A Song of Fate and Blood

by The Almighty Afroduck

Broken and defeated, Guts dies in Elfhelm, surrounded by friends and regret. Fate, however, is not done with him, and instead sends him away. In Westeros's Winterfell, perhaps he can finally have a semblance of a normal life. But in a land oozing with magic and remnants of a past life following him, he must decide whether he'll continue within the current or leap from the river.

13. Chapter 13

Author's Notes: It's been awhile. This chapter was nearly 15k words long and was written slower than usual because it was a scene of mostly disjointed scenes which I couldn't wrap my head around connecting. Frankly, it didn't help that these past few months haven't been the best in terms of time (or mental health) either. Couple of weddings and a funeral took up my time, and frankly my headspace hasn't been all there for a while. For that matter, friendly reminder that there's neither shame nor anything unmanly about going to therapy, so if at any point you feel like you aren't all there, don't be afraid to look.

In any case, chapter's finally here. Three more to go and we move onto the next arc, which I'm pretty excited for. Also, this one probably has my favorite ending out of all the ones I've written so far, and I hope you think so as well. Without further ado, enjoy.

The Rock's Wolf

She panted loudly, aggressively. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead, which with the briefest gust of the enduring winter, sent a shiver that rattled her body whole. She was spent, that much was clear, but the fire in her eyes refused to go out. He could almost admire that, were she not doomed to fail. He sighed. She can't get a hold of her emotions. She raised her sword and snarled, muffling a scream through gritted teeth. She charged. He gave a swift swing with his own and knocked it out of her hands, allowing her to trip from the encounter and fall to her hands. Cersei frowned and hit the ground. "Again!"

"That's enough." Geralt countered, picking up the discarded wooden sword, placing them both back in the dusty box. He walked before her and held out his hand. "Stick to the exercises you can sneak into your day. We train again tomorrow."

"Damn you, Geralt!" She bit, slapping his hand away and picking herself up. Aggressively, she slapped off the dust and dirt on her trousers, crossing her arms once she was clean again. "I'm not about to give up, and I'm nowhere near exhausted enough to stop."

"Maybe. But the sun rises soon, and you've got enough callouses on your hands already." Geralt nodded to her hands, leading Cersei to frown and take off her leather gloves. Beneath them were the scars of old, burst blisters from when they'd first started, and new ones starting to form. He took another step towards her and crossed his arms. "Your anger isn't helping you either. Keep throwing yourself at me and soon enough you'll bruise. Bruise, and any maid or servant that catches it will report it all to your father. You can be sure you won't just never have another lesson, but that you'll have soldiers and maids following you wherever you go."

She scoffed and turned away, muttering something angrily as Geralt waited patiently. All too used to how she worked now, he waited for her stance to cool and her posture to be recomposed. A full minute of deep, angry breaths continually slowed and quieted, imperceptible by the moment she turned to him again. Though her frown remained in place, thinner lines at the end of her lips showed it had loosened up. "If I continue at this pace, I'll learn how to fight properly by the time my hair's gone grey."

"And you think your brother became that good of a swordsman overnight? That I or Daven or Addam or Lyle just awoke one day with all training done?" Geralt selectively chose to ignore the myriad dreams where he wielded a monolith of a blade against all manner of foes. Even if they give me ideas, it was still on me to wake up every morning and swing my sword dozens of times. He let his arms fall to the sides, walking closer to the lady. "Even then, it's clear enough you and Jaime are twins. For having only spent a few months training, you've improved far faster than most boys your age would."

The comment brought out a haughty smile that Cersei failed to suppress. "I am a lion of Casterly Rock, as you ought to recall. Firstborn, too."

"You are." Geralt agreed, sighing in silence. Now to rip off the bandage. "But you're not a man."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cersei's smile fell faster than it had risen, and her eyes took on an offended, vitriolic glare. "I don't give a damn that I'm not a man, I've wanted to train with the sword for as long as Jaime has. I even dressed as him when we were little and took lessons myself until we couldn't hide it anymore and they were denied from me. Don't you dare deny me this too, not after you swore you'd train me."

"Seven hells, Cersei, calm down. Do you spend all your free time searching for insults that aren't there?" Geralt rolled his eyes, prompting a huff from the girl but no further response. Shaking his head, he crossed his arms. "I agreed to train you for one reason, and one reason only. I told you the day you tried coaxing lessons out of me, and I'll say it again now. You've got a warrior's spirit, and as someone who can't live without his sword at his side, I wouldn't strip you of that. I said that you're not a man, not that you can't be a warrior."

Cersei's lips pursed, anger dwindling, but an unsure frown remaining in place. "…Well, what's that got to do with anything? We've been training for nearly a year, why mention it now?"

"Because you learned with Jaime how to wield a sword as a girl pretending to be a boy, but that won't work anymore." Geralt answered. Cersei looked frustrated, clearly enough not convinced by his words. The hard way it is, then. Geralt widened his stance, planting his legs firmly on the ground. Looming over her, he briskly commanded, "Push me as hard as you can."

Cersei tilted her head slightly to the side, suspiciously looking at him. "You want me to shove you to the ground?"

Geralt chuckled. "I want you to try."

She was against him in a moment, hands on his chest as she put all her weight into the push. To her credit, she did manage to make Geralt take a step back. After that, he didn't budge, and her grunts came out louder, far more aggressive. When it was clear he wouldn't move, she pushed herself away from him, panting. Geralt rolled his shoulders, an expectant expression on his face. She growled and ran, this time shoving him with both forearms. But he was prepared, and he hardly moved a hair. She was groaning after a minute, and Geralt decided that he'd made his point clear. Quickly turning to the side, Cersei tumbled forwards, falling to the ground with another grunt. He let her curse on the ground for a moment, walking to her side and extending his hand. Begrudgingly, she took it, and he pulled her back onto her feet with ease.

"You're not weak, Cersei, but you don't have a man's body, and you sure as hell don't have his weight. Even with how much stronger you've grown, you're no match for me. Not in strength alone." Cersei pouted at that, still unwilling to relent. Geralt respected that. Now if you stopped being so stubborn in doing things your way, you might actually be a dangerous opponent. He took her lack of interruptions as a victory, continuing. "If you want to be deadly with a sword, you need to know your weaknesses and your strengths. Unless I'm one-armed and crippled, you won't defeat me in a match of brute force alone. But you could be more nimble, more agile, perhaps even faster than your opponent. You don't meet them blow for blow, you strike them where they cannot reach."

That calmed her a little better. It was clear as day she wanted to match her twin in all matters, and above that a firstborn's birthrights, but Cersei's anger was slowly doused by streams of hope. "So, you would have me train more the way of the Essosi? As the Braavosi do? You'd train me in the– what's it called again– the waterdance?"

She's been reading on this, Geralt noted, brow raised. Certainly more than most boys would do to train. Good. She'll need to do that if she wants to catch up. "Can't. I don't know what the waterdance is, and I only fought Essosi once in my entire life. Maybe that's what you ought to do, maybe it's not. All I can say is if you try to do as your brother does, you'll end up becoming a lesser shade of him."

She raised her arms to the sides before letting them fall back against her sides, exasperated. "Then what do you suggest I do?"

"Get creative." Geralt replied, shaking his head. "You forget, I'm the only man in this castle that trains the way I train. No one else does the same. Maybe some sparring here and there with the others, but my strength is my own. Find your own strength, test what works and what doesn't. All I can tell you is you won't defeat me if you fight me the way I fight."

Her jaw clenched briefly, but she closed her eyes and sighed her frustration away. Staying still for another moment, she opened her eyes when her anger left her, nodding at him. Geralt briefly opened a window, seeing the stars outside. The Ice Dragon's fading, time we got going. He walked towards the door, hand on the handle, turning halfway back. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it, a mere two feet from him. She smirked. "I'll see you around, Master Stark. When next we train, you shan't see me coming."

"If you can find a way to knock me on my arse next time, you can train with a steel sword." He chuckled, rolling his eyes at the mock title she anointed him with. A blunt one, to be sure. The castle isn't ready enough to handle you with an actual blade. But the offer alone was enough to incentivize the blossoming lady. For a brief moment, her smile was genuine, and he could understand how half the castle fell for her charm.

He snapped out of it just as quickly, opening the door for her and allowing her to walk through. She was fast, surprisingly silent, a golden shadow that disappeared as the torches grew smaller. Pouts half the day. But the half that she doesn't, she's a lion alright. Perhaps it was a consequence of his dreams, or perhaps just an extension of his nature, but Geralt could seldom respect a woman more than those who chose swords over silks. He waited a few minutes before he went out the door on the opposite end of the makeshift training room, heading to the courtyard.

