now?" Meribald asked, puzzled.
"Each time I embark on a journey with my crew," Oberyn began, "we dedicate one night to revelry. We share tales, test our skills against each other, or simply indulge in drink and merriment. The sea is unpredictable; it's wise to cherish solid ground while we have it. I believe many of us here could use a break from endless strategizing."
"We still have tasks to address," Geralt noted, arms folded, ever the realist.
"Then address them, but spare this one evening. Tell me, Master Witcher, when was the last time you permitted yourself some respite?" Oberyn pressed.
Arthur chimed in, "He has a point, Geralt. You've been ensnared in one matter after another post the curse-lifting. A break might do you good."
Pycelle, nostalgia evident in his tone, added, "A simple gathering, reminiscent of our time in the godswood of Harrenhal, sounds delightful."
Surveying the group, Geralt noticed the shift in demeanor, a collective yearning for camaraderie. Memories of carefree moments around a campfire with close allies surfaced. A part of him, muted under weeks of duress, planning and private worries now loudly spoke how it would be good to get away from it all, just for a little while. Just the consideration of it made a great deal of tension ebb away from his whole body.
With a resigned sigh, he finally nodded at Oberyn. "Alright, but let's keep it under control."
Oberyn's grin, however, was anything but reassuring. "On my honor."
WN: Well, that took a whole crap load longer than I thought. It was also supposed to include the reverly itself but if I did that, the chapter might've turned out twice or three times the length of chapter 25.
Next time, exposition goes out the window and bromancing is name of the game. If you don't have Civilization from Conan the Barbarian playing the whole way through, you're doing it wrong. I would like to think SBers kilerog and Skyborne for helping me edit and proofread the chapter.