He had to train faster in the mornings now, to make up for the time he spent training Cersei. It helped that Beast's Claw was getting lighter each day, and he could swing it onehanded with both hands fairly easily now. He strongly considered having it reforged, grown into something that would feel like proper weight. The occasional tourney had served to swell his pockets a little more, but he knew to hold on to it better. Much of it went to expensive gifts for each of the Lannisters upon their namedays, save for Tywin who cared not for such trivialities, but at least he never failed to ensure House Stark stood tall. More of it would disappear, he knew. Tyrion's nameday was in less than a week. By my own hand I've cleaved my pockets short of several dragons by pulling that boy into the light. A worthwhile sacrifice, he considered it.

By the time the others came, it was in silence. What was once a series of exercises and training led by Tygett and Ser Henryk Kayce, the Rock's new master-at-arms, was now a much quieter affair, save for the occasional grunts and roars from the five. Their new teacher had little to add, for that matter. With the Steel Lion split between his duties and little Tyrek, a proper master-at-arms was assigned, but the boys had fought and lived through two battles. For that matter, they were hardly boys anymore. Most of the group had been knighted, and the only one lacking the title had felled the Smiling Knight. With their continually improving skills, the older pair resorted mostly to silent observation, occasionally giving orders or offering advice whenever they paused and rested. In that regained peace, Geralt excelled.

"Oi ,Stark, have you finished playing with yourself yet?"

Geralt turned, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Daven had an eager look on his face, biting his lip as he looked eagerly between his cousin and the Northman. Lyle had an intense look in his eyes, while Addams' were only a tad more composed. The three hung back, standing by Tygett. Only Jaime stepped forwards. Geralt grinned. "Is today the day, Lannister? Finally got your guts about you?"

"You're too old to be anyone's ward anymore, Stark. Not that you were ever a good one to begin with." Jaime laughed, unsheathing his own fine blade. "I only waited so long in the name of that honor your people so worship. It just wouldn't do to have you live under this roof with the shame of losing for months on end. This way's more merciful."

"Funny, it almost sounds like you believe that." Geralt grinned, stretching his shoulders and rolling his neck. "You sure you're talking about me, Lannister? Or were you trying to confess something?"

"There's nothing to confess, Stark. Our swords will do the talking." As he said the words, he pointed his greatsword at Geralt. With a cocky smirk, he teased, "Or are you too craven to let your steel speak for you?"

"Craven? Have it your way, then." Geralt laughed, wielding Beast's Claw one-handed and pointing the blade at the golden boy. "Come at me."

Beast's Claw was back in both hands when Jaime charged at him. He spun, swinging his sword in a pendulum as he clashed against Geralt. CLING. The two shared a brief but intense glower before they pushed each other away, circling around each other as the boys cheered different names. Their voices were readily tuned out by Geralt, the rapid beating of his heart tuning out all noises that didn't belong to his opponent. Jaime's own green eyes were colored by a predatory hue, all too similarly assessing Geralt as he was being analyzed. They continued circling each other for a few more seconds. Then they paused.

They rushed each other again.

Jaime ducked under a horizontal swing of Beast's Claw, blocked another and parried the third. Geralt growled madly and tackled Jaime, shoulder against his chest plate and forcing the smaller of the two several steps back, arms flailing. He regained his balance in time for a downward strike from Geralt, almost strong enough to knock his sword away. That had the boy on one knee, and Geralt raised his sword to finish the job. Jaime reacted too quickly, rolling away from where Beast's Claw landed. Sword down, Jaime gave strikes of his own, Geralt deftly dodging each, the sharp whoosh the air made whenever it got too close sending waves of nostalgia down his spine. They clashed one more time, the two a mere few feet away from each other. Jaime couldn't escape it, and Geralt was stronger. The two shared a look, and the outcome was made clear to both, though Jaime still glared at him with defiance. Time to end this.

With a grunt, Geralt exerted his strength and Jaime's sword clattered against the floor. In the time it took him to stop the swing just as Beast's Claw kissed the blonde's neck, he felt a prickling sensation at the base of his neck. It occurred to the Stark that although he was the stronger of the two, he'd disarmed the Lannister heir rather quickly. He came to the realization that Jaime had abandoned that bout in favor of the knife at his hip, which now rested its pointy end against Geralt's neck. Even through their panting, the boys gave each other a respecting grin. Tygett's voice rang out, officially ending the match.

"Draw," his voice boomed, the laughter erupting from his throat sounding not unsimilar to a lion's coughing. "You'll have to duel for victory another day."

"Seven hells, cuz, you're costing me my money's worth." Daven groaned, passing Addam five dragons. When Geralt raised a brow, he answered with a sheepish shrug. "Sorry Stark, but family comes first."

"I wagered on you, Stark." Lyle said reassuringly, he too handing five dragons to Addam. He gave Jaime a respectful nod and continued, "Though Ser Jaime is no doubt talented, I assumed you had the most field experience out of all of us. Between that and your strength, I believed you'd be the victor."

"So those're cuz's and Crakehall's wagers. Addam?" Jaime called to the last of the group, cocking his head to the side. "You bet on us tying?"

"I wagered it would take more than one match to settle the competition between the two of you." Addam answered, pocketing his earnings. His smile was small, but uniquely, it sported mild traces of mischief on it. Cerenna's rubbing off on him. "It seems I was right to assume so."

"You were," Geralt agreed, now looking back at Jaime. "Neat trick with the knife."

"Thanks. After Fletcher Dick, I figured I needed to be quicker to draw. Can't do it with my sword yet, so a dagger's the next best." Jaime said, sheathing it back in along with his sword. He shrugged, "Seems I'm not fast enough with it either."

"A well-rounded match, you've both fought well. Not just in fighting with might, but in showing restraint, too." Tygett said, marching forwards in a rare show of serenity. He patted his nephew's shoulder first. "Good thinking on the dagger, but you were fighting on Geralt's terrain. Though few opponents you'll face like him, be sure to understand their strengths first. His sword is longer and thicker than most greatswords and his strike is certainly stronger. He's about half a head taller than you, so his arms have greater reach than yours as well. Fighting him from up close put you at a disadvantage. Find higher ground next time and make him come to you."

He looked at Geralt now, nodding approvingly. "For that matter, I think you've come to rely too heavily on your sword. I know you have a dagger as well, and in your hands, it's much faster to strike than your sword. I'd not recommend it for anyone else with how much your Beast's Claw weighs, but I've seen you hold and swing it with a single hand. Your opponents have fallen because they have been slower than you, weaker than you, or both. This is why you've not failed. Learn to improvise better should you ever want to survive the day you meet your match."

I doubt that'll happen any time soon, Geralt thought, mind going to the large, mad hound at Tywin's disposal. He'd learned to ignore the monsters his mind had conjured. But instead, he nodded. "Understood, my lord."

"Yes, uncle." Jaime said just as dutifully. He gave Geralt a passing look. "What will you do now, Stark?"

"Bathe, I think. I've trained enough for today, tomorrow I'll practice my lessons." That caught the group by surprise, but Tygett gave an approving look and Geralt waved the others goodbye. "See you in the great hall."

"Be seeing you, Stark." Jaime nodded, unsheathing his sword and swinging it lightly again. "Try not to cower for too long, though. We're not through yet, you and I."

"And miss the chance to humiliate you in your own home?" Geralt laughed as he walked away. "You should be so lucky."

The four laughed and waved goodbye, the older pair offering simpler, brisk nods. It won't be long before I wave them goodbye one final time. It was a sad thought, but one that brought pride and joy to Geralt as well.

Almost a full year had passed since the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood, and the boys had grown into their own. For one, Geralt finally caught up to Lyle, and the two had grown enough to be only a couple of inches away from Tygett's own height. Jaime, Daven and Addam had sprung up a final bit as well, settling just over six feet tall each. The armors they'd been gifted were finally of the quality suited to their blood, they'd no longer need a new one every couple of years. Geralt himself kept growing enough that none of his armors lasted him long enough to truly call them his own, but his time in the Westerlands taught him to respect and appreciate heavy plate armor.

More importantly, they were no longer children, and stopped being addressed as such. During meetings, their voices were heard, even if they were the last to speak. On lessons about politics and military strategies, their contributions were considered, and some of their ideas were even entertained. In a house ruled by Tywin Lannister, some things would never change, and his would always be the last word in all important matters. But with battle experience and years of Creylen's lessons being ingrained into them, they were being treated more as equals than students. Subservient, perhaps, but just as capable. That change had easily been Geralt's favorite part of his stay under House Lannister. It was all he contemplated as he let the icy waters of the baths clean him of dirt and salt, his muscles relaxing after the frosty needles stopped pricking him. His stay in Casterly Rock was coming to an end.

Walter Whent had announced a tourney a month past. A tourney to end all tourneys, he claims, to celebrate the end of an enduring, vicious winter. His daughter was coming of age, and the Lord of Harrenhal was eager to display his vast wealth to all seven kingdoms. Each of the Great Houses were invited, along with their vassals. Any mercenary worth his sword was allowed to enter too, and hedge knights from all over were already travelling towards the ruins in the hopes of winning any one of the numerous events he had announced. As good a time as any to test my jousting. The melee will be easier, but Lord Tygett had a point. I'd do better to practice with more weapons.

While many whispered in excitement over Lord Whent's tourney, Geralt understood fully well what it also meant. With all Great Houses invited and spring finally making its welcome return, he'd see his family again. He could be with his father, tell him everything he'd learned. He could dine again with Bran and Ned, with Lya and Ben. It also meant that he'd return home, to make the final preparations before his betrothal to Myrielle. With the respect he'd earned from Tywin, he was sure his father would be amenable to the idea of rebuilding and assigning Moat Cailin to him. A good midway point, he thought, the road north leads me home, the road south leads her home.

As he dried himself off and clothed himself, he couldn't help but feel a pang in his gut. It's all coming along well. Houses Stark and Lannister will be united by blood for the first time in history. I've done my part for father's dream, I've done my duty for my house. Why does it all feel so fragile now? He shook his head, wrapping his fur cloak around his shoulders and walking out. Blindfolded, he knew the way to the dining hall, and absentmindedly made it there with the early morn's sun coloring the halls with a beautiful golden hue. By the time he made it, he found he was early enough that he was nearly alone, something he was all too used to. What caught him by surprise was Gerion's presence and Tywin's absence. Looking between where he and Tygett were seated, the latter having changed his armor for a tight-fitting green robe, he understood why.

"Jaime and Cersei are going. Daven, Myrielle and Cerenna are going." Said Tyrion, a half-sad, half-angry look on his face. "Why can't I go too?"

"Because it's for the best, lad. Believe me, you won't be missing out. Our tourneys in Lannisport are much better, anyways. They don't have the ghosts of a broken castle there to ruin the events." Gerion replied, ruffling his nephew's hair. Bending over so he was face-to-face with the boy, he added, "And don't worry, I won't be going either."

"You won't?" Tyrion repeated, surprised.

"I won't. Neither will dear Ser nuncle Tyg, for that matter." Gerion nodded. Smiling mischievously, he poked the boy in his belly. "In fact, we'll be right here. With you. So you best believe you're in for a good time."

Tyrion giggled, comforted by his uncle's words. Shame. If there's a pair of Westerners who could have enchanted half the North, it'd have been the youngest of Tywin's brothers. Between one's charm and the other's blunt honesty, they might've even looked at the Westerlands more favorably. A look at the dwarf's little face made Geralt sigh. …But for the best. Jaime going will wound his pride, but keeping his favorite uncles for several weeks without his father watching over him might be the best time he'll have in this mountain for a long time. He cleared his throat and bowed his head. "My lords."

"Geralt!" Tyrion was the first to respond, rushing over and hugging one of his legs. Geralt chuckled and patted him on his head.

"You took your time." Tygett said, a false sternness in his tone. "By all means, join us."

"My lords." Gerion parroted, rolling his eyes. "Spare me the courtesies, my lord, I'd sooner have your honesty."

"Force of habit, Ser." Geralt laughed, walking the dwarf right between his uncles again. With the four alone in the dining hall, there was a levity in the room seldom experienced. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Not at all. If anything, you came at the perfect time." Gerion waved off, extending an arm to bring Tyrion close. In his reach, the grabbed his chest with both hands and placed him on his lap so that he faced Tygett. "We were getting out of the way the bothersome news, now we can focus on what matters."

"That we can." Tygett agreed, a shadow of a smile on his face. "It's your nameday a week from now, lad."

Tyrion's eyes lit up then, a smile spanning from ear to ear radiating a brightness not often seen in the boy. Gerion chuckled and tickled the boy. "That's right, Tyrion. So be sure to think long and hard on your gifts, and when you're ready, tell us. We'll see to it that you find them waiting for you in your room. How's that sound?"

"Great, nuncle Gerry!" Tyrion giggled. "But I've already thought of my gift. I just need one, nothing more!"

"Is that so? Must be quite the gift, then." Gerion made a face, though his frown failed to hide his mirth. "Well? Out with it, lad! Tell us your heart's desires, and we'll see to it that it reaches your hands."

Tyrion looked to Tygett, who in turn nodded deeply, offering the boy a small smile. Tyrion bit his lower lip giddily, a toothy, hopeful grin on his face. At least he's not alone in this place.

"Alright! Then for my next nameday, I want a dragon!" Oh. Geralt felt the pit drop in his stomach as he heard the words, and a look at Tygett told him he was feeling much the same. Only Gerion reacted differently, looking at the boy in surprise before bellowing out laughter. That only made the boy's beaming face drop, worry taking over. He turned around and grabbed one of Gerion's arms. "Please nuncle Gerry, nuncle Tyg, it's all I want. I promise I'll be good! I'll do all my duties, I'll care for it, clean after it, and raise it! And then someday, I can ride on its back!"

All his words served to do was make Gerion laugh louder, his voice taking on a high pitch. Tygett sighed, putting a large hand on his nephew's little shoulder, nearly engulfing half his back with it. "Tyrion–"

"It wouldn't need to be a big one." Tyrion cut him off before he could continue. He pressed his little hands against his own chest. "It could be little, like me."

"Tyrion." Tygett's voice was louder, firmer, yet still he kept it gentle. A small kick put an end to his brother's cackles, and the hall was quiet again. When the boy looked up at the giant, he sighed and spoke. "The last dragon died a hundred years ago, lad. Ask of us something else, and you shall have it."

Tyrion blinked owlishly at that. His lower lip quivered first, and he tried speaking, only for him to stammer out a string of broken words. Seeing neither uncle changing their stances, he desperately looked to Geralt. …Fuck. I should have stayed training with Jaime. But there was no escaping his situation now, and staying silent would only torture the boy further. No point in lying to him. He would have found out about this sooner rather than later, anyways. He firmly shook his head. That proved to be a mistake.

It started as a cough. But soon enough those coughs turned into slow whimpers, green-and-black eyes shining as milky tears escaped them. Gerion laughed, wrapping his little body with his arms and pressing his head against his chest. "Oh, come now, lad, no tears. It'll be your nameday on the morrow. You should be laughing, my boy, not weeping. Dry your eyes and have your breakfast, I promise you you'll feel better."

But Tyrion's whimpers turned into sobs, and his mood became inconsolable. Tygett rubbed the boy's head, failing to come up with any words to stifle the dwarf's sorrow. Gerion laughed louder, holding him even tighter and rubbing his back, broken only by the sound of heeled footsteps approaching them. Gerion smiled widely and waved her over. "Ah, sweet sister, your arrival is most welcome. We could use a hand with our dear little nephew."

Genna's frown was sharp, enough to make Tygett to sit straight and Gerion to briefly flinch. Looking at the two, she crossed her arms. "Seven hells, what did the two of you say?! This was meant to be a chance to spoil Tyrion, not bring him to tears!"

"Calm down, sweet sister." Gerion replied, tone stripped of humor, but retaining its gentleness. "Our intent was much the same. Tyrion's tears are a result of misfortune, not malice."

"He wished for a dragon." Tygett explained, bringing Genna to sigh tiredly. "We explained that the dragons are gone, and he hasn't stopped crying."

"It shows how much the two of you have yet to learn on parenting. Hold off on hard truths when they're so young, and if you are unable to, cushion them." She scolded, stepping in front of Gerion and picking Tyrion out of his arms. Carrying him and combing the hairs on his head, she took a half turn and called back, "Find Tyrion a gift in the meantime, one that won't bring him to tears!"

As she walked away, she whispered words in a sweet voice into the boy's ears. While they didn't stop the tears, his sobs grew quieter, and the hall was left in silence again. Gerion nonchalantly took a cloth on the table to wipe the tears and snot off his doublet. Tyg growled and pinched his nose. "Damn it."

"Don't take our sister's words too harshly, dear brother. She has several times the experience you and I both have with children, and she aches for Tyrion as if he were her own." Gerion offered, patting the largest of the lot firmly on the back. "We have our duty, and fortunately, it's not a difficult one. All we need to do is find the boy the right gift. One that will brighten his mood."

"And procure a dragon in this day and age?" Tygett retorted with bitter laughter. "We'd sooner promise him Casterly Rock. And the Iron Throne."

"It'd be complicated to find him one, true." Gerion shrugged. "So instead, we'll just get him the next best thing."

"Then what do you suggest?" Tygett asked frustratedly. "Having a mummer's dragon crafted for the boy would only rub salt on the wound."

"Tyrion might have said he wanted a dragon, dear brother, but it's clear as day what he truly wants…" He never allowed his smile to leave him, but Gerion remained pensive as he remained focused on where his sister and nephew had disappeared. A light came over his eyes and he spoke up.

"Say Tyg, gout has made half a cripple of Doran Martell, last I heard. Curiously, reports state he still rides." He turned to Tygett, who looked at him puzzled. Gerion's eyes squinted and his grin widened. "Let's get the boy a saddle."

Tygett furrowed his brows for a second, and in a moment, raised them in surprise. Once he understood the reason behind his brother's grin, he nodded affirmatively. "Aye… aye. Let's get the boy a saddle."

As the two got up, Gerion stopped and looked at the hallway leading to the hall. He gave Geralt a fast wink and gestured to where he'd looked, clasping his shoulder tightly before he led the giant away. Perplexed, Geralt turned, finding three figures coming his way. The three shone brightly, with the centermost lady radiating the most. Her knowing smile was no different than the one she sported when he trained her that morning. Myrielle's, by contrast, was much sweeter, while Cerenna's held much more open mischief. Half-smile on his face, he walked over to them. "My ladies."

"Stark." Cerenna replied, hand on her hip. Though the youngest of the three, she now stood the tallest, golden hair with dark roots. Though she was skinny, her body was womanly, lithe and wiry. What little fat she had only accentuated her moderate curves. Her eyes remained sharp and wicked as a cat's, but her smile was more mature now, and her face was almost finished losing its fat. She stepped forward, looking him up and down openly. "Not covered in muck and sweat, I see. I'm delighted you've finally learned how to properly clean yourself. And it only took you a couple of years as well, you're smarter than I had thought you."

"I'd fare ill to not wash myself after training, Cerenna, else they might mistake the scent for yours." Geralt replied, immediately rewarded with a slap on the arm and the girl's laughter. "What do you need of me now that I cannot be the unwashed Northman?"

"Fortunately, we aren't needing the services of an unwashed Northman, though I doubt you'd qualify even if we did." Myrielle spoke, heart-shaped face cocking to the side. "But your company would not go unappreciated."

He made to speak, but Cersei stepped up close, teasing smirk curling to one side. "You're to escort us. We're riding today in Lannisport, and I already have my father's approval. But you're to come with us, ensure our trip goes well. We'll be waiting for you by the gates in an hour."

And with that, she spun on her heels and walked back, Cerenna immediately snaking her arm around her cousin's as the pair devolved into whispered giggles. Myrielle stood by his side, watching with him as the pair disappeared into another hallway. Alone, she curled her own arm with his. Geralt huffed, "And what've you gotten me into, my lady?"

"Nothing I was not forced to attend myself, my lord." She replied amusedly. She looked at the table, frowning slightly. "I fear we've interrupted your breakfast, Geralt. If we have, then I'm sorry. I'd apologize for my sister and cousin as well, but where would it end?"

"Don't worry about that. I'm sure we can stop by Lannisport and have our fill. If not, one day's fast won't harm me." Geralt laughed. Meeting her turquoise eyes, he asked. "So what have we gotten ourselves into that we ought to ride to Lannisport?"

Myrielle looked at the doors and down the hall once more. Seems Cersei hasn't been any more forthcoming to Tywin than she has to me. Either that, or she lied to him. He scoffed at the thought. No, nothing gets past him. Whatever she intends to do, riding to Lannisport is a definite truth. The lady's whispers all but confirmed it. "Best we discuss this outside. We know not who might be listening."

"As you say." Geralt nodded, letting Myrielle lead the stride. It was a comfortable walk, one he'd grown accustomed to walking with the gentle lion in the past year. As the boys had grown older, so had the girls. Myrielle's curls had straightened out, and the gold in her hair brightened to the color of the midday sun. The shortest of the three young ladies, she more than made up for it with a generous chest and a curvy waist, often accentuated by her dresses. Even with her now womanly body, her jaw was more defined than ever, the roundness of childishness near fully gone. Her hands were what remained the same, soft and supple. Her hands and her eyes.

"Wait, Geralt." She said, making a turn on a thinner, empty corridor. That's not the way out. But she pulled him firmly, deep into the torchlit hall. "Just over here…"

"Myrielle, the gate's just back–" The taste of honey and lemon cakes cut him off, and this time, he knew better than to pull away. She could feel her hands around his neck, pulling him down so she'd not have to stand so awkwardly to reach him. For a moment, he lost himself in the kiss, pulling her close by the waist, hand moving to her lower back. A part of him ached, begged him to lower it further. Restraint kept it at bay, and after a good minute, Geralt gently broke it off. "Myrielle…"

Myrielle tilted her head to the side, eyes shining with faux innocence. "Yes, Geralt?"

"You know," Geralt said, hands lingering on her hips, "your brother and sister are roaming around these halls, as are your aunts and uncles. If we keep going like this, we'll end up caught."

"And if we are?" Myrielle countered, teasingly biting her lower lip. "We're to be betrothed at Harrenhal. They should be glad that we're as happy as we are about this arrangement."

"They should." Geralt agreed, tone hardly convinced. "So long as we don't give them reason to believe I've spoiled your maidenhood and soiled your honor."

"You? Dishonoring me?" She laughed heartily, her voice echoing through the corridor. "Geralt, that's a tale no man in the Westerlands will ever believe, and I doubt your northern kinsmen would either."

Geralt must have made a face, because Myrielle unwrapped her arms from around his neck to hold his face in her hands. "If it truly bothers you, then say the word and I shall wait for a more opportune moment. All I mean to say is, you need not walk on eggshells any longer. You've done both our houses proud, and few are the people that believe otherwise. You've even managed to leave an impression on Lord Tywin. And his siblings love you, from Kevan to Gerion. Jaime and Daven call you a brother in steel. So please, stop worrying. Enjoy yourself every now and again, Geralt. Your soon-to-be wife commands it."

Geralt chuckled, pulling her arms down and holding her delicate hands in his. "As you command, my lady."

"Good." She replied. Once more, she stood at the top of her toes to give him a more chaste peck on the lips. With a sweet smile on her heart-shaped face, she motioned to the hallway. "Now, this lady also commands you to accompany her and her friends to Lannisport."

"As you wish, milady." Geralt said with a lazy half-bow. Myrielle giggled and entwined her arm with his again, and the two set off to the gates. Some days, he felt the sting of guilt gnawing at the bottom of his stomach. Some days, it was shame. You're lucky to marry a friend, you ungrateful shit, and a beautiful friend at that. You've done right by Lord Tywin, you've done right by father. Stop giving second thoughts to what could be but isn't. He had half a mind to slap himself across the face, and if Myrielle wasn't there, he would have gone through with it. But as they reached the gates, the girls waiting with an entourage of soldiers, it was all Geralt could do to keep a cold expression.

He loved Lyanna dearly. All of his brothers had been trained with the sword, but Lyanna had fought tooth and nail for that same right. But she was his sister, and half a wildling at that. Her nature had always been clear to him. But with the early morning light, Cersei's figure sitting on horseback made his mind conjure an image of her in steel and leathers, with a blade in hand. He damned her for convincing him to train her, for forcing him to see her as anything more than a haughty, insufferable cunt. But his daily lessons had had an effect on him as much as her.

Cersei had a prouder step in her stride, and training with a sword made twice as confident and half as aggressive in conversation. With Geralt having been the only man to help her willingly, nothing expected in return, she was infinitely more gracious with him. Nearly as much as Jaime, even. Geralt, in turn, saw a warrior in the making, a caged lion breaking free from chains, learning to hunt. He was beginning to see the woman Cersei had wanted to be, the one she'd been forbidden from becoming. He loathed that it made him desire her.

"Come now, Geralt, Myrielle." She called to them, beautiful and proud. "The soldiers have been waiting for you, and the day is young."

"What Cersei means to say is hurry up." Cerenna emphasized from her own mare, bringing a concurring smile from the Great Lion's daughter. "Father's waiting for us at the gates, and we've much to do today."

"We have all day, sweet sister. Father can survive a small delay on our end." She moved from Geralt's side and gave him a brief curtsy. "My lord."

Wait. Instinctually, his arm shot out, grabbed her forearm gently. He gave a small smile. "Ride with me."

That had her looking surprised. "Geralt?"

"As my lady commands, remember?" He chuckled, gesturing to the tall, black stallion waiting for its master. "What do you say?"

Looking between him and the horse, her smile grew wide. Beautiful. It made the guilt sting deeper. "I thought you'd never ask."

With that, he led her to his destrier, patiently awaiting its master. To his surprise and relief, he found Beast's Claw hung from its side. Hands on her hips, he helped her hop on to the horse, the lady planting her hands firmly on its back, adjusting herself properly. Once she was done, she patted the spot in front of her excitedly. Good, Geralt thought. He often prided himself on being unreadable, but Myrielle had begun to learn how to understand him. And the last thing he wanted was for her to learn of his newfound fondness for her cousin. He hopped in front of her without further ado, feeling her hold on to him tightly. He gave the others a look, Cerenna teasing them with blown kisses while Cersei looked ready to ride. With the soldiers looking at him expectantly, he gave a loud 'HA' and led the score of soldiers.

Without a carriage to come with them, the group rode faster than it did when all the Lannisters headed for the city. They were still an hour or so away from noon when they made it by the city gates, Stafford awaiting them with a small contingent of his own guards. He was quick to bow to Cersei and quicker to kiss Cerenna's cheek. He looked for Myrielle, surprised to find her all but hidden behind Geralt's form. The lord of Lannisport gave him a knowing look, shaking his head and chuckling, leading them all inside.

The day went by quickly, and their time in Lannisport was even briefer than Geralt had suspected. After a bountiful breakfast, Cerenna had begged the lord to allow the four to ride around Lannisport. That so long as the Smiling Knight's slayer was with them, they would be protected. Myrielle begged him to allow them to properly show Geralt the countryside now that the snows were thinning, and Cersei argued that he needed to learn what southron heat was if he was ever to survive a southron wife. And as Tywin's temperament was singular, Stafford's was the opposite, and gave in within five minutes.

So, they rode again by the early afternoon, a grey sky sending brisk, salty winds their way. As they came upon the woods, Cersei rode ahead, taking the lead. It left Geralt to force his destrier on a faster stride, to be by her side. When he made it to her right, she flashed him a beautiful smile, and it took all of his will to not hold his horse back again. Instead, he gave her a smaller smile with a raised brow. She tried going even faster, calling to the three, "We're almost there!"

She stopped suddenly, just as they came upon an opening. It was when they galloped towards it that they saw a small hut, a thin pillar of smoke sprouting from a chimney coated with overgrown weed. A strange, unpleasant odor emanated from it, giving Geralt an uneasy pause. Cersei was off her horse in a moment, Myrielle and Cerenna shortly after. Though she readily marched in that direction, Geralt remained atop his horse. She shot him an annoyed look, waving him along, "Come now, Geralt, this will be but a moment. Once we get the witch's foretelling, we'll go right back to–"

"A witch?" Geralt growled, mood suddenly turned sour. His sudden change caught the trio's attention, and Myrielle and Cerenna were smart enough to show apprehension. Cersei's expression hardly changed. "I agreed to watch over you. I didn't agree to take you three to a damn witch."

"You didn't. I did. Now you just have to watch over us while we go to the witch's mangy little hut." Cersei corrected him, spoken in a tone as if she spoke of the weather and the stars. When he showed his anger more acutely, the lady merely giggled, walking over to his side and looking up at him. "And who better to watch over us than the man with the most experience in killing warlocks? Witches are like to croak the same, don't you think?"

"I fought and killed for your House and your family because they invaded your land, not for you to find and pick out." He seethed, his every instinct warning him to take the three and ride back to the safety of the city. "I'm not about to rush inside, sword raised against some stranger whose not a criminal, and with whom I have no quarrel."

"We don't need you to." Cerenna said, rushing to Cersei's side. "We'll only ask for a prophecy each, nothing more. We'll even pay the hag her dues. This is business, nothing more."

"I'm sorry we did not tell you earlier, we feared you might have refused as Jaime and Daven did." Myrielle offered from the other side of his horse. "You need only watch over us, after that, I promise we'll return to Lannisport."

Geralt didn't budge, openly glaring at the now much more ominous pile of wood only a few dozen feet from him. He felt a hand on his leg, and Myrielle looked up at him with an apology in her eyes. "Please?"

He let out a final growl before jumping off his horse. He took Beast's Claw from the sling that held it and swung it across his back, grunting when the sisters showered him with gratitude and compliments. Cersei simply smiled victoriously and marched towards the entrance of the hut, closed by a wooden door overrun with moss. "It'll be fine, Geralt. And if it comes to it, you need not even unsheathe your sword. Should it come to it, I shall gut the witch myself."

Geralt shook his head incredulously. See? This is what you lust after, you fucking fool. Don't allow her sword training to blind you. Lessons in fighting won't cure her flaws. And yet, it weighed on him that Cersei's smile did more for him than Myrielle's begging. He chased those thoughts from his mind as the lady fearlessly opened the door, the three stepping through. It was even more humid inside than it was out, disheveled furniture and messy cabinets making up different walls and sections of the place. He was relieved to find it empty. He moved to motion the others that their efforts had been wasted when the girls suddenly jumped.

"Who goes there, disturbing me in my own home?" A tousled old voice called out, scaring the Lannisters. "Out, out with you all. Leave me be."

"Apologies, we came here in search of a witch called 'Maggy'?" Myrielle called, jumping in a fright when a mound by the fireplace moved. Squat and wide, her dull rags made her look rotund. Her pale green jowls were wart-riddled, jiggling every time she moved. When she moved to look up at them, Geralt could see the severe bending of her back. But what stood out to him was her eyes. Crusty and dirty, they were eerily dark at their center, but the white of them had been colored in a filthy yellow. Snakes for warlocks, frogs for witches. I fucking hate magic. Thick, wide lips frowned at them as she looked them up and down, deepening further as Myrielle attempted to continue. "W-we'd heard you were an oracle of sorts, we only wanted to ask s-such a service from you. We'd be grateful to you."

The woman remained silent, and her stare carried as much scorn as it did amusement. Cerenna took a small, careful step forward, pulling a pouch from her pocket. She jingled it in front of her the way kennelmasters would call for their hounds with a slab of fresh meat. "You'd have our gratitude and our gold. What say you, witch? I grant you you'll see more money in this bag than you have in your entire life."

"Do your ears not work, girl? Or perhaps you are dense? Whores oft fare ill when they're daft and deaf." Maggy croaked, spewing hate and mockery with every word that poured out her mouth. "I said leave me be. I have nothing to give to the likes of you."

Cerenna took a step back from the shock, while Myrielle looked more and more uneasy. It was Cersei that had begun to fume, and the lady with the golden curls put her hands upon her hips. "We've asked kindly, and we've even offered you gold for your magic. Now you shall receive neither. Give us our foretelling, or I'll go to my lord father and have you whipped for insolence."

"Please," begged Myrielle. "We'll not bother you again. Just tell us our futures, then we'll go."

"Some are here who have no futures," Maggy muttered in her deep, scraggly voice. She pulled her robe about her shoulders and beckoned the three closer. "Come, if you will not go. Fools. Come, yes. I must taste your blood."

Myrielle paled and Cerenna hesitated, but Cersei stepped forwards. Geralt gave the hag wider birth. A wolf would not fear a frog, less so a direwolf, no matter how old and ugly it might be. Yet the Qartheen warlock was summoned from his memories, the serpentine corpse that would have cast innumerable horrors upon him. Geralt clenched his teeth, about to make up his mind and drag the three away. Instead, Cersei was already upon the frog, her cousins following reluctantly. She took the dagger Maggy offered her and ran the twisted iron blade across the ball of her thumb. When Myrielle failed to do the same, Cersei did it for her. Cerenna swiped the knife and did it herself before she got the same treatment. In the dim green tent, the blood seemed more black than red. Maggy's mostly emptied mouth trembled at the sight of it.

"Here," she whispered greedily, hungrily, "give it here."

When Cersei offered her hand, Geralt frowned as he watched Maggy latch her mouth onto it, suckling on it as if she were a babe in feeding. The girl's frown mirrored his, regret seeping into her as she watched with disgust how the frog lusted for her blood. The others fared hardly better, each eager to rip their hands away as soon as the hag had had her fill.

"Three questions may you ask," the crone said, once she'd had her drink. She gave a cruel smile. "You will not like my answers. Ask, or begone with you."

Stop, Geralt thought, there's nothing worth telling that this witch might say. But the girl did not have sense enough to be afraid.

"When will I wed the prince?" she asked.

"Never." She replied, to Cersei's shocked anger. With a knowing smile, she teased, "You will wed the king."

Beneath her golden curls, the girl's face wrinkled up in puzzlement.

"I will be queen, though?" asked Cersei, attempting to solve the riddle in her answer.

"Aye." Malice gleamed in Maggy's yellow eyes. "Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

"If she tries, I will have Jaime kill her." Anger flashed across the young lady's face. "And that's if I don't kill her myself."

Even with the ill forebodings, the willful girl refused to stop. She'd bargained three questions, and Geralt knew her well enough to know she'd not leave without them. Her eyes lit up with hope and longing. "Will the king and I have children?"

"Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you." That only left her perplexed, a familiar scowl on her face while the crone laughed at her obliviousness, as if privy to a joke she had no intention of sharing. She scowled, turning around to leave, which made Geralt sigh with relief. The old woman was not done with her, however.

"Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

"What is a valonqar?" She demanded, whipping around with a wary glare. "Some monster?"

Maggy's only answer came in louder cackles. The golden girl did not like that foretelling. "You're a lying, wart-ridden frog and a foul-smelling savage. I don't believe a word of what you say. Come away, Myrielle, Cerenna. She is not worth hearing."

"I get three questions too," Myrielle insisted. And when Cersei tugged upon her arm, she wriggled free and turned back to the crone. She bit her lip and blurted out. "When shall I marry?"

"Soon," said Maggy. "Your place will be as it always has been, in the West."

"That makes no sense." Myrielle retorted, confused and offended. "Then who shall I wed?"

"A lord thrice your age, in a dutiful, loveless marriage." Maggy droned, as if bored by her own foretelling. "Marked by seldom births, outnumbered by miscarriages."

"I, no, that's…" She put her hand on her chest, deeply offended. Geralt was stuck between growling and laughing. Come on, Myrielle. Don't tell me you find anything of worth in her words. "Why?"

"Not quite a strong lion, not quite an important lady, destined not for glory." She shook her head with a mocking smile. "You'll be nothing more than a forgotten chapter in a greater man's story."

"Alright, my turn." Cerenna growled vitriolically before Geralt could get an insult in. "When will you croak, you scraggly old whore?"

"The questions are for your foretelling, foolish child, not mine." She chuckled. "Try again, lest you waste your questions away with your whines."

Cerenna bit her lip, struggling to rein in her wrath. Ultimately, her curiosity won out. "Then what will become of me?"

"You'll grow bitter and old and alone, like me, after all your tears will have been shed." Maggy tutted, smile turning vile. "There's no love given to ladies who look for whores to warm their beds."

"What–" Cerenna took a step back at that, eyes wide and frightened. "Liar. What makes you so sure?!"

"Though your pretty little mouth does, your blood lies not." Cerenna frowned and instinctively rubbed her wounded thumb. "No matter how oft you lie, to the world or your mirror, normal you are not."

"B-but I'm to be betrothed." Cerenna stammered, stepping back in fearful shock. "Father said I was set to marry Ser Addam Marbrand. Why would he lie?!"

"He's bound to another, to make amends for the city your lord will raid." Maggy said, leaving the four confused. "You're bound to no one, fated to remain an unwed maid."

Geralt gripped the sisters by the arms, tugging them gently back. Leveling a glare at her hunched form, he growled, "We've heard enough. We're leaving"

"Three girls entered my home as lionesses, now they leave frightened as children." Maggy taunted, reveling in the girls' distress. "The three of you shall die the much same, lonesome and heartbroken. Do you smell it? Can you feel her breath? You've caught the dark, hollow gaze of Death."

"The only breath we smell is yours," said Cersei, tone infuriated by her cousins' ill omens. There was a jar of some thick potion by her elbow, sitting on a table. She made to snatch it, but Geralt gripped her wrist, warning her with his eyes. She gave the hag a vicious glare before turning it to him. "Let. Go."

"Ah, and you, boy?" Maggy cackled, looking him up and down with vile mirth in her eyes. She leaned closer towards him. "Wouldn't you like your future unfolded? Your story told? To see how misery and fate will make a fool of you, or when your body shall grow cold?"

"Fuck off, hag." Geralt replied, turning halfway back and offering her a scowl. She didn't seem the least bit affected by it, if anything, she looked tempted. Refusing to let go of Cersei's arm, he turned fully towards her, towering over her body at his full height. He glowered at her hunched form. "I didn't ask you for any pathetic excuses for prophecies. It's clear enough you peddle horseshit for whatever scraps you use to get by, and I'm not about to cut myself for your liking. We'll be going now."

"Did no one ever teach you to mind your manners wherever it is you hail from? I offered answers for those who sought them, boy, and I shall give them." She smiled back at him. Her leap caught him off guard, mouth engulfing his left hand's finger, biting into it with what little teeth she had left. Geralt punched her away, landing her against one of her walls, a score of bottles with rank oils falling upon her body. Though her old, broken nose gushed out blood, the smile on her teeth proudly showed his blood on her tongue.

Her wicked smile faded when she swallowed it, gagging and tearing up. Madly, she scratched at her neck, hacking loudly as she tried to gag it out. The four stood there, the girls warily keeping their eyes locked on her at her as they stepped behind Geralt, who unsheathed Beast's Claw and stood between them and Maggy. The piss-eyed crone wept pained and terrified tears, falling on her haunches and crawling back. "Y–y–you, stay away from me, cursed child!"

Geralt growled, but before he could say a word, Maggy's sobs echoed through the hut. "You, filthy soul, harbinger of the abhorrent and the defiled! You, whose very life spills hell onto every place he wanders! Begone, damn you, leave me be! GET OUT, you wretched cur!

"The longer you live, the further you rupture the walls that keep us safe, that keep them out. Even now, you invite monsters beyond a madman's wildest nightmares, heralding angels and demons about." Maggy hacked violently, tears running down her cheeks while her hands covered her eyes. Rocking back and forth, she whimpered, "And when the gods return and all manner of sense and order are usurped by fear, you shall leave a trail of pain and misery behind. The agony of a billion souls, a madness cast upon each and every mind. Your legacy will be a rain of ashes and a flood of tears!"

She cried into her hands for a moment as every bit of hope left her body, the wicked cruelty she'd displayed before drowned out by a torrent of despair. Just as quickly, fear took control of her body again, continuing to crawl backwards, ever closer to her fireplace. "Get out, GET OUT! Don't EVER come back HERE!"

Geralt stepped forwards, Beast's Claw leaning on his shoulder, his free hand making to grab her. "Oi–"

"STAY AWAY FROM ME, CURSED CHILD!" She screamed, as she hurried on backwards. Her hand grazed the fire, and the fire grazed the oil on her robe. In the blink of an eye, she was ablaze. Her anguish was overwhelmed by agony, and all Maggy the Frog could do was scream as long and hard as her dusty throat would allow. Even with her age, Geralt had seldom heard such lively, horrific screams. She flailed, each arm touching a wall and infecting it with her flames. Soon he could feel the heat close to him, and he took a protective stance in front of the two ladies behind him.

"GO! GET OUT OF HERE!" Geralt roared, which prompted the Lannisters to dash out the door, back to the woods. As Geralt followed them out, he swiped Beast's Claw as hard as he could at the sides of the door, the wood breaking at his swings. The hut groaned, and after a moment, collapsed, the walls weakened and broken by the flames. As the ceiling fell, Maggy's screams were cut dry, and the rest of the cabin caught fire. Once he was sure the hag would not crawl out from under it and charge at them, he let out a long breath and asked, "Are you three alright?"

Myrielle's lip quivered, eyes glassy with fear. Cerenna was holding her sister's hand in her own, gripping it with violent, terrified strength. Cersei looked shaken as well, looking at the cabin for a good minute before turning to him. She spent twice as long analyzing him in silence, holding her tongue carefully. Finally, she answered. "…We're fine. That hag didn't touch us."

"Good." Geralt nodded, looking back at the growing bonfire where the hut once stood. He shook his head. "She still sucked on your fingers. Mine as well. We go to Lannisport's maester with this. However lucky we were that we didn't get caught on fire, we don't know if that cunt had any diseases she infected us with."

Cersei's lips pursed and she shook her head. "My father won't like that we went all the way out here to–"

"He'll like even less to find out we chose not to seek treatment for wounds that could be infected." Geralt interrupted, voice loud enough to let them know he had no intention of negotiating on the matter. "Besides, the three of you at least have a chance at convincing your Ser Stafford to remain quiet about this. But whether he does or doesn't no longer matters. We go to the maester."

The ride back was faster than the one in. The girls tried to weave a more placid story than what had occurred, but Geralt recounted all that had transpired as it happened to Stafford. The man was horrified, telling them off in a hundred different ways as the four remained silent through it all. As soon as he was done, Cerenna spoke back up, then Myrielle did. Once Cersei entered the conversation, he was pacified again. It was a testament both to the combined power of the three and Stafford's own softness that they managed to convince him not to send Tywin a letter detailing the misadventure. He did, however, send them back once the maester had analyzed them and treated their wounds, all planned feasts and events cut short in his toothless rage.

It was nightfall by the time they'd arrived, and Geralt seldom said a word to the three of them. Ironically, he wasn't angry at them. That the visit to Maggy went so bitter and awry was punishment enough in itself, he figured, no need to further chastise them. Cerenna was the first to leave, holding her finger and hurrying to her room with a ghostly expression. Myrielle offered him a final, sincere apology and left for her own quarters. Only Cersei remained as she was, as she'd been since the moment they'd left the burning hut. She went to kiss him on the cheek in gratitude, only to whisper in his ear, "Meet me in the Hall of Heroes."

Geralt didn't even bother with an answer with how fast she'd spun on her heels, walking away. The tone made it clear that there was no room for negotiations, and Geralt knew he was the only one who could lift whatever spell Maggy's words had inflicted upon her. Knowing her, she'll drive herself mad over that toad's words. It'll take telling her my experience with that pitiful snake to let her know there's no value to those words. The thought drove him to his room, to search for the blasted Sacred Icon he'd hidden away. Yes, this'll do. When she starts bemoaning her ill fate, I'll tell her the truth of this round piece of shit and toss it into the sea.

He pocketed it and headed down, taking an unfamiliar route deep into the bowels of the Rock. He'd only been there once, when Jaime had insisted on it years earlier, back when they had first made friends. It took him a while, time enough to grip the blasted egg in his hand with a crushing grip. No use in that, not even steel can break it. After the incident with the Brotherhood, he'd finally decided the item was worthless, and that he should rid himself of it. Thanks to that, he broke Benjen's knife, and shamefully had had to get it reforged. A hundred stabs with it led the blade to break, but the stone did not bear so much as a single scratch from the ordeal. All it did was make the lips open and widen with a disgusting grin. What he dared risk with his knife, he dared not risk with Beast's Claw.

He was upon a set of doors fifteen feet tall, painted a deep crimson with dueling lions engraved on each side. He opened pushed it forward, the old oak groaning at the pressure. He was through to the other side, which looked no less splendorous than it did the last time he was there. The Hall of Heroes was spartan in its décor when compared to the rest of the castle, but it was bewilderingly grandiose as far as mausoleums went. The floor was marble, polished every night by a distinct set of servants with a septon, ensuring that it was kept not only clean, but sacred as well. Deep into the stone were engraved the names, the deeds and the titles of each King of the Rock, which had then been filled with gold. Even the Lords that followed after the Targaryen Conquest had been given a place there with their ancestors. Jaime even showed me Tytos's own place. The emptiest one of them all. He wondered if that's what motivated Tywin to earn such a long epitaph.

The hall stretched on and on, like a dining hall stripped of all furniture. Even the sides of the cave it was built in had been smoothed out, both the walls and ceiling being a single concave structure. In the distance, a round opening gave way to the Sunset Sea, fresh breezes occasionally whistling echoes into the royal hall. Though it was a relatively austere portion of the castle, great care was taken that no bandit with a knack for climbing walls would ever enter it. The opening gave way to a steep cliff, jutting out so that whoever swam to the edge of the mountain would have to climb upwards and backwards. Though winter had finally departed, there was a chill in the air that night. The nocturnal winds came in with a complement of mist, near as thick as the sea, covering the entirety of the marble floor.

Hearing the door open behind him made him flinch and turn completely to the source, calming once Cersei stepped through and closed the door behind them. She looked him up and down. "Good. You're here."

"You worry too much." He replied instinctively, shaking his head. "Forget what that hag said, nothing she predicted will–"

"I spoke to Creylen before coming here. Valonqar means 'brother' in High Valyrian. Little brother." She was frowning, fear and hate morphing her frown into an ugly one, rare even for Cersei. Here we go. "Do you realize what that means?! Do you realize now why Tyrion is as cursed as he is?! That filthy hag certainly did, and now she confirmed what that little wretch intends to do to me!"

"It means younger brother, Cersei." Geralt rolled his eyes. "And for that matter, you've said yourself that you're firstborn. Jaime could be the valonqar."

"Jaime would never–" Cersei interrupted herself, sighing in deep frustration. "Damn it all, Geralt, why can't you see what's right in front of you?!"

"And how can you let yourself be moved by some pathetic excuse for a witch?" Geralt countered, ensuring his tone remained calm. Disarm her, don't fight her. "Besides, you're wrong on that reading. She said the valonqar, not your valonqar. Ser Kevan could be the valonqar, as could Ser Tygett, or Ser Gerion. Hells, for that matter, I could be the valonqar. That should tell you just how much faith you should put in the vague shit she said to you."

Cersei hugged herself and looked back at the door. "But what if–"

"What if she's right? What if she's right?" Geralt grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look him in the eyes. "Do you think Myrielle will live a miserable life? Do you think Cerenna will end up like Maggy? Do you think that I will bring ruin to the world whole?"

She frowned harder, biting the inside of her cheeks as she started, "Well no, not like–"

"Then think, Cersei, think! Why would she be correct about your foretelling only to fuck it up when attempting the same with Myrielle, Cerenna and I?" Geralt go of her and raised his arms to the sides. "Does that mean that the warlocks that came here were right, too? They swore they'd ascend in some way no man, lord nor king could stand against, and where are they now? Dead, Cersei, they're dead. Their bodies were burnt and their ashes scattered against the countryside."

But none of his words made a difference, and Cersei looked no less relieved by his account. Geralt closed his eyes and struggled not to groan. He made to pinch his nose, but instead he scratched the side of his neck. Appeal to her pride. He nodded more firmly. "You've been strong enough to train every day with a sword. You've been strong enough to disobey a direct order from your father so that you could be your own person. Prove your strength hasn't left you by showing that some old cunt's words have no power over you."

"And do you think that's not exactly what I want to do?! That I want to give this a moment's more thoughts? There's nothing I'd like more than to bring that ragged bitch back to life so I could cut her down myself!" Cersei shouted, stepping close so she was a mere foot away, startled green eyes shifting between him and the mist. "I've spent my entire life knowing there was something unnatural about Tyrion, I just know it! He tore himself out of my mother!"

"My mother died at my youngest brother's birth." Geralt warned. "I may not know much, but one thing I do know is that Benjen is not a monster. Ladies young and old, lowborn and highborn alike have died in the birthing chambers, that's no one's fault. If you're so insistent on finding blame, then cast the seven-pointed-star aside and curse the gods. They're more to blame than Tyrion is."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT." At her scream, Geralt took a step back. Cersei looked like she was about to apologize, but stopped herself at the final moment. "Father promised I was to be wed to Rhaegar, he promised that I would be queen. He never breaks his word, but then the bloody Mad King betrothed the prince to Elia Martell. And somehow, this toothless wart promises the same, despite her not even understanding Westerosi lords, kings and politics?! And somehow, she also promises that the 'little brother' will be the death of me?! That's impossible, that's–"

Cersei gasped as her skin paled, lips white as snow. She raised her hand, shakily pointing behind Geralt. "That's… that's…"

Two quick steps and he caught her before she could injure herself. Her eyes were closed, and two fingers pressed lightly against her throat let him feel how fast her veins were pumping. Quickly and gently, he set her down, hairs on the back of his neck prickling when he felt predatory eyes on him. He took out Beast's Claw, ready to hack away at whatever intruder made their way to the empty hall. Looking around wildly, he found none, but some growling led his gaze up. His breath caught up in his throat, finding a luminous man in pale, refined clothes floating above one of the coffins. His cheeks were gaunt, unnaturally sunken in, his eyes so pale he looked nearly blind, the skin sticking tightly to his old bones. The lower half of his body blurred, dissipating into the fog. He snarled through his teeth. "Bastard."

Geralt remained wordless, paralyzed at the sight before him. From the fog, one specter became two. Two became four. Four became ten. He blinked, and suddenly the Hall was crowded, phantoms old and young, small and large, frail and strong populated the ancient tomb. All of them were equal in only two things. Whether they had a luscious mane or most of it had receded, they all sported what must have been golden hair. The second way they matched was their hateful expressions. All directed towards him. The frail one croaked again, "Bastard!"

"A savage too." One of the larger ones, cloaked in thick, ethereal armor growled. "How far we've fallen to house wildlings and bastards under our roof."

"Forget his blood, can you not sense that?" Another figure, feminine and aghast, inspected him from head to toe. "That boy is cursed. We house a cursed child in the Rock!"

"Shut your whore mouth, Loreon. Screaming about it like your wife would won't make him disappear." Another vicious looking shadow spat, coming closer to him. "That mark won't do him any good. Not here, not with us."

"We could always just puppet him, make him chuck himself off a cliff. However cursed that overgrown whoreson is, he isn't stronger than all the memories of a Great House's lineage." One chuckled, inspecting his nails as if he had not a care in the world. He offered the others a sly grin. "Problem solved."

"Then we do it now." Another threatened, hovering closer to the pair. "And we do the same with her. I'll be damned if we let our blood be tainted further by our women acting like crossdressers and common whores."

No, you don't. A part of Geralt knew instinctively that neither sword nor fire would harm the otherworldly beings, but in a mad rush, he removed the Stone Tear and held it up at them as if it were a celestial ward. The phantoms froze, pausing in their stride as their expressions turned to confusion. A select few had their eyes widen in shock. Amongst them, a few were quickly consumed by rage. One specter screamed, "He wields it! A Stone bloody Tear! Little cunt's not just cursed, he's about ready to curse us as well!"

"Seven Hells will freeze before that happens." The largest of the lions seethed, if anything more invigorated by Geralt's open challenge. "I'll be sure to make you rip your guts through your arsehole if you don't put that down, boy. Come here."

WHOOSH.

He didn't hear the galloping, but the black stallion stood tall on its hind legs, somehow scaring the wraiths and driving them back. As it settled down, the figure on its back, shining under impossibly thick armor, let out an inhumanly low rumble.

"Heel."

"My oh my, lads. We've been graced with quite the visitor this day." One of the figures, furthest in the back, perhaps the most unremarkable of the lot gave a mocking bow to the rider. "Oh, king of kings, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"This is what became of the first Emperor?" Another scowled, looking him up and down. "Reduced to an unruly specter?"

"Who?" Another added, none too aware of neither the figure nor the item in Geralt's hand. Most seemed in line with him. "What are you lot on about?"

Evidently equally as tired as Geralt was, the figure unsheathed a blade and swung it faster than he could catch. The steel was remarkable, not as Valyrian steel was, and yet it had a mystical blue hue that emanated from it. He held it to the neck of the largest of the phantoms, who stopped in his tracks the moment it touched his ghostly skin. His wincing made it clear enough that the rider's blade actually threatened the apparitions. The rider did not scream, yet his voice thundered through the hall this time.

"HEEL."

All remained still for several long moments. After much deliberation, the phantoms raised their hands, lords and kings of old bowing their heads at the stranger's command. Only the unremarkable one, still farthest from the group had the courage to meet his glare. "Careful now, your Majesty. You protect a damned one, and one that holds a foul icon in his hands. Better you use your blade on him than on our likes, he was the one that interrupted our peaceful rest."

"You are trespassing the domain of the living." Was his only answer, raising his sword from the thick one's neck and pointing it directly at the rebellious ghost. "Begone."

There was another uncomfortable pause as dozens of kings, already having sacrificed their dignity to bow before the newcomer, contemplated on following his orders. All it took was the more cowardly of the lot to sink to the floor, disappearing from where they came. As four left without looking back, a dozen more followed. More and more were tempted to abandon their posts, until eventually all came to swallow their pride for fear of having their souls cut apart. They're like to remember the wounds they sustained in life, they probably fear suffering them in death as well. Geralt remained still, Cersei still fainted on the floor. His heart drummed within his ears as the otherworldly mount turned slowly, allowing its rider to face him now.

The horse itself was as black as the deepest shadows cast in the night. Its armor, by comparison, was a steel so bright it almost looked white, giving it a skeletal appearance that was sure to send fear into any on whom its gaze bore into. A black cloak nearly covered its entire body, ebony hoofs sticking out the bottom. On its chest, an elegant, steel harpy spread her wings, connecting to the rib-like segments of the armor that coated its body. The stallion was monstrously tall as well, the top of its ears reaching just over eight feet of height. One kick from that fucker and he'll damn near break my ribs in. And even with how intimidating the unnatural horse stood, it was shadowed by the rider upon its back.

On top of such a large beast, the horseman looked like a giant. Clad in thickly plated armor from head to toe, there wasn't so much as an inch of skin exposed within the enveloping shell. What stood out most easily was the skeletal way in which it was crafted, every bit complementary to what his steed wore. His chest plate was coated with rib-like markings, and his steel leggings extended into aggressively clawed feet. His midnight cloak enveloped most of his arms, but from what he could see was out, the hands were equally sharp. Above his cloak were his pauldrons, massive and barbed, next to his neck guard, with spikes extending to protect his neck. At the top of it all was the sight that made Geralt nearly drop his sword. The helmet was carved into a skull, crowned with thorns, forever locked in a grimace. Within it, two glowing, glowering red eyes looked straight into his soul, matching his stallion's. "Struggler."

Geralt stopped, breathing evenly as he witnessed the behemoth before him, sword still out, holding Beast's Claw out at him. Both the sight of the figure and the title he had been called nauseated him, bringing forth a well of nightmares to the forefront of his mind. Hazy and tormenting, it was all he could do to growl, "Stay the fuck back."

The figure cocked his head, as if curiosity steeped into his hateful form. Geralt's eyes trailed to the sword in his hand. Larger and wider than most greatswords, a little bigger than Beast's Claw, it was nearly as viciously made as the stranger's armor, and yet he held it easily with one hand. The steel was fine, the best steel Geralt had ever seen, and yet it was serrated close to the hilt. The hilt itself was laced with barbs, and he imagined his hands would have been treasonously pierced by them were his gauntlets not so girthy. It matched his shield, made of the same material, a bulky, simple plate that looked small on his other arm. The only décor that he had was the thorny rose painted at its center, a drop of red in a field of pale white and unyielding black. He must have noticed his lingering gaze because he raised the sword and sheathed it. With his freed hand, he held out an open palm to Geralt. "The Behelit."

"The what?" Geralt spat, attempting and failing to maintain control under the pressure of the figure's glare. He shook his head. "Who are you?! What the fuck do you want?!"

"The item in your palm, that to which the specters of ages past referred to as a 'Stone Tear'." A chill ran down the back of Geralt's spine, and instinctively he clenched the damnable egg in an unbreakable grip. "Your Behelit. Give it to me."

"Why?!" He growled. He can scare off phantoms, give him what he wants. And yet, Geralt couldn't bring himself to trust anyone other than him possessing the ugly stone. He gave it a quick look before taking a step back, still hovering over Cersei. "What is it?! Who ARE you?!"

"…Your memories elude you." His imposing tone was infected with disappointed, the slightest hints of frustration beneath it. He paused for a moment. "A Behelit is a key to a realm beyond this one, a plane of the abstract and the intangible. A dragon gate to their domain. A source of infinite misery and suffering."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" He regretted the question as soon as he asked them. They're dreams, just dreams. They can't be anything more. But where Maggy's offer never tempted him, the stranger's words may as well have had Geralt eating from his hand. "And what do you mean, 'my memories'?! Tell me what I'm supposed to remember, now."

"No." The reply came simply, but in a tone Geralt had long since learned to associate with Casterly Rock's lord. No threat nor offer would change his answer, and that left him all the more frustrated. The armored specter must have sensed his anger, continuing, "I can show you nothing your soul is not ready to evoke on its own, lest you are driven to madness. Your mind is not yet ready. An impulsive revelation would implode your ego. No more can I show this to you than a bird can be tossed from its nest prematurely and be expected to fly."

"Great help you are." Geralt grunted. But if his words are anything to go by, he believes I'll learn on my own. I can't tell if that's better or worse. For the time being, he settled with hearing the subtle apology behind the pale monolith's words. Looking at the Stone Tear one last time, waiting for it to blink or smile only for it to remain still, he bit the inside of his cheek. Nodding, he looked back at the horseman. "Alright, I'll give you this on two conditions.

"First, you're gonna tell me what you're going to do with this. The warlock I stole it from didn't strike me as a good man, and you know even more about it than he did." And that's without counting the number of monsters in my nightmares that this hardened little piece of shit evoked. He stood a little straighter, and his mind was taken back to his memories, deep in the North, at the heart of the woods. His frown grew tighter. "Second, I want you to say it. I want you to say that you left the blue rose in the Godswood."

"…I left the divine sprite at the forest of ancient spirits, those which some name and worship as gods, where it would be protected until you found it." He answered. Geralt's satisfaction was quickly overshadowed by a looming dread. This madness has truly been following me for years. The knight's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "And the Behelit I shall use, but not as its makers intended."

That left Geralt perplexed. How did its makers even intend it to be used? Who are its makers? But all he uttered was,"What's that mean?"

"I cannot tell you all, but I will say this. The angels who hound your dreams, the hidden depths of your conscious, are the masters of fate. They weave its threads along the streams of time according to their will." His tone turned sagely and foreboding, but beneath it Geralt could sense a palpable well of hate and fury, but perfectly ruled. A raging inferno channeled into a dragon's breath. As his omens were further powered by emotion, his answer turned to a command. "To stand against them, their tools must be turned on them. The torrent must be deviated, and destiny must be struggled against until it can be subverted. My presence here is purposed twofold, to take the Behelit and to save your life. The day your memories return and your soul is made whole, you will understand."

That's all you're getting from him. Geralt sighed. "…Fine."

He tossed the Stone Tear, deftly caught by the knight, comically small in his gauntlet. Geralt stared with his mouth agape, watching as the jaw of the knight's helm opened, an abyss between his teeth allowing no light to pass through. Craning his neck back, he raised the Stone Tear, allowing it to drop into his opened maw. Even more shocked, he saw a blazing light emerging from the shadows of his mouth, not unlike that of a furnace fed with fresh logs. It died down, and his jaw snapped shut. Tilting his head back to look at him, he offered a simple nod before he led his horse away back into the mist that followed him. Blinking, Geralt called, "Where are you going?"

"Elsewhere. These lands are far enough from their domain that their influence cannot yet reach you, even if only for a time. But my war continues." As his stallion began to march towards the mist, solemn in its stride, the stranger parted with the words, "We shall meet again, Struggler. Ready your mind for what your soul will force it to endure. When you witness it all, struggle. Struggle again in this life as you did in the one before."

Author's Notes: Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was hell connecting Cersei's lessons, Jaime vs Geralt, Tyrion's birthday wish, Maggy the Frog, and of course, our dear Knight of Skeleton's cameo, into a single chapter. I think I did it well enough, hope you all do too. With this, any Berserk-heavy fans can be sure that this is not just a "take a character from one series and plant him/her in another, forget everything else". The extent of which it goes will be up to you all to see for yourselves as the story progresses. In any case, hope you've enjoyed, leave a review with what you have (or haven't).

The Almighty Afroduck,

All Hail